TAKEN PRISONER.
In my cloak-bag at the auberge I had left the king's dispatches,
addressed to Sir John Hepburn and to the Duc de Lavalette, together
with the case containing the baton of a marechal of France, destined
for the former; but I forgot everything, save the desperate hope of
rescuing Nicola and of tracking her betrayers.
I made a hundred vows of vengeance on De Bitche, whom I was one
moment resolved to challenge to a solemn duel; and at another, to
pistol without ceremony when or wherever I met him.
A group of dark figures on the roadway now appeared about half-a-mile
before me; and the gleam of steel informed me that they were armed.
I hastened forward full of new hope and a fierce joy. Some of those
persons were on foot, and others on horseback; their number seemed to
be about twenty, and they marched in military order. As I gained on
them, they halted; and then I perceived that two of the horsemen
returned to reconnoitre. On drawing nearer, I could reckon ten
mounted troopers, and ten musketeers on foot; but there was not a
female with them.
'Stand, monsieur!' cried one, in French, but with a guttural accent;
'was it you who hallooed?'
'Yes, my friend,' said I, breathlessly.
'For what purpose, fellow?'
I paused.
'Answer--I am General Goltz, of the Imperial army.'
'To stop you.'
'To stop us?' reiterated another, haughtily; 'here is an enterprising
Gascon for you, gentlemen!'
'A Scot, as you may find to your cost, sirs,' said I, menacing them
with my drawn sword. 'Is the Count de Bitche among you?'
'No,' replied one, laughing; 'the Count has more pleasant matters in
hand than accompanying us. But what seek you here?'
'A companion I have lost--a young lady attired in a religious habit--'
This was received by a hoarse shout of guttural German merriment; for
most of the personages among whom I had so suddenly fallen were
Imperialists belonging to the garrisons of Toul or Nanci.
'There is a convent of pretty Bernardine nuns at Commercy,' said
General Goltz, turning his horse round; 'apply there, my friend.
''Tis a chevalier in the guise of an abbé!' said one.
'The devil lurking behind the cross!' added another.
'A spy of Louis XIII.--a mouchard! a mouchard!' cried the Lorraine
musketeers, surrounding me. 'Hola, M. le General--M. le Provost
Marechal--a rope, a rope! To the next tree with him! a rope for the
mouchard!'
This epithet for a spy or eavesdropper was peculiarly offensive then
in France, being derived from the spies of M. de Mouchy, the
Inquisitor-General under Francis II., and it inspired me with new
anger.
'Who commands here?' I demanded, proudly, thrusting back the most
forward with the hilt and edge of my sword.
'I command--I, Wolfgang Count Pappenheim,' replied a lofty and
stern-looking cavalier, who was sheathed in burnished steel from neck
to knees, and who wore a broad hat with a tall feather, and had long
moustaches pointed straight out in a line with his ears.
'Hear me, Count,' said I, glad in this desperate extremity to avail
myself of a little subterfuge; 'you dare not kill one who wears this
dress.'
'Bah,' said he, roughly; 'I have an indulgence from the Pope to kill
whom I please; but surrender, or by the death of the devil, my
fellows will make black puddings of thee!'
'My reputation, Count, is so well established both at Versailles and
in the camp of Duke Charles IV., that I need not suffer myself to be
needlessly hacked to pieces, rather than be taken; and so, monsieur,
I am your prisoner.'
'Your name, abbé, if an abbé you are, indeed?'
'I am Arthur Blane, a gentleman of king Louis's Scottish Guard, and
no abbé.'
'A cuirassier.'
'Yes, monsieur.'
''Tis he, Count, of whom poor Raoul d'Ische and the Prince de
Vaudemont have spoken so often,' said General Goltz; 'parbleu! he is
a brave fellow!'
'But must, nevertheless, swing, M. le General; he is a spy.'
'Count, it is false,' I exclaimed.
'Then what seek you here, so far from your head-quarters, and in this
garb too?'
'A lady, M. le Comte, a lady who--'
'How--have you not ladies enough in the French camp?'
'She whom I seek is a lady of Lorraine, whom I had pledged my word of
honour to conduct in safety from Paris to the gate of Nanci--being
now en route to join the army of Hepburn and Lavalette.'
'And who is this demoiselle, and what are her name and rank, that she
required a chevalier of the King's Scottish Guard to escort her from
Paris through Champagne and Lorraine?'
Policy and emotions of a somewhat mingled nature made me pause: to
mention the name and position of Nicola, as a soubrette of the King's
mistress, would only have courted ridicule and mischief.
'Who is she, monsieur?' demanded the Count. 'I think at such a time
as this, when rumour affirms that Mademoiselle de Lorraine has been
taken at a sequestered château near Paris, and is now languishing in
the Bastille, some wonderful interest must be attached to the woman
you are in quest of?'
'M. le Comte, she is--'
'What--speak!'
'My sister.'
'A likely story! we never heard that any of our ladies at Nanci had
brothers in the Garde du Corps Ecossais; but we shall inquire into
all this, at least before we hang you; so give up your sword.'
'To whom?' said I.
'To me--it shall suffer no dishonour in my hands.'
''Tis well, Count; for that sword is the last inheritance of a race
that never knew dishonour--until now.'
'Soldiers should never condescend to play the mouchard.'
'Silence, Count, and be generous if you can!' said I, choking with
passion. 'If such were said of me after death, I would come back to
resent it, though all hell should bar the way.'
Awed by my words, the superstitious German changed colour and turned
from me.
'A file of musketeers,' said General Goltz; 'Sergeant Caspar
Alsfeldt, guard the prisoner to Nanci, and shoot him if he attempts
to escape.'
'I will inquire into all this to-morrow at the Duke's palace, where
you will bring him before me,' said Pappenheim; 'farewell, M. le
Prisonnier--may we part better friends to-morrow than we do to-night.
Forward, gentlemen, for the hours grow apace.'
Pappenheim, with General Goltz and all the mounted men of his party
trotted rapidly off; while I, bareheaded, disarmed, downcast and
heartbroken, was marched on foot, guarded by ten musketeers of the
regiment de Vaudemont, towards the capital of Lorraine.
To attempt escaping would only have insured to me a sudden and
barbarous death; and when marched off I struck my hands wildly
together, and could have wept, but for very grief and shame, as I
thought of my own helplessness and inability to unravel the mystery
that enveloped the future fate of my unfortunate but beloved Nicola.