“It looks like it,” St. Benôit replied smiling. “And so much the better.”
The pair watched eagerly. The rattle of muskets crackled up from the left—the skirmishers, the Pandours and Grassins are out, and every minute it is hotter and hotter work; the smoke drifts up, and through it they can catch glimpses of red-coated infantry falling in, company on company, battalion upon battalion, in the rear of the covering squadrons of horse. Ha! our guns up here have chimed in now, and already there are empty saddles in the dragoons so placidly arrayed amongst the lanes and enclosures, but those stolid islanders mind it as little as a fisher does flies on a July day. Down rolls the smoke, wafting in sullen clouds, shrouding the slope and the enclosures, only broken by fitful puffs of air or torn by red flashes and the dull plunge of the round shot. Yet this is a mere prelude up here, though on our right the engagement has really begun.
“Monseigneur, poor devil!” whispered St. Benôit, “but what a spirit.”
Yes, that is Monseigneur le Maréchal de Saxe, carried in a wicker litter, for he cannot sit his horse. He is dying of dropsy is Monseigneur, but he will see for himself, and as he is carried along he sucks a leaden bullet to assuage his raging thirst. The fire of battle glows in those eyes which Adrienne Lecouvreur and so many women have adored, and it inspires every man on whom his glance falls, so full of confidence and calm is he as he issues his orders, serene, majestic, and watchful. No troops in the world can ever force this entrenched camp he is thinking, and before death takes him he will win another great victory for his master, King Louis. Northwards of Fontenoy is where he mostly prefers to stay, for this is the critical place where by a miracle the French position may be turned, and here he holds the Maison du Roi and his reserves in leash. Those English are such stubborn devils when they are in the stomach for a tussle at hand grips. We must be ready even for miracles.
An hour—another passed. The Chevalier emerges from the drifting smoke with welcome news.
“The Austrians and Dutch are retiring,” he says. “Can you not hear their drums beating to re-form? Down there we have handled them so roughly that they have sought cover, huddled behind Bourgeon. Their horse is broken and tumbled up, and the plain is littered with their dead. They won’t trouble us much more.”
Yes, that is Monseigneur le Maréchal de Saxe, carried in a wicker litter, for he cannot sit his horse.
“It will be the same here, worse luck,” St. Benôit grumbled. “Those cursed artillerymen are to have all the honours to-day. We shall not be wanted at all.”
“Do not be too sure,” André said quietly. And the Chevalier nodded in agreement before he spurred off to carry a message to the King, who with Monsieur le Dauphin is watching the fight near the Hermitage of Notre Dame des Bois.