MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALE.
"It was in Spain, no matter where or how, that it was my fortune to
take prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held--a
lieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments, that
we became intimate friends--the most intimate friend I ever had,
sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rough soldier, whom the
world had not well treated; but he never railed at the world, and
maintained that he had had his deserts. Honour was his idol, and the
sense of honour paid him for the loss of all else.
"There was something similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He
had a son--a child, an infant--who was all in life to him, next to his
country and his duty. I, too, had then such a son of the same years."
(The Captain paused an instant: we exchanged glances, and a stifling
sensation of pain and suspense was felt by all his listeners.) "We
were accustomed, brother, to talk of these children--to picture their
future, to compare our hopes and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A
short time sufficed to establish this confidence. My prisoner was
sent to headquarters, and soon afterwards exchanged.
"We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired for my
old friend, and learned that he was living at R----, a few miles from
the capital. I went to visit him. I found his house empty and
deserted. That very day he had been led to prison, charged with a
terrible crime. I saw him in that prison, and from his own lips
learned his story. His son had been brought up, as he fondly believed,
in the habits and principles of honourable men; and, having finished
his education, came to reside with him at R----. The young man was
accustomed to go frequently to Paris. A young Frenchman loves
pleasure, sister, and pleasure is found at Paris. The father thought
it natural, and stripped his age of some comforts to supply luxuries
to the son's youth.
"Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend perceived that he
was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted he knew not how,
nor could guess by whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed
himself, and watched. He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a
false key applied to the lock--he started forward, seized the felon,
and recognised his son. What should the father have done? I do not ask
_you_, sister! I ask these men; son and father, I ask you."
"Expelled him the house," cried I.
"Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch," said my father.
"_Nemo repentè turpissimus semper fuit_--No man is wholly bad all at
once."
"The father did as you would have, advised, brother. He kept the
youth; he remonstrated with him; he did more--he gave him the key of
the bureau. 'Take what I have to give,' said he: 'I would rather be a
beggar than know my son a thief.'"
"Right: and the youth repented, and became a good man?" exclaimed my
father.
Captain Roland shook his head. "The youth promised amendment, and
seemed penitent. He spoke of the temptations of Paris, the
gaining-table, and what not. He gave up his daily visit to the
capital. He seemed to apply to study." Shortly after this, the
neighbourhood was alarmed by reports of night robberies on the road.
Men, masked and armed, plundered travellers, and even broke into
houses.
The police were on the alert. One night an old brother officer knocked
at my friend's door. It was late: the veteran (he was a cripple, by
the way, like myself--strange coincidence!) was in bed. He came down
in haste, when his servant woke, and told him that his old friend,
wounded and bleeding, sought an asylum under his roof. The wound,
however, was slight. The guest had been attacked and robbed on the
road. The next morning the proper authority of the town was sent for.
The plundered man described his loss--some billets of five hundred
francs in a pocket-book, on which was embroidered his name and coronet
(he was a vicomte.) The guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon
the son looked in. The guest started to see him: my friend noticed his
paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faintness, the guest retired
to his room, and sent for his host. 'My friend,' said he, 'can you do
me a favour? go to the magistrate, and recall the evidence I have
given.'
"'Impossible,' said the host. 'What crotchet is this?'
"The guest shuddered. '_Peste!_' said he: 'I do not wish in my old age
to be hard on others. Who knows how the robber may have been tempted,
and who knows what relations he may have--honest men, whom his crime
would degrade for ever! Good heavens! if detected, it is the galleys,
the galleys!'
"'And what then?--the robber knew what he braved.'
"'But did his father know it?' cried the guest.
"A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms: he caught his friend
by the hand--'You turned pale at my son's sight--where did you ever
see him before? Speak!'
"'Last night, on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. Call back
my evidence!'
"'You are mistaken,' said my friend calmly. 'I saw my son in his bed,
and blessed him, before I went to my own.'
"'I will believe you,' said the guest; 'and never shall my hasty
suspicion pass my lips--but call back the evidence.'
"The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father conversed with
his son on the subject of his studies; he followed him to his room,
waited till he was in bed, and was then about to retire, when the
youth said, 'Father, you have forgotten your blessing.'
"The father went back, laid his hand on the boy's head, and prayed. He
was credulous--fathers are so! He was persuaded his friend had been
deceived. He retired to rest, and fell asleep. He woke suddenly in the
middle of the night, and felt (I here quote his words)--'I felt,' said
he 'as if a voice had awakened me--a voice that said 'Rise and
search.' I rose at once, struck a light, and went to my son's room.
The door was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice--no answer. I dared
not call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down the
stairs--I opened the back-door--I passed to the stables. My own horse
was there, _not_ my son's. My horse neighed: it was old, like
myself--my old charger at Mount St Jean! I stole back, I crept into
the shadow of the wall by my son's door, and extinguished my light. I
felt as if I were a thief myself.'"
"Brother," interrupted my mother under her breath; "speak in your own
words, not in this wretched father's. I know not why, but it would
shock me less."
The Captain nodded.
"Before daybreak, my friend heard the back-door open gently; a foot
ascended the stair--a key grated in the door of the room close at
hand--the father glided through the dark into that chamber, behind his
unseen son.
"He heard the clink of the tinder box; a light was struck; it spread
over the room, but he had time to place himself behind the window
curtain which was close at hand. The figure before him stood a moment
or so motionless, and seemed to listen, for it turned to the right, to
the left, its visage covered with the black hideous mask which is worn
in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed; could that be his son's
face? the son of a brave man?--it was pale and ghastly with scoundrel
fears; the base drops stood on the brow; the eye was haggard and
bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands before him.
"The youth walked, or rather sculked to the secretaire, unlocked it,
opened a secret drawer; placed within it the contents of his pockets
and his frightful mask; the father approached softly, looked over his
shoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocket-book embroidered with his
friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, uncocked them
cautiously, and was about also to secrete them, when his father
arrested his arm. 'Robber, the use of these is yet to come.'
"The son's knees knocked together, an exclamation for mercy burst from
his lips; but when, recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves,
he perceived it was not the gripe of some hireling of the law, but a
father's hand that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knows
fear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, returned to
him.
"'Tush, sir,' he said, 'waste not time in reproaches, for, I fear, the
gens-d'armes are on my track. It is well that you are here; you can
swear that I have spent the night at home. Unhand me, old man--I have
these witnesses still to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments wet
and dabbled with the mud of the roads. He had scarcely spoken when the
walls shook, there was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing
pavement without.
"'They come!' cried the son. 'Off dotard! save your son from the
galleys.'
"'The galleys, the galleys!' said the father, staggering back; 'it is
true--he said 'the galleys.''
"There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gens-d'armes surrounded
the house. 'Open in the name of the law.' No answer came, no door was
opened. Some of the gens-d'armes rode to the rear of the house, in
which was placed the stable-yard. From the window of the son's room,
the father saw the sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy forms of the
men-hunters. He heard the clatter of arms as they swung themselves
from their horses. He heard a voice cry 'Yes, this is the robber's
gray horse--see, it still reeks with sweat!' And behind and in front,
at either door, again came the knocking, and again the shout, 'Open in
the name of the law.'
"Then lights began to gleam from the casements of the neighbouring
houses; then the space filled rapidly with curious wonderers startled
from their sleep; the world was astir, and the crowd came round to
know what crime or what shame had entered the old soldier's home.
"Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a firearm; and a
minute or so afterwards the front door was opened, and the soldier
appeared.
"'Enter,' he said, to the gens-d'armes: 'what would you?'
"'We seek a robber who is within your walls.'
"'I know it, mount and find him: I will lead the way.'
"He ascended the stairs, he threw open his son's room; the officers of
justice poured in, and on the floor lay the robber's corpse.
"They looked at each other in amazement. 'Take what is left you,' said
the father. 'Take the dead man rescued from the galleys, take the
living man on whose hands rests the dead man's blood!'
"I was present at my friend's trial. The facts had become known
beforehand. He stood there with his gray hair, and his mutilated
limbs, and the deep scar on his visage, and the cross of the legion of
honour on his breast; and when he had told his tale, he ended with
these words--'I have saved the son whom I reared for France, from a
doom that spared the life to brand it with disgrace. Is this a crime?
I give you my life in exchange for my son's disgrace. Does, my country
need a victim? I have lived for my country's glory, and I can die
contented to satisfy its laws; sure that if you blame me, you will not
despise; sure that the hands that give me to the headsman will scatter
flowers over my grave. Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round
amongst a nation of soldiers; and in the name of the star which
glitters on my breast, I dare the fathers of France to condemn me!'
"They acquitted the soldier, at least they gave a verdict answering to
what in our courts is called 'justifiable homicide.' A shout rose in
the court, which no ceremonial voice could still; the crowd would have
borne him in triumph to his house, but his look repelled such
vanities. To his house he returned indeed, and the day afterwards they
found him dead, beside the cradle in which his first prayer had been
breathed over his sinless child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do
you condemn that man?"