Darcy nodded, and the other resumed.
“Well, in some fit of spleen at not being born a year or two earlier, or for some love affair with one of your blond insensibles, or from weariness of your gloomy climate, or from any other true British cause of despair, our youth became a soldier. Parbleu! your English chivalry has its own queer notions, when it regards the service as a last resource of the desperate! No matter, he enlisted, came out here, fought bravely, and was taken prisoner in the very same attack with yourself; but while Fortune dealt heavily with one hand, she was caressing with the other, for, the same week she condemned him to a French prison, she made him a peer of England, having taken off the elder brother, an ambassador at some court, I believe, by a fever. So goes the world; good and ill luck battling against each, and one never getting uppermost without the other recruiting strength for a victory in turn.”
“These are strange tidings, indeed,” said the Knight, musing, “and would interest me deeply, if I knew the individual.”
“That I am unfortunate enough to have forgotten,” said the Frenchman, carelessly; “but I conclude he must be a person of some importance, for we heard that the vessel which was to sail with despatches was delayed several hours in the bay, to take him back to England.”
Although the whole recital contained many circumstances which the Knight attributed to French misrepresentation of English habitudes, he was profoundly struck by it, and dwelt fondly on the hope that if the young peer should have served under his command, he would not neglect, on arriving in England, to inform his friends of his safety.
These thoughts, mingling with others of his home and of his son Lionel, far away in a distant quarter of the globe, filled his mind as he went, and made him ponder deeply over the strange accidents of a life that, opening with every promise, seemed about to close in sorrow and uncertainty. Full of movement and interest as was the scene around, he seldom bestowed on it even a passing glance; it was an hour of gloomy reverie, and he neither marked the long train of wagons with their wounded, the broken and shattered gun-carriages, or the miserable aspect of the cavalry, whose starved and galled animals could scarcely crawl.
The Knight's momentary indifference was interpreted in a very different sense by the officer who commanded the escort, and who seemed to suspect that this apathy concealed a shrewd insight into the real condition of the troops and the signs of distress and discomfiture so palpable on every side. As, impressed with this conviction, he watched the old man with prying curiosity, a smile, faint and fleeting enough, once crossed Darcy's features. The Frenchman's face flushed as he beheld it, and he quickly said,—
“They are the same troops that landed at the Arabs' Tower, and who carry such inscriptions on their standards as these.” He snatched a flag from the sergeant beside him as he spoke, and pointed to the proud words embroidered there: “Le Passage de la Scrivia,” “Le Passage de Tisonzo,” “Le Pont de Lodi.” Then, in a low, muttering voice, he added, “But Buonaparte was with us then.”
Had he spoken for hours, the confession of their discontent with their generals could not have been more manifest; and a sudden gleam of hope shot through Darcy's breast, to think his captivity might soon be over.
There was every reason to indulge in this pleasing belief; disorganization had extended to every branch of the service. An angry correspondence, in which even personal chastisement was broadly hinted at, passed between the two officers highest in command; and this not secretly, but publicly known to the entire army. Peculation of the most gross and open kind was practised by the commissaries; and as the troops became distressed by want, they retaliated by daring breaches of discipline, so that at every parade men stood out from the ranks, boldly demanding their rations, and answering the orders of the officers by insulting cries of “Bread! bread!”