"I shall run no risks," replied Andrew, "but if the woman I seek is there I will reach her. On that I am resolved. Nothing shall thwart me."
[CHAPTER XVII.]
"A WOMAN IS THERE"
Lolling against the doorpost of the yard of "La Tête d'Or" stood Andrew that evening, watching the sunset, glancing his eye up at the crimson glow on the top of the mountains behind the village of Plombières, wishing "Good-night" to any passing peasant who spoke to him, and occasionally patting some child on the head as it stopped to gaze at the figure of the great stranger at the inn-yard gate.
His arrival had caused some little commotion an hour or so before, when he had ridden up to the door--though not, perhaps, as much as it would have done had the times been more peaceful. For in such a period a stranger looking like a soldier, though with no particularly distinctive marks of his calling about him, would indeed have caused a fluster in the little village, to which none from the outside world ever came, except some broken-down, gouty Lorrainer from Nancy or Epinal, to whom the boiling springs of Plombières were known as health-giving, since they drove out, or were supposed to drive out, all the evils produced by wine drinking and gluttony, and gave to those who partook of them a fresh lease of indulgence.
But now the village was full of soldiers, men of Lorraine who, since the Imperialists were going into winter quarters, were straggling back to their homes, or to where they were billeted, and who, as Andrew drew rein in front of the door, were engaged in drinking confusion to the French King, although he was at that present moment master of the province. For a strange state of things prevailed all through it just then. The reigning Duke, Charles IV., hated France, and fought against her under De Bournonville and Montecuculi, while, at the same time, Louis called himself King over Lorraine, and, although most of the nobility followed the Duke with their dependants and threw in their fortunes with his, there were some who, being discontented, espoused, and had done so for some time, the cause of France. Amongst these was De Bois-Vallée, who had been French from interest, if not from feeling, since 1670, when Louis's proclamation of his sovereignty over Lorraine had been made. Yet, had Turenne not prevented the Imperialists from advancing across the Vosges, the French claim to possess the department would have been even more hollow than it actually was at the moment, and the local champions of France would have been in a dangerous position. Indeed, they were in a dangerous one now, since, should the Austrian allies finally defeat the Marshal, Charles--who never forgave!--would probably ruin, if he did not destroy, every subject who had espoused the French cause.
"Is the gallant gentleman on his road home from the campaign?" asked a gigantic Lorrainer who stood at the entrance to the inn-yard as Andrew rode up, a man who wore the cognizance of De Vaudemont on breast and hat. "For sure he is a soldier."
"For sure he is," replied Andrew briefly. "Yet not on his way home at present," and he dismounted from his horse as he spoke.
"Ay! that I see, or rather hear by your accent. You," said the soldier, "are no Lorrainer."
"Friend," replied Andrew, facing him, "have I said I am?" while, with something very like a sneer, he added, "there are other forces engaged in this campaign, I understand, as well as the inhabitants of your province. Also Providence--doubtless in a moment of forgetfulness!--made other countries besides Lorraine. I myself belong to one almost as small--so small, indeed, that probably you never heard the name of it."