CHAPTER V.
NAPOLEONIC IDEAS.
Few who saw the miserable despairing lodger in the H?tel de Suez, wholooked out sadly from his thin blankets on the prospect of hopevanishing with the last vapour of his pipe, would have recognised thesame entity a week afterwards in the gay, buoyant, flushed youth seated,choice Havana idly turned between his lips, deep in an armchair, softdressing-gown falling around in showy folds, and his feet cased inembroidered slippers, resting, American-wise, on the marble top of astove wherein the live logs cheerily hissed and blazed. The man was thesame; that is the form, the cubic extent of flesh and blood andbone--but money had effected the grand transformation; money had madeout of the wretch, fearful of the shadow of a sharp-tongued _concierge_,a very cavalier in lightsome spirit, airy courage, and happy way oflooking at life in general. Twenty pounds had done this; gold had doneit--the true philosopher's stone, whereat we be tempted to moralizemuch, to ask was not this human being as much entitled to human respectand more to human sympathy when he was forlorn? and all that sort ofthing, and to put on our grave censor's cap and reproach the world. Butwe resist the temptation. For, indeed, is not money truly great? is itnot the outward and visible representation of intrinsic worth always,and is not the man who has made it by trafficking in cloth or herrings,or some other articles for the good of society over a counter,infinitely to be preferred to him who thinks, and feels, and dreamsmuch, and does not make money? Is he not of vastly more value to hiskind than the mere scholar or martyr, the doer of high deeds or uttererof high thoughts? Is not the alderman--the Lord Mayor, perhaps, of nextyear--riding in his gilt chariot, more worthy much than Samuel Johnsonin the attic vegetating on fourpence-halfpenny a day? For what is theworth of anything but its money value in the market?
But let us cease this teasing worn-out cynicism, which all will applaudin theory, and in practice all will repudiate, and return to our friend,O'Hara.
He sat, gay as he looked, surrounded by lights and such flowers as theearly season furnished; a burning pastille poured out a thick unctuousstream of perfume; fruits were on the table by his elbow, and incompanionship beside them slender bottles of sparkling wine. He had asensuous appreciation of the beautiful, had our friend; but not aselfish, for he did not sit alone. At his feet, curled like a hedgehogon a luxurious mat, snored Pat, the foundling dog, a half-eaten boneheld between his paws. Pat had evidently fallen upon pleasant lines; hewas plump and sleek as an incipient alderman after his seven days' goodtreatment, and now, as aspirants to the dignity of the fur collar andthe rapture of turtle-soup are wont, he was enjoying the snooze ofsatisfaction after the repast of repletion. Then, again, another of ouracquaintances was present. Stiff and stately, as a bare old oak in winter,on the opposite side of the fire, sat Captain Chauvin--white-bearded,the chocolate-coloured ribbon on his breast, his stick held bolt uprightbetween his legs--a figure of dignity and firmness in the frivolous airof this bachelor-chamber in gala; yet, somehow, he did not look out ofplace. There was sweetness in the old man's face, and benevolence andtruth, which is beautiful everywhere.
'You do not smoke, captain--you a _militaire_ of the First Empire. Iwonder at that,' said O'Hara, languidly puffing the light cloud upwardsin fantastic wreath from his Havana.
'No, _mon enfant_; there is a reason for it,' and the captain sighed.
O'Hara finished his cigar in peace--not that he did not notice the sighof his guest, but he had too much delicacy to seek to fathom its cause.
'At least,' he said when he resumed conversation, 'you will not refuseto join me in a bumper.'
The captain shook his head.
'It is the first time I've caught you at my fireside, Captain Chauvin,and in my land we account it the reverse of good-fellowship not tohobnob at such a meeting. We shall drink together, as the Arabs breakbread, to friendship and better knowledge of each other.'
The captain smiled--how charming is a smile on the face of manlymasculine age!--and bowed.
'As it is the custom of your land, and as it is to be a gage offriendship, I even will,' said he, at the same time proffering a wornsnuff-box, rudely wrought of horn, which he drew out of a gold case.'_Mon enfant_, a pinch.'
O'Hara took of the snuff, though he found some difficulty in performingthe operation of conveying the dust to his nostrils, sniffing it andafterwards sneezing. To tell the truth, he did not take snuff,considering it a dirty habit; but he felt constrained to do much togratify the old man.
'Hola, you sneeze!' remarked the captain, surprised. 'It's rare finesnuff.'
'And that's a rare fine box you have it in; not the box, I mean, but thecasket which holds it,' answered O'Hara, taking the gold case in hishands.
'What's this? The bees which the Bonapartes brought from Corsica, theeagle with the thunder-bolt in his talons, and the Imperial cipher. I'mnot a judge of goldsmith's work, but I should say that's a piece of somevalue.'
'And the horn box--the box for which all this finery is the covering.What d'ye think of that?'
'It is not valuable in material nor artistically, and yet it may bevaluable as a souvenir,' said O'Hara, after regarding it.
'Ah! I would not give that box for ten--what?--a thousand times itsweight in gems,' said the old man, kissing it reverently. 'There's astory attached to it.'
'Yes, yes, how we do cling to the relic of what has passed from us, andeach day, as we look upon it, it becomes more precious in our sight!'said O'Hara, half in soliloquy, drawing a little parcel from his breast.'Here it is now, only a lock of woman's hair, faded, flattened out ofcurl, and she--where is she?--what does she? Does she ever think of me?Bah!'--with a violent jerk thrusting back the parcel to itsresting-place; 'you're a fool, O'Hara! Come, captain, let me fill you abumper of the grape-juice.'
The captain had been watching the by-play with the tress of woman's hairwith an amiable, almost sympathizing, eye. 'Young friend,' said he,'you've loved and been disappointed, I take it; but do not despair.'O'Hara blushed. 'At your time of life,' continued the captain, 'onedoes not die of those crosses. I know them. Do not blush; I, too, havebeen disappointed in what my heart had set its affections upon, and,alas! it has coloured my whole existence.'
'A good blood-colour, I fancy,' said O'Hara with a sardonic humour.
'Ah! you are disposed to take a cynical view of the sex. That is toosoon. Life for you should be a comedy, as yet violet-crowned; a toyingwith honey goblets and rose-leaves; it is too soon to bring in thedaggers and the cups of gall and the cypress-wreaths.'
'Life violet-crowned for me!' said O'Hara mockingly. 'It is a vile,malodorous sham; there is nothing true, nothing sincere in it but sinand death. The world is a mercenary, peddling world--the one only tradewhich is not meanness and fraud is the soldier's trade, where man ispaid for cutting the throat of his fellow-man.'
'Let us drink,' said the captain, perceiving that the better way toalter his young friend's mood was to steal him away on other paths, notto dip into deep reasoning with him.
'Ay, ay, _mon ami_,' cried O'Hara with a return of the reckless spiritwe remarked in his character when he lay seemingly without a sou in hispocket on his bed of bitterness, 'that is the disappointed man's friend.We will drink, drink, not to woman who drove Adam out of Paradise andyour humble servant out of Ireland, but to man, to the real practicalman, the man who tramples humbug and pretence under foot, and believesin himself alone, the solid, hard-hitting, clear-seeing man. Captain,here's to his health!'
'To his memory, rather,' said the captain, rising and touching theoutstretched glass of his host with his own, 'for his soul is lost to usthese five-and-forty years. Here's to Napoleon!'
'Yes, to Napoleon!' and they both drained their glasses to the lees. Thecaptain resumed his seat as stiffly as ever; O'Hara took a cordialglance at the bottle, and replenishing his glass, cried as he held italoft between him and the light, and watched the amber beads frothing increamy tumult on its surface, 'Beautiful to the sight and to the taste,strange that that liquid should be
the one sure friend to whom we canfly for the means to forget the world and its sorrows, our only certainrefuge----'
'My young friend,' said the old man gravely, 'it seems to me you forgetGod!'
The tone in which these words were spoken was gentle rather thanmonitory. They fell on our friend's troubled soul like the rain whichrefreshes, not as advice too often does, and too often is meant to fall,like blistering drops of hot wax.
The youth, who had been contemplating the sparkling liquor as an artistmight a great artist creation of beauty, looked at it a moment longer,then slowly lowering it, he said, in the calm voice of conviction, tohis aged guest:
'You are right; God is _the_ refuge; we should not forget Him,' and thespirit of the grape blazed vividly up as it was spilt on the burninglogs. 'I was wrong, we were both wrong, even in drinking to the memoryof Napoleon.'
'Not in that, _mon enfant_; all great men such as he was, men who sinkthemselves into the time and mark it as theirs even as the maker doeshis name into the sword-blade--all such men are messengers from God.'
'And his nephew?'
'God's messages do not come by hereditary office. He is auspicious forFrance; it is strong and feared and full of prosperous life to-day; andhe is Emperor of the French. That is enough for me.'
'The philosophy of a soldier' was the only comment of O'Hara.
'Are you of the Opposition?' queried the captain, fancying he detected alatent sneer at the ruling dynasty in the latter expression.
'Ah I my friend,' remarked O'Hara with a smile, 'that is a delicatequestion. How shall I answer it? Like an Irishman, by asking another.Do you not know that I am a foreigner? I love your France, but I do notmeddle in its politics. If I did, I suppose I should belong to theOpposition, for I was born in the Opposition in my own country, and asthe sum of evil is greater than the sum of good, and usuallypreponderant, I take it that it is pretty safe ground to go on thatwhatever is, is wrong.'
'Have another pinch of snuff,' said the captain, shaking his head andproffering the golden box with its horn enclosure.
'This great N,' said O'Hara, again examining the ornamented outer lidwith curiosity--'is that for the nephew or the uncle?'
'It is for the Man,' said Monsieur Chauvin, almost offended.
'Did you not say there was a story attached to it?' continued O'Hara.
'Yes; but would you laugh at an old man?'
'Captain Chauvin!'
'Pardon, my good young friend. I will tell it you. On the day of MontSt. Jean, the 18th of June, 1815, I was a sub-lieutenant of artillery inthe column of our glorious Ney--the laurel to his ashes! Ah! yourWellington let him be slain like a dog; that was not soldierly. TheEmperor directed a false attack on the ch?teau of Goumont; while theEnglishman was gathering the best of his forces to its defence, the Manstood, pale and weary, with the same quiet, steady gaze, a smile fixedinto the earnestness of a frown, which my comrades told me he had wornat Austerlitz, hands behind his back, and his gray great-coat lyingmoist over his boots. My battery was near, and I was on its right, quiteclose to the staff. "Messieurs," said he, as he saw the scarlet massespressing around Goumont, "we make our game. Where is Ney?" Anaide-de-camp galloped off for the Marshal, who was close at hand. TheMan, surveying Goumont with his glass, and occasionally looking intentlyat La Haie-Sainte, gradually approached to where I stood. A soldier ofthe battery lay dead on the ground before me--a veteran whom we allloved. Feeling that we should shortly get the order to advance, Iresolved to secure some souvenir of Tampon, as we called him. I found ahorn snuff-box in his hand, clenched in death. The Man happened to turntowards me, and observed the act.
'"Comrade, a pinch," he said, and I handed him the box--that box; lookat it,' and the old soldier, the fire of foughten fields in his eyes,hung over it with tenderness as over a loved living object--'that boxwas in his fingers--out of it he took a pinch of snuff on the day ofMont St. Jean.'
'Did you see him after?'
'Not that day. We advanced on La Haie-Sainte ten minutes after and gavethem a hail of hell-fire. Our heavy artillery crashed through theirranks like bolts of thunder. They shook; Ney seized the moment to bringour guns right into the enemy's position, but we had a ravine totraverse; our pieces of twelve settled down in the muddy rye, a regimentof infantry came up from the rear to cover us, but Wellington wasquicker. He saw our difficulty and poured a host of dragoons in on us inthe valley. They cut our traces, overturned our guns, sabred our men.But, sapristi! they paid for it--paid for it dearly. Our cuirassiersrushed to the rescue like a whirlwind and swept them from earth to thelast man. Brave fellows they were! No, I did not see him after, untilall Paris turned out, six-and-twenty years ago, to welcome his remainsto the Church of the Invalides. You know his will, Monsieur O'Hara: "Idesire that my dust may rest on the banks of the Seine, in the midst ofthe French people whom I loved so well."'
The enthusiastic young Irishman could not but be affected at thisreminiscence of an era which appeals to all that is romantic in ournature, told, too, by one who was an actor in it, and who carried in hisheart, still vivid and strong, the proud affection for Napoleon withwhich that genius of war inspired his followers to the humblest. Nor washis sole motive that of gratifying the captain when he demanded thehorn-box for another pinch, and, to the exuberant delight of the oldman, with it in his hand sung _Les Souvenirs du Peuple_ of B?ranger.
'Thanks, thanks, my young friend!' cried the captain, the tearsstreaming down his cheeks; 'what a happy evening!'
'But, captain, you don't enjoy yourself; you don't drink, you won'tsmoke. True, you told me there was a reason for it.'
'Yes, and as we are together in free friendship, I'll tell you, my dearchild, you who have sung such a beautiful song for the old soldier.'
But we must reserve the captain's story for another chapter.
Mated from the Morgue: A Tale of the Second Empire Page 5