LAST OF THE EMERALD RING.
The snow-flakes were thick and blinding; the roadway became less and
less discernible as the white mantle of winter deepened; buried under
it, shrubs, tall weeds, and everything that could mark the borders of
the path, a very rough and occasionally steep one, disappeared, and I
wandered on wearily and at random without knowing in what direction.
There was no one abroad at such an hour and in such a season, and no
house was visible, for the district was wild and desolate, having
been severely devastated by the French foragers.
No sound came to the ear but the occasional hiss of the sharp hail
that mingled with the falling snow, rendering the winter blast more
chilly, choking, and biting, till the lungs became acutely pained,
and the heart throbbed wildly.
How far I struggled on inspiring that icy atmosphere I cannot say,
but nature was beginning to sink, and in my heart grew the fear of
being conquered altogether, and of perishing in the storm, when
happily a light that shone down what appeared to be a kind of ravine
or trench (I know not which with certainty, as the snow caused all
forms and features to blend) filled me with new strength, and
manfully I made towards it, keeping in the track or line it cast so
brightly towards me.
Ere long I could discover other lights that shone high above me in
the air; then all at once the outline of a great old schloss or
castle loomed through the snowy atmosphere, and the light which had
been my guide shone apparently from a window in the lower story of
the edifice. This suggested ideas of robbers, for who has not heard
or read of German robbers and their haunts in ruined castles of the
Black Forest, or by the Rhine and Weser? A French outpost perhaps!
Well, it mattered not; anything--even a few of the Volontaires de
Clermont were better hosts than the snow and Jack Frost in such a
night and in such a season.
Suddenly a cry escaped me, when, half-stifled in snow, I sank to the
armpits--yea, to the very neck, struggling and floundering like a
drowning man. In fact, I had tumbled into the dry ditch of the
schloss, which was nearly filled with drifted snow, and across which
I scrambled with great difficulty towards the light. Thrice I nearly
surrendered altogether, before, panting, breathless, and chilled to
the heart's core, I reached a kind of terrace, approached the window,
and peeped in.
Between tapestry hangings and white curtains of Mechlin lace, there
could be seen a cosy little room, lined with dark brown wainscot, the
varnished panels of which shone in the light of a cheerful fire.
Drapery also of Mechlin lace overhung an elegant bed, a handsome
mirror, and toilet-table, on which were placed four tall candles in
solid stands of mahogany and silver.
There were one or two ebony Dutch cabinets, on which stood rare Japan
canisters, quaint Chinese figures, an ormolu clock, and various
pretty _bijouterie_, and there reigned within a sense of warmth,
perfume, and comfort, that reached even to my chilly post without the
casement.
But now, through the large pattern of the Mechlin lace hangings, I
could discern two female figures near the fireplace; they were each
kneeling at a carved oak _prie-dieu_, saying their prayers and
warming themselves at the same time, thus combining their comfort
with their piety. By her dress, and the contour of her head and
shoulders, one appeared to be a lady; the other an attendant.
Benumbed to agony, I felt dreamy, bewildered, and knew not what to
do; sleep seemed to be stealing over my senses.
What if all I saw was an illusion, and these two fair ones were but
Lurlies, like those who haunted the Lurliberg? What if the whole
affair proved a dream, from which I should waken, if I ever woke at
all, to find myself amid the snow-clad ruins of some old haunted
schloss beside the Lahn?--for such is the plot of many a German story.
But when they rose from prayer I was quickly undeceived, and a cry
almost escaped me on recognising Jacqueline de Broglie and her pretty
attendant, the waggish Angelique!
Some minutes elapsed before I could sufficiently master my emotions
to enable me to observe them particularly. Both seemed almost as
unchanged as when we were together in the old château, especially
Madame Tricot, the pretty piquante and black-eyed Bretonne. (Ah, she
had soon tired of her M. Jacquot, who perhaps had given himself too
many airs on becoming coachman to the coadjutor Bishop of Paris.)
And she was here now with her former mistress (and mine too) in
Germany, the land of the Seven Years' War.
The soft and charming features, the dark hair and eyes of Jacqueline,
her air and manner, were all as I had seen them--not last, when
lying, as it would seem, lifeless in the forest, but as they had been
in our happier times. She was beautiful as ever; but the slightest
symptom of dark down, like a shade, was visible at each corner of her
pretty mouth--a symptom not uncommon among Frenchwomen after their
twentieth year.
What was I to do now? To advance was to run into the jaws of danger;
to retire was to perish amid the drifting snow, and already the very
marrow seemed frozen in my bones. As she said something to
Angelique, a thrill passed through me at the sound of her voice;
something of my old love swelled up in my heart, and then pique
repressed it; she seemed so happy and so smiling!
Had she been compelled to marry Bourgneuf? But, save her love, what
was there to tie her unto me after I had disappeared from the château?
Suddenly the window against which I pressed (till my nose, had it
been observed, must have presented a very livid aspect), and which
had not been bolted, parted in two leaves that opened inwards, and
heavily and awkwardly, with a shower of snow, I fell headlong into
the apartment, and almost at the feet of Jacqueline, who, with her
attendant, uttered a cry of terror; but both speedily recovered their
presence of mind.
"_Mon Dieu!_ what is this?--a drunken soldier!" exclaimed the first,
with great asperity.
"A mousquetaire rouge--_Grand Dieu!_ 'tis an Englishman! We shall
all be murdered. Help! help!" cried Madame Tricot, with new dismay.
"Jacqueline--Jacqueline! for Heaven's sake, hush! Have you quite
forgotten me, Basil Gauntlet, and our pleasant days in old Bretagne?"
I exclaimed, in an excited and imploring tone.
Terror, surprise, and anything but real pleasure, filled the eyes of
Jacqueline us she recognised me. She trembled, and held up her hands
as if to shield her averted face and keep me back; but this was
needless, as I never approached, but stood near the open window,
through which came the drifting snow and the night wind that waved
the hangings.
"Oh, Jacqueline!" said I, while an irrepressible emotion of
tenderness filled my heart, "how terrible was the time when last I
saw you stretched upon the earth in the forest of St. Aubin de
Cormier!--and why do you greet me so coldly now?"
"Monsieur," said Angelique, taking my hands kindly in hers, "she
greets you as people of the world greet those whom they are anxious
to forget."
"With a fearful and cold welcome, Angelique?"
"True, _mon ami_, it is so."
"Then I pray you to pardon this intrusion," said I, hurriedly; "in
seeking the British lines I have lost my way, and my life is beset by
other dangers than the winter storm. Tell me where the Lahn lies,
and I shall go; but pity me, Jacqueline, for Heaven and my own heart
alone know how well I loved you."
There was a gratified smile on her lovely lip; a _smile_--and at such
a time--it went a long way to cure me of my folly.
"_O, mon pauvre Basil!_ and so it is really you?" said she, regarding
me with a certain vague interest sparkling in her fine dark eyes;
"but here, at this time of night," she continued with alarm--"and the
count--I expect him every moment! You know that I am married, do you
not? Get him away--away from here. Oh, Angelique, where are your
brains? Aid us, or he is lost, and I too, perhaps!"
"Lost, indeed!" I repeated, bitterly.
"Guillaume de Boisguiller, whom you found in that horrid English
prison-ship, told you all about my marriage, did he not?" said
Jacqueline, earnestly.
"Yes, madame."
"And you did not die of a broken heart?"
"Not at all, madame; I can assure you that broken hearts are articles
quite as rare among us in England as with you in France."
"Ah, indeed!" said she, smiling again.
"'Tis so," said I, with a laugh, which sounded strangely in my own
ears, and in which she joined, giving her shoulders the while a
little French shrug.
And this was the Jacqueline about whom I had sighed, raved, and wept!
So here was an extinction of love, and a great demolition of romance
at one fell blow.
"Tell me where the Lahn lies, madame, and I shall not trouble you
with my presence for a moment longer. I am in constant danger of my
life, for your husband seeks to destroy me, and without a reason."
"_Grands Dieux!_" she exclaimed, with real alarm, "are you the
fugitive to secure whom Bourgneuf has dispatched men in so many
directions?"
"Yes, madame; so permit me to restore to you this emerald ring. It
nearly cost me my life, and yet it won me my liberty yesterday at
Ysembourg."
"From whom?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Your gallant old father, the Duc de Broglie."
Then drawing her ring from my finger, I laid it on the toilet-table
with the air of Cromwell ordering the removal of "that bauble," the
mace.
"He has no less than three parties out to cut you off--one in the
direction of Hesse Cassel--one on the road to Wildungen--and a third
at the ford near Zuschen, under Arnaud de Pricorbin."
"The bridges----"
"Alas! are all destroyed, and though a plank might aid you in
crossing the one at Freyenthal, I heard him say that the Baron Konrad
watches all the riverside with his foresters to prevent your passage.
_Mon Dieu!_ what shall be done?"
"Let me forth into the night again," said I, turning; "anywhere is
better than here. Adieu, madame, adieu, and for ever!"
"_Hola! mon bon Monsieur Gauntlet_; so we meet again, do we?"
exclaimed a familiar voice; and a cry escaped the women, when I found
myself confronted by the Count de Bourgneuf, who shrugged his
shoulders in the true French style, till his epaulettes touched his
ears, while a fierce, ironical, and almost diabolical smile spread
over his visage, and he ground his teeth. "_Aha, mon garcon!_" he
continued, making me a series of mock bows, and then I perceived that
he had a cocked pistol dangling in each hand: "so I've caught you at
last, eh?"