True to his appointment, the general appeared the following day as
the hour of noon was striking. He brought the official papers from
the Minister of War, as well as the formal letter naming me his
aide-de-camp. The documents were all perfectly regular; and being read
over by the military commission, I was sent for, when my sword was
restored to me by the colonel of the regiment in garrison, and I was
free once more.
“You have received a severe lesson, Burke,” said the general, as he took
my arm to lead me towards his carriage, “and all owing to the rashness
with which, in times of difficulty and danger, you permitted yourself to
form intimacies with men utterly unknown to you. There are epochs when
weakness is the worst of evils. You are very young, to be sure, and I
trust the experience you have acquired here will serve for a lifetime.”
“Still, sir, in all this sad business, my faith never wavered; my
attachment to the Consul was unshaken.”
“Had it been otherwise, do you think you had been here now?” said he,
dryly. “Were not the evidences of your fidelity set off against
your folly, what chance of escape remained for you? No, no; she who
befriended you so steadily throughout this tangled scheme for your ruin,
had never advocated your cause were there reason to suppose you were
involved in the conspiracy against her husband's life.”
“Who do you mean?” said I. “I scarcely understand.”
“The Consulesse, of course. But for Madame Bonaparte you were lost; even
since I saw you last, I have learned how deeply interested she became in
your fortunes. The letter you received in the Temple came from her, and
the enclosure also. And now, with your leave, we can do nothing better
than pay our respects to her, and make our acknowledgments for such
kindness. She receives at this hour, and will, I know, take your visit
in good part.”
While I professed my readiness to comply with the suggestion, we drove
into the court of the Tuileries. It was so early that, except the
officers of the Consul's staff and some of those on guard, we were the
only persons visible.
“We are the first arrivals,” said the general, as we drew up at the door
of the pavilion. “I am not sorry for it; we shall have our audience over
before the crowd assembles.”
Giving our names to the usher, we mounted the stairs, and passed on
from room to room until we came to a large salon, in which seats were
formally arranged in a semicircle, an armchair somewhat higher than the
rest occupying the centre. Several full-length portraits of the generals
of the Revolutionary armies adorned the walls, and a striking likeness
of the Consul himself, on horseback, held the principal place. I had
but time to see thus much, when the two sides of the folding-doors were
flung open, and Madame Bonaparte, followed by Mademoiselle de Meudon,
entered. Scarcely were the doors closed, when she said, smiling,--
“I heard of your arrival. General, and guessed its purport, so came at
once. Monsieur Burke, I am happy to see you at liberty once more.”
“That I owe it to you, Madame, makes it doubly dear to me,” said I,
faltering.
“You must not overrate my exertions on your behalf,” replied the
Consulesse, in a hurried voice. “There was an amende due to you for the
treatment you met with at Versailles,--all Savary's fault; and now I am
sincerely sorry I ever suffered myself to become a party to his schemes.
Indeed, I never guessed them, or I should not. General d'Auvergne has
made you his aide-decamp, he tells me.”
“Yes, Madame; my good fortune has showered favors on me most suddenly.
Your kindness has been an augury of success in everything.”
She smiled, as if pleased, and then said, “I have a piece of advice
to give you, and hope you 'll profit by it.” Then, turning towards the
general, who all this time was deeply engaged in talking to Mademoiselle
de Meudon, she added, “Don't you think. General, that it were as well
Monsieur Burke should not be in the way of meeting the Consul for some
short time to come. Is there any garrison duty, or any service away from
Paris, where for a week or so he could remain?”
“I have thought of that, Madame,” said the général. “Two of the
regiments in my brigade are to march tomorrow for the east of France,
and I intend my young friend to proceed to Strasburg at once.”
“This is not meant for banishment,” said she to me, with a look of much
sweetness; “but Bonaparte will now and then say a severe thing, likely
to dwell in the mind of him to whom it was addressed long after the
sentiment which dictated it has departed. A little time will efface all
memory of this sad affair, and then we shall be happy to see you here
again.”
“Or events may happen soon, Madame, by which he may make his own peace
with General Bonaparte.”
“True, very true,” said she, gravely. “And as to that. General, what
advices are there from Vienna?”
She drew the general aside into one of the windows, leaving me alone
with Mademoiselle de Meudon. But a minute before, and I had given the
world for such an opportunity, and now I could not speak a syllable.
She, too, seemed equally confused, and bent over a large vase of
moss-roses, as if totally occupied by their arrangement. I drew nearer,
and endeavored to address her; but the words would not come, while a
hundred gushing thoughts pressed on me, and my heart beat loud enough
for me to hear it. At last I saw her lips move, and thought I heard my
name. I bent down my head lower; it was her voice, but so low as to be
scarcely audible.
“I cannot thank you, sir, as I could wish,” said she, “for the service
you rendered me, at the risk of your own life and honor. And though I
knew not the dangers you were to incur by my request, I asked it as
of the only one I knew who would brave such danger at my asking.” She
paused for a second, then continued: “The friend of Charles could not
but be the friend of Marie de Meudon. There is now another favor I would
beg at your hands,” said she, while a livid paleness overspread her
features.
“Oh, name it!” said I, passionately. “Say, how can I serve you?”
“It is this,” said she, with an accent whose solemnity sank into the
very recesses of my heart. “We have ever been an unlucky race; De Meudon
is but a name for misfortune not only have we met little else in our
own lives, but all who have befriended us have paid the penalty of their
friendship. My dear brother knew this well; and I--.” She paused, and
then, though her lips moved, the words that followed were inaudible.
“There is but one on earth,” continued she, as her eyes, brimful of
tears, were turned towards Madame Bonaparte, who still stood talking
in the window, “over whose fortunes my affection has thrown no blight.
Heaven grant it may be ever so!” Then suddenly, as if remembering
herself, she added: “What I would ask is this,--that we should meet no
more. Nay, nay; look not so harshly at me. If I, alone in the world, ask
to be deprived of his friendship who loved my brother so--”
“Oh! if you be alone in the world, feel for one like me, who has not
even a country he can call his own. Take not the one hope from my heart,
I ask you. Leave me the thought that there is one, but one, in all this
land, to whom my name, if ever mentioned with praise, can bring one
moment's pleasure,--who can say 'I knew him.' Do not forget that
Charles, with his dying breath, said you would be my sister.”
The door of the _salon_ opened suddenly, and a name was announced, but
in my confusion, I heard not what. Madame Bonaparte, however, advanced
towards the new arrival with an air of welcome, as she said,--
“We were just wishing for you, general. Pray tell us all the news of
Paris.”
The person thus addressed was a very tall and singularly handsome man,
whose dark eyes, and dark whiskers meeting in the middle of his chin,
gave him the appearance of an Italian. He was dressed in a hussar
uniform, whose gorgeous braiding of gold was heightened in effect by a
blaze of orders and stars that covered the entire breast; the scarlet
pantaloons, tight to the leg, displayed to advantage the perfect
symmetry of his form; while his boots of yellow morocco, bound and
tasselled with gold, seemed the very coquetry of military costume. A
sabre, the hilt actually covered with precious stones, clanked at his
side, and the aigrette of his plumed hat was a large diamond. There was
something almost theatrical in the manner of his approach, as with a
stately step and a deep bow he took Madame Bonaparte's hand and kissed
it; a ceremony he repeated to Mademoiselle de Meudon, adding, as he did
so,--
“And my fair rose de Provence, more beautiful than ever!--how is she?”
“What flattery is he whispering, Marie?” said the Consulesse, laughing.
“Don't you know, Général, that I insist on all the compliments here
being paid to myself. What do you think of my robe? Your judgment is
said to be perfect.”
“Charming, absolutely charming!” said he, in an attitude of affected
admiration. “It is only such taste as yours could have devised anything
so beautiful. Yet the roses,--I half think I should have preferred them
white.”
“You can scarcely imagine that vain fellow with the long ringlets the
boldest soldier of the French army,” said the general, in a low whisper,
as he drew me to one side.
“Indeed! And who is he, then?”
“You a hussar, and not know him! Why, Murat, to be sure.”
“So, then, Madame, all my news of Monsieur Talleyrand's ball, it seems,
is stale already. You 've heard that the russian and Austrian ministers
both sent apologies?”
“Oh dear!” said she, sighing; “have I not heard it a thousand times, and
every reason for it canvassed, until I wished both of their excellencies
at--at Madame Lefebvre's dinner-party?”
“That was perfect,” cried Murat, aloud; “a regular bivouac in a salon.
You'd think that the silver dishes and the gilt candelabras had just
been captured from the enemy, and that the cuisine was made by beat of
drum.”
“The general is an honest man and a brave officer,” said D'Auvergne,
somewhat nettled at the tone Murat spoke in.
“No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders
carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.”
“And what of Cambacèrés's soiree,--how did it go off?” interposed Madame
Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed.
“Like everything in his hotel,--sombre, stately, and stupid; the company
all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the
reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to
Fouché's,--it was his second night for receiving.”
“Was that pleasanter, then?”
“A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody;
it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the
partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché
slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one,
and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his
neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn;
and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget
that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.”
“The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with
a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the
Guard, and covered with dust, entered.
“Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued:
“It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the 'pear was
ripe.' I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany
me; D'Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this
gentleman?”
This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while
a dark and ominous frown settled on his features.
“My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to
escape further inquiry.
“Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing
eyes upon me.
“Burke, sir; sous-lieutenant--”
“Of the Eighth Hussars,” continued he. “I know the rest, sir. Every
conspiracy is made up of knaves and fools; you figured in the
latter capacity. Mark me, sir, your name is yet to make; the time
is approaching when you may have the opportunity. Still, General d'
Auvergne, it is not in the ranks of a _Chouan_ plot I should have gone
to select my staff.”
“Pardon me, sir; but this young man's devotion to you--”
“Is on record. General; I have seen it in Mehée de la Touche's own
writing,” added Bonaparte, with a sneer. “Give me the fidelity, sir,
that has no tarnish,--like your own, D'Auvergne. Go, sir,” said he,
turning to me, while he waved his hand towards the door; “it will
need all your bravery and all your heroism to make me acquit General
d'Auvergne of an act of folly.”
[Illustration: Napoleon sends Burke from the room]
I hung my head in shame, and with a low reverence and a tottering step
moved from the room and closed the door behind me.
I had just reached the street when the general overtook me.
“Come, come, Burke,” said he; “you must not mind this. I heard Lannes
receive a heavier reproof because he only carried away three guns of an
Austrian battery when there were four in all.”
“Bonaparte never forgets, sir,” muttered I, between my teeth, as the
well-remembered phrase crossed my mind.
“Then there 's but one thing to do, my boy; give him a pleasanter
souvenir to look back upon. Besides,” added he, in a lower tone, “the
general is ever harsh at the moment of victory; and such is the
present. In a few days more, France will have an emperor; the Senate has
declared, and the army wait but for the signal to salute their monarch.
And now for your own duties. Make your arrangements to start to-night by
post for Mayence; I shall join you there in about ten days. You are, on
your arrival, to report yourself to the general in command, and receive
your instructions from him. A great movement towards the Rhine is
in contemplation; but, of course, everything awaits the progress of
political changes in Paris.”
Thus conversing, we reached the corner of the Rue de Rohan, where the
general's quarters were.
“You'll be here then punctually at eight to-night,” said he; and we
parted.
I walked on for some time without knowing which way I went, the strange
conflict of my mind so completely absorbed me,--hope and fear, pride,
shame, and sorrow, alternately swaying me with their impulses. I noticed
not the gay and splendid streets through which I passed, nor the merry
groups which poured along. At length I remembered that but a few hours
remained for me to make some purchases necessary for my journey. My new
uniform as aide-de-camp, too, was yet to be ordered; and by some
strange hazard I was exactly at the corner of the Rue de Richelieu on the
Boulevard, at the very shop of Monsieur Grillac where some months before
began the singular current of ill luck that had followed me ever since.
A half shudder of fear passed across me for a second as I thought of all
the dangers I had gone through; and the next moment I felt ashamed of
my cowardice, and pushing the glass door before me, walked in. I looked
about me for the well-known face of the proprietor, but he was nowhere
to be seen. A lean and wasted little old man, hung round with tapes and
measures, was the only person there. Saluting me with a most respectful
bow, he asked my orders.
“I thought this was Crillac's,” said I, hesitatingly.
A shrug of the shoulders and a strange expression of the eyebrows was
the only reply.
“I remember he lived here some eight or ten months ago,” said I
again, curious to find out the meaning of the man's ignorance of his
predecessor.
“Monsieur has been away from Paris for some time then?” was the cautious
question of the little man, as he peered curiously at me.
“Yes; I have been away,” said I, after a pause.
“Monsieur knew Criliac probably when he was here?”
“I never saw him but once,” said I.
“Ha!” cried he, after a long silence. “Then you probably never heard
of the _Chouan_ conspiracy to murder the Chief Consul and overthrow the
Government, nor of their trial at the Palais de Justice?”
I nodded slightly, and he went on.
“Monsieur Crillac's evidence was of great value in the proceeding: he
knew Jules de Polignac and Charles de la Riviere well; and but for him,
San Victor would have escaped.”
“And what has become of him since?”
“He is gone back to the South; he has been promoted.”
“Promoted! what do you mean?”
“_Parbleu!_ it is easy enough to understand. He was made chef de bureau
in the department of--”
“What! was he not a tailor then?”
“A tailor! No,” said the little man, laughing heartily; “he was
a mouchard, a police spy, who knew all the Royalist party well at
Bordeaux; and Fouche brought him up here to Paris, and established him
in this house. Ah, mon Dieu!” said he, sighing, “he had a better and a
pleasanter occupation than cutting out pantaloons.”
Without heeding the reiterated professions of the little tailor of his
desire for my patronage, I strolled out again, lost in reflection, and
sick to the heart of a system based on such duplicity and deception.
At last in Mayence! What a change of life was this to me! A large
fortress garrisoned by twelve thousand men, principally artillery,
awaited here the orders of the Consul; but whither the destination
before them, or what the hour when the word to march was to summon them,
none could tell. Meanwhile the activity of the troops was studiously
kept up; battering trains of field artillery were exercised day after
day; the men were practised in all the movements of the field; while
the foundries were unceasingly occupied in casting guns and the furnaces
rolled forth their myriads of shell and shot. Staff-officers came and
went; expresses arrived from Paris; and orderlies, travel-stained and
tired, galloped in from the other fortified places near; but still no
whisper came to say where the great game of war was to open, for what
quarter of the globe the terrible carnage was destined. From daylight
till dark no moment of our time was unoccupied; reports innumerable were
to be furnished on every possible subject; and frequently it was far in
the night ere I returned to rest.
To others this unbroken monotony may have been wearisome and
uninteresting; to me each incident bore upon the great cause I gloried
in,--the dull rumble of the caissons, the heavy clattering of the brass
guns, were music to my ear, and I never wearied of the din and clamor
that spoke of preparation. Such was indeed the preoccupation of my
thoughts that I scarcely marked the course of events which were even
then passing, or the mighty changes that already moved across the
destinies of France. To my eyes the conqueror of Lodi needed no title;
what sceptre could equal his own sword? France might desire in her pride
to unite her destinies with such a name as his; but he, the general
of Italy and Egypt, could not be exalted by any dignity. Such were my
boyish fancies; and as I indulged them, again there grew up the hope
within me that a brighter day was yet to beam on my own fortunes, when
I should do that which even in his eyes might seem worthy. His very
reproaches stirred my courage and nerved my heart. There was a combat,
there was a battlefield, before me, in which my whole fame and honor
lay; and could I but succeed in making him confess that he had wronged
me, what pride was in the thought? “Yes,” said I, again and again, “a
devotion to him such as I can offer must have success: one who, like me,
has neither home nor friends nor country to share his heart, must have
room in it for one passion; and that shall be glory. She whom alone I
could have loved,--I dared not confess I did love her,--never could be
mine. Life must have its object; and what so noble as that before me?”
My very dreams caught up the infatuation of my waking thoughts,
and images of battle, deadly contests, and terrific skirmishes were
constantly passing before me; and I actually went my daily rounds
of duty buried in these thoughts, and lost to everything save what
ministered to my excited imagination.
We who lived far away on the distant frontier could but collect from the
journals the state of excitement and enthusiasm into which every class
of the capital was thrown by Napoleon's elevation to the Monarchy. Never
perhaps in any country did the current of popular favor run in a stream
so united. The army hailed him as their brother of the sword, and felt
the proud distinction that the chief of the Empire was chosen from their
ranks. The civilian saw the restoration of Monarchy as the pledge
of that security which alone was wanting to consolidate national
prosperity. The clergy, however they may have distrusted his sincerity,
could not but acknowledge that to his influence was owing the return of
the ancient faith; and, save the Vendeans, broken and discomfited, and
the scattered remnants of the Jacobin party, discouraged by the fate of
Moreau, none raised a voice against him. A few of the old Republicans,
among whom was Camot, did, it is true, proclaim their dissent; but so
moderately, and with so little of partisan spirit, as to call forth a
eulogium on their honorable conduct from Napoleon himself.
The mighty change, which was to undo all the long and arduous struggles
for liberty which took years in their accomplishments, was effected
in one burst of national enthusiasm. Surrounded by nations on whose
friendship they dared not reckon,--at war with their most powerful
enemy, England,--France saw herself dependent on the genius of one great
man; and beheld, too, the formidable conspiracy for his assassination,
coupled with the schemes against her own independence. He became thus
indissolubly linked with her fortunes; self-interest and gratitude
pointed both in the same direction to secure his services; and the
Imperial Crowa was indeed less the reward of the past than the price
of the future. Even they who loved him least, felt that in his guidance
there was safety, and that without him the prospect was dark and dreary
and threatening.
Another element which greatly contributed to the same effect, was the
social ruin caused by the Revolution; the destruction of all commerce,
the forfeiture of property, had thrown every class into the service of
the Government. Men gladly advocated a change by which the ancient
forms of a Monarchy might be restored; and with them the long train of
patronage and appointments, their inevitable attendants. Even the old
families of the kingdom hailed the return of an order of things which
might include them in the favors of the Crown; and the question now was,
what rank or class should be foremost in tendering their allegiance to
the new sovereign. We should hesitate ere we condemn the sudden impulse
by which many were driven at this period. Confiscation and exile had
done much to break the spirit of even the hardiest; and the very return
to the institutions in which all their ancient prejudices were involved
seemed a pledge against the tyranny of the mass.
As for Napoleon himself, each step in his proud career seemed to evoke
the spirit necessary to direct it; the resources of his mighty intellect
appeared, with every new drain on them, only the more inexhaustible.
Animated through his whole life by the one great principle,--the
aggrandizement of France,--his vast intelligence gathering strength with
his own increase of power, enabled him to cultivate every element of
national greatness, and mould their energies to his will; till at length
the nation seemed but one vast body, of which he was the heart, the
impulse, that sent the life-blood bounding through all its arteries, and
with whose beating pulses every, even the most remote portion, throbbed
in unison.
The same day that established the Empire, declared the rank and dignity
accorded to each member of the royal family, with the titles to be borne
by the ministers and other high officers of the Crown. The next step
was the creation of a new order of nobility,--one which, without
ancient lineage or vast possessions, could still command the respect
and admiration of all,--the marshals of France. The names of Berthier,
Murat, Augereau, Massena, Bernadotte, Ney, Soult, Lannes, Mortier,
Davoust, Bessieres, were enough to throw a blaze of lustre on the
order. And had it not been for the omission of Macdonald's name in this
glorious list, public enthusiasm had been complete; but then he was the
friend of Moreau, and Bonaparte “did not forgive.”
The restoration of the old titles so long in abeyance, the return to
the pomp and state of Monarchy, seemed like a national fête, and Paris
became the scene of a splendid festivity and a magnificence unknown
for many years past. It was necessary for the new Court to make its
impression on the world; and the endeavor was to eclipse, by luxury and
splendor, the grandeur which in the days of the Bourbons was an heirloom
of royalty. To this end functionaries and officers of the Palace were
appointed in myriads; brilliant and costly uniforms adopted; courtly
titles and ceremonial observances increased without end; and etiquette,
carried to a pitch of strictness which no former reign had ever
exhibited, now regulated every department of the state.
While, however, nothing was too minute or too trivial, provided that it
bore, even in the remotest way, on the re-establishment of that throne
he had so long and so ardently desired, Napoleon's great mind was
eagerly bent upon the necessity of giving to the Empire one of those
astounding evidences of his genius which marked him as above all other
men. He wished to show to France that the Crown had devolved upon the
rightful successor to Charlemagne, and to prove to the army that the
purple mantle of royalty could not conceal the spur of the warrior; and
thus, while all believed him occupied with the ordinary routine of
the period, his ambitious thoughts were carrying him away across the
Pyrenees or beyond the Danube, to battlefields of even greater glory
than ever, and to conquests prouder than all his former ones.
The same power of concentrativeness that he so eminently possessed
himself, he imparted, as if by magic, to his Government. Paris was
France; to the capital flocked all whose talent or zeal prompted them
to seek for advancement. The Emperor was not only the fountain of
all honor, but of all emolument and place. So patronage was exercised
without his permission; and none was conferred without the conviction
that some stanch adherent was secured whose friendship was ratified, or
whose former enmity was conciliated.
Thus passed the year that followed his accession to the throne,--that
brilliant pageant of a nation's enthusiasm rendering tribute to the
majesty of intellect. At length the period of inaction seemed drawing to
a close; and a greater activity in the war department, and a new levy
of troops, betokened the approach of some more energetic measures.
Men whispered that the English expedition was about to sail, and
reinforcements of ammunition and artillery were despatched to the coast,
when suddenly came the news of Trafalgar. Villeneuve was beaten,--
his fleet annihilated,--the whole combination of events destroyed; and
England, again triumphant on the element she had made her own, hurled
defiance at the threats of her enemy. The same despatch that brought the
intelligence to Mayence told us to be in readiness for a movement; but
when, or where to, none of us could surmise. Still detachments from
various corps stationed about were marched into the garrison, skeleton
regiments commanded to make up their deficiencies, and a renewed energy
was everywhere perceptible. At last, towards the middle of August, I was
sent for by the general in command of the fortress, and informed that
General d'Auvergne had been promoted to the command of a cavalry brigade
stationed at Coblentz.
“You are to join him there immediately,” continued he; “but here is a
note from himself, which probably will explain everything.” And with
that he handed me a small sealed letter.
It was the first, save on purely regimental matters, I had ever received
from him, and somehow I felt unusually anxious about its contents. It
ran in these words:--
My dear B.,--His Majesty has just sent for me, and most
graciously esteeming me not yet too old to serve him, has
given me the command of a brigade,--late the Twelfth, now to
be called 'D'Auvergne's Cavalry.' I would willingly have
mentioned your name for promotion, to which your zeal and
activity would well entitle you; but deemed it better to
let your claim come before the Emperor's personal notice,
which an opportunity will, I trust, soon permit of its
doing. His Majesty, with a kindness which the devotion of a
life could not repay, has also interested himself personally
for me in a quarter where only his influence could have
proved successful. But the explanation of this I reserve for
your arrival. And now I request that you will lose no time
in repairing to Paris, where I shall expect to see you by
Tuesday.
Yours,
D'AUVERGNE, Lieut. 'General'
This strange paragraph puzzled me not a little; nor could I, by any
exercise of ingenuity, find out even a plausible meaning for it. I read
it over and over, weighing and canvassing every word, and torturing each
syllable; but all to no purpose. Had the general been some youthful but
unhappy lover, to forward whose suit the Emperor had lent his influence,
then had I understood the allusion; but with the old weather-beaten
officer, whose hairs were blanched with years and service, the very
thought of such a thing was too absurd. Yet what could be the royal
favor so lavishly praised? He needed no intercession with the Empress;
at least, I remembered well how marked the kindness of Josephine was
towards him in former times. But to what use guessing? Thoughts, by long
revolving, often become only the more entangled, and we lose sight of
the real difficulty in canvassing our own impressions concerning it. And
so from this text did I spin away a hundred fancies that occupied me the
whole road to Paris, nor left me till the din and movement of the great
capital banished all other reflections.
Arrangement had been made for my reception at the Rue de Rohan; but I
learned that the general was at Versailles with the Court, and only came
up to Paris once or twice each week. His direction to me was, to wait
for his arrival, and not to leave the city on any account.
With what a strange feeling did I survey the Palace of the
Tuileries,--the scene of my first moment of delighted admiration of her
I now loved, and, alas! of my first step in the long catalogue of my
misfortunes! I lingered about the gardens with a fascination I could not
account for; my destiny seemed somehow linked with the spot, and I could
not reason myself out of the notion but that there, in that great pile,
the fate of my whole life was to be decided.
My entire day was passed in this way; and evening found me seated on
one of the benches near the windows of the pavilion, where I watched the
lustres in the long gallery as one by one they burst into light, and saw
the gilt candelabras twinkling as each taper was illuminated. It was an
evening reception of the Emperor, and I could mark the vast assemblage,
in every variety of uniform, that filled the salons. At length the drums
beat for strangers to leave the gardens; the patrols passed on; and
gradually the crowded walks became thinner and thinner; the sounds of
the drum grew fainter; and finally the whole space became still and
noiseless,--not a voice was to be heard, not a step moved on the gravel.
I knew that the gates were now locked; and yet I stayed on, glad to be
alone, and at leisure to dream away among the fancies that kept ever
rising to my mind, and to follow out the trains of thought that ever and
anon opened before me.
As the hour grew later, and the salons filled more and more, the
windows were opened along the terrace to give air, and I could hear the
continued murmur of hundreds of voices conversing, while at times the
sound of laughter rose above the rest. What a rush of thoughts came on
me as I sat! how did I picture to myself the dark intrigues, the subtle
plots of wily diplomatists, the bold and daring aspirations of the
brave soldiers, the high hopes and the ambitious yearnings that were
all commingled there, grouped around him whose dreams were of universal
empire! While I mused, the night glided on, and the solemn sound of the
bell of Notre Dame proclaimed midnight. I now could mark that the salons
were thinning, and the unceasing din of carriages in the Place announced
the departure of the guests. In little more than half an hour the great
gallery was empty, and but a few groups remained in the apartments
adjoining. Even they soon departed; and then I could see the servants
passing from room to room extinguishing the lights, and soon the great
facade of the palace wac wrapped in darkness. A twinkling light appeared
here and there for some time, but it too went out. The night was calm
and still and sultry; not a leaf stirred; and the heavy tread of the
sentinels as they paced the marble vestibule was heard plainly where I
stood.
How full of thought to me was that vast pile, now shrouded in the gloom
of night! What bold, ambitious deeds,--what dreams of empire,--had not
been conceived there! The great of other days, indeed, entered little
into my mind, as I remembered it was the home of him, the greatest of
them all. How terrible, too, it was to think, that within that silent
palace, which seemed sleeping with the tranquil quiet of an humble
cottage, the dreadful plans which were to convulse the world, to shake
thrones and dynasties, to make of Europe a vast battlefield, were
now devising. The masses of dark cloud that hung heavily in the air,
obscuring the sky and shutting out every star, seemed to my fevered
imagination an augury of evil; and the oppressive, loaded atmosphere,
though perfumed with the odor of flowers, sunk heavily on the spirits.
Again the hour rang out, and I remembered that the gates of the garden
were now closed for the night, and that I should remain where I was
till daylight liberated me. My mind was, however, too full of its own
thoughts to make me care for sleep, and I strolled along the gloomy
walks lost in revery.