In a large salon of the palace at Versailles, opening upon a terrace, and with a view of the vast forest beneath it, were assembled a number of officers, whose splendid uniforms and costly equipments proclaimed them to be of the bodyguard of the king. They had just risen from table, and were either enjoying their coffee in easy indolence, gathered in little knots for conversation, or arranging themselves into parties for play.
The most casual glance at them would have shown what it is but fair to confess they never sought to conceal—that they were the pampered favourites of their master. It was not alone the richness of their embroidered dress, the boundless extravagance that all around them displayed, but, more than even these, a certain air of haughty pretension, the carriage and bearing of a privileged class, proclaimed that they took their rank from the high charge that assigned them the guard of the person of the sovereign.
When the power and sway of the monarchy suffered no check—so long as the nation was content to be grateful for the virtues of royalty, and indulgent to its faults—while yet the prestige of past reigns of splendour prevailed, the ‘Garde du Corps’ were great favourites with the public: their handsome appearance, the grace of their horsemanship, their personal elegance, even their very waste and extravagance had its meed of praise from those who felt a reflected pride from the glittering display of the court. Already, however, signs of an approaching change evidenced themselves: a graver tone of reprehension was used in discussing the abandoned habits of the nobility; painfully drawn pictures of the poor were contrasted with the boundless waste of princely households; the flatteries that once followed every new caprice of royal extravagance, and which imparted to the festivities of the Trianon the gorgeous colours of a romance, were now exchanged for bare recitals, wherein splendour had a cold and chilling lustre. If the cloud were no bigger than a man’s hand, it was charged with deadliest lightning.
The lack of that deference which they had so long regarded as their due, made these haughty satraps but haughtier and more insolent in their manner toward the citizens. Every day saw the breach widen between them; and what formerly had been oppression on one side and yielding on the other, were now occasions of actual collision, wherein the proud soldier was not always the victor. If the newspapers were strong on one side, the language of society was less measured on the other. The whole tone of conversation caught its temper from the times; and ‘the bourgeois’ was ridiculed and laughed at unceasingly. The witty talker sought no other theme; the courtly epigrammatist selected no other subject; and even royalty itself was made to laugh at the stage exhibitions of those whose loyalty had once, at least, been the bulwark of the monarchy.
In the spacious apartment already mentioned, and at a small table before an open window, sat a party of three, over their wine. One was a tall, spare, dark-complexioned man, with something Spanish in his look, the Duc de Bourguignon, a captain in the Garde; the second was a handsome but over-conceited-looking youth, of about twenty-two or three, the Marquis de Maurepas. The third was Gerald, or as he was then and there called, Le Chevalier de Fitzgerald. Though the two latter were simple soldiers, all their equipment was as costly as that of the officer at their side. As little was there any difference in their manner of addressing him. Maurepas, indeed, seemed rather disposed to take the lead in conversation, and assumed a sort of authority in all he said, to which the Duke gave the kind of assent usually accorded to the ‘talkers by privilege.’ The young Marquis had all the easy flippancy of a practised narrator, and talked like one who rarely fell upon an unwilling audience.
‘It needs but this, Duke,’ said he, after a very energetic burst of eloquence; ‘it needs but this, and our corps will be like a regiment of the line.’
‘Parbleu!’ said the Duke, as he stroked his chin with the puzzled air of a man who saw a difficulty, but could not imagine any means of escape.
‘I should like to know what your father or mine would have said to such pretension,’ resumed the Marquis. ‘You remember what the great monarch said to Colonna, when he asked a place for his son?—“You must ask Honoré if he has a vacancy in the kitchen!” And right, too. Are we to be all mixed up together! Are the employments of the State to be filled by men whose fathers were lackeys! Is France going to reject the traditions that have guided her for centuries?’
‘To what is all this apropos, Gaston!’ asked Fitzgerald calmly.
‘Haven’t you heard that M. Lescour has made interest with the king to have his son appointed to the Garde?’
‘And who is M. Lescour?’
‘I ‘ll tell you what he is, which is more to the purpose: he himself would be puzzled to say who. M. Lescour is a fermier-general—very rich, doubtless, but of an origin the lowest.’
‘And his son?’
‘His son! What do I know about his son? I conclude he resembles his father: at all events, he cannot be one of us.’
‘Pardon me if I am not able to see why,’ said Gerald calmly. ‘There is nothing in the station of a fermier-general that should not have opened to his son the approach to the very highest order of education, all that liberal means could bestow——’
‘But,mon cher, what do we care for all that? We want good blood and good names among our comrades; we want to know that our friendships and our intimacies are with those whose fathers were the associates of our fathers. Ask the Duke here, how he would fancy companionship with the descendants of the rabble. Ask yourself, is it from such a class you would select your bosom friends?’
‘Grant all you say to be correct: is not the king himself a good judge of those to whom he would intrust the guardianship of his person?’ interposed Gerald. ‘The annals of the world have shown that loyalty and courage are not peculiar to a class.’
‘A’nt they—parbleu!’ cried Maurepas. ‘Why, those sentiments are worthy of the Rue Montmartre. Messieurs,’ added he, rising, and addressing the others, scattered in groups through the room, ‘congratulate yourselves that the enlightened opinions of the age have penetrated the darkness of our benighted corps. Here is the Chevalier de Fitzgerald enunciating opinions that the most advanced democracy would be proud of.’
The company thus addressed rose from their several places and came crowding around the table where the three were seated. Gerald knew not very accurately the words he had just uttered, and turned from one face to the other of those around to catch something like sympathy or encouragement in this moment of trial, but none such was there. Astonishment and surprise were, perhaps, the most favourable among the expressions of those who now regarded him.
‘I was telling the Duc de Bourguignon of the danger that impended our corps,’ began Maurepas, addressing the company generally. ‘I was alluding to what rumour has been threatening us with some time back, the introduction into the Garde of men of ignoble birth. I mentioned specifically one case, which, if carried through, dissolves for ever the prestige of that bond that has always united us, when our comrade here interposes and tells me that the person of his Majesty will be as safe in the guardianship of the vile “Koturier” as in that of our best and purest blood. I will not for an instant dispute with him as to knowledge of the class whose merits he upholds.’ A faint murmur, half astonishment, half reproof, arose throughout the room at these words; but Gerald never moved a muscle, but sat calm and still awaiting the conclusion of the speech.
‘I say this without offence, resumed Maurepas, who quickly saw that he had not the sympathy of his hearers in his last sally; ‘without the slightest offence, for, in good truth, I have no acquaintanceship outside the world of my equals. Our comrade’s views are doubtless, therefore, wider and broader; but I will also say that these used not to be the traditions of our corps, and that not only our duty, but our very existence, was involved in the idea that we were a noble guard.’
‘Well said!’ ‘True!’ ‘Maurepas is right!’ resounded through the room.
‘We are, then, agreed in this,’ resumed Maurepas, following up his success with vigour; ‘and there is only one among us who deems that the blood of the plebeian is wanting to lend us chivalry and devotion.’
‘Shame! shame!’ cried several together, and looks of disapprobation were now turned on Fitzgerald.
‘If I have unintentionally misrepresented the Chevalier,’ resumed Maurepas, ‘he is here to correct me.’
Gerald arose, his face crimson, the flush spreading over his forehead and his temples. There was a wild energy in his glance that showed the passion that worked within him; but though his chest heaved with high indignation and his heart swelled, his tongue could not utter a word, and he stood there mute and confounded.
‘There, there—enough of it!’ exclaimed an old officer, whose venerable appearance imparted authority to his words. ‘The Chevalier retracts, and there is an end to it.’
‘I do not. I withdraw nothing—not a syllable of what I said,’ cried Gerald wildly.
‘It is far better thus, then,’ cried Maurepas; ‘let the corps decide between us.’
‘Decide what,’ exclaimed Gerald passionately. ‘Monsieur de Maurepas would limit the courage and bravery of France to the number of those who wear our uniform. I am disposed to believe that there are some hundreds of thousands just as valiant and just as loyal who carry less lace on their coats, and some even——’ here he stopped confused and abashed, when a deep voice called out—
‘And some even who have no coats at all. Is it not so you would say, Chevalier?’
‘I accept the words as my own, though I did not use them,’ cried Gerald boldly.
‘There is but one explanation of such opinions as these,’ broke in Maurepas; ‘the Chevalier de Fitzgerald has been keeping other company than ours of late.’
Gerald rose angrily to reply, but ere he could utter a word an arm was slipped within his own, and a deep voice said—
‘Come away from this—come to my quarters, Gerald, and let us talk over the matter.’ It was Count Dillon, the oldest captain of the corps, who spoke, and Gerald obeyed him without a word of remonstrance.
‘Don’t you perceive, boy,’ said the Count, as soon as they reached the open air, ‘that we Irish are in a position of no common difficulty here? They expect us to stand by an order of nobility that we do not belong to. To the king and the royal family you and I will be as loyal and true as the best among them; but what do we care—what can we care—for the feuds between noble and bourgeois? If this breach grows wider every day, it was none of our making; as little does it concern us how to repair it.’
‘I never sought for admission into this corps,’ said Gerald angrily. ‘Madame de Bauffremont promised me my grade in the dragoons, and then I should have seen service. Two squadrons of the very regiment I should have joined are already off to America, and instead of that, I am here to lounge away my life, less a soldier than a lackey!’
‘Say nothing to disparage the Garde, young fellow, or I shall forget we are countrymen,’ said Dillon sternly; and then, as if sorry for the severity of the rebuke, added, ‘Have only a little patience, and you can effect an exchange. It is what I have long desired myself.’
‘You too, Count?’ cried Gerald eagerly.
‘Ay, boy. This costly life just suits my pocket as ill as its indolence agrees with my taste. As soldiers, we can be as good men as they, but neither you nor I have three hundred thousand livres a year, like Maurepas or Noailles. We cannot lose ten rouleaux of Louis every evening at ombre, and sleep soundly after; our valets do not drink Pomard at dinner, nor leave our service rich with two years of robbery.’
‘I never play,’ said Gerald gravely.
‘So I remarked,’ continued Dillon; ‘you lived like one whose means did not warrant waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.’
By this time they had reached a small pavilion in the wood, at the door of which a sentry was stationed.
‘Here we are,’ cried Dillon; ‘this is my quarter: come up and see how luxuriously a Chef d’Escadron is lodged.’
Nothing, indeed, could be more simple or less pretentious than the apartment into which Gerald was now ushered. The furniture was of a dark nut-wood, and the articles few and inexpensive.
‘I know you are astonished at this humble home. You have heard many a story of the luxury and splendour of the superior officers of our corps, how they walk on Persian carpets and lounge on ottomans covered with Oriental silks. Well, it’s all true, Gerald; the only exception is this poor quarter before you. I, too, might do like them. I might tell the royal commissary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I pleased. The civil list never questions or cavils—it only pays. Perhaps, were I a Frenchman born, I should have little scruple about this; but, like you, Fitzgerald, I am an alien—only a guest, no more.’
The Count, without summoning a servant, produced a bottle and glasses from a small cupboard in the wall, and drawing a table to the window, whence a view extended over the forest, motioned to Gerald to be seated.
‘This is not the first time words have passed between you and Maurepas,’ said Dillon, after they had filled and emptied their glasses.
‘It happens too frequently,’ said Gerald, with warmth. ‘From the day I bought that Limousin horse of his we have never been true friends.’
‘I heard as much. He thought him unrideable, and you mounted him on parade, and that within a week.’
‘But I offered to let him have the animal back when I subdued him. I knew what ailed the horse; he wanted courage—all his supposed vice was only fear.’
‘You only made bad worse by reflecting on Maurepas’s riding,’ said Dillon, smiling.
‘Par Dieu!I never thought of that,’ broke in Fitzgerald.
‘Then there was something occurred at court, wasn’t there?’
‘Oh, a mere trifle. He could not dance the second figure in the minuet with the Princesse de Clèves, and the Queen called me to take his place.’
‘Worse than the affair of the horse, far worse,’ muttered Dillon; ‘Maurepas cannot forgive you either.’
‘I shall assuredly not ask him, sir,’ was the prompt rejoinder.
‘And then you laughed at his Italian, didn’t you? The “Nonce” said that you caught him up in a line he had misquoted.’
‘He asked me himself if he were right, and I told him he was not; but I never laughed at his mistake.’
‘They said you did, and that the Princesse de Lamballe made you repeat the story. No matter, it was still another item in the score he owes you.’
‘I am led by these remarks of yours to suppose that you have latterly bestowed some interest in what has befallen me, Count: am I justified in this belief?’
‘You have guessed aright, Fitzgerald. Thirty-eight years and seven months ago I entered this service, knowing less of the world than you do now. So little aware was I what was meant by a provocation, that I attributed to my own deficiency in the language and my ignorance of life what were intended as direct insults. They read me differently, and went so far as to deliberate whether I ought not to be called on to leave the corps. This at last aroused my indolence. I fought four of them one morning, and three the next—two fell fatally wounded. I never got but this—and he showed a deep scar on the wrist of his sword-arm. ‘From that time I have had no trouble.’
‘And this is an ordeal I must pass also, said Gerald calmly.
‘I scarcely know how it is to be avoided, nor yet complied with. The king has declared so positively against duelling, that he who sends a challenge must consent to forgo his career in the service.’
‘But, surely, not he who only accepts a provocation?’
‘That is a difficulty none seems to have answered. Many think that all will be treated alike—the challenger and the challenged, and even the seconds. My own opinion is different.’
‘It is not impossible, then, that M. de Maurepas desired to push me to demand satisfaction,’ said Gerald slowly, for the light was beginning to break upon his mind.
Dillon nodded in silence.
‘Andyousaw this, Count?’
Another nod was the reply.
‘And, doubtless, the rest also?’
‘Doubtless!’ said Dillon slowly.
Fitzgerald leaned his head on his hand, and sat in deep reflection for some time.
‘This is a puzzle,’ said he at last. ‘I must be frank with you, Count Dillon. Madame de Bauffremont cautioned me, on my entrance into the corps, against whatever might involve me in any quarrel. There are circumstances, family circumstances, which might provoke publicity, and be painful—so, at least, she said—to others, whose fame and happiness should be dearer to me than my own. Now, I know nothing of these. I only know that there are no ties nor obligations which impose the necessity of bearing insult. If you tell me, then, that Maurepas seeks a quarrel with me, that he has been carrying a grudge against me for weeks back, I will ask of you—and, as my countryman, you ‘ll not refuse me—to call on him for satisfaction.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ said Dillon, speaking to himself.
‘Why should it be helped?’ rejoined Gerald, overhearing him.
‘And then, Maurepas is the very man to do it,’ muttered the Count again. Then lifting his head suddenly, he said: ‘The Marquise de Bauffremont is at Paris, I believe. I ‘ll set off there to-night; meanwhile do you remain where you are. Promise me this; for it is above all essential that you should take no step till I return.’
Scarcely had the Count set out for Paris when Gerald remembered that it was his night for duty, he wasde servicein the antechamber of the king, and had but time to hasten to his quarters and equip himself in full uniform. When he reached the foot of the grand staircase he found several dismounted dragoons, splashed and travel-stained, the centres of little groups, all eagerly questioning and listening to them. They had arrived in hot haste from Paris, where a tremendous revolt had broken out. Some said the Prince of Lambesi’s regiment, the ‘Royal Allemand,’ were cut to pieces; others, that the military were capitulating everywhere; and one averred that when he passed the barrier the Bastille had just fallen. While the veterans of the Swiss Guard and the household troops conversed in low and anxious whispers together, exchanging gloomy forebodings of what was to come, the two or three courtiers whom curiosity had attracted to the spot spoke in tones of contempt and scorn of the mob.
‘They are shedding their blood freely, though, I assure you,’ said a young sous-lieutenant, whose arm was in a sling. ‘The fellow who smashed my wrist had his face laid open by a sabre-cut, but seemed never to heed it in the least.’
‘Have you despatches, Monsieur de Serrans?’ asked a very daintily-dressed and soft-voiced gentleman, with a wand of office as chamberlain.
‘No, Monsieur le Marquis. I have a verbal message for his Majesty from the Duc de Bassompierre, and I crave an early audience.’
‘His Majesty is going to supper,’ replied the chamberlain. ‘I will try and obtain admission for you to-morrow.’
‘The Duc’s orders were very pressing, Monsieur le Marquis. He was retiring for want of reinforcements, but would still hold his ground if his Majesty ordered it.’
‘I regret it infinitely, but what is to be done, Monsieur?’ said the other, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
‘At the hazard of spoiling his Majesty’s appetite, I ‘d like to see him at once, Monsieur de Brezé,’ said the officer boldly.
The polished courtier turned a look of half astonishment, half rebuke, on the soldier, and tripped up the stairs without a word.
‘I amde service, sir,’ whispered Gerald to the young officer. ‘Could I possibly be of any use to you?’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied the other courteously. ‘I have a message to be delivered to his Majesty’s own ear, and the answer to which I was to carry to my general. What I have just mentioned to M. de Brezé was not of the importance of that with which I am charged.’
‘And will it be too late to-morrow?’
‘To-morrow! I ought to have been half-way back toward Paris already. You don’t know that a battle is raging there, and fifty thousand men are engaged in deadly conflict.’
‘The kingmusthear of it,’ said Gerald, as he mounted the stairs.
Very different was the scene in the splendid salons from that which presented itself below. Groups of richly attired ladies and followers of the court were conversing in all the easy gaiety their pleasant lives suggested. Of the rumours from the capital they made matter of jest and raillery; they ridiculed the absurd pretensions of the popular leaders, and treated the rising as something too contemptible for grave remark. As Gerald drew nigh, he saw, or fancied he saw, a sort of coldness in the manner of those around. The conversation changed from its tone of light flippancy to one of more guarded and more commonplace meaning. It was no longer doubtful to him that the story of his late altercation had got abroad, with, not impossibly, very exaggerated accounts of the opinions he professed. Indeed, the remark of an old Maréchal du Palais caught his ear as he passed, while the sidelong glances of the hearers told that it was intended for himself—‘It is too bad to find the sentiments of the Breton Club from the lips of a Garde du Corps.’
It was all that Gerald could do to restrain the impulse that urged him to confront the speaker, and ask him directly if the words were applied tohim, The decorous etiquette of the spot, the rigid observance of all that respect that surrounds the vicinity of a king, checked his purpose, and, having satisfied himself that he should know the speaker again, he moved on. It was on the stroke of ten, the hour that he was to relieve the soldier on guard, a duty which, in the etiquette of the Garde du Corps, was always performed by the relief appearing at the proper moment, without the usual military ceremony of a guard.
Alone at last, in that vast chamber where he had passed many an hour of sentinel’s watch, Gerald had time to compose his thoughts, and calm down the passionate impulses that swayed him. He walked for above an hour his weary round, stopping at times to gaze on the splendid tapestries which, on the walls, represented certain incidents of theÆneid. The faint, far-away sounds of the band, which performed during the supper of the king, occasionally met his ear, and he could not help contrasting the scene which they accompanied with the wild and terrible incidents then going forward at Paris. His mind ever balanced and vacillated between two opinions. Were they right who maintained the supremacy of the royal cause, and the inviolability of that princely state whose splendours were such a shock to misery! Or had the grievances of the people a real ground—were there great wrongs to be redressed, cruel inequalities to be at least compromised? How much had he listened to on either side? What instincts and prejudices were urged for this! what strength of argument enlisted to support that! And he himself, what a position was his!—one of a corps whose very boast it was to reject all save of ancient lineage! What could he adduce as his claim to high descent? If they questioned him to-morrow, how should he reply? What meant his title of Chevalier? might he not be arraigned as a pretender, a mere impostor for assuming it? If the Count Dillon decided that he should challenge Maurepas, might not his claim to gentle blood be litigated? And what a history should he give if asked for the story of his life! From these thoughts he rambled on to others, scarcely less depressing: the cause of the king, of the very monarchy itself. Bold as the pretensions, high as the language was of those about the court, the members of the royal family exhibited the most intense anxiety. Within view of the palace windows, in that same week, tumultuous assemblages had taken place, and thousands of men passed in solemn procession to the place where the ‘States General’ had appointed for their meeting. The menacing gestures, the wild and passionate words, all so unlike what formerly had marked such demonstrations, were terribly significant of the change that had come over public opinion. Over and over had Gabriel predicted all this to him. Again and again had he impressed upon him that a time was coming when the hard evils of poverty would arouse men to ask the terrible question, Why are we in wretchedness while others revel in excess?’ On that day, and coming it is,’ said he, ‘all the brain-spun theories of statecraft will be thrown aside like rubbish, and they alone will be listened to who are men of action.’ Was this dark prophecy now drawing nigh to accomplishment? were these the signs of that dread consummation? Gabriel had told him that the insane folly and confidence of those about the court would be the greatest peril of the monarchy. ‘Mark my words,’ said he, ‘it will be all insolence and contempt at first, abject terror and mean concession after.’ Was not the conduct of De Brezé a very type of the former? he had not even a word of passing courtesy for the brave fellow who wounded and exhausted, stood there waiting like a lackey.
Gerald was startled by the sudden opening of a door; and, as he turned, he saw a figure which he speedily recognised as the brother of the king, or, as he was called in court phrase, ‘Monsieur.’
‘Are you Maurice de Courcel’ asked he, addressing Gerald hastily.
‘No, Monseigneur; I am Fitzgerald.’
‘Where is De Courcel, can you tell me?’
‘He went on leave this morning, Monseigneur, to shoot in the forest of Soissons.’
‘Peste!’ muttered he angrily. ‘Methinks you gentlemen of the Garde du Corps have little other idea of duty than in plotting how to evade it. It was De Courcel’s night of duty, was it not?’
‘Yes, sir; I took it in his place.’
‘Who relieves you?’
‘The Chevalier de Monteroue, sir.’
‘You are l’Écossais—at least they call you so, eh?’
‘Yes, Monseigneur, they call me so,’ said Gerald, flushing.
The Prince hesitated, turned to speak, and then moved away again. It was evident that he laboured under some irresolution that he could not master.
Resolved not to lose an opportunity so little likely to recur, Gerald advanced toward him, and, with an air of deep respect, said: ‘If I might dare to approach your Royal Highness on such a pretext, I would say that some tidings of deepest moment have been brought this evening by an officer from Paris, charged to deliver them to the king; and that he yet waits unable to see his Majesty.’
‘How—what—why has he not sent up his despatches?’
‘He had none, sir; he was the bearer of a verbal message from the Duc de Bassompierre.’
‘Impossible, sir; none could have dared to assume this responsibility. Who told you this story?’
‘I was present, sir, when the officer arrived—spoke with him—and heard M. de Brezé say, “You can, perhaps, have an audience to-morrow.”’
‘He deserves the Bastille for this!’
‘He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.’ ‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer I mentioned saw it carried by the populace as he left Paris: the garrison are all cut to pieces.’
With something like a cry of agony, half-smothered by an effort, the Prince hurried from the room.
While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel in relief arrived, and Gerald was released from duty. As he wended his way along through room after room, he was struck by the air of silence and desertion around; nowhere were to be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and ‘officiers de service.’ A few inferior members of the household rose and saluted him, and even they wore something ominous and sad in their look, as though evil tidings were abroad.
A light, soft rain was falling as Gerald left the palace toward the pavilion, where Count Dillon’s quarters were established. He knew it was impossible that the Count could yet have returned from Paris, but somehow he found himself repairing to the spot without well knowing why.
As he drew nigh he perceived a light in the little salon, and could distinguish the figure of a man writing at the table. Curious to learn if the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Gerald opened the door and entered. The person at the table turned quickly about, and to his utter confusion Gerald saw it was Monsieur.
‘Come in, come in; you will, perhaps, spare me some writing.’ cried he, in an easy, familiar tone: ‘you may indeed read what I have just written.’ and so saying he handed him a paper with these lines:
‘Dear Count Dillon,—Give me the earliest and fullest information with respect to a young countryman of yours, Fitzgerald, called “L’Écossais.” May we employ him on a mission of secrecy and importance? It is of consequence—that is, it were far better—that the person intrusted with our commands were not a Frenchman——’
The Prince had but written so much as Gerald entered, and he now sat calmly watching the effect produced upon the young soldier as he read it.
‘Am I to answer for myself, ‘Monseigneur,’ said he modestly.
‘It is exactly what I intended,’ was the calm reply.
‘I can pledge for my fidelity and devotion, sir, but not for any skill or ability to execute your orders.’
‘They will require little beyond speed and exactitude. You know Paris well?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘At the Rue de Turenne there is a small street called l’Avenue aux Abois—do you know it?—well, the second or third house, I am not sure which, is inhabited by a gentleman called the Count Mirabeau.’
‘He who spoke so lately at the Assembly?’
‘The same. You will see him, and induce him to repair with you to St. Cloud. Haste is everything. If your mission speed well, you can be at St. Cloud by noon to-morrow. It is possible that the Count may distrust your authority to make this appointment, for I dare not give you anything in writing; you will then show him this ring, which he will recognise as mine. Spare no entreaties to accomplish the object, nor, so far as you are able, permit anything to thwart it. Let nothing that you see or hear divert you from your purpose. Pay no attention to the events at Paris, whatever they be. You have one object—only one—that Count Mirabeau reach the Château de St. Cloud by the earliest moment possible, and in secrecy. Remember that, sir—in secrecy.’
‘I cannot wear my uniform,’ began Gerald.
‘Of course not, nor suffer any trace of powder to remain in your hair. I will send you clothes which will disguise you perfectly; and, if questioned, you can call yourself a peasant on the estate of the Mirabeaus, come up from Provence to see the Count. You must stain your hands, and be particular about every detail of your behaviour. There is but one thing more,’ said he, after a moment’s reflection; ‘if Monsieur de Mirabeau refuse, if he even seek to defer the interview I seek for—but he will not, he dare not.’
‘Still, Monseigneur, let me be provided for every emergency possible—what if he should refuse?’
‘You will be armed, you will have your pistols—but no, no, under no circumstances,’ muttered he below his breath. ‘There will be then nothing for you to do, but to hasten back to me with the tidings.’ Monsieur arose as he said these words, and stood in apparently deep thought. ‘I believe,’ said he at last, ‘that I have not forgotten anything. Ah, it were well to take one of the remount horses that are not branded—I will look to that.’
‘If the Count should be from home, am I to seek for him elsewhere, sir?’
‘That will depend upon your own address; if you are satisfied that you can defy detection. I leave all to yourself, Chevalier. It is a great and a holy cause you serve, and no words of mine can add to what your own heart will teach you. Only remember, that hours are like weeks, and time is everything.’
Gerald kissed the hand that Monsieur extended to him; and lighting him down the little stairs, saw him take his way across the park.
The day had not yet dawned when Gerald, admirably disguised as a Provençal peasant, arrived at the Avenue aux Abois. The night had been hot and sultry, and many of the windows of the houses were left open; but from none save one were any lights seen to gleam. This one was brilliant with the glare of wax-lights; and the sounds of merriment from within showed it was the scene of some festivity. Light muslin curtains filled the spaces of the open casements, through which at moments the shadowy traces of figures could be detected.
While Gerald stood watching, with some curiosity, this strange contrast to the unbroken silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, and seemed to awaken within him some singular memory. Where, and when, and how he had heard it before, he knew not; but every accent and every tone struck him as well known.
‘No, no, Mirabeau,’ broke in another; ‘when men throw down their houses, it is not to rebuild them with the old material.’
‘I did not speak of throwing down,’ interposed the same deep voice; ‘I suggested some safe and easy alteration. I would have the doors larger, for easy access; the windows wider, for more light.’
‘And more wood, generally, in the construction, for easy burning, I hope,’ chimed in a third.
‘Make your best provisions for stability: destruction will always be a simple task,’ cried the deep voice. ‘You talk of burning,’ cried he, in a louder tone; ‘what do you mean to do when your fire goes out? materials must fail you at last. What then? You will have heaped many a good and useful thing upon that pile you will live to regret the loss of. What will you do, besides, with those you have taught to dance round these bonfires?’
‘Langeac says it is an experiment we are trying,’ replied another; ‘and, for my part, I am satisfied to accept it as such.’
‘Nay, nay,’ interposed a soft, low voice; ‘I said that untried elements in government are an experiment only warrantable in extreme cases; just as the physician essays even a dangerous remedy, when he deems his patient hopeless.’
‘But it’s your own quackeries here have made all the mischief,’ broke in the deep voice. ‘If the sick man sink, it is yourselves have been the cause.’
‘Was there ever a royal cause that had not its own fatal influences?’ said another.
‘There is an absurd reliance on prestige, a trust in that phantom called Divine right, that blinds men against their better reason. This holiday faith is but a sorry creed in times of trouble.’
‘Far from this being the case,’ said the deep voice, ‘you will not concede to kings what you would freely grant to your equals. You reject their word, you distrust their oath, you prejudge their intentions, and suspect their honour.’
‘Why, Mirabeau, you ought to be at Versailles,’ said another, laughing. ‘The pavilion of the Queen is more your place than the table of the Tiers-État.’
‘So thinks he himself,’ broke in the low voice. ‘He expects to pilot the wreck after we have gone off on the raft.’
‘Four o’clock,’ exclaimed another, pushing his chair hastily back as he arose; ‘and here is D’Entraigues fast asleep these two hours.’
‘No,parbleu!muttered a drowsy voice. ‘I closed my eyes when the Bordeaux was finished, and began to reflect on Lafayette’s breakfast. Isn’t this the day?’
‘To be sure. You are coming, Mirabeau?’
‘Of course, we will all be there.’
‘I must be at St. Frotin by seven o’clock,’ said one.
‘And I have to see Marigni at the mill of Montmorency, by the same hour.’
‘A duel?’
‘Yes; they are both Vendéans, and may kill each other without damage to the State.’
‘He was going to say Republic!’ cried another, laughing.
‘Who talks of a Republic?’ interposed a rough voice angrily.
‘Be calm, messieurs—all religions are to be respected,’
‘True, Mirabeau; but this is to proclaim none.’
‘Who knows? They never excavate near Rome but they discover some long-forgotten deity! Can you or I venture to say what new faith may not arise out of these ashes?’
‘Let it but repudiate the law of debt and discountenance marriage,’ said another, ‘and I am its first convert.’
‘Good-bye, Mirabeau, adieu,’ cried several together, and they were now heard descending the stairs. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew back the curtain and looked out upon the street.
‘Whom have we got here?’ said the first who issued forth from the door, and saw Gerald standing before him.
‘What is it? who does he want?’ cried Mirabeau, as he saw them in conversation.
‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives for you.’
‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another; ‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’
‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.
When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light, had his features in deep shadow.
‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.
‘And you—who are you?’ responded he quickly.
‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/
‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’
‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.
‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago from death in the Roman Maremma—Fitzgerald?’
‘What!’ said Mirabeau, in the same calm voice, ‘you Fitzgerald? I should never have recognised you.’
‘And are you really the Count de Mirabeau?’
‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my name,’ replied he slowly. ‘How did you find me out? What chance led you here?’
‘No chance, nor accident. I have come expressly to see and speak with you. I am a Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise to gain access to you unremarked.’
‘A Garde du Corps!’ said the Count, in some surprise.
‘Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its turns of good and ill fortune since we parted—the best being that I serve a great prince and a kind master.’
‘Well said, but not over-prudent words to utter in the Faubourg St. Antoine,’ rejoined the Count, smiling. ‘Go on.’
‘I have come with a message from Monsieur, to desire you will hasten immediately to St. Cloud, where he will meet you. Secrecy and speed are both essential, for which reasons he intrusted me with a mere verbal message, but to secure me your confidence he gave me this ring.’
Mirabeau smiled, and with such a scoffing significance that Gerald stopped, unable to proceed further.
‘And then?’ said Mirabeau.
‘I have no more to add, Monsieur,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘My commission is fulfilled already.’
‘Take some wine; you are heated with your long ride,’ said the Count, filling out a large goblet, while he motioned to Gerald to be seated.
‘Nay, sir; it is not ofmethere is time to think now. Pray, let me have your answer to my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either failed to find you, or from any casualty you were unable to repair to St. Cloud, that I should come back with all speed to apprise him, my not returning being the sign that all went well.’
‘All went well,’ muttered Mirabeau to himself. ‘How could it go worse?’
Gerald sat gazing in wonderment at the massive, stern features before him, calling up all that he could remember of their first meeting, and scarcely able, even yet to persuade himself that he had been the companion of that great Count de Mirabeau whose fame filled all France.
‘In the event of my compliance, you were then to accompany me to St. Cloud?’ said the Count, in a tone of inquiry.
‘Yes, sir; so I understood my orders.’
‘There is mention in history of a certain Duc de Guise——’
He stopped short, and walked to and fro for some time in silence; then, turning abruptly around, he asked: ‘How came it that you stood so high in Monsieur’s confidence that he selected you for this mission?’
‘By mere accident,’ said Gerald, and he recounted how the incident had occurred.
‘And your horse—what has become of him?’ asked the Count.
‘He is fastened to the ring of the largeporte cochère—the third house from this.’
Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this statement was true.
‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to convey me to St. Cloud?—what preparations are made?’
‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the briefest of words.’
‘"Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’ said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.
‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I will meet him.”’
‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad that the difficulties to admission are great?’
‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’
‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen. Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that ring.’
Gerald hesitated for a second; the Prince had not bestowed the ring on him, but only confided it to his care.
‘I will not compromise you, young man,’ said Mirabeau gravely: ‘I will simply enclose that ring in a letter which you shall see, when I have written it,’ and he immediately sat down to a table, and in a rapid hand dashed off some lines, which he threw across to Gerald to read. They ran thus:
‘Dear Friend and Nephew,—I am summoned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by the owner of the ring which I enclose. If I do not return to Paris by noon on Saturday, it is because ill has befallen yours,
‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau.
‘To Mons. du Saillant, Rue d’Ascour, 170. ‘Friday, 3 a.m,’
‘There is the ring,’ said Gerald, as he took it from his finger.
Mirabeau sealed the note, enclosing it in a strong envelope, and placing it on the table among other letters, ready sealed and addressed.
‘You will carry this letter to its address, Gerald, and you will remain there till—till my return.’
‘I understand,’ said Gerald; ‘I am a hostage.’
‘Youa hostage forme!’ cried the other haughtily. ‘Do you fancy, young man, that the whole corps you belong to could requite the loss of Gabriel Riquetti? Would the Court—would the Assembly—would France accept such a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant that if any evil befall his uncle, he is to make use of you as the clue to trace it, and be sure that you discharge this trust well.’
‘And if I refuse this mission?’
‘If you refuse, you shall bear back to Monseigneur the reasons for which I have not obeyed his commands,’ said Mirabeau coldly. ‘Methought you remembered me better. I had fancied you knew me as one who had such confidence in himself, that he believed his own counsels the wisest, and who never turned from them. There is the letter—yes or no?’
‘Yes—I will take it.’
‘I will, with your leave, avail myself of your horse till I pass the barrier. You can meanwhile take some rest here. You will be early enough with Du Saillant by eight o’clock,’ and with this the Count withdrew into a room adjoining to complete his preparations for the road. While thus occupied, he left the door partly open, and continued to converse with Gerald, asking him various questions as to what had befallen him after having quitted the Tana, and eagerly entering into the strange vicissitudes of his life as a stroller.
‘I met your poet, I think it was at Milan. We were rivals at the time, and I the victor. A double insult to him, since he hated France and Frenchmen,’ said the Count carelessly. ‘There was a story of his having cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone with a razor, to prevent his assassinating me. What strange stuff your men of imagination are made of—ordinary good sense had reserved the razor for the enemy!’
‘His is a great and noble nature,’ exclaimed Gerald enthusiastically.
‘So much the better, then, is it exercised upon fiction: real events and real men are sore tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready now; one glass to our next meeting, and good-bye.’
With a hearty shake-hands they parted, and as Gerald looked from the window, he saw the Count ride slowly down the street. Closing the window, he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly.