In the Day of Adversity. John Bloundelle-Burton

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      "What would do very well, monseigneur?" asked the other, looking at him.

      "Pardon me," replied the bishop, and St. Georges could not help remarking how much more courtly his manner had become by degrees, so that, while heretofore it was quite in keeping with what he had originally imagined him to be – a servitor – it was now thoroughly suitable to his position – the position of a member of an old French family and of a father of the Church; "pardon me, my mind rambles sometimes when – when I throw it back. I was reflecting that – that – it was in that year I was made bishop. So you were born in 1655? And how – since you say you have none of that valuable family interest – did you become a chevau-léger?"

      "It is somewhat of a story, and a long one. Hark! surely that is the cathedral clock striking. It is too late to pester you with my affairs."

      "Not a jot," exclaimed Phélypeaux – "not a jot. Nay, tell the story, and – shall we crack another bottle of the clos? It is good wine."

      "It is, indeed," replied St. Georges, "excellent. Yet I will drink no more. Three glasses are all I allow myself after supper at the best of times. And, after all, my history will not take long in telling. At least such portions of it as I need tell you."

      "Tell me all. I love to hear the history of the young and adventurous, as you are – as you must be. The chevaux-légers encounter adventure even in garrison," and he leered at him.

      "I have encountered none, or very few. A few indecisive campaigns against Holland in the year the king gave me my commission – namely, fourteen years ago – then the Peace of Nimeguen, and since then stagnation in various garrisons. Yet they say the time is coming for war. Holland seeks allies everywhere against France; soon a great campaign should occur."

      "Without doubt, when his Most Christian Majesty will triumph as he has done before. But why – how – did you obtain your commission? You do not tell me that."

      "No, I had forgotten. Yet 'tis not much to tell. My mother – an English woman – excuse me, Monseigneur l'Évêque, but you have spilt your wine."

      "So, indeed, I have," said the bishop, sopping up the wine which his elbow had overturned by a sudden jerk while the other was speaking, "so, indeed, I have. But 'tis not much. And there is still that other bottle uncorked." Then with a sidelong glance he said: "So your mother was an English woman. Ah! mon Dieu, elles sont belles, ces Anglaises! An English woman. Well, well!"

      "Yes, an English woman. Daughter of a Protestant cavalier who left England when the Commonwealth was declared. He had done his best for the king, but with his death he could do no more. So he quitted his country forever."

      "Most interesting," exclaimed the bishop, "but your father, Monsieur St. Georges. Who was he? Of the St. Georges's family, perhaps, of Auvergne! Or another branch, of Dauphiné! A noble family is that of St. Georges!"

      "He was of the branch in Auvergne. A humble member, but still of it. I know no more."

      "No more?"

      "No."

      "Humph! Strange! Pardon me, monsieur, I would not ask a delicate question – but – but – did not the family recognise the marriage of Monsieur St. Georges?"

      "They did not recognise it for the simple reason that they were never told of it. It did not please my father to divulge the marriage to his family, so they were left in ignorance that it had ever taken place."

      "And was Monsieur St. Georges – your father – a soldier like yourself?"

      "He was a soldier like myself. And served against Condé."

      "Against Condé. Under Turenne, doubtless?" and once more he cast a sidelong glance at his visitor.

      "Yes. Under Turenne. They were, I have heard, more than commander and subordinate. They were friends."

      "A great friendship!" exclaimed the bishop. "A great friendship! To his influence you doubtless owe your commission, obtained, I think you said, in '74, the year before Turenne's death."

      "Doubtless. So my father said. He died in the same year as the marshal."

      "In battle, too, no doubt?" Then, seeing a look upon the other's face which seemed to express a desire for no more questioning – though, indeed, he bowed gravely at the question if his father had died in battle – monseigneur with a polite bow said he would ask him no more impertinent questions, and turned the conversation by exclaiming:

      "But you must be weary, monsieur. You would rest, I am sure. I will call Pierre to show you to your room. Your child will sleep better at the 'Ours' than you will do here, since my accommodation is not of the first order, owing to my being able to inhabit the house so little. But we have done our best. We have done our best."

      "I thank you," the soldier said, rising from his chair. "Now, monseigneur, let me pay my farewells to you at the same time I say 'Good-night.' I propose to ride to-morrow at daybreak, and if possible to reach Bar by night. Though much I doubt doing so; my horse is jaded already, and can scarce compass a league an hour. And 'tis more than twenty leagues from here, I take it."

      "Ay, 'tis. More like twenty-five. And you have, you know, a burden. You carry weight. There is the little child."

      "Yes, there is the child."

      "You guard it carefully, Monsieur St. Georges. By the way, you have not told me. Where is its mother, your wife?"

      Again the soldier answered as he had before answered to the watchman's wife – yet, he knew not why, he felt more repugnance in speaking of his dead wife to this strange bishop than he had when addressing either that simple woman or the landlady of the "Ours." But it had to be done – he could not make a secret of what was, in fact, no secret. So he answered, speaking rapidly, as though desirous of getting his answer over:

      "She is dead. Our existence together was short. We loved each other dearly, but it pleased God to take her from me. She died a year after our marriage, in giving birth to the babe."

      Phélypeaux bowed his head gravely, as though, perhaps, intending thereby to express sympathy with the other, and said, "It was sad, very sad." Then he continued:

      "And madame —pauvre dame!– was she, too, English, or of some French family?"

      "She was, monseigneur, a simple French girl. Of no family – such as you, monseigneur, would know of. A girl of the people, of the bourgeoisie. Yet I loved her; she became my wife, and now – now" – and he looked meditatively down into the ashes of the (by this time) charred and burnt-out logs – "I have no wife. That is all. Monseigneur, permit me to wish you good-night."

      The bishop rang the bell, and while they waited for Pierre to come, he said:

      "You asked me, Monsieur St. Georges, this evening, why his Most Christian Majesty should have thought fit through Louvois to direct you to stay at my house in Dijon? I shall not see you to-morrow ere you depart; let me therefore be frank. The king – and Louvois also – are in correspondence with me on a political matter, which must not even be trusted to the post, nor to courier, nor messenger. Nay, we do not even write what we have to say, but, instead, correspond by words and signs. Now, you are a trusty man – you will go far – already I see your captaincy of a troop looming up before you. Therefore I will send by you one word and one alone. You cannot forget it, for it is perhaps the simplest in our or any language. You will convey it?"

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