Loe raamatut: «Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I», lehekülg 30

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.

“I thought this was Crillac’s,” said I, hesitatingly.

A shrug of the shoulders and a strange expression of the eyebrows was the only reply.

“I remember he lived here some eight or ten months ago,” said I again, curious to find out the meaning of the man’s ignorance of his predecessor.

“Monsieur has been away from Paris for some time then?” was the cautious question of the little man, as he peered curiously at me.

“Yes; I have been away,” said I, after a pause.

“Monsieur knew Criliac probably when he was here?”

“I never saw him but once,” said I.

“Ha!” cried he, after a long silence. “Then you probably never heard of the Chouan conspiracy to murder the Chief Consul and overthrow the Government, nor of their trial at the Palais de Justice?”

I nodded slightly, and he went on.

“Monsieur Crillac’s evidence was of great value in the proceeding: he knew Jules de Polignac and Charles de la Riviere well; and but for him, San Victor would have escaped.”

“And what has become of him since?”

“He is gone back to the South; he has been promoted.”

“Promoted! what do you mean?”

“Parbleu! it is easy enough to understand. He was made chef de bureau in the department of – ”

“What! was he not a tailor then?”

“A tailor! No,” said the little man, laughing heartily; “he was a mouchard, a police spy, who knew all the Royalist party well at Bordeaux; and Fouche brought him up here to Paris, and established him in this house. Ah, mon Dieu!” said he, sighing, “he had a better and a pleasanter occupation than cutting out pantaloons.”

Without heeding the reiterated professions of the little tailor of his desire for my patronage, I strolled out again, lost in reflection, and sick to the heart of a system based on such duplicity and deception.

At last in Mayence! What a change of life was this to me! A large fortress garrisoned by twelve thousand men, principally artillery, awaited here the orders of the Consul; but whither the destination before them, or what the hour when the word to march was to summon them, none could tell. Meanwhile the activity of the troops was studiously kept up; battering trains of field artillery were exercised day after day; the men were practised in all the movements of the field; while the foundries were unceasingly occupied in casting guns and the furnaces rolled forth their myriads of shell and shot. Staff-officers came and went; expresses arrived from Paris; and orderlies, travel-stained and tired, galloped in from the other fortified places near; but still no whisper came to say where the great game of war was to open, for what quarter of the globe the terrible carnage was destined. From daylight till dark no moment of our time was unoccupied; reports innumerable were to be furnished on every possible subject; and frequently it was far in the night ere I returned to rest.

To others this unbroken monotony may have been wearisome and uninteresting; to me each incident bore upon the great cause I gloried in, – the dull rumble of the caissons, the heavy clattering of the brass guns, were music to my ear, and I never wearied of the din and clamor that spoke of preparation. Such was indeed the preoccupation of my thoughts that I scarcely marked the course of events which were even then passing, or the mighty changes that already moved across the destinies of France. To my eyes the conqueror of Lodi needed no title; what sceptre could equal his own sword? France might desire in her pride to unite her destinies with such a name as his; but he, the general of Italy and Egypt, could not be exalted by any dignity. Such were my boyish fancies; and as I indulged them, again there grew up the hope within me that a brighter day was yet to beam on my own fortunes, when I should do that which even in his eyes might seem worthy. His very reproaches stirred my courage and nerved my heart. There was a combat, there was a battlefield, before me, in which my whole fame and honor lay; and could I but succeed in making him confess that he had wronged me, what pride was in the thought? “Yes,” said I, again and again, “a devotion to him such as I can offer must have success: one who, like me, has neither home nor friends nor country to share his heart, must have room in it for one passion; and that shall be glory. She whom alone I could have loved, – I dared not confess I did love her, – never could be mine. Life must have its object; and what so noble as that before me?” My very dreams caught up the infatuation of my waking thoughts, and images of battle, deadly contests, and terrific skirmishes were constantly passing before me; and I actually went my daily rounds of duty buried in these thoughts, and lost to everything save what ministered to my excited imagination.

We who lived far away on the distant frontier could but collect from the journals the state of excitement and enthusiasm into which every class of the capital was thrown by Napoleon’s elevation to the Monarchy. Never perhaps in any country did the current of popular favor run in a stream so united. The army hailed him as their brother of the sword, and felt the proud distinction that the chief of the Empire was chosen from their ranks. The civilian saw the restoration of Monarchy as the pledge of that security which alone was wanting to consolidate national prosperity. The clergy, however they may have distrusted his sincerity, could not but acknowledge that to his influence was owing the return of the ancient faith; and, save the Vendeans, broken and discomfited, and the scattered remnants of the Jacobin party, discouraged by the fate of Moreau, none raised a voice against him. A few of the old Republicans, among whom was Camot, did, it is true, proclaim their dissent; but so moderately, and with so little of partisan spirit, as to call forth a eulogium on their honorable conduct from Napoleon himself.

The mighty change, which was to undo all the long and arduous struggles for liberty which took years in their accomplishments, was effected in one burst of national enthusiasm. Surrounded by nations on whose friendship they dared not reckon, – at war with their most powerful enemy, England, – France saw herself dependent on the genius of one great man; and beheld, too, the formidable conspiracy for his assassination, coupled with the schemes against her own independence. He became thus indissolubly linked with her fortunes; self-interest and gratitude pointed both in the same direction to secure his services; and the Imperial Crowa was indeed less the reward of the past than the price of the future. Even they who loved him least, felt that in his guidance there was safety, and that without him the prospect was dark and dreary and threatening.

Another element which greatly contributed to the same effect, was the social ruin caused by the Revolution; the destruction of all commerce, the forfeiture of property, had thrown every class into the service of the Government. Men gladly advocated a change by which the ancient forms of a Monarchy might be restored; and with them the long train of patronage and appointments, their inevitable attendants. Even the old families of the kingdom hailed the return of an order of things which might include them in the favors of the Crown; and the question now was, what rank or class should be foremost in tendering their allegiance to the new sovereign. We should hesitate ere we condemn the sudden impulse by which many were driven at this period. Confiscation and exile had done much to break the spirit of even the hardiest; and the very return to the institutions in which all their ancient prejudices were involved seemed a pledge against the tyranny of the mass.

As for Napoleon himself, each step in his proud career seemed to evoke the spirit necessary to direct it; the resources of his mighty intellect appeared, with every new drain on them, only the more inexhaustible. Animated through his whole life by the one great principle, – the aggrandizement of France, – his vast intelligence gathering strength with his own increase of power, enabled him to cultivate every element of national greatness, and mould their energies to his will; till at length the nation seemed but one vast body, of which he was the heart, the impulse, that sent the life-blood bounding through all its arteries, and with whose beating pulses every, even the most remote portion, throbbed in unison.

The same day that established the Empire, declared the rank and dignity accorded to each member of the royal family, with the titles to be borne by the ministers and other high officers of the Crown. The next step was the creation of a new order of nobility, – one which, without ancient lineage or vast possessions, could still command the respect and admiration of all, – the marshals of France. The names of Berthier, Murat, Augereau, Massena, Bernadotte, Ney, Soult, Lannes, Mortier, Davoust, Bessieres, were enough to throw a blaze of lustre on the order. And had it not been for the omission of Macdonald’s name in this glorious list, public enthusiasm had been complete; but then he was the friend of Moreau, and Bonaparte “did not forgive.”

The restoration of the old titles so long in abeyance, the return to the pomp and state of Monarchy, seemed like a national fête, and Paris became the scene of a splendid festivity and a magnificence unknown for many years past. It was necessary for the new Court to make its impression on the world; and the endeavor was to eclipse, by luxury and splendor, the grandeur which in the days of the Bourbons was an heirloom of royalty. To this end functionaries and officers of the Palace were appointed in myriads; brilliant and costly uniforms adopted; courtly titles and ceremonial observances increased without end; and etiquette, carried to a pitch of strictness which no former reign had ever exhibited, now regulated every department of the state.

While, however, nothing was too minute or too trivial, provided that it bore, even in the remotest way, on the re-establishment of that throne he had so long and so ardently desired, Napoleon’s great mind was eagerly bent upon the necessity of giving to the Empire one of those astounding evidences of his genius which marked him as above all other men. He wished to show to France that the Crown had devolved upon the rightful successor to Charlemagne, and to prove to the army that the purple mantle of royalty could not conceal the spur of the warrior; and thus, while all believed him occupied with the ordinary routine of the period, his ambitious thoughts were carrying him away across the Pyrenees or beyond the Danube, to battlefields of even greater glory than ever, and to conquests prouder than all his former ones.

The same power of concentrativeness that he so eminently possessed himself, he imparted, as if by magic, to his Government. Paris was France; to the capital flocked all whose talent or zeal prompted them to seek for advancement. The Emperor was not only the fountain of all honor, but of all emolument and place. So patronage was exercised without his permission; and none was conferred without the conviction that some stanch adherent was secured whose friendship was ratified, or whose former enmity was conciliated.

Thus passed the year that followed his accession to the throne, – that brilliant pageant of a nation’s enthusiasm rendering tribute to the majesty of intellect. At length the period of inaction seemed drawing to a close; and a greater activity in the war department, and a new levy of troops, betokened the approach of some more energetic measures. Men whispered that the English expedition was about to sail, and reinforcements of ammunition and artillery were despatched to the coast, when suddenly came the news of Trafalgar. Villeneuve was beaten, – his fleet annihilated, – the whole combination of events destroyed; and England, again triumphant on the element she had made her own, hurled defiance at the threats of her enemy. The same despatch that brought the intelligence to Mayence told us to be in readiness for a movement; but when, or where to, none of us could surmise. Still detachments from various corps stationed about were marched into the garrison, skeleton regiments commanded to make up their deficiencies, and a renewed energy was everywhere perceptible. At last, towards the middle of August, I was sent for by the general in command of the fortress, and informed that General d’Auvergne had been promoted to the command of a cavalry brigade stationed at Coblentz.

“You are to join him there immediately,” continued he; “but here is a note from himself, which probably will explain everything.” And with that he handed me a small sealed letter.

It was the first, save on purely regimental matters, I had ever received from him, and somehow I felt unusually anxious about its contents. It ran in these words: —

My dear B., – His Majesty has just sent for me, and most graciously esteeming me not yet too old to serve him, has given me the command of a brigade, – late the Twelfth, now to be called ‘D’Auvergne’s Cavalry.’ I would willingly have mentioned your name for promotion, to which your zeal and activity would well entitle you; but deemed it better to let your claim come before the Emperor’s personal notice, which an opportunity will, I trust, soon permit of its doing. His Majesty, with a kindness which the devotion of a life could not repay, has also interested himself personally for me in a quarter where only his influence could have proved successful. But the explanation of this I reserve for your arrival. And now I request that you will lose no time in repairing to Paris, where I shall expect to see you by Tuesday.

Yours,

D’AUVERGNE, Lieut. ‘General’

This strange paragraph puzzled me not a little; nor could I, by any exercise of ingenuity, find out even a plausible meaning for it. I read it over and over, weighing and canvassing every word, and torturing each syllable; but all to no purpose. Had the general been some youthful but unhappy lover, to forward whose suit the Emperor had lent his influence, then had I understood the allusion; but with the old weather-beaten officer, whose hairs were blanched with years and service, the very thought of such a thing was too absurd. Yet what could be the royal favor so lavishly praised? He needed no intercession with the Empress; at least, I remembered well how marked the kindness of Josephine was towards him in former times. But to what use guessing? Thoughts, by long revolving, often become only the more entangled, and we lose sight of the real difficulty in canvassing our own impressions concerning it. And so from this text did I spin away a hundred fancies that occupied me the whole road to Paris, nor left me till the din and movement of the great capital banished all other reflections.