The lively adventures of Gavin Hamilton

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“You have a bad sprain, and you will not be able to move to-day or to-morrow, or for a good many days to come.”

And too true it proved.

With daylight came an abatement of the storm, but an increase of the flood. There had been many casualties, and as long as the flood lasted there was great danger. The King, who had not slept since he left the observatory, was active in taking measures of safety for the soldiers and citizens; but he did not forget to have Gavin and St. Arnaud made comfortable. He expressed much sympathy for Gavin’s misfortune, inquired how they were lodged, ordered two communicating rooms to be given to them, and desired them to ask for anything they wished.

Their position, however, was highly uncomfortable. Gavin proved the worst of patients from the beginning. He was fretful and irritable, impatient of pain, and made himself much worse by his wilfulness and childishness. St. Arnaud, whom he adored, was the chief victim of his wrath. Nothing could exceed St. Arnaud’s kindness and unflagging attention, but it was helpless to soothe Gavin. When St. Arnaud was present, everything he said and did was wrong. When he was absent for a few moments, he was met with a storm of reproaches on his return. He bore it all with smiling patience; but when once he could not refrain from laughing, Gavin threw himself about so, in his agony of impatience, that even St. Arnaud was a little frightened.

On the evening of the day of the accident, the King sent word that he would come, after he had supped, and see Lieutenant Hamilton. St. Arnaud proceeded to make him ready. He lay on a sofa, his unlucky leg on a chair. He growled and grumbled when St. Arnaud, with the tenderness and dexterity of a woman, made him presentable for the King. As St. Arnaud brushed Gavin’s dark hair, which he had let grow in ringlets since he had become an officer, Gavin snapped out:

“I did not curry my horse so hard when I was a private soldier.”

“Perhaps not,” replied St. Arnaud coolly; “but you must remember I am not used to currying horses—I have had no instruction in that line.”

Gavin remained silent, but only slightly ashamed.

St. Arnaud had a real fear that Gavin would not behave himself properly on the occasion of the King’s visit; but he had not altogether given the complete rein to folly.

About eight o’clock, the King, entirely unattended, entered. Frederick of Prussia had a passion for men of esprit, and at this period of his career, having lost much of his taste for the other amusements of life, he grew more fond of the society of brilliant and polished men than ever before. Especially was this true concerning Frenchmen, who had for him a peculiar charm; and St. Arnaud, on the two occasions they had met, had afforded him extreme entertainment. On St. Arnaud’s part, he perfectly understood how far he stood in the King’s good graces. A knowledge of courts had given him a just appreciation of this sort of favour from princes; he did not delude himself with the idea that it meant a solid regard, and he despised the understandings of those who take the chance liking of monarchs for more than what it is. He maintained, therefore, with Frederick an attitude of easy, but respectful independence, which gave their intercourse enough of equality to be agreeable. As for Gavin, Frederick only remembered him as a spirited but rather awkward boy; however, Gavin’s threat to throw him into the water if he spoke disrespectfully of the Empress Queen had diverted him extremely, and to divert the King of Prussia once was a guarantee of being expected to do it again.