The summer had almost passed and the early autumn come ere that other battle which had been so long impending between the French and the Imperialists seemed at last about to take place. For the Duke de Bournonville had crossed the Rhine once more and was known to be meditating the siege of Philipsburg, while Turenne, who had been watching every movement of the enemy, at last made up his mind that he would try conclusions with him, although the other was twenty thousand men stronger than he. For he knew that, while this enemy was thus double his own force of about twenty-two thousand men, it must soon be treble, since now the Elector of Brandenburg was marching to join the Austrian general with still another twenty thousand men.
The time had come! He must prevent that coalition or see Franche-Comté and Lorraine torn away from Louis' grasp almost ere it had tightened on them; Champagne devastated, even as he himself had devastated the Palatinate; see Philipsburg lost. For if Brandenburg joined De Bournonville all this and worse would happen, while the Electress and other princesses who accompanied the Elector--saying in their bitterness that they did so with a view to making the acquaintance of the French aristocracy, and thereby acquiring their good breeding--would, without doubt, have good opportunity for gratifying their desire.
But it was October now, and at last--for Brandenburg was perilously near with his twenty thousand men and his Electress and princesses--on the second of the month the French army advanced. The night march which was to bring the contending forces face to face had begun; through a stormy, rainy night, over roads deep with pools of rain and mud, the departure was made.
Ahead of the Marshal there marched the "King's" and "Queen's" dragoons and those of Listenai, with, riding by the side of the third troop of these, Debrasques, his corselet on now, and, above his fair but troubled face, his helmet; behind Turenne came the infantry commanded by Mont-Georges, with, amongst it, Churchill's regiment, which had just joined from Rhinzabern, then the artillery under St. Hilaire--all marching in three columns. And, riding near Turenne ahead of the man who had sworn to kill him, was De Bois-Vallée, with his left arm in a sling, but not otherwise much incommoded by the sword-thrust he had received six weeks before.
Of those three men round whom this narrative revolves, perhaps Debrasques was the most unhappy; unhappy because, turn his eyes which way he might, he saw nothing but misery ahead. It was borne in on him that his cousin would inevitably fall by Andrew's hand unless the impending battle removed him from the other's path--which, in truth, would not grieve him much!--he was doubly unhappy because of those last words which Andrew had uttered ere he set out for the defile of Rhinzabern; the words: "Afterwards--the woman."
For he knew what Andrew had not the least thought of, namely, that, base as had been De Bois-Vallée's treachery to Philip Vause, it was nothing to the treachery which he had practised towards the woman Philip had loved, towards Marion Wyatt.
Yet, knowing what Debrasques did, he himself did not know all.
* * * * * *
Splashing through the miry roads, the rain beating down upon their cloaks, their horses stumbling into ruts a foot deep, wheels of gun carriages getting stuck fast in the mud and shoes being torn from of the feet of the infantry, that night-march was continued until at last a river called the Breusch was reached at four on the next afternoon, and there, on the other side of it, in a half-moon position, the Imperial army was seen. And all through that night-march one question had troubled the lad far more than any inconvenience which he shared with thousands of others, the question: "Shall I tell him all I know? To-morrow, when the battle is over and if we three are all left alive, or to-day, ere the fight begins and while there is still time?" And he decided that it should be to-day; to-morrow might be too late. He himself might be dead, and then the light he could throw on all that had happened--a light which, at least, might shield Marion Wyatt from Andrew Vause's vengeance--would never be cast. Yes, he must reach Andrew somehow before the conflict began, if possible; must say one word to him that would save the woman. As for his cousin, he was a villain; he must take his chance. He had done his best for him because his own mother's blood ran in his veins, had tried to frighten him away from the neighbourhood of Andrew, and the other had refused to go. Nay, had he not threatened to expose him to the King so as to drive him away? but even as he made the threat he knew he would never carry it out. Base as De Bois-Vallée was, he was a soldier; it was his career, and he had won golden opinions from Turenne by his conduct in this campaign and others. He could not be equally base and shut that career against him. In spite of all, he was his kinsman.
But the chance had not come for him to communicate with Andrew, when, at nightfall, and with the whole French army sheltered from the Imperialists, not only by the darkness, but also by the incessant rain and mist, the passage of the Breusch was commenced, and when gradually the distance between the enemy and the river--a plain of about a mile and a half in extent, which had foolishly been left unoccupied by De Bournonville--was filled with Turenne's army. Thus, when the day broke, foggy and wet as ever, the two enemies were facing each other--the French with the river at their backs, and the Germans with a large wood serving as cover on their right and a smaller wood on their left, and with the village of Entzheim between them and the foe.
But if, by the time the filthy day had dawned, the Imperialists had not found out that they were face to face with France once more, and that the Elector of Brandenburg would be of no service to them here, they discovered it soon, for from their enemy's position there rose now the cheering of twenty thousand voices as Turenne rode along in front of his first line, and, with an air of gaiety which he always possessed on the day of battle, waved his hand and hat to them, and gave the order to advance, the Little Wood being the spot principally subjected to attack. And among those who first reached that wood was Debrasques, the "King's" dragoons and those of Listenai being sent forward to clear it of the enemy. Shortly the battle became general.
Meanwhile Turenne, who was everywhere, saw that his cavalry was driven back by numbers of the other side who were in possession of the wood, and instantly gave the order for the infantry of the left to advance, amongst those who went forward being the regiments of Churchill and Monmouth.
The chance Debrasques desired so much of communication with Andrew was coming near!
Avoiding the interior or middle part of the "Little Wood"--where were three battalions of the enemy with two pieces of cannon--there went forward the regiments of Burgundy and Orleans, the "King's" dragoons and Monmouth's foot, after which followed Debrasques' regiment, it being separated only from Churchill's by the men of Languedoc. And, sweeping round to the left to prevent the enemy's troops from coming to the assistance of those who were already in possession of the wood, the whole of Turenne's right line advanced, while the left was engaged with Caprara's right.
And now the fight in the "Little Wood," as it was ever afterwards called, became a scene of terrible slaughter, a scene made doubly so by the downpour of rain which fell incessantly all that day, by the fog and mist which surrounded and hid Austrians from French, and by the vomiting of the cannons. Twice the French obtained possession of the wood, and twice were driven out--for half an hour the battle ceased, so thick did the fog become; then, at last, when once more the whole of the left went at the wood again, the possession of it became assured for the attackers.
Amidst the scene of carnage, none fought more bravely on that day than two Englishmen, Churchill and Andrew Vause. From the first, in that high-pitched, aristocratic voice, which, later on in his life, was to give the orders that should for ever crush the might of the French king under whom he now fought as an auxiliary, was issued command after command. From the other, tall, stalwart, grim, his big sword grasped as easily as, not long before, his rapier had been, was dealt forth blow after blow against Austrian, Bavarian, Luneburger, and Holsteiner; while over their prostrate bodies he, in company with others, leapt to find fresh foes. And in a pause, as still he and his comrades swept their way into the fringe of the wood, he heard above him a quiet voice exclaim, "Well done, my handsome Englishmen. Well done," and looking up at the horseman above him--a broad-shouldered, short-necked man, whose morose countenance belied his words--Andrew recognized Turenne. But a moment later he was gone, riding all along the advancing line to utter encouragement to other regiments.
And now the charge was ordered for what was to be, happily, the last time, when rushing down through the open ranks of the infantry went the dragoons, while amongst them Andrew recognized the fair hair of Debrasques, as, without covering to his head, he flew by.
"Bravo, Debrasques! Bravo!" shouted Andrew, and the boy, turning his face, saw his friend. Then he waved his sword and vanished into the gloom around.
The darkness was growing more intense, there was something more than fog and mist enveloping them, they knew that the October evening was at hand by the time the fight was done, and when, from neither little nor great wood, nor from where the village of Entzheim lay, came aught but desultory firing.
"The battle is over," said Churchill as he passed Andrew; "they say we have lost two thousand men, and the enemy double."
"They are still firing," muttered the other, leaning against a tree to take breath.
"Nay, 'tis our side firing their own cannon at them. They are in full retreat and have left their big guns behind. Hark! there is the recall!" and he went on to muster his men together.
"I must find the boy," Andrew said to himself. "Find how he has worn through this day," and making his way over heaps of slain he went towards where Listenai's dragoons had plunged into the wood for the last time.
And at last he found him, when there was but a little light left; when, indeed, there would have been none had not the fog cleared away suddenly and the rain ceased, leaving what remained of daylight clear.
He found him amidst a heap of his own dragoons, who lay where they had fallen, some above and some across their dead horses, some beneath them, and some kicked to death by the animals in their agonized struggles. Found him with his back against his own horse, which lay dead on the ground with half its head blown away by a cannon ball, and with his eyes staring wildly in front of him, though, as Andrew thought, seeing nothing.
Of others of that regiment there were none about, except the dead and the dying--'twas evident that they had made their way through the wood, driving before them the Imperialists who had earlier had possession of it; perhaps, indeed, had followed them in their flight.
"My boy," said Andrew, going up to him, and kneeling down by his side, "this is a sad sight. Debrasques, what ails you? Are you sorely wounded?" And, as he spoke, he slung a small canteen round that he carried on his back, and, uncorking it, moistened the Marquis's lips with some drops of spirit which he produced.
At first the other could not answer, and, meanwhile, Andrew was looking him all over to see where any wound might be, but finding none--when, at last, after he had decided that the Marquis must be hurt inwardly by some tremendous blow--perhaps from one of the horses--the other spoke in a faint voice and said--
"Captain Vause--I--think--my back is broken by the fall. The horse fell on me."
"Nay, not so bad as that," whispered Andrew, "not so bad as that, pray God. Yet, courage,mon ami, there will soon be some coming this way. And if not, why I will carry you," and he set about undoing the other's back and breast piece so as to give him more freedom.
"I cannot move," the boy replied feebly. "I think I am dying. Oh! my mother."
"Nay, nay," repeated Andrew. "Nay. Heart up."
But still the young man's voice grew more and more feeble, and now he seemed wandering in his speech.
"I--I--meant to tell you much if I had lived. I must speak now. The--she--the woman we know of was----"
"What?" asked Andrew quickly, catching his breath. He knew, something told him, that the woman to whom the other referred could be one only--Marion Wyatt. "What was she?"
"She was--ah, God! Look there!" and, with a strange glance of agitation in his eyes, he glared towards the wood. Following that glance, Andrew saw what had so unnerved the other.
For, coming from out the wood, urging his horse to its greatest pace, though it was sadly blown, there rode swiftly De Bois-Vallée, hatless and the sling from his wounded arm hanging loose, while as he left the wood he was calling back orders to some whom doubtless he imagined were still there. And Andrew knew that, as one of Turenne'saides-de-camp, he had been sent out with instructions to the various scattered regiments.
At first he evidently recognized neither Debrasques nor Vause, and was going as swiftly by as he could, and as all the impediments of dead men and animals would permit, but as Andrew sprang to his feet, intent, not on renewing his feud with him at such a moment as this, but on summoning him to the assistance of his dying cousin, he saw him plainly in the now clear evening light. And, even as he observed who was before him, the Marquis, with his brain becoming evidently more and more disordered, shouted out in a voice that seemed to have acquired unnatural strength at this crisis--
"Traitor! scoundrel! I have told him all," and then sank back, either dead or senseless, against his horse's side.
When the roll was called that night in the French army it was seen how hardly the victory had been bought, if victory it was! A doubtful one, indeed, since Turenne had not been able to pursue the enemy for long with his weakened army, and, as he fell back upon the position which he had previously occupied, so De Bournonville did the same. The enemy was, therefore, still in Alsace, and Brandenburg was drawing nearer day by day. Over France there yet hovered the impending shadow of further invasion and defeat.
Amongst those who were wiped off for ever from the roll were the bearers of such noble names as De Pizieux, De Reveillon, and the Comte d'Auvergne; whilst among the English the Earl of Hamilton was wounded--mortally, it was thought. Also, there were many missing whose absence could only be accounted for by the supposition that they had been slain in the short pursuit made of some portion of the enemy.
Amongst these was the Vicomte De Bois-Vallée, whose disappearance was not explained by the time Turenne fell back on Hagenau and Saverne; and was not, indeed, generally known until the French army was once more quartered in that neighbourhood.
It was there that the news of this disappearance reached Andrew Vause's ears, as he watched over Debrasques and tried to nurse him back to life. It seemed, however, that there was little enough hope he would succeed in this; the brain had received some injury which the surgeons who had accompanied the army appeared unable to understand, and, while it was perfectly apparent that he comprehended much that was said to him, he was utterly unable to make himself intelligible. No wonder, therefore, that Andrew, while he bemoaned the fate of the brilliant young soldier whom he had come to love as a comrade, cursed at the same time the fate which had chosen to thus visit the one man who, as he had shown by the last coherent words he uttered, alone knew the greater part, if not the whole, of his cousin's guilt.
"Missing! missing!" he said to Colonel Churchill, who told him the news of the man's disappearance on the second night they were back at Hagenau, and while they sat together in a room of the house which served as the headquarters of "The Royal English Regiment." "Missing, eh? 'Tis strange!"
"Why?" asked the other, in the quiet, well-bred tones in which he always spoke. "Why? There are many others not accounted for who followed the Imperialists out of the little wood. Doubtless they followed them too far!"
"Maybe," said Andrew reflectively. "Yet this man followed the enemy not at all."
"How know you that? Were you acquainted with the person of the Vicomte?"
"Ay, very well. I knew him." And he told Churchill of how he had been attacked by the boors on the night ere the whole army set out towards the Breusch, though, naturally, he made no reference to the duel.
"Ah! I heard something of that, too. Yet, tell me, Vause--how is it you know he did not follow those who chased the enemy out of the wood? He may have done so to deliver the orders of recall. He was sent out with others of the Marshal's guard to give such orders."
"I saw him pass the other way--when the fight was over. Returning towards Holtzheim where our base was. His cousin, Debrasques, who is lying above wounded, spoke to him. It was the man."
"Strange!" reflected Churchill. "Strange! What harm could come to him between the wood and Holtzheim, and with the battle over, too, and the enemy driven out of the former and in full retreat? He was not wounded?"
"No. He was not wounded."
And thus the matter remained as it had been--a mystery from the first. De Bois-Vallée had disappeared at the very moment when he was out of danger, with the battle finished and he safe in the French lines.
Yet, to Andrew Vause, meditating hour by hour on his disappearance as he watched and tended Debrasques, it came to be no such mystery as it was to Turenne and the companions of the absent man, his brethren of thegarde du corps.
For he discovered that Debrasques was not astonished at his disappearance--discovered it when he told him that it had taken place.
"You understand what I say to you?" he asked, bending gently over the half-paralysed man the next morning--and none who had not seen Andrew in his gentler moments could, perhaps, have guessed how good a nurse the great soldier could be. "You understand, my friend? De Bois-Vallée is missing. Yet he was unhurt when he passed us, returning to our ranks. What can have befallen him?"
Debrasques, wounded and lying there, fixed his blue eyes on the other, while it seemed to Andrew that there was a glance in them which showed that, if he could speak, he would say that the news caused him no surprise; and a moment later his lips moved as though muttering some word, but no sound came from them.
"What--what is it?" whispered Andrew.
And again the lips moved, though with the same result, while still from Debrasques' eye shone the look of intelligence--of comprehension.
Andrew tried now another method. Debrasques could not tell him what was in his thoughts, but, at least, he could make signs, though with his eyes alone; he would question him, and, by a lucky chance, might hit on some suggestion--strike some chord that would fathom the other's meaning.
"You are not surprised at--at this disappearance?" he asked therefore. Then the eyes of the other told him by the bright glance that shot into them that here, at least, he had questioned aright. The Marquis was not surprised!
"You do not think he is dead?" And again, as he watched the other's face, he saw that he had surmised correctly. The eyelids closed over the eyes for a moment, and, next, the latter looked out brightly at him from beneath the re-opened lids. It was not death that, to Debrasques' mind, had caused his cousin's disappearance.
"What then? Why go? Oh! Valentin," for so he sometimes now addressed the young man, "if you could but speak one word, only one."
But this he could not do, try as he might. So that Andrew, seeing how painful the effort was to him, desisted from his questioning almost as soon as he had commenced it.
Yet, even as he busied himself about the room, making his pillows more comfortable, arranging the bed clothes, and doing other kindly services, he observed that the Marquis seemed struggling to regain his speech--that he had something to tell him.
Suddenly, as still he mused on what Debrasques might mean, there came back to his memory the manner in which De Bois-Vallée had received the wild shout of his cousin, the words: "Traitor! Scoundrel! I have told him all." He recalled the look on the Vicomte's face, the glance of hatred he had darted at that cousin, followed by the look of fear which had seemed to blanch his countenance, as, digging his spurs into his already jaded horse, he had ridden off towards Holtzheim.
The look of fear! Ay! that was it. It must be. For, not knowing that Debrasques was delirious from his injuries, he had believed that, whatever revelations he had to make, had in truth been made. Vause, he doubtless thought, now knew as much of some mystery that lay beneath his own conduct as Debrasques knew himself. And, dreading him more than before, had therefore disappeared. Andrew felt certain that, in this surmise, he had hit the mark. He knew it; it was borne in upon him!
"Valentin," he said, returning to the bed and gazing down at the young man who lay there with his eyes still open, "Valentin, I think I know--think I have penetrated your meaning. You believe De Bois-Vallée has disappeared, because, now--since you told him that I knew all--he fears me more than ever. Is it not so?"
To his amazement--his utter amazement--he had not, after all, hit the mark; it was not this that Debrasques meant. It was no increased fear of him that had prompted his enemy to disappear.
"What then? What then?" muttered Andrew. "What, if not that?"
But from the sick man nothing came that could assist him--only, once more, the look of grief at being unable to make himself understood.
Yet, unsatisfactory, disheartening as this was, it told Andrew one thing at least--there was in truth no mystery about the man's disappearance. It was plain that he had a reason for so removing himself.
"Still," pondered the soldier, musing over what such reason could be, or what powerful motives could have urged him thus to disappear from the army in a time of war, and to, thereby, incur the necessity of giving a thorough explanation of his conduct when he should reappear or be for ever disgraced, a ruined and a broken soldier; "still it all hangs, must hang, on Debrasques' words shouted to him in delirium, yet near enough unto the truth to fright him; the words, 'I have told him all.' Would that he had! Would that he had!"
And again at night, as he turned restlessly on his bed, which was placed in the same room as his friend's so that he might be near to minister to him if required, he asked himself, "What more was there to tell? What villainy that even I do not know of?"
Also he remembered that, when he first found Valentin amidst the heap of dead and dying dragoons by whom he was surrounded, he had said something about the woman, Marion Wyatt--had exclaimed that she was--what? Oh! that he had been able to finish that speech; to say what Marion Wyatt was, or had been, in connection with this matter, in connection with the bitter treachery that had broken Philip's heart. "I would almost believe," he thought, "that he meant to say 'Innocent,' were it not that such must be impossible. Innocent! innocent! How could that be? She who stole down the garden to the gate that led to the Mall, who disappeared for ever from my brother's and her father's knowledge; from whom no word ever came after that night. It is impossible! How could she be innocent and he guilty?"
Nevertheless, he decided now, that, as he had put other questions to Debrasques in the hopes of hitting on some suggestion which might prove to be the right one, so he would put this one--"Did he intend to say that Marion Wyatt was an innocent woman?" Yet, even though that answer should be Yes, it would bring him no nearer to understanding why De Bois-Vallée had fled from the army! Only, if it could be proved so--if, by any chance under heaven, it should be so--his determination to be avenged on De Bois-Vallée for the wrong done his weak and helpless brother would be intensified by a further determination to avenge the wrong done also to that brother's affianced wife.
But, how--how could such be the case? Though Debrasques should testify to it he might still be mistaken.
In the morning, however, he put his doubts to the proof. Bending over the now awakened man, who, all through the night, while he had watched near him, slept heavily, he asked the question, and, a second afterwards, the look in the other's eyes showed that he had surmised truly. Rightly or wrongly, with either clear or clouded brain, Valentin believed the woman innocent.
"You do believe it--think it? Nay," noticing the intensity of the other's gaze, "you know it. You mean to signify that?" and, overcome by his emotion at this new development, he returned the intensity of that gaze. "There is no doubt?"
From the speechless man there flashed back the answer of his eyes--as eloquent as any words. There was no doubt.
Yet, still, he could scarcely bring himself to believe; again through his mind there flashed the thought, "how, if the man was guilty, was the woman innocent?"
Carried away now, however, by an overwhelming rush of ideas, he went on:
"And if innocent--Heavens! if innocent--does harm threaten her--threaten her more, since he thinks I know all, than before?"
Again he saw that he had struck the mark, had divined aright. Once more the eyes of Debrasques answered "Yes."
"Harm that may come to her through his fear of what he imagines I know? Harm that may be averted, perhaps, by me if I can find her--or, again, find him?"
And still once more--none could have doubted it who saw the face over which he bent!--the answer was in the affirmative.
"You counsel me, you bid me go, you warn me to avert this harm? It is so, Debrasques, even though I leave you?"
"So be it," he continued, as still the other with his eyes endorsed all he suggested. "So be it. I will go. Will find him and slay him, or her and protect her. You agree with that?"
And, as before, the other showed that he agreed!
"An innocent woman! An innocent woman!" Andrew muttered once again. "An innocent woman, and in his power! A power that will be doubly exerted against her since he thinks I know all. I must lose no time."
Yet, because he would make no mistake--because now, if he set out in this further quest, he was resolved that it should have but one ending--should, indeed, never end until he had accomplished his determination, he repeated his questions again and again; he made doubly sure.
After which, and seeing that Debrasques adhered to all he had hitherto conveyed to him, his resolution was taken. He hesitated no longer.
Wherever De Bois-Vallée was he would find him; wherever Marion Wyatt was he would serve her. And, once more face to face with the man who had done what he now knew was a double wrong, he would slay him like a dog.
For that Debrasques had been deceived it was impossible to believe.
Marion Wyatt must be--incredible as still it seemed--a deeply-wronged woman. Also, a woman who now stood in dire peril. Well! he would defend her from that peril if he were not too late.
From Hagenau and Saverne there is a road which, winding sometimes between vineyards and cornfields, and sometimes over billowy plains on which little enough can be made to grow by the Rhinelanders, arrives at last at the River Breusch, and so enters Holtzheim.
It was along this road that Turenne's army had marched a fortnight or three weeks before, and had found the Imperialists encamped between that village and the somewhat larger one of Entzheim; along it once more, as the late October winds blew down the leaves on to the rain-sodden earth below, Andrew Vause was travelling now. Only, he was riding his favourite horse instead of marching on foot with the company of "The Royal English Regiment," to which he had been assigned, and, instead of being accoutred as a soldier he was dressed as an ordinary traveller. Yet, as became a traveller of that day, and in such a locality--for Strasbourg was but a league or so off, and under its protection the Austrians and all their following of petty German princelings were encamped--Andrew was well armed. His sword made music against his horse's flank and his left spur as he rode, his holsters had each a pistol in them, and on his shoulders was a small "back-and-breast," which his cloak, drawn tightly round him, now hid from view.
His second search for De Bois-Vallée had begun!
It was not difficult for him to be thus at liberty to continue that search; the contending armies had gone into winter quarters and, beyond watching each other's movements carefully, expected to have no more encounters until the spring, wherefore leave was granted freely. Already Churchill was on his road back to St. James's and the allurements of the court, as well as to the petulance of the woman he loved so dearly and by whom he was teased so cruelly; many of his regiment were also on their way home, numerous French officers were making for Paris--and Andrew was returning to Entzheim. For from that place, from the spot outside the Little Wood where last he had seen the man he sought, and had witnessed the look of terror that came upon his countenance at Debrasques' words, he intended to seek for the clue--nay, he intended to find and take up the clue!--which should finally bring him face to face and point to point with De Bois-Vallée again.
"For," he had said to his friend as he parted with him, and after all arrangements had been made for his comfort and well-being that were possible in such a place and in the circumstances, "For be very sure I shall find him, Valentin. Be sure of that! Even though I have to track him half over Europe, even though he should take refuge in your mother's house in Paris, still he shall not escape me."
Yet, as he spoke and gazed down at the wounded man, he saw that the latter place, at least, would not be sought as a shelter by De Bois-Vallée. The Marquis's eyes told him that, as plainly as, heretofore, they had told him so much else.
Whereby, seeing that glance, Andrew knew that he would not have to return to Paris to find his quarry.
"No matter," he said. "No matter. I shall find him. Alone and unaided I shall. Also I will find her. Then I shall know all. All, until we meet once more, and you shall be well enough--as I pray God!--to tell me in your own words that I have guessed aright. Farewell, my boy."
And so he went on his way after a tender parting with the youth he had come to love since the first night when he saved him from the thieves in Paris, and after, also, he had made his adieux to Turenne and several old and new comrades.
He drew near the wooden bridge that, crossing the Breusch, led into Holtzheim, as the October evening set in dark and lowering, and with great clouds coming up in the heavens from far down in the south, and he knew that in this village he must find some shelter for the night if possible. Yet he knew also that it would be a poor shelter at the best, even if anyone in it was able to receive him, since it had suffered considerably from its vicinity to the late battle. Indeed, some of the houses had been struck by the cannon balls fired from the Little Wood, and Turenne's troops had denuded it of food, wine, and forage. Still, either here or at Entzheim, he must obtain what he required; it would be impossible that he could gain admission to Strasbourg.
The bridge had already been rudely repaired since the departure of the French Army--which had naturally destroyed it ere retiring--and, crazy as the timbers were, he yet managed to lead his horse across it after dismounting. Then, this done, he rode forward smartly to an inn he had noticed on the day of the battle, an inn called the "Goldener Hirsch."
"What is it you seek?" a man asked, coming forward to the door of this house--a place which, at its best, looked as though it could furnish little but the wine grown in the vineyard hard by, and the coarsest of food. A man clad principally in the ordinary costume of a peasant-landlord, yet now wearing on his back a coat richly laced and gallooned, though stained with dark patches here and there. Doubtless, it had been removed from the body of some fallen officer!
"What should a man seek, my friend," asked Andrew, looking down at him from his horse, "but that which most strangers desire at an inn? Rest and food for himself and horse."
"Strangers!mein Gott!we have had enough of strangers here," and his eyes wandered down the filthy, uncleansed and pathless street to where, at the end, the open plain between Entzheim and this village lay. "Enough of strangers! We are fools to live on this frontier-land and be devastated every few years by these infernal wars."
"You seem at least to have benefited by some strangers," remarked Andrew; "did the last one who stayed here pay his reckoning with his laced coat?"
"Nay! An I had fifty such coats, and all that their pockets contained, they would not pay this fellow's and his companion's shot. Look!" and he pointed to a great hole above the doorway. "That's one piece of their work. Done by a cannonball of the Austrians. 'Twill take fifty thalers to repair. His coat's not worth that, all bloodstained as it is and rain-soaked. Also, all my fodder is gone--the French took that!--and my mare was slain by a spent bullet. Curse the strangers--especially when they come fighting here."
"I am not come fighting," Andrew reminded him. "And my question is not yet answered. Can I and my horse rest here and have food? For me no matter what I eat, so it is clean and wholesome."
"I will see," the man replied. "At least you and the beast can rest--if you will pay for it."
"I will pay."
"Dismount then."
Doing as the man bid him, Andrew carefully tied his horse to a hook by the door and followed the other, his spurs and the point of his scabbard clanking on the frowsy stone floor of the passage as he did so. Then the man threw open a door at the side and ushered him into a room, at one end of which a fire burnt in a recess, the green logs that lay on the stones level with the floor hissing and spluttering under the mass of smoke that poured up the chimney.
"At least I can drink," said Andrew, seeing that three or four villagers were seated at a table near the fire with coarse bottles of white wine before them, "also eat, my friend," and he pointed to two great loaves of rye bread on the table, or loaves that had been great ere huge hunks had been cut, or pulled, off them.
"Oh! as for that," the landlord replied, "if you are content with this you can eat and drink your fill. But," and his eye roved over Andrew's apparel and his handsome sword, "doubtless the Herr is accustomed to break his fast on better stuff than this." While, at the same time, he seized a cup and filled it from one of the wine flasks, after which he handed it to Andrew.
"Good health," said the latter, taking it and raising it to his lips. After which he went on in reply to the other's remark.
"The Herr can eat anything. He is an old traveller. Meanwhile, I will show you," whereon he seized one of the loaves, cut off an outside piece which looked as though it had been fingered by the boors sitting round, and then helped himself to a goodly slice and slowly masticated it, washing it down all the time with draughts of the thin white wine.
"I shall do," he said, "very well. Now for the horse."
Half an hour later one might have thought Andrew Vause had been used to passing his life--which had, in truth, been so full of excitement--in no better way than hugger-muggering with Rhenish peasants in humble inns. The landlord had been induced by him to find a good feed for his animal, who was safely bestowed for the night in a shed; also--by the clink of a ducatoon or so in his ear--to find something better than bread for the newcomer. Indeed, by the time that period had elapsed, Andrew was seated in front of a savoury stew of vegetables and meat, and a better bottle of wine had been discovered--as the host said, "marvellous to tell"--from the depths of a cellar beneath the living-room. Moreover, to add to its flavour, the soldier had produced from a flask in his holsters some choice eau-de-vie, which--as many a campaign had taught him!--singularly brisked up a poor wine when a spoonful or two of it was poured in. And, as he passed this bottle, and a second, round the assembled company, he very soon became a welcome guest.
"The Herr does not say what brings him here," remarked, however, one of the drinkers, "yet, perhaps, we can guess," and the man delivered himself of a heavy wink. "Oh! yes, we can guess. There will be other merchants along this way soon. Ha!Mein Gott!" and he laughed hoarsely. "Oh! yes. Ere long."
"Precisely," said Andrew, "without doubt. Ere long." But he added to himself as he passed the bottle round, "What in the devil's name is the fellow driving at? And what kind of a merchant am I?"
Yet, since it had but recently struck him that it was indeed necessary he should be able to produce some reason for his presence here, he was determined to keep his ears open, and find out from the peasant what that reason was. Evidently the man knew a great deal better than he did!
"Oh! for that, no matter. Let the others follow. First come first served! And the Herr has the first choice. He will treat us fairly."
"Fairly, my friend! fairly, my golden hart!"--for it was the landlord who had now spoken. "Indeed, I will. Ha! ha! Trust me." Yet again Andrew wondered on what dealings he was about to embark, and in what way he was to act fairly.
"You see," said another speaker, leaning forward over the greasy, wine-slopped table, and speaking in a husky whisper, for which there was not the least necessity, "it our only chance to recoup ourselves for all our terrible losses. Our only chance. Therefore we must do our best for ourselves."
"Naturally," said Andrew, more bewildered than ever, "naturally. Rely on me."
"We will! Therefore, Muhlenbein," said the last speaker to the landlord, "let us show the gentleman, and let him select."
"Ja, Ja," replied the host, "he shall see. You would care to see to-night?" turning interrogatively to Andrew.
"Of all times! What better than the present! Let me see to-night!" and, observing the others leave their chairs, he rose too; though still wondering what it was he had to see. Then the peasants all tramped out of the stone-flagged room and up a wooden ladder, he following them and the landlord, who went before with a lamp which he caught up.
At first he thought this might be some trap--for, though ever unsuspicious and bold to recklessness, his career had made him wary--to get him alone into some room; yet, even as he so thought, he laughed quietly to himself. He could feel his own strength within him, as all powerful men can do--and the rapier's scabbard-point tapped on the ladder as he mounted it; the hilt banged against his thigh! That was enough! Then, as the trapdoor above the ladder was opened, and they followed each other into the room, he understood what they supposed him to be. A purchaser of spoils from off the battlefield!
Piled up in heaps all around--as was plain to be seen by the flickering oil light which Muhlenbein held over his head--were numberless coats, jackets, vests, justaucorps, and tunics, most of them covered with lace; most of them, also, heavily stained either by the rain that had fallen all day during the battle, or by some other fluid. Likewise, there were breeches innumerable, great boots with the spurs still on them, piles of weapons standing in different corners--these being sorted. Halberds and pikes, cavalry cut-and-thrust swords; rich hilted weapons with great gold-thread sword knots to them; muskets and musketoons; inlaid and silver chased pistols--all that might be found and carried away after a terrible encounter, in which two thousand men had fallen on one side and three thousand on another, were there, as well as powder flasks and small wooden boxes of shot--a charge to each. And, on a rude table, were laid out various medallions and miniatures, with the chains by which they had been hung round their owners' necks; in some cases bracelets, which men then wore, crosses and reliquaries.
Yet, stranger than all, and forming, perhaps, a more ghastly and grim sight (though Andrew, pondering, knew not why such should be the case), was a huge heap of wigs that lay piled up in the remaining corner. Wigs of all colours; white, of course, the commonest; yet also of black, blonde, and brown. Of every modern form, too, such as full-bottomed,à trois marteauxandà la brigadier.
"A grim sight," thought Andrew, "especially to me, who must have known many of the wearers in life." But, aloud, he said, "My friends, I cannot buy all these things. 'Twould want a dozen mules to transport them, nor, I fear me," and he smiled, "would they pass many of theoctrois!"
"By degrees they could be removed," one of the men said, thirsting for some of the pieces he had seen clinking in Andrew's purse when he had produced the ducatoons. "By degrees. And these at least are worth money and can easily be transported," and he swept his coarse hand over the table, where the medallions and the miniatures and their gold chains were.
"Ay," said Andrew. "Ay! They are worth money. And, perhaps, to-morrow I will buy some. Or a good sword now from out that heap. I could carry a second one behind my saddle."
"They are superb weapons, mostly," exclaimed Muhlenbein greedily, "superb; richly-mounted and chased, worthy of a noble, and with exquisite blades----"
"Friend," replied Andrew quietly, "I know a good sword when I see it. Perhaps none better. I deal in them."
After which they all trooped down the ladder again, the rustics wondering whether they were to construe the remark of the great stalwart stranger as meaning that he was a trader in, or user of, such tools.
And Andrew, going to rest that night in the room found for him--a cleaner one than the place below gave promise of, and with fairer linen on the bed than might have been hoped for--was musing deeply.
"For," said he to himself, as he drew off his long boots, "I would be sworn that one of those miniatures was on his neck as I turned him face upwards on the grass, upon the night I nearly killed him, while in that bundle of swords--but therein I may be mistaken. However, to-morrow we will see for it."
Yet, ere he slept--his own sword laid along the bed by his side and ready to his hand in case of need--he still pondered on what it might mean if in very truth that medallion had been worn by De Bois-Vallée.
"Might mean," he murmured between two enormous yawns, "that they found him dead and stripped him, or that--or that----"
By which time he was asleep.