France never appeared to less advantage in the eyes of Europe than at
the period I speak of. Scarcely had the proud star of Napoleon set, when
the whole current of popular favor flowed along with those whom, but a
few days before, they accounted their greatest enemies. The Russians and
the Prussians, whom they lampooned and derided, they now flattered and
fawned on. They deemed no adulation servile enough to lay at the feet
of their conquerors,--not esteeming the exaltation of their victors
sufficient, unless purchased at the sacrifice of their own honor as a
nation.
The struggle was no longer who should be first in glory, but who
foremost in desertion of him and his fortunes whose word had made
them. The marshals he had created, the generals he had decorated, the
ministers and princes he had endowed with wealth and territory, now
turned from him in his hour of misfortune, to court the favor of one
against whom every act of their former lives was directed.
These men, whose very titles recalled the fields of glory to which he
led them, now hastened to the Tuileries to proffer an allegiance to a
monarch they neither loved nor respected. Sad and humiliating spectacle!
The long pent-up hatred of the Royalists found a natural vent in this
moment of triumphant success. Chateaubriand, Constant, and Madame de
Staël led the way to those declarations of the press which denounced
Napoleon as the greatest of earthly tyrants; and inveighed even against
his greatness and his genius, as though malevolence could produce
oblivion.
All Paris was in a ferment of excitement,--not the troubled agitation of
a people whose capital owned the presence of a conquering army, but the
tumultuous joy of a nation intoxicated with pleasure. Fêtes and
balls, gay processions and public demonstrations of rejoicing, met one
everywhere; and ingenuity was taxed to invent flatteries for the
very nations whom, but a week past, they scoffed at as barbarians and
Scythians.
Sickened and disgusted with the fickleness of mankind, I knew not where
to turn. My wound had brought on a low, lingering fever, accompanied
by extreme debility, increased in all likelihood by the harassing
reflections every object around suggested. I could not venture abroad
without meeting some evidence of that exuberant triumph by which
treachery hopes to cover its own baseness; besides, the reputation of
being a Napoleonist was now a mark for insult and indignity from those
who never dared to avow an opinion until the tide of fortune had turned
in their favor. The white cockade had replaced the tricolor; every
emblem of the Empire was abolished; and that uniform, to wear which
was once a mark of honorable distinction, was now become a signal for
insult.
I was returning one evening from a solitary ramble in the neighborhood
of Paris,--for, by some strange fatality, I could not tear myself away
from the scenes to which the most eventful portions of my life were
attached,--and at length reached the Boulevard Montmartre, just as
the leading squadrons of a cavalry regiment were advancing up the wide
thoroughfare. I had hitherto avoided every occasion of witnessing
any military display which should recall the past; but now the rapid
gathering of the crowd to see the soldiers pass prevented my escape, and
I was obliged to wait patiently until the cortege should move forward.
They came on in dense column,--the brave Chasseurs of the Guard, the
bronzed warriors of Jena and Wigram; but to my eyes they seemed sterner
and sadder than their wont, and heeded not the loud “vivas” of the
mob around them. Where were their eagles? Alas! the white banner that
floated over their heads was a poor substitute for the proud ensign
they had so often followed to victory. And here weie the dragoons,--old
Kellermann's brave troopers; their proud glances were changed to a
mournful gaze upon that crowd whose cheers they once felt proud of: and
there, the artillery, that glorious corps which he loved so well,--did
not the roll of their guns sound sorrowfully on the ear!
They passed! And then came on a strange cortege of mounted
cavaliers,--old and withered men, in uniforms of quaint antique fashion,
their chapeaux decorated with great cockades of white ribbon, and their
sword-knots garnished with similar ornaments; the order of St. Louis
glittered on each breast, and in their bearing you might read the air of
men who were enjoying a long-wished-for and long-expected triumph. These
were the old seigneurs of the Monarchy; and truly they were not wanting
in that look of nobility their ancient blood bestowed. Their features
were proud; their glance elated; their very port and bearing spoke that
consciousness of superiority, to crush which had cost all the horrors
and bloodshed of a terrible Revolution. How strange! it seemed as if
many of their faces were familiar to me,--I knew them well; but where,
and how, my memory could not trace. Yes, now I could recall it: they
were the frequenters of the old “Pension of the Rue de Mi-Carême,”--the
same men I had seen in their day of adversity, bearing up with noble
pride against the ills of fortune. There they were, revelling in the
long-sought-after restoration of their former state. Were they not more
worthy of admiration in their hour of patient and faithful watching,
than in this the period of their triumph?
The pressure of the crowd obliged the cavalcade to halt. And now the air
resounded with the cries of “Vive le Roi!”--the long-forgotten cheer
of loyalty. Thousands re-echoed the shout, and the horsemen waved their
hats in exultation. “Vive le Roi!” cried the mob, as though the voices
had not called “Vive l'Empereur!” but yesterday.
“Down with the Napoleonist,--down with him!” screamed a savage-looking
fellow, who, jammed up in the crowd, pointed towards me, as I stood a
mere spectator of the scene.
“Cry 'Vive le Roi!' at once,” whispered a voice near me, “or the
consequences may be serious. The mob is ungovernable at a moment like
this.”
A dozen voices shouted out at the same time, “Down with him! down with
him!”
“Off with your hat, sir!” said a rude-looking fellow beside me, as he
raised his hand to remove it.
“At your peril!” said I, as I clenched my hand, and prepared to strike
him down the moment he should touch me.
The words were not well uttered, when the crowd closed on me, and a
hundred arms were stretched out to attack me. In vain all my efforts to
resist. My hat was torn from my head, and assailed on every side, I was
dragged into the middle of the street, amid wild cries of vengeance and
taunting insults. It was then, as I lay overcome by numbers, that a loud
cry to fall back issued from the cavalcade, and a horseman, sword in
hand, dashed upon the mob, slashing on every side as he went, mounted
on a high-mettled horse. He cleared the dense mass with the speed of
lightning, and drove back my assailants.
[Illustration: BrowneBeauvais341]
“Catch my horse's mane,” said he, hurriedly. “Hold fast for a few
seconds, and you are safe.”
Following the advice, I held firmly by the long mane of his charger,
while, clearing away the mob on either side, he protected me by his
drawn sabre above my head.
“Safe this time!” said he, as we arrived within the ranks. And then
turning round, so as to face me, added, “Safe! and my debt acquitted.
You saved my life once; and though the peril seemed less imminent now,
trust me, yours had not escaped the fury of that multitude without me.”
“What! Henri de Beauvais! Do we meet again?”
“Yes; but with altered fortune, Burke. Our king, as the words of our
Garde Écossaise song says,--our king 'has got his own again.' The day
of loyalty has again dawned on France, and a grateful people may carry
their enthusiasm for the Restoration, even as far as vengeance on their
opponents, and yet not merit much reproach. But no more of this. We can
be friends now; or if not, it must be your fault.”
“I am not too proud, De Beauvais, either to accept or acknowledge a
favor at your hands.”
“Then we are friends,” said he, joyfully. “And in the name of
friendship, let me beg of you to place this _cordon_ in your hat.” And
so saying, he detached the cockade of white ribbon he wore from his own,
and held it towards me. “Well, then, at least remove the tricolor; it
can but expose you to insult. Remember, Burke, its day is over.”
“I am not likely to forget it,” replied I, sadly.
“Monsieur le Colonel, his royal highness wishes to speak with you,” said
an aide-de-camp, riding up beside De Beauvais's horse.
“Take care of this gentleman for me,” said De Beauvais, pointing to me;
and then, wheeling round his horse, he galloped at full speed to the
rear.
“I will spare you all trouble on my account, sir,” said I. “My way lies
yonder, and at present I see no obstacle to my pursuing it.”
“Let me at least send an escort with you.”
I thanked him and declined the offer; and leaving the ranks of the
procession, mingled with the crowd, and in a few minutes after reached
my hotel without further molestation. The hour was come, I saw plainly,
in which I must leave France. Not only was every tie which bound me to
that land severed, but to remain was only to oppose myself singly to
the downward current of popular opinion which now threatened to overturn
every landmark and vestige of the Empire. Up to this moment, I never
confessed to my heart with what secret hope I had prolonged each day of
my stay,--how I cherished within me the expectation that I should once
again, though but for an instant, see her who lived in all my thoughts,
and, unknown to my self, formed the mainspring of all my actions!
This hope only became confessed when about to leave me forever.
As I busied myself in the preparations for departure, a note arrived
from De Beauvais, stating that he desired particularly to see and confer
with me that same evening, and requesting me on no account to be from
home, as his business was most pressing. I felt little curiosity to
know to what he might allude, and saw him enter my room some hours later
without a single particle of anxiety as to his communication.
“I am come, Burke,” said he, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged
between us,--“I am come, Burke, on a mission which I hope you will
believe the sincerest regard for you has prompted me to undertake, and
which, whatever objections it may meet with from you, none can arise, I
am certain, on the score of his fidelity who now makes this proposition
to you. To be brief: the Count d'Artois has sent me to offer you your
grade and rank in the army of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth. Your
last gazette was as colonel; but there is a rumor you should have
received your appointment as general of brigade. There will be little
difficulty in arranging your brevet on that understanding; for your
services, brief as they were, have not been unnoticed. Marshal Ney
himself bears testimony to your conduct at Montereau; and your name
twice occurs on the list of the minister of war for promotion.
Strange claims these, you will say, to recompense from the rightful
sovereign of France, gained as they were in the service of the Usurper!
But it is the prerogative of legitimacy to be great and noble-minded,
and to recognize true desert wherever it occurs. Come, what say you?
Does this proposal meet your wishes?”
“If to surpass my expectations, and flatter my pride, were to convince
my reason, and change my estimation of what is loyal and true, I should
say, 'Yes, De Beauvais; the proposition does meet my wishes.' But not
so. I wore these epaulettes first in my admiration of him whose fortunes
I have followed to the last. My pride, my glory, were to be his soldier;
that can be no longer, and the sword I drew in his cause shall never be
unsheathed in another's.”
“Are you ignorant that such arguments apply with equal force to all
those great men who have, within these few weeks past, sworn allegiance
to his Majesty? What say you to the list of marshals, not one of whom
has refused the graciously offered favor of his Majesty? Are Ney, Soult,
Augereau, Macdonald, and Marmont nothing as examples?”
“I will not say so, De Beauvais; but this I will say, they had had both
more respect and esteem from me had they done otherwise. If they were
true to the Emperor, they can scarce be loyal to the King.”
“Can you not distinguish between the forced services exacted by a tyrant
and the noble duty rendered to a rightful sovereign?”
“I can better estimate the fascinations which lead men to follow a hero,
than to be the parade-soldier around the gilded gates of a palace.”
De Beauvais's cheek flashed scarlet, and his voice was agitated, as he
replied,--
“The nobles of France, sir, have shown themselves as high in deeds of
chivalry and heroism as they have ever been in the accomplishments of
true-born gentlemen.”
“Pardon me, De Beauvais! I meant no imputation of them and their
motives. There is every reason why you and your gallant companions
should enjoy the favors of that crown your efforts have placed upon the
head of the King of France. Your true and fitting station is around the
throne your bravery and devotion have restored. But as for us,--we
who have fought and marched, have perilled limb and life, to raise
the fortune and elevate the glory of him who was the enemy of that
sovereign,--how can we be participators in the triumph we labored to
avert, and rejoice in a consummation we would have died rather than
witness?”
“But it has come; the fates have decided against you. The cause you
would serve is not merely unfortunate,--it is extinct; the Empire has
left no banner behind it. Come, then, and rally round one whose boast it
is to number among its followers the high-born and the noble,--to assert
the supremacy of rank and worth above the claim of the base and low.”
“I cannot; I must not.”
“At least, you will wait on the Comte d'Artois. You must see his royal
highness, and thank him for his gracious intentions.”
“I know what that means, De Beauvais; I have heard that few can resist
the graceful fascinations of the prince's manner. I shall certainly not
fear to encounter them, however dangerous to my principles.”
“But not to refuse his royal highness?” said he, quickly. “I trust you
will not do that.”
“You would not have me yield to the flattery of a prince's notice what I
refuse to the solicitations of a friend, would you?”
“And such is your intention,--your fixed intention?”
“Undoubtedly it is.”
De Beauvais turned away impatiently, and leaned on the window for some
minutes. Then, after a pause, and in a slow and measured voice, added,--
“You are known to the Court, Burke, by other channels than those I have
mentioned. Your prospects of advancement would be most brilliant, if you
accept this offer: I scarcely know to what they may not aspire. Reflect
for a moment or two. There is no desertion,--no falling off here.
Remember that the Empire was a vision, and like a dream it has passed
away. Where there is no cause, there can be no fealty.”
“It is but a sorry memory, De Beauvais, that only retains while there
are benefits to receive; mine is a more tenacious one.”
“Then my mission is ended,” cried he, taking up his hat. “I may mention
to his royal highness that you intend returning to England; that you
are indisposed to service at present. It is unnecessary to state more
accurately the views you entertain?”
“I leave the matter completely to your discretion.”
“Adieu, then. Our roads lie widely apart, Burke; and I for one regret
it deeply. It only remains that I should give you this note; which I
promised to deliver into your hands in the event of your declining to
accept the prince's offer.”
He blushed deeply, as he placed a small sealed note in my fingers; and
as if anxious to get away, pressed my hand hurriedly, and left the room.
My curiosity to learn the contents of the billet made me tear it open at
once; but it was not before I had perused it several times that I could
credit the lines before me. They were but few, and ran thus:--
Dear Sir,--May I request the honor of a visit from you this
evening at the Hôtel de Grammont?
Truly yours,
Marie d'Auvergne, née De Meudon.
Colonel Burke.
How did I read these lines over again and again!--now interpreting them
as messengers of future hope; now fearing they might exclude every ray
of it forever. One solution recurred to me at every moment, and tortured
me to the very soul. Her family had all been Royalists. The mere
accidents of youth had thrown her brother into the army, and herself
into the Court of the Empire, where personal devotion and attachment to
the Empress had retained her. What if she should exert her influence to
induce me to accept the prince's offer? How could I resist a request,
perhaps an entreaty, from her? The more I reflected over it, the more
firmly this opinion gained ground with me, and the more deeply did I
grieve over a position environed by such difficulty; and ardently as I
longed for the moment of meeting her once more, the desire was tempered
by a fear that the meeting should be our last.
The eventful moment of my destiny arrived, and found me at the door of
the Hôtel de Grammont. A valet in waiting for my arrival conducted me to
a _salon_, saying the countess would appear in a few moments.
What an anxious interval was that! I tried to occupy myself with
the objects around, and distract my attention from the approaching
interview; but every sound startled me, and I turned at each instant
towards the door by which I expected her to enter.
The time appeared to drag heavily on,--minutes became like hours; and
yet no one appeared. My impatience had reached its climax, when I heard
my name spoken in a low soft voice. I turned, and she was before me.
She was dressed in deep mourning, and looked paler, perhaps thinner,
than I had ever seen her,--but not less beautiful. Whether prompted by
her own feelings at the moment, or called up by my unconsciously fixed
look, she blushed deeply as our eyes met.
“I was about to leave France, Colonel,” said she, as soon as we were
seated, “when I heard from my cousin, De Beauvais, that you were here,
and delayed my departure to have the opportunity of seeing you.”
She paused here, and drew a deep breath to continue; but leaning her
head on her hand, she seemed to have fallen into a reverie for some
minutes, from which she started suddenly, by saying,--
“His royal highness has offered you your grade in the service, I
understand?”
“Yes, Madame; so my friend De Beauvais informs me.”
“And you have refused,--is it not so?”
“Even so, Madame.”
“How is this, sir? Are you so weary of a soldier's life, that you would
leave it thus early?”
“This was not the reason, Madame.”
“You loved the Emperor, sir,” said she, hastily, and with a tone of
almost passionate eagerness, “even as I loved my dear, kind mistress;
and you felt allegiance to be too sacred a thing to be bartered at a
moment's notice. Is this the true explanation?”
“I am proud to say, you have read my motives; such were they.”
“Why are there not many more to act thus?” cried she, vehemently. “Why
do not the great names _he_ made glorious, become greater by fidelity
than ever they were by heroism? There was one, sir, who, had he lived,
had given this example to the world.”
“True, most true, Madame. But was not his fate happier than to have
survived for this?”
A long pause, unbroken by a word on either side, followed; when at last
she said,--
“I had left with De Beauvais some few relics of my dear brother, hoping
you would accept them for his sake. General d'Auvergne's sword,--the
same he wore at Jena,--he desired might be conveyed to you when you left
the service. These, and this ring,” said she, endeavoring to withdraw a
rich brilliant from her finger, “are the few souvenirs I would ask you
to keep for their sakes, and for mine. You mean to return to England,
sir?”
“Yes, Madame; that is, I had intended,--I know not now whither I shall
go. Country has few ties for one like me.”
“I, too, must be a wanderer,” said she, half musingly, while still
she endeavored to remove the ring from her finger. “I find,” said she,
smiling, “I must give you another keepsake; this will not leave me.”
“Give it me, then, where it is,” said I. “Yes, Marie! the devotion of a
heart, wholly yours, should not go unrewarded. To you I owe all that
my life has known of happiness,--to memory of you, every high and noble
hope. Let me not, after years of such affection, lose the guiding star
of my existence,--all that I have lived for, all that I love!”
These words, poured forth with all the passionate energy which a last
hope inspires, were followed by a story of my long-concealed love. I
know not how incoherently the tale was told; I cannot say how often
I interrupted my own recital by some appeal to the past,--some
half-uttered hope that she had seen the passion which burned within me.
I can but remember the bursting feeling of my bosom, as she placed her
hand in mine, and said,--
“It is yours!”
These words ended the story of a life whose trials were many, and
encountered at an age in which few have braved the world's cares.
The lessons I had learned, however, were acquired in that
school,--adversity,--where few are taught in vain; and if the morning of
my life broke in clouds and shadow, the noon has been not less peaceful
and bright. And the evening, as it draws near, comes with an aspect of
calm tranquillity, ample enough to recompense every vicissitude of those
early days when the waves of fortune were roughest.
A PARTING WORD.
Dear Friends,--Time has hallowed the custom of a word at
parting, and I am unwilling to relinquish the privilege. In
the tale I have just concluded, my endeavor was to portray,
with as little aid from fiction as might be, some lights and
shadows of the most wonderful and eventful period of modern
history,--the empire of Napoleon. The character I selected
for my hero was not all imaginary, neither were many of the
scenes, which bear less apparent proofs of reality. The
subject was one long meditated on before undertaken; but as
the work proceeded, I felt at some places, the difficulty of
creating interest for persons, and incidents removed both by
time and country from my reader; and at others, my own
inadequacy to an effort, which mere zeal could never
accomplish. These causes induced me to deviate from the plan
I originally set down for my guidance; and combined with
failing health, have rendered what might have been a matter
of interest and amusement to the writer, a task of labor and
anxiety.
It is the first time I have had to ask my reader's
indulgence on such grounds; nor should I now allude to it,
save as affording the only apology I can render for the many
defects in a story, which, in defiance of me, took its
coloring from my own mind at the period, rather from the
reflex of the events I related.
The moral of my tale is simple,--the fatal influence crude
and uncertain notions of liberty will exercise over a
career, which, under happier direction of its energies, had
won honor and distinction, and the impolicy of the effort,
to substitute an adopted for a natural allegiance.
My estimate of Napoleon may seem to some to partake of
exaggeration; but I have carefully distinguished between the
Hero and the Emperor, and have not suffered my unqualified
admiration of the one to carry me on to any blind devotion
of the other.
Having begun this catalogue of excuses and explanations, I
know not where to stop. So, once more asking forgiveness for
all the errors of these volumes, I beg to subscribe myself,
in great respect and esteem,
Your humble and obedient servant,
Harry Lorrequer.
Templeogue House,
August 26th, 1844.
THE END.