Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

“The game has opened; the Austrians have invaded Bavaria. The whole disposable force of France is on the march, – a hurried movement; but so it is. Napoleon always strikes like his own emblem, the eagle.”

“True, sir; but even that serves to heighten the chivalrous feeling of the soldier, when the sword springs from the scabbard at the call of honor, and is not drawn slowly forth at the whispered counsel of some wily diplomat.”

He smiled half-mournfully at the remark, or at my impetuosity in making it, as he said: —

“My dear boy, never flatter yourself that the cause of any war can enter into the calculation of the soldier. The liberty he fights for is often the rankest tyranny; the patriotism he defends, the veriest oppression. Play the game as though the stake were but your own ambition, if you would play it manfully. As for me, I buckle on the harness for the last time, come what will of it. The Emperor feels, and justly feels, indignant that many of the older officers have declined the service by which alone they were elevated to rank, and wealth, and honor. It was not, then, at the moment when he distinguished me by an unsought promotion, – still more, conferred a personal favor on me, that I could ask leave to retire from the army.”

By the tone in which he said these last few words, I saw that the general was now approaching the topic I felt so curious about, and did not venture by a word to interrupt or divert his thoughts from it. My calculation proved correct; for, after meditating some eight or ten minutes, he drew his chair closer to mine, and in a voice of ill-repressed agitation, spoke thus: —

“You doubtless know the history of our great Revolution, – the causes that led to, the consequences that immediately sprang from it, – the terrible anarchy, the utter confiscation of wealth, and, worse still, the social disorganization that invaded every family, however humble or however exalted, setting wives against their husbands, children against their parents, and making brothers sworn enemies to one another. It was in vain for any man once engaged in the struggle to draw back; the least hesitation to perform any order of the Convention – the delay of a moment, to think – was death: some one was ever on the watch to denounce the man thus deliberating, and he was led forth to the guillotine like the blackest criminal. The immediate result of all this was a distrust that pervaded the entire nation. No one knew who to speak to, nor dare any confide in him who once had been his dearest friend. The old Royalists trembled at every stir; the few demonstrations they forced themselves to make of concurrence in the new state of things were received with suspicion and jealousy. The ‘Blues’ – for so the Revolutionary party was called – thirsted for their blood; the aristocracy had been, as they deemed, long their oppressors, and where vengeance ceased, cupidity began. They longed to seize upon the confiscated estates, and revel as masters in the halls where so oft they had waited as lackeys. But the evil ended not here. Wherever private hate or secret malice lurked, an opportunity for revenge now offered; and for one head that fell under the supposed guilt of treason to France, a hundred dropped beneath the axe from causes of personal animosity and long-nurtured vengeance: and thus many an idle word uttered in haste or carelessness, some passing slight, some chance neglect, met now its retribution, and that retribution was ever death.

“It chanced that in the South, in one of those remote districts where intelligence is always slow in arriving, and where political movements rarely disturb the quiet current of daily life, there lived one of those old seigneurs who at that period were deemed sovereign princes in the little locale they inhabited. The soil had been their own for centuries; long custom had made them respected and looked up to; while the acts of kindness and benevolence in which, from father to son, their education consisted, formed even a stronger tie to the affections of the peasantry. The Church, too, contributed not a little to the maintenance of this feudalism; and the château’ entered into the subject of the village prayers as naturally as though a very principle of their faith. There was something beautifully touching in the intercourse between the lord of the soil and its tillers: in the kindly interest of the one, repaid in reverence and devotion by the others; his foresight for their benefit, their attachment and fidelity, – the paternal care, the filial love, – made a picture of rural happiness such as no land ever equalled, such as perhaps none will ever see again. The seigneur of whom I speak was a true type of this class. He had been in his boyhood a page at the gorgeous court of Louis the Fifteenth, mixed in the voluptuous fascinations of the period; but, early disgusted by the sensuality of the day, retired to his distant château, bringing with him a wife, – one of the most beautiful and accomplished persons of the Court, but one who, like himself, preferred the peace and tranquillity of a country life to the whirlwind pleasures of a vicious capital. For year’s they lived childless; but at last, after a long lapse of time, two children were born to this union, a boy and girl, – both lovely, and likely in every respect to bless them with happiness. Shortly after the birth of the girl, the mother became delicate, and after some months of suffering, died. The father, who never rallied from the hour of her death, and took little interest in the world, soon followed her, and the children were left orphans when the eldest was but four years of age, and his sister but three. Before the count died, he sent for his steward. You know that the steward, or intendant, in France, was formerly the person of greatest trust in any family, – the faithful adviser in times of difficulty, the depositary of secrets, the friend, in a word, who in humble guise offered his counsel in every domestic arrangement, and without whom no project was entertained or determined on; and usually the office was hereditary, descending from father to son for centuries.

“In this family such was the case. His father and grandfather before him had filled the office, and Léon Guichard well knew every tradition of the house, and from his infancy his mind had been stored with tales of its ancient wealth and former greatness. His father had died but a short time previous, and when the count’s last illness seized him, Léon was only in the second year of his stewardship. Brief as the period was, however, it had sufficed to give abundant proof of his zeal and ability. New sources of wealth grew up under his judicious management; improvements were everywhere conspicuous; and while the seigneur himself found his income increased by nearly one-half, the tenants had gained in equal proportion, – such was the result of his activity and intelligence. These changes, marvellous as they may seem, were then of frequent occurrence. The lands of the South had been tilled for centuries without any effort at improvement; sons were content to go on as their fathers had done before them; increased civilization, with its new train of wants and luxuries, never invaded this remote, untravelled district, and primitive tastes and simple habits succeeded each other generation after generation unaltered and unchanged.

“Suddenly, however, a new light broke on the world, which penetrated even the darkness of the far-off valleys of La Provence. Intelligence began to be more widely diffused; men read and reflected; the rudiments of every art and every science were put within the reach of humble comprehensions; and they who before were limited to memory or hearsay for such knowledge as they possessed, could now apply at the fountain for themselves. Léon Guichard was not slow in cultivating these new resources, and applying them to the circumstances about him; and although many an obstacle arose, dictated by stupid adherence to old customs, or fast-rooted prejudice against newfashioned methods, by perseverance he overcame them all, and actually enriched the people in spite of themselves.

“The seigneur, himself a man of no mean intellect, saw much of this with sorrow; he felt that a mighty change was accomplishing, and that as one by one the ancient landmarks by which men had been guided for ages were removed, none could foresee what results might follow, nor where the passion for alteration might cease. The superstitions of the Church, harmless in themselves, were now openly attacked; its observances, before so deeply venerated, were even assailed as idle ceremonies; and it seemed as if the strong cable that bound men to faith and loyalty had parted, and that their minds were drifting over a broad and pathless sea. Such was the ominous opening of the Revolution, such the terrible ground-swell before the storm.

“On his deathbed, then, he entreated Léon to be aware that evil days were approaching; that the time was not distant when men should rely upon the affection and love of those around them, on the ties that attached to each other for years long, on the mutual interest that had grown up from their cradles. He besought him to turn the people’s ‘minds, as far as might be, from the specious theories that were afloat, and fix them on their once-loved traditions; and, above all, he charged him, as the guardian of his orphan children, to keep them aloof from the contamination of dangerous doctrines, and to train them up in the ancient virtues of their house, – in charity and benevolence.

“Scarce had the old count’s grave closed over him, when men began to perceive a marked change in Léon Guichard. No longer humble, even to subserviency, as before, he now assumed an air of pride and haughtiness that soon estranged his companions from him. As guardian to the orphan children, he resided in the château, and took on him the pretensions of the master. Its stately equipage, with great emblazoned panels, – the village wonder at every fête day, – was now replaced by a more modern vehicle, newly arrived from Paris, in which Monsieur Guichard daily took his airings. The old servants, many of them born in the château, were sent adrift, and a new and very different class succeeded them. All was changed: even the little path that led up from the presbytère to the château, and along which the old curé was seen wending his way on each Sunday to his dinner with the seigneur, was now closed, the gate walled up; while the Sabbath itself was only dedicated to greater festivities and excess, to the scandal of the villagers.

“Meanwhile the children grew up in strength and beauty; like wild flowers, they had no nurture, but they flourished in all this neglect, ignorant and unconscious of the scenes around them. They roved about the livelong day through the meadows, or that wilderness of a garden on which no longer any care was bestowed, and where rank luxuriance gave a beauty of its own to the rich vegetation. With the unsuspecting freshness of their youth, they enjoyed the present without a thought of the future, – they loved each other, and were happy.

“To them the vague reports and swelling waves of the Revolution, which each day gained ground, brought neither fear nor apprehension; they little dreamed that the violence of political strife could ever reach their quiet valleys. Nor did they think the hour was near when the tramp of soldiery and the ruffianly shout of predatory war were to replace the song of the vigneron and the dance of the villager.

“The Revolution came at last, sweeping like a torrent over the land. It blasted as it went; beneath its baneful breath everything withered and wasted; loyalty, religion, affection, and brotherly love, all died out in the devoted country; anarchy and bloodshed were masters of the scene. The first dreadful act of this fearful drama passed like a dream to those who, at a distance from Paris, only read of the atrocities of that wretched capital; but when the wave rolled nearer; when crowds of armed men, wild and savage in look, with ragged uniforms and bloodstained hands, prowled about the villages where in happier times a soldier had never been seen; when the mob around the guillotine supplied the place of the gathering at the market; when the pavement was wet and slippery with human blood, – men’s natures suddenly became changed, as though some terrible curse from on high had fallen on them. Their minds caught up the fearful contagion of revolt, and a mad impulse to deny all they had once held sacred and venerable seized on all. Their blasphemies against religion went hand in hand with their desecration of everything holy in social life, and a pre-eminence in guilt became the highest object of ambition. Sated with slaughter, bloated with crime, the nation reeled like a drunken savage over the ruin it created, and with the insane lust of blood poured forth its armed thousands throughout the whole of Europe.

“Then began the much-boasted triumphs of the Revolutionary armies, – the lauded victories of those great asserters of liberty; say rather the carnage of famished wolves, the devastating rage of bloodthirsty maniacs. The conscription seized on the whole youth of France, as if fearful that in the untarnished minds of the young the seeds of better things might bear fruit in season. They carried them away to scenes of violence and rapine, where, amid the shouts of battle and the cries of the dying, no voice of human sympathy might touch their hearts, no trembling of remorse should stir within them.

“‘You are named in the conscription, Monsieur, said Léon, in a short, abrupt tone, as one morning he entered the dressing-room of his young master.

“‘I! I named in the conscription!’ replied the other, with a look of incredulity and anger. ‘This is but a sorry jest, Master Léon; and not in too good taste, either.’

“‘Good or bad,’ answered the steward, ‘the fact is as I say; here is the order from the municipalite. You were fifteen yesterday, you know.’

“‘True; and what then? Am I not Marquis de Neufchâtel, Comte de Rochefort, in right of my mother?’

“‘There are no more marquises, no more counts,’ said the other, roughly; ‘France has had enough of such cattle. The less you allude to them the safer for your head.’

“He spoke truly, – the reign of the aristocracy was ended. And while they were yet speaking, an emissary of the Convention, accompanied by a party of troops, arrived at the château to fetch away the newly-drawn conscript.

“I must not dwell on the scene which followed: the heartrending sorrow of those who had lived but for each other, now torn asunder for the first time, not knowing when, if ever, they were to meet again. His sister wished to follow him; but even had he permitted it, such would have been impossible: the dreadful career of a Revolutionary soldier was an obstacle insurmountable. The same evening the battalion of infantry to which he was attached began their march towards Savoy, and the lovely orphan of the château fell dangerously ill.

“Youth, however, triumphed over her malady, which, indeed, was brought on by grief; and after some weeks she was restored to health. During the interval, nothing could be more kind and attentive than Léon Guichard; his manner, of late years rough and uncivil, became softened and tender; the hundred little attentions which illness seeks for he paid with zeal and watchfulness; everything which could alleviate her sorrow or calm her afflicted mind was resorted to with a kind of instinctive delicacy, and she began to feel that in her long-cherished dislike of the intendant she had done him grievous wrong.

“This change of manner attracted the attention of many besides the inhabitants of the château. They remarked his altered looks and bearing, the more studied attention to his dress and appearance, and the singular difference in all his habits of life. No longer did he pass his time in the wild orgies of debauchery and excess, but in careful management of the estate, and rarely or never left the château after nightfall.

“A hundred different interpretations were given to this line of acting. Some said that the more settled condition of political affairs had made him cautious and careful, for it was now the reign of the Directory, and the old excesses of ‘92 were no longer endured; others, that he was naturally of a kind and benevolent nature, and that his savage manner and reckless conduct were assumed merely in compliance with the horrible features of the time.

“None, however, suspected the real cause. Léon Guichard was in love! Yes, the humble steward, the coarse follower of the vices of that detestable period, was captivated by the beauty of the young girl, now springing into womanhood. The freshness of her artless nature, her guileless innocence, her soft voice, her character so balanced between gayety and thoughtfulness, her loveliness, so unlike all he had ever seen before, had seized upon his whole heart; and, as the sun darting from behind the blackest clouds will light up the surface of a bleak landscape, touching every barren rock and tipping every bell of purple heath with color and richness, so over his rugged nature the beauty of this fair girl shed a very halo of light, and a spirit awoke within him to seek for better things, to endeavor better things, to fly the coarse, depraved habits of his former self, to conform to the tastes of her he worshipped. Day by day his stern nature became more softened. No longer those terrible bursts of passion, to which he once gave way, escaped him; his voice, his very look, too, were changed in their expression, and a gentleness of manner almost amounting to timidity now characterized him who had once been the type of the most savage Jacobin.

“She to whom this wondrous change was owing knew nothing of the miracle she had worked; she would not, indeed, have believed, had one told her. She scarcely remarked him when they met, and did not perceive that he was no longer like his former self; her whole soul wrapped up in her dear brother, s fate, she lived from week to week in the thought of his letters home. It is true, her life had many enjoyments which owed their source to the intendant’s care; but she knew not of this, and felt more grateful to him when he came letter in hand from the little post of the village, than when the fair mossroses of spring filled the vases of the salon, or the earliest fruits of summer decked her table. At times something in his demeanor would strike her, – a tinge of sorrow it seemed rather than aught else; but as she attributed this, as every other grief, to her brother’s absence, she paid no further attention to it, and merely thought good Leon had more feeling than they used to give him credit for.

“At last, the campaign of Arcole over, the young soldier obtained a short leave to see his sister. How altered were they both! She, from the child, had become the beautiful girl, – her eyes flashing with the brilliant sparkle of youth, her step elastic, her color changing with every passing expression. He was already a man, bronzed and sunburnt, his dark eyes darker, and his voice deeper; but still his former self in all the warmth of his affection to his sister.

“The lieutenant – for so was he always called by the old soldier who accompanied him as his servant, and oftentimes by the rest of his household – had seen much of the world in the few years of his absence.

“The chances and changes of a camp had taught him many things which lie far beyond its own limits, and he had learned to scan men’s minds and motives with a quick eye and ready wit. He was not long, therefore, in observing the alteration in Léon Guichard’s manner; nor was he slow in tracing it to its real cause. At first the sudden impulse of his passion would have driven him to any length, – the presumption of such a thought was too great to endure. But then the times he lived in taught him some strong lessons. He remembered the scenes of social disorder and anarchy of his childhood, – how every rank became subverted, and how men’s minds were left to their own unbridled influences to choose their own position, – and he bethought him, that in such trials as these Leon had conducted himself with moderation; that to his skilful management it was owing if the property had not suffered confiscation like so many others; and that it was perhaps hard to condemn a man for being struck by charms which, however above him in the scale of rank, were still continually before his eyes.

“Reasoning thus, he determined, as the wisest course, to remove his sister to the house of a relative, where she could remain during his absence. This would at once put a stop to the steward’s folly, – for so he could not help deeming it, – and, what was of equal consequence in the young soldier’s eyes, prevent his sister being offended by ever suspecting the existence of such a feeling towards her. The plan, once resolved on, met no difficulty from his sister; his promise to return soon to see her was enough to compensate for any arrangement, and it was determined that they should set out towards the South by the first week in September.

“When the intimation of this change first reached Léon, which it did from the other servants, he could not believe it, and resolved to hasten to the lieutenant himself, and ask if it were true. On that day, however, the young soldier was absent shooting, and was not to return before night. Tortured with doubt and fear, trembling at the very thought of her departure whose presence had been the loadstar of his life, he rushed from the house and hurried into the wood. Every spot reminded him of her; and he shuddered to think that in a few hours his existence would have lost its spring; that ere the week was passed he would be alone without the sight of her whom even to have seen constituted the happiness of the whole day. Revolving such sad thoughts, he strolled on, not knowing whither, and at last, on turning the angle of a path, found himself before the object of his musings. She was returning from a farewell visit to one of the cottagers, and was hastening to the château to dress for dinner.

“‘Ah, Monsieur Léon,’ said she, suddenly, ‘I am glad to meet you here. These poor people at the wooden bridge will miss me, I fear; you must look to them in my absence. And there is old Jeannette, – she fancies she can spin still; I pray you let her have her little pension regularly. The children at Calotte, too, – they are too far from the school; mind that they have their books.’

“‘And are you indeed going from hence, Mademoiselle?’ said he, in a tone and accent so unlike his ordinary one as to make her start with surprise.

“‘Yes, to be sure. We leave the day after to-morrow.’

“‘And have you no regret, Mademoiselle, to leave the home of your childhood and those you have – known there?’

“‘Sir!’ replied she haughtily, as the tone of his voice assumed a meaning which could not be mistaken; ‘you seem to have forgotten yourself somewhat, or you had not dared – ’

“‘Dared!’ interrupted he, in a louder key, – ‘dared! I have dared more than that! Yes,’ cried he, in a voice where passion could be no longer held under, ‘Léon Guichard, the steward, has dared to love his master’s daughter! Start not so proudly back, Madame! Time was when such an avowal had been a presumption death could not repay. But these days are passed; the haughty have been well humbled; they who deemed their blood a stream too pure to mingle with the current in plebeian veins, have poured it lavishly beneath the guillotine. Léon Guichard has no master now!’

“The fire flashed from his eyes as he spoke, and his color, pale at first, grew darker and darker, till his face became almost purple; while his nostrils, swelled to twice their natural size, dilated and contracted like those of a fiery charger. Terrified at the frightful paroxysm of passion before her, the timid girl endeavored to allay his anger, and replied, —

“‘You know well, Léon, that my brother has ever treated you as a friend – ’

“‘He a friend!’ cried he, stamping on the ground, while a look of demoniac malice lit up his features. ‘He, who talks to me as though I were a vassal, a slave; he, who deems his merest word of approval a recompense for all my labor, all my toil; he, whose very glance shoots into my heart like a dagger! Think you I forgive him the contemptuous treatment of nineteen years, or that I can pardon insults because they have grown into habits? Hear me!’ – he grasped her wrist rigidly as he spoke, and continued, ‘I have sworn an oath to be revenged on him, from the hour when, a boy scarce eight years old, he struck me in the face, and called me canaille. I vowed his ruin. I toiled for it, I strove for it, and I succeeded, – ay, succeeded. I obtained from the Convention the confiscation of your lands, – all, everything you possessed. I held the titles in my possession, for I was the owner of this broad château, – ay, Léon Guichard! even so; you were but my guest here. I kept it by me many a day, and when your brother was drawn in the conscription I resolved to assert my right before the world.’