EXTRACTS FROM GENERAL SIMON'S DIARY.
Bivouac on the Mountains of Avers February the 20th, 1830.
"Each time I add some pages to this journal, written now in the heart of
India, where the fortune of my wandering and proscribed existence has
thrown me--a journal which, alas! my beloved Eva, you may never read--I
experience a sweet, yet painful emotion; for, although to converse thus
with you is a consolation, it brings back the bitter thought that I am
unable to see or speak to you.
"Still, if these pages should ever meet your eyes, your generous heart
will throb at the name of the intrepid being, to whom I am this day
indebted for my life, and to whom I may thus perhaps owe the happiness of
seeing you again--you and my child--for of course our child lives. Yes,
it must be--for else, poor wife, what an existence would be yours amid
the horrors of exile! Dear soul! he must now be fourteen. Whom does he
resemble? Is he like you? Has he your large and beautiful blue
eyes?--Madman that I am! how many times, in this long day-book, have I
already asked the same idle question, to which you can return no
answer!--How many times shall I continue to ask it?--But you will teach
our child to speak and love the somewhat savage name of Djalma."
"Djalma!" said Rose, as with moist eyes she left off reading.
"Djalma!" repeated Blanche, who shared the emotion of her sister. "Oh, we
shall never forget that name."
"And you will do well, my children; for it seems to be the name of a
famous soldier, though a very young one. But go on, my little Rose!"
"I have told you in the preceding pages, my dear Eva, of the two glorious
days we had this month. The troops of my old friend, the prince, which
daily make fresh advances in European discipline, have performed wonders.
We have beaten the English, and obliged them to abandon a portion of this
unhappy country, which they had invaded in contempt of all the rights of
justice, and which they continue to ravage without mercy, for, in these
parts, warfare is another name for treachery, pillage, and massacre. This
morning, after a toilsome march through a rocky and mountainous district,
we received information from our scouts, that the enemy had been
reinforced, and was preparing to act on the offensive; and, as we were
separated from them by a distance of a few leagues only, an engagement
became inevitable. My old friend the prince, the father of my deliverer,
was impatient to march to the attack. The action began about three
o'clock; it was very bloody and furious. Seeing that our men wavered for
a moment, for they were inferior in number, and the English
reinforcements consisted of fresh troops, I charged at the head of our
weak reserve of cavalry. The old prince was in the centre, fighting, as
he always fights, intrepidly; his son, Djalma, scarcely eighteen, as
brave as his father, did not leave my side. In the hottest part of the
engagement, my horse was killed under me, and rolling over into a ravine,
along the edge of which I was riding, I found myself so awkwardly
entangled beneath him, that for an instant I thought my thigh was
broken."
"Poor father!" said Blanche.
"This time, happily, nothing more dangerous ensued thanks to Djalma! You
see, Dagobert," added Rose, "that I remember the name." And she continued
to read,
"The English thought--and a very flattering opinion it was--that, if they
could kill me, they would make short work of the prince's army. So a
Sepoy officer, with five or six irregulars--cowardly, ferocious
plunderers--seeing me roll down the ravine, threw themselves into it to
despatch me. Surrounded by fire and smoke, and carried away by their
ardor, our mountaineers had not seen me fall; but Djalma never left me.
He leaped into the ravine to my assistance, and his cool intrepidity
saved my life. He had held the fire of his double-barrelled carbine; with
one load, he killed the officer on the spot; with the other he broke the
arm of an irregular, who had already pierced my left hand with his
bayonet. But do not be alarmed, dear Eva; it is nothing--only a scratch."
"Wounded--again wounded--alas!" cried Blanche, clasping her hands
together, and interrupting her sister.
"Take courage!" said Dagobert: "I dare say it was only a scratch, as the
general calls it. Formerly, he used to call wounds, which did not disable
a man from fighting, blank wounds. There was no one like him for such
sayings."
"Djalma, seeing me wounded," resumed Rose, wiping her eyes, "made use of
his heavy carbine as a club, and drove back the soldiers. At that
instant, I perceived a new assailant, who, sheltered behind a clump of
bamboos which commanded the ravine, slowly lowered his long gun, placed
the barrel between two branches, and took deliberate aim at Djalma.
Before my shouts could apprise him of his danger, the brave youth had
received a ball in his breast. Feeling himself hit, he fell bark
involuntarily two paces, and dropped upon one knee: but he still remained
firm, endeavoring to cover me with his body. You may conceive my rage and
despair, whilst all my efforts to disengage myself were paralyzed by the
excruciating pain in my thigh. Powerless and disarmed, I witnessed for
some moments this unequal struggle.
"Djalma was losing blood rapidly; his strength of arm began to fail him;
already one of the irregulars, inciting his comrades with his voice, drew
from his belt a huge, heavy kind of bill-hook, when a dozen of our
mountaineers made their appearance, borne towards the spot by the
irresistible current of the battle. Djalma was rescued in his turn, I was
released, and, in a quarter of an hour, I was able to mount a horse. The
fortune of the day is ours, though with severe loss; but the fires of the
English camp are still visible, and to-morrow the conflict will be
decisive. Thus, my beloved Eva, I owe my life to this youth. Happily, his
wound occasions us no uneasiness; the ball only glanced along the ribs in
a slanting direction."
"The brave boy might have said: 'A blank wound,' like the general,"
observed Dagobert.
"Now, my dear Eva," continued Rose, "you must become acquainted, by means
of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma. He is but just
eighteen. With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant
nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only
fifteen, he was called 'The Generous'--by which was, of course, meant
generous in heart and mind. By another custom, no less touching than
whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called 'The
Father of the Generous,' and who might, with equal propriety, be called
'The Just,' for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor and
proud independence. He might, like so many other poor princes of this
country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of the
English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power, and
submitted to brute force--but it was not in his nature. 'My whole rights,
or a grave in my native mountains!'--such is his motto. And this is no
empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and just.
'But you will be crushed in the struggle,' I have said to him--'My
friend,' he answered, 'what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you
were told to yield or die?'--From that day I understood him, and have
devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak
against the strong. You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of
such a father. This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery,
that, like a young Greek of Leonidas' age, he fights with his breast
bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have
arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick,
impenetrable vest. The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat,
King of Naples, who, I have so often told you, I have seen a hundred
times leading the most desperate charges with nothing but a riding-whip
in his hand."
"That's another of those kings I was telling you of, whom the Emperor set
up for his amusement," said Dagobert. "I once saw a Prussian officer
prisoner, whose face had been cut across by that mad-cap King of Naples'
riding-whip; the mark was there, a black and blue stripe. The Prussian
swore he was dishonored, and that a sabre-cut would have been preferable.
I should rather think so! That devil of a king; he only had one idea:
'Forward, on to the cannon!' As soon as they began to cannonade, one
would have thought the guns were calling him with all their might, for he
was soon up to them with his 'Here I am!' If I speak to you about him, my
children, it's because he was fond of repeating,--'No one can break
through a square of infantry, if General Simon or I can't do it.'"
Rose continued:
"I have observed with pain, that, notwithstanding his youth, Djalma is
often subject to fits of deep melancholy. At times, I have seen him
exchange with his father looks of singular import. In spite of our mutual
attachment, I believe that both conceal from me some sad family secret,
in so far as I can judge from expressions which have dropped from them by
chance.
"It relates to some strange event which their vivid imaginations have
invested with a supernatural character.
"And yet, my love, you and I have no longer the right to smile at the
credulity of others. I, since the French campaign, when I met with that
extraordinary adventure, which, to this day, I am quite unable to
understand--"
"This refers to the man who threw himself before the mouth of the
cannon," said Dagobert.
"And you," continued the maiden, still reading, "you, my dear Eva, since
the visits of that young and beautiful woman, whom, as your mother
asserted, she had seen at her mother's house forty years before."
The orphans, in amazement, looked at the soldier.
"Your mother never spoke to me of that, nor the general either, my
children; this is as strange to me as it is to you."
With increasing excitement and curiosity, Rose continued:
"After all, my dear Eva, things which appear very extraordinary, may
often be explained by a chance resemblance or a freak of nature. Marvels
being always the result of optical illusion or heated fancy, a time must
come, when that which appeared to be superhuman or supernatural, will
prove to be the most simple and natural event in the world. I doubt not,
therefore, that the things, which we denominate our prodigies, will one
day receive this commonplace solution."
"You see, my children--things appear marvelous, which at bottom are quite
simple--though for a long time we understand nothing about them."
"As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be
astonished--eh, sister?"
"Yes, truly--since it will all be explained one day."
"For example," said Dagobert, after a moment's reflection, "you two are
so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you
daily, might easily take one for the other. Well! if they did not know
that you are, so to speak,'doubles,' they might think an imp was at work
instead of such good little angels as you are."
"You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even
as our father says." And Rose continued to read:
"Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French
blood in his veins. His father married, some years ago, a young girl,
whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the
island of Java. This similarity of circumstances between my old friend
and myself--for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long
settled in a foreign land--has only served to augment my sympathy for
him. Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom he
adored.
"See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words. I am
weak--I am foolish--but, alas! my heart sinks within me. If such a
misfortune were to happen to me--Oh, my God!--what would become of our
child without thee--without his father--in that barbarous country? But
no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is
uncertainty! Where may you now be? What are you doing? What has become of
you? Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for me.
They are the cause of my worst moments--for, when free from them, I can
at least say to myself: I am proscribed, I am every way unfortunate--but,
at the other end of the world, two hearts still beat for me with
affection--yours, my Eva, and our child's!"
Rose could hardly finish this passage; for some seconds her voice was
broken by sobs. There was indeed a fatal coincidence between the fears of
General Simon and the sad reality; and what could be more touching than
these outpourings of the heart, written by the light of a watch fire, on
the eve of battle, by a soldier who thus sought to soothe the pangs of a
separation, which he felt bitterly, but knew not would be eternal?
"Poor general! he is unaware of our misfortune," said Dagobert, after a
moment's silence; "but neither has he heard that he has two children,
instead of one. That will be at least some consolation. But come,
Blanche; do go on reading: I fear that this dwelling on grief fatigues
your sister, and she is too much affected by it. Besides, after all, it
is only just, that you should take your share of its pleasure and its
sorrow."
Blanche took the letter, and Rose, having dried her eyes, laid in her
turn her sweet head on the shoulder of her sister, who thus continued:
"I am calmer now, my dear Eva; I left off writing for a moment, and
strove to banish those black presentiments. Let us resume our
conversation! After discoursing so long about India, I will talk to you a
little of Europe. Yesterday evening, one of our people (a trusty fellow)
rejoined our outposts. He brought me a letter, which had arrived from
France at Calcutta; at length, I have news of my father, and am no longer
anxious on his account. This letter is dated in August of last year. I
see by its contents, that several other letters, to which he alludes,
have either been delayed or lost; for I had not received any for two
years before, and was extremely uneasy about him. But my excellent father
is the same as ever! Age has not weakened him; his character is as
energetic, his health as robust, as in times past--still a workman, still
proud of his order, still faithful to his austere republican ideas, still
hoping much.
"For he says to me, 'the time is at hand,' and he underlines those words.
He gives me also, as you will see, good news of the family of old
Dagobert, our friend--for in truth, my dear Eva, it soothes my grief to
think, that this excellent man is with you, that he will have accompanied
you in your exile--for I know him--a kernel of gold beneath the rude rind
of a soldier! How he must love our child!"
Here Dagobert coughed two or three times, stooped down, and appeared to
be seeking on the ground the little red and blue check-handkerchief
spread over his knees. He remained thus bent for some seconds, and, when
he raised himself, he drew his hand across his moustache.
"How well father knows you!"
"How rightly has he guessed that you would love us!"
"Well, well, children; pass over that!--Let's come to the part where the
general speaks of my little Agricola, and of Gabriel, my wife's adopted
child. Poor woman! when I think that in three months perhaps--but come,
child, read, read," added the old soldier, wishing to conceal his
emotion.
"I still hope against hope, my dear Eva, that these pages will one day
reach you, and therefore I wish to insert in them all that can be
interesting to Dagobert. It will be a consolation to him, to have some
news of his family. My father, who is still foreman at Mr. Hardy's, tells
me that worthy man has also taken into his house the son of old Dagobert.
Agricola works under my father, who is enchanted with him. He is, he
tells me, a tall and vigorous lad, who wields the heavy forge hammer as
if it were a feather, and is light-spirited as he is intelligent and
laborious. He is the best workman on the establishment; and this does not
prevent him in the evening, after his hard day's work, when he returns
home to his mother, whom he truly loves, from making songs and writing
excellent patriotic verses. His poetry is full of fire and energy; his
fellow-workmen sing nothing else, and his lays have the power to warm the
coldest and the most timid hearts."
"How proud you must be of your son, Dagobert," said Rose, in admiration;
"he writes songs."
"Certainly, it is all very fine--but what pleases me best is, that he is
good to his mother, and that he handles the hammer with a will. As for
the songs, before he makes a 'Rising of the People,' or a 'Marseillaise,'
he will have had to beat a good deal of iron; but where can this rascally
sweet Agricola have learned to make songs at all?--No doubt, it was at
school, where he went, as you will see, with his adopted brother
Gabriel."
At this name of Gabriel, which reminded them of the imaginary being whom
they called their guardian angel, the curiosity of the young girls was
greatly excited. With redoubled attention, Blanche continued in these
words:
"The adopted brother of Agricola, the poor deserted child whom the wife
of our good Dagobert so generously took in, forms, my father tells me, a
great contrast with Agricola; not in heart, for they have both excellent
hearts; but Gabriel is as thoughtful and melancholy as Agricola is
lively, joyous, and active. Moreover, adds my father, each of them, so to
speak, has the aspect, which belongs to his character. Agricola is dark,
tall, and strong, with a gay and bold air; Gabriel, on the contrary, is
weak, fair, timid as a girl, and his face wears an expression of angelic
mildness."
The orphans looked at each other in surprise; then, as they turned
towards the soldier their ingenuous countenances, Rose said to him; "Have
you heard, Dagobert? Father says, that your Gabriel is fair, and has the
face of an angel. Why, 'tis exactly like ours!"
"Yes, yes, I heard very well; it is that which surprised me, in your
dream."
"I should like to know, if he has also blue eyes," said Rose.
"As for that, my children, though the general says nothing about it, I
will answer for it: your fair boys have always blue eyes. But, blue or
black, he will not use them to stare at young ladies; go on, and you will
see why."
Blanche resumed:
"His face wears an expression of angelic mildness. One of the Brothers of
the Christian Schools, where he went with Agricola and other children of
his quarter, struck with his intelligence and good disposition, spoke of
him to a person of consequence, who, becoming interested in the lad,
placed him in a seminary for the clergy, and, since the last two years,
Gabriel is a priest. He intends devoting himself to foreign missions, and
will soon set out for America."
"Your Gabriel is a priest, it appears?" said Rose, looking at Dagobert.
"While ours is an angel," added Blanche.
"Which only proves that yours is a step higher than mine. Well, every one
to his taste; there are good people in all trades; but I prefer that it
should be Gabriel who has chosen the black gown. I'd rather see my boy
with arms bare, hammer in hand, and a leathern apron round him, neither
more nor less than your old grandfather, my children--the father of
Marshal Simon, Duke of Ligny--for, after all, marshal and duke he is by
the grace of the Emperor. Now finish your letter."
"Soon, alas, yes!" said Blanche; "there are only a few lines left." And
she proceeded:
"Thus, my dear, loving Eva, if this journal should ever reach its
destination, you will be able to satisfy Dagobert as to the position of
his wife and son, whom he left for our sakes. How can we ever repay such
a sacrifice? But I feel sure, that your good and generous heart will have
found some means of compensation.
"Adieu!--Again adieu, for to-day, my beloved Eva; I left off writing for
a moment, to visit the tent of Djalma. He slept peacefully, and his
father watched beside him; with a smile, he banished my fears. This
intrepid young man is no longer in any danger. May he still be spared in
the combat of to-morrow! Adieu, my gentle Eva! the night is silent and
calm; the fires of the bivouac are slowly dying out, and our poor
mountaineers repose after this bloody day; I can hear, from hour to hour,
the distant all's well of our sentinels. Those foreign words bring back
my grief; they remind me of what I sometimes forget in writing--that I am
faraway, separated from you and from my child! Poor, beloved beings! what
will be your destiny? Ah! if I could only send you, in time, that medal,
which, by a fatal accident, I carried away with me from Warsaw, you
might, perhaps, obtain leave to visit France, or at least to send our
child there with Dagobert; for you know of what importance--But why add
this sorrow to all the rest? Unfortunately, the years are passing away,
the fatal day will arrive, and this last hope, in which I live for you,
will also be taken from me: but I will not close the evening by so sad a
thought. Adieu, my beloved Eva! Clasp our child to your bosom, and cover
it with all the kisses which I send to both of you from the depths of
exile!"
"Till to-morrow--after the battle!"
The reading of this touching letter was followed by long silence. The
tears of Rose and Blanche flowed together. Dagobert, with his head
resting on his hand, was absorbed in painful reflections.
Without doors, the wind had now augmented in violence; a heavy rain began
to beat on the sounding panes; the most profound silence reigned in the
interior of the inn. But, whilst the daughters of General Simon were
reading with such deep emotion, these fragments of their father's
journal, a strange and mysterious scene transpired in the menagerie of
the brute-tamer.