It was no wonder the Marquise de Montmirail, amid the hurry and excitement of a stag-hunt, failed to recognise the merry page who used to play with her child in that stalwart musketeer whom she pressed her eager barb so hard to overtake. The George Hamilton of royal ante-chambers and palace stairs, with eyes full of mirth and pockets full of bon-bons, laughing, skipping, agile, and mischievous as a monkey, had grown into a strong, fine-looking man, a distinguished soldier, well known in the army and at Court as Captain George of the Grey Musketeers. He had dropped the surname of Hamilton altogether now, and nothing remained to him of his nationality and family characteristics but a certain depth of chest and squareness of shoulder, accompanied by the bold keen glance that had shone even in the boy’s eyes, and was not quenched in the man’s, denoting a defiant and reckless disposition which, for a woman like the Marquise, possessed some indescribable charm.
As he flung his sword on a couch, and sat down to breakfast in his luxurious quarters—booted, belted, and with his hat on—the man seemed thoroughly in character with the accessories by which he was surrounded. He was the soldier all over—but the soldier adventurer—the soldier of fortune, rather than the soldier of routine. The room in which he sat was luxurious indeed and highly ornamented, but the luxuries were those of the senses rather than the intellect; the ornaments consisted chiefly of arms and such implements of warfare. Blades of the finest temper, pistols of exquisite workmanship, saddles with velvet housings, and bridle-bits embossed with gold—decked the wall which in more peaceful apartments would have been adorned by pictures, vases, or other works of art. One or two military maps, and a model of some fortified place in Flanders, denoted a tendency to the theoretical as well as practical branches of his profession; and a second regimental suit of grey velvet, almost covered with silver lace, hanging on a chair, showed that its gaudier exigences, so important in the Musketeers, were not forgotten. There were also two or three somewhat incongruous articles littered about amongst the paraphernalia of the soldier—such as a chart of the Caribbean Sea, another of the Channel, with its various soundings pricked off in red ink, a long nautical telescope, and a model of a brigantine more than half rigged. Captain George was possessed of certain seafaring tastes and habits picked up in early life, and to which he still clung with as much of sentiment as was compatible with his character. He was not an impressionable person, this musketeer; but if a foreign shoot could once be grafted on his affections, it took root and became gradually a part of the actual tree itself: then it could neither be torn out nor pruned away. Youthful associations, with such a disposition, attained a power hardly credible to those who only knew the external strength and hardness of the man.
Captain George’s predilections, however, seemed to be at present completely engrossed by his breakfast. Venison steaks and a liberal flagon of Medoc stood before him; he applied himself to each with a vigorous industry that denoted good teeth, good will, and good digestion. He was so intent on business that a knock at his door was twice repeated ere he answered it, and then the “Come in!” sounded hardly intelligible, hampered as were the syllables by the process of mastication.
At the summons, however, Bras-de-Fer entered, and stood opposite his captain. The latter nodded, pointed to a seat, pushed a plate and wine-cup across the table, and continued his repast.
Bras-de-Fer had already breakfasted once; nevertheless he sat down and made almost as good play as his entertainer for about ten minutes, when they stopped simultaneously. Then Captain George threw himself back in his chair, loosened his belt, undid the two lower buttons of his heavily-laced grey just au corps, and passing the Medoc, now at low ebb, to his comrade, asked abruptly—
“Have you found him?”
“And brought him with me, my captain,” answered Bras-de-Fer. “He is at this moment waiting outside. ’Tis a queer lad, certainly. He was reading a Latin book when I came upon him. He would have no breakfast, nor even taste a pot of wine with me as we walked along. Bah! The young ones are not what they used to be in my time.”
“I shouldn’t mind a few recruits of your sort still,” answered his captain, good-humouredly. “That thick head of yours is pretty strong, both inside and out; nevertheless, we must take them as we find them, and I should not like to miss a blade that could out-manœuvre poor Flanconnade. If he joins, I would give him the appointment. What think you, Bras-de-Fer? Would he like to be one of us? What did he say?”
“Say!” repeated the veteran, “I couldn’t understand half he said—I can’t make him out, my captain. I tell you that I, Bras-de-Fer of the Grey Musketeers, am unable to fathom this smooth-faced stripling. Eyes like a girl’s, yet quick and true as a hawk’s; white, delicate hands, but a wrist of steel, that seems to move by machinery. Such science, too! and such style! Who taught him? Then he rambles so in his talk, and wept when I told him our fencing-master never spoke after that disengagement. Only a simple disengagement, my captain; he makes no secret of it. I asked him myself. And he wouldn’t taste wine—not a mouthful—not a drop—though I offered to treat him!” And Bras-de-Fer shook his head solemnly, with something of a monkey’s expression who has got a nut too hard to crack.
Captain George cut short his friend’s reflections by calling for a servant.