Well, what's gone from me?
What have I lost in you?--R. BROWNING.
Percival awoke one day to the consciousness that the world was smaller,
grayer and flatter than he had supposed it. At the same moment he became
aware that a burden was lifted from his shoulders and that a disturbing
element was gone out of his life.
This is how the change in the universe was effected. Percival met Godfrey
Hammond, and they talked of indifferent things. As they were parting
Hammond looked over his shoulder and came back: "I knew there was something
I wanted to ask you. Have you heard that the young lady with the latent
nobility in her face is going to be married?"
"What young lady?" said Percival stiffly. He knew perfectly well, and
Hammond knew that he knew.
"Miss Lisle."
"No, I hadn't heard. Who is he?"
"The happy man? Lord Scarbrook's eldest son."
"Who told you?"
"You are incredulous, but I fear I can't soften the blow. The man who told
me heard Lisle talking about it."
"There's no blow to soften," said Percival, "I assure you I don't feel it."
"Ah," said Hammond, "there was once a man who didn't know that his head had
been cut off till he sneezed--wasn't there? Take great care of yourself,
Percival." And nodding a second farewell Godfrey left him, and Percival
went on his way through that curiously shrunken world.
And, after all, the blow was premature. Mr. Lisle had only talked of a
probability which he earnestly hoped would be realized.
But Percival did not doubt it. He tried to analyze his feelings as he
walked away. He had known but little of Judith Lisle, but when first he saw
her face he felt that the vague dream which till then had approached, only
to elude him, in clouds, in fire, in poems, in flowers, in music, had taken
human shape and looked at him out of her gray eyes. Percival had no certain
assurance that she _was_ his ideal, but from that time forward he pictured
his ideal in her guise.
He did not dream of winning her. Mr. Lisle had boasted to him one evening,
as they sat over their wine, of all that he meant to do for his daughter,
and of the great match he hoped she would make. Percival had a feeling of
peculiar loyalty to Mr. Lisle as the friend whom his dead father had
trusted most of all. He could not think of Judith, for he could never be a
fit husband for her in Mr. Lisle's eyes. Had he been heir to
Brackenhill--But he was not.
So he acquiesced, patiently enough. He did not attempt to do anything. What
was there to do? By the time that he had struggled through the crowd and
got his foot on the first round of that ladder which _may_ lead to fortune,
Judith would probably be married. He did not even know certainly that she
was the woman he wanted to win. Why should he force the lazy stream of his
existence into a rough and stony channel that he might have a
chance--infinitesimally small--of winning her.
Yet there were moments of exaltation when it seemed to him as if his
acquiescence were tame and mean--as if his life would miss its crown unless
he could attain to his ideal. At such moments he felt the stings of shame
and ambition. Yet what could he do? The mood passed, and left him drifting
onward as before.
But now all thought of Judith Lisle was over. Even if she were in truth his
ideal woman, it was certain that she was no longer within his reach. That
haunting possibility was gone. All that it had ever done for him was to
make him dissatisfied with himself from time to time, and yet he found
himself regretting it.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
CAPTURED BY COSSACKS.
EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS OF A FRENCH OFFICER IN 1813.[B]
[Illustration: COSSACKS AND FRENCH PRISONERS.]
WISMAR, Mecklenburg-Schwerin, March 8, 1813.
MY DEAR PARENTS: I regret to announce that recent public events have sadly
disturbed the relatively comfortable circumstances which favored my
convalescence. Since the 26th ult. our lines have been drawn in, and I have
accompanied my detachment to this place, where the expected arrival of
General Morand from Pomerania will probably be the signal of a hasty
retreat. The lamentable fate of our grand army in barbarous Russia is now
casting its shadows upon us. It is because so many of our friends remained
_there_ that we shall have to move from _here_. Possibly, a speedy return
to the home I left nine years ago may afford some compensation for this
inglorious retreat. The cities of Hamburg and Lubeck are in open revolt and
ill-treating and driving away the French authorities. If only we had once
the Elbe in our rear! The Cossacks are not far off, and the whole country
is awaiting them with open arms. Adieu for to-day.
WISMAR, 13th March, 1813.
General Morand and his command arrived here at noon to-day. My brothers,
Frank and Louis, are with him and in the best of health. Our trio held a
council of war an hour ago, and unanimously resolved to remain at the post
of honor whatever may betide. I reported in person to the general, who,
after viewing my scar from the Hamburg bullet, assured me that my name
would appear on the next recommendation for promotions. All the members of
our brigade who had been on coast-guard duty in Mecklenburg are being
reorganized into a special battalion, in which I retain the rank of first
lieutenant. Frank holds a sergeant's commission, while little Louis remains
a private fusilier. An order of the day announces that furloughs are out of
the question, and that deserters will be dealt with as every one knows how.
The latter bit of information is for the special benefit of our Saxon
allies, of whom our command embraces twelve hundred. The remainder of it
consists of three hundred artillery-men, four hundred marines, two hundred
and fifty coast-guards and a squad of civil and military functionaries--all
French and well armed and equipped. To-morrow the homeward march begins.
ACROSS THE ELBE! WINSEN-ON-THE-LUCKE, 18th March.
As the enemy is close upon our heels, we left Wismar in double-quick time.
On the 16th, on leaving Moellen, Frank and I visited the grave of the
famous German jester Eulenspiegel, but did not take time to drive memorial
nails into the surrounding trees, as thousands of pilgrims had done before
us.
Not far from there we suddenly came upon a band of Cossacks resting their
jaded nags in a marshy meadow. It was something of a mutual surprise. A
single glance down our line convinced the hostile commander that we could
not consistently give him time to get away. Hence, waving a white streamer
at the butt end of a lance, he rode forward and called in passable German
for a _parlementaire_. My anxiety to learn all about this new and singular
race of people induced me to request this appointment, which was promptly
granted by the commander of our van. No diplomatic chicaneries hampered my
mission, which was accomplished in a very few minutes. The result was an
unconditional surrender. The poor fellows were the victims of an excess of
zeal, having ridden ahead of us while they imagined themselves on our
flank. The terms of our future relations being mutually agreed upon, the
commander, who had acquired his German in the Prussian service, and was no
stranger to Virgil and Horace, offered me a hearty shake of his right hand,
while the other, deftly unbuckling a holster, drew forth a sample of
genuine Mecklenburger Kuemmel schnapps, which proved not unworthy of
cementing a treaty of peace. While the prisoners were being marshalled into
custody I had ample opportunity to scan the fifty specimens of exotic
humanity before me, but utterly failed to discover in their outward
features the proverbial elements of popular terror. Though generally nimble
and well-proportioned, they were scarcely above the average French
voltigeur in stature, and a bullet or rapier would find the way through
their untanned sheepskin jackets just as easily as through any more
civilized uniform. Apart from their lances, which they are said to handle
with dangerous skill, these scouts carry no weapons worth mentioning. Their
rusty horse-pistols are almost harmless toys. A more uncouth-looking
soldier than a Cossack on foot can hardly be imagined. Perhaps it is not
fair to judge them in this abnormal predicament. When they were informed
that they would be treated just like ordinary prisoners, a grin of
satisfaction lighted up their countenances with an expression of droll
humor not suspected before. In the pockets of their cloaks
and _portemanteaux_ were found an amount and variety of pelf somewhat
difficult to account for in the possession of warriors who had not yet
reached the enemy's country. Among the rest I will only mention gold,
silver and copper coins, medals, breastpins, ear- and finger-rings, watches
and chains, seals, meerschaum pipes, snuff-boxes, brass buttons, beads,
tea-spoons, feminine miniatures, locks of flaxen hair of the same sex, and,
last and strangest, bottles of Jean Marie Farina's veritable eau de
Cologne! It may be charitably assumed that the latter three suggestive
articles were the heart's gifts of patriotic North German maidens to their
long-prayed-for liberators. _Honni soit qui mal y pense._ But it is hardly
probable that the original possessors of the more intrinsic valuables had
parted with them from equally sentimental motives. Hence our lads wisely
discriminated in their disposition of the captured treasures, the coins,
jewelry, tea-spoons and meerschaums being temporarily confiscated "until
the proper owners could be found." _A la guerre comme a la guerre._
In the night of the 16th-17th we reached Bergdorff, where we halted until
next afternoon. Just before dusk, at the crossing of a stream, we (the van)
were attacked by a partisan column, who relieved us of a dozen prisoners,
and in exchange left a few dead upon the field. We are looking for more of
this sort of warfare until strongly reinforced. We have to contend not only
with the Russians and Prussians, but with all the people on our way, who
have raised their hands against the French. Evidently, we have made few
friends in this country, which--_entre nous_--to an unbiassed mind does not
seem at all strange. Somehow, even when not personally molested, we are
continually losing baggage. I carry only my most indispensable effects on
my horse. My large trunk, though far behind me now, is in trusty hands,
with your address in case anything serious should befall its owner. Frank's
baggage is on the general train, while Louis carries all his worldly
possessions in his knapsack, which begins to act as a powerful sudorific
upon the dear little fellow.
BREMEN, 24th March.
This city has not yet risen in open rebellion, though the faces here are
sullen enough. General Carra St. Cyr, with two battalions of cohortes and
fifteen hundred coast-guards, has succeeded so far in keeping down the
popular temper. But Bremerloe, six leagues from here, is occupied by a
formidable band of armed rebels, and at this very moment a detachment is
being sent out to attend to them. Among the young recruits of St. Cyr's
command I found quite a number of Alsatians, some from my own birthplace,
Saverne. They are all in the highest of spirits and eager to go ahead.
Considering the sacrifice of precious lives our country has made within the
last twenty years, the enthusiasm of these boys is truly wonderful.
25th March.
Bremerloe was captured and the enemy routed. None of your sons were at the
fray, but while I write my horse is being saddled and all is getting ready
for a return march toward the Elbe. Has a victory improved the situation in
our rear, or do some of our retreating brethren need our support? We do not
know. The order is to march.
LUeNEBURG, Braunschweig, 1st April, 10 P. M.
Since our departure from Bremen no bed but the open field or the barest
floor has rested my limbs until this evening, when, for the first time in a
week, I enjoyed the luxury of a change of clothes. How sweet it is to rest
after a hard day's work! This town, surrounded by an old-style ditch and
wall, was even this forenoon in possession of the enemy. About eighty
Cossacks, eight hundred German recruits and the whole male population,
armed with muskets, spears and pitch-forks, defended the place for two
hours. But as we had sixteen field-guns, and they none fit for use, we
defeated them with inconsiderable loss. The greater part of the civilians,
fearing severe punishment, fled with the Cossacks. Our gunners poured in
the shot and grape until there is scarcely a whole window in the western
half of the town. Two of our companies headed the Saxons in the assault
over the wall, while the rest pressed in through the battered-down gates.
Louis was in the lead, and landed inside without a scratch. Having lost his
knapsack in a skirmish on the road, he had no surplus weight to carry.
Frank was close behind me in the rush through the Bardowicker gate. Though
this day may never be honored with a line in the annals of the great
Napoleonic wars, it was quite as hot for a while as any other of greater
fame for those immediately concerned. The street-scenes were ghastly, and
forcibly reminded me of certain others of saddest memory, when, a boy of
only nine years of age, I followed you, my dear parents, over the dead and
mangled bodies of citizens and soldiers out of the town of Saverne,
disgraced and blood-stained by a revolutionary mob. With this difference,
however, that here the dead and wounded were our inveterate foes, while
there they wore the features of our most cherished friends and neighbors.
[Illustration: DON COSSACKS AND BASHKIRS.]
IN A VILLAGE NEAR BOITZENBURG, 4th April.
How quickly the leaf has turned! At the date of my last we were victors:
to-day we are not only vanquished, but prisoners.
Do not be alarmed, however, dearest parents. All three of your sons are
alive and well, even relatively comfortable. No complaint even from poor
Louis, who was caught by the Cossacks, robbed of his coat and purse, then
turned over to the citizens, who, after unspeakable insults and brutal
treatment, stripped him of everything but his shirt and drawers. My own
story is too complex to be related to-day. I will only state in brief what
you may have already divined--that on the day following the capture of
Lueneburg we were surprised in and around the town by a vastly superior
force, and worsted after a resistance which was all the more desperate that
we knew what to expect from such an enemy in case of defeat. The ferocity
of the German burgher, backed by his liberators in overwhelming strength,
literally baffles description. I fell in a melee in front of the eastern
gate under a blow from a spear-shaft, which broke the visor clasp of my
shako right over my left ear. When I recovered my senses I was in the
custody of a young "Death Hussar," of whose generous treatment of me more
hereafter.
SAME DAY, afternoon.
The number of my companions in misfortune now collected here is nearly
three hundred. Our departure Russia-ward, which had been fixed for noon
to-day, seems to have been countermanded for the present.
Our surprise is mainly attributed to some laxity on the part of our Saxon
friends, whose German hearts have naturally mellowed since the French
eagles have taken their homeward flight. This forenoon our brave general,
mortally wounded in his effort to retrieve the disgrace, was buried with
the honors of war at Boitzenburg, half a mile from here. We lost altogether
five hundred dead and wounded, but inflicted a severe loss on the enemy,
who was the attacking party. As near as I can learn, his force consisted of
a large brigade of cavalry, four companies of Russian and three of Prussian
infantry, artillery in proportion, besides the few hundred Cossacks and
armed citizens we had scared out of Lueneburg on the day before.
Now to return to my story. Perhaps you have not forgotten, my dear parents,
my reference, four years ago, to the notorious Schill, chief of a corps of
Prussian partisans, a brave and devoted patriot, who gave us no little
trouble. Shortly after that time he was pursued by a force of Danes and
Hollanders, our allies, all the way to Stralsund, and killed in a brave
fight. His brother now commands the "Death Hussars" in the Prussian
service. My captor is a Brunswicker of noble birth and character, who
speaks very good French, and recognized me by name and face in connection
with an incident near Hamburg which had impressed him favorably with my
humanity. He seemed to have resolved to do all in his power for my
protection except directly favoring my escape. After he had shielded me
from the burghers' mob and furnished me with a modest suit of citizen's
clothes in order to disguise my rank, I was still encumbered by my
regulation hat, which betrayed me to every eye. He proposed to provide me
with a skull-cap from a friend's wardrobe, and left me to wait for him in a
seemingly deserted lane, a square only from his lodgings. Scarcely,
however, had he turned the corner when I was overtaken by an athletic
journeyman baker, who, pouncing upon me with frantic yells, attracted two
other citizens to the spot, and all now seized hold of me with a vigor
conveying the soothing impression that my agony would be brief. Acting upon
the old adage, that while there is life there is hope, I protracted my
existence by twining my arms around a small linden tree and dealing out
such blows with my heavy riding-boots as I could in that awkward position.
At the same time I summoned to my aid all the power of a healthy pair of
lungs, which my mother often predicted would yet make some noise in the
world, and just before my wind gave out under the pressure of the
bakerman's thumbs, my strategy resulted in the desired success. Shouting
and running at the top of his might, my noble rescuer was soon on the spot
with the skull-cap in one hand and his drawn sabre in the other. In a
twinkling the flat of his blade had loosened the hold of my executioners,
whom he fearlessly berated as cowardly villains for laying hands upon a
prisoner already in his power, and whom he pursued with threats that
visibly quickened their retreating pace. Thanking Heaven for the favor of
permitting him to save my life once more, he now informed me that he had
done all for me that his own oath and duty permitted, and hoped I should be
able to make the best use of my improved situation. At my urgent request,
however, he consented to accompany me to my lodgings, where I had that very
morning left my portfolio and a gold watch, not dreaming of the surprise
that subverted my fate in the course of the day. My landlord, still
gratefully reminiscent of my courteous behavior toward him and his family
on the day of our victory, promptly delivered my property, with hearty
apologies for his inability to do more for me at present; and,
significantly referring to a Prussian captain then at supper in the lower
story, he quietly pressed into my hand a shining silver thaler, which I as
quietly returned with thanks, for the simple reason that I was even then
more able to give than he. "God bless you, my gracious gentleman!" were his
last words as I pressed his honest fist and assured him that if ever in my
power his kindness should be remembered.
Night had closed around me when I reached the sombre street with my
magnanimous protector. After exchanging names, birthplace and the residence
of our respective parents in our memorandum-books, I thanked him for all
with a fulness of heart to which the moisture of his own thoughtful blue
eyes most eloquently responded, and as he rapidly walked away my
reflections upon the humanity of war were not such as would have
recommended my promotion to the great captain in whose thankless service I
am daily exposing my life.
[Illustration: BASHKIR.]
Here, then, I was left absolutely friendless in a hostile town in which my
life was at the mercy of almost every inhabitant. And my poor brothers,
what had become of them? How could I find out? My rescuer had informed me
that the prisoners had already been transported into the country, and that
the wounded were being cared for at the town-hall. In this dilemma my
choice was not difficult. Deliberately walking into a tavern where the
Russian staff were engaged in brewing punch, I declared myself a prisoner,
hungry, and anxious to join my comrades, whose fate I wished to share. I
did not conceal the fact that I hoped to find two brothers among them. To
my agreeable surprise, I found these officers kindly-disposed,
well-educated men, speaking either French or German fluently. Supper was
instantly ordered for me, but, though a fast of fifteen hours was gnawing
at my stomach, I could not prevail upon myself to taste anything before
having seen our wounded, which I asked and obtained leave to do
immediately. An orderly was directed to conduct me to the town-hall across
the square. Here I was distressed to find over sixty of our men and
officers of all arms more or less severely hurt, but none fatally, the
unfortunates of that category, as rumor goes, having been _finished by the
citizens_ before the military took charge of them. I anxiously looked into
every familiar face, but my brothers were not there. No one could tell me
the names of our dead. Frank was seen alive after I fell, just before the
close of the fight, but of Louis nothing whatever was known. Still, I
breathed more freely. A Prussian surgeon in attendance with our own having
called my attention to the contusion over my left ear, which had now
swollen to the size of a small egg, I had it bathed and dressed.
During my supper at the tavern two of the Russian officers, taking seats
around my table, conversed very freely upon the topics of the day, and, I
must confess, with much delicate regard for the feelings of an enemy in my
condition. They had seen Napoleon in Moscow, and hoped soon to return his
visit in Paris. All Europe was tired of him, his own people not excepted.
The Bourbons would be restored and universal peace would follow. This was
their favorite theme, to which, I candidly own, your son's heart was not a
total stranger. I have long been convinced that Germany could not be
permanently subdued, and that French rule was the most unpopular of all. My
impression is that this nation will henceforth unite and fight until the
foreign yoke is shaken off for ever.
Supper over, I was informed that I could not be conveyed to my
fellow-prisoners until morning, and that I might share the mattress of a
French sergeant-major confined in an upper room, which turned out to be the
garret. Imagine my surprise on recognizing my favorite Delatre, though his
face was black with mud and powder and his elegant form disguised in the
linen gown of a Mecklenburger teamster! His sleep was too sweet and
precious to be disturbed, and I much enjoyed his wonder when, awaking at
the break of day, he beheld the countenance of one whom he had numbered
among the dead. Our mutual stories were soon told. Delatre had made an
attempt to escape, but was recaptured, did not tell a very plausible tale,
and was held for better identification in the morning. Of my brothers he
knew only that they were both alive when I fell. It was supposed by the
survivors of the company that if I was not killed by the blow I must have
been crushed to death by horses' hoofs and cannon-wheels soon afterward.
My presence in the house proved to be a fortunate coincidence for my friend
Delatre, since it required my written statement and parole of honor to
clear him of the suspicion of being a spy. These formalities accomplished,
three very slightly wounded fusiliers from the hospital were added to our
number, and we were at once conveyed to this hamlet, on the east side of
the Elbe, where we found our fellow-sufferers quartered in the spacious
outbuildings of a comfortable-looking farm. A deafening shout arose from
one corner of the captive throng so soon as our faces could be
distinguished; and need I, dear parents, describe the scene which
immediately followed when all three of your sons, after a heart's agony of
twenty-four hours, once more, alive and well, fell into each other's arms?
Frank, with the exception of a few buttons, was still in possession of his
full regimentals, but poor Louis's condition, as already mentioned, was
pitiable enough. My vest and overalls and half of my necktie restored him
to relative decency, and out of a blanket which I purchased at the
farmhouse he is at this moment engaged in planning an elegant-looking Talma
cloak.
It is significantly remarked that among the three hundred
prisoners--destined to Siberia, I suppose--there is not a single Saxon.
There are reasons of state for this discrimination without a doubt.
ON A HALT, 5th April, noon.
It was not far from sunset last evening when we began to move under the
escort of about sixty Cossacks. Our course lay along the east bank of the
Elbe, and we are _promised_ to be taken to Russia by way of Berlin. It was
near ten o'clock last night before we reached an enclosed farmyard secure
enough to hold so many birds, and we went supperless to bed on a munificent
litter of straw. Frank's humorous stories and mimicry of our friends the
enemies answered admirably for dessert.
I was one of the first on foot this morning to take a good look at our
escort. These semi-barbarians feel so secure in our utter helplessness that
scarcely half a dozen of them remained on guard after the break of day.
Here they lay stretched in the dew in every conceivable attitude of
well-earned repose, snoring in concert almost under the very feet of their
ponies, who enjoy in a standing position their equine dreams of home on the
distant steppe. The whole barnyard scene, riders, horses and prisoners,
composed one of the most striking pictures of which I ever formed a part,
and to which my hasty sketches, herewith enclosed, do not aspire to do
justice.
These Cossacks, or more properly Bashkirs, seem to belong to a different
tribe from the Knights of the Don we captured nearly three weeks ago, and
represent mentally and physically a less advanced type. There is no
picturing to yourself exactly such faces as these unless you have once seen
a specimen, upon which your imagination may then work _ad libitum_,
without fear of exaggeration in the direction of the grotesque. A
mythological cross between the fabled satyr and the domestic creature which
furnishes the Westphalia ham is the nearest approach I can suggest to this
type of humanity. How much of their dusky complexion is due to the sun and
how much to the earth could only be determined by an exhaustive experiment
with soap and water, the virtue of which, to them, is still an undiscovered
blessing. To describe the extent to which the Bashkir carries his contempt
for cleanliness in every function of daily life would require pages, and
prematurely disgust you with my interesting subject. The atmosphere for
half a hundred feet around a middle-aged Bashkir has no parallel in any
sensation known to the human nostril. His sheepskin cloak, jacket or vest,
as the case may be, teems with animal life, of which the wearer alone seems
to be unconscious. In feature these people approach the Tartar type, of
which, however, the stiff, wispy, yellow hair and beard, the small piggish
eye, flat nose and fleshy Ethiopian lips seem to mark a characteristic
variety. Many of them walk clumsily or with a stoop, and show other
symptoms of grovelling habits and strong drink. As a rule, the Bashkirs,
like the Cossacks, are armed with lances; among our custodians several
carry long rifles; and at Lueneburg I even saw a few of these singular
warriors with bows and arrows, though perhaps more for show than for use.
As fighting soldiers they strike me as greatly overrated: their native
instincts seem to qualify them much better for scouts and marauders. Both
the Bashkir and Cossack when in action excel in the arts of
self-preservation, skilfully manoeuvring around the verge of danger,
seeking the weak points, and if by force of numbers and long lances now and
then succeeding in a charge _a fond_ upon a baggage-train, yet easily
persuaded into wholesome prudence by a bristling line of bayonets or a
well-directed volley. Their battle-cry is the same as that of the English,
"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" only more melodious; and the same may be said of
their songs, which fall much more agreeably upon a musical ear than the
popular ballads and comical rhymes of our Britannic neighbors. I wish I
could speak as favorably of their religious devotions, which combine the
most bigoted and ludicrous exercises I ever heard of in a Christian sect.
Both the Don and the Bashkir Cossacks belong to the Greek Church, but
whether their mode of worship is the orthodox form or adulterated with
Bashkir improvements, I am not able to state. It is interesting to note
here that the most extravagant professions are indulged in by the older
members of the congregation, while the younger seem content to go through
the principal motions, and not a few even slyly exchange quizzical glances
over the prostrate backs of their seniors in superstition. Perhaps light
will dawn some day even on the benighted banks of the Don and the Volga.
[Illustration: CIBULSKY.]
Of the most rudimentary education these simple people do not exhibit a
trace. Reading and writing appear to them the acme of human science, which
the poor Cossack may never hope to reach on this side of the Styx. When a
map is spread before them at random, they promptly inquire which is the
side of the rising sun, and then turn that very properly to their right,
but beyond that their intelligence comes to a halt. Streams, roads and
boundary-lines are to them only a labyrinth of confusion. Even as scouts
and foragers they would be nearly useless without local guides; hence
German officers have been added to their native leaders since they left the
Russian border. The commander of this force is a renegade Pole, a Prussian
subject, by name Cibulsky, _anglice_ onion-man--a remarkable coincidence,
in view of his favorite diet. Though he treats me with becoming respect, he
is not the sort of man to win my affections.
Though intellectually obtuse, the Cossack must not be supposed to lack
either sagacity or common sense. On the contrary, the keenness of his
instinct and perception, as in the case of most savages, is quite
remarkable. Human nature seems to him an open book, and it is instructive
to watch his ingenuity in getting the upper hand in a bargain, a bet or a
game of chance. This morning I felt anxious to secure a sketch of one of
their typical faces, undisfigured by the traditional beard, but coaxing did
not succeed. A few silbergroschen which I then displayed--all I claimed to
possess--were merrily gobbled up by right of conquest and divided among the
group around me. I felt near the end of my wits, when, observing a dirty
pack of cards protruding from the pocket of my subject, I asked permission
to show him a trick. It was one of those parlor-magic sleights of
hand--like Columbus's egg, the simplest trick in the world when you know
it. I never saw Bashkirs' eyes look half as large as on that occasion, and
half a dozen beards at once were put upon the market at the same price. For
want of time, however, I had to decline all except the one I had first
selected, which rapidly fell under the dexterous scissors of brother Frank;
and opposite is my sketch.
Of military drill there is very little in Cossack training in the French or
Prussian sense of the word, although the discipline is much better than
might be expected from such irregular troops. Their control of their horses
is unsurpassable, and greatly assisted by the natural docility of the
animal itself. In size below the standard of our lightest cavalry, these
ugly little beasts display uncommon strength and endurance. Possibly a
cross between the Arab and the Percheron might, on a larger scale, produce
a heavy and yet spirited head like that of the bright-eyed Cossack or
Ukraine horse, but to attain an equally fantastic neck and rump some less
symmetrical elements would have to be resorted to.
Speaking of horses, I am on foot at present, as you may well suppose, but
that only brings me all the nearer to my fellow-sufferers, who, like
myself, are in need of all the sympathy within their reach. Our Bashkirs
being, upon the whole, a good-natured set of fellows and much the worse for
wear, we hope to get along without serious trouble; and for my part I shall
keep a sharp lookout once we reach a familiar section of country. It looks
as if our route would take us through Doemitz, one of my former posts. If
so, patience!
COLIS, near Doemitz, Tuesday, 6th April.
Yesterday, at 2 P. M., we halted near a village five miles from here to
secure the first decent meal since we broke camp. Our sub-officers and
privates received good pickled meat with vegetables, pumpernickel (black
bread) and rye whiskey. The officers were taken into the village and
billeted on comfortable houses for refreshments. Before I started I cut out
of the belt of my drawers six napoleons d'or, which I divided between my
brothers, informing them that we were not far from Doemitz. They understood
me well, and wished me God-speed, promising to follow my example if any
opportunity occurred before they were exchanged. Their last injunction was
to report them to you, my dear parents, in good health and spirits and
bravely resigned to fate; and it was mainly the hope and desire to treat
you to this satisfaction that nerved me to the risk and pain of separation
from the dear boys in their deplorable condition. I would have given one
half of my remaining life to be able to carry them away in my breeches
pockets. It was because they truly felt this that they cheerfully forgave
me this desertion. God bless and protect them for ever, for better sons and
brothers and truer soldiers never lived!
[Illustration: BASHKIR SHORN AND COMBED.]
It was here that I had resolved to attempt my escape, as for many miles
around I had, during a protracted occupancy, gained a number of personal
friends, whose feelings I hoped to find unaltered by reverse of fortune. By
the favor of Heaven I was destined to succeed, so far, beyond expectation.
My captain, sub-lieutenant and myself were billeted on one of the last
houses on the road leading to Doemitz, and in charge of a single Bashkir, a
grizzly, good-humored old fellow, and not the very brightest of the lot.
After seeing us comfortably seated around a savory dinner, he squarely
established himself in the front-door, where he was soon absorbed in the
dissection of a huge plate of fishes steeped in fragrant linseed oil. I
should here add that spoons and forks seem unknown to the Bashkir family,
except as trophies of war, especially when they happen to be of silver.
After replenishing my French stomach by means of a regular Mecklenburger
appetite, I left my companions engaged in garnishing their pockets with the
remnants of the feast, and stepped out into the yard bareheaded and
carelessly picking my teeth. Having secured the good-will of my Bashkir
friend by tasting a bite or two of his greasy fish, I proceeded to
entertain him with a variety of gymnastic pranks, especially challenging
his admiration by balancing his lance on the end of my nose until it looked
as flat as his own. This complimentary trick delighted him to such an
extent that the corners of his mouth carried the tips of his broom-sedge
moustache several inches behind his ears. There was not a human being in
the street or yard, the bulk of the population having flocked out to stare
at the rest of the prisoners. Pretending to play with the Bashkir's horse,
which was despatching its oats near the garden-gate, I passed repeatedly
around the corner of the house, gradually increasing the intervals of my
reappearance until I had succeeded in fastening the bridle to the fence by
the nearest imitation possible of a gordian knot. Then coming into view
once more, and beholding my confiding jailer about to seal the fate of his
last fish, I again put the corner of the house between him and me, this
time to return no more.
My next prank was to leap from the saddle of the Cossack steed over the
fence into the garden, and thence over another fence into a shady orchard,
without being seen by mortal eye. At the outer end of an adjoining barnyard
an old shed with a sunken thatched roof beckoned me into its friendly
shelter, and there, between some old hay-ladders and broken wheels, I
twisted myself through the rotten straw into a cavity to which I confided
my trembling body until dusk. There was of course a moment of critical
suspense, but except the faint, hesitative bark of a small dog that rushed
past my hiding-place and suddenly turned back as if on a false alarm, there
was not a sound or a sign indicating that my movements had been observed or
that search was being made for the fugitive. Did not the jolly old hero
know the difference between two and three, or had he forgotten me over his
fish?
However that may be, the last stroke of the village curfew found me once
more in the open air. There were just stars enough peeping out between the
fleeting clouds to light my devious path through brush and field to the
house of a trusty friend, whom I aroused from his peaceful slumber at
eleven o'clock. He is the same forester (_Oberfoerster_) of whose attachment
for me I mentioned several instances in my last year's correspondence. His
delight on recognizing me was unfeigned, and he would have been too happy
to shelter me for any length of time but for the fact that the same hostile
command that had captured us in Lueneburg was now retreating toward Doemitz,
having again been driven across the Elbe by the expected advance of Marshal
Davoust's corps. Of course I cannot remain here to compromise my friend,
but shall proceed two leagues farther, to the house of a wealthy farmer,
where I may be concealed until enabled to reach the South Baltic coast.
There, at Christinenfeld, near Kluetz, I shall find more friends, my trunk
with money, clothes and other effects, if this property has not been
betrayed into the enemy's hand.
ELDENA, Mecklenburg-Schwerin, 15th April.
Here I am, since the 8th, safely housed with my old friend, the hospitable
farmer. Yesterday, in a suitable disguise, I visited a public functionary,
son of the county judge (_Oberamtmann_), with whom I was quartered four
years ago, and upon whose discretion I could rely. I broached the subject
of a pass under an assumed name and nationality wherewith to reach Kluetz,
only twenty-four leagues away. Speaking as I do the German language, and
even the Plattdeutsch dialect, almost like a native, I had hoped that my
friend would not hesitate to assume that risk. But upon his exhibiting to
me the stringent orders lately received upon that subject, and mentioning
the penalty attached to detection, I did not insist upon my request. I
shall undertake the journey as best I can, without a passport, _a la garde
de Dieu_.
CHRISTINENFELD, 17th April.
Yesterday morning, Good Friday, I rode from Eldena to Ludwigslust in
company with a gamekeeper well known in this section. Thence I walked to
Schwerin, the capital of the duchy, thence took stage to Gravismuehlen, and
lastly footed it again to Kluetz, accomplishing the journey of twenty-four
leagues between 3 A. M. and 9 P. M. Here I found the people as kindly
disposed as ever, and my trunk unmolested. My dear mother, who never rated
me as the wittiest if the most accomplished of her boys, may possibly feel
more hopeful upon learning by what _ruse de guerre_ I managed to traverse
the capital of Mecklenburg-Schwerin without a passport in such times as
these. In addition to the usual civil police, every gate of the city was
guarded by a military argus not likely to be caught napping. In Ludwigslust
I had read a proclamation offering a reward for every Frenchman captured
within the state. While resting on a milestone a short distance out of
Schwerin, and wiping the sweat of agony from my brow, I noticed the
establishment of a florist on the other side of the road. Thither I stepped
at once, and selecting a beautiful early rose in full bloom, I had it
potted for transportation. Then dusting off my boots and disarranging my
cravat, I placed the flower-pot in my cap, and taking this novel passport
upon my left arm, I abstractedly sallied forth toward the redoubtable gate.
Very much as I expected, all eyes were turned upon the beautiful early
flower, whose carrier passed unobserved. I felt so exultant over the
success of my stratagem that I had the audacity to call for half a bottle
of French wine, with bread and cheese, at the first inn I came to, and to
enjoy my treasonable meal right under the nose of a vociferous Prussian
_Kuerassier-hauptmann_ expounding the latest news from the seat of war to
what I took to be a knot of terrified civil functionaries. The drift of it
all was that the beak of the French eagle was once more turned to the East.
_Inde Irae._
AT A COUNTRY-SEAT IN HOLSTEIN, Danish ground.
My stay near Kluetz was of short duration, owing to another proclamation
from the ruler of this duchy, ordering the arrest of all straggling
Frenchmen, and their delivery to the nearest Russian or Prussian outpost,
under penalty of treason. My friends, whom I did not wish to expose any
longer, kindly recommended me to this place, where I have been very
hospitably received. How long this may last is, however, uncertain, as it
is feared Sweden may compel Denmark into an alliance against the French.
SCHWANENSEE, Mecklenburg, 29th May.
I was driven from Danish soil by a false alarm in regard to Swedish
movements, and am the guest here of another old friend, Baron Haesseler,
with whom I was quartered three years ago. But this is Mecklenburg again,
and not safe either for me or my generous host. This Wandering-Jew sort of
a life is demoralizing me fast: I cannot hold out much longer.
CASTLE BUeLOW, at Gudow, Duchy of Lauenburg, 6th June.
Thank Heaven! Mecklenburg is once more behind me. This is still the enemy's
country, but its little sovereign has not yet issued any proclamation
thirsting for French blood. After leaving my Danish retreat I spent a few
weeks at Kluetz under the tile-roof of a henhouse, where I was nearly crazed
by the heat and confinement. Dropping crumbs to a family of friendly mice
who have not heard of the proclamation was my only pastime. At Schwanensee
I made the acquaintance of the Landmarschallin von Buelow, a noble and
accomplished lady, who managed to convey me to this manor, her place of
residence. She is one of the few in the land who has not yet learned to
hate us Frenchmen "as we deserve." She is the mother of two sons, the elder
of whom, like all young men of his class, is in the field against us. To
the younger, a bright lad of sixteen, I was introduced this morning as his
preceptor, Mr. Fr. J. Dierks, a native of Freiburg, Baden. This is my
identity for all who may know me here. The lord of this manor, who, for
reasons of public business, resides at Ratzeburg, a few miles from here,
knows me in no other capacity. He seems to think much of me, and placed a
horse and his hunting-ground at my disposal. Even my trunk was sent after
me here through the kindness of the countess. But in the midst of all this
comfort, right from the Kluetzer henhouse, I feel restless and unhappy. My
place is not here. Had I remained on the Danish side I could now, as things
have turned out, pass through Holstein to Hamburg, which is again in
possession of Davoust's corps. I may accomplish it yet.
GUDOW, 7th July.
I hope soon to be able to forward you my letters, which I have just now
finished transcribing from the cipher. Since the middle of last month there
reigns some sort of a truce, but up to date I have tried in vain to get off
my mail or to slip through the outposts in person. The Cossacks are
swarming through this section, and have doubled all the picket-lines. It is
part of my duty here to furnish supplies to those stationed within the
Landmarschall's domain; and though, in that capacity, I am on the best of
terms with our protectors, they have shown no disposition yet to help me
across the Stekenitz, a muddy stream which forms the neutral line between
the hostile armies. Think of it, my dear parents, only a few miles off I
should find the French flag, French uniforms, comrades, friends, almost
home once more! It is very trying to hold up my head under a false role and
to sign my false name daily to a dozen papers. If detected now, so near the
lines, no power on earth could save me from the death of a spy, and it is
very difficult for me sometimes not to look upon myself as a deserter.
July 10th.
From the countess I learned to-day that the crown-prince of Sweden
(ex-Marshal Bernadotte), commanding the invading army, having learned that
a French officer or spy was concealed on Baron Haesseler's domain, quartered
upon him a squad of hussars, who are making diligent search for me. They
may find my trail to this place at any hour. I am on the wing this moment.
STOWE, a country-seat near Ratzeburg, 1st August.
If ever I was in a tight place, it is now. General Tettenborn, a Badener by
birth, commanding the Russian forces posted five miles from Gudow, wishes
to make the personal acquaintance of his countryman, Mr. Dierks. The
Swedish hussars have furnished him my description, and the protege of the
countess von Buelow is suspected to be no other than the mysterious guest of
Baron Haesseler. My disguise and concealment here at the house of a most
generous friend has successfully baffled detection so far, but the old
Landmarschall having joined in the pursuit of me to vindicate his own
loyalty, I am not safe here any longer. My devoted host has just devised a
plan for my conveyance to Kluetz, whence I must absolutely try to reach
Holstein and Hamburg without delay.
KLUeTZ, 6th August.
The night of the 2d-3d inst. saw me safely landed here. The place is full
of Swedish troops, and several officers are quartered in the house of which
my hen-coop is a dependancy. I have but little paper left to write for
pastime, but my faithful mice have not forgotten me. Very unlike many human
beings, they are gratefully looking up toward the source of their daily
bread, and even standing on their hind legs against the wall, as if anxious
to pay me a visit.
9th August.
No change yet in the situation within or without. If I could hope that
Davoust's corps would push across the Elbe at once and drive the Swedes,
Russians and Prussians to where they belong, I would remain here and await
his coming. But that is still uncertain, and my position is becoming
untenable. I have wished a thousand times I had never left my brothers.
Their fate is enviable compared to mine. To-night I shall get a reply to a
proposition I made for my transfer to Holstein by water. I have ample funds
to accomplish it if all else is favorable. The French advance has reached
Lubeck.
LUBECK, 12th August.
Heaven be praised, dearest parents! I am free and once more among my own!
In the night of the 10th-11th my plans culminated at last in my conveyance
in a fisherman's boat across the south-west corner of the Baltic to
Neustadt, in Danish Holstein, whence I proceeded to this city as fast as
the best horse within reach could carry me. I must forbear, from want of
time, giving you to-day the particulars of this dangerous and providential
escape, which would appear to you almost incredible. I cannot but attribute
the special protection of a kind Providence to a recognition of such of my
qualities of heart as you, my dear parents, have so religiously cultivated
in your children, and which nine years' absence from home and the varied
experiences of a cruel and relentless war have never yet obliterated. I
believe I have always striven to be faithful to my duty, kind and just to
my inferiors and humane to our enemies. It is this consciousness that ever
sustained my hope in the darkest hour of peril. It told me that I was too
good to die ignominiously at the end of a Mecklenburger pitchfork or hempen
rope. Again, thanks and praise to Whom they are due!
LUeNEBURG, 25th August.
I lost no time in reporting to head-quarters at Lubeck, and was at once
ordered here, where I found again united all of our command who fought
their way out of this place on the day of my capture. Of our poor
prisoners, only one, Sautier, a corporal of artillery, seems to have made
his escape. This occurred at Colberg, Prussia, on the Baltic, where our
boys were embarked for Russia, Riga being their port of destination. At
that time both Frank and Louis enjoyed remarkably good health, and, summer
approaching, Russia had lost much of its terror in their minds. The trip by
land was performed in short marches and without any unusual hardships. Long
before they reached Berlin their escort was replaced by another of
exclusively Don Cossacks. Sautier reached Denmark by water from Wismar,
where he had travelled in various disguises, principally following the
coast. My own escape was not discovered by Captain Cibulsky until next day.
It appears that the old Bashkir, on returning my captain and sub-lieutenant
to the caravan after dinner, made no report concerning the missing
lieutenant, and when the roll-call betrayed my absence next morning the
clannish Bashkirs played so adroitly into each other's hands that the
commander could not determine whom to hold accountable for the offence,
and, after notifying the civil authorities to keep a lookout for me,
resumed his march. After that accident, however, the captive officers were
not permitted to leave camp for any purpose except under escort equal to
their own number--one Cossack one prisoner, one Cossack one prisoner, and
so on--which would not leave room for miscounts. I heartily rejoice over
the impunity of my old friend of the doorsill, and only regret now not
having had the presence of mind to tie a napoleon d'or into that
treacherous knot in his bridle. But, _qui sait?_ we may meet again!
27th August.
Yesterday I received my full pay in arrears, and am again blazing forth in
complete regimentals after a _bourgeois_ neglige of nearly five months.
To-day, when taking my first official round through the town, I suddenly
found myself face to face with the journeyman baker who had undertaken to
put a stop to my earthly career on the fatal 2d of April. He turned pale as
death, and seemed riveted to the ground. Taking hold of his chin, I asked
him whether he would think it strange to be sent before a court-martial and
shot before next sunrise. The cowardly bully looked so contrite and
chapfallen that I pitied him, and the fear that he might be dealt with just
as he deserved caused me to dismiss him with an impressive admonition, of
which the bystanders of his class may have taken to heart their respective
shares. Before night the magnanimity of the French officer was the gossip
of the town.
I almost forgot to mention that I have also recovered my horse, which had
been appropriated by a civil functionary and smuggled into the country
upon the return of our forces. Although I shall not be reassigned to the
coast-guard service, I am permitted to retain the animal at my own expense.
We learn to-day that Marshal Davoust is advancing rapidly through
Mecklenburg, and has already issued a proclamation from Schwerin, where
roses count for passports. In a very few days we shall be sufficiently
reorganized to follow. Every step will bring me nearer to my brothers. God
bless you all, my dear parents and sisters! These leaves at last will be
wafted homeward to-day. More in a few days from our eastward line of
march.
NOTE.--Lieutenant Diss Debar served in the corps of Davoust until the
departure of Napoleon for Elba. The second invasion found him promoted to a
captaincy, and engaged in the defence of Neu Breisach, which closed his
military career. After the restoration of the Bourbons the influence of his
father's Legitimist friends procured for him a comfortable position in the
administration of "Waters and Forests," which he retained through all the
political changes up to within a few years of his death, in 1864, in the
eighty-fifth year of his age. His brother Frank was exchanged in 1815, and
returned to France, but "poor little Louis" was not destined to the same
good fortune. He died at Riga in January, 1814, from amputation of his
frozen feet, the result of barbarous exposure.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] The writer of these letters, Joseph Diss Debar, served with the corps
of Marshal Davonst. Before the French Revolution his father had filled the
office of intendant of domains of the prince-cardinal de Rohan-Guemenee, of
royal necklace memory, then residing on his estates at Saverne, Alsace, in
the diocese of Strassburg, of which he was the beneficiary. Soon after the
capture of the Bastille the revolutionary movement spread to this locality,
and destroyed, imprisoned or drove into exile all the avowed adherents of
the royal cause, including the cardinal and his friends. The greater part
of the Saverne refugees gathered at Ettenheim in Baden, only one league
from the Rhine, where a large stipend, allowed to the cardinal by the
British government, enabled him to keep his friends and followers above
want until they could find other means of support. Thirteen years later
Ettenheim also attracted the unfortunate duc d'Enghien, who in March, 1804,
was kidnapped by orders of Bonaparte and shot in the ditch at Vincennes.
The terror inspired by this high-handed _coup d'etat_, which destroyed the
_emigres'_ safety upon neutral soil, caused many of the younger generation
of exiles to return to their native country and to enter the army, the
military career being the only one open to them. Among these were the
writer and his two brothers, the oldest being then twenty-four and the
youngest seventeen years of age.
A PORTRAIT.
Every day I passed there in going between the room where I lodge and my
business. It was an old shop, full of trash, ambitious of being a
bric-a-brac establishment, but its contents had neither beauty nor pedigree
to recommend them, only age and cheapness. Its doorsill lay even with the
pavement, inviting custom by an easy access, while repelling it by its
squalor. The light entered hesitatingly through a cobwebbed window, as if
loath to touch the unsightly objects within. Of these, some few had strayed
through the door and stood in blinking confusion on the sidewalk--chairs
with three legs, desks with no shelves, sofas without seats, clocks
eternally silent, and ornaments maimed, cracked, and seamed with glue.
It was in this company I first saw him. He had dark eyes with heavy lids,
that gave a pathetic look to his face, and one eyebrow was slightly pointed
near its termination on the temple, while the other was straight--an
irregularity often found in persons of erratic temperament. His nose,
sensitive and refined, was in beautiful proportion to the face: his full
lips and square chin were partly concealed by a curling brown beard and
moustache, and the hair, which met a forehead rather broad than high, was
of the same color. Perhaps I should have mentioned that _he_ was a
portrait.
How had he arrived among his present surroundings, standing on the dirty
street, smeared with mud that passing feet cast in his face, splashed by
rain, and torn from contact with the edges of chairs or the careless canes
of pedestrians--even showing the print of a boot-heel impressed on one
cheek? At times he disappeared for days together, as if lost in the maze
within: then again I would see his tragic eyes gazing at me through a
pelting storm or his skin blistering under a blinding sun. Was it any
wonder that I sought to save him from his capricious fate--that I pitied
him, that I bought him?
I took the opportunity of doing so when the owner of the shop, whom I
respectfully christened Sticks, was absent, and was thereby enabled to
purchase the portrait from a shock-headed boy in charge for the modest sum
of two francs.
My acquisition gave me much pleasure, but, unfortunately, it immediately
became the subject of an altercation between my two selves. I must here
say that my inner and outer self seldom agree, the latter being a
practical man and a clerk in a retail lace business, while the former is an
idealist who despises the other's employment and ridicules his opinions,
frequently bewailing the lot that links him to a clod without aspirations.
It was to settle this dispute that I resolved, if possible, to discover
some facts about the portrait's history, and for this purpose I stopped at
the shop next morning, fortunately finding the shock-headed boy alone. Old
Sticks would not have _given_ even an answer, his business being buying and
selling.
"Where did you get that picture I bought of you yesterday?" I began.
"Think it's an old master?" he asked with a wink.
"Will you answer my question, you blockhead?" I said, threatening him with
my stick.
"I brought it from No. 42 Rue Notre Dame de Lorette," he whimpered,
avoiding the cane as if it recalled disagreeable memories.
"To whom did it belong?"
"I don't know."
"Speak out, my man, and you shall have this for your reward." The proffered
half-franc made him voluble.
"I was sent for it to No. 42. The concierge gave it to me. He had it
carefully wrapped up: that made me laugh when I saw it opened."
"How long ago did this happen?"
"About six months. Where do _you_ live?"
"What is that to you, my young friend?"
"You had better not pass here often: the old man is furious that I sold the
picture--asked me all about how you looked, and if you ever passed the
shop. I told him I never saw you before, and that you had black hair and
squinted."
"Why did you say that?"
"I owe him one. He beat me last night, and went off this morning without
giving me a bite to eat. Last thing he said was, 'You are sure he squints?'
I said, 'Yes, sure.'"
Then, as I gave him the silver, the boy said, "Just mind the shop a moment,
while I run and get something to eat;" and off he went, leaving me in
charge.
"What are you going to do about it?" asked my inner self ironically.
"I am going to No. 42;" and without awaiting the boy's return I set out.
A few minutes brought me to the street. I passed No. 42 in review from the
opposite side of the way, thinking I might get some idea of its occupants
from the exterior. The house, wedged in by similar houses, possessed no
particular physiognomy. I gazed at each window in turn, and finally
crossing the street asked the concierge, "What is the name of the artist
living in this house?"
"Only respectable people live here," he answered in a surly tone.
"When did he leave?" I went on, determined not to notice his rudeness.
"There has never been one here since I came."
"How long have you been here?"
"I can't remember."
"But you can remember a picture that you sold to a furniture-dealer in the
Rue St. Lazare about six months ago."
"No I can't. I never sold one."
"His boy told me he got it from you."
"He is mistaken: I never sold one."
"Perhaps it merely passed through your hands. No harm will come to you if
you tell me what you know about it."
"I know nothing," he exclaimed angrily, and began to pick up some scraps on
the floor, so that I could not see his face.
Evidently suspecting there was something wrong, and that he might be held
accountable, the man was prepared to deny everything, and my time being
limited I left. As I did so I saw a plainly-dressed individual approach
him, and on once looking back I thought from their gestures they were
speaking of me. Of course my inner self exclaimed, "Absurd!"
For two days after I was confined to my room by a slight illness, but on
the third, as I neared the furniture-shop, I noticed Sticks disconsolately
seated in what might be called his best chair, seeing that the cover,
though faded, was whole, and it lacked but one arm. This total disregard
for the sanctity of his wares struck me as ominous, but confident, from the
boy's description of me, that I should not be recognized, I went boldly
forward. What was my astonishment to see him as I passed start from his
seat and exclaim, "Is it you?"
"The boy has betrayed us," said I to my inner self.
"Perhaps he was bribed by another half-franc," replied he, as if sneering
at my liberality.
"Let us see what old Sticks will do," I remarked in order to change the
subject.
Thereupon we stopped before the excited man, who was trying vainly to calm
himself while he asked nervously, "Can I show monsieur something? Something
cheap, _cheap_--a bargain, artistic, grand, beautiful."
"Not this morning, thanks."
"Ah, this is not kind. Enter a moment: the opportunity is there; do not
disappoint it."
He stood before me, and laying one knotty hand on my sleeve gently pushed
me over the threshold, while he murmured, "A bargain, beautiful, cheap."
Mephistopheles could not have looked more persuasive as, pointing his other
hand--which matched his wares by the loss of a finger--to a worm-eaten
cabinet, he leered at me with the only eye he had left.
"I could not carry it," I said with a shrug.
"I will send the article," he answered, eagerly pulling a soiled bit of
paper and the end of a pencil from his pocket. "What is monsieur's
address?"
"He is anxious to know where I live: that is evident," said I to my usual
confidant as I moved on and stopped before a table which had once been
inlaid, but which now presented the appearance of a painted beauty whose
rouge has dropped off.
"Monsieur's choice is wise," said the merchant, following me. "Real Louis
Quatorze: and besides its beauty it has a secret drawer to recommend it.
That, however, I can only show you in the privacy of your own apartment."
"I think he wants to steal the portrait," I remarked to the invisible
presence accompanying me. Then I asked the dealer, watching him closely the
while, "Have you any pictures to sell?"
Sticks coughed nervously, looked about him, and walked the whole length of
his shop, dusting the things with his red cap, before he spoke. He must
have been much preoccupied thus rashly to destroy the venerable appearance
of his stock. Then he said, "Perhaps _you_ might have one you would sell?"
"I suppose you mean the one I bought of you. Why do you want it? In what
does its value lie? What is the secret connected with it?"
The old man could not repress an involuntary "Hush!" Then recovering
himself, he asked, "Will you sell it? I offer double what you gave."
I shook my head negatively.
"Name your price," he begged eagerly.
I obstinately continued to shake my head. There must be some reason for his
wanting it back, and I resolved to find this out before I parted with it.
Thereupon my inner self ejaculated "Nonsense!" but the dealer's anxiety was
too evident, and his liberality too unusual, not to be suspicious.
"I must bid you good-morning," I said, in order to bring the matter to a
crisis.
"Stay a moment: I will explain, I will tell you all. A poor widow sold me
the picture: it was a portrait of the husband of her youth. Yesterday she
came to buy it back: she had saved the money for this purpose sou by sou.
Monsieur will not be cruel, and I promise to divide the profits equally
with him."
"I can name my price?" I asked, stopping at the door.
"Certainly, monsieur."
"Tell the poor widow she had better spend her savings in buying a new
husband instead of an old portrait. You can mention me as a pretender."
With that I walked off, believing that I could come sooner to the truth by
feigning indifference.
Several times during the day I imagined some one was watching me, and
returning home at night I was sure I was followed; which proved to be
true, as on reaching my door the shock-headed boy from the shop passed and
whispered, "Be careful! They are on your track;" then disappeared before I
could ask an explanation.
"I wonder if Sticks meditates a night-attack, and has sent the boy to
reconnoitre?" said I to my confidential friend.
"You had better bribe him to tell you," replied this ironical adviser.
But nothing happened until morning, when a woman, the concierge of the
house I live in, knocked at the door and asked if it would be convenient
for me to pay my rent that day: it would oblige the proprietor. This was an
unusual request, the rent not being due for a week to come; but I counted
out the necessary sum, and handing it to her went on with my preparations
to go out. Still she remained, and when I turned to see what detained her,
I saw her eyes fixed on the portrait.
"It is so like my son," she said, observing my regard. "Monsieur has not
had it long?"
"No, a few days only."
"My poor son was killed," she continued, wiping her eyes: "he was a mason
and fell from a scaffolding. If he had only been contented to be a
street-paver, as I begged him, he would never have fallen."
"Blessed are the lowly-minded, for being already down they cannot fall!"
This voiceless remark I made to my other self as a warning.
"It is such a broken-up portrait that monsieur cannot want it. I would like
to buy it for a little sum if monsieur would sell it. My poor son! That
hole in the forehead especially looks like Jean when I saw him last." Here
she covered her eyes.
"How much did that one-eyed man give you to come and buy that portrait?"
asked I, guessing that this was an envoy of Sticks.
"He?" she said, confused: "it was no _he_." Then recovering herself:
"Monsieur is mistaken if he thinks I would take a bribe;" after which the
lady withdrew.
"Was not my question well thought of?" asked I of my other self in triumph.
"I think you are becoming a monomaniac," was his complimentary reply.
The day passed uneventfully, although I still had a suspicion that I was
watched, but I had no means of making it a certainty. When I returned home
my first look was toward the portrait. It was still safe.
At that moment there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and found there
my washerwoman, or I should say my washerwoman's substitute, one whom I had
never before seen. She was a bright, talkative little thing, a pearl of
soapsuds, and said glibly that my usual attendant was ill, and she had come
instead. I told her I was glad she had.
While putting down her basket her brown eyes took in the whole of my room,
and she remarked with a shiver, "What a sad home you live in!--gloomy, ugly
little chamber."
"Does your young man have a better one, my dear?"
"You are not my confessor," she answered saucily.
"I wish I were."
"Let me be yours."
"No objections."
"Who is the _joli garcon_ you condemn to share with you this gloomy
apartment?" She pointed to the portrait.
"A dear friend of mine."
"He looks as if he drank absinthe, and had broken his head on the pavement;
nevertheless, I like him. Bring him to see me."
"Willingly: when shall we call?"
"As soon as possible: meanwhile I will carry this with me." She lightly
jumped on a chair, took my portrait and retreated with it to the door,
saying, "Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, No. 42, to-morrow."
"Not so fast, please," said I, taking the canvas from her hand.