Kitabı oku: «Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XIII. THE CHEVALIER
When men of high courage and proud hearts meet with reverses in life, our anxiety is rather to learn what new channel their thoughts and exertions will take in future, than to hear how they have borne up under misfortune. I knew Duchesne too well to suppose that any turn of fate would find him wholly unprepared; but still, a public reprimand, and from the lips of the Emperor, too, was of a nature to wound him to the quick, and I could not guess, nor picture to myself in what way he would bear it. The loss of grade itself was a thing of consequence, as the service of the élite was reckoned a certain promotion; not to speak of – what to him was far more important – the banishment from Paris and its salons to some gloomy and distant encampment. In speculations like these I returned to my quarters, where I was surprised to discover that the chevalier had not been since morning. I learned from his servant that he had dismissed him, with his horses, soon after leaving the Tuileries, and had not returned home from that time.
I dined alone that day, and sat moodily by myself, thinking over the events of the morning, and wondering what had become of my friend, and watching every sound that might tell of his coming. It is true there were many things I liked not in Duchesne: his cold, sardonic spirit, his moqueur temperament, chilled and repelled me; but I recognized, even through his own efforts at concealment, a manly tone of independence, a vigorous reliance on self, that raised him in my esteem, and made me regard him with a certain species of admiration. With his unsettled or unstable political opinions, I greatly dreaded the excess to which a spirit of revenge might carry him.
I knew that the Jacobin party, and the Bourbons themselves, lay in wait for every erring member of the Imperial side; and I felt no little anxiety at the temptations they might hold out to him, at a moment when his excitement might have the mastery over his cooler judgment.
Late in the evening a Government messenger arrived with a large letter addressed to him from the Minister of War; and even this caused me fresh uneasiness, since I connected the despatch in my mind with some detail of duty which his absence might leave unperformed.
It was long past midnight, as I sat, vainly endeavoring to occupy myself with a book, which each moment I laid down to listen, when suddenly I heard the roll of a fiacre in the court beneath, the great doors banged and closed, and the next moment the chevalier entered the room.
He was dressed in plain clothes, and looked somewhat paler than usual, but though evidently laboring under excitement, affected his wonted ease and carelessness of manner, as, taking a chair in front of me, he sat down.
“What a day of worry and trouble this has been, my dear friend!” he began. “From the moment I last saw you to the present one, I have not rested, and with four invitations to dinner, I have not dined anywhere.”
He paused as he said thus much, as if expecting me to say something; and I perceived that the embarrassment he felt rather increased than otherwise. I therefore endeavored to mumble out something about his hurried departure and the annoyance of such a sentence, when he stopped me suddenly.
“Oh, as to that, I fancy the matter is arranged already; I should have had a letter from the War Office.”
“Yes, there is one here; it came three hours ago.”
He turned at once to the table, and breaking the seal, perused the packet in silence, then handed it to me, as he said, —
“Bead that; it will save a world of explanation.”
It was dated five o’clock, and merely contained the following few words: —
His Majesty I. and R. accepts the resignation of Senior Captain Duchesne, late of the Imperial Guard; who, from the date of the present, is no longer in the service of France.
(Signed)
BERTHIER, Marshal of France.
A small sealed note dropped from the packet, which Duchesne took up, and broke open with eagerness.
“Ha! parbleu!” cried he, with energy; “I thought not. See here, Burke; it is Duroc who writes: – ”
My dear Duchesne, – I knew there was no use in making such a proposition, and told you as much. The moment I said the word ‘England,’ he shouted out ‘No!’ in such a tone you might have heard it at the Luxembourg. You will perceive, then, the thing is impracticable; and perhaps, after all, for your own sake, it is better it should be so.
Yours ever, D.
“This is all mystery to me, Duchesne; I cannot fathom it in the least.”
“Let me assist you; a few words will do it. I gave in my démission as Captain of the Guard, which, as you see, his Majesty has accepted; we shall leave it to the ‘Moniteur’ of to-morrow to announce whether graciously or not. I also addressed a formal letter to Duroc, to ask the Emperor’s permission to visit England, on private business of my own.” His eyes sparkled with a malignant lustre as he said these last words, and his cheek grew deep scarlet. “This, however, his Majesty has not granted, doubtless from private reasons of his own; and thus we stand. Which of us, think you, has most spoiled the other’s rest for this night?”
“But still I do not comprehend. What can take you to England? You have no friends there; you’ve never been in that country.”
“Do you know the very word is proscribed, – that the island is covered from his eyes in the map he looks upon, that perfide Albion is the demon that haunts his dark hours, and menaces with threatening gesture the downfall of all his present glory? Ah, by Saint Denis, boy! had I been you, it is not such an epaulette as this I had worn.”
“Enough, Duchesne; I will not hear more. Not to you, nor any one, am I answerable for the reasons that have guided my conduct; nor had I listened to so much, save that such excitement as yours may make that pardonable which in calmer moments is not so.”
“You say right, Burke,” said he, quickly, and with more seriousness of manner; “it is seldom I have been betrayed into such a passionate warmth as this. I hope I have not offended you. This change of circumstance will make none in our friendship. I knew it, my dear boy. And now let us turn from such tiresome topics. Where, think you, have I been spending the evening? But how could you ever guess? Well, at the Odéon, attending Mademoiselle Pierrot, and a very pretty friend of hers, – one of our vivandières, who happens to be in the brigade with mademoiselle’s brother, and dined there to-day. She only arrived in Paris this morning; and, by Jove! there are some handsome faces in our gay salons would scarcely stand the rivalry with hers. I must show you the fair Minette.”
“Minette!” stammered I, while a sickly sensation – a fear of some unknown misfortune to the poor girl – almost stopped my utterance. “I know her; she belongs to the Fourth Cuirassiers.”
“Ah, you know her? Who would have suspected my quiet friend of such an acquaintance? And so, you never hinted this to me. Ma foi! I ‘d have thought twice about throwing up my commission if I had seen her half an hour earlier. Come, tell me all you know of her. Where does she come from?”
“Of her history I am totally ignorant; I can only tell you that her character is without a stain or reproach, in circumstances where few, if any save herself, ever walked scathless; that on more than one occasion she has displayed heroism worthy of the best among us.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, how disappointed I am! Indeed, I half feared as much: she is a regular vivandière of the mélodrame, – virtuous, high-minded, and intrepid. You, of course, believe all this, – don’t be angry, Burke, – but I don’t; and the reason is I can’t, – the gods have left me incredulous from the cradle. I have a rooted obstinacy about me, perfectly irreclaimable. Thus, I fancy Napoleon to be a Corsican; a modern marshal to be a promoted sergeant; a judge of the upper court to be a public prosecutor; and a vivandière of the grande armée– But I’ll not offend, – don’t be afraid, my poor fellow, – even at the risk of the rivalry. Upon my life, I ‘m glad to see you have a heart susceptible of any little tenderness. But you cannot blame me if I ‘m weary of this eternal travesty of character which goes on amongst us. Why will our Republican and sans culotte friends try courtly airs and graces, while our real aristocracy stoop to the affected coarseness of the canaille? Is it possible that they who wish to found a new order of things do not see that all these pantomime costumes and characters denote nothing but change, – that we are only performing a comedy after all? I scarcely expect it will be a five-act one. And, apropos of comedies, – when shall we pay our respects to Madame de Lacostellerie? It will require all my diplomacy to keep my ground there under my recent misfortune. Nothing short of a tender inquiry from the Duchesse de Montserrat will open the doors for me. Alas, and alas! I suppose I shall have to fall back on the Faubourg.”
“But is the step irrevocable, Duchesne? Can you really bring yourself to forego a career which opened with such promise?”
“And terminated with such disgrace,” added he, smiling placidly.
“Nay, nay; don’t affect to take it thus. Your services would have placed you high, and won for you honors and rank.”
“And, ma foi! have they not done so? Am I not a very interesting individual at this moment, – more so than any other of my life? Are not half the powdered heads of the Faubourg plotting over my downfall, and wondering how they are to secure me to the ‘true cause’? Are not the hot heads of the Jacobites speculating on my admission, by a unanimous vote, into their order? And has not Fouché gone to the special expense of a new police spy, solely destined to dine at the same café, play at the same salon, and sit in the same box of the Opera with me? Is this nothing? Well, it will be good fun, after all, to set their wise brains on the wrong track; not to speak of the happiness of weeding one’s acquaintance, which a little turn of fortune always effects so instantaneously.”
“One would suppose from your manner, Duchesne, that some unlooked-for piece of good luck had befallen you; the event seems to have been the crowning one of your life.”
“Am I not at liberty, boy? have I not thrown the slavery behind me? Is that nothing? You may fancy your collar, because there is some gold upon it; but, trust me, it galls the neck as cursedly as the veriest brass. Come, Burke, I must have a glass of champagne, and you must pledge me in a creaming bumper. If you don’t join in the sentiment now, the time will come later on. We may be many a mile apart, – ay, perhaps a whole world will divide us; but you’ll remember my toast, – ‘To him that is free!’ I am sick of most things; women, wine, war, play, – the game of life itself, with all its dashing and existing interests, – I have had them to satiety. But liberty has its charm; even to the palsied arm and the withered hand freedom is dear; and why not to him who yet can strike?”
His eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and he drained glass after glass of wine, without seeming aware of what he was doing.
“If you felt thus, Duchesne, why have you remained so long a soldier?”
“I ‘ll tell you. He who travels unwillingly along some dreary path stops often as he goes, and looks around to see if, in the sky above or the road beneath, some obstacle may not cross his way and bid him turn. The faintest sound of a brewing storm, the darkening shadow of a cloud, a swollen rivulet, is enough, and straightway he yields: so men seem swayed in life by trifles which never moved them, by accidents which came not near their hearts. These, which the world called their disappointments, were often but the pivots of their fortune. I have had enough, nay, more than enough, of all this. You must not ask the hackneyed actor of the melodrama to start at the blue lights, and feel real fear at burning forests and flaming châteaux. This mock passion of the Emperor – ”
“Come, my friend, that is indeed too much; unquestionably there was no feigning there.”
Duchesne gave a bitter laugh, and laying his hand on my arm, said, —
“My good boy, I know him well. The knowledge has cost me something; but I have it. A soldier’s enthusiasm!” said he, in irony, – “bah! Shall I tell you a little incident of my boyhood? I detest story-telling, but this you must hear. Fill my glass! listen, and I promise you not to be lengthy.”
It was the first time in our intimacy in which Duchesne referred distinctly to his past life; and I willingly accepted the offer he made, anticipating that any incident, no matter how trivial, might throw a light on the strange contrarieties of his character.
He sat for several minutes silent, his eyes turned towards the ground. A faint smile, more of sadness than aught else, played about his lips, as he muttered to himself some words I could not catch. Then rallying, with a slight effort, he began thus – But, short as his tale was, we must give him a chapter to himself.
CHAPTER XIV. A BOYISH REMINISCENCE
“I believe I have already told you, Burke, that my family were most of them Royalists. Such as were engaged in trade followed the fortunes of the day, and cried ‘Vive la République!’ like their neighbors. Some deemed it better to emigrate, and wait in a foreign land for the happy hour of returning to their own, – a circumstance, by the way, which must have tried their patience ere this; and a few, trusting to their obscure position, living in out-of-the-way, remote spots, supposed that in the general uproar they might escape undetected; and, with one or two exceptions, they were right. Among these latter was an unmarried brother of my mother, who having held a military command for a great many years in the Ile de Bourbon, retired to spend the remainder of his days in a small but beautiful château on the seaside, about three leagues from Marseilles. The old viscount (we continued to call him so among ourselves, though the use of titles was proscribed long before) had met with some disappointment in love in early life, which had prevented his ever marrying, and turned all his affections towards the children of his brothers and sisters, who invariably passed a couple of months of each summer with him, arriving from different parts of France for the purpose.
“And truly it was a strange sight to see the mixture of look, expression, accent, and costume, that came to the rendezvous: the long-featured boy, with blue eyes and pointed chin, – cold, wary, and suspicious, brave but cautious, – that came from Normandy; the high-spirited, reckless youth from Brittany; the dark-eyed girl of Provence; the quick-tempered, warm-hearted Gascon and, stranger than all, from his contrast to the rest the little Parisian, with his airs of the capital and his contempt for his rustic brethren, nothing daunted that in all their boyish exercises he found himself so much their inferior. Our dear old uncle loved nothing so well as to have us around him; and even the little ones, of five and six years old, when not living too far off, were brought to these reunions, which were to us the great events of each year of our lives.
“It was in the June of the year 1794 – I shall not easily forget the date – that we were all assembled as usual at ‘Le Luc.’ Our party was reinforced by some three or four new visitors, among whom was a little girl of about twelve years old, – Annette de Noailles, the prettiest creature I ever beheld. Every land has its own trait of birth distinctly marked. I don’t know whether you have observed that the brow and the forehead are more indicative of class in Frenchmen than any other portion of the face: hers was perfect, and though a mere child, conveyed an impression of tempered decision and mildness that was most fascinating; the character of her features was thoughtful, and were it not for a certain vivacity in the eyes, would have been even sad. Forgive me, if I dwell – when I need not – on these traits: she is no more. Her father carried her with him in his exile, and your lowering skies and gloomy air soon laid her low.
“Annette was the child of Royalist parents. Both her father and mother had occupied places in the royal household; and she was accustomed from her earliest infancy to hear the praise of the Bourbons from lips which trembled when they spoke. Poor child! how well do I remember her little prayer for the martyred saint, – for so they styled the murdered king, – which she never missed saying each morning when the mass was over in the chapel of the château. It is a curious fact that the girls of a family were frequently attached to the fortunes of the Bourbons, while the boys declared for the Revolution; and these differences penetrated into the very core, and sapped the happiness of many whose affection had stood the test of every misfortune save the uprooting torrent of anarchy that poured in with the Revolution. These party differences entered into all the little quarrels of the schoolroom and the nursery; and the taunting epithets of either side were used in angry passion by those who neither guessed nor could understand their meaning. Need it be wondered at, if in after life these opinions took the tone of intense convictions, when even thus in infancy they were nurtured and fostered? Our little circle at Le Luc was, indeed, wonderfully free from such causes of contention; whatever paths in life fate had in store for us afterwards, then, at least, we were of one mind. A few of the boys, it is true, were struck by the successes of those great armies the Revolution poured over Europe; but even they were half ashamed to confess enthusiasm in a cause so constantly allied in their memory with everything mean and low-lived.
“Such, in a few words, was the little party assembled around the supper-table of the château, on one lovely evening in June. The windows, opening to the ground, let in the perfumed air from many a sweet and flowery shrub without; while already the nightingale had begun her lay in the deep grove hard by. The evening was so calm we could hear the plash of the making tide upon the shore, and the minute peals of the waves smote on the ear with a soft and melancholy cadence that made us silent and thoughtful. As we sat for some minutes thus, we suddenly heard the sound of feet coming up the little gravel walk towards the château, and on going to the window, perceived three men in uniform leading their horses slowly along. The dusky light prevented our being able to distinguish their rank or condition; but my uncle, whose fears were easily excited by such visitors, at once hastened to the door to receive them.
“His absence was not of many minutes’ duration; but even now I can remember the strange sensations of dread that rendered us all speechless as we stood looking towards the door by which he was to enter. He came at last, and was followed by two officers; one, the elder, and the superior evidently, was a thin, slight man, of about thirty, with a pale but stern countenance, in which a certain haughty expression predominated; the other was a fine, soldierlike, frank-looking fellow, who saluted us all as he came in with a smile and a pleasant gesture of his hand.
“‘You may leave us, children,’ said my uncle, as he proceeded towards the bell.
“‘You were at supper, if I mistake not?’ said the elder of the two officers, with a degree of courtesy in his tone I scarcely expected.
“‘Yes, General. But my little friends – ’
“‘Will, I hope, share with us,’ said the general, interrupting; ‘and I, at least, am determined, with your permission, that they shall remain. It is quite enough that we enjoy the hospitality of your château for the night, without interfering with the happiness of its inmates; and I beg that we may give you as little inconvenience as possible in providing for our accommodation.’
“Though these words were spoken with an easy and a kindly tone, there was a cold, distant manner in the speaker that chilled us all, and while we drew over to the table again, it was in silence and constraint. Indeed, our poor uncle looked the very picture of dismay, endeavoring to do the honors to his guests and seem at ease, while it was clear his fears were ever uppermost in his mind.
“The aide-de-camp – for such the young officer was – looked like one who could have been agreeable and amusing if the restraint of the general’s presence was not over him. As it was, he spoke in a low, subdued voice, and seemed in great awe of his superior.
“Unlike our usual ones, the meal was eaten in mournful stillness, the very youngest amongst us feeling the presence of the stranger as a thing of gloom and sadness.
“Supper over, my uncle, perhaps hoping to relieve the embarrassment he labored under, asked permission of the general for us to remain, saying, —
“‘My little people, sir, are great novelists, and they usually amuse me of an evening by their stories. Will this be too great an endurance for you?’
“‘By no means,’ said the general, gayly; ‘there’s nothing I like better, and I hope they will admit me as one of the party. I have something of a gift that way myself.’
“The circle was soon formed, the general and his aide-de-camp making part of it; but though they both exerted themselves to the utmost to win our confidence, I know not why or wherefore, we could not shake off the gloom we had felt at first, but sat awkward and ill at ease, unable to utter a word, and even ashamed to look at each other.
“‘Come,’ said the general, ‘I see how it is. I have broken in upon a very happy party. I must make the only amende in my power, – I shall be the story-teller for this evening.’
“As he said this, he looked around the little circle, and by some seeming magic of his own, in an instant he had won us every one. We drew our chairs close towards him, and listened eagerly for his tale. Few people, save such as live much among children, or take the trouble to study their tone of feeling and thinking, are aware how far reality surpasses in interest the force of mere fiction. The fact is with them far more than all the art of the narrative; and if you cannot say ‘this was true,’ more than half of the pleasure your story confers is lost forever. Whether the general knew this, or that his memory supplied him more easily than his imagination, I cannot say; but his tale was a little incident of the siege of Toulon, where a drummer boy was killed, – having returned to the breach, after the attack was repulsed, to seek for a little cockade of ribbon his mother had fastened on his cap that morning. Simple as was the story, he told it with a subdued and tender pathos that made our hearts thrill and filled every eye around him.
“‘It was a poor thing, it’s true,’ said he, ‘that knot of ribbon, but it was glory to him to rescue it from the enemy. His heart was on the time when he should show it, blood-stained and torn, and say, “I took it from the ground amid the grapeshot and the musketry. I was the only living thing there that moment; and see, I bore it away triumphantly.”’ As the general spoke, he unbuttoned the breast of his uniform, and took forth a small piece of crumpled ribbon, fastened in the shape of a cockade. ‘Here it is,’ said he, holding it up before on? eyes; ‘it was for this he died.’ We could scarce see it through our tears. Poor Annette held her hands upon her face, and sobbed violently. ‘Keep it, my sweet child,’ said the general, as he attached the cockade to her shoulder;’ it is a glorious emblem, and well worthy to be worn by one so pure and so fair as you are.’
“Annette looked up, and as she did, her eyes fell upon the tricolor that hung from her shoulder, – the hated, the despised tricolor, the badge of that party whose cruelty she had thought of by day and dreamed of by night. She turned deadly pale, and sat, with lips compressed and clenched hands, unable to speak or stir.
“‘What is it? Are you ill, child?’ said the general, suddenly.
“‘Annette, love! Annette, dearest!’ said my uncle, trembling with anxiety, ‘speak; what is the matter?’
“‘It is that!’ cried I, fiercely, pointing to the knot, on which her eyes were bent with a shrinking horror I well knew the meaning of, – ’ it is that!’
“The general bent on me a look of passionate meaning, as with a hissing tone he said, ‘Do you mean this?’
“‘Yes,’ said I, tearing it away, and trampling it beneath my feet, – ‘yes! it is not a Noailles can wear the badge of infamy and crime; the blood-stained tricolor can find slight favor here.’
“‘Hush, boy! hush, for Heaven’s sake!’ cried my uncle, trembling with fear.
“The caution came too late. The general, taking a note-book from his pocket, opened it leisurely, and then turning towards the viscount, said, ‘This youth’s name is – ’
“‘Duchesne; Henri Duchesne.’
“‘And his age?’
“‘Fourteen in March,’ replied my uncle, as his eyes filled up; while he added, in a half whisper, ‘if you mean the conscription, General, he has already supplied a substitute.’
“‘No matter, sir, if he had sent twenty; such defect of education as his needs correction. He shall join the levies at Toulon in three days; in three days, mark me! Depend upon it, sir,’ said he, turning to me, ‘you shall learn a lesson beneath that tricolor you’ll be somewhat long in forgetting. Dumolle, look to this.’ With this direction to his aide-de-camp he arose, and before my poor unhappy uncle could recover his self-possession to reply, had left the room.
“‘He will not do this, sir; surely, he will not,’ said the viscount to the young officer.
“‘General Bonaparte does not relent, sir; and if he did, he ‘d never show it,’ was the cold reply.
“That day week I carried a musket on the ramparts of Toulon. Here began a career I have followed ever since; with how much of enthusiasm I leave you to judge for yourself.”
As Duchesne concluded this little story he arose, and paced the room backwards and forwards with rapid steps, while his compressed lips and knitted brow showed he was lost in gloomy recollections of the past.
“He was right, after all, Burke,” said he, at length. “Personal honor will make the soldier; conviction may make the patriot. I fought as stoutly for this same cause as though I did not loathe it: how many others may be in the same position? You yourself, perhaps.”
“No, no; not I.”
“Well, be it so,” rejoined he, carelessly. “Goodnight” And with that he strolled negligently from the room, and I heard him humming a tune as he mounted the stairs towards his bedroom.
