CHAPTER XXVII. THE BATTLE OF THE SECTIONS

There could not have been a readier process of disenchantment to me, as

to all my boyish ambitions and hopes, than the routine of my daily

life at this period. I was lodged, with some fourteen others, in an old

Pension in the Rue des Augustines, adjoining the bureau in which we were

employed. We repaired each morning at an early hour to our office, and

never left it till late in the evening,--sometimes, indeed, to a late

hour of the night. Neither the manners nor the habits of my companions

inspired me with a desire to cultivate their intimacy. They were

evidently of a low class by birth, and with tastes even inferior to

their position. They construed my estrangement to the true cause, and

did not scruple to show that I was not a favorite amongst them. In

ridicule of my seeming pretensions, they called me the “Count,” and

never passed me without an obsequious mock salutation, which I returned

as punctiliously, and not appearing to detect its sarcasm. With

experience of life and mankind, isolation is probably a condition

not devoid of certain pleasures,--it may minister to a kind of proud

self-reliance and independence of spirit; but to a boy it is one of

unalloyed misery. There is no heavier infliction than the want of that

free expansion of the heart that comes of early friendship. Youth is

essentially the season of confidence; and to restrain its warm impulses,

and dam up the flow of its affections, is to destroy its best and

highest charm. I will not venture to assert that I was not myself much

to blame for the seclusion in which I lived. I probably resented too

forcibly what I need scarcely have noticed, and felt too acutely what,

at worst, were but trifling annoyances. Some of this may be attributed

to me constitutionally, but even more to the nature of my bringing

up. All my boyish impulses were stimulated by affection; whatever I

attempted was in a wish to gain praise; all my ambitions were to be

loved the more. In my loneliness I sought out M. de Gabriac, but in

vain. His lodging on the Place was now occupied by another, who could

give no tidings of him whatever. I wrote to my mother and to Raper,

but without receiving a reply. I then tried M. Jost, and received a

few lines to say that my friends had taken their departure some months

before from Reichenau, but in what direction he knew not. This letter

put the finishing stroke to my sense of utter desolation. It was indeed

not possible to conceive a more forlorn and friendless being than I now

was. By my superior in the office I was held in little favor or esteem.

I was indeed, in many respects, less capable than many of my colleagues,

and it is not impossible that my apparent pride may have contrasted with

my real deficiency. All these causes pressed upon me together, and made

up a series of annoyances which came very little short of downright

unhappiness.

My circumstances, too, were not calculated to dispel these gloomy

tendencies. Beyond our maintenance, which was of the very humblest kind,

our whole pay was five hundred francs yearly; and as this was paid in

paper money, it reduced the actual amount more than one-fourth. By the

very strictest economy, and by many an act of self-denial, I was

enabled to keep myself out of debt; but it was an existence of continued

watchfulness and care, and in which not even the very cheapest pleasure

found a place. My colleagues, indeed, talked of cafés, restaurants,

excursions, and theatres, as of matters of daily habit; but in what way

they compassed such enjoyments I knew not. The very freedom of their

language on these themes cast an air of contemptuous mockery over my

humbler existence that assuredly did not diminish its bitterness.

My inexpertness frequently compelled me to remain in the office long

after the rest. The task allotted to me was often of greater length, and

many times have I passed a considerable part of the night at my desk. On

these occasions, when I had finished, my head was too much excited for

sleep, and I then sat up and read--usually one of the volumes Raper had

given me--till morning. These were my happiest hours; but even they

were alloyed by the weariness of an exhausted and tired intellect. So

thoroughly apart from the world did I live, so completely did I hug my

solitary existence at this period, that of the events happening around

I positively knew nothing. With cafés and their company, or with

newspapers, I had no intercourse; and although at moments some street

encounter, some collision between the mob and the National Guard, would

excite my curiosity, I never felt interest enough to inquire the cause,

or care for the consequences.

Such incidents grew day by day more common; firing was frequently

heard at night in different parts of the capital, and it was no rare

occurrence to see carts with wounded men conveyed to hospital through

the streets, at early morning. That the inhabitants were fully alive to

the vicinity of some peril was plain to see. At the slightest sign of

tumult, at the least warning, shops were closed and shutters fastened,

doors strongly barricaded, and armed figures seen cautiously peering

from casements and parapets. At one time a single horseman at full

gallop would give the signal for these precautions; at others, they

seemed the result of some instinctive apprehension of danger, so rapidly

and so silently were they effected. Amid all these portents, the daily

life of Paris went on as before. It was just as we hear tell of in the

countries where earthquakes are frequent, and where in almost every

century some terrible convulsion has laid a whole city in ruins, the

inhabitants acquire a strange indifference to peril till the very

instant of its presence, and learn to forget calamities when once they

have passed.

As for myself, so accustomed had I become to these shocks of peril

that I no longer went to the window when the uproar beneath betokened

a conflict, nor even cared to see which side were conquerors in the

affray. It was in a mood of this acquired indifference that I sat

reading one evening in my office long after the others had taken their

departure; twice or thrice had loud and prolonged shouts from the street

disturbed me, but without exciting in me sufficient of curiosity to

see what was going forward, when at last, hearing the rumbling sound of

artillery trains as they moved past, I arose and went to the window.

To my surprise, the streets were densely crowded, an enormous concourse

filling them, and only leaving a narrow lane through which the wagons

could pass. That it was no mere procession was clear enough, for the

gunners carried their matches lighted, and there was that in the stern

air of the soldiery that bespoke service. They wheeled past the church

of St. Roch, and entered a small street off the Rue St. Honoré called

La Dauphine, where, no sooner had they passed in, than the sappers

commenced tearing up the pavement in front of the guns, and speedily

formed a trench of about five feet in depth before them. While this was

doing, some mounted dragoons gave orders to the people to disperse, and

directed them to move away by the side streets,--an order so promptly

obeyed that in a few minutes the long line of the Rue St. Honoré was

totally deserted. From the position at La Dauphine to the Tuileries I

could perceive that a line of communication was kept open, and orderlies

passed at a gallop frequently from one side to the other. Another

circumstance, too, struck me: the windows, instead of being crowded by

numbers of eager spectators, were strongly shuttered and barred;

and when that was impossible, the glass frames were withdrawn, and

bed-mattresses and tables placed in the spaces. Along the parapets,

also, vast crowds of armed men were to be seen, and the tower and

battlements of St. Roch were studded over with soldiers of the National

Guard, all armed and in readiness. From the glances of the artillerymen

beneath to the groups above, it required no great prescience to detect

that they stood opposed to each other as enemies.

It was a calm mellow evening of the late autumn. The air was perfectly

still; and now the silence was unbroken on all sides, save when, from a

distance, the quick tramp of cavalry might be momentarily heard, as if

in the act of forcing back a crowd; and then a faint shout would follow,

whose accents might mean triumph or defiance.

I was already beginning to weary of expectancy, when I perceived, from

the movement on the house-tops and the church tower, that something was

going forward within the view of those stationed there. I had not to

look long for the cause, for suddenly the harsh, sharp beat of a drum

was heard, and immediately after the head of a column wheeled from one

of the side streets into the Rue St. Honoré. They were grenadiers of

the National Guard, and a fine body of men they seemed, as they marched

proudly forward till they came to a halt before the steps of St.

Roch. Handkerchiefs were waved in salutation to them from windows and

housetops, and cheering followed them as they went. A single figure at

the entrance of La Dauphine stood observing them with his glass: he

was an artillery officer, and took a long and leisurely survey of the

troops, and then directed his eyes towards the crowded roofs, which he

swept hastily with his telescope. This done, he sauntered carelessly

back, and disappeared.

The grenadiers were soon followed by the line, and now, as far as my eye

could carry, I beheld vast masses of soldiery who filled the street

in its entire breadth. Up to this all was preparation. Not a sight, or

sound, or gesture indicated actual conflict, and the whole might have

meant a mere demonstration on either side, when suddenly there burst

forth a crash like the most terrific thunder. It made the very street

tremble, and the houses seemed to shake as the air vibrated around

them; a long volley of musketry succeeded, and then there arose a din of

artillery, shouts, and small-arms that made up the infernal chaos. This

came from the quarter of the river, and in that direction every eye was

turned. I hurried to the back of the house in the hope of being able to

see something; but the windows only looked into a court surrounded by

tall buildings. Ere I returned to my place the conflict had already

begun. The troops of the National Guard advanced, firing by sections,

and evidently bent on forcing their passage up the street; and their

firing seemed as if meant in declaration of their intentions rather than

aggressively, since no enemy appeared in front; when, no sooner had the

leading files reached the opening of La Dauphine, than the artillery

opened with grape and round shot. The distance could scarcely have

exceeded forty yards, and the withering fire tore through the dense

ranks, forming deep lanes of death! Smoke soon enveloped the masses, and

it was only at intervals I could catch sight of the moving body, which

still moved up! There was something indescribably dreadful in seeing the

steady march of men to inevitable destruction; and even their slow pace

(for such was it of necessity, from the numbers of dead and dying that

encumbered their path) increased the horror of the spectacle. A deadly

musketry poured down from the tower of St. Roch upon the gunners.

The whole fire from housetops and windows was directed at them; but fast

as they fell, others took their places, and the roll of the artillery

never slackened nor ceased for an instant. The shot rattled like hail

on the walls of the houses, or crashed through them with clattering

destruction. Wild and demoniac yells, death-shouts, and cries of triumph

mingled with the terrible uproar. Above all, however, roared the

dread artillery, in one unbroken thunder. At last the column seemed

to waver--the leading files fell back--a moment's hesitation ensued--a

fresh discharge of grape, at less than pistol range, tore through them;

and now the word was given to retire. Shouts and cries poured from the

housetops and parapets. Were they of encouragement or derision?--who can

tell? The street now presented the horrid spectacle of indiscriminate

carnage; the guns were wheeled forward as the troops retired, cavalry

charging on the broken masses while the guns were reloading; the

cavalcade of death rode past at a walk, the gunners firing steadily on,

till the word was given to cease. The smoke cleared lazily away at last,

and now no living thing was seen to stir in front: the long line of

the Rue St. Honoré presented nothing but the bodies of the dead. The

housetops and parapets, too, were speedily deserted; for the houses were

now forced by the infantry of the line, who at every moment appeared at

the windows and waved their shakos in token of victory. As I looked, a

crash recalled my attention behind me; and now the door of the bureau

was in ruins, and four soldiers, with their bayonets at the charge,

dashed forward. On seeing me alone and unarmed, they only laughed, and

passed on to the upper story.

“Are you in charge here?” asked a young corporal of me.

“I belong to the bureau,” said I, in reply.

“Place your books and papers under lock and key, then,” said he, “and

make your way to headquarters.”

“Where?”

“At the Tuileries. There goes the Commander-in-Chief,” added he,

mechanically saluting, as a staff of officers rode by beneath.

“Who is that pale man in front, with the long hair?” asked I.

“General Bonaparte,” was the answer; “and few can handle artillery like

him.”

CHAPTER XXVII. AN EPISODE OF MY LIFE

If I could have turned my thoughts from my own desolate condition, the

aspect of Paris on the morning after the battle might well have engaged

my attention. The very streets presented a scene such as never can

be forgotten! The Government had adventured on the bold experiment

of employing the masses to control the few, and the fruits of this

dangerous alliance might be seen in the various groups that passed

along. Officials wearing their badges of duty, officers in full uniform,

walked arm in arm with leaders of the popular party; men high in the

state talked familiarly in the midst of little groups of working-men;

parties of the popular force, rudely armed, ill-dressed, and disorderly,

presented arms as some officer of rank rode by. All attested the

existence of that strange compact by which the nation was again to be

subjugated, and terror made the active principle of a government. The

terrific songs of the bloody days of the Revolution were once more

heard, and the cruel denunciations of the mob again rang aloud in the

open streets! I heard and saw all these like one in a dream, as, with my

portfolio of office-papers under my arm, I held my way to the Tuileries;

nor was it till I had reached the wooden stockade in front of that

palace that I became collected enough to ask myself whither I was going,

and for what.

The machinery of government to which I belonged was annihilated and

destroyed; they who had guided and controlled it were gone; and there

I stood alone, friendless, and without a home in that vast city,

not knowing which way to turn me. I wandered into the garden of the

Tuileries, and sat down upon a bench in one of the less-frequented

alleys. The cries and shouts of the populace rung faintly in my ear, and

the noises of the city came dulled and indistinct by distance. From the

quiet habits of my simple life, I had scarcely learned anything whatever

of Paris. My acquaintances were limited to the few I had seen at the

bureau, and these I only met when there. My means were too scanty to

admit of even the cheapest pleasures; and up to this my existence had

been one uniform but contented poverty. Even this humble provision was

now withdrawn from me. What was I to do? Was there a career by which I

could earn my bread? I knew of none save daily labor with my hands; and

where to seek for even this I did not know. In my little lodging behind

the bureau I possessed a few articles of clothes and some books; these,

if sold, would support me for a week or two; and then--ay, then! But who

can tell? thought I: a day has marred,--who knows but another day may

make my fortune?

It was night when I turned homeward. To my surprise, the stair was not

lit up as usual, and it was only after repeated knockings that the door

was opened to me, and old Lizette, my landlady's servant, with a voice

broken by sobs, bade me pass in quietly, and to make no noise. I asked

eagerly if any misfortune had occurred, and heard that Monsieur Bernois,

my landlord, had been mortally wounded in the affray of the night

before, and was then lying at the point of death.

“Is it the surgeon, Lizette?” cried Marguerite, a little girl of about

fourteen, and whose gentle “Good-day” had been the only thing like

welcome I had ever heard during my stay there; “is it the surgeon?”

“Hélas, no, mademoiselle, it is the lodger!”

I had not even a name for them! I was simply the occupant of a solitary

chamber, for whom none cared or thought; and yet at that instant I

felt my isolation the greatest blessing of Heaven, and would not have

exchanged my desolate condition for all the ties of family!

“Oh, sir,” cried Marguerite, “have pity on us, and come to papa. He is

bleeding on the bed here, and none of us know how to aid him!”

“But I am no less ignorant, mademoiselle,” said I; “would that I could

be of any use to you!”

“Oh, come,” cried she, “come; and Heaven may direct you how to succor

us, for we are utterly deserted!”

Scarcely knowing what I did, I followed the little girl into a darkened

room, where the long-drawn breathings of the wounded man were the only

sounds. By the dim half-light I could see a figure seated at the foot

of the bed. It was my hostess, pale, stern-looking, and collected;

there she sat, gazing at the gasping object before her, with a terrible

composure.

“Mamma, it is monsieur; monsieur who lives here is come to see papa,”

whispered Marguerite, timidly.

The mother nodded her head, as if to imply that she had heard her, but

never spoke. I drew nigh the bed, the rather to show my sympathy with

the sorrow, than that I could be of any service; and the dying man's

eyes met mine. Glazed and filmy as they seemed at first, I fancied they

grew bright and lustrous as he continued to stare. Such, at all events,

was their fascination that I could not look away from them, and so I

stood under that steadfast gaze forgetful even of the state of him who

bestowed it. At last the orbs slowly turned, at first towards where his

wife sat, then to Marguerite as she knelt by the bedside, and then back

again to me, with an expression that needed no words to convey. I took

the clammy hand in my own, and felt the fingers give a faint pressure. I

squeezed them gently, and saw that his lips parted; they moved, too,

as though with an effort to speak, but without avail. The attempt had

evidently cost him a severe pang, for his features were convulsed for a

few seconds, at the end of which he gently drew me a little towards him,

and with a sigh so faint as to be scarcely heard, uttered the words,

“Pauvre femme!”

It was not until some minutes had elapsed that I saw he had ceased

to breathe, for his eyes seemed to stare with meaning on me, and his

countenance remained unchanged. At length, however, I became conscious

that the struggle was over, and his spirit had passed away forever. The

stillness of the room was terrible, for not a stir broke it; and I knelt

down beside Marguerite to pray.

“Here is the surgeon, mademoiselle,” said Lizette, hurriedly; and an old

man drew nigh the bed and touched the wrist of the dead man.

“Ma foi!” said he, “this is the fourth time I have been sent for to-day

on a like errand;” and, so saying, he tapped me on the shoulder, and

motioned me to follow him.

I obeyed at once.

“Are you his son?” asked he, briefly.

“No,” I replied.

“His nephew?--his clerk, then?”

“Neither; I am a lodger here, and do not even claim acquaintance with

the family.”

“No matter,” resumed he, dryly, “you will do as well as another; give me

pen and paper.”

I took some from an open portfolio on the table and laid it before him,

and he wrote rapidly a few lines in a straggling hand:--

“The citizen Louis Bernois, age--; domiciled, Rue Neuve de Viardot, No.

318, avocat,”--“we may call him _avocat_, though he was only a writer,”

said he, looking up,--“wounded fatally in the lungs and heart, and

attended till his death, on this morning, by the doctor Joseph Caillot,

surgeon and licentiate. The above verified by me.”--“Sign here,” added

he, handing me the pen, “and put your quality. Say, 'Friend of the

family.'”

“But I never knew them; I have only lodged in the house for some months

back.”

“What signifies that? It is a mere form for the authorities, to whom his

death must be reported, or his family exposed to trouble and annoyance.

I will take it to the bureau myself.”

I signed my name, therefore, as he directed me, and sealed the “act”

with a seal I found on the table. The doctor pocketed the paper and

withdrew, not even bestowing on me a good-bye as he left the room.

Lizette came to me for instructions as to what was to be done. Madame

had never recovered consciousness from the very first moment of the

misfortune; mademoiselle was too young and too inexperienced to be

consulted on the occasion. The family, too, had only been a few months

in Paris, and had no acquaintance save with the tradespeople they dealt

with.

I asked the name of the _avocat_ for whom he usually transcribed the

deeds and papers, and learned that it was a certain Monsieur le Monnier,

a lawyer of high standing at the bar of Paris, and who lived in the

Rue Quincampoix! With what a strange sensation I heard the name of that

street, which was the same that Herr Robert spoke of as inhabited by his

father in the days of his greatest prosperity! The thought merely shot

through my head rapidly, for other and far more pressing considerations

demanded all my attention. I resolved at once to call on Monsieur le

Monnier and ask his advice and guidance in the difficult position I

then found myself. Dressing myself with all the care my scanty wardrobe

permitted, I set out for the Rue Quincampoix, and soon found the house,

which was a large and spacious though somewhat sombre-looking hôtel,

with a half-effaced shield over the doorway. The porter inquired if I

came on business; and on my saying “Yes,” informed me that I must

call on the following morning, from eleven to two o'clock,--that the

“bâtonnier,” for such was his rank, did not transact affairs in the

evening.

I argued and pressed my suit with all zeal; but it was only when I

produced a piece of two francs that he consented to present my card, on

which I had written a few lines to explain the urgent cause of my visit.

After a long and most impatient waiting a servant came to Bay that

monsieur would receive me, and I followed him up a spacious but dimly

lighted stair, and across a long dreary gallery, where a single lamp

shone, into a small chamber fitted up like a study. Here, although it

was autumn, the “bâtonnier” was seated beside a brisk fire, enjoying

his coffee. He was a small man, with a massive, well-shaped head covered

with a profusion of snow-white hair, which he wore in such careless

fashion as to make his head appear even much larger than it was;

his features were pleasing, and his eyes were singularly soft and

gentle-looking. With a voice of peculiar sweetness, and in a low tone,

he welcomed me and desired me to be seated. This done, he begged me to

state the object of my visit.

In the very fewest words I could relate it, I mentioned the sad

circumstances about which I came, told my own difficulty in the matter,

and asked for advice.

“At any other moment,” said he, when I concluded, “your task would be

an easy one. You could report the event to the 'commissaire' of the

'Quarter,' state what you know, and withdraw from the affair altogether.

Now, however, the troubles in which we live excite suspicions in every

mind. Your name will be associated with the opinions for which this poor

man has given his life. The authorities will be on your track at every

moment, and every act of your life watched and reported. With whom were

you acquainted in Paris?”

“With none.”

He stared with some surprise; and I told him briefly the circumstances

of my own situation.

“A strange story indeed!” said he, taking up my card from the

chimney-piece. “And your name, for I cannot decipher it here, is--”

“Carew,--Jasper Carew.”

“That name is Irish, if I mistake not,” said he; “at least I remember,

some twenty years ago, we had here a distinguished stranger who came

from Ireland, and was called Carew. He was the fashionable celebrity of

a very famous period.”

“He was my father, sir.”

The old lawyer bowed and smiled; but though the gesture was eminently

polite, the shrewd twinkle of his eyes bespoke incredulity. I saw this,

and said at once,--

“I have many letters of his, dated from the 'Place Vendôme,' No. 13,

where he lived.”

“Indeed!” cried he, in astonishment. “You possess these at present?”

“Some few I have with me; others, a large number, are in the keeping

of my friends, as well as notes and papers in the hand of the late

Duc d'Orléans, with whom my father appeared to live on considerable

intimacy.”

“That I can vouch for myself,” said the _avocat_, hastily; then,

suddenly correcting himself, added,--“Perhaps you would give me a sight

of some of these documents. I do not ask from any impertinent curiosity,

but with the conviction that I can be of some service to you.”

I readily promised to do so, and the following day was named for the

purpose.

“Now, for the present case,” said he. “I know nothing of Monsieur

Bernois beyond what a client of mine from the Auvergnat told me. He was

the son of a poor farmer near Linange, who studied the law at Paris,

went back to his native village and married, and, after some years of

failure at home, came here to make his fortune. I employed him partly

from motives of charity, for he was irregular in his habits of work, and

seemed overcome by a depression that rendered him often incapable of all

exertion. Make what arrangements you think suitable for his burial, and

then induce his poor widow and daughter to return home. Call upon me

for any expenses that may be needed, and say that I will send one of my

clerks to make an inventory of his effects and draw up the 'procès' the

law requires.”

There was a mingled kindness and commonplace in the way he spoke this

that left me in doubt which of the two frames of mind predominated in

his nature. At all events, I had good reason to be satisfied with my

reception, and, resisting his invitation to stay to supper, I hastened

back to the Rue de Viardot.

The poor widow still remained in the state of stupor in which I first

saw her; but Marguerite's grief had taken a more violent form, and

the terrible shock had brought on brain-fever,--at least, so Lizette

pronounced it. My sad duties were thus multiplied by the cares of the

sick-room, for Lizette threw all upon me, and would do nothing without

my guidance and advice.

By great exertions, and by working all night through, I reduced the

affairs of the family to a condition of order; and when Monsieur le

Monnier's clerk appeared in the morning, I had already compiled the

inventory and drawn up the “acte de décès,” as it is called, for the

authorities.

By searching amongst papers I also found the address of the widow's

father, who lived in the village of “Linange,” and to him I wrote a few

lines, acquainting him with what had occurred, and asking his counsel

with regard to the family. Though Lizette had accompanied them from

their native village to Paris, she was greatly indisposed to afford any

information as to their circumstances or condition in life, and seemed

only eager to complete all the formalities of the law and quit

the capital. I certainly did not impose any unfair burden upon her

incommunicative disposition. I asked a few questions,--none that were

not in a measure indispensable.

I suppose my reserve in this wise impressed her favorably, for she grew

gradually more and more open, dropping hints of sad circumstances and

calamities, in a way that seemed half to invite inquiry on my part. I

was resolved, however, not to make any advances, and left her entirely

to her own choice as to what revelations she might make me. I have no

doubt that had my object been to gratify my curiosity, I could not have

hit upon any surer means of success.

We laid the remains of poor Bernois in a little graveyard outside the

Porte St. Denis; Lizette and myself the only mourners that followed the

bier! As I slowly ascended the stairs towards my room, I said,--

“Come to me this evening, Lizette, and say if I can be of any further

service to you, since I mean to leave Paris to-morrow.”

“To leave Paris!” cried she; “Grand Dieu!--why, and for where?”

“For Switzerland,” replied I. “My friends there have not answered my

letters for some time back, and I have determined to set off and see

them.”

“But why not write again? Think of what a journey it is!”

“I have written till I have lost all hope. I must satisfy myself by

going in person.”

“But you will not leave us helpless, friendless, as we are!” cried she.

Never till that moment had it occurred to me that my assistance could

avail to any one, or that there existed one in the world humble

enough to be benefited by my guidance. The appeal, however, gave me

a self-confidence and an energy which I had not felt before, and I

listened to the explanations of the old servant with every desire to aid

her.

She judged rightly enough that as soon as removal were possible, the

safest course would be for the widow and her daughter to return to their

village.

“I know,” added she, “that this is not to be effected without

difficulty. 'Madame' will oppose it to the last; and it may be that

nothing short of force will accomplish it.”

I asked the reason of this repugnance, and she only gave me a vague,

unmeaning answer. It was clear to me there was a mystery in the affair;

and though piqued that I was not intrusted with the secret, I felt that

to withdraw my aid from them on such grounds would be both selfish and

unworthy.

“I will consult M. le Monnier,” said I, at last; “he shall decide what

is best to be done;” and at once set out for the Rue Quincampoix.

The old lawyer received me blandly as before, and gave me a few lines

for his family physician, who would see the widow and Marguerite, and

pronounce his opinion on their fitness for removal. Le Monnier seemed

pleased with the interest I manifested for these poor friendless people,

and readily promised to aid me in their behalf.

The doctor, too, was no less benevolently disposed, and came at once

with me to the house. His visit was a long one,--so long that more than

once I asked Lizette if she were quite certain that he had not taken

his departure. At length, however, he came forth, and, leading me into a

room, closed the door behind us with all the air of great secrecy.

“There is some sad story,” said he, “here, of which we have not the

clew. This is a serious affair.”

“How do you mean?” asked I.

“I mean that the state in which I find this woman is not attributable

to the recent shock. It is not her husband's death has caused these

symptoms.”

“And what are they? Do they threaten her life?”

“No, certainly not; she may live for years.”

“What then? They will cause great suffering, perhaps?”

“Not even that, but worse than that. It is her intelligence is lost;

she has been stunned by some terrible shock of calamity, and her mind is

gone, in all likelihood forever!”

To my eager questioning he replied by explaining that these cases were

far less hopeful than others in which more palpable symptoms manifested

themselves; that they were of all others the least susceptible of

treatment.

“When we say,” continued he, “that 'time' is the best physician for

them, we declare in one word our own ignorance of the malady; and

yet such is the simple truth! A course of years may restore her to

reason,--there is no other remedy.”

“And her daughter?”

“That is not a case for apprehension,--it is a common fever, the result

of a nervous impression; a few days will bring her completely about.”

I mentioned to the doctor my belief that Lizette could probably impart

some explanation of the mystery; but the old woman was proof against all

cross-examination, and professed to know nothing that could account

for her mistress's condition. The question was now how to act in this

emergency? and the doctor pronounced that there was no other course

than to obtain her admission into some _maison de santé_: if her fortune

permitted, to one of the better class; if not, there were various

humbler houses, where the patients were treated well and skilfully. As a

preliminary step, however, he requested me to write again to her family,

to state the opinion he had come to, and ask for their advice.

“It is little other than a form to do so,” added he, “for we live in

times when the state is everything, family nothing. If I report this

case to-morrow to the Bureau of Health of the 'Quarter,' a commission

will assemble, examine, and decide upon it at once. The measures adopted

will be as imperatively executed as though the law were in pursuit of a

criminal; and though this be so, and we cannot help it, it will have

the semblance of consideration for the feelings of her relatives, if we

consult them.”

He left me, therefore, to make this sad communication, and promised

to repeat his visit on the following day. By way of extorting some

confession from old Lizette, I told her the course the doctor had

resolved upon; but, far from exhibiting any repugnance to it, she

briefly said, “It was all for the best.”

It was not till after repeated efforts I could satisfy myself with the

terms of my letter. The occasion itself was a difficult one; but my

sense of a mystery of which I knew nothing, added immensely to the

embarrassment. I was, moreover, addressing persons I had never seen,

and of whose very condition in life I was ignorant. This in itself was

a circumstance that required consideration. I thought I would read my

letter to Lizette, and sent for her to hear it. She listened attentively

as I read it, but made no other remark than, “Yes; that will be

sufficient.”

On the fourth day after I despatched this, came a letter in reply, the

handwriting, style, and appearance of which were all superior to what

I had expected. It was from an unmarried sister of Madame Bernois,

who signed herself “Ursule,” that being the name by which she had

“professed” formerly in a convent, destroyed in the early days of the

Revolution. The writer, after expressing deep gratitude for the part

I had taken, went on to speak of the subject of my communication.

Her father's infirmities had rendered him bedridden, and so utterly

incapable of affording any help or even counsel that she hesitated

about informing him of the terrible calamity that had befallen them. She

perfectly concurred in the advice given by the doctor, if “only that

it saved her poor sister from a return to a home now associated with

nothing but sorrow, and where, of course, her chances of recovery would

be diminished.” These strange expressions puzzled me much, and led me at

first to suppose that Ursule believed I knew more of her sister's story

than I really was acquainted with; but as I read them again, I saw that

they might possibly only have reference to her father's sad condition.

Margot, for so she called her niece, “would, of course, come back to

them;” and she charged me to despatch her, under Lizette's care, by the

diligence, as soon as she was judged sufficiently well to encounter the

fatigue of the journey. With regard to any property or effects belonging

to them, she left all implicitly at my own discretion, believing, as

she said, the same kindness that had hitherto guided me would also here

suggest what was best for the interests of the widow and her child.

Some days of unremitting exertion succeeded the receipt of this letter,

for there was no end to the formalities requisite before I could obtain

admission for the widow into a small _maison de santé_, at Mont Martre.

It was, indeed, a moment at which the authorities were overwhelmed with

business, and many of the public functionaries were new to office,

and totally ignorant of its details. The public, too, were under the

influence of a terror that seemed to paralyze all powers of reason. In

my frequent visits to the commissaire of the “Quarter,” when waiting for

hours long in his antechamber, I had abundant opportunity to measure the

extent of the fear that then dominated the mind of the capital, since

every trifling incident evidenced and betrayed it.

Ladies of rank and condition would come, earnestly entreating that they

might obtain leave to attend the sick in the hospitals, and nurse the

“dear brothers” who had fallen in the cause of liberty. Others, of equal

station, requested that materials might be distributed to them to knit

stockings for the soldiers of the republic, regretting their poverty

at not being able to supply them from their own resources. Shopkeepers

besought the authorities that their taxes might be doubled, or

even trebled; and some professed to hope that the maladies which

incapacitated them from military service might be compensated by

works of charity and benevolence. There was an abject meanness in the

character of these petitions too revolting to endure the thought of.

The nation seemed prostrated by its' terror, and degraded to the very

deepest abyss of shame and self-contempt. The horrible scenes of blood

through which they had passed might, indeed, excuse much, but there

were proofs of national cowardice at this juncture such as scarcely any

suffering could justify or palliate.

For these considerations I had but a passing thought. My whole attention

was devoted to the little circle of cares and sorrows around me; and,

in addition to other calamities, poor old Lizette, my aid and help

throughout all difficulties, was seized with a violent fever, and

obliged to be conveyed to hospital. I do not believe that anything can

sustain mere bodily strength more powerfully than the sense of doing a

benevolent action. Fatigue, weariness, exhaustion, sickness itself,

can be combated by this one stimulant. For myself, I can aver that

I scarcely ate or slept during the ten days that these events were

happening. Never had any incident of my own life so much engrossed me

as the care of these unhappy people; and when once or twice Le Monnier

adverted to my own story, I always replied that for the moment I had

no thoughts, nor hopes, nor fears, save for the widow and her orphan

daughter.

The old lawyer's benevolence enabled me to meet all the expenses which

from day to day were incurred. He supplied me with means to pay the

charges of the _maison de santé_ and the fees to the physicians, and

enabled me to procure some articles of mourning for poor “Margot,”

who had now sufficiently recovered from her illness to comprehend her

bereavement and the desolate condition in which she was placed. It

was, indeed, a sad lesson to teach the poor child; nor did I, in my own

forlorn and isolated state, know what consolations to offer, nor what

hopes to set before her. I could but tell her that I too was an orphan,

friendless,--nay, far more so than herself; that for me the world had

neither home nor country; and yet that each day, glimpses of bright

hopes gleamed upon me, kind words and acts met me, and that as I lived

I learned to feel that there was a brotherhood in humanity, and that

amidst all the adverse incidents of fortune, warm hearts and generous

natures were scattered about to sustain the drooping courage of those

deserted as we were.

“And be assured, Margot,” said I, “the time will come yet when you and

I will recall these dark hours with a sense of not unpleasant sorrow,

to think how patiently we bore our ills, how submissively and how

trustfully. Then shall we teach others, young as we are now, that even

the humblest has a duty to do in this life, and that he who would do it

well must bring to his task a stout heart and a steady will, and with

these there are no failures.”

I do not think that Margot derived much hope from all my efforts at

consolation, but she certainly felt a strong interest in the similarity

of our fortunes. Again and again did she question me if I had seen and

could remember my mother, and asked me a thousand questions about the

dear friend whom I had ever called by that name. We talked of no other

theme than this, and our isolation served to link us together, as that

of two beings deserted by all, and only cared for by each other. There

was a character of depression about her that seemed to come of a life

of habitual gloom; the ordinary state of her mind was sad, and yet her

dark, lustrous eyes could flash with sudden brilliancy; her deep color

knew how to heighten; and I have seen her lip tremble with proud emotion

at moments of excitement.

When sufficiently recovered to bear the journey, Le Monnier

counselled me to convey her to her friends; and I yielded--shall I own

it?--reluctantly; for of all the world, Margot was now the only one

to whom I could speak, as youth loves to speak, of all my hopes and

my dreads, my ambitions and my aspirings. So long as my duty each day

revolved round her, I had no time to think of my own fate, save as a

thing to weave fancies about, to speculate on a brilliant future, and

imagine incidents and events at random. With what enthusiasm was I

often carried away by these self-wrought fancies!--with what a sense of

triumph have I seen Margot, forgetting for the instant the sad realities

of her lot, listen breathlessly to me as I told of my ambitious plans!

To her I was already a hero; and oh! the glorious fascination with which

one first feels the thought that another's heart has learned to beat

highly for our successes, and to throb with eagerness for our triumph!

I was but a boy, Margot was a child; and of love, as poets describe it,

there was none between us. Still, in my devotion there was nothing I

would not have dared, to please her,--nothing I would not have braved,

to make her think more highly of me. It was self-love, but self-love

ennobled by generous wishes and high ambitions. I strove to be worthy of

her affection, that so I might be capable of doing more still to deserve

it!

Is it to be wondered at if I dreaded to break this spell, and to awaken

from a trance of such fascination? But there was no alternative; Margot

must go, and I must address myself to the stern business of life, for I

had my bread to earn! How ardently I wished it was to my dear mother's

arms that I should consign her, that her home could be that same humble

home I had just quitted, and that poor Joseph could have been her

teacher and her guide! Alas! I no longer knew in what part of the world

to look for them, and I could only speak of these things as I spoke of

the dream-wrought fancies that my hopes called up!

It was on a bright November morning, clear, sharp, and frosty, that we

left Paris in the diligence for Lyons. M. le Monnier had accompanied us

himself to the bureau, and given the _conducteur_ directions to show us

every attention in his power. Three days' and nights' travelling brought

us to Valence, where poor Margot, completely worn out, was obliged to

repose for some hours, during which time I strolled through the town to

see its churches and other remarkable monuments. It was the hour of

the table-d'hôte as I regained the inn, and the hostess advised that we

should dine at the public table, as less expensive than in private.

I remember well with what mingled bashfulness and pride I entered the

room, with Margot holding my hand. The company was a numerous one,

comprising, besides many of the townspeople, several officers of the

garrison, all of whom stared with undisguised astonishment at the aspect

of two travellers of our youth and palpable inexperience, while the

contrast between the deep mourning of her dress and the gay colors

of mine at once showed that we were not brother and sister. To my

respectful salute on entering, few deigned to reply; my companion's

beauty had arrested every attention, and all eyes were turned towards

her as she took her place at table.

For the incident which succeeded, I must devote a short chapter.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE INN AT VALENCE

Preceded by the waiter, who was about to point out the places destined

for us at the table, I walked up the room, holding Margot by the

hand. The strangers made way for us as we went, not with any of the

deferential politeness so usual in France, but in a spirit of insolent

astonishment at our presence there. Such, at least, was the impression

their behavior produced on me; and I was only anxious that it should not

be so felt by my companion.

As I drew back my chair, to seat myself at her side, I felt a hand

placed on my arm. I turned, and saw an officer, a man of about six or

seven and twenty, with a bushy red beard and moustache, who said,--

“This place is mine, citizen; you must go seek for one elsewhere.”

I appealed to the waiter, who merely shrugged his shoulders, and

muttered something unintelligible; to which I replied by asking him to

show me another place, while I assisted Margot to rise.

“La petite shall stay where she is,” broke in the officer, bluntly, as

he brushed in front of me; and an approving laugh from his comrades at

once revealed to me the full meaning of the impertinence.

“This young lady is under my care, sir,” said I, calmly, “and needs no

protection from you.”

“The young lady,” cried he, with a burst of coarse laughter at the

words, “knows better how to choose! Is it not so, citizen? I look a more

responsible guardian than that thin stripling with the pale cheek.”

“I appeal to this company, to the superiors of this officer,--if there

be such present,--to know are these the habits of this place, or have I

been singled out specially for this insolence?”

“Insolence! insolence!” repeated every voice around me, in accents of

astonishment and reprobation; while suddenly above the clamor a deep

voice said,--

“Lieutenant Carrier, take a place at the foot of the table!”

“Oui, mon Colonel!” was the reply; and he who accosted me so rudely, now

moved away, and I seated myself at Margot's side.

I believe that during this brief scene the poor girl knew little or

nothing of what was going forward. The fatigue, from which she had not

yet recovered; the novelty of the place in which she found herself; the

confusion natural to mixing with a strange company,--all contributed to

engage her attention and occupy her thoughts. It was only by the deadly

paleness of my features that she at last guessed that something had gone

wrong. I tried by every means in my power to reassure her. I affected,

as well as I might, to seem easy and unconcerned. I even essayed, by

way of showing my self-possession, to engage the person next me in

conversation; but a cold stare of surprise arrested the attempt, and I

sat abashed and ashamed at the rebuke.

I do not know if in my whole life, I ever passed an hour of greater

misery than the time of that dinner. Had I been there alone, I could

have confronted manfully whatever threatened me; but the thought of

involving Margot in any scene of shame--of exposing her to the rude

insolence of which I saw myself the mark--was insupportably painful. I

felt, besides, that I had a character to support in her eyes; nor could

I yet divine what adverse turn affairs might take. If I looked down the

table, it was to meet, on every side, glances of haughty or insolent

meaning. It was easy to perceive, too, that the whole company was under

the impression of the disagreeable incident which had occurred before

sitting down to table, and which none believed was yet concluded.

Instead of the noisy chit-chat so usual in such places, there was

either a perfect silence, or the low murmuring sounds of a conversation

maintained in whispers. At last the colonel and those around him stood

up, and gathered in a group at one of the windows. The civilians of the

party broke into knots, conversed for a few seconds, and separated;

and, taking Margot's hand, I arose, and prepared to withdraw. As I was

leaving the room the officer who first accosted me, whispered in my

ear,--

“You will come back again, I suppose?”

“Certainly, if you want me,” said I.

He nodded, and I passed out.

“I am glad it is over,” said Margot, pressing my hand; “that dinner was

a tiresome affair!”

“So it was,” said I; “and I am well pleased that it is finished. I 'll

go down now and look after this calèche they promised me they should

have ready for us by this time;” and with this excuse I quitted her, and

hastened downstairs again.

I was just making for the door of the _salle-à-manger_ when the hostess

overtook me.

“A word with you, monsieur,--one word!” cried she.

“At another moment, madam,” said I, trying to pass on; “I am greatly

pressed for time just now.”

“It is exactly for that reason I must speak with you,” said she, firmly;

and at the same instant she seized my arm and drew me into a room, of

which she closed the door at once. “I suspect the object you have in

view, young man,” said she, boldly, to me. “You are eager for a quarrel.

The waiters have told me all that has occurred at table; and I can guess

what is likely to follow. But surely it is not for one in _her_ position

that you will risk your life, or rather sell it; for Carrier would

surely kill you!”

“In _her_ position!” said I. “What do you mean? You cannot dare to throw

an imputation on one who is little more than a child!”

“True; but a child of shame and infamy,” said she, sternly.

“It is a falsehood,--a damnable falsehood!” cried I. “I knew both her

parents: her father died almost in my arms.”

“It is as likely that you never saw her father in your life,” rejoined

she, calmly. “I see that you know little of her history; but she comes

from the village of Linange, and we Auvergnats are well acquainted with

her.”

“Yes, Linange is her native village,--that is true,” cried I, in a vague

terror of some dreadful tidings. “Tell me, I beseech you, whatever you

know of her story.”

“It is soon told, though the tale be sad enough,” said she, after a

pause. “Her mother was a Mademoiselle Nipernois. She called herself De

Nipernois, and not without reason; for the family had been of rank, and

were Grand Seigneurs once on a time. Her father had, however, fallen

into poverty, and for a livelihood was obliged to become a _pharmacien_

in the little village of Linange, every house of which had once belonged

to his family. They said he was a great chemist, which he had become for

his own amusement in his prosperous days; and fortunately he could now

practise the art for his support. At all events, the Blues wrecked

his château, burned his books, melted down his plate, and left him

penniless; so that he was fain to seek shelter amidst what once he would

have styled his own 'vilains,' but who were now, thanks to the glorious

fruits of the Revolution, his equals. That was not to be his only

humiliation, however. A young noble that was betrothed to his eldest

daughter, Hortense, and was to have married her just before 'the

troubles,' joined the mildest party of the anarchists, and actually

assisted at the sack of the château. Some said that he had had a

dreadful altercation and quarrel with the father; some averred that he

had met a contemptuous refusal from the daughter: either, or both, may

have been the truth. What is certain is, that he exacted a vengeance

far heavier than any injury he could have received. On the pretence of

seeking for some concealed royalist, a party of the Blues, headed by the

count, in disguise, broke into the old man's house in the village, and

carried off his eldest daughter,--indeed, the only child that remained

to him; for his second girl was an admitted nun of the Chaise Dieu,

which had hitherto escaped pillage and destruction. From that hour no

trace of her could ever be obtained; but on the same day twelvemonths,

as morning broke, she was found on the steps of her father's door, with

a baby in her arms. I have heard, for I have often spoken with those

who discovered her, that her reason was shattered, and her memory so

completely lost that she did not know her own name. An unbroken apathy

settled down on her from that time.

“She cared for nothing, not even her child; and though Margot was very

beautiful, and so engaging that all the neighbors loved and caressed

her, her mother saw her without the slightest touch of interest or

affection! After the lapse of thirteen, or almost fourteen years, a

young man of the village named Bernois, who had just returned from

studying at Paris, proposed to marry her. Some are of opinion that he

had never heard her real history, nor knew of the relationship between

her and Margot; others think differently, and say that he was aware

of all, and acquitted her of everything save the misfortune that had

befallen her. By what persuasion she was induced to accept him I never

knew, but she did so, and accompanied him to Paris; for, strangely

enough, they who had hitherto treated her with all the respect due to

undeserved calamity, no sooner beheld her as a married woman, and

lifted into a position of equality with them, than they vented a hundred

calumnies upon her, and affected to think her beneath their condition.

This persecution it was which drove Bernois to seek his fortune in

Paris, where he has now met his death! The _conducteur_ who arrived here

last night told who had accompanied him from Paris, and the officers,

who are all familiar with her mother's story, were curious to see the

girl. They induced me to advise you to dine at the public table, and

unhappily I yielded to their solicitations, not suspecting what might

ensue. The only reparation in my power now is to tell you this whole

story; for of course, having heard it, you will perceive how fruitless

and vain it would be for you to oppose yourself to the entire force of

public opinion.

“And is it the custom of the world to insult those situated as she

is?” asked I, in a voice that plainly showed I put the question in all

sincerity and ignorance.

“It is assuredly the habit of young men, and more especially soldiers,

to treat them with less deference than the daughters of honest women;

and you must have seen but little of life, or you had not asked the

question.”

I sat silent for some seconds, revolving in my mind the sad history I

had just listened to, and comparing the events with what I had myself

witnessed of her who had been their victim. The hostess cut short my

musing by saying,--

“There, I see the calèche has just driven into the _cour_: lose no time

in getting away at once. The officers are now at coffee in the garden,

and you can escape unobserved.”

So engrossed was I by thoughts of Margot, and the necessity of shielding

her from insult, that I forgot totally all about myself, and what bore

reference to my own feelings exclusively. I therefore hastened from

the room to make the preparations for our departure. While I was thus

engaged, and occupied with seeing our luggage tied on, a young officer,

touching his cap in salute, asked if I was not the stranger who dined

that day at the table-d'hôte, in company with a young lady; and on my

replying, “Yes,” added,--

“Are you not aware, sir, that we have been expecting the pleasure of

your society in the garden for some time back?”

I answered that I was totally ignorant of their polite intentions

respecting me; that I was anxious to reach my destination, still twelve

leagues away, and unable to accept of their hospitality.

He gave a faint smile as I said this, and then rejoined:

“But you can surely spare a few moments to make your apologies to our

colonel?”

“They must be, then, of the very briefest,” said I. “Will you kindly

guide me to where he is?”

With a slight bow he walked on, and, crossing the courtyard, entered a

garden; on traversing a considerable portion of which, we came out upon

a kind of terrace, where a large party of officers were seated around a

table, smoking, and drinking coffee. Some, too, were engaged playing

at chess or dominoes, some reading, and some apparently asleep;

but, however occupied, no sooner had I made my appearance than all,

forgetting everything but my presence, turned their eyes upon me.

“The citizen,” cried out my guide, as we came up, “the citizen tells me

that he was quite unconscious of our polite intentions in his behalf;

and I can fully believe him, for he was on the eve of departure when I

caught him!”

“What does he think a French soldier is made of?” shouted out the

colonel, with a blow of his closed fist on the table. “He dares to make

use of an expression insulting to every officer of my regiment, and then

says he is unaware of any claim we have upon him!”

A new light broke upon me at these words, and, for a moment, the sense

of shame at my mistake nearly overcame me. I rallied, however, enough to

say,--

“It is quite as you say, Monsieur le Colonel; I was really unaware that

you or your officers had any claim upon me! I had been the subject of a

rudeness to-day, at the table-d'hôte, which, in my little knowledge of

the world, I attributed to the underbred habits of a coarse school of

manners. I now perceive that I was too lenient in my judgment.”

“Are we to listen to any more of this, messieurs?” said the colonel,

rising; “or is it from me that chastisement is to come?”

“No; I have the right, I claim the place, I am the youngest subaltern,

I am the 'cadet of the corps,'” cried half-a-dozen in a breath; but

Carrier's voice overbore the others, saying,--

“Comrades, you seem to forget that this is my quarrel; I will not yield

my right to any one!”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed several voices together; “Carrier says truly.

The affair is his. We fight with the sabre, citizen, in the

Chasseurs-à-Cheval. Is the weapon to your liking?”

“One arm is the same to me as another,” replied I; and unfortunately

this was too literally the case, since I was equally inexpert in all!

“You can claim the pistol, if you wish it,” whispered an old captain,

with a snow-white moustache. “The challenged chooses his weapons.”

“The sabre be it, then,” exclaimed Carrier, catching me up at once.

“Not if the citizen prefer the pistol,” interposed the captain.

“He has already made his choice: he said all weapons were alike to him.”

“Quite true,” said I; “I did say so!”

“The greater fool you, then!” murmured the captain, between his teeth.

“You might just as well have given yourself your chance. Carrier won't

be so generous to you!”

“Will you be my second?” asked I of him.

“_Ma foi!_ if you wish it,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders and

a glance of such tender pity that could not be mistaken. “Let us follow

them!”

And so saying, we strolled leisurely on after the others, who, now

passing through a small wicket, entered a little wood that adjoined the

garden. A few minutes more brought us to an open space, which I rightly

guessed had been often before the scene of similar affairs.

I had never witnessed a duel in my life. I knew nothing of the

formalities which were observed in its arrangement; and the questions

which I asked the captain so palpably betrayed my ignorance that he

stared at me with mute astonishment.

“Have you any friends, boy,” asked he, after a pause, “to whom I can

write for you?”

“Not one,” said I.

“All the better!” rejoined he, tersely.

I nodded an assent; and from that moment we understood each other

perfectly. No lengthy explanation could more plainly have declared that

he thought I was doomed, and that I concurred in the foreboding.

“My sabre will be too heavy for you, boy,” said he; “I 'll see and

borrow a lighter one from one of my comrades. Chasteler, will you lend

me yours?”

“_Parbleu!_ that will I not. I'd never wear it again if used in such a

quarrel.”

“Right, Chasteler,” cried another; “I hope there is only one amongst us

could forget an insult offered to the whole regiment.”

“I wore my epaulette when you were in the cradle, Lieutenant Hautmain,”

said the old captain; “so don't pretend to teach me the feelings that

become a soldier. There, boy,” he added, drawing his sabre as he spoke,

“take mine.”

By this time my antagonist had divested himself of coat and neckcloth,

and stood, with open shirt-breast and the sleeve of his sword-arm rolled

up to the shoulder, before me.

He was as much an overmatch for me in strength and vigor as in skill,

and I felt an acute sense of shame in pitting myself against him. As

he swung his sabre jauntily to and fro with the dexterous facility of a

practised swordsman, I could read the confidence with which he entered

upon the encounter.

“It is the first time you ever handled a sword, I think?” said the

captain, as he assisted me off with my coat.

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

smile.

“_Parbleu!_” cried he, aloud. “This is no better than a murder! The boy

knows nothing of fencing; he never had a sabre in his hands till now.”

“He should have thought of that before he uttered an insult,” said

Carrier, placing himself _en garde_. “Come on, boy!”

The offensive look and manner in which he spoke so carried me away that

I rushed in, and aimed a cut at his head. He parried it, and came down

with a sharp stroke on my shoulder, exclaiming, “_Ça!_” as he did it.

The same word followed every time that he touched me; nor did it require

the easy impertinence of the glances he gave towards his comrades to

show that he was merely amusing himself; as, at one moment, he covered

my face with blood, and at another disarmed me by a severe wound on the

wrist.

“Enough of this,--too much of it!” cried the captain, as the blood

streamed down my cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and almost blinded

me.

“When _he_ says so, it will be time to stop,--not till then,” said

Carrier, as he gave me a sharp cut on the neck.

My rage so overpowered me at this that I lost all control over myself;

and, resolving to finish the struggle at once, I sprang at him, and,

with both hands on my sword, made a cut at his head. The force was such

that the blow broke down his guard and felled him to the earth, with a

tremendous wound of the scalp; and there he lay, stunned and senseless,

while, scarcely more conscious, I stood over him. Passion had up to that

sustained me; but loss of blood and exhaustion now succeeded together,

and I reeled back and fainted.

Though terribly hacked and sorely treated, none of my wounds were

dangerous; and after being bandaged, and stitched, and plastered in

various ways, I was able--or at least insisted that I was able--to

pursue my journey that evening; and away we drove, with no very grateful

recollection of Valence, except, indeed, towards the old captain, who

saw us off, and took a most affectionate leave of us at parting.

Margot had heard from the hostess enough to show her that I had been

her champion and defender, though in what cause she could not possibly

divine. Whatever her anxiety to learn the facts, she never put a single

question to me as we went along, her sole care being to do whatever

might assuage my pain and alleviate my suffering. Thanks to this

kindness, and the cool air of an autumn night, I travelled with

comparatively little uneasiness; and as day was breaking we entered the

quiet street of the little village.

“There, yonder is our house,--the porch with the jasmine over it. Oh,

how the rose-trees have grown!”

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

CHAPTER XXX. LINANGE

I do not know how far other men's experiences will corroborate the

opinion, but for myself I will say that more than once has it occurred

to me to remark that some of the most monotonous periods of my life have

been those to which I often look back with the greatest pleasure, and

love to think over as amongst the happiest. The time I passed at Linange

was one of these. Nothing could be more simple, nothing more uniform

than our life there. The unhappy circumstance to which I have already

alluded had completely estranged from the family any of those with whom

they might have associated. From some, the former rank and condition

of the house separated them; from others they were removed by political

bias; and to the rest, the event of which I have already spoken was the

barrier. Thus, then, was our life passed within the limits of an humble

household of four persons. The old Marquis--for such was he still styled

by us--was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged: proud and

stately in manner, but courteous almost to humility in his bearing to

one beneath his roof. Unbroken by misfortune, he trusted that--although

not in his time--the world would yet return to its ancient course, and

the good king “have his own again.” His personal calamities sat lightly

on him, or, rather, he bore them bravely. If he spoke of his former

state and position, it was in regret for those faithful followers he

could no longer support,--not for himself, whose wants were few, and

whose habits demanded no luxuries. In the calling that he practised for

his maintenance, he saw rather an occasion for pride than humiliation.

There was but one topic from which he shrunk back; nor could all his

courage enable him to approach that. When I first saw him, it was after

a severe attack brought on by the dreadful tidings from Paris; and yet

his composure seemed to me almost bordering on indifference, and I half

revolted against the calm elegance of a good-breeding that seemed above

the reach of all feeling. Ursule was a “nun;” and whether the walls

around her were those of a cloister or a cottage, her heart was enclosed

within the observances of the convent. She rose hours before daybreak,

to pass her time in prayer and solitude. She fasted, and toiled, and

observed penances, exactly as if beneath the rule of the Superior. She

had been singularly handsome, and there was still a character of beauty

in her features, to which her devotional life imparted an expression of

sublimity such as I have never seen even in a “Raphael.” Suffering and

sorrow seemed so blended with hopefulness--present agony so tinctured

with a glorious future--that, to me at least, she appeared almost

angelic.

As for “Margot,” child as she was, the whole care of the household

devolved upon her. The humblest _ménage_ is not without its duties,

and to these she addressed herself at once. It was on the day after my

arrival, and while just meditating a return to Paris, that symptoms

of fever first showed themselves, and a severe shivering, followed by

intense headache, showed me that I was not to escape the consequences of

my unhappy encounter. Ursule, whose experience in hospital life had been

considerable, was the first to see the mischief that threatened, and at

once persuaded me to submit to treatment. The old Marquis was soon at

my bedside, but as quickly did he perceive that the case was beyond his

skill. The surgeon of the village was now sent for; he bled me largely,

dressed my wounds, administered some cooling drink, and then left me

to that terrible interval which precedes mania, and when the enfeebled

intellect struggles for mastery against the force of wandering

faculties.

In my wild fancies, all the incidents of my early days, the little

adventures of boyhood, my mountain ramble, and my life in Paris, came

back, and I talked with intense eagerness to those around me of them

all. Short intervals of consciousness, like gleams of sunlight in a

lowering sky, would break through these, and then I saw beside the bed

the kind faces, and heard the gentle accents, of my friends. “Ursule”

and, “Margot” scarcely ever left me. In the dark hours of the long

night, if a weary sigh escaped me, one of them was sure to be near to

ask if I was in pain or if I needed anything. How often have I turned

away from these gentle questionings to hide my face within my hands and

cry, not in sorrow, but in a thankful outpouring of emotion, that I, the

poor unfriended, uncared-for orphan, should be thus watched, and tended,

and loved!

It was not till after a lapse of weeks that I was pronounced out of

danger, nor even till long after that that I could arise from my bed.

Shall I ever forget the strange confusion of ideas that beset me as

I first found myself alone one morning in the little garden, scarcely

knowing if I was still dreaming, or if all was reality around me! Where

was I? how came I there? were questions that I could not follow to

a solution. Some resemblance in the scenery with the country around

Reichenau assisted the mystification, and from the entanglement of my

thoughts no effort could rescue me. As, one by one, memories of the

past came up, there came with them the sad reflection of my own lonely,

isolated condition in life. The humblest had a home--had those around

them to whose love and affection they could lay claim as from blood

and kindred--who bore the same name, were supported by the same hopes,

cheered by the same joys, and sorrowed for the same sufferings! It was

true that no affection a sister could bestow could exceed that I had met

with where I was. There was not a kindness of which I had not been

the object. Was I, could I, be ungrateful for these? Far from it!--my

melancholy lay in the thought that these were the very evidences of my

own forlorn lot, and that compassion and pity were the sentiments that

prompted them in my behalf.

I knew, besides, that in my long illness I must have proved a grievous

burden to those whose own circumstances were straitened to the utmost

limit of narrow fortune. I saw about me comforts, even luxuries, that

must have cost many a privation to acquire. I felt that, in succoring

me, they had imposed upon themselves the weight of many a future

want. These were afflicting considerations, nor could all my ingenuity

discover one resource against them. I was still too weak to walk; my

limbs tottered under me as I went. Perhaps it were better it had been

so, since I really believe if I had had strength sufficient for

the effort, notwithstanding all the shame that might attach to my

ingratitude, I should have fled from the house that moment, never to

return! It was in the abandonment of grief arising from these thoughts

that “Ursule” discovered me. With what tenderness did she rally my

drooping spirits; how gently did she chide my faint-heartedness!

“You must rise above these things, Jasper,” said she to me. “You must

learn to see that the small ills of life are difficult to be borne just

because they suggest no high purpose.”

And from this she went on to tell me of the noble devotion of the

missionary, the splendid enthusiasm that elevated men above every

thought of peril, and taught them to court danger and confront

suffering. How mean and sordid did she represent every other ambition in

comparison with this! How ignoble was the soldier's heroism when placed

beside the martyrdom of the priest! With consummate art she displayed

before my boyish fancy all that was attractive, all that was

picturesque, in the missionary's life. To glowing descriptions of

scenery and savage life succeeded touching episodes of deep interest

and passages of tenderest emotions, the power of the Church--whether

as consoler or comforter, as healing the sick or supporting the

weak-hearted--being never forgotten. If she saw that my mind dwelt with

pleasure on pictures of splendor, she lingered on scenes of greatness

and royal power, when priests associated with monarchs as their guides

and counsellors. If, at another moment, the romance seemed to engage my

attention, she narrated incidents of the most affecting kind. At these

moments it was strange to mark how the cold and almost stern reserve of

the cloister seemed lost in the glowing enthusiasm of the devotee. It

was not the nun broken down by fasting, wasted by penance, and subdued

by prayer, but the almost inspired daughter of the Church, glorying and

exulting in its triumph. She gave me books to read,--lives of saints and

martyrs, of devoted missionaries and pious fathers. If in some instances

the sufferings they endured seemed more than mere humanity could

support, the triumphant joy of their victories appeared to partake of

a celestial brilliancy. Day by day, hour by hour, did she pursue

the theme, till the subject, like a river fed by a thousand rills,

overflowed all else in my mind, and left no room for aught but itself.

It was not difficult for her to show that the frightful condition of

France at the period--its lawless confiscations, its pillage, and its

bloodshed--all dated from the extinction of the Church. The task was an

easy one to contrast past peace and happiness with present anarchy

and suffering. I reflected long and deeply on the subject. If doubts

assailed me, I came to her to solve them; if difficulties embarrassed

me, I asked her to explain them. I applied the question to the

circumstances of my own position in life, and began to believe that it

was exactly the career to suit me. I eagerly inquired, next, how

the fitting education might be obtained, and learned that since the

destruction of the religious societies of France and the Low Countries,

many had emigrated to Spain and Italy, and some to England. Sister

“Ursule” was in correspondence with more than one of these, and promised

to obtain all the information I sought for; meanwhile, she besought

me to devote my whole mind and thoughts to these sacred subjects,

withdrawing, so far as I might, all my desires and ambition from the

world.

Margot, I am obliged to own, contributed but little to aid my pious

purpose; her gay and joyous nature had no sympathy with asceticism and

restraint. The poets and dramatists, whose works she read in secret,

inspired very different thoughts from the subject of my studies; her

childish buoyancy could not endure the weight of that gloom which a life

of denial imposes; and whenever we were alone together, she rallied

me on my newly assumed seriousness as on a costume which I would soon

discover to be insufferable.

I dwell on these things, trifling as they are, because they convey the

curious conflict which my mind sustained at this time, and the struggle

that went on within me between the tendencies natural to my age, and the

impulses that grew out of a sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps I might not care

to recall them, if it was not that they remind me of Margot such as I

then remember her. I see her before me: her dark eyes, flashing with

daring brilliancy, dropped in a half-rebellious submission, her changing

color, her fair and open brow, her beautiful mouth, with all its varying

expression, her very gait, haughty even in its girlish gayety,--all rise

to my mind's eye; and I feel even yet within me the remembrance of that

strange distrust and bashfulness with which I endeavored to reply to her

witty sallies, and recall her to a seriousness like my own I I was no

hypocrite, and yet she half hinted that I was; neither was it a dash of

thoughtless enthusiasm that carried me away, though she often said so.

It was the very reverse of vanity or self-exaltation,--it was humility

that prompted me to devote myself to a career from which others might

have been withheld by the ties of home and affection.

“You forget, Margot,” cried I one day, when she bantered me beyond

endurance, “that I am already an idle and homeless being, without one on

earth to love me!”

“But I love you, Jasper!” said she, seizing my hand and pressing it to

her lips; and then, as suddenly dropping it, she became pale as death,

and staggered as if falling. I caught her in my arms; but she disengaged

herself at once, and, with her hands pressed closely over her face, fled

from the spot.

From that day she never jested with me, nor even alluded to my choice of

a career. She, I fancied, even avoided being alone with me as she used

to be; the playful tricks she had indulged in of hiding my serious

books, or substituting for them others of a very different kind, were

all abandoned. Her whole manner and bearing were changed, nor could I

fail to see that there was no longer between us the cordial frankness

that hitherto united us. If this were, in one respect, a source of

sorrow to me, in another there was a strange, secret charm in that

reserve so full of meaning,--in that shyness so suggestive!

Up to that time I had been in the habit of reading with her some part

of every day. My school-learning, such as it was, was yet fresh in my

memory, and I was delighted to have a pupil so gifted and intelligent;

but from this time forth she never resumed her studies, but pretended a

variety of occupations as excuses. I know not, I cannot even speculate,

on how this might have ended, when a sudden change of events gave a

decisive turn to my destinies.

The bâtonnier who had so kindly undertaken to look after the little

remnant of Monsieur Bernois' fortune was no less prompt than he had

promised. He made all the arrangements required by law, and corresponded

with me on each step of the proceedings. In one of these letters was

a postscript containing these words: “Is it true that you have had a

serious rencontre with a captain of the Chasseurs-à-Cheval who is still

in danger from the wound he received?” Before my reply to this question

could have reached him, came the following brief note:--

“My dear Monsieur Carew,--I learned late last night the whole

circumstances of the adventure of which I had asked an explanation from

you by my letter of Tuesday. The affair is a most unhappy one on every

account, but on none more than the fact that your antagonist was Captain

Carrier, the brother of the celebrated member of the Constituent of

that name. I need scarcely remind you that his friends, numerous and

influential as they are, are now your bitterest enemies. They are at

this moment busily employed in making searches into your previous

life and habits; and should all other sources of accusation fail, will

inevitably make your nationality the ground of attack, and perhaps

denounce you as a spy of the English Government. The source from which

I obtained this information leaves no doubt of its correctness, as you

will acknowledge when I add that it enables me to forward to you, by

this enclosure, a passport for England, under the name of Bernard. I

also transmit a bank order for one thousand francs, which I beg you will

use freely, as if your own, and part of a fund, the remainder of which

I will take an early opportunity of placing in your hands. The hurried

nature of my present communication prevents me adding more than that I

am, very faithfully, your friend.”

His initials alone were inscribed at the foot of this most extraordinary

epistle. I hastened to show it to the Marquis, who, on learning the name

of the writer, pronounced him one of the first men at the French bar.

“The warning of such a man,” said he, “must not be neglected; and

although Carrier's faction have fallen, who can answer what to-morrow

may bring forth? At all events, your position as an alien is highly

perilous, and you must see to your safety at once.”

As for the concluding portion of the letter, he could not assist me to

any explanation of it. The nearest approach to elucidation was, that

many of the leading lawyers of Paris were frequently selected by their

clients as depositaries of property, and that it was just possible such

had been the case here.

With this meagre suggestion he left me, and I proceeded, with a heavy

heart, to make my preparations for departure.

CHAPTER XXXI. HAVRE.

The diligence passed our door, and the conductor had orders to stop and

take me up, as he went by. That supper was a sorrowful meal to all of

us. They had come to think of me as one of themselves, and I felt as if

I was about to part with the last who would ever befriend me.

There was but little said on any side, and none of us ventured on a word

alluding to my departure. At last the old Marquis, laying his hand on my

shoulder, said,--

“These are not days in which one can trust to the post, Jasper; but if

ever the occasion offer of letting us hear of you by other means, you

'll not neglect it.”

“The Père Tonsurd will manage this for you,” broke in Ursule. “He knows

how to communicate, when, and with whom he pleases.”

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

“This is his address, and this letter will introduce you,” said she,

giving me a carefully-folded and well-sealed packet. “Make a friend of

him, Jasper, and your happiness will be the reward.”

I thought that Margot's lip was upturned at these words, with a faint

expression of disdainful meaning; but I may easily have been deceived,

for as I looked again, her features were calm and unmoved.

“The Père,” resumed Ursule, “was superintendent of the 'Chaise Dieu,'

and removed to be a Professor at Namur. He is a man of high acquirements

and sincere piety, but his great characteristic is his humility. With a

tenth of the ambition that others possess, he had been a Prince of the

Church.”

Margot's eyes were downcast as this was spoken, so that I could not

detect how the speech affected her; but again it struck me that her

mouth was moved with an expression of scorn.

“There! I hear the horn of the postilion; you have n't a moment to

lose!” cried Ursule.

A fond, close embrace with each in turn, and a whispered word from

Margot which I tried in vain to catch, and I was gone! I buried my head

between my hands in shame, for I was crying bitterly, and never looked

up till we were far away from the village, and traversing a wide,

open country, with great undulating fields of corn, and few traces of

habitation.

“Come, come, be a man,” broke in the _conducteur_, with a rough

good-humor. “You 're not the first who had to leave his home for the

conscription, and some have gone back _chefs-d' escadron_, afterwards.”

I accepted the part he thus erringly assigned me, and let him run on

about all the fortunes and chances of a soldier's life.

If his conversation did not divert my thoughts, it at least suffered me

to pursue them unmolested; and so I travelled along through the whole

of that night and the following day, seldom speaking, or only in half

mechanical assent to some remark of my companion.

“They 'll want to see your passport here, citizen,” said he, as we

approached the gate of a fortified town; “so get it ready, and don't

delay the authorities.”

A few minutes more brought us to the outworks of a fortification,

passing through which, we crossed a drawbridge, over a deep moat,

and entered a long, dark archway. Here the diligence drew up, and the

passengers were ordered to descend. I overheard the _conducteur_ say the

word “conscript,” and began to fear that he used it in relation to me,

when suddenly the official, opening my passport, called out:

“Which of you is the citizen Bernard?”

I at once remembered that it was the name I had recruited under, and

answered, “It is I.”

“Step inside here,” said he, civilly; “I have some directions with

respect to you.”

I walked into a small chamber off the public room, when, having

carefully closed the door, he said,--

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

The last word was accented deeply, and with an emphasis meant to

show that he who used it proclaimed himself no partisan of republican

principles, but one who held to the ancient habits of the monarchy.

The manners of the time suggested distrust on all sides, and I answered,

guardedly, that I had some intention of visiting England.

“You will see them, then,” resumed he, “and even that much is a blessing

in itself! How do I envy you! Ah, monsieur, if the name should not

escape you, will you try and remember Claude Mirepois? My father was

head postilion in the royal stables, and enjoyed his pension to his

death; and I was educated by order of the princes, and was to have been

in the household too.”

“Are we all right and regular, citizen?” broke in the _conducteur_,

putting in his head.

“All right--quite right, citizen Guichemar,” said the other, in some

confusion. “These are ticklish times; I was anxious to see that this

youth's pass was regular.”

“_Parbleu!_ a conscript is always _en règle_,” said the other, laughing,

and so hurried me away to the diligence; and once more we rattled along

on our journey.

The whole of that night my mind dwelt upon this incident. Amongst the

various parties that disputed for preeminence in the country, I had

never heard of any professing royalist principles, except the Vendeans;

nor had I the slightest suspicion that many concealed monarchists held

places of trust under the government of the republic.

At Havre, I discovered that the measures of the police were of the

very strictest kind, and that to obtain a permission to embark, it was

necessary to have a reference to some citizen of the town, who should

stand guarantee for your loyalty and integrity. Now, I had never been

there before; I knew none, not even by name; and what was I to do?

Great as my difficulty was, I did not suffer it to appear so to the

commissary, but calmly said that I 'd return to my hotel, and run my eye

over a list of the merchants for one to be my bail.

The packet was to sail that evening with the tide; and as the office of

the commissaire closed at four o'clock, there was little time to lose.

I wandered on “from street to street; I walked into cafés; I sat down in

the most public places, scanning with eagerness every face that

passed me, and straining my eyes to try and detect the features of

an acquaintance. The pursuit became at length a perfect farce, and I

hurried to and fro with a burning brain, and a restless impatience that

was almost maddening.

“Parbleu! this is the fourth time you've been in here to-day,” cried

a short, thickset man, past the prime of life, and who kept a sort of

slop-shop near the quay. “What do you want with me, my lad?”

I was turning to leave the spot without replying, when he closed the

half-door of his shop, and placed his back against it.

“Come, my friend, you shall certainly say what has brought you here, ere

you get away this time.”

“I am in search of some one,--I am looking for one of my acquaintances,”

said I, hurriedly.

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

“Here--anywhere,” said I, recklessly.

“Just so; I thought as much. Well, my lad, you had better give a more

satisfactory account of yourself to the commissary. Come along with me

to the police.”

“With all my heart,” cried I.

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

in his voice.

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

“Well, have I not a right to know why you have been four several times

in my shop this forenoon, and never bought nor asked for anything?”

“That you shall hear freely and frankly,” said I; “I have a passport

made out for England, whither I wish to go. The authorities require that

I should have some reference to a citizen of Havre before they allow me

to depart. I am a stranger here,--I know of no one, not even by name.

The whole of this morning I have spent hurrying hither and thither to

find out some one I have seen before, but in vain. All are strangers

to me; none know me. In my wanderings, it may be that I have chanced to

come here as often as you say,--perhaps I have done so in twenty places;

for my head is distracted, and I cannot collect my thoughts. There,

then, is the answer to your inquiry.”

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

“Not either.”

“Nor any means of support?”

“Quite sufficient for all my wants,” replied I, boldly; and at the same

time producing my purse, well stored as it was with five-franc pieces.

“Ah, then, you belong to some of the _émigrés?_ You are going to join

your family?” asked he, but in a lower and more cautious voice.

“Don't you think that I have been candid enough already, friend?” said

I; “and do you not know sufficient of my affairs, without asking me

more?”

“Not if it be for more than mere curiosity,” said he, drawing nearer to

me; “not if I ask from a sincere interest in you.”

“But I ought, perhaps, to hear something of him that questions me,” said

I, affecting an amount of circumspection that was far from natural to

me.

“Then go out upon the quay yonder, and ask who is Pierre Dubos. My

character and my name are well known in Havre; you 'll not have to ask

often without an answer.”

“Well, then, citizen, tell me what more you wish to learn about me. I

'll tell you whatever you like, if I only know it.”

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

“No; I have not had time.”

“Come, then, and partake of mine;” and, without waiting for an answer,

he let down the shutter that closed the entrance to his shop, and led me

by the arm into a room behind it.

Pierre Dubos, though nearer to sixty than fifty, was only a short time

married to a very pretty and young woman who, as he entered the room,

was arranging the table for dinner. She received me with much courtesy,

scarcely heeding, if she even heard, the explanation her husband gave to

account for my presence.

The meal was an excellent one, and passed off with all that easy

conviviality that every class of Frenchmen know how to display. Monsieur

Dubos seemed somewhat of a character, and rather piqued himself on doing

things that others might never have thought of. His marriage appeared to

have been one of these; his invitation to myself was another.

“You know, Jeanette,” said he, “we might never have met if it had not

been for the ferry being delayed at Honfleur. We made acquaintance on

the steps of the pier; and see what has come of it! Now, I have come to

know Bernard here by a similar accident. Who knows what may arise out of

that?”

Madame smiled benignly in assent to the theory, the happy results of

which she seemed to acknowledge.

Coffee came after dinner; and then I began to think how I should take my

leave. Ere I could solve the problem to my satisfaction, Dubos said,--

“Shall we all go to the comedy this evening? They play a grand piece,

one of Beaumanhui's,--and it will amuse us.”

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

said,--

“But this will never bring me to England.”

“What need to go there? Why not stay in France? Was it not a pleasanter

country and a better climate? At all events, what urgent haste was

there? Would not to-morrow serve as well as to-day?”

These and such-like arguments were showered upon me, and not a little

aided by many little coquetries of look and gesture.

“One thing is quite certain,” said Dubos: “it is now three,--the bureau

closes at four o'clock; and if you know of any one in Havre who will be

your sponsor, the sooner you find him the better.”

This speech was uttered with so much gravity that it completely

mystified me; nor did the next remark serve greatly to elucidate

matters, as his wife said she hoped “I 'd have a pleasant voyage.” After

enjoying my astonished and puzzled look for a second or two, they both

burst into a roar of laughter.

“Don't you see, Bernard,” said the man, “that you have no other

acquaintance in the city than ourselves; and if we have a fancy for your

company, and do not care to part with it, the option is with us?”

“But if you really do feel an interest for me, you would befriend me,”

said I. “Is not that so?”

“And so I 'm ready to do,” said he, rising. “Say the word, and I 'll go

with you this moment to the commissary.”

I arose too. Already the syllables were on my lips, when the sudden

thought flashed across me: Whither am I hurrying, and for what? Was I

returning to home and family and country? Was I going back to kind and

loving friends, whose hearts were yearning for my coming? I paused, and

at the same instant the laughing eyes of the young Frenchwoman seemed to

read my embarrassment.

“Well,” cried Dubos, “how is it to be?”

“Sit down, Pierre, and take your coffee,” said she, smiling. “Citizen

Bernard has not the slightest intention of leaving us. He knows,

besides, that you will be just as ready to serve him any other day, and

not the less so when you will have been better acquainted.”

“She is right,” said he, pressing me down into my seat again. “Let's

have a _chasse_ in ease, and quick.”

I did not stop to reason the question. If I had, perhaps I should only

have seen stronger cause to concur with my kind hosts. The world was a

wide and trackless ocean before me, and even the humblest haven was a

welcome harbor to me for a day or two.

I stayed accordingly, and went to the theatre with them. The following

day was Sunday, and we went over to Honneur, and dined at the “Trois

Pigeons;” and Pierre showed me the spot where he first saw his pretty

wife, and said,--

“Who knows but some day or other I may be telling of the day and the

hour and the way I became acquainted with you?”

As I parted with them each night, some little plan or project was always

struck out for the morrow; and so I lingered on from day to day, half

listless, and half pleased. At length, as I was proceeding one morning

towards the house, I saw a crowd in front of a café all busily engaged

in reading a large placard which had just been affixed to the wall. It

was an account of the seizure by the English of the very vessel I had

intended to have taken my passage in; for, strangely enough, though the

countries were at war, a species of half intercourse was kept up between

them for some time, and travellers often passed from one shore to

the other. This system was now, it seemed, to have an end; and it was

curious to remark how bitter were the commentaries the change excited.

Pierre had learned the news by the time I reached his house, and

laughingly remarked on the good luck that always attended his

inspirations.

“But for me,” said he, “and my wise counsels, you had been a prisoner

now, and all your claims to nationality would only have got you hanged

for a traitor. From the first moment I saw you, something whispered me

that we were destined to know more of each other; and now I perceive

that the impression was-well founded.”

“How do you infer that?” asked I, smiling.

“Because my instincts have never betrayed me yet.”

“And what is to be the upshot of our acquaintance, then?”

“Do you ask this seriously, Bernard, or are you only jesting at my

presentiments?”

“In all seriousness and in all trustfulness,” replied I.

“You 'll stay here in Havre--join me in my business--make money--be a

rich man--and--” he paused.

“Go on; I like the prophecy,” said I, laughing.

“And I was going to say, just as likely to lose it all, some fine

morning, as easily as you earned it.”

“But I have not a single requisite for the part you assign me. I am

ignorant of every branch of trade and traffic; nor, if I know myself, do

I possess one single quality that insures success in them.”

“I'll teach you, Bernard! There are few secrets in my craft. We deal

with smugglers,--we buy from them, and sell to them! For the pedler that

comes to us in our shop in the 'Rue des Sol,' we care little; for our

customers who drop in after nightfall, we have a sincere affection. You

have hitherto regarded them in the light of visitors and friends. You

little suspected that through them we carried on all our business; and

just as little did it ever occur to you that you yourself are already a

great favorite with them. Your stories, your remarks, the views you

take of life, all your observations, are quite novel and amusing to

poor fellows whose whole experience of the world is picked up in stormy

nights in the Channel, or still more perilous adventures on shore. Many

have already asked me when you would be with me of an evening, that they

might come; others have begged they might bring friends along with them;

and, in short, they like you; and they are fellows who, when they have

fancies, don't grudge the price they pay for them.”

I laughed heartily as I heard this. Assuredly it had never occurred to

myself to observe the circumstance, still less to make it a matter of

profit or speculation; but, somehow, the coarse flattery of even such

admiration was not without a certain charm for my mind.

Still, it was a part I could not have condescended to practise for gain,

nor, perhaps, had such been my intention, could I have been equally

successful.

Dubos, however, assigned me a duty which made a happy compromise

between my self-esteem and my desire for employment. This was to make

acquaintance with all of that adventurous race comprised between the

buccaneer and the smuggler; to learn their various wants, when they

voyaged, and for what, became my province. They were a wild, wasteful,

and reckless class, who loved far better to deal with one who should

stand to them in the relation of a companion than as a chapman or a

dealer.

If I am free to own that my occupation was not very dignified, I am

equally able to assert that I never prostituted any influence I obtained

in this way to personal objects of profit. On the contrary, I have

repeatedly been able to aid, by good counsel and advice, men whose

knowledge of adventurous life was far greater than my own; and

oftentimes has it occurred to me to obtain for them quadruple the value

they had themselves set upon objects they possessed.

I can scarcely account to myself for the extraordinary interest the

pursuit engendered,--the characters, the places they frequented, the

habits, were all of the strangest, and might reasonably have amused one

ardently fond of adventure; but there was, besides all this, a degree

of danger in the intercourse that imparted a most intense degree of

interest to it.

Many of these men were great criminals. Many of the valuables confided

to my keeping were obtained by the most questionable means. They

trafficked not alone in articles of contraband, but they dealt in the

still more dangerous wares of secret information to governments; some

were far less smugglers than spies. All these curious traits became

revealed to me in our intercourse; and I learned to see by what low

and base agencies are often moved the very greatest and most momentous

incidents of the world. It was not alone that many of these men

were employed by persons high in station, but they were really often

intrusted with functions very disproportionate to their own claim for

either character or fitness. At one time it would be a state secret; at

another, some dark piece of treacherous vengeance, or some scarcely less

dark incident of what fashion calls “gallantry;” while occasionally

a figure would cross the scene of a very different order, and men of

unquestionable station be met with in the garb and among the haunts of

the freebooter.

There was scarcely a leader of the republican party with whom some

member of the exiled family had not attempted the arts of seduction.

With many of them, it was said, they really succeeded; and others only

waited their opportunity to become their partisans. Whether the English

Government actually adopted the same policy or not, they assuredly had

the credit of doing so; and the sudden accession to wealth and affluence

of men who had no visible road to fortune, greatly favored this

impression. My friend Pierre Dubos troubled his head very little about

these things. So long as his “brandies could be run” upon the shores

of England, and his bales of silk find their way to London without

encountering a custom-house, he cared nothing for the world of

politics and statecraft; and it is not impossible that his well-known

indifference to these matters contributed something to the confidence

with which they were freely imparted to myself. Whatever the cause, I

soon became the trusted depositary of much that was valuable, not alone

in actual wealth, but in secret information. Jewels, sums of money,

securities to a great amount, papers and documents of consequence, all

found their way to my hands; and few went forth upon any expedition of

hazard without first committing to my keeping whatever he possessed of

worth.

I was now living in privacy and simplicity, it is true, but in the

enjoyment of every comfort; but, still, with all the sense of a

precarious and even a perilous existence. More than once had I been

warned that the authorities entertained suspicion of me; and although

the police, even to its highest grades, was in our pay, it was yet

possible that they should find it their interest to betray us. It was

just at this time that a secret envoy arrived from Paris at Havre, en

route for England, and was arrested on entering the town. His papers

were all seized, except one small packet which was conveyed by a safe

hand to myself, and my advice and counsel requested on the subject

of it. The address was simply “W. P.,” and marked, “with the greatest

speed.” There was an enclosure that felt like a locket-case or a

medallion, inside, and three large seals without.

The envoy, who had contrived to disburden himself of this in the very

moment of his arrestation, at once made a signal indicative of its

pressing emergency; and his own rank and position seemed to guarantee

the fact. One of our luggers was only waiting for the tide to weigh

anchor and sail for England; and the sudden resolve struck me to take

charge of the letter, and see if I could not discover for whom it was

meant. Both Dubos and his wife did all in their power to dissuade me

from the project. They spoke of the great peril of the attempt, and its

utter fruitlessness besides; but for the former I had not many fears,

and as to the latter consideration, I was fortified by a strong

and deep-felt conviction that the locket was intended for no less a

personage than the head of the English ministry, and that “William

Pitt” was designated by the initials of the direction. I own that the

conjecture was mainly suggested to me by the constant reference made to

his name, and the frequent allusions I had heard made to him by many of

the secret emissaries.

If I did not impart this impression to Dubos, it was simply because

I knew how little interest the subject would have for him, and that I

should frame very different reasons for my journey if I looked for

his concurrence. I need not stop to record the discussion that ensued

between us. Enough if I say that honest Pierre made me an offer of

partnership with him if I consented to forego my journey, from which he

steadily predicted that I should return no more. This prophecy had no

power to deter me,--nay, I half suspect that it furnished an additional

argument for my going.

Having consigned to him, therefore, all the objects of value that had

been left with me, and taking nothing but the few papers and letters

belonging to myself, I sailed that evening; and, as day was breaking, I

saw looming through the distance the tall and chalky cliffs of England.

We were a long way to the northward of the part usually frequented by

our skipper, and it was not without difficulty that I persuaded him to

land me in a small bay, in which a solitary cottage was the only sign of

habitation.

By noon I gained the hut of a fisherman, who, though he had seen me put

out from a craft that he knew to be French, yet neither expressed any

surprise at my appearance, nor thought it a matter for any questioning.

The shoal water and the breakers, it is true, could have prevented

the spot being selected as a landing-place for troops; but nothing was

easier than to use it to disembark either secret emissaries, or even a

small body of men. I walked from this to a small town about eight miles

inland, whence I started the same night by coach for London. I cannot

convey my notion of the sense of freedom I felt at wandering thus at

will, unquestioned by any one. Had I but travelled a dozen miles

in France, I should have been certain of encountering full as many

obstacles. Here none troubled their heads about me; and whence I came,

or whither I went, were not asked by any. Some, indeed, stared at my

travel-worn dress, and looked with surprise at my knapsack, covered with

undressed calf-skin; but none suspected that it was French, nor that

he who carried it had landed, but a few hours before, from the land of

their dread and abhorrence. In fact, the England and France of those

days were like countries widely separated by distance, and the narrow

strip of sea between them was accounted as a great ocean. No sooner

had I arrived in London than I inquired for the residence of the Prime

Minister. It was not a period when the Parliament was sitting. They told

me that I should rarely find him in town, but was sure of meeting with

him at Hounslow, where he had taken a house for his health, then much

broken by the cares and fatigues of office.

It was evening--a fine, mellow autumn evening--as I found myself in

front of a large, lonely house, in the midst of a neglected-looking

garden, the enclosure of which was a dilapidated wall, broken in many

places, and admitting glimpses of the disorder and decay within. I

pulled the string of the bell, but it was broken; and while I stood

uncertain what course to pursue, I caught sight of a man who was leaning

over a little balustrade, and apparently watching some fish in a pond

at his feet. He was thin and spare-looking, with somewhat the air of

premature age; and though dressed in the very simplest manner, there was

the unmistakable mark of a gentleman in his appearance.

He seemed to have observed me, but made no sign of recognition as I came

towards him. He even turned his head to look at me, and then resumed his

former attitude. I believe that I would willingly have retreated at

that moment, if I knew how. I felt that my presence there was like an

intrusion, and was already ashamed of it. But it was now too late;

for, standing erect, and with his hands behind him, he fixed his eyes

steadily on me, and asked me my business there. I replied that I wished

to speak with Mr. Pitt.

“Do so, then,” rejoined he; “I am he.”

I hesitated for a second or two how to open my communication; but he

waited for me without the slightest show of impatience, till, gaining

courage, I told him in a few words by what means I had become possessed

of a letter, the contents of which I had surmised might by possibility

have been intended for him. Short as was my explanation, it seemed to

suffice, for he nodded twice or thrice in assent as I went on, and then,

taking the letter from my hand, said,--

“Yes, this is for me.”

So saying, he turned away into an alley of the garden to peruse the

letter at his leisure.

I remember as well as though it were but yesterday the strange crowd of

sensations that pressed upon my mind as I stood there waiting for his

return. Astonishment at finding myself in such a presence was the first

of these; the second was a surprise to see with how little of awe or

embarrassment I bore myself before one whose haughty bearing was the

terror of his contemporaries. I did not know enough of life to be aware

that the very fact of my humble station was the levelling influence that

operated in my favor, and that if, instead of an unknown emissary, I had

been the deputed envoy of a great government, I should have found the

minister as coldly haughty as I had heard him described.

While I was yet surmising and reasoning with myself, he came up to me,

saying,--

“They have arrested Monsieur Ducoste, you said. Is the affair like to be

serious?”

“I believe not, sir; his only paper of consequence was this.”

He opened the letter again, and seemed lost in contemplation of

something it contained; at length he said,--

“Have you brought any newspapers or journals with you?”

“None, sir; I came away at a moment's warning.”

“You are an Englishman. How came it that you have been a resident in

France?”

For the first time his face assumed an expression of severity as he said

this, and I could not but feel that the inquiry was one that touched my

personal honor. I replied, therefore, promptly that I had come abroad

from causes of a family nature, and that they were matters which could

not interest a stranger.

“They do interest me, sir,” was his reply, “and I have a right to know

them.”

If my first impulse was to resent what I conceived to be a tyranny,

my second was to clear myself from any possibility of an imputation.

I believe it was the wiser of the two; at all events, I yielded to

it, and, apologizing for the intrusion upon time valuable as his, I

narrated, in a few minutes, the leading features of my history.

“A singular story,” said he, as I concluded: “the son of an Irish

Opposition leader reduced to this! What proofs have you of the

correctness of your account? Have you acquaintances? Letters?”

“Some letters, but not one acquaintance.”

“Let me see some of these. Come here to-morrow, fetch your papers with

you, and be here at eleven o'clock.”

“But excuse me, sir,” said I, “if I ask wherefore I should do this? I

came here at considerable personal hazard to render you a service. I

have been fortunate enough to succeed. I have also made known to you

certain circumstances of a purely private nature, and which only can

concern myself. You either believe them or you do not.”