"HIS NAME IS--WHAT?"
"Sound! Sound!" said the Marquis Debrasques, addressing two of his
troopers who carried long, slim trumpets over their shoulders, "Sound,
I say, and let these slumberers know that two gentlemen set forth to
join the army and fight the King's enemies. Sound to let them know
that, in spite of Brandenburg and Zell, Swabia and Franconia, and a
dozen other petty principalities under their chief, Austria, France is
not afraid!"
He spoke vauntingly this fine summer morning as, it being almost four
o'clock, the sun sent a thin slanting ray down the narrow street and
illuminated the great carved coat of arms that stood out over the
doorway of the Debrasques' house, while it lit up the archways and
_ruelles_ hard by; and, perhaps, the vaunt was pardonable. For above,
at a heavily grilled window, his mother--who had folded him to her
arms again and again through the greater part of the night, which they
had spent together--looked forth, and by her side stood his two
child-sisters. Also, he was going to maintain as best he might the
honour of all the dead and gone Debrasques who had followed their
kings and generals for centuries, and had either returned victoriously
to this old house or left their bones to whiten where they fell.
Close by, his hat in hand, because of the presence of the Marquise at
the window above, and with a quiet smile upon his dark, handsome
features, sat Andrew upon his great horse; himself ready to set out.
Once more he had donned the buckskin tunic now, putting off for the
time being his suit of velvet mourning; but, since active service
would soon be near at hand, he wore his gorget. Otherwise, he carried
no body armour, though in his necessaries borne by one of the pack
horses which was to accompany them, was his steel back-and-breast, and
also his headpiece. The fighting would not begin till the Rhine and
Neckar were in sight--no need yet to encumber himself with superfluous
weight!
Ringing down the length of the street, waking sleepers in their beds
and causing many to leap from them and run to the windows to see what
brave show was taking place beneath, was heard the blare of the two
trumpets, and so, amidst their noise, the little cavalcade set forth,
the young Marquis waving and kissing his hand until a turn in the
narrow winding road between the houses hid those he loved from his
view, while Andrew bowed again and again to the ladies.
And, still, they woke the echoes as they went on and on till the East
Gate was reached and passed, and more people left their beds to peer
at them and point with approval to the two cavaliers who rode ahead of
the troop--the one so young and fair and debonair, the other so large
and bronzed, and looking like some paladin of old, without his
armour--and at the pennons which fluttered from the lances of the two
foremost dragoons.
Behind them came the led horses, extra chargers for the Marquis and
for Andrew, each suited to the weight of their riders--Andrew had had
a difficulty to purchase one suitable to his requirements!--with other
animals carrying the baggage necessary for all--changes of raiment and
accoutrements for the backs and breasts of gentlemen and troopers
alike, as well as spare arms and powder and ball that might--who
knew!--be wanted in the enemies' neighbourhood if they missed
Turenne's army. Also--this principally owing to the forethought of
Madame la Marquise and an antique housekeeper who had served the
Debrasques since she was a child--two other animals carried great
wicker panniers in which were many things that the poor and overtaxed
inns on the road (for from all parts of France reinforcements were
marching to Turenne's army, sometimes, even, in whole regiments) were
not likely to be able to provide. Flasks of good wine, carefully
preserved meats, fine chipbread, pressed poultry and conserved fruits;
all were there, as well as many other things in the way of medicines
and styptics and balms for wounds. Likewise there was much provision
for the animals--which Andrew had superintended--and which was perhaps
the most necessary of all, for on every one of the principal roads
leading to the seat of the great war now raging in the Palatinate
there was scarcely any forage to be obtained, the passage of
battalions and regiments having swept bare the country round.
* * * * * *
"_Peste!_" exclaimed the Marquis as, on the tenth day, they found
themselves more than half-way between Metz and Spires, and knew now
that they were within measurable distance of the army, "_Peste!_ there
is nothing left, not so much as a drop of wine in the bottles nor a
drumstick of a fowl. _Madame ma mère_ should have had one more pannier
packed, whereby we should have done well enough, or, better still, we
might have economized our resources. And the country is as clean swept
of everything as this high road. What is to become of the animals?"
"Have patience," replied Andrew, "we are now part of Turenne's force.
Therefore, we must take what we can. And we have already passed
baggage vans going and coming for provisions; the next must be
requisitioned. That is, unless at to-night's halt we find the
wherewithal."
They had by now become fast friends, sworn comrades, as they had
agreed to be, and Andrew had told Debrasques much of his early days of
campaigning, and how he had first joined the French army with James,
Duke of York, then an exile with his brother Charles. Never once,
however, had he referred to Philip and the blight that had fallen on
his life, nor the reason why he was now with Debrasques on the road to
join Churchill's regiment under Turenne.
"For," he pondered to himself over and over again in those ten days,
"silence is best. Also, why tell him that until I had learnt of the
whereabouts of this rogue, De Bois-Vallée, it had not been my
intention to repair here--but only to seek him high and low until he
was found, and then stand face to face with him?"
Yet there was one thing that troubled him even as he went to seek his
quarry; the recollection of one thing that might step in between him
and De Bois-Vallée and rob him of that which he had come to consider
would be a righteous vengeance.
"Suppose," he had mused to himself more than once, "suppose that, when
he is at last before me, I discover that he never knew of Philip's
existence, knew nothing of the wrong he had done him. It might be so,
might well be. Although Philip was at court sometimes they seem never
to have met and, if the woman he loved was a giddy, wanton thing,
whose fancy turned lightly from one to another, she may never have
told this Frenchman of the man she had betrayed."
Yet, even as he so meditated he put resolutely away from him the
thought that this could be the case; refused to believe, or to let the
belief creep into his mind, that the crafty, discarded lover of De
Kéroualle did not know of the robbery he was committing. "And," he
meditated also, "even should that be the case, there is still the
woman to make my account with. She, at least, knew the wrong she was
doing. I must find her." But, when he arrived at this point, he had to
cease his self-communing, for he knew not in what way vengeance could
be wreaked on her. The rapier by his side was powerless against a
woman--some other form of punishment must be sought for!
Once on their long ride--nay, more than once, indeed half a dozen
times--he had turned over and over again in his mind the Marquis's
strange agitation in connection with all that was of so much
importance to him--the manner in which he had opened his eyes in the
tavern, the startled look in them when the spy had mentioned De
Bois-Vallée's name; also he recalled again and again the lad's start
when he told his own name; his pallor and nervousness before the
picture of that cousin whom he spoke of as having been "cared" for by
his mother. "Cared for," Andrew Vause mused again, "cared for. In the
past, not now!" And he asked himself: "What had that red-haired,
blue-eyed cousin done to cease to be cared for by his kinswoman any
longer? Unless he were dead!"
At last he could refrain no more, and as, one day, they were passing
through the soft rolling country between Verdun and Metz he spoke to
Debrasques, saying:
"The cousin whose portrait I saw in your hall in Paris on the night
when first you welcomed me, and, afterwards, when Madame la Marquise
made me an honoured guest, ere we set forth on this journey--is he
dead, Debrasques? You spoke of him as one for whom her ladyship had
cared. Was it death that put an end to that care? It must be so, I
should suppose," and as he uttered the question he turned his eyes on
the boy by his side.
Yet only to see again the look he had seen before--half terror, half
supplication!--in the other's face; to note also that the bright
boyish colour, beneath the brown which had come on his cheeks during
their long march, paled and disappeared at once as on that night.
Wherefore Andrew cursed himself for his ill-bred curiosity as he
witnessed its effect.
"No," Valentin Debrasques said, after a moment's pause, during which
he leant forward and busied himself about something with his charger's
bridle. "No. He is not dead."
"Forgive me," said Andrew gently. "Forgive me. I have pained you."
"Nay. Nay. Never! But--but--he is a villain, and that picture should
not be there, would not be there, an I had my way. But my mother still
believes, hopes--tries to believe he is not so; therefore it has not
been removed."
"I am sorry," Andrew answered. "Sorry my impertinent curiosity----"
"Nay," Debrasques said. "Surely you--but--no matter." Then he
exclaimed, "How good you are!"
"Good!" said Andrew, looking at him again, and wondering what he
meant; pondering, indeed, whether some stroke of the sun that had
beaten fiercely on them since they left Paris had not touched his
brain. "Good! Good!"
"For--for--your forbearance, I mean." Yet, as he spoke, there was a
look of bewilderment on the young and troubled face that mystified the
other. And doubly mystified him because he had seen it there before,
on the night when first the portrait met his view; also he had seen it
on the face of the Marquise as he had spoken in courteous, easy tones
to her during the intermediate days ere they set out. A look of
bewilderment on both their faces, as though expressing surprise that
he should be invariably so much at his ease and so gentle with them.
At least that was how he had read those looks, and, reading them thus,
had found further proof for wonderment.
"My forbearance!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," the other stammered, evidently much distressed, though still
with the perplexity growing greater in his face. "Yes, I mean to
refrain from questioning further. We--I--never mention him. I hate him
and despise him. I wonder you----"
"I will never," said Andrew, "wound you on that score again, at least.
Henceforth I am dumb." And, to his surprise, as he spoke Debrasques put
out his gauntletted hand and grasped his own with a glance of
unspeakable gratitude.
Which only added further to Andrew Vause's mystification and caused
him to ride on still more deeply wrapped in meditation.
And now as they drew near Neustadt at nightfall and began to speculate
on what accommodation might be obtained at the inns, if any--since
they knew that two regiments of Dragoons, "the King's" and "The
Queen's" were marching ahead of them to reinforce Turenne, who had
suffered heavily at Sintzheim--they observed that the whole
heavens appeared on fire and were suffused with a bright red colour.
Also, into the vast vault thus tinged, there shot up great flecks
of flame of a deeper, more crimson hue, with sometimes amid them
saffron-coloured ones, while, plain against the still lingering
remnants of daylight, great masses of dun-coloured smoke arose.
"_Grand Dieu!_" exclaimed Debrasques, while all, including dragoons
and those who attended to the led horses, looked on amazed. "It must
be the city of Spires in flames. Who has done it--Turenne or De
Bournonville, who commands against him?"
"Nay," said Andrew, "no city that, in flames, my lad. Rather a
dozen--if there were so many around! No city, I say. See where the
flames themselves fly up to the reddened sky; observe. They rise from
all points ahead of us, and, in some cases, are miles apart.
Debrasques," he added solemnly, "I have seen such as this before. It
has been done here before, too, I know; Tilly did it fifty years ago,
and----"
"What--what--what is it?" the boy asked, the two campaigns he had
followed never having shown him aught of this nature.
"This. One of the two armies has withdrawn--it must be the
Imperialists, since Turenne beat them at Sintzheim--the other is
destroying the land, so that no more shall his enemy find shelter nor
food enough for a grasshopper. That is what it means. Yet," he
exclaimed, as now the flames and the dun-coloured smoke mounted more
fiercely still into the crimsoned vault above, "it is horrible, awful!
My God it is awful!"
As he spoke, there soon followed confirmation of his words. Down the
poplar-fringed road along which they were proceeding, there came
towards them in the night the sound of many horses' hoofs rushing
madly, swiftly; and in an instant Andrew had warned Debrasques to draw
aside his dragoons and followers. "We know not yet who or what they
are," he said; "best stand aside and see."
On came the others even as the suggestion was followed, and--although
in the gloom of the night that had closed in under the trees--they
knew at once by the voice of the leader that they were of their own
side. Then an officer, followed by two dozen soldiers, would almost
have passed them when, beneath the poplars, he saw the headpieces of
the dragoons and the glisten of their trappings, and, as he did so, he
roared an order to his own men to halt, after which, amidst the rattle
and clang of bridles and of scabbards against spurs and horses'
flanks, he called out in French:
"Speak--what troops are those?" while, as he did so, Andrew felt
Debrasques' hand clutch his arm convulsively--felt, too, that hand
tremble on his sleeve.
"Answer him, answer him," he said, "or he may charge us. They are
treble our number."
And from the Marquis's lips there came, in response to the demand, the
words:
"A detachment of Listenai's dragoons and an English officer about to
join the Marshal."
"Whose voice is that?" called back the other in a tone of
astonishment.
"The voice of Valentin, Marquis Debrasques."
"Ha! I thought so. So you are here, are you? Well, I have no time to
waste on you. Where are the dragoons of the 'King's' and 'Queen's'
regiments?"
"Ahead of us," answered the deep voice of Andrew, he noticing that
Debrasques seemed more and more agitated--indeed, almost now unable to
speak.
"Then they have missed their way. They should have joined by now.
Have, perhaps, branched off at Kaiserslautern." Then he gave an order
to the Marquis. "Ride forward at once with your party and endeavour to
find them, and, if you succeed, send them on at once to Spires. There
is the devil's work doing to-night."
"What work?" asked Andrew.
"Our men have lost all control of themselves and are burning the
villages for miles round, while the country people are massacring all
those whom they can catch alone, or in twos and threes. There is one
of our soldiers hanging head downwards on a tree not half a league
from here, riddled with a score of bullets, and, they say, some are
being burnt if surprised when by themselves. Forward at once and find
the Dragoons--they are not, at least, heated to boiling point!" and,
as he spoke, Andrew heard the thud of his heels against his horse's
flank and saw him rush on, followed by his men. And in the last rays
of daylight, aided by the glow of countless fires, he observed that he
was hatless and wigless, and that, behind him, streamed a mass of
long, red-brown hair.
"Devil's work indeed!" said Andrew, turning to his companion, and in
that same light observing that the young man was pallid and his face
twitching.
"Heart up, heart up, my boy!" he exclaimed. "The horrors of war must
not unseat a soldier thus"--but the other interrupted him, muttering
huskily:
"You did not see--not recognize?" and as he spoke the astonishment on
his face was accompanied by a look of almost awestruck unbelief.
"Not see--not recognize! Why, whom should I see, or recognize? 'Fore
heaven! what I heard was enough for me."
"That man," Debrasques stammered. "The leader. You did not recognize
him?"
"Not I. Debrasques," turning his gaze upon him swiftly, "who is he?"
"Your--your--I mean, my cousin. The man whose picture hangs in our
hall----"
"And his name is--what?"