WHAT PIERRE KNEW.
The Place Notre Dame at Fribourg was crowded with citizens and soldiers.
The citizens wore troubled, and talked together in low voices, while the
soldiers were noisy and abusive against France.
The colossal spire of the Cathedral threw its shadow over this scene.
Sovereigns and diplomats, ready for an invasion of France, had left
Frankfort for Fribourg, there to complete their plans of vengeance and
hate.
Blucher, with Sachen and Laugeron, had concentrated their troops between
Mayence and Coblentz. The Prince de Schwartzemberg was marching toward
Bale. The Swiss were irritated, believing that their neutrality would be
violated.
In the Chamber of Commerce the Emperor Alexander, with Metternich and
Lord Castlereagh, were studying maps, eager for the fray and the
dismemberment of France. Count Pozzo de Borga was on his way to England.
On the Place de Ministre a tall mansion faces the Cathedral. Steps, with
wrought iron railings, lead to the oaken door, well barred with steel.
On the second floor, in a large, gloomy room, several persons are
assembled. The last rays of the setting sun are coming from the high
windows through the heavy panes of glass set in lead.
Standing near a window is a lady in black, looking out on the Square;
her hand caresses a child who clings to her skirts. The two corners of
the chimney in which are burning resinous logs of wood are occupied. On
one side sits an old man, on the other a lady wrapped in a cloak that
covers her entirely.
The Marquis de Fongereues is only sixty, but his white hair, his
wrinkles, and the sad senility of his countenance gave him the
appearance of an octogenarian. He sits motionless, his hands crossed on
his knees. The lady opposite, whose head rests on the high oak back of
her chair, is not yet forty. Her face is hard, and her eyes, fixed upon
the Marquis, seem eager to read his thoughts. She is Pauline de
Maillezais--Marquise de Fongereues--and the lady at the window is
Magdalena, Vicomtesse de Talizac. Her husband, Jean de Talizac, is the
son of the Marquis de Fongereues. Suddenly the old man said:
"Where is Jean?"
Magdalena started, as if this voice, breaking the silence of the room,
had startled her.
"He has been away since morning," she replied, in a voice that she
endeavored to render careless.
"Ah!" said the Marquis, relapsing into silence. Presently he inquired
what time it was.
"Let me see--I wish to tell him," cried the child, leaving his mother's
side and running across the room to a console table, on which stood an
elaborate clock.
Frederic, the son of the Vicomte de Talizac, is deformed. One shoulder
is higher than the other, and he limps, but he seems alert.
"It is seven o'clock," he said, in a sharp voice.
The door was thrown open at this moment, and a German officer appeared.
Madame Fongereues rose hastily.
"And what is the decision, Monsieur de Karlstein?" she asked.
The officer bowed low to each of the three persons in the room, and then
said, quietly:
"To-morrow the allied armies will cross the French frontier."
"At last!" exclaimed Madame de Fongereues, and Madame de Talizac uttered
a cry of joy. The Marquis was unmoved.
"The details--give us the details!" said the young Marquise.
"We shall reach France through Switzerland," said the German, "and
penetrate the heart of the empire. Lord Castlereagh approves of this
plan and the Emperor Alexander gives it favorable consideration."
"And in a month the king will be at the Tuileries!" said Madame de
Talizac.
The German did not notice this remark.
"And now, ladies, will you kindly permit me to retire? In two hours I
leave with my company."
Madame de Fongereues extended her hand to him.
"Go, sir," she said. "Go aid in this sacred work! Insolent France must
learn that the most sacred rights cannot be trodden under foot with
impunity. Let the chastisement be as terrible as has been the crime!"
Monsieur de Karlstein bowed low and went out.
"At last!" repeated the Marquise. "These French have insulted and
despised us too long! Twenty-five years of exile! It is twenty-five
years since my father the Comte de Maillezais took me in his arms and,
pointing toward Paris, said, 'Child! remember that the day will come
when these men will kill their king, as they have forced your father to
fly for his life.' Monsieur Fongereues, do you hear? Are you not glad to
return as master among these men who drove you away, and with you all
that there was great and noble in France?"
The old man turned his head.
"God protect France!" he said, solemnly.
A shout of laughter rang through the room. It was the son of Vicomte
Jean, who was laughing at his grandfather.
Madame de Talizac shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Madame de
Fongereues made her a sign.
"Come," she said, "the Marquis is sinking into his second childhood, and
his follies irritate me."
The child took his mother's hand.
"We shall be the masters now, mamma, shall we not?"
The Vicomtesse murmured, as she left the room,
"Why has not Jean come? Can it be that he has not succeeded!"
Hardly had they disappeared than a door, concealed behind a hanging,
slowly opened.
Pierre Labarre appeared and noiselessly approaching his master, knelt at
his feet.
"Master," he said, respectfully, "I have returned."
The Marquis started. "You have come!" he exclaimed, then dropping his
voice, he added, "Quick! Simon?"
"Hush! not so loud!" said Pierre; then whispering in the old man's ear,
"He is living!" he said.
The Marquis half closed his eyes, and his lips moved in prayer, while
large tears slowly ran down his withered cheeks.
The Marquis belonged to one of the oldest families of Languedoc. His
ancestors had served France faithfully and had held positions of trust
near the persons of the kings. The present Marquis had committed a fault
not easily forgiven by the _ancien regime_. He had married the daughter
of a farmer, when he was twenty, in spite of the threats of his family.
This union was of short duration, for his wife died in giving birth to a
son. This blow was so sudden that the young man abandoned himself to
despair. He shut himself up from the world on an estate he had among the
Vosges mountains, and lived only for his child.
The beloved dead, though of peasant blood, had been an extraordinary
woman. She, young as she was, had thought much, and felt deeply the
sufferings of her class. She pointed out to the Marquis how the people
were weighed down by taxes, and how little their hard toil availed
them.
"Friend," said Simonne, "thou art wealthy, thou belongest to the
privileged class, give and speak. Open thy hand, and raise thy voice!"
She endeavored to awaken in his heart a noble ambition. He was twenty
and he loved. Had she lived, Armand would, undoubtedly, have been one of
the greatest actors in the crisis then preparing, but now that she was
gone, he forgot the glorious legacy she had bequeathed to him. He
detested the court, however, and determined that his son should grow up
far away from its influences. Simon, therefore, passed his childhood
among the mountains drinking in the delicious air, and growing as freely
as a young tree.
But Armand was weak. His friends and family, who had fallen away from
him at the time of his marriage, now sought to bring him back. He
resisted for a time, but at last went to Versailles. The king received
him proudly and said, "Monsieur de Fongereues, it is not well in you to
abandon us thus. The throne needs its faithful supporters."
A few days later he was presented to Mademoiselle de Maillezais--her
beauty was of that quality that dazzles rather than pleases. She made
herself very attractive on this occasion, anxious to take back to the
king this nobleman who had so nearly been lost.
In 1779, Armand married this lady. Simon, the peasant's son, was then
five years of age. When his father spoke of him to his wife some little
time after their marriage, she replied:
"You will, of course, do as you choose, but I should say that any
change would be likely to injure his health."
The Marquis was glad to seize any excuse for keeping Simonne's son away
from that society which his mother had so strongly condemned. It was
with the feeling, therefore, that he was obeying the wishes of his
beloved dead, that he left Simon among the mountains.
It was at this time that the war begun by the enemies of Nechar against
his innovations reached its height. The nobles and the clergy, feeling
their privileges attacked, organized against the Genoese banker a
campaign in which he was to fall. The Maillezais family were Nechar's
pitiless adversaries, and in spite of himself the Marquis was carried
along with them. His wife had acquired a supremacy over him that daily
increased. His weak nature was ever ready to be influenced by others,
and his natural enthusiasm originally aroused by Simonne for another
cause, was perverted to the profit of the _ancien regime_, and finally
he was one of the first to applaud the words of Louis XVI., when he
signed his name to an edict which inflicted on the country a new debt of
four hundred and twenty million.
"It is _legal_ because _I wish it_."
Nevertheless, the Marquis often thought of Simonne when he was alone. He
recalled her beautiful, energetic face, her pathetic, eloquent words.
Then he longed to see her son, whom his present wife hated. She herself
had become a mother; the Vicomte Jean Talizac had been held at the
baptismal font by the Queen Marie Antoinette.
The Marquise determined to oust Simon from his place in his father's
heart. She but half succeeded in this, and was too wise to attack the
memory of the dead.
The Marquis wrote in secret to his son, and occasionally went to see him
among the Vosges, and embraced the lad, who inherited all his mother's
intelligence and goodness.
Then the Vicomte returned like a truant schoolboy to Versailles, and the
Marquise brought in her boy with an expression that seemed to say, "This
is your boy! He is the one in whose veins runs only noble blood!"
In 1787 the Marquis was dangerously ill. His wife was devoted to him,
and one day when he was in a critical condition she said, gently:
"Shall I send for the peasant's child?"
He closed his eyes and did not reply. When, after long weeks of illness,
he was restored to health, he belonged to the Marquise. He never spoke
of his eldest child, and adored Jean.
Then came the emigration. Monsieur de Fongereues, friend of Conde and of
Polignac, yielded to his wife's entreaties and joined the Prince de
Conde at Worms, where he was making an appeal to foreign powers against
France. Although yielding to the wishes of the Marquise, De Fongereues
was fully aware that it was a base act to desert his country, and excite
against her the hatred of her most violent enemies. Young Simon, the
son of the peasant, could not join in this parricidal act, although the
Marquis sent Pierre Labarre, who was even then in his service, to his
son, then fifteen years of age, to sound his views. If the youth would
enter the army of Conde, the Marquis assured him a brilliant future. If
he remained in France, however, he could no longer rely on his father,
who, however, sent him a large sum of money. The youth refused the
money, and replied:
"Say to my father that I love him, and that if ever he requires a
devoted heart and a courageous arm that he may summon me to his side;
but now, if I am to choose between poverty in my own country and wealth
in a foreign land, I remain here!"
"It was Simonne's soul that spoke through his lips!" murmured the
Marquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man.
The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return to
Fribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquis
that Simon was living.
Twenty-five years had elapsed--twenty-five years of anguish and sorrow
for the Marquis. He had seen France fighting with heroic energy against
all Europe. He had heard the enthusiastic shouts of 1792, and then the
dull groans of the people crushed under the heel of the conqueror. And
while his country bled and fought, the Marquis blushed with shame in
London, Berlin and Vienna when his French ears heard the maledictions of
the conquered.
As soon as his son, the Vicomte Jean, reached the age of twenty, he had
become one of the most active agents of the coalition, and, as if to
indicate his hatred of France, married a German.
From that time the Marquis heard nothing but abuse of France, nothing
but exultation when her sons fell in Spain or in Russia. The old man's
heart was sore within him, but it was then too late for him to make a
stand, and he was obliged to live on amid this hatred.
Once only did Jean go to France to lend his aid to Cadondal's
conspiracy, but he was obliged to flee precipitately, and with
difficulty succeeded in gaining the frontier. On his return he was in a
state of sullen rage. Was it despair at his lack of success, or did the
Vicomte feel any remorse? His father watched him with troubled eyes and
many fears, but did not dare ask a question.
What had become of Simon? The Marquis had read in a newspaper that a
Simon Fougere carried the orders of the day at the battle of
Hohenlinden. He leaped at once at the truth. Simonne's son was fighting
for his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, was
fighting against it.
Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The allied
armies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand!
Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servant
could learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered that
Simon was living. Pierre had been in the service of the Marquis for
forty years. He had known Simonne, and felt for his master the deepest
affection. He was of the people, and only this affection had induced him
to leave France. By degrees he had become the confidant of his master,
and read his half-broken heart like an open book, and realized that it
was full of regrets, almost of remorse. Then he swore to himself that he
would aid the Marquis to repair the injustice done to Simon. It is
needless to say that Pierre's honest nature felt no sympathy for the
Marquise. She, on the contrary, was the object of his deepest aversion,
for he well knew that she had done her best to have him dismissed from
the service of the Marquis.
The Vicomte de Talizac, the Vicomtesse, and their son, detested Pierre
and watched him closely, with what aim they alone knew.
"I went to the Vosges, master," said Pierre. "I learned that the soldier
known by the name of Simon Fougere had gone to Lorraine. I could learn
nothing more. I went about everywhere--to Epinal, Nancy, Saint Die--and
I had begun to despair, when one evening I reached the foot of a
mountain and saw a little cluster of houses. I asked a peasant who was
passing if I could procure accommodations there for the night.
"Of course," he answered. "Go straight ahead and you will come to friend
Simon's inn."
The Marquis listened breathlessly. Pierre continued:
"The name was a common one in that part of the country, as I had good
reason to know, but this time my heart began to beat. I thanked the
peasant and I hurried on. And when I think that a Comte de
Fongereues----"
"It was he, then!" cried the Marquis, snatching his servant's hands.
"And you saw him? Tell me everything!"
"He is happy," answered Pierre. "But, master, let me tell my story in my
own way, for then I shall forget nothing. I went into a little inn,
which was as clean as possible and bore the sign, 'France!' A fire of
vine branches was sparkling in the big chimney. A boy of about ten came
to meet me. 'My friend,' I said, 'is this the inn of Monsieur Simon?'"
"'Yes, sir,' he replied, looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I felt as
if I had seen him before."
"What! do you mean----" cried the Marquis.
"Wait, master, wait. I told him that I wanted supper and a bed. The boy
ran toward a little door and called: 'Mamma! Mamma!' A woman appeared in
peasant dress, with dark hair and eyes. She carried a little girl on one
arm. The mother looked about thirty, and the girl was some six years of
age.
"'Take a chair, sir,' said the mistress of the house. 'We will do the
best we can for you.' Then she told the boy to take the horse to the
stable and call his father. I took my seat by the fire and reflected
that Simon would not be likely to know me, if it were he, as he had not
seen me for thirty years. You had bidden me take care not to betray
myself, but I knew that Time had done his work.
"'The country about here looks very dreary,' I said to Madame Simon. She
turned in surprise from her work. She was laying the table for my
supper.
"'Ah! you are a stranger here!' she answered with a smile. 'No, it is
not dreary; it is much pleasanter here than in the cities.'
"'But in winter?' I persisted.
"'Oh! the mountains are magnificent then.'
"'Have you been living here long, Madame?'
"'Ten years,' she replied.
"'And these beautiful children are yours?'
"She hesitated a moment, or I thought so, but she said in a moment:
"'Yes, they are mine, and you will see their father presently, the best
man in this place!' She brought in a bowl of steaming soup. 'Excuse the
simplicity of the service, sir.' The door opened, and, master, if it had
been in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have known
Simonne's son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master----"
Pierre stopped short.
"Go on; you frighten me!" cried the Marquis.
"Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and the
tears came to my eyes. He lost it at Elchingen, in 1805--it was shot off
by a cannon ball."
The Marquis started.
"And his brother was there, too!" he murmured. "Go on, Pierre."
"I knew him at once, as I was saying. He is tall, he is strong; his hair
is turning gray, and he wears a heavy moustache, and was dressed in
peasant costume. He came to me, and said in a voice that was so like his
mother's: 'You are welcome!' I extended my hand, he did not seem to be
astonished, and received it cordially. I went to the table, and while I
ate my soup I watched him closely. He took the little girl up in his
arms, and began to talk to her in a low voice, and the child listened
intently. I could not hear what was said, but presently the child came
running to me.
"'Monsieur,' she cried, 'will you do me a favor?'
"'Certainly,' I replied.
"'Will you drink with papa to the French army?'
"'Most gladly!' I answered, wondering at the same time if Simon took me
for a spy. The mere idea made me feel ill, and I wanted to tell him who
I was, when he came to the table with a couple of glasses.
"'To the success of our arms shall be our toast, sir!' he said. I
answered, as I raised my glass to my lips: 'To France!' His eyes flashed
with joy. These words had evidently conquered his distrust.
"'Would it be indiscreet to ask, sir, by what strange chance you are in
this wild place?'
"I told him, for I had to lie, that I had lost my way. He looked at me a
moment.
"'You come from Germany, do you not?'
"'Are you a sorcerer?' I exclaimed.
"'No--it is plain to see that by the cut and the material of your
clothing. But is it true,' he continued rapidly, 'that the allied armies
are about to cross the frontier?'
"'Alas! I fear so. But you do not know our last disaster, then?'
"'Fortune has betrayed us, but patience--patience!'
"'Do you think that further resistance is possible?' I asked.
"'I am a soldier of France!' was his proud reply. 'I believe in my
banner and my country!' He then asked me many questions, and finally one
that made my heart leap to my throat.
"'Is it true that the French emigres have accepted positions in these
foreign armies?' I protested my ignorance. He passed his hand over his
brow, as if to chase away unfortunate doubts, and I changed the
conversation.
"'These lovely children are yours?' I asked.
"'Yes--and this is my wife, Francoise Simon, the best of women, who has
consoled me in many sorrows, and this is Jacques, my eldest, and you
know Francinette. Perhaps you will give me your name now?'
"'One moment--you have not introduced yourself.'
"'I am called Simon,' he answered with a frown.
"'Simon--and nothing else?'
"'Nothing else. If I ever bore another name, I have forgotten it. I
fought in 1791. I was wounded and compelled to leave the service.' He
spoke with some nervousness.
"'Are your parents living?' I asked. He looked at me intently, and
pouring out a glass of wine, he carried it to his lips with a steady
hand.
"'I never knew them,' he replied.
"We talked for some time, and he told me that after he recovered from
his wound he entered the service of a rich farmer, and soon saved enough
to lease a small farm for himself, where he carried on his small
business as an inn and kept a school, 'for,' he said, 'I had received a
good education, and wished to do something for the children about me.'
"It was midnight before I went to my room, and I arose as soon as I
heard a movement below, but, early as it was, Simon had already gone
out. I felt that I must return to you without waiting to see him again.
I had formed a plan which I trust you will approve of. I went to the
Mayor and obtained a copy of Simon's papers. You know since the new code
any one can get such papers, and I said something about a lawsuit."
"And you have these papers?"
"Yes--in a portfolio in my breast."
He touched his breast as he spoke and uttered an exclamation of pain. "I
had forgotten," he said, and then told his master of the attack made on
him in the Black Forest.
"That is very strange," said the Marquis, thoughtfully.
"At all events, I wounded him," Pierre replied.
At this moment there was a sound just outside the door. The Marquis
threw it open quickly, but there was nothing to be seen.
"I was sure I heard--"
"This old, worm-eaten wood makes strange noises when the dampness gets
into it," said Pierre.
The Marquis read the papers carefully which Pierre now gave him.
"But there were two children at the time?" he said to Pierre. "Where is
the certificate of the birth of Jacques?"
Pierre hesitated. "When Simon and Francoise were married," he answered,
reluctantly, "Jacques was already born."
"And now," said the Marquis, "I must make some change in my will. My
poor boy, in these papers, does not give his real name, nor the place of
his birth, but we will soon remedy that."
"But why do you talk of your will! You must see your son, master, and
then you can make all things right."
"I have grown very old lately, and have little strength left, but I hope
to embrace my son Simon before I die; but I am in the hands of God. I
wish to incorporate these papers in my will and then there will be no
difficulty in proving Simon's relationship."
"But what do you fear?" asked Pierre.
The Marquis looked at him.
"Why this question? You know as well as I."
"Do you think that the Vicomte would have the audacity--"
The Marquis laid his hand on his servant's breast.
"There is no peasant," he said, slowly and emphatically, "no peasant in
these parts who is capable of such a crime."
Pierre bowed his head; he understood.
"And this is not all," continued his master, "a will may be lost, may be
stolen. I wish to provide for everything, and wish that Simon and his
children shall be rich."
The Marquis went on speaking in so low a voice that no one but the
servant could possibly hear.