The unfortunate Count had been an officer in the French service, and to all appearance was a very smart young fellow.
In the beginning of February, 1816, we left Paris, and marched to the environs of Cambray; shortly afterwards we were presented with medals sent out by the British government, in commemoration of that celebrated battle; every man who was in the field on the 16th, 17th, and 18th of June, was distinguished with this honourable badge. I am sorry to say this caused many dissensions among the men, particularly some of the old veterans of the Peninsular campaigns. One named Wheatley, as brave a man as any in the service, was unfortunately in hospital at Brussels during the action, and was not honoured with this mark of bravery; whenever he met with badges on what he termed recruits, he would instantly tear them off, and frequently throw them away. For this too often repeated offence, poor Wheatley was tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to three months’ solitary confinement. He was sent to Valenciennes, where the 43rd regiment lay, who formerly belonged to our light division during the Spanish war. The men of that regiment who knew Wheatley, as well as the offence he had committed, not only fed him well during his imprisonment, but at the expiration of his confinement sent him back in all the pomp a hero could wish. He was conveyed in a carriage drawn by four horses, Wheatley’s head as well as those of the postilion and horses, were decorated with blue ribands. On seeing the gay equipage enter the village, we were much surprised, but more so on seeing Wheatley jump from the carriage amidst the loud acclamations of his old companions. Poor Wheatley felt neglected on receiving no medal, and became, from one of the bravest, one of the most dissipated men in the regiment; he was shortly afterwards discharged.
My own company was quartered at Mouvres, a pretty little village off the main road that leads to Douay, myself and three privates being billeted on the house of a rich old fellow named Bernard Loude; he was the richest man in the village possessing upwards of three hundred acres of land, his own property, with stables, granary, waggons, and cattle, indeed everything that constitutes a farmer’s stock. The house, like all others in that part of the country, was built long, with only a ground floor. On entering it, I observed three pretty girls spinning; the youngest, about sixteen years of age, was named Leucade; the next, about nineteen, named Augustine; and the eldest, who was not above twenty-four years of age, was named Julie; they were all attractive in appearance.
After living there some weeks, I looked upon myself as one of the household; and, soldier-like, began toying with the girls: the one who attracted my attention most was Augustine; she was a fine young woman, with light hair and fair complexion. Her manners were playful, yet gentle, and there was an air of innocence in her freedom, which showed her thoughts were untainted by that knowledge of the world, which restrains the levity of youth. Her disposition corresponded with her manners, frank, generous, and confiding; her sisters used to say she was of a most forgiving temper, yet of a firm and determined spirit, and they loved her with more than the love sisters generally bestow upon each other. I now, day after day, became more intimate with the family, and the fair Augustine, whether serious or jesting, was always my favourite. The courtship of a soldier may be somewhat rough; I used to steal a kiss now and then, which my pretty Augustine would check me for doing; yet so much goodness was there in her manner, that her reproof, rather than otherwise, tempted a repetition of the offence. To those who know the inconveniences to which soldiers are subjected in being billeted, it must appear I was now in clover; I certainly never shall forget the happy hours I then enjoyed.
One day, it was I remember on a Saturday, I was ordered on duty to the head-quarters of our regiment, at a small village called Burloun, about two miles from Mouvres. Previously to my departure, the youngest sister Leucade told me Augustine was soon to be married, being engaged to a young Frenchman who lived our side of Cambray, and had formerly been a prisoner in England, jokingly adding, that he could speak a little English. It was customary for me to dine with the family every Sunday; and on my return off guard next day, as usual, I joined the domestic party. I noticed a stranger at table, who by his manner appeared the favoured suitor of Augustine. We had, however, scarcely been seated, when he gazed intently upon me, and suddenly starting up, seized me by the hand, and nearly bursting into tears, exclaimed, “Mon brave soldat, est-ce vous?” I immediately recognized in him the faithful Frenchman whose life I had spared in the streets of Badajoz before mentioned. Returning to his seat, he described to the party the scenes we had gone through at Badajoz, which sometimes called forth fits of laughter, and sometimes tears.
All eyes were fixed on me; I particularly noticed Augustine; she looked more serious than I had ever seen her; she did not shed a tear or yet smile during the whole narrative of her young French lover; but I could plainly perceive by the heaving of her bosom, she was more deeply affected than the rest. He extolled me to the skies, but he knew not the interest he was exciting in favour of an unknown rival. The French I have observed to be a people fond of glory and sentiment, and a story of la Gloire et l’Amour will always excite their admiration. He then related to me the cruelty he had received from the Portuguese soldiers who conducted him with the remainder of the garrison of Badajoz on their march to Lisbon, where he was put on board a ship and conveyed to England. After Bonaparte had been conducted to Elba, he with some thousand other prisoners, returned to his native home. He took no part, he said, in the battle of Waterloo. After dinner I and my old companion parted, having both enjoyed mutual good cheer. The attention of Augustine after this accidental interview was redoubled, and what I before suspected I now plainly discovered, I had won her heart. From this time, we were more frequently alone; and although her father wished her married to the Frenchman, he being a relation as well as in good circumstances, she had never herself been seriously attached to him. The affection that subsisted between us became no secret in the family, and it was rumoured even about the village; at length it burst out in songs composed by the “Troubadours” of the neighbourhood. Her father thought it prudent to get my quarters changed: he accordingly applied to the Colonel, and I was sent to another hamlet in charge of tailors making clothing for the regiment; it was at a pretty neat little village called Saint les Marquion, on the main road to Cambray. At the house of an old widow who lived at Mouvres I still corresponded with Augustine, and enjoyed many stolen interviews. At length, harassed with the remonstrances of her family, who insisted on diverting her affections from me, she determined on leaving her father’s roof, and in the dusk one evening met me at the widow’s, where we betrothed ourselves to each other. On hearing of her elopement, her father unrelentingly pursued her; he went to Cambray and applied to the executor to deprive her of her patrimony, but the law prevented him doing so. He then appealed to the military authorities, and one morning, about ten o’clock, four gensdarmies, to my surprise, entered my quarters in search of her. I was about to give them a very rough reception, and some of my comrades, who were quartered with me, proposed giving them a threshing; but the corporal who commanded the party warning me I should be held responsible for any ill-usage they might receive, then produced a written order for her return to her father’s house, signed by General Sir John Lambert, who commanded our brigade, and countersigned by Colonel Balvaird, our head colonel, Sir Andrew Barnard being at the time Commandant of Cambray.
I saw all remonstrance was vain, and there was no alternative; so accompanying her myself, she was obliged with a heavy heart to retrace her steps. Her reception by her father was most unkind; he confined her in a room, the windows of which were darkened and secured by crossbars of iron, the handiwork of the village smith, whose services were called in requisition upon the occasion. In this gloomy prison she was not permitted to see her sisters; her meals were sent her at long intervals, and scantily supplied; a priest was sent for, who was paid handsomely for trying to wean her affections from me; but the bars of iron, and the prayers of the priest, were alike in vain. She contrived on the first opportunity to escape from this durance vile to me, as we had been clandestinely married at her first elopement by an excommunicated priest; for I must here mention, the Duke of Wellington had given positive orders that no British soldiers should be allowed to marry French women. Immediately on her return we went together to our colonel, who lived at the château of the village, to request she might be allowed to remain with me. On entering the room, she threw herself in an impassioned manner on her knees, and begged we might not be separated. The Colonel, taking her by the hand, raised her from her humiliating posture, saying it was not in his power to grant the request, but he would speak to General Lambert on the matter, which he did, and she was allowed to remain with me. We now fancied ourselves in a great measure protected, but she was again pursued by her father, who one day very unceremoniously rushed into our cottage, and desired she would return with him. She instantly flew to me for protection, throwing her arms around me, exclaiming, “Mon Edouard, je ne te quitterai jamais.” Her father, as if seized with a sudden fit of phrenzy, laid hold of a hammer that was on the table, and struck himself a blow on the forehead with such force that he fell, and remained some time on the floor insensible. The distress of Poor Augustine cannot be imagined, for it was some time ere she recovered, but after this we remained unmolested, and lived happily together.
About the latter end of June, 1818, we broke up our cantonments, and encamped on the glacis of Cambray, where we remained until the latter end of October, when we received orders to proceed to England, after remaining in its environs for the space of three years. The Colonel, who did not know we were married, sent for me, and informed me she must return to her parents, as she would certainly not be permitted to embark with me for England. We now consulted together as to what step would be most advisable to adopt. It was agreed I should go to her uncle, who resided in Cambray, and request him to intercede with her father to allow her to receive part of her patrimony; for, although he could not deprive her of it after his death, she was not entitled to receive it during his lifetime; and, if he consented to do so, I promised to obtain my discharge from the army, and publicly marry her. Her uncle, after my interview with him, accompanied me to Mouvres (a distance of about three or four miles), with the intention of discussing the matter with the father; but, on my entering the house, all was uproar; a tumult of voices from all the family assailed me, during which one of the brothers cried, “Délie le chien! Délie le chien!” Upon which a huge wolf-dog was unchained; but, instead of attacking me, remembering that I had once lived in the house, he came and fawned on me. In the midst of this confusion I expected every moment would be my last, as there were no British soldiers nearer than Cambray. At this instant Augustine entered. She had heard at her uncle’s that I had gone with him to her father’s, and, apprehensive of the consequences, had followed me. Not attending to any other person present, she entreated me to leave the house, and return to Cambray with her. I did so; and early next morning, the regiment being in marching order, I was reluctantly compelled to part from my almost broken-hearted faithful Augustine. It was agreed she should remain with the family of her uncle until I could communicate with her from England, where we hoped happier days awaited us.
CHAPTER XXV.
Disembark at Dover—Shorn Cliff Barracks—I am invalided, and pass the Board at Chelsea—Augustine’s arrival—Sixpence a day—Sir Andrew Barnard—Sir David Dundas—My hopeless condition—Blood money—The Honourable Doctor Wellesley—Mr. Walsford—Augustine returns with me to France—I retrace my steps alone to Calais—To Dover—Dreadful extremes—A new field for practice—A friend in need—Another “Forlorn-Hope”—Colonel Ford—A Rifleman without an appetite—Death of Augustine.