To apologise to my reader for not strictly tracing out each day of my
history, would be, in all likelihood, as great an impertinence as that
of the tiresome guest who, having kept you two hours from your bed by
his uninteresting twaddle, asks you to forgive him at last for an abrupt
departure. I am already too full of gratitude for the patience that has
been conceded to me so far, to desire to trifle with it during the brief
space that is now to link us together. And believe me, kind reader,
there is more in that same tie than perhaps you think, especially where
the intercourse had been carried on, and, as it were, fed from month to
month. In such cases the relationship between him who writes and him who
reads assumes something like acquaintanceship, heightened by a greater
desire on one side to please than is usually felt in the routine
business of everyday life. Nor is it a light reward, if one can think
that he has relieved a passing hour of solitude or discomfort, shortened
a long wintry night, or made a rainy day more endurable. I speak not
here of the greater happiness in knowing that our inmost thoughts
have found their echo in far-away hearts, kindling noble emotions, and
warming generous aspirations--teaching courage and hope, by the very
commonest of lessons, and showing that, in the moral as in the vegetable
world, the bane and antidote grow side by side, and, as the eastern poet
has it, ‘He who shakes the tree of sorrow, is often sowing the seeds
of joy.’ Such are the triumphs of very different efforts from mine,
however, and I come back to the humble theme from which I started.
If I do not chronicle the incidents which succeeded to the events of
my last chapter, it is, in the first place, because they are most
imperfectly impressed upon my own memory; and, in the second, they are
of a nature which, whether in the hearing or the telling, can afford
little pleasure; for what if I should enlarge upon a text which runs but
on suffering and sickness, nights of feverish agony, days of anguish,
terrible alternations of hope and fear, ending, at last, in the sad, sad
certainty that skill has found its limit? The art of the surgeon can do
no more, and Maurice Tiernay must consent to lose his leg! Such was
the cruel news I was compelled to listen to as I awoke one morning,
dreaming, and for the first time since my accident, of my life in
Kuffstein. The injuries I had received before being rescued from the
Danube had completed the mischief already begun, and all chance of
saving my limb had now fled. I am not sure if I could not have heard a
sentence of death with more equanimity than the terrible announcement
that I was to drag out existence maimed and crippled--to endure the
helplessness of age with the warm blood and daring passions of youth,
and, worse than all, to forego a career that was already opening with
such glorious prospects of distinction.
Nothing could be more kindly considerate than the mode of communicating
this sad announcement; nor was there omitted anything which could
alleviate the bitterness of the tidings. The undying gratitude of the
Imperial family, their heartfelt sorrow for my suffering, the pains they
had taken to communicate the whole story of my adventure to the Emperor
Napoleon himself, were all insisted on; while the personal visits of the
archdukes, and even the emperor himself, at my sick-bed, were told to me
with every flattery such acts of condescension could convey. Let me not
be thought ungrateful, if all these seemed but a sorry payment for the
terrible sacrifice I was to suffer; and that the glittering crosses
which were already sent to me in recognition, and which now sparkled on
my bed, appeared a poor price for my shattered and wasted limb; and I
vowed to myself, that to be once more strong and in health I ‘d change
fortunes with the humblest soldier in the grand army.
After all, it is the doubtful alone can break down the mind and waste
the courage. To the brave man, the inevitable is always the endurable.
Some hours of solitude and reflection brought this conviction to my
heart, and I recalled the rash refusal I had already given to submit to
the amputation, and sent word to the doctors that I was ready. My
mind once made up, a thousand ingenious suggestions poured in their
consolations. Instead of incurring my misfortune as I had done, my
mischance might have originated in some commonplace or inglorious
accident. In lieu of the proud recognitions I had earned, I might have
now the mere sympathy of some fellow-sufferer in a hospital; and instead
of the ‘Cross of St. Stephen’ and the ‘valour medal’ of Austria, my
reward might have been the few sous per day allotted to an invalided
soldier.
As it was, each post from Vienna brought me nothing but nattering
recognitions; and one morning a large sealed letter from Duroc conveyed
the Emperor’s own approval of my conduct, with the cross of commander of
the Legion of Honour. A whole life of arduous services might have
failed to win such prizes, and so I struck the balance of good and evil
fortune, and found I was the gainer!
Among the presents which I received from the Imperial family was a
miniature of the young archduchess, whose life I saved, and which I at
once despatched by a safe messenger to Marshal Marmont, engaging him to
have a copy of it made and the original returned to me. I concluded that
circumstances must have rendered this impossible, for I never beheld the
portrait again, although I heard of it among the articles bequeathed
to the Duc de Reichstadt at St. Helena. Maria Louisa was, at that time,
very handsome; the upper-lip and mouth were, it is true, faulty, and the
Austrian-heaviness marred the expression of these features; but her
brow and eyes were singularly fine, and her hair of a luxuriant richness
rarely to be seen.
Count Palakzi, my young Hungarian friend, who had scarcely ever quitted
my bedside during my illness, used to jest with me on my admiration of
the young archduchess, and jokingly compassionate me on the altered age
we lived in, in contrast to those good old times when a bold feat or
a heroic action was sure to win the hand of a fair princess. I half
suspect that he believed me actually in love with her, and deemed that
this was the best way to treat such an absurd and outrageous ambition.
To amuse myself with his earnestness, for such had it become, on the
subject, I affected not to be indifferent to his allusions, and assumed
all the delicate reserve of devoted admiration. Many an hour have I
lightened by watching the fidgety uneasiness the young count felt at my
folly; for now, instead of jesting, as before, he tried to reason me
out of this insane ambition, and convince me that such pretensions were
utter madness.
I was slowly convalescing, about five weeks after the amputation of my
leg, when Polakzi entered my room one morning with an open letter in his
hand. His cheek was flushed, and his air and manner greatly excited.
‘Would you believe it, Tiernay,’ said he, ‘Stadion writes me word from
Vienna, that Napoleon has asked for the hand of the young archduchess in
marriage, and that the emperor has consented.’
‘And am I not considered in this negotiation?’ asked I, scarcely
suppressing a laugh.
‘This is no time nor theme for jest,’ said he passionately; ‘nor is
it easy to keep one’s temper at such a moment. A Hapsburgher princess
married to a low Corsican adventurer! to the----’
‘Come, Polakzi,’ cried I, ‘these are not the words for me to listen to;
and having heard them, I may be tempted to say, that the honour comes
all off the other side, and that he who holds all Europe at his feet
ennobles the dynasty from which he selects his empress.’
‘I deny it--fairly and fully deny it!’ cried the passionate youth. ‘And
every noble of this land would rather see the provinces of the empire
torn from us, than a princess of the Imperial House degraded to such an
alliance!’
‘Is the throne of France, then, so low?’ said I calmly.
‘Not when the rightful sovereign is seated on it,’ said he. ‘But are
we, the subjects of a legitimate monarchy, to accept as equals the lucky
accidents of your revolution? By what claim is a soldier of fortune the
peer of king or kaiser? I, for one, will never more serve a cause so
degraded; and the day on which such humiliation is our lot shall be the
last of my soldiering’; and so saying, he rushed passionately from the
room, and disappeared.
I mention this little incident here, not as in any way connecting itself
with my own fortunes, but as illustrating what I afterwards discovered
to be the universal feeling entertained towards this alliance. Low as
Austria then was--beaten in every battle, her vast treasury confiscated,
her capital in the hands of an enemy, her very existence as an empire
threatened--the thought of this insult--for such they deemed it--to
the Imperial House, seemed to make the burden unendurable; and many
who would have sacrificed territory and power for a peace, would have
scorned to accept it at such a price as this.
I suppose the secret history of the transaction will never be disclosed;
but living as I did, at the time, under the same roof with the royal
family, I inclined to think that their counsels were of a divided
nature; that while the emperor and the younger archdukes gave a
favourable ear to the project, the empress and the Archduke Charles
as steadily opposed it. The gossip of the day spoke of dreadful scenes
between the members of the Imperial House, and some have since asserted
that the breaches of affection that were then made never were reconciled
in after-life.
With these events of state or private history I have no concern. My
position and my nationality of course excluded me from confidential
intercourse with those capable of giving correct information; nor can I
record anything beyond the mere current rumours of the time. This much,
however, I could remark, that all whom conviction, policy, or perhaps
bribery, inclined to the alliance, were taken into court favour, and
replaced in the offices of the household those whose opinions were
adverse. A total change, in fact, took place in the persons of the
royal suite, and the Hungarian nobles, many of whom filled the ‘Hautes
Charges,’ as they are called, now made way for Bohemian grandees, who
were understood to entertain more favourable sentiments towards France.
Whether in utter despair of the cause for which they had suffered so
long and so much, or that they were willing to accept this alliance with
the oldest dynasty of Europe as a compromise, I am unable to say; but
so was it. Many of the _émigré_ nobility of France, the unflinching,
implacable enemies of Bonaparte, consented to bury their ancient
grudges, and were now seen accepting place and office in the Austrian
household. This was a most artful flattery of the Austrians, and was
peculiarly agreeable to Napoleon, who longed to legalise his position by
a reconciliation with the old followers of the Bourbons, and who dreaded
their schemes and plots far more than he feared all the turbulent
violence of the ‘Faubourg.’ In one day no fewer than three French
nobles were appointed to places of trust in the household, and a special
courier was sent off to Gratz to convey the appointment of maid of
honour to a young French lady who lived there in exile.
Each of my countrymen, on arriving, came to visit me. They had all known
my father by name, if not personally, and most graciously acknowledged
me as one of themselves--a flattery they sincerely believed above all
price.
I had heard much of the overweening vanity and conceit of the
Legitimists, but the reality far exceeded all my notions of them. There
was no pretence, no affectation whatever about them. They implicitly
believed that in ‘accepting the Corsican,’ as the phrase went, they were
displaying a condescension and self-negation unparalleled in history.
The tone of superiority thus assumed of course made them seem supremely
ridiculous to my eyes--I, who had sacrificed heavily enough for the
Empire, and yet felt myself amply rewarded. But apart from these
exaggerated ideas of themselves, they were most amiable, gentle
mannered, and agreeable.
The ladies and gentlemen of what was called the ‘Service’ associated
all together, dining at the same table, and spending each evening in a
handsome suite appropriated to themselves. Hither some one or other of
the Imperial family occasionally came to play his whist, or chat away an
hour in pleasant gossip--these distinguished visitors never disturbing
in the slightest degree the easy tone of the society, nor exacting any
extraordinary marks of notice or attention.
The most frequent guest was the Archduke Louis, whose gaiety of
temperament and easy humour induced him to pass nearly every evening
with us. He was fond of cards, but liked to talk away over his game, and
make play merely subsidiary to the pleasure of conversation. As I was
but an indifferent ‘whister,’ but a most admirable auditor, I was always
selected to make one of his party.
It was on one of the evenings when we were so engaged, and the archduke
had been displaying a more than ordinary flow of good spirits and
merriment, a sudden lull in the approving laughter, and a general
subsidence of every murmur, attracted my attention. I turned my head to
see what had occurred, and perceived that some of the company had risen,
and were standing with eyes directed to the open door.
‘The archduchess, your Imperial Highness!’ whispered an aide-de-camp to
the prince, and he immediately rose from the table, an example speedily
followed by the others. I grasped my chair with one hand, and, with my
sword in the other, tried to stand up, an effort which hitherto I had
never accomplished without aid. It was all in vain--my debility utterly
denied the attempt. I tried again, but, overcome by pain and weakness, I
was compelled to abandon the effort, and sink down on my seat, faint and
trembling. By this time the company had formed into a circle, leaving
the Archduke Louis alone in the middle of the room--I, to my increasing
shame and confusion, being seated exactly behind where the prince stood.
There was a hope for me still; the archduchess might pass on through the
rooms without my being noticed. And this seemed likely enough, since she
was merely proceeding to the apartments of the empress, and not to delay
with us. This expectation was soon destined to be extinguished; for,
leaning on the arm of one of her ladies, the young princess came
straight over to where Prince Louis stood. She said something in a low
voice, and he turned immediately to offer her a chair; and there was
I seated, very pale, and very much shocked at my apparent rudeness.
Although I had been presented before to the young archduchess, she had
not seen me in the uniform of the Corps de Guides (in which I now served
as colonel), and never recognised me. She therefore stared steadily at
me, and turned towards her brother as if for explanation.
‘Don’t you know him?’ said the archduke, laughing--‘it’s Colonel de
Tiernay; and if he cannot stand up, you certainly should be the last
to find fault with him. Pray sit quiet, Tiernay,’ added he, pressing
me down on my seat; ‘and if you won’t look so terrified, my sister will
remember you.’
‘We must both be more altered than I ever expect if I cease to remember
Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said the archduchess, with a most courteous smile.
Then leaning on the back of a chair, she bent forward and inquired after
my health. There was something so strange in the situation: a young,
handsome girl condescending to a tone of freedom and intimacy with one
she had seen but a couple of times, and from whom the difference of
condition separated her by a gulf wide as the great ocean, that I felt
a nervous tremor I could not account for. Perhaps, with the tact that
royalty possesses as its own prerogative, or, perhaps, with mere womanly
intuition, she saw how the interview agitated me, and, to change the
topic, she suddenly said--
‘I must present you to one of my ladies, Colonel de Tiernay, a
countrywoman of your own. She already has heard from me the story of
your noble devotion, and now only has to learn your name. Remember you
are to sit still.’
As she said this, she turned, and drawing her arm within that of a young
lady behind her, led her forward.
‘It is to this gentleman I owe my life, Mademoiselle d’Estelles.’
I heard no more, nor did she either; for, faltering, she uttered a low,
faint sigh, and fell into the arms of those behind her.
‘What’s this, Tiernay!--how is all this?’ whispered Prince Louis; ‘are
you acquainted with mademoiselle?’
But I forgot everything--the presence in which I stood, the agony of a
wounded leg, and all, and with a violent effort sprang from my seat.
Before I could approach her, however, she had risen from the chair, and,
in a voice broken and interrupted, said--
‘You are so changed, Monsieur de Tiernay--so much changed--that the
shock overpowered me. We became acquainted in the Tyrol, madame,’ said
she to the princess, ‘where monsieur was a prisoner.’
What observation the princess made in reply I could not hear, but I saw
that Laura blushed deeply. To hide her awkwardness perhaps it was, that
she hurriedly entered into some account of our former intercourse, and
I could observe that some allusion to the Prince de Condé dropped from
her.
‘How strange, how wonderful is all that you tell me!’ said the princess,
who bent forward and whispered some words to Prince Louis; and then,
taking Laura’s arm, she moved on, saying in a low voice ‘_Au revoir_,
monsieur,’ as she passed.
‘You are to come and drink tea in the archduchess’s apartments,
Tiernay,’ said Prince Louis; ‘you ‘ll meet your old friend, Mademoiselle
d’Estelles, and of course you have a hundred recollections to exchange
with each other.’
The prince insisted on my accepting his arm, and, as he assisted me
along, informed me that old Madame d’Aigreville had been dead about
a year, leaving her niece an immense fortune--at least a claim to
one--only wanting the sanction of the Emperor Napoleon to become valid;
for it was one of the estreated but not confiscated estates of La
Vendée. Every word that dropped from the prince extinguished some
hope within me. More beautiful than ever, her rank recognised, and
in possession of a vast fortune, what chance had I, a poor soldier of
fortune, of success?
‘Don’t sigh, Tiernay,’ said the prince, laughing; ‘you’ve lost a leg for
us, and we must lend you a hand in return’; and with this we entered the
salon of the archduchess.