France never appeared to less advantage in the eyes of Europe than at the period I speak of. Scarcely had the proud star of Napoleon set, when the whole current of popular favor flowed along with those whom, but a few days before, they accounted their greatest enemies. The Russians and the Prussians, whom they lampooned and derided, they now flattered and fawned on. They deemed no adulation servile enough to lay at the feet of their conquerors,—not esteeming the exaltation of their victors sufficient, unless purchased at the sacrifice of their own honor as a nation.

The struggle was no longer who should be first in glory, but who foremost in desertion of him and his fortunes whose word had made them. The marshals he had created, the generals he had decorated, the ministers and princes he had endowed with wealth and territory, now turned from him in his hour of misfortune, to court the favor of one against whom every act of their former lives was directed.

These men, whose very titles recalled the fields of glory to which he led them, now hastened to the Tuileries to proffer an allegiance to a monarch they neither loved nor respected. Sad and humiliating spectacle! The long pent-up hatred of the Royalists found a natural vent in this moment of triumphant success. Chateaubriand, Constant, and Madame de StaËl led the way to those declarations of the press which denounced Napoleon as the greatest of earthly tyrants; and inveighed even against his greatness and his genius, as though malevolence could produce oblivion.

All Paris was in a ferment of excitement,—not the troubled agitation of a people whose capital owned the presence of a conquering army, but the tumultuous joy of a nation intoxicated with pleasure. FÊtes and balls, gay processions and public demonstrations of rejoicing, met one everywhere; and ingenuity was taxed to invent flatteries for the very nations whom, but a week past, they scoffed at as barbarians and Scythians.

Sickened and disgusted with the fickleness of mankind, I knew not where to turn. My wound had brought on a low, lingering fever, accompanied by extreme debility, increased in all likelihood by the harassing reflections every object around suggested. I could not venture abroad without meeting some evidence of that exuberant triumph by which treachery hopes to cover its own baseness; besides, the reputation of being a Napoleonist was now a mark for insult and indignity from those who never dared to avow an opinion until the tide of fortune had turned in their favor. The white cockade had replaced the tricolor; every emblem of the Empire was abolished; and that uniform, to wear which was once a mark of honorable distinction, was now become a signal for insult.

I was returning one evening from a solitary ramble in the neighborhood of Paris,—for, by some strange fatality, I could not tear myself away from the scenes to which the most eventful portions of my life were attached,—and at length reached the Boulevard Montmartre, just as the leading squadrons of a cavalry regiment were advancing up the wide thoroughfare. I had hitherto avoided every occasion of witnessing any military display which should recall the past; but now the rapid gathering of the crowd to see the soldiers pass prevented my escape, and I was obliged to wait patiently until the cortege should move forward.

They came on in dense column,—the brave Chasseurs of the Guard, the bronzed warriors of Jena and Wigram; but to my eyes they seemed sterner and sadder than their wont, and heeded not the loud “vivas” of the mob around them. Where were their eagles? Alas! the white banner that floated over their heads was a poor substitute for the proud ensign they had so often followed to victory. And here weie the dragoons,—old Kellermann's brave troopers; their proud glances were changed to a mournful gaze upon that crowd whose cheers they once felt proud of: and there, the artillery, that glorious corps which he loved so well,—did not the roll of their guns sound sorrowfully on the ear!

They passed! And then came on a strange cortege of mounted cavaliers,—old and withered men, in uniforms of quaint antique fashion, their chapeaux decorated with great cockades of white ribbon, and their sword-knots garnished with similar ornaments; the order of St. Louis glittered on each breast, and in their bearing you might read the air of men who were enjoying a long-wished-for and long-expected triumph. These were the old seigneurs of the Monarchy; and truly they were not wanting in that look of nobility their ancient blood bestowed. Their features were proud; their glance elated; their very port and bearing spoke that consciousness of superiority, to crush which had cost all the horrors and bloodshed of a terrible Revolution. How strange! it seemed as if many of their faces were familiar to me,—I knew them well; but where, and how, my memory could not trace. Yes, now I could recall it: they were the frequenters of the old “Pension of the Rue de Mi-CarÊme,”—the same men I had seen in their day of adversity, bearing up with noble pride against the ills of fortune. There they were, revelling in the long-sought-after restoration of their former state. Were they not more worthy of admiration in their hour of patient and faithful watching, than in this the period of their triumph?

The pressure of the crowd obliged the cavalcade to halt. And now the air resounded with the cries of “Vive le Roi!”—the long-forgotten cheer of loyalty. Thousands re-echoed the shout, and the horsemen waved their hats in exultation. “Vive le Roi!” cried the mob, as though the voices had not called “Vive l'Empereur!” but yesterday.

“Down with the Napoleonist,—down with him!” screamed a savage-looking fellow, who, jammed up in the crowd, pointed towards me, as I stood a mere spectator of the scene.

“Cry 'Vive le Roi!' at once,” whispered a voice near me, “or the consequences may be serious. The mob is ungovernable at a moment like this.”

A dozen voices shouted out at the same time, “Down with him! down with him!”

“Off with your hat, sir!” said a rude-looking fellow beside me, as he raised his hand to remove it.

“At your peril!” said I, as I clenched my hand, and prepared to strike him down the moment he should touch me.

The words were not well uttered, when the crowd closed on me, and a hundred arms were stretched out to attack me. In vain all my efforts to resist. My hat was torn from my head, and assailed on every side, I was dragged into the middle of the street, amid wild cries of vengeance and taunting insults. It was then, as I lay overcome by numbers, that a loud cry to fall back issued from the cavalcade, and a horseman, sword in hand, dashed upon the mob, slashing on every side as he went, mounted on a high-mettled horse. He cleared the dense mass with the speed of lightning, and drove back my assailants.

“Catch my horse's mane,” said he, hurriedly. “Hold fast for a few seconds, and you are safe.”

Following the advice, I held firmly by the long mane of his charger, while, clearing away the mob on either side, he protected me by his drawn sabre above my head.

“Safe this time!” said he, as we arrived within the ranks. And then turning round, so as to face me, added, “Safe! and my debt acquitted. You saved my life once; and though the peril seemed less imminent now, trust me, yours had not escaped the fury of that multitude without me.”

“What! Henri de Beauvais! Do we meet again?”

“Yes; but with altered fortune, Burke. Our king, as the words of our Garde Écossaise song says,—our king 'has got his own again.' The day of loyalty has again dawned on France, and a grateful people may carry their enthusiasm for the Restoration, even as far as vengeance on their opponents, and yet not merit much reproach. But no more of this. We can be friends now; or if not, it must be your fault.”

“I am not too proud, De Beauvais, either to accept or acknowledge a favor at your hands.”

“Then we are friends,” said he, joyfully. “And in the name of friendship, let me beg of you to place this cordon in your hat.” And so saying, he detached the cockade of white ribbon he wore from his own, and held it towards me. “Well, then, at least remove the tricolor; it can but expose you to insult. Remember, Burke, its day is over.”

“I am not likely to forget it,” replied I, sadly.

“Monsieur le Colonel, his royal highness wishes to speak with you,” said an aide-de-camp, riding up beside De Beauvais's horse.

“Take care of this gentleman for me,” said De Beauvais, pointing to me; and then, wheeling round his horse, he galloped at full speed to the rear.

“I will spare you all trouble on my account, sir,” said I. “My way lies yonder, and at present I see no obstacle to my pursuing it.”

“Let me at least send an escort with you.”

I thanked him and declined the offer; and leaving the ranks of the procession, mingled with the crowd, and in a few minutes after reached my hotel without further molestation. The hour was come, I saw plainly, in which I must leave France. Not only was every tie which bound me to that land severed, but to remain was only to oppose myself singly to the downward current of popular opinion which now threatened to overturn every landmark and vestige of the Empire. Up to this moment, I never confessed to my heart with what secret hope I had prolonged each day of my stay,—how I cherished within me the expectation that I should once again, though but for an instant, see her who lived in all my thoughts, and, unknown to my self, formed the mainspring of all my actions!

This hope only became confessed when about to leave me forever.

As I busied myself in the preparations for departure, a note arrived from De Beauvais, stating that he desired particularly to see and confer with me that same evening, and requesting me on no account to be from home, as his business was most pressing. I felt little curiosity to know to what he might allude, and saw him enter my room some hours later without a single particle of anxiety as to his communication.

“I am come, Burke,” said he, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged between us,—“I am come, Burke, on a mission which I hope you will believe the sincerest regard for you has prompted me to undertake, and which, whatever objections it may meet with from you, none can arise, I am certain, on the score of his fidelity who now makes this proposition to you. To be brief: the Count d'Artois has sent me to offer you your grade and rank in the army of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth. Your last gazette was as colonel; but there is a rumor you should have received your appointment as general of brigade. There will be little difficulty in arranging your brevet on that understanding; for your services, brief as they were, have not been unnoticed. Marshal Ney himself bears testimony to your conduct at Montereau; and your name twice occurs on the list of the minister of war for promotion. Strange claims these, you will say, to recompense from the rightful sovereign of France, gained as they were in the service of the Usurper! But it is the prerogative of legitimacy to be great and noble-minded, and to recognize true desert wherever it occurs. Come, what say you? Does this proposal meet your wishes?”

“If to surpass my expectations, and flatter my pride, were to convince my reason, and change my estimation of what is loyal and true, I should say, 'Yes, De Beauvais; the proposition does meet my wishes.' But not so. I wore these epaulettes first in my admiration of him whose fortunes I have followed to the last. My pride, my glory, were to be his soldier; that can be no longer, and the sword I drew in his cause shall never be unsheathed in another's.”

“Are you ignorant that such arguments apply with equal force to all those great men who have, within these few weeks past, sworn allegiance to his Majesty? What say you to the list of marshals, not one of whom has refused the graciously offered favor of his Majesty? Are Ney, Soult, Augereau, Macdonald, and Marmont nothing as examples?”

“I will not say so, De Beauvais; but this I will say, they had had both more respect and esteem from me had they done otherwise. If they were true to the Emperor, they can scarce be loyal to the King.”

“Can you not distinguish between the forced services exacted by a tyrant and the noble duty rendered to a rightful sovereign?”

“I can better estimate the fascinations which lead men to follow a hero, than to be the parade-soldier around the gilded gates of a palace.”

De Beauvais's cheek flashed scarlet, and his voice was agitated, as he replied,—

“The nobles of France, sir, have shown themselves as high in deeds of chivalry and heroism as they have ever been in the accomplishments of true-born gentlemen.”

“Pardon me, De Beauvais! I meant no imputation of them and their motives. There is every reason why you and your gallant companions should enjoy the favors of that crown your efforts have placed upon the head of the King of France. Your true and fitting station is around the throne your bravery and devotion have restored. But as for us,—we who have fought and marched, have perilled limb and life, to raise the fortune and elevate the glory of him who was the enemy of that sovereign,—how can we be participators in the triumph we labored to avert, and rejoice in a consummation we would have died rather than witness?”

“But it has come; the fates have decided against you. The cause you would serve is not merely unfortunate,—it is extinct; the Empire has left no banner behind it. Come, then, and rally round one whose boast it is to number among its followers the high-born and the noble,—to assert the supremacy of rank and worth above the claim of the base and low.”

“I cannot; I must not.”

“At least, you will wait on the Comte d'Artois. You must see his royal highness, and thank him for his gracious intentions.”

“I know what that means, De Beauvais; I have heard that few can resist the graceful fascinations of the prince's manner. I shall certainly not fear to encounter them, however dangerous to my principles.”

“But not to refuse his royal highness?” said he, quickly. “I trust you will not do that.”

“You would not have me yield to the flattery of a prince's notice what I refuse to the solicitations of a friend, would you?”

“And such is your intention,—your fixed intention?”

“Undoubtedly it is.”

De Beauvais turned away impatiently, and leaned on the window for some minutes. Then, after a pause, and in a slow and measured voice, added,—

“You are known to the Court, Burke, by other channels than those I have mentioned. Your prospects of advancement would be most brilliant, if you accept this offer: I scarcely know to what they may not aspire. Reflect for a moment or two. There is no desertion,—no falling off here. Remember that the Empire was a vision, and like a dream it has passed away. Where there is no cause, there can be no fealty.”

“It is but a sorry memory, De Beauvais, that only retains while there are benefits to receive; mine is a more tenacious one.”

“Then my mission is ended,” cried he, taking up his hat. “I may mention to his royal highness that you intend returning to England; that you are indisposed to service at present. It is unnecessary to state more accurately the views you entertain?”

“I leave the matter completely to your discretion.”

“Adieu, then. Our roads lie widely apart, Burke; and I for one regret it deeply. It only remains that I should give you this note; which I promised to deliver into your hands in the event of your declining to accept the prince's offer.”

He blushed deeply, as he placed a small sealed note in my fingers; and as if anxious to get away, pressed my hand hurriedly, and left the room.

My curiosity to learn the contents of the billet made me tear it open at once; but it was not before I had perused it several times that I could credit the lines before me. They were but few, and ran thus:—

How did I read these lines over again and again!—now interpreting them as messengers of future hope; now fearing they might exclude every ray of it forever. One solution recurred to me at every moment, and tortured me to the very soul. Her family had all been Royalists. The mere accidents of youth had thrown her brother into the army, and herself into the Court of the Empire, where personal devotion and attachment to the Empress had retained her. What if she should exert her influence to induce me to accept the prince's offer? How could I resist a request, perhaps an entreaty, from her? The more I reflected over it, the more firmly this opinion gained ground with me, and the more deeply did I grieve over a position environed by such difficulty; and ardently as I longed for the moment of meeting her once more, the desire was tempered by a fear that the meeting should be our last.

The eventful moment of my destiny arrived, and found me at the door of the HÔtel de Grammont. A valet in waiting for my arrival conducted me to a salon, saying the countess would appear in a few moments.

What an anxious interval was that! I tried to occupy myself with the objects around, and distract my attention from the approaching interview; but every sound startled me, and I turned at each instant towards the door by which I expected her to enter.

The time appeared to drag heavily on,—minutes became like hours; and yet no one appeared. My impatience had reached its climax, when I heard my name spoken in a low soft voice. I turned, and she was before me.

She was dressed in deep mourning, and looked paler, perhaps thinner, than I had ever seen her,—but not less beautiful. Whether prompted by her own feelings at the moment, or called up by my unconsciously fixed look, she blushed deeply as our eyes met.

“I was about to leave France, Colonel,” said she, as soon as we were seated, “when I heard from my cousin, De Beauvais, that you were here, and delayed my departure to have the opportunity of seeing you.”

She paused here, and drew a deep breath to continue; but leaning her head on her hand, she seemed to have fallen into a reverie for some minutes, from which she started suddenly, by saying,—

“His royal highness has offered you your grade in the service, I understand?”

“Yes, Madame; so my friend De Beauvais informs me.”

“And you have refused,—is it not so?”

“Even so, Madame.”

“How is this, sir? Are you so weary of a soldier's life, that you would leave it thus early?”

“This was not the reason, Madame.”

“You loved the Emperor, sir,” said she, hastily, and with a tone of almost passionate eagerness, “even as I loved my dear, kind mistress; and you felt allegiance to be too sacred a thing to be bartered at a moment's notice. Is this the true explanation?”

“I am proud to say, you have read my motives; such were they.”

“Why are there not many more to act thus?” cried she, vehemently. “Why do not the great names he made glorious, become greater by fidelity than ever they were by heroism? There was one, sir, who, had he lived, had given this example to the world.”

“True, most true, Madame. But was not his fate happier than to have survived for this?”

A long pause, unbroken by a word on either side, followed; when at last she said,—

“I had left with De Beauvais some few relics of my dear brother, hoping you would accept them for his sake. General d'Auvergne's sword,—the same he wore at Jena,—he desired might be conveyed to you when you left the service. These, and this ring,” said she, endeavoring to withdraw a rich brilliant from her finger, “are the few souvenirs I would ask you to keep for their sakes, and for mine. You mean to return to England, sir?”

“Yes, Madame; that is, I had intended,—I know not now whither I shall go. Country has few ties for one like me.”

“I, too, must be a wanderer,” said she, half musingly, while still she endeavored to remove the ring from her finger. “I find,” said she, smiling, “I must give you another keepsake; this will not leave me.”

“Give it me, then, where it is,” said I. “Yes, Marie! the devotion of a heart, wholly yours, should not go unrewarded. To you I owe all that my life has known of happiness,—to memory of you, every high and noble hope. Let me not, after years of such affection, lose the guiding star of my existence,—all that I have lived for, all that I love!”

These words, poured forth with all the passionate energy which a last hope inspires, were followed by a story of my long-concealed love. I know not how incoherently the tale was told; I cannot say how often I interrupted my own recital by some appeal to the past,—some half-uttered hope that she had seen the passion which burned within me. I can but remember the bursting feeling of my bosom, as she placed her hand in mine, and said,—

“It is yours!”

These words ended the story of a life whose trials were many, and encountered at an age in which few have braved the world's cares. The lessons I had learned, however, were acquired in that school,—adversity,—where few are taught in vain; and if the morning of my life broke in clouds and shadow, the noon has been not less peaceful and bright. And the evening, as it draws near, comes with an aspect of calm tranquillity, ample enough to recompense every vicissitude of those early days when the waves of fortune were roughest.