You are, perhaps, aware, that in no part of France was the cause of
the exiled family sustained with more perseverance and courage than
Auvergne. The nobles, who, from generation to generation, had lived
as seigneurs on their estates, equally remote from the attractions and
advantages of a court, still preserved their devotion to the Bourbons
as a part of religious faith; nor ever did the evening mass of a château
conclude without its heartfelt prayer for the repose of that “Saint
Roi” Louis XVI., and for the blessing of heaven on him, his rightful
successor, now a wanderer and an exile.
In one of these antique châteaux, whose dilapidated battlements and
shattered walls shewed that other enemies than mere time had been
employed against it, lived an old Count de Vitry: so old was he, that
he could remember the time he had been a page at the court of Louis XV.,
and could tell many strange tales of the Regency, and the characters who
flourished at that time.
His family consisted of two grandchildren, both of them orphans of
his two sons. One had fallen in La Vendée; the other, sentenced to
banishment by the Directory, had died on the passage out to Guadaloupe.
The children were nearly of the same age--the boy a few months older
than the girl--and regarded each other as brother and sister.
It is little to be wondered at if these children imbibed from the very
cradle a horror of that system and of those men which had left them
fatherless and almost friendless, destitute of rank, station, and
fortune, and a proportionate attachment to those who, if they had been
suffered to reign, would have preserved them in the enjoyment of all
their time-honoured privileges and possessions.
If the members of the executive government were then remembered among
the catalogue of persons accursed and to be hated, the names of the
royal family were repeated among those saintly personages to whom honour
and praise were rendered. The venerable Père Duclos, to whom their
education was confided, certainly neglected no available means of
instilling these two opposite principles of belief; and if Alfred de
Vitry and Blanche were not impressed with this truth, it could not
be laid to the charge of this single-hearted teacher; every trait and
feature that could deform and disgrace humanity being attributed to one,
and all the graces and ennobling virtues of the race associated with the
name of the other. The more striking and impressive to make the lesson,
the Père was accustomed to read a comment on the various events then
occurring at Paris, and on the campaigns of the Republican army in
Italy; dwelling, with pardonable condemnation, on the insults offered to
the Church and all who adhered to its holy cause.
These appeals were made with peculiar force to Alfred, who was destined
for an ecclesiastic, that being the only career which the old Count and
his chaplain could satisfy themselves as offering any hope of safety;
and now that the family possessions were all confiscated, and a
mere remnant of the estate remaining, there was no use in hoping to
perpetuate a name which must sink into poverty and obscurity. Blanche
was also to become a member of a religious order in Italy, if, happily,
even in that sacred land, the privileges of the Church were destined to
escape.
The good Père, whose intentions were unalloyed by one thought unworthy
of an angel, made the mistake that great zeal not unfrequently
commits--he proved too much; he painted the Revolutionary party in
colours so terrible, that no possible reality could sustain the truth of
the portraiture. It is true, the early days of the Revolution warranted
all he did or could say; but the party had changed greatly since that,
or, rather, a new and a very differently minded class had succeeded.
Marat, Danton, and Robespierre had no resemblance with Sieyes, Carnot,
and Buonaparte. The simple-minded priest, however, recognised no
distinction: he thought that, as the stream issued from a tainted
source, the current could never become purer by flowing; and he
delighted, with all the enthusiasm of a _dévote_, to exaggerate the
evil traits of those whose exploits of heroism might have dazzled and
fascinated unthinking understandings.
Alfred was about sixteen, when one evening, nigh sunset, a peasant
approached the Château in eager haste to say that a party of soldiers
were coming up the little road which led towards the house, instead of
turning off, as they usually did, to the village of Puy de Dôme, half a
league further down the valley.
Père Duclos, who assumed absolute authority over the household since
the old Count had fallen into a state of childlike dotage, hastened to
provide himself with the writ of exemption from billet the Directory had
conferred on the château--an _amende_ for the terrible misfortunes of
the ruined family--and advanced to meet the party, the leading files of
which were already in sight.
Nothing could less have suggested the lawless depredators of
the Republic than the little column that now drew near. Four
chasseurs-à-pied led the van, their clothes ragged and torn, their shoes
actually in ribbons; one had his arm in a sling, and another carried
his shako on his back, as his head was bound up in a handkerchief, whose
blood-stained folds shewed the marks of a severe sabre-cut. Behind them
came a litter, or, rather, a cart with a canvass awning, in which lay
the wounded body of their officer; the rear consisting of about fourteen
others, under the command of a sergeant.
They halted and formed as the old Père approached them, and the
sergeant, stepping to the front, carried his hand to his cap in military
salute; and then, without waiting for the priest to speak, he began
a very civil, almost an humble, apology, for the liberty of their
intrusion.
“We are,” said he, “an invalid party, _en route_ for Paris, with an
officer who was severely wounded at the bridge of Lodi.” And here
he lowered his voice to a whisper: “The poor lieutenant’s case being
hopeless, and his constant wish--his prayer,--being to see his mother
before he dies, we are pushing on for her Château, which is near St.
Jean de Luc, I hear.”
Perhaps the mention of the word Château--the claim of one whose rank was
even thus vaguely hinted at--had nearly an equal influence on the Père
with the duties of humanity. Certain is it he laid less stress than
he might have done on the writ of exemption, and blandly said that the
out-offices of the Château should be at their disposal for the night;
apologising if late events had not left its inhabitants in better
circumstances to succour the unfortunate.
“We ask very little, Père,” said the sergeant, respectfully--“some
straw to sleep on, some rye-bread and a little water for supper; and
to-morrow, ere sunrise, you shall see the last of us.”
The humility of the request, rendered even more humble by the manner in
which it was conveyed, did not fail to strike the Père Duclos, who
began to wonder what reverses had overtaken the “Blues” (the name
the Republicans were called), that they were become thus civil and
respectful; nor could he be brought to believe the account the sergeant
gave of a glorious victory at the Ada, nor credit a syllable of the
bulletin which, in letters half-a-foot long, proclaimed the splendid
achievement.
A little pavilion in the garden was devoted to the reception of the
wounded lieutenant, and the soldiers bivouacked in the farm-buildings,
and some even in the open air, for it was the vintage-time, and
the weather delightful. There was nothing of outrage or disturbance
committed by the men; not even any unusual noise disturbed the peaceful
quiet of the old Château; and, except that a lamp burned all night in
the garden-pavilion, nothing denoted the presence of strangers.
Before day broke the men were mustered in the court of the Château; and
the sergeant, having seen that his party were all regularly equipped for
the march, demanded to speak a few words to the Père Duclos. The Père,
who was from his window watching these signs of approaching departure
with some anxiety, hastily descended on hearing the request.
“We are about to march, reverend father,” said the sergeant, saluting,
“all of us, save one--our poor lieutenant; his next billet will be for
another, and, we hope, a better place.”
“Is he dead?” asked the Père, eagerly.
“Not yet, father; but the event cannot now be far off. He raved all
through the night, and this morning the fever has left him, but without
strength, and evidently going fast. To take him along with us would be
inhuman, were it even possible--to delay would be against my orders; so
that nothing else is to be done than leave him among those who would be
kind to his last hours, and minister to the wants of a death-bed.”
The Père, albeit very far from gratified by his charge, promised to do
all in his power; and the sergeant, having commanded a “present arms” to
the Château, wheeled right-about and departed.
For some days the prediction of the sergeant seemed to threaten its
accomplishment at every hour. The sick man, reduced to the very lowest
stage of debility, appeared at moments as if struggling for a last
breath; but by degrees these paroxysms grew less frequent and less
violent: he slept, too, at intervals, and awoke seemingly refreshed; and
thus between the benefits derived from tranquillity and rest, a mild and
genial air, and his own youth, his recovery became at length assured,
accompanied, however, by a degree of feebleness that made the least
effort impossible, and even the utterance of a few words a matter of
great pain and difficulty.
If, during the most sad and distressing periods of the sick bed, the
Père indirectly endeavoured to inspire Alfred’s mind with a horror of a
soldier’s life--depicting, by the force of the terrible example before
him, the wretchedness of one who fell a victim to its ambition--so did
he take especial care, as convalescence began to dawn, to forbid the
youth from ever approaching the pavilion, or holding any intercourse
with its occupant. That part of the garden was strictly interdicted to
him, and the very mention of the lieutenant at last forbidden, or only
alluded to when invoking a Christian blessing upon enemies.
In this way matters continued till the end of autumn, when the Père, who
had long been anxiously awaiting the hour when the sick man should take
his leave, had one morning set off for the town to make arrangements for
his departure, and order post-horses to be ready on the following day.
It was a calm and mellow day of autumn, and Alfred, who had at first
determined to set out on a fishing excursion, without any reason,
changed his mind, and sauntered into the garden. Loitering listlessly
for some time, from walk to walk, he was at length returning to the
Château, when he beheld, seated under the shade of a walnut-tree, a
young man, whose pale and languid look at once bespoke the invalid, even
had not the fact been proclaimed by his dress, the uniform of a _Lander
rouge_.
Mindful of the Father’s precept, and fully impressed with an obedience
never violated, the youth was turning hastily away, when the wounded man
slowly arose from his seat, and removing his cap, made a salute of deep
and most respectful meaning.
Alfred returned it, and stood irresolute. The eyes of the sick man, full
of an expression of mild and thankful beaming, were on him. What should
he do? to retire without speaking would be a rudeness, even a cruelty:
beside, what possible harm could there be in a few words of friendly
greeting with one so long their guest? Ere he could resolve the point,
the wounded officer was slowly advancing towards him, still uncovered,
and in an attitude betokening a most respectful gratitude.
“I pray you will permit me, Mons. le Comte,” said he, “to express my
heartfelt thanks for the hospitality and kindness of your treatment.
I feared that I should leave this without the occasion of saying how
grateful I feel for the remnant of life your care has been the means of
preserving.”
Alfred tried to answer: but a dread of his disobedience and its
consequences, and a strange sense of admiration for the stranger, whose
manner and appearance had deeply impressed him, made him silent.
“I see,” said the lieutenant smiling, “that you are indisposed to
receive an acknowledgment for what you set such small store by--a
kindness to a mere ‘soldier of the Republic;’ but when you wear a sword
yourself, Mons. le Comte, as you will doubtless one of these days----”
“No,” said Alfred, hastily interrupting him, “never! I shall never wear
one.”
“How, never! What can you mean?”
“That I shall never be a soldier,” said Alfred. “I am to be a priest.”
“A priest! You, Mons. le Comte de Vitry, of the best blood of
Auvergne--you, a monk!”
“I did not say a monk,” said Alfred, proudly; “there are other ranks
among churchmen. I have heard tell of Prince-bishops and Cardinals.”
“And if one were to begin life at the age they usually take leave of it,
such a career might not be held so cheaply; but for a young man of good
birth and blood, with a heart to feel proudly, and a hand to wield a
weapon--no, no, this were a shame not to be thought of.”
Stung alike by the severity of the sarcasm, and animated by the old
spirit of the Père’s teaching, Alfred hastily answered:--
“And if men of rank and station no longer carry arms as their
forefathers did, with whom lies the blame? Why do they now bend to adopt
a path that in former days was only trodden by the weak-hearted and the
timid? Because they would not draw the sword in a cause they abhor,
and for a faction they despised; neither would they shed their blood to
assure the triumph of a rabble.”
“Nor would I,” interposed the lieutenant, while a slight flush coloured
his cheek. “The cause in which I perilled life was that of France, my
country. You may safely trust, that the nation capable of such conquests
will neither be disgraced by bad rulers, nor dishonoured by cowardly
ones.”
“I have no faith in Republicans,” said Alfred, scornfully.
“Because they were not born to a title, perhaps! But do you know how
many of those who now carry victory into foreign lands belong to this
same class that includes all your sympathy?--prouder, far prouder, that
they sustain the honour of France against her enemies than that
they carry the blazon of a marquis or the coronet of a duke on their
escutcheon? You look incredulous! Nay, I speak no more than what I well
know: for instance, the humble lieutenant who now addresses you can
claim rank as high and ancient as your own. You have heard of the
Liancourts?”
“Le Duc de Liancourt?”
“Yes; I am, or rather I was, the Duc de Liancourt,” said the lieutenant,
with an almost imperceptible struggle: “my present rank is
Sous-Lieutenant of the Third Lancers. Now listen to me calmly for a few
moments, and I hope to shew you, that in a country where a dreadful
social earthquake has uprooted every foundation of rank, and strewed the
ground with the ruins of every thing like prescription, it is nobler and
better to shew that nobility could enter the lists, unaided by its
prestige, and win the palm, among those who vainly boasted themselves
better and braver. This we have done, not by assuming the monk’s cowl
and the friar’s cord, but by carrying the knapsack and the musket; not
by shirking the struggle, but by confronting it. Where is the taunt now
against the nobility of France? whose names figure oftenest in the lists
of killed and wounded? whose lot is it most frequently to mount first to
the assault or the breach? No, no, take to the alb and the surplice if
your vocation prompt it, but do not assume to say that no other road is
open to a Frenchman because his heart is warmed by noble blood.”
If Alfred was at first shocked by hearing assertions so opposed to all
the precepts of his venerated tutor, he was soon ashamed of offering
opposition to one so far more capable than himself of forming a just
judgment on the question, while he felt, inwardly, the inequality of the
cause for which he would do battle against--that glorious and triumphant
one of which the young officer assumed the championship.
Besides, De Liancourt’s history was his own; he had been bred up with
convictions precisely like his, and might, had he followed out the path
intended for him, been a priest at the very hour that he led a charge at
Lodi.
“I was saved by an accident,” said he. “In the march of Berthault’s
division through Chalons, a little drummer-boy fell off a waggon when
asleep, and was wounded by a wheel passing over him: they brought him to
our château, where we nursed and tended him till he grew well. The Curé,
wishing to snatch him as a brand saved from the burning, adopted him,
and made him an acolyte; and so he remained till one Sunday morning,
when the ‘Chasseurs gris’ marched through the town during mass. Pierre
stole out to see the soldiers; he heard a march he had often listened to
before; he saw the little drummers stepping out gaily in front; worse,
too, _they_ saw him, and one called out to his comrades, ‘Regarde donc
le Prêtre; ce petit drôle là--c’est un Prêtre.’
“‘Du tout,’ cried he; tearing off his white robe, and throwing it behind
him, ‘Je suis tambour comme toi,’ and snatching the drum, he beat his
‘Ran tap-plan’ so vigorously and so well, that the drum-major patted him
on the head and cheek, and away marched Pierre at the head of the troop,
leaving Chalons, and Curé, and all behind him, without a thought or a
pang.
“I saw it all from the window of the church; and suddenly, as my eyes
turned from the grand spectacle of the moving column, with its banners
flying and bayonets glistening, to the dim, half-lighted aisles of
the old church, with smoky tapers burning faintly, amid which an old
decrepid priest was moving slowly, a voice within me cried,--‘Better a
_tambour_, than this!’ I stole out, and reached the street just as the
last files were passing: I mingled with the crowd that followed, my
heart beating time to the quick march. I tracked them out of the town,
further and further, till we reached the wide open country.
“‘Will you not come back, Pierre?’ said I, pulling him by the sleeve,
as, at last, I reached the leading files, where the little fellow
marched, proud as the tambour-major.
“‘_I_ go back, and the regiment marching against the enemy!’ exclaimed
he, indignantly; and a roar of laughter and applause from the soldiers
greeted his words.
“‘Nor I either!’ cried I. And thus I became a soldier, never to regret
the day I belted on the knapsack. But here comes the Père Duclos: I hope
he may not be displeased at your having kept me company. I know well he
loves not such companionship for his pupil--perhaps he has reason.”
Alfred did not wait for the priest’s arrival, but darted from the spot
and hastened to his room, where, bolting the door, he threw himself upon
his bed and wept bitterly. Who knows if these tears decided not all his
path in life?
That same evening the lieutenant left the château; and in about two
months after came a letter, expressing his gratitude for all the
kindness of his host, and withal a present of a gun and a chasseur’s
accoutrement for Alfred.. They were very handsome and costly, and he was
never weary of trying them on his shoulder and looking how they became
him; when, in examining one of the pockets for the twentieth time, he
discovered a folded paper: he opened it, and found it was an appointment
for a cadet in the military school of St. Cyr. Alfred de Vitry was
written in pencil where the name should be inscribed, but very faintly,
and so that it required sharp looking to detect the letters. It was
enough, however, for him who read the words: he packed up a little
parcel of clothes, and, with a few francs in his pocket, he set out that
night for Chalons, where he took the _malle_. The third day, when he was
tracked by the Père, he was already enrolled a cadet, and not all the
interest in France could have removed him against his consent.
I will not dwell on a career which was in no respect different from
that of hundreds of others. Alfred joined the army in the second Italian
campaign--was part of Dessaix’s division at Marengo--was wounded at
Aspern, and finally accompanied the Emperor in his terrible march to
Moscow. He saw more service than his promotion seemed to imply, however;
for, after Leipsig, Dresden, Bautzen, he was carried on a litter, with
some other dying comrades, into a little village of Alsace--a lieutenant
of hussars, nothing more.
An hospital, hastily constructed of planks, had been fitted up outside
the village--there were many such, on the road between Strasbourg and
Nancy; and here poor Alfred lay, with many more, their sad fate rendered
still sadder by the daily tidings, which told them that the cause for
which they had shed their blood was hourly becoming more hopeless.
The army that never knew defeat now counted nothing but disasters.
Before Alfred had recovered from his wound, the allies bivouacked in the
Place Carrousel, and Napoleon was at Elba!
When little dreaming that he could take any part in that general joy by
which France, in one of her least-thinking moments, welcomed back the
Bourbons, Alfred was loitering listlessly along one of the quays of
Paris, wondering within himself by what process of arithmetic he could
multiply seven sous--they were all he had--into the price of a supper
and a bed; and while his eyes often dwelt with lingering fondness on the
windows of the _restaurants_, they turned, too, with a dreadful instinct
towards the Seine, whose eddies had closed over many a sorrow and crime.
As he wandered thus, a cry arose for help: an unfortunate creature--one
whose woes were greater, or whose courage to bear them less, than his
own--had thrown herself from the Pont-Neuf into the river, and her body
was seen to rise and sink several times in the current of the rapid
stream, It was from no prompting of humanity--it was something like a
mere instinct, and no more--mayhap, too, his recklessness of life had
some share in the act;--whatever the reason, he sprung into the river,
and, after a long and vigorous struggle, he brought her out alive; and
then, forcing through the crowd that welcomed him, he drew his miserable
and dripping hat over his eyes. He continued his road--Heaven knows he
had little purpose or object to warrant the persistence!
He had not gone far when a number of voices were heard behind him,
calling out,--
“That is he!--there he is!” and at the same instant an officer rode up
beside him, and, saluting him politely, said that her royal highness the
Duchess of Berri desired to speak to him;--her carriage was just by.
Alfred was in that humour when, so indifferent is every object in life,
that he would have turned at the bidding of the humblest _gamin_ of the
streets; and, wet and weary, he stood beside the door of the splendid
equipage.
“It was _thou_ that saved the woman?” said the Duchess, addressing him,
and using the conventional “Du,” as suitable to his mean appearance.
“Madame,” said Alfred, removing his tattered hat, “I am a gentleman!
These rags were once--the uniform of the Guard.”
“My God!--my cousin!” cried a voice beside the Duchess; and, at the same
instant, a young girl held out her hands towards him, and exclaimed,--
“Knowest thou not me, Alfred? I am Alice--Alice de Vitry--thy cousin and
thy sister!”
It would little interest you to dwell on the steps that followed, and
which, in a few weeks, made of a wretched outcast--without a home or a
meal--an officer of the _Guard du Corps_, with the order of St. Louis at
his breast.
Time sped on, and his promotion with it; and at length his Majesty,
graciously desiring to see the old nobility resume their place and
grade, consented to the union of Alfred with his cousin. There was no
violent love on either side, but there was sincere esteem and devoted
friendship; and if they neither of them felt that degree of attachment
which becomes a passion, they regarded each other with true affection.
Alice was a devoted Royalist: all that she had suffered for the cause
had endeared it to her; and she could forgive, but not forget, that her
future husband had shed his blood for the Usurper.
Alfred was what every one, and with reason, called a most fortunate
fellow: a colonel at twenty-eight--a promotion that, under the Empire,
nothing but the most distinguished services could have gained--and yet
he was far from happy. He remembered with higher enthusiasm his first
grade of “corporal,” won at Aspern, and his epaulettes that he gained
at Wilna. His soldiering had been learned in another school than in the
parade-ground at Versailles, or the avenue of the Champs Elysées.
“Come, _mon ami!_” said Alice, gaily, to him one morning, about ten days
before the time appointed for their marriage; “thou art about to have
some occasion for thy long-rusting sword: the Usurper has landed at
Cannes.”
“The Emperor at Cannes!”
“The Emperor, if thou wilt--but without an Empire.”
“No matter. Is he without an army?” said Alfred.
“Alone--with some half-dozen followers, at most. Ney has received orders
to march against him, and thou art to command a brigade.”
“This is good news!” said Alfred; for the very name of war had set his
heart a-throbbing; and as he issued forth into the streets, the stirring
sounds of excitement and rapid motion of troops increased his ardour.
Wondering groups were gathered in every street, some, discussing the
intelligence, others, reading the great placards, which, in letters of
portentous size, announced that “the Monster” had once more polluted by
his presence the soil of France.
Whatever the enthusiasm of the old Royalists to the Bourbon cause, there
seemed an activity and determination on the part of the Buonapartists
who had taken service with the King to exhibit their loyalty to the new
sovereign; and Ney rode from one quarter of Paris to the other, with
a cockade of most conspicuous size, followed by a staff equally
remarkable.
That same day Alfred left Paris for Lyons, where his regiment lay, with
orders to move to the south, by forced marches, and arrest the advance
of the small party which formed the band of the invader. It was Alice
herself fastened the knot of white ribbon in his shako, and bade him
adieu with a fondness of affection he had never witnessed before.
From Paris to Lyons, and to Grenoble, Alfred hastened with promptitude.
At Lesseim, at last, he halted for orders.
His position was a small village, three leagues in advance of Lesseim,
called Dulaure, where, at nightfall on the 18th of March, Alfred arrived
with two companies of his regiment, his orders being to reconnoitre the
valley towards Lesseim, and report if the enemy should present himself
in that quarter.
After an anxious night on the alert, Alfred lay down to sleep towards
morning, when he was awoke by the sharp report of a musket, followed
immediately after by the roll of the drum and the call for the guard to
“turn out.” He rushed out, and hastened towards the advanced picket. All
was in confusion: some were in retreat; others stood at a distance from
their post, looking intently towards it; and at the picket itself were
others, again, with piled arms, standing in a close group. What could
this mean? Alfred called out, but no answer was returned. The men stared
in stupid amazement, and each seemed waiting for the other to reply.
“Where is your officer?” cried De Vitry, in an angry voice.
“He is here!” said a pale, calm-featured man, who, buttoned up in a grey
surtout, and with a low _chapeau_ on his head, advanced towards him.
“You the officer!” replied Alfred, angrily: “you are not of our
regiment, sir.”
“Pardon me, Colonel,” rejoined the other; “I led the twenty-second at
Rovigo, and they were with me at Wagram.”
“_Grand Dieu!_” said Alfred, trembling; “who are you, then?”
“Your Emperor, Colonel de Vitry!”
Alfred stepped back at the words. The order to arrest and make him
prisoner was almost on his lips. He turned towards his men, who
instinctively had resumed their formation; his head was maddened by the
conflict within it; his eyes turned again towards Napoleon--the struggle
was over-he knelt and presented his sword.
“Take mine in exchange, _General_ de Vitry,” said the Emperor; “I know
you will wear it with honour.”
And thus, in a moment, was all forgotten--plighted love and sworn
faith--for who could resist the Emperor?
The story is now soon told. Waterloo came, and once more the day of
defeat descended, never to dawn upon another victory. Alfred, rejected
and scorned, lived years in poverty and obscurity. When the fortunes of
the Revolution brought up once more the old soldiers of the Empire, he
fought at the Quai Voltaire and was wounded severely. The Three Days
over, he was appointed to a sous-lieutenancy in the dragoons. He is
now _chef-d’escadron_, the last of his race, weary of a world whose
vicissitudes have crushed his hopes and made him broken-hearted.
The relator of this tale was Alfred de Vitry himself, who, under the
name of his maternal grandfather, St. Amand, served in the second
regiment of Carabiniers.