Kitabı oku: «Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II», sayfa 33

CHAPTER XL. FONTAINEBLEAU

An order from Berthier, written at the command of the Emperor, admitted me into the ancient Palace of Fontainebleau, where I lay for upwards of two months under my wound. Twice had fever nearly brought me to the grave; but youth and unimpaired health succored me, and I rallied through all. A surgeon of the staff accompanied me, and by his kind companionship, not less than by his skill, did I recover from an illness where sorrow had made an iron inroad not less deep than disease.

In my little chamber, which looked out upon the courtyard of the Palace, I passed my days, thinking over the past and all its vicissitudes. Each day we learned some intelligence either from the seat of war or from Paris: defeat in one, treason and disaffection in the other, were rapidly hastening the downfall of the mightiest Empire the genius of man had ever constructed. Champ-Aubert, Montmirail, and Montereau, great victories as they were, retarded not the current of events. “The week of glory” brought not hope to a cause predestined to ruin.

It was the latter end of March. For some days previous the surgeon had left me to visit an outpost ambulance near Melun, and I was alone. My strength, however, enabled me to sit up at my window; and even in this slight pleasure my wearied senses found enjoyment, after the tedious hours of a sickbed. The evening was calm, and for the season mild and summerlike. The shrubs were putting forth their first leaves, and around the marble fountains the spring flowers were already showing signs of blossom. The setting sun made the tall shadows of the ancient beech-trees stretch across the wide court, where all was still as at midnight. No inhabitant of the Palace was about; not a servant moved, not a footstep was heard.

It was a moment of such perfect stillness as leads the mind to reverie; and my thoughts wandered away to that distant time when gay cavaliers and stately dames trod those spacious terraces, – when tales of chivalry and love mingled with the plashing sounds of those bright fountains, and the fair moon looked down on more lovely forms than even those graceful marbles around. I fancied the time when the horn of the chasseur was heard-echoing through those vast courts, its last notes lost in the merry voices of the cortege round the monarch. And then I called up the brilliant group, with caracoling steeds and gay housings, proudly advancing up that great avenue to the royal entrance, and pictured the ancient ceremonial that awaited his coming, – the descendant of a long line of kings. The frank and kingly Francis, the valiant Henry the Fourth, the “Grand Monarch” himself, – all passed in review before my mind as once they lived, and moved, and spoke in that stately pile.

The sun had set: the mingled shadows threw their gloom over the wide court, and one wing of the Palace was in’ deep shade, when suddenly I heard the roll of wheels and the tramp of horses on the distant road. I listened attentively. They were coming near; I could hear the tread of many together; and my practised ear could detect the clank of dragoons, as their sabres and sabretasches jingled against the horses’ flanks. “Some hurried news from the Emperor,” thought I; “perhaps some marshal wounded, and about to be conveyed to the Palace.” The same instant the guard at the distant entrance beat to arms, and an equipage drawn by six horses dashed in at full gallop; a second followed as fast, with a peloton of dragoons at the side. My anxiety increased. “What if it were the Emperor himself!” thought I. But as the idea flashed across me, it yielded at once on seeing that the carriages did not draw up at the grand stair, but passed on to a low and private door at the distant wing of the Palace.

The bustle of the cortege arriving was but a moment’s work. The carriages moved rapidly away, the dragoons disappeared, and all was as still as before, leaving me to ponder over the whole, and actually ask myself could it have been reality? I opened my door to listen; but not a sound awoke the echo of the long corridors. One could have fancied that no living thing was beneath that wide roof, so silent was all around.

A strange feeling of anxiety, – the dread of something undefined, I knew not what, or whence coming, – was over me, and my nerves, long irritable from illness, became now jarringly sensitive, and banished all thought of sleep. Wild fancies and incoherent ideas crossed my mind, and made me restless and uneasy. I felt, too, as if the night were unusually close and sultry, and I opened my window to admit the air. Scarcely had I drawn the curtain aside, when my eye rested on a long line of light, that, issuing from a window on the ground-floor of the Palace, threw its bright gleam far across the courtyard.

It was in the same wing where the carriages drew up. It must be so; some officer of rank, wounded in a late battle, was brought there. “Poor fellow!” thought I; “what suffering may he be enduring amid all the peace-fulness and calm of this tranquil spot! Who can it be?” was the ever-recurring question to my mind; for my impression had already strengthened itself to a conviction.

The hours went on; the light shone steadily as at first, and the stillness was unbroken. Wearied with thinking, and half forgetful of my weakness, I tottered along the corridor, descended the grand stair, and passed out into the court. How refreshing did the night air feel! how sweet the fair odors of the spring, as, wafted by the motion of the jet d’eau, they were diffused around! The first steps of recovery from severe sickness have a strange thrill of youthfulness about them. Our senses seem once more to revel in the simple enjoyments of early days, and to feel that their greatest delight lies in the associations which gave pleasure to childhood. Weaned from the world’s contentions, we seem to have been lifted for the time above the meaner cares and ambitions of life, and love to linger a little longer in that ideal state of happiness calm thoughts bestow; and thus the interval that brings back health to the body restores freshness to the heart, and purified in thought, we come forth hoping for better things, and striving for them with all the generous ardor of early years. How happy was I as I wandered in that garden! how full of gratitude to feel the current of health once more come back in all my veins, – the sense of enjoyment which flows from every object of the fair world restored to me, after so many dangers and escapes!

As I moved slowly through the terraced court, my eye was constantly attracted to the small and starlike light which glimmered through the darkness; and I turned to it at last, impelled by a feeling of undefinable sympathy. Following a narrow path, I drew near to a little garden, which once contained some rare flowers. They had been favorites of poor Josephine in times past; but the hour was over in which that gave them a claim to care and attention, and now they were wild grown and tangled, and almost concealed the narrow walk which led to the doorway.

I reached this at length; and as I stood, the faint moonlight, slanting beneath a cloud, fell upon a bright and glistening object almost at my feet. I stepped back, and looked fixedly at it. It was the figure of a man sleeping across the entrance of the porch. He was dressed in Mameluke fashion; but his gay trappings and rich costume were travel-stained and splashed. His unsheathed cimeter lay grasped in one hand, and a Turkish pistol seemed to have fallen from the other.

Even by the imperfect light I recognized Rustan, the favorite Mameluke of the Emperor, who always slept at the door of his tent and his chamber, – his chosen bodyguard. Napoleon must then be here; his equipage it was which arrived so hurriedly; his the light which burned through the stillness of the night. As these thoughts followed fast on one another, I almost trembled to think how nearly I had ventured on his presence, where none dared to approach unbidden. To retire quickly and noiselessly was now my care. But my first step entangled my foot; I stumbled. The noise awoke the sleeping Turk, and with a loud cry for the guard he sprang to his feet.

“La garde!” called he a second time, forgetting in his surprise that none was there. But then with a spring he seized me by the arm, and as his shining weapon gleamed above my head, demanded who I was, and for what purpose there.

The first words of my reply were scarcely uttered, when a small door was opened within the vestibule, and the Emperor appeared. Late as was the hour, he was dressed, and even wore his sword at his side.

“What means this? Who are you, sir?” was the quick, sharp question he addressed to me.

A few words – the fewest in which I could convey it – told my story, and expressed my sorrow, that in the sick man’s fancy of a moonlight walk I should have disturbed his Majesty.

“I thought, Sire,” added I, “that your Majesty was many a league distant with the army – ”

“There is no army, sir,” interrupted he, with a rapid gesture of his hand; “to-morrow there will be no Emperor. Go, sir; go, while it is yet the time. Offer your sword and your services where so many others, more exalted than yourself, have done. This is the day of desertion; see that you take advantage of it.”

“Had my name and rank been less humble, they would have assured your Majesty how little I merited this reproach.”

“I am sorry to have offended you,” replied he, in a voice of inexpressible softness. “You led the assault at Montereau? I remember you now. I should have given you your brigade, had I – ” He stopped here suddenly, while an expression of suffering passed across his pale features; he rallied from it, however, in an instant, and resumed, “I should have known you earlier; it is too late! Adieu!”

He inclined his head slightly as he spoke, and extended his hand. I pressed it fervently to my lips, and would have spoken, but I could not. The moment after he was gone.

It is too late! too late! – the same terrible words which were uttered beneath the blackened walls of Moscow; repeated at every new disaster of that dreadful retreat; now spoken by him whose fortune they predicted. Too late! – the exclamation of the proud marshal, harassed by unsuccessful efforts to avert the destiny he saw inevitable. Too late! – the cry of the wearied soldier. Too late! – the fatal expression of the Czar when the brave and faithful Macdonald urged the succession of the King of Rome and the regency of the Empress.

Wearied with a wakeful night, I fell into a slumber towards morning, when I started suddenly at the roll of drums in the court beneath. In an instant I was at my window. What was my astonishment to perceive that the courtyard was filled with troops! The Grenadiers of the Guard were ranged in order of battle, with several squadrons of the chasseurs and the horse artillery; while a staff of general officers stood in the midst, among whom I recognized Belliard, Montesquieu, and Turenne, – great names, and worthy to be recorded for an act of faithful devotion. The Duc de Bassano was there too, in deep mourning; his pale and careworn face attesting the grief within his heart.

The roll of the drums continued; the deep, unbroken murmur of the salute went on from one end of the line to the other. It ceased; and ere I could question the reason, the various staff-officers became uncovered, and stood in attitudes of respectful attention, and the Emperor himself slowly, step by step, descended the wide stair of the “Cheval Blanc,” – as the grand terrace was styled, – and advanced towards the troops. At the same instant the whole line presented arms, and the drums beat the salute. They ceased, and Napoleon raised his hand to command silence, and throughout that crowded mass not a whisper was heard.

I could perceive that he was speaking, but the words did not reach me. Eloquent and burning words they were, and to be recorded in history to the remotest ages. I now saw that he had finished, as General Petit sprang forward with the eagle of the First Regiment of the Guards, and presented it to him. The Emperor pressed it fervently to his lips, and then threw his arms round Petit’s neck; while suddenly disengaging himself, he took the tattered flag that waved above him, and kissed it twice. Unable to bear up any longer, the worn, hard-featured veterans sobbed aloud like children, and turned away their faces to conceal their emotion. No cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” resounded now through those ranks where each had willingly shed his heart’s blood for him. Sorrow had usurped the place of enthusiasm, and they stood overwhelmed by grief.

A tall and soldierlike figure, with head uncovered, approached the Emperor, and said a few words. Napoleon waved his hand towards the troops, and from the ranks many rushed towards him, and fell on their knees before him. He passed his hand across his face and turned away. My eyes grew dim; a misty vapor shut out every object, and I felt as though the very lids were bursting. The great tramp of horses startled me, and then came the roll of wheels. I looked up: an equipage was passing from the gate, a peloton of dragoons escorted it; a second followed at full speed. The colonels formed their men; the word to march was given; the drums beat out; the grenadiers moved on; the chasseurs succeeded; and last the artillery rolled heavily up. The court was deserted; not a man remained: all, all were gone! The Empire was ended; and the Emperor, the mighty genius who created it, on his way to exile!

CHAPTER XLI. THE CONCLUSION

France never appeared to less advantage in the eyes of Europe than at the period I speak of. Scarcely had the proud star of Napoleon set, when the whole current of popular favor flowed along with those whom, but a few days before, they accounted their greatest enemies. The Russians and the Prussians, whom they lampooned and derided, they now flattered and fawned on. They deemed no adulation servile enough to lay at the feet of their conquerors, – not esteeming the exaltation of their victors sufficient, unless purchased at the sacrifice of their own honor as a nation.

The struggle was no longer who should be first in glory, but who foremost in desertion of him and his fortunes whose word had made them. The marshals he had created, the generals he had decorated, the ministers and princes he had endowed with wealth and territory, now turned from him in his hour of misfortune, to court the favor of one against whom every act of their former lives was directed.

These men, whose very titles recalled the fields of glory to which he led them, now hastened to the Tuileries to proffer an allegiance to a monarch they neither loved nor respected. Sad and humiliating spectacle! The long pent-up hatred of the Royalists found a natural vent in this moment of triumphant success. Chateaubriand, Constant, and Madame de Staël led the way to those declarations of the press which denounced Napoleon as the greatest of earthly tyrants; and inveighed even against his greatness and his genius, as though malevolence could produce oblivion.

All Paris was in a ferment of excitement, – not the troubled agitation of a people whose capital owned the presence of a conquering army, but the tumultuous joy of a nation intoxicated with pleasure. Fêtes and balls, gay processions and public demonstrations of rejoicing, met one everywhere; and ingenuity was taxed to invent flatteries for the very nations whom, but a week past, they scoffed at as barbarians and Scythians.

Sickened and disgusted with the fickleness of mankind, I knew not where to turn. My wound had brought on a low, lingering fever, accompanied by extreme debility, increased in all likelihood by the harassing reflections every object around suggested. I could not venture abroad without meeting some evidence of that exuberant triumph by which treachery hopes to cover its own baseness; besides, the reputation of being a Napoleonist was now a mark for insult and indignity from those who never dared to avow an opinion until the tide of fortune had turned in their favor. The white cockade had replaced the tricolor; every emblem of the Empire was abolished; and that uniform, to wear which was once a mark of honorable distinction, was now become a signal for insult.

I was returning one evening from a solitary ramble in the neighborhood of Paris, – for, by some strange fatality, I could not tear myself away from the scenes to which the most eventful portions of my life were attached, – and at length reached the Boulevard Montmartre, just as the leading squadrons of a cavalry regiment were advancing up the wide thoroughfare. I had hitherto avoided every occasion of witnessing any military display which should recall the past; but now the rapid gathering of the crowd to see the soldiers pass prevented my escape, and I was obliged to wait patiently until the cortege should move forward.

They came on in dense column, – the brave Chasseurs of the Guard, the bronzed warriors of Jena and Wigram; but to my eyes they seemed sterner and sadder than their wont, and heeded not the loud “vivas” of the mob around them. Where were their eagles? Alas! the white banner that floated over their heads was a poor substitute for the proud ensign they had so often followed to victory. And here weie the dragoons, – old Kellermann’s brave troopers; their proud glances were changed to a mournful gaze upon that crowd whose cheers they once felt proud of: and there, the artillery, that glorious corps which he loved so well, – did not the roll of their guns sound sorrowfully on the ear!

They passed! And then came on a strange cortege of mounted cavaliers, – old and withered men, in uniforms of quaint antique fashion, their chapeaux decorated with great cockades of white ribbon, and their sword-knots garnished with similar ornaments; the order of St. Louis glittered on each breast, and in their bearing you might read the air of men who were enjoying a long-wished-for and long-expected triumph. These were the old seigneurs of the Monarchy; and truly they were not wanting in that look of nobility their ancient blood bestowed. Their features were proud; their glance elated; their very port and bearing spoke that consciousness of superiority, to crush which had cost all the horrors and bloodshed of a terrible Revolution. How strange! it seemed as if many of their faces were familiar to me, – I knew them well; but where, and how, my memory could not trace. Yes, now I could recall it: they were the frequenters of the old “Pension of the Rue de Mi-Carême,” – the same men I had seen in their day of adversity, bearing up with noble pride against the ills of fortune. There they were, revelling in the long-sought-after restoration of their former state. Were they not more worthy of admiration in their hour of patient and faithful watching, than in this the period of their triumph?

The pressure of the crowd obliged the cavalcade to halt. And now the air resounded with the cries of “Vive le Roi!” – the long-forgotten cheer of loyalty. Thousands re-echoed the shout, and the horsemen waved their hats in exultation. “Vive le Roi!” cried the mob, as though the voices had not called “Vive l’Empereur!” but yesterday.

“Down with the Napoleonist, – down with him!” screamed a savage-looking fellow, who, jammed up in the crowd, pointed towards me, as I stood a mere spectator of the scene.

“Cry ‘Vive le Roi!’ at once,” whispered a voice near me, “or the consequences may be serious. The mob is ungovernable at a moment like this.”

A dozen voices shouted out at the same time, “Down with him! down with him!”

“Off with your hat, sir!” said a rude-looking fellow beside me, as he raised his hand to remove it.

“At your peril!” said I, as I clenched my hand, and prepared to strike him down the moment he should touch me.

The words were not well uttered, when the crowd closed on me, and a hundred arms were stretched out to attack me. In vain all my efforts to resist. My hat was torn from my head, and assailed on every side, I was dragged into the middle of the street, amid wild cries of vengeance and taunting insults. It was then, as I lay overcome by numbers, that a loud cry to fall back issued from the cavalcade, and a horseman, sword in hand, dashed upon the mob, slashing on every side as he went, mounted on a high-mettled horse. He cleared the dense mass with the speed of lightning, and drove back my assailants.

“Catch my horse’s mane,” said he, hurriedly. “Hold fast for a few seconds, and you are safe.”

Following the advice, I held firmly by the long mane of his charger, while, clearing away the mob on either side, he protected me by his drawn sabre above my head.

“Safe this time!” said he, as we arrived within the ranks. And then turning round, so as to face me, added, “Safe! and my debt acquitted. You saved my life once; and though the peril seemed less imminent now, trust me, yours had not escaped the fury of that multitude without me.”

“What! Henri de Beauvais! Do we meet again?”

“Yes; but with altered fortune, Burke. Our king, as the words of our Garde Écossaise song says, – our king ‘has got his own again.’ The day of loyalty has again dawned on France, and a grateful people may carry their enthusiasm for the Restoration, even as far as vengeance on their opponents, and yet not merit much reproach. But no more of this. We can be friends now; or if not, it must be your fault.”

“I am not too proud, De Beauvais, either to accept or acknowledge a favor at your hands.”

“Then we are friends,” said he, joyfully. “And in the name of friendship, let me beg of you to place this cordon in your hat.” And so saying, he detached the cockade of white ribbon he wore from his own, and held it towards me. “Well, then, at least remove the tricolor; it can but expose you to insult. Remember, Burke, its day is over.”

“I am not likely to forget it,” replied I, sadly.

“Monsieur le Colonel, his royal highness wishes to speak with you,” said an aide-de-camp, riding up beside De Beauvais’s horse.

“Take care of this gentleman for me,” said De Beauvais, pointing to me; and then, wheeling round his horse, he galloped at full speed to the rear.

“I will spare you all trouble on my account, sir,” said I. “My way lies yonder, and at present I see no obstacle to my pursuing it.”

“Let me at least send an escort with you.”

I thanked him and declined the offer; and leaving the ranks of the procession, mingled with the crowd, and in a few minutes after reached my hotel without further molestation. The hour was come, I saw plainly, in which I must leave France. Not only was every tie which bound me to that land severed, but to remain was only to oppose myself singly to the downward current of popular opinion which now threatened to overturn every landmark and vestige of the Empire. Up to this moment, I never confessed to my heart with what secret hope I had prolonged each day of my stay, – how I cherished within me the expectation that I should once again, though but for an instant, see her who lived in all my thoughts, and, unknown to my self, formed the mainspring of all my actions!

This hope only became confessed when about to leave me forever.

As I busied myself in the preparations for departure, a note arrived from De Beauvais, stating that he desired particularly to see and confer with me that same evening, and requesting me on no account to be from home, as his business was most pressing. I felt little curiosity to know to what he might allude, and saw him enter my room some hours later without a single particle of anxiety as to his communication.

“I am come, Burke,” said he, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged between us, – “I am come, Burke, on a mission which I hope you will believe the sincerest regard for you has prompted me to undertake, and which, whatever objections it may meet with from you, none can arise, I am certain, on the score of his fidelity who now makes this proposition to you. To be brief: the Count d’Artois has sent me to offer you your grade and rank in the army of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth. Your last gazette was as colonel; but there is a rumor you should have received your appointment as general of brigade. There will be little difficulty in arranging your brevet on that understanding; for your services, brief as they were, have not been unnoticed. Marshal Ney himself bears testimony to your conduct at Montereau; and your name twice occurs on the list of the minister of war for promotion. Strange claims these, you will say, to recompense from the rightful sovereign of France, gained as they were in the service of the Usurper! But it is the prerogative of legitimacy to be great and noble-minded, and to recognize true desert wherever it occurs. Come, what say you? Does this proposal meet your wishes?”

“If to surpass my expectations, and flatter my pride, were to convince my reason, and change my estimation of what is loyal and true, I should say, ‘Yes, De Beauvais; the proposition does meet my wishes.’ But not so. I wore these epaulettes first in my admiration of him whose fortunes I have followed to the last. My pride, my glory, were to be his soldier; that can be no longer, and the sword I drew in his cause shall never be unsheathed in another’s.”

“Are you ignorant that such arguments apply with equal force to all those great men who have, within these few weeks past, sworn allegiance to his Majesty? What say you to the list of marshals, not one of whom has refused the graciously offered favor of his Majesty? Are Ney, Soult, Augereau, Macdonald, and Marmont nothing as examples?”

“I will not say so, De Beauvais; but this I will say, they had had both more respect and esteem from me had they done otherwise. If they were true to the Emperor, they can scarce be loyal to the King.”

“Can you not distinguish between the forced services exacted by a tyrant and the noble duty rendered to a rightful sovereign?”

“I can better estimate the fascinations which lead men to follow a hero, than to be the parade-soldier around the gilded gates of a palace.”

De Beauvais’s cheek flashed scarlet, and his voice was agitated, as he replied, —

“The nobles of France, sir, have shown themselves as high in deeds of chivalry and heroism as they have ever been in the accomplishments of true-born gentlemen.”

“Pardon me, De Beauvais! I meant no imputation of them and their motives. There is every reason why you and your gallant companions should enjoy the favors of that crown your efforts have placed upon the head of the King of France. Your true and fitting station is around the throne your bravery and devotion have restored. But as for us, – we who have fought and marched, have perilled limb and life, to raise the fortune and elevate the glory of him who was the enemy of that sovereign, – how can we be participators in the triumph we labored to avert, and rejoice in a consummation we would have died rather than witness?”

“But it has come; the fates have decided against you. The cause you would serve is not merely unfortunate, – it is extinct; the Empire has left no banner behind it. Come, then, and rally round one whose boast it is to number among its followers the high-born and the noble, – to assert the supremacy of rank and worth above the claim of the base and low.”

“I cannot; I must not.”

“At least, you will wait on the Comte d’Artois. You must see his royal highness, and thank him for his gracious intentions.”

“I know what that means, De Beauvais; I have heard that few can resist the graceful fascinations of the prince’s manner. I shall certainly not fear to encounter them, however dangerous to my principles.”

“But not to refuse his royal highness?” said he, quickly. “I trust you will not do that.”

“You would not have me yield to the flattery of a prince’s notice what I refuse to the solicitations of a friend, would you?”

“And such is your intention, – your fixed intention?”

“Undoubtedly it is.”

De Beauvais turned away impatiently, and leaned on the window for some minutes. Then, after a pause, and in a slow and measured voice, added, —

“You are known to the Court, Burke, by other channels than those I have mentioned. Your prospects of advancement would be most brilliant, if you accept this offer: I scarcely know to what they may not aspire. Reflect for a moment or two. There is no desertion, – no falling off here. Remember that the Empire was a vision, and like a dream it has passed away. Where there is no cause, there can be no fealty.”

“It is but a sorry memory, De Beauvais, that only retains while there are benefits to receive; mine is a more tenacious one.”

“Then my mission is ended,” cried he, taking up his hat. “I may mention to his royal highness that you intend returning to England; that you are indisposed to service at present. It is unnecessary to state more accurately the views you entertain?”

“I leave the matter completely to your discretion.”

“Adieu, then. Our roads lie widely apart, Burke; and I for one regret it deeply. It only remains that I should give you this note; which I promised to deliver into your hands in the event of your declining to accept the prince’s offer.”

He blushed deeply, as he placed a small sealed note in my fingers; and as if anxious to get away, pressed my hand hurriedly, and left the room.

My curiosity to learn the contents of the billet made me tear it open at once; but it was not before I had perused it several times that I could credit the lines before me. They were but few, and ran thus: —

Dear Sir, – May I request the honor of a visit from you this evening at the Hôtel de Grammont?

Truly yours,

Marie d’Auvergne, née De Meudon.

Colonel Burke.

How did I read these lines over again and again! – now interpreting them as messengers of future hope; now fearing they might exclude every ray of it forever. One solution recurred to me at every moment, and tortured me to the very soul. Her family had all been Royalists. The mere accidents of youth had thrown her brother into the army, and herself into the Court of the Empire, where personal devotion and attachment to the Empress had retained her. What if she should exert her influence to induce me to accept the prince’s offer? How could I resist a request, perhaps an entreaty, from her? The more I reflected over it, the more firmly this opinion gained ground with me, and the more deeply did I grieve over a position environed by such difficulty; and ardently as I longed for the moment of meeting her once more, the desire was tempered by a fear that the meeting should be our last.