About a month after I came to live in the “pension,” I was sitting one
evening at the window, watching, with the interest an idle man will ever
attach to slight things,--the budding leaves of an early spring,--when I
heard a step approach my chair, and on turning my head perceived Madame
de Langeac. She carried her taboret in her hand, and came slowly towards
me.
“I am come to steal some of your sunshine, Monsieur Burke,” said the old
lady, smiling good-naturedly, as I rose to present a chair, “but not to
drive you away, if you will be generous enough to keep me company.”
I stammered out some commonplace civility in reply, and was silent,
for my thoughts were bent upon my future, and I was ill disposed to
interruption.
“You are fond of flowers, I have remarked,” continued she, as if
perceiving my preoccupation, and willing to relieve it by taking the
burden of the conversation. “And it is a taste I love to witness; it
seems to me like the evidence of a homely habit. It is only in childhood
we learn this love; we may cultivate it in after life as we will.”
“My mother was passionately fond of them,” said I, calling up a
long-buried memory of home and kindred.
“I thought so. These simple tastes are the inheritance a mother gives
her child; and happily they survive every change of fortune.”
I sighed heavily as she spoke, for thus accidentally was touched the
weakest chord of my heart.
“And, better still,” resumed she, “they are the links that unite us to
the past, that bind the heart of manhood to infancy, that can bring down
pride and haughtiness, and call forth guileless affection and childlike
faith.”
“They are happy,”' said I, musing, “who can mingle such early memories
with the present.”
“And who cannot?” interrupted she, rapidly. “Who has not felt the love
of parents,--the halo of a home? Old as I am, even I can recall the
little walks I trod in infancy, and the hand that used to guide me. I
can bring up the very tones of that voice which vibrated on my heart as
they spoke my name. But how much happier they to whom these memories
are linked with tokens of present affection, and who, in their manhood's
joys, can feel a father's or a mother's love!”
“I was left an orphan when a mere child,” said I, as though the
observation had been specially addressed to me.
“But you have brothers,--sisters, perhaps.”
I shook my head. “A brother, indeed; but we have never met since we were
children.”
“And yet your country has not suffered the dreadful convulsion of ours;
no social wreck has scattered those who once lived in close affection
together. It is sad when such ties are broken. You came early to
France, I think you told me?”
“Yes, Madame. When a mere child my heart conceived a kind of devotion
to the Emperor: his fame, his great exploits, seemed something more
than human,--filled every thought of my brain; and to be a soldier,_his_
soldier, was the limit of my ambition. I fancied, too, that the cause he
asserted was that of freedom; that liberty, universal liberty, was the
watchword that led to victory.”
“And you have discovered your error,” interrupted she. “Alas! it were
better to have followed the illusion. A faith once shaken leaves an
unsettled spirit, and with such there is little energy.”
“And less of hope,” said I, despondingly.
“Not so, if there be youth. Come, you must tell me your story. It is
from no mere curiosity I ask you; but that I have seen much of the
world, and am better able than you to offer counsel and advice. I have
remarked, for some time past, that you appear to have no acquaintance
in Paris,--no friend. Let me be such. If the confidence have no other
result, it will relieve your heart of some portion of its burden;
besides, the others here will learn to regard you with less distrust.”
“And is such their feeling towards me?”
“Forgive me; I did not exactly use the word I sought for. But now that
I have ventured so far, I may as well confess that you are an object of
the greatest interest in their eyes; nor can they divest themselves of
the impression that some deep-laid plot had led you hither.”
“Had I known this before--”
“You had left us. I guessed as much: I have remarked it in your
character already, that a morbid dread of being suspected is ever
uppermost in your thoughts; and accounted for it by supposing that you
might have been thrown at too early an age into life. But you must
not feel angry with us here. As for me, I have no merit in my right
appreciation of you: Monsieur Rubichon told me how you met,--a mere
accident, at the bureau of the préfet.”
“It was so; nor have I been able to divine why he addressed himself to
me, nor what circumstance could have led him to believe my sentiments in
accordance with those of his guests.”
“Simple enough the reason. He heard from your own lips you were a
stranger, without any acquaintance in Paris. The police for a time
have been somewhat frequent in their visits here, when the exclusively
Royalist feature of the 'pension' excited some dissatisfaction. To
overcome the impression, M. Rubichon determined to wait each day at the
bureau of the préfet, and solicit at hazard among the persons there
to patronize his house. We all here consented to the plan, feeling
its necessity. Our good fortune sent us you. Still, you must not be
surprised if long sorrows and much suffering have engendered suspicion,
nor that the old followers of a king look distrustfully on the soldier
of”--she hesitated and blushed slightly, then added, in a low voice--“of
the Emperor.”
The word seemed to have cost a pang in its utterance; for she did not
speak for several minutes after.
“And these gentlemen,--am I to conclude that they cherish disaffection
to the present Government, or harbor a hope of its downfall?”
Whether some accidental expression of disdain escaped me as I said this,
I cannot say; but Madame de Langeao quickly replied,--
“They are good Frenchmen, sir, and loyal gentlemen; what they _hope_
must be a matter for their own hearts.”
“I entreat your pardon, Madame, if I have said one syllable which could
reflect upon their motives.”
“I forgive you readily,” said she, smiling courteously; “he who has worn
a sabre so long, may well deem its influence all-powerful. But believe
me, young man, there is that within the heart of a nation against which
mere force is nothing; opposed to it, armed squadrons and dense ranks
are powerless. Devotion to a sovereign, whose claim comes hallowed by a
long line of kings, is a faith to which religion lends its sanction and
tradition its hope. Look on these very persons here; see, has adversity
chilled their affection, or poverty damped their ardor? You know them
not; but I will tell you who they are.
“There, at the fire, that venerable old man with the high, bold
forehead, he is Monsieur de Plessis (Comte Plessis de Riancourt). His
grandfather entertained Louis the Fourteenth and his suite within his
château; he himself was grand falconer to the king. And what is he
now? I shame to speak it,--a fencing-master at an humble school of the
Faubourg.
“And the other opposite to him (he is stooping to pick something from
the floor), I myself saw him kneel at the levée of his Majesty, and
beheld the king assist him to rise, as he said, 'Monsieur de Maurepas, I
would make you a duke, but that no title could be so dear to a Maurepas
as that his ancestors have borne for six hundred years.' And he, whose
signature was but inferior to the royal command, copies pleadings of a
lawyer to earn his support.
“And that tall man yonder, who has just risen from the table,--neither
years nor poverty have erased the stamp of nobility from his graceful
figure,--Comte Felix d'Ancelot, captain of the Gardes du Corps; the
same who was left for dead on the stairs at Versailles pierced by eleven
wounds. He gives lessons in drawing! two leagues from this, at the other
extremity of Paris.
“You ask me if they hope; what else than hope, what other comforter,
could make such men as these live on in want and indigence, declining
every proffer of advancement, refusing every temptation that should warp
their allegiance? I have read of great deeds of your Emperor,--I have
heard traits of heroism of his generals, compared to which the famed
actions of the Crusaders paled away; but tell me if you think that all
the glory ever won by gallant soldier, tried the courage or tested the
stout heart like the long struggle of such men as these? And here, if I
mistake not, comes another, not inferior to any.”
As she spoke, the steps of a _calèche_ at the door were suddenly
lowered, and a tall and powerfully built man stepped lightly out. In
an instant we heard his footstep in the hall, and in another moment the
door of the _salon_ opened, and M. Rubichon announced “Le Général Count
Burke.”
The general had just time to divest himself of his travelling pelisse as
he entered, and was immediately surrounded by the others, who welcomed
him with the greatest enthusiasm.
“Madame la Marquise de Langeac,” said he, approaching the old lady, as
she sat in the recess of the window, and lifted her hand to his lips,
“I am overjoyed to see you in such health. I passed three days with
your amiable cousin, Arnold de Rambuteau; who, like yourself, enjoys the
happiest temperament and the most gifted mind.”
“If you flatter thus, General,” said Madame de Langeac, “my young friend
here will scarcely recognize in you a countryman,--a kinsman, perhaps.
Let me present Mr. Burke.”
The general's face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, as taking my hand in
both of his own, he said,--
“Are you indeed from Ireland? Is your name Burke? Alas! that I cannot
speak one word of English to you. I left my country thirty-eight years
since, and have never revisited it.”
The general overwhelmed me with questions: first about my family, of
which I could tell him little; and then of my own adventures, at which,
to my astonishment, he never evinced those symptoms of displeasure I
so confidently expected from an old follower of the Bourbons. This he
continued to do, as he ate a hurried meal which was laid out for him in
the _salon_; all the rest standing in a circle around, and pressing him
with questions for this friend or that at every pause he made.
“You see, gentlemen,” cried he, as I replied to some inquiry about my
campaign, “this is an instance of what I have so often spoken to you.
Here is a youth who leaves his country solely for fighting sake; he
does not care much for the epaulette, he cares less for the cause. Come,
come, don't interrupt me; I know you better than you know yourself.
You longed for the conflict and the struggle and the victory; and,
_parbleu!_ we may say as we will, but you could have scarcely made a
better selection than with his Majesty, Emperor and King, as they style
him.”
This speech met with a sorry reception from the bystanders, and in the
dissatisfied expression of their faces, a less confident speaker might
have read his condemnation; but the general felt not this, or, if he
did, he effectually concealed it.
“You have not inquired for Gustave de Me is in,” said he, looking round
at the circle.
“You have not seen him, surely?” cried several together; “we heard he
was at Vienna.”
“No, _parbleu!_ he lives about a league from his old home,--the very
house we spent our Christmas at eighteen years ago. They have made a
barrack of his château, and thrown his park into a royal _chasse_; but
he has built a hut on the river-side, and walks every day through his
own ground, which he says he never saw so well stocked for many a year.
He is as happy as ever, and loves to look out on the Seine before his
door when the bright stream is rippling through many a broad leaf; ay,
Messieurs, of good augury, too,--the lilies of France.” He lifted a
bumper to his lips as he spoke, and drank the toast with enthusiasm.
This sudden return to loyalty, so boldly announced, served to reinstate
him in their estimation; and once again all their former pleasure at
his appearance came back, and again the questions poured in from every
quarter.
“And the abbé,” said one; “what of him? Has he made up his mind yet?”
“To be sure he has, and changed it too, at least twice every twenty-four
hours. He is ever full of confidence and brimming with hope when the
wind is from the eastward; but let it only come a point west, his
spirits fall at once, and he dreams of frigates and gunboats, and the
hulks in the Thames; and though they offered him a cardinal's hat, he 'd
not venture out to sea.”
The warning looks of the bystanders, and even some signals to be
cautious, here interrupted the speaker, who paused for a few seconds,
and then fixed his eyes on me.
“I have no fears, gentlemen, on that score. I know my countrymen well,
though I have lived little among them. My namesake here may like the
service of the Emperor better than that of a king,--he may prefer the
glitter of the eagle to the war-cry of Saint Louis,--but he 'll never
betray the private conversations nor expose the opinions expressed
before him in all the confidence of social intercourse.
“We are speaking, Mr. Burke, of an abbé who is about to visit Ireland,
and whose fears of the English cruisers seem little reasonable to some
of my friends here, though you can explain, perhaps, that they are not
groundless. I forgot,--you were but a boy when you crossed that sea.”
“But he will go at last,” said Madame de Langeac; “I suppose we may rely
on that?”
“We hope,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders with an air of
doubt, “because, when we can do nothing else, we can always hope.” And
so saying he arose from the table, and taking a courteous leave of each
person in turn, pleading the fatigue of his journey, he retired for the
night.
I left the saloon soon after, and went to my room full of all I had
heard, and pondering many thoughts about the abbé and his intended
voyage. I spent a sleepless night. Thoughts of home, long lost in the
excitement of my career, came flocking to my brain, and a desire
to revisit my country--stronger, perhaps, because undefined in its
object--made me restless and feverish. It was with delight I perceived
the day dawning, and dressing myself hastily, I descended into the
garden. To my surprise, I found General Burke already there. He was
sauntering along slowly by himself, and seemed wrapped in meditation.
The noise of my approach startled him, and he looked up.
“Ah! my countryman,--so early astir?” said he, saluting me courteously.
“Is this a habit of yours?”
“No, sir; I cannot claim the merit of such wakefulness. But last night
I never closed my eyes. A few words you dropped in conversation in the
drawing-room kept possession of my heart, and even yet I cannot expel
them.”
“I saw it at the time I spoke,” replied the general, with a keen, quick
glance; “you changed color twice as I mentioned the Abbé Gernon. Do you
know him?”
“No, sir; it was his intended journey, not himself, for which I felt
interested.”
“You would wish to accompany him, perhaps. Well, the matter is not
impossible; but as time presses, and we have little leisure for
mysteries, tell me frankly why are you here?”
In few words, and without a comment on any portion of my conduct, I told
him the principal circumstances of my life, down to the decisive moment
of my leaving the army.
“After that step,” said I, “feeling that no career can open to me here,
I wish to regain my own country.”
“You are right,” said the general, slowly; “it is your only course now.
The venture is not without risk,--less from the English cruisers than
the French, for the abbé is well known in England, and Ireland too;
but his Royalist character would find slight favor with Fouché. You are
willing to run the risk, I suppose?”
“I am.”
“And to travel as the abbe's servant, at least to Falaise? there the
disguise will end.”
“Perfectly so.”
“And for this service, are you also ready to render us one in return?”
said he, peering at me beneath his eyelashes.
“If it involve the good faith I once swore to preserve towards the
Emperor Napoleon, I refuse it at once. On such a condition, I cannot
accept your aid.”
“And does your heart still linger where your pride has been so
insulted?”
“It does, it does; to be his soldier once more, I would submit to
everything but dishonor.”
“In that case,” said he, smiling good-naturedly, “my conscience is a
clear one; and I may forward your escape with the satisfying reflection
that I have diminished the enemies of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth
by one most inveterate follower of Napoleon. I shall ask no conditions
of you. When are you ready?”
“To-day,--now.”
“Let me see; to-morrow will be the 8th,--to-morrow will do. I will write
about it at once. Meanwhile, it is as well you should not drop any hint
of your intended departure, except to Madame de Langeac, whose secrecy
may be relied on.”
“May I ask,” said I, “if you run any risk in thus befriending me? It is
an office, believe me, of little promise.”
“None whatever. Rarely a month passes over without some one or other
leaving this for England. The intercourse between Rome and Ireland is
uninterrupted, and has been so during the hottest period of the war.”
“This seems most unaccountable to me; I cannot understand it.”
“There is a key to the mystery, however,” said he, smiling. “The English
Government have confidence in the peaceful efforts of the priesthood as
regards Ireland, and permit them to hold unlimited intercourse with the
Holy See, which fears France and the spirit of her Emperor. The Bourbons
look to the Church as the last hope of the Restoration. It is in the
Catholic religion of this country, and its traditions, that monarchy
has its root. Sap one, and you undermine the other. Legitimacy is a holy
relic,--like any other, the priests are the guardians of it; and as for
the present ruler of France, he trusts in the spirit of the Church to
increase its converts, and believes that Ireland is ripening to revolt
through the agency of the priests. Fouché alone is not deceived. Between
him and the Church the war is to the knife; and but for him the high
seas would be more open than the road to Strasburg,--at least, to
all with a shaven crown and a silk frock. Here, then, is the simple
explanation of what seemed so difficult; and I believe you will find it
the true one.”
“But two out of the three parties must be deceived,” said I.
“Perhaps all three are,” replied he, smiling sarcastically. “There are
some, at least, who deem the return of the rightful sovereign is more to
be hoped from the sabre than the crosier, and think that Rome never was
true except to Rome. As to your journey, however, its only difficulty
or danger is the transit through France; once at the coast, and all
is safe. Your passport shall be made out as a retired sous-officier
returning to his home. You will take Marboeuf in the route, and I will
give you the necessary directions for discovering the abbé.”
“Is it not possible,” said I, “that _he_ may feel no inclination
to encumber himself with a fellow-traveller, and particularly one a
stranger to him?”
“Have no fear on that head. Your presence, on the contrary, will give
him courage, and we must let him suppose you accompany him at our
suggestion.”
“Not with any implied knowledge or any connection with your views,
however,” said I. “This is well understood between us?”
“Perfectly so. And now meet me here this evening, after coffee, and I
will give you your final instructions, Adieu, for the present.”
He waved his hand and left me. Then, after walking a few paces, turned
quickly round, and said,--
“You will remember, a blouse and knapsack are indispensable for your
equipment. Adieu!”