Chapter XIV (1)

Tom Murdock had no fixed purpose in anywhere he went after Winny Cavana left him discomfited upon the road. He wandered on past Kate Mulvey's, on toward Shanvilla, but not with any hope or wish to come {75} across Edward Lennon. His intentions of "dealing with him" were yet distant and undefined. What naturally occupied his thoughts was the humiliation he felt at Winny Cavana having refused him. Although he had complained to his father "that he did not think she was for him," yet upon a due consideration of his personal appearance, and his position in the country, he felt persuaded in his own mind that his father was right, and that nothing was required to secure success but to go boldly and straightforward to work. Tom had hinted to his father, although the old man had not observed it, or if so, had taken no notice of it, that there were more reasons than he was aware of for his wishing to secure Winny Cavana's ready money at all events; and his exclamation when his father spoke of only the interest, might have awakened him to the dread, at least, that there really was some cause, with which he was unacquainted, why he dwelt so much more on the subject of her fortune than the land. The fact was so. Tom Murdock was a worse young man than any one--except his immediate associates--was aware of. In addition to his other accomplishments, perhaps I should rather say his attributes, he possessed a degree of worldly cunning which would have sufficed to keep any four ordinary young men out of trouble. But he required it all, for he had four times more villany--not to answer for, for it was unknown, but on his conscience--than any young man of like age in the parish.

One great keeper of a secret--for the time being, at least--is plenty of money. With plenty of money you can keep people in the dark, or blind them with the brightness of the glare. You can keep them in the country, or you can send them out of it, as circumstances require. You can bribe people to be silent, or to tell lies, as you like. But a villain who has not plenty of money cannot thrive long in his villany. When his money fails, his character oozes out, until he becomes finally exposed.

Tom Murdock had practically learned some of the above truths by his experience in life, short as it was, better than anything he had learned at Rathcash national school. The later part of it was what he now feared, but did not wish to learn.

Tom could not have been in the habit of going to Dublin, to Armagh, and Sligo (no one knew in what capacity), three or four times a year, where he played cards and bet high, without money of his own; supposing even that his expenses of the road (which was shrewdly suspected) had been paid. He could not have sent half-a-dozen young _friends_ to America, and compromised scores of actions ere they came before a court of law, without money. He could not have kept a brace of greyhounds, and a race-mare, at Church's hotel in Carrick-on-Shannon, as "Mr. Marsden's," without money; and more money in all these cases, from the secrecy which was required, than almost the actual cost might involve. There were other smaller matters, too, which increased the necessity for Tom Murdock to be always in possession of some ready cash. This, from his position as heir to Rathcashmore, and heir presumptive, if not apparent, to Rathcash alongside of it, he had as yet found no difficulty in procuring upon his own personal security; and to do him justice, he had hitherto avoided mixing up his father's name or responsibility in any of his borrowing transactions. Then there was the usurious interest which these money-lenders, be they private or public, charge upon loans, to be added to Tom's liabilities. If he was pressed by Paul, he robbed Peter to pay him; and when (after long forbearance) he was pressed by Peter, he robbed Paul back again. Upon all these and such-like occasions, Winny Cavana's fortune, which he said would be paid down, was the promptest guarantee he could hold out for payment; for {76} ultimately, he said, they could not lose, as he must some day or other "pop into the old chap's shoes," and in the meantime he was paying the interest regularly.

Winny Cavana's instinct had not deceived her; but had she known one-half as much as some of Tom Murdock's bosom friends could tell her, she would have openly spurned him, and not have treated his advances with even the forced consideration she had done.

He wandered on now toward Shanvilla, without, as we have seen, any fixed purpose. Personally humiliated as he had been by Winny's refusal of him, his thoughts dwelt more upon the fact that he could no longer reckon upon her fortune to pay off the tormenting debts which were every day pressing more heavily upon him; for he could not but believe that her refusal of him would get abroad. The Peters had been robbed often enough, and they would now let the Pauls fight their battle the best way they could with Tom Murdock himself; they were safe now, and they would keep themselves so. They had told Tom this,--"not that they doubted him, but their money was now otherwise employed." Tom began to fear, therefore, that an exposure must soon break out.

How could he face his father, too? He would undoubtedly lay his failure to the score of his own impetuous and uncouth manner of seeking her favor; for he had often charged him with both, particularly toward Winny Cavana. One or two of his creditors had given up even the pretence of being civil, and had sworn "they would go to his father for payment, if not promptly settled with."

It was no great wonder if Tom wandered through the country with no fixed purpose, and finally arrived, tired and ill-humored, at his father's house.

The old man had missed him "from about the place" all the forenoon, and had naturally set down his absence to the right cause. He had been candid in his advice to his son, "to spake up bowldly, and at wanst, to Winny;" and he was sincere in his belief that she would "take him hoppin." This day, suspecting he was on the mission, he had "kep' himself starvin'," and delayed the dinner for his return. He had ordered Nancy Feehily to have "a young roast goose, an' a square of bacon, an' greens, for dinner agen misther Tom cem home." He anticipated "grand chuckling" over Tom's success, of which he made no more doubt than he did of his own existence.

"At last, Tom a wochal, you're cum," he said, as his son entered the door. "But where the sorra have you been? I think Winny's at home this betther nor two hours, for I seen her going in. Well, Tom, you devil! didn't I tell you how it id be?--_dhitidtch!_" he added, making an extraordinary noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and giving his son a poke in the ribs with his forefinger.

"No, but did not I tell you how it would be? There, father! that bubble's burst, and I'm sorry I ever made an _onshiough_ of myself."

"Faix, an', Tom, you must be an _onshiough_ if that bubble burst, unless it's what you blew it out yourself. Di ye mane to say you spoke to her plain, as I tould you to do, Tom avic?"

"As plain as the palm of my hand, father. I put the whole thing before her in the kindest and fondest manner ever a man spoke. I told her how my whole heart and soul was waiting for her this three or four years past--God forgive me for the lie."

"Amen, Tom, if it was one; but maybe it wasn't, man. You're vexed now, Tom agra; but it won't be so. I tell you she only wants to see if you'll folly her up afther she giving you one refusal. What did she say, agra?"

Here Nancy Feehily brought in the roast goose and square of bacon, with a dish of smoking "Brown's fancies" {77} in their jackets, and a check was given to the conversation. The old man, as he had said, had "kep' himself starvin'," and Tom could not keep himself from a like infirmity in his ramble through the country. He was not one of those who permitted a mental annoyance to produce a physical _spite_ in return; he did not, as they say, cut his nose to vex his face, nor quarrel with his bread and butter; so, between them, they did ample justice to Nancy Feehily's abilities as a cook.

"You don't mane to say she refused you, Tom?" said the old man, after the girl had left, and while he was waiting for his son to cut him another slice of bacon.

"She did, father; but let me alone about her now: I'll tell you no more until I make myself a rousing tumbler of punch after dinner. She shall not take away my appetite, at all events."

Nor did she. Tom never ate a better dinner in his life, and his father followed his example. Old Mick had taken the hint, and said no more upon the subject. There was nothing but helping of goose, and slices of bacon, and cutting large smiling potatoes through the middle, with a dangerous sound of the knife upon the cloth, until the meal was ended.

Then, when the things had been removed, and Tom had made his rouser to his satisfaction, and his father had done the same, Tom told him precisely what had taken place between him and Winny Cavana.

Old Murdock listened with an attentive stare until his son had told him all. He then put out his tongue and made another extraordinary sound, but very different from the one already alluded to; and exclaimed, "Bad luck to her impidence, say I!"

"And I say amen, father."

"Tell me, Tom, do you think that fellow Lennon is at the bottom of all this? Did you put that to her?"

"I did, father, and she was not a bit puzzled or flustrificated about him. She spoke of him free and easy; but she denied that there was ever a word between them but common civility."

"An' maybe it's the thruth, Tom avic. You'll find anyhow that she'll change her tune afther her father gets spakin' to her on the subject. He'll be as stout as a bull, Tom; I know he will. He tould me he'd never give in, and that he'd threaten to cut her fortun' off, and make over his interest in the land to the church for charitable purposes, if she tuck up the smallest notion of that pauper,--that scullion, he called him. Don't be down about it, Tom. They say that wan swallow makes no summer; an' I say, wan wild goose makes no winter. My advice to you now, Tom, is, to wait a while; don't be goin' out at all, neither here nor there for some time. I'll let on I don't know what can be the matther with you; an' you'll see she'll come an' be hoppin' round you like a pet robin."

"I hope you are right, father, but I don't think so; I never saw a woman more determined in my life--she took her oath."

"Pshaw, Tom, that's nothin'. Don't torment yourself about it now; mark my words, her father will soon bring her to her senses."

"I do not much care whether he does or does not as to herself; only for that six hundred pounds, the most of which I want badly. I would not envy any man that was tied to the like of her."

"Arra, Tom jewel, what would you want wid the most of six hundred pounds; sure if you got it itself, you oughtn't to touch a penny of it."

Tom had not intended to say what he had said; it slipped out in his vexation. But here his worldly cunning and self-possession came to his aid, and he replied.

"Perhaps not, indeed, father; but there is a spot of land not far off which will soon be in the market, I hear, and it would be no bad speculation to buy it. I think it would pay six or seven per cent interest." Tom knew his father's weakness for {78} a bit of land, and was ready enough.

"Oh, that's a horse of another color, Tom. Arra, where is it? I didn't hear of it."

"No matter now, father. I cannot get the money, so let me alone about it. I wish the d--l had the pair of them."

"Whist, whist, Tom avic; don't be talking in that way. Sure af it's a safe purchase for six per cent., the money might be to be had. Thanks be to God, we're not behouldin' to that hussey's dirty drib for money."

Here a new light dawned upon Tom. Might he not work a few hundreds out of his father in some way or other for this pretended purchase, and then say that it would not be sold after all; and that he had relodged the money, or lost it, or was robbed--or--or--something? The thought was too vague as yet to take any satisfactory shape; but the result upon his mind at the moment was, that his father was too wide awake to be dealt with in that way.

"Well, father," he said, "I shall be guided by your advice in this business still, although I have done no good by taking it to-day; but listen to me now, father."

"An' welcome, Tom. I like a young man to have a mind of his own, an' to be able to strike out a good plan; an' then, if my experience isn't able to back it up, why I spake plainly an' tell him what I think."

"My opinion is, father, that I ought to go away out of this place altogether for a while. You know I am not one that moping about the house and garden would answer at all. I must be out and going about, father, or I'd lose my senses."

This was well put, both in matter and manner, and the closing words told with crowning effect. Tom had said nothing but the fact; such were his disposition and habits that he had scarcely exaggerated the effects of a close confinement to the premises, while of sound bodily health.

"Begorra, Tom, what you say is the rale thruth; What would you think of going down to your aunt in Armagh for a start?"

"No use, father,--no use; I could be no better there than where I am. Dublin, father, or the continent, for a month or six weeks, might do me some good."

"Bedads, Tom, that id take a power of money, wouldn't it?"

"Whether you might think so or not, father, would depend upon what you thought my health and happiness would be worth; here I cannot and will not stay, that is one sure thing."

"Well, Tom, af she doesn't cum round in short, afther her father opens out upon her, we'll talk it over, and see what you would want; but my opinion is, you won't have to make yourself scarce at all--mind my words."

Here Tom fell into such a silent train of thought, that all further conversation was brought to an end. Old Mick believed his son to be really unhappy "about that impideut hussey;" and having made one or two ineffectual efforts "to rouse him," he left him to his meditations.

At the moment they were fixed upon a few of his father's closing words, "see what you'll want." "Want--want!" he repeated to himself. "A dam' sight more than you'll fork out, old cock."

Old Mick busied himself about the house, fidgeting in and out of the room--upstairs and downstairs; while Tom was silently arranging more than one programme of matters which must come off if he would save himself from ruin and disgrace.

His father had ceased to come into the room; indeed his step had not been heard through the house or on the stairs for some time, and it was evident he had gone to bed. But Tom sat for a full hour longer, with scarcely a change of position of even hand or foot. At length, with a sudden sort of snorting sigh, he stood up, stretched himself, with a loud and weary moan, and went to his room.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

-------- {79}

From The Dublin Review.

MADAME RÉCAMIER AND HER FRIENDS.

_Souvenirs et Correspondance tirés des Papiers de Madame Récamier,_ Paris: Michel Lévy Frères. 1859.

We took occasion in our number of last January to trace the fortunes of that distinguished lady who became consort of the greatest, though not the best, of the kings of France. We saw her rise from obscurity to eminence, without being giddy through her elevation; resisting the fascinations of a licentious court; imbibing celestial wisdom from hidden sources in proportion to the difficulties of her position; exerting great influence without abusing the delicate trust; and at length, bowed with age, retiring into the conventual seclusion of the establishment her piety had reared, and there breathing her last amid the love and admiration, the prayers and blessings, of a thousand friends.

We have now another portrait to hang beside that of Frances de Maintenon--the portrait of one who in some respects resembled her; who, rising, like her, from an inferior condition, was courted by an emperor, and betrothed, or all but betrothed, to a royal prince; withstood innumerable temptations at a period of boundless corruption; conciliated the esteem and friendship of the best and wisest men, and then glided into the vale of years through the peaceful shade of the Abbaye-aux-Bois. The first of these ladies was resplendent in talents, the second in beauty; the one excelled in tact, the other in sweetness and grace; the one in the sphere of politics and public life, the other in the realm of letters and the private circle. If Madame de Maintenon was the most admired, Madame Récamier was the most loved. Each appeared under a sort of disguise, for one spoke and acted as if she were not the wife of her own husband, and the other as if she were the wife of him who was her husband only in name. Both have had violent detractors; both are best known by their letters; and thus, where they agreed and where they differed, they remind us of each other. Of both France is proud, and both, as years pass on, are rising into purer and brighter fame. At the same time it can by no means be said of Madame Récamier, as it may most truly of Madame de Maintenon, that religion was the one animating principle of her life; yet the facts which we have to recount will show--not, indeed, that religion supplied her with the main ends of her existence, but that it enabled her in a corrupt age to follow the objects of her choice in habitual submission to God's actual commandments.

Julie Bernard, the subject of the present memoir, was born at Lyons, on the 4th of December, 1777. Her father, a notary of that city, was remarkable for his handsome face and fine figure, and Madame Bernard was a noted beauty. She had a passion for show, and during the long illness which ended in her death in 1807, found her chief amusement in dress and ornaments. When Julie was seven years old, her father was appointed to a lucrative post in Paris, and left his little daughter at Villefranche, under the care of an aunt. Here the first of her numberless admirers, a boy of her own age, made a deep impression on her susceptible mind, and here, too, she received her earliest education in the convent of La Déserte. The memory of that hallowed spot, its clouds of incense, its processions in the garden, its hymns and flowers, abode with her, {80} she said, through life like a sweet dream, and to the lessons there taught she ascribed her retention of the faith amid the host of sceptical opinions she encountered in after years. It was not without regret and tears that she bade farewell to the abbess and sisters, and turned her face toward Paris and the attractions of her parents' home. Nothing but accomplishments were thought of to complete her education. The brilliant capital was to supersede the "Déserte" in her affections, and her mother took great pains to make Juliette as frivolous as herself. Her chief attention was given to music, she was taught to play the harp and piano by the first artists, and took lessons in singing from Boïeldieu. This was a real gain, though in a different way from that which was intended. We shall see further on how the skill thus acquired was afterward employed in the service of religion, and how the habit of playing pathetic airs and pieces soothed many a sad moment when she was old and blind.

Her first contact with royalty was by accident. Her mother had taken her to see a grand banquet at Versailles, to which, as in the days of Louis XIV., the public were admitted as spectators. Juliette was very beautiful, and the queen, struck by her appearance, sent one of her ladies to ask that she might retire with the royal family. Madame Royale was just of the same age as Juliette, and the two children were measured together. Madame Royale also was a beauty, and not over-pleased, it seems, by this close comparison with a girl taken out of a crowd. How little could either foresee the strange fortunes that awaited the other!

Madame Bernard, with her love of display, took a pride also in gathering clever men around her. Laharpe, Lemontey, Barrère, and other members of the legislative assembly, frequented her drawing-room, and M. Jacques Récamier, an eminent banker of Paris, and son of a merchant at Lyons, was a constant guest. His character was easy and jovial; he wrote capital letters, spouted Latin, made plenty of money, spent it fast, and was often the dupe of his generosity and good humor. He had always been kind to Juliette, and had given her heaps of playthings. When, therefore, in 1793, he asked her hand in marriage, she consented without any repugnance, though Madame Bernard explained to her the inconveniences which might arise from their disparity of age, habits, and tastes--M. Récamier being forty-two and Juliette only fifteen. The wedding took place; but their union is a mystery which has never been solved with certainty. To her nominal husband she was never anything but a daughter. Her niece, Madame Lenormant, says she can only attest the fact, which was well known to all intimate friends, but that she is not bound (_chargée_) to explain it. Madame M----, another biographer, believes, as did many beside, that she was in reality M. Récamier's daughter; that, living, as every one did during the reign of terror, in fear of the guillotine, he wished to be able to leave her his fortune in case of his death, and, in the meantime, to place her in a splendid position; that Madame Récamier, made aware of her real parentage, would of course be the last to reveal and publish her mother's shame; and that this story, carefully borne in mind, explains all the anomalies of her life.

To this strange alliance, however, is due the formation of the most remarkable literary salon of the present age. It represented more perfectly than any other those of the Hôtel Rambouillet and of Madame de Sablé in the seventeenth century; of Madame Geoffrin, Madame d'Houdetot, and Madame Suard, in the eighteenth; [Footnote 5] and it surpassed in solid attractions those of Madame de Staël at Coppet, and of Madame d'Albany of {81} Florence, of which it was the contemporary. She was herself its life, and diffused over it a charm no biographer can seize. So young and fair, so fascinating yet so innocent, she riveted every gaze, and attracted all hearts without yielding to any. Like the coloring of a landscape which changes every hour, she defied description, and found no adequate reflex save in the fond esteem and faithful memory of those who knew her. Yet her nearest and dearest friends felt that she was above them; and it might be said of her, as Saint-Simon said of the Duchess de Bourgogne, that she walked like a goddess on clouds. Her beauty made her popular, and she was talked of everywhere; for the Parisians at this time, like refined pagans, affected the worship of beauty under every form. She seemed, therefore, by general consent, to have a natural mission to restore society, which a series of revolutions had completely disorganized, and her power of drawing people together and harmonizing what party politics had unstrung, became more apparent every day. By birth she belonged to the people, by tastes and manners to the aristocracy, and had thus a double hold over those who, with republican principles, were fast returning to early associations of rank and order.

[Footnote 5: _"Causeries du Lundi,"_ par Sainte-Beuve. Tome i, pp.
114, 115.]

It was a happy day when the churches were re-opened in Paris, and the soft swelling notes of the _O Salutaris Hostia_ filled the crowded fanes once more. It was as the paean of the faithful over the scattered army of unbelief. Madame Récamier was in request. She held the plate for some charitable object at Saint-Roch, and collected the extraordinary sum of 20,000f. The two gentlemen who attended her could scarcely cleave a way for her through the crowd. People mounted on chairs, on pillars, and the altars of the side chapels, to see her. In these days, dancing was her delight. She was the first to enter the ball-room, and the last to quit it. But this did not last long. She soon gave up the shawl-dance, for which she was famous, though nothing could be more correct and picturesque than the movements she executed while, with a long scarf in her hands, she made it by turns a sash, a veil, and a drapery--drooping, fluctuating, gliding, attitudinizing, with matchless taste. Her reign was absolute. In the promenades of Longchamps, no carriage was watched like hers; and every voice pronounced her the fairest.

Twice only in her life did she meet Bonaparte, and to most persons in her position and at that period those moments would have proved fatal. His eye was as keen for female charms as for weak points in the enemy's line. He saw her first in 1797, during a triumphal fête given at the Luxembourg palace in his honor. He had just returned from his marvellous campaign in Italy and genius was reaping the laurels too seldom bestowed on solid worth. Madame Récamier was not insensible to his military prowess. She stood up to observe his features more plainly, and a long murmur of admiration filled the hall. The young conqueror turned his head impatiently. Who dared to divide public attention with the hero of Castiglione and Rivoli? He darted a harsh glance at his rival, and she sank into her seat. But the beautiful vision rested in his memory. He saw her once again, about two years later, and spoke with her. It was at a banquet given by his brother Lucien, then minister of the interior. Madame Récamier as usual was all in white, with a necklace and bracelets of pearls. The First Consul paid her marked attention, and his words, though insignificant in themselves, meant more than met the ear. His manners, however, were simple and pleasing, and he held a little girl of four years old, his niece, by the hand. He chid Madame Récamier for not sitting next him at dinner, fixed his gaze on her during the music, sent Fouché to express to her his admiring regard, and told her himself that he {82} should like to visit her at Clichy. But Juliette, though respectful, was discreet. Time flowed on; Napoleon became emperor, and from the giddy height of the imperial throne bethought him of the incomparable lady in white. He had a double conquest to make. Her château was the resort of emigrant nobles who had returned to France, and whose sympathies were all with the past. To break up her circle, to gain her over to his interests, to enhance by her presence the splendor of his dissolute court, were objects well worthy of his plotting, ambitious, and unscrupulous nature. Fouché was again employed as tempter. He remonstrated with her on the species of opposition to the emperor's policy which was fostered in her salons, but found her little disposed to make concessions, or avow any liking for the despot. His genius and exploits, she admitted, had dazzled her at first, but her sentiments had entirely changed since her friends had been persecuted, the Duc d'Enghein put to death, and Madame de Staël driven into exile. In spite of these frank avowals, which were equally respectful and fearless, Fouché persisted in his design, and in the park around Madame Récamier's elegant retreat, urged her, in the emperor's name, to accept the post of _dame du palais_ to the empress. His majesty had never yet found a woman worthy of him, and it was impossible to say how deep might be his affection for one like her; how wholesome an influence she might exert over him; what services she might render to the oppressed of all classes; and how much she might "enlighten the emperor's religion!" Madame Murat, to her shame, seconded these proposals, and expressed her earnest desire that Madame Récamier should be attached to her household, which was now put on the same footing as that of the empress. To these reiterated advances, Madame Récamier returned the most decided refusal, alleging, by way of courtesy, her love of independence as the cause. At last, foiled and irritated, Fouché--the Mephistopheles of the piece--quitted Clichy, never to return.

The consular episode in Madame Récamier's life has made us anticipate some important events. We must return to the first years of her marriage. It was in 1798 that some negotiations between her husband and M. Necker, the ex-minister of Louis XVI., brought her in contact with that statesman's celebrated daughter, Madame de Staël. At their first interview a sympathy sprung up between the two ladies, which ended in a lasting friendship. Madame Récamier lived in her friends, and her circle was a host ever increasing, for she always talked much and fondly of the friends of former years. She could say, like the Cid, "five hundred of my friends." Yet she had her degrees of attachment. They were, to use the beautiful simile of Hafiz, like the pearls of a necklace, and she the silken cord on which they lay. The chief of this favored circle were four--Madame de Staël among womankind, and for the rest Chateaubriand, Ballanche, and Montmorency.

M. Necker's hôtel in the Rue du Mont-Blanc having been purchased by M. Récamier, no cost was spared in its decoration. It was a model of elegance, and every object of furniture down to the minutest ornament was designed and executed expressly for it. Here the opulent husband was installed, while the fair hostess held her court at the château of Clichy. M. Récamier dined with her daily, and in the evening returned to Paris. No political distinction prevailed in her assemblies, but the restored emigrants were peculiarly welcome. Like Madame de Staël, Chateaubriand, and almost all reflective persons in our age, she thought monarchy had better be limited by a parliament than, as Talleyrand said, by assassination. Yet revolutionary generals and military dukes gathered round her, side by side with the Duc de Guignes, Adrien and {83} Mathieu de Montmorency, and other representatives of the fallen aristocracy. In her presence they forgot their difference at least for awhile, and lost insensibly the asperity of party prejudice.

Duc Mathieu de Montmorency was Madame Récamier's senior by seventeen years. He had served in America in the regiment of Anvergne, of which his father was colonel, and on his return to France abandoned himself to all the pleasures and fashions of the world. His residence in the land of Penn and Washington had imbued him with republican notions, which he shared with a clique of young noblemen like himself. Such persons, as is well known, were among the earliest victims of the revolution they hurried on. Duc Mathieu emigrated in 1792, and soon afterward learned in Switzerland that his brother, the Abbé de Laval, whom he tenderly loved, had been beheaded. Remorse filled his breast, and drove him almost to madness. He charged himself with his brother's death. It was he who had proposed in the states general the abolition of the privileges of nobility, approved the sequestration of church property, and strengthened the hands of Mirabeau and the power of that assembly which paved the way for regicide and the reign of terror. Madame de Staël was his intimate friend. She had shared his political enthusiasm, and did all in her power to soothe him. But religion alone could pour balm into his smarting wounds. His conversion was complete and lasting. The impetuous, seductive, and frivolous young man became known to all as a fervent and strict Christian. Sainte-Beuve speaks of him as a "saint." Extreme delicacy of language indicated the inward discipline he underwent; while the warmth of his feelings and the solidity of his judgment inspired at the same time confidence and regard. His friendship for Madame de Staël continued, though their religious convictions differed, and he was alive to the imperfections of her character. He hoped one day to see her triumph over herself, and his solicitude for Madame Récamier was equal, though in another way. Over her he watched continually like a loving parent. He trembled lest she should at last fall a victim to the gay world which so much admired her, and which she sought to please. To shine without sinning is difficult indeed. Montmorency's letters prove the depth and purity of his affection. His intimacy with his _amiable amie_ lasted unbroken during seven-and-twenty years, and ended only with his death.

Montmorency's death was the fitting sequel of a holy and useful life. It happened in 1826. He had recently been elected one of the forty of the French Academy, and had also been appointed governor to the Duc de Bordeaux, the grandson and heir of Charles X. He had gone to the church of St. Thomas d'Aquin on Good Friday, apparently in perfect health, and was kneeling before the altar and the "faithful cross on which the world's salvation hung," when his head bowed lower, and in a moment the bitterness of death was past.

Laharpe was another distinguished man to be numbered among the lovers of Madame Récamier's society. He had known her from a child, and when his exquisite taste in literature had obtained for him the title of the French with his regard was not lessened for one whose reputation was as flourishing as his own. He passed weeks at Clichy, and when he reopened his course of lectures on French literature at the Atheneum she had a place reserved for her near his chair. The letters she received from him are equally affectionate and respectful. He too had been converted through the excesses of that revolution which he had in the first instance encouraged. After suffering imprisonment in 1794, his ideas and conduct underwent a total change, and he resolved to devote his pen for the rest of his days to the service of religion. {84} The energy with which he denounced "philosophers" and demagogues drew upon him proscription, and it was only by concealing himself that he escaped being transported. Of all revolutions, that of France in the last century has, by the horror it excited and the reaction it produced, tended more than any other to consolidate monarchy, discredit scepticism, and promote the salvation of souls. It is a beacon-fire kindled to warn nations of the rocks and shoals--the faults of rule and the crimes of misrule--by which society may suddenly be broken up and civilization retarded.

Montmorency was a statesman, Laharpe a man of letters; let us now turn to another friend of Madame Récamier's, who from a private soldier rose to be a king and leave a dynasty behind him. This was Bernadotte. In 1802, M. Bernard was postmaster-general, and suspected of complicity in a royalist correspondence that menaced the government. Madame Récamier was one day entertaining a few guests at dinner, and Eliza Bonaparte, afterward Grand Duchess of Tuscany, was present by her own invitation. On rising from table a note was placed in the hands of the hostess announcing the arrest and imprisonment of M. Bernard. To whom should she have recourse at such a moment but to the First Consul's sister? She must see him, she said, that very evening. Would Madame Bacciocchi procure her an interview? The princess was cold. She would advise Madame Récamier to see Fouché first. "And where shall I find you again, madam, if I do not succeed?" asked Madame Récamier. "At the Théâtre Français," was the reply; "in my box with my sister."

Nothing could be gained from Fouché except the alarming information that the affair was a very serious one, and that unless Madame Récamier could see the First Consul that night it would be too late. In the utmost consternation she drove to the Théâtre to remind Madame Bacciochi of her promise. "My father is lost," she said, "unless I can speak with the First Consul to-night." "Well, wait till the tragedy is over," replied the princess, with an air of indifference, "and then I shall be at your service." Happily there was one in the box whose dark eyes, fixed on the agonized daughter, expressed clearly the interest he felt in her position. He leant forward, and explaining to the princess that Madame Récamier appeared quite ill, offered to conduct her to the chief of the government. Madame Bacciocchi readily assented, and gladly resigned the suppliant to Bernadotte's charge. Again and again he promised to obtain that the proceedings against M. Bernard should be stopped, and repaired immediately to the Tuileries. The same night he returned to Madame Récamier, who was counting the moments till he re-appeared. His suit had been successful, and he soon after procured the prisoner's release. Madame Récamier accompanied him to the Temple on the day M. Bernard was delivered. He was deprived of his post, for, though pardoned, he had undoubtedly been guilty of a treasonable correspondence with the _Chouans_.

This was the foundation of Bernadotte's friendship with Madame Récamier. "Neither time," he wrote to her, when adopted by Charles XIII., as his son and heir--"neither time nor northern ice will ever cool my regard for you." He had many noble qualities, and did much for Sweden. We could forgive him for joining the coalition against France, if he had not embraced Lutheranism for the sake of a crown.

During the short peace of Amiens, in 1802, Madame Récamier visited England, where she received the kindest attentions from the Duchess of Devonshire, Lord Douglas, the Prince of Wales, and the Duc d'Orleans, afterward king of the French. Those who can refer to the English newspapers of that year will find that {85} all the movements of the beautiful stranger were regularly gazetted.

But where is Madame de Staël? In the autumn of 1803 she was exiled by Bonaparte, who feared her talents and disliked her politics. As the daughter of Necker and the friend of limited monarchy, she was particularly obnoxious to one who represented both democracy and absolutism. Madame Récamier, with her habitual generosity, offered her an asylum at Clichy, which she accepted, under the impression that her further removal from Paris would not be insisted on. Junot, afterward the Duc d'Abrantes, their mutual friend, interested himself in her behalf, but without success. Her sentence of exile was confirmed; she was not to approach within forty leagues of the capital. So she wandered through Germany, and collected materials for her "_Allemagne_" and "_Dix années d'Exil._" At Weimar she studied German literature under Goethe, Wieland, and Schiller, and in 1805 held her court at Coppet in the Canton de Vaud. Here occurred, as we shall presently see, one of the most singular episodes in Madame Récamier's life. She, with Madame de Staël in Switzerland, and Madame d'Albany in Florence, divided the empire of literary salons on the continent; and each of these ladies felt in turn the weight of the despot of Europe's sceptre. [Footnote 6] In 1810 the writer of "_Corinne_" became the guest of Mathieu de Montmorency, near Blois, and within the prescribed distance from Paris. In the château of Catherine de Medici she collected round her a few friends, who were fearless of annoyance and exile. But her work on Germany abounded with allusions to the imperial police. The whole edition of ten thousand copies was seized, and she received an order from the Duc de Rovigo to return immediately to Switzerland Madame Récamier, faithful and courageous, followed her, though timid advisers prophesied that no good would come of such imprudence. She stayed there only a day and a half, and then pursued her way in haste to Paris. But the sentence of exile had already gone forth against her. The calm and religious Duke Mathieu had just before expiated in like manner the crime of visiting the illustrious exile. Her book on Germany did not contain a line directly against the emperor; but it was enough that the authoress's heart beat with the pulses of rational freedom, and the Corsican's tyranny became minute in proportion to the territory over which it spread. Thus the ladies, who so loved each other, were not only exiled, but separated. Rivers rolled and Alps rose between them; lest, perchance, they should combine their elegant and harmless pursuits.

[Footnote 6: "_Comtesse d'Albany_," par M. St. Réne Taillandier, p.
229.]

The limits allowed us in this article do not admit of our tracing the events of Madame Récamier's life in strict chronological order, and bringing out by degrees the character and history of her several friends. Each of them in turn will lead us away from the main thread of our story, and we hope that our readers will follow us with indulgence when we are obliged to take it up again rather awkwardly. We cannot do otherwise than mass together many things which had better be kept apart.

One day, in the autumn of 1806, Monsieur Récamier brought some dismal news to Clichy. The financial condition of Spain and her colonies, combined with other untoward events, had placed his bank in such jeopardy that, unless the government could be induced to advance him £40,000 on good security, he must stop payment within two days. A large party had been invited to dinner; and the hostess, suppressing her emotions with extraordinary self-command, did the honors of her house in a manner calculated to obviate alarm. It was a golden opportunity for imperial vengeance, and it was not lost. All aid from the Bank of France was {86} refused, and the much-envied Maison Récamier was made over, with all its liabilities, to the hands of its creditors. So cruel a reverse was enough to try the fortitude of the most Christian. Nor was Madame Récamier found wanting in that heroic quality. Indeed, there are few women who, taken all in all, would serve better to enforce Eliza Famham's ingenious arguments for the superiority of her sex. [Footnote 7] While her husband's spirit was almost broken under the blow, she calmly, if not cheerfully, sold her last jewel, and occupied a small apartment on the ground floor of her splendid mansion. The rest of the house was let to Prince Pignatelli, and ultimately sold. The French have their faults--great faults; what nation has not?--but let us do them the justice to say that in their friendships they are faithful. The poor wife of the ruined banker was as much honored and courted by them in her adversity as she had been when surrounded with every luxury and every facility for hospitable entertainments. Let those who would form an idea of the sympathy expressed by her friends read that touching letter of Madame de Staël which Chateaubriand has preserved. [Footnote 8] The opulent and gay, the learned, the brilliant, the serious, came in troops to that garden of the hotel in the Rue du Mont Blanc, where the unsullied and queenly rose was bending beneath the storm. The jealous emperor, at the head of his legions in Germany, heard of the interest she excited; for Junot, just returned from Paris, could not refrain from reporting at length what he had seen. But Napoleon interrupted him with impatience, saying, "The widow of a field-marshal of France, killed on the battle-plain, would not receive such honors!" And why should she? Is there no virtue but that of valor? Are there no conquests but those of the sword?

[Footnote 7: "Woman and Her Era." 2 vols. New York.]

[Footnote 8: In the "_Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe._"]

The trial which Juliette bore so patiently was fatal to her mother. Madame Bernard's health had long been declining; laid on a couch, and elegantly attired, she received visits daily; but her strength gave way altogether when her daughter fell from her high estate. She little knew that Madame Récamier was on the very point of having a royal prince for her suitor. Only three months after the failure of the bank Madame Bernard passed away, deeply lamented by her loving daughter, whom filial piety made blind or indulgent to her imperfections.

Prince Augustus of Prussia was a nephew of Frederick the Great. Chivalrous, brave, and handsome, he united very ardent feelings with candor, loyalty, and love, of his country. He had, in October, 1806, been made prisoner at the battle of Saalfeld, where his brother, Prince Louis, had fallen fighting at his side. The mourning he still wore added to his dignity, and the society and scenery in the midst of which Madame Récamier first met him, deepened the charm of his presence and devoted attentions.

It was in 1807, on the banks of the lake of Geneva, hallowed to the thoughtful mind by so many historic associations, and encircled by all the gorgeous loveliness of which nature is so lavish in the valleys of the Alps. There in the château of Madame de Staël, Juliette listened during three months to his earnest conversation, and heard him propose that she should be his bride. Her marriage with M. Récamier presented no real difficulty; it was a civil marriage only; the peculiar case was one in which the Catholic Church admits of declaration of nullity; and for which, in Protestant Germany, legal divorce could very easily be obtained. Madame de Staël's imagination was kindled by this romantic incident, and she did not fail to second the prince's suit. Juliette herself was fully alive to the honors that were proposed her. It was no impoverished refugee that sought her hand. Though a prisoner {87} for the moment, he would, doubtless, soon be set at liberty, and he was as proud as any of his exalted rank. Yielding, therefore, to the sentiments he inspired, Madame Récamier wrote to her husband to ask his consent to a separation. This he could not refuse; but, while granting it, he seems to have appealed to her feelings with a degree of earnestness which profoundly touched her heart. He had, he said, been her friend from childhood; and, if she must form another union, he trusted it would not take place in Paris, nor even in France. His letter turned the current of her desires. She thought of his long kindness, his age, his misfortune, and resolved not to abandon him. Religious considerations may also have weighed with her, for Prince Augustus did not hold the true faith. He had, moreover, two natural daughters, the countesses of Waldenburg, and this circumstance also may have indisposed her to the match. [Footnote 9] He had, as she once said, many fancies. Would a morganatic marriage bind his wandering heart, or could she endure the pain of being expatriated for ever? They parted without any definite engagement, but he repaired to Berlin to obtain his family's consent. Madame Récamier returned to Paris; and, though she declined the honor of his hand on the ground of her responding imperfectly to his affection, she sent him her portrait, which he treasured till the day of his death. A ring which she also gave him was buried with him, and they never ceased while on earth to correspond in terms of the warmest friendship. In 1815 the prince entered Paris with the victorious legions of allied Europe, having written to his friend from every city that he entered; and in 1825 they had their last interview in the Abbaye-aux-Bois.

[Footnote 9: "Madame Récamier," by Madame M----]

We must now follow her into exile. It was in the latter part of 1811 that she took up her abode in the dreary town of Châlons-sur-Marne, which happened to be just as far from Paris as she was required to live, and no further. The prefect was an amiable man, and retained his post during forty years, enjoying the confidence of each government in succession. But that which alleviated most the dulness of Châlons was its neighborhood to many beloved friends, particularly Montmorency. In June, 1812, however, she quitted it for Lyons, being unwilling to compromise those who were most ready to console her in exile. Many a château round had claimed the happiness of entertaining her; but to be kind to those who are suspected is always to draw suspicion on one's self. Renouncing many delights within her reach, she had sought one of the purest in playing the organ in the parish church, both during the week and on Sundays at high mass and vespers. She did the same at Albano during her stay there in the ensuing year.

Italy, and above all Rome, attracts sooner or later whatever is most cultivated in mind and taste. Thither, in 1813, Madame Récamier turned her steps. She was attended by her niece and her maid. Montmorency accompanied her as far as Chambery, and her carriage was well supplied with books, which M. Ballanche had selected to beguile the tedium of the way. This gentleman was the son of a printer at Lyons, and his genius became his fortune. His prose writings were considered a model of style, and ultimately obtained him a place in the French Academy. Neglecting subjects of the day, he uniformly indulged his fondness for abstract speculation, and in several works ingeniously set forth his ideas on the progress of mankind through alternate periods of revival and decay. [Footnote 10] He was profoundly Christian at heart, but coupled his belief in the fall and redemption with peculiar notions respecting human perfectibility.

[Footnote 10: "_Institutions Sociales,_" 1818. "_Palingénésis
Sociale._" 1830]