So, after they had gone a short way, she opened her reticule and held out a small volume.
“Ah, the famous book!” said Raoul, and read off the title: “ ‘Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.’ Il était donc prince, le héros du bon docteur?”
Miss Forrest assented, and Raoul tucked his rod under his arm the better to examine the book as they walked slowly along.
“But he was a captive, then, in the hands of his enemies, this prince?” enquired the young Frenchman after a moment.
“A captive, but not in the hands of his enemies,” replied Miss Forrest. And she explained how, according to the author, it was customary for the children of the royal race of Abyssinia to be confined in a delightful valley until they should succeed to the throne.
Her hearer listened attentively, but he did not fail to mark at the same time the fineness of her profile, and the way her lashes lifted themselves after their downward sweep. How green the boughs were behind her head—and how good the air smelt!
“Well, this Rasselas cannot have had a pleasanter captivity than mine,” he observed at the end of this exposition. “You are all too kind to me here, Mademoiselle.” “All except le gros Mulholland,” he added to himself.
“Then I hope,” said Juliana gently, “that you can sometimes forget your captivity.”
In the flash of an eye the mobile visage had changed. “No, Mademoiselle, I never forget it,” said the young hussar quite simply.
“Yes, the restrictions are ridiculous,” agreed Miss Forrest sympathetically. “What is one mile along the turnpike to a man? You must often long to walk in the fields. And then that curfew. . . .”
They were at a standstill now. “It is not those little things,” said Raoul, shaking his head. “You, Mademoiselle, will understand me, I think, when I say that I did not put on the Emperor’s uniform in order to use this”—he indicated his fishing rod. “Every day I become older, is it not, doing nothing. Eight months have gone by——” He broke off.
“Eight months,” repeated Juliana, struck by his tone. “Eight months since Salamanca, your last battle—and the most terrible, perhaps?”
And there by the stream she looked at him with new eyes, realizing that he was, after all, a soldier, and, amusing and accommodating though he might be, evidently had a preference for a soldier’s life, with all its hazards.
“No, Mademoiselle,” he now replied, “not the most terrible. Salamanca, where I was taken prisoner, was the greatest battle in which I had the honour of participating, but Albuera, the year before, was more bloody.”
“Albuera!” exclaimed Juliana. “Was it not at Albuera that there was that terrible cavalry charge which almost wiped out I forget how many of our regiments in a few minutes—or so I have heard?”
“Yes,” said Raoul. “There was a sudden violent hail-storm . . . which helped us.” And he added, looking away: “You must try not to hate me too much, Mademoiselle—but I was in that charge.”
Juliana was not conscious of any violent aversion. “But I am sure that you, Monsieur des Sablières, were not one of the lancers who afterwards rode down and massacred our wounded! No, I forgot, of course you are not a lancer.”
“I hope,” said the young man, with rather a wry smile, “that is not the only ground on which you are sure of it?” Then he faced her squarely. “To tell the truth, Mademoiselle—and I am glad to be able to tell it—it was not French troops at all who were guilty of that atrocious conduct. It was the Poles who had just charged, the Lancers of the Vistula. But I cannot deny, to my shame, that it occurred. I—I was able to intervene in the case of one officer, and I was fortunately successful; but the Lancers were beside themselves, and it was not very easy. . . .” He broke off, looking meditative—back, Juliana could see, on the field of battle again.
“Oh, Monsieur des Sablières,” she exclaimed, “how grateful that officer must have been to you! Did you know his name?”
“We had no time to exchange cards, Mademoiselle,” said Raoul smiling. “He was, of course, made prisoner, and I did not see him again. I do not even know his regiment, except that it belonged to the brigade we had just charged. But do not let us talk of battles, since in doing so we must realize that we are enemies. . . .”
“Must we?” asked Juliana with a smile. “Even here?—Do you know, Monsieur, that from every officer returned from Spain whom I have ever met—and I have met not a few—I have heard the same praises of—the enemy?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Raoul bowing, “vous me rendez confus! May I say that that sentiment was not confined to one side? Yes, one exchanged courtesies—gifts sometimes; one even had one’s friendships with the foe.”
“As in the times of chivalry!” said Miss Forrest with sparkling eyes. “When I read those wonderful poems of Walter Scott’s—I wish I could lend you Marmion—I feel that if I had been born a man I should like to go to the wars. But there must be much hardship as well as glory. Tell me, Monsieur des Sablières, how long had you been in Spain before your capture?”
“About a year and eight months,” replied Raoul. “I joined my regiment, the Second Hussars, at the end of 1810; it was part of the First Corps, Marshal Victor’s, under Soult. And I was fortunate enough to be present at the battle of the Gebora, in February, 1811. Perhaps you may not have heard of it”—he permitted himself a rather malicious smile here—“for it was an undisputed French victory—against the Spaniards, bien entendu. At the Gebora—it is a river, Mademoiselle—we destroyed the army of Estremadura, and then Badajoz surrendered to us. (Oh, yes, I know that you have stormed it since Salamanca, but we had held it against you for more than a year.) Then came Albuera, of which I have spoken; then Marshal Soult joined Marmont, and both armies lay for a fortnight on one side of the River Caya, with Lord Wellington on the other. How I used to long for the attack!—but the day never came. At the Caya I was transferred to the Third Hussars, which formed part of Curto’s Light Cavalry Division in Marmont’s army, and being thenceforward with Marmont instead of with Soult, I came to be at Salamanca, and so—find myself here at Wanfield.”
“You were wounded at Salamanca, were you not?” asked Juliana. “I hope you received proper attention from our surgeons?”
“I was very well cared for indeed, thank you, Mademoiselle. And my wound was not serious; I was lame for a little, that was all.”
“And how did you come to England? It could not, I fear, have been an agreeable voyage.”
M. des Sablières’ mouth tightened a little. “No. It was horrible. We were crammed on the transport like sheep, and battened down most of the time. But at any rate it came to an end; and the conditions could not be helped; you took so many prisoners, alas, at Salamanca. But I gained some idea of the horrible conditions—which you must pardon me for saying could be avoided—under which so many of the less fortunate of us are rotting in your hulks to-day.”
“The hulks!” said Miss Forrest with a shiver. “Do not let us speak of them. I have heard things . . . no, too horrible! If they are true, they are a disgrace to us, to England!”
Raoul, touched that she could feel for misfortunes which she had never witnessed, and which in any case were suffered by enemies, was about to say something of the kind when he became aware that a man was walking along the more frequented path on the opposite side of the stream, and that he was not unobservant of them. He looked across and saw the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne.
Miss Juliana Forrest saw him too. For the second time since her coming her colour rose a little; for the second time she took an added beauty from it. She acknowledged the Comte’s salutation and Raoul did the same, unable to decide whether he could detect on his compatriot’s face, across the width of the stream, an indication of the surprise which he was probably feeling. In silence they both watched him continue his path away from the bridge, and