CHAP. XXVI. BOOK THE FOURTH. LOVE IN ITS LATER SPRING. Car on revient toujours A ses premiers amours! CHANSONNETTE. In a secluded apartment of her old mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain sat Madame de Meranie, anxious and in expectation. Her hazel eyes, lustrous ever, but still more radiant now, were cast vacantly towards the logs that mouldered to whiteness on the hearth; but at every unusual sound, or passing carriage-wheel, those beautiful orbs wandered restlessly towards the door, opposite which she sat. Her mind was filled with tumultuous hopes of the present; mingled, however, largely with strange recollections of the past. Her thoughts, too, were of Jerningham Hall, and its former dwellers; for Lord Haverdale, whom she then expected hourly, had announced to her the name of his companion, and the sound was fraught with everything that was most pleasing to her heart. The old Hall had been her happy retreat from the first Revolution; it was there she had met Lord Haverdale, the lover of her later, yet brighter years. In her the ages of life's span had been reversed. Girlhood, linked to the imbecility of her miserable husband, had been her old age; womanhood, spent in the light of Lord Haverdale's love, now seemed her youth; and she was warmed by its effulgence like a landscape by the sun at mid-day. So much that she had never dreamed of had been called into existence by this affection; so many halcyon feelings that made life glorious instead of a | vague monotony; such sense in her once mourning spirit of satisfied content in lieu of its former aching void-that her devotion was perfect and undivided to the being who had given these sensations birth. And, strange as it may seem, Lord Haverdale was equally sincere-perhaps it was the only occasion of his life when he ever had been really so. A fancy like his former one for Ayesha, beautiful as she was even when he deserted her, could only be brief. There was nothing in her wild, uncultivated spirit that could enthral him when the fatal demon Custom interposed its chilling finger, and Beauty palled upon his gaze. But the world of Madame de Meranie was the same world as his; her intellectual resources were a fund that never failed—a mine never exhausted; her very age was more agreeable to a man in whom the senses had long been satiated than a second girlhood would have been in her, if with magic wand she could have waived back twenty years of time! Link by link she had woven the chain around him; step by step her image had entered into his heart; and now by her alone was Lord Haverdale loved; to her alone were his accents never cold. Need we say that it was of him she thought as she sat with her head declining on her white hand, listening thoughtfully! Need we say how she sprung to her feet like a startled deer when the door opened suddenly and he entered unannounced! He flung aside his travelling cloak, and she flew to his embrace. The marble countenance of the haughty peer seemed flushed in an instant with her fondness, and even illumined with something of her beauty, as it bent among those unfaded chesnut curls to kiss her cheek. 66 Why this disguise and haste, chêri?" she said at last, after a long pause of happiness, in Y which hope and fear, and a thousand deep (motions, had struggled for utterance. "I heard of danger and defeat on the road," he replied, hurriedly; "the attempt at Lyons" 66 Has failed!" she said. And we are compromised?" "Au contraire!" she replied; "better plans are ripening; the government is at fault, and "Didier! where is he?" "At large!-at Grenoble; sowing seed in a richer land for a surer harvest. The Duke of Orleans was here this very evening!" "Then all is well ?" said Lord Haverdale. "Very well," she answered; "but you are weary, Milord-famished. While you partake of refreshment I will tell you all." fiery, fond of adventure, but too little worldlywise to attempt to snatch away the laurels that might accrue from success. Packed up snugly in a postchaise, supplied with money, passports, and every facility, he was whirled away by four horses towards Grenoble; and the unaccustomed novelty and excitement touched a newer chord of delight in his senses at every turn. What a contrast with his plodding life in the lodging at Westminster ! What a pity Revel was not there to join him! What paragraphs for Greville's newspaper when the event had declared itself: "Anecdotes of the late Revolution, by a Spectator;" "Sketches of Scenes in the French Outbreak, by an Eye-witness;" "Tales of thrilling interest for the Court Echo!" And then he thought of the Ba roness, and how no chapters of the Novel had been prepared for the next number, and the plea to her readers of serious indisposition on the part of the author, who was flying along then and there in such spirits and health. It was all He took a few grapes and bread, and a long, capita Marie, too he had not forgotten her. deep draught of the rich Burgundy; and then, His first act upon arriving late in the evening at by the mellow fire-light, they sat, hand-in-hand his destination, was to dispatch a packet to her together, happily, as if they were children once with a small sum of money, and a hundred promore; as if he were any one but Lord Haver-mises of kisses and kindness upon his speedy dale, and she not thirty-eight! She touched a small silver alarum. A Swiss entered, covered the table with an ample supper of cold meats, fruit, and wine; and they were alone again. Well for thee, cold gamester, that woman's love depends not upon the deserts of him upon whom it is lavished! Well for thee, Lord Haverdale, that feminine affection is, like sterner Justice, blind! return. After hasty refreshment of the inward man, a hot bath, and the assumption of a bourgeois disguise, Jerningham sauntered through the city to the rendezvous he had been instructed to seek. It was not, however, within the walls, With the conversational tact peculiar to a but in the insignificant village of Buisserate, beFrenchwoman, she detailed to him the events yond Grenoble, that the "venue" had been laid that had lately occurred; the defeat of the out- for the final meeting of the confederates. Enbreak at Lyons; the escape of Didier; their tering the estaminet, for it was little better, he position for the present; their hopes for the gave the needful pass-word, and was led through future and when Edward Jerningham was the domino and billiard-players to an old dilaspoken of and introduced, his reception by pidated apartment, that was already crowded Madame de Meranie was so studiously kind with conspirators in a dress similar to his own. that Lord Haverdale's heart even was warmed His " pass" seemed to possess peculiar recominto a more generous consideration of his youth-mendations, for he was conducted up the room ful protegé, though he betrayed it not. But to a small knot of men, whose manner and beartime revived long years afterwards the sentiment ing, by some inexplicable influence, marked engendered in that very hour; so strangely them to be leaders in the cause. do apparent trifles affect our fate in this world! CHAP. XXVII. THE EVE OF THE STRUGGLE. "Allons! enfans de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive!" The part that our hero was to play in furtherance of the schemes of Lord Haverdale, was soon explained during the interview that ensued in the presence of Madame de Meranie. Though the wily peer wished to be represented in the struggle, he dared not appear there in person, his name was too well known, his fame too notorious as an intriguant. Young Jerningham was the very agent for his purpose-fearless, One of these, a tall, pale man, with silver hair, and placid mien, immediately welcomed him in the English style, by extending his hand. Jerningham felt at once that he was in the presence of the masterspirit; never before had he seen such tranquil superiority stamped upon a human countenance -a mental fire that age had failed to quell-an innate nobility, that the meanness of his garb only served to heighten. Before, however, any further communication than a hasty inquiry after Lord Haverdale could take place between them, a cry arose from various parts of the room to hear Paul Didier. The old man pressed Jerningham's hand hur riedly, mounted a temporary forum that had been erected for the occasion, and, order having been restored, he proceeded, during a breathless silence, to unfold his plans for the future. He commenced with a rapid review of the history of their country since the revolution of '89 In calm and convincing periods he touched upon every salient point, and showed every error into which the friends of liberty had fallen. Alternating with each interest to which he alluded, his voice rose to the trumpet's power, and then died away to the low, clear whisper of a babe. With that mighty magic, Eloquence, he bowed his hearers before him as with a celestial will; his words thrilled them to enthusiasm, plunged them into despair, fired them to revenge, as he chose to touch the string. He spoke of the long tyranny they had undergone, the oppression of each and of all; talent unrewarded, benefits forgot, honesty despised, infamy in high places, of misery among the low; and then with bitter contempt and biting sarcasm hurled his indignant anathemas at the degraded priesthood. The excitement of his hearers rose to delirium; they stamped, raved, ground their teeth with ire; while warmed from his former calmness, the orator's eyes flashed back the fire of theirs; his vehement gestures assisted his words, and winged them home to their hearts. The motives of the insurrection and the method of its accomplishment then became the subjects of his discourse, and he explained them lucidly and in detail. The part to be taken by each conspirator was defined with accuracy, and accepted with an oath. He concluded with an exciting harangue, calling upon his confederates to rally round the cause. He reminded them once more of their many wrongs: he painted in glowing colours the liberty for which they struggled, adding every illustration, classical and heroic, that could arouse their spirits, from the ancient glories of Marathon and Thermopyla to the more recent lustre of their last hero, Napoleon the Great. "Frenchmen!" he exclaimed at last, "let not the holy cause of the people perish, their sacred star wane in the firmament; let not liberty be disgraced! Let us save France from the feudalism that oppressed her amid olden ignorance and wrong. Arise for your country's independence; unfold the tricolor: it is heaven that will fight the battle, for the cause of the people is the cause of God!" Heated like the rest almost to intoxication by the eloquence to which he had listened, Jerningham wandered back to Grenoble; not, however, to slumber, but to wait in sleepless and feverish excitement the events of the coming day. CHAP. XXVIII. THE DEFEAT. Still Freedom, still, thy banner torn but flying, Streams like a thunder-cloud against the wind! BYRON. As Paul Didier, arriving at Grenoble after the meeting just described, passed the western gate of the agitated city, the sound of a familiar name fell upon his ear, and with the quick instinct of one playing a desperate game, he paused to listen. A man in the costume of the royal guard was conversing with a female, whose figure was almost concealed by the shadow of a projecting buttress. At first, the words that passed between them were half muttered and indistinct, but still the sound of one of the voices at least was not unknown to him, and he crouched nearer and nearer, until within a foot or two of the speakers. "Not here!" said the female interlocutor, in a tone of surprise. 66 Not yet, at all events," replied the guard. a po'chay came yesterday from Paris, but it wur a young feller instead o' the old lord." "Are you well assured there was no second traveller ?" inquired the female voice in some confusion. "That's sartain," he answered; "for the youngun jumped down the steps in such a plaguy 'urry that he very nigh knocked me through the winder o' the chay; and I see clearly there war'nt nothing else there when he wur gone 'xcep a flask o' brandy and a pipe." "Foiled again!" she exclaimed. 66 Yes, he aint a bird as is caught every day," was the reply. "I thought when I done the trick at Lyons, and peached on the conspiraytors, we should 'ave nabbed him; but he wur up to trap, and slipped the noose." Didier's brow grew furrowed and his cheek more pale at these latter words, that revealed to him who was the traitorous speaker. His hand played uneasily with a knife that was hidden under his dress, but with a violent effort he controlled his indignation, and stood motionless as the grave. "For this, then," continued the woman, "I have withheld the blow that it might fall with more deadly aim; for this, to be foiled at last. Oh, curses! while I played with the bird, it has slipped from the meshes. Curses! but no, he is here concealed; my intelligence is sure; I cannot doubt it; he is unseen in the calm, but he will be fluttering in the storm. Oh! if I thought he had escaped my vengeance, would I not change my ranks even now! What are kings to me, that I should love them-accursed kites ! nobles! and all their brood-I loathe themspit at them!" The woman stepped forward a pace or two; the dim light of the dawn fell upon her countenance, in every feature of which rioted passionate anger with a fury that threatened insanity. Suddenly a heavy tramp of soldiery was heard; the speakers and the listener shrank again from observation beneath the overhanging wall. Heavily accoutred, their bayonets glistening with a cold weird light in the rays of morning, they passed by, rank and file, the officers bringing up the rear. It was a portion of the garrison of Grenoble, dispatched to St. Vallier, Vienne, and Lyons, to line the route taken by the daughter of the King of Naples, who was about to give her hand at the altar to the ill-fated Duke de Berri. The departure of these troops was the signal for the insurrection. 66 Aye, aye, pass on to welcome the bride to the arms of her sleek lover!" exclaimed the woman when their footsteps had died away. "Does he think love can last? Does she believe in the truth of man? Fools. Hark!" A low gathering sound, like the ebb of a wave over a pebbled beach; louder like its swell as it rises again into a mountain of crested water; thundering soon thereafter like the fall of the mighty billow as in foam, and whitest anger, it wreaks its violence upon the shore, came upon their ears step by step the hum, the clamour, the roar of the arising multitude. The guard hurried to his post. The woman leaned, cold and impassive, beside the buttress. Paul Didier disappeared! Then came the peal of the city bells, the dull boom of the first cannon, the startled cries of the soldiery, the shouts of the revolutionists for freedom. Still stood the woman pale and motionless. hussars, who trampled them down amid the bloody mire, of reaching the gate that was their only escape from the fatal city. Rendered powerless by the pressure of the multitude, Paul Didier was borne away with the rest. He knew that all was over. Close to the portal a soldier dashed towards him to prevent his escape; it was the guard to whose conversation he had been an unseen listener. To any other his broken fortunes might have suffered him to yield. But the sight of the traitor inflamed once more his drooping spirit. He lifted his sword with both hands; its descent buried it deep in the skull of the villain, and bespattering her dress with scattered brains and blood, Shingle the murderer fell dead at the feet of Ayesha, while Paul Didier fled to the forest of St. Martin d'Heres. THE CHAP. XXIX. CONCLUSION. With the conclusion of the Insurrection, Edward Jerningham's part as a mere looker-on was at an end, and having satisfied himself of the decisive character of the defeat, he quitted Grenoble. There was no obstacle to his de The tumultuous uproar that soon followed, gave sufficient evidence that the struggle had become general. The discharges of musketry grew gradually measured and incessant. People hurriedly closed their shutters and barricaded their doors, and occasionally a female shriek cleft the prevailing noise with a shriller horror. Unmoved stood the female figure in an atti-parture. His position had been merely that of tude of watching. Before long war began to show its ghastly reality in the wounded and slain. A single soldier would hurry by, leading a blood-stained comrade from the action-a citizen hastening homeward with the burden on his shoulder of a gashed child or murdered brother. The tide of the battle, though it had become universal, swayed towards the gate, where stood the woman in attitude like a tiger crouching for its prey. She knew that the vanquished would retire by that path to gain the shelter of the forest. Nearer and nearer came the combatants; the ring of swords and clank of horsemen drew close, cries of the victorious, shrieks of the retiring ridden under foot. They entered the very street; a shower of bullets swept it from the soldiery; the insurrectionists were in retreat bearing to the city portal. The cause was lost. Bravely still the conspirators fought, for defeat was certain death, and their courage was that of despair. On, on, another charge for Liberty; another effort for Freedom's sake to turn the fortunes of the day. At the head of the retreating ranks was Paul Didier, pale with the fear that all was lost, but still contesting every foot of ground that was yielded, encouraging his comrades by the war-cry of their party to rally round their standard, and struggle on. Again the sharp crack of the musquetry, again the undaunted shout of the survivors. But lo! it grows feebler and fainter, as one after another sinks never to rise again. There is a momentary wavering among the revolutionists; they fall from their ranks-sink into confusion; their heart, their spirit is broken; huddled together in a beaten mass they think only of retreat, of defending themselves from the sabres of the mounted an English gentleman, travelling for amusement. He had not interfered in the struggle. His interview with Paul Didier at Buisserate had escaped notice, and he received in consequence every attention from the authorities that could facilitate his journey back to Paris. Upon arriving at the Capitol, he hastened to Madame de Meranie's hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain. It was her evening of reception, and the salons were full of company, and brilliantly lighted. While he changed his dress, a messenger notifying his arrival was despatched to Lord Haverdale, and when he entered the ele gant apartments, his graceful hostess whispered him aside that, upon the arrival of Milord, they would join him in an ante-room, which she indicated. The universal topic of conversation among the assembled guests was the Insurrection, intelligence of which had reached Paris by special courier an hour or two before Jerningham arrived. Animated discussions upon the event took place, as fresh visitors came flocking from theatres, balls, and late dinner parties. Politicians looked grave, Napoleonists excited, the votary of the Bourbon indignant and solemn: while, in the midst of the agitation, some fine lady declared that an hour and a-half was quite enough for any subject; voted it a bore from that moment, and proposed a cotillon to relieve the monotony. Madame de Meranie welcomed the proposal as a means of escape. With the volatility of their national disposition, the guests accepted the plaisanterie, laughed, and acquiesced. Music, with its voluptuous measures, drowned the memory of crushed Ambition, and the denouement of another of Life's tragedies was forgotten in a dance! |