This strange paragraph puzzled me not a little; nor could I, by any exercise of ingenuity, find out even a plausible meaning for it. I read it over and over, weighing and canvassing every word, and torturing each syllable; but all to no purpose. Had the general been some youthful but unhappy lover, to forward whose suit the Emperor had lent his influence, then had I understood the allusion; but with the old weather-beaten officer, whose hairs were blanched with years and service, the very thought of such a thing was too absurd. Yet what could be the royal favor so lavishly praised? He needed no intercession with the Empress; at least, I remembered well how marked the kindness of Josephine was towards him in former times. But to what use guessing? Thoughts, by long revolving, often become only the more entangled, and we lose sight of the real difficulty in canvassing our own impressions concerning it. And so from this text did I spin away a hundred fancies that occupied me the whole road to Paris, nor left me till the din and movement of the great capital banished all other reflections.
Arrangement had been made for my reception at the Rue de Rohan; but I learned that the general was at Versailles with the Court, and only came up to Paris once or twice each week. His direction to me was, to wait for his arrival, and not to leave the city on any account.
With what a strange feeling did I survey the Palace of the Tuileries,—the scene of my first moment of delighted admiration of her I now loved, and, alas! of my first step in the long catalogue of my misfortunes! I lingered about the gardens with a fascination I could not account for; my destiny seemed somehow linked with the spot, and I could not reason myself out of the notion but that there, in that great pile, the fate of my whole life was to be decided.
My entire day was passed in this way; and evening found me seated on one of the benches near the windows of the pavilion, where I watched the lustres in the long gallery as one by one they burst into light, and saw the gilt candelabras twinkling as each taper was illuminated. It was an evening reception of the Emperor, and I could mark the vast assemblage, in every variety of uniform, that filled the salons. At length the drums beat for strangers to leave the gardens; the patrols passed on; and gradually the crowded walks became thinner and thinner; the sounds of the drum grew fainter; and finally the whole space became still and noiseless,—not a voice was to be heard, not a step moved on the gravel. I knew that the gates were now locked; and yet I stayed on, glad to be alone, and at leisure to dream away among the fancies that kept ever rising to my mind, and to follow out the trains of thought that ever and anon opened before me.
As the hour grew later, and the salons filled more and more, the windows were opened along the terrace to give air, and I could hear the continued murmur of hundreds of voices conversing, while at times the sound of laughter rose above the rest. What a rush of thoughts came on me as I sat! how did I picture to myself the dark intrigues, the subtle plots of wily diplomatists, the bold and daring aspirations of the brave soldiers, the high hopes and the ambitious yearnings that were all commingled there, grouped around him whose dreams were of universal empire! While I mused, the night glided on, and the solemn sound of the bell of Notre Dame proclaimed midnight. I now could mark that the salons were thinning, and the unceasing din of carriages in the Place announced the departure of the guests. In little more than half an hour the great gallery was empty, and but a few groups remained in the apartments adjoining. Even they soon departed; and then I could see the servants passing from room to room extinguishing the lights, and soon the great facade of the palace wac wrapped in darkness. A twinkling light appeared here and there for some time, but it too went out. The night was calm and still and sultry; not a leaf stirred; and the heavy tread of the sentinels as they paced the marble vestibule was heard plainly where I stood.
How full of thought to me was that vast pile, now shrouded in the gloom of night! What bold, ambitious deeds,—what dreams of empire,—had not been conceived there! The great of other days, indeed, entered little into my mind, as I remembered it was the home of him, the greatest of them all. How terrible, too, it was to think, that within that silent palace, which seemed sleeping with the tranquil quiet of an humble cottage, the dreadful plans which were to convulse the world, to shake thrones and dynasties, to make of Europe a vast battlefield, were now devising. The masses of dark cloud that hung heavily in the air, obscuring the sky and shutting out every star, seemed to my fevered imagination an augury of evil; and the oppressive, loaded atmosphere, though perfumed with the odor of flowers, sunk heavily on the spirits. Again the hour rang out, and I remembered that the gates of the garden were now closed for the night, and that I should remain where I was till daylight liberated me. My mind was, however, too full of its own thoughts to make me care for sleep, and I strolled along the gloomy walks lost in revery.
As the night wore on, I remembered that once, when a boy at the Polytechnique, I longed to penetrate one of the little enclosures which fenced the small flower-gardens beside the Palace, and which were railed up from the public promenades by a low iron railing. The bouquets of rich flowers that grew there, sparkling with the light dew of a little jet d'eau that fell in raindrops over them, had often tempted my young heart; but still in the daytime such a transgression would have been immediately punished. Now, with the strange caprice which so often prompts us in after years to do that which in youth we wished but could not accomplish, I wandered towards the gardens, and crossing over the low fence, entered the parterre; each step awoke the sleeping perfume of the flowers, and I strolled along the velvet turf until I reached a low bench, half covered with honeysuckle and woodbine. Here I threw myself down, and, wrapping my cloak around me, resolved to rest till daybreak. The stillness of all around, the balmy air, and my own musings, gradually conspired to make me drowsy, and I slept.
My sleep could not have been long, when I was awakened by a noise close beside me. I started up and looked about, and for some seconds I could scarcely credit that I was not still dreaming. Not more than a dozen paces from where I lay, and where before the dark walls of the Palace rose in unbroken blackness, was now a chamber, brilliantly lighted up by several wax-lights that stood on a table. At the window, which opened to the ground and led into the garden, stood the figure of a man, but from his position before the light I could not remark more than that he wore epaulettes. It was the noise of the opening jalousies which awoke me; and I could see his hand stretched out, as if to ascertain whether or not it was raining. At the table I could perceive another person, on whose uniform the light fell strongly, displaying many a cross and star, which twinkled with every stir he made. He was busily engaged writing, and never lifted his head from the paper. The walls of the room were covered with shelves filled with books; and on the chairs about, and even on the floor, lay maps and drawings in every disorder; a sword and belt, as if just taken off, lay on the table among the writing materials, and a cocked hat beside them.
While I noticed these details, my very heart was chill within me. The dark figure at the window, which stirred not, seemed as if turned towards me, and more than once I almost thought I could see his eyes bent upon me. This was, however, but the mere suggestion of my own fears for in the shade of the seat no light whatever fell, and I was perfectly concealed. In the deep stillness I could hear the scraping sound of the pen on the paper, and scarcely dared to breathe lest I should cause discovery, when the figure retired from the window, and moved towards the table. For some minutes he appeared to stoop over a large map, which lay outstretched before him, and across which I could' see his finger moving rapidly.
Suddenly he stood erect, and in a voice which even now rings within my heart, said, “It must be so, Duroc; by any other route Bernadotte will be too late!”
What was the reply I know not, such terror now fell over me. It was the Emperor himself who spoke. It was he who the instant before was standing close beside me at the window; and thus, a second time in my life, did I become the unwilling eavesdropper of the man I most feared and respected of all the world. Before I could summon resolution to withdraw, Napoleon spoke again.
“Hardenberg,” said he, in a tone of contemptuous passion, “Hardenberg is but a Prussian! the event will satisfy his scruples. Besides, if they do talk about invasion of territory, you can reply: the Margraves were always open to belligerent parties; remind them of what took place in '96, and again in 1800,—though, parbleu, the souvenir may not be so pleasant a one. Protract the discussion, at all events, Duroc; time! time! Then,” added he, after a brief pause, “let them advance, and they 'll never pass the Danube. And if they wait for me, I 'll fall upon them here,—here, between Ulm and Augsburg. You must, however, start for Berlin at once.”
At this instant a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and passing down my arm, seized me by the wrist. I started back, and beheld a dragoon, for so his helmet and cloak bespoke, of enormous stature, who, motioning me to silence, led me softly and with noiseless step along the flower-beds, as if fearful of attracting the Emperor's notice. My limbs tottered beneath me as I went, for the dreadful imputation an accident might fix on me stared on me with all its awful consequences. Without a word on either side we reached the little railing, crossed it, and regained the open park, when the soldier, placing himself in front of me, said, in a deep, low voice,—
“Your name; who are you?”
“An officer of the huitieme regiment of hussars,” said I, boldly.
“We shall see that presently,” replied he, in a tone of disbelief. “How came you here?”
In a few words I explained how, having remained too late in the garden, I preferred to pass my night on a bench to the unpleasantness of being brought up before the officer on duty; adding, that it was only on the very moment of his coming that I awoke.
“I know that,” interrupted he, in a less surly voice. “I found you sleeping, and feared to awake you suddenly, lest in the surprise a word or a cry would escape you. One syllable had cost your head.”
In the tone of these last few words there was something I thought I could recognize, and resolving at a bold venture in such an emergency as I found myself placed, I said at a hazard,—
“The better fortune mine, that I fell into the hands of a kind as well as a brave soldier,—the Corporal Pioche.”
“Sacristi! You know me then!” cried he, thunderstruck.
“To be sure I do. Could I be an aide-de-camp to the General d'Auvergne, and not have heard of Pioche?”
“An aide-de-camp of the general,” said he, starting back, as he carried his hand to the salute. “Pardon, mon officier; but you know that duty—”
“Quite true; it was all my own indiscretion. And now, Pioche, if you 'll keep me company here till daybreak—it cannot be far off now—the light will soon satisfy you that my account of myself is a true one.”
“Willingly, sir,” said the gruff cuirassier. “My patrol is, to watch the parterres from the pavilion to the allée yonder; and, if you please, we 'll take up our quarters on this bench.”
They who know not the strange mixture of deference and familiarity of which the relation between officer and soldier is made up in the French service, will perhaps wonder a the tone of almost equality in which we conversed. But such is the case: the Revolutionary armies acknowledged no other gredations of rank than such as the service conferred, nor any degree of superiority save that derivable from greater ability of more daring heroism; and although the troops more implicitly obeyed the commands of their officers, the occasion of discipline over a perfect feeling of equality remained amongst all, whether they wore the epaulets of colones or carried a musket in the ranks. With time, and the changes the Consulate had introduced, much of this excessive familiarity was suppressed; still it was no uncommon thing to hear the humble rank and file address the general of division as “thou,”—the expression of closest friendship, probably dating from the hours of schoolboy attachment. Nor was the officer of rank thought less of because in the hours of off-duty, he mixed freely with those who had been his companions through life, and talked with them as brothers. It is probable that in no other nation such a course could have been practised without a total subversion of all respect and the ruin of all habits of order. The Frenchman is, however, essentially military; not merely warlike, like the inhabitants of Great Britain,—his mind ever inclines to the details of war as an art. It is in generalship he glories, not the mere conflict of force; and the humblest soldier in the army takes an interest in the great game of tactics, which in any other people would be quite incredible. Hence he submits to the control which otherwise he could not endure; for this, he yields to command at the hands of one, who, although his equal in all other respects, he here acknowledges as his superior. He knows, too, that the grade of officer is open to merit alone, and he feels that the epaulette may be his own one day. Such causes as these, constantly in operation, could not fail to raise the morale of an army; nor can we wonder that from such a source were derived many, if not most, of the great names that formed the marshals of France. Again, to this military spirit the French owe the perfection of their tirailleur force,—the consummate skill of independent parties, of which every campaign gave evidence. Napoleon found this spirit in the nation, and spared nothing to give it its fullest development. He quickly saw to what height of enthusiasm a people could be brought, to whom a cross or a decoration, an epaulette or a sabre of honor, were deemed the ample rewards of every daring and of every privation; and never in any age or in any country was chivalry so universally spread over the wide surface of a people. With them, rank claimed no exception from fatigue or suffering. The officer fared little better than the soldier on a march; in a battle, he was only more exposed to danger. By daring only could he win his way upwards; and an emulative ardor was continually maintained, which was ever giving to the world instances of individual heroism far more brilliant than all the famed achievements of the crusaders.
This brief digression, unnecessary perhaps to many of my readers, may serve to explain to others how naturally our conversation took the easy tone of familiar equality; nor will they be surprised at the abrupt question of the cuirassier, as he said,—
“Mille tonnerres! lieutenant! was it from your liking the post of danger you selected that bench yonder?”
“The choice was a mere accident.”
“An accident, morbleu!” said he, with a low laugh. “That was what Lasalle called it at the Adige, when the wheel came off the eight-pounder in the charge, and the enemy carried off the gun. 'An accident!' said the Petit Caporal to him,—I was close by when he said it,—'will your friends in Paris call it an accident if the “ordre du jour” to-morrow condemn you to be shot?' I know him well,” continued Pioche; “that I do. I was second bombardier with him at Toulon,—ay, at Cairo too. I mind well the evening he came to our quarters; poor enough we were at the time,—no clothes, no rations: I was cook to our division; but somehow there was little duty in my department, till one day the vivandiere's ass, (a brave beast he was too, before provisions fell short),—a spent shot took him in the flank, and killed him on the spot.
“Sacristi!” what damage it did! All the canteens were smashed to atoms; horn goblets and platters knocked to pieces; but worst of all, a keg of true Nantz was broached, and every drop lost. Poor Madame Gougon! she loved that ass as if he had been one of the regiment; and though we all offered her assignats on our pay, for a month each, to give us the carcass, she wouldn't do it. No, faith! she would have him buried, and with funeral honors! Parbleu! it was a whim; but the poor thing was in grief, and we could not refuse her. I commanded the party,” continued Pioche, “and a long distance we had to march, lest the shots might be heard in the quartier-général. Well, we had some trouble in getting the poor soul away from the grave. Sacristi! she took it so much to heart, I thought she 'd have masses said for him. But we did succeed at last, and before dawn we were all within the camp as if nothing had happened. The whole of that day, however, the ass was never out of our minds. It was not grief; no, no! don't think that. We were all thinking of what a sin it was to have him buried there,—such a fine beast as he was,—and not a pound of meat to be had if you were to offer a nine-pounder gun for it. 'He is never the worse for his funeral,' said I; 'remember, boys, how well preserved he was in brandy before he was buried: let's have him up again!' No sooner was night come, than we set off for the place where we laid him, and in less than two hours I was busily employed in making a delicious salmi of his haunch. Mille bommbes! I think I have the smell of it before me; it was gibier, and the gravy was like a purie. We were all pleasantly seated round the fire, watching every turn of the roast, when—crack!—I heard the noise of the patrol bringing his gun to the present, and before we had time to jump up, the Petit Caporal was upon us; he was mounted on a little dark Arab, and dressed in his gray surtout.
“'What 's all this here?' cried he, pulling up short, while the barb sniffed the air, just as if he guessed what the meat was. 'Who has stolen this sheep?'
“'It is not a sheep, Général,' said I, stepping forward, and trying to hide the long ladle I was basting with.
“'Not a sheep; then it is an ox, mayhap, or a calf,” said he again, with an angry look.
“'Neither, Général,' said I; 'it was a—a—a beast of our division.'
“'A beast of your division! What does that mean? No trifling, mind! out with it at once. What's this? Where did it come from?'
“'An ass, may it please you, sir,' said I, trembling all over, for I saw he was in a rare passion. And as he repeated the word after me, I told him the whole story, and how we could not suffer such capital prog to be eaten by any other than good citizens of the Republic.
“While I was telling him so much, the rest stood round terrified; they could not even turn the joint, though it was burning; and, to say truth, I thought myself we were all in a bad way, when suddenly he burst into a fit of laughing, and said,—
“'What part of France do these fellows come from?'
“'Alsace, mon général,' was the answer from every one.
“'I thought so, I thought so,' said he; 'Sybarites, all.'
“'No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud's brigade,' said I. And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could not be angry with the old Fourth.”
“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his campaigns.
“Ma foi! there were few who saw service from '92 to '97 had not their share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. 'Where 's the adjutant of the Sixth?' 'Dead, mon général.' 'Where 's the colonel of the Voltigeurs?' 'Badly wounded.' 'Carry him this sabre of honor.' 'Who fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the drapeau?' 'One of my fellows. General; here he is.' 'And what is your name, my brave fellow?'”
The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few seconds' pause, added in altered tone, “Sacristi! they were fine times!”
“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I, impatiently. “Who was he?”
“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and devotion struggled powerfully together.
“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”
“'Ah, Pioche,' said he, gayly, 'my old friend of Toulouse!'
“'Yes, Général,' said I, 'we 've had some warm work together.'
“'True, Pioche, and may again perhaps. But you've been made a corporal since that; what am I to do for you now?'
“This was a puzzling question, and I did not know how to answer it, and he repeated it before I could make up my mind.
“'Is there nothing, then, in which I can be of use to Corporal Pioche?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, 'there is.'
“'Speak it out, man, then; what is it?'
“'I wish, then, you 'd rate the commissary-general of our division for one blunder he's ever making. The powder they serve us out is always wet, and our bread is as hard as mitraille. Neither bayonets nor teeth will last forever, you know, Général.' And he burst out a-laughing before I finished.
“'Rest assured, Pioche, I'll look to this,' said he; and he kept his word.”
“But why didn't you ask for promotion?” said I. “What folly, was it not, to throw away such a chance? You might have been an officer ere this.”
“No,” replied he, with a sorrowful shake of the head; “that was impossible.”
“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”
“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then—”
“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the moment.
“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was silent.
The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow's heart, and would have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the corroding sorrow of his life,—the grief that left its impress on his stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier. Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I made an effort to break it, and happily with success.
“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve, to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection, too, hereafter.”
“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round quickly, as a faint smile played about his features—“do you think so? Sacristi! I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I've been alone. And then I 've almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman's, when he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other times,—ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”
“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the remembrance of his own regrets.
“It is a good while past now,—I forget the year exactly,—but we were marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to Paris not to send down any more 'savants,' but a good, honest man, with common sense and active habits. But, parbleu, birds of that feather must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them. Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and slouched beavers. The officers couldn't say a word, you know, all this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to shoes,—a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood fluttering in the wind.
“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade,—it was an inspection; for, parbleu! though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres. Scarcely had the general—it was Bonaparte himself—got halfway down the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: 'Bread! shoes! caps! biscuits!'
“'What do I hear?' said Bonaparte, standing up in his stirrups, and frowning at the line. 'Who are the malcontents that dare to cry out on parade? Let them stand out; let me see them.'
“And at once more than half the regiment of grenadiers sprang forward, and shouted louder than before, 'Bread! bread! let us have food and clothing! If we are to fight, let us not die of hunger!'
“'Grenadiers of the Fourth,' cried he, in a terrible voice, 'to your ranks! Second division, and third!' shouted he, with his hand up, 'form in square!—carry arms!—present arms! front rank, kneel! Kneel!' said he, again louder; for you know we never did that in those days. However, every word was obeyed, and down dropped the leading files on their knees; and there we were rooted to the ground. Not a man spoke; all silent as death.
“He then advanced to the front of the staff, and pointing his hand to a convoy of wagons that could just be seen turning the angle of the road, with white flags flying, to show what they were, called out, 'Commissary-general, distribute full rations and half ammunition to the young regiments; half rations and full ammunition to the veterans of Egypt!' A shout of applause burst out; but he cried louder than before, 'Silence in the ranks!' Then, taking off his chapeau, he stood bareheaded before us; and in a voice like the bugle that blows the charge, he read from a large paper in his hand, 'In the name of the French Republic, one and indivisible. The Directory of the nation decrees, that the thanks of the Government be given to the Grenadiers of the Fourth, who have deserved well of their country. Vive la République!'
“'Vive la République!' shouted the whole square in a roar, like the sea itself. Who thought more of hardships or hunger then? Our only desire was when we were to meet the enemy; and many a jest and many a laugh went round as we loaded our pouches with the new ammunition.
“'Who's that fellow yonder?' said Bonaparte, as he rode slowly down the line. 'I should know him, I think. Is n't that Pioche?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, saluting him; 'it is what remains of poor Pioche,—parbleu! very little more than half, though.'
“'Ah, glutton!' said he, laughing, 'I ought to have guessed you were here; one such gourmand is enough to corrupt a whole brigade.'
“'Pioche is a good soldier, citizen-general, 'said my captain, who was an old schoolfellow of mine.
“'I know it, Captain,' said the general.
“'You were in Excelmans's dragoons, Pioche, if mistake not?'
“Two years and ten months, citizen-general.'
“'Why did you leave them, and when?'
“'At Monte Bello, with the colonel's permission.'
“'And the reason?'
“'Morbleu! it was a fancy I had. They killed two horses under me that day, and I saw I was not destined for the cavalry.'
“'Ha, ha!' said he, with a sly laugh; 'had they been asses, the thing might have been different, eh?'
“'Yes, mon général,' said I, growing red, for I knew what he meant.
“'Come, Pioche, you must go back again to your old corps; they want one or two like you,—though, parbleu! you 'll ruin the Republic in remounts.'
“'As you please it, Général.'
“'Well, what shall I do for you besides? Any more commissaries to row, eh? Methinks no bad time to gratify you in that way.'
“'Ah, mon général if you would only hang up one now and then.'
“'So I intend, the next time I hear of any of my soldiers being obliged to eat the asses of the vivandiéres.' And with that he rode on, laughing, though none, save myself, knew what he alluded to; and, ma foi, I was not disposed to turn the laugh against myself by telling. But there goes the réveil, and I must leave you, mon lieutenant; the gates will be open in a few minutes.”
“Good-by, Pioche,” said I, “and many thanks for your pleasant company. I hope we shall meet again, and soon.”
“I hope so, mon lieutenant; and if it be at a bivouac fire, all the better.”
The gallant corporal made his military salute, wheeled about, stiff as if on parade, and departed; while I, throwing my cloak over my arm, turned into the broad alley and left the garden.
I FOUND everything in the rue de rohan as I had left it the day before. General d'Auvergne had not been there during my absence, but a messenger from Versailles brought intelligence that the Court would arrive that evening in Paris, and in all likelihood the general would accompany them.
My day was then at my disposal, and having dressed, I strolled out to enjoy all the strange and novel sights of the great capital. They who can carry their memories back to Paris at that period may remember the prodigious amount of luxury and wealth so prodigally exhibited; the equipages, the liveries, the taste in dress, were all of the most costly character; the very shops, too, vied with each other in the splendor and richness of their display, and court uniforms and ornaments of jewelry glittered in every window. Hussar jackets in all their bravery, chapeaux covered with feather trimming and looped with diamonds, sabres with ivory scabbards encrusted with topaz and turquoise, replaced the simple costumes of the Revolutionary era as rapidly as did the high-sounding titles of “Excellence” and “Monseigneur” the unpretending designation of “citoyen.” Still, the military feature of the land was in the ascendant; in the phrase of the day, it was the “mustache” that governed. Not a street but had its group of officers, on horseback or on foot; regiments passed on duty, or arrived from the march, at every turn of the way. The very rabble kept time and step as they followed, and the warlike spirit animated every class of the population. All these things ministered to my enthusiasm, and set my heart beating stronger for the time when the career of arms was to open before me. This, if I were to judge from all I saw, could not now be far distant. The country for miles around Paris was covered with marching men, their faces all turned eastward; orderlies, booted and splashed, trotted rapidly from street to street; and general officers, with their aides-de-camp, rode up and down with a haste that boded preparation.
My mind was too full of its own absorbing interests to make me care to visit the theatre; and having dined in a café on the Boulevard, I turned towards the general's quarters in the hope of finding him arrived. As I entered the Rue de Rohan, I was surprised at a crowd collected about the door, watching the details of packing a travelling carriage which stood before it. A heavy fourgon, loaded with military chests and boxes, seemed also to attract their attention, and call forth many a surmise as to its destination.
“Le Petit Caporal has something in his head, depend upon it,” said a thin, dark-whiskered fellow with a wooden leg, whose air and gesture bespoke the old soldier; “the staff never move off, extra post, without a good reason for it.”
“It is the English are about to catch it this time,” said a miserable-looking, decrepit creature, who was occupied in roasting chestnuts over an open stove. “Hot, all hot! messieurs et mesdames! real 'marrons de Nancy,'—the true and only veritable chestnuts with a truffle flavor. Sacristi! now the sea-wolves will meet their match! It is such brave fellows as you, monsieur le grenadier, can make them tremble.”
The old pensioner smoothed down his mustache, and made no reply.
“The English, indeed!” said a fat, ruddy-faced woman, with a slight line of dark beard on her upper lip. “My husband 's a pioneer in the Twenty-second, and says they're nothing better than poltroons. How we made them run at Arcole! Wasn't it Arcole?” said she, as a buzz of laughter ran through the crowd.
“Tonnerre de guerre” cried the little man, “if I was at them!”
A loud burst of merriment met this warlike speech; while the maimed soldier, apparently pleased with the creature's courage, smiled blandly on him as he said, “Let me have two sous' worth of your chestnuts.”
Leaving the party to their discussion, I now entered the house, and edging my way upstairs between trunks and packing-cases, arrived at the drawing-room. The general had just come in; he had been the whole morning at Court, and was eating a hurried dinner in order to return to the Tuileries for the evening reception. Although his manner towards me was kind and cordial in the extreme, I thought he looked agitated and even depressed, and seemed much older and more broken than before.
“You see, Burke, you 'll have little time to enjoy Paris gayeties; we leave to-morrow.”
“Indeed, sir! So soon?”
“Yes; Lasalle is off already; Dorsenne starts in two hours; and we three rendezvous at Coblentz. I wished much to see you,” continued he, after a minute's pause; “but I could not get away from Versailles even for a day. Tell me, have you got a letter I wrote to you when at Mayence? I mean, is it still in existence?”
“Yes, sir,” said I, somewhat astonished at the question.
“I wrote it hurriedly,” added he, with something of confusion in his manner; “do let me see it.”
I unlocked my writing-desk at once, and handed him his own letter. He opened it hastily, and having thrown his eyes speedily across it, said, and in a voice far more at ease than before,—
“That will do. I feared lest perhaps—But no matter; this is better than I thought.”
With this he gave the letter back into my hands, and appeared for some moments engaged in deep thought; then, with a voice and manner which showed a different channel was given to his thoughts, he said,—
“The game has opened; the Austrians have invaded Bavaria. The whole disposable force of France is on the march,—a hurried movement; but so it is. Napoleon always strikes like his own emblem, the eagle.”
“True, sir; but even that serves to heighten the chivalrous feeling of the soldier, when the sword springs from the scabbard at the call of honor, and is not drawn slowly forth at the whispered counsel of some wily diplomat.”
He smiled half-mournfully at the remark, or at my impetuosity in making it, as he said:—
“My dear boy, never flatter yourself that the cause of any war can enter into the calculation of the soldier. The liberty he fights for is often the rankest tyranny; the patriotism he defends, the veriest oppression. Play the game as though the stake were but your own ambition, if you would play it manfully. As for me, I buckle on the harness for the last time, come what will of it. The Emperor feels, and justly feels, indignant that many of the older officers have declined the service by which alone they were elevated to rank, and wealth, and honor. It was not, then, at the moment when he distinguished me by an unsought promotion,—still more, conferred a personal favor on me, that I could ask leave to retire from the army.”
By the tone in which he said these last few words, I saw that the general was now approaching the topic I felt so curious about, and did not venture by a word to interrupt or divert his thoughts from it. My calculation proved correct; for, after meditating some eight or ten minutes, he drew his chair closer to mine, and in a voice of ill-repressed agitation, spoke thus:—
“You doubtless know the history of our great Revolution,—the causes that led to, the consequences that immediately sprang from it,—the terrible anarchy, the utter confiscation of wealth, and, worse still, the social disorganization that invaded every family, however humble or however exalted, setting wives against their husbands, children against their parents, and making brothers sworn enemies to one another. It was in vain for any man once engaged in the struggle to draw back; the least hesitation to perform any order of the Convention—the delay of a moment, to think—was death: some one was ever on the watch to denounce the man thus deliberating, and he was led forth to the guillotine like the blackest criminal. The immediate result of all this was a distrust that pervaded the entire nation. No one knew who to speak to, nor dare any confide in him who once had been his dearest friend. The old Royalists trembled at every stir; the few demonstrations they forced themselves to make of concurrence in the new state of things were received with suspicion and jealousy. The 'Blues'—for so the Revolutionary party was called—thirsted for their blood; the aristocracy had been, as they deemed, long their oppressors, and where vengeance ceased, cupidity began. They longed to seize upon the confiscated estates, and revel as masters in the halls where so oft they had waited as lackeys. But the evil ended not here. Wherever private hate or secret malice lurked, an opportunity for revenge now offered; and for one head that fell under the supposed guilt of treason to France, a hundred dropped beneath the axe from causes of personal animosity and long-nurtured vengeance: and thus many an idle word uttered in haste or carelessness, some passing slight, some chance neglect, met now its retribution, and that retribution was ever death.
“It chanced that in the South, in one of those remote districts where intelligence is always slow in arriving, and where political movements rarely disturb the quiet current of daily life, there lived one of those old seigneurs who at that period were deemed sovereign princes in the little locale they inhabited. The soil had been their own for centuries; long custom had made them respected and looked up to; while the acts of kindness and benevolence in which, from father to son, their education consisted, formed even a stronger tie to the affections of the peasantry. The Church, too, contributed not a little to the maintenance of this feudalism; and the château' entered into the subject of the village prayers as naturally as though a very principle of their faith. There was something beautifully touching in the intercourse between the lord of the soil and its tillers: in the kindly interest of the one, repaid in reverence and devotion by the others; his foresight for their benefit, their attachment and fidelity,—the paternal care, the filial love,—made a picture of rural happiness such as no land ever equalled, such as perhaps none will ever see again. The seigneur of whom I speak was a true type of this class. He had been in his boyhood a page at the gorgeous court of Louis the Fifteenth, mixed in the voluptuous fascinations of the period; but, early disgusted by the sensuality of the day, retired to his distant château, bringing with him a wife,—one of the most beautiful and accomplished persons of the Court, but one who, like himself, preferred the peace and tranquillity of a country life to the whirlwind pleasures of a vicious capital. For year's they lived childless; but at last, after a long lapse of time, two children were born to this union, a boy and girl,—both lovely, and likely in every respect to bless them with happiness. Shortly after the birth of the girl, the mother became delicate, and after some months of suffering, died. The father, who never rallied from the hour of her death, and took little interest in the world, soon followed her, and the children were left orphans when the eldest was but four years of age, and his sister but three. Before the count died, he sent for his steward. You know that the steward, or intendant, in France, was formerly the person of greatest trust in any family,—the faithful adviser in times of difficulty, the depositary of secrets, the friend, in a word, who in humble guise offered his counsel in every domestic arrangement, and without whom no project was entertained or determined on; and usually the office was hereditary, descending from father to son for centuries.
“In this family such was the case. His father and grandfather before him had filled the office, and Léon Guichard well knew every tradition of the house, and from his infancy his mind had been stored with tales of its ancient wealth and former greatness. His father had died but a short time previous, and when the count's last illness seized him, Léon was only in the second year of his stewardship. Brief as the period was, however, it had sufficed to give abundant proof of his zeal and ability. New sources of wealth grew up under his judicious management; improvements were everywhere conspicuous; and while the seigneur himself found his income increased by nearly one-half, the tenants had gained in equal proportion,—such was the result of his activity and intelligence. These changes, marvellous as they may seem, were then of frequent occurrence. The lands of the South had been tilled for centuries without any effort at improvement; sons were content to go on as their fathers had done before them; increased civilization, with its new train of wants and luxuries, never invaded this remote, untravelled district, and primitive tastes and simple habits succeeded each other generation after generation unaltered and unchanged.
“Suddenly, however, a new light broke on the world, which penetrated even the darkness of the far-off valleys of La Provence. Intelligence began to be more widely diffused; men read and reflected; the rudiments of every art and every science were put within the reach of humble comprehensions; and they who before were limited to memory or hearsay for such knowledge as they possessed, could now apply at the fountain for themselves. Léon Guichard was not slow in cultivating these new resources, and applying them to the circumstances about him; and although many an obstacle arose, dictated by stupid adherence to old customs, or fast-rooted prejudice against newfashioned methods, by perseverance he overcame them all, and actually enriched the people in spite of themselves.
“The seigneur, himself a man of no mean intellect, saw much of this with sorrow; he felt that a mighty change was accomplishing, and that as one by one the ancient landmarks by which men had been guided for ages were removed, none could foresee what results might follow, nor where the passion for alteration might cease. The superstitions of the Church, harmless in themselves, were now openly attacked; its observances, before so deeply venerated, were even assailed as idle ceremonies; and it seemed as if the strong cable that bound men to faith and loyalty had parted, and that their minds were drifting over a broad and pathless sea. Such was the ominous opening of the Revolution, such the terrible ground-swell before the storm.
“On his deathbed, then, he entreated Léon to be aware that evil days were approaching; that the time was not distant when men should rely upon the affection and love of those around them, on the ties that attached to each other for years long, on the mutual interest that had grown up from their cradles. He besought him to turn the people's 'minds, as far as might be, from the specious theories that were afloat, and fix them on their once-loved traditions; and, above all, he charged him, as the guardian of his orphan children, to keep them aloof from the contamination of dangerous doctrines, and to train them up in the ancient virtues of their house,—in charity and benevolence.
“Scarce had the old count's grave closed over him, when men began to perceive a marked change in Léon Guichard. No longer humble, even to subserviency, as before, he now assumed an air of pride and haughtiness that soon estranged his companions from him. As guardian to the orphan children, he resided in the château, and took on him the pretensions of the master. Its stately equipage, with great emblazoned panels,—the village wonder at every fête day,—was now replaced by a more modern vehicle, newly arrived from Paris, in which Monsieur Guichard daily took his airings. The old servants, many of them born in the château, were sent adrift, and a new and very different class succeeded them. All was changed: even the little path that led up from the presbytère to the château, and along which the old curé was seen wending his way on each Sunday to his dinner with the seigneur, was now closed, the gate walled up; while the Sabbath itself was only dedicated to greater festivities and excess, to the scandal of the villagers.
“Meanwhile the children grew up in strength and beauty; like wild flowers, they had no nurture, but they flourished in all this neglect, ignorant and unconscious of the scenes around them. They roved about the livelong day through the meadows, or that wilderness of a garden on which no longer any care was bestowed, and where rank luxuriance gave a beauty of its own to the rich vegetation. With the unsuspecting freshness of their youth, they enjoyed the present without a thought of the future,—they loved each other, and were happy.
“To them the vague reports and swelling waves of the Revolution, which each day gained ground, brought neither fear nor apprehension; they little dreamed that the violence of political strife could ever reach their quiet valleys. Nor did they think the hour was near when the tramp of soldiery and the ruffianly shout of predatory war were to replace the song of the vigneron and the dance of the villager.
“The Revolution came at last, sweeping like a torrent over the land. It blasted as it went; beneath its baneful breath everything withered and wasted; loyalty, religion, affection, and brotherly love, all died out in the devoted country; anarchy and bloodshed were masters of the scene. The first dreadful act of this fearful drama passed like a dream to those who, at a distance from Paris, only read of the atrocities of that wretched capital; but when the wave rolled nearer; when crowds of armed men, wild and savage in look, with ragged uniforms and bloodstained hands, prowled about the villages where in happier times a soldier had never been seen; when the mob around the guillotine supplied the place of the gathering at the market; when the pavement was wet and slippery with human blood,—men's natures suddenly became changed, as though some terrible curse from on high had fallen on them. Their minds caught up the fearful contagion of revolt, and a mad impulse to deny all they had once held sacred and venerable seized on all. Their blasphemies against religion went hand in hand with their desecration of everything holy in social life, and a pre-eminence in guilt became the highest object of ambition. Sated with slaughter, bloated with crime, the nation reeled like a drunken savage over the ruin it created, and with the insane lust of blood poured forth its armed thousands throughout the whole of Europe.
“Then began the much-boasted triumphs of the Revolutionary armies,—the lauded victories of those great asserters of liberty; say rather the carnage of famished wolves, the devastating rage of bloodthirsty maniacs. The conscription seized on the whole youth of France, as if fearful that in the untarnished minds of the young the seeds of better things might bear fruit in season. They carried them away to scenes of violence and rapine, where, amid the shouts of battle and the cries of the dying, no voice of human sympathy might touch their hearts, no trembling of remorse should stir within them.
“'You are named in the conscription, Monsieur, said Léon, in a short, abrupt tone, as one morning he entered the dressing-room of his young master.
“'I! I named in the conscription!' replied the other, with a look of incredulity and anger. 'This is but a sorry jest, Master Léon; and not in too good taste, either.'
“'Good or bad,' answered the steward, 'the fact is as I say; here is the order from the municipalite. You were fifteen yesterday, you know.'
“'True; and what then? Am I not Marquis de Neufchâtel, Comte de Rochefort, in right of my mother?'
“'There are no more marquises, no more counts,' said the other, roughly; 'France has had enough of such cattle. The less you allude to them the safer for your head.'
“He spoke truly,—the reign of the aristocracy was ended. And while they were yet speaking, an emissary of the Convention, accompanied by a party of troops, arrived at the château to fetch away the newly-drawn conscript.
“I must not dwell on the scene which followed: the heartrending sorrow of those who had lived but for each other, now torn asunder for the first time, not knowing when, if ever, they were to meet again. His sister wished to follow him; but even had he permitted it, such would have been impossible: the dreadful career of a Revolutionary soldier was an obstacle insurmountable. The same evening the battalion of infantry to which he was attached began their march towards Savoy, and the lovely orphan of the château fell dangerously ill.
“Youth, however, triumphed over her malady, which, indeed, was brought on by grief; and after some weeks she was restored to health. During the interval, nothing could be more kind and attentive than Léon Guichard; his manner, of late years rough and uncivil, became softened and tender; the hundred little attentions which illness seeks for he paid with zeal and watchfulness; everything which could alleviate her sorrow or calm her afflicted mind was resorted to with a kind of instinctive delicacy, and she began to feel that in her long-cherished dislike of the intendant she had done him grievous wrong.
“This change of manner attracted the attention of many besides the inhabitants of the château. They remarked his altered looks and bearing, the more studied attention to his dress and appearance, and the singular difference in all his habits of life. No longer did he pass his time in the wild orgies of debauchery and excess, but in careful management of the estate, and rarely or never left the château after nightfall.
“A hundred different interpretations were given to this line of acting. Some said that the more settled condition of political affairs had made him cautious and careful, for it was now the reign of the Directory, and the old excesses of '92 were no longer endured; others, that he was naturally of a kind and benevolent nature, and that his savage manner and reckless conduct were assumed merely in compliance with the horrible features of the time.
“None, however, suspected the real cause. Léon Guichard was in love! Yes, the humble steward, the coarse follower of the vices of that detestable period, was captivated by the beauty of the young girl, now springing into womanhood. The freshness of her artless nature, her guileless innocence, her soft voice, her character so balanced between gayety and thoughtfulness, her loveliness, so unlike all he had ever seen before, had seized upon his whole heart; and, as the sun darting from behind the blackest clouds will light up the surface of a bleak landscape, touching every barren rock and tipping every bell of purple heath with color and richness, so over his rugged nature the beauty of this fair girl shed a very halo of light, and a spirit awoke within him to seek for better things, to endeavor better things, to fly the coarse, depraved habits of his former self, to conform to the tastes of her he worshipped. Day by day his stern nature became more softened. No longer those terrible bursts of passion, to which he once gave way, escaped him; his voice, his very look, too, were changed in their expression, and a gentleness of manner almost amounting to timidity now characterized him who had once been the type of the most savage Jacobin.
“She to whom this wondrous change was owing knew nothing of the miracle she had worked; she would not, indeed, have believed, had one told her. She scarcely remarked him when they met, and did not perceive that he was no longer like his former self; her whole soul wrapped up in her dear brother, s fate, she lived from week to week in the thought of his letters home. It is true, her life had many enjoyments which owed their source to the intendant's care; but she knew not of this, and felt more grateful to him when he came letter in hand from the little post of the village, than when the fair mossroses of spring filled the vases of the salon, or the earliest fruits of summer decked her table. At times something in his demeanor would strike her,—a tinge of sorrow it seemed rather than aught else; but as she attributed this, as every other grief, to her brother's absence, she paid no further attention to it, and merely thought good Leon had more feeling than they used to give him credit for.
“At last, the campaign of Arcole over, the young soldier obtained a short leave to see his sister. How altered were they both! She, from the child, had become the beautiful girl,—her eyes flashing with the brilliant sparkle of youth, her step elastic, her color changing with every passing expression. He was already a man, bronzed and sunburnt, his dark eyes darker, and his voice deeper; but still his former self in all the warmth of his affection to his sister.
“The lieutenant—for so was he always called by the old soldier who accompanied him as his servant, and oftentimes by the rest of his household—had seen much of the world in the few years of his absence.
“The chances and changes of a camp had taught him many things which lie far beyond its own limits, and he had learned to scan men's minds and motives with a quick eye and ready wit. He was not long, therefore, in observing the alteration in Léon Guichard's manner; nor was he slow in tracing it to its real cause. At first the sudden impulse of his passion would have driven him to any length,—the presumption of such a thought was too great to endure. But then the times he lived in taught him some strong lessons. He remembered the scenes of social disorder and anarchy of his childhood,—how every rank became subverted, and how men's minds were left to their own unbridled influences to choose their own position,—and he bethought him, that in such trials as these Leon had conducted himself with moderation; that to his skilful management it was owing if the property had not suffered confiscation like so many others; and that it was perhaps hard to condemn a man for being struck by charms which, however above him in the scale of rank, were still continually before his eyes.
“Reasoning thus, he determined, as the wisest course, to remove his sister to the house of a relative, where she could remain during his absence. This would at once put a stop to the steward's folly,—for so he could not help deeming it,—and, what was of equal consequence in the young soldier's eyes, prevent his sister being offended by ever suspecting the existence of such a feeling towards her. The plan, once resolved on, met no difficulty from his sister; his promise to return soon to see her was enough to compensate for any arrangement, and it was determined that they should set out towards the South by the first week in September.
“When the intimation of this change first reached Léon, which it did from the other servants, he could not believe it, and resolved to hasten to the lieutenant himself, and ask if it were true. On that day, however, the young soldier was absent shooting, and was not to return before night. Tortured with doubt and fear, trembling at the very thought of her departure whose presence had been the loadstar of his life, he rushed from the house and hurried into the wood. Every spot reminded him of her; and he shuddered to think that in a few hours his existence would have lost its spring; that ere the week was passed he would be alone without the sight of her whom even to have seen constituted the happiness of the whole day. Revolving such sad thoughts, he strolled on, not knowing whither, and at last, on turning the angle of a path, found himself before the object of his musings. She was returning from a farewell visit to one of the cottagers, and was hastening to the château to dress for dinner.
“'Ah, Monsieur Léon,' said she, suddenly, 'I am glad to meet you here. These poor people at the wooden bridge will miss me, I fear; you must look to them in my absence. And there is old Jeannette,—she fancies she can spin still; I pray you let her have her little pension regularly. The children at Calotte, too,—they are too far from the school; mind that they have their books.'
“'And are you indeed going from hence, Mademoiselle?' said he, in a tone and accent so unlike his ordinary one as to make her start with surprise.
“'Yes, to be sure. We leave the day after to-morrow.'
“'And have you no regret, Mademoiselle, to leave the home of your childhood and those you have—known there?'
“'Sir!' replied she haughtily, as the tone of his voice assumed a meaning which could not be mistaken; 'you seem to have forgotten yourself somewhat, or you had not dared—'
“'Dared!' interrupted he, in a louder key,—'dared! I have dared more than that! Yes,' cried he, in a voice where passion could be no longer held under, 'Léon Guichard, the steward, has dared to love his master's daughter! Start not so proudly back, Madame! Time was when such an avowal had been a presumption death could not repay. But these days are passed; the haughty have been well humbled; they who deemed their blood a stream too pure to mingle with the current in plebeian veins, have poured it lavishly beneath the guillotine. Léon Guichard has no master now!'
“The fire flashed from his eyes as he spoke, and his color, pale at first, grew darker and darker, till his face became almost purple; while his nostrils, swelled to twice their natural size, dilated and contracted like those of a fiery charger. Terrified at the frightful paroxysm of passion before her, the timid girl endeavored to allay his anger, and replied,—
“'You know well, Léon, that my brother has ever treated you as a friend—'
“'He a friend!' cried he, stamping on the ground, while a look of demoniac malice lit up his features. 'He, who talks to me as though I were a vassal, a slave; he, who deems his merest word of approval a recompense for all my labor, all my toil; he, whose very glance shoots into my heart like a dagger! Think you I forgive him the contemptuous treatment of nineteen years, or that I can pardon insults because they have grown into habits? Hear me!'—he grasped her wrist rigidly as he spoke, and continued, 'I have sworn an oath to be revenged on him, from the hour when, a boy scarce eight years old, he struck me in the face, and called me canaille. I vowed his ruin. I toiled for it, I strove for it, and I succeeded,—ay, succeeded. I obtained from the Convention the confiscation of your lands,—all, everything you possessed. I held the titles in my possession, for I was the owner of this broad château,—ay, Léon Guichard! even so; you were but my guest here. I kept it by me many a day, and when your brother was drawn in the conscription I resolved to assert my right before the world.'
“He paused for a moment, while a tremendous convulsion shook his frame, and made him tremble liker one in an ague; then suddenly rallying, he passed his hand across his brow, and in a lower voice, resumed, 'I would have done so, but for you.'
“'For me! What mean you?' said she, almost sinking with terror.
“'I loved you,—loved you as only he can love who can surrender all his cherished hopes, his dream of ambition, his vengeance even, to his love. I thought, too, that you were not cold to my advances; and fearing lest any hazard should apprise you of my success, and thus run counter to my wishes, I lived on here as your servant, still hoping for the hour when I might call you mine, and avow myself the lord of this château. How long I might have continued thus I know not. To see you, to look on you, to live beneath the same roof with you, seemed happiness enough; but when I heard that you were to leave this, to go away, never to return perhaps, or if so, not as her I loved and worshipped, then—But why look you thus? Is it because you doubt these things? Look here; see this. Is that in form? Are these signatures authentic? Is this the seal of the National Convention? What say you now? It is not the steward Léon that sues, but the Citizen Guichard, proprietaire de Rochefort. Now, methinks, that makes some difference in the proposition.'
“'None, sir,' replied she, with a voice whose steady utterance made each word sink into his heart, 'save that it adds to my contempt for him who has dared to seek my affection in the ruin of my family. I did not despise you before—'
“'Beware!' said he, in a voice of menace, but in which no violence of passion entered; 'you are in my power. I ask you again, will you consent to be my wife? Will you save your brother from the scaffold, and yourself from beggary and ruin? I can accomplish both.'
“A look of ineffable scorn was all her reply; when he sprang forward and threw his arm round her waist.
“'Or would you drive me to the worst—'
“A terrific shriek broke from her as she felt his hand around her, when the brushwood crashed behind her, and her brother's dogs sprang from the thicket. With a loud cry she called upon his name. He answered from the wood, and dashed towards her just as she sank fainting to the ground. Léon was gone.
“As soon as returning strength permitted, she told her brother the fearful story of the steward; but bound him by every entreaty not to bring himself in contact with a monster so depraved. When they reached the château, they learned that Guichard had been there and left it again. And from that hour they saw him no more.
“I must now conclude in a few words; and, to do so, may mention, that in the year '99 I became the purchaser of Haut Rochefort at a sale of forfeited estates, it having been bought by Government on some previous occasion, but from whom and how, I never heard. The story I have told I learned from the notaire of Hubane, the village in the neighborhood, who was conversant with all its details, and knew well the several actors in it, as well as their future fortunes.
“The brother became a distinguished officer, and rose to some rank in the service; but embarking in the expedition to Ireland, was reported to Bonaparte as having betrayed the French cause. The result was, he was struck off the list of the army, and pronounced degraded. He died in some unknown place.