"I hope so," she said, "and, _tenez!_ De Blecy is himself of Burgundy; his old mother lives near here--not a league away--send through him.

He corresponds often with her and others. A word to me will reach.

Farewell, monsieur;--farewell, mousquetaire. Adieu!"

Yet the last word was not said; for while the soldier went into the inn yard to fetch the horses and St. Georges brought down from the room she slept in his little child--who prattled in her baby way to him while her soft blue eyes smiled up in his--and wrapped it in his great cloak preparatory to mounting the block before the inn door, she asked:

"Why, why, monsieur, do you desire that no one should know where she is? Why keep her existence a secret? Surely there are none who would harm so innocent a little thing as that?"

He paused a moment, looking down at her from his great height as though meditating deeply; then he said:

"I will trust you fully. I wish her whereabouts--not her existence, that is already known--kept secret until the time comes that either she shall be in safety out of France or I can be ever near to guard and watch over her; for her life--after mine--stands in the path of others' greed--perhaps of others' ambition. My life first, then hers.

I know it, have known it long; until a day or so ago I thought none other knew it----"

"And?" she asked, glancing up at him, while she stole her hand into the folds of his cloak and again softly patted the child's little dimpled cheek--"and----?"

"And," he continued, "I am sure now that against her life, or at least her liberty, some attempt will be made--as it will against mine.

That," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "is why I am recalled to Paris. Farewell!"

CHAPTER V.

THE GRAVEYARD.

By the time that the wintry night was about once more to close in upon them they were nearing Aignay-le-Duc, having pa.s.sed through the village of Baigneux some two or three hours previously.

A change in the weather had set in; the snow had ceased to fall at last; right in their faces from the north-northwest there blew a cold, frosty wind; from beneath their horses' hoofs there came a crisp sound, which told as plainly as words that the soft, feathery snow was hardening, while the ease with which the animals now lifted their feet showed that the travelling was becoming easier to them every moment.

"Courage! 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 _pet.i.t 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?"

[Footnote 3: "Les mousquetaires tiraient leur noms de la couleur de leur chevaux."--_St. Simon._]

"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 _arriere-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, _voila!_ 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed Flavigny. All armed and all masked. Yes," in the loud voice, "and with a _soupe a 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-leger_ 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 spa.r.s.e 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 acc.u.mulation of tombstones and memorials of the dead; here and there some dark-slate headstones; in other places wooden crosses with imitation flowers hanging on their crossbars, covered with frozen snow; in others, huge mounds alone, to mark the spots where the dead lay.

"Not bad," said the mousquetaire, as he glanced his eye round the melancholy spot, "for an encounter, if they mean one.--Steady, _mon brave_," to his horse, "steady!--Ah! here comes one. Well, we have the point o' vantage. We are in the churchyard; they have to come up the rise to attack us. _Peste!_ what can they want with two soldiers?"

St. Georges arranged his child under his arm more carefully, gathered his reins into the hand of that arm, and then, with the other, drew his long sword--it glittered in the rays of the young moon like a streak of phosphorus!--and was followed in this action by Boussac.

After which he whispered: "See! All six are coming. Which is the one who, you say, followed us from Flavigny?"