The woman, whose fears were immediately dissipated by his youth and candid appearance, as well as by the probability of the story he told her, then began in her turn to relate her distresses. She told him that the French republican army had over run the country, and finding no resistance, had for some days established an hospital for their sick at the castle of Rosenheim. They had first, she said, paid for what they had, and been less sanguinary and ferocious than the inhabitants of the country expected; but on the arrival of a deputy from the assembly, they suddenly determined on an immediate removal, and as their sick and wounded were by this time in a condition to be moved, they had sent them into France; and the commissioner, or deputy, having learned that the castle belonged to an Imperial general, Baron de Rosenheim, and that Count D’Alberg was his son-in-law, he ordered the castle to be plundered and then fired; “and we,” continued the poor woman, “we have suffered because we were my lord the Baron’s vassals. Ah! my friend, we have suffered indeed — my husband, my poor husband, whom the good god knows if I shall ere see again, has been compelled by them to drive their waggons towards France, leaving me and these children, whom he never left before, destitute of every thing; for the little we had since my good ladies left us, has been taken away!” “Your ladies were good ladies then,” said D’Alonville, “and you regret them?”
Ah! that we do indeed,” replied she; “never were better masters than ours, or ladies so charitable; ah! my poor little Ulric,” addressing herself to the infant she held, “you would not now be sick as you are, and without help, if Madame D’Alberg and my lady the Baroness were here; folks may say what they will of all people being upon a footing; but I am sure one such good house as our castle above was, is a thousand times better for the poor than all these new notions that have brought us no good yet.”
D’Alonville having listened to the female peasant till she had nearly told her tale of sorrow, began at length to make more minute enquiries into the state of the castle; for on reflection he thought it possible that what he came in search of flames. The woman told him that some parts of the building were as she understood less injured than the rest, but that the little she knew was only from the report of her neighbours; “for I have never had the heart to go up there myself,” said she, “and for these four or five days, since I saw it all in flames, and just upon my husband was forced to go, my trouble has been so great that I have been as it were out of my senses.” D’Alonville now determined to visit the ruins in the morning, and to stay till then where he was, if his new acquaintance would permit him — she readily agree to allow him to remain in her house and by her fire, which was all the accommodation she had to offer him; for her mattrasses, she told him, had been carried away for the sick men when they were removed from the castle, and she had no food in the house, having subsisted for the last two of three days on the charity of such of her neighbours as had been lucky enough to conceal some of their provisions from the plunder of the Sans Culottes. D’Alonville assured her he would thankfully pay her for the liberty of remaining near her fire, where wrapping himself up in his coarse peasant’s coat, and seating himself in a corner near the chimney, the fatigue he had undergone prevented his feeling the want of a bed, and gave him up to a few hours of repose.
CHAPTER VIII.
One only lest; — in these disastrous hours
“The sad Historian,” of the ruin’d Towers
AT the dawn of the morning D’Alonville hastened to satisfy his hostess for the shelter he had obtained under her roof, and to secure himself the same accommodation for the following night, if he should have occasion for it, and then, rather to indulge a melancholy imagination, than with any other fixed purpose, he took his way to the castle of Rosenheim. The appearance of the building, dismantled, and in many parts so much injured as to threaten to fall with every wind, was even more dismal now that it was distinctly seen, than it had been when it seemed only black and broken ruins, by the dim light of the evening before. He entered what had once been the guard-house, in the outward area, and passed through the court among piles of stones and immense beams half burnt, to the remains of the great hall, of which only the walls were now in being; D’Alonville made his way through it, and among piles of fallen bricks, towards that part of the building where he believed, from description, for he had never seen it himself, that the chapel had been; and that anti-room, whether, if it had still existed, his search would have been directed. Slowly and with difficulty he proceeded along he proceeded along to a door-way, which he found so choaked with stones and rubbish, that he meditated a moment whether he had better return to find a passage round another way, or endeavour with his hands to remove the impediments which prevented his passing by this, when he was surprised by a deep sigh, which seemed to come from the pile of ruins before him; he listened attentively, heard it a second time, and without farther reflection he forced away the sones around the door way, and entered the space whence it seemed to proceed.
He saw, sitting on a mass, of bricks and rubbish, and old man, whose grey locks fell over his hands as they supported his head, with his elbows resting on his knees. The noise D’Alonville made seemed not to have roused his from his melancholy reverie, but glad to see any one who might give him information, D’Alonville spoke to him — he looked up, and discovered an honest open countenance, deeply sorrowed by the hand of time, but where that of recent calamity seemed to have fallen more heavily— “Are you of this place, my friend,” enquired D’Alonville, when he had obtained his attention: “Of what place?” replied the old man; “Do you mean of this castle, or of the village below?” “I would enquire whether you belonged to either?” “And who are you, young man?” “One,” answered D’Alonville, “who most sincerely deplores the ruin of this noble mansion, and the injury sustained by its excellent owners.” “I should know your voice,” said the old man, “but my memory is quite gone; where have I ever seen you before?” “Perhaps,” rejoined D’Alonville, “You were a domestic here.” “I was once so,” answered he, “but of late years I had retired to a small house in the village, given me by the Baron, my good master; but when the Baroness was afraid of an attack, I went into the castle, for old as I am now, I was a soldier once, and I could at least instruct the younger men — aye, and I could have used a sabre once more!” — D’Alonville saw that his ancient companion having once began to talk, he should hear all he wanted to know. “But the Baroness and her daughter left us,” continued he, “ and in two days afterwards the French poured in upon us!”
“And did you attempt to defend the castle?” enquired D’Alonville.
“I would have attempted it, and there were two or three others of the same mind; but what were two or three? The greatest part were cowardly enough to desire nothing but their own safety, they opened the gates to the French — and they sent hither their sick and wounded, and made,” added he with a deep sigh; “they made an hospital of the castle of Rosenheim.”
He paused a while, as if to recover from the painful recollection of a circumstance which filled him with indignation.
“The rascals remained here almost three weeks,” resumed he, “and by that time they learned to whom the castle and the village belonged. The names of Rosenheim and D’Alberg were well known to them; and when they removed, they sent away their sick, set fire to the caste, and plundered the village.”
“I fear then you have lost all your property,” said D’Alonville. “Every thing I had in the world,” replied the old man. “All that the bounty of my lord had given to make my latter days comfortable; but it is not that which grieves me — no! I have but a little while to live, and I can die in the empty shed that is yet left me. But to see my master’s house a heap of ruins! Ah! that is what I find it hard to bear. It is now near forty years since the Baron took me to be his servant; I served under him in the year 1757, at the siege of Leipsic, where he had an arm broke in two places. I attended him during his tedious recovery; and afterwards, when the death of his son afflic
ted him so severely as to occasion a dangerous illness, it was only my attendance that he would allow. Madame D’Alberg too, my dear young mistress!” Grief for a moment impeded the simple, melancholy narrative; but making an effort to recover himself, he went on.
“All is over,” said he. “I have heard that Count D’Alberg is killed; my lady and the countess her daughter are driven away; and they and my lord the Baron will return no more, if indeed so many is fortunes do not kill them.”
D’Alonville would have consoled the venerable mourner, and have offered to his view brighter prospects; but he had none to offer. The desolation around him, the evident injury that his friends had sustained, the sad scenes that had passed when he had first sought their hospitality, combined now to depress him. If he who had youth and health, could see little else before him but despair; and to an old man, the ruin that had overwhelmed his master’s house, to which alone he was attached, was possibly as afflicting as those misfortunes that D’Alonville suffered in his own person; neither of them seemed disposed to break their sorrowful silence; at length D’Alonville enquired if every part of the castle was as much injured as that where they now stood.
“Nearly, so,” answered the ancient domestic. “I will shew you,” added he, “if you desire it, round on the other side, where I think the walls less are damaged, and some left are standing, from their thickness, though the fire has destroyed all the wood-work. D’Alonville silently followed the old man, who feebly and with difficulty made his way among the fragments of broken stone, which in some places yet smoked. When they came to what was a state apartment, he stopped, and pointed to a mass of iron which had once been a magnificent stove, but was now partly melted by the violence of the heat. He stooped and picked up a piece that was broken; “It was my lord’s arms,” said he, “cast in iron ; it belonged to the ornaments of the stove, and see how little it is injured.” — D’Alonville at that moment recollected that the strong closet, in which was left the deeds he came to recover, was described to him as being lined, or secured with iron. This old man, so long a confidential servant of the Baron’s could probably point out the place. Animated once more with the hope of recovering them, he determined to disclose himself, and the purpose of his visit to his conductor. “A hectic of a moment,” passed across the languid countenance of the old servant. Timid and cautious, from sufferings and from experience he hesitated for an instant after D’Alonville ceased to speak; but it was impossible even for the cold caution of age to look at a countenance so ingenious, or listen to a narrative so clear and simple, without soon losing all doubts of the integrity of D’Alonville. “I know,” said Rodolph, (which was the name of the old servant) “I know, Sir, all the importance of the papers you speak of but is it possible that my lord when he went to Vienna, or the Baroness, when she was driven from hence, should have neglected to have secured these papers?” D’Alonville briefly re-counted what had happened to himself at the castle when the family were compelled to leave it, and accused himself of being in some measure the cause of this unfortunate neglect. Rodolph then recollected him, “Ah! yes, Sir,” said he, “I now remember you — I knew I had seen you before, and not long ago. In that dismal day when my dear good lady left us, she employed me, because she knew she could trust me, in packing up some of the valuable articles; I saw many papers, and rolls of parchment, which I thought might be those deeds, and therefore I never reminded her of them; indeed I did not certainly know they were in the castle, for I supposed my lord might have taken them to Vienna when he last went thither about the law suit. If they should be lost, “continued he, “it will be nearly as detrimental to my lord as the burning of his house.” “It was represented to me,” answered D’Alonville, as being much more so; let us see then what we can do towards regaining them, my good old friend.” “Ah! Sir, “ said the old man in a trembling voice, “could I, before I die, be of any service to my lord”— “Shew me the place,” said D’Alonville, “and let us try what can be done.”
They now arrived where an arched passage had led to the anti-room immediately before the chapel; but towards the end the wall had fallen in; “We must go round,” said Rodolph; “There is a better chance of getting through the chapel.” There indeed the difficulties were less, for there being only a roof above and no range of apartments, as over the other parts of the edifice, the area was less obstructed by what had fallen. With an anxious heart D’Alonville followed his conductor to that end which led to the anti-room. It was arched with stone, which had preserved part of it; but the rubbish that had fallen from the other part was higher than the place, which the old man pointed out as the iron-lined closet. “We must remove these stones,” said D’Alonville, “or we shall never know whether the place we seek has escaped the fury of the flames.” It was an arduous task; for the ruins that rose above them threatened them with destruction, and the wind as it muttered around the broken wall, seemed to menace them as if blasts a little more violent would overwhelm them beneath the tottering fragments. Feeble and dispirited, and trembling with age and sorrow, the faltering hands of the honest old domestic were but of little use; but D’Alonville, whom the hope of success roused to the utmost exertion, laboured with such diligence and effect, that in about an hour the bricks and stones were removed; the iron door, which had probably been concealed from the plunderers by the arras with which the room was hung, was now visible; but the wood work was destroyed that had encompassed it, and the rubbish had broken in. D’Alonville, at the risk of bringing the wall down upon him, forced it open; it gave way; for the hinges were loosened by the weight of the bricks above. He saw a leathern sack, which the old man assured him contained what he was in search of; D’Alonville eagerly seized it. “Are there any more papers,” enquired he? “Let me not fail now for want of an exact search. He found two other small parcels enveloped in paper; and nothing more remaining, he retired precipitately; and breathless with the satisfaction he felt, hurried into the chapel “Never more,” said he, as he sat down on a broken pillar; “Never more will I complain of my ill fortune. Oh! my worthy old friend, how shall I make you any acknowledgment adequate to the service I have received from you. I , alas! who am more reduced by fortune than you are!” “All I desire,” replied the faithful veteran, “is to hear these papers are safe in the hands of my masters — but I shall never hear it,” added he, dejectedly; “No, never! I am too old to go to them, and they will never come back here — I have nothing to do but to go die in my cold shed.”
To recur thus to self is but too natural to the old and helpless; Rodolph forgot the success of D’Alonville in behalf of his lord, in reflecting that he himself should not personally partake of the satisfaction such a circumstance would occasion in the family. “You shall not die,” cried D’Alonville, in your cold shed. “I am very sure that when the Baroness knows what has happened — for yet you know she is ignorant that the village has been plundered and the castle burnt; when she knows what has happened, she will order you to be removed near her, unless indeed you rather wish to continue here, and to have your house refitted.” “Continue here,” answered Rodolph, “what, in the seat of war! — No — of I had been able I would have crept after the Baron to Vienna; for with one so old and helpless it would not have been reasonable to have added to the troubles of my lady, who knew not whither to be herself.” “And what hinders you,” enquired D’Alonville from going now with me. Have you a wife or any other connection that you cannot leave?” “Alas! no,” answered the old man. “My wife has been dead many years; she left me a daughter, who married the valet of a French nobleman that came about five years ago on a visit to my lord. She went into France with her husband; and it is very long since I have heard of her. I have no child left to help me; and my sister, who since my daughter married, kept my house, was so terrified on the arrival of the French army in our village, that being old and sickly before, she grew worse upon it, and died ten days ago.”
D’Alonville listened to this narrative of sorrow, with a
s much interest as he could feel on any subject that did not immediately relate to the means of conveying safely to such a distance, what he had so miraculously recovered. The old man had ceased speaking long before he had formed any plan that appeared feasible. The present question, however, was to secure these papers in some place of safety in the village; for he considered, that if he were seen thus loaded, he might incur suspicions injurious to himself and hazardous to his charge. He thought it best, therefore, after a moment’s reflection, to divide them; to fill the pockets of the old man and his own, which he immediately did; but as these conveyances were not sufficient for all, he secured others under his waistcoat. Having done this he dismissed Rodolph to his cottage, assuring him, he would himself be with him immediately, and that they would talk farther of his going to his ancient master. The honest old servant seemed to be arrived at that period of life, when hope but faintly warms the human heart; he felt that, like the faithful dog of Ulysses, he could do little more than look upon his master and die at his feet; and he seemed half unwilling to move from the place where he had seen better days, only to linger out a few miserable months among strangers; but D’Alonville was persuaded he should render an acceptable service to his generous benefactors, in rescuing their ancient domestic from the calamitous situation to which he was reduced.
Having dismissed his companion, D’Alonville thought of gratifying the mournful inclination thought of gratifying the mournful inclination he felt to visit the place where his father was buried. He found his way with some difficulty to the spot. The heat of the fire had withered the shrubs that grew around it; but from their remains, and his former observations, he found the very place where he so lately wept over the remains of his only parent. Those sensations of sorrow were now renewed; yet when D’Alonville reflected on all he had since suffered, and looked forward in mournful presentiment to what was probably still to come, he hardly wished his father had lived to struggle with the bitterest evils of life; — poverty and exile. To mourn over the dereliction of principle which had estranged him from his eldest son; the convulsions that had imprisoned the sovereign to whom he was attached, and the overthrow of the government he had sworn to support. “The dead are happy,” cried he; “in the grave they have not the storms that shake to its centre the miserable kingdom of France! Oh my father! would I too were in peace; but my feeble arm may yet be called for in the service of that country for which you died. I remember your last injunctions, and I will endeavour to obey them.” The unfortunate young man now returned to the village; and after many projects, on which he consulted old Rodolph, it was agreed, that they should proceed together in a little cart to Coblentz, and pass for an old peasant and his son; concealing in the boards of their humble vehicle the papers they had so fortunately obtained. In every plan they formed there appeared hazard and difficulty; but after examining them all, this seemed the least objectionable. The old domestic, who could not have undertaken such a journey on foot, seemed in the expectation of reaching once more the protection of his ancient master, to be sensible of the only gleam of hope that could cheer his forlorn and melancholy existence; and awakened in some measure from the torpor of despair, to which he was before resigned, he set himself about the preparations for their journey with such earnestness, that he obtained an horse, and with the aid of a neighbour got a light cart of his mended, in which, after depositing what they judged of the most consequence in the safest place, D’Alonville and Rodolph began their journey. They were stopped twice by straggling parties of French, who now were in possession of many leagues of the country through which they passed; but Rodolph managed his story so well, that they seemed so perfectly what they represented, that on the fourth day after leaving Rosenheim they arrived safely at Coblentz.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 164
