"Hold! De Mesmai," said Stuart, interfering now for the second or third time. "I, as a British officer, cannot permit you to persist in insulting a Spanish citizen thus—"
"A dog of an emigrant! I have mown them down by troops,—never yet granted quarter, even to their most pitiable entreaties. DEATH! was the word wherever we have fallen in with them,—in Holland, Flanders, Spain, Portugal, and Italy. When I served with the army of the Moselle, we once formed a thousand emigrant prisoners into solid squares, and poured in volleys of grape and musquetry upon them; while the cavalry charged them by squadrons, sword in hand, to finish by hoof and blade what the fire of the platoons had left undone."
The curate clasped his hands and turned up his eyes, but made no reply.
"You have little cause to boast of that exploit," said Ronald; "but, Monsieur de Mesmai, we have been very good friends on the way hither, yet we are likely to quarrel, if you abuse our kind host thus." At that moment the curate's grand-daughter entered, and stole close to his side. The two officers rose at once, each to offer her a seat, and she took Stuart's, bowing coldly to De Mesmai, who, seating himself in what he thought a fine position, muttered, "A dazzling creature, really. Upon my honour beats Mariette of the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs quite, and will make amends for the loss of the abbess." He raised his glass to his eye, and scanned the poor girl with so intent a look, that her face became suffused with blushes. She was indeed a very beautiful creature. She was about twenty years of age; her eyes had a blackness and brightness in them truly continental. Her teeth were perfectly regular, and of the purest white, and the fine proportions of her figure were displayed to the utmost advantage by a tight black velvet boddice, with short sleeves adorned with frills of lace at the elbow, below which her white arm was bare. Her luxuriant black hair was plaited in two gigantic tails or braids, which hung down to the red flounce attached to her brown bunchy petticoat, which was short enough to display a well-turned foot and ankle.
During supper innumerable were the fine things and complimentary speeches which the cuirassier addressed to the Senora Maria, to all of which she listened with a calm smile, and made such careless yet appropriate replies as showed that she knew their true value, and which sometimes confounded the Frenchman, who thought to win her favour thus; while he altogether lost the curate's by his insolent remarks and sneers at their humble repast—the gaspacho, a mess made of toasted bread, water, a sprinkling of vinegar, spices, salt, and oil, to which, as a second course, to De Mesmai's great delight, was added a dish of stewed meat. After supper the curate rose, and, laying aside his skull-cap, delivered a long prayer, which De Mesmai pronounced to be confoundedly tedious, and for which he showed his contempt by humming "The Austrian Retreat," and drumming on the table with his fingers.
A few stoups of the common provincial wine were now produced, and while discussing these, the curate engaged Stuart in a long conversation about Scotland, in the affairs of which he appeared to be much interested, like a true French priest of the old school. His father, he said, had served in Fitz-James's horse, under the illustrious prince Charles Stuart, in the campaigns of 1745-6. He spoke also of the famous Scottish wizard Sir Michael Scott, of Balwearie, Escotillo, as the Spaniards name him. Ronald knew little more about this ancient Scottish philosopher than what he had acquired from the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," published a few years before, and was not very well able to answer the interrogations of the curate, who produced from his little book-case a musty old copy of Sir Michael's "Commentary on Aristotle," published at Venice, A.D. 1496, a prize which would have thrown the Society of Scottish Antiquarians into ecstacies of delight, could they have laid their hands upon it. The curate informed Ronald that there was a countryman of his, a Padre Macdonald, who resided in the town of Alba de Tormes, and who had formerly been a priest in the Scots College of Douay,—when a scream from Senora Maria interrupted him.
While Ronald and his host were conversing, the young lady had been explaining the subject of some of her drawings to the dragoon, who bestowed upon them all, indiscriminately, such vehement praise, that the poor girl was sometimes quite abashed, and considered him a perfect connoisseur, though in truth he knew not a line he saw. But he seemed quite enchanted with the young provincial, his companion. "Vive l'amour! ma belle Marie," he whispered; and throwing his arm around her, kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes filled with fire, she screamed aloud, and breaking away from him, drew close to the side of the curate.
"How, monsieur! how can you be so very rude?" exclaimed the old man, rising in wrath. "Do you dare to treat her as if she was some fille de joie of the Boulevards or night-promenades of the iniquitous city of Paris?"
"By the bomb! I believe the old gentleman is getting quite into a passion," replied the other, coolly twirling his moustache. "Marie, ma princesse, surely you are not so? The women are all devilish fond of me. When I ride in uniform through the streets of Paris, the sweet grisettes flock to the doors in hundreds. Marie, or Maria—"
"Insolent!" exclaimed the curate. "By one word I could avenge her, and overwhelm you with confusion and dismay."