THE GREY MUSKETEERS
A bugler, thirteen years of age, and about three feet high, a veritable
“Child of the Regiment,” was blowing “The Assembly” for the Grey
Musketeers with a vigour that made itself heard through the adjoining
Faubourg.
The miniature soldier, who had already smelt powder, strutted and swelled
like a bantam-cock. His plumage, too, was nearly as gorgeous, and he
seemed more than satisfied with himself and his advantages. In no other
country, perhaps, could a combination so ridiculous, yet so admirable,
have been found as in this union of innocence and precocity; this
simplicity of the child, underlying the bearing of a giant, the courage
of a hero, and the coquetry of a girl.
Ten minutes precisely were allowed by the regulations of the late king
between the mustering call and the “fall-in,” or final summons for the
men to take their places in the ranks.
The Musketeers lounged and straggled over their parade-ground,
laughing, chatting, bantering each other; fastening here a buckle,
there a shoulder-strap; humming snatches of bivouac songs, fixing
flints, adjusting belts, and pulling their long moustaches, as they
conversed, disrespectfully enough it must be admitted, in hoarse, short
murmurs of Vendôme, Villeroy, Staremberg, Prince Eugène, Malbrook, the
great military authorities of the day, and how old Turenne would have
_arranged_ them one and all.
The Grey Musketeers were so called from their uniform, which, except for
its sober hue, shone as splendid as was compatible with the possibility
of manœuvring. The men were all veterans; that is to say, had fought
through one or more campaigns, so that many a young, delicate face in
the ranks was seamed and scarred by the shot and shell of the enemy. The
majority, however, were grim, and grey, and bronzed; men who could eat
ammunition-bread and suttlers’ beef without fear of colic; who could
sleep round a bivouac fire, and rise refreshed and ready to be killed;
who had looked death in the face and laughed at him in a score of fields.
A large proportion were of noble birth, and all were at home in the
drawing-room, the refinements and delicate airs of which it was their
affectation to carry with them under fire. They could be rough and
outspoken enough, jesting with each other over the wine-cup, or arguing
as now while waiting for parade; but put them before an enemy, the nearer
the better, and they became lambs—ladies—perfect dancing-masters in the
postures and graces they assumed. If the baggage was not too far in the
rear, they dressed and scented themselves for a battle as for a ball.
They flourished lace handkerchiefs, wore white gloves, and took snuff
from gold boxes in the act of advancing to charge a column or to storm a
battery. Marlborough’s grenadiers had many a tussle with them, and loved
them dearly. “Close in, Jack,” these honest fellows would say to each
other, when they saw the laced hats, with their jaunty grey cockades,
advancing through the smoke. “There’ll be wigs on the green now—here’s
_the Dandies_ a-coming!”
And in good truth, ere _the Dandies_ and they parted, many a comely head
was down to rise no more.
There were several companies of these picked troops, distinguished by
the different colours of their uniforms. It was their pride to vie with
each other in daring, as in extravagance and dissipation. If a post were
unusually formidable, a battery in a peculiarly strong position, one or
other of these companies, black, red, or grey, would entreat permission
to storm it. The Grey Musketeers had of late esteemed themselves very
fortunate in opportunities for leaving half their number dead on the
field.
They were commanded by the young officer whose acquaintance Madame de
Montmirail made during the stag-hunt at Fontainebleau. Captain George,
as he was called, had obtained this enviable post, no less by skill and
conspicuous bravery, than by great good luck, and perhaps, though last
not least, by an affection of coolness and danger, so exaggerated as to
be sublime while it was ridiculous.
The little bugler was waiting for him now. When the ten minutes should
have elapsed, and the silver lace on the Captain’s uniform come gleaming
round the corner, he was prepared to blow his heroic soul into the
mouthpiece of his instrument.
Meanwhile he stood aloof from his comrades. He looked so much taller thus
than when oppressed by comparison with those full-grown warriors.
The men were grouped about in knots, talking idly enough on indifferent
subjects. Presently the majority gathered round a fresh arrival—a tall,
forbidding-looking soldier, with iron-grey moustaches that nearly reached
his elbows—who seemed to have some important news to communicate. As the
circle of his listeners increased, there was obviously a growing interest
and excitement in his intelligence.
“Who is it?” panted one, hurrying up.
“Killed?” asked another, tightening his sword-belt and twisting his
moustaches fiercely to his eyes.
“It’s a credit to the bourgeois!” “It’s a disgrace to the corps!”
exclaimed a couple in a breath; while, “Tell us all about it,
Bras-de-Fer!” from half-a-dozen eager voices at once, served to hush the
noisy assemblage into comparative silence.
Bras-de-Fer was nothing loth. A pompous old soldier, more of a martinet
and less of a dandy perhaps than most of his audience, he loved, above
all things, to hear himself speak. He was a notorious duellist, moreover,
and a formidable swordsman, whence the nickname by which he was known
among his comrades. He entered on his recital with all the zest of a
professor.
“I was sitting,” said he, with an air of grave superiority, “immediately
in front of the coffee-house, Louis-Quatorze, a little after
watch-setting. I was improving my knowledge of my profession by studying
the combinations in a game of dominoes. By myself, Adolphe? Yes—right
hand against left. Yet not altogether by myself, for I had a bottle of
great Bordeaux wine—there is nothing to laugh at, gentlemen—on the table
in my front. Flanconnade had just entered, and called for a measure
of lemonade, when a street-boy began singing a foolish song about the
Regent, with a jingle of ‘Tra-la-la,’ ‘Débonnaire,’ and some rubbish
of that kind. Now this poor Flanconnade, you remember, comrades, never
was a great admirer of the Regent. He used to say we Musketeers of the
Guard owed allegiance, first to the young king, then to the Duc du Maine,
lastly to the Marshal de Villeroy, and that we should take our orders
only from those three.
“So we do! So we should!” interrupted a dozen voices. But Bras-de-Fer,
raising a brown, sinewy hand, imposed silence by the gesture, and
continued.
“Flanconnade, therefore, was displeased at the air of gasconnade with
which the urchin sang his song. ‘What! thou, too, art a little breechless
roué of the Regent!’ said he, turning round from his drink, and applying
a kick that sent the boy howling across the street. There was an outcry
directly amongst the cuckold citizens in the coffee-house; half of them,
I have no doubt, were grocers and haberdashers in the Regent’s employ.
‘Shame! shame!’ they exclaimed. ‘Down with the bully!’ ‘Long live the
Grey Musketeers!’ I was up, and had put on my hat, you may well believe,
gentlemen, at the first alarm; but with their expression of good-will
to the corps, I sat down again and uncovered. It was simply a personal
matter for Flanconnade, and I knew no man better able to extricate
himself from such an affair. So, leaving the dominoes, I filled my glass
and waited for the result. Our friend looked about him from one to the
other, like a man who seeks an antagonist, but the bourgeoisie avoided
his glances, all but one young man, wrapped in a cloak, who had seemed at
first to take little part in the disturbance. Flanconnade, seeing this,
stared him full in the face, and observed, ‘Monsieur made a remark? Did I
understand clearly what it was?’
“‘I said _shame_!’ replied the other, boldly. ‘And I repeat, monsieur is
in the wrong.’
“By this time the bystanders had gathered round, and I heard whispers
of—‘Mind what you do; it’s a Grey Musketeer; fighting is his trade;’
and such friendly warnings; while old Bouchon rushed in with his face
as white as his apron, and taking the youth by the arm, exclaimed in
trembling accents, ‘Do you know what you’re about, in Heaven’s name? It’s
Flanconnade, I tell you. It’s the fencing-master to the company!’
“Our poor friend appeared so pleased with this homage that I almost
thought he would be pacified; but you remember his maxim—‘Put yourself
in the right first, and then keep your arm bent and your point low.’ He
acted on it now.
“‘Monsieur is prepared for results?’ he asked, quietly; and raising the
tumbler in his hand, dashed its contents into his antagonist’s face.”
There was a murmur of applause amongst the Musketeers, for whom such
an argument combined all the elements of reasoning, and Bras-de-Fer
proceeded.
“I rose now, for I saw the affair would march rapidly. ‘It is good
lemonade,’ said the young man, licking his lips, while he wiped the
liquor from his face. ‘Monsieur has given me a lesson in politeness. He
will permit me in return to demand five minutes’ attention while I teach
him to dance.’
“The youth’s coolness, I could not but admit, was that of a well-bred
man, and surprised me the more because, when he opened his cloak to get
at his handkerchief, I perceived he wore no weapon, and was dressed in
plain dark garments like a scholar or a priest.
“Flanconnade winked at me. There was plenty of moonlight in the garden
behind the coffee-house, but there were two difficulties—the youth had no
second and no sword.
“By great good fortune, at this moment in stepped young Chateau-Guerrand
of the Duc du Maine’s dragoons, with his arm still in a sling, from the
wound he received at Brighuega, when serving on his uncle’s staff. He had
been supping with the Prince-Marshal, and of course was in full-dress,
with a rapier at his belt. He accepted the duty willingly, and lent our
youth the weapon he could not use. We measured their swords. They were
right to a hair’s-breadth, but that the guard of Chateau-Guerrand’s hilt
was open; and as he and I could not possibly exchange a pass or two for
love, we set ourselves to watch the affair with interest, fearing only
that Flanconnade’s skill would finish it almost ere it had well commenced.
“The moon was high, and there was a beautiful fighting-light in the
garden. At twenty paces I could see the faces of the guests and servants
quite distinctly, as they crowded the back door and windows of the house.
“We placed the adversaries at open distance on the level. They saluted
and put themselves on guard.
“The moment I saw the young man’s hand up, I knew there would be a fight
for it. I observed that his slight frame was exceedingly muscular, and
though he looked very pale, almost white in the moonlight, his eyes
glittered and his face lost all its gravity when the blades touched. I
was sure the rogue loved the steel-clink in his heart.
“Moreover, he must have been _there_ before. He neglected no precaution.
He seemed to know the whole game. He bound his handkerchief round his
fingers, to make up for Chateau-Guerrand’s open sword-hilt, and feeling
some inequality of ground beneath his feet, he drew his adversary inch by
inch, till he got him exactly level with his point.
“Flanconnade’s face showed me that he was aware of his antagonist’s
force. After two passes, he tried his own peculiar plunging thrust in
tierce (I never was quick enough for it myself, and always broke ground
when I saw it coming), but this youth parried it in carte. In carte! by
heavens! and Flanconnade was too good a fencer to dare try it again.”
“In carte!” repeated the listeners, with varied accents of interest and
admiration. “It’s incredible!” “It’s beautiful!” “That is _real_ fencing,
and no sabre-play!” “Go on! Flanconnade had met with his match!”
“More than his match,” resumed Bras-de-Fer. “In a dozen passes he was
out of breath, and this youth had never moved a foot after his first
traverse. I tell you his defence was beautiful; so close you could hardly
see his wrist move, and he never straightened his arm but twice. The
first time Flanconnade leaped out of distance, for it was impossible
to parry the thrust; although, as far as I could see, he made a simple
disengagement and came in outside. But the next time he drew our comrade
six inches nearer, and I knew by his face he was as certain as I was
that he had got him at last.
“Bah! One—Two! That single disengagement—a lunge home; and I saw six
inches of Chateau-Guerrand’s sword through our poor comrade’s back ere
he went down. The youth wiped it carefully before he returned it, with
a profusion of thanks, and found time, while Bouchon and his people
gathered round the fallen man, to express his regrets with a perfect
politeness to myself.
“‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I am distressed to think your friend will not
profit by the lesson he has had the kindness to accept. I am much afraid
he will never dance again.’”
“And where was the thrust?” asked Adolphe, a promising young fencer, who
had been listening to the recital of the duel, open-mouthed.
“Through the upper lung,” answered Bras-de-Fer.
“In five minutes Flanconnade was as dead as Louis Quatorze! Here comes
the Captain, gentlemen. It is time to fall in.”
While he finished speaking, the little bugler blew an astonishing volume
of sound through his instrument. The Musketeers fell into their places.
The line was dressed with military accuracy. The standard of France was
displayed; the ranks were opened, and Captain George walked through them,
scanning each individual of that formidable band with a keen, rapid
glance that would have detected a speck on steel, a button awry, a weapon
improperly handled, as surely as such breach of discipline could have
been summarily visited with a sharp and galling reprimand. Nevertheless,
these men were his own associates and equals; many of them his chosen
friends. Hardly one but had interchanged with him acts of courtesy and
kindness at the bivouac or on the march. Some had risked life for him;
others he had rescued from death in the field. In half an hour all would
be on a footing of perfect equality once more, but now Captain George was
here to command and the rest to obey.
Such was the discipline of the Grey Musketeers—a discipline they were
never tired of extolling, and believed to be unequalled in the whole of
the armies of Europe.
There was little room for fault-finding in the order or accoutrements
of such troops, and in a short space of time—easily calculated by
the bystanders outside, from the arrival of sundry riding-horses and
carriages of these gentlemen privates to throng the street—their
inspection was over—their ranks were closed. The duties for the day,
comprising an especial guard for the young king’s person were told
off—Bras-de-Fer reported the death of the fencing-master—the commandant
observed they must appoint another immediately—the parade was dismissed,
and Captain George was at liberty to return to his quarters.