Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

  Produced by David Widger

  MAURICE TIERNAY SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

  By Charles James Lever

  The Novels Of Charles Lever

  Edited By His Daughter

  Illustrations by A. D. M'Cormick

  London

  Downey And Co., Limited

  12 York St. Covent Garden

  1898

  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

  'Maurice Tiernay was first published as a serial in 'The DublinUniversity Magazine,' commencing in the issue for April 1850, and endingin the issue for December 1851. It was first published in book form(as a volume of The Parlour Library) with the following title-page(undated):

  Maurice Tiernay | The | Soldier of Fortune | By the Author of | 'SirJasper Carew' | etc. etc. I London, | Thomas Hodgson, | 13 PaternosterBow.

  The earliest edition which has Lever's name on the title-page is onepublished in Leipzig in 1861. This edition has the following title-page:

  Maurice Tiernay | the | Soldier of Fortune, | by | Charles Lever, IAuthor of 'Charles O'Malley,' etc. I Copyright Edition. | In two VOLUMES| VOL. I. | LEIPZIG | BERNHARD TAUCH-NITZ I 1861.

  NOTICE

  The strangeness of some of the incidents, and the rapidity with whichevents so remarkable succeeded each other, almost deterred the writerfrom ever committing them to the press; nor was it till after muchconsultation, and some persuasive influence on the part of friends,that he at length yielded and decided upon so doing. Whether in thatdetermination his choice was a wise one, must be left to the judgment ofthe reader; for himself, he has but to say that to ponder over someof these early scenes, and turn over, in thought, some of his youthfulpassages, has solaced many a weary hour of an age when men make few newfriendships, and have almost as few opportunities to cultivate old ones.

  That the chief events related in these pages--such, for instance, asevery detail of the French invasion, the capture of Wolfe Tone, andthe attack on Monte di Faccio--are described with rigid exactness, thewriter is most sincere in the expression of his conviction. For thetruth of incident purely personal, it is needless to press any claim,seeing that the hero owns no higher name than that of--A Soldier ofFortune.

  MAURICE TIERNAY

  THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

  CHAPTER I. 'THE DAYS OF THE GUILLOTINE'

  Neither the tastes nor the temper of the age we live in are such asto induce any man to boast of his family nobility. We see too manypreparations around us for laying down new foundations, to think ita suitable occasion for alluding to the ancient edifice. I will,therefore, confine myself to saying, that I am not to be regarded as amere pretender because my name is not chronicled by Burke or Debrett. Mygreat-grandfather, after whom I am called, served on the personal staffof King James at the Battle of the Boyne, and was one of the few whoaccompanied the monarch on his flight from the field, for which act ofdevotion he was created a peer of Ireland, by the style and title ofTimmahoo--Lord Tiernay, of Timmahoo the family called it--and a veryrich-sounding and pleasant designation has it always seemed to me.

  The events of the time, the scanty intervals of leisure enjoyed bythe king, and other matters, prevented a due registry of my ancestors'claims; and, in fact, when more peaceable days succeeded, it wasjudged prudent to say nothing about a matter which might revive unhappyrecollections, and open old scores, seeing that there was now anotherking on the throne 'who knew not Joseph'; and so, for this reason andmany others, my greatgrandfather went back to his old appellation ofMaurice Tiernay, and was only a lord among his intimate friends andcronies of the neighbourhood.

  That I am simply recording a matter of fact, the patent of my ancestors'nobility, now in my possession, will sufficiently attest: nor is itsexistence the less conclusive, that it is inscribed on the back of hiscommission as a captain in the Shanabogue Fencibles--the well-known'Clear-the-way-boy s'--a proud title, it is said, to which they imparteda new reading at the memorable battle aforementioned.

  The document bears the address of a small public-house called the'Nest,' on the Kells road, and contains in one corner a somewhat lengthyscore for potables, suggesting the notion that his Majesty sympathisedwith vulgar infirmities, and found, as the old song says, 'that griefand sorrow are dry.'

  The prudence which for some years sealed my greatgrandfather's lips,lapsed, after a time, into a careless and even boastful spirit, in whichhe would allude to his rank in the peerage, the place he ought tobe holding, and so on: till at last, some of the Government people,doubtless taking a liking to the snug house and demesne of Timmahoo,denounced him as a rebel, on which he was arrested and thrown into gaol,where he lingered for many years, and only came out at last to find hisestate confiscated, and himself a beggar.

  There was a small gathering of Jacobites in one of the towns ofFlanders, and thither he repaired; but how he lived, or how he died,I never learned. I only know that his son wandered away to the east ofEurope, and took service in what was called Trenck's Pandours--as jollya set of robbers as ever stalked the map of Europe, from one side tothe other. This was my grandfather, whose name is mentioned in variouschronicles of that estimable corps, and who was hanged at Pragueafterwards, for an attempt to carry off an archduchess of the empire,to whom, by the way, there is good reason to believe he was privatelymarried. This suspicion was strengthened by the fact that his infantchild, Joseph, was at once adopted by the imperial family, and placed asa pupil in the great military school of Vienna. From thence he obtaineda commission in the Maria Theresa Hussars, and subsequently, being senton a private mission to France, entered the service of Louis xvi.,where he married a lady of the Queen's household--a Mademoiselle de laLasterie--of high rank and some fortune; and with whom he lived happilytill the dreadful events of 17--, when she lost her life, besidemy father, then fighting as a Garde du Corps, on the staircase atVersailles. How he himself escaped on that day, and what were the nextfeatures in his history, I never knew; but when again we heard of him,he was married to the widow of a celebrated orator of the Mountain, andhe himself an intimate friend of St. Just and Marat, and all the mostviolent of the Republicans.

  My father's history about this period is involved in such obscurity, andhis second marriage followed so rapidly on the death of his first wife,that, strange as it may seem, I never knew which of the two was mymother--the lineal descendant of a house, noble before the Crusades,or--the humble _bourgeoise_ of the Quartier St. Denis. What peculiarline of political action my father followed I am unable to say, norwhether he was suspected with or without due cause; but suspected hecertainly was, and at a time when suspicion was all-sufficient forconviction. He was arrested, and thrown into the Temple, where Iremember I used to visit him every week; and whence I accompanied himone morning, as he was led forth with a string of others to the Placede Greve, to be guillotined. I believe he was accused of royalism; andI know that a white cockade was found among his effects, and in mockerywas fastened on his shoulder on the day of his execution. This emblem,deep dyed with blood, and still dripping, was taken up by a bystander,and pinned on my cap, with the savage observation, 'Voila, it is theproper colour; see that you profit by the way it became so.' As, witha bursting heart, and a head wild with terror, I turned to find my wayhomeward, I felt my hand grasped by another--I looked up, and saw an oldman, whose threadbare black clothes and emaciated appearance bespoke thepriest in the times of the Convention.

  'You have no home now, my poor boy,' said he to me; 'come and sharemine.'

  I did not ask him why. I seemed to have suddenly become reckless as toeverything present or future. The terrible scene I had witnessed haddried up all the springs of my youthful heart; and, infant as I was, Iwas already a sceptic as to everything
good or generous in human nature.I followed him, therefore, without a word, and we walked on, leaving thethoroughfares and seeking the less frequented streets, till we arrivedin what seemed a suburban part of Paris--at least the houses weresurrounded with trees and shrubs; and at a distance I could see thehill of Montmartre and its windmills--objects well known to me by many aSunday visit.

  Even after my own home, the poverty of the Pere Michel's householdwas most remarkable: he had but one small room, of which a miserablesettle-bed, two chairs, and a table constituted all the furniture; therewas no fireplace, a little pan for charcoal supplying the only meansfor warmth or cookery; a crucifix and a few coloured prints of saintsdecorated the whitewashed walls; and, with a string of wooden beads,a cloth skull-cap, and a bracket with two or three books, made up thewhole inventory of his possessions; and yet, as he closed the doorbehind him, and drew me towards him to kiss my cheek, the tearsglistened in his eyes with gratitude as he said--

  'Now, my dear Maurice, you are at home.'

  'How do you know that I am called Maurice?' said I, in astonishment.

  'Because I was an old friend of your poor father, my child; we came fromthe same country--we held the same faith, had the same hopes, and mayone day yet, perhaps, have the same fate.'

  He told me that the closest friendship had bound them together for yearspast, and in proof of it showed me a variety of papers which my fatherhad intrusted to his keeping, well aware, as it would seem, of theinsecurity of his own life.

  'He charged me to take you home with me, Maurice, should the day comewhen this might come to pass. You will now live with me, and I will beyour father, so far, at least, as humble means will suffer me.'

  I was too young to know how deep my debt of gratitude ought to be. I hadnot tasted the sorrows of utter desertion; nor did I know from what ahurricane of blood and anarchy Fortune had rescued me; still I acceptedthe pere's benevolent offer with a thankful heart, and turned to him atonce as to all that was left to me in the world.

  All this time, it may be wondered how I neither spoke nor thought ofmy mother, if she were indeed such; but for several weeks before myfather's death I had never seen her, nor did he ever once allude to her.The reserve thus imposed upon me remained still, and I felt as thoughit would have been like a treachery to his memory were I now to speak ofher whom, in his lifetime, I had not dared to mention.

  The pere lost no time in diverting my mind from the dreadful events Ihad so lately witnessed. The next morning, soon after daybreak, I wassummoned to attend him to the little church of St. Blois, where hesaid mass. It was a very humble little edifice, which once had beenthe private chapel of a chateau, and stood in a weed-grown, neglectedgarden, where broken statues and smashed fountains bore evidence ofthe visits of the destroyer. A rude effigy of St. Blois, upon whom someprofane hand had stuck a Phrygian cap of liberty, and which none werebold enough to displace, stood over the doorway; except this, not avestige of ornament or decoration existed. The altar, covered witha white cloth, displayed none of the accustomed emblems; and a rudecrucifix of oak was the only symbol of the faith remaining. Small as wasthe building, it was even too spacious for the few who came to worship.The terror which prevailed on every side--the dread that devotion toreligion should be construed into an adherence to the monarchy, thatsubmission to God should be interpreted as an act of rebellion againstthe sovereignty of human will--had gradually thinned the numbers, tillat last the few who came were only those whose afflictions had steeledthem against any reverses, and who were ready martyrs to whatever mightbetide them. These were almost exclusively women--the mothers and wivesof those who had sealed their faith with their blood in the terriblePlace de Greve. Among them was one whose dress and appearance, althoughnot different from the rest, always created a movement of respect as shepassed in or out of the chapel. She was a very old lady, with hair whiteas snow, and who led by the hand a little girl of about my own age; herlarge dark eyes and brilliant complexion giving her a look of unearthlybeauty in that assemblage of furrowed cheeks, and eyes long dimmed byweeping. It was not alone that her features were beautifully regular, orthat their lines were fashioned in the very perfection of symmetry, butthere was a certain character in the expression of the face so differentfrom all around it, as to be almost electrical in effect. Untouched bythe terrible calamities that weighed on every heart, she seemed, inthe glad buoyancy of her youth, to be at once above the very reach ofsorrow, like one who bore a charmed fate, and whom Fortune had exemptedfrom all the trials of this life. So at least did I read those features,as they beamed upon me in such a contrast to the almost stern characterof the sad and sorrow-struck faces of the rest.

  It was a part of my duty to place a footstool each morning for the'Marquise,' as she was distinctively called, and on these occasionsit was that I used to gaze upon that little girl's face with a kind ofadmiring wonder that lingered in my heart for hours after. The boldlook with which she met mine, if it at first half abashed, at lengthencouraged me; and as I stole noiselessly away, I used to feel as thoughI carried with me some portion of that high hope which bounded withinher own heart. Strange magnetism! it seemed as though her spiritwhispered to me not to be downhearted or depressed--that the sorrows oflife came and went as shadows pass over the earth--that the seasonof mourning was fast passing, and that for us the world would wear abrighter and more glorious aspect.

  Such were the thoughts her dark eyes revealed to me, and such the hopesI caught up from her proud features.

  It is easy to colour a life of monotony; any hue may soon tinge theouter surface, and thus mine speedily assumed a hopeful cast; not theless decided, that the distance was lost in vague uncertainty. Thenature of my studies--and the pere kept me rigidly to the desk--offeredlittle to the discursiveness of fancy. The rudiments of Greek andLatin, the lives of saints and martyrs, the litanies of the Church, theinvocations peculiar to certain holy-days, chiefly filled up my time,when not sharing those menial offices which our poverty exacted from ourown hands.

  Our life was of the very simplest; except a cup of coffee each morningat daybreak, we took but one meal; our drink was always water. By whatmeans even the humble fare we enjoyed was procured I never knew, for Inever saw money in the pere's possession, nor did he ever appear to buyanything.

  For about two hours in the week I used to enjoy entire liberty, as thepere was accustomed every Saturday to visit certain persons of his flockwho were too infirm to go abroad. On these occasions he would leave mewith some thoughtful injunction about reflection or pious meditation,perhaps suggesting, for my amusement, the life of St. Vincent de Paul,or some other of those adventurous spirits whose missions among theIndians are so replete with heroic struggles; but still with freepermission for me to walk out at large and enjoy myself as I liked best.We lived so near the outer boulevard that I could already see the opencountry from our windows; but fair and enticing as seemed the sunnyslopes of Montmartre--bright as glanced the young leaves of spring inthe gardens at its foot--I ever turned my steps into the crowded city,and sought the thoroughfares where the great human tide rolled fullest.

  There were certain spots which held a kind of supernatural influenceover me--one of these was the Temple, another was the Place de Greve.The window at which my father used to sit, from which, as a kind ofsignal, I have so often seen his red kerchief floating, I never couldpass now, without stopping to gaze at--now, thinking of him who had beenits inmate; now, wondering who might be its present occupant. It needednot the onward current of population that each Saturday bore along, tocarry me to the Place de Greve. It was the great day of the guillotine,and as many as two hundred were often led out to execution. Although thespectacle had now lost every charm of excitement to the population, fromits frequency, it had become a kind of necessity to their existence,and the sight of blood alone seemed to slake that feverish thirst forvengeance which no sufferings appeared capable of satiating. It wasrare, however, when some great and distinguished criminal did not absorball the interest
of the scene. It was at that period when the fiercetyrants of the Convention had turned upon each other, and sought, bydenouncing those who had been their bosom friends, to seal their newallegiance to the people. There was something demoniacal in theexultation with which the mob witnessed the fate of those whom, but afew weeks back, they had acknowledged as their guides and teachers. Theuncertainty of human greatness appeared the most glorious recompense tothose whose station debarred them from all the enjoyments of power, andthey stood by the death-agonies of their former friends with a fiendishjoy that all the sufferings of their enemies had never yielded.

  To me the spectacle had all the fascination that scenes of horrorexercise over the mind of youth. I knew nothing of the terribleconflict, nothing of the fierce passions enlisted in the struggle,nothing of the sacred names so basely polluted, nothing of thatremorseless vengeance with which the low born and degraded were stillhounded on to slaughter. It was a solemn and a fearful sight, but itwas no more; and I gazed upon every detail of the scene with an interestthat never wandered from the spot whereon it was enacted. If theparade of soldiers, of horse, foot, and artillery, gave these scenesa character of public justice, the horrible mobs, who chanted ribaldsongs, and danced around the guillotine, suggested the notion of popularvengeance; so that I was lost in all my attempts to reconcile thereasons of these executions with the circumstances that accompaniedthem.

  Not daring to inform the Pere Michel of where I had been, I could notask him for any explanation; and thus was I left to pick up from thescattered phrases of the crowd what was the guilt alleged against thecriminals. In many cases the simple word 'Chouan,' of which I knew notthe import, was all I heard; in others, jeering allusions to former rankand station would be uttered; while against some the taunt would implythat they had shed tears over others who fell as enemies of the people,and that such sympathy was a costly pleasure to be paid for but with alife's-blood. Such entire possession of me had these awful sights taken,that I lived in a continual dream of them. The sound of every cart-wheelrecalled the dull rumble of the hurdle--every distant sound seemed likethe far-off hum of the coming multitude--every sudden noise suggestedthe clanking drop of the guillotine! My sleep had no other images, andI wandered about my little round of duties pondering over this terribletheme.

  Had I been less occupied with my own thoughts, I must have seen thatthe Pere Michel was suffering under some great calamity. The poorpriest became wasted to a shadow; for entire days long he would tasteof nothing; sometimes he would be absent from early morning to late atnight, and when he did return, instead of betaking himself to rest,he would drop down before the crucifix in an agony of prayer, and thusspend more than half the night. Often and often have I, when feigningsleep, followed him as he recited the litanies of the breviary, addingmy own muttered prayers to his, and beseeching for a mercy whose objectI knew not.

  For some time his little chapel had been closed by the authorities; aheavy padlock and two massive seals being placed upon the door, and anotice, in a vulgar handwriting, appended, to the effect that it was bythe order of the Commissary of the Department. Could this be the sourceof the pere's sorrow? or did not his affliction seem too great for sucha cause? were questions I asked myself again and again.

  In this state were matters, when one morning--it was a Saturday--thepriest enjoined me to spend the day in prayer, reciting particularly theliturgies for the dead, and all those sacred offices for those who havejust departed this life.

  'Pray unceasingly, my dear child--pray with your whole heart, asthough it were for one you loved best in the world. I shall not return,perhaps, till late to-night; but I will kiss you then, and to-morrow weshall go into the woods together.'

  The tears fell from his cheek to mine as he said this, and his damp handtrembled as he pressed my fingers. My heart was full to bursting at hisemotion, and I resolved faithfully to do his bidding. To watch him as hewent, I opened the sash, and as I did so, the sound of a distant drum,the well-known muffled roll, floated on the air, and I remembered it wasthe day of the guillotine--that day in which my feverish spirit turned,as it were in relief, to the reality of blood. Remote as was the partof the city we lived in, I could still mark the hastening steps of thefoot-passengers, as they listened to the far-off summons, and see thetide was setting towards the fatal Place de Greve. It was a lowering,heavy morning, overcast with clouds, and on its loaded atmosphere soundsmoved slowly and indistinctly; yet I could trace through all the dinof the great city, the incessant roll of the drums, and the loud shoutsthat burst forth, from time to time, from some great multitude.

  Forgetting everything save my intense passion for scenes of terror, Ihastened down the stairs into the street, and at the top of my speedhurried to the place of execution. As I went along, the crowded streetsand thronged avenues told of some event of more than common interest;and in the words which fell from those around me, I could tracethat some deep Royalist plot had just been discovered, and that theconspirators would all on that day be executed. Whether it was that thefrequent sight of blood was beginning to pall upon the popular appetite,or that these wholesale massacres interested less than the sight ofindividual suffering, I know not; but certainly there was less ofexultation, less of triumphant scorn in the tone of the speakers. Theytalked of the coming event as of a common occurrence, which, from mererepetition, was gradually losing interest.

  'I thought we had done with these Chouans,' said a man in a blouse, witha paper cap on his head. '_Pardie!_ they must have been more numerousthan we ever suspected.'

  'That they were, citizen,' said a haggard-looking fellow, whose featuresshowed the signs of recent strife; 'they were the millions who gorgedand fed upon us for centuries--who sipped the red grape of Bordeaux,while you and I drank the water of the Seine.'

  'Well, their time is come now,' cried a third.

  'And when will ours come?' asked a fresh-looking, dark-eyed girl, whosedress bespoke her trade as a flower-girl, 'or do you call this our time,my masters, when Paris has no more pleasant sight than blood, nor anymusic save the "Ca ira" that drowns the cries of the guillotine? Is thisour time, when we have lost those who gave us bread, and got in theirplace only those who would feed us with carnage?'

  'Down with her! down with the Chouane! _a bas la Royaliste!_' cried thepale-faced fellow; and he struck the girl with his fist upon her face,and left it covered with blood.

  'To the Lantern with her--to the Seine!' shouted several voices; andnow, rudely seizing her by the shoulders, the mob seemed bent uponsudden vengeance; while the poor girl, letting fall her basket, beggedwith clasped hands for mercy.

  'See here, see here, comrades,' cried a fellow, stooping down among theflowers, 'she is a Royalist: here are lilies hid beneath the rest.'

  What sad consequences this discovery might have led to, there is noknowing; when, suddenly, a violent rush of the crowd turned everythought into a different direction. It was caused by a movement of the_Gendarmerie a cheval_, who were clearing the way for the approachingprocession. I had just time to place the poor girl's basket in herhands, as the onward impulse of the dense mob carried me forward. I sawher no more. A flower--I know not how it came there--was in mybosom, and seeing that it was a lily, I placed it within my cap forconcealment.

  The hoarse clangour of the bassoons--the only instruments which playedduring the march--now told that the procession was approaching; and thenI could see, above the heads of the multitude, the leopard-skin helmetsof the dragoons, who led the way. Save this I could see nothing, asI was borne along in the vast torrent towards the place of execution.Slowly as we moved, our progress was far more rapid than that of theprocession, which was often obliged to halt from the density of the mobin front. We arrived, therefore, at the Place a considerable time beforeit; and now I found myself beside the massive wooden railing placed tokeep off the crowd from the space around the guillotine.

  It was the first time I had ever stood so close to the fatal spot, andmy eyes devoured every detail with the
most searching intensity. Thecolossal guillotine itself, painted red, and with its massive axesuspended aloft--the terrible basket, half filled with sawdust,beneath--the coarse table, on which a rude jar and a cup wereplaced--and, more disgusting than all, the lounging group, who, withtheir newspapers in hand, seemed from time to time to watch if theprocession were approaching. They sat beneath a misshapen statue ofwood, painted red like the guillotine. This was the goddess of Liberty.I climbed one of the pillars of the paling, and could now see the greatcart, which, like a boat upon wheels, came slowly along, dragged by sixhorses. It was crowded with people, so closely packed that they couldnot move their bodies, and only waved their hands, which they didincessantly. They seemed, too, as if they were singing; but the deepgrowl of the bassoons, and the fierce howlings of the mob, drowned allother sounds. As the cart came nearer, I could distinguish the faces,amid which were those of age and youth, men and women, bold-visaged boysand fair girls--some, whose air bespoke the very highest station, andbeside them, the hardy peasant, apparently more amazed than terrifiedat all he saw around him. On they came, the great cart surging heavily,like a bark in a stormy sea; and now it cleft the dense ocean thatfilled the Place, and I could descry the lineaments wherein thestiffened lines of death were already marked. Had any touch of pitystill lingered in that dense crowd, there might well have been some showof compassion for the sad convoy, whose faces grew ghastly with terroras they drew near the horrible engine.

  Down the furrowed cheek of age the heavy tears coursed freely, and sobsand broken prayers burst forth from hearts that until now had beat highand proudly.

  'There is the Due d'Angeac,' cried a fellow, pointing to a venerableold man, who was seated at the corner of the cart with an air of calmdignity; 'I know him well, for I was his perruquier.'

  'His hair must be content with sawdust this morning, instead of powder,'said another; and a rude laugh followed the ruffian jest.

  'See! mark that woman with the long dark hair--that is La Bretonville,the actress of the St. Martin.'

  'I have often seen her represent terror far more naturally,' crieda fashionably dressed man, as he stared at the victim through hisopera-glass.

  'Bah!' replied his friend, 'she despises her audience, _voila tout_.Look, Henri, if that little girl beside her be not Lucille, of thePantheon.'

  '_Parbleu!_ so it is. Why, they'll not leave a pirouette in the GrandOpera. _Pauvre petite_, what had you to do with politics?'

  'Her little feet ought to have saved her head any day.'

  'See how grim that old lady beside her looks; I'd swear she is moreshocked at the company she's thrown into than the fate that awaits her.I never saw a glance of prouder disdain than she has just bestowed onpoor Lucille.'

  'That is the old Marquise d'Estelles, the very essence of our oldnobility. They used to talk of their _mesalliance_ with the Bourbons asthe first misfortune of their house.' '_Pardi!_ they have lived to learndeeper sorrows.' I had by this time discovered her they were speakingof, whom I recognised at once as the old marquise of the chapel of St.Blois. My hands nearly gave up their grasp as I gazed on those features,which so often I had seen fixed in prayer, and which now--a thoughtpaler, perhaps--wore the self-same calm expression. With whatintense agony I peered into the mass, to see if the little girl, hergranddaughter, were with her; and, oh! the deep relief I felt as I sawnothing but strange faces on every side. It was terrible to feel, asmy eyes ranged over that vast mass, where grief, and despair, andheart-sinking terror were depicted, that I should experience a spiritof joy and thankfulness; and yet I did so, and with my lips I uttered mygratitude that she was spared! But I had not time for many reflectionslike this; already the terrible business of the day had begun, and theprisoners were now descending from the cart, ranging themselves, astheir names were called, in a line below the scaffold. With afew exceptions, they took their places in all the calm of seemingindifference. Death had long familiarised itself to their minds in athousand shapes. Day by day they had seen the vacant places leftby those led out to die, and if their sorrows had not rendered themcareless of life, the world itself had grown distasteful to them. Insome cases a spirit of proud scorn was manifested to the very last; and,strange inconsistency of human nature! the very men whose licentiousnessand frivolity first evoked the terrible storm of popular fury, were thefirst to display the most chivalrous courage in the terrible face of theguillotine. Beautiful women, too, in all the pride of their loveliness,met the inhuman stare of that mob undismayed. Nor were these traitswithout their fruits. This noble spirit--this triumphant victory of thewell born and the great--was a continual insult to the populace, who sawthemselves defrauded of half their promised vengeance, and they learnedthat they might kill, but they could never humiliate them. In vain theydipped their hands in the red life-blood, and, holding up their drippingfingers, asked--'How did it differ from that of the people?' Theirhearts gave the lie to the taunt; for they witnessed instances ofheroism, from grey hairs and tender womanhood, that would have shamedthe proudest deeds of their new-born chivalry!

  'Charles Gregoire Courcelles!' shouted out a deep voice from thescaffold.

  'That is my name,' said a venerable-looking old gentleman, as he arosefrom his seat, adding, with a placid smile, 'but for half a century myfriends have called me the Duc de Riancourt.'

  'We have no dukes nor marquises; we know of no titles in France,'replied the functionary. 'All men are equal before the law.'

  'If it were so, my friend, you and I might change places; for you weremy steward, and plundered my chateau.'

  'Down with the Royalist--away with the aristocrat!' shouted a number ofvoices from the crowd.

  'Be a little patient, good people,' said the old man, as he ascended thesteps with some difficulty; 'I was wounded in Canada, and have never yetrecovered. I shall probably be better a few minutes hence.'

  There was something of half simplicity in the careless way the wordswere uttered that hushed the multitude, and already some expressionsof sympathy were heard; but as quickly the ribald insults of the hiredruffians of the Convention drowned these sounds, and 'Down with theRoyalist' resounded on every side, while two officials assisted him toremove his stock and bare his throat. The commissary, advancing to theedge of the platform, and, as it were, addressing the people, read ina hurried, slurring kind of voice, something that purported to be theground of the condemnation. But of this not a word could be heard. Nonecared to hear the ten-thousand-time told tale of suspected Royalism,nor would listen to the high-sounding declamation that proclaimed thevirtuous zeal of the Government--their untiring energy--their gloriouspersistence in the cause of the people. The last words were as usualresponded to with an echoing shout, and the cry of '_Vive la Republique!_rose from the great multitude.

  '_Vive le Roi!_ cried the old man, with a voice heard high above theclamour; but the words were scarce out when the lips that uttered themwere closed in death; so sudden was the act, that a cry burst forth fromthe mob, but whether in reprobation or in ecstasy I know not.

  I will not follow the sad catalogue, wherein nobles, and peasants,priests, soldiers, actors, men of obscure fortune, and women of loftystation, succeeded each other, occupying for a brief minute every eye,and passing away for ever. Many ascended the platform without a word;some waved a farewell towards a distant quarter, where they suspected afriend to be; others spent their last moments in prayer, and died inthe very act of supplication. All bore themselves with a noble and proudcourage; and now some five or six alone remained of whose fate noneseemed to guess the issue, since they had been taken from the Temple bysome mistake, and were not included in the list of the commissary. Therethey sat, at the foot of the scaffold, speechless and stupefied--theylooked as though it were matter of indifference to which side theirsteps should turn--to the gaol or the guillotine. Among these was themarquise, who alone preserved her proud self-possession, and sat in allher accustomed dignity; while close beside her an angry controversy wasmaintained as to their future destiny-
-the commissary firmly refusingto receive them for execution, and the delegate of the Temple, as he wasstyled, as flatly asserting that he would not reconduct them to prison.The populace soon grew interested in the dispute, and the most violentaltercations arose among the partisans of each side of the question.

  Meanwhile the commissary and his assistants prepared to depart. Alreadythe massive drapery of red cloth was drawn over the guillotine,and every preparation made for withdrawing, when the mob, doubtlessdissatisfied that they should be defrauded of any portion of theentertainment, began to climb over the wooden barricades, and, withfurious cries and shouts, threaten vengeance upon any who would screenthe enemies of the people.

  The troops resisted the movement, but rather with the air of menentreating calmness than with the spirit of soldiery. It was plain tosee on which side the true force lay.

  'If you will not do it, the people will do it for you,' whispered thedelegate to the commissary; 'and who is to say where they will stop whentheir hands once learn the trick!'

  The commissary grew lividly pale, and made no reply.

  'See there!' rejoined the other--'they are carrying a fellow on theirshoulders yonder--they mean him to be the executioner.'

  'But I dare not--I cannot--without my orders.'

  'Are not the people sovereign?--whose will have we sworn to obey buttheirs?'

  'My own head would be the penalty if I yielded.'

  'It will be, if you resist--even now it is too late.'

  And as he spoke he sprang from the scaffold, and disappeared in thedense crowd that already thronged the space within the rails.

  By this time the populace were not only masters of the area around,but had also gained the scaffold itself, from which many of them seemedendeavouring to harangue the mob--others contenting themselves withimitating the gestures of the commissary and his functionaries. It wasa scene of the wildest uproar and confusion--frantic cries and screams,ribald songs and fiendish yellings on every side. The guillotine wasagain uncovered, and the great crimson drapery, torn into fragments,was waved about like flags, or twisted into uncouth head-dresses. Thecommissary, failing in every attempt to restore order peaceably, andeither not possessing a sufficient force, or distrusting the temper ofthe soldiers, descended from the scaffold, and gave the order to march.This act of submission was hailed by the mob with the most furious yellof triumph. Up to that very moment they had never credited the barepossibility of a victory; and now they saw themselves suddenly mastersof the field--the troops, in all the array of horse and foot, retiringin discomfiture. The exultation knew no bounds; and, doubtless, hadthere been amongst them those with skill and daring to profit by theenthusiasm, the torrent had rushed a longer and more terrific coursethan through the blood-steeped clay of the Place de Greve.

  'Here is the man we want,' shouted a deep voice. 'St. Just told ust' other day that the occasion never failed to produce one; and see,here is "Jean Gougon"; and though he's but two feet high, his fingerscan reach the pin of the guillotine.'

  And he held aloft on his shoulders a misshapen dwarf, who was well knownon the Pont Neuf, where he gained his living by singing infamous songs,and performing mockeries of the service of the mass. A cheer of welcomeacknowledged this speech, to which the dwarf responded by a mockbenediction, which he bestowed with all the ceremonious observance of anarchbishop. Shouts of the wildest laughter followed this ribaldry, andin a kind of triumph they carried him up the steps, and deposited him onthe scaffold.

  Ascending one of the chairs, the little wretch proceeded to address themob, which he did with all the ease and composure of a practised publicspeaker. Not a murmur was heard in that tumultuous assemblage, ashe, with a most admirable imitation of Hebert, then the popular idol,assured them that France was, at that instant, the envy of surroundingnations; and that, bating certain little weaknesses on the score ofhumanity--certain traits of softness and over-mercy--her citizensrealised all that ever had been said of angels. From thence he passedon to a mimicry of Marat, of Danton, and of Robespierre--tearing off hiscravat, baring his breast, and performing all the oft-exhibited anticsof the latter, as he vociferated, in a wild scream, the well-knownperoration of a speech he had lately made--'If we look for a gloriousmorrow of freedom, the sun of our slavery must set in blood!'

  However amused by the dwarfs exhibition, a feeling of impatience beganto manifest itself among the mob, who felt that, by any longer delay,it was possible time would be given for fresh troops to arrive, and theglorious opportunity of popular sovereignty be lost in the very hour ofvictory.

  'To work--to work, Master Gougon!' shouted hundreds of rude voices; 'wecannot spend our day in listening to oratory.'

  'You forget, my dear friends,' said he blandly, 'that this is to me anew walk in life. I have much to learn, ere I can acquit myself worthilyto the Republic.'

  'We have no leisure for preparatory studies, Gougon,' cried a fellowbelow the scaffold.

  'Let me, then, just begin with monsieur,' said the dwarf, pointing tothe last speaker, and a shout of laughter closed the sentence.

  A brief and angry dispute now arose as to what was to be done; and it ismore than doubtful how the debate might have ended, when Gougon, with areadiness all his own, concluded the discussion by saying--

  'I have it, citizens, I have it! There is a lady here, who, howeverrespectable her family and connections, will leave few to mourn herloss. She is, in a manner, public property, and if not born on the soil,at least a naturalised Frenchwoman. We have done a great deal for her,and in her name, for some time back, and I am not aware of any singularbenefit she has rendered us. With your permission, then, I 'll beginwith her.*

  'Name, name--name her!' was cried by thousands.

  '_La voila_,' said he archly, as he pointed with his thumb to the woodeneffigy of Liberty above his head.

  The absurdity of the suggestion was more than enough for its success. Adozen hands were speedily at work, and down came the goddess of Liberty!The other details of an execution were hurried over with all the speedof practised address, and the figure was placed beneath the drop. Downfell the axe, and Gougon, lifting up the wooden head, paraded it aboutthe scaffold, crying--

  'Behold! an enemy of France. Long live the Republic, one andindivisible!'

  Loud and wild were the shouts of laughter from this brutal mockery; andfor a time it almost seemed as if the ribaldry had turned the mob fromthe sterner passions of their vengeance. This hope, if one there evercherished it, was short-lived, and again the cry arose for blood. Itwas too plain that no momentary diversion, no passing distraction,could withdraw them from that lust for cruelty that had now grown into apassion.

  And now a bustle and movement of those around the stairs showed thatsomething was in preparation; and in the next moment the old marquisewas led forward between two men.

  'Where is the order for this woman's execution?' asked the dwarf,mimicking the style and air of the commissary.

  'We give it--it is from us!' shouted the mob, with one savage roar.

  Gougon removed his cap, and bowed in token of obedience.

  'Let us proceed in order, citizens,' said he gravely; 'I see no priesthere.'

  'Shrive her yourself, Gougon; few know the mummeries better!' cried avoice.

  'Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of theoffices,' said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice.

  'Yes, yes, I do,' cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockeryin which the words were spoken; 'I know them all by heart, and canrepeat them from "lux beatissima" down to "hora mortis"'; and as if togain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite, in thesing-song tone of the seminary--

  'Salve, mater salvatoris, Fons salutis, vas honoris; Scala coli, porta et via, Salve semper, O Maria!'

  It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproariouslaughter which rung around had not stopped me.

  'There's a brave youth!' cried Gougon, pointing towards
me, with mockadmiration. 'If it ever come to pass--as what may not in these strangetimes?--that we turn to priestcraft again, thou shalt be the firstarchbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?'

  'The Pere Michel,' replied I, in no way conscious of the ridiculebestowed upon me; 'the Pere Michel of St. Blois.'

  The old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes restedsteadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her hand, she motioned to meto come over to her.

  'Yes; let him come,' said Gougon, as if answering the half-reluctantglances of the crowd. And now I was assisted to descend, and passedalong over the heads of the people, till I was placed upon the scaffold.Never can I forget the terror of that moment, as I stood within a fewfeet of the terrible guillotine, and saw beside me the horrid basketsplashed with recent blood.

  'Look not at these things, child,' said the old lady, as she took myhand and drew me towards her, 'but listen to me, and mark my wordswell.'

  'I will, I will,' cried I, as the hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

  'Tell the pere--you will see him to-night--tell him that I have changedmy mind, and resolved upon another course, and that he is not to leaveParis. Let them remain. The torrent runs too rapidly to last. Thiscannot endure much longer. We shall be among the last victims. You hearme, child?'

  'I do, I do,' cried I, sobbing. 'Why is not the Pere Michel with younow?'

  'Because he is suing for my pardon--asking for mercy where its very nameis a derision. Kneel down beside me, and repeat the "Angelus."'

  I took off my cap, and knelt down at her feet, reciting, in a voicebroken by emotion, the words of the prayer. She repeated each syllableafter me, in a tone full and unshaken, and then stooping, she took upthe lily which lay in my cap. She pressed it to her lips two or threetimes passionately. 'Give it to _her_; tell her I kissed it at my lastmoment. Tell her----'

  'This "shrift" is beyond endurance. Away, holy father!' cried Gougon, ashe pushed me rudely back, and seized the marquise by the wrist. A faintcry escaped her. I heard no more; for, jostled and pushed about by thecrowd, I was driven to the very rails of the scaffold. Stepping beneaththese, I mingled with the mob beneath; and burning with eagerness toescape a scene, to have witnessed which would almost have made myheart break, I forced my way into the dense mass, and, by squeezing andcreeping, succeeded at last in penetrating to the verge of the Place. Aterrible shout, and a rocking motion of the mob, like the heavy surgingof the sea, told me that all was over; but I never looked back to thefatal spot, but, having gained the open streets, ran at the top of myspeed towards home.