THE EMIGRANT PRIEST.
"Bon jour, Oliver, mon ami!" she exclaimed, running trippingly
towards me and holding out both her pretty hands; "I am glad you have
returned so soon--but not sooner than welcome."
I was in a flutter like a young girl, so much did her beauty, and
still more her charming and perfectly confident manner bewilder me.
Her features were singularly delicate, and their varying play
constituted, perhaps, their greatest charm. Her hair was black,
soft, wavy, and in great quantity.
"I thank you, madame," said I, in a low voice.
"You have found no difficulty in returning?"
"We should never find a difficulty in returning to those we--we----"
"Esteem!" she suggested with an arch smile.
"Or love," said I courageously, closing my sentence.
She coloured deeply, and laughingly replied with that sentimental air
which a pretty Frenchwoman can so readily assume,--
"_Grand merci_! Love--what is it? a spark of the divine essence--an
emanation from God! It is an irresistible fatality--so Mademoiselle
Karalio used to write--but we must not talk of it. And now for
luncheon, and the coolest wines I can give you; for the allowance of
the governor does enable me, though a poor French emigrant, to keep
some very good wine for nay visitors."
With my new friend, I spent a day of delight and pleasure amid the
sylvan beauties of Boscobelle. During the heat of noon, we read
together choice passages from the "Armida" of Collardeau, from the
novels of Marivaux, and other fashionable but now forgotten novelists
of the days of Marmontel; and we were always amused by the plots of
the latter (Marivaux), which he founded on what he termed "the
surprise of love"--two persons conceiving a passion for each other
without knowing it, until the last scene.
As the atmosphere cooled when the tropical eve came on, we walked
together in the garden and coppices of Boscobelle; Madame protected
her head by a round straw hat and broad parasol; and to me she
consigned the care of her little Bologna spaniel. It was a privilege
to have the care of this animal--the peculiar pet of a beautiful
woman--the happy little cur, which lay in her lap nearly all day, and
slept by night near the laced pillow on which her soft cheek
rested--and which, when not in either place, reposed in her
work-basket (a miracle of weaving, the gift of a poor Carib
woman)--this little pug, which was the object of a thousand
attentions and caresses, and was seldom out of her white hands even
for five minutes.
She told me the names of various gigantic shrubs and gorgeous
flowers, which, in size and luxuriousness, far exceeded the
productions of Europe. I remember there was one named the
poison-tree, the juice of which is said to cause blindness if it
drops into the eye. It is graceful in its foliage, but the negroes
fear it so much, that they deem even its shadow causes death; and
then we sat for hours in a beautiful arbour, concealed by dense
hedges of damask and Provence roses, which flourish there all the
year round, and shrouded still more by the water-lemon flowers that
arched high overhead, and sprang from beds bordered by red and white
lilies, St. Iago flowers, and the Merveille de Peru, which only opens
its purple petals at sunset, and thus, as madame told me, is named
"the four o'clock flower." So hour after hour glided away, and I
lingered there absorbed in the charms of her presence, the scene, and
the time, forgetful that in a week hence, perhaps, I would again be
ploughing the sea, in a ship crowded by armed men, bent on the
slaughter of her countrymen.
At last the shadows of the tall cabbage-trees began to fall in long
lines across the brilliant flower-beds, the green shrubbery and the
distant fields of sugar-cane, warning me that night would approach
with tropical rapidity, and that I must be gone.
Like one of those hours, the long voluptuous day had passed, and so I
said in a low and tremulous voice, as I rose to leave Eulalie, for so
I had already begun to name her.
"And you love me now," said she, in a breathless voice, permitting me
still to retain her hands in mine; "it is so like a boy, this sudden
fancy," she added, with a timid glance and a tender smile; "for
despite your brown cheek, and your sub-officer's uniform, you are
still but a boy, my dear Oliver. You love me, you say--or your eyes
have said so, almost ere you know what love is."
"It is a tie between two dear hearts that seek to sympathize with
each other--and beat and live for each other alone."
"But my heart, boy, tied as I am to another, is valueless as the
fruit of the Dead Sea."
I clasped my hands, and said,----
"Speak not thus, Eulalie."
"How dare I offer--how dare you accept it?" she said, while her tears
fell hot and fast.
"Dearest Eulalie," I whispered, placing a hand gently on each side of
her waist, "I have it already--confess to me that I have."
"True."
Her head fell on my breast, and I gave way to all the delight of the
moment.
"Go, go," she said, while deeply agitated; "leave me now; all this
can end only in our own misery."
As she spoke, the distant boom of an evening gun from a ship off the
coast warned me that the sun had set; that I could have no storm to
plead to-night as an excuse for absence from quarters; and, in the
language of romancers, "I tore myself away," and again took the
nearest path to the garrison.
I hurried along immersed in thought. Regret that I had ever known
Eulalie was my predominant reflection; yet, had I _not_ known
her,--had I not been cast by fate, fortune--what you will--in her
path, she must have perished under the poisonous fangs of the reptile
from which I rescued her. Then recalling her own remarkable words,
that "love was an irresistible fatality," I endeavoured to appease
conscience and stifle regret, but in vain; and now I equally dreaded
and longed for the order that would re-embark the Fusiliers for
Martinique. In that conflict, which was inevitable, Rouvigny might
fall, and she be freed from the snare which bound her to him,--but
freed, to what end, to what purpose? Who was I--what was I! Poor,
penniless; a soldier whose whole worldly possessions consisted of a
knapsack and sixty rounds of ammunition. Amid all these reflections
and mental queries, did no memory of Amy--dear, wee, modest Amy
Lee--my boyish love, occur to me? I cannot tell now. It seemed as
if there was no woman in the world but Eulalie.
The summit of a gentle eminence brought me in sight of Carlisle Bay,
where our fleet, in all the pride of British men-of-war, rode at
anchor in two long lines, astern of the towering three-decker of Sir
John Jervis. They made a gallant and a stately show, with yards
squared and rigging taught as iron; their scarlet ensigns and white
pennants waving in the wind, and their black cannon peering grimly
through the open ports. The dark blue water, the reflection of a
clear blue sky, rolled in tiny ripples to the green copse wood or
golden sand which edged the shore. A white foam, the precursor of
sea breeze, was cresting every tiny wavelet that came into the lovely
bay; beyond the ample bosom of which the Caribbean sea spread in vast
immensity away, till lost in distance, haze, and the purple glow of
the set sun.
At a part of the path where the sugar-canes grew like a reedy wall on
either hand, but still afforded a view of the anchored fleet, a
person approached, in whom, at once, I recognised the priest, the
companion of Dick Knuckleduster, and the negro, in the boat or
piragua, that stole so secretly along the inlet, under the mangroves
and calibash-trees. He approached a fallen tree on which I was
seated, and, politely lifting his hat, bowed low, and bade me "good
evening," in the purest French.
He seemed disposed to enter into conversation, but though his manner
was suave and polite, his appearance was far from prepossessing. He
was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular. His head was set on a
thick bull-neck, while the conformation of his square jaws, large
ears, placed high and near his narrow temples, with a nose somewhat
hooked yet flattened, gave him a fierce and tiger-like aspect; which
his keen sinister black eyes, and an old wound that traversed his
forehead, in no way lessened or improved. He was closely shaved, but
the roots of his black beard studded his chin with blue dots as if it
had been scorched with powder sparks. I had--I knew not altogether
why--an undefinable repugnance for, and a suspicion of, this clerical
personage, who deliberately seated himself beside me, on one of those
fallen palms which one may frequently see after a storm in Barbadoes,
where they seem then to take root at both ends and sprout with
renewed vigour.
"Monsieur is a Frenchman?" said I.
"Monsieur le Soldat is right--I _am_ a Frenchman."
"A rash admission at this time."
"Not for one of my mission in life," said he meekly.
"You are, I think, a priest?"
"Right again--I _am_ a priest."
"An emigrant, of course."
"Hélas! M. le Soldat, yes; a fugitive," said he, bowing low.
"From old France?"
"No."
"Indeed!"
"I came last from Martinique."
"The deuce! from Martinique?" I exclaimed,
"Yes."
"Do you know, or have you seen the villain who commands in the town
and citadel of St. Pierre?"
"The villain--St. Pierre!" he repeated, starting as he turned fully
round towards me; "monsieur uses very strange language when speaking
of a chef de bataillon in the service of the French republic."
"I mean a man named Thibaud de Rouvigny, formerly a sous lieutenant,
who murdered his patron the Sieur de Mazancy, cruelly betrayed his
daughter, and after placing himself at the head of the insurgents of
the city and mutineers of the garrison, armed all the negro slaves
and murdered the planters."
"Yes, monsieur, I have seen the Citizen De Rouvigny; but he has been
superseded."
"Ah--indeed--by whom!"
"General Rochambeau--not superseded; but the general being senior, in
due course, assumes command of the Republican troops in the island.
But now that I have answered your questions," he added, half closing
and casting down his stealthy eyes, "can you inform me where the
villa of Boscobelle is situated?"
"I can; but why do you ask?"
"I have news for Madame de Rouvigny--news from Martinique."
"Good news!" I inquired suspiciously.
"Why do _you_ ask?" said he, through his clenched teeth.
"Because," said I, colouring, "we all feel a deep interest in her."
"_Sangbleu_! is that all? Well, I hope the tidings are good," he
replied with a cold smile.
"Unless they be that her dog of a husband is dead, I don't know
anything else that would interest her much from that island of revolt
and crime."
"Well, monsieur," said he, with a sardonic grimace, "suppose that it
were so?"
"That Rouvigny is dead!" said I, starting up.
"Moderate your transports, M. le Soldat," said the priest coldly,
while grasping my arm with fingers like a vice, and while his eyes
glared fiercely into mine. "This Thibaud de Rouvigny--this leader of
the mob----"
"Who murdered the venerable Louis de Mazancy in cold
blood--well--well--what of him?"
"Is sorely prostrated by a yellow fever, and may never recover."
"Good news for us."
"_Tonnerre de Ciel!_" grinned the priest, "and for all who love----"
"What?" I demanded furiously.
"Only the cause of royalty, monsieur," he replied, with an extremely
low bow.
"We sail for your island in a short time."
"I hope your armament is strong."
"Oh, strong enough to eat up all the Frenchmen in the Antilles,"
replied I, with true British confidence.
"_Bon Dieu_! Your strength?"
"We have twelve or fourteen battalions of the line, three
three-deckers, six frigates, some of them double-banked, and
transports without end."
"How many soldiers, think you?"
"About fifteen thousand," said I gaily.
"And seamen, how many?"
"Rather more than half that number."
"_Vive le Roi!_ the tricolor must certainly go to the wall. How many
pieces of cannon?"
"I know not," said I, fearing that I had already been too
communicative to a stranger.
"Madame Rouvigny has been very useful to your government, I believe?"
said he, with the air of one who makes a casual inquiry.
"Oh, exceedingly so; her information concerning Martinique and
Guadaloupe has proved invaluable to the general and admiral--at
least, so rumour says."
"Ah!" said he, with a French grimace; "and her Boscobelle----"
"Lies there," said I, pointing to it.
"Where?"
"Amid yonder tall cabbage-trees that tower above the sugar-canes."
"Thank you, M. le Soldat," said he, raising his hat.
"Adieu, M. l'Abbé."
We bowed, and separated.
"What the deuce can this grim and ugly padre want with Eulalie?"
thought I, while hurrying along. "And so her husband is ill--dying
of yellow fever; _bon voyage_ to you, M. le Chef de Bataillon!" added
I, while some very brilliant ideas occurred to me.
After we were a mile or two apart, and I was close to the garrison,
the main guard of which were closing the gates for the night, I
remembered again the suspicious manner in which, I had first seen
this priest in the mangrove creek; his strange bearing, his
companionship with Knuckleduster, his questions and my unwary
answers:--all rushed upon me, with a flood of alarming suggestions
and vague terrors of his secret purpose and real character; but it
was too late to do anything for that night.
On entering the fortress, its gates were closed behind me, and as a
sequel to my unpleasant thoughts, Sergeant Drumbirrel informed me,
that the general order for the whole forces to embark on the third
day ensuing, _at latest_, had been issued; and thus I knew, that in a
few hours Eulalie and the Barbadian shore would be far behind me, for
ever.