On approaching the house, which had now become a _place d’armes_, I saw
no one stirring. Every shutter was closed. It was a square low building,
as old as the Moors, flat-roofed, solidly built of stone. Its little
windows were high above the level of the ground. As I drew nigh, I
remarked that the large massive door, which usually stood open all day,
was, as well as the shutters, closed. Spanish-fashion, I took the
liberty of kicking at the said door, in the absence of any such
superfluities as bell or knocker. A voice responded over my head,
“_Quien es?_” (Who is it?)
I looked up. At the window above, already indicated by Francisco’s
narrative, with an awfully damaged peeper, stood M. le Tisanier. He
bowed politely.
“Ah!” said he. “So you have returned from your reconnaissance. Any
intelligence of the French column? What sport to-day?”
Not choosing to answer the former of these inquiries, I addressed myself
to the latter. “Very poor indeed. Only a brace and a half of birds, and
a couple of hares. The Padre, though, has brought home a fox. Dinner
ready?”
_He._ “Your dinner? Oh, yes, that was ready some hours ago. It awaits
you at the Alcalde’s—hope you’ll enjoy it. It will merely require
warming.”
_I._ “Shall we not, then, have the pleasure of your company?”
_He._ “To tell you the truth, I have made up my mind to remain where I
am. The villagers, as you perceive, have maltreated me; so the idea
occurred to me, my best plan would be to fortify the house.”
_I._ “In our absence, quite right. But now that the Padre has returned,
as well as myself, no further precaution is requisite.”
_He._ “Pardon me. I take quite a different view of the subject.”
_I_ (a little annoyed). “Explain yourself.”
_He._ “In case you should receive satisfactory intelligence that my
countrymen are approaching in force, and supposing you should in
consequence deem it requisite to evacuate this hamlet and fall back on
Vittoria, permit me to inquire, would you not feel it your duty to
invite me to accompany you as a prisoner?”
_I._ “Probably.”
_He._ “Of course you would. Now, that being your duty, I have been led
to consider what, under the circumstances, is my duty. And it strikes
me, I confess, that in the prospect of a speedy reunion with my
countrymen, the most proper thing I can do is—to remain where I am.”
_I._ “Permit me, however, to suggest, that if you persist in this view,
and if we should be induced in consequence to adopt vigorous measures,
you may find yourself, on their proving successful, very awkwardly
situated among the people of this place. You know their feeling, and I
might no longer be able to restrain them.”
_He._ “Permit me, on the other hand, to suggest, that should I maintain
myself in this house till my countrymen arrive, the exploit will cover
me with glory, my comrades will rush to congratulate me, and I shall be
appreciated throughout the French army. In short, M. le Capitaine, I
consider my actual position impregnable; and never in my life did I feel
more completely at my ease than I do at this moment. Benevolently
anxious to prevent the needless effusion of blood, I tender you my
disinterested advice to abstain from any rash attempt; and, by no means
unwilling to impart useful information, I beg to state that, while your
sick men in the hospital have next to no ammunition, I, on my part, have
secured all the powder and shot in the village. The Padre’s store, the
Alcalde’s, and—pardon me—your own, are all in my safe keeping.”
Beginning to feel out of temper, I made an appeal. “I thought, Monsieur,
in dealing with an officer and a gentleman, I should, at any rate, find
security in his plighted word. Remember, you are on your parole.”
“Ah!” he replied with much gravity, “you touch my honour. I cannot
permit that. But, Monsieur, I think you scarcely recollect. My parole?
Let me see. What was my parole? That I would not escape from this place.
Very good. Here I am. If my own countrymen come and fetch me away, that,
of course, is quite another affair.”
I was sick of this long conversation, and a little sulky. “Monsieur,”
said I, “you seem to reckon on the arrival of your countrymen. Doubtless
the movement on their part will bring some of mine. Should you hold out
till they arrive, which, however, is far from certain, depend upon it
you will not again obtain your parole; you will be treated as a common
prisoner.”
“Never mind,” said he; “I must take the rough with the smooth. As far as
my own military experience goes, the French are quite as quick in their
movements as the English; and you yourself have taught me to believe”
(he bows very low indeed) “that the conduct of British officers to a
French officer who happens to find himself in their power, will never be
other than that of a gentleman. By the by, I have a little request to
make. Should you send for assistance to Vittoria, pray let it be such a
force that I may capitulate without disgrace,—not less than a _corps
d’armée_, I beg. As to artillery, a siege-train, if you please. I could
not possibly surrender to field guns.”
I felt excessively disgusted, and was about to withdraw. Yet,
recollecting that, with all his gasconade, M. le Tisanier had certainly
manifested a sort of good feeling, by preparing our dinner in the midst
of his arrangements for defence, I paused.
“I am sorry our stock of game is so small to-day,” said I. “Will you do
me the favour to accept of it?”
“No,” said he, with an air of decision; “I could not. Excuse me. A
thousand thanks.”
“Come, come,” said I; “bent as you are on resistance, at least let us
carry on this war without mutual animosity. Oblige me by accepting of
the hares and partridges for your private use.”
“It is out of the question,” he answered firmly. “Honour forbids my
compliance. Nevertheless,” he added, after a pause, as if struck by some
new idea, “to prove that I am not above receiving an obligation, I will
accept—the fox.”
Accept the fox? Though not exactly understanding this, I returned to
where I had left the produce of the day’s sport in the keeping of the
Padre and Francisco. The Padre was gone; so, making free to lift the fox
from Francisco’s shoulders, I went back to the place of conference, and
handed it up to M. le Tisanier, who reappeared at his window. He
received the gift without explanation, but with a profusion of bows as
well as many polite acknowledgments. Fortunate for him were his limber
indications of gratitude; for, just as he made his first bow on
receiving the slaughtered fox, the crack of a musket from an opposite
hovel was accompanied by the whiz of a bullet, which passed just over
his head, and, had he remained upright, would have doubtless passed
through it.
“Good,” said he; “another bullet added to our store of ammunition, and
one charge less in the Padre’s pouch. That was his musket.”
“Now,” said I, “be persuaded. Go in at once. The Padre will not make a
second miss.”
“It will take at least two minutes,” he replied, “ere the Padre can fire
again. Monsieur,” he continued, with earnestness and emotion, “I have
yet a request. Having resolved to assume my present attitude of
defensive hostilities, not so much for my own sake, as to save my
captive countrymen, to whom even your influence might not always prove
an adequate protection in this execrable village, I think you can guess
the parties who are now the chief objects of my solicitude. On the
whole, I judged it their safest course that they should continue in the
hospital rather than join me here. As Spaniards, should they find their
present position untenable, they can at any rate escape. But, as you
know my secret, may I still depend on your good offices? May I venture
to hope that, in any case of exigency, you will render all the
assistance in your power to one whose life I prize, as much as—as much
as I disregard my own?” There spoke the Gascon.
“Depend upon me,” I replied. “Now withdraw from the window without
further parley.”
He backed into the house with another bow, and reclosed the shutter. As
he disappeared he smiled; nor could I altogether preserve my gravity.
Certainly the Padre’s ideas touching the laws of war were a little
primitive. In fact, his firing while the conference was in progress,
looked almost like violating a flag of truce.
“Well, Señor Padre,” said I, on entering the cottage whence the shot had
proceeded, “how do you intend to regain possession of your house?”
The Padre looked dumfounded. “I rather depended on your experience,” he
replied. “Were I in the house, I would undertake to hold it against
fifty Frenchmen. But, as we must now be the assailants, and as that is a
line of warfare less in my way, I look chiefly to your own more
extensive acquaintance with sap, mining, intrenchments, and approaches.”
“No, no,” I answered. “You have thought fit to commence operations, so
you must go through with them.”
“Señor Capitan,” said the Padre, “I am already sufficiently punished by
having missed that shot. Do not aggravate my penalty by——.” Enter a
messenger in haste.
It was Francisco, not only in haste, but in a high state of
exasperation. His look I will not attempt to delineate. The face of a
well-conducted, taciturn, sober-minded Spaniard, when distorted by
passion, must be seen, not described; and, if seen, will not soon be
forgotten.
“The enemy,” he cried, “defies us! He has hoisted his standard!”
We looked towards the house. An ensign of some sort he had raised, sure
enough; of what kind we could not immediately distinguish, but the fact
was palpable. From the flat roof there rose a slender pole, and at its
summit hung suspended and swinging in the wind a something—what?—the
fox’s brush.