'Nicola, you are quick as gunpowder; but in what character do we travel? Father and daughter?'
'No, brother and sister.'
'By Jove! a dearer relationship would save trouble immensely. Oh, pardon—pardon me, Nicola,' I added, as her cheek reddened and her eyes sparkled with anger; 'on my honour I will offend you no more.'
Antoine now announced that our nags were waiting at the postern, and in half an hour after this we had passed through Paris together, Nicola mounted on a stout and plainly-trapped little horse, and I on Dagobert. About mid-day we passed the last barrier, and took the road to Meaux, furnished duly with passports addressed to the various lieutenants du roi, or deputy-governors, of which every fortified town in France had one.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MY PRETTY PENITENT.
'This is passing strange!' thought I, as we trotted along the highway towards Meaux, the cathedral spire of which rose above the mosses of the ville on the right bank of the Marne; 'here am I, Blane of that Ilk and Blanerne, a Chevalier of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, and so forth, acting gentleman usher to a French waiting-maid—a squire o' the stirrup to a wandering damsel, and that damsel a soubrette!'
And yet, as these irritating and ungenerous thoughts occurred to me while peeping at my companion from time to time, I became impressed by the grace with which she managed her horse, by her youth, her beauty, and loveliness; and, above all, by a purity of thought and choice of language in her conversation which convinced me that Nicola was somewhat better than she seemed; and from some remarks she let fall, I discovered that her father was a reputable citizen of Nanci, whom the fortune of war had forced into the ranks of Duke Charles IV.; that her mother was dead, and her stepmother, to whom she was returning, disliked and ill used her.
I have said again and again that Nicola was lovely; but as the hours of our companionship were prolonged, and as we rode side by sicle between the long green hedgerows, the blooming orchards and graperies that bordered the banks of the Marne, and were ripening as the spring grew into summer, I began to discover new and dangerous graces and attractions—a lofty bearing, an enchanting purity, that would have graced even the vaunted Marie Louise of Lorraine, of whose far-famed beauty Nicola seemed very proud, and of whom she spoke a hundred times during our pleasant journey, often ridiculing, I remember, the manner and character of Wolfgang the young Count Pappenheim, to whom Charles IV. meant to marry her. Thus I began to forget the waiting-maid, in the little sister of the hospital, and daily took more care of my toilet, pointing up my moustache, curling my hair, &c., &c., striving to appear to the best advantage in her eyes, with what end I scarcely knew.
We passed Meaux, of which the illustrious Bossuet was then bishop, and rode on, chatting and laughing, and quite forgetting to visit, in our characters of an abbé and soeur de la charité, the famous shrine of St. Fiacre. Ouf! the very name recals to me the image of Martin Omelette, and that devilish old historical chamber in the Bastille, from which he was so loth to release me! We lodged at a quiet little inn in the marche, where Nicola's costume, as a follower of Father Vincent of Paule, won her every respect and attention from our host, while my moustache and sword obtained the same from madame the buxom hostess, who soon 'detected the man-at-arms under my cassock,' as she told me with a smile.