CHAPTER XXIII.
"TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION."
"Fire—kill me!" exclaimed the chevalier, proudly and fiercely; "I have no desire to live after the degradation to which you have subjected me—I, an officer of the Queen's Hussars, and a chevalier of the order. Ah, sacré! perfidious English—you know not how to make war."
"Monsieur de Boisguiller, have you already forgot me—and our meetings in the chateau of Bourgneuf, and the forest of St. Aubin du Cormier?"
His expression changed on recognising me; but perceiving my epaulettes, gorget, and sash—
"Pardieu!" he exclaimed, with a grimace on his lip, and fire flashing in his eyes; "we seem to have changed places with a vengeance, Monsieur l'Ecossais!"
He said something more, but his voice was rendered incoherent by the shame and passion, pride and mortification, which almost made him weep.
I turned to Lieutenant I——, of the Alceste, and inquired how it came to pass that the chevalier, whom I knew to be a brave and honourable French officer, should be found in a plight so deplorable, and thrust among such associates.
"He was sent on board here for attempting to kill the captain of one of our privateers," replied the naval officer briefly, and with a contemptuous glance at the Frenchman.
"I shall tell you how it came to pass, monsieur; you will believe me?" said the chevalier, turning to me earnestly.
"Assuredly, monsieur."
"Our fleet is still shut up in Brest by yours; so a large privateer of Bristol made a dash into the harbour of Cherbourg last week, to pick up anything milord Howe had left behind him. Among other things they unluckily picked up me, when on my way to Erville to keep an appointment with a little paysanne, who, like the rest, preferred a Parisian hussar to a Breton woodcutter. The privateer put to sea; I was refused my parole of honour, and placed on board this floating pandemonium three days before she was stranded in Rye Harbour, because in resenting some insolence of the privateer captain, I knocked him down and jumped overboard. He jumped after me, and we fought in the water till a boat's-crew picked us up. Pardieu that is all, mon camerade."
I begged the officer in command of the Alceste to accept the parole of the chevalier, to which he at once agreed, and removed him to one of the after cabins, where he was supplied with clothes to replace his hussar uniform, which was now in rags, the ruffians of the prison-ship having torn every shred of lace from it, to exchange for grog with bumboat women who paddled about the frigate.
We had a bottle of wine together, and under its influence the Frenchman's natural gaiety soon resumed its wonted sway, his annoyance and anger disappeared, and as we conversed his voice brought back, as in a mental panorama, the old chateau on the road to Rennes, with its reedy lake and flower-enamelled lawn—the woods, the hills, and rockbound shores of Brittany, with softer thoughts of a time that would never come again—thoughts, however, that he was singularly fated to dispel.
"The story of your encounter with Hautois, and your casting him into the Black Torrent, where doubtless he has thrown many an unfortunate devil, will form one of the best legends in Brittany," said he, laughing.
"The old Countess Ninon?"
"Is well—though less blooming than her namesake, De l'Enclos."
"And Urbain—and old Bertrand?"
"All well, when I saw them last, about ten days ago. Peste! what a number of things have happened to me since then."
"And pretty Angelique?"
"Is now the happy wife of Jacquot Triquot, coachman to M. le Curé of St. Solidore. The countess punished her thus for her remarkable trick of turning you into a soubrette, my friend, which might have been a very serious joke!"
I smiled mournfully and muttered—
"Poor—poor Jacqueline!"
"Parbleu! how is it that you do not ask for her?"
"Ask for her?" I repeated, with sorrowful surprise; "ask for one who is dead and buried?"
"Who was half dead and half buried, you mean. She was only stunned by a blow, and half-smothered among leaves and grass. She is alive and well, Dieu merci! and by this time will be in Paris with her cousin, Comte Bourgneuf."
I remained for some moments in doubt of my senses on hearing this; but there was an imperturbable smile on Boisguiller's face, as he sat twirling each moustache alternately.
"Chevalier, you assure me of this on your honour," said I, hoarsely.
"On my honour as an officer wearing the cross of St. Louis. It was a mere case of suspended animation—nothing more. You would have seen this yourself had you not left us with the bloodhound in such a devil of a hurry to follow the track of Hautois. In fact, she spoke to us all quite rationally in about half an hour after you disappeared."
"Chevalier, you saw how I suffered," said I, with grave reproach, "and yet you permitted me to leave the province in the belief that Jacqueline de Broglie was indeed dead. Was this fair of you?"
"In love as in war, my dear fellow, all things are fair, so far as strategy will go. Had I told you that she was merely in a swoon—lethargique—you might have been prompted to commit some new extravagance; thus we all thought that the sooner you were comfortably out of France the better. She is now in Paris, and—" he added rather spitefully, for my manner piqued him, "and will soon be married—most suitably married."
"Married to whom?" I asked fiercely. But he still smiled complacently, and continued to curl his confounded moustache. "In Paris—ah, there she may soon forget me," I added, sadly.
"Forget you! Ouf, mon camarade! what would you have? You don't know my cousin Jacqueline. In that huge old barrack, the lonely chateau, you were a brother, a companion, a little bit of romance such as we may find in Marivaux—nothing more. In Paris, the memory of all that will soon be effaced. Monsieur, she cannot come here—you cannot go there—so this is the end of the matter." And he burst out into a fit of laughter.
As a sequel to this conversation, my mind became oppressed by emotions of a very mingled cast indeed, and so little desire had I for the stinging communications of my friend the chevalier, that my whole wish was to get rid of him handsomely as soon as possible.
I wrote to Captain Douglas and to Lieutenant Keith to inform them how and where I had found the brave officer who had commanded in the redoubt at Cancalle Bay, and had led those hussars whom we had met hand to hand and bridle to bridle in Brittany.
They used their influence with old Colonel Preston, and through him the chevalier in a short time effected an exchange with an officer of equal rank, and was sent home to France by cartel.
Prior to this, a subdivision of marines having been placed on board the Alceste, my party gladly marched back to headquarters at Wadhurst, about twenty-five miles from Rye.