University of Virginia Library

XXXI.
THE DESERTER.

It was, in fact, the young orderly who had fired
upon me that night at Chapeldale, and then mounted
and escaped. I saw before me the same brilliant
black eyes; the same mocking smile on the red lips;
the same rosy cheeks and rounded outlines.

The youth was clad in a handsome uniform, consisting
of ample blue pantaloons, falling over small
and delicate boots; a full roundabout with bright
buttons, and dazzling chevrons on the sleeves; a
light waistcoat, fitting closely to the figure; and over
the broad white brow, edged with short auburn curls,
fell the ample rim of a blue cavalry hat, with a golden
cord around it.

Such was the costume of the boy, — half private's,
half officer's. It was his mode of wearing it, however,
which attracted most attention. Never did
costume sit more jauntily upon human being;
never had I realized so completely the gay vivandière
of the French comedy. Everything about the
boy was feminine and coquettish; no other words
convey the idea. And, as the reader will soon perceive,

there was the best reason in the world for the
phenomenon in question.

The young deserter advanced straight into the
apartment, and distributed a comprehensive smile,
which had in it something decidedly satirical. Instead
of being abashed, he appeared completely at his
ease, and returned Landon's cold glance with a sang
froid which was incomprehensible.

“Who are you?” said the Partisan, coldly.

“A deserter at your service; from Captain Ratcliffe's
company,” was the reply.

The voice was low and musical; the accent decidedly
French.

“Your name?” continued Landon, as coldly as
before.

The deserter looked around. On his lips the mocking
smile grew more defined.

“Would you like to know?”

“Since I ask you, — speak!”

“Dismiss that man.”

And the boy pointed coolly to the guard standing
behind him.

“Good!” said Landon; “the comedy grows decidedly
amusing. You dictate orders at my head-quarters;
but no matter.”

And with a movement of his hand he dismissed
the guard, who went out, closing the door behind
him.

“Now, request this gentleman to retire in his
turn.”

“Speak in his presence,” said Landon.

The deserter looked fixedly at the Partisan.

“I may speak before him of your most private
affairs?”

“My private affairs! You? Yes; they are all
known to him.”

“Very good,” was the cool answer. “First you
asked my name, I think?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Antoinette Duvarny.”

And the speaker calmly sat down in an arm-chair
opposite Landon.

At the words “My name is Antoinette Duvarny”
I could not suppress a start. The words of Blount
suddenly returned to my memory. “Antoinette
Du — pshaw! here I am giving real names.” Could
the person before me be a woman, — and by any possibility
that woman of whom Blount had spoken?
Had this singular “deserter” played the main part
in that tragic drama which had overshadowed the
life of so brave and noble a gentleman? The fact
seemed incredible; but there was the astonishing
similarity of name. “Antoinette Du —” could be
no one beside “Antoinette Duvarny,” I said to
myself.

I was thus reflecting, when the woman resumed,

with a laugh, which displayed a set of pearly teeth,
“My sex gives me permission to drop ceremony, my
dear Captain Landon, and I am sure that such a
gallant gentleman as yourself would never keep a
lady standing.”

Landon was gazing at her keenly.

“Then you are a woman?” he said.

“At your service.”

“Your object in deserting?”

“To reach you.”

“Why?”

The deserter smiled.

“To betray you, of course. Are they not preparing
the rope yonder to hang me as soon as our
little talk is over?”

“That was not your design, then?”

The deserter shrugged her shoulders.

“No; something very different.”

“Speak plainly.”

“With pleasure. Well, in coming to make you
a visit, my dear Captain Landon, I am prompted by
a sentiment which is said to be powerful with women
when it gains possession of them, — the sentiment,
namely, of vengeance.”

“Vengeance?”

“Precisely; and upon one whom I hate bitterly,
— a dear common friend of ours.”

Landon was silent, gazing at the speaker. His

glance seemed piercing enough to penetrate her
soul.

“You mean Captain Ratcliffe?”

“Yes.”

“You hate him?”

“For the last month, bitterly.”

“You would avenge some wrong upon him?”

“Yes, by telling you, his enemy, what will send
you on his track; make you hunt him day and
night; keep you from eating, drinking, sleeping,
until you have his blood.”

A flash darted from the black eyes. It was easy
to see that there was not the least acting in this
person. Never was hatred more clearly expressed
in mortal face.

Landon's cheeks filled with blood; his eyes
glowed.

“Speak!” he said, in an imperious voice. “I
am listening.”

And his dark eyes were riveted upon the countenance
of the deserter.