Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“‘Of the truest gentleman of France,’ called out a loud voice from below the platform; ‘Vive le roi!’ It was the blind man who spoke, and waved his cap above his head.

“‘To the guillotine! to the guillotine!’ screamed a hundred voices, in tones wilde than the cries of famished wolves, as, seizing the aged man, they tore his clothes to very rags.

“In an instant all attention was turned from the platform to the scene below it, where, with shouts and screams of fury, the terrible mob yelled aloud for blood. In vain the guards endeavored to keep back the people, who twice rescued their victim from the hands of the soldiery; and already a confused murmur arose that the commissary himself was a traitor to the public, and favored the tyrants, when a dull, clanking sound rose above the tumult, and a cheer of triumph proclaimed the approach of the instrument of torture.

“In their impetuous torrent of vengeance they had dragged the guillotine from the distant end of the ‘Place,’ where it usually stood; and there now still knelt the figure of a condemned man, lashed with his arms behind him, on the platform, awaiting the moment of his doom. Oh, that terrible face, whereon death had already set its seal! With glazed, lack-lustre eye, and cheek leaden and quivering, he gazed around on the fiendish countenances like one awakening from a dream, his lips parted as though to speak; but no sound came forth.

“‘Place! place for Monsieur le Marquis!’ shouted a ruffian, as he assisted to raise the figure of the blind man up the steps; and a ribald yell of fiendish laughter followed the brutal jest.

“‘Thou art to make thy journey in most noble company,’ said another to the culprit on the platform.

“‘An he see not his way in the next world better than in this, thou must lend him a hand, friend,’ said a third. And with many a ruffian joke they taunted their victims, who stood on the last threshold of life.

“Among the crowd upon the scaffold of the guillotine I could see the figure of the blind man as it leaned and fell on either side, as the movement of the mob bore it.

“‘Parbleu! these Royalists would rather kneel than stand,” said a voice, as they in vain essayed to make the old man place his feet under him; and ere the laughter which this rude jest excited ceased, a cry broke forth of – ‘He is dead! he is dead!’ And with a heavy sumph, the body fell from their hands; for when their power of cruelty ended, they cared not for the corpse.

“It was true: life was extinct, none knew how, – whether from the violence of the mob in its first outbreak, or that a long-suffering heart had burst at last; but the chord was snapped, and he whose proud soul lately defied the countless thousands around, now slept with the dead.

“In a few seconds it seemed as though they felt that a power stronger than their own had interposed between them and their vengeance, and they stood almost aghast before the corpse, where no trace of blood proclaimed it to be their own; then, rallying from this stupor, with one voice they demanded that the son should atone for the crimes of the father.

“‘I am ready,’ cried the youth, in a voice above the tumult. ‘I did not deem I could be grateful to ye for aught, but I am for this.’

“To no purpose did the commissary propose a delay in the sentence; he was unsupported by his colleagues. The passions of the mob rose higher and higher; the thirst for blood, unslaked, became intense and maddening; and they danced in frantic glee around the guillotine, while they chanted one of the demoniac songs of the scaffold.

“In this moment, when the torrent ran in one direction, Alphonse might have escaped all notice, but that the condemned youth turned to embrace him once more before he descended from the people.

“‘They are so sorry to separate, it is a shame to part them,’ cried a ruffian in the crowd.

“‘You forget, Citizen, that this boy is his substitute,’ said the commissary, mildly; ‘the Republic most not be cheated of its defenders.’

“‘Vive la République!’ cried the soldiers; and the cry was re-echoed by thousands, while amid their cheers there rose the last faint sigh of an expiring victim.

“The scene was over; the crowd dispersed; and the soldiers marched back to quarters, accompanied by some hundred conscripts, among whom was Alphonse, – a vague, troubled expression betokening that he scarce knew what had happened around him.

“The regiment to which he was appointed was at Toulon, and there I followed him. They were ordered to the north of Italy soon after, and thence to Egypt. Through the battlefields of Mount Tabor and the Pyramids I was ever beside him; on the heights of Austerlitz I stanched his wounds; and I laid him beneath the earth on the field of Auerstadt.”

The old man’s voice trembled and became feeble as he finished speaking, and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale as death.

“I must see Sèvres once more,” said he, after a pause. “I must look on the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares.”

“Come, come, Father,” said I; “to one who has acted so noble a part as yours, life is never without its own means of happiness.”

“I spoke not of death,” replied he, mildly; “but the holy calm of a convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of hope – ”

“Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no future, – no hope.”

“I will not hear you speak thus,” said the priest; “fatigue and weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow, – we shall be fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and consolation where you can see neither.”

The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of light at every moment.

“Such is our life here,” said the father, – “alternating with its days of happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our joys are greatest, so are our trials also.”

He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.

CHAPTER XXVII. A CHANCE MEETING

With the good priest of Sèvres I journeyed along towards the frontier of France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the decisive moment of my leaving the army.

“You see, Father,” said I, “how completely my career has failed; how, with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the devotion of a follower, I have adhered to the Emperor’s fortunes; and yet – ”

“Your ambition, however great it was, could not stifle conscience. I can believe it well. They who go forth to the wars with high hopes and bounding hearts, who picture to their minds the glorious rewards of great achievements, should blind their eyes to the horrors and injustice of the cause they bleed for. Any sympathy with misfortune would sap the very principle of that heroism whose essence is success. Men cannot play the double game, even in matters of worldly ambition. Had you not listened to the promptings of your heart, you had been greater; had you not followed the dazzling glare of your hopes, you had been happier: both you could scarcely be. Be assured of this, my son, the triumphs of a country can only be enjoyed by the child of the soil; the brave soldier, who lends his arm to the cause, feels he has little part in the glory.”

“True, indeed, – most true; I feel it.”

“And were it otherwise, how unsatisfying is the thirst for that same glory! how endless the path that leads to it! how many regrets accompany it! how many ties broken! how many friendships forfeited! No, no; return to your own land, – to the country of your birth; some honorable career will always present itself to him who seeks but independence and the integrity of his own heart. Beneath the conquering eagles of the Emperor there are men of every shade of political opinion; for the conscription is pitiless. There are Royalists, who love their king and hate the usurper; there are Jacobins, who worship freedom and detest the tyrant; there are stern Republicans – Vendéens, and followers of Moreau: but yet all are Frenchmen. ‘La belle France’ is the watchword that speaks to every heart, and patriotism is the bond between thousands. You have no share in this; the delusion of national glory can never throw its deception around you. Return, then, to your country; and be assured, that in her cause your least efforts will be more ennobling to yourself than the boldest deeds the hand of a mercenary ever achieved.”

The inborn desire to revisit my native land needed but the counsels of the priest to make it all-powerful; and as, day by day, I plodded onward, my whole thoughts turned to the chances of my escape, and the means by which I could accomplish my freedom; for the war still continued between France and England, and the blockade of the French ports was strictly maintained by a powerful fleet. The difficulty of the step only increased my desire to effect it; and a hundred projects did I revolve in my mind, without ever being able to fix on one where success seemed likely. The very resolve, however, had cheered my spirits, and given new courage to my heart; and an object suggested a hope, – and with a hope, life was no longer burdensome.

Each morning now I set forward with a mind more at ease, and more open to receive pleasure from the varied objects which met me as I went. Not so my poor companion; the fatigue of the journey, added to great mental suffering, began to prey upon his health, and brought back an ague he had contracted in Egypt, from the effect of which his constitution had never perfectly recovered. At first the malady showed itself only in great depression of spirits, which made him silent for hours of the way. But soon it grew worse; he walked with much difficulty, took but little nourishment, and seemed impressed with a sad foreboding that the disease must be fatal.

“I wanted to reach my village; my own quiet churchyard should have been my resting-place,” said he, as he sank wearied and exhausted on a little bank at the roadside. “But this was only a sick man’s fancy. Poor Alphonse lies far away in the dreary plain of Auerstadt.”

The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their massive wavy surface, over which the passing clouds threw momentary shadows; before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of France, and upon these the sick man’s eyes rested with a steadfast gaze.

“Yes!” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “the fields and the mountains, the sunshine and the shade, are like those of other lands; but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn sense, and the very word ‘home’ brings with it the whole history of our affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an exile’s heart.”

I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we should pass the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there was little hope of finding shelter any nearer.

“You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and after a little it will revive you.”

The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very greatest debility.

“I cannot do it, my son,” said he, sinking upon the grassy bench which skirted the way; “you must leave me. It matters little now where this frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank grass will wave above it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man’s blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may cheer you to think on hereafter.”

“Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?” said I, reproachfully. “Is it so you think of me?”

“My minutes are few now, my child,” replied he, more solemnly, “and I would pass the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will not, – leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able to accompany you to the village.”

I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the top of my speed.

The zigzag path by which I went discovered to me from time to time the lights of the little hamlet, which twinkled star-like in the valley; and as I drew nearer, the confused hum of voices reached me. I listened, and to my amazement heard the deep, hoarse bray of a trumpet. How well I knew that sound! it was the night-call to gather in the stragglers. I stopped to listen; and now, in the stillness, could mark the tramp of horsemen and the clank of their equipments: again the trumpet sounded, and was answered by another at some distance. The road lay straight below me at some hundred yards off, and leaving the path, I dashed directly downwards just as the leading horsemen of a small detachment came slowly up. To their loud Qui vive? I answered by giving an account of the sick man, and entreating the sergeant who commanded the party to lend assistance to convey him to the village.

“Yes, parbleu! that we will,” said the honest soldier; “a priest who has made the campaign of Egypt and Austria is worthy of all our care. Where is he?”

“About a mile from this; but the road is not practicable for a horseman.”

“Well, you shall have two of my men; they will soon bring him hither.” And as he spoke, he ordered two troopers to dismount, who, quickly disencumbering themselves of their sabres, prepared to follow me.

“We shall expect you at the bivouac,” cried the sergeant, as he resumed his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed energy.

“You belong to the Guard, my friends,” said I, as I paused for breath at a turn of the path.

“The Fourth Cuirassiers of the Guard,” replied the soldier I addressed; “Milhaud’s brigade.”

How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the division General d’Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.

“You know the Fourth, then?” rejoined the man, as he witnessed the agitation of my manner.

“Know the Fourth?” echoed his comrade, in a voice of half-indignant meaning. “Sacrebleu!who does not know them? Does not all the world know them by this time?”

“It is the Fourth who wear the motto ‘Dix contre un’ on their caps,” said I, desirous to flatter the natural vanity of my companions.

“Yes, Monsieur; I see you have served also.”

I answered by a nod, for already every word, every gesture, recalled to me the career I had quitted; and my regrets, so late subdued by reason and reflection, came thronging back, and filled ray heart to bursting.

Hurrying onward now, I mounted the steep path, and soon regained the spot I sought. The poor father was sleeping; overcome by fatigue and weariness, he had fallen on the mossy bank, and lay in a deep, soft slumber. Lifting him gently, the strong troopers crossed their hands beneath, and bore him along between them. For an instant he looked up; but seeing me at his side, he merely pressed my hand, and closed his eyes again.

“Ma foi!” said one of the dragoons, in a low voice, “I should not be surprised if this were the Père Arsène, who served with the army in Italy. We used to call him ‘old Scapulaire’. He was the only priest I ever saw in the van of a brigade. You knew him too, Auguste.”

“Yes, that I did,” replied the other soldier. “I saw him at Elkankah, where one of ours was unhorsed by a Mameluke, spring forward, and seizing a pistol at the holster, shoot the Turk through the head, and then kneel down beside the dying man he was with before, and go on with his prayers. Ventrebleu! that’s what I call discipline.”

“Where was that, Comrade?”

“At Elkankah.”

“At Quoreyn, rather, my friend, two leagues to the southward,” whispered a low voice.

“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried the two soldiers in a breath, “it is himself;” for the words were spoken by the priest, who was no other than the Père Arsène they spoke of.

The effort of speech and memory was, however, a mere passing one; for to all their questions he was now deaf, and lay apparently unconscious between them. On me, therefore, they turned their inquiries, but with little more of success; and thus we descended the mountain, eager to reach some place of succor for the good father.

As we approached the village, I was soon made aware of the objects of the party who occupied it. The little street was crowded with cattle, bullocks, and sheep, fast wedged up amid huge wagons of forage and carts of corn; mounted dragoons urging on the jaded animals, regardless of the angry menaces or the impatient appeals incessantly making by the peasantry, who in great numbers had followed their stock from their farms.

The soldiers, who were detachments of different corps, were also quarrelling among themselves for their share of the spoil; and these altercations, in which more than once I saw a sabre flash, added to the discord. It was, indeed, a scene of tumult and confusion almost inconceivable. Here were a party of cuirassiers, carbine in hand, protecting a drove of sheep; around which the country people were standing, seemingly irresolute whether they should essay an attack, – a movement often prompted by the other soldiers, who hoped in the mêlée to seize a part of the prey. Many of the oxen were bestrode by hussars or lancers, whose gay trappings formed a strange contrast with the beasts they rode on; while more than one stately horseman held a sheep before him on the saddle, for whose protection a cocked pistol seemed no ineffectual guarantee.

The task of penetrating this dense and turbulent mob seemed to me almost impossible, and I expressed my fears to the soldiers. But they replied that there were too many braves of Egypt there not to remember the Père Arsène; saying which, one of the soldiers, whispering a word to his companion, laid the priest gently upon the ground, and then mounting rapidly on a forage-cart, he shouted, in a voice heard above the din, —

“Comrades of the Fourth, we have found an old companion; the Père Scapulaire is here. Place for the good father! place there!”

A hundred loud vivas welcomed this announcement; for the name was well known to many who never had seen the priest, and cheer after cheer for the bon père now rang through this motley assemblage.

To the wild confusion of a moment before the regularity of discipline at once succeeded, and a lane was quickly formed for the soldiers to advance with the priest between them, each horseman saluting as he passed as if to his general on parade.

“To the Trauben, – the Trauben!” cried several voices, as we went along; and this I learned was the little inn of the village, where the non-commissioned officers in charge of the several parties were seated in council to arrange the subdivision of the booty.

Had not a feeling stronger than mere personal consideration occupied me, I would have now left the good priest among his old comrades, with whom he was certain to meet kindness and protection. But I could not so readily part with one whom, even in the few hours of our intercourse, I had learned to like; and therefore, enduring as well as I was able the rugged insubordination of a soldiery free from the restraint of discipline, I followed on, and soon found myself at the door of the Trauben.

A dismounted dragoon, with drawn sword, guarded the entrance, around which a group of angry peasants were gathered, loudly protesting against the robbery of their flocks and farmyards. It was with great difficulty I could persuade the sentry to suffer me to enter; and when I at last succeeded, I found none willing to pay any attention to my request regarding a billet for the priest, for unhappily his name and character were unknown to those to whom I addressed myself. In this dilemma I was deliberating what step to take, when one of the soldiers, who with such zealous devotion had never left us, came up to say that his corporal had just given up his own quarters for the good father’s use; and this, happily, was a small summer-house in the garden at the back of the inn.

“He cannot come with us himself,” said the soldier, “for he is engaged with the forage rations, but I have got his leave to take the quarters.”

A small wicket beside the inn led us into a large, wildly-grown orchard, through which a broad path led to the summer-house in question; at least such we guessed to be the little building from whose windows there gleamed the bright glare of a cheerful fire.

The door lay open into a little hall, from which two doors led into different chambers. Over one of these was marked in chalk “quartier-général,” in imitation of the title assigned to a general’s quarters, and this the soldiers pronounced must belong to the corporal. I opened it accordingly and entered. The room was small and neatly furnished, and with the blazing wood upon the hearth, looked most comfortable and inviting.

“Yes, we are all right here; I know his helmet, – this is it,” said the dragoon. “So here we must leave you. You’ll tell the good father it was two troopers of the Fourth who carried him hither, won’t ye? Ay, and say Auguste Prévôt was one of them; he ‘ll know the name, – he nursed me in a fever I had in Italy.”

“I wish he were able to give me his blessing again,” said the other; “I had it before that affair at Brescia, and there were four of my comrades killed about me, and never a shot touched me. But good-night, Comrade; goodnight.” And so saying, having left the father at his length upon a couch, they made their military salute and departed.

A rude-looking flagon of beer which stood on the table was the only thing I could discover in the chamber, save a canvas bag of tobacco and some pipes. I filled a goblet with the liquor and placed it to the priest’s lips. He swallowed a little of it, and then opening his eyes, slowly looked around him, while he murmured to my question a faint sound of “Better, – much better.” I knew enough of such matters to be aware that perfect rest and repose were the greatest aids to his recovery; and so, replenishing the fire, I threw myself down on the large dragoon cloak which lay on the floor, and prepared to pass my night where I was.

The long-drawn breathings of the sleeping man, the perfect quiet and stillness of all around, – for though not far distant from the village, the thick wood of trees intercepted every sound from that quarter, – and my fatigue combined, soon brought on drowsiness.

I struggled, so long as I was able, against the tendency; but a humming sound filled my ears, the objects grew fainter before my vision, and I sank into that half-dreamy state when consciousness remains, but clouded and indistinct in all its perceptions. Twice the door was opened and some persons entered; but though they spoke loudly, I heard not their words, nor could I recognize their appearance. To this succeeded a deep, sound sleep, the recompense of great fatigue.