“The sister became attached to her cousin, but the brother opposing the union, she was taken away to Paris. The lover returned to Bretagne, where, having heard a false report of her marriage at Court, he assumed holy orders; and being subsequently charged—but it is now believed falsely—of corresponding with the Bourbons, was shot in his own garden by a platoon of infantry. But how is this? Are you ill? Has my story so affected you?”
“That brother was my friend,—my dearest, my only friend, Charles de Meudon!”
“What! and did you know poor Charles?”
But I could not speak; the tears ran fast down my cheeks as I thought of all his sorrows,—sorrows far greater than ever he had told me.
“Poor Marie!” said the general, as he wiped a tear from his eye; “few have met such an enemy as she did. Every misfortune of her life has sprung from one hand: her brother's, her lover's death, were both his acts.”
“Lâon Guichard! And who is he? or how could he have done these things?”
“Methinks you might yourself reply to your own question.”
“I! How could that be? I know him not.”
“Yes, but you do. Lâon Guichard is Mehée de la Touche!”
Had a thunderbolt fallen between us I could not have felt more terror. That name, spoken but twice or thrice in my hearing, had each time brought its omen of evil.
It was the same with whose acquaintance Marie de Meudon charged me in the garden of Versailles; the same who brought the Chouans to the guillotine, and had so nearly involved myself in their ruin; and now I heard of him as one whose dreadful life had been a course of perfidy and crime,—one who blasted all around him, and scattered ruin as he went.
“I have little more to add,” resumed the general, after a long pause, and in a voice whose weakened accents evinced how fearfully the remembrance he called up affected him. “What remains, too, more immediately concerns myself than others. I am the last of my house. An ancient family, and one not undistinguished in the annals of France, hangs but on the feeble thread of a withered and broken old man's life, with whom it dies. My only brother fell in the Austrian campaign. I never had a sister. Uncles and cousins I have had in numbers; but death and exile have been rife these last twenty years, and, save myself, none bears the name of D'Auvergne.
“Yet once I nourished the hope of a family,—of a race who should hand down the ancient virtues of our house to after years. I thought of those gallant ancestors whose portraits graced the walls of the old château I was born in, and fancied myself leading my infant boy from picture to picture, as I pointed out the brave and the good who had been his forefathers. But this is a dream long since dispelled. I was then a youth, scarce older than yourself, rich, and with every prospect of happiness before me. I fell in love, and the object of my passion seemed one created to have made the very paradise I sought for. She was beautiful, beyond even the loveliest of a handsome Court; high-born and gifted. But her heart was bestowed on another,—one who, unlike myself, encouraged no daring thoughts, no ambitious longings, but who, wholly devoted to her he loved, sought in tranquil quiet the happiness such spirits can give each other. She told me herself frankly, as I speak now to you, that she could not be mine; and then placed my hand in her husband's. This was Marie de Rochefort, the mother of Mademoiselle de Meudon.
“The world's changes seem ever to bring about these strange vicissitudes by which our early deeds of good and evil are brought more forcibly to our memories, and we are made to think over the past by some accident of the present. After twenty years I came to live in that château where she whom I once loved had lived and died. I became the lord of that estate which her husband once possessed, and where in happiness they had dwelt together. I will not dwell upon the thoughts such associations ever give rise to; I dare not, old as I am, evoke them.”
He paused for some minutes, and then went on: “Two years ago I learned that Mademoiselle de Meudon was the daughter of my once loved Marie. From that hour I felt no longer childless. I watched over her,—without, however, attracting notice on her part,—and followed her everywhere. The very day I saw you first at the Polytechnique, I was beside her. From all I could learn and hear, her life bad been one of devoted attachment to her brother, and then to Madame Bonaparte. Her heart, it was said, was buried with him she once loved,—at least none since had ever won even the slightest acknowledgment from her bordering on encouragement.
“Satisfied that she was everything I could have wished my own daughter, and feeling that with youth the springs of affection rarely dry up, I conceived the idea of settling all my property on her, and entreating the Emperor to make me her guardian, with her own consent of course. He agreed: he went further; he repealed, so far as it concerned her, the law by which the daughters of Royalists cannot inherit, and made her eligible to succeed to property, and placed her hand at my disposal.
“Such was the state of matters when I wrote to you. Since that I have seen her, and spoken to her in confidence. She has consented to every portion of the arrangement, save that which involves her marrying; but some strange superstition being over her mind that her fate is to ruin all with whom it is linked, that her name carries an evil destiny with it, she refuses every offer of marriage, and will not yield to my solicitation.
“I thought,” said the general, as he leaned on his hand, and muttered half aloud, “that I had conceived a plan which must bring happiness with it. But, however, one part of my design is accomplished: she is my heir; the daughter of my own loved Marie is the child of my adoption, and for this I have reason to feel grateful. The cheerless feeling of a deathbed where not one mourns for the dying haunts me no longer, and I feel not as one deserted and alone. To-morrow I go to wish her adieu; and we are to be at the Tuileries by noon. The Emperor holds a levée, and our final orders will then be given.”
The old general rallied at the last few words he spoke, and pressing my hand affectionately, wished me goodnight, and withdrew; while I, with a mind confused and stunned, sat thinking over the melancholy story he had related, and sorrowing over the misfortunes of one whose lot in life had been far sadder than my own.
Some minutes before noon we entered the Place du Carrousel, now thronged with equipages and led horses. Officers in the rich uniforms of every arm of the service were pressing their way to the Palace, amid the crash of carriages, the buzz of recognitions, and the thundering sounds of the brass band, whose echo was redoubled beneath the vaulted vestibule of the Palace.
Borne along with the torrent, we mounted the wide stair and passed from room to room, until we arrived at the great antechamber where the officers of the household were assembled in their splendid dresses. Here the crowd was so dense we were unable to move on for some time, and it was after nearly an hour's waiting that we at last found ourselves within that gorgeous gallery named by the Emperor “La Salle des Maréchaux.” At any other moment my attention had been riveted upon the magnificence and beauty of this great salon—its pictures, its gildings, the richness of the hangings, the tasteful elegance of the ceiling, with its tracery of dull gold, the great works of art in bronze and marble that adorned it on every side,—but now my mind took another and very different range. Here around me were met the greatest generals and warriors of Europe,—the names second alone to his who had no equal. There stood Ney, with his broad, retiring forehead, and his eyes black and flashing, like an eagle's. With what energy he spoke! how full of passionate vigor that thick and rapid utterance, that left a tremulous quivering on his lip even when he ceased to speak! What a contrast to the bronzed, unmoved features of the large man he addressed, and who listened to him with such deference of manner: his yellow mustache bespeaks not the Frenchman; he is a German, by blood at least,—for it is Kellerman, the colonel of the curassiers of the Guard. And yonder was Soult, with his strong features seamed by many a day of hardship, the centre of a group of colonels of the staff to whom he was rapidly communicating their orders. Close beside him stood Lannes, his arm in a sling; a gunshot wound that defied the art of the surgeons still deprived him of his left hand. And there leaned Savary against the window, his dark eyes riveted on the corps of gendarmerie in the court beneath; full taller by a head than the largest about him, he seemed almost gigantic in the massive accoutrements of his service. The fierce Davoust; the gay and splendid Murat, with his waving plumes and jewelled dolman; Lefebvre, the very type of his class, moving with difficulty from a wound in his hip,—all were there: while passing rapidly from place to place, I remarked a young and handsome man, whose uniform of colonel bore the decoration of the Legion; he appeared to know and be known to all. This was Eugène Beauharnais, the stepson of the Emperor.
“Ah, Général d'Auvergne!” cried he, approaching with a smile, “his Majesty desires to see you after the levée. You leave to-night, I believe?”
“Yes, Colonel; all is in readiness,” said the general; while I thought a look of anxiety at the Emperor's summons seemed to agitate his features.
“One of your staff?” said Beauharnais, bowing, as he looked towards me.
“My aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Burke,” replied the general, presenting me.
“Ah! I remember,” said the colonel, as he drew himself proudly up, and seemed as though the recollection were anything but favorable to me.
But just then the wide folding-doors were thrown open, and a loud voice proclaimed, “Sa Majesté l'Empereur!”
In an instant every voice was hushed, the groups broke up, and fell back into two long lines, between which lay a passage; along this the officers of the Palace retired slowly, facing the Emperor, who came step by step after them. I could but see the pale face, massive and regular, like the head of an antique cameo; the hair combed straight upon his fine forehead; and his large, full eyes, as they turned hither and thither among that crowd, once his equals, now how immeasurably his inferiors! He stopped every now and then to say a word or two to some one as he passed, but in so low a tone, that even in the dead silence around nothing was audible save a murmur. It was a relief to my own excited feelings, as, with high, beating heart, I gazed on the greatest monarch of the world, that I beheld the others around, the oldest generals, the time-worn companions of his battles, not less moved than myself.
While the Emperor passed slowly along, I could mark that Eugène Beauharnais moved rapidly through the gallery, whispering now to this one, now to that, among the officers of superior grade, who immediately after left the salon by a door at the end. At length he approached General d'Auvergne, saying,—
“The audience of the marshals, will not occupy more than half an hour; pray be in readiness to wait on his Majesty when he calls. You can remain in the blue drawing-room next the gallery!”
The general bowed, and taking my arm, moved slowly from the spot in the direction mentioned, and in a few minutes we found ourselves in the small room where the Empress used to receive her morning visitors during the Consulate.
“You remember this salon Burke?” said the general, carelessly.
“Yes, sir, but too well; it was here that his Majesty gave me that rebuke—”
“True, true, my dear boy; I forgot that completely. But come, there has been time enough to forget it since. I wonder what can mean this summons to attend here! I have received my orders; there has been, so far as I understand, no change of plan. Well, well, we shall soon know. See, the levée has begun to break up already; there goes the staff of the artillery; that roll of the drum is for some general of division.”
And now the crash of carriages, and the sounds of cavalry escorts jingling beside them, mingled with the deep beating of the drums, made a mass of noises that filled the air, and continued without interruption |or above an hour.
“Sacristi” cried the general, “the crowd seems to pour in as fast as it goes out; this may last for the entire day. I have scarce two hours left me now.”
He walked the room impatiently; now muttering some broken words to himself, now stopping to listen to the sounds without. Still the din continued, and the distant roll of equipages, growing louder as they came, told that the tide was yet pressing onwards towards the Palace. “Three o'clock!” cried the general, as the bell of the pavilion sounded; “at four I was to leave. Such were my written orders, signed by the minister.”
His impatience now became extreme. He knew how difficult it was, in a matter of military discipline, to satisfy Napoleon that any breach, even when caused by his direct orders, was not a fault. Besides, his old habits had taught him to respect a command from the Minister of War as something above all others.
“Beauharnais must have mistaken,” said he, angrily. “His Majesty gave me my final directions; I'll wait no longer.”
Yet did he hesitate to leave, and seemed actually to rely on me for some hint for his guidance. I did not dare to offer a suggestion; and while thus we both stood uncertain, the door opened, and a huissier called out,—
“Lieutenant-Greneral d'Auvergne,—this way, sir,” said the official, as he threw open a folding-door into a long gallery that looked into the garden. They passed out together, and I was alone.
The agitation of the general at this unexpected summons had communicated itself to me, but in a far different way; for I imagined that his Majesty desired only to confer some mark of favor on the gallant old general before parting with him. Yet did I not venture to suggest this to him, for fear I should be mistaken.
While I revolved these doubts in my mind, the door was flung open with a crash, and a page, in the uniform of the Court, rushed in.
“May I ask, sir,” cried he, breathlessly, “can you inform me where is the aide-de-camp of the General d'Auvergne? I forget the name, unfortunately.”
“I am the person,—Lieutenant Burke.”
“The same; that is the name. Gome after me with all haste; this way.” And so saying, he rushed down a flight of stone stairs, clearing six or seven at a spring.
“A hurried business this, Lieutenant,” said the page, laughingly; “took them by by surprise, I fancy.”
“What is it? What do you mean?” asked I, eagerly.
“Hush!” said he, placing his fingers on his lips; “here they come.”
We had just time to stand to one side of the gallery, as the officers of the household came up, two and two, followed by the Chancellor of France, and the Dean of St. Roch in his full canonicals. They approached the table, on which several papers and documents were lying, and proceeded to sign their names to different writings before them. While I looked on, puzzled and amazed, totally unable to make the most vague conjecture of the nature of the proceedings, I perceived that General d'Auvergne had entered the room, and was standing among the rest at the table.
“Whose signature do you propose here. General?” said the chancellor, as he took up a paper before him.
“My aide-de-camp. Lieutenant Burke.”
“He is here, sir,” said the page, stepping forward.
“You are to sign your name here, sir, and again on this side,” said the chancellor, “with your birthplace annexed, age, and rank in the service.”
“I am a foreigner,” said I; “does that make any difference here?”
“None,” said he, smiling; “the witness is but a very subordinate personage here.”
I took the pen, and proceeded to write as I was desired; and, while thus engaged, the door opened, and a short, heavy step crossed the room. I did not dare to look up; some secret feeling of terror ran through me, and told me it was the Emperor himself.
“Well, D'Auvergne,” said he, in a frank, bold way, quite different from his ordinary voice, “you seem but half content with this plan of mine. Pardieu! there's many a brave fellow would not deem the case so hard a one.”
“As your wish, sire—”
“As mine, diantre! my friend. Do not say mine only; you forget that the lady expressed herself equally satisfied. Come I is the acte completed?”
“It wants but your Majesty's signature,” said the chancellor.
The Emperor took the pen, and dashed some indescribable scroll across the paper; then turning suddenly towards the general, he conversed with him eagerly for several minutes, but in so low a voice as not to be audible where I stood. I could but catch the words “Darmstadt— Augsburg—the fourth corps;” from which it seemed the movements of the army were the subject; when he added, in a louder voice,—
“Every hour now is worth a day, ay, a week, hereafter. Remember that, D'Auvergne.”
“Everything is finished, sire,” said the chancellor, handing the folded papers to the Emperor.
“These are for your keeping, Greneral,” said he, delivering them into D'Auvergne's hand.
“Pardon, sire,” said the chancellor, hastily, “I have made a great error here. Madame la Comtesse has not appended her signature to the consent.”
“Indeed!” said the Emperor, smiling. “We have been too hasty, it would seem; so thinks our reverend father of Saint Roch, I perceive, who is evidently not accustomed to officiate au coup de tambour.”
“Her Majesty the Empress!” said the huissier, as he opened the doors to permit her to enter. She was dressed in full Court dress, covered with jewels; she held within her arm the hand of another, over whose figure a deep veil was thrown, that entirely concealed her from head to foot.
“Madame la Comtesse will have the kindness to sign this,” said the chancellor, as he handed over a pen to the lady.
She threw back her veil as he spoke. As she turned towards the table, I saw the pale, almost deathlike features of Marie de Meudon. Such was the shock, I scarce restrained a cry from bursting forth, and a film fell before my eyes as I looked, and the figures before me floated like masses of vapor before my sight.
The Empress now spoke to the general, but no longer could I take notice of what was said. Voices there were, but they conveyed nothing to my mind. A terrible rush of thoughts, too quick for perception, chased one another through my brain, and I felt as though my temples were bursting open from some pressure within.
Suddenly the general moved forward, and knelt to kiss the Empress's hand; he then took that of Mademoiselle de Meudon, and held it to his lips. I heard the word “Adieu!” faintly uttered by her low voice; the veil fell once more over her features. That moment a stir followed, and in a few minutes more we were descending the stairs alone, the general leaning on my arm, his right hand pressed across his eyes.
When we reached the court, several officers of rank pressed forward, and I could hear the buzz of phrases implying congratulations and joy, to which the old general replied briefly, and with evident depression of manner. The dreadful oppression of a sad dream was over me still, and I felt as though to awake were impossible, when, to some remark near him, the general replied,—
“True! Quite true, Monseigneur; I have made her my wife. There only remains one reparation for it, which is to make her my widow.”
“His wife!” said I, aloud, re-echoing the word without knowing.
“Even so, mon ami,” said he, pressing my hand softly; “my name and my fortune are both hers. As for myself,—we shall never meet again.”
He turned away his head as he spoke, nor uttered another word during the remainder of the way.
When we arrived at the Rue de Rohan the horses were harnessed to the carriage, and all in readiness for our departure. The rumor of expected war had brought, a crowd of idlers about the door, through which we passed with some difficulty into the house. Hastily throwing an eye over the now dismantled room, the old general approached the window that looked out upon the Tuileries. “Adieu!” muttered he to himself; “je ne vous reverrai jamais!” And with that he pressed his travelling-cap over his brows, and descended the stairs.
A cheer burst from the mob; the postilion's whip cracked loudly; the horses dashed over the pavement; and ere the first flurry of mad excitement had subsided from my mind, Paris was some miles behind us, and we were hastening on towards the frontier.
Almost every man has experienced at least one period of his life when the curtain seems to drop, and the drama in which he has hitherto acted to end; when a total change appears to pass over the interests he has lived among, and a new and very different kind of existence to open before him. Such is the case when the death of friends has left us alone and companionless; when they into whose ears we poured our whole thoughts of sorrow or of joy are gone, and we look around upon the bleak world without a tie to existence, without one hope to cheer us. How naturally then do we turn from every path and place once lingered over! how do we fly the thoughts wherein once consisted our greatest happiness, and seek from other sources impressions less painful, because unconnected with the past! Still, the bereavement of death is never devoid of a sense of holy calm, a sort of solemn peace connected with the memory of the lost one. In the sleep that knows no waking we see the end of earthly troubles; in the silence of the grave come no sounds of this world's contention; the winds that stir the rank grass of the churchyard breathe at least repose. Not so when fate has severed us from those we loved best during lifetime; when the fortunes we hoped to link with our own are torn asunder from us; when the hour comes when we must turn from the path we had followed with pleasure and happiness, and seek another road in life, bearing with us not only all the memory of the past, but all the speculation on the future. There is no sorrow, no affliction, like this.
It was thus I viewed my joyless fortune,—with such depressing reflections I thought over the past. What mattered it now how my career might turn? There lived not one to care whether rank or honor, disgrace or death, were to be my portion. The glorious path I often longed to tread opened for me now without exciting one spark of enthusiasm. So is it even in our most selfish desires, we live less for ourselves than others.
If my road in life seemed to present few features to hang hopes on, he who sat beside me appeared still more depressed. Seldom speaking, and then but in monosyllables, he remained sunk in reverie.
And thus passed the days of our journey, when on the third evening we came in sight of Coblentz. Then indeed there burst upon my astonished gaze one of those scenes which once seen are never forgotten. From the gentle declivity which we were now descending, the view extended several miles in every direction. Beneath us lay the city of Coblentz, its spires and domes shining like gilded bronze as the rays of the setting sun fell upon them; the Moselle swept along one side of the town till it mingled its eddies with the broad Rhine, now one sheet of liquid gold; the long pontoon bridge, against whose dark cutwaters the bright stream broke in sparkling circles, trembled beneath the dull roll of artillery and baggage-wagons, which might be seen issuing from the town, and serpentining their course along the river's edge for miles, till they were lost in the narrow glen by which the Lahn flows into the Rhine. Beyond rose the great precipice of rock, with its crowning fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, along whose battlemented walls, almost lost in the heavy clouds of evening, might be seen dark specks moving from place to place,—the soldiers of the garrison looking down from their eyrie on the war-tide that flowed beneath. Lower down the river many boats were crossing, in which, as the sunlight shone, one could mark the glancing of arms and the glitter of uniforms; while farther again, and in deep shadow, rose the solitary towers of the ruined castle of Lahneck, its shattered walls and grass-grown battlements standing clearly out against the evening sky.
Far as we were oif, every breeze that stirred bore towards us the softened swell of military music, which, even when too faint to trace, made the air tremulous with its martial sounds. Along the ramparts of the city were crowds of townspeople, gazing with anxious wonderment at the spectacle; for none knew, save the generals in command of divisions, the destination of that mighty force, the greatest Europe had ever seen up to that period. Such indeed were the measures taken to ensure secrecy, that none were permitted to cross the frontier without a special authority from the Minister for Foreign Affairs; the letters in the various post-offices were detained, and even travellers were denied post-horses on the great roads to the eastward, lest intelligence might be conveyed to Germany of the movement in progress. Meanwhile, at Manheim, at Spire, at Strasburg, and at Coblentz, the long columns streamed forth whose eagles were soon destined to meet in the great plains of Southern Germany.
Such was the gorgeous spectacle that each moment grew more palpable to our astonished senses,—more brilliant far than anything painting could realize,—more spirit-stirring than the grandest words that poet ever sang.
“The cuirassiers and the dragoons of the Guard are yonder,” said the general, as he directed his glass to a large square of the town where a vast mass of dismounted cavalry were standing. “You see how punctual they are; we are but two hours behind our time, and they are awaiting our arrival.”
“And do we move forward to-night, General?” asked I, in some surprise.
“Yes, and every night. The marches are to be made fourteen hours each day. There go the Lancers of Berg; you see their scarlet dolmans, don't you? And yonder, in the three large boats beyond the point, there are the sappers of the Guard. What are the shouts I hear? Whence comes that cheering? Oh, I see! it's a vivandière; her horse has backed into the river. See, see! she is going to swim him over! Look how the current takes him down! Bravely done, faith! She heads him to the stream; it won't do, though; she must be carried down.”
Just at this critical moment a boat shoots out from under the cliff; a few strokes of the oars and they are alongside. There's a splash and a shout, and the skiff moves on.
“And now I see they have given her a rope, and are towing her and her horse across. See how the old spirit comes back with the first blast of the trumpet,” said the old general, as his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. “That damsel there,—I 'll warrant ye, she 'd have thought twice about stepping over a rivulet in the streets of Paris yesterday; and look at her now! Well done! gallantly done! See how she spurs him up the bank! Ma foi! Mademoiselle, you 'll have no lack of lovers for that achievement.”
A few minutes more and we entered the town, whose streets were thronged with soldiers hurrying on to their different corps, and eager townsfolk asking a hundred questions, to which, of course, few waited to reply.
“This way, General,” said an officer in undress, who recognized General d'Auvergne. “The cavalry of the third division is stationed on the square.”
Driving through a narrow street, through which the calèche had barely room to pass, we now found ourselves in the Place,—a handsome space surrounded with a double row of trees, under which the dragoons were lying, holding the bridles of their horses.
The general had scarcely put foot to ground when the trumpets sounded the call. The superior officers came running forward to greet him. Taking the arm of a short man in the uniform of the cuirassiers, the general entered a café near, while I became the centre of some dozen officers, all eagerly asking the news from Paris, and whether the Emperor had yet left the capital. It was not without considerable astonishment I then perceived how totally ignorant they all were of the destination of the army; many alleging it was designed for Russia, and others equally positive that the Prussians were the object of attack,—the arguments in support of each opinion being wonderfully ingenious, and only deficient in one respect, having not a particle of fact for their foundation.
In the midst of these conjecturings came a new subject for discussion; for one of the group, who had just received a letter from his brother, a page at the Tuileries, was reading the contents aloud for the benefit of the rest:—
“Jules says that they are all astray as to the Emperor's movements. Duroc has left Paris suddenly, but no one knows for where; the only thing certain is, a hot campaign is to open somewhere. One hundred and eighty thousand men—”
“Bah!” said an old, white-mustached major, with a look of evident unbelief; “we never had forty with the army of the Sambre.”
“And what then?” said another, fiercely. “Do you compare your army of the Sambre, your sans-culottes Republicans, with the Imperial troops?”
The old major's face became deeply crimsoned, and with a muttered À demain he walked away.
“Go after him, Amédée,” said another; “you had no right to say that.”
“Not I, faith,” said the other, carelessly. “There is a grudge between us these three weeks past, and we may as well have it out. Go on with the letter, Henri.”
“Oh, it is filled with Court gossip,” said the reader, negligently. “Ha! what is this, though?—the postscript:—
“'I have just time to tell you the strangest bit of news we have chanced upon for some time past. The Emperor has this moment married old General d'Auvergne to the very handsomest girl in the Empress's suite,—Mademoiselle de Meudon. There is a rumor afloat about the old man having made her his heir, and desiring to confer her hand on some young fellow of his own choosing. But this passion to make Court matches, which has seized his Majesty lately, stops at nothing; and it is whispered that old Madame d'Orvalle is actually terrified at every levee lest she should be disposed of to one of the new marshals. I must say that the general looks considerably put out by the arrangement,—not unnaturally, perhaps, as he is likely to pass the honeymoon in the field; while his aide-de-camp, a certain Monsieur Burke, whose name you may remember figuring in the affair of Pichegru and George—'”
“Perhaps it were as well, sir,” said I, quietly, “that I should tell you the person alluded to is myself. I have no desire to learn how your correspondent speaks of me; nor, I take it for granted, do these gentlemen desire to canvass me in my own hearing. With your leave, then, I shall withdraw.”
“A word. Monsieur; one word, first,” said the officer, whose insolent taunt had already offended the veteran major. “We are most of us here staff-officers, and I need not say accustomed to live pretty much together. Will you favor us, then, with a little explanation as to the manner in which you escaped a trial in that business. Your name, if I mistake not, did not figure before the tribunal after the first day?”
“Well, sir; and then?”
“And then? Why, there is one only explanation in such a circumstance.”
“And that is? if I may be so bold—”
“That the mouchard fares better than his victim.”
“I believe, sir,” said I, “I comprehend your meaning; I hope there will be no fear of your mistaking mine.”
With that I drew off the long gauntlet glove I wore, and struck him across the face.
Every man sprang backwards as I did so, as though a shell had fallen in the midst of us; while a deep voice called out from behind, “Le Capitaine Amédée Pichot is under arrest.”
I turned, and beheld the provost-marshal with his guard approach, and take my adversary's sword from him.
“What charge is this, Marshal?” said he, as a livid color spread over his cheek.
“Your duel of yesterday, Capitaine; you seem to forget all about it already.”
“Whenever and wherever you please, sir,” said I, passing close beside him, and speaking in a whisper.
He nodded without uttering a word in reply, and moved after the guard, while the others dispersed silently, and left me standing alone in the Place.
What would I not have given at that moment for but one friend to counsel and advise me; and yet, save the general, to whom I dared not speak on such a subject, I had not one in the whole world. It was, indeed, but too true, that life had little value for me; yet never did I contemplate a duel with more abhorrence. The insult I had inflicted, however, could have no other result. While I reasoned thus, the door of the café, opened, and the general appeared.
“Burke,” cried he, “come in here, and make a hasty supper; you must be in the saddle in half an hour.”
“Quite ready, sir.”
“I know it, my lad. Your orders are there: ride forward to Ettingen, and prepare the billets for the fourth demi-brigade, which will reach that village by to-morrow evening; you'll have time for something to eat, and a glass of wine, before the orderly arrives. This piece of duty is put on you, because a certain Captain Pichot, the only one of the commissaries' department who can speak German, has just been put under arrest for a duel he fought yesterday. I wish the court-marshal would shoot the fellow, with all my heart and soul; he's a perfect curse to the whole division. In any case, if he escape this time, I'll keep my eye on him, and he'll scarce get clear through my hands, I'll warrant him.”
It may be supposed that I heard these words with no common emotion, bearing as they did so closely on my own circumstances at the moment. But I hung down my head and affected to eat, while the old general walked hastily up and down the salon muttering half aloud heavy denunciations on the practice of duelling, which at any cost of life he resolved to put down in his command.
“Done already! Why, man, you've eaten nothing. Well, then, I see the orderly without; you've got a capital moonlight for your ride. And so, au revoir.”
“Good-by, sir,” said I, as I sprang into the saddle. “And now for Ettingen.”
There is a strange, unnatural kind of pleasure felt sometimes in the continued attacks of evil fortune: the dogged courage with which we bear up against the ills of fate, swimming more strongly as the waves grow rougher, has its own meed of consolation. It is only at such a time, perhaps, that the really independent spirit of our natures is in the ascendant, and that we can stand amid the storm, conscious of our firmness, and bid the winds “blow and crack their cheeks.” Yet, through how many sorrows must one have waded, ere he reach this point! through what trials must he have passed I how must hope have paled, and flickered, and died out I how must all self-love, all ambition, all desire itself have withered within us, till we become like the mere rock amid the breakers, against which the waves beat in vain! When that hour comes, the heart has grown cold and callous, the affections have dried up, and man looks no more upon his fellow-men as brothers.
Towards this sad condition I found myself rapidly verging; the isolation of my homeless, friendless state, the death of my hopes, the uncheered path in which I walked, all conspired to make me feel depressed, and I perceived that a half-recklessness was already stealing over me, and that in my indifference as to fortune now lay my greatest consolation. There was a time when such a rencontre as lately befell me had made me miserable till the hour came when I should meet my adversary; now, my blood boiled with no indignant passion, no current of angry vengeance stirred through my veins, a stupid sullenness was over me, and I cared nothing what might happen. And if this state became not permanent, I owe it to youth alone—the mainspring of many of our best endeavors.
We had travelled some seven or eight miles when we stopped for a few seconds at the door of a cabaret, and then I discovered for the first time that my old friend Pioche was the corporal of our little party. To my slight reproach for his not having sooner made himself known to me, the honest fellow replied that he saw I was low in spirits about something, and did not wish to obtrude upon me.
“Not but, after all, mon lieutenant, the best way is always to 'face front' against bad luck, and charge through; sapermint, that's the way we did at Marengo, when Desaix's corps was cut off from the left—But pardon, mon officier, I forgot you were not there.”
There was something so pleasant in the gruff courtesy of the hardy cuirassier, that I willingly led him on to speak of his former life,—a subject which, once entered on, he followed as fancy or memory suggested.
“I used to feel low-spirited myself, once,” said Pioche, as he smoothed down his great mustache with a complacent motion of his fingers—“I used to be very low in heart when I entered the service first, and saw all my old school-fellows and companions winning their epaulettes and becoming captains and colonels,—ay, parbleu, and marshals, too,—while, because I could not read, I was to remain all my life in the ranks; as if one could not force a palisade nor break through a square till he had stuffed his head with learning. All this made me very sad, and I would sit brooding over it for hours long. But at last I began to think my own lot was not the worst after all; my duty was easily done, and, when over, I could sleep sound till the reveil blew. I ran no danger of being scolded by the Petit Caporal, because my division was not somewhere yesterday, nor in some other place to-day. He never came with a frown to ask me why I had not captured another howitzer and taken more prisoners. No, faith! It was always,—'Well done, Pioche! bravely done, mon enfant! here's a piece of twenty francs to drink my health.' Or perhaps he'd mutter between his teeth, 'That honest fellow there would make a better general than one half of them.' Not that he was in earnest, you know; but still it was pleasant just to hear it.”
“And yet, Pioche,” said I, “it does surprise me why, seeing that this want of learning was the bar to your promotion, you did not—”
“And so I did, mon lieutenant; at least I tried to learn to read. Morbleu! it was a weary time for me. I'd rather be under arrest three days a week, than be at it again. Mademoiselle Minette—she was the vivandiére of ours—undertook to teach me; and I used to go over to the canteen every evening after drill. Many a sad heart had I over these same lessons. Saprelotte, I could learn the look of every man in a brigade before I could know the letters in the alphabet, they looked so confoundedly alike when they stood up all in a line. The only fellows I could distinguish were the big ones, that were probably the sergeants and sous-officiers; and when my eye was fixed on one column, it would stray away to another; and then mademoiselle would laugh, and that would lead to something else. Et, ma foi, the spelling-book was soon thrown aside, and lessons given up for that evening.”
“I suppose Mademoiselle Minette was pretty, Pioche?”
“Was I ay, and is, too. What! mon lieutenant, did you never see her on parade? She's the handsomest girl in the army, and rides so well,—mille cannons! She might have been a great lady before this if she 'd have left the regiment; but no, she'd die first! Her father was tambour-major with us, and killed at Groningen when she was only an infant; and we used to carry her about in our arms on the march, and hand her from one to another. I have seen her pass from the leading files to the baggage-guard, on a long summer's day; that I have. Le Petit Caporal knows her well; she gave him a gourd full of eau-de-vie at Cairo when he was so faint he could scarcely speak. It was after that he saw her in the breach at Acre; one of our fellows was lying wounded in the ruins, and mademoiselle waited till the storming party fell back, and then ran up to him with her flask in her hand. 'Whose pretty ankles are these? I think I ought to know them,' said an officer, as she passed along. 'No flattery will do with me, Monsieur,' cried Minette; 'it's hard enough to get one's living here, without giving Nantz brandy for nothing.' Saerigtif when the laugh made her turn about, she saw it was the Petit Caporal himself who spoke to her. Poor Minette! she blushed scarlet, and nearly dropped with shame; but that did not prevent her dashing up the breach towards the wounded man; not that it was of any use, though,—he was dead when she got up.”
“I should like much to see mademoiselle. Is she still with the Fourth?”
“Yes, mon lieutenant; I parted with her a few hours ago.”
A half suppressed sigh that followed these words showed that the worthy corporal was touched on the most tender key of his nature, and for some time he lapsed into a silence I could not venture to break. At length, desiring to give the conversation a turn, I asked if he knew the Capitaine Pichot.
“Know him!” cried Pioche, almost bounding in his saddle as he spoke. “That I do. Peste! I have good reason to know him: see there.” With that he lifted the curled mustache from his upper lip, and disclosed to my view a blue scar that marked one side of his mouth. “That was his doing.”
“Indeed! How so, pray?”
“I 'll tell you. We were in garrison at Metz, where, as you know, the great commissariat station is held,—thousands of cannon and mortars, shells and shot, and tons of powder without end. Well, the orders were very strict against smoking; any man found with a pipe in his mouth was sentenced to a week in the 'salle de police,' and I can't say what else besides. When we marched into the town, this order stared us in the face; a great placard, with big letters, which they who could read said was against smoking. Now, most of us came from Alsace, and it was pretty much like setting a fish to live on dry land, bidding us go without tobacco. As for me, I smoke just as I breathe, without knowing or thinking of it. My pipe lies in my mouth as naturally as my foot rests in the stirrup; and so, although I intended to obey the order, I knew well the time might come when, just from not thinking, I should be caught smoking away; for if I were on guard over a magazine it would be all the same,—I could not help it. So I resolved, as the only way not to be caught tripping, to leave all my pipes in a secret place, till the time came for us to leave Metz,—an hour, I need not say, we all anxiously longed for. This I did,” continued Pioche, “that same evening, and all went on favorably for some time, when one night, as I was returning to quarters, the devil, who meddles with everything in this world, made me stick my hands into the pocket of my undress jacket, and I there discovered a little bit of a pipe about the length of one joint of your thumb,—a poor scrubby thing of clay, sure enough; but there it was, and, worse still, ready filled with tobacco. Had it been a good sized meerschaum, with a tassel and an amber mouthpiece, I had resisted like a man; but the temptation came in so humble a shape, I thought I was only guilty of a small sin in transgressing, and so I lit my little friend, and went gayly along towards the barracks. Just as I passed the corner of the market-place I heard a great noise of voices and laughing in the café, and recognized the tones of our major and some of the officers, as they sat sipping their wine in the verandah. Before I could raise my hand to my mouth, Capitaine Pichot cried out, 'Halte-la!—right about face!—attention!—left wheel!—eyes front!' This I did, as if on parade, and stood stock still; when suddenly crack went a noise, and a pistol-bullet smashed the pipe in two, and grazed my lip, when a roar of laughing followed, as he called out louder than before, 'Quick march!' and I stepped out to my quarters, never turning my head right or left, not knowing what other ball practice might be in store for me. Tonnerre de Dieu! a little windage of the shot might have cost me every tooth I have in the world!”
“It was a cruel jest, Pioche, and you 're a good-humored fellow to take it so easily.”
“Not so. Lieutenant. I had no punishment afterwards, and was well content to be quit for the fright.”
With such stray memories of his campaigning days did Pioche beguile the way: now moralizing over the chances and changes of a soldier's fortune; now comforting himself with some pleasant reflection, that even in his own humble walk he had assisted at some of the greatest triumphs of the French armies. Of the future he spoke with the easy confidence of one who felt that in the Emperor's guidance there could be full trust,—both of the cause being a just one, and the result victorious. A perfect type of his class, his bravery was only to be equalled by the implicit confidence he felt in his leader. That the troops of any country, no matter how numerous and well equipped, could resist a French army was a problem he could not even entertain. The thing was too absurd; and if Napoleon did not at that moment wield undisputed sway over the whole of Europe, it was simply owing to his excess of moderation, and the willing sacrifice of his ambition to his greater love of liberty.
I confess, if I were sometimes tempted to smile at the simplicity of the honest soldier, I was more often carried away by his warm enthusiasm; so frequently, too, did he interweave in his narrative the mention of those great victories, whose fame was unquestionable, that in my assent to the facts I went a great way in my concurrence with the inferences he deduced from them. And thus we travelled on for several days in advance of the division, regulating the halting-places and the billets, according to the nature and facilities of the country. The towns and villages in our “route” presented an aspect of the most profound peace; and however strange it seemed, yet each day attested how completely ignorant the people were of the advance of that mighty army that now, in four vast columns of march, was pouring its thousands into the heart of Germany. The Princes of Baden and Darmstadt, through whose territories we passed, had not as yet given in their adherence to the Emperor; and the inhabitants of those countries seemed perplexed and confused at the intentions of their powerful neighbor, whose immense trains of ammunition and enormous parks of artillery filled every road and blocked up every village.
At length we reached Manheim, where a portion of the corps of Maréchal Davoust were in waiting to join us: and there we first learned, by the imperial bulletin, the object of the war and the destination of the troops. The document was written by Napoleon himself, and bore abundant evidence of his style. After the usual programme, attesting his sincere love for peace, and his desire for the cultivation of those happy and industrious habits which make nations more prosperous than glorious, it went on to speak of the great coalition between Russia and Austria, which, in union with the “perfide Albion,” had no other thought nor wish than the abasement and dismemberment of France. “But, soldiers!” continued he, “your Emperor is in the midst of you. France itself in all its majesty, is at your back, and you are but the advanced guard of a mighty people! There are fatigues and privations, battles, and forced marches, before you; but let them oppose to us every resistance they are able, we swear never to cry 'Halt!' till we have planted our eagles on the territory of our enemies!”
We halted two days at Manheim to permit some regiments to come up, and then marched forward to Nordlingen, which place the Emperor himself had only quitted the night before. Here the report reached us that a smart affair had taken place the previous morning between the Austrian division and a portion of Ney's advanced guard, in which we had rather the worst of it, and had lost some prisoners. The news excited considerable discontent among the troops, and increased their impatience to move forward to a very great degree. Meanwhile, the different divisions of the French army were converging towards Ulm, from the north, south, and west; and every hour brought them nearer to that devoted spot, which as yet, in the security of an enormous garrison, never dreamed of sudden attack.
The corps of Soult was now pushed forward to Augsburg, and, extended by a line of communication to Meiningen, the only channel of communication which remained open to the enemy. The quartier-général of the Emperor was established at Zummerhausen; Ney was at Guntzburg: Marmont threatened in the west; and Bernadotte, arriving by forced marches from Prussia, hovered in the north.—so that Ulm was invested in every direction at one blow, and that in a space of time almost inconceivable.
While these immense combinations were being effected,—requiring as they did an enormous extent of circumference to march over before the fortress could be thus enclosed, as it were, within our grasp,—our astonishment increased daily that the Austrians delayed to give battle; but, as if terror-stricken, they waited on day after day while the measures for their ruin were accomplishing. At length a desperate sortie was made from the garrison; and a large body of troops, escaping by the left bank of the Danube, directed their course towards Bohemia; while another corps, in the opposite direction, forced back Ney's advanced guard, and took the road towards Nordlingen. Having directed a strong detachment in pursuit of this latter corps, which was commanded by the Archduke Frederick himself, the Emperor closed in around Ulm, and forcing the passage of the river at Elchingen, prepared for the final attack.
While these dispositions were being effected, the cavalry brigade, under General d'Auvergne, consisting of three regiments of heavy dragoons, the Fourth Cuirassiers, and Eighth Hussars, continued to descend the left bank of the Danube in pursuit of a part of the Austrian garrison which had taken that line in retreat towards Vienna. We followed as far as Guntzburg without coming up with them; and there the news of the capitulation of Meiningen, with its garrison of six thousand men, to Marechal Soult, reached us, along with an order to return to Ulm.
Up to this time all I had seen of war was forced marches, bivouacs hastily broken up, hurried movements in advance and retreat, the fatigue of night parties, and a continual alert. At first the hourly expectation of coming in sight of the enemy kept up our spirits; but when day after day passed, and the same pursuit followed, where the pursued never appeared, the younger soldiers grumbled loudly at fatigues undertaken without object, and, as it seemed to them, by mistake.
On the night of the 17th of October we bivouacked within a league of Ulm. Scarcely were the pickets formed for the night, when orders came for the whole brigade to assemble under arms at daybreak. A thousand rumors were abroad as to the meaning of the order, but none came near the true solution; indeed, the difficulty was increased by the added command, that the regiments should appear en grande tenue, or in full dress.
I saw that my old commander made a point of keeping me in suspense as to the morrow, and affected as much as possible an air of indifference on the subject. He had himself arrived late from Ulm, where he had seen the Emperor; and amused me by mentioning the surprise of an Austrian aide-de-camp, who, sent to deliver a letter, found his Majesty sitting with his boots off, and stretched before a bivouac fire. “Yes,” said Napoleon, divining at once his astonishment, “it is even so. Your master wished to remind me of my old trade, and I hope that the imperial purple has not made me forget its lessons.”
By daybreak the next morning our brigade was in the saddle, and in motion towards the quartier-général,—a gently rising ground, surmounted by a farmhouse, where the Emperor had fixed his quarters. As we mounted the hill we came in sight of the whole army drawn up in battle array. They stood in columns of divisions, with artillery and cavalry between them, the bands of the various regiments in front. The day was a brilliant one, and heightened the effect of the scene. Beyond us lay Ulm,—silent as if untenanted: not a sentinel appeared on the walls; the very flag had disappeared from the battlements. Our surprise was great at this; but how was it increased as the rumor fled from mouth to mouth,—“Ulm has capitulated; thirty-five thousand men have become prisoners of war!”
Ere the first moments of wonder had ceased, the staff of the Emperor was seen passing along the line, and finally taking up its station on the hill, while the regimental bands burst forth into one crash the most spirit-stirring and exciting. The proud notes swelled and filled the air, as the sun, bursting forth with increased brilliancy, tipped every helmet and banner, and displayed the mighty hosts in all the splendor of their pageantry. Beneath the hill stretched a vast plain in the direction of Neuburg; and here we at first supposed it was the Emperor's intention to review the troops. But a very different scene was destined to pass on that spot.
Suddenly a single gun boom, out; and as the lazy smoke moved heavily along the earth, the gates of Ulm opened, and the head of an Austrian column appeared. Not with beat of drum or colors flying did they advance; but slow in step, with arms reversed, and their heads downcast, they marched on towards the mound. Defiling beneath this, they moved into the plain, and, corps by corps, piled their arms and resumed their “route,” the white line serpentining along the vast plain, and stretching away into the dim distance. Never was a sight so sad as this! All that war can present of suffering and bloodshed, all that the battlefield can show of dead and dying, were nothing to the miserable abasement of those thousands, who from daybreak till noon poured on their unceasing tide!
On the hill beside the Emperor stood several officers in white uniform, whose sad faces and suffering looks attested the misery of their hearts. “Better a thousand deaths than such humiliation!” was the muttered cry of every man about me; while in very sorrow at such a scene, the tears coursed down the hardy cheeks of many a bronzed soldier, and some turned away their heads, unable to behold the spectacle.
Seventy pieces of cannon, with a long train of ammunition wagons, and four thousand cavalry horses, brought up the rear of this melancholy procession,—the spoils of the capitulation of Ulm. Truly, if that day were, as the imperial bulletin announced it, “one of the most glorious for France,” it was also the darkest in the history of Austria,—when thirty-two regiments of infantry and fifteen of cavalry, with artillery and siege defences of every kind, laid down their arms and surrendered themselves prisoners.
Thus in fifteen days from the passing of the Rhine was the campaign begun and ended, and the Austrian Empire prostrate at the feet of Napoleon.