I have told you, my friends, how I triumphed over the English at the
fox-hunt when I pursued the animal so fiercely that even the herd of
trained dogs was unable to keep up, and alone with my own hand I put him
to the sword. Perhaps I have said too much of the matter, but there is
a thrill in the triumphs of sport which even warfare cannot give, for in
warfare you share your successes with your regiment and your army, but
in sport it is you yourself unaided who have won the laurels. It is an
advantage which the English have over us that in all classes they take
great interest in every form of sport. It may be that they are richer
than we, or it may be that they are more idle: but I was surprised when
I was a prisoner in that country to observe how widespread was this
feeling, and how much it filled the minds and the lives of the people. A
horse that will run, a cock that will fight, a dog that will kill rats,
a man that will box--they would turn away from the Emperor in all his
glory in order to look upon any of these.
I could tell you many stories of English sport, for I saw much of it
during the time that I was the guest of Lord Rufton, after the order
for my exchange had come to England. There were months before I could be
sent back to France, and during this time I stayed with this good Lord
Rufton at his beautiful house of High Combe, which is at the northern
end of Dartmoor. He had ridden with the police when they had pursued
me from Princetown, and he had felt toward me when I was overtaken as
I would myself have felt had I, in my own country, seen a brave and
debonair soldier without a friend to help him. In a word, he took me to
his house, clad me, fed me, and treated me as if he had been my brother.
I will say this of the English, that they were always generous enemies,
and very good people with whom to fight.
In the Peninsula the Spanish outposts would present their muskets at
ours, but the British their brandy-flasks. And of all these generous men
there was none who was the equal of this admirable milord, who held out
so warm a hand to an enemy in distress.
Ah! what thoughts of sport it brings back to me, the very name of High
Combe! I can see it now, the long, low brick house, warm and ruddy, with
white plaster pillars before the door. He was a great sportsman, this
Lord Rufton, and all who were about him were of the same sort. But you
will be pleased to hear that there were few things in which I could
not hold my own, and in some I excelled. Behind the house was a wood in
which pheasants were reared, and it was Lord Rufton's joy to kill these
birds, which was done by sending in men to drive them out while he and
his friends stood outside and shot them as they passed. For my part, I
was more crafty, for I studied the habits of the bird, and stealing out
in the evening I was able to kill a number of them as they roosted in
the trees. Hardly a single shot was wasted, but the keeper was attracted
by the sound of the firing, and he implored me in his rough English
fashion to spare those that were left. That night I was able to place
twelve birds as a surprise upon Lord Rufton's supper-table, and he
laughed until he cried, so overjoyed was he to see them. “Gad, Gerard,
you'll be the death of me yet!” he cried. Often he said the same thing,
for at every turn I amazed him by the way in which I entered into the
sports of the English.
There is a game called cricket which they play in the summer, and this
also I learned. Rudd, the head gardener, was a famous player of cricket,
and so was Lord Rufton himself. Before the house was a lawn, and here
it was that Rudd taught me the game. It is a brave pastime, a game for
soldiers, for each tries to strike the other with the ball, and it is
but a small stick with which you may ward it off. Three sticks behind
show the spot beyond which you may not retreat. I can tell you that it
is no game for children, and I will confess that, in spite of my nine
campaigns, I felt myself turn pale when first the ball flashed past me.
So swift was it that I had not time to raise my stick to ward it off,
but by good fortune it missed me and knocked down the wooden pins which
marked the boundary. It was for Rudd then to defend himself and for me
to attack. When I was a boy in Gascony I learned to throw both far and
straight, so that I made sure that I could hit this gallant Englishman.
With a shout I rushed forward and hurled the ball at him. It flew as
swift as a bullet toward his ribs, but without a word he swung his staff
and the ball rose a surprising distance in the air. Lord Rufton clapped
his hands and cheered. Again the ball was brought to me, and again it
was for me to throw. This time it flew past his head, and it seemed to
me that it was his turn to look pale.
But he was a brave man, this gardener, and again he faced me. Ah, my
friends, the hour of my triumph had come! It was a red waistcoat that
he wore, and at this I hurled the ball. You would have said that I was
a gunner, not a hussar, for never was so straight an aim. With a
despairing cry--the cry of the brave man who is beaten--he fell upon the
wooden pegs behind him, and they all rolled upon the ground together. He
was cruel, this English milord, and he laughed so that he could not come
to the aid of his servant. It was for me, the victor, to rush forward to
embrace this intrepid player, and to raise him to his feet with words of
praise, and encouragement, and hope. He was in pain and could not stand
erect, yet the honest fellow confessed that there was no accident in my
victory. “He did it a-purpose! He did it a-purpose!”
Again and again he said it. Yes, it is a great game this cricket, and I
would gladly have ventured upon it again but Lord Rufton and Rudd said
that it was late in the season, and so they would play no more.
How foolish of me, the old, broken man, to dwell upon these successes,
and yet I will confess that my age has been very much soothed and
comforted by the memory of the women who have loved me and the men whom
I have overcome. It is pleasant to think that five years afterward, when
Lord Rufton came to Paris after the peace, he was able to assure me that
my name was still a famous one in the north of Devonshire for the fine
exploits that I had performed. Especially, he said, they still talked
over my boxing match with the Honourable Baldock. It came about in this
way. Of an evening many sportsmen would assemble at the house of Lord
Rufton, where they would drink much wine, make wild bets, and talk
of their horses and their foxes. How well I remember those strange
creatures. Sir Barrington, Jack Lupton, of Barnstable, Colonel Addison,
Johnny Miller, Lord Sadler, and my enemy, the Honourable Baldock.
They were of the same stamp all of them, drinkers, madcaps, fighters,
gamblers, full of strange caprices and extraordinary whims. Yet they
were kindly fellows in their rough fashion, save only this Baldock, a
fat man, who prided himself on his skill at the box-fight. It was he
who, by his laughter against the French because they were ignorant
of sport, caused me to challenge him in the very sport at which he
excelled. You will say that it was foolish, my friends, but the decanter
had passed many times, and the blood of youth ran hot in my veins. I
would fight him, this boaster; I would show him that if we had not skill
at least we had courage. Lord Rufton would not allow it. I insisted. The
others cheered me on and slapped me on the back. “No, dash it, Baldock,
he's our guest,” said Rufton. “It's his own doing,” the other answered.
“Look here, Rufton, they can't hurt each other if they wear the
mawleys,” cried Lord Sadler. And so it was agreed.
What the mawleys were I did not know, but presently they brought out
four great puddings of leather, not unlike a fencing glove, but larger.
With these our hands were covered after we had stripped ourselves of
our coats and our waistcoats. Then the table, with the glasses and
decanters, was pushed into the corner of the room, and behold us; face
to face! Lord Sadler sat in the arm-chair with a watch in his open hand.
“Time!” said he.
I will confess to you, my friends, that I felt at that moment a tremor
such as none of my many duels have ever given me. With sword or pistol
I am at home, but here I only understood that I must struggle with this
fat Englishman and do what I could, in spite of these great puddings
upon my hands, to overcome him. And at the very outset I was disarmed
of the best weapon that was left to me. “Mind, Gerard, no kicking!” said
Lord Rufton in my ear. I had only a pair of thin dancing slippers, and
yet the man was fat, and a few well-directed kicks might have left me
the victor. But there is an etiquette just as there is in fencing, and
I refrained. I looked at this Englishman and I wondered how I should
attack him. His ears were large and prominent. Could I seize them I
might drag him to the ground. I rushed in, but I was betrayed by this
flabby glove, and twice I lost my hold. He struck me, but I cared little
for his blows, and again I seized him by the ear. He fell, and I rolled
upon him and thumped his head upon the ground.
How they cheered and laughed, these gallant Englishmen, and how they
clapped me on the back!
“Even money on the Frenchman,” cried Lord Sadler.
“He fights foul,” cried my enemy, rubbing his crimson ears. “He savaged
me on the ground.”
“You must take your chance of that,” said Lord Rufton, coldly.
“Time!” cried Lord Sadler, and once again we advanced to the assault.
He was flushed, and his small eyes were as vicious as those of a
bull-dog. There was hatred on his face. For my part I carried myself
lightly and gaily. A French gentleman fights but he does not hate. I
drew myself up before him, and I bowed as I have done in the duello.
There can be grace and courtesy as well as defiance in a bow; I put
all three into this one, with a touch of ridicule in the shrug which
accompanied it. It was at this moment that he struck me. The room spun
round me. I fell upon my back. But in an instant I was on my feet again
and had rushed to a close combat. His ear, his hair, his nose, I seized
them each in turn. Once again the mad joy of the battle was in my veins.
The old cry of triumph rose to my lips. “Vive l'Empereur!” I yelled as
I drove my head into his stomach. He threw his arm round my neck, and
holding me with one hand he struck me with the other. I buried my
teeth in his arm, and he shouted with pain. “Call him off, Rufton!” he
screamed.
“Call him off, man! He's worrying me!” They dragged me away from him.
Can I ever forget it?--the laughter, the cheering, the congratulations!
Even my enemy bore me no ill-will, for he shook me by the hand. For my
part I embraced him on each cheek. Five years afterward I learned from
Lord Rufton that my noble bearing upon that evening was still fresh in
the memory of my English friends.
It is not, however, of my own exploits in sport that I wish to speak to
you to-night, but it is of the Lady Jane Dacre and the strange adventure
of which she was the cause. Lady Jane Dacre was Lord Rufton's sister and
the lady of his household. I fear that until I came it was lonely for
her, since she was a beautiful and refined woman with nothing in common
with those who were about her. Indeed, this might be said of many
women in the England of those days, for the men were rude and rough and
coarse, with boorish habits and few accomplishments, while the women
were the most lovely and tender that I have ever known. We became great
friends, the Lady Jane and I, for it was not possible for me to drink
three bottles of port after dinner like those Devonshire gentlemen, and
so I would seek refuge in her drawing-room, where evening after evening
she would play the harpsichord and I would sing the songs of my own
land. In those peaceful moments I would find a refuge from the misery
which filled me, when I reflected that my regiment was left in the front
of the enemy without the chief whom they had learned to love and to
follow.
Indeed, I could have torn my hair when I read in the English papers of
the fine fighting which was going on in Portugal and on the frontiers of
Spain, all of which I had missed through my misfortune in falling into
the hands of Milord Wellington.
From what I have told you of the Lady Jane you will have guessed what
occurred, my friends. Etienne Gerard is thrown into the company of a
young and beautiful woman. What must it mean for him? What must it mean
for her? It was not for me, the guest, the captive, to make love to the
sister of my host. But I was reserved.
I was discreet. I tried to curb my own emotions and to discourage hers.
For my own part I fear that I betrayed myself, for the eye becomes more
eloquent when the tongue is silent. Every quiver of my fingers as
I turned over her music-sheets told her my secret. But she--she
was admirable. It is in these matters that women have a genius for
deception. If I had not penetrated her secret I should often have
thought that she forgot even that I was in the house. For hours she
would sit lost in a sweet melancholy, while I admired her pale face and
her curls in the lamp-light, and thrilled within me to think that I had
moved her so deeply. Then at last I would speak, and she would start
in her chair and stare at me with the most admirable pretence of being
surprised to find me in the room. Ah! how I longed to hurl myself
suddenly at her feet, to kiss her white hand, to assure her that I had
surprised her secret and that I would not abuse her confidence.
But no, I was not her equal, and I was under her roof as a castaway
enemy. My lips were sealed. I endeavoured to imitate her own wonderful
affectation of indifference, but, as you may think? I was eagerly alert
for any opportunity of serving her.
One morning Lady Jane had driven in her phaeton to Okehampton, and I
strolled along the road which led to that place in the hope that I might
meet her on her return.
It was the early winter, and banks of fading fern sloped down to the
winding road. It is a bleak place this Dartmoor, wild and rocky--a
country of wind and mist.
I felt as I walked that it is no wonder Englishmen should suffer from
the spleen. My own heart was heavy within me, and I sat upon a rock
by the wayside looking out on the dreary view with my thoughts full of
trouble and foreboding. Suddenly, however, as I glanced down the road,
I saw a sight which drove everything else from my mind, and caused me to
leap to my feet with a cry of astonishment and anger.
Down the curve of the road a phaeton was coming, the pony tearing along
at full gallop. Within was the very lady whom I had come to meet. She
lashed at the pony like one who endeavours to escape from some pressing
danger, glancing ever backward over her shoulder. The bend of the road
concealed from me what it was that had alarmed her, and I ran forward
not knowing what to expect.
The next instant I saw the pursuer, and my amazement was increased at
the sight. It was a gentleman in the red coat of an English fox-hunter,
mounted on a great grey horse. He was galloping as if in a race, and the
long stride of the splendid creature beneath him soon brought him up to
the lady's flying carriage. I saw him stoop and seize the reins of the
pony, so as to bring it to a halt. The next instant he was deep in talk
with the lady, he bending forward in his saddle and speaking eagerly,
she shrinking away from him as if she feared and loathed him.
You may think, my dear friends, that this was not a sight at which
I could calmly gaze. How my heart thrilled within me to think that a
chance should have been given to me to serve the Lady Jane! I ran--oh,
good Lord, how I ran! At last, breathless, speechless, I reached the
phaeton. The man glanced up at me with his blue English eyes, but so
deep was he in his talk that he paid no heed to me, nor did the lady say
a word. She still leaned back, her beautiful pale face gazing up at him.
He was a good-looking fellow--tall, and strong, and brown; a pang of
jealousy seized me as I looked at him. He was talking low and fast, as
the English do when they are in earnest.
“I tell you, Jinny, it's you and only you that I love,” said he. “Don't
bear malice, Jinny. Let by-gones be by-gones. Come now, say it's all
over.”
“No, never, George, never!” she cried.
A dusky red suffused his handsome face. The man was furious.
“Why can't you forgive me, Jinny?”
“I can't forget the past.”
“By George, you must! I've asked enough. It's time to order now. I'll
have my rights, d'ye hear?” His hand closed upon her wrist.
At last my breath had returned to me.
“Madame,” I said, as I raised my hat, “do I intrude, or is there any
possible way in which I can be of service to you?”
But neither of them minded me any more than if I had been a fly who
buzzed between them. Their eyes were locked together.
“I'll have my rights, I tell you. I've waited long enough.”
“There's no use bullying, George.”
“Do you give in?”
“No, never!”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, it is.”
He gave a bitter curse and threw down her hand.
“All right, my lady, we'll see about this.”
“Excuse me, sir!” said I, with dignity.
“Oh, go to blazes!” he cried, turning on me with his furious face. The
next instant he had spurred his horse and was galloping down the road
once more.
Lady Jane gazed after him until he was out of sight, and I was surprised
to see that her face wore a smile and not a frown. Then she turned to me
and held out her hand.
“You are very kind, Colonel Gerard. You meant well, I am sure.”
“Madame,” said I, “if you can oblige me with the gentleman's name and
address I will arrange that he shall never trouble you again.”
“No scandal, I beg of you,” she cried.
“Madame, I could not so far forget myself. Rest assured that no lady's
name would ever be mentioned by me in the course of such an incident.
In bidding me to go to blazes this gentleman has relieved me from the
embarrassment of having to invent a cause of quarrel.”
“Colonel Gerard,” said the lady, earnestly, “you must give me your word
as a soldier and a gentleman that this matter goes no farther, and
also that you will say nothing to my brother about what you have seen.
Promise me!”
“If I must.”
“I hold you to your word. Now drive with me to High Combe, and I will
explain as we go.”
The first words of her explanation went into me like a sabre-point.
“That gentleman,” said she, “is my husband.”
“Your husband!”
“You must have known that I was married.” She seemed surprised at my
agitation.
“I did not know.”
“This is Lord George Dacre. We have been married two years. There is no
need to tell you how he wronged me. I left him and sought a refuge under
my brother's roof. Up till to-day he has left me there unmolested. What
I must above all things avoid is the chance of a duel betwixt my husband
and my brother. It is horrible to think of. For this reason Lord Rufton
must know nothing of this chance meeting of to-day.”
“If my pistol could free you from this annoyance----”
“No, no, it is not to be thought of. Remember your promise, Colonel
Gerard. And not a word at High Combe of what you have seen!”
Her husband! I had pictured in my mind that she was a young widow. This
brown-faced brute with his “go to blazes” was the husband of this tender
dove of a woman. Oh, if she would but allow me to free her from so
odious an encumbrance! There is no divorce so quick and certain as that
which I could give her. But a promise is a promise, and I kept it to the
letter. My mouth was sealed.
In a week I was to be sent back from Plymouth to St. Malo, and it seemed
to me that I might never hear the sequel of the story. And yet it was
destined that it should have a sequel and that I should play a very
pleasing and honourable part in it.
It was only three days after the event which I have described when Lord
Rufton burst hurriedly into my room.
His face was pale and his manner that of a man in extreme agitation.
“Gerard,” he cried, “have you seen Lady Jane Dacre?”