The prison-flower : a romance of the consulate and empire

Chapter I

I T was the opening of the year 1800, and the birth of a new century brought life and safety to a whole nation in distress. The tidal wave of revolution had engulphed its last victim and subsided — the carnival of murder was over, and despair was giving place to hope.

Napoleon Bonaparte, called upon to act as physician for the body politic of France, had placed his masterful hand on her agitated pulse to diagnose and prescribe for her disorders. Houses that had been closed and barred for years were now being opened, and confidence was at last returning ; for Napoleon was already showing that great genius for organization and the control of affairs that he developed to such a marvelous degree in later years. A feeling of safety had become general. Shutters, bars and barricades were being removed rapidly, and normal conditions were about to prevail.

On one of the older streets of Paris there stood a fine old mansion of noble proportions. A broad flight of steps, flanked by oil lamps in ornamental glass lanterns, led up to the high and massive double entrance door. A stone cornice of large size projected well over the top steps, supported by substantial columns rising from the highest tread — here widened out to such an extent as to give comfortable standing room for twenty people, or more. Stone balconies with iron railings were built out under each window, and, high up, the steep roof of red pantiles rose from a solid coping of stone to its ridge, where it was capped by ornamental tiles of such generous proportions that when one became displaced and fell to the street below — as sometimes happened — a tremendous crash startled the chance passer-by. This explains why on windy days, in many an old city, the pedestrian walks for safety in the middle of the road, choosing it in preference to the sidewalk and the dangerous missile that is silently hurled from the roof by the angry wind.

In front of the house was a strong and neatly designed iron railing, the rosettes of which were picked out in gilt. The house appeared to be empty and deserted, for all of the windows were closed up by strong, iron shutters, and the front entrance was protected by a prison-like gate of thick iron bars, behind which substantial iron doors had been placed for additional safety.

It would have been a mistake, however, to have concluded from its appearance that the house was empty; for a closer examination would have shown a thin veil of smoke escaping from one of the numerous chimney vents in the roof.

Several artizans in their working blouses of blue had just arrived in front of the house, and a wagon had drawn up from which they were unloading ladders and tools. A group of pedestrians gathered on the sidewalk near-by to enjoy with a relish the scene of anima tion; for it was apparent that shutters and barricades were about to be removed from the largest and finest house of the neighborhood, and windows that had been darkened since the early days of the revolution were about to be bathed once more in the peaceful sunlight.

This house, then, though closed and deserted in the early days of the ‘Terror’ and during the following years, had been occupied during the past year or two by its young owner, Charles Veramont, Count de

Charney, the last surviving member of an old and noble family.

The Charney family on account of their conspicuous position as prominent members of the hated aristocracy, and also because of their great wealth, had been among the first to attract the attention of the revolutionary tribunal; and both Charney ’s father and mother, the Count and Countess de Charney, had fallen victims to the guillotine when the young Count was only fifteen years old.

The sole consolation they had in their sad and pitiable death was the knowledge that their only child had been smuggled out of Paris, a few days previously, in a wagon-load of empty barrels.

The Countess, at her own wish, had been the first to die on the scaffold — her hand in that of her husband as the fatal knife fell. None of the rough and murderous crew of executioners had the heart to snatch away this comfort from the dying woman. She passed from the world with a prayer on her lips for the safety of her son.

The Count de Charney had calmly met his fate — comforted by the thought that he had been able to soothe his wife’s last moments, and that she had been spared the horror of seeing his execution. He had placed his head on the notched plank with a smile of pity and disdain for his misguided, rabble executioners.

Sad to relate, the act of grace by which the Countess went first to the knife had been bought and paid for. A large sum of money, reserved for a final emergency, had been smuggled into the jail, and after stealthy negotiation — for spies watched the jailers — the matter had been arranged.

All through the active period of the revolution the young Count had remained with relatives in a distant part of France ; but at the time our story opens he had been back in Paris for nearly two years, living quietly in his house — he, the servants of the household and all visitors using the back entrances in order to avoid public notice.

While the workmen are busy removing the shutters and gates from the front of the house, let us learn something about the inmates.

In a spacious and comfortably furnished dining-room at the back of the house, an aged butler was putting the finishing touches to the breakfast table ; for it was nine in the morning, and the young master might be expected down stairs at any moment.

Charles, the butler, was a man of undoubted probity and superior intelligence. His seventy-six years of age sat lightly on his shoulders, for, although his hair was white, his tall figure was erect, and he was almost as active as in his younger days. His father had been butler to Charney’s grand-father, and he himself had passed his whole life in the service of the Charne> family. He had married late in life, but he had been a widower for some years now ; and the only child of his marriage, a son who had fought in the revolutionary army of France, had died on the field of battle.

Because of his affectionate nature, shown in his kind and benevolent face, and also because of his lonely condition, he showered on his young master a wealth of love and devotion. His whole life was centered on the Count; and the recollection of young Charney’s father and mother, of their terrible fate — and the deep feeling of gratitude he had for the whole family because of their lifelong kindness to him — had endowed him with superior attributes, and consequently he watched over the young Count with such care and forethought that it would be difficult to think of anything more he could have done.

To lessen the loneliness of the Count, and to make his meals more cheerful, Charles, the butler, had abandoned the large, central dining-table, with its massive silver, and in a roomy and sunny bay-window, overlooking the old-fashioned garden, and with a view over the high rear wall of the open square beyond, he had set a smaller table, and this he decorated with fine linen, cut glass and silver, and a profusion of fragrant flowers, culled from the garden below.

He was now standing near the door leading out into the main entrance-hall, and just as he heard his master’s footstep at the top of the main stairway he sent the warning signal to the kitchen offices, and as the Count entered and seated himself on his chair, which was drawn out for him with a reverent bow, the trim waiting-maids in their lace caps entered, and, showing their love and admiration for their young master, silently placed the breakfast on the table, Charles hovering about and directing every movement by expressive gestures, and, when necessary, an occasional but almost inaudible whisper.

The waiting-maids regretfully retired, envying the old butler his privilege of waiting on and talking to the young master, and the covers being removed, the Count proceeded to eat.

A stupid servant is always unbearable, while one that is skilful is worth his weight in gold. There are servants who have waited on the same masters for years, and yet — blockheads that they are — they will hand the pepper when it is the salt that is wanted; or when you are balancing a teaspoonful of coffee and sipping it to see if it has the right degree of sweetness — they will pass you the mustard. They never learn — they are intolerable !

Not so with the old butler, Charles. Hovering with a watchful eye he anticipated every want. He knew his master so well that he was almost a mind-reader. He did not blunder by offering coffee when he saw the cup was still half-full, but on the other hand, if other things had claimed the Count’s attention, so that the coffee had been neglected and was becoming cold — he silently abstracted the cup and replaced it with another that he had been preparing at his buffet , while still attending carefully to other details the while.

He knew how thick the toast must be to please his master, and he understood to a nicety at what moment to butter it so that it should be neither soppy nor hard. If there was fish to be served, he selected the nicest morsel, nearer to the tail than to the head, and instead of putting it on the plate at random, he deftly placed it a little to one side of the center, to give room for the sauce, and then put it down before his master with such precision that the fish was on the nearer side of the plate. He handed the sauce at the proper moment and received it back in such a manner that his master was hardly aware how it reached his hand, and how it left it.

He always had a reserve of one or two extra dishes ; as the appetite is a thing liable to sudden change, and particularly so if its owner is wealthy. And so, if the chief dish was not consumed with the proper relish, another suitable dish was quietly substituted, and the happy master found himself embarked on another course, with fresh knife and fork or spoon — these implements having slipped into his hands at the proper moment, somehow, without his being aware of it.

In an alcove near to his buffet, the butler had an ingenious hot-water stand with shelves of varying height to give different intensity of heat. Here he kept a reserve of plates for the different courses, and here, knowing his master’s tastes, he kept one or two relays of eggs in case they should be needed. If, therefore, the Count’s appetite flagged too early in the progress of the meal, an appetizing egg, done to a turn, was in front of him in his favorite filigree-silver egg-cup — the top having been neatly sliced off with a special knife kept in the buffet for this purpose. From all of which it will be seen that the Count was well served.

We have described some of the characteristics of the faithful old butler — let us now give attention to those of the master.

Count Charney was tall and handsome but somewhat slight in figure. He was naturally graceful, and the refined surroundings that had ever been his showed clearly in his speech and gesture. His features had almost an intellectual cast, and his eyes showed intelligence and resolution. His every movement was an indication of aristocratic lineage. And yet a close observer would have perceived an unmistakeable and serious blemish in the character of the young Count, for it was apparent he was proud and haughty, and a nearer acquaintance would surely have revealed him as a cold, self-centered and almost selfish man. His bringing up in later years was undoubtedly the cause of this, for had his noble mother lived to complete his education, these characteristics would have been suppressed or entirely eliminated.

He had been brought up under a selfish old relative in a part of the country remote from refining influences, and the only people he had associated with had been those distinctly his mental and social inferiors. As a consequence, he had become accustomed to his own superiority; he took a narrow view of the world, and grew arrogant and overbearing without being aware of it. He liked to be entirely by himself, he loved quiet, and he disliked noise and excitement.

About a year previous to this time there had been great excitement in the Charney mansion; for a little Miss of eleven summers, with blue eyes and dancing curls of gold, had arrived with her little bandboxes and other belongings, from far-away Brest in the province of Finistere. She was a cousin to the Count, on his mother’s side, and she brought a pitiful little note appealing to his generosity — “would he care for and educate the child, as her father and mother were dead, and the relatives with whom she had made her home were poor and without means to bring her up properly. She is a little angel of sweetness ’ ’ — the note concluded. Little Marie — for such she said was her name — ran and threw her arms around the Count’s neck, called him “cousin Charney” and discharged at him a whole battery of fervent kisses. The surprised but pleased butler soon found the little girl in his arms, clinging to his neck and giving him warm kisses, and as her childish fingers fondled his white hair, she said to him “you have a kind face, and I like you very much.” The waiting-maids, hearing the unusual excitement, came to the front and little Marie kissed them all, twice around, to their great delight. The kind-hearted and matronly housekeeper, a widow who had lost her family of two — a boy and a girl — in their childhood, was also greeted with effusion and hearty kisses by the little Marie, and, as she rose, wiping the tears which forced their way to her eyes, she cast a furtive and uneasy glance at the young Count who stood near, embarrassed and perplexed.

Alas! angels are not always entertained as they should he; and after revelling for a day in the soft carpets — after going from room to room to admire the comfortable furniture and beautiful bric-a-brac — after gazing with awe on her frowning ancestors in the picture gallery, and after romping with the butterflies in the garden and picking the gay posies — in short, after making herself at home, poor little Marie was sent back again to the far western province, accompanied by a polite note declining the responsibility of bringing her up, but enclosing a credit on the Count’s bankers to provide for her care and education until she became of age.

The scene the following day, when the fiacre drew up at the rear of the house by the garden gate, to take the little girl to the diligence, will always be remembered. Marie positively declined to stir a step unless Charles, the butler, would see her off on the diligence. Suppressing his tears as well as he could, the childless old man received the weeping Marie on his lap and tried to comfort her. All the servants had learned to love the little girl in the one short day of her presence, and they crowded around and embraced her again and again with tears of grief at the parting. Sandwiches, fruit cake and bon-bons, almost enough to satisfy a boarding-school, were heaped up around her, and more than one hoard of wages saved was broken into to make up a little purse of gold pieces which the conspirators had deputed Charles to hang about little Marie’s neck as the diligence drove away.

In response to her childish cry the Count went out to see her off. He allowed her to kiss his hand repeatedly, and even suffered himself to be drawn down to

THE PRISON-FLOWER.

receive a last, cousinly kiss. “Good bye, cousin Charney,” she said, choking down her sobs and speaking with unnatural gravity, “I am so sorry you do not like me. I hope you will some day, for I like you and I shall think of you always.” The fiacre was about to move off when Marie glanced out at the garden and remembered she had forgotten to gather some of the lovely flowers. She and Charles hastily alighted, and everyone sought the choicest blooms to make a parting bouquet. It was strange no one thought of asking the Count’s permission; it never occurred to them to do such a thing, for it seemed natural to render homage of the best to the sweet little visitor about to depart, and who was going on her lonely way — to be seen by them never again.

Charney retired to the bay-window above, where he looked out on the unwonted scene. Once more the little Marie sat in the lap of old Charles, hugging an enormous bouquet. A gay little lark circled above with joyful song, and poor Marie gazed through her tears in wonder that the bird could be happy while she was so sad. Tearful farewells were again said, and with a parting wave of her hand to her cousin Charney, seen at the window, Marie drove off in the fiacre; leaving desolation behind.

When the vehicle reached the end of the street, it became apparent all the farewells had not been said, nor had all the packages been bestowed; for at the corner, laden down with parcels, stood Count Charney ’s housekeeper, the good Margot, signalling to Charles, who was apparently looking for her, for he immediately stopped the vehicle, alighted, and helped his associate inside. Marie welcomed the newcomer with a cry of joy, and abandoning the lap of Charles, though retaining his hand, she nestled and wept in Margot’s loving arms.

As they neared the diligence station the driver of the fiacre remarked “they will never take all that luggage on” — pointing to the load inside of his vehicle; but when Charles held up a bright, new coin to full view, the driver in gleeful anticipation of the liberal fare he knew he would receive, declared that “after all, although it seemed considerable for one small passenger, yet room would surely be found” — and so it proved, for in one place or another little Marie’s belongings were stowed away in safety, and the willing helpers were amply rewarded for their labors.

We cannot describe the grief of parting, nor how Charles deftly hung the little purse of gold around Marie’s neck, and, taking one last kiss, nimbly jumped off as the horses pulled out and all was put in motion. Nor can we adequately describe the cry of grief from the little passenger as she saw she was leaving all she loved behind. Those sitting near the driver placed their hands on his arms as little Marie wildly beckoned to Charles and Margot. The diligence stopped — everyone gave sympathetic encouragement, and those near the side lifted up the old servants for one last farewell to cheer the sad heart of the little orphan — a last fond kiss was given, and this time the diligence started off with a bound, because of the impatient horses, and Charles and Margot stood waving their hands again and again until their little friend passed out of sight * # # *

And so the sunlight often passes out of man’s life — eclipsed by his own folly and selfishness * * * *

Dear old Charles and kind-hearted Margot were late in reaching home. Their fellow-servants crowded around them for news of the last leave-taking, but seeing the great grief in the faces of the old butler and housekeeper, they silently withdrew — for neither Charles nor Margot could trust themselves to speak.

At the meal following, poor old Charles had a huskiness and a catch in his voice, his master affected not to notice. In the housekeeper’s room the cook and one of the parlormaids were endeavoring to soothe poor Margot. All the wealth of affection she was ready to bestow without stint upon the dear little cousin, must now be held back ; and she was crying bitterly over her loss and the revived memory of former days.

Count Charney could have shed sunshine on the lives of his faithful servants without lessening their devotion to him — in fact, devotion and gratitude would have increased. Without knowing it, or rather without admitting to himself that he knew it, the Count had allowed a golden opportunity for happiness to pass from him. If he had done that which an inner voice vainly tried to tell him was his duty, he would have been saved years of trial and suffering; for with little Marie to think of and care for — with an object in life — something to love — he would not have sought occupation in other and dangerous paths.

Although the event just related was a year old, it had always been in Charney ’s memory, and while the old butler spoke freely to his master on certain topics, as is a faithful old servant’s privilege with a young master, he never dared mention Marie’s name; for he knew the pride of the Count. A struggle had been going on in Charney ’s mind for some time. Should he send for his little cousin, and would she come again after being repulsed as she had been? He would not concede he was in the wrong, and, as usual, his pride had complete mastery.

What action the Count eventually might have taken is hard to foretell, for Marie’s winning face was ever before him, and he was inwardly surprised at the foothold she had gained in his thoughts in one short day’s acquaintance. Unfortunately for him it was now too late to reverse his decision, for events of great moment were impending. Already the train had been laid, and the fuse of impending disaster was about to be lighted. His fortune — his liberty — his life — all were in danger ! #**###**#

The breakfast was nearly over. Charney was in deep thought and unusually silent. For some reason the old butler had in his mind a more than usually vivid picture of the fatal morning, years ago, when the Count and Countess were dragged off to their execution. He wondered if there was anything in premonitions, and he determined to speak his mind to his young master on a subject about which he had felt uneasy for some time.

4 4 Oh ! Sir, if an old man who loves you may have the presumption to speak about such a serious matter, will you not give up your connection with the political club to which you belong?”

“Why do you speak of that again, Charles?”

“I speak of it, sir, because the fate of your father and mother, the Count and Countess de Charney, is in my mind day and night, and something tells me you are in danger — may I speak freely, sir?”

“Yes, speak!”

“Well, sir, I am sure that most of the men in your club are unfit to associate with you. With the exception of your friend, Monsieur Trouville, I trust none of them.”

“Come, Charles, do not go too far.”

“Your sainted father and mother charged me to watch over you, sir; and I have made it my business during the past year to enquire into the character of the men in your club. Four of them are men of honor — the remainder are not; in fact, grave charges are hanging over more than one.”

“I think you are mistaken, Charles, do not be too anxious about me — we cannot always pick our associates in political movements.”

“That is just it, sir. Why trouble over politics with your wealth and position? Oh, Count Charney, my young master! My fears make me bold and I must speak freely. Be guided by an old man who has seen the past with such eyes as to give some knowledge of the future — give your formal submission and allegiance to the rule of Bonaparte, this very day, and I can see happiness for you in the future.”

“You mention that hated name to me again!”

“Oh, sir! everyone says he is the power that rules France, and will rule for years to come. Again, I say, heed the warning of an old man who would give his life for you. Give up, at once, the idea of resisting Napoleon’s power and might. He will crush you, sir.”

“Charles! Proceed no further. I know you love me, and you are a faithful servant of our family. There are things you do not understand. I thank you — and now I must leave, for I have much to do before night.”

“And you persist in going to the meeting to-night, sir — I implore you not to go.”

“Enough, Charles, if any one calls today you can say I shall not return until late tonight” — saying which, Charney rose and left the room to prepare for the business he had in mind. A few moments later he left the house. As he passed out he noticed the work-

IS men had removed all the shutters and bars from the front of the house, and he saw them being piled up on the wagons that were standing ready to take them away.

He turned and looked up at the house and was pleased with the comfortable and homelike appearance it now presented, for the workmen had dusted and cleaned the outer windows, and servants within were busy airing the rooms and arranging the blinds and curtains. Unconscious of the fact that he was taking the last glimpse of his house he was destined to take for many a year — he walked off cheerfully ; for the dangers of that day were, as yet, unknown.

Chapter II

M . DUPONT, Intendant of Police, was a busy man, and his office in the Prefecture at Paris was a center of activity from early morning until late at night. The Intendant was deservedly a successful man, and his integrity was established and unquestioned. He had been tried again and again in situations requiring keen judgment, discretion, delicacy and tact, and he had never yet failed. The First Consul reposed full trust in him; and Fouche, the Minister of Police, looked upon him as the one man in the service who could be left to act on his own responsibility without danger of a blunder.

It will doubtless be thought strange that the Intendant should stand so high in the regard of two men so opposite in character as Napoleon and Fouche. A few words, therefore, concerning M. Dupont will not be amiss, and particularly so in view of the fact that he rose higher and higher in public estimation and was promoted from one important position to another by Napoleon.

M. Dupont, then, was a man who had risen through his own merit. Married when a young man without means or position to a girl equally poor, he had a hard struggle, and they had both learned the meaning of the word ‘ poverty.’ A man of great energy and undaunted resolution, he had struggled on — trying many means to better his condition. If his wife brought him neither wealth nor position, she certainly made him a happy man — even in their poorest days the home had always been the one bright spot on earth for her husband — his haven of rest — the place where his worth and ability were enthroned as the bright star of future success.

The revolution, instead of cutting off his head, had thrown him by chance into a small clerkship in the Palais de Justice. He had worked to acquire knowledge; he had made himself indispensable. Was anything required that could not be found — ask Dupont: he would know. Was knowledge required of the antecedents of a prisoner — ask Dupont; he could tell. He had made it his business to work while others amused themselves, or slept ; and so, in course of time, without friend or influence, he had obtained an important position — simply because no other person available could compare with him in fitness.

He had thus gradually reached the responsible position of Intendant; placed there by Napoleon, who knew how to choose the right man.

Though only in early middle age, M. Dupont had become somewhat grave and almost austere, but all who came in contact with him knew his kindness and his exact sense of justice. Almost stern and unbending — his reproof was feared, but at the same time it was known to be deserved, and all had confidence in approval and reward for duty well discharged. So that, all things considered, he was as popular as it was possible for a police magistrate to be.

It is related that twice he respectfully declined to carry out the wishes of the First Consul. In both of these matters he was found to be right, later on; and his just independence, contrary to the expectation of many, seemed to increase Napoleon’s regard for him.