Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume Ii Part 48

With these words he drew from his bosom a small square volume, bound in vellum, and fastened by a clasp; lettered on the cover, "Signals of the Channel Fleet."

This was the secret of honest Paul's life; and as he turned over the leaves, he expatiated with eloquent delight on the various British emblems which were represented there, in all their brilliant coloring.

"That double streak of yellow on the black is to make all sail, Comrades," said he. "Whenever they see us standing out to sea you may remark that signal flying."

"And what is this large blue flag here, with all the colored bars across it?" said one.

"Ay," cried another, "they're very fond of that ensign; what can it be?"

"Close action," growled out Paul, sullenly, who didn't fancy even the reflective praise this question implied to the hated rival.

"_Sacrebleu!_" said a third, "they've no other to announce a victory.

Look here; it is the same flag for both."

Paul shut up the book at this, with a muttered curse, which might have been intended either for his comrades or the English, or both together, and the whole party became suddenly silent.

It was now that the landlord's tact became conspicuous; for instead of any condoling expressions on what might have been deemed the unsuccessful result of Paul's career, he affected to think that the brave seaman was more to be envied for the possession of that volume than if he walked the deck an admiral of France.

This flattery, aided by a fresh supply of Burgundy, had full success; and from story-telling the party fell to singing,--the songs being only a more boastful detail of their prowess at sea than their prose narratives; and even here Paul maintained his supremacy.

Sleep, however, stronger than self-glorification and pride, fell on the party one by one, and they lay down at last on the tables and benches, and slumbered heavily.

CHAPTER x.x.xI. A MOONLIGHT RECOGNITION

I sat on my bed in the little chamber allotted me, and as the bright moonlight streamed along the floor, and lit up the wide landscape without, I hesitated within myself whether I should await the morning, or at once set forth on my way to the coast. It was true the abbe had not arrived; and without him I knew nothing of the vessel, nor where she lay, much less by what means I should induce the crew to receive me as a pa.s.senger. But my heart was fixed on gaining the coast; once there, I felt that the sea alone rolled between me and my country, and I had little doubt some means of escape would present itself.

The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a pa.s.sion.

I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very uncertainty.

As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was cautiously opened, and the landlord entered.

"He is come," whispered he; "and, thank Heaven! not too late."

"The abbe?" inquired I.

"No, not the abbe; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbe will not venture; but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is off the coast; the wind is fair--"

"And not a moment to be lost," added a deep, low voice, as the figure of a tall man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, darkened the doorway. "Leave us, Pierre; this is the gentleman, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," said the landlord. "Should you need a light, I 'll bring one."

"Thank you, friend; we can dispense with any, save what the moon affords us."

As the door closed on the retiring figure of the host, the stranger took his place beside me on the bed, and in a low voice thus began:--

"I only know, sir, that you have the full confidence of one of my stanchest and best friends, who tells me that you are willing to incur great risk, provided you gain the chance of reaching your native land.

That chance--nay, I will call it that certainty--lies in my power; and, in return for the a.s.sistance, are you willing to do me a service?"

"I served the Emperor, sir; ask me not anything unworthy of one who wore his epaulette. Aught else, if it be but honorable and fair, I 'll do."

"I have no leisure for casuistry, nor is it my humor, sir," replied he angrily. "Neither do I seek any wondrous devotion at your hands. The service is an easy one: costs nothing at the present; involves nothing for the future."

"The slight value you place upon it may detract but little from my objection," said I.

"_Sacre ciel!_" exclaimed he, in a louder voice, as he sprang from the bed and clasped his hands before him. "Is it to be ever thus? Is every step we take to be marred by some unlooked for casualty? Is the stamp of fear and vacillation to be on every act of our lives? This abbe, the creature we have made, the man whose fortune is our handiwork, could render but one service to our cause; and he fails us in our need. And now, you--"

"Beware, sir, how you speak to one who has never been accustomed to hear his name slightingly used nor his honor impugned. With your cause, whatever it be, I have no sympathy. Remember that; and remember, also, we are strangers to each other."

"No, _par Saint Denis!_ that we are not!" said he, seizing me by the arm, as he turned his head round, and stared me steadfastly in the face.

"It was but this instant I deemed my fortune at the worst; and now I find myself mistaken. Do you know me now?" said he, throwing off his travelling cap, and letting his cloak fall from his shoulders to the ground.

"De Beauvais!" exclaimed I, thunderstruck at the sight.

"Yes, sir; the same De Beauvais whose fortunes you have blighted, whose honor you have tarnished--Interrupt me not. The mill at Holbrun witnessed the latter, if even the former were an error; and now we meet once more."

"Not as enemies, however; at least on my side. You may persist, if you will, in attributing to me wrongs I never inflicted. I can better bear the imputation, unjust though it be, than involve myself in any quarrel with one I feel no anger towards. I was in hopes a few hours hence might have seen me on my way from France forever; but here, or elsewhere, I will not reply to your enmity."

De Beauvais made no reply as I concluded, but with his arms crossed, and head bent down, seemed lost in thought.

"And so," said he, at length, in a slow, sad voice, "you have not found the service of the Usurper as full of promise as you hoped; you have followed his banner long enough to learn how mean a thing even ambition may be, and how miserably selfish is the highest aspiration of an adventurer!"

"The Emperor was my good master," said I, sternly; "it would ill become me to vent my disappointment on aught save my own demerits."

"I have seen as slight deservings bring a high reward, notwithstanding,"

replied he; "ay, and win their meed of praise from lips whose eulogy was honor. There was a service, Burke--"

"Stay, no more of this!" said I. "You are unjust to your own cause and to me, if you deem that the hour of baffled hopes is that in which I could see its justice. _You_ are true and faithful to one whose fortunes look darkly. I respect the fidelity, while I will not follow its dictates. I leave the path where fame and riches abound; I only ask you to believe that I do so with honor. Let us part, then."

"Where do you mean to go, hence?"

"I know not; a prospect of escape had led me hither. I must now bethink me of some other course."

"Burke, I am your debtor for one kindness, at least," said De Beauvais, after a brief pause. "You saved my life at the risk of your own. The night at the Chateau d'Ancre should never be forgotten by me; nor had it been, if I did not revenge my own disappointed hopes, in not seducing you to our cause, upon yourself. It may be that I wrong you in everything as in this."

"Believe me, that you do, De Beauvais."

"Be it as it may, I am your debtor. I came here to-night to meet one who had pledged himself to perform a service. He has failed in his promise; will you take his place? The same means of escape shall be yours. All the precautions for his safety and sure conduct shall be taken in your behalf. I ask no pledge for the honorable discharge of what I seek at your hands, save your mere a.s.sent."

"What is it you require of me?"

"That you deliver these letters to their several addresses; that you do so with your own hands; that when questioned, as you may be, on the state of France, you will not answer as the partisan of the Usurper."

"I understand you. Enough: I refuse your offer. Your zeal for the cause you serve must indeed be great when it blinds you to all consideration for one placed as I am."

"It has made me forget more, sir, far more than that, as I might prove to you, were I to tell what my life has been for two years past. But for such forgetfulness there is an ample recompense, a glorious one,--the memory of our king." He paused at these words, and in his tremulous voice and excited gesture I could read the pa.s.sion that worked within him. "Come, then; there shall be no more question of a compact between us. I ask no conditions, I seek for no benefits: you shall escape.

Take my horse; my servant, who is also mounted, will accompany you to Beudron, where you will find fresh horses in readiness. This pa.s.sport will prevent all interruption or delay; it is countersigned by Fouche himself. At Lisieux, which you will reach by sunset, you can leave the cattle, and the boy of the cabaret will be your guide to the Falaise de Biville. The tide will ebb at eleven o'clock, and a rocket from the sloop will be your signal to embark."