Before I had time to collect myself, I was hurried on by De Beauvais into a room, when the moment I had entered the door was closed and locked behind me. By the light of a coarse and rudely formed chandelier that occupied the middle of a table, I saw a party of near a dozen persons who sat around it,—the head of the board being filled by one whose singular appearance attracted all my attention. He was a man of enormous breadth of chest and shoulders, with a lofty massive head, on either side of which a quantity of red hair fell in profusion; a beard of the same color descended far on his bosom, which, with his overhanging eyebrows, imparted a most savage and ferocious expression to features which of themselves were harsh and repulsive. Though he wore a blouse in peasant fashion, it was easy to see that he was not of the lower walk of society. Across his brawny chest a broad belt of black leather passed, to support a strong straight sword, the heavy hilt of which peeped above the arm of his chair. A pair of handsomely-mounted pistols lay before him on the table; and the carved handle of a poniard could be seen projecting slightly from the breast-pocket of his vest. Of the rest who were about him I had but time to perceive that they were peasants; but all were armed, and most of them wearing a knot of white ribbon at the breast of their blouses.
Every eye was turned towards me, as I stood at the foot of the table astonished and speechless—while De Beauvais, quitting my arm, hastened to the large man's side, and whispered some words in his ear. He rose slowly from his chair, and in a moment each face was turned to him. Speaking in a deep guttural tone, he addressed them for some minutes in a patois of which I was totally ignorant; every word he uttered seemed to stir their very hearts, if I were to judge from the short and heavy respiration, the deep-drawn breath, the flushed faces and staring eyes around me. More than once some allusion seemed made to me,—at least, they turned simultaneously to look at me; once, too, at something he said, each man carried his hand round to his sword-hilt, but dropped it again listlessly as he continued. The discourse over, the door was unlocked, and one by one they left the room, each man saluting the speaker with a reverence as he passed out. De Beauvais closed the door and barred it as the last man disappeared, and turning hastily round, called out,—
“What now?”
The large man bent his head down between his hands, and spoke not in reply; then suddenly springing up, he said,—
“Take my horse—he is fresh and ready for the road—and make for Quilleboeuf; the ford at Montgorge will be swollen, but he 'll take the stream for you. At the farmer's house that looks over the river you can stop.”
“I know it, I know it,” said De Beauvais. “But what of you, are you to remain behind?”
“I 'll go with him,” said he, pointing towards me. “As his companion, I can reach the Bois de Boulogne; in any case, as his prisoner. Once there, you may trust me for the rest.”
De Beauvais looked at me for a reply. I hesitated what to say, and at last said,—
“For your sake, Henri de Beauvais, and yours only, have I ventured on a step which may, in all likelihood, be my ruin. I neither know, nor wish to know, your plans; nor will I associate myself with any one, be he who he may, in your enterprise.”
“Jacques Tisserand, the tanner,” continued the large man, as if not heeding nor caring for my interruption, “will warn Armand de Polignac of what has happened; and Charles de la Riviere had better remain near Deauville for the English cutter,—she 'll lie off the coast to-morrow or next day. Away! lose not a moment.”
“And my dear friend here,” said De Beauvais, turning to me, “who has risked his very life to rescue me, shall I leave him thus?”
“Can you save him by remaining?” said the other, as he coolly examined the priming of his pistols. “We shall all escape, if you be but quick.”
A look from De Beauvais drew me towards him, when he threw his arms around my neck, and in a low, broken voice, muttered, “When I tell you that all I lived for exists to me no longer,—the love I sought refused me, my dearest ambition thwarted,—you will not think that a selfish desire for life prompts me now; but a solemn oath to obey the slightest command of that man,—sworn before my sovereign,—binds me, and I must not break it.”
“Away, away! I hear voices at the gate below,” cried the other.
“Adieu! adieu forever,” said De Beauvais, as he kissed my cheek, and sprang through a small doorway in the wainscot which closed after him as he went.
“Now for our movements,” said the large man, unhooking a cloak that hung against the wall. “You must tie my hands with this cord in such a way that, although seemingly secure, I can free myself at a moment; place me on a horse, a fast one too, beside you; and order your troopers to ride in front and rear of us. When we reach the Bois de Boulogne, leave the Avenue des Chasseurs and turn towards St. Cloud. Tonnerre de del, they're firing yonder!” An irregular discharge of small arms, followed by a wild cheer, rang out above the sound of the storm. “Again! did you hear that? there are the carbines of cavalry; I know their ring. Accursed dogs, that would not do my bidding!” cried he, stamping with passion on the ground, while, throwing off his blouse, he stuck his pistols in a belt around his waist, and prepared for mortal combat.
Meanwhile pistol-shots, mingled with savage shouts and wild hurrahs, were heard approaching nearer and nearer; and at length a loud knocking at the front door, with a cry of “They 're here! they 're here!”
The large man, now fully armed, and with his drawn sword in his hand, unlocked the door. The passage without was full of armed peasants, silent and watchful for his commands. A few words in the former patois seemed sufficient to convey them, and their answer was a cheer that made the walls ring.
The chief moved rapidly from place to place through the crowds, who at his bidding broke into parties: some of them occupied doorways which enfiladed the hall; others knelt down to suffer some to fire above their heads; here were two posted, armed with hatchets, at the very entrance itself; and six of the most determined-looking were to dispute the passage with their muskets. Such was the disposition of the force, when suddenly the light was extinguished, and all left in utter darkness. The deep breathing of their anxious breasts alone marked their presence; when without doors the sounds of strife gradually died away, and the storm alone was heard.
As for me, I leaned against a doorway, my arms folded on my bosom, my head sunk, while I prayed for death, the only exit I could see to my dishonor.
There was a terrible pause,—the very hurricane seemed to abate its violence, and only the heavy rain was heard as it fell in torrents,—when, with a loud crash, the door in front was burst open, and fell with a bang upon the floor. Not a word from those within, not a motion, betrayed their presence; while the whispered tones of a party without showed that the enemy was there.
“Bring up the torches quickly here,” called out a voice like that of an officer; and as he spoke the red flare of lighted pine branches was seen moving through the misty atmosphere.
The light fell upon a strong party of dismounted dragoons and gendarmerie, who, carbine in hand, stood waiting for the word to dash forward. The officer, whose figure I could distinguish as he moved along the front of his men, appeared to hesitate, and for a few seconds all stood motionless. At length, as if having resolved on his plan, he approached the doorway, a pine torch in his hand; another step, and the light must have disclosed the dense array of armed peasants that stood and knelt around the hall, when a deep low voice within uttered the one word, “Now!—and quick,” as if by his breath the powder had been ignited, a volley rang out, pattering like hail on the steel breastplates and through the branches of the trees. A mingled shout of rage and agony rose from those without, and without waiting for a command, they rushed onward.
The peasants, who had not time to reload their pieces, clubbed them in their strong hands, and laid wildly about them. The fight was now hand to hand; for, narrow as was the doorway, some three or four dragoons pressed every moment in, and gradually the hall became a dense mass of indiscriminate combatants. The large man fought like one possessed, and cleft his way towards the entrance with a long straight dagger, as if regardless of friends or foes. “À moi! a moi!” cried a tall and powerful man, as he sprang at his throat; “this is he!” The words were his last, as, stabbed to the very heart, he sprang backward in his death-agony; but at the moment a perfect shower of bullets rattled around the large man, one of which alone took effect in his shoulder. Still he strove onwards, and at last, with a spring like a savage tiger, he lowered his head, and bounded clean out into the court. Scarcely, however, had his foot touched the wet grass, when he slipped forward, and fell heavily on his back. A dozen swords flashed above him as he lay, and only by the most immense efforts of the officer was he spared death in a hundred wounds.
The defeat of their leader seemed to subdue all the daring courage of his party; the few who were able to escape dashed hither and thither, through passages and doorways they were well acquainted with; while the flagged floor was bathed in blood from the rest, as they lay in mangled and frightful forms, dead and dying on every side.
Like one in some dreadful dream, I stood spectator of this savage strife, wishing that some stray bullet had found my heart, yet ashamed to die with such a stain upon my honor. I crossed my arms before my breast, and waited for my doom. Two gendarmes passed quickly to and fro with torches, examining the faces and looks of those who were still likely to live, when suddenly one of them cried out, as he stood before me,—
“What 's this? An officer of hussars here!”
The exclamation brought an officer to the spot, who, holding a lantern to my face, said quickly,—“How is this, sir? how came you here?”
“Here is my sword, sir,” said I, drawing it from the scabbard; “I place myself under arrest. In another place, and to other judges, I must explain my conduct.”
“Parbleu! Jacques,” said the officer, addressing another who sat, while his wounds were being bound up, on a chair near, “this affair is worse than we thought of. Here 's one of the huitième in the thick of it.”
“I hope, sir,” said I, addressing the young man, whose arm was bleeding profusely from a sabre wound,—“I hope, sir, your wound may not be of consequence.”
He looked up suddenly, and while a smile of the most insulting sarcasm curled his bloodless lip, answered,—
“I thank you, sir, for your sympathy; but you must forgive me, if one of these days I cannot bandy consolations with you.”
“You are right, Lieutenant,” said a dragoon, who lay bleeding from a dreadful cut in the forehead; “I'd not exchange places with him myself this minute for all his epaulettes.”
With an overwhelming sense of my own degraded position, when to such taunts as these I dared not reply, I stood mute and confounded.
Meantime the soldiers were engaged in collecting together the scattered weapons, fastening the wrists of the prisoners with cords, and ransacking the house for such proofs of the conspiracy as might criminate others at a distance. By the time these operations were concluded, the day began to break, and I could distinguish in the courtyard several large covered carts or charrettes destined to convey the prisoners. One of these was given up entirely to the chief, who, although only slightly wounded, would never assist himself in the least, but lay a heavy, inert mass, suffering the others to lift him and place him in the cart. Such as were too badly wounded to be moved were placed in a room in the château, a guard being left over them.
A sergeant of the gendarmerie now approached me as I stood, and commenced, without a word, to examine me for any papers or documents that might be concealed about my person.
“You are in error,” said I, quietly. “I have nothing of what you suspect.”
“Do you call this nothing?” interrupted he, triumphantly, as he drew forth the parchment commission I had placed in my bosom, and forgot to restore to De Beauvais. “Parbleu! you'd have had a better memory had your plans succeeded.”
“Give it here,” said an officer, as he saw the sergeant devouring the document with his eyes. “Ah!” cried he, starting, “he was playing a high stake, too. Let him be closely secured.”
While the orders of the officer were being followed up, the various prisoners were secured in the carts, mounted dragoons stationed at either side, their carbines held unslung in their hands. At last my turn came, and I was ordered to mount into a charrette with two gendarmes, whose orders respecting any effort at escape on my part were pretty clearly indicated by the position of two pistols carried at either side of me.
A day of heavy, unremitting rain, without any wind or storm, succeeded to the night of tempest. Dark inky clouds lay motionless near the earth, whose surface became blacker by the shadow. A weighty and lowering atmosphere added to the gloom I felt, and neither in my heart within nor in the world without could I find one solitary consolation.
At first I dreaded lest my companions should address me,—a single question would have wrung my very soul; but happily they maintained a rigid silence, nor did they even speak to each other during the entire journey. At noon we halted at a small roadside cabaret, where refreshments were provided, and relays of horses in waiting, and again set out on our way. The day was declining when we reached the Bois de Boulogne, and entered the long avenue that leads to the Barriere de l'Étoile. The heavy wheels moved noiselessly over the even turf, and, save the jingle of the troopers' equipments, all was hushed. For above an hour we had proceeded thus, when a loud shout in front, followed by a pistol-shot, and then three or four others quickly after it, halted the party; and I could mark through the uncertain light the mounted figures dashing wildly here and there, and plunging into the thickest of the wood.
“Look to the prisoners,” cried an officer, as he galloped down the line; and, at the word, every man seized his carbine, and held himself on the alert.
Meanwhile the whole cavalcade was halted, and I could see that something of consequence had occurred in front, though of what nature I could not even guess. At last a sergeant of the gendarmes rode up to our side splashed and heated.
“Has he escaped?” cried one of the men beside me.
“Yes!” said he, with an oath, “the brigand has got away; though how he cut the cords on his wrists, or by what means he sprang from the charrette to the road, the devil must answer. Ha! there they are firing away after him. The only use of their powder is to show the fellow where they are.”
“I would not change places with our captain this evening,” cried one of the gendarmerie. “Returning to Paris without the red beard—”
“Ma foi, you're not wrong there. It will be a heavy reckoning for him with dark Savary; and as to taking a Breton in a wood—”
The word to march interrupted the colloquy, and again we moved forward.
By some strange sympathy I cannot account for, I felt glad that the chief had made his escape. The gallantry of his defence, the implicit obedience yielded him by the others, had succeeded in establishing an interest for him in my mind; and the very last act of daring courage by which he effected his liberty increased the feeling. By what an easy transition, too, do we come to feel for those whose fate has any similarity with our own! The very circumstance of common misfortune is a binding link; and thus I was not without an anxious hope that the chief might succeed in his escape, though, had I known his intrigue or his intentions, such interest had scarcely found a place in my heart.
Such reflections as these led me to think how great must be the charm to the human mind of overcoming difficulty or confronting danger, when even for those of whom we know nothing we can feel, and feel warmly, when they stand before us in such a light as this. Heroism and bravery appeal to every nature; and bad must be the cause in which they are exerted, before we can venture to think ill of those who possess them.
The lamps were beginning to be lighted as we reached the Barriére, and halted to permit the officer of the party to make his report of who we were. The formality soon finished, we defiled along the Boulevard, followed by a crowd, that, increasing each moment, at last occupied the entire road, and made our progress slow and difficult. While the curiosity of the people to catch sight of the prisoners demanded all the vigilance of the guards to prevent it, a sad and most appalling stillness pervaded the whole multitude, and I could hear a murmur as they went that it was Generals Moreau and Pichegru who were taken.
At length we halted, and I could see that the foremost charrette was entering a low archway, over which a massive portcullis hung. The gloomy shadow of a dark, vast mass, that rose against the inky sky, lowered above the wall, and somehow seemed to me as if well known.
“This is the Temple?” said I to the gendarme on my right.
A nod was the reply, and a half-expressive look that seemed to say, “In that word you have said your destiny.”
About two years previous to the time I now speak of, I remember one evening, when returning from a solitary walk along the Boulevard, stopping in front of a tall and weather-beaten tower, the walls black with age, and pierced here and there with narrow windows, across which strong iron stanchions ran transversely. A gloomy fosse, crossed by a narrow drawbridge, surrounded the external wall of this dreary building, which needed no superstition to invest it with a character of crime and misfortune. This was the Temple,—the ancient castle of the knights whose cruelties were written in the dark obbliettes and the noisome dungeons of that dread abode. A terrace ran along the tower on three sides. There, for hours long, walked in sadness and in sorrow the last of France's kings,—Louis the Sixteenth,—his children at his side. In that dark turret the Dauphin suffered death. At the low casement yonder, Madame Royale sat hour by hour, the stone on which she leaned wet with her tears. The place was one of gloomy and sinister repute: the neighborhood spoke of the heavy roll of carriages that passed the drawbridge at the dead of night; of strange sounds and cries, of secret executions, and even of tortures that were inflicted there. Of these dreadful missions a corps called the “Gendarmes d'Élite” were vulgarly supposed the chosen executors, and their savage looks and repulsive exterior gave credibility to the surmise; while some affirmed that the Mameluke guard the Consul had brought with him from Egypt had no other function than the murder of the prisoners confined there.
Little thought I then that in a few brief months I should pass beneath that black portcullis a prisoner. Little did I anticipate, as I wended my homeward way, my heart heavy and my step slow, that the day was to come when in my own person I was to feel the sorrows over which I then wept for others.
This was the second morning of my life which opened in the narrow cell of a prison; and when I awoke and looked upon the bare, bleak walls, the barred window, the strongly bolted door, I thought of the time when as a boy I slept within the walls of Newgate. The same sad sounds were now about me: the measured tread of sentinels; the tramp of patrols; the cavernous clank of door-closing, and the grating noise of locking and unlocking heavy gates; and then that dreary silence, more depressing than all,—how they came back upon me now, seeming to wipe out all space, and bring me to the hours of my boyhood's trials! Yet what were they to this? what were the dangers I then incurred to the inevitable ruin now before me? True, I knew neither the conspirators nor their crime; but who would believe it? How came I among them? Dare I tell it, and betray her whose honor was dearer to me than my life? Yet it was hard to face death in such a cause; no sense of high though unsuccessful daring to support me; no strongly roused passion to warm my blood, and teach me bravely to endure a tarnished name. Disgrace and dishonor were all my portion,—in that land, too, where I once hoped to win fame and glory, and make for myself a reputation among the first and greatest.
The deep roll of a drum, followed by the harsh turning of keys in the locks along the corridor, interrupted my sad musings; and the next minute my door was unbolted, and an official, dressed in the uniform of the prison, presented himself before me.
“Ah, monsieur! awake and dressed already!” said he, in a gay and smiling tone, for which the place had not prepared me. “At eight we breakfast here; at nine you are free to promenade in the garden or on the terrace,—at least, all who are not au secret,—and I have to felicitate monsieur on that pleasure.”
“How, then? I am not a prisoner?”
“Yes, parbleu! you are a prisoner, but not under such heavy imputation as to be confined apart. All in this quarter enjoy a fair share of liberty: live together, walk, chat, read the papers, and have an easy time of it. But you shall judge for yourself; come along with me.”
In a strange state of mingled hope and fear I followed the jailer along the corridor, and across a paved courtyard into a low hall, where basins and other requisites for a prison toilet were arranged around the walls. Passing through this, we ascended a narrow stair, and finally entered a large, well-lighted room, along which a table, plentifully but plainly provided, extended the entire length. The apartment was crowded with persons of every age, and apparently every condition, all conversing noisily and eagerly together, and evidencing as little seeming restraint as though within the walls of a café.
Seated at a table, I could not help feeling amused at the strange medley of rank and country about me. Here were old militaire, with bushy beards and mustaches, side by side with muddy-faced peasants, whose long, yellow locks bespoke them of Norman blood; hard, weather-beaten sailors from the coast of Bretagne, talking familiarly with venerable seigneurs in all the pomp of powder and a queue; priests with shaven crowns; young fellows, whose easy looks of unabashed effrontery betrayed the careless Parisian,—all were mingled up together, and yet not one among the number did I see whose appearance denoted sorrow for his condition or anxiety for his fate.
The various circumstances of their imprisonment, the imputation they lay under, the acts of which they were accused, formed the topics of conversation, in common with the gossip of the town, the news of the theatres, and the movements in political life. Never was there a society with less restraint; each man knew his neighbor's history too well to make concealment of any value, and frankness seemed the order of the day. While I was initiating myself into so much of the habit of the place, a large, flat, florid personage, who sat at the head of the table, called out to me for my name.
“The governor desires to have your name and rank for his list,” said my neighbor at the right hand.
Having given the required information, I could not help expressing my surprise how, in the presence of the governor of the prison, they ventured to speak so freely.
“Ha,” said the person I addressed, “he is not the governor of the Temple; that's merely a title we have given him among ourselves. The office is held always by the oldest détenu. Now he has been here ten months, and succeeded to the throne about a fortnight since. The Abbé, yonder, with the silk scarf round his waist, will be his successor, in a few days.”
“Indeed! Then he will be at liberty so soon. I thought he seemed in excellent spirits.”
“Not much, perhaps, on that score,” replied he. “His sentence is hard labor for life at the Bagne de Toulon.”
I started back with horror, and could not utter a word.
“The Abbé,” continued my informant, “would be right happy to take his sentence. But the governor is speaking to you.”
“Monsieur le sous-lieutenant,” said the governor, in a deep, solemn accent, “I have the honor to salute you, and bid you welcome to the Temple, in the name of my respectable and valued friends here about me. We rejoice to possess one of your cloth amongst us. The last was, if I remember aright, the Capitaine de Lorme, who boasted he could hit the Consul at sixty paces with a pistol bullet.”
“Pardon, governor,” said a handsome man in a braided frock; “we had Ducaisne since.”
“So we had, commandant,” said the governor, bowing politely, “and a very pleasant fellow he was; but he only stopped one night here.”
“A single night, I remember it well,” grunted out a thick-lipped, rosy-faced little fellow near the bottom of the table. “You 'll meet him soon, governor; he 's at Toulon. Pray, present my respects—”
“A fine! a fine!” shouted a dozen voices in a breath.
“I deny it, I deny it,” replied the rosy-faced man, rising from his chair. “I appeal to the governor if I am not innocent. I ask him if there were anything which could possibly offend his feelings in my allusion to Toulon, whither for the benefit of his precious health he is about to repair.”
“Yes,” replied the governor, solemnly, “you are fined three francs. I always preferred Brest; Toulon is not to my taste.”
“Pay! pay!” cried out the others; while a pewter dish, on which some twenty pieces of money were lying, was passed down the table.
“And to resume,” said the governor, turning towards me, “the secretary will wait on you after breakfast to receive the fees of initiation, and such information as you desire to afford him for your coming amongst us, both being perfectly discretionary with you. He who desires the privilege of our amicable reunion soon learns the conditions on which to obtain it. The enjoyments of our existence here are cheap at any price. Le Pere d'Oligny, yonder, will tell you life is short,—very few here are likely to dispute the assertion, and perhaps the Abbé, Thomas may give you a strong hint how to make the best of it.”
“Parbleu, governor I you forget the Abbé, left us this morning.”
“True, true; how my memory is failing me! The dear Abbé, did leave us, sure enough.”
“Where for?” said I, in a whisper.
“La Plaine de Grenelle,” said the person beside me, in a low tone. “He was guillotined at five o'clock.”
A sick shudder ran through me; and though the governor continued his oration, I heard not a word he spoke, nor could I arouse myself from the stupor until the cheers of the party, at the conclusion of the harangue, awoke me.
“The morning looks fine enough for a walk,” said the man beside me. “What say you to the gardens?”
I followed him without speaking across the court and down a flight of stone steps into a large open space, planted tastefully with trees, and adorned by a beautiful fountain. Various walks and alleys traversed the garden in every direction, along which parties were to be seen walking,—some laughing, some reading aloud the morning papers; but all engaged, and, to all seeming, pleasantly. Yet did their reckless indifference to life, their horrible carelessness of each other's fate, seem to me far more dreadful than any expression of sorrow, however painful; and I shrank from them as though the contamination of their society might impart that terrible state of unfeeling apathy they were given up to. Even guilt itself had seemed less repulsive than this shocking and unnatural recklessness.
Pondering thus, I hurried from the crowded path, and sought a lonely, unfrequented walk which led along the wall of the garden. I had not proceeded far when the low but solemn notes of church music struck on my ear. I hastened forward, and soon perceived, through the branches of a beech hedge, a party of some sixteen or eighteen persons kneeling on the grass, their hands lifted as if in prayer, while they joined in a psalm tune,—one of those simple but touching airs which the peasantry of the South are so attached to. Their oval faces bronzed with the sun; their long, flowing hair, divided on the head and falling loose on either shoulder; their dark eyes and long lashes,—bespoke them all from that land of Bourbon loyalty, La Vendue, even had not their yellow jackets, covered with buttons along the sleeves, and their loose hose, evinced their nationality. Many of the countenances I now remembered to have seen the preceding night; but some were careworn and emaciated, as if from long imprisonment.
I cannot tell how the simple piety of these poor peasants touched me, contrasted, too, with the horrible indifference of the others. As I approached them, I was recognized; and whether supposing that I was a well wisher to their cause, or attracted merely by the tie of common misfortune, they saluted me respectfully, and seemed glad to see me. While two or three of those I had seen before moved forward to speak to me, I remarked that a low, swarthy man, with a scar across his upper lip, examined me with marked attention, and then whispered something to the rest. At first he seemed to pay little respect to whatever they said,—an incredulous shake of the head, or an impatient motion of the hand, replying to their observations. Gradually, however, he relaxed in this, and I could see that his stern features assumed a look of kinder meaning. “So, friend,” said he, holding out his tanned and powerful hand towards me, “it was thou saved our chief from being snared like a wolf in a trap. Le bon Dieu will remember the service hereafter; and the good King will not forget thee, if the time ever comes for his better fortune.”
“You must not thank me,” said I, smiling; “the service I rendered was one instigated by friendship only. I know not your plans; I never knew them. The epaulette I wear I never was false to.”
A murmur of dissatisfaction ran along the party, and I could mark that in the words they interchanged, feelings of surprise were mingled with displeasure. At last, the short man, commanding silence with a slight motion of the hand, said,—
“I am sorry for it,—your courage merited a better cause; however, the avowal was at least an honest one. And now, tell us, why came you here?”
“For the very reason I 've mentioned. My presence at the château last night, and my discovery during the attack, were enough to impute guilt. How can I clear myself, without criminating those I would not name?”
“That matters but little. Doubtless, you have powerful friends,—rich ones, perhaps, and in office; they will bear you harmless.”
“Alas! you are wrong. I have not in all the length and breadth of France one who, if a word would save me from the scaffold, would care to speak it. I am a stranger and an alien.”
“Hal” said a fair-haired, handsome youth, starting from the grass where he had been sitting, “what would I not give now, if your lot was mine. They 'd not make my heart tremble if I could forget the cabin I was born in.”
“Hush, Philippe!” said the other, “the weapon is not in their armory to make a Vendean tremble—But, hark! there is the drum for the inspection. You must present yourself each day at noon, at the low postern yonder, and write your name; and mark me, before we part, it cannot serve us, it may ruin you, if we are seen to speak together. Trust no one here' Those whom you see yonder are half of them moutons.”
“How?” said I, not understanding the phrase.
“Ay, it was a prison word I used,” resumed he. “I would say they are but spies of the police, who, as if confined for their offences, are only here to obtain confessions from unguarded, unsuspecting prisoners. Their frankness and sincerity are snares that have led many to the guillotine: beware of them. You dare not carry your glass to your lip, but the murmured toast might be your condemnation. Adieu!” said he; and as he spoke he turned away and left the place, followed by the rest.
The disgust I felt at first for the others was certainly not lessened by learning that their guilt was stained by treachery the blackest that can disgrace humanity; and now, as I walked among them, it was with a sense of shrinking horror I recoiled from the very touch of the wretches whose smiles were but lures to the scaffold.
“Ha! our lost and strayed friend,” said one, as I appeared, “come hither and make a clean breast of it. What amiable weaknesses have introduced you to the Temple?”
“In truth,” said I, endeavoring to conceal my knowledge of my acquaintances' real character, “I cannot even guess, nor do I believe that any one else is wiser than myself.”
“Parbleu!, young gentleman,” said the Abbé, as he spied me impertinently through his glass, “you are excessively old-fashioned for your years. Don't you know that spotless innocence went out with the Bourbons? Every one since that dies in the glorious assertion of his peculiar wickedness, with certain extenuating circumstances which he calls human nature.”
“And now, then,” resumed the first speaker, “for your mishap,—what was it?”
“I should only deceive you were I to give any other answer than my first. Mere suspicion there may be against me; there can be no more.”
“Well, well, let us have the suspicions. The 'Moniteur' is late this morning, and we have nothing to amuse us.”
“Who are you?” cried another, a tall, insolent-looking fellow, with a dark mustache. “That 's the first question. I've seen a mouton in a hussar dress before now.”
“I am too late a resident here,” answered I, “to guess how far insolence goes unpunished; but if I were outside these walls, and you also, I 'd teach you a lesson you have yet to learn, sir.”
“Parbleu!” said one of the former speakers, “Jacques, he has you there, though it was no great sharpness to see you were a blane-bec.”
The tall fellow moved away, muttering to himself, as a hearty laugh broke forth among the rest.
“And now,” said the Abbé, with a simper, “pardon the liberty; but have you had any trifling inducement for coming to pass a few days here? Were you making love to Madame la Consulesse? or did you laugh at General Bonaparte's grand dinners? or have you been learning the English grammar? or what is it?”
I shook my head, and was silent.
“Gome, come, be frank with us; unblemished virtue fares very ill here. There was a gentleman lost his head this morning, who never did anything all his life other than keep the post-office at Tarbes; but somehow he happened to let a letter pass into the bag addressed to an elderly gentleman in England, called the Comte d'Artois, not knowing that the count's letters are always 'to the care of Citizen Bonaparte.' Well, they shortened him by the neck for it. Cruel, you will say; but so much for innocence.”
“For the last time, then, gentlemen, I must express my sincere sorrow that I have neither murder, treason, nor any other infamy on my conscience which might qualify me for the distinguished honor of associating with you. Such being the case, and my sense of my deficiency being so great, you will, I 'm sure, pardon me if I do not obtrude on society of which I am unworthy, and which I have now the honor to wish a good day to.” With this and a formal bow, returned equally politely by the rest, I moved on, and entered the tower.
Sombre and sad as were my own reflections, yet did I prefer their company to that of my fellow-prisoners, for whom already I began to conceive a perfect feeling of abhorrence. Revolting, indeed, was the indifference to fame, honor, and even life, which I already witnessed among them; but what was it compared with the deliberate treachery of men who could wait for the hour when the heart, overflowing with sorrow, opened itself for consolation and comfort, and then search its every recess for proofs of guilt that should bring the mourner to the scaffold?
How any government could need, how they could tolerate, such assassins as these, I could not conceive. And was this his doing? were these his minions, whose high-souled chivalry had been my worship and my idolatry? No, no; I'll not believe it. Bonaparte knows not the dark and terrible secrets of these gloomy walls. The hero of Arcole, the conqueror of Italy, wots not of the frightful tyranny of these dungeons: did he but know them, what a destiny would wait on those who thus stain with crime and treachery the fame of that “Belle France” he made so great!
Oh! that in the hour of my accusation,—in the very last of my life, were it on the step of the guillotine,—I could but speak with words to reach him, and say how glory like his must be tarnished if such deeds went on unpunished; that while thousands and thousands were welcoming his path with cries of wild enthusiasm and joy, in the cold cells of the Temple there were breaking hearts, whose sorrow-wrung confessions were registered, whose prayers were canvassed for evidences of desires that might be converted into treason. He could have no sympathy with men like these.. Not such the brave who followed him at Lodi; not kindred souls were they who died for him at Marengo. Alas, alas! how might men read of him hereafter, if by such acts the splendor of his greatness was to suffer stain! While thoughts like these filled my mind, and in the excitement of awakened indignation I trod my little cell backwards and forwards, the jailer entered, and having locked the door behind him, approached me.
“You are the Sous-Lieutenant Burke: is it not so? Well, I have a letter for you; I promised to deliver it on one condition only,—which is, that when read, you shall tear it in pieces. Were it known that I did this, my head would roll in the Plaine de Grenelle before daybreak tomorrow. I also promised to put you on your guard: speak to few here; confide in none. And now here is your letter.”
I opened the billet hastily, and read the few lines it contained, which evidently were written in a feigned hand.
A billet de hanque for three thousand francs was folded in the note, and fell to the ground as I read it.
“Parbleu! I'll not ask you to tear this, though,” said the jailer, as he handed it to me. “And now let me see you destroy the other.”
I read and re-read the few lines over and over, some new meaning striking me at each word, while I asked myself from whom it could have come. Was it De Beauvais? or dare I hope it was one dearest to me of all the world? Who, then, in the saddest hour of my existence, could step between me and my sorrow, and leave hope as my companion in the dreary solitude of a prison?
“Again I say be quick,” cried the jailer; “my being here so long may be remarked. Tear it at once.”
He followed with an eager eye every morsel of paper as it fell from my hand, and only seemed at ease as the last dropped to the ground; and then, without speaking a word, unlocked the door and withdrew.
The shipwrecked sailor, clinging to some wave-tossed raft, and watching with bloodshot eye the falling day, where no friendly sail has once appeared, and at last, as every hope dies out one by one within him, he hears a cheer break through the plashing of the sea, calling on him to live, may feel something like what were my sensations, as once more alone in my cell I thought of the friendly voice that could arouse me from my cold despair, and bid me hope again.
What a change came over the world to my eyes! The very cell itself no longer seemed dark and dreary; the faint sunlight that fell through the narrow window seemed soft and mellow; the voices I heard without struck me not as dissonant and harsh; the reckless gayety I shuddered at, the dark treachery I abhorred,—I could now compassionate the one and openly despise the other; and it was with that stout determination at my heart that I sallied forth into the garden, where still the others lingered, waiting for the drum that summoned them to dinner.