Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I
Certain corps preserved more studiously than others the memories of past achievements, – the heirlooms of their glory; and to these Bonaparte always spoke with a feel ing of friendship most captivating to the soldier’s heart, and from them he selected the various regiments that composed his “Guard.” The cuirassiers belonged to this proud force; and even an unmilitary eye could mark, in their haughty bearing and assured look, that they were a favored corps.
Among those with whose faces I had now grown familiar there was one whom I regarded with unusual interest; he seemed to me the very type of his class. He was a man of gigantic size, towering by half a head above the very tallest of his fellows, while his enormous breadth of chest and shoulder actually seemed to detract from his great height. The lower part of his face was entirely concealed by a beard of bright red hair that fell in a huge mass over the breast of his cuirass, and seemed by its trim and fashion to be an object of no common pride to the wearer; his nose was marked by a sabre-cut that extended across one entire cheek, leaving a deep blue welt in its track. But saving these traits, wild and savage enough, the countenance was singularly mild and pleasing. He had large and liquid blue eyes, soft and lustrous as any girl’s, – the lashes, too, were long and falling; and his forehead, which was high and open, was white as snow. I was not long in remarking the strange influence this man seemed to possess over the rest, – an ascendency not in any way attributable to the mark on his sleeve which proclaimed him a corporal. It seemed as though his slightest word, his least gesture, was attended to; and though evidently taciturn and quiet, when he spoke I could detect in his manner an air of promptitude and command that marked him as one born to be above his fellows. If he seemed such in the idle hours, on parade he was the beau ideal of a cuirassier. His great warhorse, seemingly small for the immense proportions of the heavy rider, bounded with each movement of his wrist, as if instinct with the horseman’s wishes.
I waited with some impatience for the invalid’s arrival, to ask who this remarkable soldier was, certain that I should hear of no common man. He came soon after, and as I pointed out the object of my curiosity, the old fellow drew himself up with pride, and while a grim effort at a smile crossed his features, replied, —
“That ‘s Pioche, – le gros Pioche!”
“Pioche!” said I, repeating the name aloud, and endeavoring to remember why it seemed well known to me.
“Yes, – Pioche,” rejoined he, gruffly. “If monsieur had ever been in Egypt, the name would scarcely sound so strange in his ears.” And with this sarcasm he hobbled from the room and closed the door, while I could hear him grumbling along the entire corridor, in evident anger at the ignorance that did not know “Pioche!”
Twenty times did I repeat the name aloud, before it flashed across me as the same Madame Lefebvre mentioned at the soiree in the Palace. It was Pioche who shouldered the brass fieldpiece, and passed before the general on parade. The gigantic size, the powerful strength, the strange name, – all could belong to no other; and I felt as though at once I had found an old acquaintance in the great cuirassier of the Guard.
If the prisoner in his lonely cell has few incidents to charm his solitary hours, in return he is enabled by some happy gift to make these the sources of many thoughts. The gleam of light that falls upon the floor, broken by the iron gratings of his window, comes laden with storied fancies of other lands, – of far distant countries where men are dwelling in their native mountains free and happy. Forgetful of his prison, the captive wanders in his fancy through valleys he has seen in boyhood, and with friends to be met no more. He turns gladly to the past, of whose pleasures no adverse fortune can deprive him, and lives over again the happy hours of his youth; and thinks, with a melancholy not devoid of its own pleasure, of what they would feel who loved him could they but see him now. He pictures their sympathy and their sorrow, and his heart feels lighter, though his eyes drop tears.
In this way the great cuirassier became an object for my thoughts by day and my dreams by night. I fancied a hundred stories of which he was the hero; and these imaginings served to while away many a tedious hour, and gave me an interest in watching the little spot of earth that was visible from my barred window.
It was in one of these reveries I sat one evening, when I heard the sounds of feet approaching along the corridor that led to my room; the clank of a sabre and the jingle of spurs sounded not like my gruff visitor. My door was opened before I had time for much conjecture, and Greneral d’Auvergne stood before me.
“Ah! mon lieutenant,” cried he, gayly, “you have been thinking very hardly of me since we met last, I ‘m sure; charging me with forgetfulness, and accusing me of great neglect.”
“Pardon me, General,” said I, hurriedly; “your former kindness, for which I never can be grateful enough, has been always before my mind. I have not yet forgotten that you saved my life; more still, – you rescued my name from dishonor.”
“Well, well; that’s all past and gone now. Your reputation stands clear at last. De Beauvais has surrendered himself to the authorities at Rouen, and made a full confession of everything, exculpating you completely in every particular; save the indiscretion of your intercourse with Mehée de la Touche, or, as you know him better, the Abbé, d’Ervan.”
“And poor De Beauvais, what is to become of him?” said I, eagerly.
“Have no fears on his account,” said he, with something like confusion in his manner. “She (that is, Madame Bonaparte) has kindly interested herself in his behalf, and he is to sail for Guadaloupe in a few days, – his own proposition and wish.”
“And does General Bonaparte know now that I was guiltless?” cried I, with enthusiasm.
“My dear young man,” said he, with a bland smile, “I very much fear that the general has little time at this moment to give the matter much of his attention. Great events have happened, – are happening while we speak. War is threatening on the side of Austria. Yes, it is true: the camp of Boulogne has received orders to break up; troops are once more on their march to the Rhine; all France is arming.”
“Oh, when shall I be free?”
“You are free!” cried he, clapping me gayly on the shoulder. “An amnesty against all untried prisoners for state of offences has been proclaimed. At such a moment of national joy – ”
“What do you mean?”
“What! and have I not told you my great news? The Senate have presented to Bonaparte an address, praying his acceptance of the throne of France; or, in their very words, to make his authority eternal.”
“And he?” said I, breathless with impatience to know the result.
“He,” continued the general, “has replied as became him, desiring them to state clearly their views, – by what steps they propose to consolidate the acquired liberties of the nation. And while avowing that no higher honor or dignity can await him than such as he has already received at the hands of the people, ‘Yet,’ added he, ‘when the hour arrives that I can see such to be the will of France, – when one voice proclaims it from Alsace to the Ocean, from Lisle to the Pyrenees, – then shall I be ready to accept the throne of France.’”
The general entered minutely into all the circumstances of the great political change, and detailed the effect which the late conspiracy had had on the minds of the people, and with what terror they contemplated the social disorders that must accrue from the death of their great ruler; how nothing short of a Government based on a Monarchy, with the right of succession established, could withstand such a terrific crisis. As he spoke, the words I had heard in the Temple crossed my mind, and I remembered that such was the anticipation of the prisoners, as they said among themselves, “When the guillotine has done its work, they ‘ll patch up the timbers into a throne.”
“And George Cadoudal, and the others?” said I.
“They are no more. Betrayed by their own party, they met death like brave men, and as worthy of a better cause. But let us not turn to so sad a theme. The order for your liberation will be here to-morrow; and as I am appointed to a brigade on active service, I have come to offer you the post of aide-de-camp.”
I could not speak; my heart was too full for words. I knew how great the risk of showing any favor to one who stood in such a position as I did; and I could but look my gratitude, while the tears ran down my cheeks.
“Well,” cried he, as he took my hand in his, “so much is settled. Now to another point, and one in which my frankness must cause you no offence. You are not rich, – neither am I; but Bonaparte always gives us opportunities to gather our epaulettes, – ay, and find the bullion to make them, too. Meanwhile, you may want money – ”
“No, Général,” cried I, eagerly; “here are three thousand francs some kind friend sent me. I know not whence they came; and even if I wanted, did not dare to spend them. But now – ”
The old man paused, and appeared confused, while he leaned his finger on his forehead, and seemed endeavoring to recall some passing thought.
“Did they come from you, sir?” said I, timidly.
“No, not from me,” repeated he, slowly. “You say you never found out the donor?”
“Never,” said I, while a sense of shame prevented my adding what rose to my mind, – Could they not be from Mademoiselle de Meudon?
“Well, well,” said he, at length, “be it so. And now till to-morrow: I shall be here at noon, and bring the minister’s order with me. And so, good-by.”
“Good-by,” said I, as I stood overcome with happiness. “Let what will come of it, this is a moment worth living for.”
CHAPTER XXXIX. A MORNING AT THE TUILLERIES
True to his appointment, the general appeared the following day as the hour of noon was striking. He brought the official papers from the Minister of War, as well as the formal letter naming me his aide-de-camp. The documents were all perfectly regular; and being read over by the military commission, I was sent for, when my sword was restored to me by the colonel of the regiment in garrison, and I was free once more.
“You have received a severe lesson, Burke,” said the general, as he took my arm to lead me towards his carriage, “and all owing to the rashness with which, in times of difficulty and danger, you permitted yourself to form intimacies with men utterly unknown to you. There are epochs when weakness is the worst of evils. You are very young, to be sure, and I trust the experience you have acquired here will serve for a lifetime.”
“Still, sir, in all this sad business, my faith never wavered; my attachment to the Consul was unshaken.”
“Had it been otherwise, do you think you had been here now?” said he, dryly. “Were not the evidences of your fidelity set off against your folly, what chance of escape remained for you? No, no; she who befriended you so steadily throughout this tangled scheme for your ruin, had never advocated your cause were there reason to suppose you were involved in the conspiracy against her husband’s life.”
“Who do you mean?” said I. “I scarcely understand.”
“The Consulesse, of course. But for Madame Bonaparte you were lost; even since I saw you last, I have learned how deeply interested she became in your fortunes. The letter you received in the Temple came from her, and the enclosure also. And now, with your leave, we can do nothing better than pay our respects to her, and make our acknowledgments for such kindness. She receives at this hour, and will, I know, take your visit in good part.”
While I professed my readiness to comply with the suggestion, we drove into the court of the Tuileries. It was so early that, except the officers of the Consul’s staff and some of those on guard, we were the only persons visible.
“We are the first arrivals,” said the general, as we drew up at the door of the pavilion. “I am not sorry for it; we shall have our audience over before the crowd assembles.”
Giving our names to the usher, we mounted the stairs, and passed on from room to room until we came to a large salon, in which seats were formally arranged in a semicircle, an armchair somewhat higher than the rest occupying the centre. Several full-length portraits of the generals of the Revolutionary armies adorned the walls, and a striking likeness of the Consul himself, on horseback, held the principal place. I had but time to see thus much, when the two sides of the folding-doors were flung open, and Madame Bonaparte, followed by Mademoiselle de Meudon, entered. Scarcely were the doors closed, when she said, smiling, —
“I heard of your arrival. General, and guessed its purport, so came at once. Monsieur Burke, I am happy to see you at liberty once more.”
“That I owe it to you, Madame, makes it doubly dear to me,” said I, faltering.
“You must not overrate my exertions on your behalf,” replied the Consulesse, in a hurried voice. “There was an amende due to you for the treatment you met with at Versailles, – all Savary’s fault; and now I am sincerely sorry I ever suffered myself to become a party to his schemes. Indeed, I never guessed them, or I should not. General d’Auvergne has made you his aide-decamp, he tells me.”
“Yes, Madame; my good fortune has showered favors on me most suddenly. Your kindness has been an augury of success in everything.”
She smiled, as if pleased, and then said, “I have a piece of advice to give you, and hope you ‘ll profit by it.” Then, turning towards the general, who all this time was deeply engaged in talking to Mademoiselle de Meudon, she added, “Don’t you think. General, that it were as well Monsieur Burke should not be in the way of meeting the Consul for some short time to come. Is there any garrison duty, or any service away from Paris, where for a week or so he could remain?”
“I have thought of that, Madame,” said the général. “Two of the regiments in my brigade are to march tomorrow for the east of France, and I intend my young friend to proceed to Strasburg at once.”
“This is not meant for banishment,” said she to me, with a look of much sweetness; “but Bonaparte will now and then say a severe thing, likely to dwell in the mind of him to whom it was addressed long after the sentiment which dictated it has departed. A little time will efface all memory of this sad affair, and then we shall be happy to see you here again.”
“Or events may happen soon, Madame, by which he may make his own peace with General Bonaparte.”
“True, very true,” said she, gravely. “And as to that. General, what advices are there from Vienna?”
She drew the general aside into one of the windows, leaving me alone with Mademoiselle de Meudon. But a minute before, and I had given the world for such an opportunity, and now I could not speak a syllable. She, too, seemed equally confused, and bent over a large vase of moss-roses, as if totally occupied by their arrangement. I drew nearer, and endeavored to address her; but the words would not come, while a hundred gushing thoughts pressed on me, and my heart beat loud enough for me to hear it. At last I saw her lips move, and thought I heard my name. I bent down my head lower; it was her voice, but so low as to be scarcely audible.
“I cannot thank you, sir, as I could wish,” said she, “for the service you rendered me, at the risk of your own life and honor. And though I knew not the dangers you were to incur by my request, I asked it as of the only one I knew who would brave such danger at my asking.” She paused for a second, then continued: “The friend of Charles could not but be the friend of Marie de Meudon. There is now another favor I would beg at your hands,” said she, while a livid paleness overspread her features.
“Oh, name it!” said I, passionately. “Say, how can I serve you?”
“It is this,” said she, with an accent whose solemnity sank into the very recesses of my heart. “We have ever been an unlucky race; De Meudon is but a name for misfortune not only have we met little else in our own lives, but all who have befriended us have paid the penalty of their friendship. My dear brother knew this well; and I – .” She paused, and then, though her lips moved, the words that followed were inaudible. “There is but one on earth,” continued she, as her eyes, brimful of tears, were turned towards Madame Bonaparte, who still stood talking in the window, “over whose fortunes my affection has thrown no blight. Heaven grant it may be ever so!” Then suddenly, as if remembering herself, she added: “What I would ask is this, – that we should meet no more. Nay, nay; look not so harshly at me. If I, alone in the world, ask to be deprived of his friendship who loved my brother so – ”
“Oh! if you be alone in the world, feel for one like me, who has not even a country he can call his own. Take not the one hope from my heart, I ask you. Leave me the thought that there is one, but one, in all this land, to whom my name, if ever mentioned with praise, can bring one moment’s pleasure, – who can say ‘I knew him.’ Do not forget that Charles, with his dying breath, said you would be my sister.”
The door of the salon opened suddenly, and a name was announced, but in my confusion, I heard not what. Madame Bonaparte, however, advanced towards the new arrival with an air of welcome, as she said, —
“We were just wishing for you, general. Pray tell us all the news of Paris.”
The person thus addressed was a very tall and singularly handsome man, whose dark eyes, and dark whiskers meeting in the middle of his chin, gave him the appearance of an Italian. He was dressed in a hussar uniform, whose gorgeous braiding of gold was heightened in effect by a blaze of orders and stars that covered the entire breast; the scarlet pantaloons, tight to the leg, displayed to advantage the perfect symmetry of his form; while his boots of yellow morocco, bound and tasselled with gold, seemed the very coquetry of military costume. A sabre, the hilt actually covered with precious stones, clanked at his side, and the aigrette of his plumed hat was a large diamond. There was something almost theatrical in the manner of his approach, as with a stately step and a deep bow he took Madame Bonaparte’s hand and kissed it; a ceremony he repeated to Mademoiselle de Meudon, adding, as he did so, —
“And my fair rose de Provence, more beautiful than ever! – how is she?”
“What flattery is he whispering, Marie?” said the Consulesse, laughing. “Don’t you know, Général, that I insist on all the compliments here being paid to myself. What do you think of my robe? Your judgment is said to be perfect.”
“Charming, absolutely charming!” said he, in an attitude of affected admiration. “It is only such taste as yours could have devised anything so beautiful. Yet the roses, – I half think I should have preferred them white.”
“You can scarcely imagine that vain fellow with the long ringlets the boldest soldier of the French army,” said the general, in a low whisper, as he drew me to one side.
“Indeed! And who is he, then?”
“You a hussar, and not know him! Why, Murat, to be sure.”
“So, then, Madame, all my news of Monsieur Talleyrand’s ball, it seems, is stale already. You ‘ve heard that the russian and Austrian ministers both sent apologies?”
“Oh dear!” said she, sighing; “have I not heard it a thousand times, and every reason for it canvassed, until I wished both of their excellencies at – at Madame Lefebvre’s dinner-party?”
“That was perfect,” cried Murat, aloud; “a regular bivouac in a salon. You’d think that the silver dishes and the gilt candelabras had just been captured from the enemy, and that the cuisine was made by beat of drum.”
“The general is an honest man and a brave officer,” said D’Auvergne, somewhat nettled at the tone Murat spoke in.
“No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.”
“And what of Cambacèrés’s soiree, – how did it go off?” interposed Madame Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed.
“Like everything in his hotel, – sombre, stately, and stupid; the company all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to Fouché's, – it was his second night for receiving.”
“Was that pleasanter, then?”
“A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody; it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one, and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn; and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.”
“The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the Guard, and covered with dust, entered.
“Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued: “It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the ‘pear was ripe.’ I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany me; D’Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this gentleman?”
This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while a dark and ominous frown settled on his features.
“My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to escape further inquiry.
“Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing eyes upon me.
“Burke, sir; sous-lieutenant – ”
“Of the Eighth Hussars,” continued he. “I know the rest, sir. Every conspiracy is made up of knaves and fools; you figured in the latter capacity. Mark me, sir, your name is yet to make; the time is approaching when you may have the opportunity. Still, General d’ Auvergne, it is not in the ranks of a Chouan plot I should have gone to select my staff.”
“Pardon me, sir; but this young man’s devotion to you – ”
“Is on record. General; I have seen it in Mehée de la Touche’s own writing,” added Bonaparte, with a sneer. “Give me the fidelity, sir, that has no tarnish, – like your own, D’Auvergne. Go, sir,” said he, turning to me, while he waved his hand towards the door; “it will need all your bravery and all your heroism to make me acquit General d’Auvergne of an act of folly.”
I hung my head in shame, and with a low reverence and a tottering step moved from the room and closed the door behind me.
I had just reached the street when the general overtook me.
“Come, come, Burke,” said he; “you must not mind this. I heard Lannes receive a heavier reproof because he only carried away three guns of an Austrian battery when there were four in all.”
“Bonaparte never forgets, sir,” muttered I, between my teeth, as the well-remembered phrase crossed my mind.
“Then there ‘s but one thing to do, my boy; give him a pleasanter souvenir to look back upon. Besides,” added he, in a lower tone, “the general is ever harsh at the moment of victory; and such is the present. In a few days more, France will have an emperor; the Senate has declared, and the army wait but for the signal to salute their monarch. And now for your own duties. Make your arrangements to start to-night by post for Mayence; I shall join you there in about ten days. You are, on your arrival, to report yourself to the general in command, and receive your instructions from him. A great movement towards the Rhine is in contemplation; but, of course, everything awaits the progress of political changes in Paris.”
Thus conversing, we reached the corner of the Rue de Rohan, where the general’s quarters were.
“You’ll be here then punctually at eight to-night,” said he; and we parted.
I walked on for some time without knowing which way I went, the strange conflict of my mind so completely absorbed me, – hope and fear, pride, shame, and sorrow, alternately swaying me with their impulses. I noticed not the gay and splendid streets through which I passed, nor the merry groups which poured along. At length I remembered that but a few hours remained for me to make some purchases necessary for my journey. My new uniform as aide-de-camp, too, was yet to be ordered; and by some strange hazard I was exactly at the corner of the Rue de Richelieu on the Boulevard, at the very shop of Monsieur Grillac where some months before began the singular current of ill luck that had followed me ever since. A half shudder of fear passed across me for a second as I thought of all the dangers I had gone through; and the next moment I felt ashamed of my cowardice, and pushing the glass door before me, walked in. I looked about me for the well-known face of the proprietor, but he was nowhere to be seen. A lean and wasted little old man, hung round with tapes and measures, was the only person there. Saluting me with a most respectful bow, he asked my orders.
