“And now,” said the Abbé, with a simper, “pardon the liberty; but have you had any trifling inducement for coming to pass a few days here? Were you making love to Madame la Consulesse? or did you laugh at General Bonaparte's grand dinners? or have you been learning the English grammar? or what is it?”
I shook my head, and was silent.
“Gome, come, be frank with us; unblemished virtue fares very ill here. There was a gentleman lost his head this morning, who never did anything all his life other than keep the post-office at Tarbes; but somehow he happened to let a letter pass into the bag addressed to an elderly gentleman in England, called the Comte d'Artois, not knowing that the count's letters are always 'to the care of Citizen Bonaparte.' Well, they shortened him by the neck for it. Cruel, you will say; but so much for innocence.”
“For the last time, then, gentlemen, I must express my sincere sorrow that I have neither murder, treason, nor any other infamy on my conscience which might qualify me for the distinguished honor of associating with you. Such being the case, and my sense of my deficiency being so great, you will, I 'm sure, pardon me if I do not obtrude on society of which I am unworthy, and which I have now the honor to wish a good day to.” With this and a formal bow, returned equally politely by the rest, I moved on, and entered the tower.
Sombre and sad as were my own reflections, yet did I prefer their company to that of my fellow-prisoners, for whom already I began to conceive a perfect feeling of abhorrence. Revolting, indeed, was the indifference to fame, honor, and even life, which I already witnessed among them; but what was it compared with the deliberate treachery of men who could wait for the hour when the heart, overflowing with sorrow, opened itself for consolation and comfort, and then search its every recess for proofs of guilt that should bring the mourner to the scaffold?
How any government could need, how they could tolerate, such assassins as these, I could not conceive. And was this his doing? were these his minions, whose high-souled chivalry had been my worship and my idolatry? No, no; I'll not believe it. Bonaparte knows not the dark and terrible secrets of these gloomy walls. The hero of Arcole, the conqueror of Italy, wots not of the frightful tyranny of these dungeons: did he but know them, what a destiny would wait on those who thus stain with crime and treachery the fame of that “Belle France” he made so great!
Oh! that in the hour of my accusation,—in the very last of my life, were it on the step of the guillotine,—I could but speak with words to reach him, and say how glory like his must be tarnished if such deeds went on unpunished; that while thousands and thousands were welcoming his path with cries of wild enthusiasm and joy, in the cold cells of the Temple there were breaking hearts, whose sorrow-wrung confessions were registered, whose prayers were canvassed for evidences of desires that might be converted into treason. He could have no sympathy with men like these.. Not such the brave who followed him at Lodi; not kindred souls were they who died for him at Marengo. Alas, alas! how might men read of him hereafter, if by such acts the splendor of his greatness was to suffer stain! While thoughts like these filled my mind, and in the excitement of awakened indignation I trod my little cell backwards and forwards, the jailer entered, and having locked the door behind him, approached me.
“You are the Sous-Lieutenant Burke: is it not so? Well, I have a letter for you; I promised to deliver it on one condition only,—which is, that when read, you shall tear it in pieces. Were it known that I did this, my head would roll in the Plaine de Grenelle before daybreak tomorrow. I also promised to put you on your guard: speak to few here; confide in none. And now here is your letter.”
I opened the billet hastily, and read the few lines it contained, which evidently were written in a feigned hand.
“Your life is in danger; any delay may be your ruin. Address
the minister at once as to the cause of your detention, and
for the charges under which you are committed; demand
permission to consult an advocate, and when demanded it
can't be refused. Write to Monsieur Baillot, of 4 Rue
Chantereine, in whom you may trust implicitly, and who has
already instructions for your defence. Accept the enclosed,
and believe in the faithful attachment of a sincere friend.”