"Ah! Monsieur Stuart," said he with a laugh, "I have been a sad fellow when a subaltern. Tête-dieu! what would old D'Erlon and his countess think of this?'
"Noble senor," said the kneeling girl, in a soft plaintive voice, "ah, if you are indeed my father, speak to me;" and she pressed his hand between her own. "Father, hear me!"
"Father! ma belle. Very good, but something new when addressed to me, and sounds odd. How D'Erlon and his plumed and aiguletted staff would laugh at this! Maurice de Mesmai of the 10th cuirassiers,—the most dashing aide-de-camp in the Imperial service, to be father of a little Spanish paisana. By the bomb! you do me infinite honour. What a very odd adventure! And so, monsieur, my old rebellious gardener escaped the explosion at Quinsay? Excellently planned affair that was! Hand me wine: thank you. Really, 'pon honour, this respectable title of father has in it something very overpowering."
He quaffed a long horn of the wine, which had already begun to cloud his faculties, and he endeavoured by talking in his usually careless manner to hide the confusion that he evidently felt. Maria, who had shrunk from his side, wept bitterly, and covered her face with her hands.
"Diable!" said the cuirassier, turning round. "'Tis horrible wine this. Ah! for a single glass of Hermitage, Château Margot, Vin Ordinaire, Volnay, or glorious Champagne, such as old Marcel retails at the Eagle on the Quai d'Orsai, opposite to the Pont Royal, in our good and glorious Paris. But what is the girl weeping about? You should rather laugh, having just found your father, and found him as handsome a fellow as ever stood in jack-boots. All the girls are in love with me,—'pon honour they are. Some of the fairest creatures at the court of the Empress are dying for me; and I mean to act the part of a hard-hearted dragoon, and let them die if they will. I swear to you, Maria, by a thousand caissons of devils, that as you appear just now, with your lashes cast down and your face covered with tears and blushes, like the western sky in a shower, you are pretty enough to turn the brain of monsieur the Pope, to whom I drink that he may have a long and joyful life. But I must retire. My head is buzzing anew with that sword-stroke. Diable! my gay helmet, what a dinge you have got. But, messieurs, we will talk over these matters in the morning, when I suppose we shall leap to saddle without blast of trumpet. Adieu! mademoiselle, my daughter; pleasant dreams to you. Vive la joie—tête-dieu!" He took up his heavy military cloak and staggered out of the room, withdrawing to the humble attic set apart for himself and Ronald. A long pause ensued.
"There, he has gone with the same swagger as of old,—the polished gentleman,—the accomplished and gallant soldier, combined with the blustering tavern brawler and the libertinism of the perfect roué. He is all unchanged, although twenty years have passed into eternity since I beheld him last," said the curate in a mournful accent; "and yet, when I remember what he was, I cannot,—no, I cannot implore a curse upon him. I carried him in my arms when he was an infant, and he is the father of this poor weeping girl. Alas! from the day that as a stripling soldier he first buckled on a sword-belt, time has wrought no change upon him. He is the same daring and gallant, but reckless and hollow-hearted man as ever."
"Senor Cura, to me this has been a most incomprehensible scene," said Stuart; "so much so, that I trust you will not consider me impertinent or inquisitive in wishing for an explanation."
"Quite the reverse,—an explanation is, indeed, necessary. But retire, Maria, my poor cast-away; I will speak to you of this afterwards. Be seated, monsieur, and draw the wine-jug towards you."
He led Maria from the room, and on returning, seated himself at the table and commenced in the following words:—
"Monsieur Officier, I am, as you already know, a Frenchman, a native of the fertile district of Besançon. I succeeded my father in the humble occupation of gardener to the family of this Monsieur Maurice de Mesmai, at the castle of Quinsay, a noble château, built on the banks of the Doubs, which flows through Besançon. The château is of venerable antiquity, and it is said to have been granted to an ancestor of De Mesmai's by Charles Martel. Ah, monsieur! when I had only my flower-beds and vineries to attend to, no man was happier than I,—François Rosat. With my flowers, my wife and daughter were my sole delights; and when I returned in the evening, after working during the hot dusty days in the garden of the château, what pleasure was mine to be met by my smiling Suzette, with the little laughing Justine in arms, stretching out her hands and crowing with delight at the bouquet of violets and roses I always brought her from my choicest beds. And merrily we used to spend our evenings, for Suzette sung while I played second on the flute, and we taught little Justine to dance as soon as she could walk. My life was all humble happiness then, monsieur; but it was not destined to continue long so. Justine was just sixteen when my wife died, and our old lord dying soon after, this sad roué, Monsieur Maurice came to take possession of the château, and terrify the poor peasantry by the wickedness he had learned in Paris and the garrison towns where he had been stationed: he belonged to the dragoons of Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul. This dissipated Maurice, arrayed in all the extreme of Parisian dandyism, the first Sunday we saw him in church formed a strong contrast to our venerable old lord his father, who used to occupy the same pew so devoutly, dressed in his old-fashioned way of Louis the Fifteenth's days,—his deep waistcoat, silk coat, with its collar covered with powder, and his ruffles and frills starched as stiff as pasteboard; and we soon discovered that if there was a difference in their appearance, there was an equal difference in their hearts and sentiments.