CHAPTER XLII. THE ‘COUNT DE MAUREPAS,’ ALIAS————
There is a wide gulf between him who opens his waking eyes in a splendid chamber, and with half-drowsy thoughts speculates on the pleasures of the coming day, and him, who, rising from the dew-moistened earth, stretches his aching limbs for a second or so, and then hurries away to make his toilet at the nearest fountain.
I have known both conditions, and yet, without being thought paradoxical, I would wish to say that there are some sensations attendant on the latter and the humbler lot which I would not exchange for all the voluptuous ease of the former. Let there be but youth, and there is something of heroism, something adventurous in the notion of thus alone and unaided breasting the wide ocean of life, and, like a hardy swimmer, daring to stem the roughest breakers without one to succour him, that is worth all the security that even wealth can impart, all the conscious ease that luxury and affluence can supply. In a world and an age like ours, thought I, there must surely be some course for one young, active and daring as I am. Even if France reject me, there are countries beyond the seas where energy and determination will open a path. ‘Courage, Maurice,’ said I, as I dashed the sparkling water over my head, ‘the past has not been all inglorious, and the future may prove even better.’
A roll and a glass of iced water furnished my breakfast, after which I set forth in good earnest on my search. There was a sort of self-flattery in the thought that one so destitute as I was could devote his thoughts and energies to the service of another, that pleased me greatly. It was so ‘unselfish’—at least I thought so. Alas and alas! how egotistical are we when we fancy ourselves least so. That day I visited St. Roch and Notre Dame at early mass, and by noon reached the Louvre, the gallery of which occupied me till the hour of meeting the curé drew nigh.
Punctual to his appointment, I found him waiting for me at the corner of the quay, and although disappointed at the failure of all his efforts, he talked away with all the energy of one who would not suffer himself to be cast down by adverse fortune. ‘I feel,’ said he, ‘a kind of instinctive conviction that we shall find her yet. There is something tells me that all our pains shall not go unrewarded. Have you never experienced a sensation of this kind,—a species of inward prompting to pursue a road, to penetrate into a pass, or to explore a way, without exactly knowing why or wherefore?’
This question, vague enough as it seemed, led me to talk about myself and my own position; a theme which, however much I might have shrunk from introducing, when once opened, I spoke of in all the freedom of old friendship.
Nothing could be more delicate than the priest’s manner during all this time; nor even when his curiosity was highest did he permit himself to ask a question or an explanation of any difficulty that occurred; and while he followed my recital with a degree of interest that was most flattering, he never ventured on a word or dropped a remark that might seem to urge me to greater frankness. ‘Do you know,’ said he, at last, ‘why your story has taken such an uncommon hold upon my attention? It is not from its adventurous character, nor from the stirring and strange scenes you have passed through; it is because your old pastor and guide, the Père Delamoy, was my own dearest friend, my school companion and playfellow from infancy. We were both students at Louvain together; both called to the priesthood on the same day. Think, then, of my intense delight at hearing his dear name once more—ay, and permit me to say it, hearing from the lips of another the very precepts and maxims that I can recognise as his own. Ah, yes! mon cher Maurice,’ cried he, grasping my hand in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘disguise it how you may, cover it up under the uniform of a “Bleu,” bury it beneath the shako of the soldier of the Republic, but the head and the heart will turn to the ancient altars of the Church and the Monarchy. It is not alone that your good blood suggests this, but all your experience of life goes to prove it. Think of poor Michel, self-devoted, generous, and noble-hearted; think of that dear cottage at Kuffstein, where, even in poverty, the dignity of birth and blood threw a grace and an elegance over daily life; think of Ettenheim and the glorious prince—the last Condé—and who now sleeps in his narrow bed in the fosse of Vincennes!’
‘How do you mean?’ said I eagerly; for up to this time I knew nothing of his fate.
‘Come along with me, and you shall know it all,’ said he; and, rising, he took my arm, and we sauntered along out of the crowded street, till we reached the Boulevards. He then narrated to me every incident of the midnight trial, the sentence, and the execution. From the death-warrant that came down ready filled from Paris, to the grave dug while the victim was yet sleeping—he forgot nothing; and I own that my very blood ran cold at the terrible atrocity of that dark murder. It was already growing dusk when he had finished, and we parted hurriedly, as he was obliged to be at a distant quarter of Paris by eight o’clock, again agreeing to meet, as before, on the Quai Voltaire.
From that moment till we met the following day, the Duc d’Enghien was never out of my thoughts, and I was impatient for the priest’s presence that I might tell him every little incident of our daily life at Ettenheim, the topics we used to discuss, and the opinions he expressed on various subjects. The eagerness of the curé to listen stimulated me to talk on, and I not only narrated all that I was myself a witness of, but various other circumstances which were told to me by the prince himself; in particular, an incident he mentioned to me one day of being visited by a stranger who came, introduced by a letter from a very valued friend; his business being to propose to the duke a scheme for the assassination of Bonaparte. At first the prince suspected the whole as a plot against himself, but on further questioning he discovered that the man’s intentions were really such as he professed them, and offered his services in the conviction that no price could be deemed too high to reward him. It is needless to say that the offer was rejected with indignation, and the prince dismissed the fellow with the threat of delivering him up to the Government of the First Consul. The pastor heard this anecdote with deep attention, and, for the first time, diverging from his line of cautious reserve, he asked me various questions as to when the occurrence had taken place, and where—if the prince had communicated the circumstance to any other than myself, and whether he had made it the subject of any correspondence. I knew little more than I had already told him: that the offer was made while residing at Ettenheim, and during the preceding year, were facts, however, that I could remember.
‘You are surprised, perhaps,’ said he, ‘at the interest I feel in all this; but, strangely enough, there is here in Paris at this moment one of the great ‘Seigneurs’ of the Ardèche; he has come up to the capital for medical advice, and he was a great, perhaps the greatest friend of the poor duke. What if you were to come and pay him a visit with me, there is not probably one favour the whole world could bestow he would value so highly. You must often have heard his name from the prince; has he not frequently spoken of the Count de Maurepas?’ I could not remember having ever heard the name. ‘It is historical, however,’ said the curé, ‘and even in our own days has not derogated from its ancient chivalry. Have you not heard how a noble of the Court rode postillion to the king’s carriage on the celebrated escape from Varennes? Well, even for curiosity’s sake, he is worth a visit, for this is the very Count Henri de Maurepas, now on the verge of the grave!’
If the good curé had known me all my life, he could not more successfully have baited a trap for my curiosity. To see and know remarkable people, men who had done something out of the ordinary route of everyday life, had been a passion with me from boyhood. Hero-worship was, indeed, a great feature in my character, and has more or less influenced all my career, nor was I insensible to the pleasure of doing a kind action. It was rare, indeed, that one so humbly placed could ever confer a favour, and I grasped with eagerness the occasion to do so. We agreed, then, on the next afternoon, towards nightfall, to meet at the quay, and proceed together to the count’s residence. I have often reflected, since that day, that Lisette’s name was scarcely ever mentioned by either of us during this interview; and yet, at the time, so preoccupied were my thoughts, I never noticed the omission. The Château of Ettenheim, and its tragic story, filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.
I pass over the long and dreary hours that intervened, and come at once to the time, a little after sunset, when we met at our accustomed rendezvous.
The curé had provided a fiacre for the occasion, as the count’s residence was about two leagues from the city, on the way to Belleville. As we trotted along, he gave me a most interesting account of the old noble, whose life had been one continued act of devotion to the monarchy.
‘It will be difficult,’ said he, ‘for you to connect the poor, worn-out, shattered wreck before you, with all that was daring in deed and chivalrous in sentiment; but the “Maurepas” were well upheld in all their glorious renown, by him who is now to be the last of the race! You will see him reduced by suffering and sickness, scarcely able to speak, but be assured that you will have his gratitude for this act of true benevolence. Thus chatting we rattled along over the paved highway, and at length entered upon a deep clay road which conducted us to a spacious park, with a long straight avenue of trees, at the end of which stood what, even in the uncertain light, appeared a spacious château. The door lay open, and as we descended, a servant in plain clothes received us, and, after a whispered word or two from the curé, ushered us along through a suite of rooms into a large chamber furnished like a study. There were hook-shelves well filled, and a writing-table covered with papers and letters, and the whole floor was littered with newspapers and journals.
A lamp, shaded by a deep gauze cover, threw a half-light over everything, nor was it until we had been nearly a couple of minutes in the room that we became aware of the presence of the count, who lay upon a sofa, covered up in a fur pelisse, although the season was far advanced in spring.
His gentle ‘Good-evening, messieurs,’ was the first warning we had of his presence, and the curé, advancing respectfully, presented me as his young friend, Monsieur de Tiernay.
‘It is not for the first time that I hear that name,’ said the sick man, with a voice of singular sweetness. ‘It is chronicled in the annals of our monarchy. Ay, sir, I knew that faithful servant of his king, who followed his master to the scaffold.’
‘My father?’ cried I eagerly.
‘I knew him well,’ continued he; ‘I may say, without vaunting, that I had it in my power to befriend him, too. He made an imprudent marriage; he was unfortunate in the society his second wife’s family threw him amongst. They were not his equals in birth, and far beneath him in sentiment and principle. Well, well,’ sighed he, ‘this is not a theme for me to speak of, nor for you to hear; tell me of yourself. The curé says that you have had more than your share of worldly vicissitudes. There, sit down, and let me hear your story from your own lips.’
He pointed to a seat at his side, and I obeyed him at once; for, somehow, there was an air of command even in the gentlest tones of his voice, and I felt that his age and his sufferings were not the only claims he possessed to influence those around him.
With all the brevity in my power, my story lasted till above an hour, during which time the count only interrupted me once or twice by asking to which Colonel Mahon I referred, as there were two of the name; and again by inquiring to what circumstances the émigré family were living as to means, and whether they appeared to derive any of their resources from France. These were points I could give no information upon, and I plainly perceived that the count had no patience for a conjecture, and that, where positive knowledge failed, he instantly passed on to something else. When I came to speak of Ettenheim his attention became fixed, not suffering the minutest circumstance to escape him, and even asking for the exact description of the locality, and its distance from the towns in the neighbourhood.
The daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once or twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being able to travel from Strasbourg without a halt. I vow it puzzled me why he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more interest, but I set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought no more of them. His daily life, his conversation, the opinions he expressed about France, the questions he used to ask, were all matters he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the meditated assassination of Bonaparte. This he made me tell him twice over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, I could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for the deed. This I could not; indeed I knew not if I had ever heard it.
‘But the prince rejected the proposal?’ said he, peering at me beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brow; ‘he would not hear of it?’
‘Of course not,’ cried I; ‘he even threatened to denounce the man to the Government.’
‘And do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?’ asked he slowly.
‘I am certain of it. The horror and disgust he expressed when reciting the story were a guarantee for what he would have done.’
‘But yet Bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race.’ said the count.
‘It is not a Condé can right himself by a murder,’ said I, as calmly.
‘How I like that burst of generous Royalism, young man!’ said he, grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. ‘That steadfast faith in the honour of a Bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!’
Now, although I was not, so far as I knew of, anything of a Royalist—the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes—I did not choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless disclaimer, nor induce a discussion which must be both unprofitable and painful.
‘How did the fellow propose the act? had he any accomplices? or was he alone?’
‘I believe quite alone.’
‘Of course suborned by England? Of that there can be no doubt.’
‘The prince never said so.’
‘Well, but it is clear enough, the man must have had means; he travelled by a very circuitous route; he had come from Hamburg probably?’
‘I never heard.’
‘He must have done so. The ports of Holland, as those of France, would have been too dangerous for him. Italy is out of the question.’
I owned that I had not speculated so deeply in the matter.
‘It was strange,’ said he, after a pause, ‘that the duke never mentioned who had introduced the man to him.’
‘He merely called him a valued friend.’
‘In other words, the Count d’Artois,’ said the count; ‘did it not strike you so?’
I had to confess it had not occurred to me to think so.
‘But reflect a little,’ said he. ‘Is there any other living who could have dared to make such a proposal but the count? Who, but the head of his house, could have presumed on such a step? No inferior could have had the audacity! It must have come from one so highly placed that crime paled itself down to a mere measure of expediency under the loftiness of the sanction. What think you?’
‘I cannot, I will not think so,’ was my answer. ‘The very indignation of the prince’s rejection refutes the supposition.’
‘What a glorious gift is unsuspectfulness!’ said he feelingly. ‘I am a rich man, and you I believe are not so; and yet, I’d give all the wealth, ay, ten times told, not for your vigour of health, not for the lightness of your heart, nor the elasticity of your spirits, but for that one small quality, defect though it be, that makes you trustful and credulous.’
I believe I would just as soon that the old gentleman had thought fit to compliment me upon any other quality. Of all my acquisitions there was not one I was so vain of as my knowledge of life and character. I had seen, as I thought, so much of life I I had peeped at all ranks and conditions of men, and it was rather hard to find an old country gentleman, a Seigneur de Village, calling me credulous and unsuspecting!
I was much more pleased when he told the cure that a supper was ready for us in the adjoining room, at which he begged we would excuse his absence; and truly a most admirable little meal it was, and served with great elegance.
‘The count expects you to stop here; there is a chamber prepared for you,’ said the curé as we took our seats at table. ‘He has evidently taken a fancy to you. I thought, indeed I was quite certain, he would. Who can tell what good fortune this chance meeting may lead to, Monsieur Maurice! À votre santé, mon cher!’ cried he, as he clinked his champagne glass against mine; and I at last began to think that destiny was about to smile on me.
‘You should see his château in the Ardèche; this is nothing to it! There is a forest, too, of native oak, and a chasse such as royalty never owned!’
Mine were delightful dreams that night; but I was sorely disappointed on waking to find that Laura was not riding at my side through a forest-alley, while a crowd of piqueurs and huntsmen galloped to and fro, making the air vibrate with their joyous bugles. Still, I opened my eyes in a richly furnished chamber, while a lackey handed me my coffee on a silver stand, and in a cup of costliest Sèvres.