Chapter LVI: The Letter to Marie Louise

The morning stole away and noon drew near: no food was brought to me; but I did not miss it then, my mind being so agitated by alarm and useless regrets. I was agreeably surprised that the unscrupulous soldiers into whose hands I had fallen did not pistol me as a spy, for De Bitche had given them every reason to believe me one; but that worthy personage had ulterior motives for sparing me so long.

About noon he entered my chamber abruptly, and carefully closed and double-locked the door on the inside, placing the key in the pocket of his buff coat. He then threw off his blue velvet cloak and large beaver hat, which was adorned by a long red feather, and surveyed me sternly. His aspect was in some respects handsome, but his form was colossal, and his bearing imperious. His eyes expressed an excitement which he endeavoured to veil under his usual cruel smile; but a black expression and sinister glare hovered in them. His lower jaw was deep and square--a feature generally indicative of brutal strength and strong passions. In his waist-belt were placed a pair of pistols and a poniard without a sheath. He made an ironical bow to me, to which I replied by drawing my figure up to its full height, and loftily giving him a frown of contempt.

'I have had tidings from Zaberne this morning,' said he; 'Mulheim still holds out bravely, though Count Gallas has failed to relieve him; and so this night the Chevalier Hepburn means to attack Phalsbourg.'

'This night! are you sure of that?'

'Sure as that I now address a--dying man.'

I smiled scornfully.

'Oh, smile on, monsieur! His troops are now in sight: horse, foot, and artillery coming to the attack.'

'Their arms had been the gleam I saw among the mountains. This night, you say--'

'Nay, this very day--perhaps within an hour, the castle may be taken.'

'And I?'

'Shall be by that time buried deep enough below the pavement of the court, perhaps.'

'What do you mean, villain? They will take the place by storm.'

'Do not flatter yourself; for on reflection, M. Blane, I think they will not. I have made every disposition for a vigorous defence. Let ten thousand come, they are welcome to Phalsbourg.'

'You have some purpose, Count, in visiting me this morning?'

'Of course; I was about to allude to it.'

'And this purpose?'

He smiled, and insolently surveyed me from head to foot.

'Count de Bitche, I demand to be liberated, or to be treated with the courtesy usually allotted to a prisoner of war. My parole--'

'Liberated! that you may go back to Paris, and coquette with the King's mistress, to sup in her boudoir, to toy with her full fair arms, her chestnut hair, and adjust the sachet _à la violette_ in her bosom! Bah! Pardieu, my fine fellow, you shall have no such indulgence. So, so, among your papers I have the honour to find a letter from Mademoiselle de Lorraine.

'Insolent!'

'Well, I have something to propose, which, from the tenor of that letter, must, I presume, afford you pleasure.

'Indeed!' said I, reading the wicked sneer of his heart in his eyes; 'how kind of you, M. le Comte!'

'Very!'

'And this proposition--out with it.'

'Is merely that you should answer that letter.'

'You mock me, Count; never, while subject to your surveillance--never, while a prisoner in Phalsbourg.'

'Peste! we shall see that,' replied De Bitche, with a coarse laugh, as he twisted up his moustache, and continued to speak in this style, amusing himself with my situation, as a cat plays with the mouse it means to devour; 'you love Mademoiselle de Lorraine?' said he, with mock softness.

'You are the last man in the world to whom I would make any such admission. Neither do I wish to hear her name from your polluted lips.'

'Mighty well, mon brave!' said he, with flashing eyes; 'we shall see how long this gallant bearing lasts. You would do anything to serve mademoiselle; you would even lay down your life to insure the happiness of hers, I presume?'

'I would--Heaven knows I would, with joy!'

'Oh! 'tis a mere trifle that, when we love a woman; so I shall give you, my dear fellow, an opportunity of performing that pretty trifle.'

'What do you mean, M. le Comte?' said I, making a step towards him; but he placed the table between himself and me, and kept a hand on his pistols.

'You shall see. But ha! what is that?'

'A shot--another and another!' I exclaimed with joy, as we heard three dropping and distant shots. Then followed the closer rattle of musketry, and the sound of a drum beaten rapidly.

'And now hark! My fellows answer from the tête-du-point; your comrades have come within range; they are, I repeat, most welcome to Phalsbourg. Anon I will be with them. And now for you: mademoiselle knows your handwriting?'

'She does--having frequently seen it at Paris.'

'And your signature too, probably?'

'Yes.'

'Then take pen and ink, and write after me.'

'Excuse me, M. le Comte,' said I, trembling with exultation, as I saw a brigade of French artillery, consisting of ten pieces of cannon, on field carriages, with tumbrils and waggons, each drawn by four horses, pass at full gallop along the green brow of the opposite hill, while the head of a column of infantry appeared beyond it, with pikes glittering and standards waving. Then the ordnance were wheeled into position, as the cannoniers and fire-casters sprang from their seats, unlimbered and proceeded to load. 'Excuse me,' I continued, 'but there are some features in yonder landscape so very interesting that I must look for a moment.'

'Yonder preparations are of no moment to you,' said De Bitche, stamping his foot and growing pale with anger, as he drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it, 'take up that pen and write as I dictate, or'--and he swore an oath too frightful for me to repeat--'I will lay you, where I have laid many a better man,--dead at my feet.'

I glanced at the Count and measured his strength with my own, which it far surpassed, for his proportions and muscles were gigantic; I measured too the distance that lay between us; by one bound I could have cleared it, but a bullet would reach me with the rapidity of light. A contest with a man more powerful than myself by one half, and one who was so well armed, while I, faint with toil, was quite defenceless, would have been recklessly to throw away all chance of safety and escape; and now, while the roar of falconets on the bartizan overhead shook the keep from cope to groundstone while the French cannon opened from the brow of the opposite hill, I dipped the pen in the ink, and gave the Count a furious, glance to which he replied by an insolent laugh, and pointing with the muzzle of his loaded pistol to a sheet of fine white Dutch paper, said--

'Begin, monsieur, for I am leaving M. Schreckhorn alone to contend with those friends of yours, the feather-bed soldiers of Louis XIII. Begin thus--

'_My dear Mademoiselle de Lorraine--_'

Curious to learn what he had in view, and moreover to gain time, I slowly wrote the preamble, and he continued to dictate, amid the concussion of the adverse artillery, which shook the old feudal castle to its basement.

'_Now that I am beyond the reach of your many attractions, a sentiment of remorse compels me to inform you that the love I profess to bear you_--have you got all that down, my young moustache?'

'Yes, M. le Comte--proceed.'

'_The love I have professed to bear you is alike absurd and futile. Mademoiselle, you have lavished all the young affection of your pure and noble heart upon a vile, a false, and worthless object; for I tell you, with shame and contrition, that I am already the husband of a pretty citoyenne of Zaberne--_'

'But this is an infamous falsehood, Comte!'

'Proceed, I command you,' replied De Bitche, levelling his pistol across the table, and throwing a furious glance at the French cannon, the shot from which were coming over the valley with a sound between a boom and a scream.

'_That I desire you will cease to think more of me, and pardon the presumption of one who is every way unworthy of you; who begs to return your letter, and to subscribe himself, Mademoiselle, your most devoted servant----Done at Zaberne--_'

'But this is Phalsbourg?'

Again the black muzzle of the pistol threatened me.

'_The 15th day of June--God and our Lady take you into holy keeping_. And now, M. Blane--your signature in its usual fashion.'

'Rascal!' thought I; 'so this is the plan of your little campaign?'

'Your signature--your signature,' he continued, pressing his finger upon the trigger of the loaded pistol.

A cold perspiration burst over me. I was like one who is in a partial stupor, with a pressing sense of death and danger from which escape was impossible. I knew that if I delayed to sign he would shoot me in his rage; and that if I signed the letter, either by a real or feigned signature, it would prove my own death-warrant, for then I should also be shot, instantly perhaps, while the document thus extorted from me, would be duly forwarded to Marie Louise, and being dated from Zaberne, would remove all suspicion of force or fraud, and cast obscurity over the place and manner of my murder, and in her mind disgrace my memory for ever.

These were dreadful reflections to crowd into one short moment of time; but to gain one moment more was, to me, of priceless value. In one hand I held the extorted letter; in the other the still wetted pen.

'Sign--sign or die!'

I signed my name carefully, and slowly blotted it with blotting-paper, seeking a moment when the withdrawn pistol would enable me to spring at the throat of De Bitche; but alas! that moment never came.