One the eve of M. de la Marche’s departure, and after the abbe’s letter
had been sent, a little incident had happened in Varenne which, when I
heard of it in America, caused me considerable surprise and pleasure.
Moreover, it is linked in a remarkable manner with the most important
events of my life, as you will see later.
Although rather seriously wounded in the unfortunate affair of Savannah,
I was actively engaged in Virginia, under General Greene, in collecting
the remains of the army commanded by Gates, whom I considered a much
greater hero than his more fortunate rival, Washington. We had just
learnt of the landing of M. de Ternay’s squadron, and the depression
which had fallen on us at this period of reverses and distress was
beginning to vanish before the prospect of re-enforcements. These, as
a fact, were less considerable than we had expected. I was strolling
through the woods with Arthur, a short distance from the camp, and we
were taking advantage of this short respite to have a talk about other
matters than Cornwallis and the infamous Arnold. Long saddened by
the sight of the woes of the American nation, by the fear of seeing
injustice and cupidity triumphing over the cause of the people, we were
seeking relief in a measure of gaiety. When I had an hour’s leisure I
used to escape from my stern toils to the oasis of my own thoughts in
the family at Sainte-Severe. At such a time I was wont to tell my kind
friend Arthur some of the comic incidents of my entry into life after
leaving Roche-Mauprat. At one time I would give him a description of
the costume in which I first appeared; at another I would describe
Mademoiselle Leblanc’s contempt and loathing for my person, and her
recommendation to her friend Saint-Jean never to approach within arms’
length of me. As I thought of these amusing individuals, the face of
the solemn hidalgo, Marcasse, somehow arose in my memory, and I began
to give a faithful and detailed picture of the dress, and bearing, and
conversation of this enigmatic personage. Not that Marcasse was actually
as comic as he appeared to be in my imagination; but at twenty a man is
only a boy, especially when he is a soldier and has just escaped great
dangers, and so is filled with careless pride at the conquest of his own
life. Arthur would laugh right heartily as he listened to me, declaring
that he would give his whole collection of specimens for such a curious
animal as I had just described. The pleasure he derived from my childish
chatter increased my vivacity, and I do not know whether I should
have been able to resist the temptation to exaggerate my uncle’s
peculiarities, when suddenly at a turn in our path we found ourselves
in the presence of a tall man, poorly dressed, and terribly haggard, who
was walking towards us with a serious pensive expression, and carrying
in his hand a long naked sword, the point of which was peacefully
lowered to the ground. This individual bore such a strong resemblance
to the one I had just described to Arthur, struck by the parallel,
burst into uncontrollable laughter, and moving aside to make way for
Marcasse’s double, threw himself upon the grass in a convulsive fit of
coughing.
For myself, I was far from laughing; for nothing that has a supernatural
air about it fails to produce a vivid impression even on the man most
accustomed to dangers. With staring eyes and outstretched arms we drew
near to each other, myself and he, not the shade of Marcasse, but
the venerable person himself, in flesh and blood, of the hidalgo
mole-catcher.
Petrified with astonishment when I saw what I had taken for his ghost
slowly carry his hand to the corner of his hat and raise it without
bending the fraction of an inch, I started back a yard or two; and this
movement, which Arthur thought was a joke on my part, only increased his
merriment. The weasel-hunter was by no means disconcerted; perhaps in
his judicial gravity he was thinking that this was the usual way to
greet people on the other side of the ocean.
But Arthur’s laughter almost proved infectious when Marcasse said to me
with incomparable gravity:
“Monsieur Bernard, I have had the honour of searching for you for a long
time.”
“For a long time, in truth, my good Marcasse,” I replied, as I shook my
old friend’s hand with delight. “But, tell me by what strange power I
have been lucky enough to draw you hither. In the old days you passed
for a sorcerer; is it possible that I have become one too without
knowing it?”
“I will explain all that, my dear general,” answered Marcasse, who was
apparently dazzled by my captain’s uniform. “If you will allow me to
accompany you I will tell you many things--many things!”
On hearing Marcasse repeat his words in a low voice, as if furnishing an
echo for himself, a habit which only a minute before I was in the act of
imitating, Arthur burst out laughing again. Marcasse turned toward
him and after surveying him intently bowed with imperturbable gravity.
Arthur, suddenly recovering his serious mood, rose and, with comic
dignity, bowed in return almost to the ground.
We returned to the camp together. On the way Marcasse told me his story
in that brief style of his, which, as it forced his hearer to ask a
thousand wearisome questions, far from simplifying his narrative, made
it extraordinarily complicated. It afforded Arthur great amusement; but
as you would not derive the same pleasure from listening to an exact
reproduction of this interminable dialogue, I will limit myself to
telling you how Marcasse had come to leave his country and his friends,
in order to give the American cause the help of his sword.
M. de la Marche happened to be setting out for America at the very time
when Marcasse came to his castle in Berry for a week, to make his
annual round among the beams and joists in the barns. The inmates of
the chateau, in their excitement at the count’s departure, indulged
in wonderful commentaries on that far country, so full of dangers and
marvels, from which, according to the village wiseacres, no man ever
returned without a vast fortune, and so many gold and silver ingots that
he needed ten ships to carry them all. Now, under his icy exterior,
Don Marcasse, like some hyperborean volcano, concealed a glowing
imagination, a passionate love of the marvellous. Accustomed to live in
a state of equilibrium on narrow beams in evidently loftier regions than
other men, and not insensible to the glory of astounding the bystanders
every day by the calm daring of his acrobatic movements, he let himself
be fired by these pictures of Eldorado; and his dreams were the more
extravagant because, as usual, he unbosomed himself to no one. M. de
la Marche, therefore, was very much surprised when, on the eve of his
departure, Marcasse presented himself, and proposed to accompany him to
America as his valet. In vain did M. de la Marche remind him that he was
very old to abandon his calling and run the risks of a new kind of life.
Marcasse displayed so much firmness that in the end he gained his point.
Various reasons led M. de la Marche to consent to the strange request.
He had resolved to take with him a servant older still than the
weasel-hunter, a man who was accompanying him only with great
reluctance. But this man enjoyed his entire confidence, a favour which
M. de la Marche was very slow to grant, since he was only able to
keep up the outward show of a man of quality, and wished to be served
faithfully, and with economy and prudence. He knew, however, that
Marcasse was scrupulously honest, and even singularly unselfish; for
there was something of Don Quixote in the man’s soul as well as in his
appearance. He had found in some ruins a sort of treasure-trove, that is
to say, an earthenware jar containing a sum of about ten thousand francs
in old gold and silver coins; and not only had he handed it over to the
owner of the ruins, whom he might easily have deceived, but further
he had refused to accept any reward, declaring emphatically in his
abbreviated jargon, “honesty would die selling itself.”
Marcasse’s economy, his discretion, his punctuality, seemed likely to
make him a valuable man, if he could be trained to put these qualities
at the service of others. The one thing to be feared was that he might
not be able to accustom himself to his loss of independence. However,
M. de la Marche thought that, before M. de Ternay’s squadron sailed, he
would have time to test his new squire sufficiently.
On his side, Marcasse felt many regrets at taking leave of his friends
and home; for if he had “friends everywhere and everywhere a native
place,” as he said, in allusion to his wandering life, he still had a
very marked preference for Varenne; and of all his castles (for he was
accustomed to call every place he stopped at “his”), the chateau of
Sainte-Severe was the only one which he arrived at with pleasure and
left with regret. One day, when he had missed his footing on the roof
and had rather a serious fall, Edmee, then still a child, had won his
heart by the tears she had shed over this accident, and the artless
attentions she had shown him. And ever since Patience had come to dwell
on the edge of the park, Marcasse had felt still more attracted toward
Sainte-Severe; for in Patience Marcasse had found his Orestes. Marcasse
did not always understand Patience; but Patience was the only man who
thoroughly understood Marcasse, and who knew how much chivalrous honesty
and noble courage lay hidden beneath that odd exterior. Humbly bowing
to the hermit’s intellectual superiority, the weasel-hunter would stop
respectfully whenever the poetic frenzy took possession of Patience and
made his words unintelligible. At such a time Marcasse would refrain
from questions and ill-timed remarks with touching gentleness; would
lower his eyes, and nodding his head from time to time as if he
understood and approved, would, at least, afford his friend the innocent
pleasure of being listened to without contradiction.
Marcasse, however, had understood enough to make him embrace republican
ideas and share in those romantic hopes of universal levelling and a
return to the golden age, which had been so ardently fostered by old
Patience. Having frequently heard his friend say that these doctrines
were to be cultivated with prudence (a precept, however, to which
Patience gave but little heed himself), the hidalgo, inclined to
reticence both by habit and inclination, never spoke of his philosophy;
but he proved himself a more efficacious propagandist by carrying about
from castle to cottage, and from house to farm, those little cheap
editions of _La Science du Bonhomme Richard_, and other small treatises
on popular patriotism, which, according to the Jesuits, a secret society
of Voltairian philosophers, devoted to the diabolical practice of
freemasonry, circulated gratis among the lower classes.
Thus in Marcasse’s sudden resolution there was as much revolutionary
enthusiasm as love of adventure. For a long time the dormouse and
polecat had seemed to him overfeeble enemies for his restless valour,
even as the granary floor seemed to afford too narrow a field. Every
day he read the papers of the previous day in the servants’ hall of
the houses he visited; and it appeared to him that this war in America,
which was hailed as the awakening of the spirit of justice and liberty
in the New World, ought to produce a revolution in France. It is true
he had a very literal notion of the way in which ideas were to cross the
seas and take possession of the minds of our continent. In his dreams he
used to see an army of victorious Americans disembarking from numberless
ships, and bringing the olive branch of peace and the horn of plenty to
the French nation. In these same dreams he beheld himself at the head
of a legion of heroes returning to Varenne as a warrior, a legislator, a
rival of Washington, suppressing abuses, cutting down enormous fortunes,
assigning to each proletarian a suitable share, and, in the midst of his
far-reaching and vigorous measures, protecting the good and fair-dealing
nobles, and assuring an honourable existence to them. Needless to say,
the distress inseparable from all great political crises never entered
into Marcasse’s mind, and not a single drop of blood sullied the
romantic picture which Patience had unrolled before his eyes.
From these sublime hopes to the role of valet to M. de la Marche was a
far cry; but Marcasse could reach his goal by no other way. The ranks
of the army corps destined for America had long been filled, and it was
only in the character of a passenger attached to the expedition that
he could take his place on one of the merchant ships that followed the
expedition. He had questioned the abbe on these points without revealing
his plans. His departure quite staggered all the inhabitants of Varenne.
No sooner had he set foot on the shores of the States than he felt an
irresistible inclination to take his big hat and his big sword and go
off all alone through the woods, as he had been accustomed to do in his
own country. His conscience, however, prevented him from quitting his
master after having pledged himself to serve him. He had calculated that
fortune would help him, and fortune did. The war proved much more bloody
and vigorous than had been expected, and M. de la Marche feared, though
wrongly, that he might be impeded by the poor health of his gaunt
squire. Having a suspicion, too, of the man’s desire for liberty, he
offered him a sum of money and some letters of recommendation, to enable
him to join the American troops as a volunteer. Marcasse, knowing the
state of his master’s fortune, refused the money, and only accepted the
letters; and then set off with as light a step as the nimblest weasels
that he had ever killed.
His intention was to make for Philadelphia; but, through a chance
occurrence which I need not relate, he learnt that I was in the South,
and, rightly calculating that he would obtain both advice and help from
me, he had set out to find me, alone, on foot, through unknown countries
almost uninhabited and often full of danger of all kinds. His clothes
alone had suffered; his yellow face had not changed its tint, and he was
no more surprised at his latest exploit than if he had merely covered
the distance from Sainte-Severe to Gazeau Tower.
The only fresh habit that I noticed in him, was that he would turn round
from time to time, and look behind him, as if he had felt inclined to
call some one; then immediately after he would smile and sigh almost at
the same instant. I could not resist a desire to ask him the cause of
his uneasiness.
“Alas!” he replied, “habit can’t get rid of; a poor dog! good dog!
Always saying, ‘Here Blaireau! Blaireau, here!’”
“I understand,” I said, “Blaireau is dead, and you cannot accustom
yourself to the idea that you will never see him at your heels again.”
“Dead!” he exclaimed, with an expression of horror. “No, thank God!
Friend Patience, great friend! Blaireau quite well off, but sad like his
master; his master alone!”
“If Blaireau is with Patience,” said Arthur, “he is well off, as you
say; for Patience wants nothing. Patience will love him because he loves
his master, and you are certain to see your good friend and faithful dog
again.”
Marcasse turned his eyes upon the individual who seemed to be so well
acquainted with his life; but, feeling sure that he had never seen him
before, he acted as he was wont to do when he did not understand; he
raised his hat and bowed respectfully.
On my immediate recommendation Marcasse was enrolled in my company
and, a little while afterward, was made a sergeant. The worthy man went
through the whole campaign with me, and went through it bravely; and in
1782, when I rejoined Rochambeau’s army to fight under the French flag,
he followed me, as he was anxious to share my lot until the end. In the
early days I looked upon him rather as an amusement than a companion;
but his excellent conduct and calm fearlessness soon won for him the
esteem of all, and I had reason to be proud of my _protege_. Arthur also
conceived a great friendship for him; and, when off duty, he accompanied
us in all our walks, carrying the naturalist’s box and running the
snakes through with his sword.
But when I tried to make him speak of my cousin, he by no means
satisfied me. Whether he did not understand how eager I felt to learn
all the details of the life she was leading far away from me, or
whether in this matter he was obeying one of those inviolable laws
which governed his conscience, I could never obtain from him any clear
solution of the doubts which harassed me. Quite early he told me that
there was no question of her marriage with any one; but, accustomed
though I was to his vague manner of expressing himself, I imagined he
seemed embarrassed in making this assertion and had the air of a man
who had sworn to keep a secret. Honour forbade me to insist to such an
extent as to let him see my hopes, and so there always remained between
us a painful point which I tried to avoid touching upon, but to which,
in spite of myself, I was continually returning. As long as Arthur was
near me, I retained my reason, and interpreted Edmee’s letters in the
most loyal way; but when I was unfortunate enough to be separated from
him, my sufferings revived, and my stay in America became more irksome
to me every day.
Our separation took place when I left the American army to fight
under the command of the French general. Arthur was an American; and,
moreover, he was only waiting for the end of the war to retire from the
service, and settle in Boston with Dr. Cooper, who loved him as his son,
and who had undertaken to get him appointed principal librarian to the
library of the Philadelphia Society. This was all the reward Arthur
desired for his labours.
The events which filled my last years in America belong to history.
It was with a truly personal delight that I hailed the peace which
proclaimed the United States a free nation. I had begun to chafe at my
long absence from France; my passion had been growing ever greater, and
left no room for the intoxication of military glory. Before my departure
I went to take leave of Arthur. Then I sailed with the worthy Marcasse,
divided between sorrow at parting from my only friend, and joy at the
prospect of once more seeing my only love. The squadron to which my ship
belonged experienced many vicissitudes during the passage, and several
times I gave up all hope of ever kneeling before Edmee under the great
oaks of Sainte-Severe. At last, after a final storm off the coast of
France, I set foot on the shores of Brittany, and fell into the arms
of my poor sergeant, who had borne our common misfortunes, if not with
greater physical courage, at least with a calmer spirit, and we mingled
our tears.