gentleman,” said he, courteously; “you may be speaking in all the
strongest conviction of truthfulness, and yet be incorrect. I desire to
be satisfied on this head, and I am equally ready to assure you that the
inquiry is not prompted by any motive of mere curiosity.”
I remained silent for a minute or two; I tried to weigh the different
reasons for and against either course in my mind, but I was too much
agitated for the process. He seemed to guess what was passing within me,
and said,--
“Don't you perceive, sir, that I am your debtor for a service, and that
before I attempt to acquit the obligation I ought to know the rank and
station of my creditor? You would not accept of a pecuniary reward?”
“Certainly not, and as little any other.”
“But I might possibly present my thanks in a form to be acceptable,”
said he, blandly; “and I wish you would give me the opportunity!”
And with that he bowed deeply, and walked slowly away. I returned to
London with a head full of my interview.
CHAPTER XXXII. MY REWARD
I had taken up my quarters in one of the small streets which lead from
the Strand to the river; a very humble abode it was, and such as suited
very humble fortune. When I arrived there, after the interview I have
related, I sat down and wrote a short account of the events of my life,
so far as they were known to me. I subjoined any letters and documents
that I possessed which gave confirmation to my statement, addressing the
entire to the minister, with the request that if my capacity could fit
me for any employment in the public service, he would graciously make
a trial of me; and if not, that he would enable me to return to France,
where a livelihood at least was procurable.
This I despatched on a Tuesday morning, and it was not until the
following Saturday that I obtained my reply. I cannot think of that
painful interval even now without a shudder. The torture of suspense
had risen to a fever, and for the last day and night I neither ate nor
slept. On Saturday came a brief note, in these words: “J. C. may call at
Hounslow before ten to-morrow.”
It was not signed, nor even dated; and so I was left to surmise if it
had reached me in fitting time. It was scarcely eight o'clock on Sunday
morning as I found myself standing beside the wicket of the garden,
which seemed as deserted and desolate as before. At an open window,
however, on the ground floor I saw a breakfast-table laid out; and as I
looked, a lady and gentleman entered, and took their places at it. One
was, I knew, the minister. The lady, who was a tall and dignified person
rather than a handsome one, bore some resemblance to him. Her quick
glance detected me from afar, and as quickly she called attention to my
presence there. Mr. Pitt arose and beckoned me to come forward, which I
did, with no small shame and embarrassment.
While I stood at the hall-door, uncertain whether to knock or wait, it
was opened by the minister himself, who kindly wished me good-morning,
and desired me to follow him.
“This is the youth himself, Hester,” said he, as we entered the room;
“and I have no doubt he will be happy to answer any questions you may
put to him.”
The lady motioned to me to be seated, and in a grave, almost severe
tone, said,--
“Who composed this paper,--this narrative of yours?”
“I did, madam.”
“The whole of it?”
“Yes, madam, the whole of it.”
“Where have you been educated?”
“At Reichenau, madam.”
“Where is that?”
“In Switzerland, on the frontiers of the Vorarlberg.”
“And your parents are both dead, and you have actually none in the shape
of relatives?”
“Not one, madam.”
She whispered something here to the minister, who quickly said,--
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“Tell me, sir,” said she, addressing me again, “who is this same Count
de Gabriac, of whom mention is made here. Is he the person called
Couvre-Tête in the circles of the Jacobins?”
“I never have heard him so called, madam.”
“You know him at least to be of that party?”
“No, madam. The very little I do know of him personally would induce me
to suppose the opposite.”
She shook her head, and gave a faint supercilious smile, as though in
total disbelief of my words.
“If you have read my memoir, madam,” said I, hastily, “you will perceive
how few have been the occasions of my meeting with the Count, and that,
whatever his politics, I may be excused for not knowing them.”
“You say that you went along with him to Paris?”
“Yes, madam, and never saw him afterwards.”
“You have heard from him, however, and are, in fact, in correspondence
with him?”
“No, madam, nothing of the kind.”
As I said this, she threw the paper indignantly on the table, and walked
away to the window. The minister followed her, and said something in a
low whisper, to which she replied aloud,--
“Well, it's not my opinion. Time will tell which of us was more right.”
“Tell me something of the condition of parties in France,” said he,
drawing his chair in front of mine. “Are the divisions as wide as
heretofore?”
I will not go over the conversation that ensued, since I was myself the
principal speaker. Enough if I say that I told him whatever I knew or
had heard of the various subdivisions of party: of the decline of the
terrorists, and the advent to power of men who, with equal determination
and firmness, yet were resolute to uphold the laws and provide for the
security of life and property. In the course of this I had to speak of
the financial condition of the country; and in the few words that fell
from me, came the glimpses of some of that teaching I had obtained from
the Herr Robert.
“You appear to have devoted attention to these topics,” said he, with
a smile. “They are scarcely the subjects most attractive to youth. How
came that to pass?”
“By an accident, sir, that made me acquainted with the son of one who,
if not a great financier, was at least the most notorious one the world
has ever seen,--Robert Law, of Lauriston.” And at a sign from him to
continue, I related the whole incident I referred to. He listened to me
throughout with deep attention.
“These papers that you speak of,” said he, interrupting, “would
certainly be curious, if not actually valuable. They are still at the
Rue Quincampoix?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Well, the day may come when they may be obtainable. Meanwhile, of this
Count, this Monsieur de Gabriac,--for I want to hear more of him,--when
did he arrive in England?”
“I did not know that he was here, sir.”
He looked at me calmly, but with great intentness, as I said this; and
then, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, drew a small case from his
pocket, and, opening it, held it before me.
“Is this a portrait of the Count de Gabriac?”
“Yes, and a striking likeness,” replied I, promptly.
“And you know his business in England, young man?” said the lady,
turning suddenly from the window to address me.
“I do not, madam.”
“Then I will tell you,” said she.
“No, no, Hester,” said the minister; “this is not necessary. You say
that this is like him,--like enough to lead to his recognition; that is
quite sufficient. Now, for yourself, Mr. Carew, for it is time I should
speak of you. You have rendered a very considerable service to this
Government, and I am ready to requite it. What are your own wishes in
this respect?”
I bethought me for a moment what reply to make; but the more
I considered, the more difficult became the reply. I might, by
possibility, look too highly; or, by an equally probable error, I might
place myself on too humble a level. He waited with courteous patience
while this struggle lasted; and then, as if seeing all the force of my
embarrassment, he hastened to relieve it.
“My question was perhaps ill-judged,” said he, kindly. “I should
have remembered that your knowledge of this country and its habits is
necessarily limited; and, consequently, that to choose a career in it
must be difficult. If you will permit me, I will myself make the choice
for you; meanwhile, and until the opportunity offer, I will employ you.
You speak foreign languages--at least, French and German--fluently.
Well, these are exactly the qualifications I desire to find at this
moment.”
He paused for a second or two, and then, as though abandoning some
half-formed intention, he named a day for me to wait on him at his
official residence, and dismissed me.
I have now come to a portion of my history of which I scruple to follow
rigorously the details. I cannot speak of myself without introducing
facts, and names, and events which became known to me, some in strict
confidence, some under solemn pledges of secrecy, and some from the
accident of my position. I have practised neither disguise nor mystery
with my reader, nor do I desire to do so now. No false shame, as regards
myself, would induce me to stoop to this. But as I glance over the notes
and journals before me, as I read, at random, snatches of the
letters that litter my table, I half regret that I have been led into
revelations which I must necessarily leave incomplete, or rashly involve
myself in disclosures which I have no right to publish to the world.
So far as I can venture, however, I will dare to go. And to resume where
I left off: From the time I saw the minister at Hounslow, I never
beheld him again. A certain Mr. Addington--one of his secretaries, I
believe--received me when I called, and was the means of intercourse
between us. He was uniformly polite in his manner, but still cold and
distant with me; treating me with courtesy, but strenuously declining
all intimacy. For some weeks I continued to wait in expectancy of some
employment. I sat my weary hours in the antechamber, and walked the
lobbies with all the anxiety of a suitor; but to all appearance I was
utterly forgotten, and the service I had rendered ignored. At last (it
was about ten weeks after my interview), as I was proceeding one morning
to my accustomed haunt,--hope had almost deserted me, and I persisted,
more from habit than any prospect of success,--a servant, in the undress
livery of one of the departments of state, met me in the street.
“Mr. Carew, I believe?” said he, touching his hat. “I have been over
half the town this morning, sir, in search of you. You are wanted
immediately, sir, at the Foreign Office.”
How my heart jumped at the words! What a new spring of hope burst up
within me! I questioned and cross-questioned the man, in the foolish
expectation that he could tell me anything I desired to know; and in
this eager pursuit of some clew to the future, I found myself ascending
the stairs to Mr. Addington's office. No sooner had I appeared in the
antechamber than I was ushered into the presence of the secretary. There
were several persons--all strangers to me--present, who were conversing
so eagerly together that my entrance was for some minutes unnoticed.
“Oh! here is Carew,” said Mr. Addington, turning hastily from the rest.
“He can identify him at once.”
A large elderly man, who I afterwards learned was a city magistrate,
came up at this, and, regarding me steadily for a few seconds, said,--
“You are well acquainted with the person of a certain Count de Gabriac?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And could swear to his identity, if required?”
“I could.”
How long I had known him, where, and under what circumstances, were also
asked of me; and, finally, what space of time had elapsed since I had
last seen him.
While this inquiry was going forward, I was not unmindful of the remarks
and observations around me, and, although apparently only occupied with
my own examination, was shrewdly attending to every chance word that
fell at either side of me. I collected quite enough from these to
perceive that the Count was at that moment in England, and in custody
under some very weighty charge; that the difficulty of identification
was one of the obstacles to his committal; and that this was believed
to be surmountable by my aid. Now, I never loved him, nor did he me; but
yet I could not forget how every care of my infancy and childhood was
owing to her who bore his name and shared his fortunes, and that for me
to repay such kindness with an injury would have been the very blackest
ingratitude.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and as hastily I
determined to act upon them. I asked Mr. Addington to give me a couple
of minutes' audience in private, and he at once led me into an inner
room. In scarcely more words than I have used here to mention the fact,
I told him in what relationship I stood towards the Count, and how
impossible it would be for me to use any knowledge I might possess, to
his detriment.
“I don't think that you have much option in the matter, sir,” was his
cold reply. “You can be compelled to give the evidence in question, so
that your very excellent scruples need in no wise be offended.”
“Compelled to speak, sir!” cried I, in amazement.
“Just so,” said he, with a faint smile.
“And if I still refuse, sir?”
“Then the law must deal with you. Have you anything more to say to me?”
“Nothing,” said I, resolutely; for now my mind was determined, and I no
longer hesitated what course to pursue.
Mr. Addington now returned to the adjoining room, and I followed him.
For a few moments a whispered conversation was maintained between him
and one or two of the others, after which the magistrate, a certain Mr.
Kirby, said to me,--
“It appears, young man, that you have a reluctance, from conscientious
scruples, about giving your evidence in this case; but probably when I
tell you all that is required of you is a simple act of identification,
and, moreover, that the charge against the prisoner is the very
weightiest in the catalogue of crime, you will not any longer hesitate
about your obvious duty.”
He waited for a few seconds; but as I made no reply, he went on:--
“This Frenchman is accused of nothing less than the premeditation of
a murder; that he is, in fact, a hired assassin, paid for the crime
of murdering the exiled King of France. The evidence against him is
exceedingly strong; but, of course, the law will place within his reach
every possible means of defence. It is needless to say that no private
or personal feeling can exist in such a case, and I really do not see
how you can decline your aid to the cause of justice.”
I was still silent; my difficulties were increasing every moment; and as
they thickened around me, I needed time to decide how to proceed.
Perhaps my anxious appearance may have struck him, for he quickly
said,--
“You will be specially warned against saying anything which might
criminate yourself, so that you need have no fears on that account.”
These words at once suggested my course to me; and whatever peril there
might lie in the way, I determined to take shelter under the pretence
that I was myself implicated in the conspiracy. I do not seek to excuse
myself for such a subterfuge; it was the last refuge I saw in the
midst of my difficulties, and I sought it in all the misery of
half-desperation.
“I am not going to betray my confederates, sir,” was my dogged reply to
his appeal; and no other could all their argument and entreaties obtain
from me.
Some of those present could not believe me guilty, and warmly pressed me
to rescue myself, ere too late, from the odious imputation; others
but saw their previous impressions confirmed by what they called my
confession; and, between them, my poor head was racked and tortured by
turns. The scene ended at last by my being committed to Newgate, under
suspicion, and till further evidence could be adduced against me.
It was clear that either they greatly doubted of my guilt, or were
disposed to regard me as very slightly implicated, for I was not
confined in a cell or with the other prisoners, but accommodated with
a room in the jailer's own apartment, and received as a guest at his
table.
I was not only treated with kindness and attention here, but with a
degree of candor that amazed me. The daily papers were freely
placed before me, and I read how a well-known member of the “French
Convention,” popularly called Couvre-Tête, but styling himself the Count
de Gabriac, had been brought up before the magistrates under a charge
of a grave description, which, for the ends of justice, had been
investigated with closed doors. Several others were in custody for their
implication in the same charge, it was added, and great hopes maintained
that the guilty parties would be made amenable to the law.
Mr. Holt, the jailer, spoke of all the passing events of the day freely
in my presence, and discussed the politics and position of France, and
the condition of parties, with all the ease of old intimacy between us.
At first, I half suspected this to be a mere artifice to lure me on to
some unguarded expression, or even some frank admission about myself;
but I gradually grew out of this impression, and saw him as he really
was, a straightforward, honorable man, endeavoring to lighten the gloom
of a dreary duty by acts of generosity and benevolence. Save that it
was captivity, I really had nothing to complain of in my life at this
period. Mr. Holt's family was numerous, and daily some two or three
guests, generally persons in some degree placed similarly to myself,
were present at his table; and with these my time passed smoothly and
even swiftly along.
The confinement, however, and a depression, of which I was not conscious
myself, at length made their impression on my health, and one morning
Mr. Holt remarked to me that I was scarcely looking so well as usual.
“It is this place, I have no doubt,” said he, “disagrees with you; but
you will be liberated in a day or two.”
“How so?” asked I, in some surprise.
“Have you not heard of Gabriac's death,” said he, “by suicide? He was to
have been brought up a second time for examination on Friday last, but
he was found dead in his cell, by poison, on Thursday evening.”
I scarcely heard him through the details which followed. I only could
catch a stray expression here and there; but I collected enough to learn
that he had written a full exculpation of all the others who had been
accused with himself, and specially with regard to me, of whom, also,
it was said, he forwarded some important papers to some one high in
station.
This conversation occurred on a Saturday, and on the following Monday I
was liberated.
“I told you how it would be, Mr. Carew,” said Holt, as he read me out
the order, “and I hope sincerely there are now better and pleasanter
days before you. More prosperous ones they are likely to be, for I have
a Secretary of State's order to hand you one hundred pounds, which, I
can assure you, is a rare event with those who leave this.”
While I stood amazed at this intelligence, he went on:
“You are also requested to present yourself at Treverton House,
Richmond, to-morrow, at eleven o'clock, where a person desires to see
and speak with you. This comes somewhat in the shape of a command, and I
hope you'll not neglect it.”
I promised rigid obedience to the direction; and after a very grateful
recognition of all I owed my kind host, we parted, warm and cordial
friends, and as such I have never ceased to believe and regard him.
CHAPTER XXXIII. A GLIMPSE OF A NEW PATH
Shall I own it that when I once more found myself at liberty, and with
means sufficient for the purpose, my first thought was to leave England
forever? So far as I was concerned, my country had shown herself
anything but a kind mother to me. It was an impulse of patriotism--a
vague desire to serve her--had brought me to her shores; and yet my
requital had been at first neglect, and at last imprisonment. Had I
the very slightest clew to where “my mother” and Raper were, I should
inevitably have set out to seek them; but of the track I knew nothing
whatever. I ransacked my few letters and papers, amongst which I found
the yet undelivered note to the Père Tonsurd; and this I determined to
present on that very day. The mere thought of meeting with one to whom I
could speak of my kind friends at Linange was a comfort in the midst of
all my desolation.
On arriving at his lodgings, however, I learned that he had gone to
Richmond; and as suddenly I bethought me of my own visit, the hour for
which had already gone by. Determining to repair my fault as well as I
could, I set out at once, and by three o'clock in the afternoon arrived
at a neat-looking house, standing in a small park that descended to the
river, and which, they told me, was Treverton. All I could ascertain of
the proprietor was that he was a French gentleman, an _émigré_, who had
lived there for two years, and was popularly known as the “General,” his
servants always giving him that title. I presented myself at his door
and sent in my card, with the request that I might be admitted to an
interview.
Before I could well believe that my message was delivered, the servant
returned to say that the General was expecting me since morning, and
desired to see me at once. I followed him through two or three rooms
till we reached a door covered with green cloth, and which concealed
another behind it, on opening which I found myself in a small chamber
fitted up like a library, where two gentlemen were seated at a table.
One arose as I entered, and in a polite, but somewhat haughty, tone
said,--
“You are scarcely as punctual, sir, as I had hoped. Eleven o'clock was,
I think, the hour mentioned.”
As the appointment had not been of my seeking, I returned a very cold
and half-careless apology for my tardy appearance; but he stopped me
quietly, saying,--
“Apparently, then, you have not been informed as to the object of this
visit, nor by whom--”
A hasty gesture from the other interrupted his speech, and he stopped
short.
“I mean,” added he, “that you are unaware of the reason for which your
presence here has been requested.”
“I have not the slightest knowledge of it, sir,” was my reply.
“We wished to see and speak with you about many things in France, sir.
You have latterly been there? We are given to understand that you are a
shrewd observer, and we desire to learn your views of events, and of the
people who direct them. Our own informant induces us to believe that the
tide of popular favor is turning against the men of violent opinions,
and that a wiser and healthier tone pervades the nation. Does that agree
with your experience?”
“Quite so, sir; there cannot be a second opinion on the question.”
“And the old attachment to the monarchy is again displaying itself, far
and near, through the country?” added he, warmly.
“There I cannot go with you, sir,” was my answer; and although his look
was a fierce, almost an angry one, I continued: “The military spirit is
that which now sways the nation, and he who can best gratify the thirst
of glory will be the ruler. The kings of France have been but pageants
of late.”
“Be discreet, sir. Speak of what you know, and do not dare to insult--”
he paused, and then added, “an ancient follower of his sovereign.”
His age and his fervor repressed any resentment the speech might have
suggested, and I only said,--
“You asked me for opinions, sir, and I gave you mine frankly. You must
not be displeased if they do not always chime with your own.”
“Monsieur is perfectly right. His remark is a just one,” said the other,
who now spoke for the first time.
“I think he is mistaken, though,” replied the former. “I fancy that he
is led away by that vulgar cant which sees in the degradation of one
solitary individual the abasement of his whole class and order. By the
way, you knew that same Count de Gabriac?”
I bowed my assent.
“You may speak freely of him now he is past the consequences of either
our censure or our praise. You know, perhaps, that he completely
exonerated you from all share in his odious scheme, and at the same
time communicated certain particulars about yourself which suggested the
desire to see you here.”
“Yes,” said the other, with a faint but very pleasing smile. “We are
relatives, Monsieur Carew; and if all that I hear of you be true, I
shall not disown the relationship.”
“You knew my dear mother, then,” cried I, wild with the glad thought.
“Pardon me,” said he, slowly, “I had not that honor. I have, however,
frequently heard of her beauty and her fascination; but I never saw
her.”
The General here whispered a few words, to which the other replied
aloud,--
“Be it so, then. My friend here,” resumed he, addressing me, “is of
opinion that your information and habits would well fit you for a task
which will be at once one of emolument and trust. The English minister
has already pointed you out as a suitable agent, and nothing but your
own concurrence is now needed.”
I begged for a further explanation; and he briefly told me that the
Royalist party, not alone throughout France, but in different parts of
the Continent, where they had sought refuge, were distracted and broken
up for want of due intercourse with each other and with the head of
their party; that false intelligence and fictitious stories had been
circulated industriously to sow discord and disunion amongst them;
and that nothing but an actual, direct, and personal agency could
efficiently counteract this peril and restore confidence and stability
to the party. Many--some of them men of the highest rank--had taken
service in this way; some had condescended to accept of the very
humblest stations, and almost menial duties, where they could obtain
information of value; and all we're ready to risk life and fortune for
the Prince to whom they owed their allegiance.
“But you forget, sir, that the loyalty which reflects such honor on them
would be wanting in my case: I am not a Frenchman.”
“But your mother was French,” said he who sat at the table, “and of the
best blood of France too. I have told you we are relations.”
A gesture of caution from the General stopped him here, and he was
silent. I saw there was embarrassment somewhere; but on what ground I
knew not. More to relieve the awkwardness of the moment than from any
other intention, I asked what my duties might be in this capacity.
“On that head you will receive the fullest instructions,” said the
General. “Once say that you are ready and at our disposal, and we shall
supply you with every means and every knowledge you can wish for.”
“May I have a little time to consider of it, sir?” asked I. “A night,
for instance?”
“Yes, a night,--certainly; only remember that whether you accept or
refuse, this interview is a secret, and not to be divulged to any one.”
“I shall so consider it,” said I.
“You will, then, be here to-morrow at ten,--at ten, remember, and this
time punctually.” And with that he bowed me ceremoniously to the door,
the other waving his hand more familiarly, and wishing me a good-bye as
I passed out.
As I reached the outer gate of the lawn, a servant hastily overtook
me. It was a gentleman, he said, who wished to return to London, begged
permission to accompany me, if I would so far oblige him.
“With pleasure,” said I. “Will you favor me with his name?”
“The Abbé Tonsurd.”
“The Abbé Tonsurd!--the very man of all others I wished to meet!” And
while I was just rejoicing over my good fortune on the occurrence, he
came hurrying forward to offer me his thanks.
“Chance has favored me for once, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said I, “since I have
the good fortune to see one to whom I have a letter of introduction. I
called this very morning at your lodgings to deliver this.”
“Oh, the rare good luck indeed,” cried he, breaking open the seal
and rapidly perusing the contents. “That dear Ursule,” said he, with
something very near to a smile, “always so good and so confiding, trusts
even after hope has departed. But tell me rather of themselves; for this
is the theme she has not spoken of.”
I rapidly related all that I knew of the family. I saw, however, that
his mind was wandering from the subject ere I had finished.
“And you,” said he, suddenly, “when do you set out on your mission?”
“I have not decided on accepting it.”
“Not decided! Can you hesitate, can you waver for a moment? Has not the
Count himself charged you with his commands?”
“And who may the Count be?” asked I.
“His Majesty the rightful king of France. You cannot be well versed in
physiognomy, or you must have recognized the royal features of his race.
He is every inch a Bourbon.”
“He who sat at the table?”
“The same. The General Guerronville is reckoned handsome; but he is
vulgar and commonplace when seen beside his Majesty.”
The Abbé, to whom, doubtless, the letter imparted sufficient to give him
full confidence in me, spoke frankly and openly of the Royalist party,
their hopes and fears and future prospects. He even went so far as to
say that they were losing confidence in the English Government, of whose
designs for a peace they entertained deep suspicion. Turning hastily
from this, he urged me earnestly not to decline the duty proposed to me,
and said at last,--
“That if no other argument could weigh with me, personal advantage
might, and that success in my enterprise was my fortune made forever.”
While he was thus speaking, I was only dwelling upon what I could recall
of my late scene with the King of France, and wondering what he
possibly could mean by a relationship between us. The Abbé explained
the difficulty away by a careless reply as to the various small channels
into which the royal blood had been diverted, by obscure marriages and
the like.
“At all events,” said he, “if his Majesty could remember the tie, it
would come badly from you to forget it. Accept this offer, therefore,
and be assured that you will serve yourself even more than his cause.”
It was not very difficult to persuade me; and even where his arguments
failed, my own necessities urged me to accept the offer. I therefore
agreed, and, charging the Abbé to convey my sentiments of gratitude
for the trust reposed in me, I stated my readiness to set out at once
wherever it was deemed necessary to employ me; and with this I lay down
to rest, more at ease in heart than I had felt for months long.
CHAPTER XXXIV. SECRET SERVICE
When I come to reflect over the space I have devoted in these memoirs of
my life to slight and unimportant circumstances,--the small incidents
of a purely personal character,--I feel that I owe my readers an apology
for passing rapidly over events of real moment. My excuse, however,
is, the events were such as to render my share in them most humble and
insignificant. My figure was never a foreground one; and in the great
drama that Europe then played, my part was obscure indeed. It is true,
I was conversant with stirring themes. I had on many occasions
opportunities of meeting with the mighty intelligences that gave the
world its destiny for the time; but in no history will there ever be
a record of the humble name of Paul Gervois. Such I now found myself
called; and the passport delivered to me called me, in addition, “Agent
secret.” It is true, I had another, which represented me as travelling
for a Dutch commercial house; but the former was the document which,
in my interviews with prefects and men in authority, I made use of, and
which at once obtained for me protection and respect.
It is well known that the rightful king of France in his exile made
a personal appeal by letters to Bonaparte to induce him to devote his
genius and influence to the cause of the monarchy. The example of Monk
was cited, and the boundless gratitude of royalty pledged on the issue.
The fact is history. Of this memorable note I was the bearer. Looking
back at the wondrous destiny of that great man, such an overture may
easily appear vain and absurd to a degree; but it was by no means so
destitute of all chance of success at the time in which it was made. Of
this I feel assured, and for the following reason: There was a frequent
interchange of letters between the persons attached to the exiled family
and leading members of the then French Government. This correspondence
was carried on by secret agents, who were suffered to pass freely
from capital to capital, and more than once intrusted with even verbal
communications. These agents were rigidly instructed to limit themselves
strictly to the duty assigned to them, and neither to use their
opportunities for personal objects, nor for the acquirement of
information on subjects foreign to their mission. They were narrowly
watched, and I believe myself that a secret espionage was maintained
expressly to observe them. The sudden disappearance of more than one
amongst them fully warrants the suspicion that indiscretion had paid its
greatest and last penalty.
By the means of these persons, then, a close and compact correspondence
was maintained,--a tone of familiarity, and even frankness, was, I am
assured, paraded in it; while, in reality, the object of each side was
purely treacherous. At one time it was a proposition to some high
and leading individual to desert his party and espouse that of its
opponents; at another, it was an artful description of the decline of
revolutionary doctrines, made purposely to draw from the Royalists some
confession of their own future intentions; while, more important than
all, there came a letter in Bonaparte's own hand, offering to Louis a
sum of several millions of francs, in return for a formal renunciation
of all right to that throne from which his destiny seemed sufficiently
to exclude him. What a curious page of history will it fill when this
secret correspondence shall one day see the light! I know, of my own
knowledge, that a great part of it is still in existence, though in the
hands of those who have solid reasons for not revealing it.
At the time when I first joined this secret service, the interchange of
letters was more than ordinarily great. The momentous change which had
taken place in France by the ascendancy of Bonaparte had imparted new
hopes to the Royalist party; and they were profuse in their expressions
of admiration for the man who of all the world was fated to be
the deadliest enemy of their race. Their gratitude was, indeed,
boundless,--at least, it transcended the usual limits of the virtue,
since it went so far as to betray the cause of the very nation to which
they were at the very same moment beholden for a refuge and an asylum!
Secret information of the views of the English cabinet; the opinions of
statesmen about the policy of the war; the resources, the plans, even
the discontents, of the country were all commented on and detailed;
while carefully drawn-up statistics were forwarded, setting forth the
ships in commission or in readiness for sea, with every circumstance
that could render the information valuable.
I know not if the English Government looked with contempt on these
intrigues, or whether they themselves did not acquire information more
valuable than that they connived at; for assuredly every secret agent
was well known to them, and more than one actually in their pay.
Of myself, I can boldly say such was not the case. I traversed the
Continent, from Hamburg to Naples; I passed freely across Europe in
every direction; and on my return to England I met neither molestation
nor hindrance, nor did I attract any more attention than an ordinary
traveller. If I owed this immunity to a settled plan I had set down for
my guidance, it is equally true that it impeded my promotion, and
left me in the rank of those who were less secret agents than mere
messengers. My plan was to appear totally ignorant of the countries
through which I journeyed, neither remarking the events, nor being able
to afford any tidings about them. I was not ignorant of the injury this
course of action inflicted on my prospects. I saw myself passed over for
others of less capacity; I noticed the class with which I was associated
as belonging to the humblest members of the walk; and I even overheard
myself quoted as unfit for this, and unequal to that. Shall I own
at once that the career was distasteful to me in the highest degree?
Conceal it how we could, wear what appellation we might, we were only
spies; and any estimation we were held in simply depended on whatever
abilities we could display in this odious capacity. It was, then, in
a sort of compromise with my pride that I stooped to the lowest grade,
rather than win my advancement by the low arts of the eavesdropper.
If I seemed utterly incapable of those efforts which depended on
tact and worldly skill, my employers freely acknowledged that, as a
messenger, I had no equal. No difficulties could arrest my progress; the
most arduous journeys I surmounted with ease; the least-frequented roads
were all familiar to me. Three, four, and even five days consecutively
have I passed in the saddle; and whether over the rude sierras of Spain,
the wild paths of the Apennines, or the hot sands of the desert, no
fatigue ever compelled me to halt. The Royalist partisans were scattered
over the whole globe. Some of them had taken service in the German
armies; some were in the Neapolitan service; some had abjured their
religion, and were high in command over the Sultan's troops; and many
had emigrated to America, where they settled. Wherever they were,
whatever cloth they wore, or the flag they were ranged under, they had
but one cause and one hope,--the restoration of the Bourbons; and
for this were they ever ready to abandon any eminence they might have
gained, or any fame or fortune they had acquired, to rally at a moment
beneath the banner of him they regarded as their true and rightful
sovereign. I knew them well, for I saw them near. Their littleness,
their jealousies, their absurd vanity and egregious pretensions, were
all well known to me; but many a time have I felt a sort of contemptuous
scorn of them repelled by reflecting over the heroic and chivalrous
loyalty which bound them to a cause so all but hopeless. If it be asked
why I remained in a career so distasteful to me, and served a cause to
which no sympathy bound me, my answer is, that I followed it with an
object which had engrossed every ambition and every wish of my heart;
and this was to find out “my mother” and Raper. I knew that the secrets
of my birth were known to them, and that with them alone, of all the
world, lay the clew to my family and kindred. While the Count lived, my
mother--I cannot call her by any other name--was fearful of revealing
circumstances to me, of which he would not suffer any mention in his
presence. This barrier was now removed. Besides, I had grown up to
manhood, and had a better pretension to ask for the satisfaction of my
curiosity.
This was, then, the stimulus that supported me in many a long and
weary journey; this the hope that sustained me through every reverse of
fortune, and through what is still harder to bear,--the solitude of my
lonely, friendless lot. By degrees, however, it began to fail within
me; frequent disappointment at last so chilled my ardor that I almost
determined to abandon the pursuit forever, and with it a career which I
detested. The slightest accident that foreshadowed a prospect of success
was still enough to make me change my resolve; and thus I lived on,
vacillating now to this side, now to that, and enduring the protracted
tortures of expectation.
It was in one of these moments, when despair was in the ascendant, that
I received an order to set out for Reichenau and obtain certain papers
which had been left there in the keeping of Monsieur Jost, the property
of a certain person whose initial was the letter C. I was given to
understand that the documents were of great importance, and the mission
one to be executed with promptitude. I had almost decided on abandoning
this pursuit. The very note in which I should communicate my resignation
was begun on the table, when the Abbé, who generally was the bearer of
my instructions, came to convey this order. He was in a mood of unusual
gayety and frankness; and after rallying me on my depression, and
jestingly pointing out the great rewards which one day or other would
be bestowed upon me, he told me that the tidings from France were of the
very best kind, that the insolent airs of Bonaparte were detaching
from him many of his stanchest adherents, that Pichegru openly, and
Bernadotte secretly, had abandoned him; Davoust had ceased to visit at
his house; while Lasalle and others of less note were heard to declare
that if they were to have a master, at least it should be one who was
born to the station that conferred command.
“We knew,” continued he, joyously, “that we had only to leave this man
alone, and he would be his own executioner; and the event has only come
a little earlier than we looked for. These papers for which you are now
despatched contain a secret correspondence between a great personage and
some of the most distinguished generals of the Republic.”
He said much more on this theme,--indeed, he sat late, and talked of
nothing else; but I paid little attention to the subject. I had over
and over again heard the same observation; and at least a dozen eventful
crises had occurred when the Republic was declared in its last struggle,
and the cause of the king triumphant.
“I perceive,” said he, at last, “you are less sanguine than I am. Is it
not so?”
“You mistake me, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said I; “my depression has a selfish
origin. I have been long weary of this career of mine, and the note
which you see there was the beginning of a formal renunciation of it.”
“It is impossible you could be so insane,” cried he. “You are not one of
that vulgar herd that can be scared from a noble duty by a mere name. It
is not the word 'spy' that could wound you, enlisted as you are in the
noblest cause that ever engaged heroism, and in which the first men of
France are your associates.”
“I am no Frenchman, Abbé,” said I; “remember that.”
“But you are a good Catholic,” said he, promptly, “and, Ursule tells me,
well versed in every duty of the faith.”
I by no means fancied the turn our discussion was likely to take. More
than once before had the Abbé made allusion to the principles which he
hoped might animate me, and which at some future time might obtain for
me an admission into his own order; so I hastily changed the topic,
by declaring that this journey I should certainly undertake, whatever
resolve I might come to for the future.
He had far too much tact to persevere on an unpleasant theme, and
after some further allusion to the prospects before me he wished me
good-night, and left me. I took my departure the next morning for
Hamburg; since latterly some impediments had been thrown in our way
about landing in France, and the process of verifying our passports as
“agents secrets” occupied much time, and caused delay. On the journey
thither I made acquaintance with a young Pole, who, exchanging with me
the private signal, showed that he was a “brother of the craft.” He was
a fine, dashing, good-looking fellow, with a certain air of pretension
and swagger about him that savored more of the adventurer than of the
character he wished to assume. He told me that he was the son of
the Empress Catherine, and that his father had been a soldier of the
Imperial Guard. The story might or might not have been true, but at all
events he seemed to believe and was exceedingly vain of it.
With all the secret plotting and political intrigue of the day he
appeared quite conversant, and found it difficult to believe in my
ignorance or apathy.
“I conceive,” said he, at last, “that you are one of those who feel
ashamed of your position, and dislike the word 'spy.' Be it so; it is
not a flattering name. But have we not within ourselves the power to
extort by force the degree of consideration we would be held in? Any act
of insubordination from one or two, or even three of us, would be sure
to meet its penalty. That price has been paid before.” [Here he made a
significant sign, by rapidly drawing his hand across his throat.] “But
if we combined, met at some appointed spot, discussed our rights, and
agreed upon the means of asserting them, do you believe that there
exists the king or kaiser who could refuse the demand? It is not enough
for me that I can pass a frontier by a secret signal, enter a minister's
cabinet while others wait in the antechamber, or even ascend the back
stairs of a palace. I want a place and a recognition in society; I want
that standing in the world to which my habits and manners entitle me,
and for which now my hand is ever on the hilt of a rapier or the trigger
of a pistol to secure. It is an outrage on us that this has been delayed
so long; but if it be deferred a little longer, the remedy will have
passed from our hands. Already some of the governments of the Continent
begin to suspect that the system works badly.”
“My astonishment is only that it ever could have been permitted,” broke
I in; “for it is plain that to know the secrets of others, each country
has had to sacrifice its own.”
He gave a smile of supreme contempt, and replied,--
“You are but an apprentice of the trade, after all, Monsieur Gervois,
though I have often heard you called a man of tact and shrewdness. Do
you not know that we are not the agents of governments or of cabinets,
but of those who rule cabinets, dread them, and betray them? The
half-dozen crowned heads who rule Europe form a little fraternity apart
from all the world. The interests, the passions, the jealousies, and the
ambition of the several nations may involve them in wars, compel them
to stand in hostility against each other and be what is called great
enemies; but while their cannon are thundering and their cavalry
charging, while squadrons are crashing and squares are breaking, they
for whose sake the blood is shed and life poured forth are calmly
considering whether they should gain most by victory or defeat, and
how far the great cause--the subjugation of the niasses to the will of
one--can be benefited or retarded by any policy they would pursue.”
I need not follow him in his reasonings,--indeed, they were more
ingenious and astute than I should be able to convey by repetition. His
theory was, that the rulers of states maintained a secret understanding
with each other; that however the casualties of fortune should fall
heavily on their countries, they themselves should be exempted from such
consequences; and that the people might fall, but dynasties should be
spared. As long as the Bourbons sat on the throne of France, the compact
was a safe and a sure one. The Revolution, however, has broken up the
sacred league, and none can tell now what people are next ripe for
revolt. As Bonaparte for the moment represents power in France,
every effort has been made by the sovereign to draw him into this
alliance,--not, of course, to found a dynasty, but to serve the cause of
the rightful one. I abstain from entering more fully into his views, or
citing the mass of proofs by which he endeavored to sustain them. If
not convinced by his arguments, I am free to own that they made a
deep impression upon me; rendered more so, perhaps, from the number of
circumstances I could myself call to mind which in my own secret service
tended to corroborate them.
I asked him whither he was then going, and he told me to Moscow.
“Russia and England meditate a war,” said he, “the two cabinets are
embroiled; and I am hastening with an autograph letter from one great
personage to another to say with what regret he countersigns a policy
so distasteful, and how sincerely he preserves the tie of personal
friendship. Believe me,” said he, laughing, “we are the professed
traitors of the world; but we are simple-hearted and honest, if weighed
in the scale with those who employ us!”
If I was amused by much of what he said, I was also piqued at the tone
of superiority he assumed towards me, as he very frankly intimated that
by the low estimation in which I held my walk in life I had contrived to
make it still meaner and lower.
“It rests with ourselves,” said he, “to be the diplomatists of Europe.
Your men who pore over treaties and maps and protocols may plan and
scheme to their hearts' content; but we can act. If I choose to change
the destination of this letter, and deliver it at Berlin or Vienna; or
if I go forward now to Moscow, and convey the answer to Paris, instead
of London, do you not suppose that the world would feel it, and to its
very centre, too?”
He paused for a minute or two, and then added,--
“You are wondering all this while within yourself why one who knows so
well the price of treason has not earned it; and shall I tell you? I
am not always aware of the value of my tidings. I may be charged with
a secret treaty. It may be a piece of court gossip, the mishap of
an archduchess, or the portrait of a court favorite. This very
letter--whose contents I believe I know--I am perhaps deceived in. Who
can tell, till it be opened, if my treachery be worth a farthing?”
If there was anything wanting to the measure of abhorrence with which
I regarded my career, it was amply supplied by such doctrines as these;
but probably much of the disgust they were calculated to inspire was
lost in the amusement the narrator afforded me. Everything about him
bespoke levity rather than systematic rascality; and yet he was one who
appeared to have thought profoundly on men and the world.
“I 'll wager a crown,” said he, as we jumped into the boat that was to
row us on shore, “that you are fully bent on hiding yourself and your
shame in the 'Golden Plover,' or the 'Pilot's Rest,' or some such
obscure hotel; but this you shall not for the present. You are my guest
while we stay at Hamburg. Unfortunately, the time must needs be brief to
both of us. To-morrow we shall be on the road; but to-day is our own.”
I did not consent without reluctance; but he would not take a refusal,
and so I yielded; and away we went together to the “Schleswicker Hof,” a
magnificent hotel in the finest quarter of the town.
“No need to show your passport to any one,” said he to me, in a whisper,
as we entered the house; “I 'll arrange all.”
By the time I had refreshed myself with a bath and dressed, the waiter
came to say that Count Ysaffich was waiting dinner for me; and though
I gladly would have asked a few particulars of one with whose name and
person he seemed evidently acquainted, there was no time allowed me,
as he led the way to a splendid apartment, where the table was already
spread.
It was not without an effort that I recognized my friend the Count
in his change of costume; for, though good-looking and even handsome
before, he might now strike the beholder with admiration. He wore a
blue military pelisse, richly braided with gold, and fastened with large
Brandenburg buttons. It was sufficiently open in front to display a vest
of scarlet cloth, all slashed with gold. His trousers were black, with a
broad gold band along the sides, while a richly embossed belt of Russia
leather supported a sabre of most costly and gorgeous make. He wore
several handsome decorations, and around the throat, by a broad blue
ribbon, a splendid diamond cross, with the letters “P. C.” in the
centre.
“I have not dressed for dinner,” said he, as I entered, “since we must
take a stroll under the linden-trees when it grows cool, and have our
cigar there. After that, we 'll look in at the opera; and if not very
attractive, I 'll present you at one or two houses where they receive of
an evening, and where, when you come again, you will be always welcome.”
Since I had gone so far, I resolved to abide by all his arrangements,
and suffer him to dispose of my time just as he pleased.
Our dinner was excellent. The Count had bestowed pains in ordering it,
and all was of that perfection in cookery for which Hamburg was, and
is, so justly famed. Nor was the wine inferior to the rest of the
entertainment. Of this the Count appeared to be a connoisseur, and
pressed me to taste a dozen different kinds, the very names of which
were unknown to me. His conversation, too, was so amusing, so full of
strange incidents and adventures, such curious anecdotes, such shrewd
remarks, that I was by no means impatient to rise from table.
“I see,” said he, at last, “we are too late for the opera. Hanserlist's
reception is also nearly over by this time. Shall we just drop in, then,
at Madame von Geysiger's? It is the latest house here, and every one
goes there to finish the evening.”
“They are all strangers to me,” I replied, “and I am entirely under your
orders.”
“Then Madame von Geysiger's be it,” said he, rising.
As we went along, he told me that the lady to whose house we were going
had been, some thirty-five or forty years ago, the great prima donna
of Europe. She was also the most celebrated beauty of her time; and by
these combined attractions had so captivated a rich merchant of Hamburg
that he married her, bequeathing to her on his death-bed the largest
fortune of that wealthy city.
“They count it by millions and tens of millions,” said he; “but what
matter to us?--at least to me?--for I have been refused by her some
half-dozen times; and indeed now am under the heaviest recognizance
never to repeat my proposal. If you, however, should like to
adventure--”
“Oh, excuse me,” said I, laughing. “Not even all the marcobrunner and
champagne I have been drinking could give hardihood for such a piece of
impudence.”
“Why not?” cried he. “You are young, good-looking, and of a fashionable
exterior. You are a stranger, besides,--and that is a great point; for
she is well weary of Hamburg and Hamburgers.”
I stopped him at once by saying that I was by far too conscious of the
indignity attached to my career to aspire to the eminence he spoke of.
“And too proud to marry an old woman for her money! Can't you add that?”
said he, laughing. “Well, there we differ. I am neither ashamed of the
'espionage,' nor should I be averse to the marriage. To say truth, my
dear Gervois, when I have dined in a splendid salon hung round with
the best pieces of Cuyp, Wouvermans, and Jansens; when I have seen the
dessert set forth in a golden service, of which the great Schnyders over
the fireplace was but a faint copy; when I have supped my Mocha out of a
Sèvres cup worth more than its full of gold louis, and rested myself
on the fairest tapestries of France, with every sense entranced by
luxury,--I do find it excessively hard to throw my mantle over my
shoulders, and trudge home through the rain and mud to resume the sorry
existence that for an hour I had abandoned.”
“There lies the whole question,” said I; “since, for my part, I could
not throw off the identity, even under such captivations as you speak
of.”
He looked at me very fixedly as I said this,--so fixedly, indeed, that
he seemed to feel some apology necessary for it.
“Forgive me,” cried he; “but I could not help staring at the prodigy of
a man content to be himself.”
“I have not said that,” replied I. “I only said I was incapable of
feeling myself to be any other.”
“You plume yourself upon your birth then, doubtless,” added he; “and so
should I, if I knew how to get rid of my father. What were your people:
you said they were not French?”
Had the question been put to me half an hour before, as we sat over
our wine, I have little doubt that, in the expansiveness of such a
situation, I should have told him all that I knew or suspected of my
family. The season of confidence, however, had passed. We were walking
along a crowded thoroughfare; our talk was desultory, as the objects
about were various; and so I coined some history of my family for the
occasion, ascribing my birth to a very humble source, and my rank as one
of the meanest.
“Your father was, however, English,” said he; “so much you know?”
“Yes,” said I, “that point there is no doubt about.”
“Is he alive?”
“No, he is dead a great many years back.”
“How did he die, or where? Excuse these questions, which I have only to
say are not out of idle importunity.”
I own that I did not feel easy under this cross-examination. It
might mean more than I liked to avow even to myself. At all events, I
resolved, whatever his object, to evade it; and at once gave him some
absurd narrative of my father having served in the war of the Low
Countries, where he married a Frenchwoman or a Fleming; that he died, of
some fever of the country, at a small fishing town on the Dutch coast,
leaving me an orphan, since my mother survived him but a few months.
“All this is excellent,” cried he, enthusiastically. “It could not be
better by any possibility. Forgive me, Gervois, till I can explain my
meaning to you more fully; but what you have just told me has filled my
heart with delight. You 'll see how Madame von Geysiger will receive you
when she hears this.”
I started back with astonishment. Could it possibly be the case that
my stupid story might chime in with the facts of some real history; and
should I thus be involved in the web of some tangled incidents in which
I had rightfully no share? There was shame and falsehood both in such a
situation, and I shrank from it with disgust.
“I will not go to this house, Count,” said I, resolutely. “I foresee
that somehow or other an interest would attach to me to which I can lay
no claim. Neither Madame von Geysiger, nor any belonging to her, could
have known my parents. Their walk in life was of the very humblest.”
“I have not said she did, my dear friend,” said he, soothingly, “nor
is it exactly generous to be so suspectful of one whose only feeling
towards you is that of kindness and good will. Once for all, if you
desire it, I will allude no further to this subject here or elsewhere.”
“On that condition I will accompany you,” said I.
He pressed my hand as if in recognition of the compact, and we entered
the house.
There were not above half-a-dozen carriages at the door; but still I
could perceive, as we passed through the salons, that a very numerous
company was assembled. It was exactly what the Count said,--a rendezvous
where all came to wind up the evening; and here were some in all the
blaze of diamonds, and in the splendor of full dress; others less
magnificently attired, and some again in their walking costume. The
suite of rooms then open were not the state ones in use for great
occasions, but a ground floor, opening by several doors upon a handsome
pleasure ground, that blending of copse and “bosquet,” of terrace and
shady alley, which foreigners call an English garden.
Here and there through this, many of the Company lounged and loitered,
enjoying the cool of a summer night in preference to the heated and
crowded rooms within. We were not long in search of our hostess when
she came towards us,--a large, full, but still handsome person,
magnificently attired, and with somewhat of what I, at least, fancied
the assured air and bearing of the stage.
To the Count she was most cordial; while to me her manner was courteous
in the extreme. She regretted that we had not come earlier, and
mentioned the names of some one or two distinguished visitors who had
just left. After some little conversation on commonplace matters,
I joined a party at ombre, a game of which I was fond, and where,
fortunately, I found the players satisfied to contend for stakes humble
enough for my means. The Count had, meanwhile, given his arm to the
hostess, and was making a tour of the company. He appeared to have
acquaintance with every one. Indeed, with most it was an easy intimacy;
and all saluted him as one they were glad to welcome. I watched him with
considerable curiosity, for I own the man was a puzzle to me. At times
I half persuaded myself that he was something very much above the
condition he assumed; and at other moments I suspected him to be below
even that. If he be an impostor, thought I, assuredly there are more
dupes than me, and in this very room too. My game soon absorbed my
attention, and I ceased to think of or look after him. I know not how
long this may have lasted; but I remember, when lifting my head from
my cards, I saw straight in front of me Madame von Geysiger steadily
contemplating me through her glass, and standing, to do so, in an
attitude that implied profound scrutiny. The moment she caught my eye
she dropped her “lorgnette,” and hurried away, in what was clear to see
was an air of confusion.
It immediately struck me that the Count had broken faith with me, and,
whatever his secret scheme, had revealed it to the lady; and, indignant
at the treachery, I would have risen at once from the table if I could;
as it was, I took the very first opportunity that presented itself,
and, by feigning the fatigue of a long journey, I made my excuses and
withdrew.
My next care was to leave the house without attracting any notice; and
so I mingled with the crowd, and held on my way towards the room by
which we had entered. The dense throng interrupted my progress; and
in order to make my escape more rapidly, I passed out into the garden,
intending to enter the house again by some door lower down. To do
so more secretly, I moved into one of the dark alleys, which, after
following some time, brought me out upon a little open space, with a
small marble fountain spouting its tiny jet in the midst of a clear
and starlit pond. Though so near to the house, the spot was still and
noiseless, for the thick copse on every side effectually excluded sound.
The calming influence of the silence and the delicious freshness of the
night air induced me to linger here for a while; and even longer, too,
I should have stayed, had not the sound of voices warned me that some
persons were approaching. That they might pass without observing me, I
stepped hastily into the bosquet, and concealed myself in the thick and
leafy cover. My misery and terror may be imagined when I heard my own
name uttered, and then perceived that it was the Count and Madame von
Geysiger, who now stood within a few feet of where I was, in deep and
secret conference.
Not all my training in my odious mode of life had reconciled me to the
part of an eavesdropper. Yet what could I do? Should I discover myself,
no explanation could possibly account for my situation, nor would any
assurances on my part have satisfied them of my ignorance. I will not
presume to say that if these were my first thoughts, my second, with
some tinge of sophistry, suggested that if treachery were intended me,
it would be unpardonable in me to neglect the means of defeating it.
There is assuredly a stronger impulse in curiosity, united with fear,
than exists in most other incentives; for, reason how I would, it was
impossible for me to resist the temptation thus presented to me.
“You mistake him, Anatole,” said the lady; “believe me, you mistake
him. I have watched his countenance, and read it carefully as he sat at
cards, and my interpretation of him is, that he would never consent.”
“The greater fool he, then,” replied the other. “Take my word for it,
his splendid abilities will not stand him in such stead as his mongrel
parentage and mongrel tongue. But I do not, cannot, agree with you. It
is just possible that so long as the world goes smoothly with him, and
no immediate pressure of any kind exists, that he might refuse. But why
need that continue? If fortune will deal him bad cards, don't you think
we might contrive to shuffle the pack ourselves?”
She muttered something I could not hear, and he quickly rejoined,--
“Even for that I am not unprepared; no, no. Be assured of one thing, he
may decline, but will not defy us.”
“I know where your confidence is, Count,” said she; “but that rapier of
yours has got you into more trouble than it has ever worked you good.”
“Parbleu, I have no reason to be ungrateful to it!” replied he,
laughing; “and, perhaps, with all its rust, it may do some service yet.”
“At all events,” said she, “bethink you well of the consequences before
you admit him to any confidence. Remember that when once he is intrusted
with our plan, he is the master of our secret, and we are without a
remedy.--Pshaw!” said she, scornfully, as if in reply to some gesture on
his part; “that remedy may be applied once too often.”
My heart beat fast and full as I heard these words, whose significance
there could not be a doubt of, as the same curiosity to discover some
clew to the scheme by which I was to be snared was superior to all my
fears, and I half resolved, at whatever risk it might cost, to suffer
myself to be drawn into the intrigue. They now moved on, and though I
could hear their voices stop in low discourse, I could not detect the
words they uttered. It was evident that some proposition was to be
made to me, the rejection of which on my part might involve me in the
greatest peril. With what straining ingenuity did I endeavor to divine
what this might be! In all likelihood, it referred to some political
intrigue, for which my character as a “secret agent” might seem to adapt
me. Yet some of the expressions they had let drop by no means favored
this interpretation. What could my “mongrel nationality,” as the Count
styled it, avail me in such a conjuncture?
As these thoughts were chasing each other through my mind, I was
threading my way through the salons, and at length, to my sincere
satisfaction, found myself in the open street. By the time I reached
the hotel I had made up my mind to start at once on my mission, without
waiting for the Count's arrival. I hastily scratched a few lines
of commonplace acknowledgment for his attentions to me, and
half-significantly adding that I hoped to express them personally when
we met again, wished him a “good journey,” and then set out on my own.
During the rest of that night, and, indeed, for a great part of the
following day, I did not feel satisfied with myself for what I had done.
It was, indeed, an inglorious mode of escaping from a difficulty,
and argued more of fear than resolution. As time wore on, however, I
reasoned myself into the notion that against secret treachery, courage
and firmness avail little, and if a well-planned scheme was about to
environ me, I had done the wisest thing in the emergency.
I suppose the experience of others will bear me out in saying that the
actual positive ills of life are more easily endured than the vague and
shadowy dangers which seem to hover over the future, and darken the road
before us. The calamities that lie in ambush for us are ever present to
our thoughts. The hour of our misfortune may be to-day, to-morrow, or
the day after. Every chance incident of untoward aspect may herald the
bad tidings, and we live in unceasing expectancy of evil. Do what I
would, a dreary and despondent gloom now settled on me; I felt as if
I were predestined to some grievous misfortune, against which I was
utterly powerless, and the hour of which I could neither hasten nor
retard. How bitterly I reproached myself for making an acquaintance with
the Count! For years I had lived a life of solitary seclusion, avoiding
even the commonest forms of acquaintanceship. The shame my calling
inspired me with made me reluctant to know those who, perhaps, when they
discovered me to be the spy, would have regarded me with aversion! Not
that in reality the odious epithet could, with any fairness, be applied
to me. My “secret agency” had not risen beyond the mere functions of
a messenger; and though at times I was intrusted with verbal
communications, they were delivered in confidence of my trustworthiness,
and not imparted in any reliance on my skill to improve them; but I
cannot stoop to apologize for a condition to which bitter necessity
reduced me, and which I clung to as offering the last remnant of hope
to find out those who, of all the world, were the only ones who bore me
affection.
I have already said that this hope was now fast dying out; repeated
disappointment had all but extinguished it; and it was only when
the name “Reichenau” had again stirred its almost cold embers that I
determined on this last chance ere I abandoned my career forever.
CHAPTER XXXV. “DISCOVERIES”
Only ye who have felt what it is after long years of absence, after
buffeting with the wild waves of life, and learning by heart that bitter
lesson they call the world, to come back to what was once a home, can
form some notion of the mingled emotions of joy and sorrow with which I
drew near Reichenau.
As the road grew gradually more steep, and the mountain gorge became
narrower and wilder, I found myself at each moment in sight of some
well-remembered object. Now it was a well beside which I had often
rested; now a cross or a shrine beneath which I had knelt. Here was a
rocky eminence I had climbed, to gain a wider view of the winding valley
before me; here was a giant oak under which I had sheltered from a
storm. Every turn of the way brought up some scene, some incident, or
some train of long-forgotten thought of that time when, as a boy, I
wandered all alone, weaving fancies of the world, and making myself the
hero of a hundred stories. Sad and sorrowful as it is to reckon scores
with our hopes and mark how little life has borne out the promises
of our youth, yet I cannot help thinking that our grief is nobly
recompensed by the very memory of that time, that glorious time, when,
shadowed by no scepticism, nor darkened by any distrust, we were happy
and hopeful and confiding. It is not alone that we recur to those
memories with pleasure, but we are actually better for the doing so.
They tell of a time when our hearts were yet uncorrupted, our ambitions
were noble, and our aspirations generous. They remind us of a period
when the episodes of life rarely outlived the day, and our griefs never
endured through half the night. And so comes it that when, in after
years, we are tired and careworn by the world, it is not to our
experience of mankind we look for support and comfort, but to the time
when, in happy innocence, we wandered all alone, peopling space with
images of kindness and goodness, and making for ourselves an ideal
world, so much better than the real one!
It was sunset. The “Angelus” was ringing as I entered Reichenau, and
the postilion--a mountaineer--reverently descended from the saddle, and
knelt upon the roadside in silent prayer. How long was it since I had
witnessed even so much of devotion! The world in which I had mixed
had its occupations of intrigue and plot, its schemes of greatness and
wealth and power, but no space for thoughts like those of this poor
peasant. Alas! and was I not myself corrupted by their contact? That
penitent attitude--that prayerful look--those clasped hands--were now
all objects of astonishment to me, when once I had deemed them the fit
accompaniment of the hour. Too truly was I changed from what I had been!
Night was falling fast as we reached the bridge, and a light twinkled
in the little window which had once been the Herr Robert's. A little
further on, I saw the chateau and the terrace; then came the tower of
the old church; and as we turned into the Platz, I beheld the arched
gateway, and the small diamond-paned window of the little inn. How sadly
did they all remind me of my solitary existence! for here, in the midst
of every object of my childish memory, was I, friendless and alone.
A little crowd gathered around the carriage as I got out. The staring
rustics little thought that he who then descended had been, perhaps,
their playfellow and companion. The postilion had styled me an
“Excellency,” and the landlord received me with all his deference.
I pretended that I should stay a day or two, in expectation of a
friend's arrival, and ordered the best rooms in the house; and, as was
not unusual in those days, begged the favor of my host's company
at supper. The invitation was gladly accepted, and Herr Kirschler
entertained me till past midnight with an account of Reichenau and its
inhabitants. I affected to know the village as a mere traveller who had
passed through it some years back, on my way to Italy; and the host,
with true innkeeper memory, remembered me perfectly. I was fatter,
or thinner, or browner, or somewhat paler than before, but in other
respects little changed. So, at least, he told me, and I accepted the
description. I reminded him that when I last came through, the château
had been a school: was it so still?
“Yes; and Monsieur Jost was still the master, although now very old and
infirm, and, of course, little able to direct it. In fact, he devoted
his time far more to beetles and butterflies than to the boys; and
so most of the scholars had left him, and the school was rapidly
declining.”
I turned the conversation on Reichenau itself, and asked in a careless
tone if strangers ever sought it as a residence. He shook his head
sorrowfully, and said rarely, if ever.
“There had,” he added, “been one or two families who had fled thither
on the outbreak of the French Revolution, but they had long since taken
their departure. One of them,” added he, rising, and opening the window,
“one of them lived yonder, where your Excellency sees that old tower;
and mean as it looks without, I can assure you it is still poorer
within; and yet they were noble,--at least, so it was said here.”
“You cannot remember the name?” said I.
“No; but it is written in one of my old ledgers.”
“Will you do me the kindness to look for it?” said I, “as these things
have a deep interest for me, since I have known so many of the exiled
families.”
It was in no spirit of curiosity that I made this request; I needed
nothing to aid me. There stood the old tower which contained my
play-room; there, the little window at which I have sat, silent and
alone, whole nights long. It was to conceal my emotion that I wished him
away; and scarcely had he left the room, when I hid my face within my
hands and sobbed aloud. The search occupied him some time; and when he
returned, I had recovered myself sufficiently to escape his notice.
“Well, have you found it?” said I.
“Yes, your Excellency, here it is,--in the lady's own writing too.”
The words were simply the routine entry of travellers in the
“police-sheet” of the hotel, stating that Madame la Comtesse de Gabriac,
accompanied by _son secrétaire_. Monsieur Raper, had passed two days
there, and then departed for------. The word had been written, and then
blotted out.
“For where?” asked I.
“That is the strangest point of all,” said he; “for after having taken
the places for Milan, and their passports all vised for that city, when
day broke they were not to be found. Some peasants, who came to market
that day, thought they had seen them on the mountains taking the path to
Feldkirch; but wherever they went, they were never heard of more.”
“Do you mean that they had to set out on foot?”
“Parbleu! your Excellency; the route they took can be travelled in no
other fashion.”
“But their baggage, their effects”
“They were of the lightest, I assure you,” said he, laughing. “Madame
la Comtesse carried hers in a kerchief, and Monsieur le Secrétaire had a
common soldier's knapsack, and a small bundle in his hand, when he came
here.”
I suppose the expression of my face at the ribald tone of this remark
must have intimated what I felt, but 'tried to conceal, since he
speedily corrected himself, and said, in a voice of apology,--
“It is not, assuredly, at their poverty I would sneer, your Excellency;
but for persons of their condition this was not the suitable way to
travel.”
“Did they leave no friends behind them who might give a clew to their
mysterious departure?”
“Friends! No, your Excellency, they were too proud and too highly born
for us of Reichenau,--at least, the Comtesse was; as for Monsieur Raper,
poor fellow, he was a teacher at Monsieur Jost's yonder, and rarely seen
amongst us.”
“And how do you explain it?--I mean, what explanation was the common one
in vogue in the village?”
“As for that, there were all manner of rumors. Some said they had fled
from their debts, which was false; for they had sold the little they
possessed, and came to pass the two last days here while paying whatever
they owed in the village. Some thought that they had been hiding from
justice, and that their refuge had been at last discovered; and some,
among whom I confess myself one, think that it was with reference to the
Count's affairs that they had taken to flight.”
“How do you mean?” asked I.
“Oh, De Gabriac was a 'bad subject,' and, if report speak truly, was
implicated in many crimes. One thing is certain: before they had been
gone a week, the gensdarmes were here in search of him; they ransacked
the lodging for some clew to his hiding-place, and searched the post for
letters to or from him.”
“And so you think that it was probably to avoid him that she fled?” said
I, hazarding a question, to obtain a fuller admission than he had made.
“That is precisely my opinion; and when I tell your Excellency that it
was on receiving a letter from Paris, most probably from him, that she
hastily sold off everything, you will possibly be of my mind also.”
“And Gabriac, did he ever appear here again?”
“Some say he did; but it is doubtful. One thing, however, is certain:
there was a teacher here in Monsieur Jost's academy, a certain Monsieur
Augustin, who gave lessons in mathematics, and the secret police gave
him some tidings that made him also leave this; and the report is,
that Gabriac was somehow the cause of this. Nobody ever thought ill of
Augustin, and it is hard to believe he was Gabriac's accomplice.”
I could perceive, from this reply of the host, that he was “all
abroad” as to any real knowledge of events, and had only got some faint
glimmerings of the truth. I now suffered him to run on about people
and occurrences of which I knew nothing, so as to divert him from any
attention to myself, and then betook me to my bed with an anxious mind
and a wearied one.
I was up early the next morning, and hastened to the château, where
I found my old master already up, and walking in the garden. He was,
indeed, much changed. Time had told heavily on him too, and he seemed
far more feeble than I expected to find him. The letter with which I was
charged for him invited him to make me any confidential communication he
desired to impart, and to regard me as trustworthy in all respects. He
read it over, I should think, several times; for he sat down on a bench,
and seemed to study it profoundly.
“You shall have the papers,” said he at length; “but I doubt that they
will be found of use now. Dumourier's influence is at an end with his
old adherents. The party is broken up; and, so far as human foresight
can go, the cause is lost.”
“I ought to tell you, Monsieur Jost,” then broke I in, “that although
you are speaking to one who will not abuse your confidence, that it is
also one who knows nothing of the plan you speak of.”
He appeared to reflect some minutes over my words, and then said,--
“These are matters, however, not for my judgment. If the Prince think
well of the scheme, it is enough.”
I saw that this was said unconsciously and to himself, and so I made no
remark on it.
“At all events, Monsieur Gervois,” continued he, “let them not build
upon many whose names are here. We saw what Dejaunay became t' other
day. Jussard is little better than a spy for the First Consul; and as
for Gabriac, to whom we all trusted, he would have been even worse than
a spy, if his villany had succeeded.”
“You knew him, then, sir?” asked I.
“Knew him! Parbleu! I did know him; and better, too, than most did! I
always said he would play the traitor,--not to one, but to every cause.
He was false to all, sir,” said he, with increasing bitterness,--“to his
King; to that King's enemies; to the Convention; to the 'Emigration;' to
the nobles; to the people: false everywhere and to every one! False to
her who bore his name, and to her whom he led away to ruin,--that poor
girl, whose father's chivalrous loyalty alone might have protected
her--How do you call him?--the Marquis de Bresinart? No, not him; I mean
that old loyalist leader who lived near Valence.”
“Not the Marquis de Nipernois?” said I, in trembling eagerness.
“The same; the Marquis de Nipernois, to whose daughter he was once
betrothed, and whose fair fame and name he has tarnished forever!”
“You do not mean that Gabriac was the seducer of Madame de Bertin?” said
I.
“The world knows it as well as I do; and although one alone ever dared
to deny it, and branded the tale with the epithet of base scandal, she
came at last to see its truth; and her broken heart was the last of his
triumphs!”
“You speak of the Countess,--his wife?”
He grasped my hand within one of his own, and pressed the other across
his eyes, unable to speak, through emotion. Nor were my feelings less
moved. What a terrible revelation was this! Misfortune upon misfortune,
and De Gabriac the cause of all!
For a moment I thought of declaring myself to be his old pupil, and the
child who had called that dear Comtesse “mother;” but the morbid shame
with which I remembered what I then was, stopped me, and I was silent.
“You know, of course, whither she went from this, and what became of
her?” asked I, anxiously.
“Yes. I had two letters from her,--at long intervals, though; the last,
when about to sail for Halifax--”
“For Halifax!--gone to America?”
“Even so. She said that the Old World had been long unkind to her, and
that she would try the New! and then as their only friend in Hamburg was
dead--”
“They were at Hamburg!--you did not say that?” said I.
“Yes, to be sure. Monsieur Raper, who was a worthy, good man, and a
smart scholar besides, had obtained the place of correspondence clerk in
a rich mercantile house in that city, where he lived with credit, till
the death of the head of the firm. After that, I believe the house
ceased business, or broke up. At all events, Raper was thrown on the
world again, and resolved to emigrate. I suppose if Monsieur Geysiger
had lived--”
“Geysiger!--is that the name you said?”
“Ay; Adam Geysiger,--the great house of Geysiger, Mersman, and Dorth, of
Hamburg, the first merchants of that city.”
Though he continued to talk on, I heard no more; my thoughts become
confused, and my head felt turning with the intense effort to collect
myself. Geysiger? thought I; the very house where I had been at
Hamburg,--where I had overheard the project of a plan against myself!
Could it be, that through all my disguise of name and condition, that
they knew me? With what increase of terror did this discovery come upon
me! If they have, indeed, recognized me, it may be that some scheme
is laid against my life. I could not tell how or whence this suspicion
came; but, doubtless, some chance word let drop before me in my infancy,
and dormant since in my mind, now rushed forth to my recollection with
all the power of a fact!
I questioned the old man about this Geysiger,--where he had lived, whom
he had married, and so on; but he only knew that his wife had been an
actress. I did not ask for more. The identity was at once established.
I next tried to find out if any relations of friendship or intimacy
had subsisted between the Comtesse and Madame de Geysiger; but, on the
contrary, he told me they had not met nor known each other when she
wrote to him; and her stay after that in Hamburg was very brief. I
wearied him with asking to repeat for me several circumstances of
these strange revelations; nor was it till I saw him fatigued and half
exhausted that I could prevail on myself to cease. I had now loitered
here to the last limit of my time; and, with an affectionate leave of
my kind old master, I left Reichenau to make my way with all speed to
England.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE ORDEAL
My first care on arriving in England was to resign my post as an “Agent
secret.” This was not, however, so easily accomplished as I thought; for
the Royalists had more than once before discovered that those in their
employment had been seduced into the service of their enemies, whose
rewards were greater, and who had a large field of patronage at their
disposal. Unable to prevent these desertions by the inducements of
profit, they had resorted to a system of secret intimidation and menace
which unquestionably had its influence over many.
I have not space here to dwell on a theme, some of whose details might,
however, prove amusing, illustrating as they did the mysterious working
of that Jesuit element which labored so zealously and so long in the
cause of the Restoration. There is a little work still extant, called
“L'Espionage et ses Dangers,” by Jules Lacoste, published at Bruxelles,
in 1802, which gives, if not a perfectly authentic, at least a very
graphic, description of this curious system. The writer distinctly
alleges that five of his colleagues met their deaths by poison, on mere
suspicion of their disloyalty, and gives the names of several whose
impaired faculties and shattered health showed that they had narrowly,
but perhaps not more fortunately, escaped a similar fate.
For my own part I must own that such perils were not mine. It is true,
I was asked to reconsider my determination. It was at first hinted
vaguely, and then positively assured me, that my long and faithful
services were on the eve of a high and substantial recognition. I was
even told that my own wishes would be consulted as to the nature of my
reward, since I was not to be treated like one of the mere herd. When
all these temptations were found to fail, I was left, as it were, to
reflect on the matter, while in reality a still more ingenious and
artful scheme was drawn around me; the Abbé being employed as its chief
agent. Affecting, in a measure, to coincide with and even encourage my
determination, he invited me constantly to his lodgings, and by degrees
insinuated himself into my confidence. At least he learned that it was
in pure disgust of the career itself that I desired to forsake it, and
not with any prospect of other advancement in life. He sought eagerly to
discover the secret subject which engaged my thoughts, for I could
not succeed in concealing my deep pre-occupation; but he cautiously
abstained from ever obtruding even a word of question or inquiry. Nor
did his ardor stop here; he studied my tastes, my passions, and my
disposition, as subjects for successful temptation. I was young,
high-couraged, and enthusiastic; and yet he found me indifferent to
pleasure, and indisposed to society and its amusements. He knew me to
be poor, and yet saw clearly that wealth did not dazzle me. I was humble
and unknown; yet no recognition of the high and great could stir my
heart nor awaken my ambitions. He was too well read in human nature
to accept these as signs of an apathetic and callous disposition: he
recognized them rather as evidences of a temperament given up to some
one and engrossing theme.
I own that in my utter destitution there was a pleasing flattery to me
in this pursuit; and I could not but feel gratified at the zeal with
which he seemed to devote himself to comprehend me. He exposed me to the
various subjects of temptation which so successfully assail youth; but
he perceived that not one could touch the secret cord of my nature.
To some I was averse; I was indifferent to others. He took me into
society,--that circle of his intimates, which really in conversational
excellence surpassed anything I had ever met before; and although I
enjoyed it at the time, I could refrain from frequenting it without a
regret.
“You are a puzzle to me, Bernard,” said he, addressing me by my former
“sobriquet,” which he always used in private; “I want to see you take
interest in something, and show that humanity is not dead within you;
but nothing seems to touch, nothing to attract you; and yet it was not
thus that Sister Ursule first represented you to me. She spoke of you
as one that could be warmed by the zeal of a great cause, and whose
faculties would expand when once engaged in it. If the monarchy be too
mean for your ambition, what say you to the church?”
I pleaded my unworthiness, but he stopped me, saying:
“The career it is that creates the man. Only resolve firmly to fulfil a
duty, and mark how capacity comes of mere volition! Ursule herself is
an instance of what I say. Bred up amidst those who only cared for the
world and its vanities, see what she became by the working of noble
devotion, and see what has Margot sunk to for want of it!”
“Margot! what of her?” asked I, eagerly. “You did not tell me that you
had tidings of her.”
The sallow cheek of the Abbé seemed tinged with a faint color as I
uttered these words with unusual warmth. Whatever his feelings, however,
they were quickly under control, as he said,--
“Margot has fallen,--fallen as never before fell one of her high
estate!”
I could not speak from emotion, but by my anxious look I entreated him
to continue. The recital, as he gave it, was a long one, but briefly
told was this: Margot had been “prepared” by her sister for admission
into the restored convent of the “Chaise Dieu,” and at length had
entered upon her novitiate. This being completed, she had returned home,
in compliance with the precepts of the order, to mix in the world and
its pleasures for three months,--the abandonment of such temptation
being accepted as the best evidence of fitness for the last solemn vow.
Dangerous as such an ordeal would seem, yet scarcely ever is one found
to fail under it. The long previous training of the mind, the deep
impression made by a life of unbroken devotion, and that isolation
that comes of a conventual existence, joined to the sense of disgrace
attendant on desertion, all combined to make the novice faithful to her
first pledge. The trial is, therefore, little other than a formality,
and she who goes through it seems rather a martyr suffering torture,
than a youthful spirit taking its last fleeting glimpse of joy forever!
To fulfil this accustomed ceremonial--for it was simply such--Margot
came home to her father's house. The violent spirit of the Revolutionary
period had given way to a more calm and dispassionate tone, and already
the possessors of ancient names and titles were returning to the respect
they once were held in. In the little village of Linange the old Marquis
was now esteemed a high personage,--by some, indeed, was he placed above
the “Maire” himself. To do his daughter honor was, therefore, a duty;
and every one whose rank gave them the pretension, endeavored to show
her some mark of respect and attention. Small as the community was, it
had its dignitaries and its leaders, and they vied with each other on
this occasion.
Margot had been a favorite, she was about to be a nun,--two claims which
appeal to the heart by separate roads; for, while one exacts admiration,
the other disarms jealousy. Thus, even they who would have felt the
rivalry of her beauty as a subject of irritation, could now bestow their
praises on her without a pang. This flattery of admiration from every
quarter was too much for the brain of one whose chief fault was vanity.
The splendor of her dress, the presents lavished on her, the worship
which reached her wherever she went, all served to heighten the
fascination; and while Ursule prayed and entreated her to remember that
these were but as the flowers that deck the victim at the altar, she
would not heed her. How could she? Was not the swell of approving
voices which met her in society louder than the faint whisperings of her
sister's admonition? How could the cold warnings of prudence stem the
torrent of adulation that swept through her heart? She was conscious,
too, of her beauty; and, for the first time, felt that its influence was
experienced by others. The reputation of the lovely novice spread far
and near, and strangers came to Linange to see and speak with her. The
little weekly receptions at the “Mairie” were crowded with new faces.
Officers from the garrison at Valence, and travellers, were continually
arriving; and “La Belle Margot” was a toast pledged by hundreds who
never saw her.
From Ursule alone came words of warning. The world of her acquaintance
met her with nothing but flattery, and flattery, too, more palpably
expressed than is usual, since used to one upon whom, in a few days,
life was to close forever.
Margot was told that, to waste her charms on the dull world of a little
village was an insult to her own beauty, and that Valence, which so
long had heard of should certainly see her. She believed this, and
accordingly insisted on going there. At Valence her triumphs were
greater than ever; but there she heard that Paris alone could rightly
appreciate loveliness such as hers. They told her, too, that it was
an age in which beauty was sovereign; and the nation, wearied of a
monarchy, had accepted military glory and female loveliness as the true
elements of command. The will of the novice is a law at this period, and
the old Marquis, who had now regained some remnant of his fortune, set
out for Paris.
The most hackneyed in the world's ways knows well with what a sense
of enjoyment he finds himself in Paris, the most brilliant of all the
cities of the earth. The gorgeous panorama of life that passes there
before his eyes has nowhere its equal. What, then, must it have appeared
to the fresh enthusiasm of that young girl, eager for pleasure, for
excitement and admiration!
At first her whole soul was bent upon the gorgeous spectacle before
her,--the splendor of a scene such as she in imagination had never
realized. The palaces, the military pomp, the equipages, the dress, were
far above all she had conceived of magnificence and display; but the
theatres imparted a delight to her beyond all the rest. The ideal world
that she saw there typified a world of passionate feeling, of love,
joy, ambition, and triumph! What a glorious contrast to the grave-like
stillness of the convent,--to the living death of a poor nun's
existence! It is true, she had been taught to regard these things as
sinful, and as the base conceptions of a depraved nature; she had even
come to witness them to confirm the abhorrence in which she held them,
and show that they appealed to no one sentiment of her heart. Alas! the
experiment was destined to prove too costly.
The splendor, the beauty, the glowing language of the scene, the
strains of music, softer and more entrancing than ever swept across her
senses,--the very picturesque effect of everything,--varied with every
artifice of light and shadow, carried her away, and bore her to an ideal
world, where she, too, had her homage of devotion, where her beauty
had its worshippers, and she was herself loved. It was in vain that she
tried to reason herself out of these fancies, and regard such displays
as unreal and fictitious. Had they been so, thought she, they could not
appeal, as I see and know they do, to the sympathies of those thousands
whose breasts are heaving in suspense, and whose hearts are throbbing
in agony. But more than that, she beheld the great actress of the day
received with all the homage rendered to a queen in the real world.
If ever there was one calculated to carry with her from the stage into
society all the admiration she excited, it was that admirable actress
who was then at the very outset of that brilliant career which for
nigh half a century adorned the French stage, and rendered it the most
celebrated in Europe. Young, beautiful in the highest sense of the word,
with a form of perfect mould, gifted and graceful in every gesture, with
a voice of thrilling sweetness and a manner that in the highest circles
found no superior, Mademoiselle Mars brought to her profession traits
and powers, any one of which might have insured success. I remember her
well! I can bring to mind the thundering applause that did not wait for
her appearance on the boards, but announced her coming; that gorgeous
circle of splendid and apparelled beauty, stimulated to a momentary
burst of enthusiasm; that waving pit, rocking and heaving like a stormy
sea,--the hoarse bray of ten thousand voices, rude and ruthless enough
many of them, and yet all raised in homage of one who spoke to the
tenderest feelings of the heart, and whose accents were the softest
sounds that ever issued from human lips. And I remember, too, how, at
the first syllable she uttered, that deafening clamor would cease, and,
by an impulse that smote every one of that vast assemblage in the same
instant of time, the stillness was like the grave!
Margot became so fascinated by her that she would not lose one single
night when she performed. It was at first a pleasure,--it then became
a passion with her. The real life she mixed in became poor, weak, and
uninteresting beside the world of intense feeling the stage presented.
The one seemed all false, unreal, and fictitious; the other truthful,
and addressing itself to the heart direct.
Mademoiselle Mars herself at length remarked the lovely girl who, with
eager gaze and steadfast, sat each night in the same place, indifferent
to everything save the business of the scene. She felt the power she
exercised over her, and saw how her whole nature was her captive. Once
or twice their eyes actually met, and Margot felt at the moment that she
was beneath the glance of one who read her very thoughts, and knew each
working of her heart.
A few nights after this, they met in society, and Mademoiselle Mars,
without introduction of any kind, approached and spoke to her. The
words were few and commonplace,--some half apology for a liberty, an
expression of pleasure at meeting her, and a kind of thankful return for
the attention by which she marked her. She saw the attraction which the
stage possessed for her, and made it the subject of their conversation.
The great actress was herself an enthusiast about her art, and when
she spoke of it, her genius kindled at once, and her words rose to high
eloquence. She told Margot the whole story of her own devotion to
the stage,--how she had been destined to the cloister, and that an
accidental visit to the theatre at Nancy had determined the entire
fortunes of her life. “I felt within me,” said she, “a power of
expression that I could not bear to bury beneath the veil of the nun.
The poetry that stirred my heart should find its utterance; nor could
I endure the stormy conflict of passion that raged within me, save in
giving it a form and a shape. I became an actress for myself; and hence
perhaps why I have met with the applause of others.”
Margot's acquaintance thus casually formed ripened into intimacy, and
quickly into a close friendship. The ritual that prescribed the ordeal
through which she was going, ordained that it should be restricted by
scarcely a limit. The novice was really to be her own mistress for a
brief season in that world she was to leave so soon and forever.
She now accompanied Mademoiselle Mars not only into the wide circle of
Parisian society, but into that far more seductive one which consisted
of her most intimate friends. Here she met all that boasted of artistic
excellence in the capital,--the brilliant dramatist, the witty reviewer
of the “Débats,” the great actor,--it was Talma in those days,--the
prima donna who was captivating all Europe, and a host of lesser
celebrities, all brimful of spirits, joy, and gayety, as people with
whom the world went well, and whose very business in it was that of
pleasure and amusement. I need not trace the course by which Margot grew
to a perfect infatuation with such company. Wiser and calmer heads than
hers have been unable to resist the charms of a society made up of such
elements, nor was she herself to pass without admiration from them.
Her beauty and her youth, the mingled gentleness and energy of her
temperament, her girlish modesty, blended with a highly-wrought
enthusiasm, were exactly the qualities which they could value and
appreciate.
“What gifts for the stage!” said one of the greatest amongst them, one
night; “if Mademoiselle was not a Marchioness, she might be a Mars.”
“But I am going to be a nun,” said she, innocently; and a joyous burst
of laughter received the speech. “It is quite true,” said she, “and most
unkind of you to laugh at me.”
“By Saint Denis, I'll go and turn Trappist or Carmelite to-morrow,”
cried one, “if only to pay you a visit in your convent.”
“I wish they'd accept me as almoner to your cloister, Mademoiselle,”
said Breslot, the comedian; “I'm getting tired of serious parts, and
would like a little light business.”
“Am I the style of thing for a superior, think ye?” said Jossard, the
life of the “Français,” throwing over his head a lace scarf of one of
the ladies, and assuming a demure look of indescribable drollery.
“How I should like to hear Mademoiselle recite those lines in your play
of 'Cécile,' Monsieur Bertignac,” said a famous actress of tragedy. “Her
face, figure, voice, and air are perfect for them. I mean the farewell
the novice takes of her sister as day is just breaking, and the distant
bells of the cloister announce the approach of the ceremony.”
“Where's the book?--who has it?” called out three or four together.
“The copies have been all seized by the police,” said one. “Bertignac
was suspected of a covert satire on the authorities.”
“Or they have been bought up for distribution by the Society of 'Bons
Livres,'” said another; “and Bertignac is to be made Gentleman of the
Pope's Antechamber.”
“Here is one, however, fortunately rescued,” said Mademoiselle Mars,
producing the volume, which Jossard quickly snatched from her, and
began, in pompous tones, reciting the lines, beginning,--
“Sour de mon enfance, si je te quitte pour toujours.”
“An abominable line,” cried one, “and perfectly impossible to give
without a bassoon accompaniment for the last word.”
“The epithet, too, is downright nonsense. Why sister of her infancy? Did
she cease to be so as she grew up?” said another.
“I wrote the lines after supping with Breslot,” said the author. “One is
not accountable for words uttered in moments of debility and hunger.”
“Be the lines what they may, let us hear Mademoiselle read them,” said
Talma; “and I mistake greatly but, with all our studied accuracy,
we shall learn something from one whose nature is not bound by our
trammels.”
To have adventured on such a task, before such an audience, was more
than Margot could dare to contemplate, and she grew faint and sick at
the bare thought. They were not, however, of that mould which listens to
excuses and refusals. The great familiarity which existed amongst them
excluded all deference to individual likings or dislikings, and if
servants of the public on the stage, off the boards they were the
slaves of each other. Margot, almost lifeless with terror, was therefore
obliged to comply. At first the words fell from her lips almost
inaudibly; by degrees her voice gained strength, and only a tremulous
accent betrayed the struggle within her. But at last, when she came to
the part where the nun, as if asking herself whether the world and its
fascinations had taken no hold upon her heart, confesses, with a burst
of spirit-wrung misery, that it was so, and that to leave that joyous
sunlight for the gloomy sepulchre of the cloister was worse than death
itself, her utterance grew full and strong, her dark eyes flashed, her
color heightened, her bosom heaved, and she gave the passage with such
a burst of thrilling eloquence that the last words were drowned in
thunders of applause, only hushed as they beheld her fall back fainting,
and perfectly overcome by her emotions.
“And you think you can take the veil, child?” asked Mademoiselle Mars,
when they were alone.
But Margot made no answer.
“You believe, Margot, that it will be possible for you to stifle within
you feelings such as these, and that the veil and the cord can change
your nature? No, no! If the heart be not dead, it is cruelty to bury it.
Yours is not so, and shall have another destiny.”
Mademoiselle Mars at once communicated with the old Marquis, and
endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose regarding his granddaughter;
but he would not listen to her arguments, nor heed her counsels. At
first, indeed, he could not be brought to believe that Margot herself
could concur in them. It seemed incredible to him that a child of
his house could so far forget her station and self-respect as to avow
herself unequal to any sacrifice or any trial, much less one in itself
the noblest and the highest of all martyrdom.
“You will see,” cried he, eagerly, “that it is you--not I--have mistaken
her. These gauds of the fashionable world have no real attraction for
her. Her heart is within those walls, where, in a few days more, she
will herself be forever. She shall come and tell you so with her own
lips.”
He sent a servant to call her, but she was not to be found! He searched
everywhere, but in vain. Margot was gone! From that day forth she was
not to be met with. No means were spared in prosecuting the search.
Mademoiselle Mars herself, deeply afflicted at any inducements she might
have held forth to her, joined eagerly in the pursuit, but to no end.
“But you cannot mean, Abbé,” said I, as he completed the narrative,
“that to this very hour no trace of her has been discovered?”
“I will not say so much,” said he; “for once or twice tidings have
reached her friends that she was well and happy. The career she
had chosen, she well knew would be regarded by her family as a deep
degradation; and she only said to one who saw her, 'Tell them that their
name shall not be dishonored. As for her who bears it, she deems herself
ennobled by the stage!' She was in Italy when last heard of, and in the
Italian theatres; and in some of Alfieri's pieces had earned the most
triumphant successes. Poor girl! from her very cradle her destiny marked
her for misfortune. What a mockery, then, these triumphs if she but
recalls the disgrace by which they are purchased!”
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE GLOOMIEST PASSAGE OF ALL
Shall I own that Margot's story affected me in a very different
manner from what the good Abbé had intended it should? I could neither
sympathize with the outraged pride of the old Marquis, the offended
dignity of family, nor with the insulted honor of the sacred vocation
she had abandoned. My reflections took a very different form, and turned
entirely upon the dangers of the career she had adopted,--perils which,
from what I could collect of her character, were extremely likely to
assail her. She was young, beautiful, gifted, and ambitious; and, above
all, she was friendless. What temptations would not assail her,--by what
flatteries would she not be beset! Would she be endowed with strength
to resist these? Would the dignity of her ancient descent guard her, or
would the enthusiasm for her art protect her? These were questions that
I could not solve, or, rather, I solved them in many and different ways.
For a long time had she occupied a great share in my heart; sometimes
I felt towards her as towards a sister. I thought of the hours we had
passed side by side over our books,--now working hard and eagerly, now
silent and thoughtful, as some train of ideas would wile us away from
study, and leave us forgetful of even each other,--till a chance word,
a gesture, a sigh, would recall us, and then, interchanging our
confessions,--for such they were,--we turned to our books again. But at
other times I thought of her as one dearer still than this,--as of
one to win whose praise I would adventure anything; whose chance words
lingered in my memory, suggestive of many a hope, and, alas! many a
fear. It is no graceful reflection to dwell upon, however truthful, that
our first loves are the emanations of our self-esteem. They who first
teach us to be heroes to our own hearts are our earliest idols. Ay, and
with all the changes and chances of life, they have their altars within
us to our latest years. Why should it not be so? What limit ought there
to be to our gratitude to those who first suggested noble ambitions,
high-soaring thoughts, and hopes of a glorious future,--who instilled in
us our first pride of manhood, and made us seem worthy of being loved!
Margot had done all this for me when but a child, and now she was a
woman, beautiful and gifted! The fame of her genius was world-wide. Did
she still remember me?--had she ever a thought for the long past hours
when we walked hand-in-hand together, or sat silently in some summer
arbor? I recalled all that she had ever said to me, in consolation of
the past, or with hope for the future. I pondered over little incidents,
meaningless at the time, but now full of their own strong significance;
and I felt at last assured that, when she had spoken to me of ambitious
darings and high exploits, she had been less exhorting me than giving
utterance to the bursting feelings of her own adventurous spirit.