With the good priest of Sèvres I journeyed along towards the frontier of
France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not
likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards
Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with
him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the
decisive moment of my leaving the army.
“You see, Father,” said I, “how completely my career has failed; how,
with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the devotion of a follower, I
have adhered to the Emperor's fortunes; and yet--”
“Your ambition, however great it was, could not stifle conscience. I
can believe it well. They who go forth to the wars with high hopes and
bounding hearts, who picture to their minds the glorious rewards of
great achievements, should blind their eyes to the horrors and injustice
of the cause they bleed for. Any sympathy with misfortune would sap the
very principle of that heroism whose essence is success. Men cannot
play the double game, even in matters of worldly ambition. Had you not
listened to the promptings of your heart, you had been greater; had you
not followed the dazzling glare of your hopes, you had been happier:
both you could scarcely be. Be assured of this, my son, the triumphs
of a country can only be enjoyed by the child of the soil; the brave
soldier, who lends his arm to the cause, feels he has little part in the
glory.”
“True, indeed,--most true; I feel it.”
“And were it otherwise, how unsatisfying is the thirst for that same
glory! how endless the path that leads to it! how many regrets accompany
it! how many ties broken! how many friendships forfeited! No, no; return
to your own land,--to the country of your birth; some honorable career
will always present itself to him who seeks but independence and the
integrity of his own heart. Beneath the conquering eagles of the Emperor
there are men of every shade of political opinion; for the conscription
is pitiless. There are Royalists, who love their king and hate the
usurper; there are Jacobins, who worship freedom and detest the tyrant;
there are stern Republicans--Vendéens, and followers of Moreau: but yet
all are Frenchmen. 'La belle France' is the watchword that speaks to
every heart, and patriotism is the bond between thousands. _You_ have
no share in this; the delusion of national glory can never throw its
deception around you. Return, then, to your country; and be assured,
that in _her_ cause your least efforts will be more ennobling to
yourself than the boldest deeds the hand of a mercenary ever achieved.”
The inborn desire to revisit my native land needed but the counsels
of the priest to make it all-powerful; and as, day by day, I plodded
onward, my whole thoughts turned to the chances of my escape, and
the means by which I could accomplish my freedom; for the war still
continued between France and England, and the blockade of the French
ports was strictly maintained by a powerful fleet. The difficulty of the
step only increased my desire to effect it; and a hundred projects did I
revolve in my mind, without ever being able to fix on one where success
seemed likely. The very resolve, however, had cheered my spirits, and
given new courage to my heart; and an object suggested a hope,--and with
a hope, life was no longer burdensome.
Each morning now I set forward with a mind more at ease, and more open
to receive pleasure from the varied objects which met me as I went. Not
so my poor companion; the fatigue of the journey, added to great mental
suffering, began to prey upon his health, and brought back an ague he
had contracted in Egypt, from the effect of which his constitution had
never perfectly recovered. At first the malady showed itself only in
great depression of spirits, which made him silent for hours of the way.
But soon it grew worse; he walked with much difficulty, took but little
nourishment, and seemed impressed with a sad foreboding that the disease
must be fatal.
“I wanted to reach my village; my own quiet churchyard should have been
my resting-place,” said he, as he sank wearied and exhausted on a
little bank at the roadside. “But this was only a sick man's fancy. Poor
Alphonse lies far away in the dreary plain of Auerstadt.”
The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a
little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind
lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their massive
wavy surface, over which the passing clouds threw momentary shadows;
before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright
silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of
France, and upon these the sick man's eyes rested with a steadfast gaze.
“Yes!” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “the fields and the
mountains, the sunshine and the shade, are like those of other lands;
but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn
sense, and the very word 'home' brings with it the whole history of our
affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an
exile's heart.”
I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few
words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head
between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that
we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we
should pass the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there
was little hope of finding shelter any nearer.
“You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and
after a little it will revive you.”
The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent
of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his
breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very
greatest debility.
“I cannot do it, my son,” said he, sinking upon the grassy bench which
skirted the way; “you must leave me. It matters little now where this
frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank grass will wave above
it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man's
blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may
cheer you to think on hereafter.”
“Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?” said I, reproachfully. “Is
it so you think of me?”
“My minutes are few now, my child,” replied he, more solemnly, “and I
would pass the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will
not,--leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind
will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able
to accompany you to the village.”
I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me
the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having
wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the
top of my speed.
The zigzag path by which I went discovered to me from time to time the
lights of the little hamlet, which twinkled star-like in the valley; and
as I drew nearer, the confused hum of voices reached me. I listened,
and to my amazement heard the deep, hoarse bray of a trumpet. How well
I knew that sound! it was the night-call to gather in the stragglers.
I stopped to listen; and now, in the stillness, could mark the tramp of
horsemen and the clank of their equipments: again the trumpet sounded,
and was answered by another at some distance. The road lay straight
below me at some hundred yards off, and leaving the path, I dashed
directly downwards just as the leading horsemen of a small detachment
came slowly up. To their loud _Qui vive?_ I answered by giving an
account of the sick man, and entreating the sergeant who commanded the
party to lend assistance to convey him to the village.
“Yes, _parbleu!_ that we will,” said the honest soldier; “a priest who
has made the campaign of Egypt and Austria is worthy of all our care.
Where is he?”
“About a mile from this; but the road is not practicable for a
horseman.”
“Well, you shall have two of my men; they will soon bring him hither.”
And as he spoke, he ordered two troopers to dismount, who, quickly
disencumbering themselves of their sabres, prepared to follow me.
“We shall expect you at the bivouac,” cried the sergeant, as he resumed
his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed
energy.
“You belong to the Guard, my friends,” said I, as I paused for breath at
a turn of the path.
“The Fourth Cuirassiers of the Guard,” replied the soldier I addressed;
“Milhaud's brigade.”
How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the
division General d'Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor
Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.
“You know the Fourth, then?” rejoined the man, as he witnessed the
agitation of my manner.
“Know the Fourth?” echoed his comrade, in a voice of half-indignant
meaning. “_Sacrebleu!_who does not know them? Does not all the world
know them by this time?”
“It is the Fourth who wear the motto 'Dix contre un' on their caps,”
said I, desirous to flatter the natural vanity of my companions.
“Yes, Monsieur; I see you have served also.”
I answered by a nod, for already every word, every gesture, recalled to
me the career I had quitted; and my regrets, so late subdued by reason
and reflection, came thronging back, and filled ray heart to bursting.
Hurrying onward now, I mounted the steep path, and soon regained the
spot I sought. The poor father was sleeping; overcome by fatigue and
weariness, he had fallen on the mossy bank, and lay in a deep, soft
slumber. Lifting him gently, the strong troopers crossed their hands
beneath, and bore him along between them. For an instant he looked up;
but seeing me at his side, he merely pressed my hand, and closed his
eyes again.
“_Ma foi!_” said one of the dragoons, in a low voice, “I should not be
surprised if this were the Père Arsène, who served with the army in
Italy. We used to call him 'old Scapulaire'. He was the only priest I
ever saw in the van of a brigade. You knew him too, Auguste.”
“Yes, that I did,” replied the other soldier. “I saw him at Elkankah,
where one of ours was unhorsed by a Mameluke, spring forward, and
seizing a pistol at the holster, shoot the Turk through the head, and
then kneel down beside the dying man he was with before, and go on with
his prayers. _Ventrebleu!_ that's what I call discipline.”
“Where was that, Comrade?”
“At Elkankah.”
“At Quoreyn, rather, my friend, two leagues to the southward,” whispered
a low voice.
“_Tonnerre de ciel!_” cried the two soldiers in a breath, “it is
himself;” for the words were spoken by the priest, who was no other than
the Père Arsène they spoke of.
The effort of speech and memory was, however, a mere passing one; for
to all their questions he was now deaf, and lay apparently unconscious
between them. On me, therefore, they turned their inquiries, but with
little more of success; and thus we descended the mountain, eager to
reach some place of succor for the good father.
As we approached the village, I was soon made aware of the objects of
the party who occupied it. The little street was crowded with cattle,
bullocks, and sheep, fast wedged up amid huge wagons of forage and carts
of corn; mounted dragoons urging on the jaded animals, regardless of
the angry menaces or the impatient appeals incessantly making by the
peasantry, who in great numbers had followed their stock from their
farms.
[Illustration: BrowneForagingParty121]
The soldiers, who were detachments of different corps, were also
quarrelling among themselves for their share of the spoil; and these
altercations, in which more than once I saw a sabre flash, added to
the discord. It was, indeed, a scene of tumult and confusion almost
inconceivable. Here were a party of cuirassiers, carbine in hand,
protecting a drove of sheep; around which the country people were
standing, seemingly irresolute whether they should essay an attack,--a
movement often prompted by the other soldiers, who hoped in the _mêlée_
to seize a part of the prey. Many of the oxen were bestrode by hussars
or lancers, whose gay trappings formed a strange contrast with the
beasts they rode on; while more than one stately horseman held a sheep
before him on the saddle, for whose protection a cocked pistol seemed no
ineffectual guarantee.
The task of penetrating this dense and turbulent mob seemed to me almost
impossible, and I expressed my fears to the soldiers. But they replied
that there were too many _braves_ of Egypt there not to remember the
Père Arsène; saying which, one of the soldiers, whispering a word to
his companion, laid the priest gently upon the ground, and then mounting
rapidly on a forage-cart, he shouted, in a voice heard above the din,--
“Comrades of the Fourth, we have found an old companion; the Père
Scapulaire is here. Place for the good father! place there!”
A hundred loud _vivas_ welcomed this announcement; for the name was well
known to many who never had seen the priest, and cheer after cheer for
the _bon père_ now rang through this motley assemblage.
To the wild confusion of a moment before the regularity of discipline
at once succeeded, and a lane was quickly formed for the soldiers to
advance with the priest between them, each horseman saluting as he
passed as if to his general on parade.
“To the Trauben,--the Trauben!” cried several voices, as we went
along; and this I learned was the little inn of the village, where the
non-commissioned officers in charge of the several parties were seated
in council to arrange the subdivision of the booty.
Had not a feeling stronger than mere personal consideration occupied me,
I would have now left the good priest among his old comrades, with
whom he was certain to meet kindness and protection. But I could not so
readily part with one whom, even in the few hours of our intercourse, I
had learned to like; and therefore, enduring as well as I was able
the rugged insubordination of a soldiery free from the restraint of
discipline, I followed on, and soon found myself at the door of the
Trauben.
A dismounted dragoon, with drawn sword, guarded the entrance, around
which a group of angry peasants were gathered, loudly protesting against
the robbery of their flocks and farmyards. It was with great difficulty
I could persuade the sentry to suffer me to enter; and when I at last
succeeded, I found none willing to pay any attention to my request
regarding a billet for the priest, for unhappily his name and character
were unknown to those to whom I addressed myself. In this dilemma I was
deliberating what step to take, when one of the soldiers, who with such
zealous devotion had never left us, came up to say that his corporal
had just given up his own quarters for the good father's use; and this,
happily, was a small summer-house in the garden at the back of the inn.
“He cannot come with us himself,” said the soldier, “for he is engaged
with the forage rations, but I have got his leave to take the quarters.”
A small wicket beside the inn led us into a large, wildly-grown orchard,
through which a broad path led to the summer-house in question; at
least such we guessed to be the little building from whose windows there
gleamed the bright glare of a cheerful fire.
The door lay open into a little hall, from which two doors led
into different chambers. Over one of these was marked in chalk
“quartier-général,” in imitation of the title assigned to a general's
quarters, and this the soldiers pronounced must belong to the corporal.
I opened it accordingly and entered. The room was small and neatly
furnished, and with the blazing wood upon the hearth, looked most
comfortable and inviting.
“Yes, we are all right here; I know his helmet,--this is it,” said the
dragoon. “So here we must leave you. You'll tell the good father it was
two troopers of the Fourth who carried him hither, won't ye? Ay, and say
Auguste Prévôt was one of them; he 'll know the name,--he nursed me in a
fever I had in Italy.”
“I wish he were able to give me his blessing again,” said the other; “I
had it before that affair at Brescia, and there were four of my comrades
killed about me, and never a shot touched me. But good-night, Comrade;
goodnight.” And so saying, having left the father at his length upon a
couch, they made their military salute and departed.
A rude-looking flagon of beer which stood on the table was the only
thing I could discover in the chamber, save a canvas bag of tobacco
and some pipes. I filled a goblet with the liquor and placed it to the
priest's lips. He swallowed a little of it, and then opening his eyes,
slowly looked around him, while he murmured to my question a faint sound
of “Better,--much better.” I knew enough of such matters to be aware
that perfect rest and repose were the greatest aids to his recovery;
and so, replenishing the fire, I threw myself down on the large dragoon
cloak which lay on the floor, and prepared to pass my night where I was.
The long-drawn breathings of the sleeping man, the perfect quiet and
stillness of all around,--for though not far distant from the village,
the thick wood of trees intercepted every sound from that quarter,--and
my fatigue combined, soon brought on drowsiness.
I struggled, so long as I was able, against the tendency; but a humming
sound filled my ears, the objects grew fainter before my vision, and I
sank into that half-dreamy state when consciousness remains, but clouded
and indistinct in all its perceptions. Twice the door was opened and
some persons entered; but though they spoke loudly, I heard not their
words, nor could I recognize their appearance. To this succeeded a deep,
sound sleep, the recompense of great fatigue.
The falling of a piece of firewood on the hearth awoke me. I opened my
eyes and looked about. The room had no other light than from the embers
of the wood fire and the piece of blazing pine which had just fallen;
but even by that uncertain glare I could see enough to amaze and confuse
me.
On the couch where I had left the priest sleeping, the old man was now
seated, his head uncovered, and a scarf of light blue silk across his
shoulders and falling to his feet. Before him, and kneeling, was a
figure, of which for some minutes I in vain endeavored to ascertain the
traits; for while in the military air of the dress there was something
to mark the soldier, a waving mass of hair loosely falling on the back
bespoke another sex. While I yet doubted, the flickering flame burst
forth and showed me the small and beautiful shaped foot which from
beneath a loose trouser peeped forth, and in the neat boot and
tastefully ornamented spur I recognized in an instant it was a
vivandière of the army,--one of those who, amid all the reckless abandon
of the life of camps and battlefields, can yet preserve some vestige of
coquetry and feminine grace.
So strange the sight, so complete the heavy stupor of my faculties, that
again and again I doubted whether the whole might not be the creation of
a dream; but the well-known tones of the old man's voice soon reassured
me, as I heard him say,--
“I know it too, my child; I have followed too long the fortunes of an
army not to feel and to sorrow for these things. But be comforted.”
A passionate burst of tears from her who knelt at his feet interrupted
him here; nor did it seem that all he could speak of consolation was
able to assuage the deep sorrow of the poor girl, whose trembling frame
bespoke her agony.
By degrees, however, she grew calmer. A deep sob or a long-drawn
sigh alone would be heard, as the venerable father, with impassioned
eloquence, depicted the happiness of those who sought the blessings of
religion, and could tear themselves from the world and its ambitions.
Warming with his theme, he descanted on the lives of those saints
on earth whose every minute was an offering of heavenly love; and
contrasted the holy calm of a convent with the wild revelry of the camp,
or the more revolting carnage of the battlefield.
“Speak not of these things, Father; your own voice trembles with proud
emotion at the mention of glorious war. Tell me, oh! tell me that I may
have hope, and yet leave not all that makes life endurable.”
The old man spoke again; but his tones were low, and his words seemed a
reproof, for she bowed her head between her hands and sobbed heavily.
To the long and impassioned appeal of the priest there now succeeded a
silence, only broken by the deep-drawn sighs of her who knelt in sadness
and penitence before him.
“And his name?” said the father; “you have not told his name.”
A pause followed, in which not even a breathing was heard; then a low,
murmuring sound came, and it seemed to meas though I heard my own name
uttered. I started at the sound, and with the noise the vivandière
sprang to her feet.
“I heard a noise there,” said she, resolutely.
“It is my companion of the journey,” said the priest. “Poor fellow! he
is tired and weary; he sleeps soundly.”
“I did not know you had a fellow-traveller, Father.”
“Yes; we met in the Creutz Mountains, and since that» have wended our
way together. A soldier--”
“A soldier! Is he wounded, then?”
“No, my child; he is leaving the army.”
“Leaving the army, and not wounded! He is old and disabled, perhaps.”
“Neither; he is both young and vigorous.”
“Shame on him, then, that he turn his back on fame and fortune, and
leave the path that brave men tread! He never was a soldier! No, Father;
he in whose heart the noble passion once has lived can never forget it.”
“Hush, child, hush!” said the priest, motioning with his hand to her to
be silent.
“Let me look on him!” said the vivandière, as she stooped down and took
from the hearth a piece of lighted wood; “let me see this man, and learn
the features of one who can be so craven of spirit, so poor of heart, as
to fly the field, while thousands are flocking towards it.”
Burning with shame and indignation, I arose, just as she approached me.
The pine-branch threw its red gleam over her bright uniform, and then
upon her face.
“Minette! Minette!” I exclaimed. But with a wild shriek she let fall the
burning wood, and fell senseless to the ground.
It was some time before, with all our care, she recovered consciousness;
and even then, in her wild, excited glance, one might read the struggles
of her mind to credit what had occurred. A few broken, unconnected
phrases would escape her at intervals; and she seemed laboring to regain
the lost clew to her recollections, when again she turned her eyes
towards me. At the same instant, the trumpet sounded without for the
_réveil_, and was answered by many a call from other parties around.
With a steadfast gaze of wonderment she fixed her look on me; and twice
passed her hands across her eyes, as though she doubted the evidence of
her senses.
[Illustration: 346]
“Minette, hear me! let me speak but one word.” “There it is again,”
cried she, as the blast rang out a second time, and the clatter of
horsemen resounded from the street. “Adieu, sir; our roads lie not
together. Father, your blessing; if your good counsel this night has
not made its way to my heart, the lesson has come elsewhere. Good-by!
good-by!” She pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and darted from
the room.
Stunned, and like one spell-bound, I could not move for a few seconds;
and then, with a wild cry, I bounded after her through the garden.
The wicket, however, was fastened on the outside, and it was some time
before I could scale the wall and reach the street.
The day was just breaking, but already the village was thronged with
soldiers, who were preparing for the march, and arranging their parties
to conduct the wagons. Hurrying on through the crowded and confused
mass, I looked on every side for the vivandière; but in vain. Groups
of different regiments passed and repassed me; but to my questions they
returned either a jeering reply, or a mere laugh of derision. “But a few
days ago,” thought I, “and these fellows had scarce dared to address me;
and now--” Oh, the blighting misery of that thought! I was no longer a
soldier; the meanest horseman of his troop was my superior.
I passed through the village, and reached the highroad. Before me was a
party of dragoons, escorting a drove of cattle; I hastened after them,
but on coming near, discovered they were a light cavalry detachment.
Sick at heart, I leaned against a tree at the wayside, when again
I heard the tramp of horses approaching. I looked, and saw the tall
helmets of the Fourth, who were coming slowly along, conducting some
large wagons, drawn by eight or ten horses. In front of the detachment
rode a man, whose enormous stature made him at once remarkable, as well
as the air of soldierly bearing he displayed. Beside him was Minette;
the reins had fallen on her horse's neck, and her face was buried in her
hands.
“Ah! if I had thought that priest would have made thee so sad,
Mademoiselle, I'd have let him spend his night beneath a wagon rather
than in my quarters,” said a deep, hollow voice I at once recognized
as that of Pioche. “But the morning air will revive thee; so let us
forward: by threes--open order--trot.”
The word was obeyed; the heavy tramp of the horses, with the dull roll
of the wagons, drowned all other sounds The cortège moved on, and I was
alone.
[Illustration: BrowneDeathOfMinette127]