The general was as good as his word, and I now enjoyed the most unrestricted liberty; in fact, the officers of the garrison said truly, that they were far more like prisoners than I was. As regularly as evening came, I descended the path to the village, and, as the bell tolled out the vespers, I was crossing the little grass-plot to the cottage. So regularly was I looked for, that the pursuits of each evening were resumed as though only accidentally interrupted. The unfinished game of chess, the half-read volume, the newly-begun drawing, were taken up where we had left them, and life seemed to have centred itself in those delightful hours between sunset and midnight.
I suppose there are few young men who have not, at some time or other of their lives, enjoyed similar privileges, and known the fascination of intimacy in some household, where the affections became engaged as the intellect expanded, and, while winning another’s heart, have elevated their own. But to know the full charm of such intercourse, one must have been as I was—a prisoner—an orphan—almost friendless in the world—a very ‘waif’ upon the shore of destiny. I cannot express the intense pleasure these evenings afforded me. The cottage was my home, and more than my home. It was a shrine at which my heart worshipped—for I was in love! Easy as the confession is to make now, tortures would not have wrung it from me then!
In good truth, it was long before I knew it; nor can I guess how much longer the ignorance might have lasted, when General Urleben suddenly dispelled the clouds, by informing me that he had just received from the Minister of War at Vienna a demand for the name, rank, and regiment of his prisoner, previous to the negotiation for his exchange.
‘You will fill up these blanks, Tiernay,’ said he, ‘and within a month, or less, you will be once more free, and say adieu to Kuffstein.’
Had the paper contained my dismissal from the service, I shame to own it would have been more welcome! The last few months had changed all the character of my life, suggested new hopes and new ambitions. The career I used to glory in had grown distasteful; the comrades I once longed to rejoin were now become almost repulsive to my imagination. The marquise had spoken much of emigrating to some part of the new world beyond seas, and thither my fancy alike pointed. Perhaps my dreams of a future were not the less rose-coloured that they received no shadow from anything like a ‘fact.’ The old lady’s geographical knowledge was neither accurate nor extensive, and she contrived to invest this land of promise with old associations of what she once heard of Pondicherry—with certain features belonging to the United States. A glorious country it would indeed have been, which, within a month’s voyage, realised all the delights of the tropics, with the healthful vigour of the temperate zone, and where, without an effort beyond the mere will, men amassed enormous fortunes in a year or two. In a calmer mood, I might, indeed must, have been struck with the wild inconsistency of the old lady’s imaginings, and looked with somewhat of scepticism on the map for that spot of earth so richly endowed; but now I believed everything, provided it only ministered to my new hopes. Laura evidently, too, believed in the ‘Canaan’ of which, at last, we used to discourse as freely as though we had been there. Little discussions would, however, now and then vary the uniformity of this creed, and I remember once feeling almost hurt at Laura’s not agreeing with me about zebras, which I assured her were just as trainable as horses, but which the marquise flatly refused ever to use in any of her carriages. These were mere passing clouds: the regular atmosphere of our wishes was bright and transparent. In the midst of these delicious daydreams, there came one day a number of letters to the marquise by the hands of a courier on his way to Naples. What their contents I never knew, but the tidings seemed most joyful, for the old lady invited the general and myself to dinner, when the table was decked out with white lilies on all sides; she herself, and Laura also, wearing them in bouquets on their dresses.
The occasion had, I could see, something of a celebration about it. Mysterious hints to circumstances I knew nothing of were constantly interchanged, the whole ending with a solemn toast to the memory of the ‘Saint and Martyr’; but who he was, or when he lived, I knew not one single fact about.
That evening—I cannot readily forget it—was the first I had ever an opportunity of being alone with Laura! Hitherto the marquise had always been beside us; now she had all this correspondence to read over with the general, and they both retired into a little boudoir for the purpose, while Laura and myself wandered out upon the terrace, as awkward and constrained as though our situation had been the most provoking thing possible. It was on that same morning I had received the general’s message regarding my situation, and I was burning with anxiety to tell it, and yet knew not exactly how. Laura, too, seemed full of her own thoughts, and leaned pensively over the balustrade and gazed on the stream.
‘What are you thinking of so seriously?’ asked I, after a long pause.
‘Of long, long ago,’ said she, sighing, ‘when I was a little child. I remember a little chapel like that yonder, only that it was not on a rock over a river, but stood in a small garden; and though in a great city, it was as lonely and solitary as might be—the Chapelle de St. Blois.’
‘St. Blois, Laura!’ cried I; ‘oh, tell me about that!’
‘Why, you surely never heard of it before,’ said she, smiling. ‘It was in a remote quarter of Paris, nigh the outer Boulevard, and known to but a very few. It had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there were châteaux and country-houses within that space, which then was part of Paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there. How well I remember it all! The dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the poor curé.’
‘Can you remember all this so well?’ asked I eagerly, for the theme was stirring my very heart of hearts.
‘All—everything—the straggling, weed-grown garden, through which we passed to our daily devotions, the congregation standing respectfully to let us walk by, for my mother was still the great Marquise d’Estelles, although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. They who had known us in our prosperity were as respectful and devoted as ever; and poor old Richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my mother’s bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how everything stands out clear and distinct before my memory! Nay, Maurice, but I can tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. There was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve the mass with the père, and he always came to place a footstool or a cushion for my mother. Poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was, changing colour at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when he had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands crossed on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of the church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder and pleasure! Yes, I think I see his dark eyes, glistening through the gloom, ever fixed on me! I am sure, Maurice, that little fellow fancied he was in love with me!’
‘And why not, Laura? was the thing so very impossible? was it even so unlikely?’
‘Not that,’ said she archly; ‘but think of a mere child; we were both mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house, perhaps—of course he must have been that—raising his eyes to the daughter of the great “marquise”; what energy of character there must have been to have suggested the feeling! how daring he was, with all his bashfulness!’
‘You never saw him afterwards?’
‘Never!’
‘Never thought of him, perhaps?’
‘I’ll not say that,’ said she, smiling. ‘I have often wondered to myself if that hardihood I speak of had borne good or evil fruit. Had he been daring or enterprising in the right, or had he, as the sad times favoured, been only bold and impetuous for the wrong!’
‘And how have you pictured him to your imagination?’ said I, as if merely following out a fanciful vein of thought.
‘My fancy would like to have conceived him a chivalrous adherent to our ancient royalty, striving nobly in exile to aid the fortunes of some honoured house, or daring, as many brave men have dared, the heroic part of La Vendée. My reason, however, tells me that he was far more likely to have taken the other part.’
‘To which you will concede no favour, Laura; not even the love of glory.’
‘Glory, like honour, should have its fountain in a monarchy,’ cried she proudly. ‘The rude voices of a multitude can confer no meed of praise. Their judgments are the impulses of the moment. But why do we speak of these things, Maurice? nor have I, who can but breathe my hopes for a cause, the just pretension to contend with you, who shed your blood for its opposite.’
As she spoke, she hurried from the balcony, and quitted the room. It was the first time, as I have said, that we had ever been alone together, and it was also the first time she had ever expressed herself strongly on the subject of party. What a moment to have declared her opinions, and when her reminiscences, too, had recalled our infancy! How often was I tempted to interrupt that confession by declaring myself, and how strongly was I repelled by the thought that the avowal might sever us for ever! While I was thus deliberating, the marquise, with the general, entered the room, and Laura followed in a few moments.
The supper that night was a pleasant one to all save me. The rest were gay and high-spirited. Allusions, understood by them but not by me, were caught up readily, and as quickly responded to. Toasts were uttered, and wishes breathed in concert, but all was like a dream to me. Indeed my heart grew*heavier at every moment. My coming departure, of which I had not yet spoken, lay drearily on my mind, while the bold decision with which Laura declared her faith showed that our destinies were separated by an impassable barrier.
It may be supposed that my depression was not relieved by discovering that the general had already announced my approaching departure, and the news, far from being received with anything like regret, was made the theme of pleasant allusion, and even congratulation. The marquise repeatedly assured me of the delight the tidings gave her, and Laura smiled happily towards me, as if echoing the sentiment.
Was this the feeling I had counted on? were these the evidences of an affection for which I had given my whole heart? Oh, how bitterly I reviled the frivolous ingratitude of woman! how heavily I condemned their heartless, unfeeling nature! In a few days, a few hours, perhaps, I shall be as totally forgotten here as though I had never been, and yet these are the people who parade their devotion to a fallen monarchy, and their affection for an exiled house. I tried to arm myself with every prejudice against Royalism. I thought of Santron and his selfish, sarcastic spirit. I thought of all the stories I used to hear of cowardly ingratitude and noble infamy, and tried to persuade myself that the blandishments of the well born were but the gloss that covered cruel and unfeeling natures.
For very pride s sake, I tried to assume a manner cool and unconcerned as their own. I affected to talk of my departure as a pleasant event, and even hinted at the career that Fortune might hereafter open to me. In this they seemed to take a deeper interest than I anticipated, and I could perceive that more than once the general exchanged looks with the ladies most significantly. I fear I grew very impatient at last. I grieve to think that I fancied a hundred annoyances that were never intended for me, and, when we arose to take leave, I made my adieux with a cold and stately reserve, intended to be strongly impressive and cut them to the quick.
I heard very little of what the general said as we ascended the cliff. I was out of temper with him, and myself, and all the world; and it was only when he recalled my attention to the fact, for the third or fourth time, that I learned how very kindly he meant by me in the matter of my liberation; for while he had forwarded all my papers to Vienna, he was quite willing to set me at liberty on the following day, in the perfect assurance that my exchange would be confirmed.
‘You will thus have a full fortnight at your own disposal, Tiernay,’ said he, ‘since the official answer cannot arrive from Vienna before that time, and you need not report yourself in Paris for eight or ten days after.’
Here was a boon now thrown away! For my part, I would a thousand times rather have lingered on at Kuffstein than have been free to travel Europe from one end to the other. My outraged pride, however, put this out of the question. La Marquise and her niece had both assumed a manner of sincere gratification, and I was resolved not to be behindhand in my show of joy. I ought to have known it, said I again and again. I ought to have known it. These antiquated notions of birth and blood can never co-exist with any generous sentiment. These remnants of a worn-out monarchy can never forgive the vigorous energy that has dethroned their decrepitude. I did not dare to speculate on what a girl Laura might have been under other auspices; how nobly her ambition would have soared; what high-souled patriotism she could have felt; how gloriously she would have adorned the society of a regenerated nation. I thought of her as she was, and could have hated myself for the devotion with which my heart regarded her.
I never closed my eyes the entire night. I lay down and walked about alternately, my mind in a perfect fever of conflict. Pride, a false pride, but not the less strong for that, alone sustained me. The general had announced to me that I was free. Be it so; I will no longer be a burden on his hospitality. La Marquise hears the tidings with pleasure. Agreed, then, we part without regret. Very valorous resolutions they were, but come to, I must own, with a very sinking heart and a very craven spirit.
Instead of my full uniform, that morning, I put on half dress, showing that I was ready for the road; a sign, I had hoped, would have spoken unutterable things to La Marquise and Laura.
Immediately after breakfast, I set out for the cottage. All the way, as I went, I was drilling myself for the interview by assuming a tone of the coolest and easiest indifference. They shall have no triumph over me in this respect, muttered I. Let us see if I cannot be as unconcerned as they are! To such a pitch had I carried my zeal for flippancy, that I resolved to ask them whether they had no commission I could execute for them in Paris or elsewhere. The idea struck me as excellent, so indicative of perfect self-possession and command. I am sure I must have rehearsed our interview at least a dozen times, supplying all the stately grandeur of the old lady and all the quiet placitude of Laura.
By the time I reached the village I was quite strong in my part, and as I crossed the Platz I was eager to begin it. This energetic spirit, however, began to waver a little as I entered the lawn before the cottage, and a most uncomfortable throbbing at my side made me stand for a moment in the porch before I entered. I used always to make my appearance unannounced, but now I felt that it would be more dignified and distant were I to summon a servant, and yet I could find none. The household was on a very simple scale, and in all likelihood the labours of the field or the garden were now employing them. I hesitated what to do, and after looking in vain around thecourand the stable-yard, I turned into the garden to seek for some one.
I had not proceeded many paces along a little alley, flanked by two close hedges of yew, when I heard voices, and at the same instant my own name uttered.
‘You told him to use caution, Laura; that we know little of this Tiernay beyond his own narrative——’
‘I told him the very reverse, aunt. I said that he was the son of a loyal “Garde du Corps,” left an orphan in infancy, and thrown by force of events into the service of the Republic; but that every sentiment he expressed, every ambition he cherished, and every feeling he displayed, was that of a gentleman; nay, further——’ But
I did not wait for more, for, striking my sabre heavily on the ground to announce my coming, I walked hurriedly forward towards a small arbour where the ladies were seated at breakfast.
I need not stop to say how completely all my resolves were routed by the few words I had overheard from Laura, nor how thoroughly I recanted all my expressions concerning her. So full was I of joy and gratitude, that I hastened to salute her before ever noticing the marquise, or being conscious of her presence.
The old lady, usually the most exacting of all beings, took my omission in good part, and most politely made room for me between herself and Laura at the breakfast-table.
‘You have come most opportunely, Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said she; ‘for not only were we just speaking of you, but discussing whether or not we might ask of you a favour.’
‘Does the question admit of a discussion, madame?’ said I, bowing.
‘Perhaps not, in ordinary circumstances, perhaps not; but——-’ she hesitated, seemed confused, and looked at Laura, who went on—‘My aunt would say, sir, that we may be possibly asking too much—that we may presume too far.’
‘Not on my will to serve you,’ I broke in, for her looks said much more than her words.
‘The matter is this, sir,’ said the aunt: ‘we have a very valued relative——’
‘Friend,’ interposed Laura, ‘friend, aunt.’
‘We will say friend, then,’ resumed she; ‘a friend in whose welfare we are deeply interested, and whose regard for us is not less powerful, has been for some years back separated from us by the force of those unhappy circumstances which have made so many of us exiles! No means have existed of communicating with each other, nor of interchanging those hopes or fears for our country’s welfare which are so near to every French heart! He is in Germany, we are in the wild Tyrol, one-half the world apart, and dare not trust to a correspondence the utterance of those sympathies which have brought so many to the scaffold!’
‘We would ask of you to see him, Monsieur de Tiernay, to know him,’ burst out Laura; ‘to tell him all that you can of France—above all, of the sentiments of the army; he is a soldier himself, and will hear you with pleasure.’
‘You may speak freely and frankly,’ continued the marquise; ‘the count is man of the world enough to hear the truth even when it gives pain. Your own career will interest him deeply; heroism has always had a charm for all his house. This letter will introduce you; and as the general informs us you have some days at your own disposal, pray give them to our service in this cause.’
‘Willingly, madame,’ replied I, ‘only let me understand a little better——’
‘There is no need to know more,’ interrupted Laura; ‘the Count de Marsanne will himself suggest everything of which you will talk. He will speak of us, perhaps—of the Tyrol—of Kuffstein; then he will lead the conversation to France—in fact, once acquainted, you will follow the dictates of your own fancy.’
‘Just so, Monsieur de Tiernay; it will be a visit with as little of ceremony as possible——’
‘Aunt!’ interrupted Laura, as if recalling the marquise to caution; and the old lady at once acknowledged the hint by a significant look.
I see it all, thought I De Marsanne is Laura’s accepted lover, and I am the person to be employed as go-between. This was intolerable, and when the thought first struck me, I was beside myself with passion.
‘Are we asking too great a favour, Monsieur de Tiernay?’ said the marquise, whose eyes were fixed upon me during this conflict.
‘Of course not, madame,’ said I, in an accent of almost sarcastic tone. ‘If I am not wrong in my impressions, the cause might claim a deeper devotion; but this is a theme I would not wish to enter upon.’
‘We are aware of that,’ said Laura quickly; ‘we are quite prepared for your reserve, which is perfectly proper and becoming.’
‘Your position being one of unusual delicacy,’ chimed in the marquise.
I bowed haughtily and coldly, while the marquise uttered a thousand expressions of gratitude and regard to me.
‘We had hoped to have seen you here a few days longer, monsieur,’ said she, ‘but perhaps, under the circumstances, it is better as it is.’
‘Under the circumstances, madame,’ repeated I, ‘I am bound to agree with you’; and I turned to say farewell.
‘Rather,au revoir, Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said the marquise; ‘friendship, such as ours, should at least be hopeful; say thenau revoir.’
‘Perhaps Monsieur de Tiernay’s hopes run not in the same channel as our own, aunt,’ said Laura, ‘and perhaps the days of happiness that we look forward to would bring far different feelings to his heart.’
This was too pointed—this was insupportably offensive I and I was only able to mutter, ‘You are right, mademoiselle’; and then, addressing myself to the marquise, I made some blundering apologies about haste and so forth; while I promised to fulfil her commission faithfully and promptly.
‘Shall we not hear from you?’ said the old lady, as she gave me her hand. I was about to say, ‘Under the circumstances, better not’; but I hesitated, and Laura, seeing my confusion, said, ‘It might be unfair, aunt, to expect it; remember how he is placed.’
‘Mademoiselle is a miracle of forethought and candour too,’ said I. ‘Adieu! adieu for ever!’ The last word I uttered in a low whisper.
‘Adieu, Maurice,’ said she, equally low, and then turned away towards the window.
From that moment until the instant when, out of breath and exhausted, I halted for a few seconds on the crag below the fortress, I knew nothing; my brain was in a whirl of mad, conflicting thought. Every passion was working within me, and rage, jealousy, love, and revenge were alternately swaying and controlling me. Then, however, as I looked down for the last time on the village and the cottage beside the river, my heart softened, and I burst into a torrent of tears. There, said I, as I arose to resume my way, there! one illusion is dissipated; let me take care that life never shall renew the affliction! Henceforth I will be a soldier, and only a soldier.
I now come to an incident in my life, which, however briefly I may speak, has left the deepest impression on my memory. I have told the reader how I left Kuffstein fully satisfied that the Count de Marsanne was Laura’s lover, and that in keeping my promise to see and speak with him, I was about to furnish an instance of self-denial and fidelity that nothing in ancient or modern days could compete with.
The letter was addressed, ‘The Count Louis de Marsanne, Château d’Ettenheim, à Baden,’ and thither I accordingly repaired, travelling over the Arlberg to Bregenz, and across the Lake of Constance to Freyburg; my passport containing a very few words in cipher, which always sufficed to afford me free transit and every attention from the authorities. I had left the southern Tyrol in the outburst of a glorious spring, but as I journeyed northward I found the rivers frozen, the roads encumbered with snow, and the fields untilled and dreary-looking. Like all countries which derive their charms from the elements of rural beauty, foliage and verdure, Germany offers a sad coloured picture to the traveller in winter or wintry weather.
It was thus, then, that the Grand-Duchy, so celebrated for its picturesque beauty, struck me as a scene of dreary and desolate wildness, an impression which continued to increase with every mile I travelled from the highroad.
A long unbroken flat, intersected here and there by stunted willows, traversed by a narrow earth road, lay between the Rhine and the Taunus Mountains, in the midst of which stood the village of ‘Ettenheim.’ Outside the village, about half a mile off, and on the border of a vast pine forest, stood the château.
It was originally a hunting-seat of the Dukes of Baden, but from neglect, and disuse, gradually fell into ruin, from which it was reclaimed, imperfectly enough, a year before, and now exhibited some remnants of its former taste, along with the evidences of a far less decorative spirit; the lower rooms being arranged as a stable, while the stair and entrance to the first storey opened from a roomy coach-house. Here some four or five conveyances of rude construction were gathered together, splashed and unwashed, as if from recent use; and at a small stove in a corner was seated a peasant in a blue frock, smoking as he affected to clean a bridle which he held before him.
Without rising from his seat he saluted me, with true German phlegm, and gave me the ‘Guten Tag,’ with all the grave unconcern of a ‘Badener.’ I asked if the Count de Marsanne lived there. He said yes, but the ‘Graf’ was out hunting. When would he be back? By nightfall.
Could I remain there till his return? was my next question; and he stared at me as I put it, with some surprise. ‘Warum nicht?’ ‘Why not?’ was at last his sententious answer, as he made way for me beside the stove. I saw at once that my appearance had evidently not entitled me to any peculiar degree of deference or respect, and that the man regarded me as his equal. It was true I had come some miles on foot, and with a knapsack on my shoulder, so that the peasant was fully warranted in his reception of me. I accordingly seated myself at his side, and lighting my pipe from his, proceeded to derive all the profit I could from drawing him into conversation. I might have spared myself the trouble. Whether the source lay in stupidity or sharpness, he evaded me on every point. Not a single particle of information could I obtain about the count, his habits, or his history. He would not even tell me how long he had resided there, nor whence he had come. He liked hunting, and so did the other ‘Herren.’ There was the whole I could scan; and to the simple fact that there were others with him, did I find myself limited.
Curious to see something of the count’s ‘interior,’ I hinted to my companion that I had come on purpose to visit his master, and suggested the propriety of my awaiting his arrival in a more suitable place; but he turned a deaf ear to the hint, and dryly remarked that the ‘Graf would not be long a-coming now.’ This prediction was, however, not to be verified; the dreary hours of the dull day stole heavily on, and although I tried to beguile the time by lounging about the place, the cold ungenial weather drove me back to the stove, or to the dark precinct of the stable, tenanted by three coarse ponies of the mountain breed.
One of these was the Grafs favourite, the peasant told me; and indeed here he showed some disposition to become communicative, narrating various gifts and qualities of the unseemly looking animal, which, in his eyes, was a paragon of horse-flesh. ‘He could travel from here to Kehl and back in a day, and has often done it,’ was one meed of praise that he bestowed; a fact which impressed me more as regarded the rider than the beast, and set my curiosity at work to think why any man should undertake a journey of nigh seventy miles between two such places and with such speed. The problem served to occupy me till dark, and I know not how long after. A stormy night of rain and wind set in, and the peasant, having bedded and foraged his cattle, lighted a rickety old lantern and began to prepare for bed; for such I at last saw was the meaning of a long crib, like a coffin, half filled with straw and sheep-skins. A coarse loaf of black bread, some black forest cheese, and a flask of Kleinthaler, a most candid imitation of vinegar, made their appearance from a cupboard, and I did not disdain to partake of these delicacies.
My host showed no disposition to become more communicative over his wine, and, indeed, the liquor might have excused any degree of reserve; and no sooner was our meal over than, drawing a great woollen cap half over his face, he rolled himself up in his sheep-skins, and betook himself to sleep, if not with a good conscience, at least with a sturdy volition that served just as well.
Occasionally snatching a short slumber, or walking to and fro in the roomy chamber, I passed several hours, when the splashing sound of horses’ feet, advancing up the miry road, attracted me. Several times before that I had been deceived by noises which turned out to be the effects of storm, but now, as I listened, I thought I could hear voices. I opened the door, but all was dark outside; it was the inky hour before daybreak, when all is wrapped in deepest gloom. The rain, too, was sweeping along the ground in torrents. The sounds came nearer every instant, and, at last, a deep voice shouted out, ‘Jacob.’ Before I could awaken the sleeping peasant, to whom I judged this summons was addressed, a horseman dashed up to the door and rode in; another as quickly followed him, and closed the door.
‘Parbleu!D’Egville,’ said the first who entered, ‘we have got a rare peppering!’
‘Even so,’ said the other, as he shook his hat, and threw off a cloak perfectly soaked with rain; ‘à la guerre comme à la guerre.’
This was said in French, when, turning towards me, the former said in German, ‘Be active, Master Jacob; these nags have had a smart ride of it.’ Then, suddenly, as the light flashed full on my features, he started back, and said, ‘How is this—who are you?’
A very brief explanation answered this somewhat un-courteous question, and, at the same time, I placed the marquise’s letter in his hand, saying, ‘The Count de Marsanne, I presume.’
He took it hastily, and drew nigh to the lantern to peruse it. I had now full time to observe him, and saw that he was a tall and well-built man, of about seven or eight-and-twenty. His features were remarkably handsome, and although slightly flushed by his late exertion, were as calm and composed as might be; a short black moustache gave his upper-lip a slight character of ‘scorn, but the brow, open, frank and good-tempered in its expression, redeemed this amply. He had not read many lines when, turning about, he apologised in the most courteous terms for the manner of my reception. He had been on a shooting excursion for a few days back, and taken all his people with him, save the peasant, who looked after the cattle. Then, introducing me to his friend, whom he called Count d’Egville, he led the way upstairs.
It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to the dark and dreary coach-house than the comfortable suite of apartments which we now traversed on our way to a large, well-furnished room, where a table was laid for supper, and a huge wood fire blazed brightly on the hearth. A valet, of most respectful manner, received the count’s orders to prepare a room for me, after which my host and his friend retired to change their clothes.
Although D’Egville was many years older, and of a graver, sterner fashion than the other, I could detect a degree of deference and respect in his manner towards him, which De Marsanne accepted like one well accustomed to receive it. It was a time, however, when, in the wreck of fortune, so many men lived in a position of mere dependence, that I thought nothing of this, nor had I even the time, as Count de Marsanne entered. From my own preconceived notions as to his being Laura’s lover, I was quite prepared to answer a hundred impatient inquiries about the marquise and her niece, and as we were now alone, I judged that he would deem the time a favourable one to talk of them. What was my surprise, however, when he turned the conversation exclusively to the topic of my own journey, the route I had travelled. He knew the country perfectly, and spoke of the various towns and their inhabitants with acuteness and tact.
His Royalist leanings did not, like those of the marquise, debar him from feeling a strong interest respecting the success of the Republican troops, with whose leaders he was thoroughly acquainted, knowing all their peculiar excellences and defaults as though he had lived in intimacy with them. Of Bonaparte’s genius he was the most enraptured admirer, and would not hear of any comparison between him and the other great captains of the day. D’Egville at last made his appearance, and we sat down to an excellent supper, enlivened by the conversation of our host, who, whatever the theme, talked well and pleasingly.
I was in a mood to look for flaws in his character—my jealousy was still urging me to seek for whatever I could find fault with; and yet all my critical shrewdness could only detect a slight degree of pride in his manner, not displaying itself by any presumption, but by a certain urbanity that smacked of condescension. But even this at last went off, and before I wished him good-night I felt that I had never met any one so gifted with agreeable qualities, nor possessed of such captivating manners, as himself. Even his Royalism had its fascinations, for it was eminently national, and showed at every moment that he was far more of a Frenchman than a Monarchist. We parted without one word of allusion to the marquise or to Laura! Had this singular fact any influence upon the favourable impression I had conceived of him, or was I unconsciously grateful for the relief thus given to all my jealous tormentings? Certain is it that I felt infinitely happier than I ever fancied I should be under his roof, and, as I lay down in my bed, thanked my stars that he was not my rival!
When I awoke the next morning it was some minutes before I could remember where I was; and as I still lay, gradually recalling myself to memory, the valet entered to announce the count.
‘I have come to say adieu for a few hours,’ said he; a very pressing appointment requires me to be at Pforzheim to-day, and I have to ask that you will excuse my absence. I know that I may take this liberty without any appearance of rudeness, for the marquise has told me all about you. Pray, then, try and amuse yourself till evening, and we shall meet at supper.’
I was not sorry that D’Egville was to accompany him, and, turning on my side, dozed off to sleep away some of the gloomy hours of a winter’s day.
In this manner several days were passed, the count absenting himself each morning, and returning at nightfall, sometimes accompanied by D’Egville, sometimes alone. It was evident enough, from the appearance of his horses at his return, as well as from his own jaded looks, that he had ridden hard and far; but except a chance allusion to the state of the roads or the weather, it was a topic to which he never referred, nor, of course, did I ever advert. Meanwhile our intimacy grew closer and franker. The theme of politics, a forbidden subject between men so separated, was constantly discussed between us, and I could not help feeling flattered at the deference with which he listened to opinions from one so much his junior, and so inferior in knowledge as myself. Nothing could be more moderate than his views of government, only provided that it was administered by the rightful sovereign. The claim of a king to his throne he declared to be the foundation of all the rights of property, and which, if once shaken or disputed, would inevitably lead to the wildest theories of democratic equality. ‘I don’t want to convert you,’ would he say laughingly; ‘the son of an old “Garde da Corps,” the born gentleman, has but to live to learn. It may come a little later or a little earlier, but you’ll end as a good Monarchist.’
One evening he was unusually late in returning, and when he came was accompanied by seven or eight companions, some younger, some older, than himself, but all men whose air and bearing bespoke their rank in life, while their names recalled the thoughts of old French chivalry. I remember among them was a Coigny, a Gramont, and Rochefoucauld—the last as lively a specimen of Parisian wit and brilliancy as ever fluttered along the sunny Boulevards.
De Marsanne, while endeavouring to enjoy himself and entertain his guests, was, to my thinking, more serious than usual, and seemed impatient at D’Egville’s absence, for whose coming we now waited supper.
‘I should not wonder if he was lost in the deep mud of those cross-roads,’ said Coigny.
‘Or perhaps he has fallen into the Republic,’ said Rochefoucauld; ‘it’s the only thing dirtier that I know of.’
‘Monsieur forgets that I wear its cloth,’ said I, in a low whisper to him; and low as it was, De Marsanne overheard it.
‘Yes, Charles,’ cried he, ‘you must apologise, and on the spot, for the rudeness.’
Rochefoucauld reddened and hesitated.
‘I insist, sir,’ cried De Marsanne, with a tone of superiority I had never seen him assume before.
‘Perhaps,’ said he, with a half-sneer, ‘Monsieur de Tiernay might refuse to accept my excuses.’
‘In that case, sir,’ interposed De Marsanne, ‘the quarrel will become mine, for he is my guest, and lives here under the safeguard of my honour.’
Rochefoucauld bowed submissively, and with the air of a man severely but justly rebuked; and then advancing to me said, ‘I beg to tender you my apology, monsieur, for an expression which should never have been uttered by me in your presence.’
‘Quite sufficient, sir,’ said I, bowing, and anxious to conclude a scene which for the first time had disturbed the harmony of our meetings. Slight as was the incident, its effects were yet visible in the disconcerted looks of the party, and I could see that more than one glance was directed towards me with an expression of coldness and distrust.
‘Here comes D’Egville at last,’ said one, throwing open the window to listen. The night was starlit, but dark, and the air calm and motionless. ‘I certainly heard a horses tread on the causeway.’
‘I hear distinctly the sound of several,’ cried Coigny; ‘and, if I mistake not much, so does Monsieur de Tiernay.’ This sudden allusion turned every eye towards me, as I stood still, suffering from the confusion of the late scene.
‘Yes; I hear the tramp of horses, and cavalry too, I should say, by their measured tread.’
‘There was a trumpet-call!’ cried Coigny; ‘what does that mean?’
‘It is the signal to take open order,’ said I, answering as if the question were addressed to myself. ‘It is a picket taking a reconnaissance.’
‘How do you know that, sir?’ said Gramont sternly.
‘Ay! how does he know that?’ cried several passionately, as they closed around me.
‘You must ask in another tone, messieurs,’ said I calmly, ‘if you expect to be answered.’
‘They mean to say, how do you happen to know the German trumpet-calls, Tiernay,’ said De Marsanne mildly, as he laid his hand on my arm.
‘It’s a French signal,’ said I; ‘I ought to know it well.’
Before my words were well uttered the door was thrown open, and D’Egville burst into the room, pale as death, his clothes all mud-stained and disordered. Making his way through the others, he whispered a few words in De Marsanne’s ear.
‘Impossible!’ cried the other; ‘we are here in the territory of the Margrave.’
‘It is as I say,’ replied D’Egville; ‘there’s not a second to lose—it may be too late even now—by Heavens it is!—they’ve drawn a cordon round the château.’
‘What’s to be done, gentlemen?’ said De Marsanne, seating himself calmly, and crossing his arms on his breast.
‘What do you say, sir?’ cried Gramont, advancing to me with an air of insolent menace; ‘you, at least, ought to know the way out of this difficulty.’
‘Or, by Heaven, his own road shall be one of the shortest, considering the length of the journey,’ muttered another; and I could hear the sharp click of a pistol-cock as he spoke the words.
‘This is unworthy of you, gentlemen, and of me,’ said De Marsanne haughtily; and he gazed around him with a look that seemed to abash them; ‘nor is it a time to hold such disputation. There is another and a very difficult call to answer. Are we agreed?’ Before he could finish the sentence the door was burst open, and several dragoons in French uniforms entered, and ranged themselves across the entrance, while a colonel, with his sabre drawn, advanced in front of them.
‘This is brigandage,’ cried De Marsanne passionately, as he drew his sword, and seemed meditating a spring through them; but he was immediately surrounded by his friends and disarmed. Indeed nothing could be more hopeless than resistance; more than double our number were already in the room, while the hoarse murmur of voices without, and the tramp of heavy feet, announced a strong party.
At a signal from their officers the dragoons unslung their carbines, and held them at the cock, when the colonel called out, ‘Which of you, messieurs, is the Due d’Enghien?’
‘If you come to arrest him,’ replied De Marsanne, * you ought to have his description in your warrant.’
‘Is the descendant of a Condé ashamed to own his name?’ asked the colonel, with a sneer. ‘But we ‘ll make short work of it, sirs; I arrest you all My orders are peremptory, messieurs. If you resist, or attempt to escape—’ and he made a significant sign with his hand to finish. The ‘Duc’—-for I need no longer call him De Marsanne—never spoke a word, but with folded arms calmly walked forward, followed by his little household. As we descended the stairs, we found ourselves in the midst of about thirty dismounted dragoons, all on the alert, and prepared for any resistance. The remainder of a squadron were on horseback without. With a file of soldiers on either hand, we marched for about a quarter of a mile across the fields to a small mill, where a general officer and his staff seemed awaiting our arrival. Here, too, a picket of gendarmes was stationed—a character of force significant enough of the meaning of the enterprise. We were hurriedly marched into the court of the mill, the owner of which stood between two soldiers, trembling from head to foot with terror.
‘Which is the Duc d’Enghien?’ asked the colonel of the miller.
‘That is he with the scarlet vest’; and the prince nodded an assent.
‘Your age, monsieur?’ asked the colonel of the prince.
‘Thirty-two—that is, I should have been so much in August, were it not for this visit,’ said he, smiling.
The colonel wrote on rapidly for a few minutes, and then showed the paper to the general, who briefly said, ‘Yes, yes; this does not concern you nor me.’
‘I wish to ask, sir,’ said the prince, addressing the general, ‘do you make this arrest with the consent of the authorities of this country, or do you do so in defiance of them?’
‘You must reserve questions like that for the court who will judge you, Monsieur de Condé,’ said the officer roughly. ‘If you wish for any articles of dress from your quarters, you had better think of them. My orders are to convey you to Strasbourg. Is there anything so singular in the fact, sir, that you should look so much astonished?’
‘There is, indeed,’ said the prince sorrowfully. ‘I shall be the first of my house who ever crossed that frontier a prisoner.’
‘But not the first who carried arms against his country,’ rejoined the other—a taunt the duke only replied to by a look of infinite scorn and contempt. With a speed that told plainly the character of the expedition, we were now placed, two together, on country cars, and driven at a rapid pace towards Strasbourg. Relays of cattle awaited us on the road, and we never halted but for a few minutes during the entire journey. My companion on this dreary day was the Baron de St. Jacques, the aide-de-camp to the duke; but he never spoke once; indeed he scarcely lifted his head during the whole journey.
Heaven knows it was a melancholy journey; and neither the country nor the season were such as to lift the mind from sorrow; and yet, strange enough, the miles glided over rapidly, and to this hour I cannot remember by what magic the way seemed so short. The thought that for several days back I had been living in closest intimacy with a distinguished prince of the Bourbon family; that we had spent hours together discussing themes and questions which were those of his own house, canvassing the chances and weighing the claims of which he was himself the asserter—was a most exciting feeling. How I recalled now all the modest deference of his manner—his patient endurance of my crude opinions—his generous admissions regarding his adversaries—and, above all, his ardent devotion to France, whatever the hand that swayed her destinies; and then the chivalrous boldness of his character, blended with an almost girlish gentleness-how princely were such traits!
From these thoughts I wandered on to others about his arrest and capture, from which, however, I could not believe any serious issue was to come. Bonaparte is too noble-minded not to feel the value of such a life as this. Men like the prince can be more heavily fettered by generous treatment than by all the chains that ever bound a felon. But what will be done with him? what with his followers? and lastly, not at all the pleasantest consideration, what is to come of Maurice Tiernay, who, to say the least, has been found in very suspicious company, and without a shadow of an explanation to account for it? This last thought just occurred to me as we crossed over the long bridge of boats, and entered Strasbourg.