I cannot attempt to describe my feelings on awaking, nor the lamentable failure of all my efforts at recalling the events of the night before. That many real occurrences seemed to me the mere effects of wine and a heated imagination, and that some of the very wildest freaks of my fancy were assumed by me as facts, I can now readily believe. In truth, my head was in a state of the wildest credulity and the very narrowest distrust, and my only astonishment now is, how I resisted impulses plainly suggested by coming insanity.
At one time I thought of calling O'Kelly out; then my indignation was directed against some other of the company, for either a real or a fancied grievance. Perhaps they had all been in the league against me, and that I had been invited merely to make a sport of my absurd pretensions, and to afford laughter by my vanity. Then it occurred to me that it was the Prince himself who was insulted by my companionship, and that they who had dared to make me the means of such an outrage should be held accountable.
Lastly came the thought, Is the whole a dream? Have I been drugged to play some absurd and ridiculous part, and shall I be exposed to ridicule when I appear abroad again? This impression was strengthened by the appearance of my dress, so unlike anything I had ever worn before. Of the incidents of the card-table I could remember next to nothing. A few trivial facts of the game, an accidental event in the play itself, remained in my memory, but that was all. I fancied I had been a heavy loser; but how, when, or to whom, I knew not. I opened my pocket-book, and found four notes for fifty pounds each; but how they came there I could not conceive! And yet, said I, all this took place yesterday! and what was I before that?—where did I live, and with whom associate? My head began to turn, the strangest thoughts chased each other through my brain. Incidents of the street, collisions and accidents of all kinds, were mingled with events of the previous evening; want and squalor stood side by side with splendor, and the bland accents of royalty blended themselves with the brutal exclamations of my former fellows. Then there flashed across me the thought that the drama in which I had been made to perform was not yet played out. They mean me to figure further on the boards, said I to myself; the money has been supplied to me to tempt me into extravagance which shall make me even more ridiculous still. My every action watched, my words listened to, my gestures noted down, I am to be the butt of their sarcastic pleasure, and all my pretensions to the' habits, the feelings, and the manners of a gentleman be held up as a subject for mockery and derision.
I half dreaded to ring the bell and summon the waiter, lest I should be exposing myself to a spy on my actions. When I approached the window to look out, I fancied that every accidental glance of a passer-by was the prying gaze of insolent curiosity. It was in a state of fever that I dressed myself; and even then my costume of full dinner dress made me feel ashamed to venture abroad. At last I took courage to order breakfast. The respectful demeanor of the waiter gave me further confidence, and I ventured to ask him a few questions on passing events. I learned that the hotel was one usually frequented by foreigners, for whose accommodation two or three Continental newspapers were taken. At my request he fetched me one of these,—“La Gazette de Paris;” and with this for my companion, I sat myself down at my fire, resolved to remain a close prisoner for at least a day or two.
Towards evening I sent for a tailor and ordered two suits of clothes, with linen, and, in fact, all that I stood in need of; and when night set in, I issued forth to make several small purchases of articles I wanted. It was late when I entered the hotel, and, not having eaten any dinner, I felt hungry. The waiter showed me into the coffee-room, which was arrayed in foreign fashion, and where they suppedà la carte.
The general appearance of the company at once proclaimed their origin; and a less practised eye than mine even, might have seen that they were all natives of some Continental country. They talked loudly and gesticulated wildly, careless to all seeming of being overheard by strangers, and little regarding in whose presence they might be standing. Their bearing was, in fact, such as speedily set me at ease amongst them, and made me feel myself unnoticed and unremarked.
Seated at a small table by myself, I ordered my supper, and half carelessly watched the others while it was being prepared. Whatever they might have been by birth or station, they seemed now all in the very narrowest circumstances. Threadbare coats and broken boots, worn hats and gloveless hands, bespoke their condition; nor could all the swagger of manner, or pretentious display of a ribbon or a cross, cover over the evidences of real poverty that oppressed them.
Had I noticed these signs earlier, I should certainly have restricted myself to a meal more befitting the place and its occupants. The humble suppers I saw around me of bread and cheese now shocked me at what might well appear display on my part; and had there been time to correct my error, I should gladly have done so. It was, however, too late. Already had the landlord carried in a silver tureen of soup, and set it before me; and the tall neck of a champagne bottle rose amidst the mimic icebergs at my side.
The others took no pains to hide their astonishment at all this; they stood in knots and groups about, with eyes directed full upon me, and as evidently made me the subject of their remarks. I could perceive that the landlord was far from being at his ease, and that all his endeavors were employed either to conceal from me these demonstrations, or to give them some harmless interpretation.
“You have travelled, sir, and know well what foreigners are,” said he, in a whisper; “and although all these are gentlemen by birth, from one misfortune or other they are a bit down in the world now, and they look with jealousy at any one better off than themselves.”
“Foreigners are usually better bred than to exhibit such feelings,” said I.
“Nor would they, perhaps, sir, if at home and in prosperity; but so many are ruined now by wars and revolutions—so many banished and exiled—that one ought to make large allowances for their tempers. That old man yonder, for instance, was a duke somewhere in Brittany; and the thin, tall one, that is gesticulating with his stick, served as colonel in the bodyguard of the King of France. And there, next the fire,—you see he has taken off a kind of smock-frock and is drying it at the blaze,—that is a Pomeranian count who owned a principality once, they tell me.”
“He looks very poor now; what means of support has he?”
“None, I believe, sir; he was bred to nothing, and can neither teach drawing, nor music, nor the sword-exercise, like Frenchmen or Italians; and the consequence is, that he actually—you 'll not believe it, but it is true, notwithstanding—he actually sweeps a crossing at Cheapside for his living.”
I started, as he said this, as if I had been stung by a reptile. For a moment I was convinced that the speech was a designed insult. I thought that the very expression of his eyes as he turned them on me was malignant. It was all I could do not to resent the insolence; but I restrained myself and was silent.
“Heaven knows,” continued he, “if he have eaten once to-day.”
“Do you think,” said I, “it would be possible to induce him to join me at supper,—I mean, could it be managed without offence?”
“Egad! I should say so, sir, and easily enough, too. These poor fellows have gone through too much to carry any excess of pride about with them.”
“Would you undertake the office, then?” asked I.
“With pleasure, sir;” and, as he spoke, he crossed the room, and, standing over the old man's chair, whispered in his ear. I soon perceived, by the manner of each, that the negotiation was not as simple as he had fancied it. Remark, reply, and rejoinder seemed to follow each other quickly; and I could almost detect something like an insolent rejection of the landlord's suit in the old man's manner. Indeed, I had not long to remain in doubt on the subject; for, rising from his seat, the Count addressed some hurried words to those about him, to which they replied by expressions of anger and astonishment. In vain the landlord interposed, and tried to calm down their impatience; they grew more and more excited, and I could detect expressions of insulting meaning through what they uttered.
“What is the matter?” asked I of the landlord; but ere he could reply, a tall, dark man, with the marked physiognomy of a Pole, came up to me and said,—
“The Graf von Bildstein has received a grave provocation at your hands: are you prepared to justify it?”
“I must first of all learn how I may have offended him,” said I, calmly.
“We all of us heard it,” said he, impatiently; “you insulted every man in this room through him. Either, then, you leave it at once [and he pointed insolently to the door], or you give him satisfaction.”
The only reply I made to this speech was a haughty laugh, as I filled my glass with champagne. I had but done so when, with a blow of his cane, he swept my bottle and the glasses from the table; and then, stepping back and drawing a sword from the stick, threw himself into an attitude of defence. I drew my sword and rushed in on him. Either that he was not a skilful fencer, or unprepared for the suddenness of my attack, he defended himself badly; his guards were all wide, and his eyes unsteady. I felt my advantage in a moment, and, after a couple of passes, ran my point through his side, just close to the ribs. A loud cry from the bystanders, as the blood gushed forth, now stopped the encounter, and they speedily dashed forward to catch him as he reeled and fell.
“Away with you, for Heaven's sake, or you are a murdered man,” cried the landlord to me, while he pushed me violently from the room and out into the street, barring and bolting the door within, at the same instant. The terrible clamor inside, and the efforts to force a passage, now warned me of my danger, and I fled at the very top of my speed, not knowing nor caring whither. I had gone considerably above a mile ere I ventured to halt and draw breath. I was in a part of the city with narrow streets and tall warehouses, dark, gloomy, and solitary; a small, mean-looking alley led me down to the river's side, from which I could perceive the Tower quite close, and a crowd of shipping in the stream. A small schooner, with a foresail alone set, was just getting under way, and as she slowly moved along, boats came and went from the shore to her.
“Want to go aboard, sir?” asked a waterman, who observed me as I stood watching the movement of the craft. I nodded, and the next moment we were alongside. I asked for the skipper, and heard that he was to join us at Gravesend. The mate politely said I might go below; and, accepting the permission, I descended to the cabin, and lay down on a bench. A boy was cleaning plates and glasses in a little nook at one side, and from him I learned that the schooner was the “Martha,” of Hull, bound for Cherbourg; her captain was her owner, and usually traded between the English coast and the Channel Islands. At all events, thought I, I am safe out of England; and with that reflection I turned on my side and went off to sleep.
Just as day broke, the skipper came on board, and I could perceive, by the gushing noise beside my ear, that we were going fast through the water. The craft lay over, too, and seemed as if under a press of canvas. It was not for full an hour afterwards that the skipper descended to the cabin, and, shaking me roughly by the shoulder, asked how I came there.
I had gone asleep concocting a story to account for my presence; and so I told him in a few words that I had just been engaged in a duel wherein I had wounded my antagonist; that as the event had occurred suddenly, I had no time for any preparation, but just threw myself on board the first craft about to sail, ready and willing to pay liberally for the succor it afforded me.
Either he disbelieved my narrative, or fancied that it might involve himself in some trouble, for he doggedly said I had no right to come aboard of her without his leave, and that he should certainly put in at Ramsgate and hand me over to the authorities.
“Be it so,” said I, with an affected indifference. “The greater fool you not to earn fifty guineas for a kind office than go out of your way to do a churlish one.”
He left me at this to go up on deck, and came down again about half an hour later. I heard enough to convince me that the wind was freshening, and that a heavy sea, too, was getting up, so that in all likelihood he would hesitate ere he 'd try to put in at Ramsgate. He did not speak to me this time, but sat with folded arms watching me as I lay pretending to be asleep. At length he said,—
“I say, friend, you 've got no passport, I suppose? How do you mean to land in France? or, if there, how do you propose to travel?”
“These are matters I don't mean to trouble you about, Captain,” said I, haughtily; and though I said the words boldly enough, it was exactly the very puzzle that was then working in my brain.
“Ay, sir; but they are exactly matters that concern me; for you are not on the schooner's manifest,—you are not one of her crew,—and I don't mean to get into trouble on your behalf.”
“Put me ashore at night, or leave me to reach it in any way,” said I, half angrily; for I was well-nigh out of patience at these everlasting difficulties.
He made no reply to this speech, but starting suddenly up, like a man who had hastily made up his mind on some particular course, he went up on deck. I overheard orders given, and immediately after a stir and bustle among the sailors, and in my anxiety at once connected myself with these movements. What project had they regarding me? In what way did they mean to treat me?—were the questions that rose to my mind. The heavy working of the craft showed me that her course had been altered, and I began to dread lest we should be turning again towards England.
From these thoughts my mind wandered back and back, reviewing the chief events of my life, and wondering whether I were ever destined to reach one spot that I could rest in, and where my weary spirit might find peace. To be the sport of Fortune in her most wilful of moods seemed, indeed, my lot; and to go on through life unattached to my fellows, appeared my fate. I remember once to have read in some French author that the attachment we feel to home, the sacred names of son and brother, are not more than the instincts of habit; that natural affection, as it is called, has no real existence; and that it is the mere force of repetition that forms the tie by which we love those whom we call father or mother. It is a cold and a cheerless theory, and yet now it struck me with a certain melancholy satisfaction to think that, save in the name of parentage, I was not worse off than others.
The hours glided on unnoticed as I lay thus dreaming, and night at last fell, dark and starless. I had almost attained to a kind of careless indifference as to my future, when the mate, coming up to me, said,—
“Wake up, master; we 're going to put you ashore here.”
I made no answer: half in recklessness, half in pride, I was silent.
“You 'd better throw my boat-cloak over you. It's blowing fresh, and a heavy sea running,” said he, in a kindly voice.
“Thanks,” said I, declining; “but I 'm little used to care for my comforts. Can I see the skipper?”
“He told me that he preferred not to see you,” said the mate, hesitatingly, “and bade me arrange for putting you ashore myself.”
“It is a question of money—not of politeness—with me,” said I, producing my purse. “Tell me what I owe him.”
“Not a farthing, sir. He 'd not touch a piece of money that belonged to you. He only wants you to go your way, and part company with him.”
“Why—what does he take me for? What means this dread of me?”
The man looked confusedly up and down, to either hand, and was silent. At last he said,—
“Come; all this is lost time. We 're close in now. Are you ready, sir?”
“Quite ready,” said I, rising, and following him.
The boat's crew was already mustered, and, springing into the boat, she was lowered at once; and before I well knew of it, we were plunging through a heavy sea, by the force of four strong oars.
Through the darkness and the showering spray we went,—now rising on the crest of some swelling wave, now diving down between the foaming cataracts. I never asked whither we were bound. I scarcely wished for land. There was something so exciting in the sense of peril about, that I only desired it might continue. Such a relief is physical danger to the slow and cankering disease of a despairing heart!
A long, low line of coast loomed through the darkness, and towards this we now rowed through a heavy, breaking surf. More than once did they lie on their oars to consult as to the best landing-place, and again resume their labor as before. At last, seeing that neither creek nor inlet presented itself, they made straight for the shore, and when within about thirty paces of the strand, they dropped anchor and suffered the boat to drift into shallow water.
“There now, master,” said the steersman to me, “you'll have to wet your feet, for we can't venture further in. Jump over, and you'll soon touch land again.”
I obeyed without a word, and ere I reached the shore the boat was already on her way back to the schooner. As I stood gazing on the dark expanse of sea before me, and then turned to the gloomy outline of the land, I felt a sense of desolation no words can render. I had not the very vaguest notion where I was. So far as I could see, there were no traces of habitation near; and as I wandered inland, the same unbroken succession of sand hummocks surrounded me. How strange is it that in this old Europe of ours, so time-worn by civilization, so crossed and recrossed by man's labors, how many spots there are which, in this wild solitude, might well be supposed to form parts of Africa or distant America! The day broke to find me still wandering along these dreary sand-hills; but to my great delight two church towers about a league off showed me that a village was near; and thither I now proceeded to bend my steps.
After walking about a mile I reached a high road which evidently led to the village; and now it became necessary to bethink me what account I should give of myself, and how explain my appearance when questioned, as I inevitably should be, by the authorities.
My drenched and shrunk-up clothes and my way-worn look might well have warranted the story of a shipwreck, and for some minutes I had almost resolved to give that version of my calamity; but I was so weary of the vicissitudes a false representation involved, so actually tired out by the labor of sustaining a part that was not my own, that I determined to take no heed of what was to follow, and leave myself to the chances of destiny, without a struggle against them.
Fortune, thought I, has never been over kind to me when I did my best to woo her; let me see if a little indifference on my part may not render her more graciously disposed. From some peasants on their way to market I learned that the village was called Lys, and was on the high road to Montreuil. At all events, then, I was in France, which was almost as much my country as England, and with even so much did I rally my spirits and encourage my hopes. The country-people, with their pack-mules, stared at my strange appearance, and evidently wondered what manner of man I might be, for I still wore my full-dress suit; and my lace ruffles and sabot, however discolored, showed undeniable signs of condition. Many, however, saluted me respectfully, and touched their hats as to one of rank above their own, and not one displayed anything approaching levity or a jest at my singular exterior. It might possibly have been the secluded character of the spot itself, or that the recent peace with England had brought about the change; but whatever the cause, neither police nor gendarmerie questioned me as to my passport, and I strolled into the first café that presented itself, to take my breakfast, without hindrance or impediment.
While I enjoyed my meal, I amused myself with the newspapers, at that time filled with descriptions of festivities and court receptions, at which the English were the honored guests. Instead of the accustomed allusions to insular eccentricity, awkwardness, and boorish unsociality, there were nothing but praises of English frankness and cordial simplicity. I saw that the Government, for doubtless good reasons of its own, had given the initiative to this new estimation of my countrymen; and resolved, if possible, to reap the benefit of it, I repaired to the Mairie and asked to see the “Maire.” In a few words, I told him that I had laid a heavy wager to travel up to Paris and back to England without a passport; that I had made this foolish bet at a dinner-party, which I quitted to accomplish my undertaking. My intention had been to have landed at Havre; but, by ill-luck, we were driven on shore to the north'ard, and narrowly escaped shipwreck; from which having saved myself, I reached Lys, destitute of everything save a small sum of money I carried about me. I told this story with the air of one who really felt that any impediment to so harmless a project must be impossible, and with such success that the Maire invited me into his drawing-room to repeat my tale to his family, as an excellent illustration of the length to which English eccentricity could go.
My manners, the facility with which I spoke French, my calm assurance of not requiring any other aid or assistance than the friendly offices of the authorities, so gained his favor that he promised to think over the matter, and give me his opinion in the morning. I asked for no more. I was not impatient to get forward; and at that moment the little grass-grown streets and alleys of Lys were as pleasing to me as the most fashionable thoroughfares of a great city.
He did not send for me, as he promised, on the following morning. A second day and a third passed over with the same results; and still I remained loitering about the village and making acquaintance with every notable monument, from its quaint old church to the little obelisk in the marketplace, commemorating the birthplace of its great citizen, the architect Mansard.
I had by this time formed two or three slight acquaintanceships with the townsfolk, who, although living on a high road much traversed by travellers, were a simple-minded and maritime set of people. The little routine of this quaint old spot also pleased me; and I persuaded myself that I should ask nothing better from fortune than to be able to pass my life and end my days in Lys. Vast numbers of English poured daily into France at this time; and it was one of my chief amusements to sit at the little café in front of the “poste,” and watch them as they changed horses. I do not suppose that even yet our countrymen escape from what would appear to be the almost inevitable blunders of foreign travel; but at the time I speak of, these mistakes and misapprehensions were far greater. The Continent and its languages were alike new to them. National peculiarities were all more marked, and John Bull himself less compliant and more exacting than he now is.
As the temper and tone of the day were, however, favorable to England, and as Englishmen were remarkable for the liberality of their payments for all services rendered them, the nation was popular, and whatever errors or awkwardness they committed were speedily forgotten or forgiven. I was seated, as was my custom, one morning, watching the tide of travellers that rolled by unceasingly, when a large travelling carriage, with eight horses and a mounted courier in front, drew up at the “poste.” While the horses were being harnessed, two gentlemen descended, and, crossing the “Place,” entered the café. One was a large, full, and somewhat handsome man, with that florid look and air so characteristic of an English country squire; the other I had not time to remark ere he came up to me and said,—
“Happy to meet you again, Mr. Carew; I trust you don't forget me.'”
It was Colonel Canthorpe, whom I had met at O'Kelly's dinner-table.
“This chance meeting is a piece of good fortune,” continued he, “since it enables me to pay a debt I owe you. On looking over my memorandum-book, I discovered I had lost three hundred, and not two, to you. Am I correct?”
I professed, with truth, that I had no recollection of the matter, nor had anything to guide me to its memory.
“I'm quite positive that I'm right, however,” said he, “and you must allow me to acquit myself of the obligation. Who is your banker at Paris?”
I had to say that so many years had passed over since I was there, I really had not thought of selecting one.
“But you are going on thither?” asked he.
“Yes, in a day or two; that is, as soon as I have arranged a difficulty about my passport.”
“If that's the only thing that detains you,” said he, “pray accept of mine. In travelling with my friend Mr. Fox, I need none.”
I turned at the sound of the name, and at once recognized, by the resemblance to the prints, the bluff and manly features of the great leader of the Opposition.
“This is our famous whist-player, Fox, Mr. Carew,” said Canthorpe, presenting me; and the other rose and received me most courteously, adding some little compliments on my reputed skill at the game.
While we were yet talking, their breakfast made its appearance, and I was invited to partake of the meal,—a politeness which I accepted of readily, while I congratulated myself by thinking that up to this time at least O'Kelly had not divulged the secret of my former station.
The conversation turned principally on France and its relations with England; and I was surprised to find the great parliamentary leader so little acquainted with either the character of the people or of those who ruled them. He seemed willing to accept all the present civil overtures as guarantees of lasting and cordial friendship, and to regard as antiquated and unworthy prejudices those expressions of distrust to which, in my more intimate knowledge of France, I occasionally gave utterance.
“Mr. Carew's whist experiences, I perceive',” said he, “are not his guides in politics. He will not trust his partner.”
“There is this difference,” said I, “that in whist you sit opposite to your ally: in politics, as in war, your vis-à-vis is your enemy.”
“For my part,” said he, good-humoredly, “I think, having fought against each other—bravely fought, as France and England have—is one of the very best elements towards a lasting peace. Each must by this time have attained to a proper estimate of the other; and from that source alone a degree of respect springs up, fit to become the foundation of true friendship.”
“Your theory excludes all notion of a rivalry, sir.”
“Rivalry can exist only between small states or individuals. Great countries have great ambitions, and these are usually above mere rivalries.”
I have quoted, word for word, the expressions he made use of, less for any importance of their own than for the sake of the man who spoke them. They were, as I afterwards came to know, specimens of that careless habit of talking in which he constantly indulged, and in which an indolent goodnature rather swayed him than the use of those fine faculties of judgment he so eminently possessed. My more intimate acquaintance with France and its language gave me certain advantages in our discussion which he soon perceived, and he questioned me closely about the people and their natural tendencies.
Colonel Canthorpe came twice to announce that the horses were ready, and yet still Mr. Fox stood, inquiring eagerly into points of which he confessed himself quite uninformed.
“How glad I should be,” said he, “to have an opportunity of continuing this conversation. Is there any chance of our meeting at Paris?”
I owned that the expression of his wish on the subject quite decided me to go there.
“On what day, then, may I expect you? Shall we say Saturday, and at dinner?”
“Most willingly,” said I, “if I can accomplish it.”
“As to the passport, nothing easier,” said Canthorpe. “This is mine—it is perfectly regular—requires novisé; and once in Paris, my friend here will obtain one for you in your own name.”
“Just so,” said Fox, shaking my hand cordially; and repeating “Saturday—Quillac's Hotel,” away he went, leaving me almost incredulous of all I had seen and been saying.
I arrived in Paris a few days after, and took up my abode at the Hôtel Quillac, then one of the most splendid in the capital. Mr. Fox and Colonel Canthorpe received me most courteously, willingly accepting my guidance in their visits to the various objects of interest that this glorious city contains. Such a knowledge of the language as I possessed was a rarer gift at that time than it now is, when education and foreign travel are so widely enjoyed; and I could plainly see that they regarded their chance acquaintanceship with me as quite a piece of good fortune. This did not, however, prevent their feeling—as I could perceive they felt—a most lively curiosity as to what might have been my former life, where it had been passed, and how. Too well bred to suffer this anxiety of theirs to appear, except by a mere accident, yet it was evident to me, by a hundred little circumstances, how it formed a constant subject of conversation between them.
I am far from implying that their intercourse with me was marked by anything like distrust or suspicion; on the contrary, they talked freely in my presence on every subject, and upon politics Mr. Fox especially spoke with a degree of openness that, had he been less distinguished, I should have presumed to call indiscreet. He made almost daily visits at the Tuileries, and never hesitated, on his return, to recount to us what had passed between the First Consul and himself.
The manly character of the English statesman contributed to give the interviews many very interesting traits, to which also his imperfect knowledge of French lent several amusing features. Were I not afraid of repeating well-known anecdotes, I should avail myself of this opportunity to recall some instances of these. At all events, I am happy to have the occasion of saying that the veriest Tory that ever inveighed against France never had a more thoroughly English heart and spirit than Charles Fox. I have seen it imputed to him that in his partisanship he would willingly have accepted a dishonorable peace, and made common cause with the First Consul on any terms; and I affirm that I am in a position to refute this foul charge, and prove it a calumny.
Neither, as was asserted at the time, did the unquestionable fascination of Bonaparte's manner gain a complete ascendancy over the Englishman's less-cultivated tact. It is true he came back—as who would not?—from these meetings amazed at the extensive knowledge, the vast acquirements, and the profound sagacity of that great man; nor did he hesitate to own that even these were thrown into the shade by the charms of his manner and the captivation of an address which I believe at that period had reached its very point of perfection.
An attack of gout confined Mr. Fox for some time to his room, and thus interfered with the progress of an intimacy that might be fairly called friendship. Who can say now how far the highest interests of mankind, the fortunes of the whole world, may not have been influenced by that casual indisposition! It is certain that Fox had already been able to disabuse Bonaparte's mind with regard to a variety of things in which he judged erroneously. He had succeeded in setting him right on several points of our national spirit and the spirit of our constitution. He had even done much towards convincing him that England was not inspired with an insane hatred to France, and would willingly live at peace with her, only asking that a peace should have guarantees for its duration, and not be, as it but too often is, but the interval of preparation for war. I say then again what a change might there have been to the destinies of mankind, had this intercourse gone on uninterruptedly! How differently might Bonaparte have learned to regard and consider Englishmen, and what allowances might he not have come to make for peculiarities purely national!
How naturally might a great intelligence like his have seen that the alliance of two such nations is the guarantee of civilization throughout the globe, and that all our smaller rivalries and national jealousies sink to insignificance when viewed in presence of the great perils to which disunion exposes us,—perils that, at the hour in which I write these lines, are neither vague nor visionary, and against which an honest and cordial alliance can alone prevail. Let it be taken as the tremulous terror of an old man's mind if I add, that even banded together, and with all their energies to the task, they will not be more than enough for the work that is before them.
I have spoken of the friendly reception I met with from Mr. Fox. I dined constantly with him and Colonel Canthorpe alone, and accompanied them frequently on their evening visits amongst their acquaintances. I joined in everything, even to the high play which they both were passionately devoted to, and lost and won without any decisive results. Meanwhile my resources ran lower and lower. The style of living I maintained was costly; and at the end of some weeks I saw myself with barely sufficient to carry me through another fortnight. To this very hour I cannot explain to myself the calm indifference with which I contemplated my approaching and inevitable ruin. I really know nothing of the flatteries by which I may have beguiled my own heart, and am left to the conclusion that the intoxicating pleasures of the time had rendered me insensible to every thought for the future. I went further, too, than might be supposed possible. I accepted invitations to shoot in Scotland, and pass my Christmas at Canthorpe's seat in Cumberland, promising everything with the ease of one free to dispose of himself as he fancied.
Meanwhile time went on. I had asked Mr. Fox and Canthorpe to dine with me at the Fleur-de-Pois, outside the barrier. It was a celebrated restaurant of those times, as distinguished for the excellence of its wine as the perfection of its cookery. I had often given myself the airs of connoisseurship in these matters, and I was resolved that my entertainment should not disparage my taste.
More than one morning had I passed in council over the bill of fare, discussing the order of the courses, canvassing the appropriate sauces, and tasting the various wines. It was to be a “Diner à soixante francs par tête;” the reader may imagine the rest. I knew that my friends were unacquainted with the repute this house enjoyed, and I congratulated myself in fancying the surprise they would feel at the unexpected perfection of every arrangement within doors. I went down early on the morning of the eventful day to see that everything was in readiness. All was perfect; the table was decorated with the choicest flowers, amidst which an ornamental dessert lay scattered, as it were. The temperature of the room, the lighting, all were cared for; and I returned to Paris fully satisfied that nothing had been omitted or forgotten. Instead, however, of repairing to my hotel, I went to a small restaurant near the Luxembourg to breakfast, and lounged afterwards at the gardens there, intending to keep myself “up” for the evening, and not dissipate any of those conversational resources I wished to hoard for the hours of conviviality. The reader may well smile at the inconsistency of the man who could so collectedly devise a few hours of pleasure, and yet face the whole future without a moment's thought or deliberation! Towards five o'clock I sauntered slowly back to the hotel.
“A note for you, sir,” said the porter, presenting me with a letter as I entered. “The gentleman said it was to be given to you the moment you came in.”
I took it with a strange, half-sickening sense of coming evil. I broke the seal, and read:—
Crillan, Three o'clock. Dear C,—We are off for England ata moment's warning, and have only time to counsel you to thesame. There is some mischief brewing, and the d——d Toriesare likely to involve us in another war. Keep this toyourself. Get your passport ready, and let us soon see youacross the water. With many regrets from F. and myself atthe loss of your good dinner to-day, believe meYours truly,George Canthorpe.
The whole fabric in which I had been living for weeks past fell at once to the ground; all the illusions of my daily existence were suddenly swept away; and there I stood in presence of my own heart,—a poor bankrupt pretender, without one to know or acknowledge him!
I hastened to my room and sat down, for some minutes actually overwhelmed by the chaotic flood of thought that now poured through my brain. Very little calm consideration would have shown me that my real condition in life had undergone no change, that I stood precisely as I had done the day before,—a ruined, houseless adventurer! With a little reflection, too, it is not impossible I might have congratulated myself that my separation had not been brought about by any disgraceful discovery of my actual rank in life, and that I had escaped the humiliation of an exposure. These thoughts came later; for the moment all was sadness and gloomy depression.
The waiter entered to say that the carriage Monsieur had ordered was at the door, and it took me some minutes to recall my mind to the fact, and to remember that I had ordered a carriage to convey us to the restaurant. “Be it so,” said I to myself, “let us play out the comedy;” and with this resolve I proceeded to dress myself for dinner with all the elegance I could bestow on my toilet.
Had I been about to dine at court, I could not have been more particular. My sabot and ruffles were of the finest “Valenciennes;” my vest was white satin, richly embroidered with gold; and the hilt of my sword glittered with marqueseta and turquoise. I took a look at myself in the glass, and almost started back as I saw the contrast between this finery of my apparel and the haggard expression of my features; for though my cheek was flushed and my eyes sparkled, my mouth was drawn down, and my thin, parched lips denoted fever. There was that in my looks that actually scared myself.
“To the Fleur-de-Pois,” said I, throwing myself back in the carriage; and away we drove along the crowded Boulevard, many an eye turned on the foppish figure that lounged so elegantly in his carriage, never suspecting the while what the tone of his thoughts at that moment was, and that he was gravely canvassing within himself the strange stories that would circulate on the morrow, should his body be taken up in the “Filets de St. Cloud.” True was it, the dark and muddy Seine, the cold, fast-flowing river, was never out of my thoughts. It swept, torrent-like, through all my reasoning, and the surging water seemed to rise and swell around me. At that moment short, fitful thoughts of the long past shot through my mind; and my mother, and Raper, and Margot too, came and went before me. Where were all the teachings of my infancy now; where the holy aspirations of my early boyhood; where the simple tastes and lowly desires, the home affections and blest humility I once loved to dream over; where that calm existence, so bounded by easy ambitions; and where, above all, that honesty of life that spurned every thought of deception? “A meet ending for such a career,” said I, bitterly, as I gazed down on the river along whose bank we were driving. “Ay,” thought I, as we passed along, “there is not one so miserable nor so poor with whom I would not change places, only that this mockery should cease, and that I should be something to my own heart besides a cheat.”
The day suddenly grew overcast, the clouds massed themselves heavily together, and the rain began to descend in torrents. When we reached the restaurant the storm had become a hurricane, and all who had been preparing to dine through the arbors of the garden were quickly driven to seek shelter within doors. As I descended from the carriage, all was tumult and confusion; for although every available spot had been given up to the guests, yet from their numbers they were crowded together most uncomfortably, and loud and angry complaints and remonstrances were heard on all sides. In vain the waiters heard patiently or answered courteously the various discontents of those who appealed to their rank and station as claims for special consideration. Distinguished generals, ministers, great leaders of fashion, were all condemned to the same indiscriminate fortune of humbler natures.
From where I sat in the littlesalonreserved for myself, I could overhear these complaints and remonstrances, and it was in a kind of savage irony with Fortune that I bethought me of my sumptuous lot in comparison with the discomforts of those around me. Twice or thrice was my door flung open by persons in search of an apartment, and in this confusion and shame I revelled as in a momentary triumph. At length, in an interval of comparative quiet, I thought I heard voices whispering outside my door. I listened, and could distinguish that they were female accents, and discussing, as it seemed, some project on which they were not agreed. One appeared to insist as eagerly as the other was bent upon opposing; and the words, “Mais oui,” “Mais non,” followed in quick succession. I know not how it was, but I conceived a most intense curiosity to learn the subject of the discussion. I felt as if I must have some share or concern in the matter, and eagerly bent my ear to hear further. Nor was I wrong. The question argued was, whether or not the two ladies should appeal to the gallantry of the occupant of the room to afford them shelter till such time as their carriage might arrive to fetch them for Paris. She who spoke with more authority was in favor of the appeal, while the younger voice expressed dissent to it.
Being in a measure a party to the cause, I resolved to lend what influence I might possess towards the decision; and so, flinging wide the door, I saluted the strangers courteously, and informing them that I had accidentally overheard their discussion, begged they would permit me to decide it by placing my apartment at their disposal at once. The elder of the two immediately addressed me in a tone and manner that bespoke a person of condition, accepting my hospitality, but only on the condition that I myself should remain, for I had made a gesture indicative of departure. The younger, with a veil closely drawn across her face, courtesied without speaking. I at once acceded, and placing chairs for my guests, requested them to be seated.
The waiter at length made his appearance to say dinner was ready “whenever Monsieur desired it.” This was a new difficulty, and I really felt much embarrassed by it. Resolving, however, to adopt the bold course, I hastily apologized for the great liberty I was about to take, and after briefly explaining the departure of the two friends I had expected, begged they would allow me to believe that Fortune had really been kind to me for once, in replacing them.
A sign of half-impatience by the younger was speedily corrected by the other, as she said,—
“Monsieur forgets that we are strangers to each other.”
But there was nothing like rebuke in the tone she spoke in; but rather, as I thought, a suggestive hint thrown out to provoke some effort at explanation on my part. I was right in this conjecture, as I speedily saw by the degree of attention she vouchsafed me.
Perhaps if I had had a better cause, I should not have pleaded so successfully. I mean, that if I had been really the owner of a high name and station, it is just possible I might not so ably have combated the difficulty of the situation.
“At all events,” said the elder lady, “Monsieur has one advantage: he knows who we are.”
“I shame to say, Madame,” said I, bowing low, “that, in my ignorance of Paris, I have not that honor.”
“Indeed!” cried she, half incredulously.
“It is quite true, Madame; I have been but a few days here, and have no acquaintance whatever.”
They now spoke to each other for a few seconds; and after what seemed strong persuasion, the younger turned away to remove her bonnet.
“We have, then, no right to exact any concession from Monsieur,” said the elder lady, “seeing that we preserve our own secret.”
I could not but assent to this doctrine, and had just acknowledged it, when the younger turned abruptly round, uttering a half cry of amazement.
“Margot!” exclaimed I; for it was she. But already had she buried her face between her hands, and refused to look up.
“What means this?” said the elder, sternly, to me. “Do you know this young lady?”
“I did so, once, Madame,” said I, sorrowfully.
“Well, sir?” replied she, proudly, and as if desiring me to finish my speech.
“Yes, Madame. I knew her as a child in her grandfather's house. I was scarcely more than a boy myself at the time; but had the interval been four times as great, I could not forget all that I owe to his kindness and to hers.”
I could scarcely utter the last words from emotion. The child Margot—a beautiful woman, graceful and fascinating—now stood before me, changed, but still the same; her dark eyes darker and more meaning; her fair brow expanded and more lofty.
“You know my story?” asked she, in a low, soft voice.
“Yes, Margot. And oftentimes in my saddest hours have I sought excitement and relief in the thought of your triumphs—”
“There, child,—there!” exclaimed the elder, enthusiastically, “there is at least one who can prize the glorious ambitions of the scene, and knows how to appreciate the successes of high art. Stand not abashed before him, child; he comes not here as your accuser.”
“Is it so indeed?” cried Margot, entreatingly.
“Oh, if you but knew, Margot, how proudly I have often pondered over our hours of the past,—now fancying that in my teachings of those days some germ of that high ambition you have tried to reach may then have been dropped into your heart; now wondering if in your successes some memory of me might have survived. If you but knew this, Margot, you would soon see how this bright moment of our meeting repays all the sorrows of a life long.”
“I am in the third act of the drama,” said the elder lady, smiling. “Pray let me into the secret of the piece. Where, when, and how were you first acquainted?”
Margot looked at me to speak; but I returned her glance so entreatingly that, taking her friend's hand between her own, she seated her at her side and began.
While she narrated the story of our first meeting, I had full time to look at her, and see the changes a few years had made. Beautiful as she had been in childhood, far more lovely was she now in the grace of developed beauty. Her art, too, had cultivated expression to its very highest point, yet without exaggerating a trait of her features; the tones of her voice had in them a melody I had never heard before; and I hung on her very utterance as though it were music!
I dare not trust myself to recall more of that scene: already are emotions struggling within me, the conflict of which this poor shattered heart is not equal to. The great trials of life are often easier burdens to memory than some flitting moment of passionate existence, some one brief hour of mingled hope and fear.
Margot's friend—it was Mademoiselle Mars herself—felt the liveliest interest in the story of our first meeting, my boyish duel and—why should I not say it?—my boyish love. She took pleasure in hearing of every indication of that genius in infancy which she had seen so splendidly displayed in womanhood, and asked me for traits of Margot's childhood with the greatest eagerness.
Margot—the first excitement over—seemed sad and dispirited; she even showed impatience once or twice as Mademoiselle Mars insisted on hearing some little incident of childhood, and then abruptly said,—
“And you, Monsieur, how has the world treated you since we met?”
“Not so flatteringly; I am not spoiled by Fortune.”
“Nor am I,” said she, hastily taking up my words.
“No, dearest, that you are not,” cried the other. “You are as first I knew you, generous, warm-hearted, and kind.”
“I mean,” said Margot, “that these successes have not made me vain nor proud; that I know how to esteem them at their true price, and feel, moreover, how in my heart there lives a spirit above all this loud-tongued flattery.”
Mademoiselle Mars looked at me while she spoke, and I thought that her eyes conveyed the strangest meaning. There was admiration, indeed, but blended with something of tender pity and compassion. What would I not have given to have been able to read this glance aright! No time was given me to think on the theme, for Margot now, with a kind of half impetuous curiosity, asked me for my adventures.
“Tell us all, everything,” said she, laughingly,—“your successes, your failures, your hopes, your loves, your joys and sorrows. I am eager to hear if Fortune has not dealt more generously by you than me. This splendid preparation here”—and she pointed to the dinner-table—“would seem to say much.”
“The story will tell better at table,” said I, gayly, and not sorry to relieve the awkwardness of the moment by any new incident; and with this I ordered dinner at once. As course succeeded course of the magnificent repast, I could not help feeling what a singular preface was all this splendor to the confession that was to follow it, and how oddly would it tell that the host of such a feast was without a sou in the world. Our spirits rose as dinner went on. We talked together like old friends who had met yesterday; we discussed passing topics—all the news of the day—lightly and amusingly; we jested and laughed, with all the light-hearted gayety of unburdened spirits; nor can I remember anything more brilliant than the flow of wit and pleasantry that went on amongst us.
What strange mysterious link unites our lowest moment of despair with a wild and almost headlong joyousness, making of the darkness of our souls a fitting atmosphere for the lightning play of fancy and the bright coruscations of wit! But an hour back, and never was depression deeper than my own; and now my brain abounded with bright-hued thoughts and pleasant imaginings.
It was late when the carriage arrived, and we returned to Paris to finish the evening at Mademoiselle Mars' lodgings in the Rue de Choiseul. The littlesalons, furnished with a consummate taste and elegance, were crowded with visitors, as we reached them,—artists, authors, musicians, theatrical people of every kind and sort, with a sprinkling of the higher world, admitted as a rare favor to these “Saturdays.”
It was in the fascination of this very class of society that Margot had originally conceived her passion for the stage. It was in their enthusiasm for her genius and their admiration of her beauty she had first tasted the ambitious longing for fame and applause; and it was still here that she revelled, as in a charmed existence,—here sought the inspirations that quickened her spirit to its proudest darings, and nerved her heart for efforts almost beyond human strength.
I had but to see her for a moment in the midst of this adulation to comprehend the whole history of her life. The poet brought his verses, the musician his strains, the sculptor laid his own image of herself at her feet; the most rapturous verses, the most polished flatteries, met her as she entered. Mademoiselle Mars herself swelled the chorus of these praises, and seemed prouder in the triumphs of herprotégéethan she had ever been in her own. Margot accepted all this homage as a queen might have done. She received it as a tribute that was due, and of which none dared to defraud her. Shall I own that if at first a modest humility and a girlish diffidence had been more gratifying to me to witness, yet, as the hours wore on, not only had I accustomed myself to bear with, but I actually felt myself joining in that same spirit of adulation which seemed so meetly offered at this shrine?
What sad repinings, what terrible self-reproaches come over me as I write these lines! My thoughts all turn to the very darkest, and yet the most brilliant, moment of my life: the brightest in all its actual splendor and delight,—the gloomiest in its dreary memory! Lest these fancies should master me, I will pursue my story rapidly, coldly, apathetically, if I may. I will not suffer a word, if I can help it, to escape me that may unman me for my task, now all but completed. I suppose that no man can write of himself without becoming more or less his own apologist. Even in his self-accusings there will be mingled a degree of commiseration, and his judgments will be found tempered with merciful considerations. I would that I were capable of something better, bolder, and more manly than this. I would that others might learn of my “short-comings,” and be taught by my “over-reachings”! But though I cannot point the moral, I will tell the tale.
Margot—it was the caprice of the moment—presented me to the society as her cousin. I was the Chevalier de Bertin, of good family and ample fortune. “Passionné pour les arts,” as she said, “and the devoted slave of genius.” The introduction was well calculated to insure me a favorable reception; and so it proved. I was at once admitted into all the masonry of the craft. The “coulisses” of every theatre were open to me; the private box of the prima donna, the editorial sanctum, the dressing-room where the great actress received her chosen few, and the little supper-table, at which a place would have been a boon to royalty,—all were mine. To support myself, and maintain a condition proportionate to my pretended rank, I labored immensely. I wrote for no less than four of the great journals of Paris. I was the leading political writer in the Bonapartist “Presse,” the royalist in the “Gazette de la Vendée,” and the infuriated defender of the Girondins in the terrible columns of “Le Drapeau de Pays,” theatrical and literary criticism being my walk in the pages of the “Avant Scène.”
Two persons only were in my secret,—Sanson, the subeditor of the “Presse,” and Jostard, who was a royalist agent, and who paid with a liberal hand all the advocates of the Bourbons. My intimate knowledge of the secret history of party, my acquaintance with political characters personally, and, above all, my information on England and English topics, gave me enormous advantages, and many of my contributions were attributed to persons high in political station, and speaking the sentiments of authority. I was well versed in the slashing insolence of the military style in which the Bonapartists wrote, and knew all the cant of the Jesuit, as well as the chosen phraseology of the wildest republican. In this way I attacked and replied to myself vindictively, and even savagely. Assault and counter-attack, insulting demands and still more insulting replies, issued forth each morning to amaze the capital, and make men ask how long could such a polemic be sustained without personal vengeance?
In my Bonapartist capacity I assailed Pitt unceasingly. It was the theme of which that party never wearied, and in which all their hatred to England could be carried without openly wounding the susceptibilities of the nation. If I assailed the covert treachery of the English minister by the increased activity in the dockyards during a state of peace, I hailed that very sign in a Bourbonist article as an evidence that the cause of the exiled family had not been abandoned in Great Britain; while in the “Drapeau” I turned attention to the glorious struggle for freedom then sustained by the blacks of St. Domingo under the chivalrous guidance of Toussaint, openly declaring that with the negro lay at that moment the whole destiny of all Europe.
One of these articles—I wrote it half wild with the excitement of a supper at the Rue Choiseul; I came home nearly distracted by a quarrel with a Martogard—I cannot continue—was headed “Noir au Blanc,” and was an insulting comparison between “Negro Chivalry and the White Man's Subserviency.” An outrageously insolent contrast of Bonaparte with Toussaint closed the paper, and occasioned a police visit to the office of the journal, demanding the name and address of the writer. Of these the editor knew nothing; and though he succeeded in establishing his innocence, the journal was declared to be suppressed, and a heavy fine imposed upon its conductors. I was resolved, at whatever sacrifice, to pay this, and consulted with Sanson how best to set about it. My receipts at that time were as follows: from the “Presse” sixty francs daily; fifty from the “Vendée;” the theatrical journal paid me one hundred weekly; and the “Drapeau,” up to the time of its suppression, forty francs for every article, irrespective of its length. In a word, each day's revenue averaged above a hundred and fifty francs, which it was my custom to spend to the last sou-piece.
To sustain the character of wealth and fortune, I not only toiled without ceasing, but I entered on a career of extravagance almost as distasteful to me. Margot loved display of every kind. The theatrical passion seemed to suggest a desire for every species of notoriety; and to please her I set up a costly equipage, with showy liveries and magnificent horses. The dinners I gave were of the most extravagant kind; the bouquets I presented to her each evening at the theatre would have in their price supported a family. My earnings could never have compassed such outlay, and to meet it I became a gambler,—a practised, a professional gambler,—playing with all the calm-headed skill of a deep calculator. Fortune vacillated; but, on the whole, I was a large winner. The fine decreed against the “Drapeau” was fifteen thousand francs,—a large sum for me, and far above what any effort at accumulation could possibly compass. So, indeed, Sanson told me, and laughed at the bare thought of my attempting it. There was, however, he said, a possibility—a mere possibility—of a way to meet this, and he would think over it. I gave him a day or two, and at the end of that time he told me his plan. It was this. There was a certain minister high in the confidence of Bonaparte, whose counsels had not been always followed, nor even listened to at times. These counsels had been founded on the assumption that certain views and intentions of a particular kind were maintained by the royalists,—secretly maintained, but still occasionally shadowed forth in such a way as to be intelligible to all in the secrets of the party. To be plain, the suspected plan was neither more nor less than a union of the royalist with the republican faction to overthrow the Bonapartists. This idea seemed so chimerical to Bonaparte that to broach it was at once to lose character with him for acuteness or political foresight. Not so to him of whom Sanson spoke, and whom I at once pronounced to be Fouché.
“Then you are mistaken,” said he; “but to any other guess I will make no reply, nor, if you press me on this subject, will I consent to continue the negotiation.”
I yielded to his terms; and after a brief interval came an order for me to hold myself in readiness on a particular evening, when a carriage would be sent to fetch me to the house of the minister. At eight, the hour indicated, I was ready; and scarcely had the clock struck when the carriage rolled into the courtyard.
I have been led, as it were by accident, into the mention of this little incident, which had no bearing nor influence on my future; but now that I have touched upon it, I will finish it as briefly as I can.
I was received in a small office-like chamber by a man somewhat past middle life, but whose appearance gave him the look of even age. He was short, broad-shouldered, and slightly stooped; the figure altogether vulgar, but the bead massive and lofty, and the face the strangest mixture of dignity and cunning—a blending of the high-bred gentleman with the crafty pettifogger—I ever beheld. He received me courteously, and at once opened the business for which we met. After some compliments on the vigor of my articles in the “Presse,” he proceeded to ask what my peculiar opportunities might be for knowing the secret intentions of the two great parties who opposed the government.
My replies were guarded and reserved; seeing which, he at once said,—
“This information is to be recompensed.”
I bowed coldly, and only replied that, if he would put distinct questions to me, I should endeavor to answer them.
After some little fencing on both sides, he asked me for the writer of the leading articles in the “Drapeau”—his name and position in life.
For reasons that may be guessed, I declined to reveal these. A similar question as to the “Gazette” met a similar reply. Undeterred by these refusals, he asked me my opinion of these writers' abilities, and the likelihood of their being available to the cause of the Government, under suitable circumstances.
I spoke half slightingly of their talents, but professed implicit trust in their integrity. He turned the conversation then towards politics, and discussed with me the questions on which I had been writing so earnestly, both for and against, in the two opposing journals. The tone of virulent abuse of both was great; and I half hinted that a personalamendewas perhaps the point to which my opponent and as well myself were tending. He smiled slightly, but meaningly.
“That opinion is not yours, then, sir?” asked I.
“Certainly not,” said he, blandly. “Monsieur Bertin of the 'Presse' will not seek satisfaction from Monsieur Bertin of the Drapeau,' still less of Monsieur Bertin of the 'Gazette,' whom he holds in such slight esteem.”
“How, sir! Do you mean to imply that I am the writer in all these journals?”
“You have just told me so, sir,” said he, still smiling; “and I respect the word of a gentleman. The tone of identity assumed on paper is exactly that you have yourself put on when advocating any of these lines of policy. I suspected this from the first; now I know it. Ah, Monsieur Bertin, you are in the mere nursery of craftiness,—not but I must admit you are a very promising child of your years.”
Far from presuming on his discovery, he spoke more kindly and more confidentially than ever to me; asked my reasons for this opinion and for that, and seemed to think that I must have studied the questions I wrote on deeply and maturely. There was nothing like disparagement in his tone towards me, but, on the contrary, an almost flattering appreciation of my ingenuity as a writer.
“Still, Monsieur Bertin,” said he, with affected gravity, “the 'Drapeau' went too far,—that you must allow; and, for your sake as for ours, it is better it should be suppressed. The fine shall be paid, but it must appear to have come from the royalists. Can I trust you for this?”
He looked at me calmly, but steadily as he spoke; and certainly I felt as if any deceit, should I desire it, were perfectly impossible before him. He did not wait for my reply, but, with a seriousness that savored of sincerity, said,—
“The press in France at this moment is the expression of this man or that, but it is no more. We live in a period of too much change to have anything like a public opinion; so that what is written to-day is forgotten to-morrow. Yet with all that, the people must be taught to have one religion of the State as they have one of the Church, and heresies of either kind must be suppressed. Now, Monsieur Bertin, my advice to you is, be of the good fold,—not alone because it is good, but because it is likely to be permanent. Continue to write for the 'Gazette.' When you want information, Sanson will procure it for you; but you must not come here again. Temper your royalist zeal with a seeming regard for your personal safety. Remember that a gentleman gives larger recognizances than asans-culottes; and, above all, keep in mind that you serve us better in those columns than in our own. C'est de la haute politique, de faire combattre ses ennemis pour soi.”
He repeated this sentiment twice over, and then with a courteous gesture dismissed me. I was now in the secret pay of the Government,—no regular allowance made me, but permitted to draw freely; and when any occasion of real information offered, to pay largely for it.
Had time been given me for reflection, I believe I should have abhorred myself for the life I now led. It was one course of daily trick and deception. In society I was a spy; in secret, a traitor. Trusted by all, and false to all, I hurried along in a headlong career of the wildest excitement. To enable me to write, I had recourse to various stimulants; and from one excess to another I became a confirmed opium-eater. I had by habit acquired a degree of nervous irritability that almost defied sleep. For days and days frequently I took no other rest than an occasional half-hour's repose when overcome, and then back to the desk again,—if not refreshed, at least rallied. The turmoil and confusion of my thoughts at any chance interval of quiet was terrific. So long as I was in action, all went well; when my brain was overworked, and my faculties stretched to their extreme tension, the excitement sustained me, and I could develop whatever there was in me of intellectual power. The effort over, and my task accomplished, I became almost bereft of life; a trance-like lethargy seized me; my voice failed, my sight and hearing grew dulled, and I would lie thus, sometimes for hours, scarcely breathing, indifferent to everything.
When I rallied from these seizures, I hurried off to Margot, either to her home or to the theatre. To see her, to speak to her, even to hear her, was enough to call me back once more to life and the love, of life. There was that in her own career, with all its changes and vicissitudes, that seemed to fashion her mind into moods similar to my own. On one day she would be to me like a sister,—kind and warmly affectionate; on another, she would be as though I were her accepted lover, and show me all the tender interest of one whose fate was bound up with my own; and perhaps the very next meeting she would receive me coldly and distrustfully, and darkly hint that my secret life was known to her.
These were to me moments of intense agony. To see through them was worse than any death, and the very dread of them made existence a perfect torture. Till I had seen her I never knew, each day, in what mood she might feel towards me; and if I revelled in the heaven of her smiles, felt her deep glances descending into my very heart, and thrilled with ecstasy at each word she uttered, suddenly there would come the thought that this was but a dream, and that to-morrow would be the dreadful awaking!
Her conduct was inexplicable, for it changed sometimes within the compass of a few hours, and from warmest confidence would become the most chilling reserve. She would pour out her whole heart before me; tell me how barren were all the triumphs she had achieved; how remote from happiness was this eternal struggle for fame; how her nature yearned for one true, unchanging devotion; how this mockery of passion made shipwreck of all real feeling, and left the nature worn out, wearied, and exhausted. She would, perhaps at our next meeting, efface all thought of this confidence by some passionate burst of enthusiasm for the stage, and some bold apostrophe to the glory of a great success,—scornfully contrasting such a moment with the whole happiness of a life spent m obscurity. I own that in these outbursts of her wildest imagination her beauty of expression attained its highest excellence. Her dark eyes flashed with the fire of an inspired nature, and her whole figure seemed imbued with a more than mortal loveliness; while in her softer moods there was a sad and plaintive tenderness about her that subdued the spirit, and made her seem even more worthy of love than she had been of admiration. These fitful changes, which at first were only displayed in private, became after a while palpable to the public eye. On one night she would thrill an audience with horror, and in the power of her delineations make the very sternest natures yield to terror. At another, she would shock the public by some indifference to the exigencies of the scene, walk through her part in listless apathy, and receive with calm unconcern the ill-disguised disapproval of the spectators. At such times praise or blame were alike to her; she seemed like one laboring under some pressure of thought too engrossing to admit of any attention to passing objects; and in this dreary pre-occupation she moved like one spell-bound and entranced.
To allude to these passing states of mind after they had occurred was sure to give her deep offence; and although for a while I dared to do this, yet I saw reason to abandon the attempt, and maintain silence like the rest. The press, with less delicacy, expressed severe censure on what they characterized as an insulting appreciation of the public, and boldly declared that the voices which had made could still unmake a reputation, and that the lesson of contempt might soon pass from behind the footlights to the space before them.
It was both my province to keep these criticisms from her eye, and to answer them in print; and for a while I succeeded. I wrote, I argued, I declaimed,—now casuisti-cally expressing praise of what in my heart I condemned; now seeming to discover a hidden meaning where none existed. I even condescended to appeal to the indulgence of the public in favor of those whose efforts were not always under their own control, and whose passing frames of sorrow or sickness must incapacitate them at seasons from embodying their own great conceptions. So sensitive had she become on the subject of remark that the slightest allusion to her health was now resented as an offence, and even Mademoiselle Mars dared not to say that she looked paler or thinner, or in better or worse spirits,—so certain would any allusion of the kind be to displease her.
This irritability gradually widened and extended itself to everything. The slightest sign of inattention of the audience—any movement in the house while she was acting—a want of ability in thoseen scènewith her—an accidental error in even their costume—gave umbrage; and she would stop in her part, and only by an effort seem able to recover herself and continue. These evidences of indifference to public opinion—for so were they construed—gradually arrayed against her nearly the entire force of the press.
They who had been her most devoted admirers, now displayed all their zeal in the discovery of her faults. The very excellences they had once extolled, they now censured as stage trickery and deceit. One by one, they despoiled her of every qualification for art, save her beauty; and even that, they said, already proclaimed its perishable nature. My heart sickens as I think over the refined cruelty of these daily attacks,—the minute and careful anatomy of humanity studied to inflict misery! To stem this torrent of opinion, I devoted myself alone. Giving up all other writing, I thought only of Margot and her cause. I assailed her critics with the foulest abuse. I aspersed their motives, and not unfrequently their lives. I eagerly sought out circumstances of their private habits and actions, and proclaimed them to the world as the men who dared to teach the expressions by which virtues should be rendered, and of whose very existence they were ignorant. I contrasted their means of judgment with their daily lives. I exhibited them as mere hirelings, the cowardly bravos of a degenerate age; and, of course,—for Paris was always the same in this respect,—various duels were fastened on me for my insolence.