courage!" exclaimed St. Georges; "if we proceed thus we may reach Chatillon-sur-Seine to-night. What think you, Boussac?"
On their road the men, as was natural between two comrades of the sword, had become intimate, St. Georges telling the mousquetaire some of that history of his life which will be unfolded as these pages proceed, while the other had in a few words given him his own. His name was Boussac – Armand Boussac – the latter drawn from a little village or town in Lower Berri, wherein his father was a petit seigneur.
"A poor place, monsieur," he said, "a rock – fortified, however, strongly – and with a castle almost inaccessible except to the crows and hawks. A place in which a man who would see the world can yet scarce find the way to study his fellow-creatures. Ma foi, there are not many there! A priest or two – those always! – some farmers whose fields lie at the foot of the rock, some old crones who, no longer able to earn anything in those fields, are kept until they die by those who can. And on the rock a few soldiers drawn from the regiment of Berri – men who eat their hearts out in despair when sent to garrison it."
"A cheerful spot, in truth!" said St. Georges, with a smile; "no wonder you left the rock and sought the mousquetaires. And I see by your horse that you are of the black regiment.3 How did you find your way to it?"
"Easily. I descended once to Clermont, having bade farewell to my father and intending to join the Regiment de Berri, when, lo! as I entered the town, I saw our grand seigneur of Creuse in talk with an officer of the Mousquetaires Noirs. Then as I saluted him he called out to me: 'Boussac! Boussac! what have you crossed the mountains for and come to Clermont?' 'Pardie!' I replied, 'monsieur, to seek my fortune as a soldier. I hear there are some of the Regiment of Berri here. And the arrière-ban is out, the summons made.' 'And so it is,' replied the seigneur, 'only the Regiment of Berri is complete, has all its complement. Now, here is the colonel of the mousquetaires; if he would take you, why, your fortune's made. Ask him, Boussac. Ask him.' So, monsieur, I asked him, telling him I could ride any horse; would do so if he brought one; knew the escrime—ma foi! many a time had I fenced in the old castle with those of the regiment; was strong and healthy, and, voilà! it was done. Even the Mousquetaires – the king's own guard, the men of the Maison du Roi were recruiting – it needed only that one should be of gentle blood, as the Boussacs are. So, monsieur, I am mousquetaire; have fought when they fight; we, of Ours, were at Mulhausen, Turckheim, and Salzbach – "
"Did you see Turenne killed?" asked St. Georges, turning on his horse to look at his comrade.
"Nay, not killed, but just before the battle. Ah! he was a soldier!" Then he went on with his recollections, finishing up by saying: "But, alas! since then the peace has come, and we have naught to do but to dance about the galleries of Versailles and be in attendance on the king and his court. That," he said, patting his horse's coal-black neck, "is no work for a soldier."
"It will change ere long," said St. Georges, "if all accounts be true. Louis is threatened from all sides by the Dutchman, William, above all. It will come."
"Let us hope so, monsieur. Peace is no good to us."
"No! peace is no good to us. My only hope is, England may not be drawn into the game."
"And wherefore, monsieur?"
"I am half English – my mother was of that country. To draw a sword against the land that gave her birth would be no pleasure to me."
"Yet, on the other – and the greater – side, monsieur is French. How should you decide, therefore, if war comes?"
St. Georges rode on silently for a little while ere he answered this question, and the mousquetaire could see that he was pondering deeply. Then he seemed to shake himself clear of his doubts, and said:
"My allegiance is to France. I have sworn fidelity to the king. To him consequently I belong. If, therefore," he continued, "my fidelity to him brings no harm to one whom I love best of all in the world" – and Boussac saw his arm enfold more closely the little child he carried – "I draw my sword for him."
"Can your fidelity do that – bring harm to her?" he asked.
"It might," replied the other, "it might. In serving Louis, in serving France, it may be that I put her in deadly peril. But as yet, Boussac, I can tell you no more."
That Boussac was bewildered by this enigmatical remark he could plainly see. The soldier had wrinkled his brow and stared at him as he made it. Now he rode quietly by his side, saying no further word, yet evidently turning it over in his own mind. And so, as they progressed, the night came nearly upon them, and had the weather not now changed altogether and become fine and clear, there would have been no daylight left.
Suddenly, however, as they rode thus silently but at a good pace – for the frosted snow on the path or road shone out clear and distinct now to their and their horses' eyes in spite of the oncoming night – St. Georges became sure of what at first he had only imagined – namely, that Boussac suspected something, was watching for something – perhaps an ambush or an attack.
"What is it?" he asked in a low voice, as the mousquetaire tightened his hand upon the rein of his horse and, bending forward over its jet-black mane, peered into the bushes of the side on which he rode; and also he noticed that his comrade put his hand to his long sword and, drawing it an inch or two from its scabbard once or twice, loosened it. "What is it, Boussac?" But as he spoke he, too, made his weapon ready in the same way.
"Take no notice," muttered the mousquetaire, "ride straight ahead, look neither to left nor right. Yet – listen. All day from the time we were a league outside of Dijon —ma foi!" in a loud tone that might have been heard fifty yards off, "a fine night, a pleasant night for the season!" – then lowering it again, "a man has tracked us, a man armed and masked, or masked whenever we drew near him —si, si, monsieur"; again in the loud voice assumed for the purpose, "the vin du pays, especially of Chantillon, is excellent; a cup will cheer us to-night."
"Doubtless," replied St. Georges, in a similar voice; then sinking it, he asked beneath his teeth, "Why not warn me before?"
"Oh! red wine, monsieur, above all," replied Boussac, loudly. "There is little white grows here." Again lowering his tone: "I feared to distress, to alarm you. You had the child. Now I am forced to do so. He has been joined by five others at different points since we passed Flavigny. All armed and all masked. Yes," in the loud voice, "and with a soupe à l'oignon, as monsieur says. They are around us," sinking it again. "I judge they mean attack. Well, we know we are soldiers: they should be brigands, larrons! Shall we encounter them, give them a chance to show who, and what they are?"
"Ay," said St. Georges. "Observe, here is a small church and graveyard; wheel in and let us await them. I see them now, even in the dusk."
Swiftly, as on parade, the order was given, and as swiftly executed. The black horse wheeled by the side of the chestnut of the chevau-léger into the open graveyard – the gate of the place hung on one hinge down toward the road from which the church rose somewhat – and then St. Georges in a loud voice said:
"Halt here, comrade. Our horses are a little blown. We will breathe them somewhat."
It was a wretched, uncared-for spot into which they had ridden, the church being a little, low-built edifice of evidently great antiquity, and doubtless utilized for service by the out-dwellers of Aignay-le-Duc, which lay half a league further off, and some sparse lights of which might be now seen twinkling in the clear, frosty air beneath a young moon that rose to the right of the village. In the graveyard itself there was the usual heterogeneous accumulation of tombstones and memorials of the dead;
"Les mousquetaires tiraient leur noms de la couleur de leur chevaux." —
