When night came, and all was silent in the prison, I sat down to write
my letter to the minister. I knew enough of such matters to be aware
that brevity is the great requisite; and therefore, without any attempt
to anticipate my accusation by a defence of my motives, I simply but
respectfully demanded the charges alleged against me, and prayed for the
earliest and most speedy investigation into my conduct. Such were the
instructions of my unknown friend, and as I proceeded to follow them,
their meaning at once became apparent to me. Haste was recommended,
evidently to prevent such explanations and inquiries into my conduct as
more time might afford. My appearance at the château might still be
a mystery to them, and one which might remain unfathomable if any
plausible reason were put forward. And what more could be laid to my
charge? True, the brevet of colonel found on my person; but this I could
with truth allege had never been accepted by me. They would scarcely
condemn me on such testimony, unsupported by any direct charge; and
who could bring such save De Beauvais? Flimsy and weak as such pretexts
were, yet were they enough in my then frame of mind to support my
courage and nerve my heart. But more than all I trusted in the sincere
loyalty I felt for the cause of the Government and its great chief,--a
sentiment which, however difficult to prove, gave myself that inward
sense of safety which only can flow from strong convictions of honesty.
“It may so happen,” thought I, “that circumstances may appear against
me; but I know and feel my heart is true and firm, and even at the
worst, such a consciousness will enable me to bear whatever may be my
fortune.”
The next morning my altered manner and happier look excited the
attention of the others, who by varions endeavors tried to fathom the
cause or learn any particulars of my fate; but in vain, for already I
was on my guard against even a chance expression, and, save on the
most commonplace topics, held no intercourse with any. Far from being
offended at my reserve, they seemed rather to have conceived a species
of respect for one whose secrecy imparted something of interest to him;
and while they tried, by the chance allusion to political events and
characters, to sound me, I could see that, though baffled, they by no
means gave up the battle.
As time wore on, this half-persecution died away; each day brought some
prisoner or other amongst us, or removed some of those we had to other
places of confinement, and thus I became forgotten in the interest of
newer events. About a week after my entrance we were walking as usual
about the gardens, when a rumor ran that a prisoner of great consequence
had been arrested the preceding night and conveyed to the Temple; and
various surmises were afloat as to who he might be, or whether he should
be au secret or at large. While the point was eagerly discussed, a low
door from the house was opened, and the jailer appeared, followed by a
large, powerful man, whom in one glance I remembered as the chief of the
Vendean party at the château, and the same who effected his escape in
the Bois de Boulogne. He passed close to where I stood, his arm folded
on his breast; his clear blue eye bent calmly on me, yet never by the
slightest sign did he indicate that we had ever met before. I divined
at once his meaning, and felt grateful for what I guessed might be a
measure necessary to my safety.
“I tell you,” said a shrivelled old fellow, in a worn dressing-gown and
slippers, who held the “Moniteur” of that day in his hand, “I tell you
it is himself; and see, his hand is wounded, though he does his best to
conceal the bandage in his bosom.”
“Well, well! read us the account; where did it occur?” cried two or
three in a breath.
The old man seated himself on a bench, and having arranged his
spectacles and unfolded the journal, held out his hand to proclaim
silence, when suddenly a wild cheer broke from the distant part of
the garden, whither the newly arrived prisoner had turned his steps; a
second, louder, followed, in which the wild cry of “Vive le Roi!” could
be distinctly heard.
“You hear them,” said the old man; “was I right now? I knew it must be
him.”
“Strange enough, too, he should not be _au secret_,” said another;
“the generals have never been suffered to speak to any one since their
confinement. But read on, let us hear it.”
“'On yesterday morning,'” said the little man, reading aloud, “'Picot,
the servant of George, was arrested; and although every endeavor was
made to induce him to confess where his master was--'”
“Do you know the meaning of that phrase, Duchos?” said a tall,
melancholy-looking man, with a bald head. “That means the torture; thumb
screws and flint vices are the mode once more: see here.”
As he spoke he undid a silk handkerchief that was wrapped around his
wrist, and exhibited a hand that seemed actually smashed into fragments;
the bones were forced in many places through the flesh, which hung in
dark-colored and blood-stained pieces about.
“I would show that hand at the tribunal,” muttered an old soldier in a
faded blue frock; “I'd hold it up when they 'd ask me to swear.”
“Your head would only fare the worse for doing so,” said the Abbé. “Read
on Monsieur Duchos.”
“Oh, where was I? (_Pardieu!_ Colonel, I wish you would cover that up;
I shall dream of that terrible thumb all night.) Here we are: 'Though
nothing could be learned from Picot, it was ascertained that the
brigand--'”
“Ha, ha!” said a fat little fellow in a blouse, “they call them all
brigands: Moreau is a brigand; Pichegru is a brigand too.”
“'That the brigand had passed Monday night near Chaillot, and on
Tuesday, towards evening, was seen at Sainte-Genevieve, where it was
suspected he slept on the mountain; on Wednesday the police traced him
to the cabriolet stand at the end of the Rue de Condé, where he took a
carriage and drove towards the Odéon.'”
“Probably he was going to the spectacle. What did they play that night?”
said the fat man; “'La Mort de Barberousse,' perhaps.”
The other read on: “'The officer cried out, as he seized the bridle,
“Je vous arrète!” when George levelled a pistol and shot him through the
forehead, and then springing over the dead body dashed down the street.
The butchers of the neighborhood, who knew the reward offered for
his apprehension, pursued and fell upon him with their hatchets; a
hand-to-hand encounter followed, in which the brigand's wrist was nearly
severed from his arm; and thus disabled and overpowered, he was secured
and conveyed to the Temple.'”
“And who is this man?” said I in a whisper to the tall person near me.”
“The General George Cadoudal,--a brave Breton, and a faithful follower
of his King,” replied he; “and may Heaven have pity on him now!” He
crossed himself piously as he spoke, and moved slowly away.
“General Cadoudal!” repeated I to myself; “the same whose description
figured on every wall of the capital, and for whose apprehension immense
rewards were offered.” And with an inward shudder I thought of my chance
intercourse with the man to harbor whom was death,--the dreaded chief of
the Chouans, the daring Breton of whom Paris rung with stories. And this
was the companion of Henri de Beauvais.
Revolving such thoughts, I strolled along unconsciously, until I reached
the place where some days before I had seen the Vendeans engaged in
prayer. The loud tone of a deep voice arrested my steps. I stopped and
listened. It was George himself who spoke; he stood, drawn up to his
full height, in the midst of a large circle who sat around on the grass.
Though his language was a _patois_ of which I was ignorant, I could
catch here and there some indication of his meaning, as much perhaps
from his gesture and the look of those he addressed, as from the words
themselves.
It was an exhortation to them to endure with fortitude the lot that had
befallen them; to meet death when it came without fear, as they could do
so without dishonor; to strengthen their courage by looking to him, who
would always give them an example of what they should be. The last words
he spoke were in a plainer dialect, and almost these: “Throw no glance
on the past. We are where we are,--we are where God, in his wisdom and
for his own ends, has placed us. If this cause be just, our martyrdom is
a blessed one; if it be not so, our death is our punishment. And never
forget that you are permitted to meet it from the same spot where our
glorious monarch went to meet his own.”
A cry of “Vive le Roi!” half stifled by sobs of emotion, broke from the
listeners, as they rose and pressed around him. There he stood in the
midst, while like children they came to kiss his hand, to hear him speak
one word, even to look on him. Their swarthy faces, where hardship and
suffering had left many a deep line and furrow, beamed with smiles as he
turned towards them; and many a proud look was bent on the rest by those
to whom he addressed a single word.
One I could not help remarking above the others,--a slight, pale, and
handsome youth, whose almost girlish cheek the first down of youth was
shading. George leaned his arm round his neck, and called him by his
name, and in a voice almost tremulous from emotion: “And you, Bouvet de
Lozier, whose infancy wanted nothing of luxury and enjoyment, for whom
all that wealth and affection could bestow were in abundance,--how do
you bear these rugged reverses, my dear boy?”
The youth looked up with eyes bathed in tears; the hectic spot in his
face gave way to the paleness of death, and his lips moved without a
sound.
“He has been ill,--the count has,” said a peasant, in a low voice.
“Poor fellow!” said George; “he was not meant for trials like these; the
cares he used to bury in his mother's lap met other consolations than
our ruder ones. Look up, Bouvet, my man, and remember you are a man.”
The youth trembled from head to foot, and looked fearfully around, as
if dreading something, while he clutched the strong arm beside him, as
though for protection.
“Courage, boy, courage!” said George. “We are together here; what can
harm you?”
Then dropping his voice, and turning to the rest, he added, “They have
been tampering with his reason; his eye betrays a wandering intellect.
Take him with you, Claude,--he loves you; and do not leave him for a
moment.”
The youth pressed George's fingers to his pale lips, and with his head
bent down and listless gait, moved slowly away.
As I wandered from the spot, my heart was full of all I had witnessed.
The influence of their chief had surprised me on the night of the
attack on the château. But how much more wonderful did it seem now when
confined within the walls of a prison,--the only exit to which was the
path that led to the guillotine! Yet was their reliance on all he said
as great, as implicit their faith in him, as warm their affection, as
though success had crowned each effort he suggested, and that fortune
had been as kind as she had proved adverse to his enterprise.
Such were the _Chohans_ in the Temple. Life had presented to their hardy
natures too many vicissitudes to make them quail beneath the horrors of
a prison; death they had confronted in many shapes, and they feared it
not even at the hands of the executioner. Loyalty to the exiled family
of France was less a political than a religious feeling,--one inculcated
at the altar, and carried home to the fireside of the cottage. Devotion
to their King was a part of their faith; the sovereign was but a saint
the more in their calendar. The glorious triumphs of the Revolutionary
armies, the great conquests of the Consulate, found no sympathy within
their bosoms; they neither joined the battle nor partook of the ovation.
They looked on all such as the passing pageant of the hour, and muttered
to one another that the bon Dieu could not bless a nation that was false
to its King.
Who could see them as they met each morning, and not feel deeply
interested in these brave but simple peasants? At daybreak they knelt
together in prayer, their chief officiating as priest; their deep voices
joined in the hymn of their own native valleys, as with tearful eyes
they sang the songs that reminded them of home. The service over, George
addressed them in a short speech: some words of advice and guidance
for the coming day; reminding them that ere another morning shone, many
might be summoned before the tribunal to be examined, and from, thence
led forth to death; exhorting them to fidelity to each other and loyalty
to their glorious cause. Then came the games of their country, which
they played with all the enthusiasm of liberty and happiness. These were
again succeeded by hours passed in hearing and relating stories of their
beloved Bretagne,--of its tried faith and its ancient bravery; while,
through all, they lived a community apart from the other prisoners, who
never dared to obtrude upon them: nor did the most venturesome of the
police spies ever transgress a limit that might have cost him his life.
Thus did two so different currents run side by side within the walls of
the Temple, and each regarding the other with distrust and dislike.
While thus I felt a growing interest for these bold but simple children
of the forest, my anxiety for my own fate grew hourly greater. No answer
was ever returned to my letter to the minister, nor any notice taken
of it whatever; and though each day I heard of some one or other being
examined before the “Tribunal Special” or the Préfet de Police, I seemed
as much forgotten as though the grave enclosed me. My dread of anything
like acquaintance or intimacy with the other prisoners prevented my
learning much of what went forward each day, and from which, from some
source or other, they seemed well informed. A chance phrase, an odd word
now and then dropped, would tell me of some new discovery by the police
or some recent confession by a captured conspirator; but of what the
crime consisted, and who were they principally implicated, I remained
totally ignorant.
It was well known that both Moreau and Pichegru were confined in a
part of the tower that opened upon the terrace, but neither suffered to
communicate with each other, nor even to appear at large like the other
prisoners. It was rumored, too, that each day one or both were submitted
to long and searching examinations, which, it was said, had hitherto
elicited nothing from either save total denial of any complicity
whatever, and complete ignorance of the plots and machinations of
others.
So much we could learn from the “Moniteur,” which reached us each day;
and while assuming a tone of open reprobation regarding the _Chouans_,
spoke in terms the most cautious and reserved respecting the two
generals, as if probing the public mind how far their implication in
treason might be credited, and with what faith the proofs of their
participation might be received.
At last the train seemed laid; the explosion was all prepared, and
nothing wanting but the spark to ignite it. A letter from Moreau to the
Consul appeared in the columns of the Government paper; in which, after
recapitulating in terms most suitable the services he had rendered the
Republic while in command of the army of the Rhine,--the confidence the
Convention had always placed in him, the frequent occasions which
had presented themselves to him of gratifying ambitious views (had he
conceived such he adverted, in brief but touching terms, to his
conduct on the 18th Brumaire in seconding the adventurous step taken by
Bonaparte himself, and attributed the neglect his devotion had met
with, rather to the interference and plotting of his enemies than to
any estrangement on the part of the Consul.) Throughout the whole of the
epistle there reigned a tone of reverence for the authority of Bonaparte
most striking and remarkable; there was nothing like an approach to
the equality which might well be supposed to subsist between two great
generals,--albeit the one was at the height of power, and the other sunk
in the very depth of misfortune. On the contrary, the letter was nothing
more than an appeal to old souvenirs and former services to one who
possessed the power, if he had the will, to save him; it breathed
throughout the sentiments of one who demands a favor, and that favor his
life and honor, at the hands of him who had already constituted himself
the fountain of both.
While such was the position of Moreau,--a position which resulted in his
downfall,--chance informed as of the different ground occupied by his
companion in misfortune, the Greneral Pichegru.
About three days after the publication of Moreau's letter, we were
walking as usual in the garden of the Temple, when a huissier came up,
and beckoning to two of the prisoners, desired them to follow him. Such
was the ordinary course by which one or more were daily summoned before
the tribunal for examination, and we took no notice of what had become
a matter of every-day occurrence, and went on conversing as before about
the news of the morning. Several hours elapsed without the others having
returned; and at last we began to feel anxious about their fate, when
one of them made his appearance, his heightened color and agitated
expression betokening that something more than common had occurred.
“We were examined with Pichegru,” said the prisoner,--who was an old
quartermaster in the army of the Upper Rhine,--as he sat down upon a
bench and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Indeed!” said the tall colonel with the bald head; “before Monsieur
Réal, I suppose?”
“Yes, before Réal. My poor old general: there he was, as I used to see
him formerly, with his hand on the breast of his uniform, his pale, thin
features as calm as ever, until at last when roused his eyes flashed
fire and his lip trembled before he broke out into such a torrent of
attack--”
“Attack, say you?” interrupted the Abbé,; “a bold course, my faith! in
one who has need of all his powers for defence.”
“It was ever his tactique to be the assailant,” said a bronzed,
soldierlike fellow, in a patched uniform; “he did so in Holland.”
“He chose a better enemy to practise it with then, than he has done
now,” resumed the quartermaster, sadly.
“Whom do you mean?” cried half a dozen voices together.
...“The Consul.”
“The Consul! Bonaparte! Attack him!” repeated one after the other, in
accents of surprise and horror. “Poor fellow, he is deranged.”
“So I almost thought myself, as I heard him,” replied the quartermaster;
“for, after submitting with patience to a long and tiresome examination,
he suddenly, as if endurance could go no farther, cried out,--'Assez!'
The préfet started, and Thuriot, who sat beside him, looked up
terrified, while Pichegru went on: 'So the whole of this negotiation
about Cayenne is then a falsehood? Your promise to make me governor
there, if I consented to quit France forever, was a trick to extort
confession or a bribe to silence? Be it so. Now, come what will, I 'll
not leave France; and, more still, I 'll declare everything before the
judges openly at the tribunal. The people shall know, all Europe shall
know, who is my accuser, and what he is. Yes! your Consul himself
treated with the Bourbons in Italy; the negotiations were begun,
continued, carried on, and only broken off by his own excessive demands.
Ay, I can prove it: his very return from Egypt through the whole English
fleet,--that happy chance, as you were wont to term it,--was a secret
treaty with Pitt for the restoration of the exiled family on his
reaching Paris. These facts--and facts you shall confess them--are in my
power to prove; and prove them I will in the face of all France.'”
“Poor Pichegru!” said the abbe, contemptuously. “What an ill-tempered
child a great general may be, after all! Did he think the hour would
ever come for him to realize such a dream?”
“What do you mean?” cried two or three together.
“The Corsican never forgets a vendetta,” was the cool reply, as he
walked away.
“True,” said the colonel, thoughtfully; “quite true.”
To me these words were riddles. My only feeling towards Pichegru was one
of contempt and pity, that in any depth of misfortune he could resort
to such an unworthy attack upon him who still was the idol of all my
thoughts; and for this, the conqueror of Holland stood now as low in my
esteem as the most vulgar of the rabble gang that each day saw sentenced
to the galleys.