Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. III, No. XVII, October 1851

One evening he was unusually late in returning, and when he came was accompanied by seven or eight companions, some younger, some older than himself, but all men whose air and bearing bespoke their rank in life, while their names recalled the thoughts of old French chivalry. I remember among them was a Coigny, a Grammont, and Rouchefoucauld – the last as lively a specimen of Parisian wit and brilliancy as ever fluttered along the sunny Boulevards.

De Marsanne, while endeavoring to enjoy himself and entertain his guests, was, to my thinking, more serious than usual, and seemed impatient at D'Egville's absence, for whose coming we now waited supper.

"I should not wonder if he was lost in the deep mud of those cross-roads," said Coigny.

"Or perhaps he has fallen into the Republic," said Rouchefoucauld, "it's the only thing dirtier that I know of."

"Monsieur forgets that I wear its cloth," said I in a low whisper to him; and low as it was De Marsanne overheard it.

"Yes, Charles," cried he, "you must apologize, and on the spot, for the rudeness."

Rouchefoucauld reddened and hesitated.

"I insist, sir," cried De Marsanne, with a tone of superiority I had never seen him assume before.

"Perhaps," said he, with a half-sneer, "Monsieur de Tiernay might refuse to accept my excuses?"

"In that case, sir," interposed De Marsanne, "the quarrel will become mine, for he is my guest, and lives here under the safeguard of my honor."

Rouchefoucauld bowed submissively and with the air of a man severely but justly rebuked; and then advancing to me, said, "I beg to tender you my apology, monsieur, for an expression which should never have been uttered by me in your presence."

"Quite sufficient, sir," said I, bowing, and anxious to conclude a scene which for the first time had disturbed the harmony of our meetings. Slight as was the incident, its effects were yet visible in the disconcerted looks of the party, and I could see that more than one glance was directed toward me with an expression of coldness and distrust.

"Here comes D'Egville at last," said one, throwing open the window to listen; the night was starlit, but dark, and the air calm and motionless. "I certainly heard a horse's tread on the causeway."

"I hear distinctly the sound of several," cried Coigny; "and, if I mistake not much, so does M. de Tiernay." This sudden allusion turned every eye toward me, as I stood still, suffering from the confusion of the late scene.

"Yes; I hear the tramp of horses, and cavalry, too, I should say, by their measured tread."

"There was a trumpet call!" cried Coigny; "what does that mean?"

"It is the signal to take open order," said I, answering as if the question were addressed to myself. "It is a picket taking a 'reconnaissance.'"

"How do you know that, sir?" said Grammont, sternly.

"Ay! how does he know that?" cried several, passionately, as they closed around me.

"You must ask in another tone, messieurs," said I calmly, "if you expect to be answered."

"They mean to say how do you happen to know the German trumpet-calls, Tiernay," said De Marsanne, mildly, as he laid his hand on my arm.

"It's a French signal," said I; "I ought to know it well."

Before my words were well uttered the door was thrown open, and D'Egville burst into the room, pale as death, his clothes all mud-stained and disordered. Making his way through the others, he whispered a few words in De Marsanne's ear.

"Impossible!" cried the other; "we are here in the territory of the margrave?"

"It is as I say," replied D'Egville; "there's not a second to lose – it may be too late even now – by heavens it is! – they've drawn a cordon round the chateau."

"What's to be done, gentlemen?" said De Marsanne, seating himself calmly, and crossing his arms on his breast.

"What do you say, sir?" cried Grammont, advancing to me with an air of insolent menace, "you, at least, ought to know the way out of this difficulty."

"Or, by Heaven, his own road shall be one of the shortest, considering the length of the journey," muttered another, and I could hear the sharp click of a pistol cock as he spoke the words.

"This is unworthy of you, gentlemen, and of me," said De Marsanne, haughtily; and he gazed around him with a look that seemed to abash them, "nor is it a time to hold such disputation. There is another and a very difficult call to answer. Are we agreed" – before he could finish the sentence the door was burst open, and several dragoons in French uniforms entered, and ranged themselves across the entrance, while a colonel, with, his sabre drawn, advanced in front of them.

"This is brigandage," cried De Marsanne, passionately, as he drew his sword, and seemed meditating a spring through them; but he was immediately surrounded by his friends and disarmed. Indeed nothing could be more hopeless than resistance; more than double our number were already in the room, while the hoarse murmur of voices without, and the tramp of heavy feet, announced a strong party.

At a signal from their officer, the dragoons unslung their carbines, and held them at the cock when the colonel called out, "Which of you, messieurs, is the Duc d'Enghien?"

"If you come to arrest him," replied De Marsanne, "you ought to have his description in your warrant."

"Is the descendant of a Condé ashamed to own his name?" asked the colonel, with a sneer. "But we'll make short work of it, sirs; I arrest you all. My orders are peremptory, messieurs. If you resist, or attempt to escape – " and he made a significant sign with his hand to finish. The "Duc" – for I need no longer call him "De Marsanne" – never spoke a word, but with folded arms calmly walked forward, followed by his little household. As we descended the stairs, we found ourselves in the midst of about thirty dismounted dragoons, all on the alert, and prepared for any resistance. The remainder of the squadron were on horseback without. With a file of soldiers on either hand we marched for about a quarter of a mile across the fields to a small mill, where a general officer and his staff seemed awaiting our arrival. Here, too, a picket of gens-d'armes was stationed; a character of force significant enough of the meaning of the enterprise. We were hurriedly marched into the court of the mill, the owner of which stood between two soldiers, trembling from head to foot with terror.

"Which is the Duc D'Enghien?" asked the colonel of the miller.

"That is he with the scarlet vest," and the prince nodded an assent.

"Your age, monsieur?" asked the colonel of the prince.

"Thirty-two – that is, I should have been so much in August, were it not for this visit," said he, smiling.

The colonel wrote on rapidly for a few minutes, and then showed the paper to the general, who briefly said, "Yes, yes; this does not concern you nor me."

"I wish to ask, sir," said the prince, addressing the general, "do you make this arrest with the consent of the authorities of this country, or do you do so in defiance of them?"

"You must reserve questions like that for the court who will judge you, Monsieur de Condé," said the officer, roughly. "If you wish for any articles of dress from your quarters, you had better think of them. My orders are to convey you to Strassburg. Is there any thing so singular in the fact, sir, that you should look so much astonished?"

"There is, indeed," said the prince, sorrowfully. "I shall be the first of my house who ever crossed that frontier a prisoner."

"But not the first who carried arms against his country," rejoined the other, a taunt the duke only replied to by a look of infinite scorn and contempt. With a speed that told plainly the character of the expedition, we were now placed, two together, on country cars, and driven at a rapid pace toward Strassburg. Relays of cattle awaited us on the road, and we never halted but for a few minutes during the entire journey. My companion on this dreary day was the Baron de St. Jacques, the aid-de-camp to the duke; but he never spoke once – indeed he scarcely lifted his head during the whole road.

Heaven knows it was a melancholy journey; and neither the country nor the season were such as to lift the mind from sorrow; and yet, strange enough, the miles glided over rapidly, and to this hour I can not remember by what magic the way seemed so short. The thought that for several days back I had been living in closest intimacy with a distinguished prince of the Bourbon family, that we had spent hours together discussing themes and questions which were those of his own house; canvassing the chances and weighing the claims of which he was himself the asserter – was a most exciting feeling. How I recalled now all the modest deference of his manner – his patient endurance of my crude opinions – his generous admissions regarding his adversaries – and, above all, his ardent devotion to France, whatever the hand that swayed her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character, blended with an almost girlish tenderness – how princely were such traits?

From these thoughts I wandered on to others about his arrest and capture, from which, however, I could not believe any serious issue was to come. Bonaparte is too noble minded not to feel the value of such a life as this. Men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. But what will be done with him? – what with his followers? – and lastly, not at all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of Maurice Tiernay, who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious company, and without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? This last thought just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of boats, and entered Strassburg.

CHAPTER XLI

AN "ORDINARY" ACQUAINTANCE

The Duc D'Enghien and his aid-de-camp were forwarded with the utmost speed to Paris; the remainder of us were imprisoned at Strassburg. What became of my companions I know not; but I was sent on, along with a number of others, about a month later, to Nancy, to be tried by a military commission. I may mention it here, as a singular fact illustrating the secrecy of the period, that it was not till long after this time I learned the terrible fate of the poor Prince de Condé. Had I known it, it is more than probable that I should have utterly despaired of my own safety. The dreadful story of Vincennes – the mock trial, and the midnight execution – are all too well known to my readers; nor is it necessary I should refer to an event, on which I myself can throw no new light. That the sentence was determined on before his arrest – and that the grave was dug while the victim was still sleeping the last slumber before "the sleep that knows not waking" – the evidences are strong and undeniable. But an anecdote which circulated at the time, and which, so far as I know, has never appeared in print, would seem to show that there was complicity, at least, in the crime, and that the secret was not confined to the First Consul's breast.

On that fatal night of the 20th March, Talleyrand was seated at a card-table at Caulaincourt's house at Paris. The party was about to rise from play, when suddenly the "pendule" on the chimney-piece struck two. It was in one of those accidental pauses in the conversation when any sound is heard with unusual distinctness. Talleyrand started, as he heard it, and then turning to Caulaincourt, whispered, "Yes; 'tis all over now?" words which, accidentally overheard, without significance, were yet to convey a terrible meaning when the dreadful secret of that night was disclosed.

If the whole of Europe was convulsed by the enormity of this crime – the foulest that stains the name of Bonaparte – the Parisians soon forgot it, in the deeper interest of the great event that was now approaching – the assumption of the imperial title by Napoleon.

The excitement on this theme was so great and absorbing, that nothing else was spoken or thought of. Private sorrows and afflictions were disregarded and despised, and to obtrude one's hardships on the notice of others seemed, at this juncture, a most ineffable selfishness. That I, a prisoner, friendless and unknown as I was, found none to sympathize with me or take interest in my fate, is, therefore, nothing extraordinary. In fact, I appeared to have been entirely forgotten; and though still in durance, nothing was said either of the charge to be preferred against me, nor the time when I should be brought to trial.

Giacourt, an old lieutenant of the marines, and at that time deputy-governor of the Temple, was kind and good-natured toward me, occasionally telling of the events which were happening without, and giving me the hope that some general amnesty would, in all likelihood, liberate all those whose crimes were not beyond the reach of mercy. The little cell I occupied – and to Giacourt's kindness I owed the sole possession of it – looked out upon the tall battlements of the outer walls, which excluded all view beyond, and thus drove me within myself for occupation and employment. In this emergency I set about to write some notices of my life – some brief memoirs of those changeful fortunes which had accompanied me from boyhood. Many of those incidents which I relate now, and many of those traits of mind or temper that I recall, were then for the first time noted down, and thus graven on my memory.

My early boyhood, my first experiences as a soldier, the campaign of the "Schwarzwald," Ireland, and Genoa, all were mentioned, and, writing as I did, solely for myself and my own eyes, I set down many criticisms on the generals, and their plans of campaign, which, if intended for the inspection of others, would have been the greatest presumption and impertinence, and in this way Moreau, Hoche, Massena, and even Bonaparte, came in for a most candid and impartial criticism.

How Germany might have been conquered; how Ireland ought to have been invaded; in what way Italy should have been treated, and lastly, the grand political error of the seizure of Duc D'Enghein, were subjects that I discussed and determined with consummate boldness and self-satisfaction. I am almost overwhelmed with shame, even now, as I think of that absurd chronicle, with its rash judgments, its crude opinions and its pretentious decisions.

So fascinated had I become with my task, that I rose early to resume it each morning, and used to fall asleep, cogitating on the themes for the next day, and revolving within myself all the passages of interest I should commemorate. A man must have known imprisonment to feel all the value that can be attached to any object, no matter how mean or insignificant, that can employ the thoughts, amuse the fancy, or engage the affections. The narrow cell expands under such magic, the barred casement is a free portal to the glorious sun and the free air; the captive himself is but the student bending over his allotted task. To this happy frame of mind had I come, without a thought or a wish beyond the narrow walls at either side of me, when a sad disaster befell me. On awaking one morning, as usual, to resume my labor, my manuscript was gone! the table and writing materials, all had disappeared, and, to increase my discomfiture, the turnkey informed me that Lieutenant Giacourt had been removed from his post, and sent off to some inferior station in the provinces.

I will not advert to the dreary time which followed this misfortune, a time in which the hours passed on unmeasured and almost unfelt. Without speculation, without a wish, I passed my days in a stupid indolence akin to torpor. Had the prison doors been open, I doubt if I should have had the energy to make my escape. Life itself ceased to have any value for me, but somehow I did not desire death. I was in this miserable mood when the turnkey awoke me one day as I was dozing on my bed. "Get up and prepare yourself to receive a visitor," said he. "There's an officer of the staff without, come to see you;" and, as he spoke, a young, slightly-formed man entered, in the uniform of a captain, who, making a sign for the turnkey to withdraw, took his seat at my bedside.

"Don't get up, monsieur; you look ill and weak, so, pray, let me not disturb you," said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.

"I am not ill," said I, with an effort, but my hollow utterance and my sunken cheeks contradicted my words, "but I have been sleeping; I usually doze at this hour."

"The best thing a man can do in prison, I suppose," said he, smiling good-naturedly.

"No, not the best," said I, catching up his words too literally. "I used to write the whole day long, till they carried away my paper and my pens."

"It is just of that very thing I have come to speak, sir," resumed he. "You intended that memoir for publication!"

"No; never."

"Then for private perusal among a circle of friends."

"Just as little. I scarcely know three people in the world who would acknowledge that title."

"You had an object, however, in composing it?"

"Yes; to occupy thought; to save me from – from – " I hesitated, for I was ashamed of the confession that nearly burst from me, and, after a pause, I said, "from being such as I now am?"

"You wrote it for yourself alone, then?"

"Yes."

"Unprompted; without any suggestions from another?"

"Is it here?" said I, looking around my cell, "Is it here that I should be likely to find a fellow-laborer?"

"No; but I mean to ask, were the sentiments your own, without any external influence, or any persuasions from others?"

"Quite my own."

"And the narrative is true?"

"Strictly so, I believe."

"Even to your meeting with the Duc D'Enghien. It was purely accidental?"

"That is, I never knew him to be the duke till the moment of his arrest?"

"Just so; you thought he was merely a royalist noble. Then, why did you not address a memoir to that effect to the minister?"

"I thought it would be useless; when they made so little of a Condé, what right had I to suppose they would think much about me?"

"If he could have proved his innocence" – he stopped, and then in an altered voice said – "but as to this memoir, you assume considerable airs of military knowledge in it, and many of the opinions smack of heads older than yours."

"They are, I repeat, my own altogether; as to their presumption, I have already told you they were intended solely for my own eye."

"So that you are not a royalist?"

"No."

"Never were one?"

"Never."

"In what way would you employ yourself, if set at liberty to-day."

I stared, and felt confused; for however easy I found it to refer to the past, and reason on it, any speculation as to the future was a considerable difficulty.

"You hesitate; you have not yet made up your mind, apparently?"

"It is not that; I am trying to think of liberty, trying to fancy myself free – but I can not!" said I, with a weary sigh; "the air of this cell has sapped my courage and my energy – a little more will finish the ruin!"

"And yet you are not much above four or five-and-twenty years of age?"

"Not yet twenty!" said I.

"Come, come, Tiernay – this is too early to be sick of life!" said he, and the kind tone touched me so that I burst into tears. They were bitter tears, too; for while my heart was relieved by this gush of feeling, I was ashamed at my own weakness. "Come, I say," continued he, "this memoir of yours might have done you much mischief – happily it has not done so. Give me the permission to throw it in the fire, and, instead of it, address a respectful petition to the head of the state, setting forth your services, and stating the casualty by which you were implicated in royalism. I will take care that it meets his eye, and, if possible, will support its prayer; above all, ask for reinstatement in your grade, and a return to the service. It may be, perhaps, that you can mention some superior officer who would vouch for your future conduct."

"Except Colonel Mahon."

"Not the Colonel Mahon who commanded the 13th Cuirassiers?"

"The same!"

"That name would little serve you," said he, coldly, "he has been placed 'en retraite' some time back; and if your character can call no other witness than him, your case is not too favorable." He saw that the speech had disconcerted me, and soon added, "Never mind – keep to the memoir; state your case, and your apology, and leave the rest to fortune. When can you let me have it?"

"By to-morrow – to-night, if necessary."

"To-morrow will do well, and so good-by. I will order them to supply you with writing materials;" and slapping me good-naturedly on the shoulder, he cried, "Courage, my lad," and departed.

Before I lay down to sleep that night, I completed my "memoir," the great difficulty of which I found to consist in that dry brevity which I knew Bonaparte would require. In this, however, I believe I succeeded at last, making the entire document not to occupy one sheet of paper. The officer had left his card of address, which I found was inscribed Monsieur Bourrienne, Rue Lafitte, a name that subsequently was to be well known to the world.

I directed my manuscript to his care, and lay down with a lighter heart than I had known for many a day. I will not weary my reader with the tormenting vacillations of hope and fear which followed. Day after day went over, and no answer came to me. I addressed two notes respectful, but urgent, begging for some information as to my demand – none came. A month passed thus, when, one morning, the governor of the Temple entered my room with an open letter in his hand.

"This is an order for your liberation, Monsieur de Tiernay," said he; "you are free."

"Am I reinstated in my grade?" asked I, eagerly.

He shook his head, and said nothing.

"Is there no mention of my restoration to the service?"

"None, sir."

"Then, what is to become of me – to what end am I liberated?" cried I, passionately.

"Paris is a great city, there is a wide world beyond it, and a man so young as you are must have few resources, or he will carve out a good career for himself."

"Say, rather, he must have few resentments, sir," cried I, bitterly, "or he will easily hit upon a bad one;" and with this, I packed up the few articles I possessed, and prepared to depart.

I remember it well; it was between two and three o'clock of the afternoon, on a bright day in spring, that I stood on the Quai Voltaire, a very small packet of clothes in a bundle in one hand, and a cane in the other, something short of three louis in my purse, and as much depression in my heart as ever settled down in that of a youth not full nineteen. Liberty is a glorious thing, and mine had been periled often enough, to give me a hearty appreciation of its blessing; but at that moment, as I stood friendless and companionless in a great thoroughfare of a great city, I almost wished myself back again within the dreary walls of the Temple, for somehow it felt like home! It is true one must have had a lonely lot in life before he could surround the cell of a prison with such attributes as these! Perhaps I have more of the cat-like affection for a particular spot than most men; but I do find that I attach myself to the walls with a tenacity that strengthens as I grow older, and like my brother parasite, the ivy, my grasp becomes more rigid the longer I cling.

If I know of few merely sensual gratifications higher than a lounge through Paris, at the flood-tide of its population, watching the varied hues and complexions of its strange inhabitants, displaying, as they do in feature, air, and gesture, so much more of character and purpose than other people, so also do I feel that there is something indescribably miserable in being alone, unknown, and unnoticed in that vast throng, destitute of means for the present, and devoid of hope for the future.

Some were bent on business, some on pleasure; some were evidently bent on killing time till the hour of more agreeable occupation should arrive; some were loitering along, gazing at the prints in shop-windows, or half-listlessly stopping to read at book-stalls. There was not only every condition of mankind, from wealth to mendicancy, but every frame of mind from enjoyment to utter "ennui," and yet I thought I could not hit upon any one individual who looked as forlorn and cast away as myself; however, there were many who passed me that day who would gladly have changed fortune with me, but it would have been difficult to persuade me of the fact, in the mood I then was.