When I entered the breakfast-room the following morning, I found
Duchesne stretched before the fire in an easy-chair, busily engaged
in reading the “Moniteur” of that day, where a long list of imperial
_ordonnances_ filled nearly three columns.
“Here have I been,” said he, “conning over this catalogue of princely
favor these twenty minutes, and yet cannot discern one word of our
well-beloved cousins Captains Burke and Duchesne. And yet there seems to
be a hailstorm of promotions. Some of them have got grand duchies; some
principalities; some have the cross of the Legion; and here, by
Jove! are some endowed with wives. Now that his Majesty has taken to
christening and marrying, I suppose we shall soon see him administering
all the succors of Holy Church. Have you much interest in hearing
that Talleyrand is to be called Prince of Benevente, and Murat is now
Grand-Duke of Berg,--that Sebastiani is to be married to Mademoiselle de
Coigny, and Monsieur Decazes, _fils de_ M. Decazes, has taken some one
else to wife? Oh dear, oh dear! It's all very tiresome, and not even the
fête of Saint Napoleon--”
“Of whom?” said I, laughing.
“Saint Napoleon, _parbleu!_ It's no joking matter, I assure you. Here
is the letter of the cardinal legate to the arch-bishops and bishops
of France, commanding that the first Sunday in the August of each year
should be set apart to celebrate his saintship, with an account of the
processions to take place, and various plenary indulgences to the pious
who shall present themselves on the occasion. Fouché could tell you the
names of some people who bled freely to get rid of all this trumpery;
and, in good sooth, it's rather hard, if we could not endure Saint
Louis, to be obliged to tolerate Saint Napoleon,--saints, like Bordeaux
wine, being all the more palatable when they have age to mellow them. I
could forgive anything, however, but this system of forced marriages;
it smacks too much of old Frederick for my taste. And one cannot always
have the luck of your friend General d'Auvergne.”
I felt my cheek grow burning hot at the words. Duchesne did not notice
my confusion, but continued,--
“And yet, of all the ill-assorted unions for which his sainted Majesty
will have to account hereafter, that was unquestionably the most
extraordinary.”
“But I have heard, and I believe too, that the marriage was not of the
Emperor's making; it was purely a matter of liking.”
“Come, come, Burke,” said he, laughing, “you will not tell me that the
handsomest girl at the Court, with a large dowry, an ancient name, and
every advantage of position, marries an old weather-beaten soldier--the
senior officer of her own father once--of her own free will and choice.
The thing is absurd. No, no; these are the Imperial recompenses, when
grand duchies are scarce and confiscations few. The Emperor does not
travel for nothing. He brought back with him from Egypt something
besides his Mameluke Guard: that clever trick the pachas have of
providing a favorite with an ex-sultana. There, there! don't look so
angrily. We shall both be marshals of France one of these days, and that
may reconcile one to a great deal.”
“You are determined to owe nothing of your promotion to a blind devotion
to Napoleon,--that's certain,” said I, annoyed at the tone of insolent
disparagement in which he spoke.
“You are right,--perfectly right there,” replied he, in a quiet tone of
voice. “No man would rather hug himself up in an illusion, if he could
but make it minister to his pleasure or his enjoyment; but when it does
neither,--when the material is so flimsy as to be seen through at every
minute,--I throw it from me as a worthless garment, unfit to wear.”
“Can you, then, deem Napoleon's glory such?”
“Of course, to me it is. How am I a sharer in his triumphs, save as the
charger that marches in the cavalcade? You don't perceive that I, as the
descendant of an old Loyalist family, would have fared far better with
the Bourbons, from reasons of blood and kindred; and a hundred times
better with the Jacobins, from very recklessness.”
“How then came it--”
“I will spare you the question. I liked neither emigration nor the
guillotine, and preferred the slow suffering of ennui to the quick death
of the scaffold. There has been but one career in France for many a day
past. I adopted it as much from necessity as choice; I followed it more
from habit than either.”
“But you cannot be insensible to the greatness of your country, nor her
success in arms.”
“Nor am I; but these things are a small ingredient in patriotism. You,
the stranger, share with us all our triumphs in the field. But the
inherent features of a nation,--the distinctive traits of which every
son of the soil feels proud,--where are they now? What is France to me
more than to you? One half my kindred are exiled; of those who remain,
many regard me as a renegade. Their properties confiscated, themselves
suspected, what tie binds them to this country? You are not more an
alien here than I am.”
“And yet, Duchesne, you shed your blood freely for this same cause you
condemn. You charged the Pratzen, some days ago, with four squadrons,
against a whole column of Russian cavalry.”
“Ay, and would again to-morrow, boy. Had you been a gambler, I need n't
have told you that it is the game, not the stake, that interests the
real gamester. But come, do not fancy I want to make you a convert to
these tiresome theories of mine. What say you to the pretty Mademoiselle
Pauline? Did you admire her much?”
“She is unquestionably very handsome; but, if I must confess it, her
manner towards me was too ungracious to make me loud in her praise.”
“I like that, I vow,” said Duchesne; “that saucy air has an
indescribable charm for me. I don't know if it is not the very thing
which pleases me most about her. She has been spoiled by flattery and
admiration; for her beauty and her fortune are prizes in the great
wheel. And that she is aware of the fact is nothing wonderful,
considering that she hears it repeated every evening of her life, by
every-rank in the service, from a marshal of France down to--a captain
in the _chasseurs à cheval_,” said he, laughing.
“Who, probably, was one of the last to tell her so,” said I, looking at
him slyly.
“What have we here?” said he, suddenly, without paying any attention to
my remark, as he again took up the “Moniteur.” “'It is rumored that the
Russian Prince, Drobretski, was dangerously wounded this morning in an
affair of honor. The names of the other party and the seconds are
still unknown; but the efforts of the police, stimulated by the express
command of the Emperor, will, it is to be hoped, succeed in discovering
them ere long.'”
“Is not that the name of your Russian friend of last night, Duchesne?”
“Yes. And the same person, too, formerly Russian minister at Madrid, and
latterly residing on his parole at Paris,” continued he, reading from
the paper. “'The very decided part his Majesty has taken against the
practice of duelling is strengthened on this occasion by a recent order
of council respecting the prisoners on parole.' _Diable!_ Burke, what
a scrupulous turn Napoleon seems to have taken in regard to these
Cossacks! And here follows a long list of witnesses who have seen
nothing, and suspicious circumstances that occur every morning in the
week without remark. After all, I don't think the Empire has advanced
us much on the score of police,--the same threadbare jests, the same
old practical jokes, amused the _bourgeoisie_ in the time of Louis the
Fourteenth.”
“I don't clearly understand your meaning.”
“It is simply this,--that every Government of France, from Pepin
downwards, has understood the value of throwing public interest, from
time to time, on a false scent, and to this end has maintained a police.
Now, if for any cause his Majesty thought proper to incarcerate that
Russian prince in the Temple or La Force, the affair would cause a
tremendous sensation in Paris, and soon would ring over the whole of
Germany and the rest of Europe, with every variation of despotism,
tyranny, and all that, attached to it, long before any advantages to be
derived from the step could be realized. Whereas see the effect of an
opposite policy. By this report of a duel, for instance,--I don't
mean to assert it false, here,--the whole object is attained, and
an admirable subject of Imperial praise obtained into the bargain.
Governments have learned wisdom from the cuttlefish, and can muddy
the water on their enemies at the moment of danger. I should not be
surprised if the affairs of the Bank looked badly this morning.”
“It is evident, then, you disbelieve the whole statement about the
duel.”
“My dear friend,” said he, smiling, “who is there in all Paris, from
Montmartre to St. Denis, believes, or disbelieves, any one thing in the
times we live in? Have we not trusted so implicitly for years past to
the light of our reason that we have actually injured our eyesight with
ils brilliancy. Little reproach, indeed, to our minds, when our very
senses seem to mislead us; when one sees the people who enter the
Tuileries now with embroidered coats, who in our father's days never
came nearer to it than the Place de Carrousel. _Hélas!_ it's no time for
incredulity, that's certain. But to conclude,” said he, turning to the
paper once more: “'The _commissaires de police_ throughout Paris have
received orders to spare no effort to unravel the mystery and detect the
other parties in this unhappy affair.' Military tribunal; prisoners
on parole; rights of hospitality; honor of France; and the old
peroration,--the usual compliment on the wisdom which presides over
every department of state. How weary I do become of all this! Let your
barber puff his dye for the whiskers, or your bootmaker the incomparable
effulgence of his blacking,--the thing is in keeping, no one objects to
it. I don't find fault with my old friend, Pigault Lebrun, if he now and
then plays the critic on himself, and shows the world the beauties they
neglectfully slurred over. But, Burke, have you ever seen a _bureau de
police?_”
“Never; and I have the greatest curiosity to do so.”
“Come, then, I 'll be your guide. The _commissaire_ of this quarter
has a very extended jurisdiction, stretching away towards the Bois de
Boulogne, and if there be anything in this report, he is certain to
know it; and assuredly, no other topic will be talked of till to-morrow
evening, for it's not Opera night, and Talma does not play either.”
I willingly accepted this proposition; and when our breakfast was over,
we mounted our horses, and set out for the place in question.
“If the forms of justice where we are now going,” said Duchesne,
“be divested of much of their pomp and ceremony, be assured of one
thing,--it is not at the expense of the more material essence. Of all
the police tribunals about Paris, this obscure den in the Bue de Dix
Sous is the most effective. Situated in a quarter where crime is as
rife as fever in the Pontine Marshes, it has become acquainted with
the haunts and habits of the lowest class in Paris,--the lowest class,
probably, in any city of Europe. Watching with parental solicitude,
it tracks the criminal from his first step in vice to his last deed in
crime; from his petty theft to his murder. Knowing the necessities to
which poverty impels men, and studying with attention the impulses
that grow up amid despair and hunger, it sees motives through a mist of
intervening circumstances that would baffle less subtle observers, and
can trace the tortuous windings of crime where no other sight could
find the clew. Is it not strange to think with what ingenuity men will
investigate the minute anatomy of vice, and how little they will do to
apply this knowledge to its remedy? Like the surgeon, enamored of
his operating skill, he would rather exhibit his dexterity in the
amputation, than his science in the saving, of the limb. Such is the
bureau of the police in the poorer quarters. In the more fashionable
ones it takes a higher flight; amusing the world with its scenes,
alternately humorous and pathetic, it forms a kind of feature in the
literature of the period, and is the only reading of thousands. In these
places the _commissaire_ is usually a _bon vivant_ and a wit; despising
the miserable function of administering the law, he takes his seat upon
the bench to cap jokes with the witnesses, puzzle the complainant,
and embarrass the prisoner. To the reporters alone is he civil; and in
return, his poor witticisms appear in the morning papers, with the usual
'loud laughter' that never existed save in type.”
As we thus chatted, we entered a quarter of dirty and narrow streets,
inhabited by a poor-looking, squalid population. The women, with little
to mark their sex in their coarse, heavy countenances, wore colored
kerchiefs on their heads in lieu of a cap, and were for the most part
without shoes or stockings. The men, a brutalized, stupid race, sat
smoking in the doorways, scarcely lifting their eyes as we passed; or
some were eating a coarse morsel of black rye bread, which, by their
eagerness in devouring it, seemed an unusual delicacy.
“You scarcely believed there was such poverty in Paris,” said he; “but
this is by no means the worst of the quarter. Though M. de Champagny, in
his late report, makes no mention of these 'signs of prosperity,' we are
now entering the region where, even in noonday, the passage is deemed
perilous; but the number of police agents on duty to-day will make the
journey a safe one.”
The street we entered at the moment consisted of a mass of tall houses,
almost falling from decay and neglect,--scarcely a window remained in
many of them; while in front, a row of miserable booths, formed of rude
planks, narrowed the passage to a mere path, scarce wide enough for
three people abreast. There, vice of every description, and drunkenness,
waited not for the dark hours to shroud them, but came forth in the
sunlight,--the ruffian shouts of intoxication mingling with the almost
maniacal laugh of misery or the reckless chorus of some degrading song.
Half-naked wretches leaned from the windows as we passed along,--some
staring in stupid wonderment at our appearance; others saluting us with
mockery and grimace, or even calling out to us in the slang dialect of
the place.
“Yes,” said Duchesne, as he saw the expression of horror and disgust
the scene impressed on me, “here are the rotting seeds of revolutions
putrefying, to germinate at some future day. Starvation and vice,
misery, even to despair, inhabit every den around you. The furious
and bloodthirsty wretch of '92, the Chouan, the Jacobite, the escaped
galley-slave, the untaken murderer, are here side by side,--crime their
great bond of union. To this place men come for an assassin or a false
witness, as to a market. Such are the wrecks the retiring waves of a
Revolution have left us. So long as the trade of blood lasted, openly,
like vultures, they fattened on it; but once the reign of order
restored, they were driven to murder and outrage as a livelihood.”
While he was speaking, we approached a narrow arched passage, within
which a flight of stone steps arose. “We dismount here,” said he.
At the same moment a group of ragged creatures, of every age, surrounded
us to hold our horses, not noticing the orderly who rode at some
distance behind us. I followed Duchesne up the steps, and along a gloomy
corridor, to a little courtyard, where several dismounted gendarmes
were standing in a circle, chatting. Passing through this, we entered a
dirty, mean-looking house, around the door of which several people were
collected, some of whom saluted the chevalier as he came up.
“Who are these fellows?” said I. “They seem to know you.”
“Oh! nothing but the common police spies,” said he, carelessly; “the
fellows who lounge about the cabarets and the low gambling-houses. But
here comes one of higher mark.”
As he spoke, he laid his hand on the arm of a tall, powerful-looking
man, in a blouse; he wore immense whiskers, and a great beard,
descending far below his chin. “Ah! Bocquin, what have we got going
forward to-day? I came to show a young friend here the interior of your
_salle_.”
“Monsieur le Capitaine, your most obedient,” said the man, in a deep
voice, as he removed his casquette, and bowed ceremoniously to us; “and
yours also, Monsieur,” added he, turning to me. “Why, there is nothing
to speak of, save that duel, Capitaine.”
“Come, come, Bocquin; no nonsense with me. What was that story got up
for?”
“Ah! you mistake there,” said Bocquin. “By Jove! there's a man badly
wounded, shot through the neck, and no one to tell a word about it. No
seconds present, the thing done quite privately; the wounded man left at
his own door, and the other off,--Heaven knows where.”
“And you believe this tale, Bocquin?” said Duchesne, superciliously.
“Believe it!--that I do. I have been to see the place where the man lay;
and by tracking the wheel marks, I have discovered they came from the
Champs Élysées. The cabriolet, too, was a private one; no _fiacre_ has
got so narrow a tire to the wheel.”
“Closely followed up,--eh, Burke?” said the chevalier, turning towards
me with a smile of admiration at his sagacity. “Go on, Bocquin.”
“Well, I followed the scent to the Barrière de l'Étoile, where I learned
that one cabriolet passed towards the Bois de Boulogne, and returned in
about half an hour. As the pace was a sharp one, I guessed they could
not have gone far, and so I turned into the wood at the first road to
the right, where there is least recourse of people; and, by Jove! I was
all correct. There, in a small open space between the trees, I saw the
marks of recent footsteps, and a little farther on found the grass all
covered with blood.”
“Monsieur Bocquin! Monsieur Bocquin! the _commissaire_ wants you,” cried
a voice from the landing of the stair; and with an apology for leaving
thus suddenly, he turned away.
We followed, however, curious to hear the remainder of this singular
history; and, after some difficulty, succeeded in gaining admittance to
a small room, now densely crowded with people, the most of whom were
of the very lowest class. The _commissaire_ speedily made place for
us beside him on the bench; for, like every one else in a conspicuous
position, he also was an acquaintance of Duchesne.
While the _commissaire_ conversed with Bocquin in a low tone, we had
time to observe the _salle_ and its occupants. Except the witnesses,
two or three of whom were respectable persons, they were the
squalid-looking, ragged wretches of the quarter, listening with the
greedy appetite of crime to any tale of bloodshed. The surgeon, who had
just returned from visiting the wounded man, was waiting to be examined.
To him now the _commissaire_ directed his attention. It appeared that
the wound was by no means of the dangerous character described, being
merely through the fleshy portion of the neck, without injuring any
part of importance. Having described circumstantially the extent of
the injury and its probable cause, he replied to a question of the
_commissaire_, that no entreaty could persuade the wounded man to
give any explanation of the occurrence, nor mention the name of his
adversary. Duchesne paid little apparent attention to the evidence, and
before it was concluded, asked me if I were satisfied with my police
experience, and disposed to move away.
Just at this moment there was a stir among the people round the door,
and we heard the officers of the court cry out, “Room! make way
there!” and the same moment General Duroc entered, accompanied by an
aide-de-camp. He had been sent specially by the Emperor to ascertain
what progress the investigation had made. His Majesty had determined to
push the inquiry to its utmost limits. The general appeared dissatisfied
with the little prospect there appeared of elucidation; and turning to
Duchesne, remarked,--
“This is peculiarly ill-timed just now, as negotiations are pending with
Russia, and the prince's family are about the person of the Czar.”
“But as the wound would seem of little consequence, in a few days
perhaps the whole thing may blow over,” said Duchesne.
“It is for that very reason,” replied Duroc, earnestly, “that we are
pressed for time. The object is to mark the sentiments of his Majesty
_now_. Should the prince be once pronounced out of danger, it will be
too late for sympathy.”
“Oh! I perceive,” said Duchesne, smiling; “your observation is most
just. If my friend here, however, cannot put you on the track, I fear
you have little to hope for elsewhere.”
“I am aware of that; and Monsieur Cauchois knows the great reliance his
Majesty reposes in his skill and activity.”
Monsieur Cauchois, the _commissaire_, bowed with a most respectful air
at the compliment, probably of all others the highest that could be paid
him.
“A brilliant soirée we had last evening, Duchesne,” said the general. “I
hope this unhappy affair will not close that house at present; you are
aware the prince is the suitor of mademoiselle?”
“I only suspected as much,” said the chevalier, with a peculiar smile;
“it was my first evening there.”
As General Duroc addressed a few words in a low tone to the
_commissaire_, the man called Bocquin approached the bench, and handed
up a small slip of paper to Duchesne. The chevalier opened it, and
having thrown his eyes over it, passed it into my hand. All I could see
were two words, written coarsely with the pencil,--“How much?”
The chevalier turned the back of the paper, and wrote, “Fifty
napoleons.”
On reading which the large man tore the scrap, and nodding slightly
with his head, sauntered from the room. We rose a few moments after,
and having taken a formal leave of the general and the _commissaire_,
proceeded towards the street, where we had left our horses. As we passed
along the corridor, however, we found Bocquin awaiting us. He opened
a door into a small, mean-looking apartment, of which he appeared the
owner. Having ushered us in, and cautiously closed it behind him, he
drew from his pocket a piece of cloth, to which a button and a piece of
gold embroidery were attached.
“Your jacket would be spoiled without this morsel, Captain,” said he,
laughing, in a low, dry laugh.
“So it would, Bocquin,” said Duchesne, examining his coat, which I now
perceived was torn on the shoulder, and a small piece--the exact one in
his hand--wanting, but which had escaped my attention from the mass of
gold lace and embroidery with which it was covered.
“Do you know, Bocquin,” said Duchesne, in a tone much graver than he had
used before, “I never noticed that?”
“_Parbleu!_ I believe you,” said he, laughing; “nor did I, till you sat
on the bench, when I was so pleased with your coolness, I could not for
the life of me interrupt you.”
“Have you got any money, Burke?” said the chevalier; “some twenty gold
pieces--”
“No, no, Captain,” said Bocquin, “not now; another time. I must call
upon you one of these mornings about another affair, and it will be time
enough then.”
“As you please, Bocquin,” said the chevalier, putting up his purse
again; “and so, till we meet.”
“Till we meet, gentlemen,” replied the other, as he bowed us
respectfully to the door.
“You seem to have but a very faint comprehension of all this, Burke,”
said Duchesne, as he took my arm; “you look confoundedly puzzled, I must
say.”
“If I didn't, I should be an admirable actor, that's all,” said I.
“Why, I think the thing is plain enough, in all conscience; Bocquin
found that piece of my jacket on the ground, and, of course, the affair
was in his hands.”
“Why, do you mean to say--”
“That I shot Monsieur le Prince this morning, at a quarter past seven
o'clock, and felt devilish uncomfortable about it till the last ten
minutes, my boy. If I did not confide the matter to you before, it
was because that until all chance of detection was passed, I could not
expose you to the risk of an examination before the _préfet de police_.
Happily, now these dangers are all over. Bocquin is too clever a fellow
not to throw all the other spies on a wrong scent, so that we need have
no fear of the result.”
I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses at the coolness and
duplicity of the chevalier throughout an affair of such imminent
risk, nor was I less astonished at the account he gave of the whole
proceeding.
One word, on leaving the soirée, had decided there should be a meeting
the following day; and as the Russian well knew the danger of his
adventure, from the law which was recently passed regarding prisoners
on parole, he proposed they should meet without seconds on either side.
Duchesne acceded; and it was arranged that the chevalier should drive
along the Bue de Rivoli at seven the next morning, where the Russian
would join him, and they should drive together to the Bois de Boulogne.
“To do my Cossack justice,” said Duchesne, “he behaved admirably
throughout the whole affair; and on taking his place beside me in the
cab, entered into conversation freely and easily on the topics of
the day. We chatted of the campaign; of the cavalry; of the Russian
service,--their size and equipment, only needing a higher organization
to make them first-rate troops. We spoke of the Emperor Alexander, of
whom he was evidently proud, and much pleased to hear the favorable
opinion Napoleon entertained of his ability and capacity; and it was in
the middle of an anecdote about Savary and the Czar we arrived at the
Bois de Boulogne.
“I need not tell you the details of the affair, save that we loaded
our own pistols, and stepped the ground ourselves. They were like other
things of the same sort,--the first shot concluded the matter. I aimed
at his shoulder, but the pistol threw high. As to his bullet, it was
only awhile ago I knew it went so near me. It was nervous work passing
the _barrière_; for had he not made an effort to sit up straight in the
cab, the sentry might have detained and examined us. All that you heard
about his being left at his own door, covered with blood and fainting, I
need not tell you has no truth. I never left the spot till the door was
opened, and I saw him in the hands of a servant. Of course I concealed
my face, and then drove off at full speed.”
By this time we arrived at the Luxembourg, and Duchesne, with all the
coolness in the world, joined a knot of persons engaged in discussing
the duel, and endeavoring, by sundry clever and ingenious explanations,
to account for the circumstance.
As I sauntered along to my quarters, I pondered over the adventure and
the character of the chevalier; and however I might turn the matter in
my mind, one thought was ever uppermost,--a sincere wish that I had not
been made his confidant in the secret.