rise.
"Come, Senor Cuirassier," said Ronald in Spanish; "I believe I am to
consider you a prisoner on parole?"
"_Diablement!_" muttered the Frenchman, rubbing his sore bones.
"Come, to horse. Get into your saddle, and without delay. Do not
imagine I will parley here long enough to permit your cunning old
comrade to bring up the light dragoons to your rescue."
The Gaul still delayed to move, declaring that so severe were his
bruises, he was unable to rise.
"Monsieur," said Ronald sternly, placing his hand in his basket-hilt, "I
believe you not; 'tis a mere trick! And if you do not instantly mount,
I shall be tempted to try if that iron harness of yours is proof against
a stab from such a blade as this."
Thus angrily urged, the cuirassier with a sullen look, and some trouble
evidently, mounted his horse, gave his parole of honour, and tossing the
flints from his pistols, threw away with a curse his empty scabbard, and
prepared to follow his captor, who inquired about his hurts and bruises
with a frank kindness, to which the other replied by cold and haughty
monosyllables; and his displeasure appeared to increase, when Ronald,
instead of continuing on the Truxillo road, struck at once across the
country to make a detour, thus cutting off any chance which the
Frenchman had of being rescued by the chasseurs, should his companion
bring them back for that purpose. Stuart was secretly well pleased at
the capture he had made, and doubted not that the French capitan would
make a very timely peace-offering to Cameron, who would be the reverse
of well-pleased at his long absence.
"Cheer up, Monsieur de Mesmai,--I think your friend named you De
Mesmai," said he; "there is no use in being cast down about this
_malheur_. Such happen daily to our brothers in arms, on both sides.
And it is a wonder our cases are not reversed, when my opponent was so
accomplished a chevalier."
De Mesmai twirled his black moustaches, shrugged his shoulders till his
epaulets touched his ears, and made no reply,--but gave an anxious
glance behind them.
"'Tis no use looking for your friend and his _chasseurs_; they will
scarcely find us, since we are so far from the main road. So, I pray
you, give yourself no further concern about them."
To this taunting injunction, the Frenchman answered only by a stern
military frown. He was a man above forty years of age, and his figure
was a model of combined strength and symmetry. Exposure to the sun had
turned the hue of his face to something between deep red and dark
brown,--the former was particularly apparent in a deep scar across the
cheek, which he endeavoured to hide by the curl of his moustache. He
appeared to view his captor with any feeling but a friendly one; indeed
it was galling, that an accomplished cavalry officer like himself should
have been unhorsed and compelled to surrender by one whom he regarded as
a raw soldier,--a mere stripling; but, as his head had good reason to
know, a very stout one.
"And so Monsieur de Mesmai is your name?" observed Stuart, endeavouring
to lead him into conversation. "Surely, I have heard it before."
"'Tis not unlikely, monsieur. I am pretty well known on both sides of
the Pyrenees; and permit me to acquaint you, that it was no common feat
of yours to unhorse me as you did to-day. But as for my name, it has
made a noise in the public journals once or twice. You may have heard
it at Almarez,--I commanded in the tower of Ragusa."
"I now remember; but it was not very kind of you to cut the pontoon, and
thus destroy the retreat of D'Estouville and his soldiers."
"Charity begins at home. You know that vulgar adage,--strictly English
I believe it is," retorted the cuirassier haughtily. "_Sacre bleu!_
'tis something new for a French officer to be schooled by a British, in
the rules of military honour."
"Nothing new in the least, sir!" retorted the other in the same tone of
pique. "Military honour! What think you of the poisoned balls, which
our troops say yours use so freely?"
"_Sacre nom de Dieu!_" exclaimed the cuirassier hoarsely, while his
cheek grew absolutely purple; "'tis false, monsieur; I tell you 'tis
false! 'Tis a lie of the base mercenary German Legion, or the rascally
Portuguese. Surely British soldiers would never say so of Frenchmen?
Think you, monsieur, that we, whose bayonets have flashed at Austerlitz
and Jena,--think you, that we now would have recourse to means so foul?
_Sacre!_ to poison our bullets like the cowardly Indians,--and now, at
this time, when under Heaven and the great Emperor's guidance the rustle
of the banners of France have shaken the world to its centre? I trow
not!"
"It has been rumoured by our soldiers, however; but I rely too much on
the honour of Frenchmen to imagine that they would resort to such
dastardly means of maiming an enemy."[*]
[*] At one time a report was current among the Peninsular troops that
the French used poisoned balls; but it was a malicious story, without
any foundation.
"Monsieur, were we otherwise situated, I would put this matter to the
sharper test of cold iron," replied De Mesmai, who was much ruffled at
the mention of the poisoned balls; "but a time may yet come, and for the
present I accept your apology. As for the story of the poisoned balls,
doubtless you are indebted for it to the base Germans--mercenary dogs!
whom their beggarly princes and little mightinesses sell by thousands to
fight the battles of all nations."
"In our service we have a legion of several thousands, and they are
excellent troops."
"Monsieur, we have many legions. But the German is without chivalry or
sentiment, and fitted only for the mere mechanical part of war. They
fight for their daily pay: honour they value not; to them 'tis as
moonshine in the water, an unsubstantial glitter."
"You are severe, Captain De Mesmai."
"I cannot speak of them in more gentle terms, when I remember that all
the German prisoners you take from us invariably change banners, and
enlist in your service. Several battalions have been raised among the
Scottish military prisons of late. And these Germans--bah! But to the
devil with them!"
"By the by,--who was your friend, with his arm in the sling? An officer
of some rank, evidently?"
"Truly he is. I am glad you did not take him instead of me. Ah,
monsieur, you have outwitted yourself confoundedly. What a prize he
would have been to present to your general! That officer was Monsieur
le Comte D'Erlon."
"D'Erlon!" exclaimed Ronald; "would to Heaven he would return."
"With the sabres of twenty _chasseurs a cheval_ glittering behind him?"
"No, certainly. But, oh! had I only guessed his rank and fame, he
should not have escaped me. I would either have taken, or cut him down
in his saddle."
"That would have been a pity, for he is a famous old fellow; but it
would have left the comtesse a widow, with I know not how many thousand
livres in the year. I know she looks with favourable eyes on me,--but,
_sacre bleu!_ 'tis all in vain. I don't like ladies that are verging
towards forty years."
"You seem to have recovered your equanimity of temper now."
"Oh, perfectly; but my head rings like a belfry, with that cut you gave
me."
"So that old officer with his arm slung, was really the famous D'Erlon,
of whom we have heard so much."
"The gallant old count himself. He received a stroke from a spent
pistol-ball a day or two past, which disabled his sword-arm; otherwise
you would have had an encounter with him also."
"I shall ever curse my thoughtlessness, in having permitted him to
escape."
The cuirassier laughed exultingly.
"I am,--_diable_! I _was_ his aide-de-camp; and we had merely crossed
the Tagus last night with a sub-division of chasseurs, to make a
reconnoissance; and we were returning leisurely in the rear of our
party, when you so unluckily fell in with us, like some wandering
knight-errant."
"Excuse me, monsieur; but as I perceive that your sabre-tache[*] is very
full of something, if you have any of the Count d'Erlon's despatches or
papers, I must consider it my duty to request that you will entrust them
to my care."
[*] A leather case hanging to the waist-belt of a dragoon. It is meant
for carrying military papers.
"Excellent, by the bomb! That you may present them to your general?"
"Undoubtedly, monsieur."
"I believe he is every inch a true soldier; and were he here, would be
welcome to share the contents of my sabre-tache; but as he is not, we
will divide them honestly at the kettle-drum head. Here, you see, is a
roast fowl, famously stuffed with sage and garlic, which yesterday
afternoon I carried off from the dinner-table of a fat canon of
Torbiscoso, when just about to carve, and very much aghast the padre
looked when I seized it unceremoniously. Here also is a bottle of
pomard,--rare stuff, as you will find. I took it out of D'Erlon's
holsters not above four hours ago. He always keeps a bottle in one, and
a pistol in the other. A knowing old campaigner, _ventre St. Gris_!
And now, since you have reminded me of the sabre-tache, let us to
luncheon."
The poniard and the fowl were shared together, and had any stranger
beheld them as they jogged along, he would never have imagined that they
had been engaged in mortal strife an hour before.
"Ah, this horrible garlic! the taste of it would madden a Parisian _chef
de cuisine_," observed De Mesmai. "I drink to the health of senor, the
reverend canon of Torbiscoso, who has provided for us this especial good
luncheon. Come, my friend, you do not drink; you are as melancholy as
if you had lost your love, while I am as merry as if I had just buried
my wife. But why should I be cast down in spirits? The old count
cannot do without me, and will soon get me exchanged; he might as well
lose his head as Maurice de Mesmai. I save him a world of trouble by
drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, making up his despatches, in
which I take especial care that my name is always duly commended to the
notice of the Emperor. I study the localities for camps, and always
make them in the neighbourhood of convents. A-propos of convents: I
love better to capture and sack them than any thing else. 'Tis such
delightful hide-and-seek sort of work, to pull the fair garrison from
the nooks and niches where they hide from us. I have had a score of
nuns across this very saddle-bow; and, but for your cursed
interruption,--excuse me, monsieur,--would by this time have had the
abbess of the Jarciejo convent. An immensely fine creature, upon my
honour, with a neck and bust beautiful enough to turn the heads of
messieurs their eminences the cardinals. A glorious creature, in fact,
and as kind a one as may be met with on a long day's march. I had
marked her for a prize, and D'Erlon had never dared to say me nay;
otherwise he would have had to provide himself with another aide."
De Mesmai seemed to have recovered that buoyancy of temper so natural to
Frenchmen, and he chatted on in this gay and unconnected manner, and
sung snatches of military and tavern songs until they arrived, when
evening was approaching, at Villa Macia, where it was necessary that
they should halt for the night. Here they received information that Sir
Rowland Hill, with the troops returning from Almarez, had passed through
two days before. In so small a village there was no alcalde to order
them a billet, and no inn at which they could procure one otherwise; and
while standing in the street, irresolute how to act, they were
surrounded by a crowd of swarthy villagers, who greeted Ronald with many
a hearty _viva!_ but regarded the disarmed Frenchman with louring looks
of hatred and hostility, to which he replied by others of defiance and
contempt. _El cura_, the rector or curate of the place, a
reverend-looking old churchman, with a bald head, a few grey hairs, and
a wrinkled visage, approached them with his shovel-hat in his hand, and
invited them to partake of the shelter afforded by his humble roof, to
which the Gaul and the Briton were alike welcome. The horses were
accommodated in an out-house behind the cottage, while the curate
introduced his guests into his best apartment,--a room floored with
tiles, which had just been cooled by the application of a
water-sprinkler. Nets of onions, oranges, and innumerable bunches of
grapes hung from the rude rafters of the roof, waving in the fresh
evening breeze which blew through the open window. Drawings of various
kinds, particularly landscapes, adorned the walls of the room, in which,
if poverty was every where apparent, there was an extreme air of
neatness and cleanliness, not often to be met with in houses of such a
class in Spain.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*THE CURATE'S STORY.*
"Loose me, sire! and ill betide thee!
Curse upon thee! let me go!
Wert thou other than my father,
Heavens! I would smite thee low!"
_The Cid_: a Spanish Romance.
"_Te Deum laudamus!_ we shall have a rest at last!" exclaimed De Mesmai.
"I thought I had forgotten my Latin; and yet my old rogue of a tutor
rubbed it hard into me with a tough rod." He clattered through the room
with his heavy jackboots and jangling spurs clanking on the floor; and
seating himself in the curate's easy chair, stretched out his legs, and
half closing his eyes, contemptuously surveyed the place. He threw his
heavy casque on the table, crushing the leaves of a large bible, which
el cura had been reading.
"_Diable!_ my head is ringing like a kettledrum with the violence of
that unlucky stroke. Monsieur, the basket-hilts of your Scottish
regiments are confoundedly heavy, and their fluted blades give most
uncomfortable thrusts," said De Mesmai, passing his hand over his round
bullet head and thick and black curly hair, which clustered around a
bold high forehead. His features were very handsome, strongly marked,
and classically regular. Campaigns in Italy had bronzed and scarred
them in no ordinary degree, and there was a bold recklessness in his eye
and a fierceness in the curl of his moustaches, which seemed quite to
appal the poor old curate, notwithstanding the presence of Ronald
Stuart. "_Vive la joie!_ let us drink and be merry. I am a prisoner of
war,--_sacre!_ a prisoner! 'Tis something new; but thanks to D'Erlon,
and Madame his dear little countess, who will never be able to mount
horse without me, I will not be long so. _Vive la joie, Monsieur le
Cure--Senor Cura_--or what do you style yourself among the rebels of
Joseph Buonaparte,--what are we to have for supper?"
"_Gaspacho_--only a dish of _gaspacho_; 'tis all I have to offer you,
_gracios senores_."
"_Soupe maigre_, by the Lord! Bah! _senor Espagnol_; 'tis food only for
hogs or yourselves, not for a cuirassier of France."
"'Tis all that France and misfortune enable me to offer. They have
brought me low enough," replied the curate meekly, while he appeared
astounded by the boisterous behaviour of the dragoon, for whom Ronald
(though secretly angry at his conduct) endeavoured to apologize, and to
re-assure their kind host. "But something else may be added to the
_gaspacho_, senores, and you will find the latter very good; my
grand-daughter is the best preparer of it in the village."
"_Diable!_ your grand-daughter? what a merry monk you have been in your
young days. But how came you, _senor cure_, to have a family?"
"I was married before I took upon me the scapulary and girdle,--the
badges of my holy order," replied the other, while the colour came and
went in his faded cheek, and he regarded the Frenchman with a fixed look
of indignation, which was replied to by a contemptuous laugh.
"A jolly monk! _Vive la joie_! And is your grand-daughter young and
pretty? I hope so, as I feel ennui creeping over me in this dull
dungeon. But be not angry, reverend _cure_. Let us have but a measure
of decent wine to wash down this same _gaspacho_, and we shall manage
pretty well."
"If monsieur knew that I was his countryman," said the curate gently,
"he might perhaps treat my grey hairs less insultingly."
"Not a whit, monsieur renegade!" cried the cuirassier fiercely. "What!
you are some base emigrant, I suppose. They are ever the bitterest
enemies to the great Napoleon, to his faithful soldiers, and to _la
belle France_."
"'Tis false, rude soldier!" said the old man, his faded eye kindling up.
"We are the only true friends to beautiful France, and the outraged
house of Bourbon."
"Beelzebub strangle the Bourbons! Get us our supper, and call a halt to
your chattering. Also, take care how you give me the lie, old gentleman,
or I swear I will dash--"
"Hold! De Mesmai," said Stuart, interfering now for the second or third
time. "I, as a British officer, cannot permit you to persist in
insulting a Spanish citizen thus--"
"A dog of an emigrant! I have mown them down by troops,--never yet
granted quarter, even to their most pitiable entreaties. DEATH! was the
word wherever we have fallen in with them,--in Holland, Flanders, Spain,
Portugal, and Italy. When I served with the army of the Moselle, we once
formed a thousand emigrant prisoners into solid squares, and poured in
volleys of grape and musquetry upon them; while the cavalry charged them
by squadrons, sword in hand, to finish by hoof and blade what the fire
of the platoons had left undone."
The curate clasped his hands and turned up his eyes, but made no reply.
"You have little cause to boast of that exploit," said Ronald; "but,
Monsieur de Mesmai, we have been very good friends on the way hither,
yet we are likely to quarrel, if you abuse our kind host thus." At that
moment the curate's grand-daughter entered, and stole close to his side.
The two officers rose at once, each to offer her a seat, and she took
Stuart's, bowing coldly to De Mesmai, who, seating himself in what he
thought a fine position, muttered, "A dazzling creature, really. Upon my
honour beats Mariette of the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs quite, and will
make amends for the loss of the abbess." He raised his glass to his
eye, and scanned the poor girl with so intent a look, that her face
became suffused with blushes. She was indeed a very beautiful creature.
She was about twenty years of age; her eyes had a blackness and
brightness in them truly continental. Her teeth were perfectly regular,
and of the purest white, and the fine proportions of her figure were
displayed to the utmost advantage by a tight black velvet boddice, with
short sleeves adorned with frills of lace at the elbow, below which her
white arm was bare. Her luxuriant black hair was plaited in two
gigantic tails or braids, which hung down to the red flounce attached to
her brown bunchy petticoat, which was short enough to display a
well-turned foot and ankle.
During supper innumerable were the fine things and complimentary
speeches which the cuirassier addressed to the Senora Maria, to all of
which she listened with a calm smile, and made such careless yet
appropriate replies as showed that she knew their true value, and which
sometimes confounded the Frenchman, who thought to win her favour thus;
while he altogether lost the curate's by his insolent remarks and sneers
at their humble repast--the _gaspacho_, a mess made of toasted bread,
water, a sprinkling of vinegar, spices, salt, and oil, to which, as a
second course, to De Mesmai's great delight, was added a dish of stewed
meat. After supper the curate rose, and, laying aside his skull-cap,
delivered a long prayer, which De Mesmai pronounced to be confoundedly
tedious, and for which he showed his contempt by humming "The Austrian
Retreat," and drumming on the table with his fingers.
A few stoups of the common provincial wine were now produced, and while
discussing these, the curate engaged Stuart in a long conversation about
Scotland, in the affairs of which he appeared to be much interested,
like a true French priest of the old school. His father, he said, had
served in Fitz-James's horse, under the illustrious prince Charles
Stuart, in the campaigns of 1745-6. He spoke also of the famous Scottish
wizard Sir Michael Scott, of Balwearie, Escotillo, as the Spaniards name
him. Ronald knew little more about this ancient Scottish philosopher
than what he had acquired from the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," published
a few years before, and was not very well able to answer the
interrogations of the curate, who produced from his little book-case a
musty old copy of Sir Michael's "Commentary on Aristotle," published at
Venice, A.D. 1496, a prize which would have thrown the Society of
Scottish Antiquarians into ecstacies of delight, could they have laid
their hands upon it. The curate informed Ronald that there was a
countryman of his, a Padre Macdonald, who resided in the town of Alba de
Tormes, and who had formerly been a priest in the Scots College of
Douay,--when a scream from Senora Maria interrupted him.
While Ronald and his host were conversing, the young lady had been
explaining the subject of some of her drawings to the dragoon, who
bestowed upon them all, indiscriminately, such vehement praise, that the
poor girl was sometimes quite abashed, and considered him a perfect
connoisseur, though in truth he knew not a line he saw. But he seemed
quite enchanted with the young provincial, his companion. "_Vive
l'amour! ma belle Marie_," he whispered; and throwing his arm around
her, kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes filled with fire, she screamed
aloud, and breaking away from him, drew close to the side of the curate.
"How, monsieur! how can you be so very rude?" exclaimed the old man,
rising in wrath. "Do you dare to treat her as if she was some _fille de
joie_ of the Boulevards or night-promenades of the iniquitous city of
Paris?"
"By the bomb! I believe the old gentleman is getting quite into a
passion," replied the other, coolly twirling his moustache. "_Marie, ma
princesse_, surely you are not so? The women are all devilish fond of
me. When I ride in uniform through the streets of Paris, the sweet
_grisettes_ flock to the doors in hundreds. Marie, or Maria--"
"Insolent!" exclaimed the curate. "By one word I could avenge her, and
overwhelm you with confusion and dismay."
"_Peste!_" cried the astonished cuirassier, into whose head the wine he
had taken was rapidly mounting; "that would indeed be something new.
Overwhelm me with confusion? me, Monsieur de Mesmai, by the Emperor's
grace and my own deserts captain of No. 4 troop of the 10th cuirassiers?
_Diable!_ that would be something rare, and rarities are agreeable.
Maria, _ma belle coquette_, come to me, and say that you are not angry.
Meanwhile, _Monsieur le Cure_, I should be glad to hear that terrible
word."
He advanced again towards Maria Rosat; but Ronald, who was now seriously
angry, interposed between him and the terrified girl.
"Shame! shame on you, Captain de Mesmai!" said he. "This conduct shows
me how outrageously you soldiers of Buonaparte must behave on all
occasions towards the Spaniards, and that the excesses recorded of
Massena's troops were not exaggerated in the London newspapers."
"Massena is a fine fellow, and a soldier every inch," answered the other
tartly; "but let us not come to blows about a smatchet like
this,--especially as you, monsieur, have the advantage of me. You are
armed and free; I am weaponless and a prisoner on parole. But, Monsieur
Stuart, I meant no harm. In a soldier-like way, I love to press my
moustaches against a soft cheek. No harm was intended, and _ma belle
Marie_ well knows that."
"Ah, Monsieur Maurice--" began the curate.
"Ha! Maurice?" interrupted the cuirassier sharply. "How came you, old
gentleman, to know my name so well?"
"Insolent and libertine soldier!" replied the curate sternly, "I know
not if I should tell you. I would,--I say again I can confound and
dismay you as you deserve to be."
"A rare blockhead this! rare, as one would meet in a march of ten
leagues. Do so, in the devil's name, Sir Curate; but as for Maria--"
"Name her not, _base roue_! She is--she is--"
"_Tete-dieu!_ who is she, most polite monsieur? A princess in disguise?"