CHAPTER IX.
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“In this trust,
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust;
That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm;
But all my youth's first treasures when we meet,
Making past sorrows, by communion, sweet.”
Records of Woman.
So powerful had been the soporific contained in
the beverage I had quaffed so eagerly, that, far
from being able to receive and interrogate the persons
I had summoned to attend my bedside on the
same evening, I did not awake from my heavy repose
till the sun of the succeeding day was high
in the heavens. The promise of the chirurgeon
had, moreover, been fully borne out by the improvement
I already experienced; for scarcely
had I raised my head from the pillow, before I
was sensible that the fever had entirely departed.
My pulse was cool and regular; the burning heat
of my limbs had been replaced by a healthful moisture;
and, above all, that fearful dizziness of the
brain which had come upon me on the preceding
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day, after every exertion, whether of mind or
body, how much soever I struggled against it,
had yielded to the unruffled calm which has ever
been the character of my mental habit, when undisturbed
by powerful excitement.
I was not now, as when I had awakened from
my stupor on the past morning, entirely alone;
for one of the first objects which caught my eye
was a tall casque of highly-burnished steel, with a
nodding plume, standing upon the oaken table; an
embroidered glove and sheathed sword lay beside
it. The next instant showed me that they
belonged to the Count de Charmi, who was sitting
by the hearth, playing with the long ears of my
bloodhound, as he waited till my protracted slumbers
should draw to an end.
The slight rustle I caused in changing my
position had already attracted his attention; and
his eyes were turned upon my countenance with
an expression of sincere pleasure, such as I could
hardly expect to see manifested by one who had
so lately been a stranger.
“By my faith!” he cried, “I am right glad to see
you look thus cheerily again, De Mornington!
You will be yet in the saddle time enough to share
the honours of this most ennobling war.” And the
young man laughed with an air of reckless
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contempt, as though the very idea that citizens and
burghers should presume to wield the weapons of
a soldier were in itself absurd. “How fare you
now?” he continued; “your wounds are healing,
as old Martin tells us, and your eye, this morning,
looks almost as brightly as its wont; yet is your
brow grave—your countenance downcast. Your
good old servant told me, too, last night, that you
would speak with me on matters of great import.
Say, is there aught in which I can assist you? If
it be so, I do beseech you to command me. I am
not—I assure you, sir, I am not one to proffer
services to every new acquaintance, nor to make
vaunts which I intend not to perform; but you, I
know not how it is, have won our hearts. Nor is
there in our ranks a common trooper but would
support your honour with his life. Contrary to
my allegiance or my good fame I know you never
will require me to act; and bating these, there is
nothing that man can do but I will do it.”
“There is no need,” I replied, more cheerfully
than I had spoken before, for sympathy is ever a
sure key to the affections—“there is no need of
such a pledge, Monsieur de Charmi; nor am I
about to ask aught at your hands, save some slight
information concerning subjects the nearest to my
heart. I do beseech you to deal with me plainly
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and freely in this matter, as you would yourself
be dealt with by another. And, firstly, saw you
aught of a lady, or heard you aught from the
soldiers, on the night when I received my wounds
at St. Benedict aux Layes?”
“You forget, sir, I imagine,” was the prompt
reply, “that I was left in command of the rear-guard
on that unlucky evening, and halted, according
to orders, at Bar le Duc. When I arrived
the next forenoon, I found you senseless in the
hostelry, under the hands of the leech; and the regiment
which had marched with you, in arms to
avenge your injury on all and sundry. But to reply
directly to your query, I have seen nothing of any
lady, nor, I fear me much, have the troops heard
any thing concerning her. I have, however,
brought with me the orderly who accompanied
you to the convent; he, perhaps, may give you
some satisfaction.”
“By all means let him enter,” I replied; “at the
worst, it will relieve me of a fierce and gnawing
anxiety: but I foresee already that all is lost.”
He quitted the chamber for an instant; and, before
I should have deemed it possible, returned
with a young non-commissioned officer, whom I at
once recollected for him to whose hand I had flung
Bayard's rein at the convent-gate, some ten
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minutes before my accident. I addressed him at once
by name, well aware that nothing is more flattering
to an inferior than to be remembered by one
placed far above him; thanked him for the ready
aid he had afforded me, as I had since learned; and
desired him to recite briefly all that had occurred,
from the moment of my leaving him at the
avenue to the period of De Charmi's arrival with
the remainder of the troops. I had, it is true, little
expectation of discovering any thing satisfactory;
it was already nearly certain that the villains had
succeeded in their purpose: yet I listened as he
spoke; I weighed his words, and watched his
features with the keenest scrutiny—to the double
intent of detecting him, should he attempt the
slightest equivocation, and of learning more surely
from his manner than from his language his own
impressions on the subject.
“I had,” he said, “ridden off very sharply on
leaving you, being somewhat weary, and anxious
to rejoin my comrades. I had already passed the
brow of the little hillock whereon you had posted the
third sentinel, and was descending with more caution
into the deep woody glen beyond it, when methought
I heard a cry, as if of a female. I paused,
and, listening attentively, distinctly caught the
sounds again; for the night was, as you will
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recollect, unusually calm and silent. I turned my horse's
head at once, with the intention of returning to
ascertain the cause, as I more than suspected that
it might arise from some license of our men; but I
had barely time to draw the reins, before a shout—
your shout I fancied it to be, monsieur—came
up the wind, followed by a pistol-shot. I did
not pause or hesitate for a moment; I fastened
your horse to a tree, and galloped fiercely back to
the convent, calling on every sentry, as I passed
his station, to follow; so that, by the time of my
reaching the turn of the road at which I had left
you, we were four armed men. Three minutes
could not have elapsed from the first alarm ere
we had reached the avenue; yet in that brief
space we had heard at least a dozen shots; some,
as we imagined, of petronel or musket, rather than
of a smaller caliber, accompanied by all the tumult
of a fierce and sudden fray. As we halted, to be
sure of our direction, the front of the convent was
all in shadow and in silence, but in the windows of
the northern wing lights were glancing to and fro,
and voices sounding in uproar. We easily cleared
the low wall, galloped furiously across the meadow,
and as we wheeled around a turret, beheld
several bodies—three they were in number, as we
found afterward, and yours, monsieur, one of the
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three—stretched motionless on the trampled and
bloody grass; while a superior body of horse was
galloping from the southward to meet us. Our
petronels were levelled on the moment, and I had
barely time to beat them up again, on recognising
in the new comers the picket which had
been detailed in front upon the river-bank. Two
or three of our men immediately dismounted,
while the rest—I led them myself—made a wide
sweep round the north-western side of the meadows,
quite down to the river, hoping to cut off the
perpetrators of the crime—but in vain! The night
had suddenly become cluded, and we could
discover nothing. Ere our return a heavy detachment
had been sent down from head-quarters,
under Captain Villeroy; you had been already
conveyed to the hamlet where the troops were
posted; and four files of men slept on their arms
before the convent, with orders to seek out the
traces which must have been left by the marauders,
as soon as there should be light enough to
distinguish a hoof-track. At my own request I was
allowed to remain with the scouting-party; and,
as soon as day began to dawn, we proceeded in
open files to survey the ground. It was not long
before we found the deeply-dinted tracks, running
directly westward, of six horses. One, I
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remember well, was smaller than the rest, and had a barshoe
on one foot before. After following them a
short distance, they entered a small open grove,
or rather a large clump of trees, in which, to our
surprise, we found two horses tied to the branches.
These I at once conjectured to have belonged
to the men who had fallen, and to have been led
thus far by their comrades, lest, running loose,
they should cause their discovery and capture.
From the grove, the traces of the four remaining
riders were plainly visible, running north-westerly
down to the river-bank, which they struck at a
point at least two miles beyond the limits of the
circuit made by us on the preceding night. I do
not, however, doubt but that we must have been
within a hundred yards of the party when they
were concealed among the trees, I mentioned—
so that, had there been light enough, we must have
taken them. We could plainly see that two boats
had been secured to the roots of the trees at this
spot; one of them a light sharp-keeled skiff, the
other, as we judged from the marks on the sand,
a large flat, for the conveyance of the horses.
They had evidently been short-handed, and fearful
of pursuit; for they had left a cloak, a petronel,
a glove, and some other trifles on the bank. Further
pursuit of course could not be made, as the river
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was unfordable; nor, had it been otherwise, should
I have ventured to advance without orders from
my superior. On our return to head-quarters, the
regiment was got under arms by Colonel le Chaumont;
and we were about to march, with the
intent of crossing the river, when Monsieur de
Charmi came up with the main body, and the
marching orders were at once countermanded.
This, sir, is all I know. Ihave, however, brought
with me the glove I told you of; it is, I think, a
lady's.”
And as he spoke, he handed to me a delicate
white glove of chamois leather, curiously wrought
with silver arabesques. I knew it at a glance
for Isabel's. The die was cast, and I could
have no further doubts; all were sunk in dark
and, as it would seem, irremediable despair.
Keenly and calmly as I had listened up to this
time to his least details, my strength of mind—my
coolness, whether assumed or real—at once deserted
me; I bowed my head between my hands,
too proud, even in my mortal misery, that the eyes
of man should witness that affliction which I had
not the power to control. I could not for a moment
hesitate to give my credence to the soldier's
tale; it was too connected in its details, too probable,
and, above all, too consistent with what I knew
to be truth. There was, moreover, no faltering of
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the voice, no embarrassment of eye or manner, as
he went straight-forward to the point, although I
was reading his every motion all the time, with a
fixed eagle glance that might have well confused a
speaker even conscious of his own veracity. Had
I been one prone to deceive myself with the lingering
flatteries of hope, I could not have done so in
this instance; but such was never the habit of my
mind. Once certain of any calamity, whether impending
or already fallen, I never strove, as some
men do, to disbelieve it; on the contrary, I nerved
my soul at once to avert, to remedy, or, at worst,
to bear it bravely.
The first thing that recalled me from my
gloomy meditations was a whisper of De Charmi
to the subaltern.
“You had better leave us now; Monsieur de
Mornington is as yet weak—both mind and body.
You had better leave us, but wait below for
orders.”
“Not so,” I broke in suddenly; “I would ask
him a few more questions—but no,” I again interrupted
myself, “it matters not: and you are
right, De Charmi. You, sir, shall leave us for the
present: but you shall not leave my mind, I promise
you; nor shall your gallantry and quickness fail
to procure for you speedy promotion—somewhat
in the hand the while.”
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The gratified orderly received the gratuity I
tendered him, and with a bright smile and deferential
salute quitted the chamber.
“All is over, De Charmi,” I continued—“as
bright a dream as ever gladdened the heart of man
has vanished from mine with his recital. Yet
would I learn from you what are our chances of
discovering the perpetrators of this infernal villany;
for I will not deny to you that I am interested
in their recapture, almost beyond the powers
of expression. Of this will I speak to you anon.
But satisfy me now. Saw you these horses of
which he told me? Saw you the corpses? For,
God be merciful, it is most marvellous! I slew
but one before I was myself stricken to the earth;
and it would seem that no one else had reached
the scene of action ere they left it. Were there no
marks upon the housings—naught in the liveries
of the troopers by which they might be traced?”
“We have the horses with us—two heavy
Norman blacks. They were accoutred in plain
demipiques and dark serge housings; there was no
crest or bearing on any portion of their trappings;
nor did the men wear liveries. They seemed
to me banditti, or, at best, countrymen recently
pressed into service. One wore, methinks, a
leathern cassock, the other a blue cloth jerkin, with
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a corslet and buff gauntlets; both had fallen by
pistol-shots. I fear there is no clew by which you
can discover the wretches, unless it be that you
have private cause for suspicion.”
“Cause enough,” I replied, “cause enough;
but little prospect of succeeding. One question
more, and I will explain to you this mystery, on
promise of strict silence. Had neither you nor
any of the officers an interview with the Benedictine
prior?”
“Doubtless we had. He showed more sorrow
at your accident than we could well comprehend;
for though the hurts were painful, and your convalescence—
owing to your high state of fever—
slow and tedious, we have never apprehended
danger. Yet did he seem most anxious. I remember
well one expression of that most singular
and noble-looking man—`Better it would have
been for him had he lost the best limb of his body
at another time, than to have been thus crippled
now!' The remark at the time struck me as
somewhat unusual, and I earnestly pressed him
for his meaning. Once I thought he was about to
tell me, but he checked himself; questioned me
of the duration of my friendship or acquaintance
with yourself; and, when he learned that it was
but of some two days' standing, broke off abruptly.
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We left with him your titles and address, and he
assured us he would write: to what intent, or
when, he said not. And now, De Mornington,
believe me, I entreat, to be as it were your second
self. I f I can assist you, I will do so; if not, it
is ever a relief to disburden your mind to one
who will not betray you. Something, I well suppose,
I have already gathered from the incoherent
ravings of your fever. You are married—is it not
so?—and lately?”
“To an angel, De Charmi; to an angel, whom
I never may see more. Never see more!”—I
broke forth, as if challenging the bold assertion of a
third person. “By Heaven I will see—will rescue
her—and that, too, shortly; or I will lose that
which is but dross—vile rubbish in the scale when
weighed against her recovery!” I then, as shortly
as the subject would allow, related to him my
encounter with the brothers in the wood; my
rescue of the lady; my flight, escape, and marriage.
“And now,” I said, “yourself have seen
the rest. Speak, have I acted in aught wrongly or
unworthily of the name I bear, or see you aught
that we may do to further her recovery?”
“By Heaven, Mornington!” he cried, in high
tones, which yet quivered with excitement—“by
Heaven, when I first heard your trumpet-voice, and
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marked your bearing in the saddle, I knew you
for a cavalier, despite your rude disguise. When
I beheld your prompt celerity of eye, and hand,
and mandate in the field, I knew you for a general
of God's own making; but now—now—and truly do
I thank you for the knowledge—I know you for the
best and noblest gentleman your own brave country
hath to boast of. You had my good-will from
the first; lately you have possessed my sympathy
and friendship; but now you hold my veneration
and my heart. Lead on, whither or when you
will; unquestioning, undoubting, I will follow you.
Follow you, were it possible, even to disgrace.”
“Calm yourself, my friend, calm yourself,” I
replied, grasping his proffered hand; “I were
base, indeed, to doubt you, and unthankful. But
there needs not this. Naught have I done in this unhappy
matter, but what the commonest gentleman
must at once have executed; but now, what can I
do? what must be our plan of operations? I ask not,
wholly, that I would learn myself, not being overwont
to seek advice from any save my own heart—
but that I would gladly learn how our ideas
jump.”
“If it were peace,” he replied, shortly enough—
“if it were not for this cursed Fronde, which after
all is the most frivolous rebellion the world ever
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witnessed, it were easy enough. But now, Turenne,
they say, is moving from the Rhine, and
probably hath ere this overrun the districts
about Bar le Duc and St. Dizier with his Swiss
rabble; besides, there is hot fighting here; no
chance of obtaining leave of absence—”
“No chance!” I almost shouted—“no chance,
say you? I will have leave of absence ere a month
be flown, or I will at once resign my sword and my
commission!”
“To achieve your wife's deliverance by a brief
sojourn in the dungeons of Marcoussi; or, if we
take Paris, as I think we shall, perchance in the
Bastile. No, no, sir—that plan is naught. You
must win Condé's friendship—another week will
see you in the saddle. You will of course acquire
renown in every skirmish; yours is the only cavalry
we have—and you its sole commander. We
have work enough here daily—win Condé's friendship—
and when these silly jars are ended, I doubt
not we shall win her back as lightly as you lost
her: and, hear me, sir, say naught to Mazarin
about this marriage. If she be noble and an
heiress—as I hold it probable she will prove to be—
you have committed high offence in wedding her
without the monarch's signature—you will lose at
least the lands.
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“Perish the trash!” I exclaimed; “what should
I do with lands?—But you mean well, and, I believe,
judge rightly. Nothing will I do rashly—but,
hark! what mean those trumpets?”
He listened for a moment—“I deemed not it
had been so late,” he said, looking towards the
window; “yet is the sun fast verging towards the
west. It is the evening parade, and I must leave
you. Adieu!” he continued, pressing my hand
warmly—“adieu, my friend; I shall be with you
early on the morrow; keep a good heart—adieu!”
And the gay young officer left the room evidently
under strong excitement. Yet such is the buoyancy
of the national constitution, that he had not descended
five of the creaking steps ere I could hear
the burthen of some merry air which he was humming
to himself, and which, as he reached the
outer door, broke into a snatch of song.
Scarcely had the sounds of his departure died
into stillness, ere I was again disturbed by a heavy
step without, immediately followed by a short quick
stroke upon the door; I had to raise my voice a
second time before the new-comer entered,—it was
the orderly officer of the day, bearing in his hand a
large packet, addressed “à Mons. Harry Mornington,
chef d'escardron, et commandant des chevaux
légers.” It had been delivered to the soldier on duty
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at the gates, on the preceding evening, by a muffled
horseman, who had ridden off at a gallop the moment
after he had disburdened himself of the despatch,
regardless of the threatening summons of the
sentries, and even of a shot or two which were
sent after him, though without effect.
The direction of the cover was in bold and
somewhat dashing manuscript; evidently the writing
of a man, and one not literary in his habits.
I gazed on it in mute curiosity, while the subaltern
was delivering some complimentary message from
the troopers, unwilling to open it in the presence
of a witness, yet to the last degree anxious to know
the contents. I thought the man would never have
finished his preamble; and then, when that was
ended, he had a long story to tell—illustrative of
his own attention and activity—of my good horse
Bayard, who, it seems, had been committed to his
keeping since my illness—and of a charger which
had been sent by the equerry of the king, as a
token of the royal approbation, to my somewhat
scanty stables. At last, with a profusion of hopes,
and fears, and wishes, he withdrew. I crawled out
of my pallet-bed—secured the door, by drawing
one and another massive bolt across it—severed the
band of floss silk which secured the packet with the
edge of my dagger—a weapon never far distant
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from my hand—tore off a blank wrapper—and
within it, to my almost terrified astonishment, beheld
a letter beautifully superscribed, in a small and
delicate female hand, with the one word “Harry.”
It was bound, not with flax or silk, but with a
long tress of lovely light-brown hair—I could have
sworn to the sunny gloss that played upon it amid
ten thousand—fastened in a slightly artificial knot
by a small drop of virgin wax; and on that wax
was stamped the impress of my own signet—
the ancient crest and heir-loom of my family—
with which, in default of a more fitting ring, I had
wedded my matchless Isabel. Besides the letter,
which I clutched with an eagerness hardly inferior
to that of the condemned felon snatching at his reprieve,
there was a large enclosure, endorsed on
the outside covering “Isabel—le bon temps viendra.”
This, however, for the moment, fell unnoticed
from my hand—for eye and heart alike were
riveted upon the smaller letter. With trembling
fingers I broke the wax, and read as follows:—
Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1835], The brothers: a tale of the Fronde volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf136v1].
