I should, I fear, have fallen very low in the estimate of my companions and associates could the real state of my heart at that moment have been laid open to them. It was, I freely own, one of great depression. But an hour ago, and life was opening before me with many a bright and cheerful hope; and now in an instant was my fortune clouded. Let me not be misunderstood: among the rules of the Polytechnique, duelling was strictly forbidden; and although numerous transgressions occurred, so determined was the head of the Government to put down the practice, that the individuals thus erring were either reduced in rank or their promotion stopped for a considerable period, while the personal displeasure of Greneral Bonaparte rarely failed to show itself with reference to them. Now, it was clear to me that some unknown friend, some secret well-wisher, had interested himself in my humble fate,—that I owed my newly acquired rank to his kindness and good offices. What, then, might I not be forfeiting by this unhappy rencontre? Was it not more than likely that such an instance of misconduct, the very day of my promotion, might determine the whole tenor of my future career? What misrepresentation might not gain currency about my conduct? These were sad reflections indeed, and every moment but increased them.
When I reached the college, I called on one of my friends; but not finding him in his quarters, I wrote a few lines, begging he would come over to me the moment he returned. This done, I sat down alone to think over my adventure, and devise if I could some means to prevent its publicity, or if not that, its being garbled and misstated. Hour after hour rolled past—my wandering thoughts took no note of time—and the deep-tolled bell of the Polytechnique struck eight before I was aware the day was nearly over. Nine was the hour mentioned on my card of invitation: it flashed suddenly on me. What was to be done? I had no uniform save that of the ecole. Such a costume in such a place would, I feared, be considered too ridiculous; yet to absent myself altogether was impossible. Never was I in such a dilemma. All my endeavors to rescue myself were fruitless; and at last, worn out with the conflict of my doubts and fears, I stepped into the fiacre and set out for the Palace.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE PAVILLON DE FLORE.
As my humble carriage slackened its pace to a walk on approaching the Place Carousel, I for the first time perceived that the open space around was thronged with equipages, moving slowly along in line towards the gate of the Palace. A picket of dragoons was drawn up at the great archway, and mounted gendarmes rode up and down to preserve order in the crowd. Before me stretched the long facade of the Tuileries, now lighted up in its entire extent; the rich hangings and costly furniture could be seen even where I was.
What a sinking sense of shame overwhelmed me as I thought of my humble position amid that mighty concourse of all that was great and illustrious in France! and how I shrunk within myself as I thought of the poor scholar of the Polytechnique—for such my dress, proclaimed me—mixing with the most distinguished diplomatists and generals of Europe! The rebuke I had met with from my colonel in the morning was still fresh in my recollection, and I dreaded something like a repetition of it.
“Oh, why had I not known that this was a grand reception?” was the ever-rising thought of my mind. My card of invitation said a soiree,—even that I might have dared: but here was a regular levée! Already I was near enough to hear the names announced at the foot of the grand staircase, where ambassadors, senators, ministers of state, and officers of the highest rank succeeded each other in quick succession. My carriage stood now next but two. I was near enough to see the last arrival hand his card to the huissier in waiting, and hear his title called out, “Le Ministre de la Guerre,” when the person in the carriage before me cried to his coachman, “To the left,—the Pa villon de Flore;” and at the same moment the carriage turned from the line, and drove rapidly towards a distant wing of the Palace.
“Move up! move up!” shouted a dragoon. “Or are you for the soiree de Madame?”
“Yes, yes!” said I, hastily, as I heard his question.
“Follow that carriage, then,” said he, pointing with his sabre; and in a moment we left the dense file, and followed the sounds of the retiring wheels towards a dark corner of the Palace, where a single lamp over a gate was the only light to guide us.