Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume I

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XXIX. LA ROSE OF PROVENCE.

  The one thought that dwelt in my mind the entire day was that Marie deRochfort was Charles de Meudon's sister. The fact once known, seemed toexplain that secret power she exercised over my hopes and longings. Thespell her presence threw around ever as she passed me in the park; thatstrange influence with which the few words I had heard her speak stillremained fast rooted in my memory,--all these did I attribute to thehold her name had taken of my heart as I sat night after night listeningto her brother's stories. And then, why had I not guessed it earlier?why had I not perceived the striking resemblance which it now seemedimpossible to overlook? The dark eye, beaming beneath a brow squarelychiselled like an antique cameo; the straight nose, and short, up-turnedlip, where a half-saucy look seemed struggling with a sweet smile; andthen the voice,--was it not his own rich. Southern accent, tempered byher softer nature? Yes; I should have known her.

  In reflections like these I made my round of duty, my whole heartwrapped up in this discovery. I never thought of De Beauvais, or hisletter. It seemed to me as though I had known her long and intimately.She was not the Rose de Provence of the Court, the admired of theTuileries, the worshipped belle of Versailles; but Marie de Meudon, thesister of one who loved me as a brother.

  There was a dark alley near the Trianon that led along the side of alittle lake, where rocks and creeping plants, rudely grouped together,gave a half-wild aspect to the scene; the tall beech and the droopingash-trees that grew along the bank threw their shadows far across thestill water. And here I had remarked that Mademoiselle de Meudon camefrequently alone. It was a place, from its look of shade and gloom,little likely to attract the gay visitors of the Court, who better lovedthe smoothly-shaven grass of the Palace walks, or the broad terraceswhere bright fountains were plashing. Since I discovered that sheavoided me when we met, I had never taken this path on my rounds,although leading directly to one of my outposts, but preferred rather adifferent and longer route.

  Now, however, I sought it eagerly; and as I hurried on, I dreaded lestmy unwonted haste might excite suspicion. I resolved to see and speakto her. It was her brother's wish that I should know her; and till now Ifelt as though my great object in coming to France was unobtained, if Iknew not her whose name was hallowed in my memory. Poor Charles usedto tell me she would be a sister to me. How my heart trembled at thethought! As I drew near I stopped to think how she might receive me;with what feelings hear me speak of one who was the cause of all herunhappiness. But then they said she loved De Beauvais. What! was poorClaude forgotten? Was all the lovedream of her first affection passed?

  My thoughts ran wild as different impulses struggled through them, and Icould resolve on nothing. Before me, scarcely a dozen paces, and alone,she stood looking on the calm lake, where the light in golden andgreen patches played, as it struggled through the dense foliage. Theclattering of my sabre startled her, and without looking back, shedropped her veil, and moved slowly on.

  "Mademoiselle de Meudon!" said I, taking off my shako, and bowing deeplybefore her.

  "What! how! Why this name, sir? Don't you know it's forbidden here?"

  "I know it, Madame. But it is by that name alone I dare to speak to you.It was by that I learned to know you,--from one who loved you, and whodid not reject my humble heart; one who, amid all the trials of hardfate, felt the hardest to be,--the wrong he did his sister."

  "Did you speak of my brother Charles?" said she, in a voice low andtremulous.

  "I did, Madame. The last message his lips ever uttered was given tome,--and for you. Not until last night did I know that I was every hourof the day so near to one whose name was treasured in my heart."

  "Oh, tell me of him! tell me of my dear Charles!" cried she, as thetears ran fast down her pale cheeks. "Where was his death? Was it amongstrangers that he breathed his last? Was there one there who loved him?"

  "There was! there was!" cried I, passionately, unable to say more.

  "And where was that youth that loved him so tenderly? I heard of himas one who never left his side,--tending him in sickness, and watchingbeside him in sorrow. Was he not there?"

  "I was! I was! My hand held his; in my ear his last sigh was breathed."

  "Oh! was it you indeed who were my brother's friend?" said she, seizingmy hand, and pressing it to her lips. The hot tears dropped heavily onmy wrist, and in my ecstasy I knew not where I was. "Oh," cried she,passionately, "I did not think that in my loneliness such a happiness asthis remained for me! I never dreamed to see and speak to one who knewand loved my own dear Charles; who could tell me of his solitary hoursof exile,--what hopes and fears stirred that proud heart of his; whocould bring back to me in all their force again the bright hours of ourhappy youth, when we were all to each other,--when our childhood knewno greater bliss than that we loved. Alas, alas! how short-lived was itall! He lies buried beyond the sea in the soil of the stranger; and Ilive on to mourn over the past and shudder at the future. But come, letus sit down upon this bank; you must not leave me till I hear all abouthim. Where did you meet first?"

  We sat down upon a grassy bench beside the stream, where I at once beganthe narrative of my first acquaintance with De Meudon. At first the rushof sensations that came crowding on me made me speak with difficulty andeffort. The flutter of her dress as the soft wind waved it to and fro,the melody of her voice, and her full, languid eye, where sorrow andlong-buried affection mingled their expression, sent thrillingthrough my heart thoughts that I dared not dwell upon. Gradually, as Iproceeded, my mind recurred to my poor friend, and I warmed as I spokeof his heroic darings and his bold counsels. All his high-souled ardor,all the nobleness of his great nature,--his self-devotion, and hissuffering,--were again before me, mingled with those traits of womanlysoftness which only belong to those whose courage was almost fanaticism.How her dark eyes grew darker as she listened, and her parted lips andher fast-heaving bosom betrayed the agitation that she felt! And howthat proud look melted into sorrow when I told of the day when hisoutpouring heart recurred to home and her, the loved one of his boyhood.Every walk in that old terraced garden, each grassy alley and each shadyseat, I knew as though I saw them.

  Although I did not mention Claude, nor even distinctly allude to thecircumstances which led to their unhappiness, I could see that her cheekbecame paler and paler; and that, despite an effort to seem calm,the features moved with a slight jerking motion, her lip trembledconvulsively, and, with a low, sad sigh she fell back fainting.

  The Lady of the Lake 300]

  I sprang down the bank towards the lake, and in an Instant dipped myshako in the water; and as I hastened back, she was sitting up, her eyesstaring madly 'round her, her look wild almost to insanity, while heroutstretched finger pointed to the copse of low beech near us.

  "There, there! I saw him!" said she. "He was there now. Look! look!"

  Shocked at the terrified expression of her features, and alarmed lestray story had conjured up before her disordered imagination the image ofher lost brother, I spoke to her in words of encouragement.

  "No, no!" replied she to my words, "I saw him,--I heard his voice, too.Let us leave this; bring me to the Trianon; and--"

  The terrified and eager look she threw around at each word did not admitof longer parley, and I drew her arm within mine to lead her forward."This is no fancy, as you deem it," said she, in a low and broken tone,to which an accent of bitterness lent a terrible power; "nor could thegrave give up before me one so full of terror to my heart as him I sawthere."

  Her head sank heavily as she uttered this; and, notwithstanding everyeffort I made, she spoke no more, nor would give me any answer to myquestions regarding the cause of her fears.

  As we walked forward we heard the sound of voices, which she at oncerecognized as belonging to the Court party, and pressing my handslightly, she motioned me to leave her. I pressed the pale fingers to mylips, and darted away, my every thought bent on discovering the cause ofher late fright.

  I
n an instant I was back beside the lake. I searched every copse andevery brake; I wandered for hours through the dark woods; but nothingcould I see. I stooped to examine the ground, but could not even detectthe pressure of a footstep. The dried branches lay unbroken, and theleaves unpressed around; and I at last became convinced that an excitedbrain, and a mind harassed by a long sorrow, had conjured up the imageshe spoke of. As I approached the picket, which was one of the mostremote in my rounds, I resolved to ask the sentry had he seen any one.

  "Yes, Lieutenant," said the soldier; "a man passed some short time agoin an undress uniform. He gave the word, and I let him proceed."

  "Was he old or young?"

  "Middle-aged, and of your height."

  "Which way did he take?"

  "He turned towards the left as he passed out; I lost sight of him then."

  I hurried immediately onward, and entered the wood by the path in thedirection mentioned, my mind painfully excited by what I heard, andresolved to do everything to probe this matter to the bottom. But,though I walked miles in every direction, I met none save a fewfagot-gatherers, and they had not seen any one like him I sought for.

  With a weary and a heavy heart I turned towards my quarters, all thehappiness of the morning dashed by the strange event I have related.My night was feverish and disturbed; for a long time I could not sleep,and, when I did, wild and terrible fancies came on me, and I started upin terror. A horrible face recurred at every instant to my mind's eye;and even when awake, the least noise, the slightest rustling of theleaves in the park, agitated and excited me. At last, worn out with thepainful struggle, between sleep and waking, I arose and dressed.

  The day was breaking, and already the birds were carolling to the risingsun. I strolled out into the park. The fresh and bracing air of morningcooled my burning brow; the mild influences of the hour, when sweetperfumes float softly in the dew-loaded breeze, soothed and calmed me;and I wandered back in thought to her who already had given a charm tomy existence I never knew before.

  The long-wished-for dream of my boyhood was realized at last. I knewthe sister of my friend; I sat beside her, and heard her speak to me intones so like his own. I was no longer the friendless alien, without oneto care for, one to feel interested in his fortunes. The isolation thatpressed so painfully on me fled before that thought: and now I feltraised in my own esteem by those dark eyes that thanked me as I spoke ofpoor Charles. What a thrill that look sent through my heart! Oh, didshe know the power of that glance! Could she foresee what seeds of highambition her every smile was sowing! The round of my duty was to medevoid of all fatigue, and I returned to my quarters with a light stepand a lighter heart.

  The entire day I lingered about the Trianon and near the lake; but Marienever came, nor did she appear in the walks at all. "Was she ill? Hadthe vision, whatever it was, of yesterday, preyed upon her health?" weremy first thoughts, and I inquired eagerly if any doctor had been seenabout the chateau. But no, nothing unusual seemed to have occurred, anda ball was to take place that very evening. I would have given worlds,were they mine, even to know in what part of the Palace she was lodged;and fifty times did I affect to have some duty, as an excuse to crossthe terrace and steal a cautious glance towards the windows,--but invain.

  So engrossed was my mind with thoughts of her that I forgot all else.The pickets, too, I had not visited since daybreak, and my report to theminister remained unfilled. It was late in the evening when I salliedforth to my duty, and night, with scarce a star, was falling fast. Mypreoccupation prevented my feeling the way as I walked along; and I hadalready visited all the outposts except one, when a low, faint whistle,that seemed to issue from the copse near me, startled me. It wasrepeated after a moment, and I called out,--

  "Who 's there? Advance."

  "Ah, I thought it was you, Burke!" said a voice I at once knew to beBeauvais's. "You broke faith with me at the town-gate yonder, and so Ihad to come down here."

  "How? You surely were not there when I passed?"

  "Yes, but I was, though. Did you not see the woodcutter, with his blouseon his arm, lighting his pipe at the door of the guardhouse?"

  "Yes; but you can't mean that it was you."

  "Do you remember his saying, 'Buy a cheap charretie of wood, Lieutenant;I 'll leave it at your quarters? '"

  "De Beauvais," said I, gravely, "these risks may be fatal to us both.My orders are positive; and if I disobey them, there are no powerfulfriends nor high relatives to screen me from a deserving punishment."

  "What folly you speak, Burke! If I did not know you better, I should sayyou grudged me the hospitality I have myself asked you for. One night torest,--and I need it much, if you knew but all,--and one day to speak toMarie, and you have done with me. Is that too much?"

  "No,--not if I did not betray a trust in sheltering you, far too littleto speak of, much less thank me for. But--"

  "Do spare me these scruples, and let us take the shortest way to yourquarters. A supper and three chairs to sleep on, are worth all yourarguments, eloquent though they be."

  We walked on together, almost in silence: I overwhelmed with fear forthe result should my conduct ever become known; he evidently chagrinedat my reception of him, and little disposed to make allowances forscruples he would not have respected himself.

  "So here we are at last," said he, as he threw himself on my littlesofa, seemingly worn out with exhaustion. I had now time to look at himby the light, and almost started back at the spectacle that presenteditself. His dress, which was that of the meanest peasant, was ragged andtorn; his shoes scarce held together with coarse thongs; and his beard,unshaven for weeks past, increased the haggard look of features whereactual want and starvation seemed impressed.

  "You are surprised at my costume," said he, with a sad smile; "and,certes, Crillac would not court a customer habited as I am just now. Butwhat will you say when I assure you that the outward man--and youwill not accuse him of any voluptuous extravagance--has a very greatadvantage over the inner one? In plain words, Lieutenant, you 'd hurryyour cook, if you knew I have not tasted food, save what the hedgesafford, for two days: not from poverty neither; there 's wherewithalthere to dine, even at Beauvilliers's." He rattled a well-filled purseas he spoke.

  "Come, come, De Beauvais! you accuse me of doing the honors with a badgrace; and, in truth, I wish I were your host outside the pickets. Butlet me retrieve my character a little. Taste this capon."

  "If you never dined with a wolf, you shall now," said he, drawing hischair to the table and filling a large goblet with Burgundy.

  For ten or fifteen minutes he ate on like a man whom long starvationhad rendered half savage; then ceasing suddenly, he looked up, and said,"Lieutenant, the cuisine here might tempt a more fastidious man than Iam; and if these people are not hospitable enough to invite you to theirsoiries, they certainly do not starve you at home."

  "How knew you that I was not asked to the chateau?" said I, reddeningwith a sense of offended pride I could not conceal.

  "Know it? Why, man, these things are known at once. People talk of themin saloons and morning visits, and comment on them in promenades; andthough I seem not to have been keeping company with the beau mondelatterly, I hear what goes on there too. But trust me, boy, if yourfavor stands not high with the Court of to-day, you may perhaps bepreparing the road to fortune with that of to-morrow."

  "Though you speak in riddle, De Beauvais, so long as I suspect that whatyou mean would offer insult to those I serve, let me say,--and I say itin all temper, but in all firmness,--you 'll find no ready listenerin me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief,General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health."

  "I'll drink no more wine to-night," said he, sulkily pushing his glassbefore him. "Is this to be my bed?"

  "Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, forI shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak."

  "In Heaven's name, for what?" said he, with a half sneer. "What canthat poor Savar
y be dreaming of? Is there any one about to stealthe staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of theTuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid oflosing?"

  "Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an oldscholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gainsbattles."

  "Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember thatsame evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to beyour friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see younow; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours."

  "You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. Anight's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world."

  "Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must takeleave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, thereare some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as youexpect."

  "Well, well! What say you to bed?"

  "I 'll sleep where I am," said he, with some harshness in his tone."Good-night."

  The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shadinghis eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.

  It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day'swalking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closedmy eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,--the haggardexpression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking whatenterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. Itmust be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His veryvoice was changed,--its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant;his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.

  At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenlyawakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened.It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, andsoon sank into the long-drawn respiration of repose. Poor fellow! evenin his dreams his thoughts were of strife and danger.