Kitabı oku: «Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I», sayfa 31

Arrangement had been made for my reception at the Rue de Rohan; but I learned that the general was at Versailles with the Court, and only came up to Paris once or twice each week. His direction to me was, to wait for his arrival, and not to leave the city on any account.

With what a strange feeling did I survey the Palace of the Tuileries, – the scene of my first moment of delighted admiration of her I now loved, and, alas! of my first step in the long catalogue of my misfortunes! I lingered about the gardens with a fascination I could not account for; my destiny seemed somehow linked with the spot, and I could not reason myself out of the notion but that there, in that great pile, the fate of my whole life was to be decided.

My entire day was passed in this way; and evening found me seated on one of the benches near the windows of the pavilion, where I watched the lustres in the long gallery as one by one they burst into light, and saw the gilt candelabras twinkling as each taper was illuminated. It was an evening reception of the Emperor, and I could mark the vast assemblage, in every variety of uniform, that filled the salons. At length the drums beat for strangers to leave the gardens; the patrols passed on; and gradually the crowded walks became thinner and thinner; the sounds of the drum grew fainter; and finally the whole space became still and noiseless, – not a voice was to be heard, not a step moved on the gravel. I knew that the gates were now locked; and yet I stayed on, glad to be alone, and at leisure to dream away among the fancies that kept ever rising to my mind, and to follow out the trains of thought that ever and anon opened before me.

As the hour grew later, and the salons filled more and more, the windows were opened along the terrace to give air, and I could hear the continued murmur of hundreds of voices conversing, while at times the sound of laughter rose above the rest. What a rush of thoughts came on me as I sat! how did I picture to myself the dark intrigues, the subtle plots of wily diplomatists, the bold and daring aspirations of the brave soldiers, the high hopes and the ambitious yearnings that were all commingled there, grouped around him whose dreams were of universal empire! While I mused, the night glided on, and the solemn sound of the bell of Notre Dame proclaimed midnight. I now could mark that the salons were thinning, and the unceasing din of carriages in the Place announced the departure of the guests. In little more than half an hour the great gallery was empty, and but a few groups remained in the apartments adjoining. Even they soon departed; and then I could see the servants passing from room to room extinguishing the lights, and soon the great facade of the palace wac wrapped in darkness. A twinkling light appeared here and there for some time, but it too went out. The night was calm and still and sultry; not a leaf stirred; and the heavy tread of the sentinels as they paced the marble vestibule was heard plainly where I stood.

How full of thought to me was that vast pile, now shrouded in the gloom of night! What bold, ambitious deeds, – what dreams of empire, – had not been conceived there! The great of other days, indeed, entered little into my mind, as I remembered it was the home of him, the greatest of them all. How terrible, too, it was to think, that within that silent palace, which seemed sleeping with the tranquil quiet of an humble cottage, the dreadful plans which were to convulse the world, to shake thrones and dynasties, to make of Europe a vast battlefield, were now devising. The masses of dark cloud that hung heavily in the air, obscuring the sky and shutting out every star, seemed to my fevered imagination an augury of evil; and the oppressive, loaded atmosphere, though perfumed with the odor of flowers, sunk heavily on the spirits. Again the hour rang out, and I remembered that the gates of the garden were now closed for the night, and that I should remain where I was till daylight liberated me. My mind was, however, too full of its own thoughts to make me care for sleep, and I strolled along the gloomy walks lost in revery.

CHAPTER XL. A NIGHT IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS

As the night wore on, I remembered that once, when a boy at the Polytechnique, I longed to penetrate one of the little enclosures which fenced the small flower-gardens beside the Palace, and which were railed up from the public promenades by a low iron railing. The bouquets of rich flowers that grew there, sparkling with the light dew of a little jet d’eau that fell in raindrops over them, had often tempted my young heart; but still in the daytime such a transgression would have been immediately punished. Now, with the strange caprice which so often prompts us in after years to do that which in youth we wished but could not accomplish, I wandered towards the gardens, and crossing over the low fence, entered the parterre; each step awoke the sleeping perfume of the flowers, and I strolled along the velvet turf until I reached a low bench, half covered with honeysuckle and woodbine. Here I threw myself down, and, wrapping my cloak around me, resolved to rest till daybreak. The stillness of all around, the balmy air, and my own musings, gradually conspired to make me drowsy, and I slept.

My sleep could not have been long, when I was awakened by a noise close beside me. I started up and looked about, and for some seconds I could scarcely credit that I was not still dreaming. Not more than a dozen paces from where I lay, and where before the dark walls of the Palace rose in unbroken blackness, was now a chamber, brilliantly lighted up by several wax-lights that stood on a table. At the window, which opened to the ground and led into the garden, stood the figure of a man, but from his position before the light I could not remark more than that he wore epaulettes. It was the noise of the opening jalousies which awoke me; and I could see his hand stretched out, as if to ascertain whether or not it was raining. At the table I could perceive another person, on whose uniform the light fell strongly, displaying many a cross and star, which twinkled with every stir he made. He was busily engaged writing, and never lifted his head from the paper. The walls of the room were covered with shelves filled with books; and on the chairs about, and even on the floor, lay maps and drawings in every disorder; a sword and belt, as if just taken off, lay on the table among the writing materials, and a cocked hat beside them.

While I noticed these details, my very heart was chill within me. The dark figure at the window, which stirred not, seemed as if turned towards me, and more than once I almost thought I could see his eyes bent upon me. This was, however, but the mere suggestion of my own fears for in the shade of the seat no light whatever fell, and I was perfectly concealed. In the deep stillness I could hear the scraping sound of the pen on the paper, and scarcely dared to breathe lest I should cause discovery, when the figure retired from the window, and moved towards the table. For some minutes he appeared to stoop over a large map, which lay outstretched before him, and across which I could’ see his finger moving rapidly.

Suddenly he stood erect, and in a voice which even now rings within my heart, said, “It must be so, Duroc; by any other route Bernadotte will be too late!”

What was the reply I know not, such terror now fell over me. It was the Emperor himself who spoke. It was he who the instant before was standing close beside me at the window; and thus, a second time in my life, did I become the unwilling eavesdropper of the man I most feared and respected of all the world. Before I could summon resolution to withdraw, Napoleon spoke again.

“Hardenberg,” said he, in a tone of contemptuous passion, “Hardenberg is but a Prussian! the event will satisfy his scruples. Besides, if they do talk about invasion of territory, you can reply: the Margraves were always open to belligerent parties; remind them of what took place in ‘96, and again in 1800, – though, parbleu, the souvenir may not be so pleasant a one. Protract the discussion, at all events, Duroc; time! time! Then,” added he, after a brief pause, “let them advance, and they ‘ll never pass the Danube. And if they wait for me, I ‘ll fall upon them here, – here, between Ulm and Augsburg. You must, however, start for Berlin at once.”

At this instant a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and passing down my arm, seized me by the wrist. I started back, and beheld a dragoon, for so his helmet and cloak bespoke, of enormous stature, who, motioning me to silence, led me softly and with noiseless step along the flower-beds, as if fearful of attracting the Emperor’s notice. My limbs tottered beneath me as I went, for the dreadful imputation an accident might fix on me stared on me with all its awful consequences. Without a word on either side we reached the little railing, crossed it, and regained the open park, when the soldier, placing himself in front of me, said, in a deep, low voice, —

“Your name; who are you?”

“An officer of the huitieme regiment of hussars,” said I, boldly.

“We shall see that presently,” replied he, in a tone of disbelief. “How came you here?”

In a few words I explained how, having remained too late in the garden, I preferred to pass my night on a bench to the unpleasantness of being brought up before the officer on duty; adding, that it was only on the very moment of his coming that I awoke.

“I know that,” interrupted he, in a less surly voice. “I found you sleeping, and feared to awake you suddenly, lest in the surprise a word or a cry would escape you. One syllable had cost your head.”

In the tone of these last few words there was something I thought I could recognize, and resolving at a bold venture in such an emergency as I found myself placed, I said at a hazard, —

“The better fortune mine, that I fell into the hands of a kind as well as a brave soldier, – the Corporal Pioche.”

“Sacristi! You know me then!” cried he, thunderstruck.

“To be sure I do. Could I be an aide-de-camp to the General d’Auvergne, and not have heard of Pioche?”

“An aide-de-camp of the general,” said he, starting back, as he carried his hand to the salute. “Pardon, mon officier; but you know that duty – ”

“Quite true; it was all my own indiscretion. And now, Pioche, if you ‘ll keep me company here till daybreak – it cannot be far off now – the light will soon satisfy you that my account of myself is a true one.”

“Willingly, sir,” said the gruff cuirassier. “My patrol is, to watch the parterres from the pavilion to the allée yonder; and, if you please, we ‘ll take up our quarters on this bench.”

They who know not the strange mixture of deference and familiarity of which the relation between officer and soldier is made up in the French service, will perhaps wonder a the tone of almost equality in which we conversed. But such is the case: the Revolutionary armies acknowledged no other gredations of rank than such as the service conferred, nor any degree of superiority save that derivable from greater ability of more daring heroism; and although the troops more implicitly obeyed the commands of their officers, the occasion of discipline over a perfect feeling of equality remained amongst all, whether they wore the epaulets of colones or carried a musket in the ranks. With time, and the changes the Consulate had introduced, much of this excessive familiarity was suppressed; still it was no uncommon thing to hear the humble rank and file address the general of division as “thou,” – the expression of closest friendship, probably dating from the hours of schoolboy attachment. Nor was the officer of rank thought less of because in the hours of off-duty, he mixed freely with those who had been his companions through life, and talked with them as brothers. It is probable that in no other nation such a course could have been practised without a total subversion of all respect and the ruin of all habits of order. The Frenchman is, however, essentially military; not merely warlike, like the inhabitants of Great Britain, – his mind ever inclines to the details of war as an art. It is in generalship he glories, not the mere conflict of force; and the humblest soldier in the army takes an interest in the great game of tactics, which in any other people would be quite incredible. Hence he submits to the control which otherwise he could not endure; for this, he yields to command at the hands of one, who, although his equal in all other respects, he here acknowledges as his superior. He knows, too, that the grade of officer is open to merit alone, and he feels that the epaulette may be his own one day. Such causes as these, constantly in operation, could not fail to raise the morale of an army; nor can we wonder that from such a source were derived many, if not most, of the great names that formed the marshals of France. Again, to this military spirit the French owe the perfection of their tirailleur force, – the consummate skill of independent parties, of which every campaign gave evidence. Napoleon found this spirit in the nation, and spared nothing to give it its fullest development. He quickly saw to what height of enthusiasm a people could be brought, to whom a cross or a decoration, an epaulette or a sabre of honor, were deemed the ample rewards of every daring and of every privation; and never in any age or in any country was chivalry so universally spread over the wide surface of a people. With them, rank claimed no exception from fatigue or suffering. The officer fared little better than the soldier on a march; in a battle, he was only more exposed to danger. By daring only could he win his way upwards; and an emulative ardor was continually maintained, which was ever giving to the world instances of individual heroism far more brilliant than all the famed achievements of the crusaders.

This brief digression, unnecessary perhaps to many of my readers, may serve to explain to others how naturally our conversation took the easy tone of familiar equality; nor will they be surprised at the abrupt question of the cuirassier, as he said, —

“Mille tonnerres! lieutenant! was it from your liking the post of danger you selected that bench yonder?”

“The choice was a mere accident.”

“An accident, morbleu!” said he, with a low laugh. “That was what Lasalle called it at the Adige, when the wheel came off the eight-pounder in the charge, and the enemy carried off the gun. ‘An accident!’ said the Petit Caporal to him, – I was close by when he said it, – ‘will your friends in Paris call it an accident if the “ordre du jour” to-morrow condemn you to be shot?’ I know him well,” continued Pioche; “that I do. I was second bombardier with him at Toulon, – ay, at Cairo too. I mind well the evening he came to our quarters; poor enough we were at the time, – no clothes, no rations: I was cook to our division; but somehow there was little duty in my department, till one day the vivandiere’s ass, (a brave beast he was too, before provisions fell short), – a spent shot took him in the flank, and killed him on the spot.

“Sacristi!” what damage it did! All the canteens were smashed to atoms; horn goblets and platters knocked to pieces; but worst of all, a keg of true Nantz was broached, and every drop lost. Poor Madame Gougon! she loved that ass as if he had been one of the regiment; and though we all offered her assignats on our pay, for a month each, to give us the carcass, she wouldn’t do it. No, faith! she would have him buried, and with funeral honors! Parbleu! it was a whim; but the poor thing was in grief, and we could not refuse her. I commanded the party,” continued Pioche, “and a long distance we had to march, lest the shots might be heard in the quartier-général. Well, we had some trouble in getting the poor soul away from the grave. Sacristi! she took it so much to heart, I thought she ‘d have masses said for him. But we did succeed at last, and before dawn we were all within the camp as if nothing had happened. The whole of that day, however, the ass was never out of our minds. It was not grief; no, no! don’t think that. We were all thinking of what a sin it was to have him buried there, – such a fine beast as he was, – and not a pound of meat to be had if you were to offer a nine-pounder gun for it. ‘He is never the worse for his funeral,’ said I; ‘remember, boys, how well preserved he was in brandy before he was buried: let’s have him up again!’ No sooner was night come, than we set off for the place where we laid him, and in less than two hours I was busily employed in making a delicious salmi of his haunch. Mille bommbes! I think I have the smell of it before me; it was gibier, and the gravy was like a purie. We were all pleasantly seated round the fire, watching every turn of the roast, when – crack! – I heard the noise of the patrol bringing his gun to the present, and before we had time to jump up, the Petit Caporal was upon us; he was mounted on a little dark Arab, and dressed in his gray surtout.

“‘What ‘s all this here?’ cried he, pulling up short, while the barb sniffed the air, just as if he guessed what the meat was. ‘Who has stolen this sheep?’

“‘It is not a sheep, Général,’ said I, stepping forward, and trying to hide the long ladle I was basting with.

“‘Not a sheep; then it is an ox, mayhap, or a calf,” said he again, with an angry look.

“‘Neither, Général,’ said I; ‘it was a – a – a beast of our division.’

“‘A beast of your division! What does that mean? No trifling, mind! out with it at once. What’s this? Where did it come from?’

“‘An ass, may it please you, sir,’ said I, trembling all over, for I saw he was in a rare passion. And as he repeated the word after me, I told him the whole story, and how we could not suffer such capital prog to be eaten by any other than good citizens of the Republic.

“While I was telling him so much, the rest stood round terrified; they could not even turn the joint, though it was burning; and, to say truth, I thought myself we were all in a bad way, when suddenly he burst into a fit of laughing, and said, —

“‘What part of France do these fellows come from?’

“‘Alsace, mon général,’ was the answer from every one.

“‘I thought so, I thought so,’ said he; ‘Sybarites, all.’

“‘No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud’s brigade,’ said I. And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could not be angry with the old Fourth.”

“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his campaigns.

“Ma foi! there were few who saw service from ‘92 to ‘97 had not their share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. ‘Where ‘s the adjutant of the Sixth?’ ‘Dead, mon général.’ ‘Where ‘s the colonel of the Voltigeurs?’ ‘Badly wounded.’ ‘Carry him this sabre of honor.’ ‘Who fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the drapeau?’ ‘One of my fellows. General; here he is.’ ‘And what is your name, my brave fellow?’”

The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few seconds’ pause, added in altered tone, “Sacristi! they were fine times!”

“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I, impatiently. “Who was he?”

“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and devotion struggled powerfully together.

“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”

“‘Ah, Pioche,’ said he, gayly, ‘my old friend of Toulouse!’

“‘Yes, Général,’ said I, ‘we ‘ve had some warm work together.’

“‘True, Pioche, and may again perhaps. But you’ve been made a corporal since that; what am I to do for you now?’

“This was a puzzling question, and I did not know how to answer it, and he repeated it before I could make up my mind.

“‘Is there nothing, then, in which I can be of use to Corporal Pioche?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, ‘there is.’

“‘Speak it out, man, then; what is it?’

“‘I wish, then, you ‘d rate the commissary-general of our division for one blunder he’s ever making. The powder they serve us out is always wet, and our bread is as hard as mitraille. Neither bayonets nor teeth will last forever, you know, Général.’ And he burst out a-laughing before I finished.

“‘Rest assured, Pioche, I’ll look to this,’ said he; and he kept his word.”

“But why didn’t you ask for promotion?” said I. “What folly, was it not, to throw away such a chance? You might have been an officer ere this.”

“No,” replied he, with a sorrowful shake of the head; “that was impossible.”

“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”

“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then – ”

“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the moment.

“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was silent.

The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow’s heart, and would have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the corroding sorrow of his life, – the grief that left its impress on his stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier. Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I made an effort to break it, and happily with success.

“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve, to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection, too, hereafter.”

“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round quickly, as a faint smile played about his features – “do you think so? Sacristi! I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I’ve been alone. And then I ‘ve almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman’s, when he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other times, – ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”

“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the remembrance of his own regrets.

“It is a good while past now, – I forget the year exactly, – but we were marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to Paris not to send down any more ‘savants,’ but a good, honest man, with common sense and active habits. But, parbleu, birds of that feather must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them. Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and slouched beavers. The officers couldn’t say a word, you know, all this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to shoes, – a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood fluttering in the wind.

“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade, – it was an inspection; for, parbleu! though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres. Scarcely had the general – it was Bonaparte himself – got halfway down the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: ‘Bread! shoes! caps! biscuits!’

“‘What do I hear?’ said Bonaparte, standing up in his stirrups, and frowning at the line. ‘Who are the malcontents that dare to cry out on parade? Let them stand out; let me see them.’

“And at once more than half the regiment of grenadiers sprang forward, and shouted louder than before, ‘Bread! bread! let us have food and clothing! If we are to fight, let us not die of hunger!’

“‘Grenadiers of the Fourth,’ cried he, in a terrible voice, ‘to your ranks! Second division, and third!’ shouted he, with his hand up, ‘form in square! – carry arms! – present arms! front rank, kneel! Kneel!’ said he, again louder; for you know we never did that in those days. However, every word was obeyed, and down dropped the leading files on their knees; and there we were rooted to the ground. Not a man spoke; all silent as death.

“He then advanced to the front of the staff, and pointing his hand to a convoy of wagons that could just be seen turning the angle of the road, with white flags flying, to show what they were, called out, ‘Commissary-general, distribute full rations and half ammunition to the young regiments; half rations and full ammunition to the veterans of Egypt!’ A shout of applause burst out; but he cried louder than before, ‘Silence in the ranks!’ Then, taking off his chapeau, he stood bareheaded before us; and in a voice like the bugle that blows the charge, he read from a large paper in his hand, ‘In the name of the French Republic, one and indivisible. The Directory of the nation decrees, that the thanks of the Government be given to the Grenadiers of the Fourth, who have deserved well of their country. Vive la République!’

“‘Vive la République!’ shouted the whole square in a roar, like the sea itself. Who thought more of hardships or hunger then? Our only desire was when we were to meet the enemy; and many a jest and many a laugh went round as we loaded our pouches with the new ammunition.

“‘Who’s that fellow yonder?’ said Bonaparte, as he rode slowly down the line. ‘I should know him, I think. Is n’t that Pioche?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, saluting him; ‘it is what remains of poor Pioche, —parbleu! very little more than half, though.’

“‘Ah, glutton!’ said he, laughing, ‘I ought to have guessed you were here; one such gourmand is enough to corrupt a whole brigade.’

“‘Pioche is a good soldier, citizen-general, ‘said my captain, who was an old schoolfellow of mine.

“‘I know it, Captain,’ said the general.

“‘You were in Excelmans’s dragoons, Pioche, if mistake not?’

“Two years and ten months, citizen-general.’

“‘Why did you leave them, and when?’

“‘At Monte Bello, with the colonel’s permission.’

“‘And the reason?’

“‘Morbleu! it was a fancy I had. They killed two horses under me that day, and I saw I was not destined for the cavalry.’

“‘Ha, ha!’ said he, with a sly laugh; ‘had they been asses, the thing might have been different, eh?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, growing red, for I knew what he meant.

“‘Come, Pioche, you must go back again to your old corps; they want one or two like you, – though, parbleu! you ‘ll ruin the Republic in remounts.’

“‘As you please it, Général.’

“‘Well, what shall I do for you besides? Any more commissaries to row, eh? Methinks no bad time to gratify you in that way.’

“‘Ah, mon général if you would only hang up one now and then.’

“‘So I intend, the next time I hear of any of my soldiers being obliged to eat the asses of the vivandiéres.’ And with that he rode on, laughing, though none, save myself, knew what he alluded to; and, ma foi, I was not disposed to turn the laugh against myself by telling. But there goes the réveil, and I must leave you, mon lieutenant; the gates will be open in a few minutes.”

“Good-by, Pioche,” said I, “and many thanks for your pleasant company. I hope we shall meet again, and soon.”

“I hope so, mon lieutenant; and if it be at a bivouac fire, all the better.”

The gallant corporal made his military salute, wheeled about, stiff as if on parade, and departed; while I, throwing my cloak over my arm, turned into the broad alley and left the garden.