Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CHOUANS

When night came, and all was silent in the prison, I sat down to write my letter to the minister. I knew enough of such matters to be aware that brevity is the great requisite; and therefore, without any attempt to anticipate my accusation by a defence of my motives, I simply but respectfully demanded the charges alleged against me, and prayed for the earliest and most speedy investigation into my conduct. Such were the instructions of my unknown friend, and as I proceeded to follow them, their meaning at once became apparent to me. Haste was recommended, evidently to prevent such explanations and inquiries into my conduct as more time might afford. My appearance at the château might still be a mystery to them, and one which might remain unfathomable if any plausible reason were put forward. And what more could be laid to my charge? True, the brevet of colonel found on my person; but this I could with truth allege had never been accepted by me. They would scarcely condemn me on such testimony, unsupported by any direct charge; and who could bring such save De Beauvais? Flimsy and weak as such pretexts were, yet were they enough in my then frame of mind to support my courage and nerve my heart. But more than all I trusted in the sincere loyalty I felt for the cause of the Government and its great chief, – a sentiment which, however difficult to prove, gave myself that inward sense of safety which only can flow from strong convictions of honesty. “It may so happen,” thought I, “that circumstances may appear against me; but I know and feel my heart is true and firm, and even at the worst, such a consciousness will enable me to bear whatever may be my fortune.”

The next morning my altered manner and happier look excited the attention of the others, who by varions endeavors tried to fathom the cause or learn any particulars of my fate; but in vain, for already I was on my guard against even a chance expression, and, save on the most commonplace topics, held no intercourse with any. Far from being offended at my reserve, they seemed rather to have conceived a species of respect for one whose secrecy imparted something of interest to him; and while they tried, by the chance allusion to political events and characters, to sound me, I could see that, though baffled, they by no means gave up the battle.

As time wore on, this half-persecution died away; each day brought some prisoner or other amongst us, or removed some of those we had to other places of confinement, and thus I became forgotten in the interest of newer events. About a week after my entrance we were walking as usual about the gardens, when a rumor ran that a prisoner of great consequence had been arrested the preceding night and conveyed to the Temple; and various surmises were afloat as to who he might be, or whether he should be au secret or at large. While the point was eagerly discussed, a low door from the house was opened, and the jailer appeared, followed by a large, powerful man, whom in one glance I remembered as the chief of the Vendean party at the château, and the same who effected his escape in the Bois de Boulogne. He passed close to where I stood, his arm folded on his breast; his clear blue eye bent calmly on me, yet never by the slightest sign did he indicate that we had ever met before. I divined at once his meaning, and felt grateful for what I guessed might be a measure necessary to my safety.

“I tell you,” said a shrivelled old fellow, in a worn dressing-gown and slippers, who held the “Moniteur” of that day in his hand, “I tell you it is himself; and see, his hand is wounded, though he does his best to conceal the bandage in his bosom.”

“Well, well! read us the account; where did it occur?” cried two or three in a breath.

The old man seated himself on a bench, and having arranged his spectacles and unfolded the journal, held out his hand to proclaim silence, when suddenly a wild cheer broke from the distant part of the garden, whither the newly arrived prisoner had turned his steps; a second, louder, followed, in which the wild cry of “Vive le Roi!” could be distinctly heard.

“You hear them,” said the old man; “was I right now? I knew it must be him.”

“Strange enough, too, he should not be au secret,” said another; “the generals have never been suffered to speak to any one since their confinement. But read on, let us hear it.”

“‘On yesterday morning,’” said the little man, reading aloud, “‘Picot, the servant of George, was arrested; and although every endeavor was made to induce him to confess where his master was – ‘”

“Do you know the meaning of that phrase, Duchos?” said a tall, melancholy-looking man, with a bald head. “That means the torture; thumb screws and flint vices are the mode once more: see here.”

As he spoke he undid a silk handkerchief that was wrapped around his wrist, and exhibited a hand that seemed actually smashed into fragments; the bones were forced in many places through the flesh, which hung in dark-colored and blood-stained pieces about.

“I would show that hand at the tribunal,” muttered an old soldier in a faded blue frock; “I’d hold it up when they ‘d ask me to swear.”

“Your head would only fare the worse for doing so,” said the Abbé. “Read on Monsieur Duchos.”

“Oh, where was I? (Pardieu! Colonel, I wish you would cover that up; I shall dream of that terrible thumb all night.) Here we are: ‘Though nothing could be learned from Picot, it was ascertained that the brigand – ‘”

“Ha, ha!” said a fat little fellow in a blouse, “they call them all brigands: Moreau is a brigand; Pichegru is a brigand too.”

“‘That the brigand had passed Monday night near Chaillot, and on Tuesday, towards evening, was seen at Sainte-Genevieve, where it was suspected he slept on the mountain; on Wednesday the police traced him to the cabriolet stand at the end of the Rue de Condé, where he took a carriage and drove towards the Odéon.’”

“Probably he was going to the spectacle. What did they play that night?” said the fat man; “‘La Mort de Barberousse,’ perhaps.”

The other read on: “‘The officer cried out, as he seized the bridle, “Je vous arrète!” when George levelled a pistol and shot him through the forehead, and then springing over the dead body dashed down the street. The butchers of the neighborhood, who knew the reward offered for his apprehension, pursued and fell upon him with their hatchets; a hand-to-hand encounter followed, in which the brigand’s wrist was nearly severed from his arm; and thus disabled and overpowered, he was secured and conveyed to the Temple.’”

“And who is this man?” said I in a whisper to the tall person near me.”

“The General George Cadoudal, – a brave Breton, and a faithful follower of his King,” replied he; “and may Heaven have pity on him now!” He crossed himself piously as he spoke, and moved slowly away.

“General Cadoudal!” repeated I to myself; “the same whose description figured on every wall of the capital, and for whose apprehension immense rewards were offered.” And with an inward shudder I thought of my chance intercourse with the man to harbor whom was death, – the dreaded chief of the Chouans, the daring Breton of whom Paris rung with stories. And this was the companion of Henri de Beauvais.

Revolving such thoughts, I strolled along unconsciously, until I reached the place where some days before I had seen the Vendeans engaged in prayer. The loud tone of a deep voice arrested my steps. I stopped and listened. It was George himself who spoke; he stood, drawn up to his full height, in the midst of a large circle who sat around on the grass. Though his language was a patois of which I was ignorant, I could catch here and there some indication of his meaning, as much perhaps from his gesture and the look of those he addressed, as from the words themselves.

It was an exhortation to them to endure with fortitude the lot that had befallen them; to meet death when it came without fear, as they could do so without dishonor; to strengthen their courage by looking to him, who would always give them an example of what they should be. The last words he spoke were in a plainer dialect, and almost these: “Throw no glance on the past. We are where we are, – we are where God, in his wisdom and for his own ends, has placed us. If this cause be just, our martyrdom is a blessed one; if it be not so, our death is our punishment. And never forget that you are permitted to meet it from the same spot where our glorious monarch went to meet his own.”

A cry of “Vive le Roi!” half stifled by sobs of emotion, broke from the listeners, as they rose and pressed around him. There he stood in the midst, while like children they came to kiss his hand, to hear him speak one word, even to look on him. Their swarthy faces, where hardship and suffering had left many a deep line and furrow, beamed with smiles as he turned towards them; and many a proud look was bent on the rest by those to whom he addressed a single word.

One I could not help remarking above the others, – a slight, pale, and handsome youth, whose almost girlish cheek the first down of youth was shading. George leaned his arm round his neck, and called him by his name, and in a voice almost tremulous from emotion: “And you, Bouvet de Lozier, whose infancy wanted nothing of luxury and enjoyment, for whom all that wealth and affection could bestow were in abundance, – how do you bear these rugged reverses, my dear boy?”

The youth looked up with eyes bathed in tears; the hectic spot in his face gave way to the paleness of death, and his lips moved without a sound.

“He has been ill, – the count has,” said a peasant, in a low voice.

“Poor fellow!” said George; “he was not meant for trials like these; the cares he used to bury in his mother’s lap met other consolations than our ruder ones. Look up, Bouvet, my man, and remember you are a man.”

The youth trembled from head to foot, and looked fearfully around, as if dreading something, while he clutched the strong arm beside him, as though for protection.

“Courage, boy, courage!” said George. “We are together here; what can harm you?”

Then dropping his voice, and turning to the rest, he added, “They have been tampering with his reason; his eye betrays a wandering intellect. Take him with you, Claude, – he loves you; and do not leave him for a moment.”

The youth pressed George’s fingers to his pale lips, and with his head bent down and listless gait, moved slowly away.

As I wandered from the spot, my heart was full of all I had witnessed. The influence of their chief had surprised me on the night of the attack on the château. But how much more wonderful did it seem now when confined within the walls of a prison, – the only exit to which was the path that led to the guillotine! Yet was their reliance on all he said as great, as implicit their faith in him, as warm their affection, as though success had crowned each effort he suggested, and that fortune had been as kind as she had proved adverse to his enterprise.

Such were the Chohans in the Temple. Life had presented to their hardy natures too many vicissitudes to make them quail beneath the horrors of a prison; death they had confronted in many shapes, and they feared it not even at the hands of the executioner. Loyalty to the exiled family of France was less a political than a religious feeling, – one inculcated at the altar, and carried home to the fireside of the cottage. Devotion to their King was a part of their faith; the sovereign was but a saint the more in their calendar. The glorious triumphs of the Revolutionary armies, the great conquests of the Consulate, found no sympathy within their bosoms; they neither joined the battle nor partook of the ovation. They looked on all such as the passing pageant of the hour, and muttered to one another that the bon Dieu could not bless a nation that was false to its King.

Who could see them as they met each morning, and not feel deeply interested in these brave but simple peasants? At daybreak they knelt together in prayer, their chief officiating as priest; their deep voices joined in the hymn of their own native valleys, as with tearful eyes they sang the songs that reminded them of home. The service over, George addressed them in a short speech: some words of advice and guidance for the coming day; reminding them that ere another morning shone, many might be summoned before the tribunal to be examined, and from, thence led forth to death; exhorting them to fidelity to each other and loyalty to their glorious cause. Then came the games of their country, which they played with all the enthusiasm of liberty and happiness. These were again succeeded by hours passed in hearing and relating stories of their beloved Bretagne, – of its tried faith and its ancient bravery; while, through all, they lived a community apart from the other prisoners, who never dared to obtrude upon them: nor did the most venturesome of the police spies ever transgress a limit that might have cost him his life.

Thus did two so different currents run side by side within the walls of the Temple, and each regarding the other with distrust and dislike.

While thus I felt a growing interest for these bold but simple children of the forest, my anxiety for my own fate grew hourly greater. No answer was ever returned to my letter to the minister, nor any notice taken of it whatever; and though each day I heard of some one or other being examined before the “Tribunal Special” or the Préfet de Police, I seemed as much forgotten as though the grave enclosed me. My dread of anything like acquaintance or intimacy with the other prisoners prevented my learning much of what went forward each day, and from which, from some source or other, they seemed well informed. A chance phrase, an odd word now and then dropped, would tell me of some new discovery by the police or some recent confession by a captured conspirator; but of what the crime consisted, and who were they principally implicated, I remained totally ignorant.

It was well known that both Moreau and Pichegru were confined in a part of the tower that opened upon the terrace, but neither suffered to communicate with each other, nor even to appear at large like the other prisoners. It was rumored, too, that each day one or both were submitted to long and searching examinations, which, it was said, had hitherto elicited nothing from either save total denial of any complicity whatever, and complete ignorance of the plots and machinations of others.

So much we could learn from the “Moniteur,” which reached us each day; and while assuming a tone of open reprobation regarding the Chouans, spoke in terms the most cautious and reserved respecting the two generals, as if probing the public mind how far their implication in treason might be credited, and with what faith the proofs of their participation might be received.

At last the train seemed laid; the explosion was all prepared, and nothing wanting but the spark to ignite it. A letter from Moreau to the Consul appeared in the columns of the Government paper; in which, after recapitulating in terms most suitable the services he had rendered the Republic while in command of the army of the Rhine, – the confidence the Convention had always placed in him, the frequent occasions which had presented themselves to him of gratifying ambitious views (had he conceived such he adverted, in brief but touching terms, to his conduct on the 18th Brumaire in seconding the adventurous step taken by Bonaparte himself, and attributed the neglect his devotion had met with, rather to the interference and plotting of his enemies than to any estrangement on the part of the Consul.) Throughout the whole of the epistle there reigned a tone of reverence for the authority of Bonaparte most striking and remarkable; there was nothing like an approach to the equality which might well be supposed to subsist between two great generals, – albeit the one was at the height of power, and the other sunk in the very depth of misfortune. On the contrary, the letter was nothing more than an appeal to old souvenirs and former services to one who possessed the power, if he had the will, to save him; it breathed throughout the sentiments of one who demands a favor, and that favor his life and honor, at the hands of him who had already constituted himself the fountain of both.

While such was the position of Moreau, – a position which resulted in his downfall, – chance informed as of the different ground occupied by his companion in misfortune, the Greneral Pichegru.

About three days after the publication of Moreau’s letter, we were walking as usual in the garden of the Temple, when a huissier came up, and beckoning to two of the prisoners, desired them to follow him. Such was the ordinary course by which one or more were daily summoned before the tribunal for examination, and we took no notice of what had become a matter of every-day occurrence, and went on conversing as before about the news of the morning. Several hours elapsed without the others having returned; and at last we began to feel anxious about their fate, when one of them made his appearance, his heightened color and agitated expression betokening that something more than common had occurred.

“We were examined with Pichegru,” said the prisoner, – who was an old quartermaster in the army of the Upper Rhine, – as he sat down upon a bench and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Indeed!” said the tall colonel with the bald head; “before Monsieur Réal, I suppose?”

“Yes, before Réal. My poor old general: there he was, as I used to see him formerly, with his hand on the breast of his uniform, his pale, thin features as calm as ever, until at last when roused his eyes flashed fire and his lip trembled before he broke out into such a torrent of attack – ”

“Attack, say you?” interrupted the Abbé,; “a bold course, my faith! in one who has need of all his powers for defence.”

“It was ever his tactique to be the assailant,” said a bronzed, soldierlike fellow, in a patched uniform; “he did so in Holland.”

“He chose a better enemy to practise it with then, than he has done now,” resumed the quartermaster, sadly.

“Whom do you mean?” cried half a dozen voices together.

…"The Consul.”

“The Consul! Bonaparte! Attack him!” repeated one after the other, in accents of surprise and horror. “Poor fellow, he is deranged.”

“So I almost thought myself, as I heard him,” replied the quartermaster; “for, after submitting with patience to a long and tiresome examination, he suddenly, as if endurance could go no farther, cried out, – ‘Assez!’ The préfet started, and Thuriot, who sat beside him, looked up terrified, while Pichegru went on: ‘So the whole of this negotiation about Cayenne is then a falsehood? Your promise to make me governor there, if I consented to quit France forever, was a trick to extort confession or a bribe to silence? Be it so. Now, come what will, I ‘ll not leave France; and, more still, I ‘ll declare everything before the judges openly at the tribunal. The people shall know, all Europe shall know, who is my accuser, and what he is. Yes! your Consul himself treated with the Bourbons in Italy; the negotiations were begun, continued, carried on, and only broken off by his own excessive demands. Ay, I can prove it: his very return from Egypt through the whole English fleet, – that happy chance, as you were wont to term it, – was a secret treaty with Pitt for the restoration of the exiled family on his reaching Paris. These facts – and facts you shall confess them – are in my power to prove; and prove them I will in the face of all France.’”

“Poor Pichegru!” said the abbe, contemptuously. “What an ill-tempered child a great general may be, after all! Did he think the hour would ever come for him to realize such a dream?”

“What do you mean?” cried two or three together.

“The Corsican never forgets a vendetta,” was the cool reply, as he walked away.

“True,” said the colonel, thoughtfully; “quite true.”

To me these words were riddles. My only feeling towards Pichegru was one of contempt and pity, that in any depth of misfortune he could resort to such an unworthy attack upon him who still was the idol of all my thoughts; and for this, the conqueror of Holland stood now as low in my esteem as the most vulgar of the rabble gang that each day saw sentenced to the galleys.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE REIGN OF TERROR UNDER THE CONSULATE

On the morning that followed the scene I have spoken of came the news of the arrest, the trial, and the death of the Duc d’Enghien. That terrible tragedy – which yet weighs, and will weigh forever, on the memory of the period – reached us in our prison with all the terrible force of circumstances to make it a day of sorrow and mourning. Such details as the journals afforded but little satisfied our curiosity. The youth, the virtues, the bravery of the prince had made him the idol of his party; and while his death was lamented for his own sake, his followers read in it the determination of the Government to stop at nothing in their resolve to exterminate that party. A gloomy silence sat upon the Chouans, who no longer moved about as before, regardless of their confinement to a prison. Their chief remained apart: he neither spoke to any one nor seemed to notice those who passed; he looked stunned and stupefied, rather than deeply affected, and when he lifted his eyes, their expression was cold and wandering. Even the other prisoners, who rarely gave way to feeling of any kind, seemed at first overwhelmed by these sad tidings; and doubtless many who before had trusted to rank and influence for their safety, saw how little dependence could be placed on such aid when the blow had fallen upon a “Condé” himself.

I, who neither knew the political movements of the time nor the sources of the danger the Consul’s party anticipated, could only mourn over the unhappy fate of a gallant prince whose daring had cost him his life, and never dreamed for a moment of calling in question the honor or good faith of Bonaparte in an affair of which I could have easily believed him totally ignorant. Such, indeed, was the representation of the “Moniteur;” and whatever doubts the hints about me might have excited, were speedily allayed by the accounts I read of the Consul’s indignation at the haste and informality of the trial, and his deep anger at the catastrophe that followed it.

“Savary will be disgraced for this,” said I to the Abbé, who leaned over my shoulder while I read the paper; “Bonaparte can never forgive him.”

“You mistake, my dear sir,” replied he, with a strange expression I could not fathom. “The Consul is the most forgiving of men; he never bears malice.”

“But here was a dreadful event, – a crime, perhaps.”

“Only a fault,” resumed he. “By the bye, Colonel, this order about closing the barriers will be excessively inconvenient to the good people of Paris.”

“I have been thinking over that, too,” said an overdressed, affected-looking youth, whose perfumed curls and studied costume formed a strange contrast with the habits of his fellow-prisoners. “If they shut up the Barriére de de l'Étoile, what are they to do for Longchamps?”

“Parbleu! that did not strike me,” interposed the colonel, tapping his forehead with his finger. “I ‘ll wager a crown that they haven’t thought of that themselves.”

“The Champs Éllysés are surely long enough for such tomfoolery,” said the quartermaster, in a gruff, savage tone.