THE BLOODHOUND.
"When nothing remains of an adventure," writes some one, "it is
always possible to consider it a dream." As yet I could not realize
this, though frequently asking of myself, Is all this sudden calamity
a truth?--for I thought, spoke, and acted as one who dreamed.
But three hours--they seemed so many ages--but three hours ago, I had
been seated in yonder garden-bower with Jacqueline, listening to her
voice, while her cheek reclined upon my shoulder, fearing nothing
save the shadowy future, thinking of ourselves and of our love alone.
_Now_ how all was changed!
I had been discovered, and all but expelled from the chateau, while
she had been abducted, and by such an abductor! Now I was riding
side by side with a French officer--his comrade for the time--and he
was that Chevalier de Boisguiller, who had been so long my _bête
noire_.
At the very moment I was thinking of all these things, what might be
the peril, the suffering, the desperate extremity of Jacqueline!
Where was she, and how circumstanced in the power of a brutal
galley-slave? Might we not be riding in the wrong direction, and
thus, perhaps, abandoning her to the very fate from which we sought
to save her? The stars that looked so brightly down on us looked
also down on her; but where was she? Every thought and fear was
maddening!
When contrasted with my own keen anxiety, the _sang-froid_ of the
French officer piqued and annoyed me. It was well for me, however,
that he was ignorant of the relation that existed between his cousin
and me, as, apart from any fancy he might himself have had for her,
in the extreme ideas of difference of rank, religion, and so forth,
cherished by the French _noblesse_, he would have thought no more of
quietly pistolling me, on the score of presumption, than of shooting
a weasel. Thus my ill-concealed emotions he put down in his own mind
as the result of humanity and gratitude.
"_Mon ami_, I rather like you," said he, as we rode on together; "I
can see that you are courageous, and that is better than to be merely
brave."
"Merely brave--what do you mean, chevalier?"
"We French make a distinction in this matter. A soldier may be very
brave, and yet on some occasions may not have courage to manifest his
bravery."
"I confess that this paradox is too subtle for me, especially at such
a time. But tell me, chevalier, was this wretch of whom we are in
pursuit ever in the French service?"
"I regret to say that he was, until discharged with a _cartouche
jaune_ as an incorrigible rogue."
He referred to the discharge printed on yellow paper and given to
those men of the French army who were dismissed under sentence of
degradation.
For a few miles we diverged into every cross path, but always
returned to the main road; and we questioned closely the few persons,
chiefly charcoal-burners, whom in that sequestered region we met
abroad at such an hour, but questioned them in vain.
Thus the short night of August was soon spent. The clear stars still
shone brightly in the blue sky; but already there were indications of
the dawn that was at hand, for a warm flush was stealing over the
east when we found ourselves at Fougères, a little town situated on
the river Nanson, having some leather manufactories and a strong old
castle wherein the lords of that _Seigneurie_ resided.
There we turned our horses without prosecuting our inquiries, as it
was by no means likely that those of whom we were in search would be
found in a busy town.
So the night had passed away--a night without tidings of Jacqueline!
Broader and deeper grew the light of morning, and clouds of sombre
grey or purple that overhung the mountains and seemed to roll along
their distant ridges, became lighted up and edged with saffron and
gold.
We were returning at a canter along the highway to Bourgneuf, in the
hope that on reaching that place we might find that some of our
searchers had returned with happy tidings and better success than
ourselves; but we had scarcely proceeded two miles when we met Urbain
the gardener and Bertrand the porter, each armed with a musket. They
were accompanied by an old peasant, whose head was bound about with a
cloth to conceal a wound, which seemed to have bled profusely.
They had been scouting in the woodlands which bordered the highway,
and had there met this peasant, who was a woodcutter, and who
informed them that he had seen a man dragging a woman towards the
forest of St. Aubin du Cormier, and that when attempting to interfere
when she claimed his succour and protection, her captor struck him
down with the butt of a heavy pistol. This rencontre occurred about
three miles from the place where we were then speaking.
"_Pardieu!_ this is valuable intelligence," exclaimed Boisguiller;
"but how shall we track them through these dense thickets?"
"Monsieur, you cannot do it on horseback," replied the peasant; "but
as my hut is close by, you may leave your horses there, and then, as
I should like to repay that cowardly rascal for the tap he gave me on
the head, I shall give you sure means of tracking him, for I have in
keeping a Spanish bloodhound belonging to Monseigneur the Count of
Fougères, and it is completely at your service."
"I thank you for this great aid, _mon ami_," said my companion; "the
count knows me well--I am the Chevalier de Boisguiller, son of the
Governor of St. Malo."
On hearing this the peasant made a succession of low bows, scraping
the turf with his sabots at each.
The reader may imagine the haste and satisfaction with which we
availed ourselves of the offer of the old woodman, and as we
proceeded to his humble hut, which was situated close to a bend of
the Nanson, I questioned him closely and anxiously about the
appearance of the persons he had seen. The tall, powerful man in a
common blouse and fur cap, with a girdle and _couteau de chasse_, was
as certainly Theophile Hautois as the poor pale girl with torn dress
and dishevelled hair, whose hands he had tied with a cord, and whose
mouth he had gagged with a handkerchief, was certainly our Jacqueline.
His description made me tremble with anguish and rage, and
Boisguiller to gnaw the ends of his moustaches. We quitted our
saddles, stuck our pistols in our girdles, and had the bloodhound
brought forth.
"Messieurs," said the woodman, as he led forward the dog by a strong
steel chain, "there is not in France, and certainly not in Bretagne
or Normandy, a _limier_ with a finer nose than this; and set him but
once upon the track of those we seek--let the distance between us be
ever so great, and let it be through the thickest woods and by the
most covert paths--ay, _pardieu_, by the Blackwater of St. Aubin du
Cormier, this dog will trace them."
"To the proof, without delay!" exclaimed the chevalier, while I
examined attentively the ferocious brute on whose instincts our hopes
depended.
Its back was about thirty inches high, its limbs exhibited vast
muscle, and its chaps were long, pendulous, and frothy. It was of a
deep dark-brown hue, and was of that breed which the Spaniards once
used with such terrible effect on the continent and adjacent isles of
South America.
Leaving our horses at the hut, we retraced our steps, and entering
the wild forest, which more or less covers all that part of the
country, an hour's walk brought us to the place where the woodman had
encountered Hautois and his victim about seven hours before--at
midnight, in fact, and he assured us of the place by showing on the
grass traces of the blood which had flowed from the wound inflicted
by the outlaw's pistol-butt.
The fierce hound inserted his square muzzle among the grass and
sniffed up blood, on which the peasant gave him a kick, saying,
"_Voila, mon ami!_--come, come, 'tis not my blood we wish you to
sniff at so pleasantly, but the blood of another."
"True," said Boisguiller, "but how are we to give him the scent of
Hautois, or of the lady?"
"Morbleu!" grumbled the woodman; "I did not think of that."
"Had we but a piece of mademoiselle's dress!" said Urbain.
"Here are what we require," said I, in a voice all but breathless
with emotion, while drawing from my breast the kid glove and fragment
of lace which we had found near the garden-bower. The chevalier gave
me a keen glance, and snatching the relics almost abruptly from my
hand, pressed them against the black nostrils of the dog, patting him
soothingly the while. The glove was perfumed fortunately, and thus,
in a minute or less, the dog, after sniffing and snorting about among
the grass, with his head bent low and ears drooping, began to run
rapidly through the forest, straining on his collar and chain, and
dragging after him the peasant who grasped the other end of it.
"_Parbleu, messieurs!_ he is on the track now! See how he follows
the scent!" exclaimed the old man, who was compelled to run fast to
keep up with the dog and with us. "Oh! by St. Malo! See, here are
the footsteps, the crushed leaves, the broken twigs! 'Tis this way
they have passed, messieurs. _Ah! sacré coquin!_ That tap on the
head shall cost thee dear. Look to your pistols, monsieur le
chevalier, for _he_ has a pair, and I know not the moment we may come
upon him."
Thus surely guided by the searching instinct and unflinching
pertinacity of the hound, we hastened through the forest in silence,
and with hearts full of intense anxiety and hope.
The dog was sometimes at fault when runnels of water crossed our
path, but the peasant, who was an acute old fellow, with a face of
the true Breton type--eyes that were deeply set and thoughtful, a
high nose and square forehead--soon set him right again.
What must poor Jacqueline, so delicate and so tenderly nurtured, have
suffered while forced to pursue such paths as these? We were now at
least eight miles distant from Bourgneuf, and for her to have been
dragged through a forest at midnight, and by such hands!
The idea was too dreadful to embody in fancy, so let me hasten over
what follows.
At a part of the forest which was so dense that the intertwined
branches of the trees almost excluded the light of the sun, the dog
stopped at the root of a large elm, and began to bay loudly over some
tufts of grass, leaves, and branches that were freshly heaped up
there. He snorted, growled savagely, and then proceeded to tear up
the little mound with his nose and forepaws.
"The scent ends here," said the peasant, looking somewhat bewildered
and alarmed.
"There must be some mistake," said the chevalier, with annoyance in
his tone; "we have been in pursuit of the wrong person. But some
mystery may be concealed here. Urbain, Bertrand, scrape aside this
heap, and let us see what the dog's nose has discovered."
They readily plied their musket-butts, and then their hands, while I
stood by, feeling more dead than alive, for the horror of
anticipation overcame me.
A bit of an orange silk dress appeared. Let me endeavour to write
briefly and calmly of what followed.
In a hollow, a hasty grave, half dug and half heaped up, about three
feet deep in all, we found the body of Jacqueline, covered by leaves,
branches, and tufts of grass.
She lay upon her back; her right hand, so small and beautiful,
clutched a tuft of grass; the teeth were clenched--there was no
relaxation of the jaw--clenched as if with agony, and foam was
plainly discernible on the white and parted lips; yet she was lovely
like a dead angel, and all the divine serenity of innocence was there.
Standing aloof like one transfixed or petrified, I saw them raise her
up, and saw her head drooping pendulously backward with its long
dishevelled hair clotted with blood, the bare bosom and the tattered
dress.
Then I heard Boisguiller exclaim in accents of horror,
"She is dead now; but that mere wound could never have killed
her--_she has been, stunned and buried alive_! Poor Jacqueline!
What she has endured ere death released her, her lips can never tell
us now."