 | CHAPTER XIII. The brothers : |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
K. Hen. He dies, and makes no sign; O God, forgive him!
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtains close;
And let us all to meditation.
King Henry VI.
It was barely noon when the brief action of the
day was concluded, and although no person in
the royal army entertained the slightest fear that
Charenton could be retaken by any force the Parisians
could bring against it, now that it was once
fairly occupied by our veterans, and strengthened by
much of our own artillery in addition to all that of
the Frondeurs, which, with their colours, ammunition,
stores, and a considerable number of prisoners,
had fallen into our hands, still it was not judged
prudent to withdraw our reserve entirely from the
heights of St. Mandé; as it was scarcely credible
that the enemy would abandon a place of so much
importance without a single struggle for its recovery.
Indeed, we had further reasons for expecting
generals than what arose from a mere calculation
of the chances; for so nearly had they advanced
towards our lines, that we could hear the
hoarse rolling of their drums, and the rattling and
groaning of their wagons and artillery, as they
were dragged slowly over the roads, already
broken up by the operations of the blockade;
while ever and anon the heads of a column would
appear above the summit of the opposite heights.
These parties of observation, for it seems they were
no more, did not, however, attempt to maintain
themselves in the position, which we could not but
suppose it was their desire to occupy; continually
pressing forward with a considerable show of alacrity,
till they had come within point-blank cannon-range,
they as continually fell back with precipitation,
and in some disorder, whenever the fire, with
which our artillerists from time to time saluted
them, became in the slightest degree galling. This
trivial and unsatisfactory warfare was continued till
it was nearly dusk; unsatisfactory, I call it, since,
although it cost the enemy some lives, and us some
ammunition, of which we were already apprehensive
of falling short, it did not tend in the least to
alter the relative position, strength, or ultimate superiority
of either army. So aware was our noble
of this distant cannonade, that he had almost determined
on seizing the opposite brow, with such a
body of horse and foot as might be expected to
deter the enemy from any further demonstrations
in that quarter, unless, indeed, he were desirous of
hazarding a general action, which, for more reasons
than one, appeared improbable. I had already received
orders to put myself at the head of St.
Agrêve's regiment, which, not having been engaged
in the affair of the morning, was fresh, and eager
for service; to assume the command of a strong
column of musketeers, which were already moving
to the front; and to advance promptly, and secure
at all hazards the contested summit. I had not,
however, as yet completed my arrangements, when
messengers arrived with the intelligence that the
Parisians were in full retreat—the generals having
come to the deliberate conclusion, in a council of war
assembled at Picpus during the continuance of the
storm, that although it would be easy to relieve Charenton,
and even to drive Condé from his position,
such a proceeding must nevertheless cause the loss
of many a bold citizen, and draw tears from many
a fair widow! This notable decision, being quite in
accordance with the feelings of the burgher guard,
who constituted the corps d'armee, was received
ears, they were deemed to be the symptoms of an
advance en masse. The preparations which we
were making for their reception was, in consequence
of this report, shortly changed into preparations
for withdrawing our forces, all to a single
regiment, which was encamped upon the ground,
more for the purpose of guarding against any possibility
of a surprise, than of being actually called
upon to sustain an attack.
The wintry twilight was closing rapidly over the
scene of our operations, as I rode homewards in
the rear of my regiment, which was in itself the
rear-guard of our little army. Ere long the moon
rose broad and cloudless; and her soft light, contrasted
with the red glare of the watch-fires which
were burning on every side, was reflected in the
pure waters of the wide river at our feet. It was
a landscape of exceeding sweetness and repose.
The troops, fatigued with their duty of the day,
were little disposed for merriment or riot; and
were, for the most part, outstretched—beneath such
temporary shelters as they had found or erected—
in the deep slumbers of forgetfulness. The only
sounds that arose from the broad valley were the
occasional challenge of a patrol, mingled with the
murmurings of the river, the shrill neigh of a war-horse,
laughter from the post of Charenton. The only
living things engaged in active motion were our
retiring squadrons; nor did many hours elapse
before they too were safely housed for the night,
in their old quarters around St. Germains, and all
was still as death.
It must not be supposed that I was, during this
time, forgetful of the wounded prisoner whom I
had ordered to be carried from the field to my
own lodging; and from whom I could not but
hope to gain some tidings concerning Isabel. So
burning, indeed, was my anxiety to question the
man ere he should die, that the slow pace of the
troops became wholly insupportable to me; and,
when we had marched so far on our route as to
render a surprise nearly impossible, I left St.
Agrêve, with a brief injunction to be prudent, and
with directions where he might find me, should
needs be. I gave the spurs to the miserable jade
I had backed after my own good steed had been
killed under me, and galloped, at the best pace I
could extract from him, to my own abode. I saw
at once, by the horses standing about the doorway,
and by the unusual concourse of attendants, that
the object of my solicitude had been brought in,
and had moreover excited some attention among
the indignation of the troopers had been so great,
on their discovering that he had brought private
malice to aid his murderous intentions, that they
would have shown him yet more decided marks
of their disgust—had they not been sternly checked
by their officers—than the groans and execrations
with which they greeted his arrival.
As I was ascending the stairs I met De Charmi.
He grasped my hand, and whispered to me hastily
that the ruffian I had sent in was recognised instantly
by Sergeant le Vasseur as the servant who
had left the inn-yard near Villotte on the arrival
of our troops; and was probably the same fellow
who had murdered our vidette in the woods of
Saudrupt.
“Ha!” I cried, as if unconscious of the fact—
“ha! it may well be so. That indeed would account
for his kind intentions towards myself this
very day. But does he live, sir, and is he sensible?
I fain would question him.”
“He is alive, although the leeches give no hopes
of his recovery; and we believe him to be sensible,
although he has not spoken since his removal.
I doubt you will make nothing of him.”
“We will try, sir--we will try,” I answered,
and passed onward; but perceiving that he was
that our interview should be without witnesses, I
gave him some trifling orders to execute relative
to the disposition of the cavalry; and requesting
that I might see him as early as possible on the
morrow, wished him a good repose, and left him.
I was, however, doomed to yet another interruption
ere I reached the chamber, as I met the
surgeon-general with his staff; who, hearing that
one of his subalterns had been called to my quarters,
concluded that I was myself in want of advice,
and had ridden up to tender me his own
assistance.
“Good—good!” he cried, when he saw it was
me; “I heard of you to-day, and feared you had
over-exerted yourself; but you are well, hey!
well?” and before I could reply, he went off again in
his rambling way—“A pestilent rogue you have up
there, Monsieur de Mornington; a pestilent rogue!
I can't conceive, for my part, why you did not let
the scoundrel bleed to death where he had fallen;
unless, indeed, you want to keep him for the gallows,
for which, I confess, he would make a pretty
tassel. But it is too late, sir; he will never live
for it; the more's the pity! My boys have
stopped the hemorrhage; but all his viscera are
cut to pieces, and his stomach ruptured, by that
that bullet, by-the-way! They tell me it is yours.
But you will hold me here all night, an I look not the
sharper”—Heaven is my witness, I had not spoken
a syllable—“and I have half a score of wounded to
look after. Châtillon has got it—sharply, but not
desperately—and De Meilleraye—and Villeroy,
I fear, past hope. Adieu! adieu!” and he left me
for a moment; but had not gone down five steps,
ere he called after me—“That fellow cannot live
five hours; and as you cannot hang him, mon cher,
it would be as good just to let him die at once, for
he is suffering the torments of the damned! Adieu!
once more, adieu!”
When I got into my apartment, there were no
persons in it but the wounded man—who had been
hastily laid on my own couch by the bearers—and
old Lydford; who, well aware that I was solicitous
about the fellow—although I conclude that,
like the worthy surgeon, he was somewhat in the
dark as to my motives—was bathing his head from
time to time, and moistening his parched lips.
For these kind offices he was rewarded by a
brief and bitter curse; which was, indeed, the
only sign the scoundrel gave of life or consciousness.
His eyes were closed; his teeth firmly set; and
the pores of his swarthy brow. A fearful convulsion
would ever and anon shake his whole frame,
and his broad chest would rise and fall with a horrible
spasmodic action, that was scarcely less terrible
to look upon than it must have been agonizing
to endure. He was, indeed, the same fellow who
had dogged me from the very first, and was, I felt
but little doubt, the same horseman who had attended
the carriage of Isabel's tormentor, and who,
on the attack of the second brother, had fled, only for
the purpose of bringing up the other attendants, who
had so nearly intercepted my escape. So fearful
were his agonies, that I could hardly bring myself
to torment the dying wretch with questions; but
the stake for which I played was of a value paramount
to every other consideration. I felt that
this was perhaps the only opportunity I might ever
have of learning the place of Isabel's concealment;
and in that feeling I addressed him without compunction
or delay.
“My friend,” I said, in a low and placid voice—
“my friend, I grieve to say to you that your career
on earth is wellnigh ended. We soldiers have but
a brief space to make our settlement; yet have we
all much cause to wish for time. Would you not
see a priest?”
He had not perceived my entrance till I spoke;
and, unclosing his eyes instantly, he gazed upon
me with a mingled expression of disappointment,
wonder, hatred, and, perhaps, a touch of fear, such
as I never have seen before or since on any mortal
features.
“Can the dead speak?” he gasped “Dead!—
fool, fool, that I am! I have again missed him.
I shall go down to hell!—to HELL! with all the sin
of murder on my head, and none of its advantage!
A priest?” said you—“a priest?—ha! ha!
ha!—a priest!” And he laughed in bitter and
fierce derision, till the unnatural mirth was checked
by a spasm that threatened to put an end to his
existence.
“Think better of it,” I replied calmly, and
smothering my anxiety—“think better of it; we
have all much cause for prayer and for repentance;
and you, I doubt not, have no less than
others,—the hatred—the causeless and most unrelenting
hatred you have displayed towards myself
is somewhat—”
“Causeless!” he almost screamed—“causeless!
You lie! Was it not cause enough that I should
hate you, when you slew them both—both the
brave boys I nurtured from their childhood?”
“A rare nurture, truly,” I replied, some of my
truly—and a fair tutor you would seem!
Nevertheless, I slew them not—by their own hands
they fell.”
He glared up into my face with a wild expression
of mingled malice and contempt—“And
you, poor dupe! you carried off their Lindabrides,
as though she was no bona roba, but a demoiselle
of honour. Ha! ha! ha! and you wedded her—
they tell me—wedded her! What fools are these
same cavaliers—ha! ha!”
“Peace, with thy vile and lying ribaldry!” I
exclaimed in a deep stern tone—“Peace! or,
dying as thou art, will I cram the falsehood in thy
teeth—wretch—sinner—miscreant! Speak!—tell
me of Isabel de Coucy—tell me of my bride; or,
by the heaven, which thou shalt never see—by the
eternal hell, on whose dread verge thou art tottering
even now—I swear that we have means to
wring the truth from thee, and we will use them!”
“Use them!” he replied, bitterly but resolutely,
as though he were in the fullest possession of all
his mental and corporal powers—“Use them!
and see if they can profit thee. Use them, I say,
and free me from this agony—so will I thank thee
—use them!”
“Nay,” returned I; “hastily I spoke, and therefore
the question to my deadliest foe, were he in all his
manhood and his health; how should I then to one
like thee? But listen—to yourself can I now offer
nothing—but have you none whom you yet love?
whom I can aid, whom I can further, or enrich?—
Say but one word, one little word, and it shall be
a source to them of measureless content!”
“Plague me not, sir fool—plague me not! ten
thousand curses on your head—ten thousand curses
on mine own! for had my hand been steady, as
its wont, you should not have been here to add
gall to torments—heavy enough, the fiend knows,
already!”
“Oh!” I cried, almost wildly, for anxiety was
fast conquering my assumed calmness—“oh, die
not thus! I—I whom you deem your foe, and
justly—I would not see you perish soul and body
thus. Oh, I beseech you, if there be aught of man
about you—if you ever loved, or were beloved
by woman—by all your hopes of heaven, which
even you may gain by prompt repentance—by all
your fears of an eternity of wo!—tell me, I do beseech
you! You are not—cannot be—all heartless
—all villain—none are so! There must be in
your heart some vein of human kindness. Oh!
for the love of the Eternal, die not thus—harming
has never wronged you—do not so needless, so
thankless, and so black a crime, as to sever those
whom God has joined together.”
“What!” he said, looking into my eyes with a
malignant leer—“what, the cold Englishman can
feel! I shall not die then unavenged!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moved
quickly, but sent forth no sound. When he again
looked up, the bitter expression left his brow, his
muscles were smoothed and tranquil; there was
a languor visible in all his countenance, such as I
have ever noticed on those who die of gun-shot
wounds. He even smiled pleasantly as he met
my eye.
“I am in the wrong,” he said—“I am in the
wrong; but ere I die—I—I will yet be righted!
You have wedded her, you say—have wedded
her, and love her?”
“More than my own soul!”
“Ay! it is ever thus. So loved I myself—once
—in my boyish days—before I was—no matter!
And you will pardon me, if I will tell you of your
love—will pardon and will thank me?”
“Will bless you—despite all your wrongs—will
bless you!”
“Ay! it is good so to die—better to go hence
thee, now!—closer yet—hark, in thine ear!”
Totally unsuspicious, and deceived by the
alteration of the fellow's manner, I leaned over
the bed; and, in compliance with his request,
bowed my ear down, almost to meet his lips. I
felt his left hand pass around my neck, but in my
eagerness to catch his words, for I believed his
breath was failing, I did not regard it. In an instant
he had grasped my collar; and drawing from
his bosom a short stiletto, he sprang like a hurt
wild-cat at my throat. “She is in hell!” he
screamed—“in HELL—where you and I will meet
her!” and with all his might he struck. Well was
it for me that I wore a coat of Milan plate; for
the weapon, aimed surely at the collar-bone, and
driven home with the force of vengeance and
despair, alighted on the very rim of the breastplate;
pierced it, stout as it was, like paper; rent
the strong buff coat I wore beneath my cassock,
and inflicted, even then, a trifling wound. Had I
been less strongly fenced, that blow had been my
death!
As it was, I staggered under its force--he
thought that I was sped. Once more the wild
and sneering laugh burst from his lips, but it was
soon fearfully drowned in the death-rattle--one
it—one long shiver—he stretched out his limbs—
he was dead!—dead, with his glaring eyes fixed in
disappointment on my face—for he perceived that
he had failed—and with the sneering smile still
curling his pale lip. He was dead; and—as I
then surmised, with dread almost akin to terror—
with him all chance had perished of learning the
fate of Isabel de Coucy!
| CHAPTER XIII. The brothers : | |