TWO RETURNS, ONE OF THEM NOT EXPECTED.
“I keep my master’s noble name
For warring, not for feasting.”
Although every real obstacle to his marriage was now removed, it was
several months before Ivan found himself at liberty to return to France
and claim his bride. He had to go to Nicolofsky, to see and set in
order his new estate. It is impossible to describe the joy of his old
friends upon that occasion, and the welcome he received from them all,
especially from his foster-parents. One of his earliest acts was to
emancipate the starost and his family, making them at the same time
a present of their homestead. He bestowed a similar favour upon the
mother of Michael; Michael himself, as a soldier, being free already.
To Pope Nikita and his wife he could give little that they cared for,
except kindness and sympathy. They had not recovered from their deep
sorrow for the melancholy fate of his old playfellow, their beloved and
only daughter. Amongst these friends of his boyhood Ivan became once
more a boy. He would sit for hours talking to “bativshka” and to the
company gathered around his hospitable stove, telling them the eventful
story of the war, as well as his own adventures since they parted.
He could not make this first visit a long one; although he consoled
his “serfs,” or rather his friends, with the promise that at no
distant period he would come again and take up his abode amongst
them. He was obliged to return to the capital in time to accompany
the Emperor to the Congress of Vienna, where the brilliant series
of fêtes and spectacles in which the assembled sovereigns displayed
their magnificence made the presence of such a splendid corps as the
Chevalier Guard particularly suitable. But at length he succeeded
in obtaining the desired furlough, and early in February reached
Versailles once more.
He found Clémence unchanged, except that the months of separation had
added, in his eyes, to her grace and loveliness. Madame de Talmont
looked at least ten years younger since the return of her son; but
Henri himself seemed older, and wore a grave if not a troubled aspect.
Madame de Salgues also was ageing quickly: Henri told Ivan she was
anxious about Emile, who had more than once been in danger for acts of
boyish insolence and bravado, such as tearing white cockades from the
breasts of their wearers, and giving a jovial supper to his companions
on the 21st of January, the anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI.
“A wise government,” said Henri during a quiet walk with Ivan in the
park of Versailles, “would disregard these follies, and a strong
government could very well afford to do it. But I fear the government
of Louis Dix-huit is not either wise or strong. He and his courtiers
seem to forget that the world has turned round more than once since
1789. There is not a little discontent amongst the people, and there is
much, very much amongst the military.”
“Do _you_ intend to embrace a military life, Henri?”
Henri shuddered. “_Never_, if I can help it. My experience of
soldiering was too terrible.”
“I do not think you need anticipate another Moscow campaign,” returned
Ivan.
“Still,” pursued Henri, “if my country were in danger, I trust I
should not be found lacking. My mother is exceedingly anxious to see me
in the army. But my own tastes lead me in a direction quite different.”
“To the bar, perhaps, or the Church?”
“My mother and my aunt think these the only rational alternatives. They
talk grandly of ‘la noblesse de la robe;’ but I confess I do not care
for the career of a lawyer, nor do I think I have the talents necessary
to insure success in it. While as for the Church,--may I speak my whole
mind to you in confidence, Prince Ivan?”
“Certainly you may, my dear friend.”
“I am a sincere and earnest believer in Christianity,” Henri said. “I
have heard the voice of God in the stormy wind and tempest, in the snow
and hail which fulfilled his will. But since I have begun to study that
will as revealed in his own Word, a suspicion I cannot dismiss grows
and strengthens within me,--I fear some of the rites and doctrines of
the Church in which I have been brought up are not in accordance with
it.”
These words awakened for the first time in the mind of Ivan the thought
that any real or important divergence might exist between the different
forms of Christianity. Hitherto the world for him had contained two
classes only--believers and infidels. These he found and expected
to find everywhere--in the “orthodox” Church of his own country,
amongst the Catholics of France and the Lutherans of Prussia. The idea
suggested by Henri was so new to him that he paused for some moments to
consider it before he answered, speaking slowly and with deliberation,
“I am sorry you are troubled with such thoughts, Henri; for doubting
keeps us from doing, and it seems to me that there is a great deal to
be done in the world, and little time enough to do it. On the other
hand, you would not have the doubts if God had not sent them to you.
You are not doubting _him_; you are only doubting in what manner you
can serve him best. So you must face your doubts and answer them, one
way or the other. God will be with you, and lead you to the light. But
in the meantime you need not sit idle.”
“True, most true. I am longing to work for God, who has done so much
for me. Besides, what right have I to sit with folded hands, a burden
upon my aunt? ‘If any man will not work, neither shall he eat.’ But
it is much easier to say what I can’t do than what I can. My mother
thinks so few things possible to one who has the misfortune, as I feel
disposed to call it, of being nobly born.”
“What would you like to do, in your heart of hearts, Henri?”
“If I tell you, will you laugh at me, Prince Ivan?”
“Not I! Why should I? When I was a boy I could plough a straight
furrow, and I was a fair hand with the reaping-hook. You cannot fancy
any occupation lowlier than these.”
“I should like to use, not a plough, but a pencil and pair of
compasses. At Vilna I lodged in the house of an architect, and spent
much of my leisure over his books. I was always fond of mathematics,
which are useful in that line. Prince Ivan, if you want to build a
palace on your new estate, I shall be most happy to design it for you.”
Ivan made him a profound bow, then turned and laid his hand on his
shoulder. “Come to Russia with us,” he said warmly. “Never was there
a better opening for your genius. Think of all Moscow to be rebuilt!
Russia ought to be the El Dorado of architects for twenty years to
come.”
“Are you jesting, Prince Ivan?”
“Never was I more in earnest. The Czar will give you a welcome; and
the rather because he shares your tastes himself. In his brief moments
of leisure he often amuses himself by taking up a pencil and drawing
a design for a public building. So he knows how to appreciate what is
good.”
“But--my mother. Already her heart is torn by the thought of parting
with Clémence.”
“Why need there be any parting? I think we could make her happy at
Nicolofsky or St. Petersburg. I have often thought about this, and what
you have said to me now gives me the courage to propose it.”
“Do you intend to leave the army?” Henri asked in his turn, perhaps
with some desire to change a subject upon which he was conscious of
having said more than he intended.
“I do, as soon as peace is thoroughly settled. Of course, until then it
cannot be thought of. At the Congress things sometimes looked doubtful
enough.”
“That affair of the kingdom of Poland seems to be causing a great deal
of trouble,” said Henri. “More than it is worth, _I_ should say; but
the Czar does not seem to think so.”
“When did _not_ an old wrong cause an infinity of trouble to the man
who tries to repair it? By some strange fatality, it is upon him
the punishment generally comes, not upon the man who did it,” Ivan
answered. “Those ‘designs’ upon Poland, for which many who ought to
know better are now loudly blaming the Czar, simply mean two things--to
Russia an assured peace, guaranteed by a strong, well-defended
frontier; and to Poland the longed-for ‘unity,’ with as much of
the longed-for ‘independence’ as she is fit to have and capable of
using.”[59]
“It seems a strange way of repaying the Poles for having gone away _en
masse_ after Napoleon,” said Henri.
“It is the way of my Czar,” returned Ivan proudly. “Did you ever
hear what passed between him and Kosakoski, the most devoted of
Napoleon’s Polish adherents? ‘Is it true that you followed Napoleon
to Fontainebleau?’ asked the Czar. ‘Yes, sire,’ returned the Pole who
certainly had the courage of his opinions. ‘I was with him till he left
it; and then, if he had asked me to go with him, I would have done
it.’ The Czar was silent for a moment, then he asked him, ‘What is it
you wish for most?’ ‘The restoration of my property,’ said Kosakoski.
The Czar immediately wrote an order to that effect, and gave it to
him. It is well known that his heart, since his boyhood, has yearned
to heal the wounds and to atone for the wrongs of Poland. The Polish
hostage, Czartoriski, was the friend of his youth; and in their long
confidential talks they planned together to build the old waste places
and gather the scattered members of the oppressed nationality. Now
Czartoriski reproaches him with doing far too little; while Russia,
loyal but perplexed, suspects him of doing too much; and Europe accuses
him of caring for nothing but the extension of his own frontier. And
your King, Louis Dix-huit,” continued Ivan with some bitterness, “to
whom he gave a throne, treats him as an enemy.” They had almost reached
their home when this was said, so Henri was spared the necessity of a
rejoinder, nor did he greatly care to make one, Legitimist though he
was.
Many a happy talk had Clémence and Ivan in those days about things
past and future--things seen and unseen. Their engagement was now
openly avowed; the trousseau of the bride was in preparation, and all
was arranged except the wedding-day. Madame de Salgues was becoming
reconciled to an alliance which would give her niece the title of
Princess, and was lavish in her presents of jewellery and costly laces.
Since the Restoration her life had become less secluded; many of the
returned _émigrés_ frequented her house, and found the young Russian
prince, the _futur_ of Mademoiselle Clémence, a very pleasant addition
to their society.
One evening Madame de Salgues gave an entertainment to a few of her
friends. It was a supper, refined and elegant, but unpretending, such
as, in her own words, “used to be _de bon ton_ before the Revolution
and the bourgeoisie spoiled everything, when we did not come together
to eat and to drink, but to converse and to enjoy one another’s
society.”
Upon this occasion her guests thoroughly fulfilled her expectations,
with the exception of the youngest of the party. Stéphanie de Sartines,
like a spoiled child, had importuned her father to allow her to accept
Madame de Salgues’s invitation; but having gained her point, she sat
absorbed and silent, refusing to eat or to speak, and devoting herself
to the contemplation of her idolized friend Clémence, from whom she was
so soon to be separated. Ivan pitied the sad-faced little girl, and
remembering her exploits at their first meeting, sought to console her
with the most tempting of bonbons and preserved fruits; but he could
elicit nothing beyond a melancholy “No, thank you, monsieur.”
“You should say M. le Prince, my daughter,” her father corrected.
“En Russie tout faquin est prince,”[60] observed the audacious Emile to
his neighbour, M. de Cranfort.
The latter, though disposed to regard Ivan in the light of a successful
rival, resented the discourtesy of Emile, and showed it by asking
coldly, “What do you say, sir?”
“Don’t you know the story? Before the war broke out the Czar sent
Prince Tufaquin as ambassador to the court of the Emperor, who, during
their first interview, called him nothing but ‘Monsieur.’ One of
the bystanders afterwards told him of the title borne by the envoy.
‘J’ignorais qu’en Russie _tout faquin_ est prince,’ was his answer.”
“General Buonaparte was a parvenu,” said M. de Cranfort; “therefore it
was not altogether his fault if he mistook rudeness for wit.”
Emile “knew when he was beaten,” perhaps because he was not an
Englishman; so he turned from M. de Cranfort to Stéphanie, whom he
heard deploring that Prince Ivan was going to take Clémence away from
them into Russia, where she would be frozen to death in the long cold
winter, or eaten by the bears. He bent over her with a comic air of
gallantry, and prayed her to be comforted. “_I_ am infinitely more
devoted to you than Mademoiselle Clémence could ever be,” he said;
“and, mademoiselle, _I_ am not going to Russia.”
But he was scarcely more fortunate here. “Of course you are not,”
returned the young lady sharply, her dark eyes flashing. “I heard
a gentleman tell my father that the Czar is inviting all manner of
clever, capable people to go to Russia; but for any one who is--who is,
well, just _ordinary_, you know, he has no particular welcome.”
In the meantime Stéphanie’s allusion to Russian bears had occasioned
remark. Ivan told some stories about them which were rather amusing
than terrible; for bears, like nobler animals who run away when
they are attacked, sometimes make themselves ridiculous. Amidst the
laughter which followed, Madame de Salgues’s valet made a whispered
communication--“Madame, there is an old soldier without, who wishes to
speak with the young gentleman.”
“With what young gentleman?”
“The young gentleman of the house, he says, madame.”
“Then ask M. de Talmont to go to him at once, and see what he wants,”
said Madame de Salgues with a nervous air. The capital and its environs
swarmed with old soldiers of Napoleon, who were needy and discontented,
longing for any kind of political change, and in the meantime, if
report said true, not always despising robbery and violence as less
desirable but still legitimate means of repairing their ruined fortunes.
Henri went into the hall, closing the door behind him. He saw in the
lamp-light a tall, gaunt figure, wrapped in an old greatcoat, which
covered a shabby uniform, but did not conceal the cross and two medals
glittering on the breast of the faded tunic.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” said the soldier in a voice Henri seemed
to recognize. “It was not you I wished to see, but the young gentleman
who belongs to the Ecole Polytechnique.”
“Surely I know you--surely I have seen you somewhere,” said Henri,
looking attentively at the bronzed, weather-beaten features of the old
man.
The veteran shook his head. “You have the advantage of me, monsieur,”
he said.
But after another brief scrutiny a light flashed over the mind of
Henri, reflecting itself in his face. He advanced cordially and took
the soldier’s bony hand in his. “Pierre Rougeard of the Old Guard,” he
said, “I am heartily glad to see you. I thought you were with the dead.”
It was natural that the young conscript should remember the old
Guardsman who had befriended him in his hour of need far better than
the Guardsman could remember the conscript. Henri was greatly changed,
while scarcely anything on this side of the grave could change the
hard, weather-beaten features of Rougeard. He was obliged to recall the
past to his recollection. “Never,” said he, “did banquet seem so sweet
to me as that repast of horse-flesh to which you bade me welcome by
your bivouac fire on the Smolensko road. But we gave you up for lost
that terrible day before we crossed the Beresina.”
“I was made prisoner,” Rougeard answered. “But I fell into good hands,
and was kindly treated. At the Peace of Paris I came home with the
rest--though it is home no longer without the Emperor,” he added with a
sigh.
“You must have much to tell,” Henri rejoined; and as the valet passed
through the hall, he said to him, “Alphonse, this is an old friend of
mine who showed me much kindness while I was in Russia. Take the best
care you can of him. By-and-by,” he said to Rougeard, “we will finish
our conversation.”
He returned to the salon, and related what had passed to Madame de
Salgues. That lady, with the characteristic love of a Frenchwoman for
a little scene, must needs have the old Guardsman brought in, that he
might drink the health of Henri, and receive the acknowledgments of his
friends for the kindness he had shown him.
So Henri fetched Rougeard, who listened to a little speech from Madame
de Salgues, had his hand shaken by Madame de Talmont and Clémence, and
emptied a brimming goblet of champagne poured out for him by Emile.
As he gave back the goblet, he bent forward and whispered a word or
two, which made the lad--unused as he was to self-control--utter an
involuntary cry of amazement, and drop the glass upon the ground.
Of course every one started and looked at him; and Madame de Salgues
asked in alarm, “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Emile in confusion, stooping to collect the fragments
of the broken glass.
“Nothing indeed,” repeated the terrible Stéphanie. “You need not be
alarmed, madame; I heard every word he said, and it was only this,
‘_The little corporal has come back_.’ M. Emile, who is the little
corporal?”
Well might she ask the question, for “all faces gathered blackness.”
The party of friends, just before so glad and gay, looked as if a shell
had suddenly burst amongst them. M. de Sartines was the first to find a
voice. “Garde,” he said, turning solemnly to Rougeard, “since you have
spoken these words you are bound to explain them. I daresay it is mere
rumour,” he added, addressing the ladies.
For a moment Rougeard stood irresolute. He had come to impart his
tidings to Emile, whom he knew already as an ardent Buonapartist,
ready to venture his life in the good cause; but to proclaim them in
the midst of a circle of Royalists had been far from his intention.
However, he soon recovered his composure. To-morrow all Paris would
know the truth; what did it matter about a few hours? With a simple
dignity which was not unbecoming, he answered M. de Sartines, “I have
the honour, monsieur, to belong to the Old Guard, therefore I have
heard to-day what you will all hear to-morrow. The Emperor has set his
foot once more upon the soil of France. He has landed near Fréjus, in
the Gulf of St. Juan.”
“Then by this time he is a prisoner, if he is not shot, or hanged upon
the nearest tree,” said De Cranfort; while Emile sprang to his feet,
and shouted, “Vive Napoléon!”
“If my grandson cannot behave at my table like a gentleman, I will
thank him to leave it,” said Madame de Salgues with a sternness that
amazed every one, and was not without its effect upon Emile, who was
accustomed to nothing from her but extreme indulgence.
Ivan, though his own thoughts were sufficiently sorrowful, felt a
compassion for the boy, and a dread, not altogether groundless, of what
he might be tempted to do if provoked. Turning to his hostess, near
whom he sat, he said to her, unheard by the others, “Madame, I pray of
you do not be hard with him. Do not let him leave us in this way. His
exclamation was natural. I should certainly have done the same had I
heard the Czar was coming.”
Cranfort caught the last words, and said with petulance, “It is all his
fault.”
“Whose fault?” asked a quiet, elderly abbé, invited because Madame
de Salgues thought no party perfect without a slight, a very slight
ecclesiastical flavour.
“The fault of the Czar, M. l’Abbé,” returned Cranfort, raising his
voice, for the abbé sat at the other side of the table. “If the
Corsican adventurer succeeds in erecting his standard once more, and
torrents of blood are spilt, it will be the result of the imprudent
generosity of the Emperor Alexander. No one can pretend that he was not
warned. M. de Talleyrand and every man of sense knew that Elba was no
place for Buonaparte. It was keeping a lighted candle at the door of
the powder-magazine.”
“It did not require the wit of Talleyrand to find _that_ out,” said
M. de Sartines. “The Emperor Alexander may have had political motives
of his own sufficient to explain his conduct. Most probably he had. If
not, his championship of the Buonapartes does honour possibly to his
heart, but little enough to his understanding.”
Ivan was about to speak, but Henri, with a quick motion of his hand,
arrested him. “Not one word, Prince Ivan,” he said in a voice low
and tremulous with suppressed emotion. “Not one word from your lips
to-night! It is I--I whose life he saved--who must defend him. And
from what? Is it from the charge of sparing the fallen? of being too
generous, too merciful, too trusting? There are very few who need
exculpation from such charges. And I, who but for that mercy of his
would now be lying in a nameless grave at Vilna, will not sit by
and hear them.--Messieurs, I am a man of peace; I hate strife and
bloodshed; and I thought that never again should this right hand of
mine touch sword or pistol. Yet I am ready, either now or hereafter,
with sword or pistol, or both, for any gentleman, or any number of
gentlemen, who may desire to meet me in this quarrel.”
“Quel tapage!” muttered Emile. “One man may raise a fine commotion
where another may not breathe a word!”
Madame de Talmont was terrified by a vehemence so foreign to the
character of her son. She interposed, explaining that no harm had been
intended, and entreating him to recollect himself. M. de Sartines also
hastened to apologize. “I was not aware, monsieur,” he said, “that you
were under personal obligations to the Czar. Still I cannot hold myself
excused, for I should not have used so much freedom in the presence of
M. le Prince. I hope he will be good enough to pardon me.”
“No need of that, monsieur,” returned Ivan. “The more freely the
conduct of my sovereign is discussed by every loyal Frenchman the more
will be his honour. The Czar,” he added proudly, “has saved Europe
once. If need be, he will do so again.”
Shortly afterwards the guests departed. Henri drew Ivan aside. “You
will be obliged to leave us?” he said in a low voice.
“Yes,” Ivan answered gravely. “After what we have just heard, I must go
immediately to my Czar.”
Henri’s voice dropped still lower, and laying his hand on the shoulder
of his friend, he said a few earnest words. Ivan answered in the same
tone; then, with a countenance wonderfully brightened, he left the room.
When he was gone, Henri said earnestly, turning to his mother and his
aunt, “Clémence and Ivan belong to each other already in the sight of
God; why should they not do so also in the sight of man? Months, if not
more, may elapse before Ivan can return--a long and dangerous campaign,
perhaps two, may intervene--how much better a hasty marriage than the
wearing suspense and anxiety of a protracted engagement?”
“What difference can it make?” asked Madame de Salgues. “Clémence must
of course remain here until things are settled.”
“A very great difference,” Madame de Talmont answered. “As a wife,
he can send for her and she can go to him should anything untoward
happen--which God forbid,” she added with a trembling lip. “God
alone knows what comfort there is in having the right to tend, or to
mourn.--Henri, I entirely agree with you.”
“It occurs to me that there is some one else whose consent will have to
be obtained,” Madame de Salgues observed.
Henri smiled. “I believe Ivan is this very moment engaged in obtaining
it,” he said.
“That being the case,” said Madame de Salgues, “and after the opinion
your mother has just expressed, it only remains for us to arrange
details.”
The next morning Clémence and Ivan were married quietly in the parish
church of Versailles. It is possible that the young Russian gave a
passing sigh of regret to the touching and beautiful ceremonies of
his own ritual, which he was obliged to forego. Gladly would “Ivan
the servant of God” have been “crowned with Clémence the handmaid of
God,” as it is the use and wont to do with brides and bridegrooms in
the Greco-Russian Church. But what did it signify? He was more than
content--he was unspeakably thankful for all that was given him by God
and by man.
There was a simple _déjeûner_, the only guests outside the family
circle being M. de Sartines and Stéphanie, who was greatly consoled
by her dignity of bridesmaid. There were brave, loving farewells; and
then Ivan rode away to rejoin his comrades and to do his duty in the
conflicts that might yet lie before him and them.