Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 11

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It was no wonder the Marquise de Montmirail, amid the hurry and excitement of a stag-hunt, failed to recognise the merry page who used to play with her child in that stalwart musketeer whom she pressed her eager barb so hard to overtake. The George Hamilton of royal ante-chambers and palace stairs, with eyes full of mirth and pockets full of bon-bons, laughing, skipping, agile, and mischievous as a monkey, had grown into a strong, fine-looking man, a distinguished soldier, well known in the army and at Court as Captain George of the Grey Musketeers. He had dropped the surname of Hamilton altogether now, and nothing remained to him of his nationality and family characteristics but a certain depth of chest and squareness of shoulder, accompanied by the bold keen glance that had shone even in the boy’s eyes, and was not quenched in the man’s, denoting a defiant and reckless disposition which, for a woman like the Marquise, possessed some indescribable charm.

As he flung his sword on a couch, and sat down to breakfast in his luxurious quarters—booted, belted, and with his hat on—the man seemed thoroughly in character with the accessories by which he was surrounded. He was the soldier all over—but the soldier adventurer—the soldier of fortune, rather than the soldier of routine. The room in which he sat was luxurious indeed and highly ornamented, but the luxuries were those of the senses rather than the intellect; the ornaments consisted chiefly of arms and such implements of warfare. Blades of the finest temper, pistols of exquisite workmanship, saddles with velvet housings, and bridle-bits embossed with gold—decked the wall which in more peaceful apartments would have been adorned by pictures, vases, or other works of art. One or two military maps, and a model of some fortified place in Flanders, denoted a tendency to the theoretical as well as practical branches of his profession; and a second regimental suit of grey velvet, almost covered with silver lace, hanging on a chair, showed that its gaudier exigences, so important in the Musketeers, were not forgotten. There were also two or three somewhat incongruous articles littered about amongst the paraphernalia of the soldier—such as a chart of the Caribbean Sea, another of the Channel, with its various soundings pricked off in red ink, a long nautical telescope, and a model of a brigantine more than half rigged. Captain George was possessed of certain seafaring tastes and habits picked up in early life, and to which he still clung with as much of sentiment as was compatible with his character. He was not an impressionable person, this musketeer; but if a foreign shoot could once be grafted on his affections, it took root and became gradually a part of the actual tree itself: then it could neither be torn out nor pruned away. Youthful associations, with such a disposition, attained a power hardly credible to those who only knew the external strength and hardness of the man.

Captain George’s predilections, however, seemed to be at present completely engrossed by his breakfast. Venison steaks and a liberal flagon of Medoc stood before him; he applied himself to each with a vigorous industry that denoted good teeth, good will, and good digestion. He was so intent on business that a knock at his door was twice repeated ere he answered it, and then the “Come in!” sounded hardly intelligible, hampered as were the syllables by the process of mastication.

At the summons, however, Bras-de-Fer entered, and stood opposite his captain. The latter nodded, pointed to a seat, pushed a plate and wine-cup across the table, and continued his repast.

Bras-de-Fer had already breakfasted once; nevertheless he sat down and made almost as good play as his entertainer for about ten minutes, when they stopped simultaneously. Then Captain George threw himself back in his chair, loosened his belt, undid the two lower buttons of his heavily-laced grey just au corps, and passing the Medoc, now at low ebb, to his comrade, asked abruptly—

“Have you found him?”

“And brought him with me, my captain,” answered Bras-de-Fer. “He is at this moment waiting outside. ’Tis a queer lad, certainly. He was reading a Latin book when I came upon him. He would have no breakfast, nor even taste a pot of wine with me as we walked along. Bah! The young ones are not what they used to be in my time.”

“I shouldn’t mind a few recruits of your sort still,” answered his captain, good-humouredly. “That thick head of yours is pretty strong, both inside and out; nevertheless, we must take them as we find them, and I should not like to miss a blade that could out-manœuvre poor Flanconnade. If he joins, I would give him the appointment. What think you, Bras-de-Fer? Would he like to be one of us? What did he say?”

“Say!” repeated the veteran, “I couldn’t understand half he said—I can’t make him out, my captain. I tell you that I, Bras-de-Fer of the Grey Musketeers, am unable to fathom this smooth-faced stripling. Eyes like a girl’s, yet quick and true as a hawk’s; white, delicate hands, but a wrist of steel, that seems to move by machinery. Such science, too! and such style! Who taught him? Then he rambles so in his talk, and wept when I told him our fencing-master never spoke after that disengagement. Only a simple disengagement, my captain; he makes no secret of it. I asked him myself. And he wouldn’t taste wine—not a mouthful—not a drop—though I offered to treat him!” And Bras-de-Fer shook his head solemnly, with something of a monkey’s expression who has got a nut too hard to crack.

Captain George cut short his friend’s reflections by calling for a servant.

“There is a gentleman outside,” said he, when the lackey appeared. “Ask his pardon for keeping him waiting, and beg him to step in.”

The well-drilled lackey, all politeness, threw the door open for the visitor, who entered with a diffident bow and a timid, hesitating step. Bras-de-Fer could not help remarking how much less assured was his manner now than when he crossed swords last night with the best fencer in the company.

The Musketeers both rose at his entrance, and all three continued standing during the interview.

Captain George scanned the new-comer from head to foot, and from foot to head, as a sergeant inspects a recruit. Its subject blushed painfully during the examination. Then the officer inquired, abruptly—

“You wish to join the Musketeers? As a cadet, of course?”

Something stern in the tone recalled the youth’s firmness, and he answered, boldly enough—

“Under certain circumstances—yes.”

“Your name?”

“Eugène Beaudésir.”

“Your age?”

“More than twenty-five.”

The Musketeers exchanged looks. He did not appear nearly so much. Captain George continued—

“Your certificates of baptism and gentle birth?”

Again the young man changed colour. He hesitated—he looked down—he seemed ill at ease.

“You need not produce these if other particulars are satisfactory,” observed the Captain, with a certain rough sympathy which won him a gratitude he little suspected; far more, indeed, than it deserved.

“Reach me that muster-roll, Bras-de-Fer,” continued the officer. “We can put his name down, at least for the present, as a cadet. The rest will come in time. But look you, young sir,” he added, turning sharply round on the recruit, “before going through any more formalities, I have still a few questions to ask. Answer them frankly, or decline to answer at all.”

The visitor bowed and stole another look in his questioner’s face. Frank, romantic, impressionable, he had become strangely prepossessed with this manly, soldier-like captain of musketeers—younger in years than himself, yet so many more steps up the social ladder, he thought, than he could now ever hope to reach.

“I will answer,” he said, with a hesitation and simplicity almost boyish, yet engaging in its helplessness—“if you will promise not to use my answers to my injury, and to take me all the same.”

Captain George smiled good-humouredly.

“Once on the roll of the King’s Musketeers,” he replied, “you are amenable to none but his Majesty and your own officers. As we say ourselves, you need fear neither duke nor devil.”

The other looked somewhat relieved, and glancing at Bras-de-Fer, observed timidly—

“I had a misfortune last night. It was a broil I could not avoid without great dishonour. I killed my adversary, I fear—and—and—he belongs to your company.”

“So it is reported to me,” answered the Captain, coolly; “and if you are capable, it may perhaps be your good fortune to find yourself promoted at last into his place.”

Beaudésir looked as if he scarcely understood, and Bras-de-Fer gladly seized the opportunity to explain.

“You do not know us yet, young man. In a short time you will be better acquainted with the constitution and discipline of the Grey Musketeers. It is our study, you will find, to become the best fencers in the French army. To this end we appoint our fencing-master by competition, and he is always liable to be superseded in favour of a successful adversary. It cost Flanconnade twenty-three duels to obtain his grade, and in his last affair—(pardon—I should say his last but one) he killed his man. You, monsieur, have disposed of Flanconnade scientifically, I must admit, and our captain here is likely enough to promote you to the vacant post.”

“Horror!” exclaimed Beaudésir, shuddering. “Like the priests of Aricia!”

It was now Bras-de-Fer’s turn to be puzzled, but he rose to the occasion. Quaffing the remains of the Medoc, he nodded approvingly, and repeated—

“Like the priests of Aricia. The same system precisely as established by His Holiness the Pope. It works remarkably well in the Grey Musketeers.”

Beaudésir looked at the Captain, and said in a low, agitated voice—

“I am most anxious to serve under you. I can be faithful, attentive—above all, obedient. I have no friends, no resources, nothing to care for. I only wish for an honest livelihood and an honourable death.”

“We can find you both, I doubt not,” answered George, carelessly opening once more the muster-roll of the company. “I have your name down and your age; no further particulars. Where were you educated?”

“In a school of silence, vigilance, self-restraint, and implicit obedience,” answered the recruit.

“Good,” observed his captain; “but we must put down a name.”

“At Avranches, in Normandy,” said the other, after a moment’s hesitation.

George closed the roll. “Enough for the present,” said he; “and now tell me, monsieur, as between friends, where did you learn to fence with so much address?”

“Wherever I could find a foil with a button on,” was the reply. “I never had a naked sword in my hand till last night.”

Something in the ready simplicity of such an answer pleased the captain of musketeers, while it interested him still more in his recruit.

“You must be careful of your parries amongst your new comrades,” said he; “at least till you have measured the force of each. I warn you fairly, one-half the company will want to try your mettle, and the other half to learn your secret, even at the cost of an awkward thrust or two. In the meantime, let us see what you can do. There are a brace of foils in the cupboard there. Bras-de-Fer, will you give him a benefit?”

But Bras-de-Fer shook his head. What he had seen the night before had inspired him with an extraordinary respect for the youth’s prowess, and being justly vain of his own skill, he was averse to expose his inferiority in the science of defence before his captain. He excused himself, therefore, on the ground of rheumatism which had settled in an old wound.

Captain George did not press the veteran, but opening the cupboard, pulled out the foils, presented one to his visitor, and put himself in position with the other.

Beaudésir performed an elaborate salute with such grace and precision as showed him a perfect master of his weapon. He then threw his foil in the air, caught it by the blade, and returned it courteously to the captain.

But George was not yet satisfied. “One assault at least,” said he, stamping his right foot. “I want to see if I cannot find a parry for this famous thrust of yours.”

The other smiled quietly and took his ground. Though within a few inches of the chamber-door, he seemed to require no more room for his close and quiet evolutions.

Ere they had exchanged two passes, the captain came over his adversary’s point with a rapid flanking movement, like the stroke of a riding-whip, and lending all the strength of his iron wrist to the jerk, broke the opposing foil short off within six inches of the guard. It was the only resource by which he could escape a palpable hit.

“Enough!” he exclaimed, laughing. “There are no more foils in the cupboard, and I honestly confess I should not wish to renew the contest with the real bloodsuckers. You may be perfectly tranquil as regards your comrades, my friend. I do not know a musketeer in the whole guard that would care to take a lesson from you with the buttons off. What say you, Bras-de-Fer? Come, gentlemen, there is no time to be lost. The Marshal de Villeroy will not yet have left his quarters. Do you, old comrade, take him the fresh appointment for his signature. He never requires to see our recruits till they can wait on him in uniform; and you, young man, come with me to the Rue des Quatres Fripons, where I will myself order your accoutrements, and see you measured for a just au corps. Recollect, sir, next to their discipline on parade, I am most particular about the clothes of those I have the honour to command. Slovenliness in a musketeer is a contradiction as impossible as poltroonery; and it is a tradition in our corps that we never insulted Malbrook’s grenadiers by appearing before them in anything but full-dress; or by opening fire until we were close enough for them to mark the embroidery on our waistcoats. I congratulate you, my young friend: you are now a soldier in the pick of that army which is itself the pick of all the armies in the world!”

With such encouraging conversation Captain George led his lately-enlisted recruit through a variety of winding streets, thronged at that busy hour with streams of passengers. These, however, for the most part, made way, with many marks of respect, for the officer of Musketeers; the women especially, looking back with unfeigned admiration and interest at the pair, according as they inclined to the stately symmetry of the one or the graceful and almost feminine beauty of the other. Perhaps, could they have known that the pale, dark-eyed youth following timidly half a pace behind his leader had only last night killed the deadliest fencer in Paris, they would have wasted no glances even on such a fair specimen of manhood as Captain George, but devoured his comrade with their bold black eyes, in a thrill of mingled horror, interest, and admiration, peculiar to their sex.

To reach the Rue des Quatres Fripons, it was necessary to pass a barrier, lately placed by Marshal de Villeroy’s directions, to check the tide of traffic on occasion of the young King’s transit through his future capital. This barrier was guarded by a post of Grey Musketeers, and at the moment Captain George approached it, one of his handsomest young officers was performing a series of bows by the door of a ponderous, heavily-gilt family coach, and explaining with considerable volubility his own desolation at the orders which compelled him to forbid the advance of this unwieldy vehicle. Six heavy coach-horses, two postilions, a coachman, four footmen, and two outriders, armed to the teeth—all jammed together in a narrow street, with a crowd of bystanders increasing every minute, served to create a sufficient complication, and a very pretty young lady inside, accompanied by one attendant, was already in tears. The attendant, a dark woman with a scarlet turban, scolded and cursed in excellent French, whilst one of the leaders took immediate advantage of the halt to rear on end and seize his comrade by the crest with a savage and discordant scream.

In such a turmoil it took George a few moments to recognise Madame de Montmirail’s liveries, which he knew perfectly well. To his companion, of course, fresh from Avranches, in Normandy, all liveries in Paris must have been equally strange. Nevertheless he followed close behind his leader, who pushed authoritatively through the crowd, and demanded what was the matter. The officer of Musketeers, seeing his own captain, fell back from the carriage-door, and Cerise, with her eyes full of tears, found a face she had never forgotten staring in at the window scarcely six inches from her own.

They recognised each other in an instant. For the first sentence it was even “George!” and “Cerise!” Though, of course, it cooled down to “Monsieur” and “Mademoiselle” as they talked on. She was very little altered, he thought, only taller and much more beautiful; while for her, it was the same brave brown face and kind eyes that she had known by heart since she was a child, only braver, browner, kinder, nobler, just as she had expected. It was wonderful she could see it so distinctly, with her looks cast down on the pretty gloved hands in her lap.

The affair did not take long. “You can pass them by my orders, Adolphe,” said his captain; and ere the savage stallion had time for a second attack, the huge vehicle rolled through and lumbered on, leaving handsome Adolphe ejaculating protestations and excuses, believing implicitly that he had won the beautiful mademoiselle’s affections at first sight during the process.

Except by this voluble young gentleman, very little had been said. People do say very little when they mean a great deal. It seemed to George, mademoiselle had offered no more pertinent remark than that “She had made a long journey, and was going to the Hôtel Montmirail to stop.” Whilst Cerise—well, I have no doubt Cerise could have repeated every word of their conversation, yet she did nothing of the kind neither to Célandine then, nor to mamma afterwards; though by the time she reached home her eyes were quite dry, and no wonder, considering the fire in her cheeks.

Altogether, the interview was certainly provocative of silence. Neither Captain George nor Beaudésir uttered a syllable during the remainder of their walk. Only on the threshold of the tailor’s shop in the Rue des Quatres Fripons the latter awoke from a deep fit of musing, and asked, very respectfully—

“My captain, do you think I should have got the best of it this morning if we had taken the buttons off the foils?”