Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“Ask me for nothing thou thinkest I could not, ought not to grant,” said the Emperor, sternly. “What is’t now?”

The poor corporal seemed thoroughly nonplussed, and for a second or two could not reply. At last, as if summoning all his courage for the effort, he said, —

“Well, thou canst but refuse, and then the fault will be all thine. She is a brave girl, and had she been a man – ”

“Whom can he mean?” said Napoleon. “Is the man’s head wandering?”

“No, mon général! all right there; that shell has turned many a sabre’s edge. I was talking of Minette, the vivandière of ours. If thou art so bent on doing me a service, why, promote her, and thou’lt make the whole regiment proud of it.”

This speech was lost in the laugh which, beginning with the Emperor, extended to the staff, and at last to all the bystanders.

“Dost wish I should make her one of my aides-de-camp?” said Napoleon, still laughing.

“Parbleu! thou hast more ill-favored ones among them,” said Pioche, with a significant look at the grim faces of Rapp and Dam, whose hard and weather-beaten features never deigned a smile, while every other face was moved in laughter.

“But thou hast not said yet what I am to do,” rejoined the Emperor.

“Thou used not to be so hard to understand,” grumbled out Pioche. “I have seen the time thou ‘d have said, ‘Is it Minette that was wounded at the Adige? Is that the girl stood in the square at Marengo? Parbleu! I ‘ll give her the cross of the Legion!’”

“And she shall have it, Corporal Pioche,” said Napoleon, as he detached the decoration he wore on the breast of his coat. “Give the order for the vivandière to advance.”

Scarce were the words spoken, when the sound of a horse pressed to his speed was heard, and mounted upon a small but showy Arab, a present from the regiment, Minette rode up, in the bloom of health, and flushed by exercise and the excitement of the moment. I never saw her look so handsome. Reining in her horse short, as she came in front of the Emperor, the animal reared up, almost straight, and pawed the air with his forelegs; while she, with all the composure in life, raised her hand to her cap, and saluted the Emperor with an action the most easy and graceful.

“Thou hast some yonder,” said Pioche, with a grim smile at the staff, “would be sore puzzled to keep their saddles as well.”

“Minette,” said the Emperor, while he gazed on her handsome features with evident pleasure, “your name is well known to me for many actions of kindness and self-devotion. Wear this cross of the Legion of Honor; you will not value it the less that until now it has been only worn by me. Whenever you find one worthy to be your husband, Minette, I will charge myself with the dowry.”

“Oh, Sire!” said the trembling girl, as she pressed the Emperor’s fingers to her lips, – “oh, Sire, is this real?”

“Yes, parbleu!” said Pioche, wiping a large tear from his eye as he spoke; “he can make thee be a man, and make me feel like a girl.”

As Duroc attached the cross to the buttonhole of the vivandière’s frock, she sat pale as death, totally overcome by her sensations of pride, and unable to say more than “Oh, Sire!” which she repeated three or four times at intervals.

Again the procession moved on; other wagons followed with their brave fellows; but all the interest of the scene was now, for me at least, wrapped up in that one incident, and I took but little notice of the rest.

For full two hours the cortege continued to roll on, – wagon after wagon, filled with the shattered remnants of an army. Yet such was the indomitable spirit of the people, such the heartfelt passion for glory, all deemed that procession the proudest triumph of their arms. Nor was this feeling confined to the spectators; the wounded themselves leaned eagerly over the sides of the charrettes to gaze into the crowds on either side, seeking some old familiar face, and looking through all their sufferings proudly on the dense mob beneath them. Some tried to cheer, and waved their powerless hands; but others, faint and heart-sick, turned their glazed eyes towards the “Invalides,” whose lofty dome appeared above the trees, as though to say, that was now their resting-place, – the only one before the grave.

He who witnessed that day could have little doubt about the guiding spirit of the French nation; nor could he distrust their willingness to sacrifice anything – nay, all – to national glory. Suffering and misery, wounds, ghastly and dreadful, were on every side; and yet not one word of pity, not a look of compassion was there. These men were, in their eyes, far too highly placed for sympathy; theirs was that path to which all aspired, and their trophies were their own worn frames and mangled bodies. And then how they brightened up as the Emperor would draw near! how even the faintest would strive to catch his eye and gaze with parted lips on him as he spoke, as though drinking in his very words, – the balm to their bruised hearts, – and the faint cry of “l’Empereur! l’Empereur!” passed like a murmur along the line.

Not until the last wagon had defiled before him did the Emperor leave the ground. It was then nearly dark, and already the lamps were lighted along the quays, and the windows of the Palace displayed the brilliant lustre of the preparations for a grand dinner to the marshals.

As we moved slowly along in close order, I found myself among a group of officers of the Emperor’s staffs eagerly discussing the day and its events.

“I am sorry for Duchesne,” said one; “with all his impertinences – and he had enough of them – he was a brave fellow, and a glorious leader at a moment of difficulty.”

“Well, well, the Emperor has perhaps forgiven him by this time; and it is not likely he would mar the happiness of a day like this by disgracing an officer of the élite.”

“You are wrong, my friend; his Majesty is not sorry for the occasion which can prove that he knows as well how to punish as to reward. Duchesne’s fate is sealed. You are not old enough to remember, as I can, the morning at Lonado, where the same ardre du jour conferred a mark of honor on one brother, and condemned another to be shot.”

“And was this, indeed, the case?”

“Ay, was it. Many can tell you of it, as well as myself. They were both in the same regiment – the fifteenth demi-brigade of light infantry. They held a château at Salo against the enemy for eight hours, when at length the elder, who commanded at the front, capitulated and laid down his arms; the younger refused to comply, and continued to fight. They were reinforced an hour afterwards, and the Austrians beaten off. The day after they were both tried, and the result was as I have told you; the utmost favor the younger could obtain was, not to witness the execution of his brother.”

As I heard this story, my very blood curdled in my veins, and I looked with a kind of dread on him who now rode a few paces in front of me, – the stern and pitiless Napoleon.

At last we entered the court of the Tuileries, when the Emperor, dismissing his staff, entered the Palace, and we separated, to follow our own plans for the evening. For a moment or two I remained uncertain which way to turn. I wished much to see Duchesne, yet scarcely hoped to meet with him by returning to the Luxembourg. It was not the time to be away from him, at a moment like this, and I resolved to seek him out.

For above an hour I went from café to café, where he was in the habit of resorting, but to no purpose. He had not been seen in any of them during the day; so that at length I turned homeward with the faint hope that I should see him there on my arrival.

Somehow I never had felt more sad and depressed; and the events of the day, so far from making me participate in the general joy, had left me gloomy and desponding. My spirit was little in harmony with the gay and merry groups that passed along the streets, chanting their campaigning songs, and usually having some old soldier of the “Guard” amongst them; for they felt it as a fête, and were hurrying to the cabarets to celebrate the day of Austerlitz.

CHAPTER XIII. THE CHEVALIER

When men of high courage and proud hearts meet with reverses in life, our anxiety is rather to learn what new channel their thoughts and exertions will take in future, than to hear how they have borne up under misfortune. I knew Duchesne too well to suppose that any turn of fate would find him wholly unprepared; but still, a public reprimand, and from the lips of the Emperor, too, was of a nature to wound him to the quick, and I could not guess, nor picture to myself in what way he would bear it. The loss of grade itself was a thing of consequence, as the service of the élite was reckoned a certain promotion; not to speak of – what to him was far more important – the banishment from Paris and its salons to some gloomy and distant encampment. In speculations like these I returned to my quarters, where I was surprised to discover that the chevalier had not been since morning. I learned from his servant that he had dismissed him, with his horses, soon after leaving the Tuileries, and had not returned home from that time.

I dined alone that day, and sat moodily by myself, thinking over the events of the morning, and wondering what had become of my friend, and watching every sound that might tell of his coming. It is true there were many things I liked not in Duchesne: his cold, sardonic spirit, his moqueur temperament, chilled and repelled me; but I recognized, even through his own efforts at concealment, a manly tone of independence, a vigorous reliance on self, that raised him in my esteem, and made me regard him with a certain species of admiration. With his unsettled or unstable political opinions, I greatly dreaded the excess to which a spirit of revenge might carry him.

I knew that the Jacobin party, and the Bourbons themselves, lay in wait for every erring member of the Imperial side; and I felt no little anxiety at the temptations they might hold out to him, at a moment when his excitement might have the mastery over his cooler judgment.

Late in the evening a Government messenger arrived with a large letter addressed to him from the Minister of War; and even this caused me fresh uneasiness, since I connected the despatch in my mind with some detail of duty which his absence might leave unperformed.

It was long past midnight, as I sat, vainly endeavoring to occupy myself with a book, which each moment I laid down to listen, when suddenly I heard the roll of a fiacre in the court beneath, the great doors banged and closed, and the next moment the chevalier entered the room.

He was dressed in plain clothes, and looked somewhat paler than usual, but though evidently laboring under excitement, affected his wonted ease and carelessness of manner, as, taking a chair in front of me, he sat down.

“What a day of worry and trouble this has been, my dear friend!” he began. “From the moment I last saw you to the present one, I have not rested, and with four invitations to dinner, I have not dined anywhere.”

He paused as he said thus much, as if expecting me to say something; and I perceived that the embarrassment he felt rather increased than otherwise. I therefore endeavored to mumble out something about his hurried departure and the annoyance of such a sentence, when he stopped me suddenly.

“Oh, as to that, I fancy the matter is arranged already; I should have had a letter from the War Office.”

“Yes, there is one here; it came three hours ago.”

He turned at once to the table, and breaking the seal, perused the packet in silence, then handed it to me, as he said, —

“Bead that; it will save a world of explanation.”

It was dated five o’clock, and merely contained the following few words: —

His Majesty I. and R. accepts the resignation of Senior Captain Duchesne, late of the Imperial Guard; who, from the date of the present, is no longer in the service of France.

(Signed)

BERTHIER, Marshal of France.

A small sealed note dropped from the packet, which Duchesne took up, and broke open with eagerness.

“Ha! parbleu!” cried he, with energy; “I thought not. See here, Burke; it is Duroc who writes: – ”

My dear Duchesne, – I knew there was no use in making such a proposition, and told you as much. The moment I said the word ‘England,’ he shouted out ‘No!’ in such a tone you might have heard it at the Luxembourg. You will perceive, then, the thing is impracticable; and perhaps, after all, for your own sake, it is better it should be so.

Yours ever, D.

“This is all mystery to me, Duchesne; I cannot fathom it in the least.”

“Let me assist you; a few words will do it. I gave in my démission as Captain of the Guard, which, as you see, his Majesty has accepted; we shall leave it to the ‘Moniteur’ of to-morrow to announce whether graciously or not. I also addressed a formal letter to Duroc, to ask the Emperor’s permission to visit England, on private business of my own.” His eyes sparkled with a malignant lustre as he said these last words, and his cheek grew deep scarlet. “This, however, his Majesty has not granted, doubtless from private reasons of his own; and thus we stand. Which of us, think you, has most spoiled the other’s rest for this night?”

“But still I do not comprehend. What can take you to England? You have no friends there; you’ve never been in that country.”

“Do you know the very word is proscribed, – that the island is covered from his eyes in the map he looks upon, that perfide Albion is the demon that haunts his dark hours, and menaces with threatening gesture the downfall of all his present glory? Ah, by Saint Denis, boy! had I been you, it is not such an epaulette as this I had worn.”

“Enough, Duchesne; I will not hear more. Not to you, nor any one, am I answerable for the reasons that have guided my conduct; nor had I listened to so much, save that such excitement as yours may make that pardonable which in calmer moments is not so.”

“You say right, Burke,” said he, quickly, and with more seriousness of manner; “it is seldom I have been betrayed into such a passionate warmth as this. I hope I have not offended you. This change of circumstance will make none in our friendship. I knew it, my dear boy. And now let us turn from such tiresome topics. Where, think you, have I been spending the evening? But how could you ever guess? Well, at the Odéon, attending Mademoiselle Pierrot, and a very pretty friend of hers, – one of our vivandières, who happens to be in the brigade with mademoiselle’s brother, and dined there to-day. She only arrived in Paris this morning; and, by Jove! there are some handsome faces in our gay salons would scarcely stand the rivalry with hers. I must show you the fair Minette.”

“Minette!” stammered I, while a sickly sensation – a fear of some unknown misfortune to the poor girl – almost stopped my utterance. “I know her; she belongs to the Fourth Cuirassiers.”

“Ah, you know her? Who would have suspected my quiet friend of such an acquaintance? And so, you never hinted this to me. Ma foi! I ‘d have thought twice about throwing up my commission if I had seen her half an hour earlier. Come, tell me all you know of her. Where does she come from?”

“Of her history I am totally ignorant; I can only tell you that her character is without a stain or reproach, in circumstances where few, if any save herself, ever walked scathless; that on more than one occasion she has displayed heroism worthy of the best among us.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, how disappointed I am! Indeed, I half feared as much: she is a regular vivandière of the mélodrame, – virtuous, high-minded, and intrepid. You, of course, believe all this, – don’t be angry, Burke, – but I don’t; and the reason is I can’t, – the gods have left me incredulous from the cradle. I have a rooted obstinacy about me, perfectly irreclaimable. Thus, I fancy Napoleon to be a Corsican; a modern marshal to be a promoted sergeant; a judge of the upper court to be a public prosecutor; and a vivandière of the grande armée– But I’ll not offend, – don’t be afraid, my poor fellow, – even at the risk of the rivalry. Upon my life, I ‘m glad to see you have a heart susceptible of any little tenderness. But you cannot blame me if I ‘m weary of this eternal travesty of character which goes on amongst us. Why will our Republican and sans culotte friends try courtly airs and graces, while our real aristocracy stoop to the affected coarseness of the canaille? Is it possible that they who wish to found a new order of things do not see that all these pantomime costumes and characters denote nothing but change, – that we are only performing a comedy after all? I scarcely expect it will be a five-act one. And, apropos of comedies, – when shall we pay our respects to Madame de Lacostellerie? It will require all my diplomacy to keep my ground there under my recent misfortune. Nothing short of a tender inquiry from the Duchesse de Montserrat will open the doors for me. Alas, and alas! I suppose I shall have to fall back on the Faubourg.”

“But is the step irrevocable, Duchesne? Can you really bring yourself to forego a career which opened with such promise?”

“And terminated with such disgrace,” added he, smiling placidly.

“Nay, nay; don’t affect to take it thus. Your services would have placed you high, and won for you honors and rank.”

“And, ma foi! have they not done so? Am I not a very interesting individual at this moment, – more so than any other of my life? Are not half the powdered heads of the Faubourg plotting over my downfall, and wondering how they are to secure me to the ‘true cause’? Are not the hot heads of the Jacobites speculating on my admission, by a unanimous vote, into their order? And has not Fouché gone to the special expense of a new police spy, solely destined to dine at the same café, play at the same salon, and sit in the same box of the Opera with me? Is this nothing? Well, it will be good fun, after all, to set their wise brains on the wrong track; not to speak of the happiness of weeding one’s acquaintance, which a little turn of fortune always effects so instantaneously.”

“One would suppose from your manner, Duchesne, that some unlooked-for piece of good luck had befallen you; the event seems to have been the crowning one of your life.”

“Am I not at liberty, boy? have I not thrown the slavery behind me? Is that nothing? You may fancy your collar, because there is some gold upon it; but, trust me, it galls the neck as cursedly as the veriest brass. Come, Burke, I must have a glass of champagne, and you must pledge me in a creaming bumper. If you don’t join in the sentiment now, the time will come later on. We may be many a mile apart, – ay, perhaps a whole world will divide us; but you’ll remember my toast, – ‘To him that is free!’ I am sick of most things; women, wine, war, play, – the game of life itself, with all its dashing and existing interests, – I have had them to satiety. But liberty has its charm; even to the palsied arm and the withered hand freedom is dear; and why not to him who yet can strike?”

His eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and he drained glass after glass of wine, without seeming aware of what he was doing.

“If you felt thus, Duchesne, why have you remained so long a soldier?”

“I ‘ll tell you. He who travels unwillingly along some dreary path stops often as he goes, and looks around to see if, in the sky above or the road beneath, some obstacle may not cross his way and bid him turn. The faintest sound of a brewing storm, the darkening shadow of a cloud, a swollen rivulet, is enough, and straightway he yields: so men seem swayed in life by trifles which never moved them, by accidents which came not near their hearts. These, which the world called their disappointments, were often but the pivots of their fortune. I have had enough, nay, more than enough, of all this. You must not ask the hackneyed actor of the melodrama to start at the blue lights, and feel real fear at burning forests and flaming châteaux. This mock passion of the Emperor – ”

“Come, my friend, that is indeed too much; unquestionably there was no feigning there.”

Duchesne gave a bitter laugh, and laying his hand on my arm, said, —

“My good boy, I know him well. The knowledge has cost me something; but I have it. A soldier’s enthusiasm!” said he, in irony, – “bah! Shall I tell you a little incident of my boyhood? I detest story-telling, but this you must hear. Fill my glass! listen, and I promise you not to be lengthy.”

It was the first time in our intimacy in which Duchesne referred distinctly to his past life; and I willingly accepted the offer he made, anticipating that any incident, no matter how trivial, might throw a light on the strange contrarieties of his character.

He sat for several minutes silent, his eyes turned towards the ground. A faint smile, more of sadness than aught else, played about his lips, as he muttered to himself some words I could not catch. Then rallying, with a slight effort, he began thus – But, short as his tale was, we must give him a chapter to himself.

CHAPTER XIV. A BOYISH REMINISCENCE

“I believe I have already told you, Burke, that my family were most of them Royalists. Such as were engaged in trade followed the fortunes of the day, and cried ‘Vive la République!’ like their neighbors. Some deemed it better to emigrate, and wait in a foreign land for the happy hour of returning to their own, – a circumstance, by the way, which must have tried their patience ere this; and a few, trusting to their obscure position, living in out-of-the-way, remote spots, supposed that in the general uproar they might escape undetected; and, with one or two exceptions, they were right. Among these latter was an unmarried brother of my mother, who having held a military command for a great many years in the Ile de Bourbon, retired to spend the remainder of his days in a small but beautiful château on the seaside, about three leagues from Marseilles. The old viscount (we continued to call him so among ourselves, though the use of titles was proscribed long before) had met with some disappointment in love in early life, which had prevented his ever marrying, and turned all his affections towards the children of his brothers and sisters, who invariably passed a couple of months of each summer with him, arriving from different parts of France for the purpose.

“And truly it was a strange sight to see the mixture of look, expression, accent, and costume, that came to the rendezvous: the long-featured boy, with blue eyes and pointed chin, – cold, wary, and suspicious, brave but cautious, – that came from Normandy; the high-spirited, reckless youth from Brittany; the dark-eyed girl of Provence; the quick-tempered, warm-hearted Gascon and, stranger than all, from his contrast to the rest the little Parisian, with his airs of the capital and his contempt for his rustic brethren, nothing daunted that in all their boyish exercises he found himself so much their inferior. Our dear old uncle loved nothing so well as to have us around him; and even the little ones, of five and six years old, when not living too far off, were brought to these reunions, which were to us the great events of each year of our lives.

“It was in the June of the year 1794 – I shall not easily forget the date – that we were all assembled as usual at ‘Le Luc.’ Our party was reinforced by some three or four new visitors, among whom was a little girl of about twelve years old, – Annette de Noailles, the prettiest creature I ever beheld. Every land has its own trait of birth distinctly marked. I don’t know whether you have observed that the brow and the forehead are more indicative of class in Frenchmen than any other portion of the face: hers was perfect, and though a mere child, conveyed an impression of tempered decision and mildness that was most fascinating; the character of her features was thoughtful, and were it not for a certain vivacity in the eyes, would have been even sad. Forgive me, if I dwell – when I need not – on these traits: she is no more. Her father carried her with him in his exile, and your lowering skies and gloomy air soon laid her low.

“Annette was the child of Royalist parents. Both her father and mother had occupied places in the royal household; and she was accustomed from her earliest infancy to hear the praise of the Bourbons from lips which trembled when they spoke. Poor child! how well do I remember her little prayer for the martyred saint, – for so they styled the murdered king, – which she never missed saying each morning when the mass was over in the chapel of the château. It is a curious fact that the girls of a family were frequently attached to the fortunes of the Bourbons, while the boys declared for the Revolution; and these differences penetrated into the very core, and sapped the happiness of many whose affection had stood the test of every misfortune save the uprooting torrent of anarchy that poured in with the Revolution. These party differences entered into all the little quarrels of the schoolroom and the nursery; and the taunting epithets of either side were used in angry passion by those who neither guessed nor could understand their meaning. Need it be wondered at, if in after life these opinions took the tone of intense convictions, when even thus in infancy they were nurtured and fostered? Our little circle at Le Luc was, indeed, wonderfully free from such causes of contention; whatever paths in life fate had in store for us afterwards, then, at least, we were of one mind. A few of the boys, it is true, were struck by the successes of those great armies the Revolution poured over Europe; but even they were half ashamed to confess enthusiasm in a cause so constantly allied in their memory with everything mean and low-lived.