CAPTAIN IN THE M. V. M.
Elias Muggs is no more! Hepzibah Muggs is a widow; a stranger has purchased the stock of West India goods, and the Bluetown Fusileers are commanded by the first lieutenant. These are sad changes.
It is not a little remarkable that though Captain Elias Muggs was not born in the same year as the Duke of Wellington, (though, by the way, every body else seems to have been,) yet he died about the same time. There was a striking similarity between their characters and positions. The Iron Duke was commander-in-chief of the allied forces at the battle of Waterloo, and Elias Muggs was commander of the Bluetown Fusileers. If Elias Muggs had been born on the other side of the water, he probably would have been the Duke of Wellington; and if the Duke of Wellington had been born here, he would probably have been Elias Muggs. This proposition may appear a metaphysical subtlety to obtuse minds, but to ours it seems as clear as mud.
When such a man dies, he must not be permitted to depart
"Without the meed of one melodious tear."
His loss is a national loss. Nature seems to have intended him for President of the United States, but "left him two drinks behind;" whence we may conclude that Nature is a humbug, a conclusion practically arrived at by most artists, living and dead.
Elias Muggs, from his tenderest years, was devoted to groceries and glory. His venerable schoolmistress, who has outlived her illustrious pupil, and is now supported by the town whose founders were formed by her care, and who laid the foundation of our hero's greatness by the powerful application of birch at the seat of learning, assured us, in a recent interview, that the military propensities of Muggs were developed at an early age. She observed that it was impossible to fix his attention on the classic page of Noah Webster when the Bluetown Fusileers were passing the school house with drum and fife, and that the motive of his first experiment at "hooking jack" was a desire to attend a country muster in the neighboring town. She added, that she distinctly remembered having confiscated a box of tin soldiers with which he was amusing himself, and that he threatened to "punch her eye" if she did not release the unconscious prisoners of war on parole. These are very important facts.
We are unable to state the precise age at which Elias entered the service—but the town clerk of Bluetown places it at twenty-one. He went through the different grades with great rapidity, and was finally chosen captain in a warmly-contested election. There is no question that he would have been elected unanimously, without difficulty, had there not existed a great doubt in the corps (Captain Muggs, by the way, always pronounced this word, and spelled it, corpse) of his ability to "treat;" whereas his adversary was distinguished for possessing a "pocket full of rocks," and a willingness "to treat every body." The success of our hero, under the circumstances, was purely owing to military merit. The moment he was chosen, he took the field at the head of his command. Admiring Bluetown gazed approvingly upon his swallow-tailed coat, his tall plume, his shining battle blade, his plated scabbard, worsted sash, and low-heeled, cowhide boots. The fair, who are ever ready to award their smiles to chivalry, were unanimous in their approval, and Deacon Dogget's daughter was heard to murmur, "O, what a pooty soger 'lias makes!" "Upon this hint he spake" a few days afterwards, and in due time they were married. But enough of that—our essay treats of war, not love.
In his "first field," Captain Muggs displayed his extraordinary knowledge of tactics. He it was who first discovered the method of "dressing" a line, by backing it up against a curbstone. He also divested military science of many pedantic terms, which tend only to confuse the young conscript, and dampen the military ardor of the patriot soldier. He substituted the brief and soldierly words of command, "haw!" "gee!" and "whoa!" for "left," "right," and "halt." His spirited "let her rip!" was an infinite improvement on the "fire" of the Steuben manual. The object of the commander is to make himself understood readily by his men, and in this Captain Muggs was perfectly successful.
The greatest commanders have been famous for their terse eloquence. Napoleon said to his troops in Egypt, "Soldiers, from the summit of these pyramids twenty centuries look down on you this day." Scott, in Mexico, said to Smith's brigade, "Brave rifles, you have been baptized in fire, and have come out steel." And Muggs, at Bluetown, after the last manœuvre, said, "Feller sogers, that 'ere was prime—and now less adjourn to the tavern and likker up at my expense." It is questionable whether any speech of Napoleon or Scott ever excited more enthusiasm.
The company adjourned to the tavern, and after plentifully refreshing with long nines, pigtail, New England, and crackers, departed with three cheers for the "cap'n." We would fain draw a veil over what followed. But a strict regard for truth compels us to "speak right out in meetin'." All great men have their weaknesses. Cæsar was not immaculate. Alexander the Great died of mania a potu. There was no Maine liquor law at the time of which we speak. There was not even a temperance society in all Bluetown.
Captain Muggs was in the green and salad days of youth. He was flushed with military success, young, ardent, and imprudent.
He retired to a private room with the commissioned officers of his "corps," and left a liberal order at the bar. Healths were drank, songs sung, patriotic and otherwise, more otherwise than patriotic, and the "fast and furious" fun was driven into the small hours of the morning. When the bill was presented, Captain Muggs was without funds; and his gallant subordinates, on the bare suggestion of a loan, incontinently vanished. Captain Muggs intimated something about credit. The landlord shook his head. Captain Muggs was grieved, and the landlord consulted the flytraps on the ceiling, still extending his open hand, with the palm upwards, in the direction of the officer. Finding the publican obdurate, the captain proposed to leave his uniform and equipments in pawn, and the offer was accepted.
And here let us pause to contemplate the moral greatness of this act. Those insignia of rank were as dear to Muggs as the apple of his eye. They were to him what the sceptre and crown were to Napoleon. It was like tugging at his heartstrings to unfasten the belt and sash, and lay the sword upon the table. Marsyas suffered not more when Apollo removed his skin than Muggs did when the landlord stripped off his coat and epaulets. When the hat and plume were laid upon the altar of offended Mammon, Muggs uttered a deep groan, and departed in his shirt sleeves. If we were a great historical painter, we should prefer this subject to that of Washington resigning his commission as commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army.
The same integrity distinguished Captain Muggs throughout his life. When, some years afterwards, he received a letter from a lawyer, stating that, in case he did not immediately satisfy a certain claim of five years' standing, legal measures would be adopted to enforce payment, he remitted the sum in question without a murmur.
Personal courage is not deemed indispensable to great commanders. Marlborough is said to have trembled on the battle field. It is the part of the officer to command—of the men to execute. But Muggs was as valiant as he was wise. On a field day, when a certain turbulent apple woman persisted in encroaching on the lines, Captain Muggs charged her in person, unsupported by his troops, upset her apple stall, and expelled her from the lines. Such achievements are of rare occurrence.
On every parade day, Muggs was "thar." In every sham fight he was first and foremost. He was always loudest in proclaiming the "dooty of the milingtary to support the civil power." Yet in the great riot caused by the illegal impounding of Steve Gubbins's bull, when Bluetown was divided against itself, her constabulary force and "specials" ignominiously beaten and routed, Captain Muggs, with an heroic deafness to the call of glory and the selectmen, from a reluctance to shed the blood of his fellow-citizens, refused to call out his company, and concealed himself in a hayloft till the affray was over, the pound completely demolished, and the bull rescued from the minions of the law.
The loss of such a man is irreparable. What a president he would have made! Magnanimity, self-denial, punctuality, eloquence, popularity, military glory—why, he had all the elements of success. But our heroes are fast passing away. Muggs is gone, and we must make up our minds to be governed by mere statesmen!
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
It was a fine night in the autumn of the year 1805, and the stars shone as brilliantly over the gay city of Paris as if they had burned in an Italian heaven. The cumbrous mass of the palace of the Tuileries, instead of lying like a dark leviathan in the shadows of the night, blazed with light in all its many-windowed length; for the soldier emperor, the idol of his subjects, that night gave a grand ball and reception to the world. Troops in full uniform were under arms, and the great lamps of the court yard gazed brightly on the channelled bayonets and polished musket barrels of the sentinels. Carriage after carriage drew up at the great portal, and emitted beautiful ladies, brilliantly attired, and marshals and staff officers blazing with embroidery; for Napoleon, simple and unostentatious in his own person, well knew the importance of surrounding himself with a brilliant court; and the people, even the rude and ragged denizens of the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St. Marceau, as they hung upon the iron railing and scanned the splendid dresses of the guests as they alighted from their carriages, were well pleased to see that a throne created by themselves could vie in splendor with the old hereditary seats of loyalty that existed in spite of the execrations of the million. They marked with pleasure the arms of some of the ancient Bourbon nobility on the panels of some of the glittering equipages, for all the aristocracy of France had not joined the banners of her adversaries.
Within the walls of the palace, in the reception room, the scene was yet more dazzling. The draperies of the throne, at the foot of which stood Josephine, more impressive from her native and winning loveliness than the splendor of the priceless diamonds that decked her brow and neck, and the emperor in the simple attire of a gentleman, with no distinctive ornament save the grand cross of the Legion of Honor: the draperies of the throne, we say, no longer presented the golden lilies of the Bourbon, but the golden bees of Napoleon—symbols of the industry and perseverance which had raised him to his rank. The eye, as it roamed around the brilliant circle, encountered few of those vapid faces which make the staple of the surroundings of an hereditary throne. Every epaulet that sparkled there graced the shoulder of a man who had won his grade by exposure, gallantry, and intellect. There was the scarred veteran of the Sambre and the Meuse, heroes who had crossed "that terrible bridge of Lodi" in the path of the French tricolor and the face of the withering fire of Austrian batteries—dim eyes that had been blighted by the burning sands of Egypt, warriors who had braved the perils of the Alps, and the dangers of the plains of Lombardy.
Somewhat apart from the brilliant circle, in the embrasure of one of the deep and lofty windows, stood a young officer, in conversation with a beautiful young woman. The latter was attired in white satin, and the rich lace veil that half hid the orange flower in her hair, and descended gracefully over her faultless shoulders, proclaimed her to be a bride. And the young soldier, her companion? The radiant pride and joy that beamed from his fine dark eye, the animation of his manner, and the tenderness of his tone, as he addressed the lady, emphatically proclaimed the bridegroom. Such, indeed, were the relations of Colonel Lioncourt and Leonide Lasalle, who had that day only lost her maiden appellation at the altar of Notre Dame.
So absorbed was the young colonel in the conversation, that it was only after he had been twice addressed that he turned and noticed the proximity of a third person.
"Sorry to interrupt you, colonel," said the new comer, a young man with dark lowering brows, deep-set eyes, and a sinister expression, heightened by a sabre cut that traversed his left cheek diagonally, "but his majesty desires to speak to you."
"Au revoir, Leonide," said the young colonel to his bride; "I will join you again in a few moments. The emperor is laconic enough in his communications. Meanwhile, I leave you to the care of my friend."
The emperor was already impatient, and the moment the colonel appeared he grasped his arm familiarly, and led him aside, while the immediate group of courtiers fell back respectfully, and out of earshot.
"Colonel," said Napoleon, "I have news—great news. The enemies of France will not give us a moment's repose. It is no longer England alone that threatens us. I could have crushed England, had she met me single handed. In a month my eagles would have lighted on the tower of London. Russia, Austria, and Sweden have joined her. Our frontier is threatened by half a million men. Lioncourt, you are brave and trusty, and I will tell you what I dare communicate to few. My movements must be as secret as the grave. Paris must not suspect them. What do you think I propose doing?"
"To strengthen the frontier by concentrating your troops on different points, sire."
Napoleon smiled.
"No, Lioncourt; we will beard the lion in his den. I have broken up the camp at Boulogne. I will rush at once into the heart of Germany. I will separate the enemy's columns from each other. The first division that marches against me shall be outflanked, attacked in the rear, and cut to pieces. One after another they shall fall before me. In three months I shall triumph over the coalition. I shall dictate terms of peace from the field of battle. Lioncourt, they are short sighted. They know nothing of me yet. They fancy that my heart is engaged in these frivolous pomps and gayeties with which I amuse the people—that I have become enervated by 'Capuan delights.' But you know me better. You know that my throne is the back of my war horse—that the sword is my sceptre, cannon my diplomatists. I wished for peace—they have elected war; on their heads be the guilt and the bloodshed."
He paused, out of breath with the rapidity of his utterance. Colonel Lioncourt waited respectfully till he should recommence.
"Colonel," he said, at last, in a tone of sadness, a melancholy shade passing over his fine features, "they have described me as a sanguinary monster. History will do me justice. History will attest that I never drew the sword without just cause—that I returned it to its scabbard on the earliest opportunity. Not on my soul the guilt of slaughtered thousands, of villages burned, of peasants driven from their homes, of fields ravaged, of women widowed, and children orphaned. My whole soul yearns for peace. I would build my true greatness on the promulgation of just laws, the culture of religion and intellect, the triumphs of agriculture, and the arts of peace. But I must obey my destiny. Europe must be ploughed by the sword. The struggle is between civilization and barbarism, freedom and despotism, the Frank and the Cossack. But I prate too long. Colonel, I sent for you to pronounce a hard sentence. Your regiment of hussars is already under arms. You must march to-night—instantly."
"Sire," said Lioncourt, with a sigh. "This news will kill my poor wife."
"Josephine shall console her," said the emperor. "I would have informed you earlier, but St. Eustache, your lieutenant colonel, whom I now see talking with madame, advised me not to do so."
"I thank him," muttered Lioncourt bitterly.
"You have no time to lose. I counsel you to leave the presence quietly. Let your wife learn that you have marched by a letter. Better that than the agony of parting. I know something of human, and particularly feminine, nature. Adieu, colonel. Courage and good fortune."
And so saying, the emperor glided easily back to the circle he had left. Lioncourt's brain reeled under the blow he had received. He gazed upon his wife as she stood radiant, beautiful, and unsuspicious, under a glittering chandelier, with the same feelings with which a man takes his last look of the shore as he sinks forever in the treacherous wave. In another moment he was gone. The sentries presented arms as he passed out of the palace. His orderly was in the court yard holding his charger by the bridle. The colonel threw himself into the saddle, and was soon at the head of the regiment. The trumpets and kettledrums were mute—for such were the general orders and the regiment rode out of the city in silence, broken only by the heavy tramping of the horses' hoofs, and the clanking of scabbards rebounding from their flanks. As they passed out of one of the gates, the lieutenant colonel, St. Eustache, joined the column at a gallop, and reported to his commander.
St. Eustache had been a lover of Leonide Lasalle, had proposed for her hand, and been rejected. Still, he had not utterly ceased to love her, but his desire of possession was now mingled with a thirst of vengeance. He both hated and loved the beautiful Leonide, while he regarded his fortunate rival and commanding officer with feelings of unmitigated hatred. Yet he had art enough to conceal his guilty feelings and guilty projects. While he rode beside the colonel, his thoughts ran somewhat in this vein:—
"Well, at least I have succeeded in marring their joy. Lioncourt's triumph over me was short lived. He may never see his bride again. He is venturesome and rash. We have sharp work before us, or I'm very much mistaken, and Colonel Eugene Lioncourt may figure in the list of killed in the first general engagement. Then I renew my suit, and if Leonide again reject me, there's no virtue in determination."
While the colonel's regiment was slowly pursuing its way, the festivities at the Tuileries were drawing to a close. Madame Lioncourt wondered very much at the absence of her husband, and still more so when the guests began to depart, and he did not reappear to escort her to her carriage. It was then that the empress honored her with an interview, and, with tears in her beautiful eyes, informed her of her husband's march in obedience to orders. The poor lady bore bravely up against the effect of this intelligence so long as she was in the presence of the emperor and empress; but when alone in her carriage, on her way to her now solitary home, she burst into a flood of tears, and it seemed as if her very heart were breaking. The next morning brought a short but kind note from her husband. It was overflowing with affection and full of hope. The campaign, conducted by Napoleon's genius, he thought, could not fail to be brief, and he should return with new laurels, to lay them at the feet of his lovely bride. This little note was treasured up by Leonide as if it had been the relic of a saint, and its words of love and promise cheered her day after day in the absence of her husband.
At last, news came to the capital from the seat of war. The battle of Austerlitz had been fought and won. The cannon thundered from the Invalides, Paris blazed with illuminations, and the steeples reeled with the crashing peals of the joy bells. No particulars came at first; many had been killed and wounded; but the French eagles were victorious, and this was all the people at first cared for. Lioncourt's regiment had covered itself with glory, but no special mention was made of him in the first despatches.
At last, one morning, a visitor was announced to Madame Lioncourt, and she hastily descended to her salon to receive him. St. Eustache advanced to meet her. She eagerly scanned his countenance as he held out his hand. It was grave and sombre. A second glance showed her a black crape sword knot on the hilt of his sabre. She fainted and sank upon the floor before St. Eustache could catch her in his arms. He summoned her maid, and the latter, with the assistance of another servant, bore her mistress from the apartment.
St. Eustache paced the room to and fro, occasionally raising his eyes to contemplate the rich gilded ceiling, the paintings and statuettes, which adorned the salon.
"Some style here!" he muttered. "And they say she has this in her own right. Lioncourt left her some funds, I fancy. Young, beautiful, rich; by Jove, she is a prize."
His meditations were interrupted by the return of Madame Lioncourt, who motioned her visitor to be seated, and sank into a fauteuil herself. She was pale as marble, and her eyes were red with recent tears, but her voice was calm and firm as she said,—
"I need hardly ask you, sir, if my poor husband has fallen. I could read ill news in your countenance as soon as you appeared. Were you near him when he fell?"
"I was beside him, madame. We were charging the flying Russians. Our horses, maddened with excitement, had carried us far in advance of our column, when suddenly we were surrounded by a group of horsemen, who took courage and rallied for a moment. Lioncourt was carrying death in every blow he dealt, when a Russian cavalry officer, discharging his pistol at point blank distance, shot him dead from the saddle. I saw no more, for I was myself wounded and swept away in the torrent of the fight. But he is dead. Even if that pistol shot had not slain him, the hoofs of his own troopers, as they rushed madly forward in pursuit of the enemy, would have trampled every spark of life out of his bosom."
Leonide wrung her hands.
"But you, at least, recovered his—his remains?"
"Pardon, madame. I instituted a search for our colonel's body where he fell. But the spot had already been visited by marauders. All the insignia of rank had disappeared; and in the mangled heap of stripped and mutilated corpses, it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe."
The widowed bride groaned deeply as she covered her face with her handkerchief and rocked to and fro on her seat.
"Madame," said St. Eustache, "I will no longer intrude upon your grief. When time has somewhat assuaged the poignancy of your affliction, I will again call on you to tender my respectful sympathies."
Time wore on, and with it brought those alleviations it affords to even the keenest sorrow. The assiduity of friends compelled Madame Lioncourt to lay aside her widow's weeds, and reappear in the great world of fashion. There, whatever may have been her secret sorrow, she learned to wear the mask of a smiling exterior, and even to appear gayest among the gay, as if she sought forgetfulness in the wildest excitement and most frivolous amusement.
During all this time, St. Eustache, who had got a military appointment at Paris, was ever at her side. It was impossible for her to avoid him. He escorted her to her carriage when she left a ball room; he was the first to claim her hand when she entered. He was so respectful, so sad, so humble, that it was impossible to take offence at his assiduities, and she even began to like him in spite of former prejudices. Though it was evident that the freedom of her hand had renewed his former hopes, still no words of his ever betrayed their revival; only sometimes a suppressed sigh, the trembling of his hand as it touched hers, gave evidence that could not be mistaken.
Affairs were in this condition, when a brother of Leonide, Alfred Lasalle, a young advocate from the provinces, came to establish himself in Paris. He at once became the protector and guardian of his sister, and, as such, conceived the same violent dislike to St. Eustache that Leonide had formerly entertained towards him. St. Eustache, after many fruitless attempts to conciliate the brother, gave it up in despair. Still, whenever Alfred's affairs called him away, he supplied his place with the young widow.
At this time, play sometimes ran very high in the salons of the capital; and Leonide rose from the écarté table one night, indebted to St. Eustache in the sum of a thousand crowns.
"Call on me to-morrow," said Leonide, with a flushed face, "and I will repay you."
St. Eustache was pretty well acquainted with the affairs of the young widow. He knew that she had been living on her capital for some time, and that she had reached the limit of her resources. He knew that it was utterly impossible for her to raise a thousand crowns in twenty-four hours. She must, therefore, he thought, cancel her debt by her hand. This was the alternative to which he had been manœuvring to bring her; therefore he entered her salon the next day with the air of a victor. He was no longer covetous of wealth; he had prospered in his own speculations, and was immensely rich; the hand of Leonide, even without her heart, was now all he sought.
Madame Lioncourt received him with the easy assurance of a woman of the world. He, on his part, advanced with the grace of a French courtier.
"You came to remind me, sir," said the lady, "that I was unfortunate at play last night."
"No, madame," said St. Eustache, "it is yourself who reminds me of it. Pardon me, I am somewhat acquainted with your circumstances. I know that you are no longer as rich as you are beautiful——"
"Sir!"
"Pardon the allusion, madam; I did not intend to insult you, but only to suggest that the payment of money was not the only method of cancelling a debt."
"I do not understand you, sir."
"Leonide, it is time that you did understand me!" cried St. Eustache, impetuously. "It is time that I should throw off the mask and assert my claim to your hand. I loved you once—I love you still. You are now in my power. You cannot pay me the money you owe me; but you can make me happy. Your hand——"
"Colonel St. Eustache," said the lady, coldly, as she rose and handed him a pocket book, "be good enough to count those notes."
St. Eustache ran over them hastily.
"A thousand crowns, madame," he said.
"Then the debt is cancelled. Never renew the proposal of this morning. Good day, sir."
With a haughty inclination of the head, she swept out of the room.
"Never renew the proposal of this morning!" said St. Eustache to himself. "A thousand furies! It shall be renewed to-night. She will be at the masquerade at the opera house. I have bribed her chambermaid, and know her dress. She shall hear me plead my suit. I have dared too much, perilled too much, to give her up so easily."
Amidst the gay crowd at the opera house was a light figure in a pink domino, attended by one in black. Not to make a mystery of these characters, they were Madame Lioncourt and her brother.
"Dear Alfred," said the lady, "I am afraid you impoverished yourself to aid me in extricating myself from the toils of my persevering suitor."
"Say nothing of it, Leonide," replied Alfred. "Your liberty is cheaply purchased by the sacrifice."
"Lady, one word with you," said a low voice at her side.
She turned, and beheld a pilgrim with scrip, staff, and cross, and closely masked.
"Twenty, if you will, reverend sir," she replied gayly. "But methinks this is a strange scene for one of your solemn vocation."
"The true man," replied the mask, "finds something to interest him in every scene of life. Wherever men and women assemble in crowds, there is always an opportunity for counsel and consolation. The pious pilgrim should console the sad; and are not the saddest hearts found in the gayest throngs?"
"True, true," replied Leonide, with a deep sigh.
"But you, at least, are happy, lady," said the pilgrim.
"Happy! Could you see my face, you would see a mask more impenetrable than this velvet one I wear. It is all smiles," she whispered. "But," she added, laying her hand on her bosom,—
"'I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.'"
"Can it be possible!" cried the pilgrim. "You have the reputation of being one of the gayest of the Parisian ladies."
"Then you know me not."
"I know you by name, Madame Lioncourt."
"Then you should know that name represents a noble and gallant heart—the life of my own widowed bosom. You should know that Lioncourt, the bravest of the brave, the truest of the true, lies in a nameless grave at Austerlitz, the very spot unknown."
"I too was at Austerlitz," said the pilgrim, in a deep voice.
"You were at Austerlitz!"
"Yes, madame, in the—hussars."
"It was my husband's regiment."
"Yes, madame. I was for a long time supposed to be dead. My comrades saw me fall, and I was reported for dead. Faith, I came near dying. But I fell into the hands of some good people, though they were Austrians, and they took good care of me, and cured my wounds; and here I am at last."
"Ah! why," exclaimed Madame Lioncourt, "may this not have been the fate of your colonel? Why may not he too have survived the carnage, and been preserved in the same manner? His body was never recognized."
"Very possibly Lioncourt may still be living."
"Yet St. Eustache told me he was dead."
"He is a false traitor!" cried the pilgrim. "Leonide!" cried he, with thrilling emphasis, "you have borne bad news; can you bear good?"
"God will give me strength to bear good tidings," cried the lady.
"Then arm yourself with all your energy," said the stranger. "Lioncourt lives."
"Lives!" said Leonide, faintly, grasping the arm of the stranger to support herself from falling.
"Courage, madame; I tell you the truth. He lives."
"Then take me to him. The crisis is past. I can bear to meet him; nothing but delay will kill me now!" cried the lady, hurriedly.
"He stands beside you!" said the stranger.
A long, deep sigh, and Leonide lay in the arms of the pilgrim, who was still masked. But she recovered herself with superhuman energy, and said,—
"Come, come, I must see you. I must kneel at your feet. I must clasp your hands; my joy—my love—my life!"
"Room, room, there!" cried a seneschal. "The emperor!"
"Dearest Leonide," whispered a voice in her ear, "I resolved to see you again to-night, in spite of your prohibition to renew my suit."
"Then wait here beside me; do not leave me," answered the lady, as she recognized St. Eustache.
"That will I not, dearest," was the fervent reply.
Napoleon, with Josephine leaning on his arm, advanced through the broad space cleared by the attendants, and when he had taken up a position in the centre of the hall, near Lioncourt and his bride, St. Eustache and Lasalle, gave the signal for the company to unmask. As they obeyed, and every face was uncovered, his quick glance caught the pale and handsome features of the young cavalry colonel.
"What!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "Can the grave give up its dead? Do our eyes deceive us? Is this indeed Lioncourt, whom we left dead upon the field of Austerlitz? Advance, man, and satisfy our doubts."
Lioncourt advanced, and the emperor laid his hand upon his arm.
"You are pale as a ghost, man; but still you're flesh and blood. Give an account of yourself. Speak quickly; don't you see these ladies are dying of curiosity? and, faith, so I am too," he added, smiling.
"Sire," said the colonel, "you will, perhaps, remember ordering my regiment in pursuit of the flying Russians?"
"Perfectly well; and they performed the service gallantly. Their rear was cut to pieces."
"St. Eustache and I rode side by side," pursued the colonel.
"Here is St. Eustache," cried the emperor, beckoning the officer to advance.
"My dear colonel!" cried St. Eustache, embracing his old commander.
"Go on, colonel," cried the emperor, stamping his foot impatiently.
"We hung upon the flying rear of the enemy, sabring every man we overtook. Faith, I hardly know what happened afterwards," said the colonel, pausing.
"Take up the thread of the story, St. Eustache," said the emperor; "don't let it break off here."
"Well, sire," said St. Eustache, drawing, a long breath, "as the colonel and I were charging side by side, cutting right and left, separated from our men by the superior speed of our horses, a Russian officer wheeled and shot the colonel from his saddle."
"That was how it happened, Lioncourt," said the emperor. "Now go on. Afterwards——"
"When I came to my senses, sire," resumed Lioncourt, gloomily, "I found myself in the hands of some Austrian peasants. I had been plundered of my epaulets and uniform, and they took me for a common soldier. But they carried me to their cottage, and dressed my wound, and eventually I got well."
"But where were you wounded, colonel?" asked the emperor.
"A pistol ball had entered behind my left shoulder, and came out by my collar bone."
"Behind your left shoulder!" cried Napoleon. "And yet you were facing the enemy. How was that?"
"Because," said the colonel, sternly, "a Frenchman, a soldier, an officer, a disappointed rival, took that opportunity of assassinating me, and shot me with his own hostler pistol."
"His name!" shouted the emperor, quivering with passion, "his name; do you know him?"
"Well.—It was Lieutenant Colonel St. Eustache!"
All eyes were turned on St. Eustache. His knees knocked together, his eyes were fixed, cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. But in all that circle of indignant eyes, the detected criminal saw only the eagle orbs of the emperor, that pierced to his very soul.
"Is this charge true?" asked Napoleon, quickly, quivering with one of his tremendous tornadoes of passion.
St. Eustache could not answer; but he nodded his head.
"Your sword!" cried the emperor.
Mechanically the criminal drew his sabre; he had thrown off his domino, and now stood revealed in the uniform he disgraced, and offered the hilt to the emperor. Napoleon clutched it, and snapped the blade under foot. Then, tearing off his epaulets, he threw them on the floor, stamped on them, and beckoning to an officer who stood by, gasped out,—
"A guard, a guard!"
In a few minutes the tramp of armed men was heard in the saloon, and the wretched culprit was removed.
"General Lioncourt," said the emperor to his recovered officer, "your new commission shall be made out to-morrow. In the mean while the lovely Leonide shall teach you to forget your trials."
The assemblage broke up. Lioncourt, his wife, and her faithful brother retired to their now happy home.
The next day was fixed for the trial of the guilty St. Eustache before a court martial—a mere formal preliminary to his execution, for he had confessed his crime; but it appeared that during the preceding night he had managed to escape.
Flying from justice, the wretched criminal reached one of the bridges that span the Seine. Climbing to the parapet, he gazed down into the dark and turbid flood, now black as midnight, that rolled beneath the yawning arch. There was no star in the sky, and here and there only a dim light twinkled, reflected in the muddy wave. Daylight was beginning to streak the east with sickly rays. Soon the great city would be astir. Soon hoarse voices would be clamoring for the traitor, the assassin, the dastard, who, in the hour of victory, had raised his hand against a brother Frenchman. Soon, if he lingered, his ears would be doomed to hear the death penalty—soon the muskets, whose fire he had so often commanded, would be levelled against his breast. All was lost,—all for which he had schemed and sinned,—the applause of his countrymen, the favor of his emperor, the love of Leonide. At least, he would disappoint Paris of a spectacle. He would die by his own act. A sudden spring, a heavy plunge, a few bubbles breaking on the black surface, and the wretched criminal was no more!
Days afterwards, a couple of soldiers, lounging into La Morgue, the dismal receptacle where bodies are exposed for identification, recognized in a pallid and bloated corpse the remains of the late lieutenant colonel of the ——th hussars.
Lioncourt learned his fate, but it threw no shadow over his bright and cloudless happiness.
A KISS ON DEMAND.
It was a very peculiar sound, something like the popping of a champagne cork, something like the report of a small pocket pistol, but exactly like nothing but itself. It was a kiss.
A kiss implies two parties—unless it be one of those symbolical kisses produced by one pair of lips, and wafted through the air in token of affection or admiration. But this particular kiss was genuine. The parties in the case were Mrs. Phebe Mayflower, the newly-married wife of honest Tom Mayflower, gardener to Mr. Augustus Scatterly, and that young gentleman himself. Augustus was a good-hearted, rattle-brained spendthrift, who had employed the two or three years which had elapsed since his majority in "making ducks and drakes" of the pretty little fortune left him by his defunct sire. There was nothing very bad about him, excepting his prodigal habits, and by these he was himself the severest sufferer. Tom, his gardener, had been married a few weeks, and Gus, who had failed to be at the wedding, and missed the opportunity of "saluting the bride," took it into his head that it was both proper and polite that he should do so on the first occasion of his meeting her subsequently to that interesting ceremony. Mrs. Mayflower, the other party interested in the case, differed from him in opinion, and the young landlord kissed her in spite of herself. But she was not without a champion, for at the precise moment when Scatterly placed his audacious lips in contact with the blooming cheek of Mrs. M., Tom entered the garden and beheld the outrage.
"What are you doing of, Mr. Scatterly?" he roared.
"O, nothing, Tom, but asserting my rights! I was only saluting the bride."
"Against my will, Tommy," said the poor bride, blushing like a peony, and wiping the offended cheek with her checked apron.
"And I'll make you pay dear for it, if there's law in the land," said Tom.
"Poh, poh! don't make a fool of yourself," said Scatterly.
"I don't mean to," answered the gardener, dryly.
"You're not seriously offended at the innocent liberty I took?"
"Yes I be," said Tom.
"Well, if you view it in that light," answered Scatterly, "I shall feel bound to make you reparation. You shall have a kiss from my bride, when I'm married."
"That you never will be."
"I must confess," said Scatterly, laughing, "the prospect of repayment seems rather distant. But who knows what will happen? I may not die a bachelor, after all. And if I marry—I repeat it, my dear fellow—you shall have a kiss from my wife."
"No he shan't," said Phebe. "He shall kiss nobody but me."
"Yes he shall," said Scatterly. "Have you got pen, ink, and paper, Tom?"
"To be sure," answered the gardener. "Here they be, all handy."
Scatterly sat down and wrote as follows:—
"The Willows, August —, 18—.
"Value received, I promise to pay Thomas Mayflower or order, one kiss on demand.
"Augustus Scatterly."
"There you have a legal document," said the young man, as he handed the paper to the grinning gardener. "And now, good folks, good by."
"Mistakes will happen in the best regulated families," and so it chanced that, in the autumn of the same year, our bachelor met at the Springs a charming belle of Baltimore, to whom he lost his heart incontinently. His person and address were attractive, and though his prodigality had impaired his fortune, still a rich old maiden aunt, who doted on him, Miss Persimmon Verjuice, promised to do the handsome thing by him on condition of his marrying and settling quietly to the management of his estate. So, under these circumstances, he proposed, was accepted, and married, and brought home his beautiful young bride to reside with Miss Verjuice at the Willows.
In the early days of the honeymoon, one fine morning, when Mr. and Mrs. Scatterly and the maiden aunt were walking together in the garden, Tom Mayflower, dressed in his best, made his appearance, wearing a smile of most peculiar meaning.
"Julia," said Augustus, carelessly, to his young bride, "this is my gardener, come to pay his respects to you—honest Tom Mayflower, a very worthy fellow, I assure you."
Mrs. Scatterly nodded condescendingly to the gardener who gazed upon her with the open eyes of admiration. She spoke a few words to him, inquired about his wife, his flowers, &c., and then turned away with the aunt, as if to terminate the interview.
But Tom could not take his eyes off her, and he stood, gaping and admiring, and every now and then passing the back of his hand across his lips.
"What do you think of my choice, Tom?" asked Scatterly, confidentially.
"O, splendiferous!" said the gardener.
"Roses and lilies in her cheeks—eh?" said Scatterly.
"Her lips are as red as carnations, and her eyes as blue as larkspurs," said the gardener.
"I'm glad you like your new mistress; now go to work, Tom."
"I beg pardon, Mr. Scatterly; but I called to see you on business."
"Well—out with it."
"Do you remember any thing about saluting the bride?"
"I remember I paid the customary homage to Mrs. Mayflower."
"Well, don't you remember what you promised in case of your marriage?"
"No!"
Tom produced the promissory note with a grin of triumph. "It's my turn now, Mr. Scatterly."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean to kiss Mrs. Scatterly."
"Go to the deuse, you rascal!"
"O, what is the matter?" exclaimed both the ladies, startled by Scatterly's exclamation, and turning back to learn the cause.
"This fellow has preferred a demand against me," said Scatterly.
"A legal demand," said the gardener, sturdily; "and here's the dokiment."
"Give it to me," said the old maid aunt. Tom handed her the paper with an air of triumph.
"Am I right?" said he.
"Perfectly, young man," replied Miss Verjuice; "only, when my nephew married, I assumed all his debts; and I am now ready myself to pay your claim."
"Fairly trapped, by Jupiter!" exclaimed Scatterly, in an ecstasy of delight.
"Stop, stop!" cried the unhappy gardener, recoiling from the withered face, bearded lip, and sharp nose of the ancient spinster; "I relinquish my claim—I'll write a receipt in full."
"No, sir," said Scatterly; "you pressed me for payment this moment—and you shall take your pay, or I discharge you from my employ."
"I am ready," said the spinster, meekly.
Tom shuddered—crawled up to the old lady—shut his eyes—made up a horrible face, and kissed her, while Mr. and Mrs. S. stood by, convulsed with laughter.
Five minutes afterwards, Tom entered the gardener's lodge, pale, weak, and trembling, and sank into a chair.
"Give me a glass of water, Phebe!" he gasped.
"Dear, what has happened?" asked the little woman.
"Happened! why that cussed Miss Verjuice is paying Mr. Scatterly's debts."
"Well?"
"Well, I presented my promissory note—he handed it to her—and—and—O murder!—I've been kissing the old woman!"
Phebe threw her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his, and Thomas Mayflower then and there solemnly promised that he would nevermore have any thing to do with Kisses on Demand!