Kitabı oku: «Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience», sayfa 24

By this time my antagonist had divested himself of coat and neckcloth, and stood, with open shirt-breast and the sleeve of his sword-arm rolled up to the shoulder, before me.

He was as much an overmatch for me in strength and vigor as in skill, and I felt an acute sense of shame in pitting myself against him. As he swung his sabre jauntily to and fro with the dexterous facility of a practised swordsman, I could read the confidence with which he entered upon the encounter.

“It is the first time you ever handled a sword, I think?” said the captain, as he assisted me off with my coat.

“The very first,” said I, endeavoring, I know not how successfully, to smile.

“Parbleu!” cried he, aloud. “This is no better than a murder! The boy knows nothing of fencing; he never had a sabre in his hands till now.”

“He should have thought of that before he uttered an insult,” said Carrier, placing himself en garde. “Come on, boy!”

The offensive look and manner in which he spoke so carried me away that I rushed in, and aimed a cut at his head. He parried it, and came down with a sharp stroke on my shoulder, exclaiming, “Ça!” as he did it. The same word followed every time that he touched me; nor did it require the easy impertinence of the glances he gave towards his comrades to show that he was merely amusing himself; as, at one moment, he covered my face with blood, and at another disarmed me by a severe wound on the wrist.

“Enough of this, – too much of it!” cried the captain, as the blood streamed down my cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and almost blinded me.

“When he says so, it will be time to stop, – not till then,” said Carrier, as he gave me a sharp cut on the neck.

My rage so overpowered me at this that I lost all control over myself; and, resolving to finish the struggle at once, I sprang at him, and, with both hands on my sword, made a cut at his head. The force was such that the blow broke down his guard and felled him to the earth, with a tremendous wound of the scalp; and there he lay, stunned and senseless, while, scarcely more conscious, I stood over him. Passion had up to that sustained me; but loss of blood and exhaustion now succeeded together, and I reeled back and fainted.

Though terribly hacked and sorely treated, none of my wounds were dangerous; and after being bandaged, and stitched, and plastered in various ways, I was able – or at least insisted that I was able – to pursue my journey that evening; and away we drove, with no very grateful recollection of Valence, except, indeed, towards the old captain, who saw us off, and took a most affectionate leave of us at parting.

Margot had heard from the hostess enough to show her that I had been her champion and defender, though in what cause she could not possibly divine. Whatever her anxiety to learn the facts, she never put a single question to me as we went along, her sole care being to do whatever might assuage my pain and alleviate my suffering. Thanks to this kindness, and the cool air of an autumn night, I travelled with comparatively little uneasiness; and as day was breaking we entered the quiet street of the little village.

“There, yonder is our house, – the porch with the jasmine over it. Oh, how the rose-trees have grown!”

Such was Margot’s exclamation, as we drew up at the door.

CHAPTER XXX. LINANGE

I do not know how far other men’s experiences will corroborate the opinion, but for myself I will say that more than once has it occurred to me to remark that some of the most monotonous periods of my life have been those to which I often look back with the greatest pleasure, and love to think over as amongst the happiest. The time I passed at Linange was one of these. Nothing could be more simple, nothing more uniform than our life there. The unhappy circumstance to which I have already alluded had completely estranged from the family any of those with whom they might have associated. From some, the former rank and condition of the house separated them; from others they were removed by political bias; and to the rest, the event of which I have already spoken was the barrier. Thus, then, was our life passed within the limits of an humble household of four persons. The old Marquis – for such was he still styled by us – was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged: proud and stately in manner, but courteous almost to humility in his bearing to one beneath his roof. Unbroken by misfortune, he trusted that – although not in his time – the world would yet return to its ancient course, and the good king “have his own again.” His personal calamities sat lightly on him, or, rather, he bore them bravely. If he spoke of his former state and position, it was in regret for those faithful followers he could no longer support, – not for himself, whose wants were few, and whose habits demanded no luxuries. In the calling that he practised for his maintenance, he saw rather an occasion for pride than humiliation. There was but one topic from which he shrunk back; nor could all his courage enable him to approach that. When I first saw him, it was after a severe attack brought on by the dreadful tidings from Paris; and yet his composure seemed to me almost bordering on indifference, and I half revolted against the calm elegance of a good-breeding that seemed above the reach of all feeling. Ursule was a “nun;” and whether the walls around her were those of a cloister or a cottage, her heart was enclosed within the observances of the convent. She rose hours before daybreak, to pass her time in prayer and solitude. She fasted, and toiled, and observed penances, exactly as if beneath the rule of the Superior. She had been singularly handsome, and there was still a character of beauty in her features, to which her devotional life imparted an expression of sublimity such as I have never seen even in a “Raphael.” Suffering and sorrow seemed so blended with hopefulness – present agony so tinctured with a glorious future – that, to me at least, she appeared almost angelic.

As for “Margot,” child as she was, the whole care of the household devolved upon her. The humblest ménage is not without its duties, and to these she addressed herself at once. It was on the day after my arrival, and while just meditating a return to Paris, that symptoms of fever first showed themselves, and a severe shivering, followed by intense headache, showed me that I was not to escape the consequences of my unhappy encounter. Ursule, whose experience in hospital life had been considerable, was the first to see the mischief that threatened, and at once persuaded me to submit to treatment. The old Marquis was soon at my bedside, but as quickly did he perceive that the case was beyond his skill. The surgeon of the village was now sent for; he bled me largely, dressed my wounds, administered some cooling drink, and then left me to that terrible interval which precedes mania, and when the enfeebled intellect struggles for mastery against the force of wandering faculties.

In my wild fancies, all the incidents of my early days, the little adventures of boyhood, my mountain ramble, and my life in Paris, came back, and I talked with intense eagerness to those around me of them all. Short intervals of consciousness, like gleams of sunlight in a lowering sky, would break through these, and then I saw beside the bed the kind faces, and heard the gentle accents, of my friends. “Ursule” and, “Margot” scarcely ever left me. In the dark hours of the long night, if a weary sigh escaped me, one of them was sure to be near to ask if I was in pain or if I needed anything. How often have I turned away from these gentle questionings to hide my face within my hands and cry, not in sorrow, but in a thankful outpouring of emotion, that I, the poor unfriended, uncared-for orphan, should be thus watched, and tended, and loved!

It was not till after a lapse of weeks that I was pronounced out of danger, nor even till long after that that I could arise from my bed. Shall I ever forget the strange confusion of ideas that beset me as I first found myself alone one morning in the little garden, scarcely knowing if I was still dreaming, or if all was reality around me! Where was I? how came I there? were questions that I could not follow to a solution. Some resemblance in the scenery with the country around Reichenau assisted the mystification, and from the entanglement of my thoughts no effort could rescue me. As, one by one, memories of the past came up, there came with them the sad reflection of my own lonely, isolated condition in life. The humblest had a home – had those around them to whose love and affection they could lay claim as from blood and kindred – who bore the same name, were supported by the same hopes, cheered by the same joys, and sorrowed for the same sufferings! It was true that no affection a sister could bestow could exceed that I had met with where I was. There was not a kindness of which I had not been the object. Was I, could I, be ungrateful for these? Far from it! – my melancholy lay in the thought that these were the very evidences of my own forlorn lot, and that compassion and pity were the sentiments that prompted them in my behalf.

I knew, besides, that in my long illness I must have proved a grievous burden to those whose own circumstances were straitened to the utmost limit of narrow fortune. I saw about me comforts, even luxuries, that must have cost many a privation to acquire. I felt that, in succoring me, they had imposed upon themselves the weight of many a future want. These were afflicting considerations, nor could all my ingenuity discover one resource against them. I was still too weak to walk; my limbs tottered under me as I went. Perhaps it were better it had been so, since I really believe if I had had strength sufficient for the effort, notwithstanding all the shame that might attach to my ingratitude, I should have fled from the house that moment, never to return! It was in the abandonment of grief arising from these thoughts that “Ursule” discovered me. With what tenderness did she rally my drooping spirits; how gently did she chide my faint-heartedness!

“You must rise above these things, Jasper,” said she to me. “You must learn to see that the small ills of life are difficult to be borne just because they suggest no high purpose.”

And from this she went on to tell me of the noble devotion of the missionary, the splendid enthusiasm that elevated men above every thought of peril, and taught them to court danger and confront suffering. How mean and sordid did she represent every other ambition in comparison with this! How ignoble was the soldier’s heroism when placed beside the martyrdom of the priest! With consummate art she displayed before my boyish fancy all that was attractive, all that was picturesque, in the missionary’s life. To glowing descriptions of scenery and savage life succeeded touching episodes of deep interest and passages of tenderest emotions, the power of the Church – whether as consoler or comforter, as healing the sick or supporting the weak-hearted – being never forgotten. If she saw that my mind dwelt with pleasure on pictures of splendor, she lingered on scenes of greatness and royal power, when priests associated with monarchs as their guides and counsellors. If, at another moment, the romance seemed to engage my attention, she narrated incidents of the most affecting kind. At these moments it was strange to mark how the cold and almost stern reserve of the cloister seemed lost in the glowing enthusiasm of the devotee. It was not the nun broken down by fasting, wasted by penance, and subdued by prayer, but the almost inspired daughter of the Church, glorying and exulting in its triumph. She gave me books to read, – lives of saints and martyrs, of devoted missionaries and pious fathers. If in some instances the sufferings they endured seemed more than mere humanity could support, the triumphant joy of their victories appeared to partake of a celestial brilliancy. Day by day, hour by hour, did she pursue the theme, till the subject, like a river fed by a thousand rills, overflowed all else in my mind, and left no room for aught but itself.

It was not difficult for her to show that the frightful condition of France at the period – its lawless confiscations, its pillage, and its bloodshed – all dated from the extinction of the Church. The task was an easy one to contrast past peace and happiness with present anarchy and suffering. I reflected long and deeply on the subject. If doubts assailed me, I came to her to solve them; if difficulties embarrassed me, I asked her to explain them. I applied the question to the circumstances of my own position in life, and began to believe that it was exactly the career to suit me. I eagerly inquired, next, how the fitting education might be obtained, and learned that since the destruction of the religious societies of France and the Low Countries, many had emigrated to Spain and Italy, and some to England. Sister “Ursule” was in correspondence with more than one of these, and promised to obtain all the information I sought for; meanwhile, she besought me to devote my whole mind and thoughts to these sacred subjects, withdrawing, so far as I might, all my desires and ambition from the world.

Margot, I am obliged to own, contributed but little to aid my pious purpose; her gay and joyous nature had no sympathy with asceticism and restraint. The poets and dramatists, whose works she read in secret, inspired very different thoughts from the subject of my studies; her childish buoyancy could not endure the weight of that gloom which a life of denial imposes; and whenever we were alone together, she rallied me on my newly assumed seriousness as on a costume which I would soon discover to be insufferable.

I dwell on these things, trifling as they are, because they convey the curious conflict which my mind sustained at this time, and the struggle that went on within me between the tendencies natural to my age, and the impulses that grew out of a sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps I might not care to recall them, if it was not that they remind me of Margot such as I then remember her. I see her before me: her dark eyes, flashing with daring brilliancy, dropped in a half-rebellious submission, her changing color, her fair and open brow, her beautiful mouth, with all its varying expression, her very gait, haughty even in its girlish gayety, – all rise to my mind’s eye; and I feel even yet within me the remembrance of that strange distrust and bashfulness with which I endeavored to reply to her witty sallies, and recall her to a seriousness like my own I I was no hypocrite, and yet she half hinted that I was; neither was it a dash of thoughtless enthusiasm that carried me away, though she often said so. It was the very reverse of vanity or self-exaltation, – it was humility that prompted me to devote myself to a career from which others might have been withheld by the ties of home and affection.

“You forget, Margot,” cried I one day, when she bantered me beyond endurance, “that I am already an idle and homeless being, without one on earth to love me!”

“But I love you, Jasper!” said she, seizing my hand and pressing it to her lips; and then, as suddenly dropping it, she became pale as death, and staggered as if falling. I caught her in my arms; but she disengaged herself at once, and, with her hands pressed closely over her face, fled from the spot.

From that day she never jested with me, nor even alluded to my choice of a career. She, I fancied, even avoided being alone with me as she used to be; the playful tricks she had indulged in of hiding my serious books, or substituting for them others of a very different kind, were all abandoned. Her whole manner and bearing were changed, nor could I fail to see that there was no longer between us the cordial frankness that hitherto united us. If this were, in one respect, a source of sorrow to me, in another there was a strange, secret charm in that reserve so full of meaning, – in that shyness so suggestive!

Up to that time I had been in the habit of reading with her some part of every day. My school-learning, such as it was, was yet fresh in my memory, and I was delighted to have a pupil so gifted and intelligent; but from this time forth she never resumed her studies, but pretended a variety of occupations as excuses. I know not, I cannot even speculate, on how this might have ended, when a sudden change of events gave a decisive turn to my destinies.

The bâtonnier who had so kindly undertaken to look after the little remnant of Monsieur Bernois’ fortune was no less prompt than he had promised. He made all the arrangements required by law, and corresponded with me on each step of the proceedings. In one of these letters was a postscript containing these words: “Is it true that you have had a serious rencontre with a captain of the Chasseurs-à-Cheval who is still in danger from the wound he received?” Before my reply to this question could have reached him, came the following brief note: —

“My dear Monsieur Carew, – I learned late last night the whole circumstances of the adventure of which I had asked an explanation from you by my letter of Tuesday. The affair is a most unhappy one on every account, but on none more than the fact that your antagonist was Captain Carrier, the brother of the celebrated member of the Constituent of that name. I need scarcely remind you that his friends, numerous and influential as they are, are now your bitterest enemies. They are at this moment busily employed in making searches into your previous life and habits; and should all other sources of accusation fail, will inevitably make your nationality the ground of attack, and perhaps denounce you as a spy of the English Government. The source from which I obtained this information leaves no doubt of its correctness, as you will acknowledge when I add that it enables me to forward to you, by this enclosure, a passport for England, under the name of Bernard. I also transmit a bank order for one thousand francs, which I beg you will use freely, as if your own, and part of a fund, the remainder of which I will take an early opportunity of placing in your hands. The hurried nature of my present communication prevents me adding more than that I am, very faithfully, your friend.”

His initials alone were inscribed at the foot of this most extraordinary epistle. I hastened to show it to the Marquis, who, on learning the name of the writer, pronounced him one of the first men at the French bar.

“The warning of such a man,” said he, “must not be neglected; and although Carrier’s faction have fallen, who can answer what to-morrow may bring forth? At all events, your position as an alien is highly perilous, and you must see to your safety at once.”

As for the concluding portion of the letter, he could not assist me to any explanation of it. The nearest approach to elucidation was, that many of the leading lawyers of Paris were frequently selected by their clients as depositaries of property, and that it was just possible such had been the case here.

With this meagre suggestion he left me, and I proceeded, with a heavy heart, to make my preparations for departure.

CHAPTER XXXI. HAVRE

The diligence passed our door, and the conductor had orders to stop and take me up, as he went by. That supper was a sorrowful meal to all of us. They had come to think of me as one of themselves, and I felt as if I was about to part with the last who would ever befriend me.

There was but little said on any side, and none of us ventured on a word alluding to my departure. At last the old Marquis, laying his hand on my shoulder, said, —

“These are not days in which one can trust to the post, Jasper; but if ever the occasion offer of letting us hear of you by other means, you ‘ll not neglect it.”

“The Père Tonsurd will manage this for you,” broke in Ursule. “He knows how to communicate, when, and with whom he pleases.”

“But how am I to meet with him?” asked I.

“This is his address, and this letter will introduce you,” said she, giving me a carefully-folded and well-sealed packet. “Make a friend of him, Jasper, and your happiness will be the reward.”

I thought that Margot’s lip was upturned at these words, with a faint expression of disdainful meaning; but I may easily have been deceived, for as I looked again, her features were calm and unmoved.

“The Père,” resumed Ursule, “was superintendent of the ‘Chaise Dieu,’ and removed to be a Professor at Namur. He is a man of high acquirements and sincere piety, but his great characteristic is his humility. With a tenth of the ambition that others possess, he had been a Prince of the Church.”

Margot’s eyes were downcast as this was spoken, so that I could not detect how the speech affected her; but again it struck me that her mouth was moved with an expression of scorn.

“There! I hear the horn of the postilion; you have n’t a moment to lose!” cried Ursule.

A fond, close embrace with each in turn, and a whispered word from Margot which I tried in vain to catch, and I was gone! I buried my head between my hands in shame, for I was crying bitterly, and never looked up till we were far away from the village, and traversing a wide, open country, with great undulating fields of corn, and few traces of habitation.

“Come, come, be a man,” broke in the conducteur, with a rough good-humor. “You ‘re not the first who had to leave his home for the conscription, and some have gone back chefs-d’ escadron, afterwards.”

I accepted the part he thus erringly assigned me, and let him run on about all the fortunes and chances of a soldier’s life.

If his conversation did not divert my thoughts, it at least suffered me to pursue them unmolested; and so I travelled along through the whole of that night and the following day, seldom speaking, or only in half mechanical assent to some remark of my companion.

“They ‘ll want to see your passport here, citizen,” said he, as we approached the gate of a fortified town; “so get it ready, and don’t delay the authorities.”

A few minutes more brought us to the outworks of a fortification, passing through which, we crossed a drawbridge, over a deep moat, and entered a long, dark archway. Here the diligence drew up, and the passengers were ordered to descend. I overheard the conducteur say the word “conscript,” and began to fear that he used it in relation to me, when suddenly the official, opening my passport, called out:

“Which of you is the citizen Bernard?”

I at once remembered that it was the name I had recruited under, and answered, “It is I.”

“Step inside here,” said he, civilly; “I have some directions with respect to you.”

I walked into a small chamber off the public room, when, having carefully closed the door, he said, —

“So you are going over to England, monsieur?”

The last word was accented deeply, and with an emphasis meant to show that he who used it proclaimed himself no partisan of republican principles, but one who held to the ancient habits of the monarchy.

The manners of the time suggested distrust on all sides, and I answered, guardedly, that I had some intention of visiting England.

“You will see them, then,” resumed he, “and even that much is a blessing in itself! How do I envy you! Ah, monsieur, if the name should not escape you, will you try and remember Claude Mirepois? My father was head postilion in the royal stables, and enjoyed his pension to his death; and I was educated by order of the princes, and was to have been in the household too.”

“Are we all right and regular, citizen?” broke in the conducteur, putting in his head.

“All right – quite right, citizen Guichemar,” said the other, in some confusion. “These are ticklish times; I was anxious to see that this youth’s pass was regular.”

“Parbleu! a conscript is always en règle,” said the other, laughing, and so hurried me away to the diligence; and once more we rattled along on our journey.

The whole of that night my mind dwelt upon this incident. Amongst the various parties that disputed for preeminence in the country, I had never heard of any professing royalist principles, except the Vendeans; nor had I the slightest suspicion that many concealed monarchists held places of trust under the government of the republic.

At Havre, I discovered that the measures of the police were of the very strictest kind, and that to obtain a permission to embark, it was necessary to have a reference to some citizen of the town, who should stand guarantee for your loyalty and integrity. Now, I had never been there before; I knew none, not even by name; and what was I to do? Great as my difficulty was, I did not suffer it to appear so to the commissary, but calmly said that I ‘d return to my hotel, and run my eye over a list of the merchants for one to be my bail.

The packet was to sail that evening with the tide; and as the office of the commissaire closed at four o’clock, there was little time to lose. I wandered on “from street to street; I walked into cafés; I sat down in the most public places, scanning with eagerness every face that passed me, and straining my eyes to try and detect the features of an acquaintance. The pursuit became at length a perfect farce, and I hurried to and fro with a burning brain, and a restless impatience that was almost maddening.

“Parbleu! this is the fourth time you’ve been in here to-day,” cried a short, thickset man, past the prime of life, and who kept a sort of slop-shop near the quay. “What do you want with me, my lad?”

I was turning to leave the spot without replying, when he closed the half-door of his shop, and placed his back against it.

“Come, my friend, you shall certainly say what has brought you here, ere you get away this time.”

“I am in search of some one, – I am looking for one of my acquaintances,” said I, hurriedly.

“And expected to find him here?” added he, half sneeringly.

“Here – anywhere,” said I, recklessly.

“Just so; I thought as much. Well, my lad, you had better give a more satisfactory account of yourself to the commissary. Come along with me to the police.”

“With all my heart,” cried I.

“Who are you? Whence do you come?” asked he, with somewhat of kindliness in his voice.

“These are questions you have no right to ask me, citizen,” replied I.

“Well, have I not a right to know why you have been four several times in my shop this forenoon, and never bought nor asked for anything?”

“That you shall hear freely and frankly,” said I; “I have a passport made out for England, whither I wish to go. The authorities require that I should have some reference to a citizen of Havre before they allow me to depart. I am a stranger here, – I know of no one, not even by name. The whole of this morning I have spent hurrying hither and thither to find out some one I have seen before, but in vain. All are strangers to me; none know me. In my wanderings, it may be that I have chanced to come here as often as you say, – perhaps I have done so in twenty places; for my head is distracted, and I cannot collect my thoughts. There, then, is the answer to your inquiry.”

“Have you a trade or a handicraft, lad?”

“Not either.”

“Nor any means of support?”

“Quite sufficient for all my wants,” replied I, boldly; and at the same time producing my purse, well stored as it was with five-franc pieces.

“Ah, then, you belong to some of the émigrés? You are going to join your family?” asked he, but in a lower and more cautious voice.

“Don’t you think that I have been candid enough already, friend?” said I; “and do you not know sufficient of my affairs, without asking me more?”

“Not if it be for more than mere curiosity,” said he, drawing nearer to me; “not if I ask from a sincere interest in you.”

“But I ought, perhaps, to hear something of him that questions me,” said I, affecting an amount of circumspection that was far from natural to me.

“Then go out upon the quay yonder, and ask who is Pierre Dubos. My character and my name are well known in Havre; you ‘ll not have to ask often without an answer.”

“Well, then, citizen, tell me what more you wish to learn about me. I ‘ll tell you whatever you like, if I only know it.”

“Have you dined yet, lad?” asked he, quietly.

“No; I have not had time.”

“Come, then, and partake of mine;” and, without waiting for an answer, he let down the shutter that closed the entrance to his shop, and led me by the arm into a room behind it.

Pierre Dubos, though nearer to sixty than fifty, was only a short time married to a very pretty and young woman who, as he entered the room, was arranging the table for dinner. She received me with much courtesy, scarcely heeding, if she even heard, the explanation her husband gave to account for my presence.

The meal was an excellent one, and passed off with all that easy conviviality that every class of Frenchmen know how to display. Monsieur Dubos seemed somewhat of a character, and rather piqued himself on doing things that others might never have thought of. His marriage appeared to have been one of these; his invitation to myself was another.

“You know, Jeanette,” said he, “we might never have met if it had not been for the ferry being delayed at Honfleur. We made acquaintance on the steps of the pier; and see what has come of it! Now, I have come to know Bernard here by a similar accident. Who knows what may arise out of that?”

Madame smiled benignly in assent to the theory, the happy results of which she seemed to acknowledge.

Coffee came after dinner; and then I began to think how I should take my leave. Ere I could solve the problem to my satisfaction, Dubos said, —

“Shall we all go to the comedy this evening? They play a grand piece, one of Beaumanhui’s, – and it will amuse us.”

Madame hailed the proposition with delight; and I really felt sorry as I said, —

“But this will never bring me to England.”

“What need to go there? Why not stay in France? Was it not a pleasanter country and a better climate? At all events, what urgent haste was there? Would not to-morrow serve as well as to-day?”