Part 3 (1/2)

”Not a jot,” exclaimed Phelypeaux--”not a jot. Nay, tell the story, and--shall we crack another bottle of the clos? It is good wine.”

”It is, indeed,” replied St. Georges, ”excellent. Yet I will drink no more. Three gla.s.ses are all I allow myself after supper at the best of times. And, after all, my history will not take long in telling. At least such portions of it as I need tell you.”

”Tell me all. I love to hear the history of the young and adventurous, as you are--as you must be. The _chevaux-legers_ encounter adventure even in garrison,” and he leered at him.

”I have encountered none, or very few. A few indecisive campaigns against Holland in the year the king gave me my commission--namely, fourteen years ago--then the Peace of Nimeguen, and since then stagnation in various garrisons. Yet they say the time is coming for war. Holland seeks allies everywhere against France; soon a great campaign should occur.”

”Without doubt, when his Most Christian Majesty will triumph as he has done before. But why--how--did you obtain your commission? You do not tell me that.”

”No, I had forgotten. Yet 'tis not much to tell. My mother--an English woman--excuse me, Monseigneur l'eveque, but you have spilt your wine.”

”So, indeed, I have,” said the bishop, sopping up the wine which his elbow had overturned by a sudden jerk while the other was speaking, ”so, indeed, I have. But 'tis not much. And there is still that other bottle uncorked.” Then with a sidelong glance he said: ”So your mother was an English woman. _Ah! mon Dieu, elles sont belles, ces Anglaises_! An English woman. Well, well!”

”Yes, an English woman. Daughter of a Protestant cavalier who left England when the Commonwealth was declared. He had done his best for the king, but with his death he could do no more. So he quitted his country forever.”

”Most interesting,” exclaimed the bishop, ”but your father, Monsieur St. Georges. Who was he? Of the St. Georges's family, perhaps, of Auvergne! Or another branch, of Dauphine! A n.o.ble family is that of St. Georges!”

”He was of the branch in Auvergne. A humble member, but still of it. I know no more.”

”No more?”

”No.”

”Humph! Strange! Pardon me, monsieur, I would not ask a delicate question--but--but--did not the family recognise the marriage of Monsieur St. Georges?”

”They did not recognise it for the simple reason that they were never told of it. It did not please my father to divulge the marriage to his family, so they were left in ignorance that it had ever taken place.”

”And was Monsieur St. Georges--your father--a soldier like yourself?”

”He was a soldier like myself. And served against Conde.”

”Against Conde. Under Turenne, doubtless?” and once more he cast a sidelong glance at his visitor.

”Yes. Under Turenne. They were, I have heard, more than commander and subordinate. They were friends.”

”A great friends.h.i.+p!” exclaimed the bishop. ”A great friends.h.i.+p! To his influence you doubtless owe your commission, obtained, I think you said, in '74, the year before Turenne's death.”

”Doubtless. So my father said. He died in the same year as the marshal.”

”In battle, too, no doubt?” Then, seeing a look upon the other's face which seemed to express a desire for no more questioning--though, indeed, he bowed gravely at the question if his father had died in battle--monseigneur with a polite bow said he would ask him no more impertinent questions, and turned the conversation by exclaiming:

”But you must be weary, monsieur. You would rest, I am sure. I will call Pierre to show you to your room. Your child will sleep better at the 'Ours' than you will do here, since my accommodation is not of the first order, owing to my being able to inhabit the house so little.

But we have done our best. We have done our best.”

”I thank you,” the soldier said, rising from his chair. ”Now, monseigneur, let me pay my farewells to you at the same time I say 'Good-night.' I propose to ride to-morrow at daybreak, and if possible to reach Bar by night. Though much I doubt doing so; my horse is jaded already, and can scarce compa.s.s a league an hour. And 'tis more than twenty leagues from here, I take it.”

”Ay, 'tis. More like twenty-five. And you have, you know, a burden.

You carry weight. There is the little child.”

”Yes, there is the child.”