CHAPTER VII.
MY UNCLE ROLAND'S TALE.
"It was in Spain--no matter where or how--that it was my fortune to take
prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held,--a
lieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments that we
became intimate friends,--the most intimate friend I ever had, sister,
out of this dear circle. He was a rough soldier, whom the world had not
well treated; but he never railed at the world, and maintained that he
had had his deserts. Honor was his idol, and the sense of honor paid
him for the loss of all else.
"We were both at that time volunteers in a foreign service,--in that
worst of service, civil war,--he on one side, I the other, both,
perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had severally espoused. There was
something similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son--a
boy--who was all in life to him, next to his country and his duty. I
too had then such a son, though of fewer years." (The Captain paused an
instant; we exchanged glances, and a stifling sensation of pain and
suspense was felt by all his listeners.) "We were accustomed, brother,
to talk of these children, to picture their future, to compare our hopes
and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short time sufficed to
establish this confidence. My prisoner was sent to head-quarters, and
soon afterwards exchanged.
"We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired for my
old friend, and learned that he was living at R--, a few miles from the
capital. I went to visit him. I found his house empty and deserted.
That very day he had been led to prison, charged with a terrible crime.
I saw him in that prison, and from his own lips learned his story. His
son had been brought up, as he fondly believed, in the habits and
principles of honorable men, and having finished his education, came to
reside with him at R--. The young man was accustomed to go frequently
to Paris. A young Frenchman loves pleasure, sister; and pleasure is
found at Paris. The father thought it natural, and stripped his age of
some comforts to supply luxuries to the son's youth.
"Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend perceived that he was
robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted, he knew not how, nor
could guess by whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed
himself and watched. He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a false
key applied to the lock; he started forward, seized the felon, and
recognized his son. What should the father have done? I do not ask
you, sister! I ask these men: son and father, I ask you."
"Expelled him the house," cried I.
"Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch," said my father. "Nemo
repente turpissinus semper fait,--No man is wholly bad all at once."
"The father did as you would have advised, brother. He kept the youth;
he remonstrated with him: he did more,--he gave him the key of the
bureau. 'Take what I have to give,' said he; 'I would rather be a
beggar than know my son a thief.'"
"Right! And the youth repented, and became a good man?" exclaimed my
father.
Captain Roland shook his head. "The youth promised amendment, and
seemed penitent. He spoke of the temptations of Paris, the gaming-
table, and what not. He gave up his daily visits to the capital. He
seemed to apply to study. Shortly after this, the neighborhood was
alarmed by reports of night robberies on the road. Men, masked and
armed, plundered travellers, and even broke into houses.
"The police were on the alert. One night an old brother officer knocked
at my friend's door. It was late; the veteran (he was a cripple, by the
way, like myself,--strange coincidence!) was in bed. He came down in
haste, when his servant woke, and told him that his old friend, wounded
and bleeding, sought an asylum under his roof. The wound, however, was
slight. The guest had been attacked and robbed on the road. The next
morning the proper authority of the town was sent for. The plundered
man described his loss,--some billets of five hundred francs in a
pocketbook, on which was embroidered his name and coronet (he was a
vicomte). The guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon, the son
looked in. The guest started to see him; my friend noticed his
paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faintness, the guest retired to
his room, and sent for his host. 'My friend,' said he, 'can you do me a
favor? Go to the magistrate and recall the evidence I have given.'
"'Impossible,' said the host. 'What crotchet is this?'
"The guest shuddered. 'Peste!' said he, 'I do not wish in my old age to
be hard on others. Who knows how the robber may have been tempted, and
who knows what relations he may have,--honest men, whom his crime would
degrade forever! Good heavens! if detected, it is the galleys, the
galleys!'
"And what then? The robber knew what he braved. 'But did his father
know it?' cried the guest.
"A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms; he caught his friend by
the hand: 'You turned pale at my son's sight,--where did you ever see
him before? Speak!'
"'Last night on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. Call back my
evidence!'
"'You are mistaken,' said my friend, calmly. 'I saw my son in his bed,
and blessed him, before I went to my own.'
"'I will believe you,' said the guest; 'and never shall my hasty
suspicion pass my lips,--but call back the evidence.'
"The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father conversed with his
son on the subject of his studies; he followed him to his room, waited
till he was in bed, and was then about to retire, when the youth said,
'Father, you have forgotten your blessing.'
"The father went back, laid his hand on the boy's head and prayed. He
was credulous--fathers are so! He was persuaded that his friend had
been deceived. He retired to rest, and fell asleep. He woke suddenly
in the middle of the night, and felt (I here quote his words)--'I felt,'
said he, 'as if a voice had awakened me,--a voice that said, "Rise and
search." I rose at once, struck a light, and went to my son's room.
The door was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice no answer. I dared
not call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down the
stairs, I opened the back-door, I passed to the stables. My own horse
was there, not my son's. My horse neighed; it was old, like myself,--my
old charger at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow of
the wall by my son's door, and extinguished my light. I felt as if I
were a thief myself.'"
"Brother," interrupted my mother, under her breath; "speak in your own
words, not in this wretched father's. I know not why, but it would
shock me less."
The Captain nodded.
"Before daybreak, my friend heard the back-door open gently; a foot
ascended the stair, a key grated in the door of the room close at hand:
the father glided through the dark into that chamber behind his unseen
son.
"He heard the clink of the tinder-box; a light was struck; it spread
over the room, but he had time to place himself behind the window-
curtain which was close at hand. The figure before him stood a moment
or so motionless, and seemed to listen, for it turned to the right, to
the left, its visage covered with the black, hideous mask which is worn
in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed. Could that be his son's
face,--the son of a brave man? It was pale and ghastly with scoundrel
fears; the base drops stood on the brow; the eye was haggard and
bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands before him.
"The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, unlocked it,
opened a secret drawer, placed within it the contents of his pockets and
his frightful mask; the father approached softly, looked over his
shoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocketbook embroidered with his
friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, uncocked them
cautiously, and was about also to secrete them, when his father arrested
his arm. 'Robber, the use of these is yet to come!'
"The son's knees knocked together, an exclamation for mercy burst from
his lips; but when, recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves, he
perceived it was not the gripe of some hireling of the law, but a
father's hand that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knows
fear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, returned to
him.
"Tush, sir!' he said, 'waste not time in reproaches, for, I fear, the
gendarmes are on my track. It is well that you are here; you can swear
that I have spent the night at home. Unhand me, old man; I have these
witnesses still to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments wet and
dabbled with the mud of the roads. He had scarcely spoken when the
walls shook; there was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing
pavement without.
"'They come!' cried the son. 'Off, dotard! save your son from the
galleys.'
"'The galleys, the galleys!' said the father, staggering back; 'it is
true; he said--"the galleys!"'
"There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gendarmes surrounded the
house. 'Open, in the name of the law!' No answer came, no door was
opened. Some of the gendarmes rode to the rear of the house, in which
was placed the stable yard. From the window of the son's room the
father saw the sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy forms of the men-
hunters. He heard the clatter of arms as they swung themselves from
their horses. He heard a voice cry, 'Yes, this is the robber's gray
horse,--see, it still reeks with sweat!' And behind and in front, at
either door, again came the knocking, and again the shout, 'Open, in the
name of the law!'
"Then lights began to gleam from the casements of the neighboring
houses; then the space filled rapidly with curious wonderers startled
from their sleep: the world was astir, and the crowd came round to know
what crime or what shame had entered the old soldier's home.
"Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a fire-arm; and a minute
or so afterwards the front door was opened, and the soldier appeared.
"'Enter,' he said to the gendarmes: 'what would you?'
"'We seek a robber who is within your walls.'
"I know it; mount and find him: I will lead the way.'
"He ascended the stairs; he threw open his son's room: the officers of
justice poured in, and on the floor lay the robber's corpse.
"They looked at each other in amazement. 'Take what is left you,' said
the father. 'Take the dead man rescued from the galleys; take the
living man on whose hands rests the dead man's blood!'
"I was present at my friend's trial. The facts had become known
beforehand. He stood there with his gray hair, and his mutilated limbs,
and the deep scar on his visage, and the Cross of the Legion of Honor on
his breast; and when he had told his tale, he ended with these words: 'I
have saved the son whom I reared for France from a doom that would have
spared the life to brand it with disgrace. Is this a crime? I give you
my life in exchange for my son's disgrace. Does my country need a
victim? I have lived for my country's glory, and I can die contented to
satisfy its laws, sure that, if you blame me, you will not despise; sure
that the hands that give me to the headsman will scatter flowers over my
grave. Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round amongst a nation
of soldiers; and in the name of the star which glitters on my breast I
dare the fathers of France to condemn me!'
"They acquitted the soldier,--at least they gave a verdict answering to
what in our courts is called 'justifiable homicide.' A shout rose in the
court which no ceremonial voice could still; the crowd would have borne
him in triumph to his house, but his look repelled such vanities. To
his house he returned indeed; and the day afterwards they found him
dead, beside the cradle in which his first prayer had been breathed over
his sinless child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do you condemn that
man?"
