“Quite so. Get into the saddle and come back with us.”
The burgomaster had kept his word with me; so mounted upon a strong hackney, I set out with Power on the road to Brussels. I have had occasion more than once to ask pardon of my reader for the prolixity of my narrative, so I shall not trespass on him here by the detail of our conversation as we jogged along. Of me and my adventures he already knows enough—perhaps too much. My friend Power’s career, abounding as it did in striking incidents, and all the light and shadow of a soldier’s life, yet not bearing upon any of the characters I have presented to your acquaintance, except in one instance,—of that only shall I speak.
“And the senhora, Fred; how goes your fortune in that quarter?”
“Gloriously, Charley! I am every day expecting the promotion in my regiment which is to make her mine.”
“You have heard from her lately, then?”
“Heard from her! Why, man, she is in Brussels.”
“In Brussels?”
“To be sure. Don Emanuel is in high favor with the duke, and is now commissary-general with the army; and the senhora is the belle of the Rue Royale, or at least, it’s a divided sovereignty between her and Lucy Dashwood. And now, Charley, let me ask, what of her? There, there, don’t blush, man. There is quite enough moonlight to show how tender you are in that quarter.”
“Once for all, Fred, pray spare me on that subject. You have been far too fortunate in your affaire de coeur, and I too much the reverse, to permit much sympathy between us.”
“Do you not visit, then; or is it a cut between you?” “I have never met her since the night of the masquerade of the villa—at least, to speak to—”