On a hot and sultry day of June I found myself seated in a country cart,
and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way towards
Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress, to which I was sentenced as a prisoner. A
weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts I had to
contend against an attack of ague, which I had just caught, and which
was then raging like a plague in the Austrian camp. One solitary
reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period.
We had halted on the outskirts of a little village called ‘Broletto,’
for the siesta, and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing
away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on
looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. The corporal
who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and
soon returned with the tidings that ‘a great victory had been gained
over the French, commanded by Bonaparte in person; that the army was in
full retreat; and this was the despatch an officer of Melas’ staff was
now hastening to lay at the feet of the emperor.’
‘I thought several times this morning,’ said the corporal, ‘that I heard
artillery; and so it seems I might, for we are not above twenty miles
from where the battle was fought.’
‘And how is the place called?’ asked I, in a tone sceptical enough to be
offensive.
‘Marengo,’ replied he; ‘mayhap, the name will not escape your memory.’
How true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he
uttered it! But so it was; even as late as four o’clock the victory
was with the Austrians. Three separate envoys had left the field with
tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the general,
exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to
tell his master that ‘Italy was lost.’
I have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that I set down for
myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet I have not wandered--I
mean, not to dwell upon events wherein I was not myself an actor; but
I am determined still to adhere to my rule, and, leaving that glorious
event behind me, plod wearily along my journey.
Day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance:
vast plains of corn and maize, olives and vines, everywhere--on the
mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading
their tangled networks over cottages; and yet everywhere poverty,
misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a half-naked, starving
populace, met the eye at every turn. There was the stamp of slavery on
all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air
of their rulers.
If any spot can impress the notion of impregnability it is Kuffstein.
Situated on an eminence of rock over the Inn, three sides of the base
are washed by that rapid river. A little village occupies the fourth;
and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above by
cranes and pulleys--the only approach being by a path wide enough for
a single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his
carrying any burthen, however light. All that science and skill could do
is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every surface
of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and mortars show
resources of defence it would seem madness to attack.
Three thousand men, under the command of General Urleben, held this
fortress at the time I speak of, and by their habits of discipline
and vigilance showed that no over-security would make them neglect the
charge of so important a trust. I was the first French prisoner that had
ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform
was I indebted for this distinction. I have mentioned that in Genoa they
gave me a staff-officer’s dress and appointments, and from this
casual circumstance it was supposed that I should know a great deal of
Masséna’s movements and intentions, and that by judicious management I
might be induced to reveal it.
General Urleben, who had been brought up in France, was admirably
calculated to have promoted such an object were it practicable. He
possessed the most winning address as well as great personal advantages,
and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of the
handsomest men in Austria. He at once invited me to his table, and
having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the
view extended for miles along the Inn, he sent me stores of books,
journals, and newspapers, French, English, and German, showing by the
very candour of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and
trust.
If imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to
have been so. My mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little
plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that
way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my
after-life, than without such associations they would ever have been.
Then I used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird’s-eye views,
prisoner’s glimpses, of the glorious Tyrol scenery below us. Early
in the afternoon came dinner; and then, with the general’s pleasant
converse, a cigar, and a chess-board, the time wore smoothly on till
nightfall.
An occasional thunderstorm, grander and more sublime than anything I
have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm but not
unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on
the way to or from Vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in
these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac
told me it was autumn, I could scarcely believe a single month had
glided over. I will not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious
idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and
vigour, and energy were highest within me, was a grievous privation;
but, except in these regrets, I could almost call this time a happy
one. The unfortunate position in which I started in life gave me little
opportunity, or even inclination for learning. Except the little Père
Michel had taught me, I knew nothing. I need not say that this was but
a sorry stock of education, even at that period, when, I must say, the
sabre was more in vogue than the grammar.
I now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. General Urleben lent
me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and
at times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and
advice. To history generally, but particularly that of France, he made
me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing
upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of
France when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns.
I had told him all that I knew myself of my birth and family, and
frequently would he allude to the subject of my reading, by saying, ‘The
son of an old “Garde du Corps” needs no commentary when perusing such
details as these. Your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants
of a monarchy bore themselves--what chivalry lived at that time in men’s
hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty.’
Such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time
to time; nor was their impression the less deep when supported by the
testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. Even in deeds of
military glory the Monarchy could compete with the Republic, and Urleben
took care to insist upon a fact I was never unwilling to concede--that
the well born were ever foremost in danger, no matter whether the banner
was a white one or a tricolour.
‘Le bon sang ne peut pas mentir’ was an adage I never disputed, although
certainly I never expected to hear it employed to the disparagement of
those to whom it did not apply.
As the winter set in I saw less of the general. He was usually much
occupied in the mornings, and at evenings he was accustomed to go
down to the village, where, of late, some French _émigré_ families
had settled--unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend
against! Many such were scattered through the Tyrol at that period, both
for the security and the cheapness it afforded. Of these, Urleben rarely
spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a
newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them.
One morning, as I sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me and said,
‘Strange enough, Tiernay, last night I was looking at a view of this
very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were correct,
accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar--what a singular
illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions! The sketch I speak
of was made by a young countrywoman of yours--a highly gifted lady, who
little thought that the accomplishments of her education were one day
to be the resources of her livelihood. Even so,’ said he, sighing, ‘a
marquise of the best blood of France is reduced to sell her drawings!’
As I expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered
to make the request if I would send some of mine in return; and thus
accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the
strangers, which gradually extended to books and music, and, lastly, to
civil messages and inquiries of which the general was ever the bearer.
What a boon was all this to me! What a sun-ray through the bars of
a prisoner’s cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! The very
similarity of our pursuits, too, had something inexpressibly pleasing in
it, and I bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that I
knew to whose eyes it would be submitted.
‘Do you know, Tiernay,’ said the general to me, one day, ‘I am about to
incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf--I am going to contravene the
strict orders of the War Office, and take you along with me this evening
down to the village.’
I started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a
word.
‘I know perfectly well,’ continued he, ‘that you will not abuse my
confidence. I ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will
not make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and I
desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as
a prisoner well may.’
I readily gave the pledge required, and he went on--‘I have no cautions
to give you, nor any counsels--Madame d’Aigreville is a Royalist.’
‘She is madame, then!’ said I, in a voice of some disappointment.
‘Yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried,’ said he, smiling
at my eagerness. I affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a
burning flush covered my cheek, and I felt as uncomfortable as possible.
I dined that day as usual with the general, adjourning after dinner to
the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. Never did he
appear to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in
his digressions, as that evening. He halted at every move--he had some
narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our
game to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he
fancied there was a thunderstorm brewing, and that we should do well to
put off our visit to a more favourable opportunity.
‘It is little short of half a league,’ said he, ‘to the village, and in
bad weather is worse than double the distance.’
I did not dare to controvert his opinion, but, fortunately, a gleam of
sunshine shot, the same moment, through the window, and proclaimed a
fair evening.
Heaven knows I had suffered little of a prisoner’s durance--my life had
been one of comparative freedom and ease; and yet, I cannot tell the
swelling emotion of my heart with which I emerged from the deep archway
of the fortress, and heard the bang of the heavy gate as it closed
behind me. Steep as was the path, I felt as if I could have bounded
down it without a fear! The sudden sense of liberty was maddening in
its excitement, and I half suspect that had I been on horseback in that
moment of wild delight, I should have forgotten all my plighted word and
parole, though I sincerely trust that the madness would not have endured
beyond a few minutes. If there be among my readers one who has known
imprisonment, he will forgive this confession of a weakness, which to
others of less experience will seem unworthy, perhaps dishonourable.
Dorf Kuffstein was a fair specimen of the picturesque simplicity of
a Tyrol village. There were the usual number of houses, with carved
galleries and quaint images in wood, the shrines and altars, the little
‘platz,’ for Sunday recreation, and the shady alley for rifle practice.
There were also the trellised walks of vines, and the orchards; in the
midst of one of which we now approached a long, low farmhouse, whose
galleries projected over the river. This was the abode of Madame
d’Aigreville.
A peasant was cleaning a little mountain pony, from which a side-saddle
had just been removed as we came up, and he, leaving his work, proceeded
to ask us into the house, informing us, as he went, that the ladies had
just returned from a long ramble, and would be with us presently.
The drawing-room into which we were shown was a perfect picture of
cottage elegance; all the furniture was of polished walnut-wood, and
kept in the very best condition. It opened by three spacious windows
upon the terrace above the river, and afforded a view of mountain and
valley for miles on every side. An easel was placed on this gallery, and
a small sketch in oils of Kuffstein was already nigh completed on it.
There were books, too, in different languages, and, to my inexpressible
delight, a piano!
The reader will smile, perhaps, at the degree of pleasure objects so
familiar and everyday called forth; but let him remember how removed
were all the passages of my life from such civilising influences--how
little of the world had I seen beyond camps and barrack-rooms, and how
ignorant I was of the charm which a female presence can diffuse over
even the very humblest abode.
Before I had well ceased to wonder, and admire these objects, the
marquise entered.
A tall and stately old lady, with an air at once haughty and gracious,
received me with a profound curtsy, while she extended her hand to the
salute of the general She was dressed in deep mourning, and wore
her white hair in two braids along her face. The sound of my native
language, with its native accent, made me forget the almost profound
reserve of her manner, and I was fast recovering from the constraint her
coldness imposed, when her niece entered the room. Mademoiselle, who was
at that time about seventeen, but looked older by a year or two, was the
very ideal of brunette beauty; she was dark-eyed and black-haired, with
a mouth the most beautifully formed; her figure was light, and her foot
a model of shape and symmetry. All this I saw in an instant, as she
came, half-sliding, half-bounding, to meet the general; and then turning
to me, welcomed me with a cordial warmth, very different from the
reception of Madame la Marquise.
Whether it was the influence of her presence, whether it was a partial
concession of the old lady’s own, or whether my own awkwardness was
wearing off by time, I cannot say--but gradually the stiffness of the
interview began to diminish. From the scenery around us we grew to talk
of the Tyrol generally, then of Switzerland, and lastly of France. The
marquise came from Auvergne, and was justly proud of the lovely scenery
of her birthplace.
Calmly and tranquilly as the conversation had been carried on up to
this period, the mention of France seemed to break down the barrier of
reserve within the old lady’s mind, and she burst out in a wild flood
of reminiscences of the last time she had seen her native village. ‘The
Blues,’ as the revolutionary soldiers were called, had come down
upon the quiet valley, carrying fire and carnage into a once peaceful
district. The château of her family was razed to the ground; her husband
was shot upon his own terrace; the whole village was put to the sword;
her own escape was owing to the compassion of the gardener’s wife, who
dressed her like a peasant boy, and employed her in a menial station, a
condition she was forced to continue so long as the troops remained in
the neighbourhood. ‘Yes,’ said she, drawing off her silk mittens, ‘these
hands still witness the hardships I speak of. These are the marks of my
servitude.’
It was in vain the general tried at first to sympathise, and then
withdraw her from the theme; in vain her niece endeavoured to suggest
another topic, or convey a hint that the subject might be unpleasing
to me. It was the old lady’s one absorbing idea, and she could not
relinquish it. Whole volumes of the atrocities perpetrated by the
revolutionary soldiery came to her recollection; each moment as she
talked, memory would recall this fact or the other, and so she continued
rattling on with the fervour of a heated imagination, and the wild
impetuosity of a half-crazed intellect. As for myself, I suffered far
more from witnessing the pain others felt for me, than from any offence
the topic occasioned me directly. These events were all ‘before my
time.’ I was neither a Blue by birth nor by adoption; a child during the
period of revolution, I had only taken a man’s part when the country,
emerging from its term of anarchy and blood, stood at bay against the
whole of Europe. These consolations were, however, not known to the
others, and it was at last, in a moment of unendurable agony, that
mademoiselle rose and left the room.
The general’s eyes followed her as she went, and then sought mine with
an expression full of deep meaning. If I read his look aright, it
spoke patience and submission; and the lesson was an easier one than he
thought.
‘They talk of heroism,’ cried she frantically--‘it was massacre!
And when they speak of chivalry they mean the slaughter of women and
children!’ She looked round, and seeing that her niece had left the
room, suddenly dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, ‘Think of her
mother’s fate, dragged from her home, her widowed, desolate home, and
thrown into the Temple, outraged and insulted, condemned on a mock
trial, and then carried away to the guillotine! Ay, and even then, on
that spot which coming death might have sanctified, in that moment when
even fiendish vengeance can turn away and leave its victim at liberty
to utter a last prayer in peace, even then, these wretches devised an
anguish greater than all death could compass. You will scarcely believe
me,’ said she, drawing in her breath, and talking with an almost
convulsive effort, ‘you will scarcely believe me in what I am now about
to tell you, but it is the truth--the simple but horrible truth. When my
sister mounted the scaffold there was no priest to administer the last
rites. It was a time, indeed, when few were left; their hallowed heads
had fallen in thousands before that. She waited for a few minutes,
hoping that one would appear; and when the mob learned the meaning of
her delay, they set up a cry of fiendish laughter, and with a blasphemy
that makes one shudder to think of, they pushed forward a boy, one of
those blood-stained _gamins_ of the streets, and made him gabble a mock
litany! Yes, it is true--a horrible mockery of our service, in the ears
and before the eyes of that dying saint.’
‘When? in what year? in what place was that?’ cried I, in an agony of
eagerness.
‘I can give you both time and place, sir,’ said the marquise, drawing
herself proudly up, for she construed my question into a doubt of her
veracity. ‘It was in the year 1703, in the month of August; and as for
the place, it was one well seasoned to blood--the Place de Grève at
Paris.’
A fainting sickness came over me as I heard these words; the dreadful
truth flashed across me that the victim was the Marquise d’Estelles, and
the boy on whose infamy she dwelt so strongly, no other than myself.
For the moment, it was nothing to me that she had not identified me with
this atrocity; I felt no consolation in the thought that I was unknown
and unsuspected. The heavy weight of the indignant accusation almost
crushed me. Its falsehood I knew, and yet could I dare to disprove it?
Could I hazard the consequences of an avowal, which all my subsequent
pleadings could never obliterate. Even were my innocence established in
one point, what a position did it reduce me to in every other!
These struggles must have manifested themselves strongly in my looks,
for the marquise, with all her self-occupation, remarked how ill I
seemed. ‘I see sir,’ cried she, ‘that all the ravages of war have not
steeled your heart against true piety; my tale has moved you strongly.’
I muttered something in concurrence, and she went on. ‘Happily for you,
you were but a child when such scenes were happening. Not, indeed, that
childhood was always unstained in those days of blood; but you were, as
I understand, the son of a “Garde du Corps,” one of those loyal men who
sealed their devotion with their life. Were you in Paris then?’
‘Yes, madam,’ said I briefly.
‘With your mother, perhaps?’
‘I was quite alone, madam--an orphan on both sides.’
‘What was your mother’s family name?’
Here was a puzzle; but at a hazard I resolved to claim her who should
sound best to the ears of La Marquise. ‘La Lasterie, madam,’ said I.
‘La Lasterie de la Vignoble--a most distinguished house, sir. Provencal,
and of the purest blood. Auguste de la Lasterie married the daughter of
the Duke de Miriancourt, a cousin of my husband’s, and there was another
of them who went as ambassador to Madrid.’
I knew none of them, and I suppose I looked as much.
‘Your mother was, probably, of the elder branch, sir?’ asked she.
I had to stammer out a most lamentable confession of my ignorance.
‘Not know your own kinsfolk, sir--not your nearest of blood!’ cried she,
in amazement. ‘General, have you heard this strange avowal? or is it
possible that my ears have deceived me?’
‘Please to remember, madam,’ said I submissively, ‘the circumstances in
which I passed my infancy. My father fell by the guillotine.’
‘And his son wears the uniform of those who slew him!’
‘Of a French soldier, madam, proud of the service he belongs to;
glorying to be one of the first army in Europe.’
‘An army without a cause is a banditti, sir. Your soldiers, without
loyalty, are without a banner.’
‘We have a country, madam.’
‘I must protest against this discussion going further,’ said the general
blandly, while in a lower tone he whispered something in her ear.
‘Very true, very true,’ said she; ‘I had forgotten all that. Monsieur
de Tiernay, you will forgive me this warmth. An old woman, who has lost
nearly everything in the world, may have the privilege of bad temper
accorded her. We are friends now, I hope,’ added she, extending her
hand, and, with a smile of most gracious meaning, beckoning to me to sit
beside her on the sofa.
Once away from the terrible theme of the Revolution, she conversed with
much agreeability; and her niece having reappeared, the conversation
became animated and pleasing. Need I say with what interest I now
regarded mademoiselle--the object of all my boyish devotion, the same
whose pale features I had watched for many an hour in the dim half-light
of the little chapel, her whose image was never absent from my thoughts
waking or sleeping, and now again appearing before me in all the grace
of coming womanhood!
Perhaps to obliterate any impression of her aunt’s severity--perhaps it
was mere manner--but I thought there was a degree of anxiety to please
in her bearing towards me. She spoke, too, as though our acquaintance
was to be continued by frequent meetings, and dropped hints of
plans that implied constant intercourse. Even excursions into the
neighbourhood she spoke of; when, suddenly stopping, she said, ‘But
these are for the season of spring, and before that time Monsieur de
Tiernay will be far away.’
‘Who can tell that?’ said I. ‘I would seem to be forgotten by my
comrades.’
‘Then you must take care to do that which may refresh their memory,’
said she pointedly; and before I could question her more closely as to
her meaning, the general had risen to take his leave.
‘Madame la Marquise was somewhat more tart than usual,’ said he to me,
as we ascended the cliff; ‘but you have passed the ordeal now, and the
chances are, she will never offend you in the same way again. Great
allowances must be made for those who have suffered as she has.
Family--fortune--station--even country--all lost to her; and even hope
now dashed by many a disappointment.’
Though puzzled by the last few words, I made no remark on them, and he
resumed--
‘She has invited you to come and see her as often as you are at liberty;
and, for my part, you shall not be restricted in that way. Go and come
as you please, only do not infringe the hours of the fortress; and if
you can concede a little now and then to the prejudices of the old lady,
your intercourse will be all the more agreeable to both parties.’
‘I believe, general, that I have little of the Jacobin to recant,’ said
I, laughing.
‘I should go further, my dear friend, and say, none,’ added he. ‘Your
uniform is the only tint of “blue” about you.’ And thus chatting, we
reached the fortress, and said good-night.
I have been particular, perhaps tiresomely so, in retelling these broken
phrases and snatches of conversation; but they were the first matches
applied to a train that was long and artfully laid.