Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 10

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A bugler, thirteen years of age, and about three feet high, a veritable “Child of the Regiment,” was blowing “The Assembly” for the Grey Musketeers with a vigour that made itself heard through the adjoining Faubourg.

The miniature soldier, who had already smelt powder, strutted and swelled like a bantam-cock. His plumage, too, was nearly as gorgeous, and he seemed more than satisfied with himself and his advantages. In no other country, perhaps, could a combination so ridiculous, yet so admirable, have been found as in this union of innocence and precocity; this simplicity of the child, underlying the bearing of a giant, the courage of a hero, and the coquetry of a girl.

Ten minutes precisely were allowed by the regulations of the late king between the mustering call and the “fall-in,” or final summons for the men to take their places in the ranks.

The Musketeers lounged and straggled over their parade-ground, laughing, chatting, bantering each other; fastening here a buckle, there a shoulder-strap; humming snatches of bivouac songs, fixing flints, adjusting belts, and pulling their long moustaches, as they conversed, disrespectfully enough it must be admitted, in hoarse, short murmurs of Vendôme, Villeroy, Staremberg, Prince Eugène, Malbrook, the great military authorities of the day, and how old Turenne would have arranged them one and all.

The Grey Musketeers were so called from their uniform, which, except for its sober hue, shone as splendid as was compatible with the possibility of manœuvring. The men were all veterans; that is to say, had fought through one or more campaigns, so that many a young, delicate face in the ranks was seamed and scarred by the shot and shell of the enemy. The majority, however, were grim, and grey, and bronzed; men who could eat ammunition-bread and suttlers’ beef without fear of colic; who could sleep round a bivouac fire, and rise refreshed and ready to be killed; who had looked death in the face and laughed at him in a score of fields.

A large proportion were of noble birth, and all were at home in the drawing-room, the refinements and delicate airs of which it was their affectation to carry with them under fire. They could be rough and outspoken enough, jesting with each other over the wine-cup, or arguing as now while waiting for parade; but put them before an enemy, the nearer the better, and they became lambs—ladies—perfect dancing-masters in the postures and graces they assumed. If the baggage was not too far in the rear, they dressed and scented themselves for a battle as for a ball. They flourished lace handkerchiefs, wore white gloves, and took snuff from gold boxes in the act of advancing to charge a column or to storm a battery. Marlborough’s grenadiers had many a tussle with them, and loved them dearly. “Close in, Jack,” these honest fellows would say to each other, when they saw the laced hats, with their jaunty grey cockades, advancing through the smoke. “There’ll be wigs on the green now—here’s the Dandies a-coming!”

And in good truth, ere the Dandies and they parted, many a comely head was down to rise no more.

There were several companies of these picked troops, distinguished by the different colours of their uniforms. It was their pride to vie with each other in daring, as in extravagance and dissipation. If a post were unusually formidable, a battery in a peculiarly strong position, one or other of these companies, black, red, or grey, would entreat permission to storm it. The Grey Musketeers had of late esteemed themselves very fortunate in opportunities for leaving half their number dead on the field.

They were commanded by the young officer whose acquaintance Madame de Montmirail made during the stag-hunt at Fontainebleau. Captain George, as he was called, had obtained this enviable post, no less by skill and conspicuous bravery, than by great good luck, and perhaps, though last not least, by an affection of coolness and danger, so exaggerated as to be sublime while it was ridiculous.

The little bugler was waiting for him now. When the ten minutes should have elapsed, and the silver lace on the Captain’s uniform come gleaming round the corner, he was prepared to blow his heroic soul into the mouthpiece of his instrument.

Meanwhile he stood aloof from his comrades. He looked so much taller thus than when oppressed by comparison with those full-grown warriors.

The men were grouped about in knots, talking idly enough on indifferent subjects. Presently the majority gathered round a fresh arrival—a tall, forbidding-looking soldier, with iron-grey moustaches that nearly reached his elbows—who seemed to have some important news to communicate. As the circle of his listeners increased, there was obviously a growing interest and excitement in his intelligence.

“Who is it?” panted one, hurrying up.

“Killed?” asked another, tightening his sword-belt and twisting his moustaches fiercely to his eyes.

“It’s a credit to the bourgeois!” “It’s a disgrace to the corps!” exclaimed a couple in a breath; while, “Tell us all about it, Bras-de-Fer!” from half-a-dozen eager voices at once, served to hush the noisy assemblage into comparative silence.

Bras-de-Fer was nothing loth. A pompous old soldier, more of a martinet and less of a dandy perhaps than most of his audience, he loved, above all things, to hear himself speak. He was a notorious duellist, moreover, and a formidable swordsman, whence the nickname by which he was known among his comrades. He entered on his recital with all the zest of a professor.

“I was sitting,” said he, with an air of grave superiority, “immediately in front of the coffee-house, Louis-Quatorze, a little after watch-setting. I was improving my knowledge of my profession by studying the combinations in a game of dominoes. By myself, Adolphe? Yes—right hand against left. Yet not altogether by myself, for I had a bottle of great Bordeaux wine—there is nothing to laugh at, gentlemen—on the table in my front. Flanconnade had just entered, and called for a measure of lemonade, when a street-boy began singing a foolish song about the Regent, with a jingle of ‘Tra-la-la,’ ‘Débonnaire,’ and some rubbish of that kind. Now this poor Flanconnade, you remember, comrades, never was a great admirer of the Regent. He used to say we Musketeers of the Guard owed allegiance, first to the young king, then to the Duc du Maine, lastly to the Marshal de Villeroy, and that we should take our orders only from those three.

“So we do! So we should!” interrupted a dozen voices. But Bras-de-Fer, raising a brown, sinewy hand, imposed silence by the gesture, and continued.

“Flanconnade, therefore, was displeased at the air of gasconnade with which the urchin sang his song. ‘What! thou, too, art a little breechless roué of the Regent!’ said he, turning round from his drink, and applying a kick that sent the boy howling across the street. There was an outcry directly amongst the cuckold citizens in the coffee-house; half of them, I have no doubt, were grocers and haberdashers in the Regent’s employ. ‘Shame! shame!’ they exclaimed. ‘Down with the bully!’ ‘Long live the Grey Musketeers!’ I was up, and had put on my hat, you may well believe, gentlemen, at the first alarm; but with their expression of good-will to the corps, I sat down again and uncovered. It was simply a personal matter for Flanconnade, and I knew no man better able to extricate himself from such an affair. So, leaving the dominoes, I filled my glass and waited for the result. Our friend looked about him from one to the other, like a man who seeks an antagonist, but the bourgeoisie avoided his glances, all but one young man, wrapped in a cloak, who had seemed at first to take little part in the disturbance. Flanconnade, seeing this, stared him full in the face, and observed, ‘Monsieur made a remark? Did I understand clearly what it was?’

“‘I said shame!’ replied the other, boldly. ‘And I repeat, monsieur is in the wrong.’

“By this time the bystanders had gathered round, and I heard whispers of—‘Mind what you do; it’s a Grey Musketeer; fighting is his trade;’ and such friendly warnings; while old Bouchon rushed in with his face as white as his apron, and taking the youth by the arm, exclaimed in trembling accents, ‘Do you know what you’re about, in Heaven’s name? It’s Flanconnade, I tell you. It’s the fencing-master to the company!’

“Our poor friend appeared so pleased with this homage that I almost thought he would be pacified; but you remember his maxim—‘Put yourself in the right first, and then keep your arm bent and your point low.’ He acted on it now.

“‘Monsieur is prepared for results?’ he asked, quietly; and raising the tumbler in his hand, dashed its contents into his antagonist’s face.”

There was a murmur of applause amongst the Musketeers, for whom such an argument combined all the elements of reasoning, and Bras-de-Fer proceeded.

“I rose now, for I saw the affair would march rapidly. ‘It is good lemonade,’ said the young man, licking his lips, while he wiped the liquor from his face. ‘Monsieur has given me a lesson in politeness. He will permit me in return to demand five minutes’ attention while I teach him to dance.’

“The youth’s coolness, I could not but admit, was that of a well-bred man, and surprised me the more because, when he opened his cloak to get at his handkerchief, I perceived he wore no weapon, and was dressed in plain dark garments like a scholar or a priest.

“Flanconnade winked at me. There was plenty of moonlight in the garden behind the coffee-house, but there were two difficulties—the youth had no second and no sword.

“By great good fortune, at this moment in stepped young Chateau-Guerrand of the Duc du Maine’s dragoons, with his arm still in a sling, from the wound he received at Brighuega, when serving on his uncle’s staff. He had been supping with the Prince-Marshal, and of course was in full-dress, with a rapier at his belt. He accepted the duty willingly, and lent our youth the weapon he could not use. We measured their swords. They were right to a hair’s-breadth, but that the guard of Chateau-Guerrand’s hilt was open; and as he and I could not possibly exchange a pass or two for love, we set ourselves to watch the affair with interest, fearing only that Flanconnade’s skill would finish it almost ere it had well commenced.

“The moon was high, and there was a beautiful fighting-light in the garden. At twenty paces I could see the faces of the guests and servants quite distinctly, as they crowded the back door and windows of the house.

“We placed the adversaries at open distance on the level. They saluted and put themselves on guard.

“The moment I saw the young man’s hand up, I knew there would be a fight for it. I observed that his slight frame was exceedingly muscular, and though he looked very pale, almost white in the moonlight, his eyes glittered and his face lost all its gravity when the blades touched. I was sure the rogue loved the steel-clink in his heart.

“Moreover, he must have been there before. He neglected no precaution. He seemed to know the whole game. He bound his handkerchief round his fingers, to make up for Chateau-Guerrand’s open sword-hilt, and feeling some inequality of ground beneath his feet, he drew his adversary inch by inch, till he got him exactly level with his point.

“Flanconnade’s face showed me that he was aware of his antagonist’s force. After two passes, he tried his own peculiar plunging thrust in tierce (I never was quick enough for it myself, and always broke ground when I saw it coming), but this youth parried it in carte. In carte! by heavens! and Flanconnade was too good a fencer to dare try it again.”

“In carte!” repeated the listeners, with varied accents of interest and admiration. “It’s incredible!” “It’s beautiful!” “That is real fencing, and no sabre-play!” “Go on! Flanconnade had met with his match!”

“More than his match,” resumed Bras-de-Fer. “In a dozen passes he was out of breath, and this youth had never moved a foot after his first traverse. I tell you his defence was beautiful; so close you could hardly see his wrist move, and he never straightened his arm but twice. The first time Flanconnade leaped out of distance, for it was impossible to parry the thrust; although, as far as I could see, he made a simple disengagement and came in outside. But the next time he drew our comrade six inches nearer, and I knew by his face he was as certain as I was that he had got him at last.

“Bah! One—Two! That single disengagement—a lunge home; and I saw six inches of Chateau-Guerrand’s sword through our poor comrade’s back ere he went down. The youth wiped it carefully before he returned it, with a profusion of thanks, and found time, while Bouchon and his people gathered round the fallen man, to express his regrets with a perfect politeness to myself.

“‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I am distressed to think your friend will not profit by the lesson he has had the kindness to accept. I am much afraid he will never dance again.’”

“And where was the thrust?” asked Adolphe, a promising young fencer, who had been listening to the recital of the duel, open-mouthed.

“Through the upper lung,” answered Bras-de-Fer.

“In five minutes Flanconnade was as dead as Louis Quatorze! Here comes the Captain, gentlemen. It is time to fall in.”

While he finished speaking, the little bugler blew an astonishing volume of sound through his instrument. The Musketeers fell into their places. The line was dressed with military accuracy. The standard of France was displayed; the ranks were opened, and Captain George walked through them, scanning each individual of that formidable band with a keen, rapid glance that would have detected a speck on steel, a button awry, a weapon improperly handled, as surely as such breach of discipline could have been summarily visited with a sharp and galling reprimand. Nevertheless, these men were his own associates and equals; many of them his chosen friends. Hardly one but had interchanged with him acts of courtesy and kindness at the bivouac or on the march. Some had risked life for him; others he had rescued from death in the field. In half an hour all would be on a footing of perfect equality once more, but now Captain George was here to command and the rest to obey.

Such was the discipline of the Grey Musketeers—a discipline they were never tired of extolling, and believed to be unequalled in the whole of the armies of Europe.

There was little room for fault-finding in the order or accoutrements of such troops, and in a short space of time—easily calculated by the bystanders outside, from the arrival of sundry riding-horses and carriages of these gentlemen privates to throng the street—their inspection was over—their ranks were closed. The duties for the day, comprising an especial guard for the young king’s person were told off—Bras-de-Fer reported the death of the fencing-master—the commandant observed they must appoint another immediately—the parade was dismissed, and Captain George was at liberty to return to his quarters.