CHAPTER XII.

A LIKENESS AND A CLUE.

From Hagenau and Saverne there is a road which, winding sometimes between vineyards and cornfields, and sometimes over billowy plains on which little enough can be made to grow by the Rhinelanders, arrives at last at the River Breusch, and so enters Holtzheim.

It was along this road that Turenne's army had marched a fortnight or three weeks before, and had found the Imperialists encamped between that village and the somewhat larger one of Entzheim; along it once more, as the late October winds blew down the leaves on to the rain-sodden earth below, Andrew Vause was travelling now. Only, he was riding his favourite horse instead of marching on foot with the company of "The Royal English Regiment," to which he had been assigned, and, instead of being accoutred as a soldier he was dressed as an ordinary traveller. Yet, as became a traveller of that day, and in such a locality--for Strasbourg was but a league or so off, and under its protection the Austrians and all their following of petty German princelings were encamped--Andrew was well armed. His sword made music against his horse's flank and his left spur as he rode, his holsters had each a pistol in them, and on his shoulders was a small "back-and-breast," which his cloak, drawn tightly round him, now hid from view.

His second search for De Bois-Vallée had begun!

It was not difficult for him to be thus at liberty to continue that search; the contending armies had gone into winter quarters and, beyond watching each other's movements carefully, expected to have no more encounters until the spring, wherefore leave was granted freely. Already Churchill was on his road back to St. James's and the allurements of the court, as well as to the petulance of the woman he loved so dearly and by whom he was teased so cruelly; many of his regiment were also on their way home, numerous French officers were making for Paris--and Andrew was returning to Entzheim. For from that place, from the spot outside the Little Wood where last he had seen the man he sought, and had witnessed the look of terror that came upon his countenance at Debrasques' words, he intended to seek for the clue--nay, he intended to find and take up the clue!--which should finally bring him face to face and point to point with De Bois-Vallée again.

"For," he had said to his friend as he parted with him, and after all arrangements had been made for his comfort and well-being that were possible in such a place and in the circumstances, "For be very sure I shall find him, Valentin. Be sure of that! Even though I have to track him half over Europe, even though he should take refuge in your mother's house in Paris, still he shall not escape me."

Yet, as he spoke and gazed down at the wounded man, he saw that the latter place, at least, would not be sought as a shelter by De Bois-Vallée. The Marquis's eyes told him that, as plainly as, heretofore, they had told him so much else.

Whereby, seeing that glance, Andrew knew that he would not have to return to Paris to find his quarry.

"No matter," he said. "No matter. I shall find him. Alone and unaided I shall. Also I will find her. Then I shall know all. All, until we meet once more, and you shall be well enough--as I pray God!--to tell me in your own words that I have guessed aright. Farewell, my boy."

And so he went on his way after a tender parting with the youth he had come to love since the first night when he saved him from the thieves in Paris, and after, also, he had made his adieux to Turenne and several old and new comrades.

He drew near the wooden bridge that, crossing the Breusch, led into Holtzheim, as the October evening set in dark and lowering, and with great clouds coming up in the heavens from far down in the south, and he knew that in this village he must find some shelter for the night if possible. Yet he knew also that it would be a poor shelter at the best, even if anyone in it was able to receive him, since it had suffered considerably from its vicinity to the late battle. Indeed, some of the houses had been struck by the cannon balls fired from the Little Wood, and Turenne's troops had denuded it of food, wine, and forage. Still, either here or at Entzheim, he must obtain what he required; it would be impossible that he could gain admission to Strasbourg.

The bridge had already been rudely repaired since the departure of the French Army--which had naturally destroyed it ere retiring--and, crazy as the timbers were, he yet managed to lead his horse across it after dismounting. Then, this done, he rode forward smartly to an inn he had noticed on the day of the battle, an inn called the "Goldener Hirsch."

"What is it you seek?" a man asked, coming forward to the door of this house--a place which, at its best, looked as though it could furnish little but the wine grown in the vineyard hard by, and the coarsest of food. A man clad principally in the ordinary costume of a peasant-landlord, yet now wearing on his back a coat richly laced and gallooned, though stained with dark patches here and there. Doubtless, it had been removed from the body of some fallen officer!

"What should a man seek, my friend," asked Andrew, looking down at him from his horse, "but that which most strangers desire at an inn? Rest and food for himself and horse."

"Strangers! _mein Gott!_ we have had enough of strangers here," and his eyes wandered down the filthy, uncleansed and pathless street to where, at the end, the open plain between Entzheim and this village lay. "Enough of strangers! We are fools to live on this frontier-land and be devastated every few years by these infernal wars."

"You seem at least to have benefited by some strangers," remarked Andrew; "did the last one who stayed here pay his reckoning with his laced coat?"

"Nay! An I had fifty such coats, and all that their pockets contained, they would not pay this fellow's and his companion's shot. Look!" and he pointed to a great hole above the doorway. "That's one piece of their work. Done by a cannonball of the Austrians. 'Twill take fifty thalers to repair. His coat's not worth that, all bloodstained as it is and rain-soaked. Also, all my fodder is gone--the French took that!--and my mare was slain by a spent bullet. Curse the strangers--especially when they come fighting here."

"I am not come fighting," Andrew reminded him. "And my question is not yet answered. Can I and my horse rest here and have food? For me no matter what I eat, so it is clean and wholesome."

"I will see," the man replied. "At least you and the beast can rest--if you will pay for it."

"I will pay."

"Dismount then."

Doing as the man bid him, Andrew carefully tied his horse to a hook by the door and followed the other, his spurs and the point of his scabbard clanking on the frowsy stone floor of the passage as he did so. Then the man threw open a door at the side and ushered him into a room, at one end of which a fire burnt in a recess, the green logs that lay on the stones level with the floor hissing and spluttering under the mass of smoke that poured up the chimney.

"At least I can drink," said Andrew, seeing that three or four villagers were seated at a table near the fire with coarse bottles of white wine before them, "also eat, my friend," and he pointed to two great loaves of rye bread on the table, or loaves that had been great ere huge hunks had been cut, or pulled, off them.

"Oh! as for that," the landlord replied, "if you are content with this you can eat and drink your fill. But," and his eye roved over Andrew's apparel and his handsome sword, "doubtless the Herr is accustomed to break his fast on better stuff than this." While, at the same time, he seized a cup and filled it from one of the wine flasks, after which he handed it to Andrew.

"Good health," said the latter, taking it and raising it to his lips. After which he went on in reply to the other's remark.

"The Herr can eat anything. He is an old traveller. Meanwhile, I will show you," whereon he seized one of the loaves, cut off an outside piece which looked as though it had been fingered by the boors sitting round, and then helped himself to a goodly slice and slowly masticated it, washing it down all the time with draughts of the thin white wine.

"I shall do," he said, "very well. Now for the horse."

Half an hour later one might have thought Andrew Vause had been used to passing his life--which had, in truth, been so full of excitement--in no better way than hugger-muggering with Rhenish peasants in humble inns. The landlord had been induced by him to find a good feed for his animal, who was safely bestowed for the night in a shed; also--by the clink of a ducatoon or so in his ear--to find something better than bread for the newcomer. Indeed, by the time that period had elapsed, Andrew was seated in front of a savoury stew of vegetables and meat, and a better bottle of wine had been discovered--as the host said, "marvellous to tell"--from the depths of a cellar beneath the living-room. Moreover, to add to its flavour, the soldier had produced from a flask in his holsters some choice eau-de-vie, which--as many a campaign had taught him!--singularly brisked up a poor wine when a spoonful or two of it was poured in. And, as he passed this bottle, and a second, round the assembled company, he very soon became a welcome guest.

"The Herr does not say what brings him here," remarked, however, one of the drinkers, "yet, perhaps, we can guess," and the man delivered himself of a heavy wink. "Oh! yes, we can guess. There will be other merchants along this way soon. Ha! _Mein Gott!_" and he laughed hoarsely. "Oh! yes. Ere long."

"Precisely," said Andrew, "without doubt. Ere long." But he added to himself as he passed the bottle round, "What in the devil's name is the fellow driving at? And what kind of a merchant am I?"

Yet, since it had but recently struck him that it was indeed necessary he should be able to produce some reason for his presence here, he was determined to keep his ears open, and find out from the peasant what that reason was. Evidently the man knew a great deal better than he did!

"Oh! for that, no matter. Let the others follow. First come first served! And the Herr has the first choice. He will treat us fairly."

"Fairly, my friend! fairly, my golden hart!"--for it was the landlord who had now spoken. "Indeed, I will. Ha! ha! Trust me." Yet again Andrew wondered on what dealings he was about to embark, and in what way he was to act fairly.

"You see," said another speaker, leaning forward over the greasy, wine-slopped table, and speaking in a husky whisper, for which there was not the least necessity, "it our only chance to recoup ourselves for all our terrible losses. Our only chance. Therefore we must do our best for ourselves."

"Naturally," said Andrew, more bewildered than ever, "naturally. Rely on me."

"We will! Therefore, Muhlenbein," said the last speaker to the landlord, "let us show the gentleman, and let him select."

"_Ja, Ja_," replied the host, "he shall see. You would care to see to-night?" turning interrogatively to Andrew.

"Of all times! What better than the present! Let me see to-night!" and, observing the others leave their chairs, he rose too; though still wondering what it was he had to see. Then the peasants all tramped out of the stone-flagged room and up a wooden ladder, he following them and the landlord, who went before with a lamp which he caught up.

At first he thought this might be some trap--for, though ever unsuspicious and bold to recklessness, his career had made him wary--to get him alone into some room; yet, even as he so thought, he laughed quietly to himself. He could feel his own strength within him, as all powerful men can do--and the rapier's scabbard-point tapped on the ladder as he mounted it; the hilt banged against his thigh! That was enough! Then, as the trapdoor above the ladder was opened, and they followed each other into the room, he understood what they supposed him to be. A purchaser of spoils from off the battlefield!

Piled up in heaps all around--as was plain to be seen by the flickering oil light which Muhlenbein held over his head--were numberless coats, jackets, vests, justaucorps, and tunics, most of them covered with lace; most of them, also, heavily stained either by the rain that had fallen all day during the battle, or by some other fluid. Likewise, there were breeches innumerable, great boots with the spurs still on them, piles of weapons standing in different corners--these being sorted. Halberds and pikes, cavalry cut-and-thrust swords; rich hilted weapons with great gold-thread sword knots to them; muskets and musketoons; inlaid and silver chased pistols--all that might be found and carried away after a terrible encounter, in which two thousand men had fallen on one side and three thousand on another, were there, as well as powder flasks and small wooden boxes of shot--a charge to each. And, on a rude table, were laid out various medallions and miniatures, with the chains by which they had been hung round their owners' necks; in some cases bracelets, which men then wore, crosses and reliquaries.

Yet, stranger than all, and forming, perhaps, a more ghastly and grim sight (though Andrew, pondering, knew not why such should be the case), was a huge heap of wigs that lay piled up in the remaining corner. Wigs of all colours; white, of course, the commonest; yet also of black, blonde, and brown. Of every modern form, too, such as full-bottomed, _à trois marteaux_ and _à la brigadier_.

"A grim sight," thought Andrew, "especially to me, who must have known many of the wearers in life." But, aloud, he said, "My friends, I cannot buy all these things. 'Twould want a dozen mules to transport them, nor, I fear me," and he smiled, "would they pass many of the _octrois!_"

"By degrees they could be removed," one of the men said, thirsting for some of the pieces he had seen clinking in Andrew's purse when he had produced the ducatoons. "By degrees. And these at least are worth money and can easily be transported," and he swept his coarse hand over the table, where the medallions and the miniatures and their gold chains were.

"Ay," said Andrew. "Ay! They are worth money. And, perhaps, to-morrow I will buy some. Or a good sword now from out that heap. I could carry a second one behind my saddle."

"They are superb weapons, mostly," exclaimed Muhlenbein greedily, "superb; richly-mounted and chased, worthy of a noble, and with exquisite blades----"

"Friend," replied Andrew quietly, "I know a good sword when I see it. Perhaps none better. I deal in them."

After which they all trooped down the ladder again, the rustics wondering whether they were to construe the remark of the great stalwart stranger as meaning that he was a trader in, or user of, such tools.

And Andrew, going to rest that night in the room found for him--a cleaner one than the place below gave promise of, and with fairer linen on the bed than might have been hoped for--was musing deeply.

"For," said he to himself, as he drew off his long boots, "I would be sworn that one of those miniatures was on his neck as I turned him face upwards on the grass, upon the night I nearly killed him, while in that bundle of swords--but therein I may be mistaken. However, to-morrow we will see for it."

Yet, ere he slept--his own sword laid along the bed by his side and ready to his hand in case of need--he still pondered on what it might mean if in very truth that medallion had been worn by De Bois-Vallée.

"Might mean," he murmured between two enormous yawns, "that they found him dead and stripped him, or that--or that----"

By which time he was asleep.