The general was as good as his word, and I now enjoyed the most
unrestricted liberty; in fact, the officers of the garrison said truly,
that they were far more like prisoners than I was. As regularly as
evening came, I descended the path to the village, and, as the bell
tolled out the vespers, I was crossing the little grass-plot to the
cottage. So regularly was I looked for, that the pursuits of each
evening were resumed as though only accidentally interrupted. The
unfinished game of chess, the half-read volume, the newly-begun drawing,
were taken up where we had left them, and life seemed to have centred
itself in those delightful hours between sunset and midnight.
I suppose there are few young men who have not, at some time or other
of their lives, enjoyed similar privileges, and known the fascination of
intimacy in some household, where the affections became engaged as the
intellect expanded, and, while winning another’s heart, have elevated
their own. But to know the full charm of such intercourse, one must have
been as I was--a prisoner--an orphan--almost friendless in the world--a
very ‘waif’ upon the shore of destiny. I cannot express the intense
pleasure these evenings afforded me. The cottage was my home, and more
than my home. It was a shrine at which my heart worshipped--for I was
in love! Easy as the confession is to make now, tortures would not have
wrung it from me then!
In good truth, it was long before I knew it; nor can I guess how much
longer the ignorance might have lasted, when General Urleben suddenly
dispelled the clouds, by informing me that he had just received from the
Minister of War at Vienna a demand for the name, rank, and regiment of
his prisoner, previous to the negotiation for his exchange.
‘You will fill up these blanks, Tiernay,’ said he, ‘and within a month,
or less, you will be once more free, and say adieu to Kuffstein.’
Had the paper contained my dismissal from the service, I shame to own
it would have been more welcome! The last few months had changed all the
character of my life, suggested new hopes and new ambitions. The career
I used to glory in had grown distasteful; the comrades I once longed to
rejoin were now become almost repulsive to my imagination. The marquise
had spoken much of emigrating to some part of the new world beyond seas,
and thither my fancy alike pointed. Perhaps my dreams of a future were
not the less rose-coloured that they received no shadow from anything
like a ‘fact.’ The old lady’s geographical knowledge was neither
accurate nor extensive, and she contrived to invest this land of promise
with old associations of what she once heard of Pondicherry--with
certain features belonging to the United States. A glorious country it
would indeed have been, which, within a month’s voyage, realised all
the delights of the tropics, with the healthful vigour of the temperate
zone, and where, without an effort beyond the mere will, men amassed
enormous fortunes in a year or two. In a calmer mood, I might, indeed
must, have been struck with the wild inconsistency of the old lady’s
imaginings, and looked with somewhat of scepticism on the map for that
spot of earth so richly endowed; but now I believed everything, provided
it only ministered to my new hopes. Laura evidently, too, believed in
the ‘Canaan’ of which, at last, we used to discourse as freely as though
we had been there. Little discussions would, however, now and then vary
the uniformity of this creed, and I remember once feeling almost hurt at
Laura’s not agreeing with me about zebras, which I assured her were just
as trainable as horses, but which the marquise flatly refused ever to
use in any of her carriages. These were mere passing clouds: the regular
atmosphere of our wishes was bright and transparent. In the midst of
these delicious daydreams, there came one day a number of letters to
the marquise by the hands of a courier on his way to Naples. What their
contents I never knew, but the tidings seemed most joyful, for the old
lady invited the general and myself to dinner, when the table was decked
out with white lilies on all sides; she herself, and Laura also, wearing
them in bouquets on their dresses.
The occasion had, I could see, something of a celebration about it.
Mysterious hints to circumstances I knew nothing of were constantly
interchanged, the whole ending with a solemn toast to the memory of the
‘Saint and Martyr’; but who he was, or when he lived, I knew not one
single fact about.
That evening--I cannot readily forget it--was the first I had ever an
opportunity of being alone with Laura! Hitherto the marquise had always
been beside us; now she had all this correspondence to read over
with the general, and they both retired into a little boudoir for
the purpose, while Laura and myself wandered out upon the terrace,
as awkward and constrained as though our situation had been the most
provoking thing possible. It was on that same morning I had received the
general’s message regarding my situation, and I was burning with anxiety
to tell it, and yet knew not exactly how. Laura, too, seemed full of her
own thoughts, and leaned pensively over the balustrade and gazed on the
stream.
‘What are you thinking of so seriously?’ asked I, after a long pause.
‘Of long, long ago,’ said she, sighing, ‘when I was a little child. I
remember a little chapel like that yonder, only that it was not on a
rock over a river, but stood in a small garden; and though in a great
city, it was as lonely and solitary as might be--the Chapelle de St.
Blois.’
‘St. Blois, Laura!’ cried I; ‘oh, tell me about that!’
‘Why, you surely never heard of it before,’ said she, smiling. ‘It was
in a remote quarter of Paris, nigh the outer Boulevard, and known to but
a very few. It had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there
were châteaux and country-houses within that space, which then was part
of Paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there. How well I remember
it all! The dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple
altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the
poor curé.’
‘Can you remember all this so well?’ asked I eagerly, for the theme was
stirring my very heart of hearts.
‘All--everything--the straggling, weed-grown garden, through which we
passed to our daily devotions, the congregation standing respectfully to
let us walk by, for my mother was still the great Marquise d’Estelles,
although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. They
who had known us in our prosperity were as respectful and devoted as
ever; and poor old Richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my
mother’s bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how everything
stands out clear and distinct before my memory! Nay, Maurice, but I can
tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in
themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. There
was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve
the mass with the père, and he always came to place a footstool or a
cushion for my mother. Poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was,
changing colour at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when
he had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands
crossed on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of
the church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder
and pleasure! Yes, I think I see his dark eyes, glistening through the
gloom, ever fixed on me! I am sure, Maurice, that little fellow fancied
he was in love with me!’
‘And why not, Laura? was the thing so very impossible? was it even so
unlikely?’
‘Not that,’ said she archly; ‘but think of a mere child; we were both
mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house,
perhaps--of course he must have been that--raising his eyes to the
daughter of the great “marquise”; what energy of character there must
have been to have suggested the feeling! how daring he was, with all his
bashfulness!’
‘You never saw him afterwards?’
‘Never!’
‘Never thought of him, perhaps?’
‘I’ll not say that,’ said she, smiling. ‘I have often wondered to myself
if that hardihood I speak of had borne good or evil fruit. Had he
been daring or enterprising in the right, or had he, as the sad times
favoured, been only bold and impetuous for the wrong!’
‘And how have you pictured him to your imagination?’ said I, as if
merely following out a fanciful vein of thought.
‘My fancy would like to have conceived him a chivalrous adherent to our
ancient royalty, striving nobly in exile to aid the fortunes of some
honoured house, or daring, as many brave men have dared, the heroic part
of La Vendée. My reason, however, tells me that he was far more likely
to have taken the other part.’
‘To which you will concede no favour, Laura; not even the love of
glory.’
‘Glory, like honour, should have its fountain in a monarchy,’ cried she
proudly. ‘The rude voices of a multitude can confer no meed of praise.
Their judgments are the impulses of the moment. But why do we speak of
these things, Maurice? nor have I, who can but breathe my hopes for a
cause, the just pretension to contend with you, who shed your blood for
its opposite.’
As she spoke, she hurried from the balcony, and quitted the room. It was
the first time, as I have said, that we had ever been alone together,
and it was also the first time she had ever expressed herself strongly
on the subject of party. What a moment to have declared her opinions,
and when her reminiscences, too, had recalled our infancy! How often
was I tempted to interrupt that confession by declaring myself, and how
strongly was I repelled by the thought that the avowal might sever us
for ever! While I was thus deliberating, the marquise, with the general,
entered the room, and Laura followed in a few moments.
The supper that night was a pleasant one to all save me. The rest were
gay and high-spirited. Allusions, understood by them but not by me, were
caught up readily, and as quickly responded to. Toasts were uttered, and
wishes breathed in concert, but all was like a dream to me. Indeed my
heart grew*heavier at every moment. My coming departure, of which I had
not yet spoken, lay drearily on my mind, while the bold decision with
which Laura declared her faith showed that our destinies were separated
by an impassable barrier.
It may be supposed that my depression was not relieved by discovering
that the general had already announced my approaching departure, and the
news, far from being received with anything like regret, was made
the theme of pleasant allusion, and even congratulation. The marquise
repeatedly assured me of the delight the tidings gave her, and Laura
smiled happily towards me, as if echoing the sentiment.
Was this the feeling I had counted on? were these the evidences of
an affection for which I had given my whole heart? Oh, how bitterly
I reviled the frivolous ingratitude of woman! how heavily I condemned
their heartless, unfeeling nature! In a few days, a few hours, perhaps,
I shall be as totally forgotten here as though I had never been, and yet
these are the people who parade their devotion to a fallen monarchy, and
their affection for an exiled house. I tried to arm myself with every
prejudice against Royalism. I thought of Santron and his selfish,
sarcastic spirit. I thought of all the stories I used to hear of
cowardly ingratitude and noble infamy, and tried to persuade myself that
the blandishments of the well born were but the gloss that covered cruel
and unfeeling natures.
For very pride s sake, I tried to assume a manner cool and unconcerned
as their own. I affected to talk of my departure as a pleasant event,
and even hinted at the career that Fortune might hereafter open to me.
In this they seemed to take a deeper interest than I anticipated, and I
could perceive that more than once the general exchanged looks with
the ladies most significantly. I fear I grew very impatient at last.
I grieve to think that I fancied a hundred annoyances that were never
intended for me, and, when we arose to take leave, I made my adieux with
a cold and stately reserve, intended to be strongly impressive and cut
them to the quick.
I heard very little of what the general said as we ascended the cliff.
I was out of temper with him, and myself, and all the world; and it was
only when he recalled my attention to the fact, for the third or fourth
time, that I learned how very kindly he meant by me in the matter of my
liberation; for while he had forwarded all my papers to Vienna, he was
quite willing to set me at liberty on the following day, in the perfect
assurance that my exchange would be confirmed.
‘You will thus have a full fortnight at your own disposal, Tiernay,’
said he, ‘since the official answer cannot arrive from Vienna before
that time, and you need not report yourself in Paris for eight or ten
days after.’
Here was a boon now thrown away! For my part, I would a thousand times
rather have lingered on at Kuffstein than have been free to travel
Europe from one end to the other. My outraged pride, however, put this
out of the question. La Marquise and her niece had both assumed a manner
of sincere gratification, and I was resolved not to be behindhand in my
show of joy. I ought to have known it, said I again and again. I ought
to have known it. These antiquated notions of birth and blood can never
co-exist with any generous sentiment. These remnants of a worn-out
monarchy can never forgive the vigorous energy that has dethroned their
decrepitude. I did not dare to speculate on what a girl Laura might have
been under other auspices; how nobly her ambition would have soared;
what high-souled patriotism she could have felt; how gloriously she
would have adorned the society of a regenerated nation. I thought of her
as she was, and could have hated myself for the devotion with which my
heart regarded her.
I never closed my eyes the entire night. I lay down and walked about
alternately, my mind in a perfect fever of conflict. Pride, a false
pride, but not the less strong for that, alone sustained me. The general
had announced to me that I was free. Be it so; I will no longer be a
burden on his hospitality. La Marquise hears the tidings with pleasure.
Agreed, then, we part without regret. Very valorous resolutions they
were, but come to, I must own, with a very sinking heart and a very
craven spirit.
Instead of my full uniform, that morning, I put on half dress, showing
that I was ready for the road; a sign, I had hoped, would have spoken
unutterable things to La Marquise and Laura.
Immediately after breakfast, I set out for the cottage. All the way, as
I went, I was drilling myself for the interview by assuming a tone of
the coolest and easiest indifference. They shall have no triumph over me
in this respect, muttered I. Let us see if I cannot be as unconcerned
as they are! To such a pitch had I carried my zeal for flippancy, that I
resolved to ask them whether they had no commission I could execute
for them in Paris or elsewhere. The idea struck me as excellent, so
indicative of perfect self-possession and command. I am sure I must
have rehearsed our interview at least a dozen times, supplying all the
stately grandeur of the old lady and all the quiet placitude of Laura.
By the time I reached the village I was quite strong in my part, and
as I crossed the Platz I was eager to begin it. This energetic spirit,
however, began to waver a little as I entered the lawn before the
cottage, and a most uncomfortable throbbing at my side made me stand
for a moment in the porch before I entered. I used always to make my
appearance unannounced, but now I felt that it would be more dignified
and distant were I to summon a servant, and yet I could find none. The
household was on a very simple scale, and in all likelihood the labours
of the field or the garden were now employing them. I hesitated what to
do, and after looking in vain around the _cour_ and the stable-yard, I
turned into the garden to seek for some one.
I had not proceeded many paces along a little alley, flanked by two
close hedges of yew, when I heard voices, and at the same instant my own
name uttered.
‘You told him to use caution, Laura; that we know little of this Tiernay
beyond his own narrative----’
‘I told him the very reverse, aunt. I said that he was the son of a
loyal “Garde du Corps,” left an orphan in infancy, and thrown by force
of events into the service of the Republic; but that every sentiment he
expressed, every ambition he cherished, and every feeling he displayed,
was that of a gentleman; nay, further----’ But
I did not wait for more, for, striking my sabre heavily on the ground
to announce my coming, I walked hurriedly forward towards a small arbour
where the ladies were seated at breakfast.
I need not stop to say how completely all my resolves were routed by the
few words I had overheard from Laura, nor how thoroughly I recanted all
my expressions concerning her. So full was I of joy and gratitude, that
I hastened to salute her before ever noticing the marquise, or being
conscious of her presence.
The old lady, usually the most exacting of all beings, took my omission
in good part, and most politely made room for me between herself and
Laura at the breakfast-table.
‘You have come most opportunely, Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said she; ‘for
not only were we just speaking of you, but discussing whether or not we
might ask of you a favour.’
‘Does the question admit of a discussion, madame?’ said I, bowing.
‘Perhaps not, in ordinary circumstances, perhaps not; but-----’ she
hesitated, seemed confused, and looked at Laura, who went on--‘My aunt
would say, sir, that we may be possibly asking too much--that we may
presume too far.’
‘Not on my will to serve you,’ I broke in, for her looks said much more
than her words.
‘The matter is this, sir,’ said the aunt: ‘we have a very valued
relative----’
‘Friend,’ interposed Laura, ‘friend, aunt.’
‘We will say friend, then,’ resumed she; ‘a friend in whose welfare we
are deeply interested, and whose regard for us is not less powerful, has
been for some years back separated from us by the force of those unhappy
circumstances which have made so many of us exiles! No means have
existed of communicating with each other, nor of interchanging those
hopes or fears for our country’s welfare which are so near to every
French heart! He is in Germany, we are in the wild Tyrol, one-half the
world apart, and dare not trust to a correspondence the utterance of
those sympathies which have brought so many to the scaffold!’
‘We would ask of you to see him, Monsieur de Tiernay, to know him,’
burst out Laura; ‘to tell him all that you can of France--above all, of
the sentiments of the army; he is a soldier himself, and will hear you
with pleasure.’
‘You may speak freely and frankly,’ continued the marquise; ‘the count
is man of the world enough to hear the truth even when it gives pain.
Your own career will interest him deeply; heroism has always had a charm
for all his house. This letter will introduce you; and as the general
informs us you have some days at your own disposal, pray give them to
our service in this cause.’
‘Willingly, madame,’ replied I, ‘only let me understand a little
better----’
‘There is no need to know more,’ interrupted Laura; ‘the Count de
Marsanne will himself suggest everything of which you will talk. He will
speak of us, perhaps--of the Tyrol--of Kuffstein; then he will lead the
conversation to France--in fact, once acquainted, you will follow the
dictates of your own fancy.’
‘Just so, Monsieur de Tiernay; it will be a visit with as little of
ceremony as possible----’
‘Aunt!’ interrupted Laura, as if recalling the marquise to caution; and
the old lady at once acknowledged the hint by a significant look.
I see it all, thought I De Marsanne is Laura’s accepted lover, and I am
the person to be employed as go-between. This was intolerable, and when
the thought first struck me, I was beside myself with passion.
‘Are we asking too great a favour, Monsieur de Tiernay?’ said the
marquise, whose eyes were fixed upon me during this conflict.
‘Of course not, madame,’ said I, in an accent of almost sarcastic tone.
‘If I am not wrong in my impressions, the cause might claim a deeper
devotion; but this is a theme I would not wish to enter upon.’
‘We are aware of that,’ said Laura quickly; ‘we are quite prepared for
your reserve, which is perfectly proper and becoming.’
‘Your position being one of unusual delicacy,’ chimed in the marquise.
I bowed haughtily and coldly, while the marquise uttered a thousand
expressions of gratitude and regard to me.
‘We had hoped to have seen you here a few days longer, monsieur,’ said
she, ‘but perhaps, under the circumstances, it is better as it is.’
‘Under the circumstances, madame,’ repeated I, ‘I am bound to agree with
you’; and I turned to say farewell.
‘Rather, _au revoir_, Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said the marquise;
‘friendship, such as ours, should at least be hopeful; say then _au
revoir_.’
‘Perhaps Monsieur de Tiernay’s hopes run not in the same channel as our
own, aunt,’ said Laura, ‘and perhaps the days of happiness that we look
forward to would bring far different feelings to his heart.’
This was too pointed--this was insupportably offensive I and I was only
able to mutter, ‘You are right, mademoiselle’; and then, addressing
myself to the marquise, I made some blundering apologies about haste
and so forth; while I promised to fulfil her commission faithfully and
promptly.
‘Shall we not hear from you?’ said the old lady, as she gave me her
hand. I was about to say, ‘Under the circumstances, better not’; but I
hesitated, and Laura, seeing my confusion, said, ‘It might be unfair,
aunt, to expect it; remember how he is placed.’
‘Mademoiselle is a miracle of forethought and candour too,’ said I.
‘Adieu! adieu for ever!’ The last word I uttered in a low whisper.
‘Adieu, Maurice,’ said she, equally low, and then turned away towards
the window.
From that moment until the instant when, out of breath and exhausted, I
halted for a few seconds on the crag below the fortress, I knew nothing;
my brain was in a whirl of mad, conflicting thought. Every passion
was working within me, and rage, jealousy, love, and revenge were
alternately swaying and controlling me. Then, however, as I looked down
for the last time on the village and the cottage beside the river, my
heart softened, and I burst into a torrent of tears. There, said I, as
I arose to resume my way, there! one illusion is dissipated; let me take
care that life never shall renew the affliction! Henceforth I will be a
soldier, and only a soldier.