Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

“And so my little rake is disappointed,” said the elder lady, taking her child’s pretty head caressingly between her hands. “She would like to have a ball, or a reception, or something that would make an excuse for a sumptuous toilet, and she finds it very wearisome to sit at home, even for one night, and take care of her old mother!”

“Very!” repeated the girl playfully, while her tone made so ungracious an avowal equivalent to the fondest expression of attachment. “My old mother is so cross and so tiresome and so very very old. Now, listen, mamma. Shall I have a dress exactly like yours for the ball at the Tuileries? The young king is to dance. I know it, for my dear Prince-Marshal told me so while I was still awake. I have never seen a king, only a regent, and I do think Monsieur d’Orleans so ugly. Don’t tell him, mamma, but our writing-master at the convent was the image of him, and had the same wrinkles in his forehead. He used to wipe our pens in his wig, and we called him ‘Pouf-Pouf!’ I was the worst writer amongst all the girls, and the best arithmetician. ‘Pouf-Pouf’ said I had a geometrical head! Well, mamma, you must order me a dress the exact pattern of yours; the same flounces, the same trimmings, the same ribbons, and I will present myself before the Prince-Marshal the instant he arrives in the ball-room, to receive his accustomed compliment. Perhaps on that occasion he will take me for you! Would it not be charming? My whole ambition just now is to be exactly like my mother in every respect!”

As she finished, her eyes insensibly wandered to the picture of the Prince de Chateau-Guerrand, which adorned the boudoir, but falling short of its principal figure, rested on the dead musketeer in the foreground. The Marquise also happened to be looking at the same object, so that neither observed how the other’s gaze was employed, nor guessed that besides figure, manner, features, voice, and gestures, there was yet a stronger point in which they bore too close and fatal a resemblance. Deep in the heart of each lurked the cherished image of a certain Grey Musketeer. The girl draping her idol, as it were, even to herself, not daring so much as to lift a corner of its veil; yet rejoicing unconsciously in its presence, and trusting with a vague but implicit faith to its protection. The woman alternately prostrating herself at its pedestal, and spurning it beneath her feet, striving, yielding, hesitating, struggling, losing ground inch by inch, and forced against her judgment, against her will, to love him with a fierce, eager, anxious love, embittered by some of the keenest elements of hate.

These two hearts were formed in the same mould, were of the same blood, were knit together by the fondest and closest of ties, and one must necessarily be torn and bruised and pierced by the happiness of the other.

It was so far fortunate that neither of them knew the very precarious position in which Captain George found himself placed. Under such a ruler as the Débonnaire, it was no jesting matter for any man that his name should be written in full on a lettre de cachet, formally signed, sealed, and in possession of an ambitious intriguer, who, having no feelings of personal enmity to the victim, would none the less use his power without scruple or remorse. A woman was, of course, at the bottom of the scrape in which Captain George found himself; but it was also to a woman that he was indebted for timely warning of his danger. Madame de Parabére had not only intimated to him that he must make his escape without delay, but had even offered to sell her jewels that he might be furnished with the means of flight. Such marks of gratitude and generosity were none the less touching that the sacrifice proved unnecessary. A Musketeer was seldom overburdened with ready money, but our Captain of the Grey Company not only bore a Scottish surname, he had also a cross of Scottish blood in his veins. The first helped him to get money, the second enabled him to keep it. Monsieur Las, or Law, as he should properly have been called, like his countrymen, “kept a warm side,” as he expressed it, towards any one claiming a connection, however remote, with his native land, and had given Captain George so many useful hints regarding the purchase and sale of Mississippi stock, that the latter, who was by no means deficient in acuteness, found himself possessed of a good round sum, in lawful notes of the realm, at the moment when such a store was absolutely necessary to his safety.

He laid his plans accordingly with habitual promptitude and caution. He knew enough of these matters to think it improbable he would be publicly arrested while on guard, for in such cases profound secrecy was usually observed, as increasing the suddenness and mystery of the blow. He had, therefore, several hours to make his preparations, and the messenger whom he at once despatched to prepare relays of horses for him the whole way to the coast was several leagues on his road long before the sun went down. A valise, well packed, containing a change of raiment, rested on the loins of his best horse, ready saddled, with pistols in holsters and bridle hanging on the stall-post, to be put on directly he was fed. Soon after dark, this trusty animal was to be led to a particular spot, not far from the Hôtel Montmirail, and there walked gently to and fro in waiting for his master. By daybreak next morning, the Musketeer hoped to be half-way across Picardy.

Having made his dispositions for retreat like a true soldier, he divested his mind of further anxiety as to his own personal safety, and turned all his attention to a subject that was now seldom absent from his thoughts. It weighed on his heart like lead, to reflect how soon he must be parted from Cerise, how remote was the chance of their ever meeting again. In his life of action and adventure he had indeed learned to believe that for a brave man nothing was impossible, but he could not conceal from himself that it might be years before he could return to France, and his ignorance in what manner he could have offended the Regent only made his course the more difficult, his future the more gloomy and uncertain. On one matter he was decided. If it cost him liberty or life he would see the girl he loved once more, assure her of his unalterable affection, and so satisfy the great desire that had grown lately into a necessity of his very being.

So it fell out that he was thinking of Cerise, while Cerise, with her eyes on the Musketeer in the picture, was thinking of him; the Marquise believing the while that her child’s whole heart was fixed on her ball-dress for the coming gaieties at the Tuileries. With the mother’s thoughts we will not interfere, inasmuch as, whatever their nature, the fixed expression of her countenance denoted that she was keeping them down with a strong hand.

The two had been silent longer than either of them would have allowed, when Célandine entered with a note—observing, as she presented it to her mistress, “Mademoiselle is pale; mademoiselle looks fatigued; madame takes her too much into society for one so young; she had better go to bed at once, a long sleep will bring back the colour to her cheeks.”