Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

‘You have told me everything but one, monsieur,’ said he, as I finished. ‘How came you ever to have heard the name of so humble a person as Jacques Caillon, for you remember you asked for me as you rode up?’

‘I was just coming to that point, Jacques; and, as you will see, it was not an omission in my narrative, only that I had not reached so far.’

I then proceeded to recount my night in the forest, and my singular meeting with poor Mahon, which he listened to with great attention and some anxiety.

‘The poor colonel!’ said he, breaking in, ‘I suppose he is a hopeless case; his mind can never come right again.’

‘But if the persecution were to cease; if he were at liberty to appear once more in the world – ’

‘What if there was no persecution, sir?’ broke in Jacques. ‘What if the whole were a mere dream or fancy? He is neither tracked nor followed. It is not such harmless game the bloodhounds of the Rue des Victoires scent out.’

‘Was it, then, some mere delusion drove him from the service?’ said I, surprised.

‘I never said so much as that,’ replied Jacques. ‘Colonel Mahon has foul injury to complain of, but his present sufferings are the inflictions of his own terror. He fancies that the whole power of France is at war with him; that every engine of the Government is directed against him; with a restless fear he flies from village to village, fancying pursuit everywhere. Even kindness now he is distrustful of; and the chances are, that he will quit the forest this very day, merely because he met you there.’

From being of all men the most open-hearted and frank, he had become the most suspicious; he trusted nothing nor any one; and if for a moment a burst of his old generous nature would return, it was sure to be followed by some excess of distrust that made him miserable almost to despair. Jacques was obliged to fall in with this humour, and only assist him by stealth and by stratagem; he was even compelled to chime in with all his notions about pursuit and danger, to suggest frequent change of place, and endless precautions against discovery.

‘Were I for once to treat him frankly, and ask him to share my home with me,’ said Jacques, ‘I should never see him more.’

‘What could have poisoned so noble a nature?’ cried I. ‘When I saw him last he was the very type of generous confidence.’

‘Where was that, and when?’ asked Jacques.

‘It was at Nancy, on the march for the Rhine.’

‘His calamities had not fallen on him then. He was a proud man in those days, but it was a pride that well became him. He was the colonel of a great regiment, and for bravery had a reputation second to none.’

‘He was married, I think?’

‘No, sir; he was never married.’

As Jacques said this, he arose, and moved slowly away, as though he would not be questioned further. His mind, too, seemed full of its own crowding memories, for he looked completely absorbed in thought, and never noticed my presence for a considerable time. At last he appeared to have decided some doubtful issue within himself, and said —

‘Come, sir, let us stroll into the shade of the wood, and I’ll tell you in a few words the cause of the poor colonel’s ruin – for ruin it is. Even were all the injustice to be revoked to-morrow, the wreck of his heart could never be repaired.’

We walked along, side by side, for some time, before Jacques spoke again, when he gave me, in brief and simple words, the following sorrowful story. It was such a type of the age, so pregnant with the terrible lessons of the time, that although not without some misgivings, I repeat it here as it was told to myself, premising that however scant may be the reader’s faith in many of the incidents of my own narrative – and I neither beg for his trust in me, nor seek to entrap it – I implore him to believe that what I am now about to tell was a plain matter of fact, and, save in the change of one name, not a single circumstance is owing to imagination.

CHAPTER XLIV. AN EPISODE OF ‘94

When the French army fell back across the Sambre, after the battle of Mons, a considerable portion of the rear, who covered the retreat, were cut off by the enemy, for it became their onerous duty to keep the allied forces in check, while the Republicans took measures to secure and hold fast the three bridges over the river. In this service many distinguished French officers fell, and many more were left badly wounded on the field; among the latter was a young captain of dragoons, who, with his hand nearly severed by a sabre-cut, yet found strength enough to crawl under cover of a hedge, and there lie down in the fierce resolve to die where he was, rather than surrender himself as a prisoner.

Although the allied forces had gained the battle, they quickly foresaw that the ground they had won was untenable; and scarcely had night closed in when they began their preparations to fall back. With strong pickets of observation to watch the bridges, they slowly withdrew their columns towards Mons, posting the artillery on the heights around Grandrengs. From these movements, the ground of the late struggle became comparatively deserted, and before day began to dawn, not a sound was heard over its wide expanse, save the faint moan of a dying soldier, or the low rumble of a cart, as some spoiler of the dead stole stealthily along. Among the demoralising effects of war, none was more striking than the number of the peasantry who betook themselves to this infamous trade, and who, neglecting all thoughts of honest industry, devoted themselves to robbery and plunder. The lust of gain did not stop with the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of everything, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the iniquity of these wretches.

In part from motives of pure humanity, in part from feelings of a more interested nature – for the terror to what this demoralisation would tend was now great and widespread – the nobles and gentry of the land instituted a species of society to reward those who might succour the wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zest in their care for the sufferers after a battle. This generous philanthropy was irrespective of country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army. Of course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but it is fair to say that the cases were few where the wounded man could detect the political leanings of his benefactor.

The immense granaries, so universal in the Low Countries, were usually fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the château itself were often devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household, from the ‘seigneur’ to the lowest menial, assuming some office in the great work of charity. And it was a curious thing to see how the luxurious indolence of château life became converted into the zealous activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity.

It was a little before daybreak that a small cart drawn by a mule drew up beside the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered arm bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking strength told could not be far distant. As the peasant approached him, he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of plunder, while, in the few words of bad French he could muster, he explained his purpose.

‘No, no, my kind friend,’ said the officer, ‘your labour would only be lost on me. It is nearly all over already! A little farther on in the field, yonder, where that copse stands, you’ll find some poor fellow or other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. Adieu!’

But neither the farewell, nor the abrupt gesture that accompanied it, could turn the honest peasant from his purpose. There was something that interested him in this very disregard of life, as well as in the personal appearance of the sufferer, and, without further colloquy, he lifted the half-fainting form into the cart, and disposing the straw comfortably on either side of him, set out homeward. The wounded man was almost indifferent to what happened, and never spoke a word nor raised his head as they went along. About three hours’ journey brought them to a large old-fashioned chateau beside the Sambre, an immense straggling edifice which, with a facade of nearly a hundred windows, looked out upon the river. Although now in disrepair and neglect, with ill-trimmed alleys and grass-grown terraces, it had been once a place of great pretensions, and associated with some of the palmiest days of Flemish hospitality. The Chateau d’Overbecque was the property of a certain rich merchant of Antwerp, named D’ Aerschot, one of the oldest families of the land, and was, at the time we speak of, the temporary abode of his only son, who had gone there to pass the honeymoon. Except that they were both young, neither of them yet twenty, too people could not easily be found so discrepant in every circumstance and every quality. He the true descendant of a Flemish house, plodding, commonplace, and methodical, hating show and detesting expense. She a lively, volatile girl, bursting with desire to see and be seen, fresh from the restraint of a convent at Bruges, and anxious to mix in all the pleasures and dissipations of the world. Like all marriages in their condition, it had been arranged without their knowledge or consent. Circumstances of fortune made the alliance suitable; so many hundred thousand florins on one side were wedded to an equivalent on the other, and the young people were married to facilitate the ‘transaction.’

That he was not a little shocked at the gay frivolity of his beautiful bride, and she as much disappointed at the staid demureness of her stolid-looking husband, is not to be wondered at; but their friends knew well that time would smooth down greater discrepancies than even these. And if ever there was a country, the monotony of whose life could subdue all to its own leaden tone, it was Holland in old days. Whether engaged in the active pursuit of gain in the great cities, or enjoying the luxurious repose of château life, a dull, dreary uniformity pervaded everything – the same topics, the same people, the same landscape, recurred day after day; and save what the season induced, there was nothing of change in the whole round of their existence. And what a dull honeymoon was it for that young bride at the old Château of Overbecque! To toil along the deep sandy roads in a lumbering old coach with two long-tailed black horses – to halt at some little eminence, and strain the eyes over a long unbroken flat, where a windmill, miles off, was an object of interest – to loiter beside the bank of a sluggish canal, and gaze on some tasteless excrescence of a summer-house, whose owner could not be distinguished from the wooden effigy that sat, pipe in mouth, beside him – to dine in the unbroken silence of a funeral feast, and doze away the afternoon over the Handelsblatt, while her husband smoked himself into the seventh heaven of a Dutch Elysium – poor Caroline! this was a sorry realisation of all her bright dreamings! It ought to be borne in mind, that many descendants of high French families, who were either too proud or too poor to emigrate to England or America, had sought refuge from the Revolution in the convents of the Low Countries; where, without entering an order, they lived in all the discipline of a religious community. These ladies, many of whom had themselves mixed in all the elegant dissipations of the Court, carried with them the most fascinating reminiscences of a life of pleasure, and could not readily forget the voluptuous enjoyments of Versailles, and the graceful caprices of ‘Le Petit Trianon.’ From such sources as these the young pupils drew all their ideas of the world, and assuredly it could have scarcely worn colours more likely to fascinate such imaginations.

What a shortcoming was the wearisome routine of Overbecque to a mind full of all the refined follies of Marie Antoinette’s Court! Even war and its chances offered a pleasurable contrast to such dull monotony, and the young bride hailed with eagerness the excitement and bustle of the moving armies – the long columns which poured along the highroad, and the clanking artillery heard for miles off! Monsieur d’Aerschot, like all his countrymen who held property near the frontier, was too prudent to have any political bias. Madame was, however, violently French. The people who had such admirable taste in toilet could scarcely be wrong in the theories of government; and a nation so invariably correct in dress, could hardly be astray in morals. Besides this, all their notions of mortality were as pliant and as easy to wear as their own well-fitting garments. Nothing was wrong but what looked ungracefully; everything was right that sat becomingly on her who did it – a short code, and wonderfully easy to learn. If I have dealt somewhat tediously on these tendencies of the time, it is that I may pass the more glibly over the consequences, and not pause upon the details by which the young French captain’s residence at Overbecque gradually grew, from the intercourse of kindness and good offices, to be a close friendship with his host, and as much of regard and respectful devotion as consisted with the position of his young and charming hostess.

He thought her, as she certainly was, very beautiful; she rode to perfection, she sang delightfully; she had all the volatile gaiety of a happy child, with the graceful ease of coming womanhood. Her very passion for excitement gave a kind of life and energy to the dull old château, and made her momentary absence felt as a dreary blank.

It is not my wish to speak of the feelings suggested by the contrast between her husband and the gay and chivalrous young soldier, nor how little such comparisons tended to allay the repinings at her lot. Their first effect was, however, to estrange her more and more from D’Aerschot, a change which he accepted with the most Dutch indifference. Possibly, piqued by this, or desirous of awakening his jealousy, she made more advances towards the other, selecting him as the companion of her walks, and passing the greater part of each day in his society. Nothing could be more honourable than the young soldier’s conduct in this trying position. The qualities of agreeability which he had previously displayed to requite, in some sort, the hospitality of his hosts, he now gradually restrained, avoiding as far as he could, without remark, the society of the young countess, and even feigning indisposition to escape from the peril of her intimacy.

He did more – he exerted himself to draw D’Aerschot more out, to make him exhibit the shrewd intelligence which lay buried beneath his native apathy, and display powers of thought and reflection of no mean order. Alas! these very efforts on his part only increased the mischief, by adding generosity to his other virtues! He now saw all the danger in which he was standing, and, although still weak and suffering, resolved to take his departure. There was none of the concealed vanity of a coxcomb in this knowledge. He heartily deplored the injury he had unwittingly done, and the sorry return he had made for all their generous hospitality.

There was not a moment to be lost; but the very evening before, as they walked together in the garden, she had confessed to him the misery in which she lived by recounting the story of her ill-sorted marriage. What it cost him to listen to that sad tale with seeming coldness – to hear her afflictions without offering one word of kindness; nay, to proffer merely some dry, harsh counsels of patience and submission, while he added something very like rebuke for her want of that assiduous affection which should have been given to her husband!

Unaccustomed to even the slightest censure, she could scarcely trust her ears as she heard him. Had she humiliated herself, by such a confession, to be met by advice like this? And was it he that should reproach her for the very faults his own intimacy had engendered? She could not endure the thought, and she felt that she could hate, just at the very moment when she knew she loved him!

They parted in anger – reproaches, the most cutting and bitter, on her part; coldness, far more wounding, on his! Sarcastic compliments upon his generosity, replied to by as sincere expressions of respectful friendship. What hypocrisy and self-deceit together! And yet deep beneath all, lay the firm resolve for future victory. Her wounded self-love was irritated, and she was not one to turn from an unfinished purpose. As for him, he waited till all was still and silent in the house, and then seeking out D’Aerschot’s chamber, thanked him most sincerely for all his kindness, and, affecting a hurried order to join his service, departed. While in her morning dreams she was fancying conquest, he was already miles away on the road to France.

It was about three years after this, that a number of French officers were seated one evening in front of a little café in Freyburg. The town was then crammed with troops moving down to occupy the passes of the Rhine, near the Lake of Constance, and every hour saw fresh arrivals pouring in, dusty and wayworn from the march. The necessity for a sudden massing of the troops in a particular spot compelled the generals to employ every possible means of conveyance to forward the men to their destination, and from the lumbering old diligence with ten horses, to the light charrette with one, all were engaged in this pressing service.

When men were weary, and unable to march forward, they were taken up for twelve or fourteen miles, after which they proceeded on their way, making room for others, and thus forty and even fifty miles were frequently accomplished in the same day.

The group before the café were amusing themselves criticising the strange appearance of the new arrivals, many of whom certainly made their entry in the least military fashion possible. Here came a great country waggon, with forty infantry soldiers all sleeping on the straw. Here followed a staff-officer trying to look quite at his ease in a donkey-cart. Unwieldy old bullock-carts were filled with men, and a half-starved mule tottered along with a drummer-boy in one pannier, and camp-kettles in the other.

He who was fortunate enough to secure a horse for himself was obliged to carry the swords and weapons of his companions, which were all hung around and about him on every side, together with helmets and shakos of all shapes and sizes, whose owners were fain to cover their head with the less soldierlike appendages of a nightcap or a handkerchief. Nearly all who marched carried their caps on their muskets, for in such times as these all discipline is relaxed, save such as is indispensable to the maintenance of order; and so far was freedom conceded, that some were to be seen walking barefoot in the ranks, while their shoes were suspended by a string on their backs. The rule seemed to be ‘Get forward – it matters not how – only get forward!’

And with French troops, such relaxation of strict discipline is always practicable; the instincts of obedience return at the first call of the bugle or the first roll of the drum; and at the word to ‘fall in!’ every symptom of disorder vanishes, and the mass of seeming confusion becomes the steady and silent phalanx.

Many were the strange sights that passed before the eyes of the party at the café, who, having arrived early in the day, gave themselves all the airs of ease and indolence before their wayworn comrades. Now laughing heartily at the absurdity of this one, now exchanging some good-humoured jest with that, they were in the very full current of their criticism, when the sharp, shrill crack of a postillion’s whip informed them that a traveller of some note was approaching. A mounted courier, all slashed with gold lace, came riding up the street at the same moment, and a short distance behind followed a handsome equipage, drawn by six horses, after which came a heavy fourgon, with four.

One glance showed that the whole equipage betokened a wealthy owner. There was all that cumbrous machinery of comfort about it that tells of people who will not trust to the chances of the road for their daily wants. Every appliance of ease was there; and even in the self-satisfied air of the servants who lounged in the rumble might be read habits of affluent prosperity. A few short years back, and none would have dared to use such an equipage. The sight of so much indulgence would have awakened the fiercest rage of popular fury; but already the high fever of democracy was gradually subsiding, and, bit by bit, men were found reverting to old habits and old usages. Still each new indication of these tastes met a certain amount of reprobation. Some blamed openly, some condemned in secret; but all felt that there was at least impolicy in a display which would serve as pretext for the terrible excesses that were committed under the banner of ‘Equality.’

‘If we lived in the days of princes,’ said one of the officers, ‘I should say there goes one now. Just look at all the dust they are kicking up yonder; while, as if to point a moral upon greatness, they are actually stuck fast in the narrow street, and unable, from their own unwieldiness, to get farther.’

‘Just so,’ cried another; ‘they want to turn down towards the “Swan,” and there isn’t space enough to wheel the leaders.’

‘Who or what are they?’ asked a third.

‘Some commissary-general, I’ll be sworn,’ said the first. ‘They are the most shameless thieves going; for they are never satisfied with robbery, if they do not exhibit the spoils in public.’

‘I see a bonnet and a lace veil,’ said another, rising suddenly, and pushing through the crowd. ‘I’ll wager it’s a danseuse of the Grand Opéra.’

‘Look at Mérode!’ remarked the former, as he pointed to the last speaker. ‘See how he thrusts himself forward there. ‘Watch, and you’ll see him bow and smile to her, as if they had been old acquaintances.’

The guess was so far unlucky, that Mérode had no sooner come within sight of the carriage-window, than he was seen to bring his hand to the salute, and remain in an attitude of respectful attention till the equipage moved on.

‘Well, Mérode, who is it? – who are they?’ cried several together, as he fell back among his comrades.

‘It’s our new adjutant-general, parbleu!’ said he, ‘and he caught me staring in at his pretty wife.’

‘Colonel Mahon!’ said another, laughing. ‘I wish you joy of your gallantry, Mérode.’ ‘And, worse still,’ broke in a third, ‘she is not his wife. She never could obtain the divorce to allow her to marry again. Some said it was the husband – a Dutchman, I believe – refused it; but the simple truth is, she never wished it herself.’

‘How not wish it?’ remarked three or four in a breath.

‘Why should she? Has she not every advantage the position could give her, and her liberty into the bargain? If we were back again in the old days of the Monarchy, I agree with you she could not go to Court; she would receive no invitations to the petits soupers of the Trianon, nor be asked to join the discreet hunting-parties at Fontainebleau; but we live in less polished days; and if we have little virtue, we have less hypocrisy.’

‘Voilà!’ cried another; ‘only I, for one, would never believe that we are a jot more wicked or more dissolute than those powdered and perfumed scoundrels that played courtier in the king’s bedchamber.’

‘There, they are getting out, at the “Tour d’Argent!”’ cried another. ‘She is a splendid figure, and what magnificence in her dress!’

‘Mahon waits on her like a lackey,’ muttered a grim old lieutenant of infantry.

‘Rather like a well-born cavalier, I should say,’ interposed a young hussar. ‘His manner is all that it ought to be – full of devotion and respect.’

‘Bah!’ said the former; ‘a soldier’s wife, or a soldier’s mistress – for it’s all one – should know how to climb up to her place on the baggage-waggon, without three lazy rascals to catch her sleeve or her petticoats for her.’

‘Mahon is as gallant a soldier as any in this army,’ said the hussar; ‘and I’d not be in the man’s coat who disparaged him in anything.’