"when the steed has flown"
at first she struggled a little, then all of a sudden she took a different tack, and exclaimed, "how dare you touch me, fellow. you—a common mousquetaire—to lay your hands on me! you! you! let go—or——"
however, i had let go of her by now through astonishment at her impertinence. a common mousquetaire, indeed!—a common mousquetaire!—when, in all our regiment, there was scarce a trooper riding who was not of gentle blood—to say nothing of the officers.
"i may be 'a common mousquetaire,'" i replied, as calmly as i could, "yet, all the same, commit no rudeness to a wandering ballad-singer whom i find in the stable where our horses are; and——"
"why!" she exclaimed, with a look (i could see it by the rays of the lantern) that was, i'll be sworn, as much a pretence as her words—"why! 'tis blue eyes. forgive me; i thought it was one of your men—i—i—did not know you in your great furred cloak. it becomes you vastly well, blue eyes," and the hussy smiled up approvingly at me.
"does it?" i said. "no doubt. yet, nevertheless, i want an explanation of what you are doing in these stables at night, in the dark, when you are housed at the 'red glove';" and i spoke all the more firmly because i felt certain that she had not taken me for one of the troopers at all.
"imbecile!" she exclaimed petulantly, and for all the world as if she was speaking to an inferior. "imbecile! idiot! since you know i am at the 'red glove,' don't you know too that they have no stabling for us who put up there, and that the travellers' cattle are installed here? oh, blue eyes, you are only a simple boy!"
"no, i don't know it!" i exclaimed, a little dashed at this intelligence; "but, pardon me, i would not be ill mannered—only—do ladies of your calling travel on horseback? i thought you wandered on foot from town to town giving your entertainments."
"i do not travel on horseback, but on muleback. there are such things as four-footed mules as well as two-footed ones, blue eyes. i assure you there are. and here is mine; look at it. isn't it a sorry beast to be in company with the noble steeds of the aristocratic mousquetaires?"
"oh, it's 'aristocratic' now, is it?" i thought to myself, "not 'common' mousquetaires," running my eye over the mule she pointed out, even as i held the lantern on high. only, as i did so, i saw it was not a sorry beast at all; instead, a wiry, clean-limbed pyrenean mule, whose hind-legs looked as though they could spring forward mighty fast if wanted; in truth, an animal that looked as if it could show its heels to many of its nobler kin, namely horses. but, also, i observed that its saddle was on, and that the halter was not fastened to the rack.
"well, you see?" she said, looking at me with her mocking smile, and showing all her pretty white teeth as she did so. "you see? now, blue eyes, let me go. i am tired and sleepy, and i want to go to bed."
this being sufficient explanation of her presence in the stables, there was no further reason why i should detain her and i said she might go, while, even as i spoke, i fastened up the halter for her. after which we went out into the yard, where we bade each other a sort of good-night, i doing so a little crossly since i was still sore at her banter, and she, on her part, speaking in still her mocking, gibing manner.
"and where do you go to," she asked, "after this? eh, blue eyes? i should like to see you some day again, you know. i like you, blue eyes," and as she spoke i wondered what impish kind of thought was now in her mind, for she was standing close to me, and seemed to be emphasising her remarks about her liking for me by clutching tight my houppelande in her hand.
"that," i said, "is, if you will excuse me, our affair. good-night; i hope you will sleep well at the 'red glove.'" then, because i did not want to part in anger from the volatile creature, and because i was a soldier to whom such licence is permissible, i said, "adieu, sweetheart."
"sweetheart!" she exclaimed, turning round on me. "sweetheart! you dare to speak to me thus—you—you—you base—" but, just as suddenly as she had flown out at me like a spitfire, she changed again, saying, "peste! i forget—i am only a poor wandering vagrant. i did not mean that. i—i am sorry." and, as she vanished round the corner of the yard into the street, i heard her laugh and say softly, though loud enough, "good-night, blue eyes; adieu—sweetheart;" and again she laughed as she disappeared.
now, all this had taken some little time, as you may well suppose, so that the great clock of the cathedral of st. etienne was striking ten as i re-entered the inn and went on to the large guests'-room, or salle. it was empty at this time of all the sojourners in the house, except the captain, pontgibaud, who was sitting in front of the huge fire, into which he stared meditatively while he drank some wine from a glass at his elbow.
"all well with the horses?" he asked, as i went up to him. "i thought you were never coming back." then, without waiting for any explanation from me as to my absence, he said, "we go towards the pyrenees, by foix, to-morrow, thereby to intercept alberoni if we can. that fellow, that mouchard, marcieu, says he is due to cross into france from aragon. meanwhile—" but there he paused, saying no more. instead, he gazed into the embers of the fire; then suddenly, a moment or so after, spoke again. "adrian," he said, "it is fitting i should tell you what marcieu knows, or rather suspects, from information he has received from dubois, who himself has received it from madrid. camier has been informed; so must you be."
"what is it now?" i asked, my anxiety aroused.
"this. alberoni, as marcieu says, has all the old spanish aristocracy on his side, simply because the king, philippe, is a frenchman. they are helping him—especially the ladies. now, it is thought one of them has carried off the will of the late king charles, and not alberoni himself."
"who is she?"
"he, marcieu, will not tell, though he knows her rank and title. but—" and now pontgibaud looked round the room, which was, as i have said, quite empty but for us, then lowered his voice ere he replied—"but—he is going to arrest that girl called damaris to-morrow morning," and as he spoke he delivered himself of a grave, solemn wink.
"is he?" i said; "is he?" and then fell a-musing. for this opened my eyes to much—opened them, too, in a moment. now, i understood her indignation at a mousquetaire seizing hold of her, a high-born damsel, probably of some old castile or aragon family, instead of a wandering stroller as we had thought her to be—understood, too, why i had seen that piece of rich lace peeping out at her throat; why her dress of n?mes serge, which was a new one, was artfully torn and frayed. also i understood, or thought i did, the strange colour of her face and hands, which were, i now made no manner of doubt, dyed or stained to appear dirty and weatherbeaten, and why the saddle was on her mule's back and the halter loose from the rack;—understood, i felt sure, all about it. then, just as i was going to tell pontgibaud this, we both started to our feet. for, outside, where the stables were, we heard a horse's hoofs strike smartly on the cobble-stones of the yard; we heard the animal break into a trot the moment it was in the street outside.
"some one has stolen a horse from those stables," cried pontgibaud, springing towards the door and rushing down the passage; "pray heaven 'tis not one of our chargers."
to which i answered calmly, "i think not. there are other animals there than ours, horses and mules belonging to people staying at other inns. it is a traveller setting forth before the city gates are closed at midnight."
and, even as i spoke, i could not help laughing in my captain's face, as well as at the look upon it.
