Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume Ii Part 40

"Among the crowd upon the scaffold of the guillotine I could see the figure of the blind man as it leaned and fell on either side, as the movement of the mob bore it.

"'_Parbleu!_ these Royalists would rather kneel than stand," said a voice, as they in vain essayed to make the old man place his feet under him; and ere the laughter which this rude jest excited ceased, a cry broke forth of--'He is dead! he is dead!' And with a heavy sumph, the body fell from their hands; for when their power of cruelty ended, they cared not for the corpse.

"It was true: life was extinct, none knew how,--whether from the violence of the mob in its first outbreak, or that a long-suffering heart had burst at last; but the chord was snapped, and he whose proud soul lately defied the countless thousands around, now slept with the dead.

"In a few seconds it seemed as though they felt that a power stronger than their own had interposed between them and their vengeance, and they stood almost aghast before the corpse, where no trace of blood proclaimed it to be their own; then, rallying from this stupor, with one voice they demanded that the son should atone for the crimes of the father.

"'I am ready,' cried the youth, in a voice above the tumult. 'I did not deem I could be grateful to ye for aught, but I am for this.'

"To no purpose did the commissary propose a delay in the sentence; he was unsupported by his colleagues. The pa.s.sions of the mob rose higher and higher; the thirst for blood, unslaked, became intense and maddening; and they danced in frantic glee around the guillotine, while they chanted one of the demoniac songs of the scaffold.

"In this moment, when the torrent ran in one direction, Alphonse might have escaped all notice, but that the condemned youth turned to embrace him once more before he descended from the people.

"'They are so sorry to separate, it is a shame to part them,' cried a ruffian in the crowd.

"'You forget, Citizen, that this boy is his subst.i.tute,' said the commissary, mildly; 'the Republic most not be cheated of its defenders.'

"'Vive la Republique!' cried the soldiers; and the cry was re-echoed by thousands, while amid their cheers there rose the last faint sigh of an expiring victim.

"The scene was over; the crowd dispersed; and the soldiers marched back to quarters, accompanied by some hundred conscripts, among whom was Alphonse,--a vague, troubled expression betokening that he scarce knew what had happened around him.

"The regiment to which he was appointed was at Toulon, and there I followed him. They were ordered to the north of Italy soon after, and thence to Egypt. Through the battlefields of Mount Tabor and the Pyramids I was ever beside him; on the heights of Austerlitz I stanched his wounds; and I laid him beneath the earth on the field of Auerstadt."

The old man's voice trembled and became feeble as he finished speaking, and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale as death.

"I must see Sevres once more," said he, after a pause. "I must look on the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares."

"Come, come, Father," said I; "to one who has acted so n.o.ble a part as yours, life is never without its own means of happiness."

"I spoke not of death," replied he, mildly; "but the holy calm of a convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of hope--"

"Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no future,--no hope."

"I will not hear you speak thus," said the priest; "fatigue and weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow,--we shall be fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and consolation where you can see neither."

The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of light at every moment.

"Such is our life here," said the father,--"alternating with its days of happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our joys are greatest, so are our trials also."

He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.

CHAPTER XXVII. A CHANCE MEETING.

With the good priest of Sevres I journeyed along towards the frontier of France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the decisive moment of my leaving the army.

"You see, Father," said I, "how completely my career has failed; how, with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the devotion of a follower, I have adhered to the Emperor's fortunes; and yet--"

"Your ambition, however great it was, could not stifle conscience. I can believe it well. They who go forth to the wars with high hopes and bounding hearts, who picture to their minds the glorious rewards of great achievements, should blind their eyes to the horrors and injustice of the cause they bleed for. Any sympathy with misfortune would sap the very principle of that heroism whose essence is success. Men cannot play the double game, even in matters of worldly ambition. Had you not listened to the promptings of your heart, you had been greater; had you not followed the dazzling glare of your hopes, you had been happier: both you could scarcely be. Be a.s.sured of this, my son, the triumphs of a country can only be enjoyed by the child of the soil; the brave soldier, who lends his arm to the cause, feels he has little part in the glory."

"True, indeed,--most true; I feel it."

"And were it otherwise, how unsatisfying is the thirst for that same glory! how endless the path that leads to it! how many regrets accompany it! how many ties broken! how many friends.h.i.+ps forfeited! No, no; return to your own land,--to the country of your birth; some honorable career will always present itself to him who seeks but independence and the integrity of his own heart. Beneath the conquering eagles of the Emperor there are men of every shade of political opinion; for the conscription is pitiless. There are Royalists, who love their king and hate the usurper; there are Jacobins, who wors.h.i.+p freedom and detest the tyrant; there are stern Republicans--Vendeens, and followers of Moreau: but yet all are Frenchmen. 'La belle France' is the watchword that speaks to every heart, and patriotism is the bond between thousands. _You_ have no share in this; the delusion of national glory can never throw its deception around you. Return, then, to your country; and be a.s.sured, that in _her_ cause your least efforts will be more enn.o.bling to yourself than the boldest deeds the hand of a mercenary ever achieved."

The inborn desire to revisit my native land needed but the counsels of the priest to make it all-powerful; and as, day by day, I plodded onward, my whole thoughts turned to the chances of my escape, and the means by which I could accomplish my freedom; for the war still continued between France and England, and the blockade of the French ports was strictly maintained by a powerful fleet. The difficulty of the step only increased my desire to effect it; and a hundred projects did I revolve in my mind, without ever being able to fix on one where success seemed likely. The very resolve, however, had cheered my spirits, and given new courage to my heart; and an object suggested a hope,--and with a hope, life was no longer burdensome.

Each morning now I set forward with a mind more at ease, and more open to receive pleasure from the varied objects which met me as I went. Not so my poor companion; the fatigue of the journey, added to great mental suffering, began to prey upon his health, and brought back an ague he had contracted in Egypt, from the effect of which his const.i.tution had never perfectly recovered. At first the malady showed itself only in great depression of spirits, which made him silent for hours of the way.

But soon it grew worse; he walked with much difficulty, took but little nourishment, and seemed impressed with a sad foreboding that the disease must be fatal.

"I wanted to reach my village; my own quiet churchyard should have been my resting-place," said he, as he sank wearied and exhausted on a little bank at the roadside. "But this was only a sick man's fancy. Poor Alphonse lies far away in the dreary plain of Auerstadt."

The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their ma.s.sive wavy surface, over which the pa.s.sing clouds threw momentary shadows; before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of France, and upon these the sick man's eyes rested with a steadfast gaze.

"Yes!" said he, after a long silence on both sides, "the fields and the mountains, the suns.h.i.+ne and the shade, are like those of other lands; but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn sense, and the very word 'home' brings with it the whole history of our affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an exile's heart."

I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we should pa.s.s the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there was little hope of finding shelter any nearer.

"You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and after a little it will revive you."

The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very greatest debility.

"I cannot do it, my son," said he, sinking upon the gra.s.sy bench which skirted the way; "you must leave me. It matters little now where this frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank gra.s.s will wave above it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man's blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may cheer you to think on hereafter."

"Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?" said I, reproachfully. "Is it so you think of me?"

"My minutes are few now, my child," replied he, more solemnly, "and I would pa.s.s the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will not,--leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able to accompany you to the village."

I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the top of my speed.

The zigzag path by which I went discovered to me from time to time the lights of the little hamlet, which twinkled star-like in the valley; and as I drew nearer, the confused hum of voices reached me. I listened, and to my amazement heard the deep, hoa.r.s.e bray of a trumpet. How well I knew that sound! it was the night-call to gather in the stragglers.

I stopped to listen; and now, in the stillness, could mark the tramp of hors.e.m.e.n and the clank of their equipments: again the trumpet sounded, and was answered by another at some distance. The road lay straight below me at some hundred yards off, and leaving the path, I dashed directly downwards just as the leading hors.e.m.e.n of a small detachment came slowly up. To their loud _Qui vive?_ I answered by giving an account of the sick man, and entreating the sergeant who commanded the party to lend a.s.sistance to convey him to the village.

"Yes, _parbleu!_ that we will," said the honest soldier; "a priest who has made the campaign of Egypt and Austria is worthy of all our care.

Where is he?"

"About a mile from this; but the road is not practicable for a horseman."

"Well, you shall have two of my men; they will soon bring him hither."

And as he spoke, he ordered two troopers to dismount, who, quickly disenc.u.mbering themselves of their sabres, prepared to follow me.

"We shall expect you at the bivouac," cried the sergeant, as he resumed his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed energy.

"You belong to the Guard, my friends," said I, as I paused for breath at a turn of the path.

"The Fourth Cuira.s.siers of the Guard," replied the soldier I addressed; "Milhaud's brigade."

How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the division General d'Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.