EUGÈNE BEAUDÉSIR
It was no wonder the Marquise de Montmirail, amid the hurry and
excitement of a stag-hunt, failed to recognise the merry page who used to
play with her child in that stalwart musketeer whom she pressed her eager
barb so hard to overtake. The George Hamilton of royal ante-chambers and
palace stairs, with eyes full of mirth and pockets full of bon-bons,
laughing, skipping, agile, and mischievous as a monkey, had grown into a
strong, fine-looking man, a distinguished soldier, well known in the army
and at Court as Captain George of the Grey Musketeers. He had dropped
the surname of Hamilton altogether now, and nothing remained to him of
his nationality and family characteristics but a certain depth of chest
and squareness of shoulder, accompanied by the bold keen glance that had
shone even in the boy’s eyes, and was not quenched in the man’s, denoting
a defiant and reckless disposition which, for a woman like the Marquise,
possessed some indescribable charm.
As he flung his sword on a couch, and sat down to breakfast in his
luxurious quarters—booted, belted, and with his hat on—the man seemed
thoroughly in character with the accessories by which he was surrounded.
He was the soldier all over—but the soldier adventurer—the soldier of
fortune, rather than the soldier of _routine_. The room in which he sat
was luxurious indeed and highly ornamented, but the luxuries were those
of the senses rather than the intellect; the ornaments consisted chiefly
of arms and such implements of warfare. Blades of the finest temper,
pistols of exquisite workmanship, saddles with velvet housings, and
bridle-bits embossed with gold—decked the wall which in more peaceful
apartments would have been adorned by pictures, vases, or other works
of art. One or two military maps, and a model of some fortified place
in Flanders, denoted a tendency to the theoretical as well as practical
branches of his profession; and a second regimental suit of grey velvet,
almost covered with silver lace, hanging on a chair, showed that its
gaudier exigences, so important in the Musketeers, were not forgotten.
There were also two or three somewhat incongruous articles littered about
amongst the paraphernalia of the soldier—such as a chart of the Caribbean
Sea, another of the Channel, with its various soundings pricked off in
red ink, a long nautical telescope, and a model of a brigantine more than
half rigged. Captain George was possessed of certain seafaring tastes
and habits picked up in early life, and to which he still clung with as
much of sentiment as was compatible with his character. He was not an
impressionable person, this musketeer; but if a foreign shoot could once
be grafted on his affections, it took root and became gradually a part
of the actual tree itself: then it could neither be torn out nor pruned
away. Youthful associations, with such a disposition, attained a power
hardly credible to those who only knew the external strength and hardness
of the man.
Captain George’s predilections, however, seemed to be at present
completely engrossed by his breakfast. Venison steaks and a liberal
flagon of Medoc stood before him; he applied himself to each with a
vigorous industry that denoted good teeth, good will, and good digestion.
He was so intent on business that a knock at his door was twice repeated
ere he answered it, and then the “Come in!” sounded hardly intelligible,
hampered as were the syllables by the process of mastication.
At the summons, however, Bras-de-Fer entered, and stood opposite his
captain. The latter nodded, pointed to a seat, pushed a plate and
wine-cup across the table, and continued his repast.
Bras-de-Fer had already breakfasted once; nevertheless he sat down and
made almost as good play as his entertainer for about ten minutes, when
they stopped simultaneously. Then Captain George threw himself back
in his chair, loosened his belt, undid the two lower buttons of his
heavily-laced grey _just au corps_, and passing the Medoc, now at low
ebb, to his comrade, asked abruptly—
“Have you found him?”
“And brought him with me, my captain,” answered Bras-de-Fer. “He is at
this moment waiting outside. ’Tis a queer lad, certainly. He was reading
a Latin book when I came upon him. He would have no breakfast, nor even
taste a pot of wine with me as we walked along. Bah! The young ones are
not what they used to be in my time.”
“I shouldn’t mind a few recruits of your sort still,” answered his
captain, good-humouredly. “That thick head of yours is pretty strong,
both inside and out; nevertheless, we must take them as we find them,
and I should not like to miss a blade that could out-manœuvre poor
Flanconnade. If he joins, I would give him the appointment. What think
you, Bras-de-Fer? Would he like to be one of us? What did he say?”
“Say!” repeated the veteran, “I couldn’t understand half he said—I can’t
make him out, my captain. I tell you that I, Bras-de-Fer of the Grey
Musketeers, am unable to fathom this smooth-faced stripling. Eyes like
a girl’s, yet quick and true as a hawk’s; white, delicate hands, but a
wrist of steel, that seems to move by machinery. Such science, too! and
such style! Who taught him? Then he rambles so in his talk, and wept when
I told him our fencing-master never spoke after that disengagement. Only
a simple disengagement, my captain; he makes no secret of it. I asked
him myself. And he wouldn’t taste wine—not a mouthful—not a drop—though
I offered to treat him!” And Bras-de-Fer shook his head solemnly, with
something of a monkey’s expression who has got a nut too hard to crack.
Captain George cut short his friend’s reflections by calling for a
servant.
“There is a gentleman outside,” said he, when the lackey appeared. “Ask
his pardon for keeping him waiting, and beg him to step in.”
The well-drilled lackey, all politeness, threw the door open for the
visitor, who entered with a diffident bow and a timid, hesitating step.
Bras-de-Fer could not help remarking how much less assured was his manner
now than when he crossed swords last night with the best fencer in the
company.
The Musketeers both rose at his entrance, and all three continued
standing during the interview.
Captain George scanned the new-comer from head to foot, and from foot to
head, as a sergeant inspects a recruit. Its subject blushed painfully
during the examination. Then the officer inquired, abruptly—
“You wish to join the Musketeers? As a cadet, of course?”
Something stern in the tone recalled the youth’s firmness, and he
answered, boldly enough—
“Under certain circumstances—yes.”
“Your name?”
“Eugène Beaudésir.”
“Your age?”
“More than twenty-five.”
The Musketeers exchanged looks. He did not appear nearly so much. Captain
George continued—
“Your certificates of baptism and gentle birth?”
Again the young man changed colour. He hesitated—he looked down—he seemed
ill at ease.
“You need not produce these if other particulars are satisfactory,”
observed the Captain, with a certain rough sympathy which won him a
gratitude he little suspected; far more, indeed, than it deserved.
“Reach me that muster-roll, Bras-de-Fer,” continued the officer. “We can
put his name down, at least for the present, as a cadet. The rest will
come in time. But look you, young sir,” he added, turning sharply round
on the recruit, “before going through any more formalities, I have still
a few questions to ask. Answer them frankly, or decline to answer at all.”
The visitor bowed and stole another look in his questioner’s face. Frank,
romantic, impressionable, he had become strangely prepossessed with this
manly, soldier-like captain of musketeers—younger in years than himself,
yet so many more steps up the social ladder, he thought, than he could
now ever hope to reach.
“I will answer,” he said, with a hesitation and simplicity almost boyish,
yet engaging in its helplessness—“if you will promise not to use my
answers to my injury, and to take me all the same.”
Captain George smiled good-humouredly.
“Once on the roll of the King’s Musketeers,” he replied, “you are
amenable to none but his Majesty and your own officers. As we say
ourselves, you need fear neither duke nor devil.”
The other looked somewhat relieved, and glancing at Bras-de-Fer, observed
timidly—
“I had a misfortune last night. It was a broil I could not avoid without
great dishonour. I killed my adversary, I fear—and—and—he belongs to your
company.”
“So it is reported to me,” answered the Captain, coolly; “and if you are
capable, it may perhaps be your good fortune to find yourself promoted at
last into his place.”
Beaudésir looked as if he scarcely understood, and Bras-de-Fer gladly
seized the opportunity to explain.
“You do not know us yet, young man. In a short time you will be better
acquainted with the constitution and discipline of the Grey Musketeers.
It is our study, you will find, to become the best fencers in the French
army. To this end we appoint our fencing-master by competition, and he is
always liable to be superseded in favour of a successful adversary. It
cost Flanconnade twenty-three duels to obtain his grade, and in his last
affair—(pardon—I should say his _last but one_) he killed his man. You,
monsieur, have disposed of Flanconnade scientifically, I must admit, and
our captain here is likely enough to promote you to the vacant post.”
“Horror!” exclaimed Beaudésir, shuddering. “Like the priests of Aricia!”
It was now Bras-de-Fer’s turn to be puzzled, but he rose to the occasion.
Quaffing the remains of the Medoc, he nodded approvingly, and repeated—
“Like the priests of Aricia. The same system precisely as established by
His Holiness the Pope. It works remarkably well in the Grey Musketeers.”
Beaudésir looked at the Captain, and said in a low, agitated voice—
“I am most anxious to serve under you. I can be faithful, attentive—above
all, obedient. I have no friends, no resources, nothing to care for. I
only wish for an honest livelihood and an honourable death.”
“We can find you both, I doubt not,” answered George, carelessly opening
once more the muster-roll of the company. “I have your name down and your
age; no further particulars. Where were you educated?”
“In a school of silence, vigilance, self-restraint, and implicit
obedience,” answered the recruit.
“Good,” observed his captain; “but we must put down a name.”
“At Avranches, in Normandy,” said the other, after a moment’s hesitation.
George closed the roll. “Enough for the present,” said he; “and now tell
me, monsieur, as between friends, where did you learn to fence with so
much address?”
“Wherever I could find a foil with a button on,” was the reply. “I never
had a naked sword in my hand till last night.”
Something in the ready simplicity of such an answer pleased the captain
of musketeers, while it interested him still more in his recruit.
“You must be careful of your parries amongst your new comrades,” said he;
“at least till you have measured the force of each. I warn you fairly,
one-half the company will want to try your mettle, and the other half to
learn your secret, even at the cost of an awkward thrust or two. In the
meantime, let us see what you can do. There are a brace of foils in the
cupboard there. Bras-de-Fer, will you give him a benefit?”
But Bras-de-Fer shook his head. What he had seen the night before had
inspired him with an extraordinary respect for the youth’s prowess,
and being justly vain of his own skill, he was averse to expose his
inferiority in the science of defence before his captain. He excused
himself, therefore, on the ground of rheumatism which had settled in an
old wound.
Captain George did not press the veteran, but opening the cupboard,
pulled out the foils, presented one to his visitor, and put himself in
position with the other.
Beaudésir performed an elaborate salute with such grace and precision as
showed him a perfect master of his weapon. He then threw his foil in the
air, caught it by the blade, and returned it courteously to the captain.
But George was not yet satisfied. “One assault at least,” said he,
stamping his right foot. “I want to see if I cannot find a parry for this
famous thrust of yours.”
The other smiled quietly and took his ground. Though within a few inches
of the chamber-door, he seemed to require no more room for his close and
quiet evolutions.
Ere they had exchanged two passes, the captain came over his adversary’s
point with a rapid flanking movement, like the stroke of a riding-whip,
and lending all the strength of his iron wrist to the jerk, broke the
opposing foil short off within six inches of the guard. It was the only
resource by which he could escape a palpable hit.
“Enough!” he exclaimed, laughing. “There are no more foils in the
cupboard, and I honestly confess I should not wish to renew the contest
with the real bloodsuckers. You may be perfectly tranquil as regards your
comrades, my friend. I do not know a musketeer in the whole guard that
would care to take a lesson from you with the buttons off. What say you,
Bras-de-Fer? Come, gentlemen, there is no time to be lost. The Marshal
de Villeroy will not yet have left his quarters. Do you, old comrade,
take him the fresh appointment for his signature. He never requires to
see our recruits till they can wait on him in uniform; and you, young
man, come with me to the _Rue des Quatres Fripons_, where I will myself
order your accoutrements, and see you measured for a _just au corps_.
Recollect, sir, next to their discipline on parade, I am most particular
about the clothes of those I have the honour to command. Slovenliness in
a musketeer is a contradiction as impossible as poltroonery; and it is
a tradition in our corps that we never insulted Malbrook’s grenadiers
by appearing before them in anything but full-dress; or by opening
fire until we were close enough for them to mark the embroidery on our
waistcoats. I congratulate you, my young friend: you are now a soldier in
the pick of that army which is itself the pick of all the armies in the
world!”
With such encouraging conversation Captain George led his lately-enlisted
recruit through a variety of winding streets, thronged at that busy hour
with streams of passengers. These, however, for the most part, made way,
with many marks of respect, for the officer of Musketeers; the women
especially, looking back with unfeigned admiration and interest at the
pair, according as they inclined to the stately symmetry of the one or
the graceful and almost feminine beauty of the other. Perhaps, could they
have known that the pale, dark-eyed youth following timidly half a pace
behind his leader had only last night killed the deadliest fencer in
Paris, they would have wasted no glances even on such a fair specimen of
manhood as Captain George, but devoured his comrade with their bold black
eyes, in a thrill of mingled horror, interest, and admiration, peculiar
to their sex.
To reach the _Rue des Quatres Fripons_, it was necessary to pass a
barrier, lately placed by Marshal de Villeroy’s directions, to check
the tide of traffic on occasion of the young King’s transit through his
future capital. This barrier was guarded by a post of Grey Musketeers,
and at the moment Captain George approached it, one of his handsomest
young officers was performing a series of bows by the door of a
ponderous, heavily-gilt family coach, and explaining with considerable
volubility his own desolation at the orders which compelled him to
forbid the advance of this unwieldy vehicle. Six heavy coach-horses, two
postilions, a coachman, four footmen, and two outriders, armed to the
teeth—all jammed together in a narrow street, with a crowd of bystanders
increasing every minute, served to create a sufficient complication,
and a very pretty young lady inside, accompanied by one attendant, was
already in tears. The attendant, a dark woman with a scarlet turban,
scolded and cursed in excellent French, whilst one of the leaders took
immediate advantage of the halt to rear on end and seize his comrade by
the crest with a savage and discordant scream.
In such a turmoil it took George a few moments to recognise Madame de
Montmirail’s liveries, which he knew perfectly well. To his companion,
of course, fresh from Avranches, in Normandy, all liveries in Paris must
have been equally strange. Nevertheless he followed close behind his
leader, who pushed authoritatively through the crowd, and demanded what
was the matter. The officer of Musketeers, seeing his own captain, fell
back from the carriage-door, and Cerise, with her eyes full of tears,
found a face she had never forgotten staring in at the window scarcely
six inches from her own.
They recognised each other in an instant. For the first sentence it
was even “George!” and “Cerise!” Though, of course, it cooled down to
“Monsieur” and “Mademoiselle” as they talked on. She was very little
altered, he thought, only taller and much more beautiful; while for her,
it was the same brave brown face and kind eyes that she had known by
heart since she was a child, only braver, browner, kinder, nobler, just
as she had expected. It was wonderful she could see it so distinctly,
with her looks cast down on the pretty gloved hands in her lap.
The affair did not take long. “You can pass them by my orders, Adolphe,”
said his captain; and ere the savage stallion had time for a second
attack, the huge vehicle rolled through and lumbered on, leaving handsome
Adolphe ejaculating protestations and excuses, believing implicitly that
he had won the beautiful mademoiselle’s affections at first sight during
the process.
Except by this voluble young gentleman, very little had been said. People
_do_ say very little when they mean a great deal. It seemed to George,
mademoiselle had offered no more pertinent remark than that “She had made
a long journey, and was going to the Hôtel Montmirail _to stop_.” Whilst
Cerise—well, I have no doubt Cerise could have repeated every word of
their conversation, yet she did nothing of the kind neither to Célandine
then, nor to mamma afterwards; though by the time she reached home her
eyes were quite dry, and no wonder, considering the fire in her cheeks.
Altogether, the interview was certainly provocative of silence. Neither
Captain George nor Beaudésir uttered a syllable during the remainder of
their walk. Only on the threshold of the tailor’s shop in the _Rue des
Quatres Fripons_ the latter awoke from a deep fit of musing, and asked,
very respectfully—
“My captain, do you think I should have got the best of it this morning
if we had taken the buttons off the foils?”