THE DAWN OF THE HUNDRED DAYS.

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BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.

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The evening of a cold and stormy day in February had just set in, when a traveling carriage of rather a better order than usual arrived at the gates of the large and populous town of L——, in the south of France. The horses were covered with foam, and hung their heads with that jaded appearance of fatigue which tells of the labors of a long and hasty journey. The postillion presented the anomalous appearance of a dispirited Frenchman. Drenched to the skin, and bespattered with mud, he descended from his seat on the near horse, and ejaculating with considerable fervor that pithy monosyllable “peste!” which Sterne has rendered famous, he opened the door of the vehicle for the travelers to alight.

The interior of the carriage was occupied by two men, of whom this elder might be five-and-thirty years of age, and the younger nineteen. The one was a handsome, bold-looking, tall man, with rather large black moustaches, and eyes of the same color; the younger had soft and delicate features, much more effeminate than manly, but prepossessing and attractive, with blue eyes, delicate brown moustaches and whiskers, and dark brown hair. The younger of the travelers awoke as the carriage stopped, and called to the other in a delicate and musical voice, which quite accorded with his juvenile appearance, “Rouse up, Pierre; we are already at L.” The sleeper awoke at the summons, and motioning his companion to be silent, bade the postillion call the sergeant of the guard, and request him to attend at the door of the carriage, in order to viser the passports, as the travelers were invalids whom it would be dangerous to remove. The boy did as he was desired, and in a few moments returned with the officer of the guard, who bore a huge sword in one hand and a lantern in the other.

“Bon soir, Monsieur l’officier,” said the elder traveler.

“Bon soir, Monsieur le voyageur,” returned the other drily.

“Do you know the reason, M. l’officier, why I have come to L.?” asked M. Pierre.

“Dame!” replied the officer, “how should I know why you have come to L.? My business is to see that your passports are correct, if you please, and I will trouble you to show them to me as early as you can make it convenient to do so, for standing in the rain does not benefit the constitution.”

“I am sorry,” returned the traveler, “that you have so little curiosity, my friend; but as you will not ask me the question, I will give you the reason of my own accord. I came here because I knew that Jacques Lapin would be the officer on guard to-night, and would allow me to pass even if he suspected my disguise.”

“Diable!” shouted the other—“Eh! pardieu! no man knows me by that name except my former colonel, Monsieur Desart,” and he looked up in the face of his visiter by the light of the lantern which he held in his hand. “Ventrebleu! it is indeed he, and the other must be —”

“Silence!” interrupted the colonel. “Here are the passports, let them be visées directly.”

The alacrity with which the order was obeyed manifested some authority on the one hand, and no small amount of obedience on the other. In considerably less time than usual the passports were returned to the travelers, the gloomy postillion mounted to his former perch, and the carriage slowly rumbled through the ill-paved, ill-lighted, and otherwise ill-appointed town of L.

Until they reached the hotel neither of the travelers could trust himself to speak. The victory over impending danger and the present sense of security were too much for words. But as soon as the door of the double-bedded room which they had ordered had closed upon them, they threw themselves into each other’s arms, and sunk on their knees together in gratitude for their deliverance.

Colonel Desart had risen from a very humble rank in a foot regiment to be its colonel. He in a great measure owed his promotion to courage, excellent military judgment, and that admirable savoir-faire which is peculiarly characteristic of an educated Frenchman. He was, nevertheless, indebted for much of the signal good fortune which attended his rise to the partiality of the emperor. Napoleon, who was a profound believer in physiognomy, and who moreover prided himself on being an almost infallible physiognomist, imagined that he could discover marks of great fidelity in the lineaments of Desart’s visage, and trusted him accordingly. Nor was he mistaken; for Desart was ever grateful for the patronage bestowed, and the kindness which was manifested toward him.

It was owing to this partiality that Desart had been able to intercede successfully with the emperor for the life of Jacques Lapin, who had once been condemned to be shot, for a frolick which might have been attended with serious consequences. Nothing would please M. Jacques Lapin, private of the —th foot, on the evening before Jena, when it was absolutely necessary that the position of the army should be kept as much as possible from the knowledge of the enemy, but to adorn two stuffed images of the Emperor of Austria and his imperial spouse with heavy cartridges, and display the same by the aid of fire before the eyes of his delighted countrymen. The reflection of Lapin’s pyrotechnic pleasantry shone even in the tent of Napoleon. The offender was dragged forth and ordered for instant execution. But Desart seized the moment when the emperor’s anger had somewhat abated, ridiculed the exhibition of the unfortunate artiste, proved to demonstration that he had been incited thereto only by his hatred of the enemies of France, got the emperor into good temper and secured a pardon for Lapin, who, as we have seen, did not omit to be grateful in the hour of need.

After basking for so long a period in the sunshine of the emperor’s favor it was with sincere grief that Desart learned, on his return from Moscow, after a long and tedious illness which afflicted him on his way, that his patron and benefactor had quitted France and was then in the island of Elba. His first impulse was to disregard his own feelings as a husband, to leave, for his young and amiable wife, the still ample remnant of his once considerable fortune, and to follow his illustrious patron to his place of exile. But the formation of those wild but heroic clubs of “Buonapartists” led him to change his determination. He felt that he could do more good to the cause of the emperor by assisting it with his counsel, and, if necessary, with his sword, than if he were to retire to the presence of Napoleon for the purpose of sharing an exile which, to say the least, was inactive and useless. He therefore resolved to remain in France. He joined one of the most powerful of these clubs, and became so enthusiastic in his desire for an immediate counter revolution that he was unable, in public, sufficiently to conceal his political bias. He soon fell under the suspicion of the suspicious court, and was fortunate enough to receive, from a devoted brother officer, information of an arrest having been signed, within a minute or two after that document had passed under the hands of the minister. He had scarcely time to effect the necessary disguise of his person, and to pass through one of the gates of Paris, before the alarm was given generally, and ordered to be disseminated throughout the provinces. With the aid of an old passport, however, the date of which had been ingeniously altered, he contrived to evade all the posts on the route, until he arrived at L., where his confidence in his disguise failed him, and he resolved rather to trust to the fidelity and gratitude of his former subordinate soldier.

Le Chevalier Pierre Babat de la Bonbonnerie, and his brother Monsieur Louis Babat soon became extremely fashionable in L. Everybody thought it a duty to call on so accomplished a nobleman who, there was no doubt, had much influence at court; and the chevalier’s table soon “groaned,” as the fashionable novelists of the day term it, “under the weight of visiters’ cards.” The papas of all the respectable families in the town called on the new comers, and not a few mammas of unmarried daughters waited with impatience the visit of the fashionable brothers, to whose credit a vast deal of interest with the king was immediately set down.

It was far from being the interest of the colonel to keep himself secluded from society. Retirement would have created mystery, and mystery would have set all the officious mischief-mongers of L. writing voluminous dispatches to the minister of police in Paris; by which means his retreat would have been discovered, and his plans frustrated. He accordingly returned all the visits which were paid at his hotel, sometimes accompanied by his brother, but most frequently alone. In the meanwhile, the younger ladies of L. had, individually and collectively, lost their hearts to the young Monsieur Louis Babat. He was considered “charming, piquant, so delicate a figure, so sweet a voice, so elegant an every thing in fact.” The strangers were duly fêted, and amused in every variety of way which the ingenuity of the inhabitants could invent. The gentlemen became jealous as fast as the young ladies grew enamored of Monsieur L., and the peace and quiet of the town of L. was more disturbed by the arrival of monsieur le chevalier and his brother, than Paris had been by his departure.

Madame la Comtesse de Demibête, in particular, was very desirous to bring about a match between her daughter and Monsieur Louis. This young lady was, to say the truth, much superior to the generality of the lady butterflies who were so much attracted by the new light; but as she was enamored of a young merchant, on whose birth the proud mamma looked down with considerable disdain, and who was then on a voyage to the Indies, she was not likely to fall very readily into the plan of captivation which her mamma designed for the young nouveau venu. Between Mademoiselle Mathilde and Monsieur Louis, however, there appeared to grow up a sort of feeling which no one could understand. It was not love, for it seemed to be entirely divested of every thing like passion; it was not indifference, for there really seemed to exist a sort of affection between the two young people. All therefore that the scandal-mongers of L. could discover, was that they knew nothing about it, and that it was impossible to fathom the nature of the partiality which was so palpably evinced on both sides. Immediately, however, it was ascertained that there was a penchant on the part of Monsieur Louis for one of the young ladies, all the rest broke out into bitter enmity against the offending “boy,” (a great deal was meant to be conveyed by the use of this word) who could dare to choose one particular young lady from among so many who voluntarily offered. “And she, too,” as they one and all remarked, “by no means either pretty or witty, or even tolerably sensible.” It was at a large evening party given by M. Bassecour, a converted Buonapartist, (people were converted most miraculously after the abdication,) who preserved a sort of middle place between the aristocracy and the people, and whose company, consequently, consisted of a strange mêlée of both classes, that the first positive outbreak took place.

The chevalier and his brother had arrived late; and, in spite of all their attempts to appear at ease and cheerful, there was an evident disquiet and an unusual degree of thoughtfulness unwillingly expressed on their countenances. The rooms were filled when they arrived, and several dancers were enjoying their favorite exercise in excellent spirits. Such of the young ladies as were not dancing, immediately separated and repaired to unoccupied sofas, where they might leave spare seats beside them—a manœuvre which is often performed by young ladies when a favorite enters the room—for what reason, of course, they best know.

Monsieur Louis Babat looked rather wearily round the room for his friend Mathilde. She was dancing with the brother of the young merchant, much to the rage and chagrin of her aristocratic mamma. Shunning the too lively clatter of the ladies, Louis seated himself near two dowagers, who were warmly discussing the correct pattern of the new court-sleeve for evening dresses, hoping that they would be too much engrossed by their wordy combat to attend to him. He was doomed to disappointment. Madame Nezrouge no sooner discovered who her neighbor was than she immediately turned to the attack.

“Ah! Monsieur Louis, I am charmed to see you. You are late this evening—but you seem ill. Is any thing the matter?”

“Yes, madame,” answered Louis, “I have not been well to-day.”

“Ah!” returned the old lady, “I see how it is. You young men dissipate too much. You should marry, Monsieur Louis. You should look out to settle yourself in life: all young men should. But I do not wonder, indeed I cannot, at young men remaining single. The young ladies of the present day are not what they were when my lamented husband had the honor of carrying Louis the Sixteenth’s snuff-box. They are too bold, Monsieur Louis—much too bold. I am sure I preach enough to my girls. Many and many’s the time I say to them, ‘continue, my dear children, in your present course. Do not imitate the follies and vanities of your companions. The great aim of a woman’s life should be to make her husband happy.’ Thank Heaven my girls listen to my advice. They are not like the rest. I’m sure, my poor lamented husband, who had the honor of carrying the king’s snuffbox used often to say —”

“Who knows what to-morrow may bring forth!” murmured Louis, between his teeth, carried away from the babble of his neighbor by the intensity of his own feelings.

“Why, yes, Monsieur Louis,” continued the old lady, “he did say that, too, sometimes, though how you ever came to know it, I am sure I can’t tell—but what I was going to say —”

“Pardon me, madam, but Mademoiselle Mathilde is about to sing. Would you permit me to join her at the piano?”

“Oh! certainly, if you wish it,” returned Madame Nezrouge, bridling up. “Of course: oh! certainly.”

In fact, Mathilde had already taken her place at the piano. She had one of those sweet, dear, yet mellow voices which belong only to southern countries, and she sang with deep feeling, as well as artistic correctness. As Louis walked to the piano, his brother whispered in his ear, “Be firm, for God’s sake; he is here.”

The lip of Louis quivered as he prepared to turn the leaves of the page before Mathilde, and he was so excited that he did not hear one syllable of the following song.

THE MEMORY OF LOVE.

Though boundless seas between us roll

And keep our lips and eyes apart,

Thou art not absent! for my soul

Treasures thine image; and my heart

In every throb thy name repeats.

Ah! Mem’ry’s spell

Awakes too well

Its echoes as it beats.

Thou art not absent! every thought

Is thine alone! Thou art still with me;

For my mind’s eye, by mem’ry taught,

Looks back into my mind—ON THEE.

In sleep, a voice, ah! not unknown

My pillow seeks:

’Tis mem’ry speaks;

That voice! ’tis all thine own.

Before the song was concluded, a group of ladies had been formed in the centre of the room wondering what could possibly cause the singular agitation of Monsieur Louis. Some whispered that it was love—others that it was wine—and one or two audibly expressed a pious wish that it might not “prove something worse,” which many persons are ever ready to do whenever they happen to be profoundly ignorant.

As Louis gave his arm to Mathilde to lead her from the piano, his brother whispered in his ear, “Courage for one hour more—It is all right; Lapin has returned.”

A ray of joy shone over the pallid features of the youth, as he heard these words; yet he seemed to tremble. He had advanced as far as the group of ladies, with his brother on one arm and Mathilde on the other, when a sinister looking individual was seen to approach from the other end of the room. There appeared, for the moment, to be considerable excitement among the company, but every thing was as silent as the grave while the strange man marched slowly up to the chevalier.

“Du par le Roi,” said he, as he approached, “I arrest you, Colonel Desart, on a charge of treason against the king.”

“Colonel Desart, the Buonapartist!” shrieked the horrified ladies, in discordant chorus.

“The same, ladies, at your service,” replied the colonel, with that look of quiet and sarcastic disdain which annihilates impertinence.

“Du par le Roi,” continued the savage-looking individual, addressing Louis, “I arrest you Madame Louise Desart, née Plestours—”

The storm of voices here interrupted the officer.

“What! Madame Desart! a woman!”

“Yes, ladies,” returned the soft, sweet voice of the abashed lady, “I could not leave my husband in his danger.” She turned as she spoke, and fell fainting in the arms of the affectionate Mathilde, whose penetration had long since discovered the secret of her sex but whose prudence and good breeding had put a seal upon her lips on that subject.

“You are my prisoners,” said the dark man, turning towards the colonel, who was quietly putting his whiskers and black wig into the fire; “you will, if you please, prepare for instant departure to Paris.”

“Indeed,” coolly replied the colonel, “I shall not go to Paris to-night, nor yet to-morrow.”

“Monsieur, the colonel,” said his captor, “will forgive me if I remind him that I have with me an armed force, to sustain the authority of the king’s command.”

“Oh! do not disturb yourself at all on my account,” replied the colonel, “I dare say you have an armed force—so have I—what then?”

“Monsieur is jesting,” answered the officer. “You must really depart at once for Paris.”

“For what purpose, my good friend?” asked the colonel, with enviable naiveté.

“Parbleu! it is the king’s pleasure,” returned the other—who began to feel that he was being quizzed.

“But the king will not be in Paris when I arrive, Monsieur l’Officier. How then?”

“Oh! diable! you must wait till his majesty comes back—that’s all.”

“But he will never come back, Monsieur l’Officier.”

“Mille tonnéres! and why not?” thundered the officer, who was waxing wroth, in proportion as his prisoner become cooler. “And why will not the king come back?”

“Oh, I will tell you why, with all my heart,” replied the colonel, “and when you go back to Paris, which you will do by yourself all alone, presently, and even without your soldiers, you can retail the information in every quartier and faubourg. Here! stoop down and I’ll tell you quietly.”

The officer stooped as he was bidden, with a heart full of misgiving, while the colonel shouted with the voice of an officer commanding a regiment,

“Because THE EMPEROR is in France, and will be in L. in a few moments; and further, because his avant-garde is now passing through these streets on the way to the Tuilleries.”

He had scarcely concluded the last sentence, before a tremendous shout of “Vive l’Empereur,” was heard from the street. The officer turned and fled, as Lapin sprang into the room, threw up the window which overhung the street, and joined, with all his might, in the loud viva of joy which marked the unhappy return of Napoleon Buonaparte to the land which his valor had twice won for him.

Colonel and Madame Desart started for Paris early next morning, in the train of the emperor.