Second to None: A Military Romance, Volume 1 (of 3) by James Grant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXI.
 JACQUELINE.

Had this man a charmed life? was he a vampire, a devil, or what? thought I, as we surveyed each other, and I have no doubt he recognised me, as he had seen me thrice before. I released the lady's hands from the handkerchief which bound them, and then raised her from the ground.

Hautois again lifted his bludgeon menacingly, but lowered it when I levelled my pistol straight at his head.

"Pass on, fellow—begone," said I, "or I shall pistol you without mercy. After our work last night, you cannot imagine that taking a Frenchman's life—especially yours—is a matter of much importance to me."

"Sangdieu!" he growled, "what business have you to interfere here?"

"Business—rascal!"

"Yes—this woman is my wife, who wishes to run away from me."

"Oh, horror! oh, absurdity!" exclaimed the young lady, as she gathered her dark hair back from her face with her pretty hands, and shrunk close to me.

"Sangdieu—yes, my wife, I tell you," shouted the fellow, with a hand on the couteau de chasse in his girdle; but I replied—

"I have overheard enough to prove that you lie, villain; so begone at once, I say, or be punished as you deserve. Come, madam, permit me to assist you; my horse is close by, and from our camp at Paramé you shall have a safe escort to your home."

She took my proffered hand with a very mingled or doubtful expression of face, for I was a stranger, a soldier, an enemy; but she had only a choice of evils, and knew that probably she could not fall into worse hands than those from which I took her. Then as I was leading her away, with her dark eyes fixed in terror and aversion on Hautois, she uttered a shrill cry which made me start and turn round; and I did so just in time to escape a deadly thrust aimed at my back. Indeed, the sharp blade of the couteau de chasse passed through my coat, grazing my left ribs, and almost severing my buff waist-belt.

Exasperated by this, I resolved to pistol the ruffian at once, and shot him through the jaws. On this, he fell on his face, wallowing in blood, and rolled among the long grass, with his hands pressed upon the wound in each cheek. The wretch was only wounded, however, not killed. The girl whom I had rescued was fainting with terror at this scene, so I hurried her off to where my horse still stood quietly by the wayside well.

Day had completely broken now, and I could perceive that my fair companion was undoubtedly a young lady of great beauty and polished manners. She was ghastly pale, doubtless with the terrors of the past night, and the extreme darkness of her hair and eyes served but to increase, by contrast, the pallor of her complexion. Her hands, which were without gloves, proved her high breeding and delicate nurture, by their charming form and whiteness. The morning air was chill and damp, for the dews of night yet gemmed every leaf and blade of grass; and she shuddered with cold or fear, for she was without a head-dress, and her general attire was rather thin and scanty.

"You will permit me," said I, taking the cloak from my saddle and wrapping it round her; "and now say, to where can I escort you?"

"Not to the British camp, if possible, I pray you," she replied, while beginning to weep freely.

"I dare not be absent long," said I; "my duty leads me there, and by straggling, or loitering here——"

"True—true, ah, mon Dieu! how selfish of me! you risk your life, perhaps, at the hands of our exasperated peasantry."

"Madam, I risk my life daily for a trooper's pay," said I, smiling: "so freely may I peril it for one so—so lovely as you."

She coloured at this reply, and drew back, on which I added, with a low bow, while my cheek reddened also—

"Pardon me—I forget myself."

"This is not the bearing or the language of an English private soldier," said she, approaching me again, placing her pretty hand upon my arm, and looking pleadingly in my face.

"Madam, though but a simple soldat—un Ecossais Gris, I am a gentleman, and have never done aught to disgrace my name."

"Then you will protect me, sir, will you not?"

"As I have already done, at the peril of my life."

"And not take me to the camp?"

"Not if safer shelter can be found."

"Even if I tell you who I am?" she continued, with a proud smile.

"Yes; but who——"

"I am the daughter of a French soldier."

"Thus you have an additional claim on my honour, madam."

"Mademoiselle—I am unmarried," she urged, with the faintest approach to coquetry in her dark eyes.

"And the daughter of a soldier, say you?"

"Le Maréchal Duc de Broglie."

"Who now commands in Germany?" I continued, with growing interest.

"The same, monsieur."

The scrap of conversation I had overheard between Captain Lindsay and Cornet Keith, during the night march, now flashed upon my memory.

"Pray tell no one else who you are," said I, hurriedly, while looking around me.

"Pourquoi, monsieur?" she asked, with almost hauteur.

"Because I heard an officer of rank say, that he would give a hundred and fifty English guineas to have you taken prisoner, and sent to London as a trophy."

She trembled and shrunk back on hearing this, lifting up her white hands deprecatingly.

"Oh be not alarmed, Mademoiselle de Broglie," said I, "for I would rather die than betray you."

"And how much may this reward be in French money?"

"About two thousand livres."

"Two thousand livres," she exclaimed, with a haughty laugh and a flashing eye; "they hold me cheap, indeed, who offer this!"

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," said I, anxiously, "but I have no time to lose in having you conveyed to a place of safety. If absent from morning roll call, my punishment will not be slight. The peasantry have all fled inland——"

"But surely in some farmhouse or cottage I may find shelter."

"How comes it to pass the ruffian Hautois is still alive?" I asked, as we walked along the road with the bridle of my horse over my arm. "He was cast into the sea from the yard-arm of our commodore's ship, with a cannon shot at his heels."

"From which the shot parted, by the rope giving way, as he sank into the water."

"Parted?"

"Oui, monsieur; so he told me; and thereupon he immediately rose to the surface and swam to the shore, while his less fortunate companion was instantly drowned."

"And how came you to be in his power? pardon my curiosity."

"It is most natural; I shall tell you, monsieur. Fearing that the province was to be overrun by your troops, we left our Chateau of Bourgneuf——"

"We, mademoiselle?"

"My aunt, Madame de Bourgneuf, and myself, to take shelter in the city of St. Malo; but our carriage arrived at St. Solidore too late last night, and Captain de Boisguiller, commandant of the redoubt at Cancalle——"

"Ah, that little redoubt cost us some trouble."

"Gave us his own residence. You know what ensued. Cannon shot fell through the roof of the house, on which my aunt, our servants, and I rushed forth into the streets, and were separated by a crowd of terrified fugitives. Ignorant alike whither to turn my steps, or where to seek shelter, while shells were bursting, flaming rockets and hand-grenades flying about in every direction, I rushed into a lonely alley, where I met a man who, by his attire, seemed to be one of our Breton peasantry—a woodcutter; but ah, mon Dieu! he proved to be that wretch, Theophile Hautois. Politely enough he offered to conduct me to a place of safety, and led me from St. Solidore, away out into the fields, where the country was open and lonely. There he spoke of love, and attempted to kiss and caress me; but I resisted, though sinking with terror, and struck him in the face with my clenched hand. Then he grew enraged, and tying my wrists, dragged me into that mulberry grove, where heaven surely sent you to my rescue."

"I am, indeed, most fortunate in having been of such service to you, mademoiselle; and I shall ever remember with pride that I have seen and had the honour of speaking with a daughter of the great Marshal de Broglie, the hero of Sangerhausen."

She bowed and coloured with pleasure; but when the sound of wheels was heard, she clasped her hands and exclaimed—

"Ah, mon Dieu, how fortunate! Now, my kind friend, you shall be relieved of all further trouble with me, for here comes good and kind Father Celestine, le Curé of St. Solidore."

While she spoke, a désobligeant (as those small chaises which hold only one person are not incorrectly named in France) was driven rapidly along the road; but the driver pulled up when my companion called to him by name:

"Jacquot—Jacquot Tricot—where is M. le Curé?"

"Here, mademoiselle. Oh, Clementissime Jesu! what has happened? how are you here?—who is this man?—why in such company? and who has dared—what has he done to you? my dear child, Jacqueline, what is the meaning of all this?" cried an old gentleman, all in a breath, as he opened the door of the désobligeant and sprang agilely out. As he approached us, hat in hand, and bowing low at every pace, I could see that he was a fine looking old man—a priest, evidently, as he wore a black silk soutan, with at least fifty little buttons in front; he wore also a tippet and small gold cross, and had his white hair tied behind by a black ribbon. His pale countenance was mild and pleasing, though he surveyed me with an expression of eye which evinced that he had no particular desire to cultivate my acquaintance; and maitre Jacquot from his box regarded me with undisguised animosity and alarm.

"Ah, dearest Père Celestine," said the young lady, clasping his proffered hand between both of hers, "I have been saved from great peril by this kind soldier; but take me away with you—oh, take me away—and I shall tell you all about it."

"Kind—ha—hum. Monsieur le Soldat, I thank you," said the Curé, making a bow so profound, that a cloud of hair-powder flew about his head, and his little cocked hat, which he was too polite to assume before a lady, swept the road in his right hand; "from my soul I thank you, for Mademoiselle Jacqueline is my dearest child."

"Have I the honour of addressing——" I began, for this phraseology bewildered me.

"Le Père Celestine," said Mademoiselle de Broglie; "so I am now in perfect safety, thanks to your kindness and courage, monsieur; and now permit me to offer you that reward which any soldier may accept without reproach."

She drew a ring from her finger, and placed it in my hand, saying, with a bright coquettish smile—

"There is a language of precious stones, as well as of beautiful flowers, and if learned in such matters, you will know what this gem is significant of."

The old clergyman waved his hat, and laughed with great good humour, while the graceful girl bowed to me again and again as he handed her into the dèsobligeant and shut the door. The Curé then placed his hat on his head, for the first time during our interview, and with true French gallantry sprang on the narrow footboard behind his little carriage, which was rapidly driven off, Jacquot evincing, by his lavish use of the whip, his desire to place as great a distance as possible between himself and me.

The whole affair was like a dream. I placed the ring on my smallest finger, and thought with delight of the lovely little hand from which it had just been drawn. I gave a lingering glance after the fast-retreating dèsobligeant, which was bowling along the road towards the ruined village of St. Solidore, and then, springing into my saddle, galloped in the direction of our camp, the white tents of which were shining in the rising sun, as they dotted the southern slope of the hills of Paramé.

The stone was a fine emerald.

"Of what is it significant?" thought I, remembering her words and her charming smile.

Charters, whom I met with three mounted Greys, coming in search of me, by order of the adjutant, told me that, "according to an old superstition, the emerald was supposed to ensure success in love."

Be that as it may, this gift of Jacqueline de Broglie has yet an important part to play in the story of my adventures.

END OF VOL. I.