For two days that succeeded, the kindness and attention of my little French nurse were undiminished, and on the third a soft dressing-gown was brought to me, and I found myself seated in an easy-chair at the open window, with a view of the distant hills, and in a fair way to convalescence.
Was the pretty soubrette in love with me, or was her peculiar manner merely the impulsive nature of the Breton, together with genuine pity for a helpless fellow-creature—a poor young soldier—whom she had nursed? Of course it was, for otherwise she would not have spoken so frankly or so frequently of her lover, Jacquot Tricot.
Notwithstanding the favours then heaped on me by fortune, such is the perversity of human nature, that instead of being grateful for them, at times, as I lay there, helpless, wounded, weary and alone, thinking of the past, of what I was, and what I should have been, something of the sullenness of despair stole into my heart, and I actually longed for death to rid me of all further trouble, or care for the future. But to die there unknown, and so far, far away from the sequestered churchyard, where in a pastoral glen upon the Scottish Border, my father and mother lay side by side, with the green mounds that covered them within sound of the silver Tweed, was not the end I had so long anticipated.
Though a soldier, I was but a boy; and amid my loneliness in that foreign land, I wept for the mother of whom I had known so little, and hoped that from her place in heaven she was watching over me, and perhaps could see me there.
Thought, reflection, and memory more frequently rendered me fierce than sad, and then I closed my eyes, as if to shut out the light and the world itself.
During one of these dreamy paroxysms of bitterness, a soft hand was laid gently on my flushed forehead. I looked up, and saw a lady—a lovely young girl—with the soubrette beside me.
She was Jacqueline de Broglie! I strove to rise and make some due obeisance, but by an unmistakeable gesture she excused or rather restrained me.
When I had first seen this noble-looking girl, her hair was dishevelled, her dress was torn and disordered, her face was pale and distorted by fear, and her eyes red and swollen by weeping. Now I beheld her perfectly calm, self-possessed, and richly-apparelled, for her dress was of orange-coloured satin trimmed with black Maltese lace, and it well became the purity of her complexion and the intense darkness of her eyes and hair, every tress of which bore evidence of the skilful hands of Angelique. At first I thought her stately in bearing and very pretty in feature, but as we conversed, she rapidly became beautiful, and dangerously so, as her expressive face lit up with animation.
Her smile was lovely, winning, and childlike; it was the true gift of nature, but there was a singular combination of boldness and extreme delicacy in the contour of her features. Her forehead was broad rather than high; the curve of her nostril was noble; her mouth and chin full of sweetness and decision. Add to these, a wonderful mass of rich dark hair, in all the luxuriance of girlhood, and you see Jacqueline.
She drew in a chair and seated herself near me, while Angelique stood behind. She expressed her satisfaction to find that I was recovering, but added that the observance of the greatest secrecy was necessary; that to save me from the rough peasantry, who were infuriated by our wanton irruption into Brittany, she had kept me concealed in a wing of the chateau—a portion appropriated by herself and Angelique. She mentioned that to deceive alike the servants of the family, the neighbouring peasantry, and the Hussars of the Chevalier de Boisguiller, it had been given out that I was conveyed away in M. le Curé's désobligeant to Dol; while in fact, by the exertions of the curé and Angelique, I had been supported to my present room when in a state of insensibility, and had remained there in secrecy to the great risk of my own life, and of the honour of my protectresses if discovered. This was the plain and unvarnished story, though Jacqueline worded it in a more delicate and gentle manner.
"I am most grateful to you, mademoiselle," said I, "for your kindness, your charity to me."
"Kindness—charity! Why such cold words? Mon Dieu! monsieur, do not talk thus. Could I do less than, at every hazard to save and protect one who saved and protected me?" she exclaimed, bending her dark and beautiful eyes on mine with an expression of half-reproach and inquiry which made my heart throb almost painfully, for I was still weak and faint.
"And I have trespassed, intruded on your hospitality for so many days. In that time what may have been the fortune of war with my comrades? And madame your aunt; did she escape that night at St. Solidore?"
"Yes; fortunately she reached St. Malo by a boat, and has not yet returned; so at present I am lady supreme here—chatelaine of Bourgneuf."
"I have been ill—very ill, and must have lost much blood," said I, as the room seemed to whirl round me; "who has been my doctor?"
"Angelique, with my assistance. There are no doctors nearer than Rennes, the nuns of St. Gildas excepted, and they could not be taken into our confidence, though good Père Celestine was. So what was to be done, but to seclude you here at the top of the house and trust to Heaven and your youth for recovery."
"Dear Mademoiselle de Broglie, all this was more than I had any reason to expect of you—more than human kindness! Had I died here, what would you have done?"
"Prayed for you," was the reply; "but ah, don't speak of such a thing!"
"How the child talks!" said Angelique; "Monsieur de Boisguiller's Hussars are playful lambs when compared to our Breton peasants—our woodcutters and charcoal-burners. They would have torn you limb from limb had they caught you. Ma foi! yes—and they would storm the chateau, perhaps, if they knew you were in it, as one would crack a nutshell to get at the kernel."
"How far are we from the hills of Paramé?"
"About fifteen leagues," replied Mademoiselle de Broglie; "but why do you ask?"
"Because our camp was there, mademoiselle."
"My poor friend, you are not aware of what has taken place since fortune cast you almost dying at our door."
"A battle has been fought!"
"No; for the Duke of Marlborough, who lacks the skill of his great namesake, on hearing that certain forces were marching against him, under Monseigneur le Duc d'Aiguillon, Governor of Brittany, withdrew his troops from Dol and Paramé, and retreating with all speed to the bay of Cancalle, embarked his whole forces there on the 12th of this month, and sailed for England."
"Are all gone?" I inquired, with irrepressible agitation.
"All—save the dead and you."
"And I am left here!" I exclaimed, overcome with consternation.
"With us," replied the lady with a pouting smile.
"True, mademoiselle; my exclamation is alike ungrateful and ungallant; what matter is one poor trooper more or less."
"However, monsieur may soon see his friends again," continued Mademoiselle de Broglie, "for they still menace our poor province of Brittany. So stormy has been the weather, that it was not until the 21st of this month the fleet got clear of the coast of France. On the 25th it was visible off Hâvre de Grace, which M. Marlborough bravely enough reconnoitred in an open cutter; but Heaven favoured us with another tempest, and the British were blown out to sea. On the 27th——"
"Yesterday!"
"Only yesterday, as the Chevalier de Boisguiller informed me this morning, they came to anchor within two miles of Cherbourg, and hoisted out some flat-bottomed boats with the English guards to attack the forts of Querqueville and L'Hommet; but again kind Heaven——"
"With St. Malo and St. Suliac," interposed the soubrette.
"Sent a storm, so the attempt was abandoned, and Monsieur Howe stood off to sea, where many of his transports were dashed to pieces."
"Many must have perished, and among them may be some of my dear friends!" said I, sadly.
"I hope not, monsieur. But your people should not have landed in Brittany, which has ever been the best bulwark of France—'La Bretagne, Brettonnante,' as we say. When the wild Norseman menaced our shores, in the days of King Dagobert, it was here they met with the most bloody resistance. Here Bertrand de Gruesclin routed the English in the days of Charles VI., and here, too, were they defeated in the days of Charles VII. by Arthur Count of Richemont, who was Constable of France and Duke of Bretagne; while in the last century your fleets were swept from our shores by those of Du Guay Trouin. So excuse me saying, mon ami, that you were most unwise to attack our old Celtic province of Brittany."
I could scarcely conceal a smile at this little bit of gasconade, when I remembered how much mischief we had done to government property, the ships and stores we had destroyed, unopposed by any armed force save a few hussars; but the loveliness of the lips that spoke repressed the rising spirit of retort.
"However," she added, smiling, "I am a Parisienne—not a Bretonne."
"And why—why——"
"What, monsieur le soldat?"
"Why banished to this wild province?"
"I am not banished, as you unpleasantly term it," said she, colouring; "but while my father is at the head of an army in Germany, he prefers that I should reside here, with my aunt, Madame de Bourgneuf. But we have talked too long, and I must have wearied you."
"You, mademoiselle!" I was beginning, when she rose and said—
"Another day I will visit you, so, for the present, adieu."
I was no longer the bashful boy who had so timidly confessed his love to little Ruth Wylie. A few months of soldiering had rubbed the rust completely off me. Thus, when this French girl, with all her imposing presence, her long train, and her hair à la marquise, presented her hand to me, I pressed it to my lips with an air so tender and withal so perfectly confident, that she withdrew it rather hastily and retired.
I was again alone.
Strange and mysterious was the power that lurked in those lovely eyes—in the slow droop of the fringed lids, and their upward sweep when they flashed in smiles upon me.
I lay back in my easy-chair and closed my eyes, but they still seemed to see the face and form of Jacqueline de Broglie.