Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

The Magyar seemed to read what was passing in my mind, for he nodded significantly, and touching his cap in token of respect, said it was the young Archduchess Maria Louisa, who, with one or two of her ladies, enjoyed the cool of the evening on the river. This was the very same princess for whose likeness I was so eager, and of whom I never could obtain the slightest tidings. With what an interest that barque became invested from that moment! I had more than suspected, I had divined, the reasons of General Marmont’s commission to me, and could picture to myself the great destiny that in all likelihood awaited her who now, in sickly dalliance, moved her hand in the stream, and scattered the sparkling drops in merry mood over her companions. Twice or thrice a head of light-brown hair peeped from beneath the folds of the awning, and I wondered within myself if it were on that same brow that the greatest diadem of Europe was to sit.

So intent was I on these fancies, so full of the thousand speculations that grew out of them, that I paid no attention to what was passing, and never noticed an object on which the Hungarian’s eyes were bent in earnest contemplation. A quick gesture and a sudden exclamation from the man soon attracted me, and I beheld, about a quarter of a mile off, an enormous timber raft descending the stream at headlong speed. That the great mass had become unmanageable, and was carried along by the impetuosity of the current, was plain enough, not only from the zigzag course it took, but from the wild cries and frantic gestures of the men on board. Though visible to us from the eminence on which we stood, a bend of the stream still concealed it from those in the boat. To apprise them of their danger, we shouted with all our might, gesticulating at the same time, and motioning to them to put in to shore. It was all in vain; the roar of the river, which here is almost a torrent, drowned our voices, and the little boat still held her place in the middle of the stream. Already the huge mass was to be seen emerging from behind a wooden promontory of the riverside, and now their destruction seemed inevitable. Without waiting to reach the path, I spurred my horse down the steep descent, and, half falling and half plunging, gained the bank. To all seeming now they heard me, for I saw the curtain of the awning suddenly move, and a boatman’s red cap peer from beneath it. I screamed and shouted with all my might, and called out ‘The raft – the raft!’ till my throat felt bursting. For some seconds the progress of the great mass seemed delayed, probably by having become entangled with the trees along the shore; but now, borne along by its immense weight, it swung round the angle of the bank, and came majestically on, a long, white wave marking its course as it breasted the water.

They see it! they see it! Oh, good heavens! are they paralysed with terror, for the boatman never moves! A wild shriek rises above the roar of the current, and yet they do nothing. What prayers and cries of entreaty, what wild imprecations I uttered, I know not; but I am sure that reason had already left me, and nothing remained in its place except the mad impulse to save them, or perish. There was then so much of calculation in my mind that I could balance the chances of breasting the stream on horseback, or alone; and this done, I spurred my animal over the bank into the Danube. A horse is a noble swimmer when he has courage, and a Hungarian horse rarely fails in this quality.

Heading towards the opposite shore, the gallant beast cleared his track through the strong current, snorting madly, and seeming to plunge at times against the rushing waters. I never turned my eyes from the skiff all this time, and now could see the reason of what had seemed their apathy. The anchor had become entangled, fouled among some rocks or weeds of the river, and the boatman’s efforts to lift it were all in vain. I screamed and yelled to the man to cut the rope, but my cries were unheard, for he bent over the gunwale, and tugged and tore with all his might. I was more than fifty yards higher up the stream, and rapidly gaining the calmer water under shore, when I tried to turn my horse’s head down the current; but the instinct of safety rebelled against all control, and the animal made straight for the bank. There was, then, but one chance left, and, taking my sabre in my mouth, I sprang from his back into the stream. In all the terrible excitement of that dreadful moment I clung to one firm purpose. The current would surely carry the boat into safety, if once free; I had no room for any thought but this. The great trees along shore, the great fortress, the very clouds overhead, seemed to fly past me, as I was swept along; but I never lost sight of my purpose. And now almost within my grasp, I see the boat and the three figures, who are bending down over one that seems to have fainted. With my last effort, I cry again to cut the rope, but his knife has broken at the handle! I touch the side of the skiff, I grasp the gunwale with one hand, and seizing my sabre in the other, I make one desperate cut. The boat swings round to the current – the boatman’s oars are out – they are saved. My ‘thank God!’ is like the cry of a drowning man – for I know no more.

CHAPTER LIII. A LOSS AND A GAIN

To apologise to my reader for not strictly tracing out each day of my history, would be, in all likelihood, as great an impertinence as that of the tiresome guest who, having kept you two hours from your bed by his uninteresting twaddle, asks you to forgive him at last for an abrupt departure. I am already too full of gratitude for the patience that has been conceded to me so far, to desire to trifle with it during the brief space that is now to link us together. And believe me, kind reader, there is more in that same tie than perhaps you think, especially where the intercourse had been carried on, and, as it were, fed from month to month. In such cases the relationship between him who writes and him who reads assumes something like acquaintanceship, heightened by a greater desire on one side to please than is usually felt in the routine business of everyday life. Nor is it a light reward, if one can think that he has relieved a passing hour of solitude or discomfort, shortened a long wintry night, or made a rainy day more endurable. I speak not here of the greater happiness in knowing that our inmost thoughts have found their echo in far-away hearts, kindling noble emotions, and warming generous aspirations – teaching courage and hope, by the very commonest of lessons, and showing that, in the moral as in the vegetable world, the bane and antidote grow side by side, and, as the eastern poet has it, ‘He who shakes the tree of sorrow, is often sowing the seeds of joy.’ Such are the triumphs of very different efforts from mine, however, and I come back to the humble theme from which I started.

If I do not chronicle the incidents which succeeded to the events of my last chapter, it is, in the first place, because they are most imperfectly impressed upon my own memory; and, in the second, they are of a nature which, whether in the hearing or the telling, can afford little pleasure; for what if I should enlarge upon a text which runs but on suffering and sickness, nights of feverish agony, days of anguish, terrible alternations of hope and fear, ending, at last, in the sad, sad certainty that skill has found its limit? The art of the surgeon can do no more, and Maurice Tiernay must consent to lose his leg! Such was the cruel news I was compelled to listen to as I awoke one morning, dreaming, and for the first time since my accident, of my life in Kuffstein. The injuries I had received before being rescued from the Danube had completed the mischief already begun, and all chance of saving my limb had now fled. I am not sure if I could not have heard a sentence of death with more equanimity than the terrible announcement that I was to drag out existence maimed and crippled – to endure the helplessness of age with the warm blood and daring passions of youth, and, worse than all, to forego a career that was already opening with such glorious prospects of distinction.

Nothing could be more kindly considerate than the mode of communicating this sad announcement; nor was there omitted anything which could alleviate the bitterness of the tidings. The undying gratitude of the Imperial family, their heartfelt sorrow for my suffering, the pains they had taken to communicate the whole story of my adventure to the Emperor Napoleon himself, were all insisted on; while the personal visits of the archdukes, and even the emperor himself, at my sick-bed, were told to me with every flattery such acts of condescension could convey. Let me not be thought ungrateful, if all these seemed but a sorry payment for the terrible sacrifice I was to suffer; and that the glittering crosses which were already sent to me in recognition, and which now sparkled on my bed, appeared a poor price for my shattered and wasted limb; and I vowed to myself, that to be once more strong and in health I ‘d change fortunes with the humblest soldier in the grand army.

After all, it is the doubtful alone can break down the mind and waste the courage. To the brave man, the inevitable is always the endurable. Some hours of solitude and reflection brought this conviction to my heart, and I recalled the rash refusal I had already given to submit to the amputation, and sent word to the doctors that I was ready. My mind once made up, a thousand ingenious suggestions poured in their consolations. Instead of incurring my misfortune as I had done, my mischance might have originated in some commonplace or inglorious accident. In lieu of the proud recognitions I had earned, I might have now the mere sympathy of some fellow-sufferer in a hospital; and instead of the ‘Cross of St. Stephen’ and the ‘valour medal’ of Austria, my reward might have been the few sous per day allotted to an invalided soldier.

As it was, each post from Vienna brought me nothing but nattering recognitions; and one morning a large sealed letter from Duroc conveyed the Emperor’s own approval of my conduct, with the cross of commander of the Legion of Honour. A whole life of arduous services might have failed to win such prizes, and so I struck the balance of good and evil fortune, and found I was the gainer!

Among the presents which I received from the Imperial family was a miniature of the young archduchess, whose life I saved, and which I at once despatched by a safe messenger to Marshal Marmont, engaging him to have a copy of it made and the original returned to me. I concluded that circumstances must have rendered this impossible, for I never beheld the portrait again, although I heard of it among the articles bequeathed to the Duc de Reichstadt at St. Helena. Maria Louisa was, at that time, very handsome; the upper-lip and mouth were, it is true, faulty, and the Austrian-heaviness marred the expression of these features; but her brow and eyes were singularly fine, and her hair of a luxuriant richness rarely to be seen.

Count Palakzi, my young Hungarian friend, who had scarcely ever quitted my bedside during my illness, used to jest with me on my admiration of the young archduchess, and jokingly compassionate me on the altered age we lived in, in contrast to those good old times when a bold feat or a heroic action was sure to win the hand of a fair princess. I half suspect that he believed me actually in love with her, and deemed that this was the best way to treat such an absurd and outrageous ambition. To amuse myself with his earnestness, for such had it become, on the subject, I affected not to be indifferent to his allusions, and assumed all the delicate reserve of devoted admiration. Many an hour have I lightened by watching the fidgety uneasiness the young count felt at my folly; for now, instead of jesting, as before, he tried to reason me out of this insane ambition, and convince me that such pretensions were utter madness.

I was slowly convalescing, about five weeks after the amputation of my leg, when Polakzi entered my room one morning with an open letter in his hand. His cheek was flushed, and his air and manner greatly excited.

‘Would you believe it, Tiernay,’ said he, ‘Stadion writes me word from Vienna, that Napoleon has asked for the hand of the young archduchess in marriage, and that the emperor has consented.’

‘And am I not considered in this negotiation?’ asked I, scarcely suppressing a laugh.

‘This is no time nor theme for jest,’ said he passionately; ‘nor is it easy to keep one’s temper at such a moment. A Hapsburgher princess married to a low Corsican adventurer! to the – ’

‘Come, Polakzi,’ cried I, ‘these are not the words for me to listen to; and having heard them, I may be tempted to say, that the honour comes all off the other side, and that he who holds all Europe at his feet ennobles the dynasty from which he selects his empress.’

‘I deny it – fairly and fully deny it!’ cried the passionate youth. ‘And every noble of this land would rather see the provinces of the empire torn from us, than a princess of the Imperial House degraded to such an alliance!’

‘Is the throne of France, then, so low?’ said I calmly.

‘Not when the rightful sovereign is seated on it,’ said he. ‘But are we, the subjects of a legitimate monarchy, to accept as equals the lucky accidents of your revolution? By what claim is a soldier of fortune the peer of king or kaiser? I, for one, will never more serve a cause so degraded; and the day on which such humiliation is our lot shall be the last of my soldiering’; and so saying, he rushed passionately from the room, and disappeared.

I mention this little incident here, not as in any way connecting itself with my own fortunes, but as illustrating what I afterwards discovered to be the universal feeling entertained towards this alliance. Low as Austria then was – beaten in every battle, her vast treasury confiscated, her capital in the hands of an enemy, her very existence as an empire threatened – the thought of this insult – for such they deemed it – to the Imperial House, seemed to make the burden unendurable; and many who would have sacrificed territory and power for a peace, would have scorned to accept it at such a price as this.

I suppose the secret history of the transaction will never be disclosed; but living as I did, at the time, under the same roof with the royal family, I inclined to think that their counsels were of a divided nature; that while the emperor and the younger archdukes gave a favourable ear to the project, the empress and the Archduke Charles as steadily opposed it. The gossip of the day spoke of dreadful scenes between the members of the Imperial House, and some have since asserted that the breaches of affection that were then made never were reconciled in after-life.

With these events of state or private history I have no concern. My position and my nationality of course excluded me from confidential intercourse with those capable of giving correct information; nor can I record anything beyond the mere current rumours of the time. This much, however, I could remark, that all whom conviction, policy, or perhaps bribery, inclined to the alliance, were taken into court favour, and replaced in the offices of the household those whose opinions were adverse. A total change, in fact, took place in the persons of the royal suite, and the Hungarian nobles, many of whom filled the ‘Hautes Charges,’ as they are called, now made way for Bohemian grandees, who were understood to entertain more favourable sentiments towards France. Whether in utter despair of the cause for which they had suffered so long and so much, or that they were willing to accept this alliance with the oldest dynasty of Europe as a compromise, I am unable to say; but so was it. Many of the émigré nobility of France, the unflinching, implacable enemies of Bonaparte, consented to bury their ancient grudges, and were now seen accepting place and office in the Austrian household. This was a most artful flattery of the Austrians, and was peculiarly agreeable to Napoleon, who longed to legalise his position by a reconciliation with the old followers of the Bourbons, and who dreaded their schemes and plots far more than he feared all the turbulent violence of the ‘Faubourg.’ In one day no fewer than three French nobles were appointed to places of trust in the household, and a special courier was sent off to Gratz to convey the appointment of maid of honour to a young French lady who lived there in exile.

Each of my countrymen, on arriving, came to visit me. They had all known my father by name, if not personally, and most graciously acknowledged me as one of themselves – a flattery they sincerely believed above all price.

I had heard much of the overweening vanity and conceit of the Legitimists, but the reality far exceeded all my notions of them. There was no pretence, no affectation whatever about them. They implicitly believed that in ‘accepting the Corsican,’ as the phrase went, they were displaying a condescension and self-negation unparalleled in history. The tone of superiority thus assumed of course made them seem supremely ridiculous to my eyes – I, who had sacrificed heavily enough for the Empire, and yet felt myself amply rewarded. But apart from these exaggerated ideas of themselves, they were most amiable, gentle mannered, and agreeable.

The ladies and gentlemen of what was called the ‘Service’ associated all together, dining at the same table, and spending each evening in a handsome suite appropriated to themselves. Hither some one or other of the Imperial family occasionally came to play his whist, or chat away an hour in pleasant gossip – these distinguished visitors never disturbing in the slightest degree the easy tone of the society, nor exacting any extraordinary marks of notice or attention.

The most frequent guest was the Archduke Louis, whose gaiety of temperament and easy humour induced him to pass nearly every evening with us. He was fond of cards, but liked to talk away over his game, and make play merely subsidiary to the pleasure of conversation. As I was but an indifferent ‘whister,’ but a most admirable auditor, I was always selected to make one of his party.

It was on one of the evenings when we were so engaged, and the archduke had been displaying a more than ordinary flow of good spirits and merriment, a sudden lull in the approving laughter, and a general subsidence of every murmur, attracted my attention. I turned my head to see what had occurred, and perceived that some of the company had risen, and were standing with eyes directed to the open door.

‘The archduchess, your Imperial Highness!’ whispered an aide-de-camp to the prince, and he immediately rose from the table, an example speedily followed by the others. I grasped my chair with one hand, and, with my sword in the other, tried to stand up, an effort which hitherto I had never accomplished without aid. It was all in vain – my debility utterly denied the attempt. I tried again, but, overcome by pain and weakness, I was compelled to abandon the effort, and sink down on my seat, faint and trembling. By this time the company had formed into a circle, leaving the Archduke Louis alone in the middle of the room – I, to my increasing shame and confusion, being seated exactly behind where the prince stood.

There was a hope for me still; the archduchess might pass on through the rooms without my being noticed. And this seemed likely enough, since she was merely proceeding to the apartments of the empress, and not to delay with us. This expectation was soon destined to be extinguished; for, leaning on the arm of one of her ladies, the young princess came straight over to where Prince Louis stood. She said something in a low voice, and he turned immediately to offer her a chair; and there was I seated, very pale, and very much shocked at my apparent rudeness. Although I had been presented before to the young archduchess, she had not seen me in the uniform of the Corps de Guides (in which I now served as colonel), and never recognised me. She therefore stared steadily at me, and turned towards her brother as if for explanation.

‘Don’t you know him?’ said the archduke, laughing – ‘it’s Colonel de Tiernay; and if he cannot stand up, you certainly should be the last to find fault with him. Pray sit quiet, Tiernay,’ added he, pressing me down on my seat; ‘and if you won’t look so terrified, my sister will remember you.’

‘We must both be more altered than I ever expect if I cease to remember Monsieur de Tiernay,’ said the archduchess, with a most courteous smile. Then leaning on the back of a chair, she bent forward and inquired after my health. There was something so strange in the situation: a young, handsome girl condescending to a tone of freedom and intimacy with one she had seen but a couple of times, and from whom the difference of condition separated her by a gulf wide as the great ocean, that I felt a nervous tremor I could not account for. Perhaps, with the tact that royalty possesses as its own prerogative, or, perhaps, with mere womanly intuition, she saw how the interview agitated me, and, to change the topic, she suddenly said —

‘I must present you to one of my ladies, Colonel de Tiernay, a countrywoman of your own. She already has heard from me the story of your noble devotion, and now only has to learn your name. Remember you are to sit still.’

As she said this, she turned, and drawing her arm within that of a young lady behind her, led her forward.

‘It is to this gentleman I owe my life, Mademoiselle d’Estelles.’

I heard no more, nor did she either; for, faltering, she uttered a low, faint sigh, and fell into the arms of those behind her.

‘What’s this, Tiernay! – how is all this?’ whispered Prince Louis; ‘are you acquainted with mademoiselle?’

But I forgot everything – the presence in which I stood, the agony of a wounded leg, and all, and with a violent effort sprang from my seat.

Before I could approach her, however, she had risen from the chair, and, in a voice broken and interrupted, said —

‘You are so changed, Monsieur de Tiernay – so much changed – that the shock overpowered me. We became acquainted in the Tyrol, madame,’ said she to the princess, ‘where monsieur was a prisoner.’

What observation the princess made in reply I could not hear, but I saw that Laura blushed deeply. To hide her awkwardness perhaps it was, that she hurriedly entered into some account of our former intercourse, and I could observe that some allusion to the Prince de Condé dropped from her.

‘How strange, how wonderful is all that you tell me!’ said the princess, who bent forward and whispered some words to Prince Louis; and then, taking Laura’s arm, she moved on, saying in a low voice ‘Au revoir, monsieur,’ as she passed.

‘You are to come and drink tea in the archduchess’s apartments, Tiernay,’ said Prince Louis; ‘you ‘ll meet your old friend, Mademoiselle d’Estelles, and of course you have a hundred recollections to exchange with each other.’

The prince insisted on my accepting his arm, and, as he assisted me along, informed me that old Madame d’Aigreville had been dead about a year, leaving her niece an immense fortune – at least a claim to one – only wanting the sanction of the Emperor Napoleon to become valid; for it was one of the estreated but not confiscated estates of La Vendée. Every word that dropped from the prince extinguished some hope within me. More beautiful than ever, her rank recognised, and in possession of a vast fortune, what chance had I, a poor soldier of fortune, of success?

‘Don’t sigh, Tiernay,’ said the prince, laughing; ‘you’ve lost a leg for us, and we must lend you a hand in return’; and with this we entered the salon of the archduchess.

CHAPTER LIV. MAURICE TIERNAY’S ‘LAST WORD AND CONFESSION’

I have been very frank with my readers in these memoirs of my life. If I have dwelt somewhat vain-gloriously on passing moments of success, it must be owned that I have not spared my vanity and self-conceit when either betrayed me into any excess of folly. I have neither blinked my humble beginnings, nor have I sought to attribute to my own merits those happy accidents which made me what I am. I claim nothing but the humble character – a Soldier of Fortune. It was my intention to have told the reader somewhat more than these twenty odd years of my life embrace. Probably, too, my subsequent career, if less marked by adventure, was more pregnant with true views of the world and sounder lessons of conduct; but I have discovered to my surprise that these revelations have extended over a wider surface than I ever destined them to occupy, and already I tremble for the loss of that gracious attention that has been vouchsafed me hitherto. I will not trust myself to say how much regret this abstinence has cost me – enough if I avow that in jotting down the past I have lived my youth over again, and in tracing old memories, old scenes, and old impressions, the smouldering fire of my heart has shot up a transient flame so bright as to throw a glow even over the chill of my old age.