When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the
remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize
the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and
inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed.
Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and
although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I
avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as
comrades.
The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the
whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled
in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and
buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There,
footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look,
toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of
compassionate contempt on those whose wild _vivas_ burst forth in
greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of
the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other.
Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation,
had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become
reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody
despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon
predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it thus I
should appear before her?
A hundred times came the thought to join the new levies as a soldier,
to carry a musket in the ranks. But then came back in all its force
the memory of the distrust and suspicion my services had met with: the
conviction hourly became clearer to me, that I fought not for liberty,
but despotism; that it was not freedom, but slavery, in whose cause I
shed my blood.
To avoid meeting with the detachments which each day occupied the road,
I turned from the _chaussée_ on passing Eisenach, and took a forest
path that led through Murbach to Fulda. My path led through the Creutz
Mountains,--a wild and unfrequented tract of country, where few cottages
were to be seen, and scarcely a village existed. Vast forests of dark
pines, or bleak and barren mountains, stretched away on either side; a
few patches of miserable tillage here and there met the view; but the
scene was one of saddening influence, and harmonized but too nearly with
my own despondency.
To reach a place of shelter for the night, I was more than once obliged
to walk twelve leagues during the day, and had thus to set out before
daylight. This exertion, however, brought its own reward: the stimulant
of labor, the necessity of a task, gradually allayed the mental
irritation I suffered under; a healthier and more manly tone of thinking
succeeded to my former regrets; and with a heart elevated, if not
cheered, I continued my way.
The third day of my toilsome journey was drawing to a close. A mass of
heavy and lowering clouds, dark and thunder-charged, slowly moved along
the sky; and a low, moaning sound, that seemed to sigh along the
ground, boded the approach of a storm. I was still three leagues from my
halting-place, and began to deliberate within myself whether the dense
pine-wood, which came down to the side of the road, might not afford
a safer refuge from the hurricane than the chances of reaching a house
before it broke forth.
The shepherds who frequented these dreary tracts often erected little
huts of bark as a shelter against the cold and severity of the wintry
days, and to find out one of these now was my great endeavor. Scarcely
had I formed the resolve, when I perceived a small path opening into the
wood, at the entrance to which a piece of board nailed against the
trunk of a tree, gave tidings that such a place of security was not far
distant. These signs of forest life I had learned in my wanderings, and
now strode forward with renewed vigor.
The path led gradually upwards, along the mountain-side, which soon
became so encumbered with brushwood that I had much difficulty in
pushing my way, and at last began to doubt whether I might not have
wandered from the track. The darkness was now complete; night had
fallen, and a heavy crashing rain poured down upon the tree-tops, but
could not penetrate through their tangled shelter. The wind, too,
swept in loud gusts above, and the long threatened storm began. A
loud, deafening roar, like that of the sea itself, arose, as the leafy
branches bent before the blast, or snapped with sudden shock beneath
the hurricane; clap after clap of thunder resounded, and then the rain
descended in torrents,--the heavy drops at last, trickling from leaf to
leaf, reaching me as I stood. Once more I pushed forward, and had not
gone many paces when the red glare of a fire caught my eye. Steadfastly
fastening my gaze upon the flame, I hurried on, and at length perceived
with ecstasy that the light issued from the window of a small hovel,
such as I have already mentioned. To gain the entrance of the hut I was
obliged to pass the window, and could not resist the temptation to give
a glance at the interior, whose cheerful blaze betokened habitation.
It was not without surprise that, instead of the figure of a shepherd
reposing beside his fire, I beheld that of an old man, whose dress
bespoke the priest, kneeling in deep devotion at the foot of a small
crucifix attached to the wall. Not all the wild sounds of the raging
storm seemed to turn his attention from the object of his worship;
his eyes were closed, but the head thrown backwards showed his face
upturned, when the lips moved rapidly in prayer. Never had I beheld
so perfect a picture of intense devotional feeling; every line in his
marked countenance indicated the tension of a mind filled with one
engrossing thought, while his tremulous hands, clasped before him, shook
with the tremor of strong emotion.
What a contrast to the loud warring of the elements, that peaceful
figure, raised above earth and its troubles, in the spirit of his holy
communing! how deeply touching the calm serenity of his holy brow, with
the rolling crash of falling branches, and the deep baying of the storm!
I did not dare to interrupt him; and when I did approach the door it was
with silent step and noiseless gesture. As I stood, the old priest--for
now I saw that he was such--concluded his prayer, and detaching his
crucifix from the wall, he kissed it reverently, and placed it in his
bosom; then, rising slowly from his knees, he turned towards me. A
slight start of surprise, as quickly followed by a smile of kindly
greeting, escaped him, while he said in French,--
“You are welcome, my son; come in and share with me the shelter, for it
is a wild night.”
“A wild night, indeed, Father,” said I, casting my eyes around the
little hut, where nothing indicated the appearance of habitation.
“I could have wished you a better home than this against the storms of
winter.”
“I am a traveller like yourself,” said he, smiling at my mistake; “and a
countryman, too, if I mistake not.”
The accents in which these words were spoken pronounced him a Frenchman,
and a very little sufficed to ratify the terms of our companionship; and
having thrown a fresh billet on the fire, we both seated ourselves
before it My wallet was, fortunately, better stored than the good
father's; and having produced its contents, we supped cheerfully, and
like men who were not eating their first bivouac meal.
“I perceive, Father,” said I, as I remarked the manner in which he
disposed his viands, “I perceive you have campaigned ere now; the habits
of the service are not easily mistaken.”
“I did not need that observation of yours,” replied he, laughing
slightly, “to convince me you were a soldier; for, as you truly say,
the camp leaves its indelible traces behind it. You are hastening on to
Berlin, I suppose?”
I blushed deeply at the question; the shame of my changed condition had
been hitherto confined to my own heart, but now it was to be confessed
before a stranger.
“I ask your pardon, my son, for a question I had no right to ask; and
even there, again, I but showed my soldier education. I am returning to
France; and in seeking a short path from Eisenach, found myself where
you see; as night was falling, well content to be so well lodged,--all
the more, if I am to have your companionship.”
Few and simple as these words were, there was a tone of frankness in
them, not less than the evidence of a certain good breeding, by which
he apologized for his own curiosity in speaking thus freely of
himself, that satisfied me at once; and I hastened to inform him that
circumstances had induced me to leave the service, in which I had been a
captain, and that I was now, like himself, returning to France.
“You must not think, Father,” added I, with some eagerness, “you must
not think that other reasons than my own free will have made me cease to
be a soldier.”
“It would ill become me to have borne such a suspicion,” interrupted he,
quickly. “When one so young and full of life as you are leaves the
path where lie honor and rank and fame, he must have cause to make the
sacrifice; for I can scarce think, that at your age, these things seem
nought to your eyes.”
“You are right, Father, they are not so. They have been my guiding stars
for many a day; alas, that they can be such no longer!”
“There are higher hopes to cherish than these,” said he,
solemnly,--“higher than the loftiest longings of ambition; but we all
of us cling to the things of life, till in their perishable nature they
wean us off with disappointment and sorrow. From such a trial am I now
suffering,” added he, in a low voice, while the tears rose to his eyes
and slowly coursed along his pale cheeks.
There was a pause neither of us felt inclined to break, when at length
the priest said,--
“What was your corps in the service?”
“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard,” said I, trembling at every word.
“Ah, _he_ was in the Guides,” repeated he, mournfully, to himself; “you
knew the regiment?”
“Yes, they belonged to the Guard also; they wore no epaulettes, but a
small gold arrow on the collar.”
“Like this,” said he, unfastening the breast of his cassock, and
taking out a small package, which, among other things, contained the
designation of the _Corps des Guides_ in an arrow of gold embroidery.
“Had he not beautiful hair, long and silky as a girl's?” said he, as he
produced a lock of light and sunny brown. “Poor Alphonse! thou wouldst
have been twenty hadst thou lived till yesterday. If I shed tears, young
man, it is because I have lost the great earthly solace of my solitary
life. Others have kindred and friends, have happy homes, which, even
when bereavements come, with time will heal up the wound; I had but
him!”
“He was your nephew, perhaps?” said I, half fearing to interfere with
his sorrow.
The old man shook his head in token of dissent, while he muttered to
himself,--
“Auerstadt may be a proud memory to some; to me it is a word of sorrow
and mourning. The story is but a short one; alas! it has but one color
throughout:--
“Count Louis de Meringues--of whom you have doubtless heard that he rode
as postilion to the carriage of his sovereign in the celebrated flight
to Varennes--fell by the guillotine the week after the king's trial;
the countess was executed on the same scaffold as her husband. I was the
priest who accompanied her at the moment; and in my arms she placed her
only child,--an infant boy of two years. There was a cry among the crowd
to have the child executed also, and many called out that the spawn
would be a serpent one day, and it were better to crush it while it was
time; but the little fellow was so handsome, and looked so winningly
around him on the armed ranks and the glancing weapons, that even
_their_ cruel hearts relented, and he was spared. It is to me like
yesterday, as I remember every minute circumstance; I can recall even
the very faces of that troubled and excited assemblage, that at one
moment screamed aloud for blood, and at the next were convulsed with
savage laughter.
“As I forced my way through the dense array, a rude arm was stretched
out from the mass, and a finger dripping with the gore of the scaffold
was drawn across the boy's face, while a ruffian voice exclaimed, 'The
Meringues were ever proud of their blood; let us see if it be redder
than other people's.' The child laughed; and the mob, with horrid
mockery, laughed too.
“I took him home with me to my _presbytère_ at Sèvres,--for that was my
parish,--and we lived together in peace until the terrible decree was
issued which proclaimed all France atheist. Then we wandered southwards,
towards that good land which, through every vicissitude, was true to its
faith and its king,--La Vendée. At Lyons we were met by a party of the
revolutionary soldiers, who, with a commissary of the Government, were
engaged in raising young men for the conscription. Alphonse, who was
twelve years old, felt all a boy's enthusiasm at the warlike display
before him, and persuaded me to follow the crowd into the _Place des
Terreaux_, where the numbers were read out.
“'Paul Ducos,' cried a voice aloud, as we approached the stage on which
the commissary and his staff were standing; 'where is this Paul Ducos?'
“'I am here,' replied a fine, frank-looking youth, of some fifteen
years; 'but my father is blind, and I cannot leave him.'
“'We shall soon see that,' called out the commissary. 'Clerk, read out
his _signalement_.'
“'Paul Ducos, son of Eugène Ducos, formerly calling himself Count Ducos
de la Brèche--'
“'Down with the Royalists! _à bas_ the tyrants!' screamed the mob, not
suffering the remainder to be heard.
“'Approach, Paul Ducos!' said the commissary.
“'Wait here, Father,' whispered the youth; 'I will come back presently.'
“But the old man, a fine and venerable figure, the remnant of a noble
race, held him fast, and, as his lips trembled, said, 'Do not leave me,
Paul; my child, my comforter, stay near me.'
“The boy looked round him for one face of kindly pity in this emergency,
when, turning towards me, he said rapidly, 'Stand near him!' He broke
from the old man's embrace, and rushing through the crowd, mounted the
scaffold.
“'You are drawn for the conscription, young man,' said the commissary;
'but in consideration of your father's infirmity, a substitute will be
accepted. Have you such?'
“The boy shook his head mournfully and in silence.
“'Have you any friend who would assist you here? Bethink you awhile,'
rejoined the commissary, who, for his station and duties, was a kind and
benevolent man.
“'I have none. They have left us nothing, neither home nor friends,'
said the youth, bitterly; 'and if it were not for his sake, I care not
what they do with me.'
“'Down with the tyrants!' yelled the mob, as they heard these haughty
words.
“'Then your fate is decreed,' resumed the commissary.
“'No, not yet!' cried out Alphonse, as, breaking from my side, he gained
the steps and mounted the platform; 'I will be his substitute!'
“Oh! how shall I tell the bitter anguish of that moment, which at once
dispelled the last remaining hope I cherished, and left me destitute
forever. As I dashed the tears from my eyes and looked up, the two boys
were locked in each other's arms. It was a sight to have melted any
heart, save those around them; but bloodshed and crime had choked up
every avenue of feeling, and left them, not men, but tigers.
“'Alphonse de Meringues,' cried out the boy, in answer to a question
regarding his name.
“There is no such designation in France,' said a grim-looking,
hard-featured man, who, wearing the tri-colored scarf, sat at the table
beside the clerk.
“'I was never called by any other,' rejoined the youth, proudly.
“'Citizen Meringues,' interposed the commissary, mildly, 'what is your
age?'
“'I know not the years,' replied he; 'but I have heard that I was but an
infant when they slew my father.'
“A fierce roar of passion broke from the mob below the scaffold as they
heard this; and again the cry broke forth, 'Down with the tyrants!'
“'Art thou, then, the son of that base sycophant who rode courier to the
Capet to Varennes?' said the hard-featured man at the table.
“'Of the truest gentleman of France,' called out a loud voice from below
the platform; 'Vive le roi!' It was the blind man who spoke, and waved
his cap above his head.
“'To the guillotine! to the guillotine!' screamed a hundred voices, in
tones wilde than the cries of famished wolves, as, seizing the aged man,
they tore his clothes to very rags.
“In an instant all attention was turned from the platform to the scene
below it, where, with shouts and screams of fury, the terrible mob
yelled aloud for blood. In vain the guards endeavored to keep back the
people, who twice rescued their victim from the hands of the soldiery;
and already a confused murmur arose that the commissary himself was a
traitor to the public, and favored the tyrants, when a dull, clanking
sound rose above the tumult, and a cheer of triumph proclaimed the
approach of the instrument of torture.
“In their impetuous torrent of vengeance they had dragged the guillotine
from the distant end of the 'Place,' where it usually stood; and there
now still knelt the figure of a condemned man, lashed with his arms
behind him, on the platform, awaiting the moment of his doom. Oh, that
terrible face, whereon death had already set its seal! With glazed,
lack-lustre eye, and cheek leaden and quivering, he gazed around on the
fiendish countenances like one awakening from a dream, his lips parted
as though to speak; but no sound came forth.
“'Place! place for Monsieur le Marquis!' shouted a ruffian, as he
assisted to raise the figure of the blind man up the steps; and a ribald
yell of fiendish laughter followed the brutal jest.
“'Thou art to make thy journey in most noble company,' said another to
the culprit on the platform.
“'An he see not his way in the next world better than in this, thou must
lend him a hand, friend,' said a third. And with many a ruffian joke
they taunted their victims, who stood on the last threshold of life.
“Among the crowd upon the scaffold of the guillotine I could see the
figure of the blind man as it leaned and fell on either side, as the
movement of the mob bore it.
“'_Parbleu!_ these Royalists would rather kneel than stand,” said a
voice, as they in vain essayed to make the old man place his feet under
him; and ere the laughter which this rude jest excited ceased, a cry
broke forth of--'He is dead! he is dead!' And with a heavy sumph, the
body fell from their hands; for when their power of cruelty ended, they
cared not for the corpse.
“It was true: life was extinct, none knew how,--whether from the
violence of the mob in its first outbreak, or that a long-suffering
heart had burst at last; but the chord was snapped, and he whose proud
soul lately defied the countless thousands around, now slept with the
dead.
“In a few seconds it seemed as though they felt that a power stronger
than their own had interposed between them and their vengeance, and
they stood almost aghast before the corpse, where no trace of blood
proclaimed it to be their own; then, rallying from this stupor, with
one voice they demanded that the son should atone for the crimes of the
father.
“'I am ready,' cried the youth, in a voice above the tumult. 'I did not
deem I could be grateful to ye for aught, but I am for this.'
“To no purpose did the commissary propose a delay in the sentence; he
was unsupported by his colleagues. The passions of the mob rose
higher and higher; the thirst for blood, unslaked, became intense and
maddening; and they danced in frantic glee around the guillotine, while
they chanted one of the demoniac songs of the scaffold.
“In this moment, when the torrent ran in one direction, Alphonse might
have escaped all notice, but that the condemned youth turned to embrace
him once more before he descended from the people.
“'They are so sorry to separate, it is a shame to part them,' cried a
ruffian in the crowd.
“'You forget, Citizen, that this boy is his substitute,' said the
commissary, mildly; 'the Republic most not be cheated of its defenders.'
“'Vive la République!' cried the soldiers; and the cry was re-echoed by
thousands, while amid their cheers there rose the last faint sigh of an
expiring victim.
“The scene was over; the crowd dispersed; and the soldiers marched back
to quarters, accompanied by some hundred conscripts, among whom was
Alphonse,--a vague, troubled expression betokening that he scarce knew
what had happened around him.
“The regiment to which he was appointed was at Toulon, and there I
followed him. They were ordered to the north of Italy soon after,
and thence to Egypt. Through the battlefields of Mount Tabor and the
Pyramids I was ever beside him; on the heights of Austerlitz I stanched
his wounds; and I laid him beneath the earth on the field of Auerstadt.”
The old man's voice trembled and became feeble as he finished speaking,
and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale
as death.
“I must see Sèvres once more,” said he, after a pause. “I must look on
the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable
church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must
gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares.”
“Come, come, Father,” said I; “to one who has acted so noble a part as
yours, life is never without its own means of happiness.”
“I spoke not of death,” replied he, mildly; “but the holy calm of a
convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the
world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of
hope--”
“Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies
of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn
of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no
future,--no hope.”
“I will not hear you speak thus,” said the priest; “fatigue and
weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow,--we shall be
fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your
story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and
consolation where you can see neither.”
The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the
moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of
light at every moment.
“Such is our life here,” said the father,--“alternating with its days of
happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to
bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our
joys are greatest, so are our trials also.”
He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if
in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was
soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.