Where was I?
My next recollection, as the world came slowly back to me, or I to it, was the circumstance of finding myself in a small octagonal chamber, which was hung with pretty, but rather gaudy pictures of saints, in long scarlet or blue garments; there were St. Peter with his keys, St. Andrew with his cross, St. Catherine with her wheel, and St. Malo with something else. There were also a crucifix and little font of Delft ware hung on the wall near me.
I was in a bed that was prettily draped by snow-white curtains, which hung from a ring in the ceiling, and formed a complete bell-tent around me, but were festooned back on one side. The soft pillows were edged with narrow lace.
The sun of the summer noon shone through the vine and ivy shaded lattice, which was open, and the hum of the honey bee, with the sweet perfume of summer flowers, came in together on the soft and ambient air.
Close at hand stood a guéridon, as the French name those little round tables which have three feet and one stem; and thereon were some phials, a vase of flowers, and a silver cup, which suggested to me, somehow, an idea of medicine.
I passed a hand across my brow; it was painful to the touch, and throbbed. My eyes were hot and heavy; my hand looked pale, thin, and white—quite unlike what it usually was; hence I must have been long ill—but where?
I strove to rise, that I might look forth from the window; but the effort was too much for me yet, and I sank back on my pillow.
I seemed to have had strange dreams of late—dreams of my brief soldiering; of the burning of the shipping; the faces and voices of Charters, Kirkton, and others had come distinctly—especially poor Tom's (the "stick it minister," as the Greys named him), and the words of his song lingered in my ear:—
"Why, soldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose business 'tis to die?
I had strange recollections of a warlike encounter with old Nathan Wylie in a wood in Brittany, and shooting him there, to save my cousin Aurora, whom he was tying to a tree. Then my wound from the charger's hoof, and the events subsequent thereto, gradually and coherently unfolded themselves before me. But where was I, and to whom indebted?
Some one moved near me; I was certain there was the fall of a gentle foot—of one who stepped on tiptoe.
"Who is there?" I asked in English, and then repeated the question in French.
"Ah, you are awake—awake at last!" said a soft voice, in the latter tongue.
"Who speaks?"
"C'est moi—'tis only me," replied a girl whose face was familiar to me, as she drew back the curtain.
"Angelique?" said I, with an effort.
"Yes, Angelique; how droll—you know my name, monsieur!"
It was the pretty Bretonne, with her scanty bodice and spotlessly white shirt; her black eyes beaming with kindness and pleasure; her dark hair surmounted by her high linen coif of a fashion old as the days of Charles VIII.
"You know me—you are sensible at last," she continued; "ah, how happy mademoiselle will be to hear of this?"
"Who is she?"
"Ah, good heavens—is it possible—don't you know—Mademoiselle de Broglie, your protectress?"
"And you?"
"I have the honour to be her soubrette—her friend almost, for we are foster children. Every morning and every night I made a sign of the cross on your forehead with the holy water from my font, and I knew that it would cure you, even if everything else failed."
"Cure me—I have, then, been ill?"
"O! mon Dieu—so ill!" shrugging her white shoulders and clasping her little hands.
"But say, Mademoiselle Angelique, pray where am I?"
"In my room."
"Yours?"
"Oui, monsieur—there is nothing wonderful in that, is there?"
"And this bed?"
"It is mine," said she, smiling.
"You quite bewilder me," said I, with a sigh.
Her dark eyes and white teeth shone, as she burst into a fit of laughter, and said:
"Ah, mon Dieu, what would Jacquot—the jealous Jacquot—think, if he knew that a strange man had occupied my bed for two weeks?"
"Have I been here so long?"
"Yes, monsieur—you have been very ill."
"And you—you——"
"I have been occupying the apartments of Mademoiselle de Broglie; ah, good heaven, what were you thinking of?" said the soubrette, with another merry laugh. "You occupy my room in the Chateau of Bourgneuf, belonging to the Countess Ninon, mother of the young count, who now is fighting under Maréchal de Broglie in Germany."
"Would Boisguiller's Hussars really have killed me, alone and defenceless as I was?"
"Killed you, my poor child? of course they would."
"Are they still here?" I asked, with natural anxiety.
"Ma foi! no—they have long since been gone in pursuit of the English, who are flying in all directions towards the sea. These Hussars are very ferocious. Some of them are contributions from the Fours of Paris, and valuable contributions to the army they are, as every one knows."
"Fours—I know not what you mean."
"Indeed!"
"No, I assure you," said I, laying my hand by chance upon hers.
"Ma foi! it is quite true what Père Celestine says—nothing is taught in England but heresy. The Fours in Paris are places of confinement, formed by a Monsieur d'Argenson, wherein all wanderers and vagabonds found in the streets are shut up, till the best are drafted off to the army, and several of these choice recruits fell to the lot of M. de Boisguiller. So you had an escape, my poor boy; they would positively have eaten you!"
"You are very patronising, Angelique," said I, amused by the girl's manner; "pardon me, but how old are you?"
"One year older than my mistress."
"And she will be——"
"Nineteen by the next least of St. Malo; but hush, you must not talk any more. You are looking quite flushed already; now taste this."
In perfect innocence she put her plump white arm round my neck, raised my head upon her pretty shoulder, took the silver cup from the guéridon, and poured between my lips some of the cooling liquid it contained.
"You are kind to me as a sister," said I.
"And I have nursed you so long, that I quite feel like one."
Her large dark eyes looked kindly into mine, and I could see my face reflected in them.
"So long?" I murmured.
"Yes; fourteen days and fourteen nights."
"Ah, how can I ever repay all this?"
"By trying to sleep, and sleep you must," said she; then laying my head gently on the pillow, she withdrew her arm, and closing my eyelids playfully with her fingers, said again in my ear, "Sleep;" and adding, "Père Celestine tells us that St. Paul said 'all kisses were not holy,' but there can be no harm in these." And touching each eyelid with her cherry lip, she patted me on the cheek and glided away.
But the tumult of thought banished sleep, and indeed she left me very much awake.