Before I had time to collect myself, I was hurried on by De Beauvais
into a room, when the moment I had entered the door was closed and
locked behind me. By the light of a coarse and rudely formed chandelier
that occupied the middle of a table, I saw a party of near a dozen
persons who sat around it,--the head of the board being filled by one
whose singular appearance attracted all my attention. He was a man of
enormous breadth of chest and shoulders, with a lofty massive head, on
either side of which a quantity of red hair fell in profusion; a
beard of the same color descended far on his bosom, which, with his
overhanging eyebrows, imparted a most savage and ferocious expression to
features which of themselves were harsh and repulsive. Though he wore
a blouse in peasant fashion, it was easy to see that he was not of the
lower walk of society. Across his brawny chest a broad belt of black
leather passed, to support a strong straight sword, the heavy hilt of
which peeped above the arm of his chair. A pair of handsomely-mounted
pistols lay before him on the table; and the carved handle of a poniard
could be seen projecting slightly from the breast-pocket of his vest.
Of the rest who were about him I had but time to perceive that they were
peasants; but all were armed, and most of them wearing a knot of white
ribbon at the breast of their blouses.
Every eye was turned towards me, as I stood at the foot of the table
astonished and speechless--while De Beauvais, quitting my arm, hastened
to the large man's side, and whispered some words in his ear. He rose
slowly from his chair, and in a moment each face was turned to him.
Speaking in a deep guttural tone, he addressed them for some minutes in
a patois of which I was totally ignorant; every word he uttered seemed
to stir their very hearts, if I were to judge from the short and heavy
respiration, the deep-drawn breath, the flushed faces and staring eyes
around me. More than once some allusion seemed made to me,--at least,
they turned simultaneously to look at me; once, too, at something he
said, each man carried his hand round to his sword-hilt, but dropped
it again listlessly as he continued. The discourse over, the door was
unlocked, and one by one they left the room, each man saluting the
speaker with a reverence as he passed out. De Beauvais closed the door
and barred it as the last man disappeared, and turning hastily round,
called out,--
“What now?”
The large man bent his head down between his hands, and spoke not in
reply; then suddenly springing up, he said,--
“Take my horse--he is fresh and ready for the road--and make for
Quilleboeuf; the ford at Montgorge will be swollen, but he 'll take the
stream for you. At the farmer's house that looks over the river you can
stop.”
“I know it, I know it,” said De Beauvais. “But what of you, are you to
remain behind?”
“I 'll go with him,” said he, pointing towards me. “As his companion,
I can reach the Bois de Boulogne; in any case, as his prisoner. Once
there, you may trust me for the rest.”
De Beauvais looked at me for a reply. I hesitated what to say, and at
last said,--
“For your sake, Henri de Beauvais, and yours only, have I ventured on a
step which may, in all likelihood, be my ruin. I neither know, nor wish
to know, your plans; nor will I associate myself with any one, be he who
he may, in your enterprise.”
“Jacques Tisserand, the tanner,” continued the large man, as if not
heeding nor caring for my interruption, “will warn Armand de Polignac
of what has happened; and Charles de la Riviere had better remain near
Deauville for the English cutter,--she 'll lie off the coast to-morrow or
next day. Away! lose not a moment.”
“And my dear friend here,” said De Beauvais, turning to me, “who has
risked his very life to rescue me, shall I leave him thus?”
“Can you save him by remaining?” said the other, as he coolly examined
the priming of his pistols. “We shall all escape, if you be but quick.”
A look from De Beauvais drew me towards him, when he threw his arms
around my neck, and in a low, broken voice, muttered, “When I tell you
that all I lived for exists to me no longer,--the love I sought refused
me, my dearest ambition thwarted,--you will not think that a selfish
desire for life prompts me now; but a solemn oath to obey the slightest
command of that man,--sworn before my sovereign,--binds me, and I must
not break it.”
“Away, away! I hear voices at the gate below,” cried the other.
“Adieu! adieu forever,” said De Beauvais, as he kissed my cheek, and
sprang through a small doorway in the wainscot which closed after him as
he went.
“Now for our movements,” said the large man, unhooking a cloak that hung
against the wall. “You must tie my hands with this cord in such a way
that, although seemingly secure, I can free myself at a moment; place me
on a horse, a fast one too, beside you; and order your troopers to ride
in front and rear of us. When we reach the Bois de Boulogne, leave the
Avenue des Chasseurs and turn towards St. Cloud. _Tonnerre de del_,
they're firing yonder!” An irregular discharge of small arms, followed
by a wild cheer, rang out above the sound of the storm. “Again! did
you hear that? there are the carbines of cavalry; I know their ring.
Accursed dogs, that would not do my bidding!” cried he, stamping with
passion on the ground, while, throwing off his blouse, he stuck his
pistols in a belt around his waist, and prepared for mortal combat.
Meanwhile pistol-shots, mingled with savage shouts and wild hurrahs,
were heard approaching nearer and nearer; and at length a loud knocking
at the front door, with a cry of “They 're here! they 're here!”
The large man, now fully armed, and with his drawn sword in his hand,
unlocked the door. The passage without was full of armed peasants,
silent and watchful for his commands. A few words in the former patois
seemed sufficient to convey them, and their answer was a cheer that made
the walls ring.
The chief moved rapidly from place to place through the crowds, who at
his bidding broke into parties: some of them occupied doorways which
enfiladed the hall; others knelt down to suffer some to fire above their
heads; here were two posted, armed with hatchets, at the very entrance
itself; and six of the most determined-looking were to dispute the
passage with their muskets. Such was the disposition of the force, when
suddenly the light was extinguished, and all left in utter darkness.
The deep breathing of their anxious breasts alone marked their presence;
when without doors the sounds of strife gradually died away, and the
storm alone was heard.
As for me, I leaned against a doorway, my arms folded on my bosom, my
head sunk, while I prayed for death, the only exit I could see to my
dishonor.
There was a terrible pause,--the very hurricane seemed to abate
its violence, and only the heavy rain was heard as it fell in
torrents,--when, with a loud crash, the door in front was burst open,
and fell with a bang upon the floor. Not a word from those within, not
a motion, betrayed their presence; while the whispered tones of a party
without showed that the enemy was there.
“Bring up the torches quickly here,” called out a voice like that of an
officer; and as he spoke the red flare of lighted pine branches was seen
moving through the misty atmosphere.
The light fell upon a strong party of dismounted dragoons and
_gendarmerie_, who, carbine in hand, stood waiting for the word to dash
forward. The officer, whose figure I could distinguish as he moved along
the front of his men, appeared to hesitate, and for a few seconds all
stood motionless. At length, as if having resolved on his plan, he
approached the doorway, a pine torch in his hand; another step, and the
light must have disclosed the dense array of armed peasants that stood
and knelt around the hall, when a deep low voice within uttered the one
word, “Now!--and quick,” as if by his breath the powder had been ignited,
a volley rang out, pattering like hail on the steel breastplates and
through the branches of the trees. A mingled shout of rage and agony
rose from those without, and without waiting for a command, they rushed
onward.
The peasants, who had not time to reload their pieces, clubbed them in
their strong hands, and laid wildly about them. The fight was now hand
to hand; for, narrow as was the doorway, some three or four dragoons
pressed every moment in, and gradually the hall became a dense mass of
indiscriminate combatants. The large man fought like one possessed, and
cleft his way towards the entrance with a long straight dagger, as if
regardless of friends or foes. “À moi! a moi!” cried a tall and powerful
man, as he sprang at his throat; “this is he!” The words were his last,
as, stabbed to the very heart, he sprang backward in his death-agony;
but at the moment a perfect shower of bullets rattled around the large
man, one of which alone took effect in his shoulder. Still he strove
onwards, and at last, with a spring like a savage tiger, he lowered his
head, and bounded clean out into the court. Scarcely, however, had his
foot touched the wet grass, when he slipped forward, and fell heavily
on his back. A dozen swords flashed above him as he lay, and only by
the most immense efforts of the officer was he spared death in a hundred
wounds.
[Illustration: Capture of the “Red-Beard” 334]
The defeat of their leader seemed to subdue all the daring courage of
his party; the few who were able to escape dashed hither and thither,
through passages and doorways they were well acquainted with; while the
flagged floor was bathed in blood from the rest, as they lay in mangled
and frightful forms, dead and dying on every side.
Like one in some dreadful dream, I stood spectator of this savage
strife, wishing that some stray bullet had found my heart, yet ashamed
to die with such a stain upon my honor. I crossed my arms before my
breast, and waited for my doom. Two gendarmes passed quickly to and
fro with torches, examining the faces and looks of those who were still
likely to live, when suddenly one of them cried out, as he stood before
me,--
“What 's this? An officer of hussars here!”
The exclamation brought an officer to the spot, who, holding a lantern
to my face, said quickly,--“How is this, sir? how came you here?”
“Here is my sword, sir,” said I, drawing it from the scabbard; “I place
myself under arrest. In another place, and to other judges, I must
explain my conduct.”
“_Parbleu!_ Jacques,” said the officer, addressing another who sat, while
his wounds were being bound up, on a chair near, “this affair is worse
than we thought of. Here 's one of the huitième in the thick of it.”
“I hope, sir,” said I, addressing the young man, whose arm was bleeding
profusely from a sabre wound,--“I hope, sir, your wound may not be of
consequence.”
He looked up suddenly, and while a smile of the most insulting sarcasm
curled his bloodless lip, answered,--
“I thank you, sir, for your sympathy; but you must forgive me, if one of
these days I cannot bandy consolations with you.”
“You are right, Lieutenant,” said a dragoon, who lay bleeding from a
dreadful cut in the forehead; “I'd not exchange places with him myself
this minute for all his epaulettes.”
With an overwhelming sense of my own degraded position, when to such
taunts as these I dared not reply, I stood mute and confounded.
Meantime the soldiers were engaged in collecting together the scattered
weapons, fastening the wrists of the prisoners with cords, and
ransacking the house for such proofs of the conspiracy as might
criminate others at a distance. By the time these operations were
concluded, the day began to break, and I could distinguish in the
courtyard several large covered carts or charrettes destined to convey
the prisoners. One of these was given up entirely to the chief, who,
although only slightly wounded, would never assist himself in the least,
but lay a heavy, inert mass, suffering the others to lift him and place
him in the cart. Such as were too badly wounded to be moved were placed
in a room in the château, a guard being left over them.
A sergeant of the _gendarmerie_ now approached me as I stood, and
commenced, without a word, to examine me for any papers or documents
that might be concealed about my person.
“You are in error,” said I, quietly. “I have nothing of what you
suspect.”
“Do you call this nothing?” interrupted he, triumphantly, as he drew
forth the parchment commission I had placed in my bosom, and forgot to
restore to De Beauvais. “_Parbleu!_ you'd have had a better memory had
your plans succeeded.”
“Give it here,” said an officer, as he saw the sergeant devouring the
document with his eyes. “Ah!” cried he, starting, “he was playing a high
stake, too. Let him be closely secured.”
While the orders of the officer were being followed up, the various
prisoners were secured in the carts, mounted dragoons stationed at
either side, their carbines held unslung in their hands. At last my turn
came, and I was ordered to mount into a _charrette_ with two gendarmes,
whose orders respecting any effort at escape on my part were pretty
clearly indicated by the position of two pistols carried at either side
of me.
A day of heavy, unremitting rain, without any wind or storm, succeeded
to the night of tempest. Dark inky clouds lay motionless near the earth,
whose surface became blacker by the shadow. A weighty and lowering
atmosphere added to the gloom I felt, and neither in my heart within nor
in the world without could I find one solitary consolation.
At first I dreaded lest my companions should address me,--a single
question would have wrung my very soul; but happily they maintained a
rigid silence, nor did they even speak to each other during the
entire journey. At noon we halted at a small roadside cabaret, where
refreshments were provided, and relays of horses in waiting, and again
set out on our way. The day was declining when we reached the Bois de
Boulogne, and entered the long avenue that leads to the Barriere de
l'Étoile. The heavy wheels moved noiselessly over the even turf, and,
save the jingle of the troopers' equipments, all was hushed. For above
an hour we had proceeded thus, when a loud shout in front, followed by a
pistol-shot, and then three or four others quickly after it, halted the
party; and I could mark through the uncertain light the mounted figures
dashing wildly here and there, and plunging into the thickest of the
wood.
“Look to the prisoners,” cried an officer, as he galloped down the line;
and, at the word, every man seized his carbine, and held himself on the
alert.
Meanwhile the whole cavalcade was halted, and I could see that something
of consequence had occurred in front, though of what nature I could
not even guess. At last a sergeant of the gendarmes rode up to our side
splashed and heated.
“Has he escaped?” cried one of the men beside me.
“Yes!” said he, with an oath, “the brigand has got away; though how
he cut the cords on his wrists, or by what means he sprang from the
charrette to the road, the devil must answer. Ha! there they are firing
away after him. The only use of their powder is to show the fellow where
they are.”
“I would not change places with our captain this evening,” cried one of
the gendarmerie. “Returning to Paris without the red beard--”
“_Ma foi_, you're not wrong there. It will be a heavy reckoning for him
with dark Savary; and as to taking a Breton in a wood--”
The word to march interrupted the colloquy, and again we moved forward.
By some strange sympathy I cannot account for, I felt glad that the
chief had made his escape. The gallantry of his defence, the implicit
obedience yielded him by the others, had succeeded in establishing an
interest for him in my mind; and the very last act of daring courage
by which he effected his liberty increased the feeling. By what an
easy transition, too, do we come to feel for those whose fate has any
similarity with our own! The very circumstance of common misfortune is a
binding link; and thus I was not without an anxious hope that the chief
might succeed in his escape, though, had I known his intrigue or his
intentions, such interest had scarcely found a place in my heart.
Such reflections as these led me to think how great must be the charm to
the human mind of overcoming difficulty or confronting danger, when even
for those of whom we know nothing we can feel, and feel warmly, when
they stand before us in such a light as this. Heroism and bravery appeal
to every nature; and bad must be the cause in which they are exerted,
before we can venture to think ill of those who possess them.
The lamps were beginning to be lighted as we reached the Barriére, and
halted to permit the officer of the party to make his report of who
we were. The formality soon finished, we defiled along the Boulevard,
followed by a crowd, that, increasing each moment, at last occupied
the entire road, and made our progress slow and difficult. While the
curiosity of the people to catch sight of the prisoners demanded all
the vigilance of the guards to prevent it, a sad and most appalling
stillness pervaded the whole multitude, and I could hear a murmur as
they went that it was Generals Moreau and Pichegru who were taken.
At length we halted, and I could see that the foremost charrette was
entering a low archway, over which a massive portcullis hung. The gloomy
shadow of a dark, vast mass, that rose against the inky sky, lowered
above the wall, and somehow seemed to me as if well known.
“This is the Temple?” said I to the gendarme on my right.
A nod was the reply, and a half-expressive look that seemed to say, “In
that word you have said your destiny.”
About two years previous to the time I now speak of, I remember one
evening, when returning from a solitary walk along the Boulevard,
stopping in front of a tall and weather-beaten tower, the walls black
with age, and pierced here and there with narrow windows, across which
strong iron stanchions ran transversely. A gloomy fosse, crossed by a
narrow drawbridge, surrounded the external wall of this dreary building,
which needed no superstition to invest it with a character of crime
and misfortune. This was the Temple,--the ancient castle of the knights
whose cruelties were written in the dark obbliettes and the noisome
dungeons of that dread abode. A terrace ran along the tower on three
sides. There, for hours long, walked in sadness and in sorrow the last
of France's kings,--Louis the Sixteenth,--his children at his side. In
that dark turret the Dauphin suffered death. At the low casement yonder,
Madame Royale sat hour by hour, the stone on which she leaned wet
with her tears. The place was one of gloomy and sinister repute: the
neighborhood spoke of the heavy roll of carriages that passed the
drawbridge at the dead of night; of strange sounds and cries, of secret
executions, and even of tortures that were inflicted there. Of these
dreadful missions a corps called the “Gendarmes d'Élite” were vulgarly
supposed the chosen executors, and their savage looks and repulsive
exterior gave credibility to the surmise; while some affirmed that the
Mameluke guard the Consul had brought with him from Egypt had no other
function than the murder of the prisoners confined there.
Little thought I then that in a few brief months I should pass beneath
that black portcullis a prisoner. Little did I anticipate, as I wended
my homeward way, my heart heavy and my step slow, that the day was to
come when in my own person I was to feel the sorrows over which I then
wept for others.