Before I had time to collect myself, I was hurried on by De Beauvais into a room, when the moment I had entered the door was closed and locked behind me. By the light of a coarse and rudely formed chandelier that occupied the middle of a table, I saw a party of near a dozen persons who sat around it,—the head of the board being filled by one whose singular appearance attracted all my attention. He was a man of enormous breadth of chest and shoulders, with a lofty massive head, on either side of which a quantity of red hair fell in profusion; a beard of the same color descended far on his bosom, which, with his overhanging eyebrows, imparted a most savage and ferocious expression to features which of themselves were harsh and repulsive. Though he wore a blouse in peasant fashion, it was easy to see that he was not of the lower walk of society. Across his brawny chest a broad belt of black leather passed, to support a strong straight sword, the heavy hilt of which peeped above the arm of his chair. A pair of handsomely-mounted pistols lay before him on the table; and the carved handle of a poniard could be seen projecting slightly from the breast-pocket of his vest. Of the rest who were about him I had but time to perceive that they were peasants; but all were armed, and most of them wearing a knot of white ribbon at the breast of their blouses.

Every eye was turned towards me, as I stood at the foot of the table astonished and speechless—while De Beauvais, quitting my arm, hastened to the large man's side, and whispered some words in his ear. He rose slowly from his chair, and in a moment each face was turned to him. Speaking in a deep guttural tone, he addressed them for some minutes in a patois of which I was totally ignorant; every word he uttered seemed to stir their very hearts, if I were to judge from the short and heavy respiration, the deep-drawn breath, the flushed faces and staring eyes around me. More than once some allusion seemed made to me,—at least, they turned simultaneously to look at me; once, too, at something he said, each man carried his hand round to his sword-hilt, but dropped it again listlessly as he continued. The discourse over, the door was unlocked, and one by one they left the room, each man saluting the speaker with a reverence as he passed out. De Beauvais closed the door and barred it as the last man disappeared, and turning hastily round, called out,—

“What now?”

The large man bent his head down between his hands, and spoke not in reply; then suddenly springing up, he said,—

“Take my horse—he is fresh and ready for the road—and make for Quilleboeuf; the ford at Montgorge will be swollen, but he 'll take the stream for you. At the farmer's house that looks over the river you can stop.”

“I know it, I know it,” said De Beauvais. “But what of you, are you to remain behind?”

“I 'll go with him,” said he, pointing towards me. “As his companion, I can reach the Bois de Boulogne; in any case, as his prisoner. Once there, you may trust me for the rest.”

De Beauvais looked at me for a reply. I hesitated what to say, and at last said,—

“For your sake, Henri de Beauvais, and yours only, have I ventured on a step which may, in all likelihood, be my ruin. I neither know, nor wish to know, your plans; nor will I associate myself with any one, be he who he may, in your enterprise.”

“Jacques Tisserand, the tanner,” continued the large man, as if not heeding nor caring for my interruption, “will warn Armand de Polignac of what has happened; and Charles de la Riviere had better remain near Deauville for the English cutter,—she 'll lie off the coast to-morrow or next day. Away! lose not a moment.”

“And my dear friend here,” said De Beauvais, turning to me, “who has risked his very life to rescue me, shall I leave him thus?”

“Can you save him by remaining?” said the other, as he coolly examined the priming of his pistols. “We shall all escape, if you be but quick.”

A look from De Beauvais drew me towards him, when he threw his arms around my neck, and in a low, broken voice, muttered, “When I tell you that all I lived for exists to me no longer,—the love I sought refused me, my dearest ambition thwarted,—you will not think that a selfish desire for life prompts me now; but a solemn oath to obey the slightest command of that man,—sworn before my sovereign,—binds me, and I must not break it.”

“Away, away! I hear voices at the gate below,” cried the other.

“Adieu! adieu forever,” said De Beauvais, as he kissed my cheek, and sprang through a small doorway in the wainscot which closed after him as he went.

“Now for our movements,” said the large man, unhooking a cloak that hung against the wall. “You must tie my hands with this cord in such a way that, although seemingly secure, I can free myself at a moment; place me on a horse, a fast one too, beside you; and order your troopers to ride in front and rear of us. When we reach the Bois de Boulogne, leave the Avenue des Chasseurs and turn towards St. Cloud. Tonnerre de del, they're firing yonder!” An irregular discharge of small arms, followed by a wild cheer, rang out above the sound of the storm. “Again! did you hear that? there are the carbines of cavalry; I know their ring. Accursed dogs, that would not do my bidding!” cried he, stamping with passion on the ground, while, throwing off his blouse, he stuck his pistols in a belt around his waist, and prepared for mortal combat.

Meanwhile pistol-shots, mingled with savage shouts and wild hurrahs, were heard approaching nearer and nearer; and at length a loud knocking at the front door, with a cry of “They 're here! they 're here!”

The large man, now fully armed, and with his drawn sword in his hand, unlocked the door. The passage without was full of armed peasants, silent and watchful for his commands. A few words in the former patois seemed sufficient to convey them, and their answer was a cheer that made the walls ring.

The chief moved rapidly from place to place through the crowds, who at his bidding broke into parties: some of them occupied doorways which enfiladed the hall; others knelt down to suffer some to fire above their heads; here were two posted, armed with hatchets, at the very entrance itself; and six of the most determined-looking were to dispute the passage with their muskets. Such was the disposition of the force, when suddenly the light was extinguished, and all left in utter darkness. The deep breathing of their anxious breasts alone marked their presence; when without doors the sounds of strife gradually died away, and the storm alone was heard.

As for me, I leaned against a doorway, my arms folded on my bosom, my head sunk, while I prayed for death, the only exit I could see to my dishonor.

There was a terrible pause,—the very hurricane seemed to abate its violence, and only the heavy rain was heard as it fell in torrents,—when, with a loud crash, the door in front was burst open, and fell with a bang upon the floor. Not a word from those within, not a motion, betrayed their presence; while the whispered tones of a party without showed that the enemy was there.

“Bring up the torches quickly here,” called out a voice like that of an officer; and as he spoke the red flare of lighted pine branches was seen moving through the misty atmosphere.

The light fell upon a strong party of dismounted dragoons and gendarmerie, who, carbine in hand, stood waiting for the word to dash forward. The officer, whose figure I could distinguish as he moved along the front of his men, appeared to hesitate, and for a few seconds all stood motionless. At length, as if having resolved on his plan, he approached the doorway, a pine torch in his hand; another step, and the light must have disclosed the dense array of armed peasants that stood and knelt around the hall, when a deep low voice within uttered the one word, “Now!—and quick,” as if by his breath the powder had been ignited, a volley rang out, pattering like hail on the steel breastplates and through the branches of the trees. A mingled shout of rage and agony rose from those without, and without waiting for a command, they rushed onward.

The peasants, who had not time to reload their pieces, clubbed them in their strong hands, and laid wildly about them. The fight was now hand to hand; for, narrow as was the doorway, some three or four dragoons pressed every moment in, and gradually the hall became a dense mass of indiscriminate combatants. The large man fought like one possessed, and cleft his way towards the entrance with a long straight dagger, as if regardless of friends or foes. “À moi! a moi!” cried a tall and powerful man, as he sprang at his throat; “this is he!” The words were his last, as, stabbed to the very heart, he sprang backward in his death-agony; but at the moment a perfect shower of bullets rattled around the large man, one of which alone took effect in his shoulder. Still he strove onwards, and at last, with a spring like a savage tiger, he lowered his head, and bounded clean out into the court. Scarcely, however, had his foot touched the wet grass, when he slipped forward, and fell heavily on his back. A dozen swords flashed above him as he lay, and only by the most immense efforts of the officer was he spared death in a hundred wounds.

The defeat of their leader seemed to subdue all the daring courage of his party; the few who were able to escape dashed hither and thither, through passages and doorways they were well acquainted with; while the flagged floor was bathed in blood from the rest, as they lay in mangled and frightful forms, dead and dying on every side.

Like one in some dreadful dream, I stood spectator of this savage strife, wishing that some stray bullet had found my heart, yet ashamed to die with such a stain upon my honor. I crossed my arms before my breast, and waited for my doom. Two gendarmes passed quickly to and fro with torches, examining the faces and looks of those who were still likely to live, when suddenly one of them cried out, as he stood before me,—

“What 's this? An officer of hussars here!”

The exclamation brought an officer to the spot, who, holding a lantern to my face, said quickly,—“How is this, sir? how came you here?”

“Here is my sword, sir,” said I, drawing it from the scabbard; “I place myself under arrest. In another place, and to other judges, I must explain my conduct.”

“Parbleu! Jacques,” said the officer, addressing another who sat, while his wounds were being bound up, on a chair near, “this affair is worse than we thought of. Here 's one of the huitiÈme in the thick of it.”

“I hope, sir,” said I, addressing the young man, whose arm was bleeding profusely from a sabre wound,—“I hope, sir, your wound may not be of consequence.”

He looked up suddenly, and while a smile of the most insulting sarcasm curled his bloodless lip, answered,—

“I thank you, sir, for your sympathy; but you must forgive me, if one of these days I cannot bandy consolations with you.”

“You are right, Lieutenant,” said a dragoon, who lay bleeding from a dreadful cut in the forehead; “I'd not exchange places with him myself this minute for all his epaulettes.”

With an overwhelming sense of my own degraded position, when to such taunts as these I dared not reply, I stood mute and confounded.

Meantime the soldiers were engaged in collecting together the scattered weapons, fastening the wrists of the prisoners with cords, and ransacking the house for such proofs of the conspiracy as might criminate others at a distance. By the time these operations were concluded, the day began to break, and I could distinguish in the courtyard several large covered carts or charrettes destined to convey the prisoners. One of these was given up entirely to the chief, who, although only slightly wounded, would never assist himself in the least, but lay a heavy, inert mass, suffering the others to lift him and place him in the cart. Such as were too badly wounded to be moved were placed in a room in the chÂteau, a guard being left over them.

A sergeant of the gendarmerie now approached me as I stood, and commenced, without a word, to examine me for any papers or documents that might be concealed about my person.

“You are in error,” said I, quietly. “I have nothing of what you suspect.”

“Do you call this nothing?” interrupted he, triumphantly, as he drew forth the parchment commission I had placed in my bosom, and forgot to restore to De Beauvais. “Parbleu! you'd have had a better memory had your plans succeeded.”

“Give it here,” said an officer, as he saw the sergeant devouring the document with his eyes. “Ah!” cried he, starting, “he was playing a high stake, too. Let him be closely secured.”

While the orders of the officer were being followed up, the various prisoners were secured in the carts, mounted dragoons stationed at either side, their carbines held unslung in their hands. At last my turn came, and I was ordered to mount into a charrette with two gendarmes, whose orders respecting any effort at escape on my part were pretty clearly indicated by the position of two pistols carried at either side of me.

A day of heavy, unremitting rain, without any wind or storm, succeeded to the night of tempest. Dark inky clouds lay motionless near the earth, whose surface became blacker by the shadow. A weighty and lowering atmosphere added to the gloom I felt, and neither in my heart within nor in the world without could I find one solitary consolation.

At first I dreaded lest my companions should address me,—a single question would have wrung my very soul; but happily they maintained a rigid silence, nor did they even speak to each other during the entire journey. At noon we halted at a small roadside cabaret, where refreshments were provided, and relays of horses in waiting, and again set out on our way. The day was declining when we reached the Bois de Boulogne, and entered the long avenue that leads to the Barriere de l'Étoile. The heavy wheels moved noiselessly over the even turf, and, save the jingle of the troopers' equipments, all was hushed. For above an hour we had proceeded thus, when a loud shout in front, followed by a pistol-shot, and then three or four others quickly after it, halted the party; and I could mark through the uncertain light the mounted figures dashing wildly here and there, and plunging into the thickest of the wood.

“Look to the prisoners,” cried an officer, as he galloped down the line; and, at the word, every man seized his carbine, and held himself on the alert.

Meanwhile the whole cavalcade was halted, and I could see that something of consequence had occurred in front, though of what nature I could not even guess. At last a sergeant of the gendarmes rode up to our side splashed and heated.

“Has he escaped?” cried one of the men beside me.

“Yes!” said he, with an oath, “the brigand has got away; though how he cut the cords on his wrists, or by what means he sprang from the charrette to the road, the devil must answer. Ha! there they are firing away after him. The only use of their powder is to show the fellow where they are.”

“I would not change places with our captain this evening,” cried one of the gendarmerie. “Returning to Paris without the red beard—”

“Ma foi, you're not wrong there. It will be a heavy reckoning for him with dark Savary; and as to taking a Breton in a wood—”

The word to march interrupted the colloquy, and again we moved forward.

By some strange sympathy I cannot account for, I felt glad that the chief had made his escape. The gallantry of his defence, the implicit obedience yielded him by the others, had succeeded in establishing an interest for him in my mind; and the very last act of daring courage by which he effected his liberty increased the feeling. By what an easy transition, too, do we come to feel for those whose fate has any similarity with our own! The very circumstance of common misfortune is a binding link; and thus I was not without an anxious hope that the chief might succeed in his escape, though, had I known his intrigue or his intentions, such interest had scarcely found a place in my heart.

Such reflections as these led me to think how great must be the charm to the human mind of overcoming difficulty or confronting danger, when even for those of whom we know nothing we can feel, and feel warmly, when they stand before us in such a light as this. Heroism and bravery appeal to every nature; and bad must be the cause in which they are exerted, before we can venture to think ill of those who possess them.

The lamps were beginning to be lighted as we reached the BarriÉre, and halted to permit the officer of the party to make his report of who we were. The formality soon finished, we defiled along the Boulevard, followed by a crowd, that, increasing each moment, at last occupied the entire road, and made our progress slow and difficult. While the curiosity of the people to catch sight of the prisoners demanded all the vigilance of the guards to prevent it, a sad and most appalling stillness pervaded the whole multitude, and I could hear a murmur as they went that it was Generals Moreau and Pichegru who were taken.

At length we halted, and I could see that the foremost charrette was entering a low archway, over which a massive portcullis hung. The gloomy shadow of a dark, vast mass, that rose against the inky sky, lowered above the wall, and somehow seemed to me as if well known.

“This is the Temple?” said I to the gendarme on my right.

A nod was the reply, and a half-expressive look that seemed to say, “In that word you have said your destiny.”

About two years previous to the time I now speak of, I remember one evening, when returning from a solitary walk along the Boulevard, stopping in front of a tall and weather-beaten tower, the walls black with age, and pierced here and there with narrow windows, across which strong iron stanchions ran transversely. A gloomy fosse, crossed by a narrow drawbridge, surrounded the external wall of this dreary building, which needed no superstition to invest it with a character of crime and misfortune. This was the Temple,—the ancient castle of the knights whose cruelties were written in the dark obbliettes and the noisome dungeons of that dread abode. A terrace ran along the tower on three sides. There, for hours long, walked in sadness and in sorrow the last of France's kings,—Louis the Sixteenth,—his children at his side. In that dark turret the Dauphin suffered death. At the low casement yonder, Madame Royale sat hour by hour, the stone on which she leaned wet with her tears. The place was one of gloomy and sinister repute: the neighborhood spoke of the heavy roll of carriages that passed the drawbridge at the dead of night; of strange sounds and cries, of secret executions, and even of tortures that were inflicted there. Of these dreadful missions a corps called the “Gendarmes d'Élite” were vulgarly supposed the chosen executors, and their savage looks and repulsive exterior gave credibility to the surmise; while some affirmed that the Mameluke guard the Consul had brought with him from Egypt had no other function than the murder of the prisoners confined there.

Little thought I then that in a few brief months I should pass beneath that black portcullis a prisoner. Little did I anticipate, as I wended my homeward way, my heart heavy and my step slow, that the day was to come when in my own person I was to feel the sorrows over which I then wept for others.