I now come to an incident in my life, which, however briefly I may
speak, has left the deepest impression on my memory. I have told the
reader how I left Kuffstein fully satisfied that the Count de Marsanne
was Laura’s lover, and that in keeping my promise to see and speak with
him, I was about to furnish an instance of self-denial and fidelity that
nothing in ancient or modern days could compete with.
The letter was addressed, ‘The Count Louis de Marsanne, Château
d’Ettenheim, à Baden,’ and thither I accordingly repaired, travelling
over the Arlberg to Bregenz, and across the Lake of Constance to
Freyburg; my passport containing a very few words in cipher, which
always sufficed to afford me free transit and every attention from the
authorities. I had left the southern Tyrol in the outburst of a glorious
spring, but as I journeyed northward I found the rivers frozen, the
roads encumbered with snow, and the fields untilled and dreary-looking.
Like all countries which derive their charms from the elements of rural
beauty, foliage and verdure, Germany offers a sad coloured picture to
the traveller in winter or wintry weather.
It was thus, then, that the Grand-Duchy, so celebrated for its
picturesque beauty, struck me as a scene of dreary and desolate
wildness, an impression which continued to increase with every mile I
travelled from the highroad.
A long unbroken flat, intersected here and there by stunted willows,
traversed by a narrow earth road, lay between the Rhine and the Taunus
Mountains, in the midst of which stood the village of ‘Ettenheim.’
Outside the village, about half a mile off, and on the border of a vast
pine forest, stood the château.
It was originally a hunting-seat of the Dukes of Baden, but from
neglect, and disuse, gradually fell into ruin, from which it was
reclaimed, imperfectly enough, a year before, and now exhibited some
remnants of its former taste, along with the evidences of a far less
decorative spirit; the lower rooms being arranged as a stable, while the
stair and entrance to the first storey opened from a roomy coach-house.
Here some four or five conveyances of rude construction were gathered
together, splashed and unwashed, as if from recent use; and at a small
stove in a corner was seated a peasant in a blue frock, smoking as he
affected to clean a bridle which he held before him.
Without rising from his seat he saluted me, with true German phlegm, and
gave me the ‘Guten Tag,’ with all the grave unconcern of a ‘Badener.’ I
asked if the Count de Marsanne lived there. He said yes, but the ‘Graf’
was out hunting. When would he be back? By nightfall.
Could I remain there till his return? was my next question; and he
stared at me as I put it, with some surprise. ‘Warum nicht?’ ‘Why not?’
was at last his sententious answer, as he made way for me beside the
stove. I saw at once that my appearance had evidently not entitled me to
any peculiar degree of deference or respect, and that the man regarded
me as his equal. It was true I had come some miles on foot, and with a
knapsack on my shoulder, so that the peasant was fully warranted in his
reception of me. I accordingly seated myself at his side, and lighting
my pipe from his, proceeded to derive all the profit I could from
drawing him into conversation. I might have spared myself the trouble.
Whether the source lay in stupidity or sharpness, he evaded me on every
point. Not a single particle of information could I obtain about the
count, his habits, or his history. He would not even tell me how long he
had resided there, nor whence he had come. He liked hunting, and so did
the other ‘Herren.’ There was the whole I could scan; and to the simple
fact that there were others with him, did I find myself limited.
Curious to see something of the count’s ‘interior,’ I hinted to my
companion that I had come on purpose to visit his master, and suggested
the propriety of my awaiting his arrival in a more suitable place; but
he turned a deaf ear to the hint, and dryly remarked that the ‘Graf
would not be long a-coming now.’ This prediction was, however, not to
be verified; the dreary hours of the dull day stole heavily on, and
although I tried to beguile the time by lounging about the place,
the cold ungenial weather drove me back to the stove, or to the dark
precinct of the stable, tenanted by three coarse ponies of the mountain
breed.
One of these was the Grafs favourite, the peasant told me; and indeed
here he showed some disposition to become communicative, narrating
various gifts and qualities of the unseemly looking animal, which, in
his eyes, was a paragon of horse-flesh. ‘He could travel from here to
Kehl and back in a day, and has often done it,’ was one meed of praise
that he bestowed; a fact which impressed me more as regarded the rider
than the beast, and set my curiosity at work to think why any man should
undertake a journey of nigh seventy miles between two such places and
with such speed. The problem served to occupy me till dark, and I know
not how long after. A stormy night of rain and wind set in, and the
peasant, having bedded and foraged his cattle, lighted a rickety old
lantern and began to prepare for bed; for such I at last saw was the
meaning of a long crib, like a coffin, half filled with straw and
sheep-skins. A coarse loaf of black bread, some black forest cheese, and
a flask of Kleinthaler, a most candid imitation of vinegar, made their
appearance from a cupboard, and I did not disdain to partake of these
delicacies.
My host showed no disposition to become more communicative over his
wine, and, indeed, the liquor might have excused any degree of reserve;
and no sooner was our meal over than, drawing a great woollen cap half
over his face, he rolled himself up in his sheep-skins, and betook
himself to sleep, if not with a good conscience, at least with a sturdy
volition that served just as well.
Occasionally snatching a short slumber, or walking to and fro in the
roomy chamber, I passed several hours, when the splashing sound of
horses’ feet, advancing up the miry road, attracted me. Several times
before that I had been deceived by noises which turned out to be the
effects of storm, but now, as I listened, I thought I could hear voices.
I opened the door, but all was dark outside; it was the inky hour before
daybreak, when all is wrapped in deepest gloom. The rain, too, was
sweeping along the ground in torrents. The sounds came nearer every
instant, and, at last, a deep voice shouted out, ‘Jacob.’ Before I
could awaken the sleeping peasant, to whom I judged this summons was
addressed, a horseman dashed up to the door and rode in; another as
quickly followed him, and closed the door.
‘_Parbleu!_ D’Egville,’ said the first who entered, ‘we have got a rare
peppering!’
‘Even so,’ said the other, as he shook his hat, and threw off a cloak
perfectly soaked with rain; ‘_à la guerre comme à la guerre_.’
This was said in French, when, turning towards me, the former said in
German, ‘Be active, Master Jacob; these nags have had a smart ride
of it.’ Then, suddenly, as the light flashed full on my features, he
started back, and said, ‘How is this--who are you?’
A very brief explanation answered this somewhat un-courteous question,
and, at the same time, I placed the marquise’s letter in his hand,
saying, ‘The Count de Marsanne, I presume.’
He took it hastily, and drew nigh to the lantern to peruse it. I had now
full time to observe him, and saw that he was a tall and well-built
man, of about seven or eight-and-twenty. His features were remarkably
handsome, and although slightly flushed by his late exertion, were
as calm and composed as might be; a short black moustache gave his
upper-lip a slight character of ‘scorn, but the brow, open, frank and
good-tempered in its expression, redeemed this amply. He had not read
many lines when, turning about, he apologised in the most courteous
terms for the manner of my reception. He had been on a shooting
excursion for a few days back, and taken all his people with him, save
the peasant, who looked after the cattle. Then, introducing me to his
friend, whom he called Count d’Egville, he led the way upstairs.
It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to the dark and
dreary coach-house than the comfortable suite of apartments which we now
traversed on our way to a large, well-furnished room, where a table was
laid for supper, and a huge wood fire blazed brightly on the hearth. A
valet, of most respectful manner, received the count’s orders to prepare
a room for me, after which my host and his friend retired to change
their clothes.
Although D’Egville was many years older, and of a graver, sterner
fashion than the other, I could detect a degree of deference and respect
in his manner towards him, which De Marsanne accepted like one well
accustomed to receive it. It was a time, however, when, in the wreck
of fortune, so many men lived in a position of mere dependence, that I
thought nothing of this, nor had I even the time, as Count de Marsanne
entered. From my own preconceived notions as to his being Laura’s lover,
I was quite prepared to answer a hundred impatient inquiries about the
marquise and her niece, and as we were now alone, I judged that he would
deem the time a favourable one to talk of them. What was my surprise,
however, when he turned the conversation exclusively to the topic of my
own journey, the route I had travelled. He knew the country perfectly,
and spoke of the various towns and their inhabitants with acuteness and
tact.
His Royalist leanings did not, like those of the marquise, debar him
from feeling a strong interest respecting the success of the Republican
troops, with whose leaders he was thoroughly acquainted, knowing all
their peculiar excellences and defaults as though he had lived in
intimacy with them. Of Bonaparte’s genius he was the most enraptured
admirer, and would not hear of any comparison between him and the other
great captains of the day. D’Egville at last made his appearance, and
we sat down to an excellent supper, enlivened by the conversation of our
host, who, whatever the theme, talked well and pleasingly.
I was in a mood to look for flaws in his character--my jealousy was
still urging me to seek for whatever I could find fault with; and yet
all my critical shrewdness could only detect a slight degree of pride in
his manner, not displaying itself by any presumption, but by a certain
urbanity that smacked of condescension. But even this at last went off,
and before I wished him good-night I felt that I had never met any one
so gifted with agreeable qualities, nor possessed of such captivating
manners, as himself. Even his Royalism had its fascinations, for it was
eminently national, and showed at every moment that he was far more of
a Frenchman than a Monarchist. We parted without one word of allusion to
the marquise or to Laura! Had this singular fact any influence upon the
favourable impression I had conceived of him, or was I unconsciously
grateful for the relief thus given to all my jealous tormentings?
Certain is it that I felt infinitely happier than I ever fancied I
should be under his roof, and, as I lay down in my bed, thanked my stars
that he was not my rival!
When I awoke the next morning it was some minutes before I could
remember where I was; and as I still lay, gradually recalling myself to
memory, the valet entered to announce the count.
‘I have come to say adieu for a few hours,’ said he; a very pressing
appointment requires me to be at Pforzheim to-day, and I have to ask
that you will excuse my absence. I know that I may take this liberty
without any appearance of rudeness, for the marquise has told me all
about you. Pray, then, try and amuse yourself till evening, and we shall
meet at supper.’
I was not sorry that D’Egville was to accompany him, and, turning on
my side, dozed off to sleep away some of the gloomy hours of a winter’s
day.
In this manner several days were passed, the count absenting himself
each morning, and returning at nightfall, sometimes accompanied by
D’Egville, sometimes alone. It was evident enough, from the appearance
of his horses at his return, as well as from his own jaded looks, that
he had ridden hard and far; but except a chance allusion to the state
of the roads or the weather, it was a topic to which he never referred,
nor, of course, did I ever advert. Meanwhile our intimacy grew closer
and franker. The theme of politics, a forbidden subject between men so
separated, was constantly discussed between us, and I could not help
feeling flattered at the deference with which he listened to opinions
from one so much his junior, and so inferior in knowledge as myself.
Nothing could be more moderate than his views of government, only
provided that it was administered by the rightful sovereign. The claim
of a king to his throne he declared to be the foundation of all the
rights of property, and which, if once shaken or disputed, would
inevitably lead to the wildest theories of democratic equality. ‘I don’t
want to convert you,’ would he say laughingly; ‘the son of an old “Garde
da Corps,” the born gentleman, has but to live to learn. It may come a
little later or a little earlier, but you’ll end as a good Monarchist.’
One evening he was unusually late in returning, and when he came was
accompanied by seven or eight companions, some younger, some older, than
himself, but all men whose air and bearing bespoke their rank in life,
while their names recalled the thoughts of old French chivalry. I
remember among them was a Coigny, a Gramont, and Rochefoucauld--the last
as lively a specimen of Parisian wit and brilliancy as ever fluttered
along the sunny Boulevards.
De Marsanne, while endeavouring to enjoy himself and entertain his
guests, was, to my thinking, more serious than usual, and seemed
impatient at D’Egville’s absence, for whose coming we now waited supper.
‘I should not wonder if he was lost in the deep mud of those
cross-roads,’ said Coigny.
‘Or perhaps he has fallen into the Republic,’ said Rochefoucauld; ‘it’s
the only thing dirtier that I know of.’
‘Monsieur forgets that I wear its cloth,’ said I, in a low whisper to
him; and low as it was, De Marsanne overheard it.
‘Yes, Charles,’ cried he, ‘you must apologise, and on the spot, for the
rudeness.’
Rochefoucauld reddened and hesitated.
‘I insist, sir,’ cried De Marsanne, with a tone of superiority I had
never seen him assume before.
‘Perhaps,’ said he, with a half-sneer, ‘Monsieur de Tiernay might refuse
to accept my excuses.’
‘In that case, sir,’ interposed De Marsanne, ‘the quarrel will become
mine, for he is my guest, and lives here under the safeguard of my
honour.’
Rochefoucauld bowed submissively, and with the air of a man severely but
justly rebuked; and then advancing to me said, ‘I beg to tender you
my apology, monsieur, for an expression which should never have been
uttered by me in your presence.’
‘Quite sufficient, sir,’ said I, bowing, and anxious to conclude a scene
which for the first time had disturbed the harmony of our meetings.
Slight as was the incident, its effects were yet visible in the
disconcerted looks of the party, and I could see that more than one
glance was directed towards me with an expression of coldness and
distrust.
‘Here comes D’Egville at last,’ said one, throwing open the window
to listen. The night was starlit, but dark, and the air calm and
motionless. ‘I certainly heard a horses tread on the causeway.’
‘I hear distinctly the sound of several,’ cried Coigny; ‘and, if I
mistake not much, so does Monsieur de Tiernay.’ This sudden allusion
turned every eye towards me, as I stood still, suffering from the
confusion of the late scene.
‘Yes; I hear the tramp of horses, and cavalry too, I should say, by
their measured tread.’
‘There was a trumpet-call!’ cried Coigny; ‘what does that mean?’
‘It is the signal to take open order,’ said I, answering as if
the question were addressed to myself. ‘It is a picket taking a
reconnaissance.’
‘How do you know that, sir?’ said Gramont sternly.
‘Ay! how does he know that?’ cried several passionately, as they closed
around me.
‘You must ask in another tone, messieurs,’ said I calmly, ‘if you expect
to be answered.’
‘They mean to say, how do you happen to know the German trumpet-calls,
Tiernay,’ said De Marsanne mildly, as he laid his hand on my arm.
‘It’s a French signal,’ said I; ‘I ought to know it well.’
Before my words were well uttered the door was thrown open, and
D’Egville burst into the room, pale as death, his clothes all
mud-stained and disordered. Making his way through the others, he
whispered a few words in De Marsanne’s ear.
‘Impossible!’ cried the other; ‘we are here in the territory of the
Margrave.’
‘It is as I say,’ replied D’Egville; ‘there’s not a second to lose--it
may be too late even now--by Heavens it is!--they’ve drawn a cordon
round the château.’
‘What’s to be done, gentlemen?’ said De Marsanne, seating himself
calmly, and crossing his arms on his breast.
‘What do you say, sir?’ cried Gramont, advancing to me with an air
of insolent menace; ‘you, at least, ought to know the way out of this
difficulty.’
‘Or, by Heaven, his own road shall be one of the shortest, considering
the length of the journey,’ muttered another; and I could hear the sharp
click of a pistol-cock as he spoke the words.
‘This is unworthy of you, gentlemen, and of me,’ said De Marsanne
haughtily; and he gazed around him with a look that seemed to abash
them; ‘nor is it a time to hold such disputation. There is another and
a very difficult call to answer. Are we agreed?’ Before he could finish
the sentence the door was burst open, and several dragoons in French
uniforms entered, and ranged themselves across the entrance, while a
colonel, with his sabre drawn, advanced in front of them.
‘This is brigandage,’ cried De Marsanne passionately, as he drew
his sword, and seemed meditating a spring through them; but he was
immediately surrounded by his friends and disarmed. Indeed nothing
could be more hopeless than resistance; more than double our number were
already in the room, while the hoarse murmur of voices without, and the
tramp of heavy feet, announced a strong party.
At a signal from their officers the dragoons unslung their carbines,
and held them at the cock, when the colonel called out, ‘Which of you,
messieurs, is the Due d’Enghien?’
‘If you come to arrest him,’ replied De Marsanne, * you ought to have
his description in your warrant.’
‘Is the descendant of a Condé ashamed to own his name?’ asked the
colonel, with a sneer. ‘But we ‘ll make short work of it, sirs; I arrest
you all My orders are peremptory, messieurs. If you resist, or attempt
to escape--’ and he made a significant sign with his hand to finish. The
‘Duc’---for I need no longer call him De Marsanne--never spoke a word,
but with folded arms calmly walked forward, followed by his little
household. As we descended the stairs, we found ourselves in the midst
of about thirty dismounted dragoons, all on the alert, and prepared for
any resistance. The remainder of a squadron were on horseback without.
With a file of soldiers on either hand, we marched for about a quarter
of a mile across the fields to a small mill, where a general officer and
his staff seemed awaiting our arrival. Here, too, a picket of gendarmes
was stationed--a character of force significant enough of the meaning
of the enterprise. We were hurriedly marched into the court of the mill,
the owner of which stood between two soldiers, trembling from head to
foot with terror.
‘Which is the Duc d’Enghien?’ asked the colonel of the miller.
‘That is he with the scarlet vest’; and the prince nodded an assent.
‘Your age, monsieur?’ asked the colonel of the prince.
‘Thirty-two--that is, I should have been so much in August, were it not
for this visit,’ said he, smiling.
The colonel wrote on rapidly for a few minutes, and then showed the
paper to the general, who briefly said, ‘Yes, yes; this does not concern
you nor me.’
‘I wish to ask, sir,’ said the prince, addressing the general, ‘do you
make this arrest with the consent of the authorities of this country, or
do you do so in defiance of them?’
‘You must reserve questions like that for the court who will judge
you, Monsieur de Condé,’ said the officer roughly. ‘If you wish for any
articles of dress from your quarters, you had better think of them. My
orders are to convey you to Strasbourg. Is there anything so singular in
the fact, sir, that you should look so much astonished?’
‘There is, indeed,’ said the prince sorrowfully. ‘I shall be the first
of my house who ever crossed that frontier a prisoner.’
‘But not the first who carried arms against his country,’ rejoined the
other--a taunt the duke only replied to by a look of infinite scorn
and contempt. With a speed that told plainly the character of the
expedition, we were now placed, two together, on country cars, and
driven at a rapid pace towards Strasbourg. Relays of cattle awaited us
on the road, and we never halted but for a few minutes during the entire
journey. My companion on this dreary day was the Baron de St. Jacques,
the aide-de-camp to the duke; but he never spoke once; indeed he
scarcely lifted his head during the whole journey.
Heaven knows it was a melancholy journey; and neither the country nor
the season were such as to lift the mind from sorrow; and yet, strange
enough, the miles glided over rapidly, and to this hour I cannot
remember by what magic the way seemed so short. The thought that
for several days back I had been living in closest intimacy with a
distinguished prince of the Bourbon family; that we had spent hours
together discussing themes and questions which were those of his own
house, canvassing the chances and weighing the claims of which he was
himself the asserter--was a most exciting feeling. How I recalled now
all the modest deference of his manner--his patient endurance of my
crude opinions--his generous admissions regarding his adversaries--and,
above all, his ardent devotion to France, whatever the hand that swayed
her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character,
blended with an almost girlish gentleness-how princely were such traits!
From these thoughts I wandered on to others about his arrest and
capture, from which, however, I could not believe any serious issue was
to come. Bonaparte is too noble-minded not to feel the value of such
a life as this. Men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by
generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. But
what will be done with him? what with his followers? and lastly, not at
all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of Maurice Tiernay,
who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious company, and
without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? This last thought
just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of boats, and
entered Strasbourg.