MY NURSE.
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.