The distribution of the “cordons” was always made the occasion of a grand military spectacle, and the Emperor determined that the present one should convey a powerful impression of the effective strength of his army, as well as of its perfect equipment; and accordingly orders were despatched to the different generals of division within twelve or fifteen leagues of Berlin, to march their corps to the capital. The 28th of November was the day fixed for this grand display, and all was bustle and preparation for the event.
On the morning of the 22d, I received an official note from the bureau of the adjutant-general desiring me to wait on him before noon that same day. Concluding it referred to my promised promotion to the “Legion,” it was with somewhat of a fluttered and excited feeling I found myself, at some few minutes after eleven o’clock, in the antechamber, which already was crowded with officers, some seeking, some summoned to an interview.
In the midst of the buzz of conversation, which, despite the reserve of the place, still prevailed, I heard my name called, and followed an aide-de-camp along a passage into a large room, which opened into a smaller apartment, where, standing with his back to the fire, I perceived Marshal Berthier, his only companion being an officer in a staff uniform, busily engaged writing at a table.
“You are Captain Burke, of the Eighth Hussars, I believe, sir?” said the marshal, reading slowly from a slip of paper he held twisted round one finger.
“Yes, sir.”
“By birth an Irishman,” continued the marshal; “entered at the Polytechnique in August, 1801. Am I correct?” I bowed. “Subsequently accused of being concerned in the conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru,” resumed he, as he raised his eyes slightly from the paper, and fixed them searchingly upon me.
“Falsely so, sir,” was my only reply.
“You were acquitted, – that’s enough: a reprimand for imprudence, and a slight punishment of arrest, was all. Since that time, you have conducted yourself, as the report of your commanding officer attests, with zeal and steadiness.”
He paused here, and seemed as if he expected me to say something; but as I thought the whole a most strange commencement to the ceremony of investing me with a cross of the Legion, I remained silent.
“At Paris, when attached to the élite, you appear to have visited the Duchess of Montserrat, and frequented her soirées.”
“Once, sir; but once I was in the house of the duchess. My visit could scarcely have occupied as many minutes as I have spent here this morning.”
“Dined occasionally at the ‘Moisson d’Or,” continued the marshal, not noticing in any way my reply. “Well, as I believe you are now aware that there are no secrets with his Majesty’s Government, perhaps you will inform me what are your relations with the Chevalier Duchesne?”
For some minutes previous my mind was dwelling on that personage; and I answered the question in a few words, by stating the origin of our acquaintance, and briefly adverting to its course.
“You correspond with the chevalier?” said he, interrupting.
“I have never done so; nor is it likely, from the manner in which we parted last, that I ever shall.”
“This scarcely confirms that impression, sir,” said the marshal, taking an open letter from the table and holding it up before me. “You know his handwriting; is that it?”
“Yes; I have no doubt it is.”
“Well, sir, that letter belongs to you; you may take and read it. There is enough there, sir, to make your conduct the matter of a court-martial; but I am satisfied that a warning will be sufficient. Let this be such then. Learn, sir, that the plottings of a poor and mischievous party harmonize ill with the duties of a brave soldier; and that a captain of the Guards might choose more suitable associates than the dupes and double-dealers of the Faubourg St. Germain. There is your brevet to the ‘Legion,’ signed by the Emperor. I shall return it to his Majesty; mayhap at some future period your conduct may merit differently. I need hardly say that a gentleman so very little particular in the choice of his friends would be a most misplaced subject for the honor of the ‘Legion.’”
He waved his hand in sign for me to withdraw, and overwhelmed with confusion, I bowed and left the room. Nor was it till the door closed behind me that I felt how cruelly and unjustly I had been treated; then suddenly the blood rushed to my face and temples, my head seemed as if it would burst at either side, and forgetting every circumstance of place and condition, I seized the handle of the door and wrenched it open.
“Marshal,” said I, with the fearlessness of one resolved at any risk to vindicate his character, “I know nothing of this letter; I have not read one line of it. I have no further intimacy with the writer than an officer has with his comrade; but if I am to be the subject of espionage to the police, – if my chance acquaintances in the world are to be matter of charges against my fealty and honor, – if I, who have nothing but my sword and my epaulette – ”
When I had got thus far I saw the marshal’s face turn deadly pale, while the officer at the table made a hurried sign to me with his finger to be silent. The door closed nearly at the same instant, and I turned my head round, and there stood the Emperor. The figure is still before me; he was standing still, his hands behind his back, and his low chapeau deeply pressed upon his brows. His gray frock was open, and looked as if disordered from haste.
“What is this?” said he, in that hissing tone he always assumed when in moments of passion, – “what is this? Are we in the bureau of a minister? or is it the salle de police? Who are you, sir?”
It was not until the question had been repeated that I found courage to reply. But he waited not for my answer, as, snatching the open letter from my fingers, he resumed, —
“It is not thus, sir, you should come here. Your petition or memorial – Ha! parbleu! what is this?”
At the instant his eyes fell upon the writing, and as suddenly his face grew almost livid. With the rapidity of lightning he seemed to peruse the lines. Then waving his hand, he motioned towards the door, and muttered, – “Wait without!”
Like one awaking from a dreadful dream, I stood, endeavoring to recall my faculties, and assure myself how much there might be of reality in my wandering fancies, when I perceived that a portion of the letter remained between my fingers as the Emperor snatched it from my hand.
A half-finished sentence was all I could make out; but its tone made me tremble for what the rest of the epistle might contain: —
“Surpassed themselves, of course, my dear Burke; and so has the Emperor too. It remained for the campaign in Prussia to prove that one hundred and eighty-five thousand prisoners can be taken from an army numbering one hundred and fifty-four thousand men. As to Davoust, who really had all the fighting, though he wrote no bulletin, all Paris feels – ”
Such was the morsel I had saved; such a specimen of the insolence of the entire.
The dreadful fact then broke suddenly upon me that this letter had been written by Duchesne to effect my ruin; and as I stood stupefied with terror, the door was suddenly opened, and the Emperor passed, out. His eyes were turned on me as he went, and I shrank back from their expression of withering anger.
“Captain Burke!” said a voice from within the room, for the door continued open.
I entered slowly, but with a firm step. My mind was made up; and in the force of a resolute determination, I found strength for whatever might happen.
“It would appear, sir,” said the marshal, addressing me with a stern and severe expression of features, “it would appear that you permit yourself the widest liberty in canvassing the acts of his Majesty the Emperor; for I find you here mentioned “ – he took a paper from the table as he spoke – “as declaiming, in a public café, on the subject of the Prince de Hatzfeld, and expressing, in no measured terms, your disapproval of his imprisonment.”
“All that I said upon the subject, sir, so far as I can recollect, was in praise of the Emperor for clemency so well bestowed.”
“There was no high-flown sentiment on the breach of honorable confidence effected in opening private letters?” said the marshal, sarcastically.
“Yes, sir; I do remember expressing myself strongly on that head.”
“I am not surprised, sir,” interrupted he, “at your indignation; your own conscience must have prompted you on the occasion. When a gentleman has such correspondents as the Chevalier Duchesne, he may well feel on a point like this. But enough of this. I have his Majesty’s orders regarding you, which are as follows – ”
“Forgive me, I beg you, sir, the liberty of interrupting you for one moment. I am an alien, and therefore little versed in the habits and usages of the land for whose service I have shed my blood; but I am sure a marshal of France will not refuse a kindness to an officer of the army, however humble his station. I merely ask the answer to one question.”
“What is it?” said the marshal, quickly.
“Am I, as an officer, at liberty to resign my grade, and quit the service?”
“Yes, parbleu!” said he, reddening, “yes, that you are.”
“Then here I do so,” rejoined I, drawing my sword from its scabbard. “The career I can no longer follow honorably and independently, I shall follow no more.”
“Your corps, sir?” said the marshal.
“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard.”
“Take a note of that, Gardanne. I shall spare you all unnecessary delay in tendering a written resignation of your rank; I accept it now. You leave Berlin in twenty-four hours.”
I bowed, and was silent.
“Your passport shall be made out for Paris; you shall receive it to-morrow morning.” He motioned with his hand towards the door as he concluded, and I left the room.
The moment I felt myself alone, the courage which had sustained me throughout at once gave way, and I leaned against the wall, and covered my face with my hands. Yes, I knew it in my heart, – the whole dream of life was over; the path of glory was closed to me forever; all the hopes on which, in sanguine hours, I used to feed my heart, were scattered. And to the miseries of my exiled lot were now added the sorrows of an unfriended, companionless existence. The thought that no career was open to me came last; for at first I only remembered all I was leaving, not the dark future before me. Yet, when I called to mind the injustice with which I had been treated, – the system of espionage to which, as an alien more particularly, I was exposed, – I felt I had done right, and that to have remained in the service at such a sacrifice of my personal independence would have been base and unworthy.
With a half-broken heart and faltering step I regained my quarters, where again my grief burst forth with more violence than at first. Every object about recalled to me the career I was leaving forever; and wherever my eye rested, some emblem lay to open fresh stores of sorrow. The pistols I carried at Elchingen, a gift from General d’Auvergne; an Austrian sabre I had taken from its owner, still ornamented with a little knot of ribbon Minette had fastened to the hilt, – hung above the chimney; and I could scarce look on them without tears. On the table still lay open the ordre du jour which named me to the Legion of Honor; and now the humblest soldier that carried his musket in the ranks was my superior. Not all the principle on which I founded my resolve was proof against this first outburst of my sorrow.
The chivalrous ardor of a soldier’s life had long supplied to me the place of those appliances to happiness which other men possess. Each day I followed it the path grew dearer to me. Every bold and daring feat, every deed of enterprise or danger, seemed to bring me, in thought at least, nearer to him whose greatness was my idolatry. And now, all this was to be as a mere dream, – a thing which had been, and was to be no more.
While I revolved such sad reflections, a single knock came to my door. I opened it, and saw a soldier of my own regiment. His dress was travel-stained and splashed, and he looked like one off a long journey. He knew me at once, and accosted me by name, as he presented a letter from General d’Auvergne.
“You’ve had a smart ride,” said I, as I surveyed his flushed face and disordered uniform.
“Yes, Captain, – from the Oder. Our division is full twelve leagues from this. I left on yesterday morning; for the general was particular that the charger should not suffer on the way, – as if a beast like that would mind double the distance.”
By this time I had opened the letter, which merely contained the following few lines: —
Encampment on the Oder, Nov. 21, 1806.
My dear Burke, – Every new arrival here has brought me some fresh intelligence of you, and of your conduct at Jena; nor can I say with what pride I have heard that the Emperor has included you among the list of the décorés. This is the day I often prophesied for you, and the true and only refutation against the calumnies of the false-hearted and the envious. I send you a Polish charger for your gala review. Accept him from me; and believe that you have no warmer friend, nor more affectionate, than yours,
D’Auvergne, Lieut-General.
Before I had finished reading the letter, my eyes grew so dimmed I could scarcely trace the letters. Each word of kindness, every token of praise, now cut me to the heart. How agonizing are the congratulations of friends on those events in life where our own conscience bears reproach against us! how poignant the self-accusation that is elicited by undeserved eulogy! How would he think of my conduct? By what means should I convince him that no alternative remained to me? I turned away, lest the honest soldier should witness my trouble; and as I approached the window, I beheld in the courtyard beneath the beautiful charger which, with the full trappings of a hussar saddle, stood proudly flapping his deep flanks with his long silken tail. With what a thrill I surveyed him! How my heart leaped, as I fancied myself borne along on the full tide of battle, each plunge he gave responsive to the stroke of my sword-arm! For an instant I forgot all that had happened, and gazed on his magnificent crest and splendid shape with an ecstasy of delight.
“Ay,” said the dragoon, whose eyes were riveted in the same quarter, “there’s not a marshal of France so well mounted; and he knows the trumpet-call like the oldest soldier of the troop.”
“You will return to-morrow,” said I, recovering myself suddenly, and endeavoring to appear composed and at ease. “Well, then, to-night I shall give you an answer for the general; be here at eight o’clock.”
I saw that my troubled air and broken voice had not escaped the soldier’s notice, and was glad when the door closed, and I was again alone.
My first care was to write to the general; nor was it till after many efforts I succeeded to my satisfaction in conveying, in a few and simple words, the reasons of that step which must imbitter my future life. I explained how deeply continued mistrust had wounded me; how my spirit, as a soldier and a gentleman, revolted at the espionage established over my actions; that it was in weighing these insults against the wreck of all my hopes, I had chosen that path which had neither fame nor rank nor honor, but still left me an untrammelled spirit and a mind at peace with itself. “I have now,” said I, “to begin the world anew, without one clew to guide me. Every illusion with which I had invested life has left me; I must choose both a career and a country, and bear with me from this nothing but the heartfelt gratitude I shall ever retain for one who befriended me through weal and woe, and whose memory I shall bless while I live.”
I felt relieved and more at ease when I finished this letter; the endeavor to set my conduct in its true light to another had also its effect upon my own convictions. I knew, besides, that I had sacrificed to my determination all my worldly prospects, and believed that where self-interest warred with principle, the right course could scarcely be doubtful.
All this time, not one thought ever occurred to me of how I was to meet the future. It was strange; but so perfectly had the present crisis filled my mind, there was not room for even a glance at what was to come.
My passport was made out for Paris, and thither I must go. So much was decided for me without intervention on my part; and now it only remained for me to dispose of the little trappings of my former estate, and take the road.
The Jews who always accompanied the army, offered a speedy resource in this emergency. My anxiety to leave Berlin by daybreak, and thus avoid a meeting of any acquaintances there, made me accept of the sums they offered. To them such negotiations were of daily occurrence, and they well knew how to profit by them. My whole worldly wealth consisted of two hundred napoleons; and with this small pittance to begin life, I sat myself down to think whither I should turn, or what course adopt.
The night passed over thus, and when day dawned, I had not closed my eyes. About four o’clock the diligence in which I had secured a place for Weimar drew up at my door. I hurried down, and mounting to a seat beside the conducteur, I buried my face in the folds of my cloak, nor dared to look up until we had passed beyond the precincts of the city, and were travelling along on the vast plain of sand which surrounds Berlin.
The conducteur was a Prussian, and divining my military capacity in my appearance, he maintained a cold and distant civility; never speaking, except when spoken to, and even then in as few words as possible. This was itself a relief to me; my heart was too full of its own sufferings to find pleasure in conversation, and I dreamed away the hours till nightfall.
CHAPTER XXVI. A FOREST PATH
When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed. Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as comrades.
The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There, footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look, toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of compassionate contempt on those whose wild vivas burst forth in greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other. Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation, had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it thus I should appear before her?
A hundred times came the thought to join the new levies as a soldier, to carry a musket in the ranks. But then came back in all its force the memory of the distrust and suspicion my services had met with: the conviction hourly became clearer to me, that I fought not for liberty, but despotism; that it was not freedom, but slavery, in whose cause I shed my blood.
To avoid meeting with the detachments which each day occupied the road, I turned from the chaussée on passing Eisenach, and took a forest path that led through Murbach to Fulda. My path led through the Creutz Mountains, – a wild and unfrequented tract of country, where few cottages were to be seen, and scarcely a village existed. Vast forests of dark pines, or bleak and barren mountains, stretched away on either side; a few patches of miserable tillage here and there met the view; but the scene was one of saddening influence, and harmonized but too nearly with my own despondency.
To reach a place of shelter for the night, I was more than once obliged to walk twelve leagues during the day, and had thus to set out before daylight. This exertion, however, brought its own reward: the stimulant of labor, the necessity of a task, gradually allayed the mental irritation I suffered under; a healthier and more manly tone of thinking succeeded to my former regrets; and with a heart elevated, if not cheered, I continued my way.
The third day of my toilsome journey was drawing to a close. A mass of heavy and lowering clouds, dark and thunder-charged, slowly moved along the sky; and a low, moaning sound, that seemed to sigh along the ground, boded the approach of a storm. I was still three leagues from my halting-place, and began to deliberate within myself whether the dense pine-wood, which came down to the side of the road, might not afford a safer refuge from the hurricane than the chances of reaching a house before it broke forth.
The shepherds who frequented these dreary tracts often erected little huts of bark as a shelter against the cold and severity of the wintry days, and to find out one of these now was my great endeavor. Scarcely had I formed the resolve, when I perceived a small path opening into the wood, at the entrance to which a piece of board nailed against the trunk of a tree, gave tidings that such a place of security was not far distant. These signs of forest life I had learned in my wanderings, and now strode forward with renewed vigor.
The path led gradually upwards, along the mountain-side, which soon became so encumbered with brushwood that I had much difficulty in pushing my way, and at last began to doubt whether I might not have wandered from the track. The darkness was now complete; night had fallen, and a heavy crashing rain poured down upon the tree-tops, but could not penetrate through their tangled shelter. The wind, too, swept in loud gusts above, and the long threatened storm began. A loud, deafening roar, like that of the sea itself, arose, as the leafy branches bent before the blast, or snapped with sudden shock beneath the hurricane; clap after clap of thunder resounded, and then the rain descended in torrents, – the heavy drops at last, trickling from leaf to leaf, reaching me as I stood. Once more I pushed forward, and had not gone many paces when the red glare of a fire caught my eye. Steadfastly fastening my gaze upon the flame, I hurried on, and at length perceived with ecstasy that the light issued from the window of a small hovel, such as I have already mentioned. To gain the entrance of the hut I was obliged to pass the window, and could not resist the temptation to give a glance at the interior, whose cheerful blaze betokened habitation.
It was not without surprise that, instead of the figure of a shepherd reposing beside his fire, I beheld that of an old man, whose dress bespoke the priest, kneeling in deep devotion at the foot of a small crucifix attached to the wall. Not all the wild sounds of the raging storm seemed to turn his attention from the object of his worship; his eyes were closed, but the head thrown backwards showed his face upturned, when the lips moved rapidly in prayer. Never had I beheld so perfect a picture of intense devotional feeling; every line in his marked countenance indicated the tension of a mind filled with one engrossing thought, while his tremulous hands, clasped before him, shook with the tremor of strong emotion.
What a contrast to the loud warring of the elements, that peaceful figure, raised above earth and its troubles, in the spirit of his holy communing! how deeply touching the calm serenity of his holy brow, with the rolling crash of falling branches, and the deep baying of the storm! I did not dare to interrupt him; and when I did approach the door it was with silent step and noiseless gesture. As I stood, the old priest – for now I saw that he was such – concluded his prayer, and detaching his crucifix from the wall, he kissed it reverently, and placed it in his bosom; then, rising slowly from his knees, he turned towards me. A slight start of surprise, as quickly followed by a smile of kindly greeting, escaped him, while he said in French, —
“You are welcome, my son; come in and share with me the shelter, for it is a wild night.”
“A wild night, indeed, Father,” said I, casting my eyes around the little hut, where nothing indicated the appearance of habitation. “I could have wished you a better home than this against the storms of winter.”
“I am a traveller like yourself,” said he, smiling at my mistake; “and a countryman, too, if I mistake not.”
The accents in which these words were spoken pronounced him a Frenchman, and a very little sufficed to ratify the terms of our companionship; and having thrown a fresh billet on the fire, we both seated ourselves before it My wallet was, fortunately, better stored than the good father’s; and having produced its contents, we supped cheerfully, and like men who were not eating their first bivouac meal.
“I perceive, Father,” said I, as I remarked the manner in which he disposed his viands, “I perceive you have campaigned ere now; the habits of the service are not easily mistaken.”
“I did not need that observation of yours,” replied he, laughing slightly, “to convince me you were a soldier; for, as you truly say, the camp leaves its indelible traces behind it. You are hastening on to Berlin, I suppose?”
I blushed deeply at the question; the shame of my changed condition had been hitherto confined to my own heart, but now it was to be confessed before a stranger.
“I ask your pardon, my son, for a question I had no right to ask; and even there, again, I but showed my soldier education. I am returning to France; and in seeking a short path from Eisenach, found myself where you see; as night was falling, well content to be so well lodged, – all the more, if I am to have your companionship.”
Few and simple as these words were, there was a tone of frankness in them, not less than the evidence of a certain good breeding, by which he apologized for his own curiosity in speaking thus freely of himself, that satisfied me at once; and I hastened to inform him that circumstances had induced me to leave the service, in which I had been a captain, and that I was now, like himself, returning to France.
“You must not think, Father,” added I, with some eagerness, “you must not think that other reasons than my own free will have made me cease to be a soldier.”
“It would ill become me to have borne such a suspicion,” interrupted he, quickly. “When one so young and full of life as you are leaves the path where lie honor and rank and fame, he must have cause to make the sacrifice; for I can scarce think, that at your age, these things seem nought to your eyes.”
“You are right, Father, they are not so. They have been my guiding stars for many a day; alas, that they can be such no longer!”
“There are higher hopes to cherish than these,” said he, solemnly, – “higher than the loftiest longings of ambition; but we all of us cling to the things of life, till in their perishable nature they wean us off with disappointment and sorrow. From such a trial am I now suffering,” added he, in a low voice, while the tears rose to his eyes and slowly coursed along his pale cheeks.
There was a pause neither of us felt inclined to break, when at length the priest said, —
“What was your corps in the service?”
“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard,” said I, trembling at every word.
“Ah, he was in the Guides,” repeated he, mournfully, to himself; “you knew the regiment?”
“Yes, they belonged to the Guard also; they wore no epaulettes, but a small gold arrow on the collar.”
“Like this,” said he, unfastening the breast of his cassock, and taking out a small package, which, among other things, contained the designation of the Corps des Guides in an arrow of gold embroidery. “Had he not beautiful hair, long and silky as a girl’s?” said he, as he produced a lock of light and sunny brown. “Poor Alphonse! thou wouldst have been twenty hadst thou lived till yesterday. If I shed tears, young man, it is because I have lost the great earthly solace of my solitary life. Others have kindred and friends, have happy homes, which, even when bereavements come, with time will heal up the wound; I had but him!”
“He was your nephew, perhaps?” said I, half fearing to interfere with his sorrow.
The old man shook his head in token of dissent, while he muttered to himself, —
“Auerstadt may be a proud memory to some; to me it is a word of sorrow and mourning. The story is but a short one; alas! it has but one color throughout: —
“Count Louis de Meringues – of whom you have doubtless heard that he rode as postilion to the carriage of his sovereign in the celebrated flight to Varennes – fell by the guillotine the week after the king’s trial; the countess was executed on the same scaffold as her husband. I was the priest who accompanied her at the moment; and in my arms she placed her only child, – an infant boy of two years. There was a cry among the crowd to have the child executed also, and many called out that the spawn would be a serpent one day, and it were better to crush it while it was time; but the little fellow was so handsome, and looked so winningly around him on the armed ranks and the glancing weapons, that even their cruel hearts relented, and he was spared. It is to me like yesterday, as I remember every minute circumstance; I can recall even the very faces of that troubled and excited assemblage, that at one moment screamed aloud for blood, and at the next were convulsed with savage laughter.
“As I forced my way through the dense array, a rude arm was stretched out from the mass, and a finger dripping with the gore of the scaffold was drawn across the boy’s face, while a ruffian voice exclaimed, ‘The Meringues were ever proud of their blood; let us see if it be redder than other people’s.’ The child laughed; and the mob, with horrid mockery, laughed too.