Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

“Not one half,” was the imperturbable reply of the youth; “and Longchamps promised admirably this year. I had ordered a calèche, – light blue, with gilt circles on the wheels, and a bronze carving to the pole, – like an antique chariot.”

“Parbleu! you are more likely to take your next airing in a simpler conveyance,” said the quartermaster with a grin.

“I was to have driven la Comtesse de Beauflers to the Bois de Boulogne.”

“You must content yourself with the Comte de la Marque” (the prison name of the executioner) “instead,” growled out the other.

I turned away, no less disgusted at the frivolity that could only see in the dreadful event that took place the temporary interruption to a vain and silly promenade, than at the savage coarseness that could revel in the pain common misfortune gave him the privilege of inflicting.

Such, however, was the prevalent tone of thinking and speaking there. The death of friends, – the ruin of those best loved and cared for; the danger that each day came nearer to themselves, – were all casualties to which habit, recklessness of life, and libertinism had accustomed them; while about former modes of life, – the pleasures of the capital, its delights and dissipation, – they conversed with the most eager interest. It is thus, while in some natures misfortunes will call forth into exercise the best and noblest traits that in happier circumstances had never found the necessity that gave them birth; so, in others, adversity depresses and demoralizes those weaker temperaments that seemed formed to sail safely in the calm waters, but never destined to brave the stormy seas of life.

With such associates I could have neither sympathy nor friendship; and my life passed on in one unbroken and dreary monotony, day succeeding day and night following night, till my thoughts, turned ever inward, had worn as it were a track for themselves in which the world without and its people had no share whatever. Not only was my application to the minister unanswered, but I was never examined before any of the tribunals; and sometimes the dreadful fate of those prisoners who in the Reign of Terror passed their whole life in prison, their crimes, their very existence forgotten, would cross my mind, and strike me with terror unspeakable.

If in the sombre atmosphere of the Temple a sad and cheerless monotony prevailed, events followed fast on each other in that world from which its gloomy walls excluded us. Every hour was some new feature of the dark conspiracy brought to light; the vigilance of Monsieur Réal slept not night or day; and all that bribery, terror, or torture could effect, was put into requisition to obtain full and precise information as to every one concerned in the plot.

It was a bright, fresh morning in April, the sixth of the month, – the day is graven on my memory, – when, on walking forth into the garden, I was surprised to see the prisoners standing in a circle round a tree on which a placard was fastened, with glances eagerly turned towards the paper or bent sadly to the ground. They stood around, sad and silent. To my question of what had occurred, a significant look at the tree was the only reply I received, while in the faces of all I perceived that some dreadful news had reached them. Forcing my way with difficulty through the crowd, I at length approached near enough to read the placard, on which in large letters was written, —

“6 Avril. Le Temple.

“Charles Pichegru, ez-Général Républicain, s’est é tranglé dans sa prison.”

“And did Pichegru, the great conqueror of Holland, die by his own hand?” said I, as my eye rested on the fatal bulletin.

“Don’t you read it, young man?” replied a deep, solemn voice beside me, which I at once knew was that of General George himself, “Can you doubt the accuracy of information supplied by the police?”

The bystanders looked up with a terrified and frightened expression, as if dreading lest the very listening to his words might be construed into an acquiescence in them.

“Trust me, he is dead,” continued he. “They who have announced his fate here have a right to be relied on. It now only remains to be seen how he died. These prison maladies have a strange interest for us who live in the infected climate; and, if I mistake not, I see the ‘Moniteur’, yonder, a full hour before its usual time. See what a blessing, gentlemen, you enjoy in a paternal Government, which in moments of public anxiety can feel for your distress and hasten to alleviate it!”

The tone of sarcasm he spoke in, the measured fall of every word, sank into the hearers’ minds, and though they stood mute, they did not even move from the spot.

“Here is the ‘Moniteur’ now,” said the quartermaster, opening the paper and reading aloud.

“To his oft-repeated assurances that he would make no attempt upon his life – ‘”

A rude burst of laughter from George interrupted the reader here.

“I ask your pardon, sir,” said he, touching his cap; “proceed. I promise not to interrupt you again.”

“‘That he would make no attempt upon his life, Greneral Pichegru obtained permission that the sentries should be stationed outside his cell during the night. Having provided himself with a fagot, which he secreted beneath his bed, he supped as usual in the evening of yesterday, eating heartily at eleven o’clock, and retiring to rest by twelve. When thus alone he placed the stick within the folds of the black silk cravat he generally wore round his neck, in such a manner as, when twisted, to act like a tourniquet; and having turned it with such a degree of force as to arrest the return of blood from the head, he fastened it beneath his head and shoulders, and in this manner, apoplexy supervening, expired.’”

“Par Saint Louis, sir,” cried George, “the explanation is admirable, and most satisfactorily shows how a man may possess life long enough to be certain he has killed himself. The only thing wanting is for the general to assist in dressing the proces-verbal, when doubtless his own views of his case would be equally edifying and instructive. And see, already the ceremony has begun.”

As he spoke, he pointed to a number of persons who crossed the terrace, preceded by Savary in his uniform of the Gendarmes d'Élite, and who went in the direction of the cell where the dead body lay.

The prisoners now fell into little knots and groups, talking beneath their breath, and apparently terrified at every stir about them. Each compared his sensation of what he thought he heard during the night with the other’s. Some asserted that they distinctly heard the chains of the drawbridge creak long after midnight; others vouched for the quick tramp of feet along the corridors, and the sounds of strange voices; one, whose cell was beneath that of Pichegru, said that he was awoke before day by a violent crash overhead, followed by a harsh sound like coughing, which continued for some time and then ceased entirely. These were vague, uncertain signs, yet what horrible thoughts did they not beget in each listener’s mind!

As I stood terror-struck and speechless, I felt a tap oif my shoulder. I turned; it was the Abbé, who, with a smile of peculiar irony, stood behind me.

“Poor Savary!” said he, in a whisper; “how will he ever get over this blunder, and it so very like the former one!”

He did not wait for a reply, but moved away.

“Who is to be the next, sir?” cried George, with a deep voice, as he saw the assemblage thus accidentally collected about to break up. “Moreau, perhaps. One thing I bid you all bear witness to: suicide is a crime I ‘ll never commit; let no narrative of a cravat and a fagot – ”

“Do you never eat mushrooms, General?” said the Abbé, dryly; and whether from the manner of the speaker, or the puzzled look of him to whom the speech was addressed, the whole crowd burst into a fit of laughter, – the emotion seemed like one in which relief was felt by all. They laughed long and loud; and now the faces that a minute before were marked by every character of deep affliction, looked merry and happy. Each had some story, some apropos to tell, or some smart witticism to let off against his neighbor; and to hear them you would say that never was there a subject more suggestive of drollery than the one of suicide and sudden death.

And thus was it ever. No event, however dreadful, – no circumstance, however shocking, – could do more than momentarily affect those whose life possessed no security, was governed by no principle. Levity and unbelief – unbelief that extended not only to matters of religion, but actually penetrated every relation of life, rendering them sceptical of friendship, love, truth, honor, and charity – were the impulses under which they lived; and they would have laughed him to scorn who should have attempted to establish another code of acting or thinking. Such feelings, if they made them but little suited to all the habits and charities of life, certainly rendered them most indifferent to death; and much of that courage so much lauded and admired on the scaffold had no other source than in the headlong recklessness the prison had inculcated, – the indifference to everything, where everything was questionable and doubtful.

I struggled powerfully against the taint of such a consuming malady. I bethought me of my boyhood and its early purpose, – of him who first stirred my soul to ambition, – and asked myself, what would he have thought of me had I yielded to such a trial as this? I pictured before me a career when such devotion as I felt, aided by a stout heart, must win its way to honor; and when roused to thought, these low, depressing dreams, these dark hours of doubt and despair, vanished before it. But gradually my health gave way, my lethargic apathy increased upon me, the gloomy walls of my cell had thrown their shadow over my spirit, and I sank into a state of moping indifference in which I scarcely marked the change of day and night; and felt at length that had the sentence been pronounced which condemned me for life to the walls of the Temple, I could have heard it without emotion.

“Come, sous-lieutenant, it’s your turn now!” said the turnkey, entering my cell one morning, where I sat alone at breakfast; “I have just received the orders for your appearance.”

“How! where?” said I, scarcely able to do more than guess at the meaning of his words; “before the préfet, is it?”

“No, no; a very different affair, indeed. You are summoned with the Chouan prisoners to appear at the Palais de Justice.”

“The Palais!” said I, as for the first time for weeks past a sentiment of fear crept through me. “Are we to be tried without having a list of the charges alleged against us?”

“You ‘ll hear them time enough in court.”

“Without an advocate to defend us.”

“The President will name one for that purpose.”

“And can the jury – ”

“Jury! There is no jury; the Consul has suspended trial by jury for two years. Come, come, don’t be downhearted; your friends without are singing away as gayly as though it were a festival. My faith, that Greneral George is made of iron, I believe. He has been confined au secret these ten days, his rations diminished to almost a starvation level, and yet there is he now, with his countenance as calm and his look as firm as if he were at large on the hills of La Vendée. Cheer up, then; let the example of your chief – ”

“Chief! he is no chief of mine.”

“That ‘s as it may, or may not be,” replied he, gruffly, as though wounded by what he deemed a want of confidence in his honor. “However, make haste and dress, for the carriages will be here to convey you to the Palais. And there now are the Gendarmes d'Élite assembling in the court.”

As I proceeded to dress, I could see from the window of my cell that a squadron of gendarmes, in full uniform, were drawn up in the square of the prison, along one side of which were several carriages standing, each with two gendarmes seated on the box. The prisoners were confined to their walls; but at every window some face appeared peering anxiously at the proceedings beneath, and watching with inquisitive gaze every, even the slightest, movement.

Just as the clock struck nine the door of my cell was opened, and a greffier of the court entered, and, taking from a black portmanteau at his side a roll of paper, began without delay to repeat in a sing-song recitative tone a formal summons of the Grand Tribunal for the “surrender of the body of Thomas Burke, sous-lieutenant of the huitieme hussars, now in the prison of the Temple, and accused of the crime of treason.”

The last word made me shudder as it fell from him; and not all my stoical indifference of weeks past was proof against such an accusation. The jailer having formally listened to the document, and replied by reading aloud another, delivered me over to the officer, who desired me to follow him.

In the court beneath the greater number of the prisoners were already assembled. George, among the number, was conspicuous, not only by his size and proportions, but by a handsome uniform, in the breast of which he wore his decoration of St. Louis, from which descended a bright bow of crimson ribbon. A slight bustle at one of the doorways of the tower suddenly seemed to attract his attention, and I saw that he turned quickly round, and forced his way through the crowd to the place. Eager to learn what it was, I followed him at once. Pushing with some difficulty forward, I reached the doorway, on the step of which lay a young man in a fainting fit. His face, pale as death, had no color save two dark circles round the eyes, which, though open, were upturned and filmy. His cravat had been hastily removed by some of the bystanders, and showed a purple welt around his neck, on one side of which a mass of blood escaping beneath the skin, made a dreadful-looking tumor. His dress denoted a person of condition, as well as the character of his features; but never had I looked upon an object so sad and woe-begone before. At his side knelt Greorge; his strong arm round his back, while his great massive hand patted the water on his brow. The stern features of the hardy Breton, which ever before had conveyed to me nothing but daring and impetuous passion, were softened to a look of womanly kindliness, his blue eye beaming as softly as though it were a mother leaning over her infant.

“Bouvet, my dear, dear boy, remember thou art a Breton; rally thyself, my child, – bethink thee of the cause.”

The name of the youth at once recalled him whom I had seen some months before among the Chouan prisoners, and who, sad and sickly as he then seemed, was now much further gone towards the tomb.

“Bouvet,” cried Greorge, in an accent of heartrending sorrow, “this will disgrace us forever!”

The youth turned his cold eyes round till they were fixed on the other’s face; while his lips, still parted, and his cheek pale and flattened, gave him the appearance of a corpse suddenly called back to life.

“There, my own brave boy,” said Greorge, kissing his forehead – “there, thou art thyself again!” He bent over till his lips nearly touched the youth’s ear, and then whispered: “Dost thou forget the last words Monsieur spoke to thee, Bouvet? ‘Conserve-toi pour tes amis, et centre nos ennemis communs!’”

The boy started up at the sounds, and looked wildly about him, while his hands were open wide with a kind of spasmodic motion.

“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried George, with frantic passion; “what have they done with him? his mind is gone. Bouvet! Bouvet de Lozier! knowest thou this?” He tore from his bosom a miniature, surrounded with large brilliants, and held it to the eyes of the youth.

A wild shriek broke from the youth as he fell back in strong convulsions. The dreadful cry seemed like the last wail of expiring reason, so sad, so piercing was its cadence.

“Look, see!” said George, turning a savage scowl upon the crowd; “they have taken away his mind; he is an idiot.”

“The General George Cadoudal,” cried a loud voice from the centre of the court.

“Here,” was the firm reply.

“This way, sir; the carriage yonder.”

“Monsieur Sol de Gisolles!”

“Here,” replied a tall, aristocratic-looking personage, in deep mourning.

Sous-Lieutenant Burke was next called, and I followed the others, and soon found myself seated in a close calecfie, with a gendarme beside me, while two mounted men of the corps sat at either side of the carriage with drawn swords. Picot, the servant of George, the faithful Breton, was next summoned; and Lebourgeois, an old but handsome man, in the simple habit of a farmer, with his long white hair, and soft kind countenance. Many other names were called over, and nearly an hour elapsed before the ceremony was concluded, and the order was given to move forward.

At last the heavy gates were opened, and the procession issued forth. I was surprised to see that the entire Boulevard was lined with troops, behind which thousands of people were closely wedged, all the windows, and even the housetops, being filled with spectators.

When we reached the quays, the crowd was greater still, and it required all the efforts of the troops to keep it back sufficiently to permit an open space for the carriages; while at all the streets that opened at the quays, mounted dragoons were stationed to prevent any carriage passing down. Never had I beheld such a vast multitude of people; and yet, through all that crowded host, a deep, solemn silence prevailed, – not a cry nor a shout was heard in all the way. Once only, at the corner of the Pont Neuf, a cry of “Vive Moreau!” was given by some one in the crowd; but it was a solitary voice, and the moment after I saw a gendarme force his way through the mass, and seizing a miserable-looking creature by the neck, hurry him along beside his horse towards the guardhouse. On crossing the bridge, I saw that a company of artillery and two guns were placed in position beside Desaix’s monument, so as to command the Pont Neuf: all these preparations clearly indicating that the Government felt the occasion such as to warrant the most energetic measures of security. There was something in the earnest look of the cannoniers, as they stood with their lighted matches beside the guns, that betrayed the resolve of one whose quick determination was ever ready for the moment of danger.

The narrow streets of the Isle St. Louis, more densely crowded than any part of the way, slackened our pace considerably, and frequently the gendarmes were obliged to clear the space before the carriages could proceed. I could not help feeling struck, as we passed along these miserable and dark alleys, – where vice and crime, and wretchedness of every type herded together, – to hear at every step some expressions of pity or commiseration from those who themselves seemed the veriest objects of compassion.

“Ah, Voilà,” cried an old creature in rags, on whose cotton bonnet a faded and dirty tricolored ribbon was fastened – “voilà Moreau! I’d know his proud face any day. Poor general, I hope it will not go hard with you to-day!” “Look there,” screamed a hag, as the carriage in which Bouvet sat passed by – “look at the handsome youth that’s dying! Holy Virgin! he’ll not be living when they reach the gate of the Palais!”

“And there,” cried another, “there’s a hussar officer, pale enough, I trow he is. Come, I ‘ll say a prayer or two for him there; it can do him no harm anyhow.”

The hoarse rattle of a drum in front mingled with the noise of the cavalcade, and I now could hear the clank of a guard turning out. The minute after we stood before a colossal gateway, whose rich tracery shone in the most gorgeous gilding; it was in the splendid taste of Louis the Fourteenth, and well became the entrance of what once had been a royal palace. “Alas!” thought I, “how unlike those who once trod this wide court is the melancholy cortege that now enters it!”

As each carriage drew up at the foot of a wide flight of stone steps, the prisoners descended, and escorted by gendarmes on each side, were led into the building. When all had reached the hall, the order was given to move forward, and we walked on till we came to a long gallery. On either side was a range of massive pillars, between which views were obtained of various spacious but dimly-lighted chambers, apparently neglected and unused; some benches here and there, an old cabinet, and a deal table, were all the furniture. Here we halted for a few moments, till a door opening at the extreme end, a sign was made for us to advance. And now we heard a low rushing sound, like the distant breaking of the sea in a calm night; it grew louder as we went, till we could mark the mingling of several hundred voices, as they conversed in a subdued and under tone. Then, indeed, a dreadful thrill ran through me, as I thought of the countless mass before whom I was to stand forth a criminal, and it needed every effort in my power to keep my feet.

A heavy curtain of dark cloth yet separated us from a view of the court; but we could hear the voice of the president commanding silence, and the monotonous intonation of the clerk reading the order for the proceedings. This concluded, a deep voice called out, “Introduce the prisoners!” and the words were repeated still louder by a huissier at the entrance; and at a signal the line moved forward, the curtain was drawn back, and we advanced into the court.

The crowd of faces that filled the vast space from the body of the court below to the galleries above, turned as we passed on to the bench, at one side of the raised platform near the seat of the judges. A similar bench, but unoccupied, ran along the opposite side; while directly in front of the judges were ranged the advocates in rows, closely packed as they could sit, – a small desk, somewhat advanced from the rest, being the seat reserved for the Procureur-Général of the court.

The vast multitudes of spectators; the pomp and circumstance of a court of justice; the solemn look of the judges, arrayed in their dark robes and square black caps, reminding one of the officers of the Inquisition, as we see them in old paintings; the silence where so many were assembled, – all struck me with awe, and I scarcely dared to look up, lest in the glances bent upon me I should meet some whose looks might seem to condemn me.

“Proclaim the séance,” said the President. And with: a loud voice the huissier of the court made proclamation that the tribunal had commenced its sitting.

This concluded, the Procureur-Général proceeded to read the names of the accused, beginning with Général Moreau, Armand de Polignac, Charles de Rivière, Sol de Gisolles, George Cadoudal, and some twenty others of less note, among which I heard with a sinking heart my own name pronounced.

Some customary formalities seemed now to occupy the court for a considerable time; after which the huissier called silence once more.

“Général Moreau!” said the President, in a deep voice that was heard throughout the entire court. “Rise up, sir,” added he, after a few seconds’ pause.

I looked down the bench, at the farthest end of which I saw the tall and well-knit figure of a man in the uniform of a general of the Republic; his back was turned towards me, but his bearing and carriage were quite enough to distinguish the soldier.

“Your name and surname,” said the President.

Before an answer could be returned, a dull sound, like something heavy falling, resounded through the court, and in an instant several persons around me stood up. I bent forward to see, and beheld the figure of Bouvet de Lozier stretched insensible upon the ground; beside him his faithful friend George was stooping, and endeavoring to open his vest to give him air.

“Bring some water here quickly!” cried the hardy Breton, in a tone that showed little respect for where he stood. “Your absurd ceremonial has frightened the poor boy out of his senses.”

“Respect the court, sir, or I commit you!” said the President, in a voice of anger.

A contemptuous look, followed by a still more contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, was his reply.

“Remove the prisoner,” said the President, pointing to the still fainting youth, “and proclaim silence in the court.”

The officers of the tribunal carried the deathlike figure of the boy down the steps, and bore him to some of the chambers near.

This little incident, slight and passing as it was, seemed much to affect the auditory, and it was some time before perfect silence could be again restored.