MY ENGLISH ACQUAINTANCE.

The spring of the year 183- found me in Paris, whither I had gone,

immediately after Christmas, for a fortnight’s stay, and where I had

remained four months. The prolongation of my visit will not surprise

those who appreciate and enjoy the gay metropolis of France, in the most

agreeable season. The festivities of the new year, with its gratulations

and embraces, and tons of _bonbons_, of racy flavour and ingenious

device, were no sooner over, than we found ourselves in full carnival.

From the aristocratic regions of the noble Faubourg, where linger, in

fossil preservation, the last relics of the _ancien régime_, to the

plebeian district of the Marais; from the brilliant hotels of St Honoré

and the Chaussée, peopled by rose-water exquisites and full-maned

lionesses, to the remote and ignoble purlieus of Saints Dennis and

Anthony, where tailors and tinkers dwell and thrive and propagate their

kind, pleasure and enjoyment reigned. With the old year, the wet season

had concluded; a clear bright frost had ushered in the new. Paris got

rid of its mud and misery, and turned out in a new paletot and well

polished boots for a ramble on the Boulevards. This was for four or five

hours of the day; but night was the time to see the noisy dissolute old

city in its glory, prancing and capering as madly as if it had stumbled

upon the fountain of Jouvence, and had taken a pull at the regenerating

element that had restored it to its teens. Appalling was the amount of

eating, drinking, and merriment, occurring within its precincts;

succulent breakfasts in the forenoon, and fat dinners of many courses in

the evening, and riotous suppers at all hours of the night, liquidated

by Burgundy in big bumpers, and Champagne in pint tumblers, and stiff

punch, stinging hot and burning blue, in bright silver bowls. Then there

was dancing, and masquing, and flirting, till day-dawn—of pretty late

arrival at that season; sleep was at a discount, and desperate revellers

who never took a wink of it, that could possibly be discovered, rushed

from the ball-room to a cool breakfast on oysters and Sauterne, and rose

therefrom fresh as cowslips, ready to begin again. Paris was a vortex of

gaiety and dissipation, whence, once drawn in, it was scarcely possible

to extricate one’s-self. I did not make the attempt. I was too well

pleased with my snug sunny _entresol_ on the Italian boulevard, with my

dainty fare at the adjacent restaurant, with the twinkling feet of the

Taglioni, and the melodious quaverings of Rubini and Duprez, then in

full song; with my occasional visits to rout and masquerade, and more

frequent ones to the hospitable dining rooms and saloons of a few old

friends, both French and English. Then, for ride or walk, what better

than the Champs Elysées, crowded with ruddy pedestrians, arch grisettes

and lounging soldiers; traversed by sledges innumerable of every variety

of form—dragon, sphinx, and mermaid, dolphin, lion, swan, enough to

stock a mythological museum and a zoological garden—coursing up and down

the road, and in the crisp frosty alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, drawn

by smoking foam-speckled steeds, half hidden beneath ribbon panoply and

high _panache_, sending silver sounds of countless bells before them,

and delighting the eyes of all beholders by the sight of other _belles_,

whose clear-toned voices and lightsome laugh rang not less sweet and

silvery than the tinkle of their metal-tongued rivals, through the rare

and sun-lit ether, as they sat, sunk in furs and velvets, with bright

eyes and ruddy lips, and smooth firm cheeks just slightly mottled by the

cold, beside the enviable cavaliers to whose charioteership they

confided themselves. In short, the combination of Parisian attractions

forbade departure, and I dreamed not of it till February had flown. Then

I turned my eyes channelwards, and my thoughts to passports and

post-horses, when sudden rumours reached me of eastern gales and

virulent influenza raging on Britain’s shores; and of March dust,

proverbially precious, but practically odious, careering in dense and

blinding clouds through London’s tortured streets. This was ample excuse

to linger a few weeks longer in my agreeable quarters, until spring came

in earnest, and the sun was so warm, and the air so balmy, and the

chestnuts in the Tuileries’ gardens, just burst into foliage, presented

so glorious a mass of tender green, that, although often taking leave, I

still was loath to depart. And thus it came to pass that, on a bright

fresh April morning, I found myself seated in a Palais Royal

coffee-house, in tranquil enjoyment of creaming chocolate, a damp

newspaper, and the noiseless attendance of admirably drilled waiters.

I have always loved the Palais Royal, associated as it is with my

earliest and most pleasurable recollections of Paris; and with sincere

regret have I noted the rapid decline of what was once the heart and

focus of the French capital. At the time I now speak of, although its

best days were long past, it was still far removed from the deserted and

desolate state into which it has since sunk: it had not yet dwindled

into a dreary quadrangle of cheap tailors, pinchbeck jewellers, and

shops to let, traversed in haste by all who enter it, save by

newly-imported provincials, sauntering nurserymaids, and a few old

loungers, who, from long habit, haunt the fabric after the spirit has

fled. The melancholy truth is, that the march of morality ruined the

Palais Royal. So long as it was the headquarters of dissipation, it

throve and flourished exceedingly; it was merry and much frequented,

like the mansion of some rich and jovial profligate, whom all abuse, but

from whose well-spread table, few care to absent themselves. Then the

Palais Royal, to the stranger, almost comprehended Paris: all the

luxuries, necessaries, amusements, and pleasures of life, were found

within its walls: it was the bazaar, the tavern, the harem, and the

gaming-house of Europe. The reforms wrought in it since the peace by its

present royal owner, however advantageous to its good fame and

comeliness, have been grievously detrimental to its vivacity and pocket.

In 183-, the last of these changes, the finishing-stroke, as it may be

termed, the suppression of the gambling tables, although fully resolved

upon, had not yet taken place. The coffee-houses were still numerous and

crowded, the shops magnificent and prosperous; the garden and arcades,

now abandoned to mischievous boys, and to puling infants in nurses’

arms, were thronged from morn till midnight with visitors of all nations

and classes, lured thither by curiosity, or by the demon PLAY. There was

always abundant food for observation, if only in the noisy groups who

paced the avenues of trees, discussing the chances of the dice or the

events of the morning’s sitting, and in the flushed or haggard

countenances that each moment entered and issued from the doors of the

various hells. With a genial sky, a rush-bottomed chair, and the

occasional assistance of a sou’s worth of literature, obtained from the

old women who dwell in wooden boxes, and hire out newspapers, an entire

day might be passed there with amusement and profit. Occasional

incidents, sometimes dramatic enough, varied the monotony, never great.

The detection of a pickpocket, a loud-voiced quarrel, often resulting in

blows or a challenge, the expulsion from the _rouge-et-noir_ temple of

some unlucky wretch, whom ruin had rendered unruly, were incidents of

daily occurrence. For those whom the minor drama did not satisfy, there

was an occasional bit of high tragedy, in the shape of a suicide from

losses, or an arrest for fraud. Not long before the time I speak of, a

group of persons, standing in the garden, were startled by the fall of a

body at their feet. It was that of a gamester, who, after losing his

last franc, had thrown himself from the elevated window of the

pandemonium where his ruin had been consummated.

“I believe I have the pleasure of seeing Mr ——,” said a voice in

English, as I paused for a moment, my breakfast concluded, before the

door of the coffeehouse, planning the disposal of my day.

I looked at the person who thus addressed me; and, although I pique

myself on rarely forgetting the faces of those with whom I have once

been acquainted, I confess that in this instance my memory was

completely at fault. But for his knowledge of my name, I should have

concluded my interlocutor mistaken as to my identity. I was at least as

much surprised at the perfectly good English he spoke, as at having my

acquaintance claimed by a person of his profession and rank. He was a

young man of about five-and-twenty, attired in the handsome and

well-fitting undress of a sergeant of French light dragoons. His dark

brown hair curled short and crisp from under his smart green forage-cap,

cavalierly placed upon one side of his head; his clear blue eyes

contrasted with the tawny colour of his cheek, a tint for which it was

evidently indebted to sun and weather; his face was clean shaven, save

and except small well-trimmed mustachios and a chin-tuft. Altogether, he

was as pretty a model of a light cavalryman as I remember to have seen:

square in the shoulder, slender in the hip, well-limbed, lithe and

muscular. His carriage was soldierly, without the exaggerated stiffness

and swagger commonly found amongst noncommissioned officers of dragoons;

and altogether he had a gentlemanly air which, I doubt not, would have

made itself as visible under the coarse _basane_ and drugget of a

private soldier as beneath the garb of finer materials and more careful

cut, which, in his capacity of _maréchal de logis_, or sergeant, it was

permitted him to wear. But my admiration of this pretty model of a

man-at-arms did not assist me to recognise him, although, whilst gazing

at him, and especially when he slightly smiled at my visible

embarrassment, his features did not seem totally unfamiliar to me. I

looked, I have no doubt, considerably puzzled. The stranger came to my

assistance.

“I see you do not remember me,” he said. “Not above four years since we

met, if so much; but four years, an African sun, and a French uniform,

have made a change. I met you in Warwickshire, at George Clinton’s. I

have seen you once or twice since; but I think the last time we spoke

was when cantering over Harleigh downs. My name is Frank Oakley.”

I immediately recollected my man. About four summers previously, whilst

on a flying visit at a country house, whither a friend had taken me, and

where I had been made heartily welcome by the hospitable owner, I had

formed a slight acquaintance with Mr Frank Oakley, who had then just

come of age, and into possession—by the death of his father, which had

occurred a twelvemonth previously—of a few thousand pounds. The interest

of this sum, which would have been an agreeable and sufficient addition

to a subaltern’s pay or curate’s stipend, or which would have enabled a

struggling barrister to bide his briefs, was altogether insufficient to

supply the wants and caprices of an idler, especially such an idler as

Oakley. Master Francis was what young gentlemen fresh from school or at

college, sucking ensigns, precocious templars, _et id genus omne_, are

accustomed to call a “fast” man; the said fastness not referring, as

Johnson’s dictionary teaches us it might do, to any particular strength

or firmness of character, but merely to the singular rapidity with which

such persons get through their money and into debt. At the time I speak

of, Oakley was going his fastest, that is to say, spending the utmost

amount of coin, for the least possible value; indeed he could hardly

have run madder riot with his moderate patrimony, had he cast his

sovereigns into bullets and made pipe-lights of his bank notes. But

verily, he had his reward in the open-mouthed admiration of three or

four younkers of his own standing, or a year or two less, then assembled

at Harleigh Hall, who looked up to him as something between a hero and

an oracle; and in the encouraging familiarity and approval of one or two

gentlemen of maturer age, who swore he was a fine fellow, and proved

they thought so by winning bets of him at billiards, and by selling him

horses that would have fetched “twice the money at Tattersall’s,” with

other bargains of an equally advantageous description. Although we were

four days in the same house, meeting each evening at dinner, and

occasionally riding and walking in the same group, our acquaintance

continued of the very slightest description, and I took my departure

without any thing approaching to intimacy having sprung up between us.

Amongst the large party of visitors at the Hall, were not wanting

persons of tastes more suited to my own, than those of Oakley and his

little knot of flatterers and admirers; and he, on his part, was far too

much taken up with his newly-inherited fortune—which he evidently

considered inexhaustible—with planning amusements, and inhaling

adulatory incense, to pay attention to a man whom, as full fifteen years

his senior, he doubtless set down as an old fellow, a “slow coach,” and

perhaps even as a member of that distinguished corporation known as the

“Fogie Club.” So that when we met in London, during the ensuing season,

occasionally in the street and once or twice in a ballroom, a slight bow

or word of recognition was all that passed between us. I could perceive,

however, that Oakley still kept up the rapid pace at which he had

started, and lived, with a few hundreds a year, as if he had possessed

as many thousands. The proximity of my quiet club to the fashionable and

expensive one into which he had obtained admission, gave me many

opportunities of observing his proceedings, and those opportunities, in

my capacity of a student of human nature, I was careful not to neglect.

I had marked his career and ultimate fate in my mind, and was curious to

see my predictions verified, although I sincerely wished they might not

be, for they were any thing but favourable to the welfare of Oakley,

who, in spite of his follies, had generous and manly qualities. His

prodigality was not of that purely egotistical description most commonly

found in spendthrifts of his class. He would give a lavish alms to a

whining beggar, as freely as he would throw away a handful of gold on

some folly of the moment or extravagant debauch; and I had heard an old

one-armed soldier, who sometimes held his horse at the club door, utter

blessings, when he had ridden out of hearing, on his kind heart and open

hand. These and similar little traits that came under my notice, made me

regret to see him going post-haste to perdition. That he was doing so, I

could not for one moment doubt. His extravagance knew no limit, and in

six months he must have got through as many years’ income. Wherever

pleasure was to be had, no matter at what price, Oakley was to be

seen.—Upon a revenue overrated at five hundred a-year, he kept half a

dozen horses, a cab, and a strange nondescript vehicle, made after an

eccentric design of his own, and which every body turned to look at, as

he drove down Piccadilly of an afternoon, on his way to the Park. He had

his stall at the opera, of course, and an elegant set of apartments in

the most expensive street in London, where he gave suppers and dinners

of extravagant delicacy to thirsty friends and greedy _danseuses_. The

former showed their gratitude for his good cheer by winning his money at

cards; the latter evinced their affection by carrying off the costly

nicknacks that strewed his rooms, and by taking his diamond shirt-pins

to fasten their shawls. In short, he regularly delivered himself over to

the harpies. In addition to these minor drafts upon his exchequer, came

others of a more serious nature. He played high, and never refused a

bet. Like many silly young men, (and some silly old ones,) he had a

blind veneration for rank, and held that a lord could do no wrong. Even

a baronetcy conferred a certain degree of infallibility in his eyes. No

amount of respectable affidavits would have convinced him that if Lord

Rufus Slam, who not unfrequently condescended to win a cool fifty of him

at écarté, did not turn the king each time he dealt, it was only because

he despised so hackneyed a swindle, and had other ways of securing the

game, equally nefarious but less palpable. Neither would it have been

possible to persuade him that Sir Tantivy Martingale, “that prime fellow

and thorough sportsman,” as Frank admiringly and confidingly styled him,

was capable of taking his bet upon a horse which he, the aforesaid Sir

Tantivy, had just made “safe to lose.” In short, poor Oakley, who,

during his father’s lifetime, had been little, if at all, in London,

thought himself excessively knowing and fully up to all the wiles and

snares of the metropolis. In reality he was exceedingly raw, was

victimised accordingly, and, at the end of a few months in town, found

himself minus a sum that brought reflection, I suspect, even to his

giddy head. I conjectured so, at least, when, at the end of the season,

I encountered him on a Boulogne steamer, looking fagged and out of

spirits. It was only a year since we had met at Harleigh Hall, but that

year had told upon him. Dissipation had driven the flush of health from

his cheek, and his youthful brow was already care-loaded. I spoke to

him, and made an attempt to converse; but he seemed sulky and unwilling;

and, on reaching Boulogne, I lost sight of him. After a short tour, I

went to winter at Paris, and there I frequently saw him. He had

forgotten, apparently, the annoyances that weighed on him when he left

London, and was again the gayest of the gay; living as if his purse were

bottomless, and his _Gibus_ hat the wishing cap of Fortunatus. Nothing

was too hot or too strong for him: rated a “fast man” in England, in

France he was held a _viveur enragé_. I did not much admire the society

he selected: I saw him alternately with the most _roué_ and dissolute

young Frenchmen of fashion, and with an English set which, if it

comprised men against whom nothing positively bad could be proved, also

included others whose reputation was more than doubtful. At first he was

chiefly with the French, whose language, from long residence in the

country when a boy, he spoke as one of themselves; then he seemed to

abandon them for the English clique, and then he suddenly disappeared. I

no longer saw him pacing the Boulevard or riding in the Bois, or issuing

at night from the Café Anglais, flushed with wine and bent upon riotous

debauch. All his former companions remained, pursuing their old

amusements, frequenting the same haunts; but he was never with them. I

could not understand his leaving Paris just as the best season

commenced, (it was in January that he disappeared,) and at first I

supposed him ill. But week after week slipped by, and no Oakley

appearing, I made up my mind he had departed, whither I knew not. I was

rather vexed at this, for I had made up my mind to watch him to the end

of his career. Moreover, although we never spoke, and had almost left

off bowing, my idle habit of observing his proceedings had given me a

sort of interest in him. Once only, after his eclipse, did I fancy I

caught a glimpse of him. I was fond of long rambles in the low and

remote quarters of Paris, through those labyrinths of narrow streets,

filthy courts, and rickety houses, where the character and peculiarities

of the humbler classes of Parisians are best to be studied. Returning,

after dark, from an expedition of this kind, I was surprised by a

violent shower in a shabby street of the Faubourg St Antoine, and took

refuge under a doorway. Immediately opposite to me was the wretched shop

of a _traiteur_, in whose dingy window a cloudy white bowl of mashed

spinach, a plate of bouilli, dry as a deal plank, and some triangular

fragments of pear, stewed with cochineal and exposed in a saucer, served

as indications of the luxurious fare to be obtained within. On one of

the grimy shutters, whose scanty coat of green paint the weather had

converted into a sickly blue, was the announcement, in yellow letters,

that “_Fricot, Traiteur, donne à Boire et à Manger_;” whilst upon the

other the hieroglyphical representation of a bottle and glass, flanked

by the words “_Bon Vin de Macon à 8 et à 10 S._” hinted intelligibly at

the well-provided state of Monsieur Fricot’s cellar. It was one of those

humble eating-houses, abounding in the French capital, where a very

hungry man may stave off starvation for about the price of a tooth-pick

at the _Café_ or the _Trois Frères_, and where an exceedingly thirsty

one may get comfortably intoxicated upon potato brandy and essence of

logwood, for a similar amount. It needs a three days’ fast or a

paviour’s appetite to induce entrance into such a place. I was gazing

with some curiosity at the windows of this poor tavern, through whose

starred and patched panes, crowded with bottles, and backed by a curtain

of dirty muslin, the waving of iron forks and spoons was dimly

discernible by the light of two flickering candles, when the door

suddenly opened, a man came out, heedless of the rain, which fell in

torrents, and walked rapidly away. It was but a second, and he was lost

in the darkness of the ill-lighted street, but in that second I thought

I distinguished the gait and features of Frank Oakley. But my view of

him was very indistinct, and I concluded myself misled by a resemblance.

Since that day nothing had occurred to remind me of him, and for a long

time I had entirely forgotten the good-hearted but reckless scamp, who

for a brief period had attracted my attention.

Frank Oakley, then, it was, who now stood before me under the arcades of

the Palais Royal. I held out my hand, with a word or two of apology for

my slowness in remembering him.

“No excuse, I beg,” was his reply. “Not one in twenty of my former

acquaintances recognises the spendthrift dandy in the humble sergeant of

dragoons, and in the few who do, I observe, upon my approach, a strong

partiality for the opposite side of the street. They give themselves

unnecessary trouble, for I have no wish to intrude upon them. I have

been four months in Paris, and have constantly met former intimates, but

have never spoken to one of them. And I cannot say what induced me to

address you, with whom my acquaintance is so slight, except that I

should be very glad to have a talk about dear old England, and if I am

not mistaken you are a likely man to grant it me.”

“With pleasure, Mr Oakley,” said I. “I am glad to see you, although I

confess myself surprised at your present profession. For an Englishman,

I should have thought our own service preferable to a foreign one; and

doubtless your friends would have got you a commission—that is—if—”

I hesitated, and paused, for I felt that I was upon delicate ground,

getting run away with by my own foregone conclusions, and likely,

unintentionally, to wound my interlocutor’s feelings. Oakley observed my

embarrassment, smiled, and completed my unfinished sentence.

“If I had not money left, after my extravagance, to buy one for myself.

Well, I had not; and moreover—but you shall hear all about it, if you

care to learn the adventures of a scapegrace, now, I hope, reformed.

And, in return, you shall tell me if London is still in the same place,

and as wicked and pleasant as ever; and how it fares with old George

Clinton, and all the jolly Warwickshire lads. Have you all hour to

spare?”

“Half a dozen, if you like,” I replied warmly, for I was greatly taken

with the frank manly tone of the young man, whom I had last known as a

conceited, frivolous coxcomb. “Half a dozen. Shall we walk?”

“I will not tax your kindness so long,” replied Oakley; “and as for

walking,” he added, glancing from the silver stripe upon his sleeve,

indicative of his non-commissioned rank, to my suit of civilian

broadcloth, “although I am by no means ashamed of my position, that is

no reason for exposing you to the stare and wonder of your English

acquaintances, by parading in your company the public promenade. So, if

you have no objection, we will step up here. The place is respectable;

but unfrequented, I dare say, by any you know.”

And without giving me time to protest my utter indifference to the

supercilious criticism referred to, he turned into a doorway, upon a

pane of glass above which was painted a ship in full sail, with the

words “Café Estaminet Hollandais.” Ascending a flight or two of stairs,

we entered a suite of spacious apartments, furnished with several

billiard tables, with cue-racks, chairs, benches, and small tables for

the use of drinkers. Several of the windows, which looked out upon the

garden of the Palais Royal, were open, in the vain hope, perhaps, of

purifying the place from the inveterate odour of tobacco remaining there

from the previous night. Although it was not yet noon, the billiard

balls rattled vigorously upon more than one of the tables, and a few

early drinkers, chiefly foreigners, professional billiard players and

non-commissioned officers of the Paris garrison, sipped their Strasburg

beer or morning dram of brandy. The further end of the long gallery,

however, was unoccupied, and there Oakley drew a couple of chairs to a

window, called for refreshment as a pretext for our presence, and

seating himself opposite to me, assailed me with a volley of questions

concerning persons and things in England. To these I replied as

satisfactorily as I was able, and allowed the stream of interrogation to

run itself dry, before assuming, in my turn, the character of

questioner. At last, having in some degree appeased Oakley’s eager

desire for information about the country whence he had been so long

absent, I intimated a curiosity concerning his own adventures, and the

circumstances that had made a soldier of him. He at once took the hint,

and, perceiving that I listened with friendly attention and interest,

gave me a detailed narrative of his life since I had first made his

acquaintance. He told his story with a spirit and military conciseness

that riveted my attention as much as the real pungency of the incidents.

Its first portion, relating to his London career, informed me of little

beyond what I already knew, or, at least, had conjectured. It was the

every-day tale of a heedless, inexperienced youth, suddenly cast without

guide or Mentor upon the ocean of life, and striking in turn against all

the shoals that strew the perilous waters. He had been bubbled by

gentlemanly swindlers—none of your low, seedy rapscallions, but men of

style and fashion, even of family, but especially of _honour_, who would

have paraded and shot him, had he presumed to doubt their word, but made

no scruple of genteelly picking his pocket. He had been duped by

designing women, spunged upon by false friends, pillaged by unprincipled

tradesmen. He never thought of making a calculation—except on a

horse-race, and then he was generally wrong,—or of looking at an

account, or keeping one; but, when he wanted money, and his banker wrote

him word he had overdrawn, he just sent his autograph to his

stockbroker, prefixing the words, “Sell five hundred, or a thousand,” as

the case might be. For some time these laconic mandates were obeyed

without remark, but at last, towards the close of the London season, the

broker, the highly respectable Mr Cashup, of Change Alley, called upon

his young client, whose father he had known for many years, and ventured

a gentle remonstrance on such an alarming consumption of capital. Frank

affected to laugh at the old gentleman’s caution, and told an excellent

story that evening, after a roaring supper, about the square-toed cit,

the wise man of the East, who made a pilgrimage to St James’s, to preach

a sermon on frugality. Nevertheless, the prodigal was startled by the

statements of the man of business. He was unaware how deeply he had

dipped into his principal, and felt something like alarm upon

discovering that he had got through more than half his small fortune.

This, in little more than a year! For a moment he felt inclined to

reform, abandon dissipation, and apply to some profession. But the

impulse was only momentary. How could he, the gay Frank Oakley, the

flower of fashion, and admiration of the town, (so at least he thought

himself) bend his proud spirit to pore over parchments in a barrister’s

chambers, or to smoke British Havanas, and spit over the bridge of a

country town, as ensign in a marching regiment? Was he to read himself

blind at college, to find himself a curate at thirty, with a hundred

a-year and a breeding wife? Or was he to go to India, to get shot by

Sikhs, or carried off by a jungle fever? Forbid it, heaven! What would

Slam and Martingale, and Mademoiselle Entrechat, and all his fast and

fashionable acquaintances, male and female, say to such declension! The

thought was overwhelming, and thereupon Oakley resolved to give up all

idea of earning an honest living, to “drown care,” “damn the

consequences,” and act up to the maxim he had frequently professed, when

the champagne corks were flying at his expense for the benefit of a

circle of admiring friends, of “a short life and a merry one.” So he

stopped in London till the very close of the season, “keeping the game

alive,” as he expressed it, to the last, and then started for the

Continent. An attempt to recruit his finances at Baden-Baden terminated,

as might be expected, in their further reduction, and at last he found

his way to Paris. Unfortunately for him, his ruinous career in England

had been so short, and his self-conceit, and great opinion of his own

knowing, had made him so utterly reject the advice and experience of the

very few friends who cared a rush for his welfare, that he was still in

the state of a six-day-old puppy, and as unable to take care of himself.

More than half-ruined, he preserved his illusions; still believed in the

sincerity of fashionable acquaintances, in the fidelity of histrionic

mistresses, in the disinterestedness of mankind in general, or at least,

of that portion of it with which he habitually associated. The bird had

left half its feathers with the fowler, but was as willing as ever to

run again into the snare. And at Paris snares were plentiful,

well-baited and carefully covered up.

“I can scarcely define the society into which I got at Paris,” said

Oakley, when he came to this part of his history. “It was of a motley

sort, gathered from all quarters, and, upon the whole, rather pleasant

than respectable. It consisted partly of persons I had known in England,

either Englishmen or dashing young Frenchmen of fortune, whose

acquaintance I had made during their visits to London a few months

previously. I had also several letters of introduction, some of which

gave me entrance into the best Parisian circles, but these I generally

neglected, preferring the gay fellows for whom I bore commendatory

scrawls from my London associates. But probably my best recommendation

was my pocket, still tolerably garnished, and the recklessness with

which I scattered my cash. I felt myself on the high road to ruin, but

my down-hill course had given such impetus to my crazy vehicle, that I

despaired of checking it, and shut my eyes to the inevitable smash

awaiting me at the bottom.

“It was not long in coming. Although educated in France, and

consequently speaking the language as a native, I always took more

kindly to my own countrymen than to Frenchmen, and gradually I detached

myself unconsciously from those with whom I had spent much of my time

when first in Paris. I exchanged for the worse, in making my sole

companions of a set of English scamps, who asked no better than to

assist at the plucking of such a pigeon as myself. At first they treated

me with tenderness, fearing to spoil their game by a measure of

wholesale plunder. They made much of me, frequently favoured me with

their company at dinner, occasionally forgot their purses and borrowed

from mine, forgetting repayment, and got up card parties, at which,

however, I was sometimes allowed to come off a winner. But my gains were

units and my losses tens. An imprudent revelation accelerated the

catastrophe. My chosen intimate was one Harry Darvel, a tall pale man,

about five years older than myself, who would have been good-looking,

but for the unpleasant shifting expression of his gray eyes, and for a

certain cold rigidity of feature, frequently seen in persons of the

profession I afterwards found he exercised. I first made his

acquaintance at Baden, met him by appointment at Paris, and he soon

became, my chief associate. I knew little of him, except that he had a

large acquaintance, lived in good style, spent his money freely, and was

one of the most amusing companions I had ever had. By this time I began

to see through flattery, when it was not very adroitly administered, and

to suspect the real designs of some of the vultures that flocked about

me. Darvel never flattered me; his manner was blunt, almost to

roughness; he occasionally gave me advice, and affected sincere

friendship and anxiety for my welfare. ‘You are young in the world,’ he

would say to me, ‘you know a good deal for the time you have been in it,

but I am an old stager, and have been six seasons in Paris for your one.

I don’t want to dry-nurse you, nor are you the man to let me, but two

heads are better than one, and you may sometimes be glad of a hint. This

is a queer town, and there are an infernal lot of swindlers about.’ I

little dreamed that my kind adviser was one of the most expert of the

class he denounced, but reposed full trust in him, and, by attending to

his disinterested suggestions, gradually detached myself from my few

really respectable associates, and delivered myself entirely into his

hands, and those of his assistant Philistines. Upon an unlucky day, when

a letter of warning from my worthy old stockbroker had revived former

anxieties in my mind, I made Darvel my confidant, and asked counsel of

him to repair my broken fortunes. He heard me without betraying

surprise, said he would think the matter over, and that something would

assuredly turn up, talked vaguely of advantageous appointments which he

had interest in England to procure, assured me of his sympathy and

friendship, and bade me not despond, but keep my heart up, for that I

had plenty of time to turn in, and meanwhile I must limit my expenses,

and not be offended if he occasionally gave me a friendly check when he

saw me ‘outrunning the constable.’ His tone and promises cheered me, and

I again forgot my critical position. Little did I dream that my

misplaced confidence had sealed my doom. If I had hitherto been spared,

it was from no excess of mercy, but because my real circumstances were

unknown, my fortune overrated, and a fear entertained of prematurely

scaring the game by too rapid an attack. It was now ascertained that the

goose might be slaughtered, without any sacrifice of golden eggs. Darvel

now knew exactly what I was worth,—barely two thousand pounds. That

gone, I should be a beggar. For two days he never lost sight of me,

accompanied me every where and kept me in a whirl of dissipation,

exerted to the utmost his amusing powers, which were very considerable,

and did all he could to raise my spirits. The third morning he came to

breakfast with me.

“‘Dine at my rooms, to-day,’ said he, as he sat puffing a Turkish pipe,

after making me laugh to exhaustion at a ridiculous adventure that had

befallen him the night before. ‘Bachelor fare, you know—brace of fowls

and a gigot, a glass of that Chambertin you so highly approve, and a

little chicken hazard afterwards. Quite quiet—shan’t allow you to play

high. We’ll have a harmless, respectable evening. I will ask Lowther and

the Bully. Dine at seven, to bed at twelve.’

“I readily accepted, and we strolled out to invite the other guests. A

few minutes’ walk brought us to the domicile of Thomas Ringwood, Esq.,

known amongst his intimates as the Bully, a sobriquet he owed to his

gruff voice, blustering tone, and skill as a pugilist and cudgel-player.

He was member of a well-known and highly respectable English family, who

had done all in their power to keep him from disgracing their name by

his blackguard propensities. In dress and manner he affected the plain

bluff Englishman, wore a blue coat, beaver gloves, (or none at all,) and

a hat broad in the brim, spoke of all foreigners with supreme contempt,

and of himself as _honest_ Tom Ringwood. This lip honesty and assumed

bluntness were a standing joke with those who knew his real character,

but passed muster as perfectly genuine with ingenuous and newly imported

youngsters like myself, who took him for a wealthy and respectable

English gentleman, the champion of fair play, just as at a race, or

fair, boobies take for a bona-fide farmer the portly individual in brown

tops, who so loudly expresses his confidence in the chances of the

thimble rig, and in the probity of the talented individual who manœuvres

the ‘little pea.’

“Ringwood was at his rooms, having ‘half a round’ with the Oxford

Chicken, a promising young bruiser who, having recently killed his man

in a prize-fight, had come over to Paris for change of air. There was

bottled English porter on the table, sand upon the floor to prevent

slipping, and the walls were profusely adorned with portraits of

well-known pugilists, sketches of steeple-chases, boxing-gloves, masks,

and single-sticks. In the comfortable embraces of an arm-chair sat

Archibald Lowther, Honest Tom’s particular ally, who, in every respect,

was the very opposite of his Achates. Lowther affected the foreigner and

dandy as much as Ringwood assumed the bluff and rustic Briton; wore

beard and mustaches, and brilliant waistcoats, owned shirt-studs by the

score and rings by the gross, lisped out his words with the aid of a

silver toothpick, and was never seen without a smile of supreme

amiability upon his dark, handsome countenance. Fortunately, both these

gentlemen were disengaged for the evening. The day passed in lounging

and billiard playing, varied by luncheon and a fair allowance of

liquids, and at half past seven we sat down to dinner. It did not occur

to me at the time that, although Darvel’s invitation had the appearance

of an impromptu, he did not warn his servant of expected guests, or

return home till within an hour of dinnertime. Nevertheless, all was in

readiness; not the promised fowl and leg of mutton, but an exquisite

repast, redolent of spices and truffles, with wines of every

description. I was in high spirits, and drank freely, mixing my liquor

without scruple, and towards ten o’clock I was much exhilarated,

although not yet drunk, and still tolerably cognisant of my actions.

Then came coffee and liqueurs, and whilst Darvel searched in an

adjoining room for some particularly fine cigars for my special smoking,

Lowther cleared a table, and rummaged in the drawers for cards and dice,

whilst Ringwood called for lemons and sugar, and compounded a fiery bowl

of _Kirschwasser_ punch. It was quite clear we were to have a night of

it. Darvel’s declaration that he would have no high play in his rooms,

and would turn every one out at midnight, was replied to by me with a

boisterous shout of laughter, in which I was vociferously joined by

Lowther, who, to all appearance, was more than half tipsy. We sat down

to play for moderate stakes; fortune favoured me at the expense of

Ringwood and Lowther. The former looked sulky, the latter became

peevishly noisy and excited, cursed his luck, and insisted on increasing

the stakes. Darvel strongly objected; as winner, I held myself bound to

oppose him, and the majority carried the day. The stakes were doubled,

quadrupled, and at last became extravagantly high. Presently in came a

couple more ‘friends,’ in full evening costume, white-waistcoated and

gold-buttoned, patent leather, starch and buckram from heel to eyebrow.

They were on their way to a rout at the Marchioness of Montepulciano’s,

but, seeing light through Darvel’s windows, came up ‘just to see what

was going on.’ With great difficulty they were prevailed upon to take a

cigar and a hand at cards, and to disappoint the Marchioness. It was I

who, inspired by deep potations and unbounded good fellowship, urged and

insisted upon their stopping. My three friends did not seem nearly so

cordial in their solicitations, and subsequently, when I came to think

over the night’s proceedings, I remembered a look of vexation exchanged

between them, upon the entrance of the uninvited vultures who thus

intruded for their share of the spoil. Doubtless, the worthy trio would

rather have kept me to themselves. They suppressed their discontent,

however; externally all was honeyed cordiality and good feeling; the

Bully made perpetual bowls of punch, and I quaffed the blazing alcohol

till I could scarcely distinguish the pips on the cards. But scenes like

these have been too often described for their details to have much

interest. Enough, that at six o’clock the following morning I threw

myself upon my bed, fevered, frantic, and a beggar. I had given orders

upon my London agent for the very last farthing I possessed.

“Lowther, to all appearance the least sober and worst player of the

party, had been chief winner. Ringwood had won a little; Madam

Montepulciano’s friends did not make a bad night’s work of it, although

they declared their gains trifling, but as there had been a good deal of

gold and some bank-notes upon the table, it was difficult to say exactly

how the thing had gone. Darvel, who had frequently made attempts to stop

the play—attempts frustrated by Lowther’s drunken violence, Ringwood’s

dogged sullenness, and my own mad eagerness,—was visibly a loser; but

what mattered that, when his confederates won? There is honour amongst

thieves, and no doubt next day witnessed an equitable division of the

spoils.

“It was the second day after the debauch before I again saw any of my

kind friends. I spent the greater part of the intervening one in bed,

exhausted and utterly desponding, revolving in my mind my desperate

position. I had no heart to go out or see any body. At last Darvel

called upon me, affected great sorrow for my losses, deplored my

obstinacy in playing high against his advice, and inveighed against

Lowther for his drunken persistence. Anxiety and previous excess had

rendered me really unwell; Darvel insisted on sending me his physician,

and left me with many expressions of kindness, and a promise to call

next day. All this feigned sympathy was not lavished without an object;

the gang had discovered I might still be of use to them. In what way, I

did not long remain ignorant. During a week or more that I remained in

the house, suffering from a sort of low fever, Darvel came daily to sit

with me, brought me newspapers, told me the gossip of the hour, and not

unfrequently threw out hints of better times near at hand, when the

blind goddess should again smile upon me. At last I learned in what way

her smiles were to be purchased. I was convalescent; my doctor had paid

his farewell visit, and pocketed my last napoleon, when Darvel entered

my room. After the usual commonplace inquiries, he sat down by the fire,

silent, and with a gloomy countenance. I could not help noticing this,

for I was accustomed to see him cheerful and talkative upon his visits

to me; and I presently inquired if any thing had gone wrong.

“‘Yes—no—nothing with me exactly, but for you. I am disappointed on your

account.’

“‘On my account?’

“‘Yes. I wrote to England some days ago, urging friends of mine in high

places to get you a snug berth, and to-day I have received answers.’

“‘Well?’

“‘No, ill—cold comfort enough. Lots of promises, but with an

unmistakable hint that many are to be served before me, and that we must

wait several months,—which with those people means several years,—before

there will be a chance of a good wind blowing your way. I am infernally

sorry for it.’

“‘And I also,’ I replied, mournfully. There was a short pause.

“‘How are you off for the sinews of war?’ said Darvel.

“‘You may find some small change on the chimney-piece—my last money.’

“‘The devil! This won’t do. We must fill your exchequer somehow. You

must be taken care of, my boy.’

“‘Easy to say,’ I answered, ‘but how? Unless you win me a lottery prize,

or show me a hidden treasure, my cash-box is likely to continue empty.’

“‘Pshaw! hidden treasure indeed! There are always treasures to be found

by clever seekers. Nothing without trouble.’

“‘I should not grudge that.’

“‘Perhaps not; but you young gentlemen are apt to be squeamish.

Nasty-particular, as I may say.’

“‘Pshaw!’ said I in my turn, ‘you know I can’t afford to be that. Money

I must have, no matter how.’

“I spoke thoughtlessly, and without weighing my words, but also without

evil meaning. I merely meant to express my willingness to work for my

living, in ways whose adoption I should have scoffed at a fortnight

previously. Darvel doubtless understood me differently—thought

dissipation and reckless extravagance had blunted my sense of honour and

honesty, and that I was ripe for his purpose. After a minute or two’s

silence—

“‘By the bye,’ he said, ‘are not you intimate with the young D——s, sons

of that rich old baronet Sir Marmaduke D——?’

“‘Barely acquainted,’ I replied, ‘I have seen them once or twice, but it

is a long time back, and we should hardly speak if we met. They are poor

silly fellows, brought up by a fool of a mother, and by a puritanical

private tutor.’

“‘They have broken loose from the apron string then, for they arrived

here yesterday on their way to Italy, Greece, and the Lord knows where.

Why don’t you call upon them? They are good to know. They have swinging

letters of credit on Paris and half the towns in Europe.’

“‘I see no use in calling on them, nor any that their letters of credit

can be to me.’

“‘Pshaw! who knows? They are to be a month here. It might lead to

something.’

“‘To what?’ I inquired indifferently. A gesture of impatience escaped

Darvel.

“‘You certainly are dull to-day—slow of comprehension, as I may say.

Recollect what some play-writing man has said about the world being an

oyster for clever fellows to open. Now these D——s are just the sort of

natives it is pleasant to pick at, because their shells are lined with

pearls. Well, since you won’t take a hint, I must speak plainly. Dine

to-day at the table-d’hôte of the _Hôtel W_——. The D——s are staying

there, and you are safe to fall in with them. Renew your acquaintance,

or strike up a fresh one, whichever you please. You are a fellow of good

address, and will have no difficulty in making friends with two such

Johnny Newcomes. Ply them with Burgundy, bring them here or to my rooms,

we will get Lowther and Ringwood, and it shall be a hundred pounds in

your pocket.’

“I must have been a fool indeed, had I doubted for another instant the

meaning and intentions of my respectable ally. As by touch of

enchanter’s wand, the scales fell from my eyes; illusions vanished, and

I saw myself and my associates in the right colours, myself as a

miserable dupe, them as vile sharpers. So confounded was I by the

suddenness of the illumination, that for a moment I stood speechless and

motionless, gazing vacantly into the tempter’s face. He took my silence

for acquiescence, and opened his lips to continue his base hints and

instructions. Roused into vehement action by the sound of his odious

voice, I grasped his collar with my left hand, and seizing a horsewhip

that lay opportunely near, I lashed the miscreant round the room till my

arm could strike no longer, and till the inmates of the house, alarmed

by his outcries, assembled at the door of my apartment. Too infuriated

to notice them, I kicked the scoundrel out and remained alone, to

meditate at leisure upon my past folly and present embarrassments. The

former was irreparable, the latter were speedily augmented. I know not

what Darvel told the master of the house, (I subsequently found he had

had an interview with him after his ejection from my room,) but two days

later, the month being at an end, I received a heavy bill, with an

intimation that my apartments were let to another tenant, and a request

for my speedy departure. I was too proud to take notice of this

insolence, and too poor, under any circumstances, to continue in so

costly a lodging. Money I had none, and it took the sacrifice of my

personal effects, including even much of my wardrobe, to satisfy my

landlord’s demand. I settled it, however, and removed, with a heavy

heart, a light portmanteau, and a hundred francs in my pocket, to a

wretched garret in a cheap faubourg.

“You will think, perhaps, that I acted rashly, and should have sought

temporary assistance from friends before proceeding to such extremities.

But the very few persons who might have been disposed to help me, I had

long since neglected for the society of the well-dressed thieves by whom

I had been so pitilessly fleeced. And had it been otherwise, I knew not

how to beg or borrow. My practice had been in giving and lending. The

first thing I did, when installed in my _sixième_ at twenty francs

a-month, was to write to my uncle in England, informing him, without

entering into details, of the knavery of which I had been victim,

expressing my penitence for past follies, and my desire to atone them by

a life of industry. I craved his advice as to the course I should adopt,

declared a preference for the military profession, and entreated, as the

greatest of favours, and the only one I should ever ask of him, that he

would procure me a commission, either in the British service or Indian

army. I got an answer by return of post, and, before opening it, augured

well from such promptitude. Its contents bitterly disappointed me. My

uncle’s agent informed me, by his employer’s command, that Mr Oakley, of

Oakley Manor, was not disposed to take any notice of a nephew who had

disgraced him by extravagance and evil courses, and that any future

letters from me would be totally disregarded. I felt that I deserved

this; but yet I had hoped kinder words from my dead father’s elder

brother. The trifling assistance I asked would hardly have been missed

out of his unencumbered income of ten thousand a-year. This was my first

advertisement of the wide difference between relatives and friends.

Gradually I gathered experience, paid for, in advance, at a heavy rate.

“Of course, I did not dream of renewing an application thus cruelly

repulsed, but resolved to rely on myself alone, and to find some

occupation, however humble, sufficient for my subsistence. I had no

idea, until I tried, of the immense difficulty of procuring such

occupation. Master of no trade or handicraft, I knew not which way to

turn, or what species of employment to seek. I was a good swordsman, and

once I had a vague notion of teaching fencing; but even had I had the

means to establish myself, the profession was already over-stocked; and

not a regiment of the Paris garrison but could turn out a score of

_prévôts_ to button me six times for my once. I could ride, which

qualified me for a postilion, and had sufficient knowledge of billiards

to aspire to the honourable post of a marker; but even to such

offices—could I have stooped to compete for them—I should have been held

ineligible without certificates of character. And to whom was I to apply

for these? To my gay acquaintances of the Café de Paris? To the

obsequious banker to whom I had come handsomely accredited, and who had

given me a sumptuous dinner in his hotel of the Rue Bergère? To the

noble and fashionable families to whom I had brought letters of

recommendation, and whom I had neglected after a single visit? To which

of these should I apply for a character as groom? And how was I to exist

without condescending to some such menial office? To aught better,

gentleman though I was, I had no qualifications entitling me to aspire.

It was a sharp, but wholesome, lesson to my vanity and pride, to find

myself, so soon as deprived of my factitious advantage of inherited

wealth, less able to provide for my commonest wants than the

fustian-coated mechanic and hob-nailed labourer, whom I had been wont to

splash with my carriage-wheel and despise as an inferior race of beings.

Bitter were my reflections, great was my perplexity, during the month

succeeding my sudden change of fortune. I passed whole days lying upon

the bed in my melancholy lodging, or leaning out of the window, which

looked over a dreary range of roofs, ruminating my forlorn position, and

endeavouring, but in vain, to find a remedy. This was urgent; but no

cudgelling of my brain suggested one, and at last I saw myself on the

brink of destitution. A score of five-franc pieces had constituted my

whole fortune after satisfying my former extortionate landlord. These

were nearly gone, and I knew not how to obtain another shilling; for my

kit was reduced to linen and the most indispensable necessaries. I now

learned upon how little a man may live, and even thrive and be healthy.

During that month, I contrived to keep my expenses of food and lodging

within two francs a-day, making the whole month’s expenditure

considerably less than I had commonly thrown away on an epicurean

breakfast or dinner. And I was all the better for the coarse regimen to

which I thus suddenly found myself reduced. Harassed in mind though I

was, my body felt the benefit of unusual abstinence from deep potations,

late hours, and sustained dissipation. The large amount of foot-exercise

I took during these few weeks, doubtless contributed also to restore

tone and vigour to a constitution which my dissolute career, however mad

and reckless, had not been long enough seriously to impair. When weary

of my lonesome attic, I would start through the nearest barrier,

avoiding the streets and districts where I might encounter former

acquaintances, and take long walks in the environs of Paris, returning

with an appetite that gave a relish even to the tough and unsavoury

viands of a cheap _traiteur_.

“It chanced, upon a certain day, when striding along the road to

Orleans, that I met a regiment of hussars changing their quarters from

that town to Paris. The morning sun shone brightly on their

accoutrements; the hoofs of their well-groomed horses rang upon the

frosty road; the men, closely wrapped in their warm pelisses, looked

cheerful, in good case, and in high spirits at the prospect of a sojourn

in the capital. I seated myself upon a gate to see them pass, and could

not avoid making a comparison between my position and that of a private

dragoon, which resulted considerably to my disadvantage. I was not then

so well aware as I have since become, of all the hardships and

disagreeables of a soldier’s life; and it appeared to me that these

fellows, well clothed, well mounted, and with their daily wants provided

for, were perfect kings compared to a useless, homeless, destitute being

like myself. Their profession was an honourable one; their regiment was

their home; they had comrades and friends; and their duty as soldiers

properly done, none could reproach or oppress them. The column marched

by, and was succeeded by the rearguard, half-a-dozen smart, sunburned

hussars, with carbine on thigh; one of whom sang, in a mellow tenor

voice, and with considerable taste, the well-known soldier’s song out of

_La Dame Blanche_. In their turn, they disappeared behind a bend of the

road; but the spirited burthen of the ditty still reached my ears after

they were lost to my view—

‘Ah, quel plaisir! ah, quel plaisir!

Ah, quel plaisir d’être soldat!’

“I repeated to myself, as the last notes died in the distance, and

jumping off the gate, I turned my steps towards Paris, my mind strongly

inclining to the sabre and worsted lace.

“My half-formed resolution gathered strength from reflection, and on

reaching Paris, I proceeded straight to the Champ de Mars. The spectacle

that there met my eyes was of a nature to encourage my inclination to

embrace a military career, even in the humble capacity of a private

trooper. It was a cavalry field-day, and a number of squadrons manœuvred

in presence of several general officers and of a brilliant staff, whilst

soldiers of various corps,—dragoons, lancers, cuirassiers and hussars,

stood in groups watching the evolutions of their comrades. Veterans from

the neighbouring Hôtel des Invalides—scarred and mutilated old warriors,

who had shared the triumphs and reverses of the gallant French armies

from Valmy[7] to Waterloo—talked of their past campaigns and criticised

the movements of their successors in the ranks. Several of these parties

I approached within earshot, and overheard, with strong interest, many a

stirring reminiscence of those warlike days when the Corsican firebrand

set Europe in a flame, and spread his conquering legions from Moscow to

Andalusia. At last I came to a group of younger soldiers, who discussed

more recent if less glorious deeds of arms. The words _Bédouins_,

_razzia_, _Algérie_, recurred frequently in their discourse. I started

at the sounds. They reminded me of what I had previously forgotten, that

there was still a battle-field in the world where danger might be

encountered and distinction won. True, I might have wished a better

cause than that of encroachment and usurpation; more civilised foes than

the tawny denizens of the desert; a more humane system of warfare than

that pursued by the French in Africa. But my circumstances forbade

over-nicety, and that day I enlisted as volunteer in the light cavalry,

merely stipulating that I should be placed in a corps then serving in

Africa.

Footnote 7:

“From the cannonade at Valmy may be dated the commencement of the

career of victory which carried their armies to Vienna and the

Kremlin.”—Alison’s _History of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 210.

“Should you care to hear, I will give you at a future time some details

of my military novitiate and African adventures. The former was by no

means easy, the latter had little to distinguish them from those of

thousands of my comrades. A foreign service is rarely an agreeable

refuge, and that of France is undoubtedly the very worst an Englishman

can enter. The old antipathy to England, weakened in the breasts of

French civilians, still exists to a great extent amongst the military

classes of the population. A traditionary feeling of hatred and

humiliation has been handed down from the days of our Peninsular

victories, and especially from that of the crowning triumph at

Waterloo,—the battle won by treachery, as many Frenchmen affirm, and

some positively believe. A French barrack-room, I can assure you, is any

thing but a bed of roses to a British volunteer. I was better off,

however, than most of my countrymen would have been under similar

circumstances. Speaking the language like a native—better, indeed, than

the majority of those with whom I now found myself associated—I escaped

the mockery and annoyances which an English accent would inevitably have

perpetuated. My country was known, however; it was moreover discovered

that in birth and education I was superior to those about me, and these

circumstances were sufficient to draw upon me envy and insult. Of the

former I took no heed, the latter I promptly and fiercely resented,

feeling that to do so was the only means of avoiding a long course of

molestation. Two or three duels, whence my skill with the foils brought

me out unscathed and with credit, made me respected in my regiment, and

whilst thus establishing my reputation for courage, I did my best to

conciliate the good-will of those amongst whom I was henceforward to

live. To a great extent I was successful. My quality of an Englishman

gradually ceased to give umbrage or invite aggression, and, if not

forgotten, was rarely referred to.

“I was found an apt recruit, and after far less than the usual amount of

drill I was dismissed to my duty in the ranks of my present regiment,

with which I returned from Africa at the beginning of this winter, and

am now in garrison at Paris. My steady attention to my duties, knowledge

of writing and accounts, and conduct in one or two sharply-contested

actions, obtained me promotion to the grades of corporal and _fourrier_.

For my last advancement, to the highest non-commissioned rank, I am

indebted to an affair that occurred a few weeks before we left Africa. A

small division, consisting of three battalions and as many squadrons,

including mine, moved from Oran and its neighbourhood, for the purpose

of a reconnaissance. After marching for a whole day, we halted for the

night near a lonely cistern of water. The only living creature we saw

was a wretched little Arab boy, taking care of three lean oxen, who told

us that, with the exception of his parents, the whole tribe inhabiting

that district had fled on news of our approach, and were now far away.

This sounded rather suspicious, and all precautions were taken to guard

against surprise. Picquets and out-posts were established, the bivouac

fires blazed cheerily up, rations were cooked and eaten, and, wrapped in

our cloaks, we sought repose after the day’s fatigue. Tired though we

were, sleep was hard to obtain, especially for us cavalry men, by reason

of the uneasiness of our horses, which scarcely ceased for a moment to

neigh and kick and fight with each other. Troopers always look upon this

as a bad omen, and more than one old soldier, whilst caressing and

calming his restless charger, muttered a prediction of danger at hand.

For once, these military prophets were not mistaken. About two hours

after midnight, the bivouac was sunk in slumber, the horses had become

quieter, and the silence was rarely broken, save by the warning cry of

‘_Sentinelle, garde à vous!_’ when suddenly a few dropping shots were

heard, the drum of a picquet rattled a loud alarm, and a shout arose of

‘_Les Arabes!_’ In an instant, the encampment, so still before, swarmed

like a hive of bees. Luckily we had all laid down fully accoutred, with

our weapons beside us, so that, as we sprang to our feet, we found

ourselves ready for action. The general, who alone had a small tent,

rushed half-dressed from under his canvass. Our veteran colonel was on

foot with the first, cool as on parade, and breathing defiance.

‘_Chasseurs_, to your horses!’ shouted he in stentorian tones, hoarse

from the smoke of many battles. At the word we were in the saddle. On

every side we heard wild and savage shouts, and volleys of small arms,

and the picquets, overpowered by numbers, came scampering in, with heavy

loss and in much confusion. There was no moon, but by the starlight we

saw large bodies of white shadowy figures sweeping around and towards

our encampment. Our infantry had lain down in order, by companies and

battalions, according to a plan of defence previously formed, and now

they stood in three compact squares, representing the three points of a

triangle; whilst in the intervals the squadrons manœuvred, and the

artillery-men watched opportunities to send the contents of their light

mountain-howitzers amongst the hostile masses. With whoop and wild

hurrah, and loud invocations of Allah and the Prophet, the Bedouin

hordes charged to the bayonet’s point, but recoiled again before

well-directed volleys, leaving the ground in front of the squares

strewed with men and horses, dead and dying. Then the artillery gave

them a round, and we cavalry dashed after them, pursuing and sabring

till compelled to retire before fresh and overwhelming masses. This was

repeated several times. There were many thousand Arabs collected around

us, chiefly horsemen; and had their discipline equalled their daring,

our position would have been perilous indeed. Undismayed by their heavy

loss, they returned again and again to the attack. At last the general,

impatient of the protracted combat, wheeled up the wings of the squares,

reserved the fire till the last moment, and received the assailants with

so stunning a discharge that they fled to return no more. The cavalry of

course followed them up, and our colonel, Monsieur de Bellechasse, an

old soldier of Napoleon’s, ever foremost where cut and thrust are

passing, headed the squadron to which I belong. Carried away by his

impetuosity, and charging home the flying Bedouins, he lost sight of

prudence, and we soon found ourselves surrounded by a raging host, who,

perceiving how few we were, stood at bay, and in their turn assumed the

offensive. Seen in the dim starlight, with their tawny faces, gleaming

eyes, white burnous, and furious gesticulations, the Arabs seemed a

legion of devils let loose for our destruction. Our ranks were

disordered by the pursuit, and we thus lost one of our chief advantages;

for the Bedouins, unable to resist the charge in line of disciplined

cavalry, are no despicable opponents in a hand to hand mêlée. And this

the combat soon became. Greatly out-numbered, we fought for our lives,

and of course fought our best. I found myself near the colonel, who was

assailed by two Arabs at one time. He defended himself like a lion, but

his opponents were strong and skilful, and years have impaired the

activity and vigour which procured him, a quarter of a century ago, the

reputation of one of the most efficient light dragoons in Buonaparte’s

armies. There were none to aid him, for all had their hands full and I

myself was sharpset with a brawny Bedouin, who made excellent use of his

scimitar. At last I disabled him by a severe cut on the sword arm; he

gnashed his teeth with rage, turned his beautiful horse with lightning

swiftness, and fled from the fight before I had time to complete my

work. I was glad to be quit of him at any price, as I was now able to

strike in by the colonel’s side. The old warrior was hard put to; a

sabre cut had knocked off his shako, and inflicted a wound on his high,

bald forehead, slight indeed, but the blood from which, trickling into

his eyes, nearly blinded him, and he was fain to leave go his reins to

dash it away with his hand. The Arabs perceived their advantage, and

pressed him hard, when I charged one of them in the flank, bringing the

breast of my horse against the shoulder of his, and cutting at the same

time at his head. Man and beast rolled upon the ground. M. de

Bellechasse had scarcely time to observe, from whom the timely succour

came, when I dashed in before him, and drew upon myself the fury of his

remaining foe. Just then, to my infinite relief, I heard at a short

distance a steady regular fire of musketry. It was the infantry,

advancing to our support. The Arabs heard it also, and having had, for

one day, a sufficient taste of French lead, beat a precipitate retreat,

scouring away like phantoms, and disappearing in the gloom of the

desert. I was triply recompensed for my share in this action, by

honourable mention in general orders, by promotion to the rank of

_maréchal de logis_—equivalent to troop sergeant-major in the English

service—and by the personal thanks of my excellent old colonel, who

shook me heartily by the hand, and swore ‘_Mille millions de sabres!_’

that after successfully guarding his head against Russian, Prussian, and

Austrian, Englishman and Spaniard, he would have been ignominiously cut

to pieces by a brace of black-faced heathens, but for my timely

interposition. Since then, he has shown me unvarying kindness, for which

I am indebted chiefly to my preservation of his life, but partly also to

his high approval of the summary manner in which I upset, by a blow of

my sabre and bound of my horse, one of his swarthy antagonists,

reminding him, as he always mentions when telling the story, of a

similar feat of his own when attacked on the Russian retreat by three

gigantic Tartars from the Ukraine. Since we have been in garrison here,

he has frequently had me at his house, nominally to assist in the

arrangement of regimental accounts and orders, but in reality to take

opportunities of rendering me small kindnesses; and latterly, I am

inclined to think, a little, for the pleasure of talking to me of his

old campaigns. He soon discovered, what he previously had some inkling

of, that my original position in the world was superior to my present

one; and I am not without hopes, from hints he has let fall, that he

will, at no very distant day, procure my promotion to a cornetcy. These

hopes and alleviations enable me to support, with tolerable patience and

cheerfulness, the dull ordeal of a garrison life, seldom so pleasantly

varied as by my meeting with you. And now, that I have inflicted my

whole history upon you,” added Oakley, with a smile, “I must bid you

good bye, for duty calls,—no longer, it is true, to action in the field,

but to the monotonous routine of barrack ordinances.”

Thanking Oakley for his interesting narrative, I gave him my address,

and begged him to visit me. This he promised to do, and we parted. Three

days later he called upon me; I kept him to dine with me at my lodgings,

and had reason, during an evening of most agreeable conversation, to be

more than ever pleased with the tone of his mind and tenor of his

discourse. The unthinking rake of former days, must have learned and

reflected much during his period of adversity and soldiering, to convert

himself into the intelligent, well-informed, and unaffected man he had

now become. One thing that struck me in him, however, was an occasional

absence of mind and proneness to reverie. If there was a short pause in

the conversation, his thoughts seemed to wander far away; and at times

an expression of perplexed uneasiness, if not of care, came over his

countenance. I had only to address him, however, to dissipate these

clouds, whencesoever they came, and to recall his usual animated

readiness of manner.

A fortnight now elapsed without my again seeing him. I was to return to

England in a couple of days, and was busy one evening writing letters

and making preparations for departure, when the bell at the door of my

apartment was hastily rung. I opened, and Oakley entered. At first I

hardly, recognised him, for he was in plain clothes, which had the

effect of converting the smart sergeant into an exceedingly handsome and

gentlemanlike civilian. It struck me he looked paler than usual, and

grave, almost anxious. His first words were an apology for his intrusion

at so late an hour, which I cut short by an assurance of my gladness to

see him, and an inquiry if I could do any thing for him in England.

“When do you go?” said he.

“The day after to-morrow.”

“I want nothing there,” was his reply; “but before you go you can render

me a great service, if you will.”

“If I can, be sure that I will.”

“You may perhaps hesitate, when you hear what it is. I want you to be my

second in a duel.”

“In a duel!” I repeated, greatly astonished, and not over-pleased at the

idea of being mixed up in some barrack-room quarrel. “In a duel! and

with whom?”

“With an officer of my regiment.”

“Of your own rank, I presume?” said I, a little surprised at the sort of

assumption by which he called a sergeant an officer, without the usual

prefix of “non-commissioned.”

“In that case I need not have troubled you,” he replied; “I could have

found a dozen seconds. But my antagonist is a commissioned officer, a

lieutenant of the same regiment with myself, although in a different

squadron.”

“The devil he is!” I exclaimed. “That becomes cause for court-martial.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Oakley, “for me, but no harm can accrue to you. I

am your countryman; I come to you in plain clothes and ask you to be my

second in a duel. You consent; we go on the ground and meet another man,

apparently a civilian, of whose military quality or grade you, are in no

way supposed cognisant. Duels occur daily in France, as you know, and no

notice is taken of them, even when fatal. I assure you there is no

danger for you.”

“I was not thinking of myself. But if you escape unhurt from the

encounter, you will be shot for attempting the life of your superior.”

Oakley shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “I know that, but must take

my chance;” but made no other reply to my remark.

“I will tell you the circumstances,” he said, “and you shall judge for

yourself if I can avoid the duel. When talking to you of my kind old

colonel, I did not tell you of his only daughter, Bertha de Bellechasse,

the most beautiful and fascinating of her sex. On our return from

Africa, the colonel, in his gratitude for the man who had saved his

life, presented me to his wife and child, pronouncing at the same time

an exaggerated encomium on my conduct. The ladies gave me their hands to

kiss, and had I shed half my blood in saying that of the colonel, I

should have been more than repaid by Bertha’s gracious smile, and warm

expression of thanks to her father’s preserver. Madame de Bellechasse, I

suspect, was about to give me her purse, but was checked by a sign from

her husband, who doubtless told them, after my departure, as much as he

knew of my history,—that I was a foreigner and a gentleman, whom

circumstances had driven to don the coarse vest of the private dragoon.

He may perhaps have added some of the romantic stories current in the

regiment when I first joined. I had never been communicative, concerning

my past life, which I felt was nothing to boast of; and regimental

gossips had drawn upon their invention for various strange tales about

the Milord Anglais. When I became domesticated in the corps, and my

country was almost forgotten, these fictitious histories ceased to be

repeated and fell into oblivion; but some of them were revived for the

benefit of the colonel, when, after the action near Oran, he instituted

inquiries concerning me amongst his officers. It was not till some weeks

later, that he asked and received from me a plain, unvarnished account

of my very common-place career. It is possible that the sort of mystery

previously attaching to me, combined with her father’s glowing eulogiums

and her own gratitude for his preservation, worked upon Bertha’s ardent

and susceptible imagination, prepossessing her in my favour. For my

part, I had been struck to the heart by the very first glance from the

dark eyes that sparkled like diamonds beneath their lashes of sable

silk; I had been captivated and fettered on the instant, by the smile of

enchanting sweetness that played round her graceful lips. For a while I

struggled steadfastly against the impulse to adore her; its indulgence I

felt would be madness, and could result but in misery. What folly for

the penniless soldier, even though time and her father’s protection

should convert him into an equally penniless officer, to raise his eyes

to the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant daughter of the Count de

Bellechasse! Rejection, ridicule, contempt could be the sole recompense

of such presumption. M. de Bellechasse, although an officer of

Napoleon’s, is of old French nobility; his wealth is very great; and if

he still continues to serve, it is solely from enthusiastic love of his

profession. His daughter is a match for the first in the land. All these

and many more such arguments did I again and again repeat to myself; but

when had reason a chance against love? Repeatedly did I vow to forget

the fair vision that had crossed, my path and troubled my repose, or to

think of her only as the phantom of a dream, unsubstantial and

unattainable. But the resolution was scarcely formed, when I found

myself dwelling in rapture on her perfections, recapitulating the few

gentle words she had addressed to me, recalling her voice, her look, her

gesture—everything about her, even to the most minute details. One

moment, in view of the precipice on whose brink I stood, I swore to shun

her perilous presence, and to avert my eyes should I again find myself

in it: not an hour afterwards I eagerly seized a pretext that led me to

her father’s house, and afforded me the possibility of another glimpse

of my idol. Such glimpses were not difficult to obtain. The colonel’s

partiality to me daily increased, and when I went to him on regimental

matters, and he was alone with his wife and daughter, he would receive

me in the drawing room in their presence, and waiving, for the time, the

difference of grade, would converse with me as affably as with an equal,

and make me repeat, for the amusement of the ladies, some of our African

skirmishes and adventures. Doubtless I should have avoided these

dangerous interviews, but how was it to be done without an appearance of

ingratitude and discourtesy? Truth to tell, I taxed my invention but

little for means of escaping them. I continued to see Bertha, and at

each interview my passion gathered strength. She listened with marked

attention to my anecdotes of our campaigns. These I always addressed to

her father or mother; but without looking at her, I could feel her eyes

fixed upon me with an expression of interest, and, I at last ventured to

think, of a more tender feeling. About this time the colonel frequently

kept me for hours together at his house, arranging regimental papers and

accounts, in a room upon the ground floor, set apart for the purpose.

Within this room is another, used as a library, and thus it happened

that one day, when immersed in states and muster rolls, I beheld the

door open, and the fairy form of Bertha upon the threshold. She appeared

confused at seeing me; I rose and bowed in silence as she passed through

the apartment, but I was taken too much by surprise to have full command

over myself, and doubtless my eyes said something of what my lips would

gladly have spoken, for before Bertha reached the outer door, her cheeks

were suffused with blushes. Again and again these meetings, sweet as

transient, occurred. But I will not lose time or weary you by dwelling

upon such passages. Neither could I well explain, did I attempt it, how

it was that I one day found myself kneeling at Bertha’s feet, pouring

forth my soul in words of passionate love, and reading with ecstasy upon

her sweet countenance a blushing avowal of its return.

“The die thus cast, we abandoned ourselves to the charm of our

attachment, sadly embittered by its hopelessness. Since then, I have had

almost daily occupation at the colonel’s house, and Bertha has found

means to afford me brief but frequent interviews. At these we discussed,

but ever in vain, the possibility of breaking our secret to M. de

Bellechasse. Frank and affable though he is, the colonel’s pride of

birth is great, and we were well assured that the disclosure of our

correspondence would produce a terrific explosion of fury, consign

Bertha to the seclusion of a convent, and draw upon me his hatred and

revenge. This morning Bertha came into the room, upon the usual pretext

of seeking a book from the library, and the painful and perplexing topic

that has long and unceasingly occupied our thoughts, was again resumed.

For the first time, she had heard her father state his intention of

recommending me in the strongest terms for a commission. This let in a

ray of hope upon our despondency; and we resolved that, so soon as the

epaulet was on my shoulder, I should hazard a confession to the colonel.

The prospect of a termination to our cruel state of suspense, and the

possibility, faint though it indeed was, of a result favourable to our

wishes, brought a joyful gleam over Bertha’s lovely features, which have

lately grown pale with anxiety. On my part, I did my utmost to inspire

her with hopes I myself scarce dared to entertain, when, as she stood

beside me, her hand clasped in mine, a smile of affection upon her

countenance, the door suddenly opened, and, before we had time to

separate, Victor de Berg, a lieutenant in my regiment, and a suitor of

Bertha’s, made a step into the room. For an instant he stood like one

thunderstruck, and then, without uttering a word, abruptly turned upon

his heel and went out. The next minute the sound of his step in the

court warned us that he had left the house.

“Overwhelmed with terror and confusion to an extent that precluded

reflection, Bertha fled to her apartment, leaving me to deliberate on

the best course to adopt. My mind was presently made up. The only plan

was to seek Monsieur de Berg, inform him of our mutual attachment, and

appeal to his honour and generosity to preserve inviolate the secret he

had surprised. I hurried to his quarters, which were at no great

distance. He had already arrived there, and was pacing his apartment in

manifest agitation. Since our return from Africa, he had been a declared

admirer of Bertha’s; by family and fortune he was an eligible suitor,

and her father favoured his pretensions, contingent, however, upon his

daughter’s consent. Dismissing the servant who ushered me in, he

addressed me before I had time to enter upon the object of my visit.

“‘It is unnecessary,’ he said, in a voice choked with passionate

emotion, as I was about to speak. ‘I can guess all you would say. A

single instant informed me of the state of affairs; the half hour that

has elapsed since then, has sufficed to mark out my line of conduct. Mr

Oakley, I know that by birth and breeding you are above your station.

You have forgotten your present position; I will follow your example so

far as to waive our difference of military rank. As the friend of

Colonel de Bellechasse, I ought, perhaps, instantly to tell him what I

have this day learned; as his daughter’s suitor, and the son-in-law of

his choice, I select another course. Your secret is safe with me.

To-night you shall receive a leave of absence, entitling you to quit

your uniform; and to-morrow we will meet in the wood of Vincennes, not

as officer and sergeant, but as private gentlemen, with arms in our

hands. The man whom Bertha de Bellechasse distinguishes by her

preference, cannot be unworthy the proposal I now make to you. Do you

accept it?’

“I was astounded by the words. Accustomed to the iron rigidity of

military discipline, and to the broad gulf placed between officer and

soldier by the king’s commission, the possibility of a duel between M.

de Berg and myself, although it would have been no unnatural occurrence

between rivals of equal rank, had never occurred to me. For a moment I

could not comprehend the singular and unheard-of proposal; but a glance

at my challenger’s countenance, on which the passions agitating him were

plainly legible, solved the mystery of his motives. He was a prey to

jealous fury; and, moreover, the chivalrous generosity of his character,

combined, perhaps, with the fear of irretrievably offending Bertha,

prevented his pursuing the course most persons, in his place, would have

adopted, and revealing to Colonel de Bellechasse his daughter’s

predilection for an inferior. By a duel he hoped to rid himself of a

favoured rival, whom he might replace in Bertha’s heart. It was not

necessary she should know by whose hand I had fallen. Such were the

reasons that flashed across me, explaining his strange offer of a

personal encounter. Doubtless, I defined them more clearly than he

himself did. I believe he spoke and acted upon the first vague impulse

of a passionate nature, racked by jealousy, and thirsting for revenge

upon its cause. I saw at once, however, that by accepting the duel I

virtually secured his silence; and overjoyed to preserve my secret, and

shield Bertha from her father’s wrath at so cheap a price as the

exposure of my life, I eagerly accepted M. de Berg’s proposal, thanking

him warmly for his generosity in thus repudiating the stern prejudices

of military rank.

“After fixing hour and weapons, I left him, and then only did the

difficulty of finding a second occur to me. For obvious reasons, I could

not ask the assistance of a comrade; and out of my regiment I had not a

single friend in Paris. In my difficulty I thought of you. Our brief

acquaintance scarcely warrants my request; but the kindness you have

already shown me encourages the hope that you will not refuse me this

service. M. de Berg is a man of strict honour, and you may depend on

your name and share in the affair remaining undivulged. Even were they

known, you, as a foreigner and civilian, would in no way be compromised

by the relative position of my opponent and myself, which renders me

liable, should the affair get wind, to a court-martial and severe

punishment.”

Although opposed to duelling, except under circumstances of

extraordinary aggravation, I had been more than once unavoidably mixed

up in affairs of the kind; and the apprehension of unpleasant results

from accession to Oakley’s request, did not for an instant weigh with

me. I was greatly struck by the romantic and chivalrous conduct of M. de

Berg, and felt strong sympathy with Oakley, in the painful and most

peculiar position into which his early follies and unfortunate

attachment had brought him. Very brief deliberation was necessary to

decide me to act as his second. There was no time to lose, and I begged

him to put me at once in possession of the details of the affair, and to

tell me where I could find De Berg’s second. I was not sorry to learn

that it was unnecessary for me to see him, and that all preliminaries

were in fact arranged. The duel not being one of those that the

intervention of friends may prevent, and Oakley having already fixed

time and place with his antagonist, my functions became limited to

attending him on the ground. It grew late, and Oakley left me for the

night. In order to preserve my incognito in the business, for I had no

desire to figure in newspaper paragraphs, or to be arraigned before a

criminal tribunal, even with certainty of acquittal, we agreed to meet

at eight o’clock the next morning, at a certain coffee-house, a

considerable distance from my lodgings, whence a cabriolet would convey

us to the place of rendezvous.

It was a fresh and beautiful spring morning, when Oakley and myself

descended from our hack vehicle, near the little village of St Mandé,

and struck into the Bois de Vincennes. There had been rain during the

night, and the leaves and grass were heavy with water drops. The sky was

bright blue, and the sun shone brilliantly; but over the ground and

between the tree trunks floated a light mist, like the smoke of a

skirmish, growing thinner as it ascended, and dissipated before it

reached the topmost branches. At some distance within the wood, we

turned into a secluded glade, seated ourselves upon a fallen tree, and

waited. We had come faster than we expected, and were fully a quarter of

an hour before our time; but in less than five minutes we heard the

sound of steps and voices, soon succeeded by the appearance of three

gentlemen, one of whom, by his military gait and aspect, more than by

the moustaches so commonly worn in France, I conjectured to be the

officer of Chasseurs. In one of his companions I recognised, after a

brief puzzle of memory, a well-known and popular _littérateur_;

doubtless M. de Berg, from motives of delicacy, had not chosen to ask

the aid of a brother officer in his duel with a military inferior. The

black coat and grave aspect of the third stranger sufficiently indicated

the doctor, who, on reaching the ground separated himself from his

companions and retired a little to one side. The others bowed to Oakley

and myself. M. de Berg’s second stepped forward, and I advanced to meet

him. I was particularly pleased with the appearance of Oakley’s

antagonist. He was a young man of six or seven and twenty, of very dark

complexion, flashing black eyes, and a countenance expressive of daring

resolution and a fiery temperament. I should have taken him for an

Italian, and I afterwards learned that he was a native of Provence, born

within a stone’s-throw of Italy. I never saw an ardent and enthusiastic

character more strongly indicated by physiognomy, than in the case of

this young officer; and I began to understand and explain to myself the

feelings that had impelled him to challenge the man preferred by the

mistress of his choice, even although that man’s position was such as,

in the eyes of society, forbade the encounter.

More as a matter of duty than with expectation of success, I asked De

Berg’s second if there were no chance of this meeting terminating

peaceably. He shook his head with a decided gesture.

“Impossible,” he said. “I am ignorant of the cause of quarrel: I know

not even your principal’s name. My friend, who may possibly be equally

unknown to you, has asked my assistance, pledging himself that the duel

is a just and honourable one, which cannot be avoided, but whose motive

he has reasons to conceal even from me. Satisfied with this assurance,

reposing implicit confidence in his word, I inquire no further.

Moreover, once upon the ground, it is difficult creditably to arrange an

affair of this kind.”

I bowed without replying. The ground was measured, the pistols loaded,

the men placed. The toss-up of a five-franc piece gave the first-fire to

M. de Berg. His bullet grazed Oakley’s cheek, but so slightly as

scarcely to draw blood. Oakley fired in return. The officer staggered,

turned half round, and fell to the ground, the bone of his right leg

broken below the knee. His second, the doctor, and I, ran forward to his

assistance. As we did so, three soldiers, who it afterwards appeared had

witnessed, from their concealment amongst the trees, the whole of the

proceedings, emerged from the shelter of the foliage, and walked across

one end of the open space where the duel had taken place, casting

curious and astonished glances in our direction. They had not yet

disappeared, when De Berg, whom we had raised into a sitting posture,

caught sight of them. He started, and uttered an exclamation of

vexation, then looked at Oakley, who had left his ground and stood near

to the wounded man.

“Do you see that?” said De Berg, hurriedly, wincing as he spoke, under

the hands of the surgeon, who by this time had cut off his boot and

trousers, and was manipulating the damaged limb.

The soldiers were now again lost to view in the thick wood. It occurred

to me that two of them wore dragoon uniforms.

Oakley bowed his head assentingly.

“You had better be off, and instantly,” said the lieutenant. “Go to

England or Germany. You have leave for a week. I will procure you a

prolongation; but be off at once, and get away from Paris. Those fellows

have recognised us, and will not be prevented talking.”

He spoke in broken sentences, and with visible effort, for the surgeon

was all the while poking and probing at the leg in a most uncomfortable

manner, and De Berg was pale from pain and loss of blood. Oakley looked

on with an expression of regret, and showed no disposition to the hasty

flight recommended him.

“Well, doctor,” said the officer, with a painful smile, “my dancing is

spoilt, eh?”

“_Bagatelle!_” replied the man of lancets. “Clean fracture, neat wound,

well as ever in a month. Your blood’s too hot, _mon lieutenant_, you’ll

be all the better for losing a little of it.”

“There, there,” said De Berg kindly to Oakley, “no harm done, you see—to

me at least. I should be sorry that any ensued to you. Away with you at

once. Take him away, sir,” he added to me, “he risks his life by this

delay.”

I took Oakley’s arm, and led him unresistingly away. He was deep in

thought, and scarcely replied to one or two observations I addressed to

him whilst walking out of the wood. Our cabriolet was waiting; we got

in, and took the road to Paris. “I hope you intend following M. de

Berg’s advice,” said I, “and leaving the country for a while, until you

are certain this affair does not become known. He evidently fears its

getting wind through those soldiers.”

“And he is right,” said Oakley. “Two of them are of my squadron, and of

those two, one is a bad character whom I have frequently had to punish.

He will assuredly not lose this opportunity of revenge.”

“Then you must be off at once to England. My passport is already

countersigned, and you can have it. There is not much similarity in our

age and appearance, but that will never be noticed.”

“A thousand thanks. But I think I shall remain in Paris.”

“And be brought to a court-martial? To what punishment are you liable?”

“Death, according to the letter of the law. The French articles of war

are none of the mildest. But, under the circumstances, I daresay I

should get off with a few years’ imprisonment, followed, perhaps, by

serving in a condemned regiment.”

“A pleasant alternative, indeed,” said I.

“I am no way anxious to incur it,” replied Oakley; “but, in fact I am as

safe in Paris as any where, at least for a day or two; and possibly M.

de Berg may find means of securing the silence of the witnesses. At any

rate, it will be time enough to-morrow or the next day to make a run of

it. I cannot go upon the instant. There is one person I must see or

communicate with before I leave.”

I guessed whom he meant, and saw, from his manner, he was resolved to

remain, so used no farther arguments to dissuade him. Before entering

Paris, we dismissed our vehicle and separated; he betook himself to a

small retired lodging, where he had taken up his quarters since the

previous evening, and I went home to resume my preparations for

departure. I remained in-doors till after dinner, and then repaired to a

well-known coffee-house, frequented chiefly by military men. As I had

feared, the strange duel between Victor de Berg and a sergeant of his

regiment was already the talk of the town. It had been immediately

reported by the soldiers who had seen it; M. de Berg was under close

arrest, and the police were diligently seeking his antagonist. I left

the café, jumped into a cabriolet, and made all speed to Oakley’s

lodging. He was out. I went again, as late as eleven o’clock, but still

he was absent; and I was obliged to content myself with leaving a note,

containing a word of caution and advice, which I prudently abstained

from signing. I then went home and to bed, not a little uneasy about

him. The next morning I breakfasted at the coffee-house, in order to get

the news; and the first thing I heard was intelligence of Oakley’s

capture. He had been taken the previous evening, in the neighbourhood of

the colonel’s house, around which he doubtless hovered in hopes to

obtain sight or speech of Bertha.

Few courts-martial ever excited a stronger interest in the French

military world than those held upon Lieutenant Victor de Berg and the

_maréchal de logis_ Francis Oakley. The case was one almost unparalleled

in the annals of military offences. A duel between an officer and a

sergeant was a thing previously unheard-of; and the mystery in which its

causes were enveloped, aggravated the universal curiosity and

excitement. The offenders resolutely refused to throw light upon the

subject; it had been vainly endeavoured to ascertain their seconds; the

surgeon who attended on the ground had been sought for equally in vain;

after placing the first dressings he had disappeared, and another had

been summoned to the sufferer’s bedside. The wound proved of little

importance, and, with the assistance of crutches, De Berg was soon able

to get out. Upon their trials, he and Oakley persisted in the same

system of defence. When off duty, they said, they had met, in society,

and had had a dispute on a subject unconnected with the service; the

result had been an agreement to settle their difference with pistols.

Oakley refused to state from whom the challenge proceeded; but

Lieutenant de Berg proclaimed himself the aggressor, and, aware that the

sentence would weigh far more heavily on Oakley than on himself,

generously assumed a large share of blame. As to the cause of quarrel,

names of the seconds, and all other particulars, both culprits

maintained a determined silence, which no endeavours of friends or

judges could induce them to break. Colonel de Bellechasse and various

other officers visited Oakley in his prison, and did their utmost to

penetrate the mystery. Their high opinion both of him and De Berg,

convinced them there was something very extraordinary and unusual at the

bottom of the business, and that its disclosure would tell favourably

for the prisoners. But nothing could be got out of the obstinate

duellists, who called no witnesses, except to character. Of these, a

host attended, for both Oakley and De Berg; and nothing could be

stronger than the laudatory testimonials given them by their superiors

and comrades. These, doubtless, had weighed with the court, for its

sentence was considered very lenient. Oakley was condemned to five

years’ imprisonment, for attempting the life of his officer; De Berg was

reprimanded for his forgetfulness of discipline, in provoking or

consenting to a personal encounter with a subordinate, was removed from

his regiment, and placed in non-activity, which, under the

circumstances, was equivalent to dismissal from the service, less the

disgrace.

I remained in Paris till the sentence of the court was known. Although

by no means desirous to be brought forward in the business, I was

willing to waive my repugnance if, by so doing I could benefit Oakley.

With some difficulty I obtained access to him, begged him to prescribe a

course for my adoption, and frankly to tell me if my evidence could be

of service. He assured me it could not; there, was no question of the

fairness of the duel, and the sole crime was in the breach of military

discipline. This crime, my testimony could in no way palliate. He

requested me to see M. de Berg, and to tell him that, to avoid the

possibility of the cause of the duel becoming known, he should refuse to

answer questions, plead guilty to the charge, and state, as sole

extenuation, that the quarrel occurred off duty, and had no connexion

with military matters. This commission I duly executed. Another which he

intrusted to me I found greater difficulty in performing. It was to

procure information concerning Bertha de Bellechasse. After some

unsuccessful attempts, I at last ascertained that she had been for some

days confined to her bed by indisposition. This was sad news for Oakley,

and I was loath to convey them to him, but I had promised him the exact

truth. Fortunately I was able, to tell him at the same time that the

young lady’s illness was not of a dangerous character, although the

species of nervous languor which had suddenly and unaccountably seized

her, caused great alarm to her parents, and especially to the colonel,

who idolised his only child. Oakley was sadly depressed on learning the

effect upon Bertha of his imprisonment and dangerous position, and made

me promise to keep him informed of the variations in her state of

health. This I did; but the bulletins were not of a very satisfactory

nature, and in Oakley’s pale and haggard countenance upon the day of

trial, attributed by the spectators to uneasiness about his own fate, I

read the painful and wearing anxiety the illness of his mistress

occasioned him.

The sentence was no sooner published, than every effort was made to

procure Oakley’s pardon, or, failing that, a commutation of his

punishment. Colonel de Bellechasse used all the interest he could

command; Monsieur de Berg set his friends to work; and I, on my part,

did every thing in my power to obtain mercy for the unfortunate young

man. All our endeavours were fruitless. The minister of war refused to

listen to the applications by which he was besieged. In a military view,

the crime was flagrant, subversive of discipline, and especially

dangerous as a precedent in an army where promotion from the ranks

continually placed between men, originally from the same class of

society and long comrades and equals, the purely conventional barrier of

the epaulet. The court-martial, taking into consideration the peculiar

character of the offence, had avoided the infliction of an ignominious

punishment. Oakley was not sentenced to the _boulet_, or to be herded

with common malefactors; his doom was to simple imprisonment. And that

doom the authorities refused to mitigate.

Some days had elapsed since Oakley’s condemnation. Returning weary and

dispirited from a final attempt to interest an influential personage in

his behalf, I was startled by a smart tap upon the shoulder, and looking

round, beheld the shrewd, good-humoured countenance of Mr Anthony

Scrivington, a worthy man and excellent lawyer, who had long had entire

charge of my temporal affairs. Upon this occasion, however, I felt small

gratification at sight of him, for I had a lawsuit pending, on account

of which I well knew I ought to have been in England a month previously,

and should have been, but for this affair of Oakley’s, which had

interested and occupied me to the exclusion of my personal concerns. My

solicitor’s unexpected appearance made me apprehend serious detriment

from my neglect. He read my alarm upon my countenance.

“Ah!” said he, “conscience pricks you, I see. You know I have been

expecting you these six weeks. No harm done, however; we shall win the

day, not a doubt of it.”

“Then you are not come about my business?”

“Not the least, although I shall take you back with me, now I have found

you. A very different affair brings me over. By the bye, you may perhaps

help me. You know all Paris. I am come to look for an Englishman.”

“You need not look long,” said I, glancing at a party of unmistakeable

Britons, who stood talking broad Cockney on the Boulevard.

“Aye, but not _any_ Englishman. I want one in particular, the heir to a

pretty estate of eight or ten thousand a-year. He was last heard of in

Paris, three years ago, and since then all trace of him is lost. ’Tis an

odd affair enough. No one could have expected his coming to the estate.

A couple of years since, there were two young healthy men in his way.

Both have died off,—and he is the owner of Oakley Manor.”

“Of what?” I exclaimed, in a tone of voice that made Scrivington stagger

back, and for a moment drew the eyes of the whole street upon us. “What

did you say?”

“Oakley Manor,” stammered the alarmed attorney, settling his

well-brushed hat, which had almost fallen from his head with the start

he had given. “Old Valentine Oakley died the other day, and his nephew

Francis comes into the estate. But what on earth is the matter with

you?”

For sole reply I grasped his arm, and dragged him into my house, close

to which we had arrived. There, five minutes cleared up every thing, and

convinced Scrivington and myself that the man he sought now languished,

a condemned criminal, in a French military prison.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon what all will conjecture; superfluous to

detail the active steps that were at once taken in Oakley’s behalf, with

very different success, now that the unknown sergeant had suddenly

assumed the character of an English gentleman of honourable name and

ample fortune. Persons of great influence and diplomatic weight, who

before had refused to espouse the cause of an obscure adventurer in a

foreign service, suffered themselves to be prevailed upon, and

interceded efficaciously for the master of Oakley Manor. It was even

said that a letter was written on the subject by an English general of

high distinction to an old opponent in arms. Be that as it may, all

difficulties were at length overcome, and Oakley received his free

pardon and discharge from the French service. And that equal measure of

clemency might be shown, De Berg, upon the same day, was allowed to

resume his place in his regiment.

I would tell how the news of her lover’s pardon proved more potent than

all the efforts of the faculty to bring back joy to Bertha’s heart and

the roses to her check; how Colonel Count de Bellechasse, on being

informed of the attachment between his daughter and Oakley, and of the

real cause of the duel, at first stormed and was furious, but gradually

allowed himself to be mollified, and finally gave his consent to their

union; how De Berg exchanged into a regiment serving in Africa, and has

since gained laurels and high rank in the pursuit of the intangible

Abd-el-Kader. But I have no time to expatiate upon any of these

interesting matters, for I leave town to-morrow morning for Oakley

Manor, to pay my annual visit to MY ENGLISH ACQUAINTANCE.