Elnathan was a man of many cares, and every kind of wisdom, but
one--the wisdom of knowing when he had wealth enough. He evidently
loved accumulation; and the result was, that every hour of his
existence was one of terror. Half the brokers and chief traders in
France were already in prison; and yet he carried on the perilous
game of commerce. He was known to be immensely opulent; and he must
have regarded the day which passed over his head, without seeing his
strong boxes put under the government seal, and himself thrown into
some _oubliette_, as a sort of miracle. But he was now assailed by a
new alarm. War with England began to be rumoured among the bearded
brethren of the synagogue; and Elnathan had ships on every sea, from
Peru to Japan. Like Shakspeare's princely merchant--
"His mind was tossing on the ocean,
There where his argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors, and rich burghers of the flood.
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Did overpower the petty traffickers,
As they flew by them with their woven wings."
The first shot fired would inevitably pour out the whole naval force
of England, and his argosies would put their helms about, and steer
for Portsmouth, Plymouth, and every port but a French one. If this
formidable intelligence had awakened the haughtiness of the French
government to a sense of public peril, what effect must it not have
in the counting-house of a man whose existence was trade? While I was
on my pillow, luxuriating in dreams of French fêtes, Paul and
Virginia carried off to the clouds, and Parisian _belles_ dancing
cotillons in the bowers and pavilions of a Mahometan paradise,
Elnathan spent the night at his desk, surrounded by his bustling
generation of clerks, writing to correspondents at every point of the
compass, and preparing insurances with the great London
establishments; which I was to carry with me, though unacquainted
with the transaction on which so many millions of francs hung
trembling.
His morning face showed me, that whatever had been his occupation
before I met him at the breakfast-table, it had been a most uneasy
one. His powerful and rather handsome physiognomy had shrunk to half
the size; his lips were livid, and his hand shook to a degree which
made me ask, whether the news from Robespierre was unfavourable. But
his assurance that all still went on well in that delicate quarter,
restored my tranquility, which was beginning to give way; and my only
stipulation now was, that I should have an hour or two to spend at
Vincennes before I took my final departure. The Jew was all
astonishment; his long visage elongated at the very sound; he shook
his locks, lifted up his large hands, and fixed his wide eyes on me
with a look of mingled alarm and wonder, which would have been
ludicrous if it had not been perfectly sincere.
"In the name of common sense, do you remember in what a country, and
in what times, we live? Oh, those Englishmen! always thinking that
they are in England. My young friend, you are clearly not fit for
France, and the sooner you get out of it the better."
I still remonstrated. "Do you forget yesterday?" he exclaimed. "Can
you forget the man before whom we both stood? A moment's hesitation
on your part to set out, would breed suspicion in that most
suspicious brain of all mankind. Life is here as uncertain as in a
field of battle. Begone the instant your passports arrive, and never
behind you.--For my part, I constantly feel as if my head were in the
lion's jaws. Rejoice in your escape."
But I was still unconvinced, and explained "that my only motive was,
to relieve my friends in the fortress from the alarm which they had
evidently felt for my fate, and to relieve myself from the charge of
ingratitude, which would inevitably attach to me if I left Paris
without seeing them."
Never was man more perplexed with a stubborn subject. He represented
to me the imminent hazard of straying a hair's-breadth to the right
or left of the orders of Robespierre! "I was actually under
surveillance, and he was responsible for me. To leave his roof; even
for five minutes, until I left it for my journey, might forfeit the
lives of both before evening."
I still remonstrated; and pronounced the opinion, perhaps too
flattering a one, of the dictator, that "he could not condescend to
forbid a mere matter of civility, which still left me entirely at his
service." The Jew at last, in despair, rushed from the room, leaving
me to the unpleasing consciousness that I had distressed an honest
and even a friendly man.
Two hours thus elapsed, when a _chaise de poste_ drew up at the door,
with an officer of the police in front, and from it came Varnhorst
and the doctor, both probably expecting a summons to the scaffold;
but the Prussian bearing his lot with the composure of a man
accustomed to face death, and the doctor evidently in measureless
consternation, colourless and convulsed with fear. His rapture was
equally unbounded when Elnathan, ushering them both into the
apartment where I sat--
Chewing the cud of sweet and bitter
thought"--
explained, that finding me determined on my point, he had adopted the
old proverb--of bringing Mahomet to the mountain, if he could not
bring the mountain to Mahomet; had procured an order for their
attendance in Paris, through his influence with the chief of the
police, and now hoped to have the honour of their company at dinner.
This was, certainly, a desirable exchange for the Place de Grève; and
we sat down to a sumptuous table, where we enjoyed ourselves with the
zest which danger escaped gives to luxurious security.
All went on well. The doctor was surprised to find in the frowning
banker, who had repulsed him so sternly from his desk, the hospitable
entertainer; and Varhorst's honest and manly friendship was gratified
by the approach of my release from a scene of perpetual danger.
I had some remembrances to give to my friends in Prussia; and at
length, sending away the doctor to display his connoisseurship on
Elnathan's costly collection of pictures, Varnhorst was left to my
questioning. My first question naturally was, "What had involved him
in the ill-luck of the Austrians."
"The soldier's temptation every where," was the answer; "having
nothing to do at home, and expecting something to do abroad. When the
Prussian army once crossed the Rhine, I should have had no better
employment than to mount guard, escort the court dowagers to the
balls, and finish the year and my life together, by dying of _ennui_.
In this critical moment, when I was in doubt whether I should turn
Tartar, or monk of La Trappe, Clairfait sent to offer me the command
of a division. I closed with it at once, went to the king, obtained
his leave, put spurs to my horse, and reached the Austrian camp
before the courier."
I could not help expressing my envy at a profession in which all the
honours of earth lay at the feet of a successful soldier! He smiled,
and pointed to the police-officer, who was then sulkily pacing in
front of the house.
"You see," said he, "the first specimen of my honours. Yet, from the
moment of my arrival within the Austrian lines, I could have
predicted our misfortune. Clairfait was, at least, as long-sighted as
myself; and nothing could exceed his despondency but his indignation.
His noble heart was half broken by the narrowness of his resources
for defending the country, and the boundless folly by which the war
council of Vienna expected to make up for the weakness of their
battalions by the absurdity of their plans. 'I write for regiments,'
the gallant fellow used to say; 'and they send me regulations! I tell
them that we have not troops enough for an advanced guard; and they
send me the plan of a pitched battle! I tell then that the French
have raised their army in front of me to a hundred thousand strong;
and they promise me reinforcements next year.' After all, his chief
perplexity arose from their orders--every despatch regularly
contradicting the one that came before.
"Something in the style," said I, "of Voltaire's caricature of the
Austrian courier in the Turkish war, with three packs strapped on his
shoulders, inscribed, 'Orders'--'Counter-orders'--and 'Disorders.'
"Just a case in point. Voltaire would have been exactly the historian
for our campaign. What an incomparable tale he would have made of it!
Every thing that was done was preposterous. We were actually beaten
before we fought; we were ruined at Vienna before a shot was fired at
Jemappes. The Netherlands were lost, not by powder and ball, but by
pen and ink; and the consequence of our "march to Paris" is, that one
half of the army is now scattered from Holland to the Rhine, and the
other half is, like myself, within French walls."