CHAPTER XIII.
LAST OF THE EMERALD RING.
The snow-flakes were thick and blinding; the roadway became less and less discernible as the white mantle of winter deepened; buried under it, shrubs, tall weeds, and everything that could mark the borders of the path, a very rough and occasionally steep one, disappeared, and I wandered on wearily and at random without knowing in what direction.
There was no one abroad at such an hour and in such a season, and no house was visible, for the district was wild and desolate, having been severely devastated by the French foragers.
No sound came to the ear but the occasional hiss of the sharp hail that mingled with the falling snow, rendering the winter blast more chilly, choking, and biting, till the lungs became acutely pained, and the heart throbbed wildly.
How far I struggled on inspiring that icy atmosphere I cannot say, but nature was beginning to sink, and in my heart grew the fear of being conquered altogether, and of perishing in the storm, when happily a light that shone down what appeared to be a kind of ravine or trench (I know not which with certainty, as the snow caused all forms and features to blend) filled me with new strength, and manfully I made towards it, keeping in the track or line it cast so brightly towards me.
Ere long I could discover other lights that shone high above me in the air; then all at once the outline of a great old schloss or castle loomed through the snowy atmosphere, and the light which had been my guide shone apparently from a window in the lower story of the edifice. This suggested ideas of robbers, for who has not heard or read of German robbers and their haunts in ruined castles of the Black Forest, or by the Rhine and Weser? A French outpost perhaps! Well, it mattered not; anything—even a few of the Volontaires de Clermont were better hosts than the snow and Jack Frost in such a night and in such a season.
Suddenly a cry escaped me, when, half-stifled in snow, I sank to the armpits—yea, to the very neck, struggling and floundering like a drowning man. In fact, I had tumbled into the dry ditch of the schloss, which was nearly filled with drifted snow, and across which I scrambled with great difficulty towards the light. Thrice I nearly surrendered altogether, before, panting, breathless, and chilled to the heart's core, I reached a kind of terrace, approached the window, and peeped in.
Between tapestry hangings and white curtains of Mechlin lace, there could be seen a cosy little room, lined with dark brown wainscot, the varnished panels of which shone in the light of a cheerful fire. Drapery also of Mechlin lace overhung an elegant bed, a handsome mirror, and toilet-table, on which were placed four tall candles in solid stands of mahogany and silver.
There were one or two ebony Dutch cabinets, on which stood rare Japan canisters, quaint Chinese figures, an ormolu clock, and various pretty bijouterie, and there reigned within a sense of warmth, perfume, and comfort, that reached even to my chilly post without the casement.
But now, through the large pattern of the Mechlin lace hangings, I could discern two female figures near the fireplace; they were each kneeling at a carved oak prie-dieu, saying their prayers and warming themselves at the same time, thus combining their comfort with their piety. By her dress, and the contour of her head and shoulders, one appeared to be a lady; the other an attendant. Benumbed to agony, I felt dreamy, bewildered, and knew not what to do; sleep seemed to be stealing over my senses.
What if all I saw was an illusion, and these two fair ones were but Lurlies, like those who haunted the Lurliberg? What if the whole affair proved a dream, from which I should waken, if I ever woke at all, to find myself amid the snow-clad ruins of some old haunted schloss beside the Lahn?—for such is the plot of many a German story.
But when they rose from prayer I was quickly undeceived, and a cry almost escaped me on recognising Jacqueline de Broglie and her pretty attendant, the waggish Angelique!
Some minutes elapsed before I could sufficiently master my emotions to enable me to observe them particularly. Both seemed almost as unchanged as when we were together in the old château, especially Madame Tricot, the pretty piquante and black-eyed Bretonne. (Ah, she had soon tired of her M. Jacquot, who perhaps had given himself too many airs on becoming coachman to the coadjutor Bishop of Paris.) And she was here now with her former mistress (and mine too) in Germany, the land of the Seven Years' War.
The soft and charming features, the dark hair and eyes of Jacqueline, her air and manner, were all as I had seen them—not last, when lying, as it would seem, lifeless in the forest, but as they had been in our happier times. She was beautiful as ever; but the slightest symptom of dark down, like a shade, was visible at each corner of her pretty mouth—a symptom not uncommon among Frenchwomen after their twentieth year.
What was I to do now? To advance was to run into the jaws of danger; to retire was to perish amid the drifting snow, and already the very marrow seemed frozen in my bones. As she said something to Angelique, a thrill passed through me at the sound of her voice; something of my old love swelled up in my heart, and then pique repressed it; she seemed so happy and so smiling!
Had she been compelled to marry Bourgneuf? But, save her love, what was there to tie her unto me after I had disappeared from the château?
Suddenly the window against which I pressed (till my nose, had it been observed, must have presented a very livid aspect), and which had not been bolted, parted in two leaves that opened inwards, and heavily and awkwardly, with a shower of snow, I fell headlong into the apartment, and almost at the feet of Jacqueline, who, with her attendant, uttered a cry of terror; but both speedily recovered their presence of mind.
"Mon Dieu! what is this?—a drunken soldier!" exclaimed the first, with great asperity.
"A mousquetaire rouge—Grand Dieu! 'tis an Englishman! We shall all be murdered. Help! help!" cried Madame Tricot, with new dismay.
"Jacqueline—Jacqueline! for Heaven's sake, hush! Have you quite forgotten me, Basil Gauntlet, and our pleasant days in old Bretagne?" I exclaimed, in an excited and imploring tone.
Terror, surprise, and anything but real pleasure, filled the eyes of Jacqueline us she recognised me. She trembled, and held up her hands as if to shield her averted face and keep me back; but this was needless, as I never approached, but stood near the open window, through which came the drifting snow and the night wind that waved the hangings.
"Oh, Jacqueline!" said I, while an irrepressible emotion of tenderness filled my heart, "how terrible was the time when last I saw you stretched upon the earth in the forest of St. Aubin de Cormier!—and why do you greet me so coldly now?"
"Monsieur," said Angelique, taking my hands kindly in hers, "she greets you as people of the world greet those whom they are anxious to forget."
"With a fearful and cold welcome, Angelique?"
"True, mon ami, it is so."
"Then I pray you to pardon this intrusion," said I, hurriedly; "in seeking the British lines I have lost my way, and my life is beset by other dangers than the winter storm. Tell me where the Lahn lies, and I shall go; but pity me, Jacqueline, for Heaven and my own heart alone know how well I loved you."
There was a gratified smile on her lovely lip; a smile—and at such a time—it went a long way to cure me of my folly.
"O, mon pauvre Basil! and so it is really you?" said she, regarding me with a certain vague interest sparkling in her fine dark eyes; "but here, at this time of night," she continued with alarm—"and the count—I expect him every moment! You know that I am married, do you not? Get him away—away from here. Oh, Angelique, where are your brains? Aid us, or he is lost, and I too, perhaps!"
"Lost, indeed!" I repeated, bitterly.
"Guillaume de Boisguiller, whom you found in that horrid English prison-ship, told you all about my marriage, did he not?" said Jacqueline, earnestly.
"Yes, madame."
"And you did not die of a broken heart?"
"Not at all, madame; I can assure you that broken hearts are articles quite as rare among us in England as with you in France."
"Ah, indeed!" said she, smiling again.
"'Tis so," said I, with a laugh, which sounded strangely in my own ears, and in which she joined, giving her shoulders the while a little French shrug.
And this was the Jacqueline about whom I had sighed, raved, and wept! So here was an extinction of love, and a great demolition of romance at one fell blow.
"Tell me where the Lahn lies, madame, and I shall not trouble you with my presence for a moment longer. I am in constant danger of my life, for your husband seeks to destroy me, and without a reason."
"Grands Dieux!" she exclaimed, with real alarm, "are you the fugitive to secure whom Bourgneuf has dispatched men in so many directions?"
"Yes, madame; so permit me to restore to you this emerald ring. It nearly cost me my life, and yet it won me my liberty yesterday at Ysembourg."
"From whom?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Your gallant old father, the Duc de Broglie."
Then drawing her ring from my finger, I laid it on the toilet-table with the air of Cromwell ordering the removal of "that bauble," the mace.
"He has no less than three parties out to cut you off—one in the direction of Hesse Cassel—one on the road to Wildungen—and a third at the ford near Zuschen, under Arnaud de Pricorbin."
"The bridges——"
"Alas! are all destroyed, and though a plank might aid you in crossing the one at Freyenthal, I heard him say that the Baron Konrad watches all the riverside with his foresters to prevent your passage. Mon Dieu! what shall be done?"
"Let me forth into the night again," said I, turning; "anywhere is better than here. Adieu, madame, adieu, and for ever!"
"Hola! mon bon Monsieur Gauntlet; so we meet again, do we?" exclaimed a familiar voice; and a cry escaped the women, when I found myself confronted by the Count de Bourgneuf, who shrugged his shoulders in the true French style, till his epaulettes touched his ears, while a fierce, ironical, and almost diabolical smile spread over his visage, and he ground his teeth. "Aha, mon garcon!" he continued, making me a series of mock bows, and then I perceived that he had a cocked pistol dangling in each hand: "so I've caught you at last, eh?”