‘But they generally put you into winter-quarters,’ said Konska, not wishing the sentinel to pique himself on his hardihood.
‘No matter; a soldier learns what hardship is. I wish you could see a shot-and-shell storm instead of a snow-storm, or a forest of bayonets poked into your face by those demons of Irish in the French service.’
‘Well, I say it is a shame not to treat you men better who have braved all that. See here; there is not even a sentry-box where you can nurse your freezing feet. Ugh!’ And Konska withdrew, presumably to warmer regions, while the soldier preserved a heroic appearance as he paced shivering on his narrow beat. But a few minutes later Konska, stealing back to the door, saw that his martial friend was no longer at his post. The impish page pointed for a moment in ecstasy to a tavern temptingly visible from the sentry’s beat. Then he darted back in delight to whence he came.
While the snow-clouds were gathering over Innsbruck, and before the Flemish chevalier had put on his surtout, two ladies conversed in low tones in a chamber of the castle, of which General Heister was then the commandant. Only one lady was visible; rather elderly, very stately, and somewhat careworn in appearance. But that the other speaker was of gentle sex and rank might be presumed from the tones of a voice which issued from the closed curtains of the bed. It might even be the voice of a young girl.
‘I hope you will not get into trouble, mamma,’ said the mysterious occupier of the bed.
‘Hardly, if you write a proper letter on the subject of your departure, as the Chevalier Wogan advises. You must cover my complicity by begging my pardon.’
‘I am afraid you must write it yourself, mamma, as I am hors de combat.’
‘That would not be to the purpose, my dear child: the general would know my handwriting. I will push a table up to you; no one will disturb us now till your substitute comes.’ She carried a light table, furnished with inkstand and papetière to the side of the bed, and made an aperture in the curtains, whence emerged the rosy bright-eyed face of a girl–who certainly did not look the invalid she otherwise appeared to be–and a white hand with an aristocratic network of blue veins.
‘Will that do, mamma?’ she asked, after covering a page with writing equally elegant and difficult to read. ‘Have I apologised and stated my reasons for going, eloquently enough? Oh, how I hope that I shall some day be a queen in my own capital, and that you and papa will come and live there!’
The mamma sighed, as swift imagination presented to her mind all the obstacles to so glorious a consummation; but she expressed herself well satisfied with the letter, which she placed on the toilet table. ‘I shall leave you now,’ she said; ‘you will find me in my room when you wish to bid me farewell.’ She spoke with a certain stately sadness as she left the apartment. The next person who entered it was the Comtesse de Cernes’s sister in her paletot, with a hood drawn forward over her face. She only said: ‘Que votre Altesse me pardonne!’ (Pardon me, your Highness.)