Hark! she has bless’d her son--I bid ye witness,
Ye listening heavens--thou circumambient air;
The ocean sighs it back--and with the murmur
Bustle the happy leaves.
All nature breathes
Aloud---aloft--to the Great Parent’s ear,
The blessing of the mother on her child.
ON approaching the fisherman’s hut, the place appointed with Lectoure,
Paul perceived Lusignan and Walter, who were waiting for him.
Precisely at the hour agreed, Lectoure appeared on horseback; he had
been obliged to find his way as he best could, for he had no guide, and
his own servant was as much a stranger as himself in that part of the
country. On seeing him at a distance the young men came out of the hut.
The baron instantly put his horse into a gallop, to hasten to them. When
within a few paces of them he alighted from his horse, and threw the
rein to his servant.
“I trust you will pardon me, gentlemen,” said he, “that I should have
approached you thus alone, like a forsaken orphan; but the hour selected
by that gentleman,” he added, raising his hat to Paul, who returned the
salutation, “was precisely that fixed upon for the funeral obsequies
of the marquis; I have therefore left Emanuel to fulfil the duties of
a son, and have come here without a second, trusting that I had to deal
with an adversary generous enough to procure some friend of his own to
aid me in this dilemma.”
“We are entirely at your service, baron,” replied Paul; “here are two
friends of mine. Select which you please, and he who shall be honored by
your choice, will instantly become yours.”
“I have no preference, I swear to you,” said Lectoure; “please to
designate which of these two gentlemen you may desire should reader me
this service.”
“Walter,” said Paul, “be so good as to officiate as second to the
baron.”
The lieutenant assented; the two adversaries again bowed to each other.
“And now, sir,” continued Paul, “permit me, before our respective
seconds, to address a few words to you, not of apology, but
explanation.”
“At your own pleasure, sir, replied Lectoure.
“When I uttered the words which have been the cause of your coming
hither, the events which have since occurred at the castle were hidden
in the womb of time, and these events might have entailed the misery of
a whole family. You, sir, had on your side Madame d’Auray, Emanuel, and
the Marquis--Marguerite had but me alone. Every chance was, therefore,
in your favor. It was for this reason that I addressed myself directly
to you, for had I fallen by your hand from circumstances which must for
ever remain hidden to you, Marguerite could not have married you. If
I had killed you, the case would have been still more simplified, and
requires no commentary.
“This exordium is really most logical, sir,” replied the baron, smiling,
and tapping his boots with his riding-whip; “let us proceed, if you
please, to the main body of the discourse.” |
“Now,” continued Paul, bowing in sign of acquiescence, “every
circumstance has changed; the marquis is dead, Emanuel has received his
commission, the marchioness renounces your alliance, honorable as it may
be, and Marguerite marries the Baron Anatole de Lusignan, who, for that
reason, I did not name your second.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Lectoure, “then that is the true meaning of the note
which a servant delivered to me at the moment I was about to leave
the castle. I had the simplicity to imagine that it was merely an
adjournment. It appears that it was a dismissal in due form. ‘Tis well,
sir, and now to the peroration.”
“It will be as simple and frank as the explanation, sir. I did not know
you--I had no desire to know you; chance threw us in presence of each
other, and with opposing interests--hence our collision. Then, as I have
before told you, mistrusting fate, I wished in some measure to make sure
of a result. But now affairs have become so altered that either my death
or yours would be altogether useless, and would merely add bloodshed to
the winding up of this drama; and tell me candidly, sir, do you thank it
would be worth while to risk our lives to so little purpose?”
“I might, perhaps, agree with you in opinion, sir, had I not performed
so long a journey,” replied Lectoure: “Not having the honor to espouse
Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray, I should desire, at least, to have
the honor of crossing swords with you. It shall not be said that I have
travelled all the way from Paris into Brittany for nothing. I am at
your orders, sir,” continued Lectoure, drawing his sword, and with it
saluting his adversary.
“At your good pleasure, sir,” replied Paul, and replying to the
salutation in the same manner.
The two young men then advanced towards each other--their swords
crossed--at the third parry Lectoure’s sword was twisted from his hand,
and flew to a distance of twenty yards.
“Before taking sword in hand,” said Paul, “I had offered an explanation,
and now, sir, I trust you will be pleased to accept my apology.”
“And this time I will accept it, sir,” said Lectoure, in the same
careless and easy manner, as if nothing particular had occurred. “Pick
up my sword, Dick.”
His servant ran to fetch it, handed it to his master, who very
tranquilly put it into the scabbard.
“Now,” continued he, “if either of you, gentlemen, have any orders for
Paris, I am about to return there, and from this spot.”
“Tell the king, sir,” replied Paul, bowing, and in his turn sheathing
his sword, “that I feel happy that the sword he gave me to be employed
against the English, has remained unstained by the blood of one of my
own countrymen.”
And then the two young men again bowed to each other. Lectoure remounted
his horse, and at about a hundred paces from the sea shore, got into the
high road leading to Vannes, and galloped off; while his servant went
to the castle to get his travelling carriage, with which Lectoure had
ordered him to rejoin him speedily.
“And now, Mr. Walter,” said Paul, “you must send the long-boat to the
nearest creek to Auray castle, and have every thing in readiness to set
sail tonight.”
The lieutenant immediately set out for Port Louis, and Paul and Lusignan
returned into the fisherman’s hut.
During this time Emanuel and Marguerite had fulfilled the mournful duty
to which they had been summoned by the chapel bell. The body of the
marquis had been deposited in the emblazoned tomb of his ancestors, and
Achard’s in the humble cemetery outside the chapel, and then the
brother and sister repaired to their mother’s apartment. The marchioness
delivered to Emanuel the commission which he so anxiously coveted, and
gave to Marguerite her unexpected consent to her marriage with Lusignan.
She then handed to Marguerite the king’s sign manual appointing Lusignan
governor of Guadaloupe. And then, in order that the emotions which they
experienced should not be renewed, and which were the more poignant,
because they were concealed within their own breasts, for neither of
them made any allusion to past events, the mother and the children
embraced each other for the last time, each feeling the innate
conviction that they should never meet again.
The remainder of the day was occupied in the necessary preparations for
departure. Toward the evening the marchioness left the castle, to meet
Paul at the place which he had appointed. When passing through the
court-yard she perceived a carriage, with horses already attached to it,
standing on one side of it, and the young midshipman, Arthur, with four
sailors, on the other. Her heart was oppressed by the sight of this
two-fold preparation. She, however, passed on, and went into the park,
without giving way to her emotions, so much had her long-continued
restraint upon natural feelings given her the power of self-command.
However, when she had reached a small clearing, from which she could
see Achard’s house, she paused, for her knees trembled beneath her, and
she was obliged to lean for support against a tree, while she pressed
her hand to her breast to restrain the violent beatings of her heart.
For there are souls which present danger, however imminent, cannot cause
to quail, but which tremble at the remembrance of perils past; and the
marchioness recalled to mind the agonizing fears and emotions to which
she had been for twenty years a prey, and during which time she had
daily visited that house, now closed never again to be opened. She,
however, soon overcame this weakness, and reached the park gate.
There she again paused. Above all the trees rose the summit of a
gigantic oak, whose wide spreading branches could be discerned from
many places in the park. Often had the eyes of the marchioness remained
riveted for hours upon its verdant dome: but never had she dared to seek
repose beneath its shade. It was there, however, that she had promised
to meet Paul, and there Paul was awaiting her. At length she made a last
effort, and entered the forest.
From a distance she perceived a man kneeling upon the ground in the
attitude of prayer. She slowly approached him, and kneeling down by his
side, prayed also. When the prayer was concluded, they both rose, and
without uttering a word, the marchioness placed her arm around Paul’s
neck, and leaned her head upon his shoulder. After some moments’
silence, they heard the noise of the wheels of a carriage at a distance.
The marchioness shuddered, and made a sign to Paul to listen; it was
Emanuel setting out to join his regiment. Shortly afterwards Paul
pointed in a direction opposite to that in which they had heard the
noise, and showed the marchioness a boat gliding rapidly and silently
upon the surface of the ocean; it was Marguerite going on board the
frigate.
The marchioness listened to the noise of the receding wheels as long as
she could hear it, and followed with anxious eyes the movements of the
boat, as long as she could distinguish it; then she turned toward
Paul, and raising her eyes to heaven, for she felt that the moment was
approaching, when he, whom she was leaning upon, would, in his turn,
leave her, she exclaimed--
“May God bless, as I now bless, the duteous son, who was the last to
leave his mother.”
Saying these words, she threw her arms around his neck, pressed him
convulsively to her heart, and kissed him; then gazing at him intently,
she seemed to be scanning every outline of his face, and then, again,
rapturously embraced him.
“Yes,” she cried, “in every feature he is the living resemblance of my
poor lost Morlaix,” then for some moments she seemed to be absorbed in
thought; at last after a seemingly violent struggle, she continued,
“Paul, you have refused to accept any portion of that fortune to which
you are legally entitled, although you know the wealth of the Auray
family is unbounded--and that the fortune which I inherit in my own
right, from the family of Sablé, is very large.” Paul shook his head.
“Well, then, there is one thing that you must receive from your mother,
as her parting gift. It is twenty years since I have dared to look
upon it, and yet I have clung to its possession--it is your father’s
portrait, presented to me when I was authorized to receive it--when, by
the assent of both our families, he was to have become my husband--take
it, my dear son, for although it tears my heart to part with it, yet I
feel that I shall be more tranquil when it is in your possession--to no
one but yourself would I have given it. You will sometimes look upon it,
and you will think of your mother, who must now remain for ever isolated
from the world. But it is better that it should be so--henceforward all
my moments shall be spent in making my peace with Heaven.”
While saying these words, she had drawn from her pocket a case, which
she put into Paul’s hands, and which he had eagerly opened, and gazed
with intense interest at the features of his father. The miniature was
richly set in diamonds of great value.
Then summoning all her fortitude, the marchioness for the last time
kissed her son, who was kneeling before her, and tearing herself from
his arms, she returned alone to the castle.
The next morning the inhabitants of Port Louis vainly sought the frigate
they had seen only the evening before, and which for fifteen days had
remained at anchor in the outer roads of Lorient. As on the former
occasion, she had disappeared without their being able to comprehend the
cause of her arrival, or the motive of her so sudden departure.
EPILOGUE.
Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history.
Five years had elapsed since the occurrence of the events we have
related. The independence of the United States had been recognized; New
York, the last strong-hold of the English, had been evacuated. The roar
of cannon,-which had resounded in the Indian seas, as well as in the
Gulf of Mexico, had ceased to thunder. Washington, in the solemn meeting
of Congress of the 28th December, 1783, had resigned his commission as
general-in-chief, and had retired to Mount Vernon, his parental estate,
without any other recompence than that of being allowed to receive and
send letters free of charge; and the tranquillity which America had
begun to enjoy, had extended to the French colonies in the West Indies;
for the mother country having espoused the American cause, they had been
several times exposed to the hostile attempts of Great Britain. Among
these islands, Guadaloupe had been more particularly threatened, in
consequence of its military and commercial importance; but, thanks to
the vigilance of its new governor, the attempts of the enemy to land
there had always failed, and France had not to mourn over any serious
discomfiture in this important position, so that at the commencement of
the year 1784, the island, without being altogether denuded of warlike
appearance, which was maintained in it more from custom than from
necessity, the inhabitants generally had applied themselves anew to the
cultivation of the numerous products which form its riches.
If our readers will be pleased by a last effort of their complaisance,
to accompany us to the other side of the Atlantic, and land with us at
the port of Basseterre, we will conduct them amidst fountains which jet
on every side, through the street which leads to the promenade, called
Champ d’Arbaud; then, after having availed ourselves of the cool
shade of the tamarind trees, planted on each side of it, till we have
proceeded about two-thirds of its length, we will turn upon the left up
a small beaten road, which conducts to the gate of a garden, the upper
part of which commands a view of the whole town.
When we have arrived there, we will allow them for a few moments to
inhale the evening breeze, so refreshingly sweet after the mid-day
heat of the month of May, and they can cast a glance with us over the
luxuriant vegetation of the tropics.
With our backs turned to the woody and volcanic mountains, which divide
the western part of the island, and amid which arise, crowned with their
plumes of smoke and sparks, the two calcined pinnacles of the sulphur
mountain, we have at our feet, sheltered by the hills, which have been
named Bellevue, Mont-Désir, Beau Soliel, Espérance and Saint Charles,
the city gracefully descending towards the sea, the waves of which
sparkling with the last rays of the setting sun, laves its white walls.
The horizon, formed by the ocean, lying like a vast and limpid mirror,
and to the right and left, the most beautiful and richest plantation of
the island; large square fields of coffee trees, transplanted originally
from Arabia, with their knotty and flexible branches, covered with dark
green glossy leaves, of an oblong and pointed form, and bearing clusters
of flowers as white as snow; long rows of cotton plants, covering with
a rich carpet of verdure, the dry and stony soil, on which they thrive
best, and among which we see, like so many colossal ants, negroes
occupied in reducing to two or three, the thousand shoots which
sprout out from each stalk. And then again, but in more level and well
sheltered spots, in which the soil is richer and more argillaceous, we
see plantations of cocoa trees, first introduced into the West Indies by
the Jew, Benjamin Dacosta, with their lofty trunks and porous branches,
covered with fawn colored bark, from which large oblong leaves are
pending, among which we see fresh shoots of a soft rose color, which
contrast strongly with the long, curved and yellow fruit, which bends
the branches with its weight. And further off, whole fields of the
plant, discovered at Tabaco, first brought to France by the Ambassador
of Francis II., who presented it to Catherine de Medicis, from which
circumstance it derived its name of _Herbe-a-là-reine_.* This did not,
however, prevent it from being, like every popular thing, in the first
instance, excommunicated and proscribed, in Europe and Asia, by the
two powers who then divided the world, proscribed by the Grand Duke of
Muscovy, Michael Fedorowich, by the Turkish Sultan Amurath IV., by
the Emperor of Persia, and excommunicated by Pope Urban VIII. Here and
there, we see springing up to a height of forty or fifty feet above all
the shrubs and plants, by which it is surrounded, the banana tree of
Paradise, of which, according to tradition, the oval leaves, seven or
eight feet in length, served to form the first garment of the first
created woman. And finally, elevated above all the rest, and standing
forth pre-eminent, whether hacked by the azure of the Heavens, or by the
dark green tea, the cocoa-nut and the palm-tree, those two giants of
the Western Archipelago graceful and prodigal, as is everything that is
powerful. Figure to yourselves, then these beautiful hills, intersected
by seventy rivers, eased in beds, ninety feet in depth; these mountains
illuminated during the day by a tropical sun, at night, by the volcano
of the sulphur mountain; that vegetation, which never is arrested,
the new leaves of which succeed the leaves which fall; this soil
so salubrious, and air so pure, that notwithstanding the insensate
experiments that man, the real enemy of himself, has made by
transporting serpents from Martinique, and Saint Lucie, it was found
that they could neither live nor reproduce there, and then judge after
the sufferings they had endured in Europe, of the happiness which Antole
de Lusignan and Marguerite d’Auray must have enjoyed there.
* Queen’s Grass.
To a life agitated by the passions, to that struggle of natural rights
against legal power, to that succession of scenes in which all earthly
pains, from childbirth even to death, had played their part, had
succeeded a life of pure delights, each day of which had passed on
calmly and tranquilly; the only clouds that darkened it, arose from that
vague uneasiness for distant friends, which as if borne upon the air,
and which contracts the heart like a painful presentiment. However,
from time to time, whether by newspapers, or by vessels, touching at
the island, Anatole and Marguerite had obtained some intelligence of the
generous being who had so powerfully served them as a protector; they
had heard of his victories; that after he had left them, he had been
appointed to the command of a small squadron, and had destroyed the
English establishments on the coast of Acadia, which had gained for him
the title of commodore; that, in an engagement with the _Serapis_ and
the _Countess of Scarborough_, after a combat yard-arm to yard-arm,
which lasted four hours, he had obliged the two frigates to strike to
him, and that finally, as a reward for the services he had rendered to
the cause of American Independence, he had received the public thanks
of Congress, who had voted him a gold medal, and had selected him to
command the frigate _America_, to which that name had been given as
being the finest in the service, and the command of which had been
conferred on him as the bravest of its officers; but this splendid ship
had been presented by Congress to the King of France, to replace
the _Magnifique_, which had been lost at Boston. Paul Jones, after
conducting this frigate to Havre, had joined the fleet of the Count
de Vaudreuil, who had projected an attack upon Jamaica. This last
intelligence had overjoyed the hearts of Lusignan and Marguerite, for
this enterprize would bring Paul into their latitude, and they hoped at
last they should soon see their brother and their friend; but peace, as
we have before said, had intervened, and from that time, they had heard
no more of the adventurous seaman.
In the evening of the day on which we have transported our readers from
the wild shores of Brittany to the fertile coast of Guadaloupe, the
young family were assembled in the very garden which we have entered,
and which commands a view of the immense panorama we have described;
the foreground of which is formed by the city, at its feet the ocean,
studded with islands in the distance.
Marguerite had promptly habituated herself to the soft listlessness of
Creole life; and her mind now tranquil and full of happiness, she
gave herself up to the _dolce far niente_, which renders the sensual
existence of the colonies a half sleep, the incidents of which appear as
dreams.
She was lying with her daughter in a Peruvian hammock, netted with
the silken fibres of the aloe, and ornamented with the most brilliant
colored plumes of the rarest tropical birds; her son was swinging her
with a soft and regular motion, and Lusignan was holding one of her
hands between both his. She was still pale, but delicate and graceful as
a wild lily. Her looks were vacantly wandering over the immense extent
of ocean lying before her, and she felt her soul and senses enraptured
by all the bliss which heaven can promise, and all the enjoyments which
this earth can offer. At that moment, and as if everything concurred
to complete the magic spectacle which every evening she came there to
contemplate, and which every succeeding evening she found still more
marvellously beautiful, there suddenly appeared, doubling the cape
_Trois Pointes_, and looking like an ocean king, a large vessel, gliding
along the surface of the sea without more apparent effort than a swan
playing upon the tranquil bosom of a lake. Marguerite was the first to
perceive it, and without speaking, for every action is a fatigue under
that burning clime, she made a sign with her head to Lusignan, who
directed his looks to the spot she had indicated, and then, like her,
silently followed with his eyes the rapid and graceful movements of the
vessel. By degrees as she approached, and as the elegant and delicate
proportions of her masts amidst the mass of sails which they sustained,
could be discerned, which, in the first instance, had seemed a cloud
floating upon the horizon--they began to discover in one corner of her
flag the stars of America, equal in number to the States they represent.
One same idea shot instantly through their minds, and they exchanged a
glance, radiant with hope that they were, perhaps, about to receive some
news of Paul. Lusignan immediately ordered a negro to bring a telescope:
but before he had returned, a hope still more delightful pervaded
both their hearts. It appeared to Lusignan and Marguerite that they
recognized an old friend in the frigate that was approaching. To
persons, however, unaccustomed, it is so difficult to distinguish, at a
great distance, signs which speak at once to the eye of an experienced
seaman, that they did not yet dare to have faith in this hope, and
which, indeed, was more an instinctive presentiment than positive
reality. At last the negro brought the so much longed for telescope.
Lusignan uttered a cry of joy, and then handed it to Marguerite: he
had recognized the sculpture of Guillaume Costou, upon the prow of the
vessel, and it was really the _Indienne_ which was advancing towards
Basseterre.
Lusignan raised Marguerite from the hammock and placed her on her feet,
for their first impulse was to hasten to the harbour; but then they
reflected that Paul had left the _Indienne_ nearly five years, at the
time that his promotion entitled him to the command of a larger vessel,
and that she might now be under the orders of another captain, and they
paused with palpitating hearts and trembling limbs. During this time,
their son Hector had taken up the telescope, and placing it to his eye,
looked through it, and soon after exclaimed,--“Father, see there,--upon
the deck stands an officer, dressed in a black coat, embroidered
with gold, just like the one in the picture of my dear friend, Paul!”
Lusignan hastily snatched the glass from his son’s hands, looked through
it for a few moments, then again passed it to Marguerite, who, after
directing it toward the vessel, let it fall, and then they threw
themselves into each other’s arms; they had recognized their friend,
who, as he was about to visit them, had put on the dress which we have
before said he had generally worn. At this instant the frigate passed
the fort, which it saluted with three guns, and the fort returned the
salute with an equal number.
From the moment that Lusignan and Marguerite had acquired the certitude
that their friend and brother was actually on board the _Indienne_, they
had hastened down the mountain, followed by young Hector, towards the
port, leaving their little Blanche in the hammock. The captain had
also recognized them, so that at the moment they left the garden he had
ordered a boat to be lowered, and, thanks to the united strength of ten
vigorous oarsmen, he had rapidly glided over the distance between the
anchorage ground and the port, and had sprung upon the jetty at the
instant that his friends arrived there. Such sensations as then filled
their breasts cannot be expressed in words; tears are their only
interpreter. And thus their joy more closely resembled grief, for they
all wept, even to the child, who wept because he saw them weep.
After giving some orders relating to the vessel, the young commodore,
with his delighted friends, slowly ascended the hill down which they
had rushed so rapidly to meet him. Paul told them that the expedition
of Admiral Vaudreuil having failed, he had returned to Philadelphia, and
peace having been signed, as we have before mentioned, with England, the
Congress, as a token of gratitude, had presented him with the first ship
he had commanded as captain.
Upon hearing this, Lusignan and Marguerite experienced the most lively
joy, for they hoped that their brother had come with the intention of
taking up his abode with them; but the character of the young seaman
was too adventurous, and stood too much in need of excitement, to sink
quietly down into the monotonous and unvaried dulness of a life on
shore. He informed his friends that he had but eight days to remain with
them, after which he should seek in another quarter of the globe, to
follow the profession he had adopted.
These eight days passed by as rapidly as a dream, and notwithstanding
the reiterated entreaties of both Lusignan and Marguerite, Paul would
not consent to delay his departure even for twenty-four hours. He was
still the same ardent determined being, considering the execution of a
resolution he had once formed as a positive duty, and more austere with
regard to himself than toward others.
The hour of separation had arrived. Marguerite and Lusignan wished to
accompany the young commodore on board his ship; but Paul wished not to
prolong the grief of this leave-taking. When they reached the jetty he
embraced them for the last time, then jumped into his boat, which was
rowed away as swiftly as an arrow. Marguerite and Lusignan followed him
with their eyes until his boat had disappeared on the leeward side
of the frigate, and they sorrowfully reascended the hill to watch the
ship’s departure, from the same terrace from which they had before
discerned its arrival.
At the moment they reached it, they observed that activity and bustle
on board the frigate which always precede the departure of a vessel. The
sailors had surrounded the capstan, and were employed in getting up the
anchor, and thanks to the pureness of the atmosphere, the sonorous and
lively cries of the seamen reached the ears of Lusignan and Marguerite;
the anchor was soon apeak, and they saw it rising slowly under the
ship’s bows; then the sails dropped successively from the yards, from
the royals to the courses, and the ship, seemingly endowed with an
instinctive and animated feeling, gracefully turned her prow toward the
harbour’s mouth, and beginning to move, cut through the waves with an
easy motion, as if merely gliding upon their surface. Then, as if the
frigate might be abandoned to her own will, they saw the young commodore
spring upon the stern rails, and devote all his attention to the land he
was thus leaving. Lusignan took out his handkerchief and made a signal,
to which Paul replied. And then, when they could no longer perceive each
other with the naked eye, they had recourse to their telescopes, and,
thanks to this ingenious invention, they retarded the separation for
another hour. They all felt a presentiment that this separation would be
eternal.
The vessel gradually diminished upon the horizon, and darkness was about
to cover the heavens, when Lusignan ordered a quantity of wood to be
brought upon the terrace, to form a beacon fire, which was instantly
ignited, in order that Paul, whose vessel was nearly enshrouded in the
darkness, might continue to fix his eyes upon that spot until he had
doubled Cape Trois Pointes. Lusignan and Marguerite had for an hour lost
sight of the ship, while Paul, thanks to their large brilliant fire,
might still perceive them, when a bright flame, like to a flash of
lightning, appeared on the horizon, and in a few seconds the report of
a gun, similar to the prolonged sound of distant thunder, reached their
ears, and all again was silent. Lusignan and Marguerite had received
Paul’s last farewell.
And now, although the domestic drama which we had undertook to relate,
has, in fact, terminated here, some of our readers may, perhaps, have
felt sufficient interest in the young adventurer, of whom we have made
the hero of this story, to follow him in the second part of his career;
to these then, after thanking them for the kind attention they have been
pleased to grant to us, we are about to recount truly and plainly, facts
which a most minute research have enabled us to lay before them.
At the period we have reached, that is to say, in the month of May,
1784, the whole of Europe had fallen into that state of torpor, which
unthinking men imagined to be tranquillity, but which minds more
profound, regarded as the dull and momentary calm that precedes the
tempest. America, by obtaining her independence, had prepared France for
her revolution. Kings and people, mistrustful of each other, were upon
their guard. Peter III., who had become odious to the Russians, in
consequence of his ignoble character, the narrowness of his political
views, and above all, for his excessive leaning to Prussian manners, and
Prussian discipline, had been deposed without opposition, and strangled
without a struggle. Catherine had thus found herself, at the age of
thirty-two, mistress of an empire which extended over one-seventh part
of the globe; her first care was to compel the neighbouring powers to
accept her as a mediatrix in their quarrel, and thus become do-pendent
upon her. Thus, had she obliged the people of Courland to drive from
them their new Duke, Charles of Saxony, and to recall Biren; she had
sent her ambassadors and her armies to Warsaw, there to have crowned by
the name of Stanislaus Augustus, her former lover, Poniatowski; she had
formed an alliance with England; she had associated to her policy
the Courts of Vienna and Berlin; and notwithstanding all these
great projects of foreign policy, she had not neglected the internal
government of her own country, and in the interval of her amours, so
fickle and so various, she still found time to reward industry, to
encourage agriculture, to reform the laws, to raise a navy, to
send Pallas into provinces the productions of which were till then
unknown--Blumager into the northern Archipelago, and Bel-lings into
the Indian ocean; in fine, jealous of the literary reputation of her
brother, the King of Prussia, she wrote with the same hand that had
ordered the erection of a new city, signed the order for the execution
of young Ivan, and the dismemberment of Poland, _The Refutation of the
Journey into Siberia_, by the Abbé Chappe, a romance of the Czarowich
Chlose, several plays, among which was a translation into French of
Oleg, a drama, written by the Russian poet, Dersehawin, so that Voltaire
proclaimed her the Semiraris of the North, and the King of Prussia, in
his letters, classed her between Solon and Lycurgus.
The effect produced amid this voluptuous and chivalric court by the
arrival of such a man, as our adventurous seaman, can readily be
imagined. The reputation for courage, which had rendered him the terror
of the enemies of France and America, had preceded him to the court
of Russia, and in exchange for his frigate, which he presented to
Catherine, he received the rank of Rear-Admiral. Then the flag of
Russia, after having navigated round one-half the old world, appeared in
the Grecian seas, and beneath the ruins of Lacedemon and the Parthenon,
he, who had assisted in establishing the independence of America, dreamt
of the re-establishment of the Republics of Sparta and of Athens. The
old Ottoman empire was shaken to its foundations, the defeated Turks
signed a treaty of peace at Kainardji. Catherine retained Azof,
Taganrog, and Kenburr, and Kenburn, compelled the Turks to grant to
her the free navigation of the Black Sea, and the independence of the
Crimea; she then desired to visit her new possessions. Paul, recalled to
St. Petersburgh, accompanied her on this journey, the route of which had
been drawn up by Potemkin. During the whole of it, all the attributes of
triumph were offered to the conquering Empress and her suite; bonfires
were lighted all along the road, cities were illuminated with the most
fairy-like brilliancy, magnificent palaces erected, as if by magic, for
one day, amid desert countries, and which the next morning disappeared;
villages, rising as if beneath the wand of an enchanter, in solitudes,
in which eight days before the Tartars fed their flocks; towns appearing
on the horizon of which there existed but the exterior walls; in every
direction, homage, and songs of welcome, and dances of the people:
during the day, a numerous population crowded the road, and at night,
while the Empress was sleeping, they would run to station themselves in
the way she was to proceed on waking the following morning: a king and
emperor rode by her side, calling themselves not her brothers, not her
equals, but her courtiers; finally, a triumphal arch was erected at
the last halt she was to make on her journey southward, bearing the
inscription--“_This is the road to Byzantium,_” which if it did not
reveal the ambition of Catherine, demonstrated at least, the policy of
Potemkin. Then Russia became strengthened in her tyranny, as America had
in her independence. Catherine offered to her Admiral places which would
have more than satisfied the rapacity of a courtier, honors which would
have overwhelmed the ambitious, estates which would have consoled a
deposed king for the loss of his dominions; but it was the deck of
his ship, it was the sea with its combats and its tempests, it was
the boundless immensity of ocean for which yearned the heart of our
adventurous and poetic seaman. He, therefore, left the brilliant court
of Catherine, as he had left the austere Congress of America, and
returned to France to seek that, which he could not find elsewhere, that
is to say, a life of excitement, enemies to combat, a people to defend.
Paul arrived in Paris in the midst of our European wars and civil
struggles; while, with one hand, we were seizing a foreign enemy by the
throat, with the other, we were tearing our own entrails. That king,
whom he had seen ten years before, beloved, honored, powerful, was then
a captive, despised and strengthless. All that had been exalted was
abased, and great names fell as did high-born heads.--It was the reign
of equality, and the guillotine was the levelling instrument. Paul
inquired after Emanuel, and was told that he was proscribed. He asked
what had become of his mother, and was informed that she was dead. Then
he felt an irresistible longing to revisit once again, before he himself
might die, the spot on which, twelve years before, he had experienced
emotions at once so sweet and terrible. He set out for Brittany, left
his carriage at Vannes, and mounted on horseback, as he had done on the
first day he had seen Marguerite; but he was no longer the young and
enthusiastic seaman, whose desires and hopes had no horizon; he was a
man bereft of all those, brilliant illusions, for he had tasted of all,
whether weet or bitter, had learnt to appreciate all, both men and
things; had known all, glory and oblivion. Therefore, did he not come to
search a family, but to visit tombs.
When he came within sight of the castle, he turned his eyes toward
Achard’s house, and not being able to discover it, he thought he
would go into the forest, but the forest seemed to have vanished as by
enchantment. It had been sold as national property to twenty-five or
thirty farmers of the neighbourhood, who had cleared off the timber, and
transformed it into a large plain. The gigantic oak had disappeared, and
the plough had passed over the unknown grave of the Count de Morlaix,
and the eyes of his son even, could no longer recognize the spot.
Then he returned through the park toward the castle, now become even
more gloomy and desolate than when he had last seen it. In it he found
only an old man, a living ruin amidst these ruins of the past; it was at
first intended to have pulled down the mansion, but the reputation for
holiness which the marchioness had left behind her, was regarded with
such religious veneration throughout the country, that the old walls,
which for four centuries had been the abode of her ancestors, remained
undesecrated. Paul went through the apartments, which for three years
had remained closed, and which were now open for him. He walked through
the portrait gallery; it was in the same state as he had formerly seen
it; no pious hand had added to the portrait either of the marquis or
the marchioness. He went into the study in which he had been
concealed--found a book lying in it which he had opened and placed upon
the very spot on which he found it, and read the same passages which
he had read so many years before. He then pushed open the door which
communicated with the contract chamber, where had passed the chief
scenes of that drama in which he was the principal actor. The table
was still in the same place and the Venetian looking-glass over the
chimney-piece was there, shattered as it had been by the ball of
Emanuels pistol.
Paul advanced to the fire-place, and placing his elbow on the marble
mantle-piece, questioned the servant as to the last years of the
Marchioness.
The account he received shewed that she had remained austere and
melancholy, as was her wont. Remaining secluded and alone at the castle,
her hours were uniformly spent in three different places: her oratory,
the vault in which the body of her husband had been buried, and the
spot sheltered by the oak tree, at the foot of which her lover had been
interred. For eight years after the evening on which Paul had taken
leave of her, she had been seen to wander amid the old corridors of
the castle, and in the gloomy avenues of the Park, slow and pale as a
spectre; then a disease of the heart, engendered by the agonies she had
suffered, declared itself, and she daily became weaker. At length, one
evening, when her failing strength no longer permitted her to walk, she
had ordered the servants to carry her to the foot of the oak tree, her
favorite walk, that she might once more see, she said, the sun setting
in the ocean. When they had reached the spot, she desired the servants
to withdraw, and to come back to her in half an hour. On their return
they found her lying fainting on the ground. They immediately bore her
to the castle, but having recovered her senses on the way, she ordered
them, instead of conducting her to her own room, which they usually did,
to take her down into the family vault. There she had still strength
enough to kneel upon the tomb of her husband, and made a sign that she
desired to be left alone. However imprudent their doing so might be, the
servants elbow on the marble withdrew, for she had accustomed them
to obey her in every thing at the first intimation of her will. They,
however, remained at a short distance, concealed behind the corner of a
tomb, that they might be ready to render her assistance, should it be
necessary. In a few minutes they saw her fall down upon the stone on
which she had been praying; they rushed forward, imagining that she had
again fainted. She was dead.
Paul requested the old servant to conduct him into the vault, and slowly
entered it with uncovered head; and when he had reached the stone
which covered the grave of his mother, he knelt down and prayed. On the
monumental stone were inscribed the following words, and which may still
be seen in one of the chapels of the church of the small town of Auray,
to which it has since been removed. The inscription had been written by
the marchioness herself, and she had desired that it should be placed
upon her tomb.
“Here lies the very noble and very puissant lady Marguerite Blanche de
Sablé, Marchioness of Auray; born the 2nd of August 1729--died the 3rd
September, 1788.
“Pray for her and for her children.”
Paul raised his eyes to heaven, with an expression of infinite
gratitude, His mother, who during her life, had for so long a time
forgotten him, had remembered him in her funeral inscription.
Six months after this visit, the National Convention decreed, in solemn
sitting, that they would attend in a body the funeral procession of Paul
Jones, formerly a commodore in the American navy, and whose burial was
to take place in the cemetery of Pere La Chaise.
They had come to this decision, said the decree, in order to consecrate
the establishment of _religious freedom throughout France_.