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While this inquiry was going forward, I was not unmindful of the remarks and observations around me, and, although apparently only occupied with my own examination, was shrewdly attending to every chance word that fell at either side of me. I collected quite enough from these to perceive that the Count was at that moment in England, and in custody under some very weighty charge; that the difficulty of identification was one of the obstacles to his committal; and that this was believed to be surmountable by my aid. Now, I never loved him, nor did he me; but yet I could not forget how every care of my infancy and childhood was owing to her who bore his name and shared his fortunes, and that for me to repay such kindness with an injury would have been the very blackest ingratitude.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and as hastily I determined to act upon them. I asked Mr. Addington to give me a couple of minutes’ audience in private, and he at once led me into an inner room. In scarcely more words than I have used here to mention the fact, I told him in what relationship I stood towards the Count, and how impossible it would be for me to use any knowledge I might possess, to his detriment.
“I don’t think that you have much option in the matter, sir,” was his cold reply. “You can be compelled to give the evidence in question, so that your very excellent scruples need in no wise be offended.”
“Compelled to speak, sir!” cried I, in amazement.
“Just so,” said he, with a faint smile.
“And if I still refuse, sir?”
“Then the law must deal with you. Have you anything more to say to me?”
“Nothing,” said I, resolutely; for now my mind was determined, and I no longer hesitated what course to pursue.
Mr. Addington now returned to the adjoining room, and I followed him. For a few moments a whispered conversation was maintained between him and one or two of the others, after which the magistrate, a certain Mr. Kirby, said to me, —
“It appears, young man, that you have a reluctance, from conscientious scruples, about giving your evidence in this case; but probably when I tell you all that is required of you is a simple act of identification, and, moreover, that the charge against the prisoner is the very weightiest in the catalogue of crime, you will not any longer hesitate about your obvious duty.”
He waited for a few seconds; but as I made no reply, he went on: —
“This Frenchman is accused of nothing less than the premeditation of a murder; that he is, in fact, a hired assassin, paid for the crime of murdering the exiled King of France. The evidence against him is exceedingly strong; but, of course, the law will place within his reach every possible means of defence. It is needless to say that no private or personal feeling can exist in such a case, and I really do not see how you can decline your aid to the cause of justice.”
I was still silent; my difficulties were increasing every moment; and as they thickened around me, I needed time to decide how to proceed.
Perhaps my anxious appearance may have struck him, for he quickly said, —
“You will be specially warned against saying anything which might criminate yourself, so that you need have no fears on that account.”
These words at once suggested my course to me; and whatever peril there might lie in the way, I determined to take shelter under the pretence that I was myself implicated in the conspiracy. I do not seek to excuse myself for such a subterfuge; it was the last refuge I saw in the midst of my difficulties, and I sought it in all the misery of half-desperation.
“I am not going to betray my confederates, sir,” was my dogged reply to his appeal; and no other could all their argument and entreaties obtain from me.
Some of those present could not believe me guilty, and warmly pressed me to rescue myself, ere too late, from the odious imputation; others but saw their previous impressions confirmed by what they called my confession; and, between them, my poor head was racked and tortured by turns. The scene ended at last by my being committed to Newgate, under suspicion, and till further evidence could be adduced against me.
It was clear that either they greatly doubted of my guilt, or were disposed to regard me as very slightly implicated, for I was not confined in a cell or with the other prisoners, but accommodated with a room in the jailer’s own apartment, and received as a guest at his table.
I was not only treated with kindness and attention here, but with a degree of candor that amazed me. The daily papers were freely placed before me, and I read how a well-known member of the “French Convention,” popularly called Couvre-Tête, but styling himself the Count de Gabriac, had been brought up before the magistrates under a charge of a grave description, which, for the ends of justice, had been investigated with closed doors. Several others were in custody for their implication in the same charge, it was added, and great hopes maintained that the guilty parties would be made amenable to the law.
Mr. Holt, the jailer, spoke of all the passing events of the day freely in my presence, and discussed the politics and position of France, and the condition of parties, with all the ease of old intimacy between us. At first, I half suspected this to be a mere artifice to lure me on to some unguarded expression, or even some frank admission about myself; but I gradually grew out of this impression, and saw him as he really was, a straightforward, honorable man, endeavoring to lighten the gloom of a dreary duty by acts of generosity and benevolence. Save that it was captivity, I really had nothing to complain of in my life at this period. Mr. Holt’s family was numerous, and daily some two or three guests, generally persons in some degree placed similarly to myself, were present at his table; and with these my time passed smoothly and even swiftly along.
The confinement, however, and a depression, of which I was not conscious myself, at length made their impression on my health, and one morning Mr. Holt remarked to me that I was scarcely looking so well as usual.
“It is this place, I have no doubt,” said he, “disagrees with you; but you will be liberated in a day or two.”
“How so?” asked I, in some surprise.
“Have you not heard of Gabriac’s death,” said he, “by suicide? He was to have been brought up a second time for examination on Friday last, but he was found dead in his cell, by poison, on Thursday evening.”
I scarcely heard him through the details which followed. I only could catch a stray expression here and there; but I collected enough to learn that he had written a full exculpation of all the others who had been accused with himself, and specially with regard to me, of whom, also, it was said, he forwarded some important papers to some one high in station.
This conversation occurred on a Saturday, and on the following Monday I was liberated.
“I told you how it would be, Mr. Carew,” said Holt, as he read me out the order, “and I hope sincerely there are now better and pleasanter days before you. More prosperous ones they are likely to be, for I have a Secretary of State’s order to hand you one hundred pounds, which, I can assure you, is a rare event with those who leave this.”
While I stood amazed at this intelligence, he went on:
“You are also requested to present yourself at Treverton House, Richmond, to-morrow, at eleven o’clock, where a person desires to see and speak with you. This comes somewhat in the shape of a command, and I hope you’ll not neglect it.”
I promised rigid obedience to the direction; and after a very grateful recognition of all I owed my kind host, we parted, warm and cordial friends, and as such I have never ceased to believe and regard him.
CHAPTER XXXIII. A GLIMPSE OF A NEW PATH
Shall I own it that when I once more found myself at liberty, and with means sufficient for the purpose, my first thought was to leave England forever? So far as I was concerned, my country had shown herself anything but a kind mother to me. It was an impulse of patriotism – a vague desire to serve her – had brought me to her shores; and yet my requital had been at first neglect, and at last imprisonment. Had I the very slightest clew to where “my mother” and Raper were, I should inevitably have set out to seek them; but of the track I knew nothing whatever. I ransacked my few letters and papers, amongst which I found the yet undelivered note to the Père Tonsurd; and this I determined to present on that very day. The mere thought of meeting with one to whom I could speak of my kind friends at Linange was a comfort in the midst of all my desolation.
On arriving at his lodgings, however, I learned that he had gone to Richmond; and as suddenly I bethought me of my own visit, the hour for which had already gone by. Determining to repair my fault as well as I could, I set out at once, and by three o’clock in the afternoon arrived at a neat-looking house, standing in a small park that descended to the river, and which, they told me, was Treverton. All I could ascertain of the proprietor was that he was a French gentleman, an émigré, who had lived there for two years, and was popularly known as the “General,” his servants always giving him that title. I presented myself at his door and sent in my card, with the request that I might be admitted to an interview.
Before I could well believe that my message was delivered, the servant returned to say that the General was expecting me since morning, and desired to see me at once. I followed him through two or three rooms till we reached a door covered with green cloth, and which concealed another behind it, on opening which I found myself in a small chamber fitted up like a library, where two gentlemen were seated at a table. One arose as I entered, and in a polite, but somewhat haughty, tone said, —
“You are scarcely as punctual, sir, as I had hoped. Eleven o’clock was, I think, the hour mentioned.”
As the appointment had not been of my seeking, I returned a very cold and half-careless apology for my tardy appearance; but he stopped me quietly, saying, —
“Apparently, then, you have not been informed as to the object of this visit, nor by whom – ”
A hasty gesture from the other interrupted his speech, and he stopped short.
“I mean,” added he, “that you are unaware of the reason for which your presence here has been requested.”
“I have not the slightest knowledge of it, sir,” was my reply.
“We wished to see and speak with you about many things in France, sir. You have latterly been there? We are given to understand that you are a shrewd observer, and we desire to learn your views of events, and of the people who direct them. Our own informant induces us to believe that the tide of popular favor is turning against the men of violent opinions, and that a wiser and healthier tone pervades the nation. Does that agree with your experience?”
“Quite so, sir; there cannot be a second opinion on the question.”
“And the old attachment to the monarchy is again displaying itself, far and near, through the country?” added he, warmly.
“There I cannot go with you, sir,” was my answer; and although his look was a fierce, almost an angry one, I continued: “The military spirit is that which now sways the nation, and he who can best gratify the thirst of glory will be the ruler. The kings of France have been but pageants of late.”
“Be discreet, sir. Speak of what you know, and do not dare to insult – ” he paused, and then added, “an ancient follower of his sovereign.”
His age and his fervor repressed any resentment the speech might have suggested, and I only said, —
“You asked me for opinions, sir, and I gave you mine frankly. You must not be displeased if they do not always chime with your own.”
“Monsieur is perfectly right. His remark is a just one,” said the other, who now spoke for the first time.
“I think he is mistaken, though,” replied the former. “I fancy that he is led away by that vulgar cant which sees in the degradation of one solitary individual the abasement of his whole class and order. By the way, you knew that same Count de Gabriac?”
I bowed my assent.
“You may speak freely of him now he is past the consequences of either our censure or our praise. You know, perhaps, that he completely exonerated you from all share in his odious scheme, and at the same time communicated certain particulars about yourself which suggested the desire to see you here.”
“Yes,” said the other, with a faint but very pleasing smile. “We are relatives, Monsieur Carew; and if all that I hear of you be true, I shall not disown the relationship.”
“You knew my dear mother, then,” cried I, wild with the glad thought.
“Pardon me,” said he, slowly, “I had not that honor. I have, however, frequently heard of her beauty and her fascination; but I never saw her.”
The General here whispered a few words, to which the other replied aloud, —
“Be it so, then. My friend here,” resumed he, addressing me, “is of opinion that your information and habits would well fit you for a task which will be at once one of emolument and trust. The English minister has already pointed you out as a suitable agent, and nothing but your own concurrence is now needed.”
I begged for a further explanation; and he briefly told me that the Royalist party, not alone throughout France, but in different parts of the Continent, where they had sought refuge, were distracted and broken up for want of due intercourse with each other and with the head of their party; that false intelligence and fictitious stories had been circulated industriously to sow discord and disunion amongst them; and that nothing but an actual, direct, and personal agency could efficiently counteract this peril and restore confidence and stability to the party. Many – some of them men of the highest rank – had taken service in this way; some had condescended to accept of the very humblest stations, and almost menial duties, where they could obtain information of value; and all we’re ready to risk life and fortune for the Prince to whom they owed their allegiance.
“But you forget, sir, that the loyalty which reflects such honor on them would be wanting in my case: I am not a Frenchman.”
“But your mother was French,” said he who sat at the table, “and of the best blood of France too. I have told you we are relations.”
A gesture of caution from the General stopped him here, and he was silent. I saw there was embarrassment somewhere; but on what ground I knew not. More to relieve the awkwardness of the moment than from any other intention, I asked what my duties might be in this capacity.
“On that head you will receive the fullest instructions,” said the General. “Once say that you are ready and at our disposal, and we shall supply you with every means and every knowledge you can wish for.”
“May I have a little time to consider of it, sir?” asked I. “A night, for instance?”
“Yes, a night, – certainly; only remember that whether you accept or refuse, this interview is a secret, and not to be divulged to any one.”
“I shall so consider it,” said I.
“You will, then, be here to-morrow at ten, – at ten, remember, and this time punctually.” And with that he bowed me ceremoniously to the door, the other waving his hand more familiarly, and wishing me a good-bye as I passed out.
As I reached the outer gate of the lawn, a servant hastily overtook me. It was a gentleman, he said, who wished to return to London, begged permission to accompany me, if I would so far oblige him.
“With pleasure,” said I. “Will you favor me with his name?”
“The Abbé Tonsurd.”
“The Abbé Tonsurd! – the very man of all others I wished to meet!” And while I was just rejoicing over my good fortune on the occurrence, he came hurrying forward to offer me his thanks.
“Chance has favored me for once, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said I, “since I have the good fortune to see one to whom I have a letter of introduction. I called this very morning at your lodgings to deliver this.”
“Oh, the rare good luck indeed,” cried he, breaking open the seal and rapidly perusing the contents. “That dear Ursule,” said he, with something very near to a smile, “always so good and so confiding, trusts even after hope has departed. But tell me rather of themselves; for this is the theme she has not spoken of.”
I rapidly related all that I knew of the family. I saw, however, that his mind was wandering from the subject ere I had finished.
“And you,” said he, suddenly, “when do you set out on your mission?”
“I have not decided on accepting it.”
“Not decided! Can you hesitate, can you waver for a moment? Has not the Count himself charged you with his commands?”
“And who may the Count be?” asked I.
“His Majesty the rightful king of France. You cannot be well versed in physiognomy, or you must have recognized the royal features of his race. He is every inch a Bourbon.”
“He who sat at the table?”
“The same. The General Guerronville is reckoned handsome; but he is vulgar and commonplace when seen beside his Majesty.”
The Abbé, to whom, doubtless, the letter imparted sufficient to give him full confidence in me, spoke frankly and openly of the Royalist party, their hopes and fears and future prospects. He even went so far as to say that they were losing confidence in the English Government, of whose designs for a peace they entertained deep suspicion. Turning hastily from this, he urged me earnestly not to decline the duty proposed to me, and said at last, —
“That if no other argument could weigh with me, personal advantage might, and that success in my enterprise was my fortune made forever.”
While he was thus speaking, I was only dwelling upon what I could recall of my late scene with the King of France, and wondering what he possibly could mean by a relationship between us. The Abbé explained the difficulty away by a careless reply as to the various small channels into which the royal blood had been diverted, by obscure marriages and the like.
“At all events,” said he, “if his Majesty could remember the tie, it would come badly from you to forget it. Accept this offer, therefore, and be assured that you will serve yourself even more than his cause.”
It was not very difficult to persuade me; and even where his arguments failed, my own necessities urged me to accept the offer. I therefore agreed, and, charging the Abbé to convey my sentiments of gratitude for the trust reposed in me, I stated my readiness to set out at once wherever it was deemed necessary to employ me; and with this I lay down to rest, more at ease in heart than I had felt for months long.
CHAPTER XXXIV. SECRET SERVICE
When I come to reflect over the space I have devoted in these memoirs of my life to slight and unimportant circumstances, – the small incidents of a purely personal character, – I feel that I owe my readers an apology for passing rapidly over events of real moment. My excuse, however, is, the events were such as to render my share in them most humble and insignificant. My figure was never a foreground one; and in the great drama that Europe then played, my part was obscure indeed. It is true, I was conversant with stirring themes. I had on many occasions opportunities of meeting with the mighty intelligences that gave the world its destiny for the time; but in no history will there ever be a record of the humble name of Paul Gervois. Such I now found myself called; and the passport delivered to me called me, in addition, “Agent secret.” It is true, I had another, which represented me as travelling for a Dutch commercial house; but the former was the document which, in my interviews with prefects and men in authority, I made use of, and which at once obtained for me protection and respect.
It is well known that the rightful king of France in his exile made a personal appeal by letters to Bonaparte to induce him to devote his genius and influence to the cause of the monarchy. The example of Monk was cited, and the boundless gratitude of royalty pledged on the issue. The fact is history. Of this memorable note I was the bearer. Looking back at the wondrous destiny of that great man, such an overture may easily appear vain and absurd to a degree; but it was by no means so destitute of all chance of success at the time in which it was made. Of this I feel assured, and for the following reason: There was a frequent interchange of letters between the persons attached to the exiled family and leading members of the then French Government. This correspondence was carried on by secret agents, who were suffered to pass freely from capital to capital, and more than once intrusted with even verbal communications. These agents were rigidly instructed to limit themselves strictly to the duty assigned to them, and neither to use their opportunities for personal objects, nor for the acquirement of information on subjects foreign to their mission. They were narrowly watched, and I believe myself that a secret espionage was maintained expressly to observe them. The sudden disappearance of more than one amongst them fully warrants the suspicion that indiscretion had paid its greatest and last penalty.
By the means of these persons, then, a close and compact correspondence was maintained, – a tone of familiarity, and even frankness, was, I am assured, paraded in it; while, in reality, the object of each side was purely treacherous. At one time it was a proposition to some high and leading individual to desert his party and espouse that of its opponents; at another, it was an artful description of the decline of revolutionary doctrines, made purposely to draw from the Royalists some confession of their own future intentions; while, more important than all, there came a letter in Bonaparte’s own hand, offering to Louis a sum of several millions of francs, in return for a formal renunciation of all right to that throne from which his destiny seemed sufficiently to exclude him. What a curious page of history will it fill when this secret correspondence shall one day see the light! I know, of my own knowledge, that a great part of it is still in existence, though in the hands of those who have solid reasons for not revealing it.
At the time when I first joined this secret service, the interchange of letters was more than ordinarily great. The momentous change which had taken place in France by the ascendancy of Bonaparte had imparted new hopes to the Royalist party; and they were profuse in their expressions of admiration for the man who of all the world was fated to be the deadliest enemy of their race. Their gratitude was, indeed, boundless, – at least, it transcended the usual limits of the virtue, since it went so far as to betray the cause of the very nation to which they were at the very same moment beholden for a refuge and an asylum! Secret information of the views of the English cabinet; the opinions of statesmen about the policy of the war; the resources, the plans, even the discontents, of the country were all commented on and detailed; while carefully drawn-up statistics were forwarded, setting forth the ships in commission or in readiness for sea, with every circumstance that could render the information valuable.
I know not if the English Government looked with contempt on these intrigues, or whether they themselves did not acquire information more valuable than that they connived at; for assuredly every secret agent was well known to them, and more than one actually in their pay. Of myself, I can boldly say such was not the case. I traversed the Continent, from Hamburg to Naples; I passed freely across Europe in every direction; and on my return to England I met neither molestation nor hindrance, nor did I attract any more attention than an ordinary traveller. If I owed this immunity to a settled plan I had set down for my guidance, it is equally true that it impeded my promotion, and left me in the rank of those who were less secret agents than mere messengers. My plan was to appear totally ignorant of the countries through which I journeyed, neither remarking the events, nor being able to afford any tidings about them. I was not ignorant of the injury this course of action inflicted on my prospects. I saw myself passed over for others of less capacity; I noticed the class with which I was associated as belonging to the humblest members of the walk; and I even overheard myself quoted as unfit for this, and unequal to that. Shall I own at once that the career was distasteful to me in the highest degree? Conceal it how we could, wear what appellation we might, we were only spies; and any estimation we were held in simply depended on whatever abilities we could display in this odious capacity. It was, then, in a sort of compromise with my pride that I stooped to the lowest grade, rather than win my advancement by the low arts of the eavesdropper.
If I seemed utterly incapable of those efforts which depended on tact and worldly skill, my employers freely acknowledged that, as a messenger, I had no equal. No difficulties could arrest my progress; the most arduous journeys I surmounted with ease; the least-frequented roads were all familiar to me. Three, four, and even five days consecutively have I passed in the saddle; and whether over the rude sierras of Spain, the wild paths of the Apennines, or the hot sands of the desert, no fatigue ever compelled me to halt. The Royalist partisans were scattered over the whole globe. Some of them had taken service in the German armies; some were in the Neapolitan service; some had abjured their religion, and were high in command over the Sultan’s troops; and many had emigrated to America, where they settled. Wherever they were, whatever cloth they wore, or the flag they were ranged under, they had but one cause and one hope, – the restoration of the Bourbons; and for this were they ever ready to abandon any eminence they might have gained, or any fame or fortune they had acquired, to rally at a moment beneath the banner of him they regarded as their true and rightful sovereign. I knew them well, for I saw them near. Their littleness, their jealousies, their absurd vanity and egregious pretensions, were all well known to me; but many a time have I felt a sort of contemptuous scorn of them repelled by reflecting over the heroic and chivalrous loyalty which bound them to a cause so all but hopeless. If it be asked why I remained in a career so distasteful to me, and served a cause to which no sympathy bound me, my answer is, that I followed it with an object which had engrossed every ambition and every wish of my heart; and this was to find out “my mother” and Raper. I knew that the secrets of my birth were known to them, and that with them alone, of all the world, lay the clew to my family and kindred. While the Count lived, my mother – I cannot call her by any other name – was fearful of revealing circumstances to me, of which he would not suffer any mention in his presence. This barrier was now removed. Besides, I had grown up to manhood, and had a better pretension to ask for the satisfaction of my curiosity.
This was, then, the stimulus that supported me in many a long and weary journey; this the hope that sustained me through every reverse of fortune, and through what is still harder to bear, – the solitude of my lonely, friendless lot. By degrees, however, it began to fail within me; frequent disappointment at last so chilled my ardor that I almost determined to abandon the pursuit forever, and with it a career which I detested. The slightest accident that foreshadowed a prospect of success was still enough to make me change my resolve; and thus I lived on, vacillating now to this side, now to that, and enduring the protracted tortures of expectation.
It was in one of these moments, when despair was in the ascendant, that I received an order to set out for Reichenau and obtain certain papers which had been left there in the keeping of Monsieur Jost, the property of a certain person whose initial was the letter C. I was given to understand that the documents were of great importance, and the mission one to be executed with promptitude. I had almost decided on abandoning this pursuit. The very note in which I should communicate my resignation was begun on the table, when the Abbé, who generally was the bearer of my instructions, came to convey this order. He was in a mood of unusual gayety and frankness; and after rallying me on my depression, and jestingly pointing out the great rewards which one day or other would be bestowed upon me, he told me that the tidings from France were of the very best kind, that the insolent airs of Bonaparte were detaching from him many of his stanchest adherents, that Pichegru openly, and Bernadotte secretly, had abandoned him; Davoust had ceased to visit at his house; while Lasalle and others of less note were heard to declare that if they were to have a master, at least it should be one who was born to the station that conferred command.
“We knew,” continued he, joyously, “that we had only to leave this man alone, and he would be his own executioner; and the event has only come a little earlier than we looked for. These papers for which you are now despatched contain a secret correspondence between a great personage and some of the most distinguished generals of the Republic.”
He said much more on this theme, – indeed, he sat late, and talked of nothing else; but I paid little attention to the subject. I had over and over again heard the same observation; and at least a dozen eventful crises had occurred when the Republic was declared in its last struggle, and the cause of the king triumphant.
“I perceive,” said he, at last, “you are less sanguine than I am. Is it not so?”
“You mistake me, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said I; “my depression has a selfish origin. I have been long weary of this career of mine, and the note which you see there was the beginning of a formal renunciation of it.”
