Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume Ii Part 42

"Leaving the army, and not wounded! He is old and disabled, perhaps."

"Neither; he is both young and vigorous."

"Shame on him, then, that he turn his back on fame and fortune, and leave the path that brave men tread! He never was a soldier! No, Father; he in whose heart the n.o.ble pa.s.sion once has lived can never forget it."

"Hush, child, hush!" said the priest, motioning with his hand to her to be silent.

"Let me look on him!" said the vivandiere, as she stooped down and took from the hearth a piece of lighted wood; "let me see this man, and learn the features of one who can be so craven of spirit, so poor of heart, as to fly the field, while thousands are flocking towards it."

Burning with shame and indignation, I arose, just as she approached me.

The pine-branch threw its red gleam over her bright uniform, and then upon her face.

"Minette! Minette!" I exclaimed. But with a wild shriek she let fall the burning wood, and fell senseless to the ground.

It was some time before, with all our care, she recovered consciousness; and even then, in her wild, excited glance, one might read the struggles of her mind to credit what had occurred. A few broken, unconnected phrases would escape her at intervals; and she seemed laboring to regain the lost clew to her recollections, when again she turned her eyes towards me. At the same instant, the trumpet sounded without for the _reveil_, and was answered by many a call from other parties around.

With a steadfast gaze of wonderment she fixed her look on me; and twice pa.s.sed her hands across her eyes, as though she doubted the evidence of her senses.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 346]

"Minette, hear me! let me speak but one word." "There it is again,"

cried she, as the blast rang out a second time, and the clatter of hors.e.m.e.n resounded from the street. "Adieu, sir; our roads lie not together. Father, your blessing; if your good counsel this night has not made its way to my heart, the lesson has come elsewhere. Good-by!

good-by!" She pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and darted from the room.

Stunned, and like one spell-bound, I could not move for a few seconds; and then, with a wild cry, I bounded after her through the garden.

The wicket, however, was fastened on the outside, and it was some time before I could scale the wall and reach the street.

The day was just breaking, but already the village was thronged with soldiers, who were preparing for the march, and arranging their parties to conduct the wagons. Hurrying on through the crowded and confused ma.s.s, I looked on every side for the vivandiere; but in vain. Groups of different regiments pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed me; but to my questions they returned either a jeering reply, or a mere laugh of derision. "But a few days ago," thought I, "and these fellows had scarce dared to address me; and now--" Oh, the blighting misery of that thought! I was no longer a soldier; the meanest horseman of his troop was my superior.

I pa.s.sed through the village, and reached the highroad. Before me was a party of dragoons, escorting a drove of cattle; I hastened after them, but on coming near, discovered they were a light cavalry detachment.

Sick at heart, I leaned against a tree at the wayside, when again I heard the tramp of horses approaching. I looked, and saw the tall helmets of the Fourth, who were coming slowly along, conducting some large wagons, drawn by eight or ten horses. In front of the detachment rode a man, whose enormous stature made him at once remarkable, as well as the air of soldierly bearing he displayed. Beside him was Minette; the reins had fallen on her horse's neck, and her face was buried in her hands.

"Ah! if I had thought that priest would have made thee so sad, Mademoiselle, I'd have let him spend his night beneath a wagon rather than in my quarters," said a deep, hollow voice I at once recognized as that of Pioche. "But the morning air will revive thee; so let us forward: by threes--open order--trot."

The word was obeyed; the heavy tramp of the horses, with the dull roll of the wagons, drowned all other sounds The cortege moved on, and I was alone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BrowneDeathOfMinette127]

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PENSION DE LA RUE MI-CAReME.

When I returned to the garden, I found that the Pere a.r.s.ene was seized by an access of that dreadful malady, whose intervals of comparative release are but periods of dread or despondence. The tertian of Egypt, so fatal among the French troops, now numbered him among its victims, and he looked worn and exhausted, like one after weeks of illness.

My first care was to present myself to the official whose business it was to inspect the pa.s.sports, and by explaining the condition of my poor friend, to entreat permission to delay my journey,--at least until he should be somewhat recovered. The gruff old sergeant, however, deliberately examined my pa.s.sport, and as rigidly decided that I could not remain. The words of the minister were clear and definite,--"Day by day, without halt, to the nearest frontier of France," was the direction; and with this I must comply. In vain I a.s.sured him that no personal convenience, no wish of my own, urged the request, but the duty of humanity towards a fellow-traveller, and one who had strong claims on every soldier of the Empire.

"Leave him to me, Monsieur," was the only reply I could obtain; and the utmost favor he would grant was the permission to take leave of my poor friend before I started.

Amid all the sufferings of his malady, I found the good priest dwelling in his mind on the scene with the vivandiere,--which, perhaps, from the impressionable character of a sick man's temperament, had entirely filled his thoughts; and thus he wandered from the subject of his sorrows to hers, with scarcely a transition between them.

When I mentioned the necessity of our parting, he seemed to feel it more on my account than his own.

"I wished to have reached Paris with you," he repeated over and over.

"It was not impossible I could have arranged your return home. But you must go down to Sevres,--the priest there, whoever he may be, will know of me; tell him everything without reserve. I am too ill to write, but if I get better soon--Well, well; that poor girl is an orphan too; and Alphonse was an orphan. With what misery have we struggled in France since this man has ruled our destinies! how have the crimes of a people brought their retribution to every heart and every home!--none too low, none too humble, to feel them. Leave this land; no blessing can rest upon it now. Poor thing! how worthy of a better lot she is! If this same officer should know,--it is not impossible. But, why do I say this?

No, no; you'll never meet him now."

He continued to mutter thus some broken and disjointed sentences, half-aloud, for some minutes, apparently unconscious of my presence.

"He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your country's cause, above every other; all else is the hireling's part. The sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!" He threw his arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my shoulder.

The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I heard his voice again.

"Yes, I have it now; I remember it well,--'Le Capitaine Burke.'"

I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he continued,--"You 'll think of the name,--she said, too, he was on the staff,--'Burke!' Poor girl!"

I did not wait for more, but like one flying from some dreaded enemy I rushed through the garden, and gained the road, my heart torn with many a conflicting thought; the bitterest of all being the memory of Minette, the orphan girl, who alone of all the world cared for me. Oh! if strong, deep-rooted affection, the love of a whole heart, can raise the spirit above the every-day contentions of the world,--can enn.o.ble thought, refine sentiments, and divest life of all its meaner traits, making a path of flowers among the rocks and briers of our worldly pilgrimage; so does the possession of affection for which we cannot give requital throw a gloom over the soul, for which there is no remedy. Better, a thousand times better, had I borne all the solitary condition of my lot, unrelieved by one token of regard, than think of her who had wrecked her fortunes on my own.

With many a sad thought I plodded onward. The miles pa.s.sed over seemed like the events in some troubled dream; and of my journey I have not a recollection remaining. It was late in the evening when I reached the Barriere de l'etoile, and entered Paris. The long lines of lamps along the quays, the glittering reflection in the calm river, the subdued but continual hum of a great city, awoke me from my reverie, and I bethought me that my career of life must now begin anew, and all my energies must be called on to fashion out my destiny.

On the morning after my arrival I presented myself, in compliance with the requisite form, before the minister of police. Little information of mine was necessary to explain the circ.u.mstances under which I was placed. He was already thoroughly acquainted with the whole, and seemed in nowise disposed to evince any undue lenity towards one who had voluntarily quitted the service of the Emperor.

"Where do you purpose to remain, sir?" said the prefet, as he concluded a lengthened and searching scrutiny of my appearance.

"In Paris," I replied, briefly.

"In Paris, I suppose," said he, with a slight derisive curl of the lip,--"of that I should think there can be little doubt; but I wished to ascertain more accurately your address,--in what part of the city."

"As yet I cannot tell; I am almost a stranger here. A day or two will, however, enable me to choose, and then I shall return here with the intelligence."

"That is sufficient, sir; I shall expect to see you soon."

He waved his hand in sign to me to withdraw, and I was but too happy to follow the indication. As I hastened down the stairs, and forced my way through the crowd of persons who awaited an audience with the prefet, I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, "A word; one word with you, Monsieur." Conceiving, however, it could not have been intended for me, to whom no face there was familiar, I pa.s.sed on, and reached the court.

The noise of footsteps rapidly moving on the grave behind me induced me to turn; and I beheld a small, miserably-dressed man, whose spare and wasted form bespoke the sorest trials of poverty, advancing towards me, hat in hand.

"Will you deign me one word, Monsieur?" said he, in a voice whose tone, although that of entreaty, was yet remote from the habitual accent of one asking alms.

"You must mistake me," said I, desirous to pa.s.s on; "I am unknown to you."

"True, sir; but it is as a stranger I take the liberty of addressing you. I heard you say just now that you had not fixed on any place of abode in Paris; now, if I might venture to entreat your preference for this establishment, it would be too much honor for me, its poor master."

Here he placed in my hands a small card, inscribed with the words, "Pension Bourgeoise, Rue de Mi-Careme, Boulevard Mont Parna.s.se, No. 46,"

at top; and beneath was a paragraph, setting forth the economical fact that a man might eat, drink, and sleep for the sum of twelve francs a week, enjoying the delights of "agreeable society, pleasant environs, and all the advantages of a country residence."

It was with difficulty I could avoid a smile at the shivering figure who ventured to present himself as an inducement to try the fare of his house. Whether my eyes did wander from the card to his countenance, or any other gesture of mine betrayed my thoughts, the old man seemed to divine what was pa.s.sing in my mind, and said,--

"Monsieur will not p.r.o.nounce on the 'pension' from the humble guise of its master. Let him but try it; and I promise that these poor rags, this miserable figure, has no type within the walls."

There was a tone of deep dejection, mingled with a sense of conscious pride, in which he said these few words, that at once decided me not to grieve him by a refusal.