The same day that De Beauvais left me, the Court took its departure
from Versailles. A sudden resolution of the Consul to visit the camp
at Boulogne, where he was to be accompanied by Madame Bonaparte, was
announced as the reason for this change; while a dark rumor ran that
some detected scheme for his assassination had induced his friends to
advise this step. Certain it was, the preparations were made with the
utmost speed, and in less than an hour after the despatch had arrived
from Paris, the Court was on its way back to the capital.
It was not without a sense of sadness that I watched the equipages as
they rolled one by one from beneath the deep colonnade, and traversed
the wide terrace, to disappear in the recesses of the dark forest. I
strained my eyes to catch even a passing look at one who to me had made
every walk and every alley a thing to love. But I could not see her; and
the last roll of the retiring wheels died away in the distance without
one friendly voice to say adieu, one smile at parting.
Though I had not participated in the festivities of the château, nor
even been noticed by any of the guests, the absence of its gay world,
the glitter of its brilliant cortege, the neighing steeds in all their
bright panoply, the clank of military music, the gorgeously dressed
ladies who strolled along its terraced walks, made the solitude that
followed appear dark and desolate indeed; and now, as I walked the
park, whose avenues at noonday were silent as at midnight, the desertion
imparted a melancholy feeling to my heart I could not explain. How often
had I stopped beneath that balcony, striving to distinguish the soft
tones of one gentle voice amid the buzz of conversation! How had I
watched the crowded promenade every evening upon the terrace, to see one
figure there among the rest! and when my eye had fallen upon her, how
has it followed and traced her as she went! And now I frequented each
spot where I had ever seen her,--pacing at sunset the very walk she used
to take, dwelling on each word she ever spoke to me. The château, too,
of which before I had not passed the door, I now revisited again and
again, lingering in each room where I thought she had been, and even
resting on the chairs, and calling up before me her image as though
present.
Thus passed over weeks and months. The summer glided into the mellow
autumn, and the autumn itself grew cold and chill, with grayish skies
and sighing winds that swept the leaves along the dark walks and moaned
sadly among the tall beech-trees. The still, calm waters of the little
lake, that reflected the bright foliage and the deep blue sky motionless
as in a mirror, was now ruffled by the passing breeze, and surged with a
low, sad sound against its rocky sides; and as I watched these changes,
I sorrowed less for the departing season than that every trace of her
I loved was fading from before me. The bare and skeleton branches now
threw their gaunt shadows where I had seen her walk at noonday enveloped
in deep shade. Dark, watery clouds were hurrying across the surface of
the stream where I had seen her fair form mirrored. The cold winds
of coming winter swept along the princely terrace where not a zephyr
rustled her dress as she moved. And somehow, I could not help connecting
these changes with my own sensations, and feeling that a gloomy winter
was approaching to my own most cherished hopes.
Months passed over with me thus, in which, save on my round of duty,
I never spoke to any one. D'Ervan did not return as he promised,--a
circumstance which, with all my solitude, I sincerely rejoiced at. And
of De Beauvais I heard nothing; and yet, on one account, I could have
wished much to learn where he was. Unhappily, in the excitement of
the morning I last saw him, he forgot on the table at my quarters the
commission of colonel by which he had endeavored to tempt my ambition,
and which I never noticed till several hours after his departure.
Unwilling to destroy, and yet fearful of retaining it in my possession,
I knew not well what to do, and had locked it up in my writing-desk,
anxiously looking for an opportunity to forward it to him. None such,
however, presented itself, nor did I ever hear from him from the hour he
left me.
The unbroken solitude in which I lived disposed me to study, and
I resumed the course which in earlier days had afforded me so much
interest and amusement; and by this, not only was my mind drawn off from
the contemplation of the painful circumstances of my own loneliness, but
gradually my former ardor for military distinction came back in all its
force. And thus did I learn, for the first time, how many of the griefs
that our brains beget find their remedies in the source they spring
from,--the exercise of the intellect being like that of the body, an
essential to a healthy state of thinking and feeling. Each day imparted
fresh energy to me in the path I followed; and in these solitary hours I
made those acquisitions in knowledge which in after life were to render
me the most important services, and prepare me for the contingencies of
a soldier's career.
While thus engaged, time rolled over, and already the dark and gloomy
month of January set in with clouded skies and nights of storm and
rain. Everything wore its most cheerless aspect. Not only were the trees
leafless and bare, the roads broken up and fissured with streams of
water, but the neglected look of the château itself bespoke the sad
and gloomy, season. The closed shutters, the closely barred doors,
the statues covered up with mats to protect them from the weather, the
conservatories despoiled of all their gay habitants, betrayed that the
time was passed when in the warm air of sunset happy groups wandered
hither and thither, inhaling the rich odors of the flowers and gazing on
the brilliant landscape.
It was about nine o'clock at night. The storm that usually began each
evening at the same hour was already stirring in fitful gusts among the
bare branches of the trees, or sending a sudden plash of rain against
the windows, when, as I drew closer to ray fire, and was preparing to
enjoy myself for the evening over my book, I heard the regular tramping
sound of a cavalry horse approaching along the terrace; the jingle of
the accoutrements was a noise I could not mistake. I arose, but before I
reached the door I heard a deep voice call out,--
“The Sous-Lieutenant Burke; a despatch from Paris.” I took
the paper, which was sealed and folded in the most formal
manner, and returning to the room, opened it. The contents
ran thus:--
Sous-Lieutenant: On receipt of this you are commanded to
station four dragoons of your party, with a corporal, on the
road leading from Chaillot to Versailles, who shall detain
all persons passing that way unable to account
satisfactorily for their presence. You will also station a
picket of two dragoons at the cross-road from the Tron to
St. Cloud for the like purpose. The remainder of your party
to be under arms during the night, and if requisite, at the
disposal of Captain Lepelletier. For the execution of which,
the present order will be your responsibility.
(Signed) Savary,
Colonel de Gendarmerie d'Elite.
Given at the Tuileries, January 14, 1804.
“So,” thought I, “there is, then, something astir after all. These
precautions all indicate minute and accurate information; and now to
perform my part.” Just at that instant I perceived at my feet a small
note, which apparently had fallen from the envelope as I opened it. I
took it up. It was addressed: “Sous-Lieutenant Burke,” with the words
“in haste” written in the corner. Tearing it open at once, I read the
following:--
All is discovered; Pichegru arrested; Moreau at the
Temple. A party have left this to capture the others at the
Château d'Ancre; they cannot be there before midnight;
you may then yet be in time to save H. de B., who is among
them. Not an instant must be lost.
There was no signature to this strange epistle, but I knew at once
from whom it came. Marie alone could venture on such a step to save her
lover. My own determination was taken at once; should my head be on
it, I 'd do her bidding. While I sent for the sergeant to give him the
orders of the colonel, I directed my servant to bring round my horse
to the door as lightly equipped as possible, and, save the holsters,
nothing of his usual accoutrements. Meanwhile I prepared myself for the
road by loading my pistols and fastening on my sword. The commission,
too, which De Beauvais had left behind, I did not forget, but taking it
from my desk, I placed it safely in my bosom. Nor was the brief billet
omitted, which, having read and re-read, I placed in the lining of my
cap for safety. One difficulty still presented itself: where was the
château, and how in the darkness of a winter's night should I find it?
I just then remembered that my troop sergeant, a sharp, intelligent
fellow, had been for some weeks past engaged in procuring forage about
the neighborhood, for several miles round. I sent for him at once and
asked him if he knew it.
“Yes, lieutenant; perfectly. It was an old-seigneurie once; and though
much dismantled, has a look of respectability still about it. I 've
often been there to buy corn; but the gruff old farmer, they say, hates
the military, and it 's not easy to get him to deal with us at all.”
“What's the distance from here?”
“Two leagues and a half, almost three; indeed you may count it as much,
the road is so bad.”
“Now then for the way. Describe it; be as brief as you can.”
“You know the cross on the high road beyond Ypres?”
“I do. Proceed.”
“Passing the cross and the little shrine, go forward for a mile or
something more, till you come to a small cabaret on the roadside, at the
end of which you 'll find a 'chemin de traverse,' a clay road, which
will lead you up the fields about half a league to a large pond where
they water the cattle; cross this, and continue till you see the lights
of a village to your left; the barking of the dogs will guide you if the
lights be out; don't enter the village, but go on till you meet an old
gateway covered with ivy,--enter there, and you are in the avenue of the
château. The high road is full five leagues about, but you 'll easily
find this way. There 's a mastiff there you should be on your guard
against,--though you must not fire on him either; they were going to
take my life once that I half drew a pistol from my holster against him,
and I heard one of the fellows say to another that monseigneur's dog was
well worth a bleu any day, whatever he meant by that.”
Very few minutes sufficed to give my orders respecting the picket, and
I was in my saddle and ready for the road; and although my departure
excited no surprise among my men, coupled as it was with the orders I
had just given, I overheard the troop sergeant mutter to another as I
passed out, “Parbleu, I always suspected there was something wrong about
that old château yonder; come what weather it would, they'd never let
you take shelter within the walls of it.”
The night was so dark that when I turned into the road I could not even
distinguish my horse's head; heavy drifts of rain, too, went sweeping
along, and the wind roared through the forest with a noise like the sea
in a storm.
I now put spurs to my horse, and the animal, fresh from long pampering,
sprang forward madly, and dashed onward. The very beating of the rain,
the adverse wind, seemed to chafe his spirits and excite his courage.
With head bent down, and hands firmly grasping the reins, I rode on,
till the faint glimmering of a light caught my eye at a distance; a few
miles brought me beside it. It was a little candle that burned in the
shrine above the image of the Virgin. Some pious but humble hand had
placed it there, regardless of the rain and storm; and there it was now
burning secure from the rude assaults of the harsh night, and throwing
its yellow light on the few cheap trinkets which village devotion had
consecrated to the beloved saint. As I looked at the little altar, I
thought of the perilous enterprise I was engaged in. I could have wished
my heart to have yielded to the influence of a superstition which for
every moment of life seems to have its own apt consolation and succor.
For when, as wayworn travellers refresh their parched lips at some
roadside well, and bless the charity that carved the little basin in the
rock,--so followers of this faith have ever and anon before their eyes
some material evidence of their Church's benevolence: now arming
them against the arrows of the world; now rendering them grateful for
benefits received; now taxing their selfishness by sacrifices which
elevate them in their own esteem; now comforting them by examples which
make them proud of their afflictions. It is this direct appeal from
the human heart to the hourly consolations of religion, that forms the
stronghold of belief in Catholic countries.
These thoughts were passing through my mind long after I left the little
shrine behind me. “So,” said I, “here must be the _cabaret_ the sergeant
spoke of,” as I heard the sound of a voice issuing from a small house
on the roadside. For a second or two I hesitated whether I should not
dismount and ask the way; but a moment's consideration satisfied me it
were better to risk nothing by delay, and cautiously advancing, I heard
by the sound of my horse's feet that we had left the highroad, and were
now on the clay path I looked for.
Again I dashed onward at a gallop, my powerful horse splashing through
the deep ground, or striding boldly across the heavy furrows; now
breasting some steep and rugged ascent where the torn-up way gave
passage to a swollen rivulet; now plunging down into some valley where
the darkness seemed thicker and more impenetrable still. At last I could
see, far down beneath me, the twinkling light of the village, and began
to deliberate with myself at what point I should turn off leftwards.
Each moment the path seemed to lead me in the direction of the light,
while I felt that my road led straight onwards. I drew my rein to
deliberate what course I should take, when directly in front of me I
thought I could detect the clank of a sabre flapping against the flank
of a horse. I lowered my head on a level with my horse's main, and could
now distinctly hear the sound I suspected; and more still, the deep
tones of a soldier's voice interrogating some one, who by the patois of
his answer I guessed to be a peasant.
“You are certain, then, we have not come wrong?” said the horseman.
“Ah! I know the way too well for that,--travelling it daylight and dark
since I was a boy. I was born in the village below. We shall soon reach
the little wooden bridge, and then, taming to the left, beside Martin
Guichard's--”
“What care I for all that?” interrupted the other, roughly. “How far are
we now from the château? Is it still a league off?”
“_Parbleu!_ no, nor the half of it. When you rise the hill yonder,
you 'll see a light,--they always have one burning in the tourelle
there,--and that 's the château.”
“Thank Heaven for that!” muttered I. “And now only let me pass them, and
all is safe.”
The figures before me, whom I could now dimly trace in the darkness,
were descending step by step a rugged and narrow path, where a tall
hedge formed a wall on either side. To get before them here, therefore,
was out of the question; my only chance was by a detour through the
fields to come down upon the village, and if possible gain the bridge he
spoke of before them. Quick as the thought, I turned from the deep road
to the still deeper earth of the ploughed field beside it. My horse,
a strong and powerful Norman, needed but the slightest movement of the
hand to plunge hotly on. My eyes bent upon the twinkle of the few lights
that still marked the little hamlet, I rode fearlessly forward,--now
tearing madly through some low osier fence; now slipping in the wet and
plashy soil, where each stride threatened to bring us both to the earth.
The descent became soon almost precipitous; but the deep ground gave
a footing, and I never slackened my speed. At length, with a crashing
sound, I found that we had burst the little enclosure of some village
garden, and could dimly trace the outline of a cottage at some distance
in front. Dismounting now, I felt my way cautiously for the path that
usually conducts at the end of the cabin to the garden. This I soon made
out, and the next minute was in the street. Happily, the storm, which
raged still as violently as before, suffered no one to be without doors,
and save the rare glimmer of a light, all was sunk in darkness.
I walked on beside my horse for some minutes, and at last I heard the
rushing sound of a swollen river as it tore along in its narrow bed;
and approaching step by step discovered the little bridge, which simply
consisted of two planks, unprotected by any railing at either side. With
a little difficulty I succeeded in leading my horse across, and was just
about to mount, when the sound of the trooper's voice from the village
street again reached me.
A sudden thought flashed through my mind. Each moment might now be
precious; and stooping down, I lifted the end of the plank and sent it
with a crash into the stream; the other soon followed it, and before
I was in my saddle again the torrent was carrying them along amid the
rocks of the stream.
“Here is a misfortune,” cried the peasant, in a tone of misery; “the
bridge has been carried away by the flood.”
“_Tonnerre de ciel_! and is there no other way across?” said the
dragoon, in a voice of passion.
I waited not to hear more, but giving the spur to my horse, dashed up
the steep bank, and the next moment saw the light of the château,--for
such I guessed to be a bright star that twinkled at a distance. “Speed
now will do it,” said I, and put my strong Norman to his utmost. The
wind tore past me scarce faster than I went, while the beating rain came
round me. The footway soon altered, and I found that we were crossing
a smooth turf like a lawn. “Ha! this is the old gate,” thought I, as
a tall archway, overhung with ivy and closed by a strong door, opposed
farther progress. I beat loudly against it with the heavy handle of my
whip, but to no purpose; the hoarse voice of the storm drowned all such
sounds. I dismounted and endeavored to make myself heard by knocking
with a large stone. I shouted, I cried aloud, but all in vain. My terror
increased every instant. What was to be done? The dragoon might arrive
at any moment, and then I myself must share the ruin of the others.
Maddened by the emergency that each moment grew more pressing, I sprang
into the saddle, and following the direction of the wall, rode round
to the other side of the château, seeking some open spot, some break
whereby to enter.
I had not gone far when I saw a portion of the wall which broken and
dilapidated, afforded the opportunity desired. I hesitated not, but
dashed wildly at it. My horse, unaccustomed to such an effort, chested
the barrier, and came rolling head foremost to the earth, throwing me
several yards before him. A cry of pain escaped me as I fell; and I
scarcely could gain my knees to rise, when the hoarse bay of a savage
dog broke upon my ear, and I heard the animal tearing through the
brushwood towards me. I drew my sabre in a trice, and scarce knowing at
what side to defend myself, laid wildly about me, while I shouted with
all my might for help. The furious beast sprang like a tiger at my
throat, and, though wounded by a chance cut, seized me in his terrible
fangs. Fortunately the strong collar of my uniform served to protect me;
but the violence of the assault carried me off my balance, and we rolled
one over the other to the ground. Grasping his throat with both hands, I
endeavored to strangle him, while he vainly sought to reach my face.
At this critical moment my cries were heard within, and numerous lights
flitted up and down in front of the château, and a crowd of persons, all
armed, were quickly about me. Seizing the dog by his collar, a peasant
tore him away; while another, holding a lantern to my face, cried out in
a voice of terror, “They are upon us! we are lost!”
“_Parbleu!_ you should let Colbert finish his work,--he is a 'blue;'
they are but food for dogs any day.”
[Illustration: The Chouans 327]
“Not so,” said another, in a low, determined voice; “this is a surer
weapon.', I heard the cock of a pistol click as he spoke.
“Halt there! stop, I say!” cried a voice, in a tone of command. “I know
him; I know him well. It 's Burke; is it not?”
It was De Beauvais spoke, while at the same moment he knelt down beside
me od the grass, and put his arm round my neck. I whispered one word
into his ear. He sprang to his feet, and with a hasty direction to
assist me towards the house, disappeared. Before I could reach the door
he was again beside me.
“And you did this to save me, dear friend?” said he, in a voice half
stifled with sobs. “You have run all this danger for my sake?”
I did not dare to take the merit of an act I had no claim to, still
less to speak of her for whose sake I risked my life, and leaned on him
without speaking, as he led me within the porch.
“Sit down here for a moment,--but one moment,” said he, in a whisper,
“and I'll return to you.”
I sat down upon a bench, and looked about me. The place had all
the evidence of being one of consequence in former days. The walls,
wainscoted in dark walnut wood, were adorned with grotesque carvings
of hunting scenes and instruments of venery. The ceiling, in the same
taste, displayed trophies of weapons, intermingled with different
emblems of the _chasse_; while in the centre, and enclosed within a
garter, were the royal arms of the Bourbons,--the gilding that once
shone on them was tarnished and faded; the fleurs-de-lis, too, were
broken and dilapidated; while but a stray letter of the proud motto
remained, as if not willing to survive the downfall of those on whom it
was now less a boast than a sarcasm.
As I sat thus, the wide hall was gradually filled with men, whose
anxious and excited faces betokened the fears my presence had excited,
while not one ventured to speak or address a word to me. Most of them
were armed with cutlasses, and some carried pistols in belts round their
waists; while others had rude pikes, whose coarse fashion betokened the
handiwork of a village smith. They stood in a semicircle round me;
and while their eyes were riveted upon me with an expression of most
piercing interest, not a syllable was spoken. Suddenly a door was opened
at the end of a corridor, and De Beauvais called out,--
“This way, Burke; come this way!”