The one thought that dwelt in my mind the entire day was that Marie de
Rochfort was Charles de Meudon's sister. The fact once known, seemed to
explain that secret power she exercised over my hopes and longings. The
spell her presence threw around ever as she passed me in the park; that
strange influence with which the few words I had heard her speak still
remained fast rooted in my memory,--all these did I attribute to the
hold her name had taken of my heart as I sat night after night listening
to her brother's stories. And then, why had I not guessed it earlier?
why had I not perceived the striking resemblance which it now seemed
impossible to overlook? The dark eye, beaming beneath a brow squarely
chiselled like an antique cameo; the straight nose, and short, up-turned
lip, where a half-saucy look seemed struggling with a sweet smile; and
then the voice,--was it not his own rich. Southern accent, tempered by
her softer nature? Yes; I should have known her.
In reflections like these I made my round of duty, my whole heart
wrapped up in this discovery. I never thought of De Beauvais, or his
letter. It seemed to me as though I had known her long and intimately.
She was not the Rose de Provence of the Court, the admired of the
Tuileries, the worshipped belle of Versailles; but Marie de Meudon, the
sister of one who loved me as a brother.
There was a dark alley near the Trianon that led along the side of a
little lake, where rocks and creeping plants, rudely grouped together,
gave a half-wild aspect to the scene; the tall beech and the drooping
ash-trees that grew along the bank threw their shadows far across the
still water. And here I had remarked that Mademoiselle de Meudon came
frequently alone. It was a place, from its look of shade and gloom,
little likely to attract the gay visitors of the Court, who better loved
the smoothly-shaven grass of the Palace walks, or the broad terraces
where bright fountains were plashing. Since I discovered that she
avoided me when we met, I had never taken this path on my rounds,
although leading directly to one of my outposts, but preferred rather a
different and longer route.
Now, however, I sought it eagerly; and as I hurried on, I dreaded lest
my unwonted haste might excite suspicion. I resolved to see and speak
to her. It was her brother's wish that I should know her; and till now I
felt as though my great object in coming to France was unobtained, if I
knew not her whose name was hallowed in my memory. Poor Charles used
to tell me she would be a sister to me. How my heart trembled at the
thought! As I drew near I stopped to think how she might receive me;
with what feelings hear me speak of one who was the cause of all her
unhappiness. But then they said she loved De Beauvais. What! was poor
Claude forgotten? Was all the lovedream of her first affection passed?
My thoughts ran wild as different impulses struggled through them, and I
could resolve on nothing. Before me, scarcely a dozen paces, and alone,
she stood looking on the calm lake, where the light in golden and
green patches played, as it struggled through the dense foliage. The
clattering of my sabre startled her, and without looking back, she
dropped her veil, and moved slowly on.
“Mademoiselle de Meudon!” said I, taking off my shako, and bowing deeply
before her.
“What! how! Why this name, sir? Don't you know it's forbidden here?”
“I know it, Madame. But it is by that name alone I dare to speak to you.
It was by that I learned to know you,--from one who loved you, and who
did not reject my humble heart; one who, amid all the trials of hard
fate, felt the hardest to be,--the wrong he did his sister.”
“Did you speak of my brother Charles?” said she, in a voice low and
tremulous.
“I did, Madame. The last message his lips ever uttered was given to
me,--and for you. Not until last night did I know that I was every hour
of the day so near to one whose name was treasured in my heart.”
“Oh, tell me of him! tell me of my dear Charles!” cried she, as the
tears ran fast down her pale cheeks. “Where was his death? Was it among
strangers that he breathed his last? Was there one there who loved him?”
“There was! there was!” cried I, passionately, unable to say more.
“And where was that youth that loved him so tenderly? I heard of him
as one who never left his side,--tending him in sickness, and watching
beside him in sorrow. Was he not there?”
“I was! I was! My hand held his; in my ear his last sigh was breathed.”
“Oh! was it you indeed who were my brother's friend?” said she, seizing
my hand, and pressing it to her lips. The hot tears dropped heavily on
my wrist, and in my ecstasy I knew not where I was. “Oh,” cried she,
passionately, “I did not think that in my loneliness such a happiness as
this remained for me! I never dreamed to see and speak to one who knew
and loved my own dear Charles; who could tell me of his solitary hours
of exile,--what hopes and fears stirred that proud heart of his; who
could bring back to me in all their force again the bright hours of our
happy youth, when we were all to each other,--when our childhood knew
no greater bliss than that we loved. Alas, alas! how short-lived was it
all! He lies buried beyond the sea in the soil of the stranger; and I
live on to mourn over the past and shudder at the future. But come, let
us sit down upon this bank; you must not leave me till I hear all about
him. Where did you meet first?”
We sat down upon a grassy bench beside the stream, where I at once began
the narrative of my first acquaintance with De Meudon. At first the rush
of sensations that came crowding on me made me speak with difficulty and
effort. The flutter of her dress as the soft wind waved it to and fro,
the melody of her voice, and her full, languid eye, where sorrow and
long-buried affection mingled their expression, sent thrilling
through my heart thoughts that I dared not dwell upon. Gradually, as I
proceeded, my mind recurred to my poor friend, and I warmed as I spoke
of his heroic darings and his bold counsels. All his high-souled ardor,
all the nobleness of his great nature,--his self-devotion, and his
suffering,--were again before me, mingled with those traits of womanly
softness which only belong to those whose courage was almost fanaticism.
How her dark eyes grew darker as she listened, and her parted lips and
her fast-heaving bosom betrayed the agitation that she felt! And how
that proud look melted into sorrow when I told of the day when his
outpouring heart recurred to home and her, the loved one of his boyhood.
Every walk in that old terraced garden, each grassy alley and each shady
seat, I knew as though I saw them.
Although I did not mention Claude, nor even distinctly allude to the
circumstances which led to their unhappiness, I could see that her cheek
became paler and paler; and that, despite an effort to seem calm,
the features moved with a slight jerking motion, her lip trembled
convulsively, and, with a low, sad sigh she fell back fainting.
[Illustration: The Lady of the Lake 300]
I sprang down the bank towards the lake, and in an Instant dipped my
shako in the water; and as I hastened back, she was sitting up, her eyes
staring madly 'round her, her look wild almost to insanity, while her
outstretched finger pointed to the copse of low beech near us.
“There, there! I saw him!” said she. “He was there now. Look! look!”
Shocked at the terrified expression of her features, and alarmed lest
ray story had conjured up before her disordered imagination the image of
her lost brother, I spoke to her in words of encouragement.
“No, no!” replied she to my words, “I saw him,--I heard his voice, too.
Let us leave this; bring me to the Trianon; and--”
The terrified and eager look she threw around at each word did not admit
of longer parley, and I drew her arm within mine to lead her forward.
“This is no fancy, as you deem it,” said she, in a low and broken tone,
to which an accent of bitterness lent a terrible power; “nor could the
grave give up before me one so full of terror to my heart as him I saw
there.”
Her head sank heavily as she uttered this; and, notwithstanding every
effort I made, she spoke no more, nor would give me any answer to my
questions regarding the cause of her fears.
As we walked forward we heard the sound of voices, which she at once
recognized as belonging to the Court party, and pressing my hand
slightly, she motioned me to leave her. I pressed the pale fingers to my
lips, and darted away, my every thought bent on discovering the cause of
her late fright.
In an instant I was back beside the lake. I searched every copse and
every brake; I wandered for hours through the dark woods; but nothing
could I see. I stooped to examine the ground, but could not even detect
the pressure of a footstep. The dried branches lay unbroken, and the
leaves unpressed around; and I at last became convinced that an excited
brain, and a mind harassed by a long sorrow, had conjured up the image
she spoke of. As I approached the picket, which was one of the most
remote in my rounds, I resolved to ask the sentry had he seen any one.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said the soldier; “a man passed some short time ago
in an undress uniform. He gave the word, and I let him proceed.”
“Was he old or young?”
“Middle-aged, and of your height.”
“Which way did he take?”
“He turned towards the left as he passed out; I lost sight of him then.”
I hurried immediately onward, and entered the wood by the path in the
direction mentioned, my mind painfully excited by what I heard, and
resolved to do everything to probe this matter to the bottom. But,
though I walked miles in every direction, I met none save a few
fagot-gatherers, and they had not seen any one like him I sought for.
With a weary and a heavy heart I turned towards my quarters, all the
happiness of the morning dashed by the strange event I have related.
My night was feverish and disturbed; for a long time I could not sleep,
and, when I did, wild and terrible fancies came on me, and I started up
in terror. A horrible face recurred at every instant to my mind's eye;
and even when awake, the least noise, the slightest rustling of the
leaves in the park, agitated and excited me. At last, worn out with the
painful struggle, between sleep and waking, I arose and dressed.
The day was breaking, and already the birds were carolling to the rising
sun. I strolled out into the park. The fresh and bracing air of morning
cooled my burning brow; the mild influences of the hour, when sweet
perfumes float softly in the dew-loaded breeze, soothed and calmed me;
and I wandered back in thought to her who already had given a charm to
my existence I never knew before.
The long-wished-for dream of my boyhood was realized at last. I knew
the sister of my friend; I sat beside her, and heard her speak to me in
tones so like his own. I was no longer the friendless alien, without one
to care for, one to feel interested in his fortunes. The isolation that
pressed so painfully on me fled before that thought: and now I felt
raised in my own esteem by those dark eyes that thanked me as I spoke of
poor Charles. What a thrill that look sent through my heart! Oh, did
she know the power of that glance! Could she foresee what seeds of high
ambition her every smile was sowing! The round of my duty was to me
devoid of all fatigue, and I returned to my quarters with a light step
and a lighter heart.
The entire day I lingered about the Trianon and near the lake; but Marie
never came, nor did she appear in the walks at all. “Was she ill? Had
the vision, whatever it was, of yesterday, preyed upon her health?” were
my first thoughts, and I inquired eagerly if any doctor had been seen
about the château. But no, nothing unusual seemed to have occurred, and
a ball was to take place that very evening. I would have given worlds,
were they mine, even to know in what part of the Palace she was lodged;
and fifty times did I affect to have some duty, as an excuse to cross
the terrace and steal a cautious glance towards the windows,--but in
vain.
So engrossed was my mind with thoughts of her that I forgot all else.
The pickets, too, I had not visited since daybreak, and my report to the
minister remained unfilled. It was late in the evening when I sallied
forth to my duty, and night, with scarce a star, was falling fast. My
preoccupation prevented my feeling the way as I walked along; and I had
already visited all the outposts except one, when a low, faint whistle,
that seemed to issue from the copse near me, startled me. It was
repeated after a moment, and I called out,--
“Who 's there? Advance.”
“Ah, I thought it was you, Burke!” said a voice I at once knew to be
Beauvais's. “You broke faith with me at the town-gate yonder, and so I
had to come down here.”
“How? You surely were not there when I passed?”
“Yes, but I was, though. Did you not see the woodcutter, with his blouse
on his arm, lighting his pipe at the door of the guardhouse?”
“Yes; but you can't mean that it was you.”
“Do you remember his saying, 'Buy a cheap charretie of wood, Lieutenant;
I 'll leave it at your quarters? '”
“De Beauvais,” said I, gravely, “these risks may be fatal to us both.
My orders are positive; and if I disobey them, there are no powerful
friends nor high relatives to screen me from a deserving punishment.”
“What folly you speak, Burke! If I did not know you better, I should say
you grudged me the hospitality I have myself asked you for. One night to
rest,--and I need it much, if you knew but all,--and one day to speak to
Marie, and you have done with me. Is that too much?”
“No,--not if I did not betray a trust in sheltering you, far too little
to speak of, much less thank me for. But--”
“Do spare me these scruples, and let us take the shortest way to your
quarters. A supper and three chairs to sleep on, are worth all your
arguments, eloquent though they be.”
We walked on together, almost in silence: I overwhelmed with fear for
the result should my conduct ever become known; he evidently chagrined
at my reception of him, and little disposed to make allowances for
scruples he would not have respected himself.
“So here we are at last,” said he, as he threw himself on my little
sofa, seemingly worn out with exhaustion. I had now time to look at him
by the light, and almost started back at the spectacle that presented
itself. His dress, which was that of the meanest peasant, was ragged and
torn; his shoes scarce held together with coarse thongs; and his beard,
unshaven for weeks past, increased the haggard look of features where
actual want and starvation seemed impressed.
“You are surprised at my costume,” said he, with a sad smile; “and,
certes, Crillac would not court a customer habited as I am just now. But
what will you say when I assure you that the outward man--and you
will not accuse him of any voluptuous extravagance--has a very great
advantage over the inner one? In plain words, Lieutenant, you 'd hurry
your cook, if you knew I have not tasted food, save what the hedges
afford, for two days: not from poverty neither; there 's wherewithal
there to dine, even at Beauvilliers's.” He rattled a well-filled purse
as he spoke.
“Come, come, De Beauvais! you accuse me of doing the honors with a bad
grace; and, in truth, I wish I were your host outside the pickets. But
let me retrieve my character a little. Taste this capon.”
“If you never dined with a wolf, you shall now,” said he, drawing his
chair to the table and filling a large goblet with Burgundy.
For ten or fifteen minutes he ate on like a man whom long starvation
had rendered half savage; then ceasing suddenly, he looked up, and said,
“Lieutenant, the cuisine here might tempt a more fastidious man than I
am; and if these people are not hospitable enough to invite you to their
soiries, they certainly do not starve you at home.”
“How knew you that I was not asked to the château?” said I, reddening
with a sense of offended pride I could not conceal.
“Know it? Why, man, these things are known at once. People talk of them
in saloons and morning visits, and comment on them in promenades; and
though I seem not to have been keeping company with the beau monde
latterly, I hear what goes on there too. But trust me, boy, if your
favor stands not high with the Court of to-day, you may perhaps be
preparing the road to fortune with that of to-morrow.”
“Though you speak in riddle, De Beauvais, so long as I suspect that what
you mean would offer insult to those I serve, let me say,--and I say it
in all temper, but in all firmness,--you 'll find no ready listener
in me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief,
General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health.”
“I'll drink no more wine to-night,” said he, sulkily pushing his glass
before him. “Is this to be my bed?”
“Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, for
I shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak.”
“In Heaven's name, for what?” said he, with a half sneer. “What can
that poor Savary be dreaming of? Is there any one about to steal
the staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of the
Tuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid of
losing?”
“Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an old
scholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gains
battles.”
“Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember that
same evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to be
your friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see you
now; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours.”
“You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. A
night's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world.”
“Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must take
leave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, there
are some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as you
expect.”
“Well, well! What say you to bed?”
“I 'll sleep where I am,” said he, with some harshness in his tone.
“Good-night.”
The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shading
his eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.
It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day's
walking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closed
my eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,--the haggard
expression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking what
enterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. It
must be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His very
voice was changed,--its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant;
his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.
At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenly
awakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened.
It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, and
soon sank into the long-drawn respiration of repose. Poor fellow! even
in his dreams his thoughts were of strife and danger.