CHAPTER V. THE CHOICE OF A LIFE
In looking back, after a long lapse of years, I cannot refrain from afeeling of astonishment to think how little remembrance I possess of theoccurrences of that day--one of the most memorable that ever dawned forFrance--the eventful 29th of July, that closed the reign of terrorby the death of the tyrant! It is true, that all Paris was astir atdaybreak; that a sense of national vengeance seemed to pervade thevast masses that filled the streets, which now were scenes of the mostexciting emotion. I can only account for the strange indifference that Ifelt about these stirring themes by the frequency with which similar, orwhat to me at least appeared similar, scenes had already passed beforemy eyes.
One of the most remarkable phases of the revolution was the changeit produced in all the social relations by substituting an assumednationality for the closer and dearer ties of kindred and affection.France was everything--the family nothing; every generous wish, everyproud thought, every high ambition or noble endeavour, belonged to thecountry. In this way, whatever patriotism may have gained, certainlyall the home affections were utterly wrecked; the humble and unobtrusivevirtues of domestic life seemed mean and insignificant beside the granddisplays of patriotic devotion which each day exhibited.
Hence grew the taste for that 'life of the streets' then sopopular--everything should be en _evidence_. All the emotions whichdelicacy would render sacred to the seclusion of home were now to beparaded to the noonday. Fathers were reconciled to rebellious childrenbefore the eyes of multitudes; wives received forgiveness from theirhusbands in the midst of approving crowds; leave-takings the mostaffecting; partings, for those never to meet again; the last utteringsof the death-bed; the faint whispers of expiring affection; theimprecations of undying hate--all, all were exhibited in public, and thegaze of the low, the vulgar, and the debauched associated with the mostagonising griefs that ever the heart endured. The scenes, which now areshrouded in all the secrecy of domestic privacy, were then the dailylife of Paris; and to this cause alone can I attribute the hardenedindifference with which events the most terrible and heart-rending werewitnessed. Bred up amidst such examples, I saw little matter for emotionin scenes of harrowing interest. An air of mockery was on everything,and a bastard classicality destroyed every semblance of truth inwhatever would have been touching and affecting.
The commotion of Paris on that memorable morning was, then, to mythinking, little more than usual If the crowds who pressed their way tothe Place de la Revolution were greater--if the cries of vengeancewere in louder utterance--if the imprecations were deeper and moreterrible--the ready answer that satisfied all curiosity was--it wasRobespierre who was on his way to be executed. Little knew I what hungupon that life! and how the fate of millions depended upon the bloodthat morning was to shed! Too full of myself and my own projects, Idisengaged myself from the crowds that pressed eagerly towards theTuileries, and took my way by less-frequented streets in the directionof the Boulevard Mont Parnasse.
I wished, if possible, to see the pere once more, to take a lastfarewell of him, and ask his blessing, too; for still a lingering faithin the lessons he had taught me continued to haunt my mind amidstall the evil influences with which my wayward life surrounded me. Thefurther I went from the quarter of the Tuileries, the more desertedand solitary grew the streets. Not a carriage or horseman was to beseen--scarcely a foot-passenger. All Paris had, apparently, assembledon the Place de la Revolution; and the very beggars had quitted theiraccustomed haunts to repair thither. Even the distant hum of the vastmultitude faded away, and it was only as the wind bore them that I couldcatch the sounds of the hoarse cries that bespoke a people's vengeance.And now I found myself in the little silent street which once had beenmy home. I stood opposite the house where we used to live, afraid toenter it lest I might compromise the safety of her I wished to save,and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we once sattogether--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of winter, Inestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that everyplash of the falling hail against the windows routed--to lie down oncemore in the little bed, where so often I had passed whole nights ofhappy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future that were neverto be realised!
Half choking with my emotion, I passed on, and soon saw the greenfields, and the windmill-covered hill of Montmartre rising above theembankment of the Boulevards--and now the ivy-clothed wall of thegarden, within which stood the chapel of St. Blois. The gate lay ajar asof old, and, pushing it open, I entered. Everything was exactly as I hadleft it--the same desolation and desertion everywhere--so much so, thatI almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts sincelast I was there. On drawing nigh to the chapel, I found the door fastbarred and barricaded as before; but a window lay open, and on examiningit closer I discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on the groundand the window-sill. Could the Pere Michel have been there? was thequestion that at once occurred to my mind. Had the poor priest cometo take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? It couldscarcely have been any other. There was nothing to tempt cupidity inthat humble little church; an image of the 'Virgin and Child' in waxwas the only ornament of the altar. No, no; pillage had never been themotive of him who entered here.
Thus reasoning, I climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. Asmy footsteps echoed through the silent building, I felt that sense ofawe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship,and which is ever more impressive still as we stand in it alone. Thepresent, however, was less before me than the past, of which everythingreminded me. There was the seat the marquise used to sit in--there thefootstool I had so often placed at her feet. How different was the lastservice I had rendered her! There the pillar, beside which I havestood spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty arrestedthe thoughts that should have wended heavenward, and made my mutteredprayers like offerings to herself. The very bouquet of flowers somepious hand had placed beneath the shrine--withered and faded--was therestill. But where were they whose beating hearts had throbbed with deepdevotion? How many had died upon the scaffold!--how many were stilllingering in imprisonment, some in exile, some in concealment, draggingout lives of misery and anxiety! What was the sustaining spirit ofsuch martyrdom? I asked myself again and again. Was it the zeal of truereligion, or was it the energy of loyalty that bore them up againstevery danger, and enabled them to brave death itself with firmness?--andif this faith of theirs was thus ennobling, why could not France be ofone mind and heart? There came no answer to these doubts of mine, and Islowly advanced towards the altar, still deeply buried in thought. Whatwas my surprise to see that two candles stood there, which bore signsof having been recently lighted. At once the whole truth flashed acrossme--the pere had been there; he had come to celebrate a mass--the last,perhaps, he was ever to offer up at that altar. I knew with what warmaffection he loved every object and every spot endeared to him by longtime, and I fancied to myself the overflowing of his heart as he enteredonce more, and for the last time, the little temple, associated withall the joys and sorrows of his existence. Doubtless, too, he had waitedanxiously for my coming; mayhap in the prayers he offered I was notforgotten. I thought of him kneeling there, in the silence of the night,alone, as he was, his gentle voice the only sound in the stillness ofthe hour, his pure heart throbbing with gratitude for his deliverance,and prayerful hopes for those who had been his persecutors. I thoughtover all this, and, in a torrent of emotions, I knelt down beforethe altar to pray. I know not what words I uttered, but his name mustsomehow have escaped my lips, for suddenly a door opened beside thealtar, and the Pere Michel, dressed in his full vestments, stood beforeme. His features, wan and wasted as they were, had regained their wontedexpression of calm dignity, and by his look I saw that he would notsuffer the sacred spot to be profaned by any outburst of feeling oneither side.
'Those dreadful shouts tell of another massacre,' said he solemnly, asthe wind bore towards us the deafening cries of the angry multi
tude.'Let us pray for the souls' rest of the departed.'
'Then will your prayers be offered for Robespierre, for Couthon, and St.Just,' said I boldly.
'And who are they who need more the saints' intercession--who have everbeen called to judgment with such crimes to expiate--who have ever sowidowed France, and so desecrated her altars? Happily, a few yet remainwhere piety may kneel to implore pardon for their iniquity. Let usrecite the Litany for the Dead,' said he solemnly, and at once began theimpressive service.
As I knelt beside the rails of the altar, and heard the prayers which,with deep devotion, he uttered, I could not help feeling the contrastbetween that touching evidence of Christian charity and the tumultuousjoy of the populace, whose frantic bursts of triumph were borne on theair.
'And now come with me, Maurice,' said he, as the Litany was concluded.'Here, in this little sacristy, we are safe from all molestation; nonewill think of us on such a day as this.'
And as he spoke he drew his arm around me, and led me into the littlechamber where once the precious vessels and the decorations of thechurch were kept.
'Here we are safe,' said he, as he drew me to his side on the oakenbench, which formed all the furniture of the room. 'To-morrow, Maurice,we must leave this, and seek an asylum in another land; but we are notfriendless, my child--the brothers of the "Sacred Heart" will receiveus. Their convent is in the wilds of the Ardennes, beyond the frontiersof France, and there, beloved by the faithful peasantry, they live insecurity and peace. We need not take the vows of their order, which isone of the strictest of all religious houses; but we may claim theirhospitality and protection, and neither will be denied us. Think what ablessed existence will that be, Maurice, my son, to dwell under the sameroof with these holy men, and to imbibe from them the peace of mindthat holiness alone bestows; to awake at the solemn notes of the pealingorgan, and to sink to rest with the glorious liturgies still chantingaround you; to feel an atmosphere of devotion on every side, and to seethe sacred relics whose miracles have attested the true faith in ageslong past. Does it not stir thy heart, my child, to know that suchblessed privileges may be thine?'
I hung my head in silence, for, in truth, I felt nothing of theenthusiasm with which he sought to inspire me. The pere quickly saw whatpassed in my mind, and endeavoured to depict the life of the monasteryas a delicious existence, embellished by all the graces of literature,and adorned by the pleasures of intellectual converse. Poetry, romance,scenery, all were pressed into the service of his persuasions; but howweak were such arguments to one like me, the boy whose only educationhad been what the streets of Paris afforded--whose notions of eloquencewere formed on the insane ravings of 'The Mountain,' and whose idea ofgreatness was centred in mere notoriety!
My dreamy look of inattention showed him again that he had failed; and Icould see, in the increased pallor of his face, the quivering motion ofhis lip, the agitation the defeat was costing him.
'Alas! alas!' cried he passionately, 'the work of ruin is perfect; themind of youth is corrupted, and the fountain of virtue denied at thevery source. O Maurice, I had never thought this possible of thee, thechild of my heart!'
A burst of grief here overcame him; for some minutes he could not speak.At last he arose from his seat, and wiping off the tears that coveredhis cheeks with his robe, spoke, but in a voice whose full round tonescontrasted strongly with his former weak accents.
'The life I have pictured seems to thee ignoble and unworthy, boy. Sodid it not appear to Chrysostom, to Origen, and to Augustine--to theblessed saints of our Church, the eldest-born of Christianity. Be it so.Thine, mayhap, is not the age, nor this the era, in which to hope forbetter things. Thy heart yearns for heroic actions--thy spirit is setupon high ambitions--be it so. I say, never was the time more fittingfor thee. The enemy is up; his armies are in the field; thousands andtens of thousands swell the ranks, already flushed with victory. Bea soldier, then. Ay, Maurice, buckle on the sword--the battlefield isbefore thee. Thou hast made choice to seek the enemy in the far-awaycountries of heathen darkness, or here in our own native France, wherehis camp is already spread. If danger be the lure that tempts thee--ifto confront peril be thy wish--there is enough of it. Be a soldier,then, and gird thee for the great battle that is at hand. Ay, boy, ifthou feelest within thee the proud darings that foreshadow success,speak the word, and thou shalt be a standard-bearer in the very van.'
I waited not for more; but springing up, I clasped my arms around hisneck, and cried, in ecstasy, 'Yes! Pere Michel, you have guessed aright,my heart's ambition is to be a soldier, and I want but your blessing tobe a brave one.'
'And thou shalt have it. A thousand blessings follow those who go forthto the good fight. But thou art yet young, Maurice--too young for this.Thou needest time, and much teaching, too. He who would brave the enemybefore us, must be skilful as well as courageous. Thou art as yet but achild.'
'The general said he liked boy-soldiers,' said I promptly; 'he told meso himself.'
'What general--who told thee?' cried the pere, in trembling eagerness.
'General Lacoste, the Chef d'Etat-major of the army of the Rhine; thesame who gave me a rendezvous for to-morrow at his quarters.'
It was not till I had repeated my explanation again and again, nor,indeed, until I had recounted all the circumstances of my last night'sadventure, that the poor pere could be brought to see his way through amystery that had almost become equally embarrassing to myself. When hedid, however, detect the clue, and when he had perceived the differenttracks on which our minds were travelling, his grief burst all bounds.He inveighed against the armies of the Republic as hordes of pillagersand bandits, the sworn enemies of the Church, the desecrators of heraltars. Their patriotism he called a mere pretence to shroud theirinfidelity. Their heroism was the bloodthirstiness of democraticcruelty. Seeing me still unmoved by all this passionate declamation,he adopted another tactic, and suddenly asked me if it were for such acause as this my father had been a soldier?
'No!' replied I firmly; 'for when my father was alive, the soil ofFrance had not been desecrated by the foot of the invader. The Austrian,the Prussian, the Englishman, had not yet dared to dictate the lawsunder which we were to live.'
He appeared thunderstruck at my reply, revealing, as it seemed to him,the extent of those teachings, whose corruptions he trembled at.
'I knew it, I knew it!' cried he bitterly, as he wrung his hands. 'Theseed of the iniquity is sown--the harvest-time will not be long incoming! And so, boy, thou hast spoken with one of these men--thesegenerals, as they call themselves, of that republican horde?'
'The officer who commands the artillery of the army of the Rhine maywrite himself general with little presumption,' said I, almost angrily.
'They who once led our armies to battle were the nobles of France--menwhose proud station was the pledge for their chivalrous devotion. Butwhy do I discuss the question with thee? He who deserts his faith maywell forget that his birth was noble. Go, boy, join those with whomyour heart is already linked. Tour lesson will be an easy one--you havenothing to unlearn. The songs of the Girondins are already more gratefulto your ear than our sacred canticles. Go, I say, since between ushenceforth there can be no companionship.'
'Will you not bless me, pere,' said I, approaching him in deep humility;'will you not let me carry with me thy benediction?'
'How shall I bless the arm that is lifted to wound the Holy Church?--howshall I pray for one whose place is in the ranks of the infidel? Hadstthou faith in my blessing, boy, thou hadst never implored it in such acause. Renounce thy treason--and not alone my blessing, but thou shalthave a 'Novena' to celebrate thy fidelity. Be of us, Maurice, and thyname shall be honoured where honour is immortality.'
The look of beaming affection with which he uttered this, more than thewords themselves, now shook my courage, and, in a conflict of doubt andindecision, I held down my head without speaking. What might have beenmy ultimate resolve, if left completely to myself, I know not; but atthat
very moment a detachment of soldiers marched past in the streetwithout. They were setting off to join the army of the Rhine, and weresinging in joyous chorus the celebrated song of the day, 'Le chant dudepart.' The tramp of their feet--the clank of their weapons--theirmellow voices--but, more than all, the associations that thronged to mymind, routed every other thought, and I darted from the spot, and neverstopped till I reached the street.
A great crowd followed the detachment, composed partly of friends of thesoldiers, partly of the idle loungers of the capital. Mixing with these,I moved onward, and speedily passed the outer boulevard and gained theopen country.
Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune Page 5