Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume II

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XIII. THE CHEVALIER.

  When men of high courage and proud hearts meet with reverses in life,our anxiety is rather to learn what new channel their thoughts andexertions will take in future, than to hear how they have borne up undermisfortune. I knew Duchesne too well to suppose that any turn of fatewould find him wholly unprepared; but still, a public reprimand, andfrom the lips of the Emperor, too, was of a nature to wound him to thequick, and I could not guess, nor picture to myself in what way he wouldbear it. The loss of grade itself was a thing of consequence, as theservice of the _elite_ was reckoned a certain promotion; not to speakof--what to him was far more important--the banishment from Paris andits _salons_ to some gloomy and distant encampment. In speculations likethese I returned to my quarters, where I was surprised to discover thatthe chevalier had not been since morning. I learned from his servantthat he had dismissed him, with his horses, soon after leaving theTuileries, and had not returned home from that time.

  I dined alone that day, and sat moodily by myself, thinking over theevents of the morning, and wondering what had become of my friend, andwatching every sound that might tell of his coming. It is true therewere many things I liked not in Duchesne: his cold, sardonic spirit, his_moqueur_ temperament, chilled and repelled me; but I recognized, eventhrough his own efforts at concealment, a manly tone of independence,a vigorous reliance on self, that raised him in my esteem, and made meregard him with a certain species of admiration. With his unsettled orunstable political opinions, I greatly dreaded the excess to which aspirit of revenge might carry him.

  I knew that the Jacobin party, and the Bourbons themselves, lay inwait for every erring member of the Imperial side; and I felt no littleanxiety at the temptations they might hold out to him, at a moment whenhis excitement might have the mastery over his cooler judgment.

  Late in the evening a Government messenger arrived with a large letteraddressed to him from the Minister of War; and even this caused me freshuneasiness, since I connected the despatch in my mind with some detailof duty which his absence might leave unperformed.

  It was long past midnight, as I sat, vainly endeavoring to occupy myselfwith a book, which each moment I laid down to listen, when suddenlyI heard the roll of a _fiacre_ in the court beneath, the great doorsbanged and closed, and the next moment the chevalier entered the room.

  He was dressed in plain clothes, and looked somewhat paler than usual,but though evidently laboring under excitement, affected his wonted easeand carelessness of manner, as, taking a chair in front of me, he satdown.

  "What a day of worry and trouble this has been, my dear friend!" hebegan. "From the moment I last saw you to the present one, I have notrested, and with four invitations to dinner, I have not dined anywhere."

  He paused as he said thus much, as if expecting me to say something;and I perceived that the embarrassment he felt rather increased thanotherwise. I therefore endeavored to mumble out something about hishurried departure and the annoyance of such a sentence, when he stoppedme suddenly.

  "Oh, as to _that_, I fancy the matter is arranged already; I should havehad a letter from the War Office."

  "Yes, there is one here; it came three hours ago."

  He turned at once to the table, and breaking the seal, perused thepacket in silence, then handed it to me, as he said,--

  "Bead that; it will save a world of explanation."

  It was dated five o'clock, and merely contained the following fewwords:--

  His Majesty I. and R. accepts the resignation of Senior Captain Duchesne, late of the Imperial Guard; who, from the date of the present, is no longer in the service of France.

  (Signed)

  BERTHIER, Marshal of France.

  A small sealed note dropped from the packet, which Duchesne took up, andbroke open with eagerness.

  "Ha! _parbleu!_" cried he, with energy; "I thought not. See here, Burke;it is Duroc who writes:--"

  My dear Duchesne,--I knew there was no use in making such a proposition, and told you as much. The moment I said the word 'England,' he shouted out 'No!' in such a tone you might have heard it at the Luxembourg. You will perceive, then, the thing is impracticable; and perhaps, after all, for your own sake, it is better it should be so.

  Yours ever, D.

  "This is all mystery to me, Duchesne; I cannot fathom it in the least."

  "Let me assist you; a few words will do it. I gave in my _demission_ asCaptain of the Guard, which, as you see, his Majesty has accepted;we shall leave it to the 'Moniteur' of to-morrow to announce whethergraciously or not. I also addressed a formal letter to Duroc, to ask theEmperor's permission to visit England, on private business of my own."His eyes sparkled with a malignant lustre as he said these last words,and his cheek grew deep scarlet. "This, however, his Majesty has notgranted, doubtless from private reasons of his own; and thus we stand.Which of us, think you, has most spoiled the other's rest for thisnight?"

  "But still I do not comprehend. What can take you to England? You haveno friends there; you've never been in that country."

  "Do you know the very word is proscribed,--that the island is coveredfrom his eyes in the map he looks upon, that _perfide_ Albion is thedemon that haunts his dark hours, and menaces with threatening gesturethe downfall of all his present glory? Ah, by Saint Denis, boy! had Ibeen you, it is not such an epaulette as this I had worn."

  "Enough, Duchesne; I will not hear more. Not to you, nor any one, amI answerable for the reasons that have guided my conduct; nor had Ilistened to so much, save that such excitement as yours may make thatpardonable which in calmer moments is not so."

  "You say right, Burke," said he, quickly, and with more seriousness ofmanner; "it is seldom I have been betrayed into such a passionate warmthas this. I hope I have not offended you. This change of circumstancewill make none in our friendship. I knew it, my dear boy. And now let usturn from such tiresome topics. Where, think you, have I been spendingthe evening? But how could you ever guess? Well, at the Odeon, attendingMademoiselle Pierrot, and a very pretty friend of hers,--one of ourvivandieres, who happens to be in the brigade with mademoiselle'sbrother, and dined there to-day. She only arrived in Paris this morning;and, by Jove! there are some handsome faces in our gay _salons_ wouldscarcely stand the rivalry with hers. I must show you the fair Minette."

  "Minette!" stammered I, while a sickly sensation--a fear of some unknownmisfortune to the poor girl--almost stopped my utterance. "I know her;she belongs to the Fourth Cuirassiers."

  "Ah, you know her? Who would have suspected my quiet friend of such anacquaintance? And so, you never hinted this to me. _Ma foi!_ I 'd havethought twice about throwing up my commission if I had seen her halfan hour earlier. Come, tell me all you know of her. Where does she comefrom?"

  "Of her history I am totally ignorant; I can only tell you that hercharacter is without a stain or reproach, in circumstances where few, ifany save herself, ever walked scathless; that on more than one occasionshe has displayed heroism worthy of the best among us."

  "Oh dear, oh dear, how disappointed I am! Indeed, I half feared as much:she is a regular vivandiere of the melodrame,--virtuous, high-minded,and intrepid. You, of course, believe all this,--don't be angry,Burke,--but I don't; and the reason is I can't,--the gods have leftme incredulous from the cradle. I have a rooted obstinacy about me,perfectly irreclaimable. Thus, I fancy Napoleon to be a Corsican; amodern marshal to be a promoted sergeant; a judge of the upper court tobe a public prosecutor; and a vivandiere of the _grande armee_--But I'llnot offend,--don't be afraid, my poor fellow,--even at the risk of therivalry. Upon my life, I 'm glad to see you have a heart susceptibleof any little tenderness. But you cannot blame me if I 'm weary of thiseternal travesty of character which goes on amongst us. Why will ourRepublican and _sans culotte_ friends try courtly airs and graces, whileour real aristocracy stoop to the affected coarseness of the _canaille?_Is it possible that
they who wish to found a new order of things do notsee that all these pantomime costumes and characters denote nothingbut change,--that we are only performing a comedy after all? I scarcelyexpect it will be a five-act one. And, apropos of comedies,--when shallwe pay our respects to Madame de Lacostellerie? It will require all mydiplomacy to keep my ground there under my recent misfortune. Nothingshort of a tender inquiry from the Duchesse de Montserrat will open thedoors for me. Alas, and alas! I suppose I shall have to fall back on theFaubourg."

  "But is the step irrevocable, Duchesne? Can you really bring yourself toforego a career which opened with such promise?"

  "And terminated with such disgrace," added he, smiling placidly.

  "Nay, nay; don't affect to take it thus. Your services would have placedyou high, and won for you honors and rank."

  "And, _ma foi!_ have they not done so? Am I not a very interestingindividual at this moment,--more so than any other of my life? Are nothalf the powdered heads of the Faubourg plotting over my downfall, andwondering how they are to secure me to the 'true cause'? Are not the hotheads of the Jacobites speculating on my admission, by a unanimous vote,into their order? And has not Fouche gone to the special expense of anew police spy, solely destined to dine at the same cafe, play at thesame _salon_, and sit in the same box of the Opera with me? Is thisnothing? Well, it will be good fun, after all, to set their wise brainson the wrong track; not to speak of the happiness of weeding one'sacquaintance, which a little turn of fortune always effects soinstantaneously."

  "One would suppose from your manner, Duchesne, that some unlooked-forpiece of good luck had befallen you; the event seems to have been thecrowning one of your life."

  "Am I not at liberty, boy? have I not thrown the slavery behind me? Isthat nothing? You may fancy your collar, because there is some gold uponit; but, trust me, it galls the neck as cursedly as the veriest brass.Come, Burke, I must have a glass of champagne, and you must pledge me ina creaming bumper. If you don't join in the sentiment now, the time willcome later on. We may be many a mile apart,--ay, perhaps a whole worldwill divide us; but you'll remember my toast,--'To him that is free!'I am sick of most things; women, wine, war, play,--the game of lifeitself, with all its dashing and existing interests,--I have had themto satiety. But liberty has its charm; even to the palsied arm and thewithered hand freedom is dear; and why not to him who yet can strike?"

  His eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and he drained glass after glass ofwine, without seeming aware of what he was doing.

  "If you felt thus, Duchesne, why have you remained so long a soldier?"

  "I 'll tell you. He who travels unwillingly along some dreary path stopsoften as he goes, and looks around to see if, in the sky above or theroad beneath, some obstacle may not cross his way and bid him turn. Thefaintest sound of a brewing storm, the darkening shadow of a cloud,a swollen rivulet, is enough, and straightway he yields: so men seemswayed in life by trifles which never moved them, by accidents whichcame not near their hearts. These, which the world called theirdisappointments, were often but the pivots of their fortune. I havehad enough, nay, more than enough, of all this. You must not ask thehackneyed actor of the melodrama to start at the blue lights, and feelreal fear at burning forests and flaming chateaux. This mock passion ofthe Emperor--"

  "Come, my friend, that is indeed too much; unquestionably there was nofeigning there."

  Duchesne gave a bitter laugh, and laying his hand on my arm, said,--

  "My good boy, I know him well. The knowledge has cost me something; butI have it. A soldier's enthusiasm!" said he, in irony,--"bah! Shall Itell you a little incident of my boyhood? I detest story-telling, butthis you must hear. Fill my glass! listen, and I promise you not to belengthy."

  It was the first time in our intimacy in which Duchesne referreddistinctly to his past life; and I willingly accepted the offer he made,anticipating that any incident, no matter how trivial, might throw alight on the strange contrarieties of his character.

  He sat for several minutes silent, his eyes turned towards the ground. Afaint smile, more of sadness than aught else, played about his lips, ashe muttered to himself some words I could not catch. Then rallying, witha slight effort, he began thus--But, short as his tale was, we must givehim a chapter to himself.