by Eugène Sue
“Ah, you were at the Assembly that day?”
“Aye, I came from the Abbey.”
“Where you also did work?”
“A fatal and terrible necessity. I believed so then and think so still. Death to the aristocrats and priests! But how one does meet! Come, a glass of wine, my old friend.”
“That is not to be refused, comrade. I am frozen numb,” returned Duchemin; and added, in a tone of bitter recrimination, “That brigand of a Reddy!”
“Of what ‘Reddy’ do you speak, friend?”
“Oh, that is the name of one of the horses I gave to the country. We were enrolled, my two beasts and I, in ‘92, in the Second Battalion, Flying Artillery. But my other horse, my Double-grey, was missing from roll call after the battle of Watignies, because of a little impediment in the way of a four-pound cannon ball, which he received in the belly while one of the servants of my darling Carmagnole was riding him.”
“What, you have a sweetheart whom you call Carmagnole? The idea is a droll one!”
“That is how I christened the four-pounder I had charge of in my battery. Ah, citizens,” added Duchemin, in reply to the volunteers’ mirth at his explanation, “if you only knew that beautiful little piece! Such an amorous little mouth — to spit fire and cannon balls at the nose of the Austro-Prussians and the other Ostrogoths.”
“Come, come, old chap, do you take us for marines?” said Castillon, laughingly. “Do you want to give us the idea that pieces of artillery in general — and Carmagnole in particular — have characters!”
“Whether they have characters! Just ask your good cannoniers about that, you’ll hear their answer. There are slatterns of pieces on whom you can never depend for a good shot. Whereas with Carmagnole — never a caprice. You train her so many lines’ elevation — she’ll fire just so high; so many lines’ depression — she’ll fire low. An angel of a spit-fire! A very love!”
“Comrades,” chimed in Captain Martin gaily, “captivated by the character, the virtues and the bravery of Citizeness Carmagnole, I propose her health, and that of the brave artillerymen of the Army of the Rhine.”
“To the health of Carmagnole! To the health of the artillerymen of the Rhine!” chorused the volunteers, draining their glasses with Duchemin. Touched by this proof of sympathy for his cannon and his brothers in arms, the latter in turn raised his own glass and cried:
“Thanks, comrades, thanks! I shall convey your good wishes to Carmagnole, and I can tell you that in to-morrow’s battle we shall be neither slothful nor over-hot, but just right. Meanwhile, I drink in her name and mine: To the health of the brave men of the Army of the Moselle. To the relief of Landau! Long live the Republic! To the lamp-post with the aristocrats, the black-caps, and all the Jesuits!”
“We shall raise the siege of Landau, or die!” enthusiastically acclaimed the volunteers. “Long live the Republic!”
“Well, indeed, wo’d of honor, I don’t believe I am going to have any fear at all to-morrow!” exclaimed Duresnel, electrified by the ardor of his comrades. “Long live the Republic! Death to the aristocrats and down with the skull caps!”
“Citizen Duresnel,” replied Captain Martin, smiling, “you will see that it is not such a devil of an undertaking to go under fire the first time, surrounded by gallant comrades.”
“Faith, captain, I begin to believe it,” replied Duresnel, while Castillon said, addressing Duchemin:
“See there, old fellow, your love for Carmagnole has interfered with your telling us your troubles with your horse, that brigand Reddy, formerly so patriotic a fellow, as you told us, and whom you suspect of having been bought over by a peck of oats given him by an agent of Pitt and Coburg.”
“Well, comrades, to return to Reddy, yes, I say that dumb animal is a patriot at heart. Judge for yourselves: Lately, at the affair of Kaiserslautern, we were tearing along at a gallop with one wing of my battery, to take up our position. I was helping along with the flat of my saber two wretches of drivers who had charge of the team of six that drew Carmagnole, and who looked out of sorts at going into action. Suddenly a squadron of Prussian Uhlans, until then hidden by a rise in the ground, broke cover and charged upon us. We were supported by a squad of the famous Third Hussars. We met at full tilt. But right in the middle of the embroglio my brave Reddy seized the horse of a Uhlan by the mane. Reddy did not let go his hold — he lost his footing in the crush — he fell, and me with him. There I was, pinned under him; but thanks to the intervention of the famous pair of the Third Hussars, I was able to escape. This was the first time I saw those two inseparables of the Army of the Rhine, Victor and Oliver, two heroic fellows!”
“These two cavalrymen are called, you say, Oliver and Victor?” and Castillon continued thoughtfully to himself. “A singular idea those two names suggest. What if the gallant pair should be our apprentice and our master’s sister! Despite the strangeness of the disguise, it is said there are in the army many patriotic women who enrolled to follow their lovers to the war—”
While Castillon was thus reflecting, the report of a firearm rang out about a hundred paces from the inn. One of the pickets had fired. Captain Martin at once spoke to an under-officer:
“Sergeant, take four men and go see what is up out there. It must be comrade Lebrenn who fired that shot.”
“Perhaps he got a bead on some spy within the lines,” suggested Duchemin, as the sergeant hastened out with his guard.
The incident, however, passed almost unnoticed by Castillon, who, preoccupied with his own thoughts concerning the “pair” in the Third Hussars approached Duchemin and asked:
“Comrade, did you ever see the two brave cavalrymen you spoke of, again?”
“Yes, often. After Kaiserslautern our battery was attached to their division.”
“How old would you say Oliver was?”
“He is eighteen or so; black haired, with blue eyes. He is a fine looking hussar; but in respect of beauty, his companion takes the shine out of him.”
“Victor is also a pretty boy, then?”
“He is too good looking for a man. What an air of authority! What an eye of fire!”
“No more doubt of it,” murmured Castillon to himself. “It is Citizeness Victoria and Oliver, who have joined the hussars!”
At this moment the sergeant and his squad returned, minus one man who had relieved John Lebrenn at his post. A man and a boy of ten or eleven, dressed as Alsatian peasants, were marched in by the volunteers.
The two seemed perfectly calm as they entered the inn-hall. They did not even shudder when John Lebrenn announced:
“Captain, I think we have laid our hands on a couple of spies.”
“And how did they fall into our picket lines, comrade Lebrenn?” asked Captain Martin.
“I had posted my sentries, captain. The mist was so thick I could not see the lights of the inn from my position. The ground, hardened by the frost, carried sounds clearly. All at once I heard at some distance the steps of men coming almost directly at me. I could distinguish also that they wore wooden shoes. I could see nothing, but I cried: ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ At the challenge the two individuals attempted to flee, but they failed to perceive a patch of ice, on which their wooden shoes slipped. The noise of their fall reached me distinctly. I fired my gun to give the alarm, and plunged in their direction. I reached the pair just as they regained their feet. I grabbed the man by his collar, the boy by his frock. They tried at first to break away, but soon realizing that I had a tough grip, they offered no further resistance. The man addressed me in some unintelligible jargon. Then my comrades ran up, and we bring you the catch.”
“You young brigand, you are swallowing a paper!” cried Captain Martin, rushing, but too late, upon little Rodin; for he it was, unrecognized by John Lebrenn as the latter had seen him but once before, and briefly, the day of the taking of the Bastille, when the vicious youngster had attempted to make away with the annals of the Lebrenn family. Needless to say, the man accompa
nying him, and also unknown to the company of volunteers, was his “sweet” god-father, his “gentle” god-father, his “dear” god-father Abbot Morlet. The wretched youngster had just the minute before quickly carried to his mouth one of his hands, which he had up till then held hidden beneath his coat.
“Search the knaves!” ordered Captain Martin. And quickly raising little Rodin’s blouse, he saw that the young one held his left hand tightly shut. The captain pried it open, and some fragments of torn paper fell to the floor. John Lebrenn and Castillon discovered nothing upon the reverend Father Morlet. Carefully the captain pieced together the scraps of paper he had gotten from the Jesuit’s god-son, but found nothing but figures. After a moment’s examination he cried:
“No doubt of it! The man and his brat are emissaries of the enemy. The letter of which they were the bearers is in cipher, except two names which I find in the fragments — Condé, and then another of which some letters seem to be missing;” and drawing nearer to the lamp, Captain Martin added, “It is something like Plouar — Plouer—”
“Plouernel! without a doubt!” exclaimed John Lebrenn. “This ex-Count of Plouernel, former colonel in the French Guards, was aide-de-camp to the Duke of Brunswick, and must now be serving in the Emigrant ranks of the Prince of Condé.”
“Which is all the more probable since the corps of ex-nobles forms part of Wurmser’s army which is to attack us at daybreak,” replied Captain Martin, while John Lebrenn muttered to himself: “To-morrow, perhaps, I shall find myself again face to face, arms in hand, with that descendant of the Nerowegs whose life I saved last year.”
“Your account will not take long to settle, you old rascal,” said Captain Martin to the Jesuit, gathering together the pieces of the despatch. “You will be conducted to headquarters and simply shot as a spy, after an examination by way of preface, of course. All the forms will be followed!”
The Jesuit, unmoved, seemed not to hear the captain’s words, and made answer in a lingo invented by him for the occasion:
“Rama o schlick!”
“Yes, yes, Rama o schlick! It is clear as day. Yes, you will be hanged!” replied Captain Martin imperturbably. Then he said to little Rodin, who stood no less stolid than his good god-father: “You commence your pretty trade quite young, you little scoundrel, you brigandette. Your audacity, your presence of mind don’t seem to fail you in the least. No doubt they charged you with the despatch in the hope that even if arrested you would not be suspected of carrying it. You are too young to be shot, but we will first give your trousers a good dusting and then send you to a house of correction.”
During this speech little Rodin showed himself the worthy pupil of his god-father and master. He did not wink an eyelid, although he kept his snaky optics fixed on the captain. Then, beating his chest with one hand with an air of compunction, he carried the other to each ear in turn and to his mouth, as a pantomimic indication that he was deaf and dumb.
“So, poor lad, you are deaf and dumb?” said the captain. “In that case you are free. Get out. May the devil take you.”
But little Rodin remained motionless, not seeming to have heard. Instead, he made a new sign that he could neither hear nor speak, and heaved a most lamentable sigh. The sigh, the motions and the face of the boy were stamped with such an air of sincerity that Captain Martin and the brave volunteers who witnessed the scene began to believe that the Jesuit’s god-son had indeed the use of neither faculty.
The captain continued: “If this little beggar is, indeed, as he seems to be, a deaf-mute, we shall send him to Abbot Sicard. He will have a splendid pupil!” Then, turning to the Jesuit: “But you, old rogue, who are neither dumb nor deaf, you shall be recompensed as you deserve! Come, off to headquarters!”
“Mira ta bi lou!” replied the Jesuit, simulating the impatience of a man tired of listening to gibberish.
“I understand perfectly,” the captain said. “Be easy, you shall be well hanged.” He thereupon turned to John Lebrenn, saying, “You, comrade, will take the prisoners to headquarters, and transmit these shreds of paper to the staff-officer to whom you give the account of your capture. One or two volunteers will accompany you to keep watch on the two rascals.”
“Do not weaken your post, Citizen Captain,” said Duchemin. “On my way back to my battery I shall accompany my comrade as far as the General’s quarters.”
Then John Lebrenn, noticing for the first time the cannonier whose patriotism had so strongly touched him a year before, cried out: “Citizen James Duchemin!”
“Present, comrade! But how the deuce did you know me?”
“I’ll tell you on our way to the General’s,” replied John. And soon, taking the Jesuit by the collar while Duchemin seized little Rodin firmly by the hand, the volunteer and the artilleryman left the inn and set out towards the burg of Ingelsheim.
“The capture of the two spies prevented me from acquainting friend John with what I have discovered as to Citizeness Victoria and our apprentice Oliver,” thought Castillon that night as he stretched himself out to rest on his pallet of straw. “Well, the confidence will come a little later!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE HEROINE IN ARMS.
THE HEADQUARTERS OF General Hoche were established in the Commune Hall of the burg of Ingelsheim; soldiers and under-officers of various corps of the army, detailed as orderlies, awaited the commands of the General in a sort of vestibule leading to the room in which Hoche himself, together with his fellow-General Pichegru and their aides-de-camp, were in conference with St. Just, Lebas, Randon and Lacost, the Representatives of the people sent on special mission from the Convention to the Armies of the Rhine and Moselle. Among the various troopers seated about on the benches, and for the most part sleeping, overcome by the fatigues of the day, were two, a cavalryman and a quartermaster of the Third Hussars, who sat to one side of the folding door in earnest conversation. The manly beauty of one of them, his light brown complexion, the soft black down which shaded his upper lip, his thick eyelashes, his height, the squareness of his shoulders, and the fire and boldness of his glance, left no doubt but that it was Victoria, the missing sister of John Lebrenn. Her companion, who could be none other than the apprentice Oliver, seemed transfigured. His radiant youthful features now shone with hope and martial ardor. His large brilliant blue eyes seemed to mirror dazzling visions. One would have said it was Mars himself in the uniform of a hussar.
“With what impatience I await the morrow,” he was saying to Victoria. “Here in my heart I feel that I shall either be killed or named sub-lieutenant on the field of battle. Hoche, our General-in-chief, was sub-lieutenant at twenty-two; I shall be an officer at eighteen! What a future opens before me!”
Dreaming of his martial career, the young soldier gazed long and silently into the golden picture it held up before him. Victoria observed him closely. An inscrutable smile overspread her lips, when suddenly, recalled from his revery by the recollections of love, Oliver blushed and added: “If I am made an officer, perhaps you will at last think me worthy of you, Victoria! Oh! what happiness! To merit the supreme gifts of your tenderness, or to die before your eyes!”
“You yield yourself too readily to the intoxication of glory,” said Victoria, gravely reproaching him.
“Is not the glory of arms the most sublime of all?”
“Oliver, woe to those who, loving arms merely as arms, glory as glory, give way to such enticements. Their reason becomes clouded, their spirit becomes unsteeled, their patriotism falters. They grow ready to sacrifice right, liberty, dignity for that glory whose brilliancy oft conceals so much of mere low ambition, of abject servility, of shameful appetites, and vain and childish selfishness. Military chiefs are nearly all contemptible men, even under the republican regime.”
“Victoria, how severe you are!” replied Oliver, sorrowfully. “Have I really merited this reproach?”
“When St. Just and Lebas came here to hold council with the Generals over to-morrow’s battle
, I noticed your hesitancy in giving, as customary, the military salute.”
“Yes, I felt extreme repugnance toward saluting a commissioner of the Convention to the armies, because these people are in no way military. If some day I become a general, I shall never consent to submit my plans of campaign to a Representative of the people. No authority should precede that of a general in his army. That authority should be single, absolute, obeyed without discussion; he should be responsible to none for his acts. His soldiers should hear but one voice: his; know but one power: his.”
“That is the language held by Dumouriez the eve of the day on which he betrayed the Republic,” answered Victoria bitterly. Just then John Lebrenn and Duchemin entered, bringing in their prisoners.
John did not see his sister sitting with Oliver beside the door. But the young woman, doubly surprised by meeting at once both her brother and the Jesuit Morlet, whom she immediately recognized through his rustic disguise, made at first a move to rush after John. But fearing lest he, unable to master his surprise, might compromise the secret of a transformation which she desired to guard, she checked herself, and whispered to Oliver, who was no less stupefied than she at the sight of his former master: “My brother has gone with that country fellow and the little boy into the room of the aides-de-camp. Go tell the cannonier Duchemin to meet me in the courtyard.” Tossing her sword under her left arm with military ease, the young woman started for the door; and designating by a glance the other soldiers, she added, “I do not wish my first interview with my brother to take place before our comrades; his emotion would betray me.”
“I obey, Victoria,” sadly replied Oliver. “My surprise at meeting your brother in the army prevents me from asking you in what I deserve the cruel words you have but just addressed to me.”
“My attachment for you, Oliver, compels me never to conceal the truth, harsh as it may be. That is the only means of forestalling results of which you perhaps have no premonition. We shall resume the conversation later,” she added, as she left the vestibule, the pavement of which rang under her spurred boots.