By the tone in which he said these last few words, I saw that the general was now approaching the topic I felt so curious about, and did not venture by a word to interrupt or divert his thoughts from it. My calculation proved correct; for, after meditating some eight or ten minutes, he drew his chair closer to mine, and in a voice of ill-repressed agitation, spoke thus:—
“You doubtless know the history of our great Revolution,—the causes that led to, the consequences that immediately sprang from it,—the terrible anarchy, the utter confiscation of wealth, and, worse still, the social disorganization that invaded every family, however humble or however exalted, setting wives against their husbands, children against their parents, and making brothers sworn enemies to one another. It was in vain for any man once engaged in the struggle to draw back; the least hesitation to perform any order of the Convention—the delay of a moment, to think—was death: some one was ever on the watch to denounce the man thus deliberating, and he was led forth to the guillotine like the blackest criminal. The immediate result of all this was a distrust that pervaded the entire nation. No one knew who to speak to, nor dare any confide in him who once had been his dearest friend. The old Royalists trembled at every stir; the few demonstrations they forced themselves to make of concurrence in the new state of things were received with suspicion and jealousy. The 'Blues'—for so the Revolutionary party was called—thirsted for their blood; the aristocracy had been, as they deemed, long their oppressors, and where vengeance ceased, cupidity began. They longed to seize upon the confiscated estates, and revel as masters in the halls where so oft they had waited as lackeys. But the evil ended not here. Wherever private hate or secret malice lurked, an opportunity for revenge now offered; and for one head that fell under the supposed guilt of treason to France, a hundred dropped beneath the axe from causes of personal animosity and long-nurtured vengeance: and thus many an idle word uttered in haste or carelessness, some passing slight, some chance neglect, met now its retribution, and that retribution was ever death.
“It chanced that in the South, in one of those remote districts where intelligence is always slow in arriving, and where political movements rarely disturb the quiet current of daily life, there lived one of those old seigneurs who at that period were deemed sovereign princes in the little locale they inhabited. The soil had been their own for centuries; long custom had made them respected and looked up to; while the acts of kindness and benevolence in which, from father to son, their education consisted, formed even a stronger tie to the affections of the peasantry. The Church, too, contributed not a little to the maintenance of this feudalism; and the château' entered into the subject of the village prayers as naturally as though a very principle of their faith. There was something beautifully touching in the intercourse between the lord of the soil and its tillers: in the kindly interest of the one, repaid in reverence and devotion by the others; his foresight for their benefit, their attachment and fidelity,—the paternal care, the filial love,—made a picture of rural happiness such as no land ever equalled, such as perhaps none will ever see again. The seigneur of whom I speak was a true type of this class. He had been in his boyhood a page at the gorgeous court of Louis the Fifteenth, mixed in the voluptuous fascinations of the period; but, early disgusted by the sensuality of the day, retired to his distant château, bringing with him a wife,—one of the most beautiful and accomplished persons of the Court, but one who, like himself, preferred the peace and tranquillity of a country life to the whirlwind pleasures of a vicious capital. For year's they lived childless; but at last, after a long lapse of time, two children were born to this union, a boy and girl,—both lovely, and likely in every respect to bless them with happiness. Shortly after the birth of the girl, the mother became delicate, and after some months of suffering, died. The father, who never rallied from the hour of her death, and took little interest in the world, soon followed her, and the children were left orphans when the eldest was but four years of age, and his sister but three. Before the count died, he sent for his steward. You know that the steward, or intendant, in France, was formerly the person of greatest trust in any family,—the faithful adviser in times of difficulty, the depositary of secrets, the friend, in a word, who in humble guise offered his counsel in every domestic arrangement, and without whom no project was entertained or determined on; and usually the office was hereditary, descending from father to son for centuries.
“In this family such was the case. His father and grandfather before him had filled the office, and Léon Guichard well knew every tradition of the house, and from his infancy his mind had been stored with tales of its ancient wealth and former greatness. His father had died but a short time previous, and when the count's last illness seized him, Léon was only in the second year of his stewardship. Brief as the period was, however, it had sufficed to give abundant proof of his zeal and ability. New sources of wealth grew up under his judicious management; improvements were everywhere conspicuous; and while the seigneur himself found his income increased by nearly one-half, the tenants had gained in equal proportion,—such was the result of his activity and intelligence. These changes, marvellous as they may seem, were then of frequent occurrence. The lands of the South had been tilled for centuries without any effort at improvement; sons were content to go on as their fathers had done before them; increased civilization, with its new train of wants and luxuries, never invaded this remote, untravelled district, and primitive tastes and simple habits succeeded each other generation after generation unaltered and unchanged.
“Suddenly, however, a new light broke on the world, which penetrated even the darkness of the far-off valleys of La Provence. Intelligence began to be more widely diffused; men read and reflected; the rudiments of every art and every science were put within the reach of humble comprehensions; and they who before were limited to memory or hearsay for such knowledge as they possessed, could now apply at the fountain for themselves. Léon Guichard was not slow in cultivating these new resources, and applying them to the circumstances about him; and although many an obstacle arose, dictated by stupid adherence to old customs, or fast-rooted prejudice against newfashioned methods, by perseverance he overcame them all, and actually enriched the people in spite of themselves.
“The seigneur, himself a man of no mean intellect, saw much of this with sorrow; he felt that a mighty change was accomplishing, and that as one by one the ancient landmarks by which men had been guided for ages were removed, none could foresee what results might follow, nor where the passion for alteration might cease. The superstitions of the Church, harmless in themselves, were now openly attacked; its observances, before so deeply venerated, were even assailed as idle ceremonies; and it seemed as if the strong cable that bound men to faith and loyalty had parted, and that their minds were drifting over a broad and pathless sea. Such was the ominous opening of the Revolution, such the terrible ground-swell before the storm.
“On his deathbed, then, he entreated Léon to be aware that evil days were approaching; that the time was not distant when men should rely upon the affection and love of those around them, on the ties that attached to each other for years long, on the mutual interest that had grown up from their cradles. He besought him to turn the people's 'minds, as far as might be, from the specious theories that were afloat, and fix them on their once-loved traditions; and, above all, he charged him, as the guardian of his orphan children, to keep them aloof from the contamination of dangerous doctrines, and to train them up in the ancient virtues of their house,—in charity and benevolence.
“Scarce had the old count's grave closed over him, when men began to perceive a marked change in Léon Guichard. No longer humble, even to subserviency, as before, he now assumed an air of pride and haughtiness that soon estranged his companions from him. As guardian to the orphan children, he resided in the château, and took on him the pretensions of the master. Its stately equipage, with great emblazoned panels,—the village wonder at every fête day,—was now replaced by a more modern vehicle, newly arrived from Paris, in which Monsieur Guichard daily took his airings. The old servants, many of them born in the château, were sent adrift, and a new and very different class succeeded them. All was changed: even the little path that led up from the presbytère to the château, and along which the old curé was seen wending his way on each Sunday to his dinner with the seigneur, was now closed, the gate walled up; while the Sabbath itself was only dedicated to greater festivities and excess, to the scandal of the villagers.
“Meanwhile the children grew up in strength and beauty; like wild flowers, they had no nurture, but they flourished in all this neglect, ignorant and unconscious of the scenes around them. They roved about the livelong day through the meadows, or that wilderness of a garden on which no longer any care was bestowed, and where rank luxuriance gave a beauty of its own to the rich vegetation. With the unsuspecting freshness of their youth, they enjoyed the present without a thought of the future,—they loved each other, and were happy.
“To them the vague reports and swelling waves of the Revolution, which each day gained ground, brought neither fear nor apprehension; they little dreamed that the violence of political strife could ever reach their quiet valleys. Nor did they think the hour was near when the tramp of soldiery and the ruffianly shout of predatory war were to replace the song of the vigneron and the dance of the villager.