MADAME DE RIBEAUPIERRE.
"Who should it be? Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we look for succour?
When we are wretched, where can we complain?
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?"
JOANNA BAILLIE.
A month after the occurrence of the stirring events we have just
narrated, Quentin Kennedy found himself an inmate of the same house
with his young French friend at Corunna--the pretty villa that faced
the bay of Orsan, the same mansion in which the Master of Rohallion
spent that remarkable night before the battle.
General de Ribeaupierre had been appointed by Marshal Soult military
governor of the town and citadel of Corunna, in which there was a
strong French garrison; but instead of occupying the gloomy quarters
assigned to the governor, Madame de Ribeaupierre, who had joined him,
preferred the little Villa de Orsan near the coast, and had prevailed
upon him to place Eugene on his staff as an aide-de-camp, and thus
the whole of her household now seemed, for the time, to be peacefully
located in that remote corner of Gallicia.
Both madame and her husband the general were considerably past the
prime of life. He was a fine courtly gentleman of the old French
school, and in his secret heart was a sincere monarchist, but not so
rashly as to oppose in act or spirit the tide of events which had
replaced the line of St. Louis by Napoleon, with whom he had served
early in life, as we have before stated, in the Regiment of La Fere.
Madame might still be called handsome, though long past forty.
Perfectly regular, finely cut, and having all the impress of good
birth and high culture, her features were remarkably beautiful. Her
manner was singularly sweet, gentle, and pleasing; yet she had an eye
and a lip indicative of a proud and lofty spirit, that had enabled
her to confront the blackest horrors of the Revolution in France.
Powdered white as snow, she wore her hair dressed back over a little
cushion, with a few stray ringlets falling behind in the coquettish
manner of the old Bourbon days (when patches and pomatum were in all
their glory), while her full bust, plump white arms, her short
sleeves with long elbow-gloves, her peaked stomacher and her
amplitude of brocade skirt, with many a deep flounce and frill of old
Maltese lace, all made her a pleasing picture at a time when, in
imitation of the prevailing French taste, the English woman of
fashion wore a huge muslin cap, her waist under her armpits, and her
skirts so tight that she resembled nothing in this world but a long
bolster set on end.
Knowing how much the young prisoner of war and Eugene owed to each
other, and how much the former had suffered recently under the sabre
of the latter, she rivalled her husband in kindness, and was
unremitting in her hospitality, her nursing, and her motherly
attention.
Quentin had the care of the best surgeons on the French staff--a
class of medical men who far excelled the rabble of apothecary boys
then commissioned for the British army; the cool season of the year
was favourable for his recovering from such an ugly slash on the
caput as Eugene's steel had bestowed; so, our hero, having youth and
health on his side, grew rapidly well, and by the 16th of
February--one month after the battle--he had become quite
convalescent; but politeness even could scarcely make him repress his
impatience to begone; yet he knew that, though the guest of General
Ribeaupierre, he was still a prisoner of war, and could not leave any
French territory until duly exchanged.
During his illness he had many a strange and fantastic dream of Flora
and of home. But now there came to him dim memories of an infancy
_beyond_ that spent at Rohallion; there was the quaint foreign town,
with its winding river, its antique bridge, its boats and windmills.
Like a dream, or some vision of mystic memory, he remembered this
place in all its details and features, and with them came the old and
confused recollection of a lady, it might be, nay, it _must_ have
been, his own mother, in rich velvet with powdered hair. Then came
his father's face, pale and despairing, and the night of the wreck at
the Partan Craig, all jumbled oddly together.
Was it a sense of pre-existence--that sense felt by so many at
different times--that haunted him?
Was it a sense of the _unreality_ of the present f conflicting with
the certainty of the past?
We cannot say; but there came upon his mind a strange consciousness
that this scene, this river, with its town and woods and hills, this
lady in velvet and powder, were not creations of the fancy, and were
not new to him.
Was it a phase of that which is termed by Dr. Wigan the "duality of
the human mind," which comes upon us at times--
"As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood,
_And ebb into a former life?_"
We pretend not to say; but poor Quentin was sorely puzzled, and that
sabre cut in no way made his reasoning faculties clearer.
His room, a large one facing the bay of Orsan, was decorated for him
daily by a quantity of beautiful flowers, which madame procured from
the conservatory of the captain-general--flowers so charming at that
season--scarlet and white camellias, rare geraniums, and glorious
roses of every hue; while in the trellis-work verandah without were
magnolias and creeping plants whose tendrils were covered with
odoriferous flowers, through which the sea-breeze came, blending and
mingling pleasantly with the fragrant and earthy odour of the tiled
floor, which was daily sprinkled with spring water.
And there in a softly-cushioned easy-chair he sat for hours gazing
dreamily out upon the sunlit bay, where the brown Spanish
fisher-boats, with lateen sails striped red and white, manned by dark
and picturesque-looking fellows in shirts and caps of scarlet and
blue, were always preparing for sea, or tacking out of the bay with
the white foam curling under the bows--a life of movement and bustle
that contrasted sadly with his own inertia and made him feverish with
impatience.
Even Eugene's aspect, as he came clattering and rattling to and fro,
between the citadel and the villa, in uniform and accoutred with
spurs and sabre, showed that the game of life was still played
briskly by others, and fretted Quentin's soul.
"A prisoner," he repeated to himself, "and for heaven knows how long!
Is this the fruit of my ambition? Is this the prize I have striven,
struggled, and starved--fought and bled for during all the horrors of
that campaign? Unlucky indeed was the hour when Hope sent me beyond
the city on a bootless errand, and when Eugene cut me down on that
accursed beach! Captivity even thus, though surrounded by every
kindness and luxury, is more than I can either bear or endure!
Besides," he added, bitterly, aloud, "I may be reported dead or
missing, and Flora--may--might--and my commission too--may be
cancelled."
"No, no, my good young friend," said Madame de Ribeaupierre, who had
entered unheard; "my husband, the general, saw all that properly
arranged, and despatched Eugene in person, with a memorandum of your
name and regiment, to the commissaire for British prisoners, to
inform him that we had you here, where we mean to keep you as long as
we can."
"It was most kind, dear madame," said Quentin, bowing low to hide
confusion for his petulance, and leading the lady to a chair close by
his own.
"Kind, monsieur, say you? It was but just and proper that your
friends should know of your safety," said she, with a bending of the
neck, a species of bow that reminded Quentin of old Lady Rohallion;
for this Frenchwoman had all that old-fashioned grace which, in
Scotland, died with the Jacobites, and in France expired with the
monarchy. "Judging by my own fears and emotions, I was most anxious
that--that your mother, I presume, should know that you, at least,
had not perished on that unhappy 16th of January."
"My mother," repeated Quentin, and with the memory of his recent
dreams a thrill of sadness came over his heart, as he looked into the
fine dark eyes of this noble French matron, who seemed so inspired by
feminine tenderness and commiseration that she placed her white hand
caressingly on the half-healed scar which Quentin's short crisp hair
but partially concealed.
"A naughty boy was my Eugene to do this, but he has never ceased to
deplore it. Yes, your mother; ah, mon Dieu! it was well that she did
not see as I saw you, after the mischief Eugene wrought, when the
Chasseurs of the 24th carried you into the citadel covered with
blood! Yet, if she knew all, she might safely trust you with me; for
I have known what it is to lose a child ere this, and others whom I
loved dearly--to be left alone, reft of that being whom I hoped was
to love and remember me long after I had passed away. Eugene is a
good boy, and I love him dearly; but you--your mother, mon ami?"
"Madame, I have no mother."
"Mon Dieu! and you so young!"
"No, nor any relation in the world," said Quentin, in a voice half
angry and half broken, "save some brave friends who died at Corunna,
and one in Scotland, far away, I never had any who loved me."
"L'Ecosse--l'Ecosse!" repeated Madame de Ribeaupierre with sudden
interest. "We old-fashioned French love the memory of the old
alliances when our royal houses so often intermarried, and still
respect the land where the line of St. Louis finds a home; and so,"
she added, with kindling eyes, "monsieur is an Ecossais?"
"Yes, madame, I have every reason to believe so?"
"To believe--only to believe, monsieur?"
"Yes, madame."
"How?"
"It is my secret," said Quentin, smiling.
"Pardonnez-moi?" said madame, colouring slightly.
"My name is one of the oldest in Scotland."
"True--true; mon Dieu! I know there are earls of that name who have
the tressure floré and counterfloré in their coat-of-arms," said she,
while a sad and beautiful smile lit up her fine face, and she
smoothed her powdered hair with a tremulous hand. "I had a dear
friend who once bore the name--but it was in the old days of the
monarchy, and for the sake of that friend I shall love you more than
ever;" and patting Quentin on the head, she kissed him on the brow
just as her son entered with a servant in livery, who came to
announce that the carriage was at the door.
"Tres bien, Louis," said she; "monsieur will accompany us, Eugene,
the day is so fine; he shall take his first drive with me, and you
may follow on horseback if you choose. I don't like spurs in a
carriage."
"I shall be very happy, my dear madame, though our mutual friend, the
General de Ribeaupierre, has seen fit to send me no less than four
times this morning with absurd messages to the sappers who are
repairing the bridge of El Burgo," replied Eugene, whose boots and
light-green uniform bore evident traces of mud.
"Come, Eugene, and never mind; as I am only your mamma, and not your
intended, you have no need to be so particular with your toilet; and
if your horse is weary, order a fresh one."
Quentin enjoyed the drive greatly, as it was his first active step
towards final recovery and strength.
It was the evening of a clear and sunny day--one of the earliest of
spring--and Quentin surveyed, with equal delight and interest, the
long lines of massive bastions, towers, and battlemented walls that
enclosed the town and citadel of Corunna--that vast stone frontage,
with all its rows of grim cannon that peered through dark port-holes
or frowned _en barbette_, steeped in the warm radiance of a red
setting sun that tinged the sea and surf with the hue of blood,
sinking every alternate angle of the fortifications in deep and
solemn shadow.
The music of a French regimental band came floating pleasantly from
time to time on the thin air, as they played the grand march of the
Emperor along the ramparts; and now the carriage, by Eugene's desire,
was stopped near a part of the citadel where Sir John Moore's grave
lay, and where the French sappers were already building the great
granite monument which the noble Soult erected to his memory, and
which the Marquis of Romana completed.
Quentin descended from the carriage and approached the spot.
He was the last, the only British soldier in Corunna now. He sat
down on one of the blocks and looked wistfully at the place where he
knew the poor shattered corse lay uncoffined. Then the manly figure,
the gentle face, the soldierly presence, and the winning manner of
Moore came vividly to memory, and Quentin covered his eyes with his
hand, as he could not control his emotion.
He was the last solitary mourner by the grave of him whose memory
Charles Wolfe embalmed in verse.
The French sappers, who had been singing and laughing gaily at their
work, respected his grief; they became quite silent, and saluted him
with great politeness. Then Madame de Ribeaupierre took him by the
hand and they drove away.
In the general's well-hung, cosy, and handsome Parisian carriage, he
passed more than once over the field of battle. Its sad débris had
vanished now; the people of the adjacent villages had gleaned up
every bullet and button. The dead were buried in trenches. Here and
there might lie a solitary grave, but already the young spring grass
was growing over them all. Quentin knew the ground where the
Borderers had been posted, and thus he knew which of those fatal
mounds was likely to hold the noble and true-hearted Rowland Askerne,
Colville, and others whom he knew and mourned for.
Even the _étourdi_ Eugene was silent, when, for the last time, they
surveyed the field.
"Here the 24th charged a square of one of your Scots regiments," said
he; "and here fell poor Jules de Marbœuf. It was his last battle."
"Killed?"
"Yes--dead as Hector, by some of your bare-legged Scotsmen, who took
the eagle of the 24th. _Sacre Dieu!_--think of that!"*
* In February after the battle, two French eagles, each weighing
fifteen ounces of silver, were sold to a silversmith in Chichester by
a soldier of the 92nd Highlanders, who said that he had bayoneted the
Frenchmen, and brought the trophies home in his knapsack.--_Annual
Register_ for 1809.
"And Donna Isidora?" said Quentin, not caring much about the eagle.
"The sorrowful widow--_peste!_ she is at Lugo with the Light
Division."
"She is not coming here, I trust?"
"Can't say, mon camarade; but pardieu, I should hope not."
Though Quentin knew that his commission and promotion in the 7th
Fusiliers were now both secured, he writhed under the idea of being a
prisoner of war; but there was no help for it. He had given his
parole of honour, and by that he was bound to abide.
Not even the keen longing to see Flora, to tell his story and lay his
laurels, while they were yet fresh, at her feet, could lure him to
break his bonds; but being intensely wearied of Corunna, he hailed
with extreme satisfaction a change in the plans of the really
delightful family with whom he resided.
Tidings of a new and more powerful expedition, destined to drive the
French from Spain, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future Duke of
Wellington, had now come to all the Emperor's marshals and garrisons
officially; and thus General de Ribeaupierre resolved on sending his
lady, in charge of Eugene, to Paris, whither they begged Quentin to
accompany them.
Anything was better than lingering in Corunna or setting out for
Verdun; and so, bidding adieu to the kind old general, within a few
weeks after his convalescence, Quentin found himself kindly adjusting
the wraps and mufflings of madame on the deck of the _Bien Aimé_, a
privateer brig, mounting six 12-pounders, M. Marin, captain, bound
for the mouth of the Loire; and long did he and Eugene pace the deck
together that night, building castles, exchanging confidences, and
smoking cigars, while the wild waves of the Bay of Biscay tore past
in dark ridges to leeward, and the last of the Galician hills, the
great Sierra de Mondonedo, sank into the dark world of waters astern.