ARTHUR BLANE;

OR,

THE HUNDRED CUIRASSIERS.

BY JAMES GRANT,

AUTHOR OF 'THE ROMANCE OF WAR,' ETC.

'He that would France win, Must at Scotland first begin!' Old Proverb.

LONDON: J. & C. BROWN & CO., AVE MARIA LANE. 1858

LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. The Pretty Mask II. A Case of Rapiers III. The Château IV. The Bond of Makrent V. The Countess's Boudoir VI. Madame opens the Trenches VII. Charenton VIII. The Marechal de Logis IX. We Dine at the Fleur-de-lis X. The Scots in France XI. My First Parade XII. The Moth and the Candle XIII. Louis the Thirteenth XIV. The Oak Cabinet XV. Nicola XVI. War XVII. The March from Paris XVIII. The Two Abbés XIX. Tue Campaign in Alsace XX. The Decoy XXI. A Charge of the Scottish Guard XXII. A Dangerous Boast XXIII. The Bastion de Louise XXIV. Montjoie St. Denis XXV. Letters for Paris XXVI. The Castle of Versailles XXVII. Clara's Miniature—and how it proved a talisman XXVIII. Marion de l'Orme XXIX. Arrested XXX. The Bastille XXXI. Number 32 XXXII. Happiness XXXIII. In which I become an Abbé XXXIV. My Pretty Penitent XXXV. In Love with a Soubrette XXXVI. Our Journey together XXXVII. A Haunted Forest XXXVIII. What happened there XXXIX. What happened after XL. The Daughter of Macbeth XLI. Startling Tidings XLII. Vaudemont XLIII. L'Homme propose—Dieu dispose XLIV. Taken Prisoner XLV. Nanci

XLVI. Surprise and Grief XLVII. The Palace XLVIII. Charles IV. XLIX. Defiance L. Rather Political LI. A Last Interview LII. The Chapel in the Wood LIII. The Tower of Phalsbourg LIV. The Count de Bitche LV. The Turret LVI. A Letter to Marie Louise LVII. The Random Shot LVIII. The Sally LIX. The Parole LX. A Rescue LXI. Isabel Douglas LXII. A Midnight March LXIII. The Ambush LXIV. Madame la Duchesse LXV. Appointed Captain of Lutzelstein LXVI. The Castle of Lutzelstein LXVII. Viscount Dundbrennan LXVIII. The Surprise LXIX. Husband and Wife LXX. A Catastrophe LXXI. The Viscount's Advice LXXII. The King's Mandate LXXIII. How we Obeyed it

Conclusion

Notes

PREFACE

In the following pages are narrated much of real life and adventure, with much that is historically true; but these passages I leave to the inquiring reader to discover or to separate. The localities are all described from old works or other sources, as they existed in the time of the hero.

Many of the characters are real, and belong to history, such as the Vicomte de Turenne, De Toneins, Vaudemont, Raoul d'Ische, the Marechal de la Force, the Marquis of Gordon, and others. The Count de Bitche was also a veritable personage who disgraced those days, and his abduction of the Countess of Lutzelstein was a real event.

The story of Tushielaw is an old Scottish legend.

So great was the French spirit for duelling in that age, that many of the clergy wore swords. Thus, in 1617, we find the Cardinal de Guise drawing his rapier upon the Duke of Nevers Gonzaga, and it is notorious that Cardinal de Retz fought a great many duels when, as an abbé, he was soliciting the Archbishopric of Paris.

Some notes of interest, regarding the Scots and Scottish Guard in France will be found at the end of this Romance, in which I have endeavoured to portray something of the free and reckless character of the French court and army during the reign of Louis XIII.,—a state of morals gradually introduced by his more dissolute predecessors, and which, under the Grand Monarque, increased, together with tyranny and misgovernment, until the foundations of the throne were sapped, the old dynasty of France expatriated, and her nobility destroyed.

Edinburgh, April 1858.

ARTHUR BLANE;

OR,

THE HUNDRED CUIRASSIERS.

CHAPTER I. THE PRETTY MASK.

It was about the end of April, 1634—twelve had tolled from the huge dark towers of Notre Dame, and the night was dark and gusty.

I found myself bewildered among the intricate and gloomy streets of old Paris; having lost the way to my hotel, the Golden Fleur de Lys, in the ancient Rue d'Ecosse. In my ignorance of the thoroughfares and of their names, having been repeatedly misled by wicked gamins and practical jokers, midnight found me completely entangled among the narrow alleys that bordered on the terrible locality of the Place de la Grève, the lofty, quaint and peculiar mansions of which towered on three sides, while on the fourth, lay the Seine, whose muddy waters have hidden the gashed corpse of many a murdered man—have swept away the red débris of many a massacre, and been the last refuge of many a desperate and despairing heart.

Against the dark sky, I could distinguish the darker outlines of the steep sharp gables that overhung the Place, with their fronts covered by grotesque sculptures in wood and stone. A few lights twinkled feebly amid the masses of that great pillared edifice of the days of Charles V., named from him. the Maison au Dauphin; and the flickering oil lamps that swung mournfully to and fro, at the ends of the dark alley, cast a sickly light upon the fantastic projections of the houses, and on the whitewashed turret of the ancient pillory and stone gibbet, whereon so many thousands of human beings, during ages past, have died in agony and disgrace.

Here then, in this place of pleasant associations, I—who had arrived in Paris but the night before—found myself alone, wandering in ignorance of the way, at midnight—I, a Scot and stranger, with my whole worldly possessions about me, to wit, ten of those gay louis d'ors (first coined by Louis XIII.), a good suit of black velvet, a fair cloak of serge de Berri, worth about ten pistoles; but having a good sword, that had notched more than one crown in its time, with a pair of steel Scottish pistols in my girdle engraved with my coat of arms and the significant legend,

"He who gives quickly, gives twice."

Moreover I was only twenty years of age—active, determined even to recklessness, and at all times master of my weapons, if not of my temper.

In a secret pocket of my doublet, I carried a letter of recommendation from Esme Stuart, who was Lord of Aubigne, Duke of Lennox, Lord High Admiral and Great Chamberlain of Scotland, to Madame Clara, the mistress of Louis XIII., who had created her Comtesse d'Amboise. In wit and beauty she was the rival of Ninon de l'Enclos, and the superior of the lovely Marion de l'Orme, being one of those bold, artful, and beautiful women who in all ages have entangled the politics and swayed the destinies of France; and on this missive from the duke, who had known Madame Clara in her girlish days, when she was a dame d'honneur, and he a gay captain of the Scottish archers—and had known her more intimately, perhaps, than the most Christian king could have relished—all my hope of success in the French service depended; for by the ruin and misfortunes which their own patriotism had brought upon my family, I was landless, homeless, all but penniless and an outcast from my country—a country where it is ever the doom and curse of patriotism

and purity of spirit to be stifled and crushed under the heels of envy, calumny, avarice, and sectarianism.

The last note of the vast bell of Notre Dame de Paris, had pealed away over the darkened city, when I paused and looked about me.

The ends of the streets and alleys were closed by iron chains, over which I had fallen more than once. None of the city watch were visible, and save myself no one seemed abroad, for I heard no sound save the mournful creaking of the oil lamps, which swung, few and far between, in the centre of the way, or the murmur of the river as it chafed against the wooden abutments of the quay and poured through the arches of the Pont de Notre Dame.

While surveying the river on one side, and the pillared recesses of the Maison au Dauphin on the other, espying a fancied lurker in every shadowy depth, all the old stories I had heard of Paris floated through my mind; for I had been told that there were quarters of the city, such as the infamous Cour des Miracles, into which neither the sergeants of the Provost, nor the officers of the Chatelet dared to venture—strongholds of vice and villany, where mohawks, midnight assassins, house-breakers, cloak-snatchers, cut-purses, Spanish gypsies, Italian musicians, German mountebanks, Jew vendors of quack medicine, and women whose fall, like that of angels, had brought them far from heaven, repaired by day; and from whence, like a living and pestilent flood, they issued by night to ensnare, and waylay the unwary and the wandering.

Then there were lacqueys, pages, nobles, and gallants, who went about masked, muffled, and armed to the teeth, fighting the watch, insulting the peaceful, carrying off pretty girls, sabre à la main, and committing such outrages that in 1607 it was computed that since the accession of Henry IV the number of French gentlemen slain in duels alone amounted to four thousand.*

* Lomenie—Mém. Hist. de France.

I thought of these things, and keeping my cloak well about me with one hand, kept the other on the pommel of my sword.

Turning to quit the Place de la Grève (I have learned all the local names since that eventful night), I stood a moment irresolute whether to take the alley which leads into the Rue Coutellerie and from thence towards the Faubourg St. Martin, when a cry arrested my steps. It seemed to come from the shadow of Rolande's Tower, an old building half Roman and half Gothic, in a cell of which Madame de Rolande, the daughter of a French crusader, died of grief in the days of St. Louis, and which stands at the corner of the Place, near the Rue de la Tannerie and close to the river.

Then a woman rushed towards me exclaiming,

'Monsieur, if you are a gentleman you will protect me!'

'With my life, madame,' I replied.

'With your sword would be more to the purpose,' said she, as I took her hand; 'by your voice you are a Scottish archer?'

'Would to heaven I were! I am but a poor gentleman, forced to leave his own country and seek military service in France.'

'Your name—'

'Arthur Blane, of Blanerne,—but who are they that pursue you?' I asked, while endeavouring to make out her features, which were partly concealed by a black velvet mask, through the holes of which her eyes sparkled with no common animation. By her voice she seemed young; by her bearing noble; and by her gloveless hands, which were small, white, and soft, I was assured that she was beautiful. 'Lady,' I resumed; 'to where shall I conduct you?'

'On your honour, I charge you neither to conduct nor follow me.'

'But you were molested—'

'By two tipsy gallants who, deeming me a grisette, I presume, have pursued me all the way from the Logis de Lorraine; but hark! you hear them,—I must leave you—'

'Alone—alone and here!'

'Yes.'

'Oh, madame, think of the hour, the place—your beauty—'

'Enough; a carriage waits me at the Pont de Notre Dame.'

''Tis well,' said I, unsheathing my sword; 'your molesters shall not pass this way if I can prevent them.'

'Oh! a thousand thanks brave sir,' said she with a shudder on seeing the shining steel, and holding out her ungloved hand.

'Madame, I risk my life for you, and you give me but your hand to kiss!'

'What! do you too take me for a grisette?' she asked with a haughty smile as she lifted her little mask. I kissed her cheek, and in a moment she slipped from my arm and was gone! Her face was more than beautiful; but I had no time to think upon it, and stood sword in hand in the centre of the Quai de la Grève, barring the passage of two men, cloaked, masked, and armed, who came boldly up to me, singing with the brusque air of tipsy roisterers.

CHAPTER II. A CASE OF RAPIERS.

I dreaded being robbed and consequently of perchance losing the duke's letter to Madame d'Amboise—a letter which contained the destiny of my life. I had nothing valuable to lose besides but my life, and, strange to say, I valued it less than my letter. Wrapped in my cloak, I stood with rapier on guard right in the centre of the Quai, while the cavaliers came close up to me. Both were, as I have said, masked, armed, and cloaked; and moreover were taller and, to all appearance, stouter than I. One was singing that gay and lively song in which the people of Lower Normandy still remember the mother of the English conqueror—the wife of Herluin, the Comte de Conteville; and his companion joined vigorously in the gay chorus.

'De Guillaume-le-Conquérant Chantons l'historiette; Il nâquit cet illustre enfant D'une simple amourette. Le hazard fait souvent les grands: Vive le fils d'Harlette!

Normands, Vive le fils d'Harlette!'

'Fille d'un simple pelletier Elle était gentilette: Robert en galant chevalier, Vint lui center fleurette; L'amour égale tous les rangs: Vive le fils d'Harlette!

Normands, Vive le fils d'Harlette!'

Pausing in his song, the singer came scornfully up to me with one hand on his sword and the other on his moustache, saying,

'Pardieu—you saw one of the most inconstant of God's creatures pass this way?'

'To the point, monsieur,' said I, 'what do you mean?'

'A woman—you saw her?'

'Yes,' I replied, still barring the way with my sword.

'Pretty, and with a modest air which would have deceived the devil himself.'

'Perhaps so.'

'And which way went she?' demanded both imperiously.

'My sword is drawn to answer you,' I replied, considerably ruffled by the brusquerie of their bearing.

'Stay, chevalier,' said one, laughing; 'let the poor man alone—'tis only some bourgeois seized by a fit of valour.'

'Peste, monseigneur, I see by a glance that he is no bourgeois; and where is his lantern?'

'You have drunk like a Swiss to-night, chevalier, and cannot see it.'

'Which way did our little grisette go?' said the other, unsheathing his sword with a threatening air; 'say, say, or pardieu, I will spit you like a sparrow.'

'Right,' added the other, furiously; 'morbleu! this wearies me. Run him through the body if you will—he is only an Italian scaramouche by his patois. Be quick with your work; for, sabre de bois! it will not do for you or me, to be caught brawling at night in the capital of Louis XIII. as if we were at home in Lorraine.'

'I am no Italian,' said I, pressing my blade against his; 'I am a Scottish gentleman, and shall make you pay dearly for this fanfaronade.'

'Peste!' said he, dropping his point for a moment; 'a Garde de Manche?'

'No.'

'Pardieu, chevalier,' exclaimed, the other, who seemed bent on having mischief, ''tis only a Scottish Calvinist, who on his way to the devil, has visited our good city of Paris.

'Vive le fils d'Harlette!

'Then, have at you, monsieur!'

In a moment both our swords were engaged to the hilt; while he, whose title of monseigneur led me to infer that his rank was high, remained with his rapier drawn to see fair play—but he was so tipsy that he could scarcely stand.

Our duel was silent, desperate, and quiet on my part; for I was highly exasperated by the effrontery and daring with which these two wild ruffs, regardless of all consequences, had fastened a quarrel upon me; and I was resolved to punish them both severely; but my antagonist continued to talk and sing while making all his lunges, and as his back was turned to a dim oil lamp that swung behind him, he had considerably the advantage of me, and took care to retain it; yet I had no fear, for the famous Count de Forgatz was not a better swordsman than I.

After all I had undergone in my own country—and this all, the reader shall know ere long—the reflection flashed upon my mind, that Fate would indeed deal hardly with me, if I should be slain, nameless and unknown, in a street brawl, and left dead among the offal of Paris, to be carried away to the Morgue by porters or the watch in the morning. The very thought gave new fury to my heart, and fresh nerve to my arm! The sword of the French chevalier was longer and heavier than mine; but thanks to my Scottish education I was no way his inferior in this desperate game; my slender blade, twisted and span round his like a serpent; and after an engagement of three minutes, every thrust he made was successfully parried.

'Tête Dieu! I came too late to the parry there,' said he, as my point tore up the lace on the breast of his crimson velvet pourpoint, and while the blades clashed and rasped on each other, striking fire in the dark, he sang the last verse of his song.

'Falaise dans sa vielle tour Vit entrer la fillette, Et c'est là que le Dieu d'amour Finit l'historiette; Anglais, honorez ces amans! Vive le fils d'Harlette!

Normands, Vive le fils d'Harlette!

'Diable! take care, monsieur, or I am through you—my sword is like a spit in the king's kitchen. Peste! take time, fellow—Death himself could not be more impatient than you. A devil of a thrust that—our little flash in the pan is really becoming quite serious!'

I pressed so close upon him, that once the bowl-hilts of our swords touched and rung; but at a moment, when this gay chevalier, who treated my fencing with such coolness and contempt, slipped his left foot, and consequently raised his guard a little, I lunged furiously within, and drove my sword nearly to the cross guard through his ribs on the right side.

Poor wretch! he uttered a sound something between a sob and a cry, while instinctively I drew back my blade to parry the return his hand could never give me now. His eyes glared and closed, the sword dropped from his fingers, and, deluged in blood, he sunk upon the causeway.

I found myself face to face with a dying man, and this cooled us all.

'Monsieur,' said his companion, hurriedly, 'we have been to blame; you are a stranger, fly!'

'Whither?' I asked, wildly; 'I have already lost my way.'

'Morbleu! you will find it soon enough; to the Bastille, if the watch overtake you!'

This dreadful word Bastille gave me fresh resolution.

'Away, away, monsieur!' gasped the wounded man, half choked in his blood; 'take this ring—' he struggled to get it off his finger; 'oh, Monseigneur le Prince, give him this—my ring; the lieutenant of the watch is my friend—away! I have known a man branded with the fleur de lys, and broken alive on the wheel, for less than this.'

'If taken, show the ring of the chevalier to the lieutenant, and you will be allowed to pass.'

'But we must see each other again—'

'Trust to heaven for that,' gasped the wounded man, adding generously, 'away! I hear footsteps—'tis the watch!'

'Forgive me, Chevalier,' said I, trembling with emotion, 'but this quarrel was not of my seeking.'

'From my soul I forgive you, but begone.'

'Farewell!'

And with this word I turned and fled, just as a mounted patrol of the watch turned the corner of the Rue de la Mortellerie, and entered the Place de la Grève.

CHAPTER III. THE CHATEAU.

'In the affairs of every one,' says a French writer, 'there is a moment which decides upon his future. It is almost always chance, which takes a man as the wind does a leaf, and throws him into some new and unknown path, where, once entered, he is obliged to obey a superior force, and where, while believing himself free, he is but the slave of circumstances, and the plaything of events.'

I have been much struck by the force and truth of this passage, which seems to bear directly upon my own career in life:—to resume.

A long, dark, and narrow street, lighted by only two lanterns that flickered like glow-worms at each end of it, led me towards the Rue St. Antoine; and heedless of everything but the desire to leave Paris, I hurried along the deserted thoroughfares, with a swimming head and a sickened heart.