Chapter VI: Part 6

"Well, Micer Lazaro," said Stuart, "why do you drive your cattle so fast during the heat of the day, when they should be enjoying a _siesta_ under the greenwood? They are likely to drop before you reach the forest of Jarciejo."

"_Par Diez_! I hope not, senor," replied the muleteer, in evident trepidation at the idea. "They shall reach Jarciejo,--we are ruined else; and I trust, in this perilous time, that the gracious senora, our Lady of Majorga," crossing himself and looking upwards, "will not forget the honest muleteer, that never passed her shrine without bestowing on it a handful of maravedis. She will put mettle in the legs of his mules, and enable them to save his hard-earned goods and chattels."

"How, Micer Gomez,--what is the matter? You seem much excited."

"_Santissima Casa!_ is it possible that you know not the reason, senor. _El demonio_! I thought you had ten thousand British at your back. The whole country round about is in possession of the French, and hard work we have had since we left Truxillo to escape being plundered of every maravedi. And only think, senor, what a loss I should have suffered! Why there are thirty skins of the best wine of Ciudad Real on the black mule,--_Capitana_ we call her,--she takes the lead; as many skins of the olive oil of Lebrija, the best in Spain, on the pad of the second,--_Bocaneyra_, or 'the black muzzle,' as we name it."

"The French--the French at Truxillo!" exclaimed Ronald in astonishment. "Where, then, is Sir Rowland Hill with his troops?'

"On his march for Merida, senor; and by this time many a league beyond Villa Macia. On the third mule--_Castana_ we name her, from her colour, there are twenty arrobas of corn from the Huerta of Orihuela,[*] all for the nuns of Santa Cruz, and worth in reals--"

[*] The fertility of Orihuela has become a proverb among the Spaniards: "Whether there is rain or not, there is always corn at Orihuela." _Llueva, o no llueva, trigo en Orihuela_. An arroba is a measure containing a quarter of a hundred weight.

"Are the enemy in great force hereabouts?" asked Ronald, who felt considerably concerned for his own safety.

"Truly, senor, I know not; but their light cavalry are riding in every direction. Some say that Marshal Soult, and others that the Count D'Erlon, has entered Estremadura, and that the British are all cut to pieces."

"That I do not believe."

"Nor I;--no, by the bones of the Cid Campeador, 'tis not likely. But as I was saying, senor, twenty arrobas of corn--"

"Twenty devils! Halt, Micer Lazaro; if you stay to tell over the inventory of your goods, you are not likely to escape the claws of the enemy, a party of whom I see on the top of the hill yonder."

A volley of curses broke from the muleteers at this intelligence. A party of cavalry in blue uniform appeared on the road, descending an eminence at some distance; and the glitter of their weapons, as they flashed in the sun, was seen between the branches of the trees. Crack went the whips.

"_Ave Maria--demonios--par Diez!_ we are plundered and ruined!" cried the mule-drivers, as they lashed their long-eared cattle into a trot. "The rich oil, the wine and corn--_carajo!_--to be pillaged by the base French! But what is to be done? Were they under the roof of the Santissima Casa, which the blessed angels brought from Galilee to Loretto, they would not be safe. Forward, Capitana! gallant mule, sure of foot and long of wind. Hoa, Pedro de Puebla! keep up your black-muzzled sloth; we will flay its flanks with our whips else. Farewell to you, senor! Our Lady del Pilar aid us! we are in a sad pickle." And off they went, without farther ceremony, at their utmost speed, running by the side of their mules, and lashing them lustily, leaving Stuart looking steadily at the advancing party of horse, but dubious what course to pursue.

He could not stoop to have recourse to a deliberate flight; and as the enemy was between him and his friends, it was necessary to elude them by any means. Reining back his horse, he withdrew beneath the cover of a thicket beside the road. He was scarcely ensconced among the foliage, when about twenty _chasseurs a cheval_, with their short carbines resting on their thighs and their officer riding in front, wheeled round a corner of the road, and passed his place of concealment at an easy pace. As soon as they were hidden by the windings of the road and the heavy green foliage which overshadowed it, Stuart emerged from his cover, and continued his route at a hard gallop towards Truxillo, which, however, he determined to avoid by a detour, in case of falling in with more of the French. He had not ridden a quarter of a mile, before a sudden angle of the path, which now passed under the cool shade of several vine-trellises, brought him abruptly face to face with two French officers, whose horses were trotting along at a very ambling rate. On seeing him they instantly drew up, while their faces assumed an expression of unmeasured surprise. They were not above twelve yards distant. Ronald likewise drew his bridle, and unsheathing his sword, reconnoitred the Gauls, between whom a few words passed. One was a pale and thin man, in a staff uniform embroidered with oak-leaves. He carried his right arm in a black silk sling. The other was a dashing officer of cuirassiers, a man of singularly fine and muscular proportions; he was mounted on a powerful black war-horse, and wore a high brass helmet, with the Imperial eagle on its crest, and a plume of black horse-hair floating over it. He was accoutred with a bright steel cuirass and backplate, and leather jack-boots which came above the knees. Both wore splendid epaulets and aiguillets, and were covered on the breast with medals and military orders of knighthood,--indeed there were few French officers who were not so.

Ronald saw at a glance that the heavy dragoon would be his opponent, and he felt some unpleasant doubts as to the issue of a conflict with a practised cavalry officer, and one thus sheathed in a panoply of steel and leather, while he himself had nothing to protect him from the blade of his adversary but his thin regimental coat and tartan plaid.

The officer with the wounded arm moved his horse to the road-side, while the cuirassier twirled his moustaches with a grim smile, and unsheathed his glittering weapon--a species of long and straight back-sword, worn by the French cavalry, and desired Ronald imperiously to surrender without striking a blow.

"_Rendez sans coup ferir, Monsieur Officier_."

Finding that he was not understood, and that Stuart prepared to defend himself, he reined his steed back a little way; and then dashing his spurs into its flanks, came thundering forward at full speed, shouting "_Vive l'Empereur!_" with his long blade uplifted, intending to hurl his adversary into eternity by a single stroke. But Stuart, by an adroit management of his horse's bridle, made a _demi-volte_ or half-turn to his left, at the same time stooping his head till the plumes of his bonnet mingled with the mane of his horse, to avoid the Frenchman's sweeping stroke, which whistled harmlessly through the air; while he in return dealt him a back-handed blow on the crest of his helmet as he passed him in his career, which at once tumbled him over his horse's head and stretched him senseless in the dust, while his sword fell from his grasp, and broke in a dozen pieces. Elated with this sudden and unlooked-for success, Ronald brandished his claymore aloft, and rushed on to the next officer; but drew back, and lowered the point of his weapon, on perceiving the startled and indignant look of the veteran, who held up his wounded arm.

"Pass on, sir!" said Ronald, substituting Spanish for French, of which he scarcely knew above a dozen words. "I might, if I chose, make you prisoner; but I wish not to take advantage of your being wounded. Pass on, sir; the road is open before you."

The Frenchman appeared to understand him imperfectly, but raising his cocked hat, he prepared at once to take the benefit of the permission.

"Adieu, Monsieur de Mesmai!" said he, on passing his fallen comrade, adding something in a whisper, fragments of which only reached Ronald.

"_Malheurs, mon ami--a la guerre--comme a la guerre--retournez et reprenez-vous--chasseurs a cheval_," and he galloped off. Ronald was half tempted to ride after and cut him down, and thus securely stop his intention of returning with the twenty light-horsemen, as he supposed he meant to do, for the disjointed fragments he had heard implied an understanding between them.

"_Ah, la malice du diable!_" cried the cuirassier, as he endeavoured to 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?"

"Your daughter,--your own child! Maurice de Mesmai of Quinsay," replied the old priest with solemn energy; while the dark features of the cuirassier became purple and then deadly pale, and his eyes wandered from the faces of Ronald and Maria to the calm features of the curate, whose arm he grasped, as, with emphatic sternness and in a tone something very like consternation, he answered,--

"My daughter? Impossible! What have you dared to tell me, old man?'

"Truth, truth! as I shall answer to Heaven, when all men shall stand at the tribunal to be judged on the great day which is to come. I tell you truth,--she is your daughter."

"Her mother?" asked the dragoon, bending forward his dark eyes, as if he would look searchingly into the very soul of the curate. "Her mother--"

"Was Justine Rosat,--the lily of Besancon."

"Poor Justine!" exclaimed the other, covering his face for a moment with his hand. "And, Monsieur le Cure, you are--"

"Francois Rosat, her father, and grandsire of this poor orphan."

"What! the gardener at my jovial old chateau of Quinsay, on the banks of the Doubs? Impossible! he was destroyed when I blew up the hall, with all the base republican mechanics who filled it."

"Monsieur, I am he," replied the curate.

Maria, with her hands crossed on her bosom, knelt at the feet of De Mesmai weeping bitterly, and imploring him, if he was really her father, to speak to her, to look upon her. But the devil-may-care-spirit of the true Parisian roue and libertine was not at all subdued: he turned from her to Ronald, who had been listening in silence and wonder.

"Ah! Monsieur Stuart," said he with a laugh, "I have been a sad fellow when a subaltern. _Tete-dieu!_ what would old D'Erlon and his countess think of this?'

"Noble senor," said the kneeling girl, in a soft plaintive voice, "ah, if you are indeed my father, speak to me;" and she pressed his hand between her own. "Father, hear me!"

"Father! _ma belle_. Very good, but something new when addressed to me, and sounds odd. How D'Erlon and his plumed and aiguletted staff would laugh at this! Maurice de Mesmai of the 10th cuirassiers,--the most dashing aide-de-camp in the Imperial service, to be father of a little Spanish _paisana_. By the bomb! you do me infinite honour. What a very odd adventure! And so, monsieur, my old rebellious gardener escaped the explosion at Quinsay? Excellently planned affair that was! Hand me wine: thank you. Really, 'pon honour, this respectable title of father has in it something very overpowering."

He quaffed a long horn of the wine, which had already begun to cloud his faculties, and he endeavoured by talking in his usually careless manner to hide the confusion that he evidently felt. Maria, who had shrunk from his side, wept bitterly, and covered her face with her hands.

"_Diable!_" said the cuirassier, turning round. "'Tis horrible wine this. Ah! for a single glass of Hermitage, Chateau Margot, Vin Ordinaire, Volnay, or glorious Champagne, such as old Marcel retails at the Eagle on the Quai d'Orsai, opposite to the Pont Royal, in our good and glorious Paris. But what is the girl weeping about? You should rather laugh, having just found your father, and found him as handsome a fellow as ever stood in jack-boots. All the girls are in love with me,--'pon honour they are. Some of the fairest creatures at the court of the Empress are dying for me; and I mean to act the part of a hard-hearted dragoon, and let them die if they will. I swear to you, Maria, by a thousand caissons of devils, that as you appear just now, with your lashes cast down and your face covered with tears and blushes, like the western sky in a shower, you are pretty enough to turn the brain of monsieur the Pope, to whom I drink that he may have a long and joyful life. But I must retire. My head is buzzing anew with that sword-stroke. _Diable!_ my gay helmet, what a dinge you have got. But, messieurs, we will talk over these matters in the morning, when I suppose we shall leap to saddle without blast of trumpet. Adieu! mademoiselle, my daughter; pleasant dreams to you. _Vive la joie--tete-dieu!_" He took up his heavy military cloak and staggered out of the room, withdrawing to the humble attic set apart for himself and Ronald. A long pause ensued.

"There, he has gone with the same swagger as of old,--the polished gentleman,--the accomplished and gallant soldier, combined with the blustering tavern brawler and the libertinism of the perfect _roue_. He is all unchanged, although twenty years have passed into eternity since I beheld him last," said the curate in a mournful accent; "and yet, when I remember what he was, I cannot,--no, I cannot implore a curse upon him. I carried him in my arms when he was an infant, and he is the father of this poor weeping girl. Alas! from the day that as a stripling soldier he first buckled on a sword-belt, time has wrought no change upon him. He is the same daring and gallant, but reckless and hollow-hearted man as ever."

"Senor Cura, to me this has been a most incomprehensible scene," said Stuart; "so much so, that I trust you will not consider me impertinent or inquisitive in wishing for an explanation."

"Quite the reverse,--an explanation is, indeed, necessary. But retire, Maria, my poor cast-away; I will speak to you of this afterwards. Be seated, monsieur, and draw the wine-jug towards you."

He led Maria from the room, and on returning, seated himself at the table and commenced in the following words:--

"Monsieur Officier, I am, as you already know, a Frenchman, a native of the fertile district of Besancon. I succeeded my father in the humble occupation of gardener to the family of this Monsieur Maurice de Mesmai, at the castle of Quinsay, a noble chateau, built on the banks of the Doubs, which flows through Besancon. The chateau is of venerable antiquity, and it is said to have been granted to an ancestor of De Mesmai's by Charles Martel. Ah, monsieur! when I had only my flower-beds and vineries to attend to, no man was happier than I,--Francois Rosat. With my flowers, my wife and daughter were my sole delights; and when I returned in the evening, after working during the hot dusty days in the garden of the chateau, what pleasure was mine to be met by my smiling Suzette, with the little laughing Justine in arms, stretching out her hands and crowing with delight at the _bouquet_ of violets and roses I always brought her from my choicest beds. And merrily we used to spend our evenings, for Suzette sung while I played second on the flute, and we taught little Justine to dance as soon as she could walk. My life was all humble happiness then, monsieur; but it was not destined to continue long so. Justine was just sixteen when my wife died, and our old lord dying soon after, this sad _roue_, Monsieur Maurice came to take possession of the chateau, and terrify the poor peasantry by the wickedness he had learned in Paris and the garrison towns where he had been stationed: he belonged to the dragoons of Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul. This dissipated Maurice, arrayed in all the extreme of Parisian dandyism, the first Sunday we saw him in church formed a strong contrast to our venerable old lord his father, who used to occupy the same pew so devoutly, dressed in his old-fashioned way of Louis the Fifteenth's days,--his deep waistcoat, silk coat, with its collar covered with powder, and his ruffles and frills starched as stiff as pasteboard; and we soon discovered that if there was a difference in their appearance, there was an equal difference in their hearts and sentiments.

"My little Justine had now become a woman, and a very beautiful one,--more especially so for the daughter of a peasant. She was the belle of the rural district, and the people named her the lily of Besancon. Ah, monsieur! although the child of a low-born man, a vassal, she was surprisingly beautiful; too much so to be happy, as my friend Pierre Raoul told me more than once. Her figure was not the less handsome or graceful because, instead of satin or brocade, she wore our homely brown stuffs; and her long black curls, flowing in freedom, seemed a thousand times more beautiful than the locks of high-born ladies, powdered and pasted into puffs and bows by the hands of a fashionable barber.

"Monsieur, I perceive that you almost comprehend my story, ere it is told. My daughter was charming, and our lord was a libertine. In that sentence are the causes of all my woe. I was kept in a constant state of anxiety lest the debauchee, our young lord, or some accomplished rascal of his acquaintance, might rob me of my treasure, for such she was to me; and what I had dreaded came to pass at last. I had observed that the manners of Justine were changed. She shunned the villagers, and often went out alone; she seldom laughed, and never sang as she used to do; but was ever moody and melancholy, and often I found her weeping in solitary places.

"Never shall I forget the evening when the dreadful truth broke upon me, with all its maddening anguish; when I was told that my daughter was lost,--that the bloom of the lily was blighted! I was no longer Francois Rosat,--no longer the same man apparently; a cloud of horror seemed to have enveloped me, for although but a poor peasant of Besancon, I held my honour as dear to me as Louis XVI. could have held his. One evening I returned to my cottage, bearing with me a basket of choice flowers for the decoration of Justine, who had been elected queen of a fete which was to be given by the villagers and tenantry of Quinsay on the morrow. I returned to my home, monsieur,--a house which was to be no longer a home for me. Justine was not awaiting me, as usual, under the porch, where I had trained up the honey-suckle and woodbine,--nor was she in our sitting-room; but she could not be far off, I imagined, as her guitar and work-basket lay on the table. I know not how it was, but I noted these little matters anxiously, and I felt my heart beat quicker, as if in dread of coming evil.

"'Justine!' said I, laying down my basket, 'come hither. You never saw such flowers as these for freshness and beauty, and I have been employed the whole day in culling them for you. Here are anemonies, crimson and lilac, and blue and white pinks, carnations, gillyflower, auriculas with eyes of scarlet edged with green, violets as large as lilies, and tulips and roses such as were never before seen in Besancon. Justine! come here, girl. Why, where are you?' But no Justine answered my call. Her little room, the room in which her mother died, was deserted, and my heart swelled in my breast with an inward presentiment of evil, as I went forth to seek her by the river side. Here I met the steward of Quinsay, Pierre Raoul, a surly fellow, whose addresses she had rejected. He informed me, with what I thought a grin of triumph and malice, that my daughter, with Monsieur Maurice, had just swept through Besancon in a travelling-carriage, and were off for Paris as fast as four horses could take them. As he spoke the earth swam around me, and I saw his lips moving, although I heard not his conclusion; there was a hissing sensation in my ears,--the cords of my heart felt as if riven asunder, and I sunk on the turf at the feet of Pierre.

"When I returned to consciousness, he was bathing my brow and hands in the cool water of the river; but he soon left me, and oh! monsieur, what a sense of loneliness and desolation came upon me. That my daughter should desert me thus heartlessly,--that the little creature I had cherished in my bosom should turn upon me and sting me thus! I raved like a madman, and tore the hair from my head and the grass from the earth in handfuls. When this fit passed away, all was silence and stillness around me: the moon was shining brightly in the sky, and silvered the boughs of the trees my own hands had trained, and the petals and buds of the flowers that it had been my delight to attend; but they were unheeded now, and I turned to where appeared, in the strong light and shadow, the old chateau de Quinsay, with its battlemented towers and elevated turrets. I prayed deeply for my erring Justine, and implored Heaven and the spirit of her mother to sustain me under so heavy a dispensation. I would rather have seen the child of Suzette laid dead by her side, than the dishonoured mistress of Maurice de Mesmai. But my prayers were impious, as I mingled them with the bitterest maledictions upon her accomplished seducer. At the chateau the servants, some with pity, some with the malice felt by little minds, corroborated the blasting information given me by Pierre Raoul, and that very night I set out for Paris in pursuit of my lost sheep. I set out on foot on my sorrowful pilgrimage, almost heart-broken, and without a sous to defray my expenses by the way. How I reached the capital--a distance of two hundred and thirty-five miles from Besancon--I know not. But He who fed the children of Israel in the desert surely assisted me by the way. How great was my misery, when begging as a miserable mendicant, exposed to the insults of the _gens d'armes_, I wandered about that wide wilderness of Paris, with the vague and eager hope of recovering Justine! Once--yes, once--I got a sight of her; only a single glance, but one I shall never forget. In a dashing carriage, the panels of which flashed in the sun with gilding and armorial bearings, she was seated by the side of De Mesmai, tricked out in all the gaudy and wanton finery that wealth and pride could bestow upon her. But she looked paler, less happy than she was wont to be, and the roses had faded from her cheek, and the lustre from her once sunny eye. They swept past me on the Boulevards, where I was seeking alms as was my wont, and Justine, _mon Dieu!_ my own fallen but kind-hearted daughter, threw a demi-franc into my tattered hat, without looking upon my face. I attempted to cry out; but what I would have said expired on my lips. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and when I recovered they were gone! I never beheld them again.

"I was starving at that moment, monsieur; food had not passed my lips for three days, and I looked wistfully, till my eyes became blinded with tears, upon the little coin I had received from Justine. A sudden thought struck me. I spat upon it, and tossed it from me as a coin of hell, as the wages of her infamy. Twelve months,--long and weary months of wretchedness and sorrow, I wandered about the streets of Paris, a woe-begone mendicant, until all hope of seeing her again was extinguished, and I returned to Besancon more heart-broken, if possible, than when I had left it. My cottage had fallen into ruin; but honest Pierre Raoul restored me again to the occupation of gardener, and repaired my old residence for me. Our lord had been absent, no one knew where, ever since he had carried off Justine, and I began to have some faint hope that he might have married her.

"These thoughts stole at length like sunshine into my desolate heart; and I thought so much of the chances and probabilities, that at last it appeared to me to be beyond a doubt that Justine was the wife of De Mesmai. I plucked up fresh courage, and attended from dawn till sunset my loaded orchards and blooming flower-beds as of old. The garden was again my delight and glory, and not even does the great Napoleon survey his troops with more delight, than I did my beds of tulips and anemonies: I had brought to perfection the art of cultivation, and where can it be practised with more success than under the climate of my own beautiful France? In the garden of the chateau the aloe of Africa, the pine of Scotland, the oak of England, the cypress of Candia, the laurels of Greece and Portugal, the rose-tree of Persia, the palms of India, the figs of Egypt--all blooming together, and at once.

"In my application to my old business, the manifold miseries I had endured in Paris were forgotten, or at least subdued in my remembrance. I pictured bright images of monsieur's returning, with my beautiful Justine to be mistress of his chateau. But these were doomed soon to end. One evening I sat on the turf-seat at my door, employed as usual building castles in the air, while I made up and dried packages of seed which were never to be sown by me. It was a beautiful summer evening, and all the fertile landscape seemed bright and joyous in the light of the setting sun. Clear as a mirror the river murmured at my feet, sweeping past the old chateau on its opposite bank, where, above trees a hundred years old, the slated roofs of its turrets and gilded vanes were shining in the sun. Afar off, between openings in the trees of the lawn, could be seen the fortifications of the citadel and city of Besancon, with its round towers and the tall spires of its colleges and churches reared against the cloudless sky. I desisted from my employment and took off my hat, for the sound of the evening service came floating on the wind towards me from the rich abbey of the order of Citeaux. The very air was filled with perfume, for the breeze swept over the wide orchards and gardens of the abbey and chateau.

"We French are enthusiastic creatures, monsieur; and I was filled with delight and ecstacy at the beauty of the evening and the scenery of my native place, where the deep blue river wound among fertile hills, vineyards, and green woods between happy little hamlets clustering round ivy clad churches and the stately chateaux of the old nobility of France,--a nobility, monsieur, in those days not less proud and haughty than those of your own northern country.

"'Yes,' said I aloud, giving utterance to my thoughts, 'the hand of fate has been in all this. Justine will certainly be the lady of Quinsay, and poor old Francois Rosat will get a corner in some part of that huge old chateau to rest in. Let me see, now: the octagon turret which overlooks the orchard will suit me exactly. It has a window to the south, which overlooks the garden. Excellent! I can watch the buds and blossoms in spring,--I will look at them the moment I leap from bed; but, alas! I must no do more. I shall then be a gentleman, and Monsieur Francois Rosat, father-in-law of the lord of Quinsay, must not be up with the lark, like Maitre Francois the gardener,--that would never do. This red night-cap I will exchange for a hat of the best beaver, tied up with a silver loop, a la Louis XVI. My coat--'