The rose of old St. Louis 26 – Dillon · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
The rose of old St. Louis 26The Comtesse De Baloit Sends for Her Hunter
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
The rose of old St. Louis 26
The Comtesse De Baloit Sends for Her Hunter
DillonEnglish
"Take a straw and throw it into the air; you may see by that which way the wind is."
All my riding up and down the Champs-Élysées was like to have been for naught. We had received orders to be in readiness to start on the morrow for Belgium, where Bonaparte was to make his headquarters while preparing for war with England, and still I had not seen the comtesse, and she had not seen my beautiful regimentals.
My packing was done, my last arrangements made, most of my good-bys said; there was nothing left to do but to take my last ride down the avenue. And this time not in vain! There she sat in her gorgeous coach of scarlet and gold with the footmen and coachmen in dazzling liveries of gold lace and scarlet plush, and beside her, not the stern duchesse this time, but a younger woman who looked as if she might be a less formidable guardian.
She saw me, though for a moment she did not recognize me in my new and gaudy plumage. When she did, her eager look of welcome more than repaid me for my fruitless rides up and down the avenue. She signaled to her coachman to stop, and with a pretty little peremptory gesture summoned me to her side. She seemed to have no fear of the lady beside her, and no doubt she was merely a paid companion, for she ignored her entirely, or noticed her presence only by using English when she had anything of serious import to say.
"'Tis Fatima I wish to see, sir," she said as I drew up by her coach, my hat tucked under my arm. She put out her little hand and gently stroked the white star on Fatima's forehead, and the mare whinnied softly and rubbed her nose against the little gloved hand as if to say, "I remember you well; those were famous rides we had in old St. Louis."
"And 'tis you I wish to see," I responded boldly. "I have been looking for you for many days; why have you deserted the Champs-Élysées?"
She looked up at me quickly, as if pleased with the audacity of the first part of my speech, but as I finished with my question she dropped her eyes and seemed embarrassed. In a moment she spoke in a low, constrained voice, and in English:
"My aunt and I have had misunderstandings. She wishes me to appear in public with a man I do not like. In Paris that means fiancé. I will stay in my hôtel with headaches rather than ride on the avenue beside him!" with sudden fire. Then she added with an attempt at her old lightness:
"But I must drive on. Should it be reported to madame that I stopped to talk to Monsieur, I might have to suffer for it."
A sudden horror seized me.
"Mademoiselle, they do not use force?" I cried. "You are not held a prisoner?"
"No--not yet," she said slowly.
"Mademoiselle," I said, looking steadily into her eyes, "I have tried to see you to say good-by; I leave Paris to-morrow."
I saw her go suddenly white, but in a moment she spoke very calmly, and in French:
"Do you go back to America, Monsieur?"
"No, to Belgium with the First Consul: to Antwerp, I believe."
I spoke also in French, but added in English:
"Mademoiselle, if you need me, I will not go to Belgium; I will resign."
She shook her head.
"No; I am sorry you are going, but I would not have you resign. The First Consul is vindictive, they say; should you reject his favors, he may remember your St. Cloud offense."
"I care not for that!" And then I added moodily, "They will compel you to marry him."
She threw up her head in much the same fashion Fatima throws up hers when she scents conflict in the distance.
"They cannot coerce me!" she said proudly, and then she added, half playfully, half defiantly:
"They tell me I have royal blood; they shall see I know how to use my royal prerogative." She held out her hand to me and spoke again in French:
"Good-by, Monsieur, and bon voyage!"
I bent low over her hand.
"Let me stay, Mademoiselle," I whispered.
"What! and lose your beautiful uniform! 'Tis too severe a test of friendship. No, no, Monsieur," with the old mocking laugh. But before I had time to resent her teasing speech, her mood had changed. She leaned far out of the carriage and threw her beautiful arm over Fatima's arching neck.
"Good-by, Fatima," she cried--"dear, dear Fatima!" And as Fatima, in answer to her caress, drew closer to her, she dropped a light kiss on her soft muzzle, leaned back in her carriage with a signal to the coachman, and rolled away.
The weeks that followed were in some respects the strangest weeks of my life, and often in memory they return to me as a confused dream. War had been declared with England, and in Antwerp, in Dunkirk, on the Loire, in every little bay and inlet that indented the coast from Brest, where a great squadron was gathered, to Boulogne, where another was getting together, ships were building of every kind: floating fortresses of wood, light pinnaces and yawls for carrying the swift van of an army, and heavy barges for the impedimenta of war. A mighty flotilla, gathering from the Scheldt to the Garonne, from Toulon and Rochefort to Calais and Antwerp, to bear a vast invading army to the shores of England.
In constant communication with the great captain, I yet saw little of him, for day and night I was kept riding over the green fields of France, through the beautiful May and June, carrying orders, sometimes to little inland streams where tiny yawls were building, sometimes to great city dockyards where mighty ships were on the stays. And though these were not the deeds of valor I had dreamed of, I began to realize what a wonderful mind was planning all these wide-spread activities, and to understand that a great captain must be something more than a good fighter, and prowess on the field of battle was not all that was required of a soldier.
Yet I began to long for the din and stir of conflict and to see my hero, as in dreams I had often seen him, calm and unmoved, 'midst smoke and carnage, directing with unerring genius masses of men, infantry, cavalry, artillery, through the mazes of battle; or himself leading a resistless charge, sword extended, waving his men forward to victory and glory.
So when an old officer who had seen many wars told me he had no doubt it would be two years before the preparations for war were finished and war actually begun, my heart sank within me. Two years of hard work day and night and no glory! To be aide to the First Consul was not what I had dreamed of, and my thoughts turned longingly back to Paris and the Comtesse de Baloit. All the more did my thoughts turn in that direction because the Chevalier Le Moyne, who was also on the general's staff, had been for some weeks absent from headquarters. I always studiously avoided him if we happened to be in quarters at the same time, and so I did not at first miss him; but when day after day and even weeks passed without his reporting at mess, I began to be greatly troubled. My imagination pictured him as back in Paris urging his suit to Pelagie, and I feared greatly, either that she would at last yield to his importunities, seeing no way of escape, or that some trouble would come to her if she persistently scorned him.
In the midst of my anxieties a letter was brought me from home. The ten weeks were up when I could begin to expect an answer to my uncle's letter asking my father's permission for me to take service under Bonaparte, and I tore it eagerly open, hardly knowing, since hostilities would be so long delayed, whether I most hoped that it would contain his permission or his refusal. In my haste I had not noticed that it was not my father's writing on the outside, and that made it the greater shock to find within, in my mother's dearly loved penmanship, only these few words:
"Your father is very ill; come home at once."
I had never known my father to be ill even for a day. I knew this must be no ordinary illness to cause so brief and so peremptory a summons home, and all my world seemed suddenly topsy-turvy.
I loved my father, but I had been much away from home, in school at Princeton, and in my short vacations I had found him somewhat cold and stern in manner; so that my love for him was more of reverence and honor than the tender affection I felt for my beautiful mother. None the less was my heart torn with anguish at the thought of what might befall in the long weeks before I could possibly reach his side, and how vainly I wished that I had been a better son, and shown him more of the love that was really in my heart for him.
There was no time to be lost, and my first duty was to seek the First Consul and show him my letter. He was more kind and considerate than I could have expected.
"You have my sincerest sympathy," he said. "There is no question as to your course. Your first duty is to your father. I am sorry to lose my officer whom I have found even more efficient than I had expected and for whom I predicted great glory as soon as actual war should commence. But it may be possible you will find your father entirely recovered on your arrival at home; in that case, and should you have his permission to return, your old position will be open to you."
I hardly knew how to thank him suitably and to express my regret at leaving his service, and I have no doubt I did it awkwardly enough. As I was leaving the room he called me back.
"Will you go to Paris before you sail?"
There was nothing in the question to make me blush and stammer, yet I did both.
"I must sail on the earliest packet, sir," I said; "but if one is not sailing immediately I would like your permission to return to Paris and settle my affairs there and say good-by to my aunt and uncle."
"It is no doubt the wiser course," replied Bonaparte. "In sailing from Antwerp you are liable to fall into the hands of the English in passing the Straits of Dover. From Paris you can find a ship sailing from Le Havre carrying the American flag. It will be safer, and you will save time in going by Paris. Should you decide to do so, I shall have a commission to intrust to you."
Since the First Consul advised it, I decided on the moment, and an hour later, saddle-bags packed, my man Cæsar holding his own horse and Fatima at the door, I was ready to start, only awaiting the Consul's commission. An officer rode up and handed me a packet.
"From General Bonaparte, sir," he said; and as I opened my saddle-bags to put the packet away for safe keeping, my eye caught the directions on the wrapper.
"To be delivered to the Comtesse de Baloit, Faubourg St. Germain."
The sight of the inscription gave me only pleasure, and I was tempted to think that the Consul had devised this commission especially to give me an opportunity of seeing the comtesse. It seemed to me an evidence of wonderful delicacy of feeling and thoughtfulness for others on the part of the great general, and I could not sufficiently admire him or be grateful to him. There was no question but that his commission would be faithfully executed the very first possible moment after my arrival in Paris.
It was early morning, the dew still on the hedges and the lark still singing his matins, as we entered the city with a stream of market-carts bringing in fresh fruits and vegetables and flowers for the early morning markets. Only working-people were in the streets: men going to their day's labor, blanchisseuses with their clothes in bundles on their heads, cooks and maids of all work with their baskets on their arms going to the market for the day's supply of food for the family.
Crossing the Place de la Bastille, a man on horseback rode up beside us and gave us good day. He had evidently come in with the country folk and was himself without doubt a small market-gardener, for the loam of the garden was on his rough cowhide boots and his blue smock was such as a countryman wears. I thought at first there was something strangely familiar in his face, and then I remembered I had seen him the evening before at the little country inn, twenty miles out from the city, where we had spent the night. He, like us, must have started at early dawn to reach the city by seven o'clock, very like for the same reason--to take advantage of the cool of the day; and like us also, he must have had a very good horse to make that distance in that time. I glanced at his horse as the thought occurred to me, and saw that it was indeed a good horse. Coal-black, except for a white star on his forehead and one white stocking, he was powerfully built, and yet with such an easy stretch of limb as promised speed as well as endurance. I thought it a little strange that a country farmer should own a horse of such points and breeding as this one showed itself to be, and perhaps my thought appeared in my face, for the countryman answered it.
"'Tis a fine horse, Monsieur, is it not?" he said.
I noticed that he spoke with a very slight lisp, but that otherwise both his language and his intonations were better than I could have expected.
"Yes," I said. "Did you breed him yourself?"
"Not exactly," he answered, "but he was bred on an estate belonging to the Comtesse de Baloit, where I work, and I have helped to train him."
He must have seen my irrepressible start when he mentioned Pelagie's name, for he looked at me curiously with something like either alarm or suspicion in his glance. I was tempted to tell him that I knew his mistress and expected to see her that very day, but I was saved from making such a foolish speech by the fellow himself.
"I am bringing him into the city for the comtesse to try," he said. "He is a very fine hunter."
"Then your mistress intends to follow the chase?" I asked, feeling a queer little pang that I did not stop to explain to myself at the thought.
"I suppose so, Monsieur, since she has sent for her hunter."
We were now well down the Rue de la St. Antoine, just where the narrow street of François-Miron comes in; and as if a sudden thought had struck him, the countryman said:
"I go this way, Monsieur; adieu," turned into the narrow street, and Cæsar and I rode on into the Rue de Rivoli, past the Hôtel de Ville, and so toward my uncle's house.
"Marsa," said Cæsar, as we turned off the Rue de Rivoli, "dat fellah had a gold belt and a little dagger stuck in it under his smock. I seed it when I's ridin' behind youse bof and de win' tuk and blew up his smock-skirt."
I believed the "gold belt" and the "little dagger" were inventions of Cæsar's, for he loved to tell wonderful tales; but none the less was I uneasy and troubled, for suppose it should be true! I liked not the thought of a man wearing a concealed weapon going on a plausible errand to the Comtesse de Baloit.
