CHAPTER XXXI. THE CHÂTEAU
The same day that De Beauvais left me, the Court took its departure from Versailles. A sudden resolution of the Consul to visit the camp at Boulogne, where he was to be accompanied by Madame Bonaparte, was announced as the reason for this change; while a dark rumor ran that some detected scheme for his assassination had induced his friends to advise this step. Certain it was, the preparations were made with the utmost speed, and in less than an hour after the despatch had arrived from Paris, the Court was on its way back to the capital.
It was not without a sense of sadness that I watched the equipages as they rolled one by one from beneath the deep colonnade, and traversed the wide terrace, to disappear in the recesses of the dark forest. I strained my eyes to catch even a passing look at one who to me had made every walk and every alley a thing to love. But I could not see her; and the last roll of the retiring wheels died away in the distance without one friendly voice to say adieu, one smile at parting.
Though I had not participated in the festivities of the château, nor even been noticed by any of the guests, the absence of its gay world, the glitter of its brilliant cortege, the neighing steeds in all their bright panoply, the clank of military music, the gorgeously dressed ladies who strolled along its terraced walks, made the solitude that followed appear dark and desolate indeed; and now, as I walked the park, whose avenues at noonday were silent as at midnight, the desertion imparted a melancholy feeling to my heart I could not explain. How often had I stopped beneath that balcony, striving to distinguish the soft tones of one gentle voice amid the buzz of conversation! How had I watched the crowded promenade every evening upon the terrace, to see one figure there among the rest! and when my eye had fallen upon her, how has it followed and traced her as she went! And now I frequented each spot where I had ever seen her,—pacing at sunset the very walk she used to take, dwelling on each word she ever spoke to me. The château, too, of which before I had not passed the door, I now revisited again and again, lingering in each room where I thought she had been, and even resting on the chairs, and calling up before me her image as though present.
Thus passed over weeks and months. The summer glided into the mellow autumn, and the autumn itself grew cold and chill, with grayish skies and sighing winds that swept the leaves along the dark walks and moaned sadly among the tall beech-trees. The still, calm waters of the little lake, that reflected the bright foliage and the deep blue sky motionless as in a mirror, was now ruffled by the passing breeze, and surged with a low, sad sound against its rocky sides; and as I watched these changes, I sorrowed less for the departing season than that every trace of her I loved was fading from before me. The bare and skeleton branches now threw their gaunt shadows where I had seen her walk at noonday enveloped in deep shade. Dark, watery clouds were hurrying across the surface of the stream where I had seen her fair form mirrored. The cold winds of coming winter swept along the princely terrace where not a zephyr rustled her dress as she moved. And somehow, I could not help connecting these changes with my own sensations, and feeling that a gloomy winter was approaching to my own most cherished hopes.
Months passed over with me thus, in which, save on my round of duty, I never spoke to any one. D'Ervan did not return as he promised,—a circumstance which, with all my solitude, I sincerely rejoiced at. And of De Beauvais I heard nothing; and yet, on one account, I could have wished much to learn where he was. Unhappily, in the excitement of the morning I last saw him, he forgot on the table at my quarters the commission of colonel by which he had endeavored to tempt my ambition, and which I never noticed till several hours after his departure. Unwilling to destroy, and yet fearful of retaining it in my possession, I knew not well what to do, and had locked it up in my writing-desk, anxiously looking for an opportunity to forward it to him. None such, however, presented itself, nor did I ever hear from him from the hour he left me.
The unbroken solitude in which I lived disposed me to study, and I resumed the course which in earlier days had afforded me so much interest and amusement; and by this, not only was my mind drawn off from the contemplation of the painful circumstances of my own loneliness, but gradually my former ardor for military distinction came back in all its force. And thus did I learn, for the first time, how many of the griefs that our brains beget find their remedies in the source they spring from,—the exercise of the intellect being like that of the body, an essential to a healthy state of thinking and feeling. Each day imparted fresh energy to me in the path I followed; and in these solitary hours I made those acquisitions in knowledge which in after life were to render me the most important services, and prepare me for the contingencies of a soldier's career.
While thus engaged, time rolled over, and already the dark and gloomy month of January set in with clouded skies and nights of storm and rain. Everything wore its most cheerless aspect. Not only were the trees leafless and bare, the roads broken up and fissured with streams of water, but the neglected look of the château itself bespoke the sad and gloomy, season. The closed shutters, the closely barred doors, the statues covered up with mats to protect them from the weather, the conservatories despoiled of all their gay habitants, betrayed that the time was passed when in the warm air of sunset happy groups wandered hither and thither, inhaling the rich odors of the flowers and gazing on the brilliant landscape.
It was about nine o'clock at night. The storm that usually began each evening at the same hour was already stirring in fitful gusts among the bare branches of the trees, or sending a sudden plash of rain against the windows, when, as I drew closer to ray fire, and was preparing to enjoy myself for the evening over my book, I heard the regular tramping sound of a cavalry horse approaching along the terrace; the jingle of the accoutrements was a noise I could not mistake. I arose, but before I reached the door I heard a deep voice call out,—
“The Sous-Lieutenant Burke; a despatch from Paris.” I took
the paper, which was sealed and folded in the most formal
manner, and returning to the room, opened it. The contents
ran thus:—
Sous-Lieutenant: On receipt of this you are commanded to
station four dragoons of your party, with a corporal, on the
road leading from Chaillot to Versailles, who shall detain
all persons passing that way unable to account
satisfactorily for their presence. You will also station a
picket of two dragoons at the cross-road from the Tron to
St. Cloud for the like purpose. The remainder of your party
to be under arms during the night, and if requisite, at the
disposal of Captain Lepelletier. For the execution of which,
the present order will be your responsibility.
(Signed) Savary,
Colonel de Gendarmerie d'Elite.
Given at the Tuileries, January 14, 1804.