TANTARA!
Year by year a certain stag had been growing fatter and fatter in the
deep glades and quiet woodlands that surrounded Fontainebleau. He was but
a pricket when Cerise made her daisy-chain in the gardens of Versailles,
but each succeeding summer he had rubbed the velvet off another point
on his antlers, and in all the king’s chase was no finer head than he
carried the day he was to die. Brow, bay, and tray, twelve in all, with
three in a cup at the summits, had been the result of some half-score
years passed in the security and shelter of a royal forest; nor was
the lapse of time which had thus brought head and haunch to perfection
without its effect upon those for whose pastime the noble beast must fall.
Imagine, then, a glowing afternoon, the second week in August. Not a
cloud in the sky, a sun almost tropical in its power, but a pure clear
air that fanned the brow wherever the forest opened into glades, and
filled the broad nostrils of a dozen large, deep-chested, rich-coloured
stag-hounds, snuffing and questing busily down a track of arid grass that
seemed to have checked their steady, well-considered unrelenting chase,
and brought their wondrous instinct to a fault. One rider alone watched
their efforts with a preoccupied air, yet with the ready glance of an
old sportsman. He had apparently reached his point of observation before
the hounds themselves, and far in advance of the rest of the chase. His
close-fitting blue riding-coat, trimmed with gold-lace and turned back
with scarlet facings, called a “_just au corps_,” denoted that he was
a courtier; but the keen eye, the erect figure, the stateliness, even
stiffness of his bearing, smacked of the old soldier, more, the old
soldier of France, perhaps the most professional veteran in the world.
He was not so engrossed with his own thoughts, however, but that his eye
gleamed with pleasure when a tan-coloured sage, intent on business, threw
a square sagacious head into the air, proclaiming in full deep notes
his discovery of the line, and solemn conviction that he was right. The
horseman swore a good round garrison oath, and cheered the hound lustily.
A cry of tuneful tongues pealed out to swell the harmony. A burst of
music from a distant glade announced that the stag had passed yet farther
on. A couple of royal foresters, in blue and red, arrived on foot,
breathless, with fresh hounds struggling in the leash; and a lady on a
Spanish barb, attended by a plainly-dressed ecclesiastic, came cantering
down the glade to rein up at the veteran’s side, with a smile of greeting
on her face.
“Well met, _Monsieur le Prince_, once more,” said she, flashing a look
from her dark eyes, under which, old as he was, he lowered his own.
“Always the same—always successful. In the Court—in the camp—in the
ball-room—in the field—if you seek the Prince-Marshal, look in the most
forward post, and you will find him.”
She owed him some reparation for having driven him from her side in a fit
of ill-humour half an hour before, and this was her way of making amends.
“I have won posts in my time, madame,” said the old soldier, an
expression of displeasure settling once more on his high worn features,
“and held them, too, without dishonour. It is perhaps no disgrace to be
worsted by a woman, but it is humiliating and unpleasant all the same.”
“Dishonour and disgrace are words that can never be coupled with the name
of Chateau-Guerrand,” returned the lady, smiling sweetly in his face, a
process that appeared to mollify him considerably. Then she completed his
subjection by caressing her horse with one hand, while she reined him in
so sharply with the other, that he rose on his hind-legs as if to rear
straight on end.
“You are a hard mistress, madame,” said the gentleman, looking at the
beautiful barb chafing and curveting to its bit.
“It is only to show I _am_ mistress,” she answered in a low voice, that
seemed to finish the business, for turning to her attendant cavalier,
who had remained discreetly in the background, she signed to him that he
might come up and break the _tête-à-tête_, while she added gaily—
“I am as fond of hunting as you are, prince. Hark! The stag is still
forward. Our poor horses are dying with impatience. Let us gallop on
together.”
The Marquise de Montmirail had considerably altered in character since
she tended the infirmities of her poor old husband, or sat in widow’s
garments with her pretty child on her knee. A few years at the Court of
France had brought to the surface all the evil of her character, and
seemed to have stifled in her everything that was good. She had lost
the advantage of her daughter’s companionship, for Cerise (and in this
perhaps the Marquise was right) had been removed to a distance from the
Court and capital, to bloom into womanhood in the healthier atmosphere of
a provincial convent. She missed her darling sadly, no doubt, and for the
first year or two contented herself with the gaieties and distractions
common to her companions. She encouraged no lover, properly so called,
and had seldom fewer than three admirers at a time. Nor had the king of
late taken special notice of her; so she was only hated by the other
Court ladies with the due hatred to which she was entitled from her
wealth, beauty, and attractions.
After a while, however, she put in for universal dominion, and then of
course the outcry raised against her was loud and long sustained. She
heeded it little; nay, she seemed to like it, and bandied sarcasms with
her own sex as joyously, to all appearance, as she exchanged compliments
with the other.
She never faltered. She never committed herself. She stood on the brink,
and never turned giddy nor lost her presence of mind. What she required,
it seemed, what she could not live without, was influence, more or less,
but the stronger the better, over every male creature that crossed her
path. When this was gained, she had done with them unless they were
celebrities, or sufficiently frivolous to be as variable as herself. In
either of such cases she took considerable pains to secure the empire she
had won. What she liked best was to elicit an offer of marriage. She was
supposed to have refused more men, and of more different ranks, than any
woman in France. For bachelor or widower who came within the sphere of
her influence there was no escape. Sooner or later he must blunder into
the net, and the longer he fought the more complete and humiliating was
his eventual defeat. “Nothing,” said the Abbé Malletort, “nothing but the
certainty of the king’s unacknowledged marriage to Madame de Maintenon
prevented his cousin from obtaining and refusing an offer of the crown of
France.”
She was beautiful, too, no doubt, which made it so much worse—beautiful
both with the beauty of the intellect and the senses. Not strictly by
any rules of art, but from grace of outline, richness of colouring, and
glowing radiance of health. She had all the ways, too, of acknowledged
beauty; and even people who did not care for her were obliged to admit
she possessed that strange, indefinite, inexplicable charm which every
man finds in the woman he loves.
The poor Prince-Marshal, Hector de Chateau-Guerrand, had undergone the
baptism of fire at sixteen, had fought his duels, drank his Burgundy,
and lost an estate at lansquenet in a night before he was twenty. Since
then he had commanded the Musketeers of the Guard—divisions of the great
king’s troops—more than once a French army in the field. It was hard to
be a woman’s puppet at sixty—with wrinkles and rheumatism, and failing
health, with every pleasure palling, and every pain enhanced. Well, as he
said himself, “_le cœur ne vieillit jamais_!” There is no fool like an
old one. The Prince-Marshal, for that was the title by which he was best
known, had never been ardently attached to anybody but himself till now.
We need not envy him his condition.
“Let us gallop on together,” said the Marquise; but ere they could
put their horses in motion a yeoman-pricker, armed to the teeth, rode
rapidly by, and they waited until his Majesty should have passed. Their
patience was not tried for long. While a fresh burst of horns announced
another view of the quarry further on, the king’s little calèche turned
the corner of the alley at speed, and was pulled up with considerable
dexterity, that its occupant might listen for a moment to determine on
his future course. Louis sat by himself in a light, narrow carriage,
constructed to hold but one person. He was drawn by four cream-coloured
horses, small, well-bred, and active. A child of some ten years of age
acted postilion to the leaders, but the king’s own hand drove the pair
at wheel, and guided them with all the skill and address of his early
manhood.
Nevertheless, he looked very old and feeble when he returned the
obeisance of the Prince-Marshal and his fair companion. Always
punctiliously polite, Louis lifted his hat to salute the Marquise, but
his chin soon sank back on his chest, and the momentary gleam died out in
his dull and weary eyes.
It was obvious his health was failing day by day; he was now nearly
seventy-seven years of age, and the end could not be far off. As he
passed on, an armed escort followed at a few paces distance. It was
headed by a young officer of the Grey Musketeers, who saluted the
Prince-Marshal with considerable deference, and catching the eye of the
Marquise, half halted his horse; and then, as if thinking better of it,
urged him on again, the colour rising visibly in his brown handsome face.
The phenomenon of a musketeer blushing was not likely to be lost on so
keen an observer as Madame de Montmirail, particularly when the musketeer
was young, handsome, and an excellent horseman.
“Who is that on guard?” said she, carelessly of course, because she
really wanted to know. “A captain of the Grey Musketeers evidently. And
yet I do not remember to have seen his face at Court before.”
Now it was not to be expected that a Marshal of France should show
interest, at a moment’s notice, in so inferior an official as a mere
captain of musketeers, more particularly when riding with a “ladye-love”
nearly thirty years younger than himself, and of an age far more
suitable to the good-looking gentleman about whom she made inquiries.
Nevertheless, the Prince had no objection to enter on any subject
redounding to his own glorification, particularly in war, and it so
happened that the officer in question had served as his aide-de-camp in
an affair that won him a Marshal’s baton; so he reduced his horse’s pace
forthwith, and plunged into the tempting subject.
“A fine young man, madame,” said the Prince-Marshal, like a generous old
soldier as he was, “and a promising officer as ever I had the training
of. He was with me while a mere cadet in that business when I effected my
junction with Vendôme at Villa-Viciosa, and I sent him with despatches
from Brighuega right through Staremberg’s uhlans, who ought to have cut
him into mince-meat. Even Vendôme thanked him in person, and told me
himself I must apply for the brave child’s promotion.”
Like other ladies, the Marquise suffered her attention to wander
considerably from these campaigning reminiscences. She roused herself,
however, enough to answer, not very pertinently—
“What an odious man the Duke is, and how hideous. Generally drunk,
besides, and always disagreeable!”
The Prince-Marshal looked a little put out, but he did not for this allow
himself to be diverted from his subject.
“A very _fortunate_ soldier, madame,” he replied, pompously; “perhaps
more fortunate than really deserving. Nevertheless, in war as in love,
merit is of less importance than success. His Majesty thought well to
place the Duke over the head of officers whose experience was greater,
and their services more distinguished. It is not for me to offer an
opinion. I serve France, madame, and _you_,” he added, with a smile, not
too unguarded, because some of his teeth were gone, “I am proud to offer
my homage to both.”
The Marquise moved her horse impatiently. The subject did not seem to
amuse her, but the Prince-Marshal had got on a favourite theme, and was
not going to abandon it without a struggle.
“I do not think, madame,” he proceeded, laying his hand confidentially
on the barb’s crest—“I do not think I have ever explained to you in
detail the strategical reasons of my forced march on Villa-Viciosa in
order to co-operate with Vendôme. I have been blamed in military circles
for evacuating Brighuega after taking it, and abandoning the position
I held at the bridge the day before the action, which I had caused to
be strengthened during the night. Now there is much to be urged on both
sides regarding this movement, and I will endeavour to make clear to you
the arguments for and against the tactics I thought it my duty to adopt.
In the first place, you must bear in mind that the enemy’s change of
front on the previous morning, which was unexpected by us, and for which
Staremberg had six cogent reasons, being as follows―”
The Marquise looked round to her other cavalier in despair; but no
assistance was to be expected from the cynical Abbé—for it was Malletort
in attendance, as usual, on his cousin.
The Prince-Marshal was, doubtless, about to recount the dispositions and
manœuvres of three armies seriatim, with his own advice and opinions
thereon, when relief came to his listener from a quarter in which she
least expected it.
She was preparing herself to endure for the hundredth time the oft-told
tale, when her horse started, snorted, trembled violently, and attempted
to wheel round. In another instant an animal half as big as itself leaped
leisurely into the glade, and went lurching down the dry sunny vista as
if in utter disregard and contempt of its pursuers.
The stag had been turned back at several points by the horns of the
foresters, who thus melodiously greeted every appearance of their quarry.
He was beginning to think some distant refuge would be safer and more
agreeable; also his instinct told him that the scent would improve while
he grew warmer, and that his noisy pursuers would track him more and more
unerringly as the sun went down.
Already he felt the inconvenience of those fat haunches and that
broad russet back he carried so magnificently; already he heard the
deep-mouthed chorus chiming nearer and nearer, full, musical, and
measured, like a death-bell.
“_En avant!_” exclaimed Madame de Montmirail, as the stag, swerving
from a stray hound, stretched into an honest, undisguised gallop down
the glade, followed by the straggler at its utmost speed, labouring,
over-paced, distressed, but rolling on, mute, resolute, and faithful to
the line. The love of rapid motion, inseparable from health, energy, and
high spirits, was strong in the Marquise. Her barb, in virtue of his
blood, possessed pace and endurance; his mistress called on him to prove
both, while she sped along on the line of chase, accompanied by several
of the hounds, as they straggled up in twos and threes, and followed by
most of the equestrians.
Thus they reached the verge of the forest, and here stood the king’s
calèche drawn up, his Majesty signing to them feebly yet earnestly that
the stag was away over the plain.
Great was now the confusion at so exciting and so unexpected an event.
The foresters, with but little breath to spare, managed to raise a final
flourish on their horns. The yeoman-prickers spurred their horses with
a vigour more energetic than judicious; the hounds, collecting as it
seemed from every quarter of the forest, were already stringing, one
after another, over the dusty plain. The king, too feeble to continue
the chase, yet anxious to know its result, whispered a few words to his
officer of the guard, and the Musketeer, starting like an arrow from
a bow, sped away after the hounds with some half-dozen of the keenest
equestrians, amongst whom were the Marquise and the Prince-Marshal.
Many of the courtiers, including the Abbé, seemed to think it disloyal
thus to turn their backs on his Majesty, and gathered into a cluster
to watch with interjections of interest and delight the pageant of
the fast-receding chase. The far horizon was bounded by another range
of woods, and that shelter the stag seemed resolved to reach. The
intervening ground was a vast undulating plain, crossed apparently by
no obstacles to hounds or horsemen, and varied only by a few lines of
poplars and a _paved_ high-road to the nearest market-town.
The stag then made direct for this road, but long ere he could reach
it, the chase had become so severe that many of the hounds dropped
off one by one; and of the horses, only those ridden by the Marquise,
the Prince-Marshal, and the Grey Musketeer, were able to keep up the
appearance of a gallop.
Presently these successful riders drew near enough to distinguish clearly
the object of their pursuit. The Musketeer was in advance of the others,
who galloped on abreast, every nerve at its highest strain, and too
preoccupied to speak a syllable.
Suddenly a dip in the ground hid the stag from sight; then he appeared
again on the opposite rise, looking darker, larger, and fresher than
before.
The Musketeer turned round and pointed towards the hollow in front. In a
few more strides his followers perceived a fringe of alders serpentining
between the two declivities. Madame de Montmirail’s dark eyes flashed,
and she urged her barb to yet greater exertions.
The Musketeer sat back in his saddle, and seemed to collect his horse’s
energies for an effort. There was an increase of speed, a spring, a
stagger, and he was over the rivulet that stole deep and cool and shining
between the alders.
The Marquise followed his horse’s footmarks to an inch, and though the
barb threw his head up wildly, and galloped furiously at it, he too
cleared the chasm and reached the other side in safety.
The Prince-Marshal’s old blood was warmed up now, and he flew along,
feeling as he used in the days of the duels, and the Burgundy, and the
lansquenet. He shouted and spurred his steed, urging it with hand and
voice and leg, but the highly-broken and well-trained animal felt its
powers failing, and persistently declined to attempt the feat it had seen
the others accomplish; so the Prince-Marshal was forced to discontinue
the chase and remain on the safe side of the rubicon, whence he turned
his horse unwillingly homewards, heated, angry, and swearing many strange
oaths in different languages.
Meanwhile the other two galloped on, the Marquise, though she spared no
effort, finding herself unable to overtake the captain of Grey Musketeers.
All at once he stopped short at a clump of willows, through which the
chase had disappeared, and jumping off his horse, left the panting beast
to its own devices. When she reached the trees, and looked down into the
hollow below, she perceived the stag up to its chest in a bright, shallow
pool, at bay, and surrounded by the eager though exhausted hounds.
The Musketeer had drawn his _couteau de chasse_, and was already
knee-deep in the water, but hearing her approach, turned back, and,
taking his hat off, with a low obeisance, offered her the handle of his
weapon.
It was the customary form when a lady happened to be present on such an
occasion, though, as now, the compliment was almost always declined.
He had scarcely gone in and given the _coup de grace_, which he did
like an accomplished sportsman, before some of the yeomen-prickers and
other attendants came up, so that the disembowelling and other obsequies
were performed with proper ceremony. Long, however, ere these had been
concluded the Marquise was riding her tired horse slowly homeward through
the still, sweet autumn evening, not the least disturbed that she had
lost the Abbé and the rest of her escort, but ruminating, pleasantly and
languidly, as her blood cooled down, on the excitement of the chase and
the events of the day.
She watched the sunset reddening and fading on the distant woods; the
haze of twilight gradually softening, and blurring and veiling the
surrounding landscape; the curved edge of the young moon peering over
the trees, and the evening-star hanging, like a golden lamp, against the
purple curtain of the sky.
With head bent down, loose reins, and tired hands resting on her lap,
Madame de Montmirail pondered on many matters as the night began to fall.
She wondered at the Abbé’s want of enterprise, at the Prince-Marshal’s
activity—if the first could have yet reached home, and whether the
second, with his rheumatism, was not likely to spend a night in the woods.
She wondered at the provoking cynicism of the one and the extraordinary
depressive powers possessed by the other; more than all, how she could
for so long have supported the attentions of both.
She wondered what would have happened if the barb had fallen short at his
leap; whether the Musketeer would have stopped in his headlong course
to pity and tend her, and rest her head upon his knee, inclining to the
belief that he would have been very glad to have the opportunity.
Then she wondered what it was about this man’s face that haunted her
memory, and where she could have seen those bold keen eyes before.