Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“This, at least, is not a compliment,” said I, laughing.

He shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his eyebrows with a French expression, as though to say, it can’t be helped; and then continued: —

“And now remember, Burke, I count on you. Get me out of this confounded place; I ‘d rather be back at Toulon again, if need be. And as I shall not see you again before you leave, farewell. I ‘ll send the letter for the countess early to-morrow.”

We shook hands warmly and parted: he to return to his quarters; and I to sit down beside my fire, and muse over the events that had just occurred, and think of Tascher himself, whose character had never been so plainly exposed to me before.

If De Beauvais, with his hot-headed impetuosity, his mad devotion to the cause of the Legitimists, was a type of the followers of the Bourbons; so, in all the easy indifference and quiet selfishness of his nature, was Tascher a specimen of another class of his countrymen, – a class which, wrapped up in its own circle of egotistical enjoyments, believed Paris the only habitable spot of the whole globe. Without any striking traits of character, or any very decided vices, they led a life of pleasure and amusement, rendering every one and everything around them, so far as they were able, subservient to their own plane and wishes; and perfectly unconscious the while how glaring their selfishness had become, and how palpable, even to the least observant, was the self-indulgence they practised on every occasion. Without cleverness or tact enough to conceal their failings, they believed they imposed on others because they imposed on themselves, – just as the child deems himself unseen when he closes his eyes.

Josephine’s followers were, many of them, like this, and formed a striking contrast to the young men of the Napoleonite party, who, infatuated by the glorious successes of their chief, deemed the career of arms alone honorable. St. Cyr and the Polytechnique were the nurseries of these, – the principles instilled there were perpetuated in after life; and however exaggerated their ideas of France and her destiny, their undoubted heroism and devotion might well have palliated even heavier errors.

It was in ruminating thus over the different characters of the few I had ever known intimately, that I came to think seriously on my own condition, which, for many a day before, I had rather avoided than sought to reflect on. I felt, – as how many must have done! – that the bond of a common country, the inborn patriotism of the native of the soil, is the great resource on which men fall back when they devote themselves to the career of arms; that the alien’s position, disguise it how he will, is that of the mere mercenary. How can he identify himself with interests on which he is but half-informed, or feel attachment to a land wherein he has neither hearth nor home? In the very glory he wins he can scarce participate. In a word, his is a false position, which no events nor accidents of fortune can turn to good account, and he must rest satisfied with a life of isolation and estrangement.

I felt how readily, if I had been a Frenchman born, I could have excused and palliated to my conscience many things which now were matters of reproach. Aggressive war had lost its horrors in the glory of enlarged dominions; the greatness of France and the honor of her arms had made me readily forget the miseries entailed on other nations by her lust of conquest. But I – the stranger, the alien – had no part in the inheritance of glory; and personal ambition, – what means it, save to stand high amongst those we once looked up to as superiors? For me there were no traditions of a childhood passed amid great names, revered and worshipped; no early teachings of illustrious examples beside the paternal hearth. And yet there was one, although lost to me forever, before whose eyes I would gladly seem to hold a high place. Yes! could I but think that she had not forgotten me, – would hear my name with interest, or feel one throb of pleasure if I were spoken of with honor, – I asked no more!

“A letter, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said my servant, as he deposited a package on my table. Supposing it was the epistle of which Tascher spoke, I paid but slight attention to it, when by chance I remarked it was in General d’Auvergne’s handwriting. I opened it at once, and read as follows: —

Bivouac, 11 o’clock.

My dear Burke, – No one ever set off for Paris without being troubled with commissions for his country friends, and you must not escape the ills of common humanity. Happily for you, however, the debt is easily acquitted; I have neither undiscovered shades of silk to be matched, nor impossible bargains to be effected. I shall simply beg of you to deliver with your own hand the enclosed letter to its address at the Tuileries; adding, if you think fit, the civil attentions of a visit.

We shall both, in all likelihood, be much hurried when we meet to-morrow, – for I also have received orders to march, – so that I take the present opportunity to enclose you a check on Paris for a trifle in advance of your pay; remembering too well, in my own aide-de-camp days, the dilatory habits of the War Office with new captains.

Yours ever, dear Burke,

D’Auvergne, Lieut-General.

The letter of which he spoke had fallen on the table, where I now read the address, – “À Madame la Comtesse d’Auvergne, née Comtesse de Meudon, dame d’honneur de S. M. l’Impératrice.” As I read these lines, I felt my face grow burning hot, my cheeks flushed up, and I could scarcely have been more excited were I actually in her presence to whom the letter was destined. The poor general’s kind note, his check for eight thousand francs, lay there: I forgot them both, and sat still, spelling over the letters of that name so woven in my destiny. I thought of the first night I had ever heard it, when, a mere boy, I wept over her sorrows, and grieved for her whose fate was so soon to throw its shadow over my own. But in a moment all gave way before the one thought, – I should see her again, speak to her and hear her voice. It is true, she was the wife of another: but as Marie de Meudon, our destinies were as wide apart; under no circumstances could she have been mine, nor did I ever dare to hope it. My love to her – for it was such, ardent and passionate – was more the devotion of some worshipper at a shrine than an affection that sought return. The friendless soldier of fortune, poor, unknown, uncared for, – how could he raise his thoughts to one for whose hand the noblest and the bravest were suitors in vain? Yet, with all this, how my heart throbbed to think that we should meet again! Nor was the thought less stirring that I felt, that even in the short interval of absence I had won praise from him for whom her admiration was equal to my own. With all the turmoil of my hopes and fears I felt a rush of pleasure at my heart; and when I slept, it was to dream of happy days to come, and a future far brighter than the past.

My first thought when morning broke was to ride over to Beygern, to learn the fate of my wounded friends. On my way thither I fell in with several officers bound on a similar errand, for already the convent had become the great hospital to which the sufferers were brought from every part of the camp. As we went along, I was much struck by the depression of spirit so remarkable everywhere. The battle over, all the martial enthusiasm seemed to have evaporated: many grumbled at the tiresome prospect of a winter in country quarters, or cantoned in the field; some regretted the briefness of the campaign; while others again complained that to return to France after so little of active service would only expose them to ridicule from their companions who had seen Italy and Egypt.

“Spare your sorrows on that score, my young friends,” said a colonel, who listened patiently to the complaints around him; “we shall not see the dome of the Invalides for some time yet. Except the compagnie d’élite, I fancy few of us will figure on the Boulevards.”

“There, again,” cried another: “I never heard anything so unfair as that compagnie d’élite; they have been, with two solitary exceptions, taken from the cavalry. Austerlitz was to be the day of honor for the infantry of France, said the bulletin.”

“And so it was,” interrupted a little dark-eyed major; “and I suppose his Majesty thought we had enough of it on the field, and did not wish to surfeit us with glory. But I ask pardon,” said he, turning towards me; “monsieur is, if I mistake not, named one of the élite?”

As I replied in the affirmative, I observed all eyes turned towards me; but not with any kindly expression, – far from it. I saw that there was a deliberate canvass of me, as though to see by my outward man how I could possibly deserve such a favor.

“Can you explain to us, Monsieur,” said the little major to me, “on what principle the élite were chosen? For we have a thousand contradictory reports in the camp: some say by ballot; some, that it was only those who never soiled their jackets in the affair of the other day, and looked fresh and smart.”

A burst of laughter from the rest interrupted the major’s speech, for its impertinence was quite sufficient to secure it many admirers.

“I believe, sir,” said I, angrily, “I can show you some reasons against the selection of certain persons.”

As I got thus far, an officer whispered something into the major’s ear, who, with a roar of laughing, exclaimed, —

“A thousand pardons! ten thousand, parbleu! I did n’t know you. It was monsieur pinked François, the maître d’armes? Yes, yes; don’t deny it,” said he, as I made no reply whatever to a question I believed quite irrelevant to the occasion, – “don’t deny it. That lunge over the guard was a thing to be proud of; and, by Jove! you shall not practise it at my expense.”

This speech excited great amusement among the party, who seemed to coincide perfectly with the reasoning of the speaker; while I myself remained silent, unable to decide whether I ought to be annoyed or the reverse.

“Come, Monsieur,” resumed the major, addressing me with courtesy, “I ask-pardon for the liberty of my speech. By Saint Denis! if all the compagnie d’élite have the same skill of fence, I ‘ll not question their appointment.”

The candor of the avowal was too much for my gravity, and I now joined in the mirth of his companions.

If I have mentioned so trivial an incident as this here, it is because I wish to mark, even thus passingly, a trait of French military life. The singular confession of a man who regretted his impertinence because he discovered his adversary was a better swordsman, would, under any other code or in any other country, have argued poltroonery. Not so here; no one for a moment suspected his comrade’s courage, nor could any circumstance arise to make it doubtful save an actual instance of cowardice. The inequality of the combat was reason enough for not engaging in it: the odds were unfair, because duelling was like a game where each party was to have an equal chance; and hence no shame was felt at declining a contest where this inequality existed.

Such a system, it is obvious, could not have prevailed in communities where duelling was only resorted to in extreme cases; but here it was an every-day occurrence, and often formed but a brief interval, scarce interrupting the current of an old friendship. Any resentful spirit, any long-continued dislike to the party with whom you once fought, would have been denounced as unofficer-like and ungenerous; and every day saw men walking arm-inarm in closest intimacy, who but the morning before stood opposed to each other’s weapons. I now perceived the truth of what Minette had once said, and which at the time I but imperfectly comprehended. “Maître François will be less troublesome in future; and you, Lieutenant, will have an easier life also.”

“Halt there!” shouted a sentry, as we approached the narrow causeway that led up to the convent. We now discovered, that by a general order no one was permitted to approach the hospital save such as were provided with a leave from the medical staff. A bulletin of the deaths was daily published on the guard-house, except which no other information was afforded of the condition of the wounded; and to this we turned eagerly, and with anxious hearts, lest we might read the name of some friend lost forever. I ran over with a rapid glance the list, where neither St. Hilaire nor poor Pioche occurred; and then, setting spurs to my horse, hurried back to my quarters at the top of my speed. When I arrived, the preparations for the departure of the élite were already in progress, and I had but time to make my few arrangements for the road when the order came to join my comrades.