CHAPTER XXI.

THE WIDOW; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT.

"I was quartered with my company of grenadiers at El Puerto, a wretched village in Andalusia; a poor place it was, that had been rifled by our foragers a dozen times, and we very unwisely made it still more miserable, by burning the best cottages before we were ordered to quit it.

"I quartered myself on the best casa in the village, a red-tiled hut, that belonged to a strange-looking fellow, whose long visage and long legs, great black eyes, yellow trunk breeches, green doublet, and sugar-loaf hat, made him seem half muleteer, half gitano. I believe, from his superstitious observances, that he was the latter wholly. You will know, doubtless, how famous Andalusia is for its women and horses. Ha! I wish you had seen the wife of my long-legged patron. She had the beautiful eyes and olive skin of her native province, with teeth like pearls, lips like cherries, and a face full of the sweetness of the mildest Madonna. Ha! ha! I am growing quite poetical! but wine or love always make me so. You will never see, even on our Boulevards, and that is a bold assertion, a pair of more superb ankles, than the short red petticoats of that Andalusian woman revealed to the pure gaze of your most obedient servant. Peste! I was quite enchanted with my pretty patrona, and determined on sending her husband, tied across a mule, as a spy to the British lines, that so I might be rid of him for a time, or for ever.

"They had a child, too, a merry little brat, with which I often played and toyed, to please its mother, whose heart was quite won by the bonbons I gave it; while her tall ghostly don of a husband stood sullenly aloof, smoking a paper cigar, and regarding me from beneath his broad sombrero, with eyes full of jealousy and malice. Now, as the devil would have it, the little brat had long been ailing, and seemed very likely to die at the time we came to El Puerto; and as she watched her sleeping infant, the mother's eyes were often suffused with tears. This, you may be aware, served but to make the charming Spaniard more interesting; for her melting black orbs seemed to be ever steeped in the most delicious languor.

"One evening I became very much aware of this; and after toying a little with the sickly infant, by tickling its neck with a braid of the mother's long black hair, while I lisped soft nothings from time to time, I departed to look for Jean Graule, my sergeant, to hold a consultation about the safe transmission of the señor patron to the British lines, and with my compliments to the officer commanding the nearest out-picquet.

"The evening was rather gloomy; I missed my way, and strolled into one of those underground vaults, bodegas, as they are called, where the peasants keep their wine in Andalusia. There I amused myself probing the pigskins with my sword, and imbibing the cool balmy wine from the orifice, till, somehow, a heaviness stole over me, and I fell fast asleep.

"About midnight I awoke, and found myself alone in the dark bodega, drenched with the wine that had flowed from the wounded skins; and feeling very cold, with the agreeable accompaniments of an aching head and sore bones.

"By the moonlight which struggled through a grated window, I sought my way out of the vault, up the stair, and gained the street of the silent Puebla, where I stood still for some time to rally my scattered faculties, and recollect where I was. While this passed, a man, who had been concealed under the shadow of a vine trellis, rushed upon me, and furiously struck at my breast with a knife or dagger. My shoulder-belt saved me from the stroke; 't was lucky that I had it on, otherwise I should not have been enjoying monsieur's society, and this glorious wine, to-night.

"'Ah, mouchard, vagabond!' I exclaimed, and closing in a desperate struggle with the would-be assassin, succeeded in striking him to the earth; where, holding my sword at his throat, I demanded his reasons for assailing me thus.

"'To have slain you!' he growled.

"'For what, you base rascal?'

"'To have revenged the loss of my child,' replied the fellow, whom I now recognised to be no other than my worthy patron, the long-legged paisano.

"'Ouf!' said I.

"'Dog of a Frenchman! on the day you first came into my poor cottage the child was well and strong, for it was under the protection of the Blessed Virgin; but you turned an evil eye upon it, and, lo! it sickened; day by day it grew worse, and to-night it died: not even romero at its neck, nor the agua bendita on its brow, could shield it from your evil influence. Son of Satan, I spit upon you!'

"'A pest upon your brat, you insolent madman,' said I, almost laughing, for the wine of the bodega had still its influence over me: 'had you said that I cast evil eyes on your wife, there might have been some truth in the matter; but your child--ha, ha!' and I laughed till the street of the Puebla rang again. 'Halloo, Sergeant Graule--quarter guard--ho, there!' and a dozen of my grenadiers rushed from a tavern to my assistance.

"To Jean Graule's care I recommended the señor, and in five minutes, at the end of a tent cord, he swung from the chimney of a neighbouring house.

"'Now, señor rascal,' said I, making him a mock bow, on leaving him in the grasp of the soldiers, 'I will go and console your pretty wife for the loss of her child, and more particularly that of her amiable spouse. Both are so easily replaced, that I would recommend you to die in peace, my jovial pagan.'

"'My wife, my wife!' said he, in a terrible voice, striking his breast and looking upwards. 'El Santo de los Santos--Holy of Holies, forgive me.'

"'Console yourself, my friend,' said I, while Jean Graule and the soldiers laughed till their belts nearly burst. 'Console yourself, señor paisano, for your little wife shall laugh and be merry to-night.'

"'She waits you,' said he, with a frightful smile. Diable! methinks I can see his white face, as he grinned, like a shark, in the moonlight; 'She awaits you.'

"Graule dragged him off.

"I hurried to the cottage of the paisano; but, mon Dieu, what a sight awaited me!

"On her bed, a miserable mat, lay the beautiful Andalusian girl, stone dead; stabbed by a poniard thrice in the neck, and her little infant, also dead, lay in her arms, pressed to her crimson bosom. In the first gust of my fury I rushed out to slay the jealous perpetrator of this horror; but he had, as I have already said, paid the debt of nature, and his dying form was wavering in the moonlight from the gable-end of a neighbouring house.

"Bah! there is always something in this reminiscence that makes me dismal--but let me think no more of it."

And draining his glass of champagne, the gay St. Florian began to hum an old camp song, beating time with his fingers on the well-polished table. Though this episode of his life rather decreased my admiration for this gay fellow, still the jaunty manner in which he related it somewhat amused me.

With the pretty Janette he appeared to be an old-established friend; and a great deal of flirting, and that kind of conversation which consists of pretty trifles, ensued each time she appeared on the ringing of the bell. But the ci-devant grenadier of Napoleon was doubtless on the same easy footing with all the waiteresses and shop-girls in every warehouse, cabaret, and café in and about Paris.

As the night was rather chilly, I proposed that we should have some mulled port, spiced with cloves and sugar, in a mode I had often had it prepared at Madrid by an old patrona on whom I was billeted.

St. Florian's countenance changed at the mention of the mulled wine, and with ill-concealed disgust and precipitation he protested against it, swearing by the head of the Pope, that although he never drank water when anything better could be had, he would rather drink it out of a ditch, after a brigade of horse had passed through it, than taste mulled wine of any kind.

"And why so?" I asked, astonished by his vehemence.

"Sacre nom--'tis another long story; but Chataigneur, of the 23rd, and I, were as nearly brought to the threshold of death as may be by some muddy liquor called mulled port, and I never could look upon it, or think of it, with any degree of patience. You will find the story in all the French and Spanish newspapers. Ouf! it made a devil of a noise in the army."

"I should be glad to hear it," said I, touching the bell-rope; "but in the meantime----"

"We will have some more champagne. Yes, the champagne of the Oriflamme is delicious. I have drunk a tun here, I believe--aye, in this very room, with Jacques Chataigneur. There are some caricatures of Monsieur Vellainton which he chalked on the wall. Poor Jacques! a shot from that cursed Chateau of Hougomont passed through his heart, when, sword in hand, he was leading on the grenadiers of the great Emperor to conquest or to death. He fell within a yard of me, prone over his horse's crupper, and his last words were--'To the charge, to the charge! Vive l'Empereur!' If true courage and bravery are rewarded in heaven--but, ma foi! I am growing quite pathetic. Where is the wine? Janette," he cried, down the passage, "Janette, my princess!"

"Ah oui, monsieur--me voila!" replied the girl, running in.

"My dear girl, let us have some champagne, a few more cigars, and a nice little tray of grapes, or bon-bons; but let the wine be bright as your own eyes, my wanton."

The girl was tripping away.

"But halt, Janette," he added, catching her by the skirt; "how long is it since a rough moustache has been pressed to that pretty cheek of yours?"

"Monsieur St. Florian, you are pleased to be very rude."

"Come, coquette, do not affect to mistake pure admiration for rudeness. Now you owe one salute, my pretty Janette, for remember how you fled from me last night on the Quai de la Conference."

"Well, then, one only," said she, tendering her cheek, which was slightly rouged.

St. Florian stole three.

"Ah treacherous!" exclaimed the girl, striking him playfully with her hand, and skipping away.

"Peste!" said the captain, twirling his moustache; "but your little fingers smart, my pretty one."

"Now for the other story, Monsieur St. Florian," said I, when the bright wine sparkled in the tall glasses, and our fair attendant had withdrawn. "I would fain learn why an old soldier dislikes any sort of wine. I have often drank ditch-water on the line of march, and have gladly filled my canteen from the ruts of the artillery wheels----"

"And so have I a thousand times, but my dislike to mulled port arises from something more than mere prejudice--bah! this is worth an ocean of a muddy drench, boiled in a kettle with sugar and cloves. See how it sparkles when the glass is raised to the light. Ma foi! 't is like a glass full of diamonds. We shall drink to the emperor."

"I have no objection."

"I hope the door is closed, though. Paris is such a city for espionage, police, and informers: Ouf! but 'Vive l'Empereur Napoleon!'" and he drained his long glass, while his dark eyes flashed with enthusiasm.

"Long life to him!" said I, with a frankness that won the Frenchman's heart; "and now let me know the cause of this horror of mulled wine."

"Perhaps you have already heard it. I well remember that it made a deuced noise at the time it occurred, and, save the maid of Zaragossa, there never was a woman so extolled by the Spaniards as she of whom I am about to speak,--

"THE WIDOW OF MADRID;"

for so he named the following story.

"It was in the month of December, when the immortal emperor and the victorious army of France captured Madrid, that Jacques Chataigneur, four officers of the Imperial Guard, and myself, were quartered, or rather, according to the unceremonious custom of war in the like cases, took the liberty of quartering ourselves, on a house in one of the most fashionable streets in the city.

"Every place within the walls was full of our troops; horse and foot were swarming in tens of thousands; the red rosette and the banner of Castile and Leon had disappeared; the French eagle soared in triumph over the capital of the Spaniards. Every house, from the great palace of the Duke d'Ossuna to the poorest casa on the margin of the Manzanares, was undergoing a strict investigation, to discover where Messieurs the Spaniards had hid their doubloons and other valuables, for which the pouches and haversacks of our soldiers were yawning.

"Our fellows were rather riotous, especially about the cafés and wine-houses, where every man drank his fill, without being at the expense of a single sou. The city was involved in chaos and uproar. Merci! 't was such a hubbub as you in all your service can never have witnessed; for, what with disarming the men, and running after pretty women, searching for wine, provisions, and plunder, our soldiers had quite enough of business on their hands.

"The house which we honoured with our presence, on this auspicious occasion, was a handsome mansion, with broad balconies, and lofty saloons, having gilded ceilings, tiled floors, and rich furniture; and you may imagine how acceptable the splendid bed-chambers were to us, who had been under canvas for months.

"It belonged to Donna Elvira de Almeria, whose family had just been reduced to one daughter, by the unexpected deaths of her husband and three sons, who had fallen on the previous day sword in hand, as she told us, like true cavaliers, defending the palace of the Betiro, which had been breached by the cannon of the Marshal Duke of Belluno; but the ghastly gap had been defended with admirable resolution and bravery by the Spaniards; so the soldiers of the emperor, petulant at all times, were somewhat exasperated in consequence.

"We, ourselves, were ripe for mischief, and I cannot rehearse all the fine things we did in our ramble through the city that night: I beseech you to suppose them.

"The household of the Donna Elvira were, as may be imagined, overwhelmed with terror and grief by the misfortune which war had brought upon them; and their condition was in no way soothed or ameliorated by our appearance among them, blackened with powder and smoke, and bespattered with blood and dust, for we had hewn our way in by the breach at the Retiro.

"The ladies were both handsome, but more especially the daughter Virginia, a timid girl of about fifteen; and at these years a Spaniard is almost a woman. Her tears, I blush to say, made little impression on me, but her beauty had a great effect on as all. However, drunk as we were, we remembered Chataigneur was our senior officer, and that his pleasure must be known before the officer next in rank presumed to open the trenches; or, in other words, address the ladies in the language of gallantry.

"Jacques was a child of the revolution, an iron-hearted soldier, penetrable only to steel and lead--half fox, half wolf; to anything soft or sentimental, he was immovable as a cannon-ball. It was said in the 23rd, that he had done some terrible things in La Vendée, and certainly his more recent campaigns in Holland and Italy had taught him to view with the coolness of a stoic the blood of the bravest men and the tears of the most beautiful women.

"Peste! he was a true philosopher, and one might march from Dunkirk to Damascus without meeting such another. He was never troubled with any unpleasant qualms of conscience--not he, because, like most of those fierce soldiers, who had been trained and nurtured amid the horrors of the revolution, he believed in neither God nor devil, heaven nor hell, and, consequently, cared not a straw for any of them."

"A pretty picture of your friend and comrade," said I, with a smile.

"Peste! yes. He should have appointed me to write his epitaph. Chataigneur was the man it was a pleasure to follow to the breach or battle-field; for he cared as little for riding headlong on the charged bayonets of a solid square, or manoeuvring his regiment under a storm of grape-shot, as for handing his partner through the figures of a quadrille. But, to return. The ladies, on perceiving us enter their mansion uninvited, gave us a specimen of Spanish hauteur, by retiring to a distant apartment, and leaving us to provide for ourselves.

"This we were not long in doing. The servants had fled; but Chataigneur ordered three grenadiers of the 23rd, who were in attendance upon us, to break down the doors of the cellars and other repositories: thus, in the twinkling of an eye, we had the sherry, the Malaga, and the Ciudad Real of the old beldame in abundance.

"We installed ourselves in the finest saloon of the mansion, while messieurs our servants possessed themselves of the kitchen, where they stripped off their accoutrements and coats, piled half-a-dozen shutters, a door, and a chair or two on the hearth; and so zealous were they in preparing a repast for us, that the rascals nearly set the house on fire. All the pantries were laid under contribution, and large conscriptions were levied on the poultry-yard, and we were soon as merry as magnificent quarters, a plenteous supper, and wine ad libitum, without having a sou to pay for them all, could make us. We drank deadly bumpers in honour of the emperor, to the success of his armies, to ourselves, to the continuation of the war, to the girls we had left behind us in beautiful France, and the devil alone knows what more. Oh, the exquisite delights of living at free quarters in an enemy's country! Vive la joie! I need not expatiate upon them to you, for I heard of your pretty doings after Badajoz fell."

"They could not compare with yours at Madrid."

"You shall hear. 'In the ardour of our attack upon the savoury viands,' said the Chevalier de Vivancourt, a gay sub-lieutenant of the guard, 'we are quite forgetting the ladies!'

"'Mon Dieu! yes--what negligence!' said one or two ironically.

"'I shall make amends for our ungallantry,' said Chataigneur, starting up and staggering unsteadily; for he had enough of Ciudad Real under his belt to have served even a German. 'Hola! Pierre, Jean Graule, where are the ladies, just now--eh? the sour-visaged madame and plump little mademoiselle?'

"'Shall I have the honour of conducting them to the presence of monsieur?' said our sergeant, giving his military salute. 'The mother----'

"'Oh the devil take the mother, or you may have her yourself, honest Jean.'

"The sergeant bowed, and grinned.

"'But sabre de bois! 't is the little daughter I want,' said Chataigneur.

"'They are at prayer in their little oratory, I believe,' urged the chevalier, who was the least wicked among us.

"'Praying!' reiterated Jacques with intense disgust; 'I shall soon change their cheer. Are there any guitars or mandolins here? The girl--what's her name? Virginia shall bear us company in a merry chorus, or shall ride the cheval de bois with a vengeance.'

"'Let us have her by all means,' said one of the Imperial guardsmen; 'we must teach this young creature the first rudiments of love and coquetry.'

"'Will some of you lend a hand to undo the clasp of this infernal sword-belt?' grumbled Jacques, who was very tipsy. 'Avaunt, Jean Graule, thou art drunk, man! Vivancourt, most redoubtable chevalier of the immortal legion of honour, lend me thine aid. Corboeuf! I am swollen like a huge tortoise with Ciudal Real. Now, messieurs, remember that I am the senior officer here, and that whoever follows me does so at his peril.'

"And half-dancing, half staggering, he swaggered out of the room accompanied by Jean Graule.

"We continued to enjoy ourselves with supreme nonchalance, for the Imperial Guard and the 23rd Grenadiers were the most reckless routiers in the army. Believe me, we were too much accustomed to storming to trouble ourselves much about the little Spanish girl; but I am forgetting that you are not a Frenchman; so, fearing to shock your cold British prejudices, I will, as the novelists say, draw a veil over what passed;" and M. de St. Florian smiled complacently as he emptied and refilled his glass.

"Is it possible!" I exclaimed, with something of incredulity in my manner; "is it possible that brave soldiers, and gentlemen of France--France, once so famous for its spirit of honour and chivalry--could behave thus?"

"Monsieur, my word is never doubted," replied the other good-humouredly; "how could you expect us to behave like saints or apostles, or perhaps like the cool stoics that compose a regiment of kilts?

"Chataigneur was absent with Jean Graule about an hour, during which time we scarcely missed him, so closely did we pay court to the glittering decanters and bloated pig-skins, which we laid under contribution without mercy. The wax lights, were becoming double; the saloon was beginning to swim around us; and we were in the very midst of singing the carmagnole in full chorus, at the utmost pitch of our lungs, each having his drawn sabre in his right hand, and a mantling cup in his left, when the door was dashed open and Jacques Chataigneur entered, with Donna Elvira supported on one arm, and her daughter Donna Virginia on the other.

"With a triumphant and scornful air, he led or rather half dragged them in, and forced them to sit down at table with us.

"Although being so tipsy that I could scarcely know whether my head or heels were uppermost, I can still remember the terrible expression depicted in the faces of these two ladies. The mother's wore the fury and rage of a tigress; the blood seemed to boil in the swollen veins of her temples, and her large black Spanish eyes shot fire from time to time as she surveyed us. Her daughter's appeared the very reverse, and her face expressed only the darkness of despair.

"She was very beautiful; her long black hair was loosened from its braids, and hung matted in disorder about her shoulders, and half concealed her face, which was pale as death. Her eyes--you will remember the splendid eyes of the Spanish girls--her eyes were bloodshot and red with weeping; their expression was wild, wandering, insane; and there was a chilling air of desolation and abandonment in her grief that had, indeed, a very considerable effect on me (for I am not altogether such a bad fellow as monsieur may suppose me), although her utter despair had none on Chataigneur and my more intoxicated companions.

"Her lips were quivering, and her graceful Spanish dress, her long veil particularly, was torn to ribands.

"'Messieurs,' said Chataigneur, bowing with an air of mock politeness; 'I am permitted to have the high honour of introducing you to the notice of Donna Elvira de Almeria, widow of a very brave Caballero y Procuradore of new Castile, and her daughter the enchanting Virginia, whom, as I have two ladies who equally claim the title of Madame la Colonel, I shall advance to the ancient Spanish dignity of being my Barragano,* which will square all matters between us, so Vive la joie! let us drink and be merry!'

* See "Essayo Historico Critico on the Ancient Legislation, &c., &c., of Castile and Leon," 4to., Madrid, 1808, for this term.

"The eyes of the Spaniards absolutely glared as he spoke."

"The scoundrel!" I exclaimed, becoming excited by this revolting narrative. "Would to heaven that I had been there with a few of my English hussars."

"That would have availed little," replied St. Florian, pouring out his wine with slow sang froid; "every street and house within the trenches was swarming with our soldiers; and such scenes as that I have described were innumerable."

"Excuse me, Monsieur le Capitaine; but I must pronounce your comrade to have been a finished rascal."

"Peste!" muttered the Frenchman, half angrily; and then he continued, while laughing and twirling his moustache, "Opinion is the queen of the world--'t is a proverb we have, and a true one. But poor Chataigneur is gone now, and I must not hear him abused.

"But, to continue. The excitement of the preceding day's fighting, and the quantity of wine we had drunk, rendered us insensible to the distresses of these poor women; and with shame and sorrow I now remember that we permitted Chataigneur, by dint of many a savage threat, to compel them to assume their guitars and sing in accompaniment, while we chaunted a bacchanalian ditty suited only for the meridian of the lowest cabaret in the faubourg St. Antoine.

"What they sang Heaven only knows, for, nom d'un Pape! my comrade, the horrible catastrophe to this little supper has fairly driven all minor incidents from my memory. And there they sat and sang to us--sang with shame on their brows, and rage, and grief, and agony in their hearts--while a husband and three sons, a father and three brothers, were lying dead in their harness by the walls of the Retiro.

"We drank bumpers to Virginia, and made the ceiling shake with our mad laughter and revelry. In the midst of this, unluckily, the Chevalier de Vivancourt called for a bumper of mulled port. What fiend prompted a request so useless I cannot imagine: but we all joined in his demand vociferously; and the old dame, who appeared to have somewhat recovered her equanimity, desired her daughter to prepare it. She spoke in Basque Spanish, which we did not understand, but which should have been sufficient to kindle our suspicions; and I could perceive that a wild and almost insane expression flashed in the eyes of the little Donna Virginia as she flung aside her guitar and rose to execute the order.

"With some trouble she extricated herself from Chataigneur, whose arm was round her waist. He was very angry, and growled like a bear at the chevalier, swearing by the sabre de bois that he would put him under arrest for the trouble he occasioned.

"While he was yet speaking, Virginia returned with the prepared wine in a crystal vase, from which, with her own fair hands, she filled our long, carved glasses. We drank to her, draining them to the dregs; and, with a grim smile on her pallid lips, our youthful cupbearer replenished our glasses. The flavour of the wine was so exquisite, that Chataigneur embraced Virginia with drunken ardour, and desired her to bring us more.

"'You will require no more!' she cried, with a shriek, as she flung the vase from her hands, and it was dashed into a hundred pieces.

"We rose in alarm, but instantly sank again on our seats; and at that moment a peculiar and horrible sensation came over me. Sacre! methinks I feel it yet. I looked upon my companions of the carousal, but read in their faces an expression that yielded me anything but comfort. Three had dropped their glasses, and reclined upon their chairs, with open mouths and fixed eyes, which gleamed with the vacant wildness of insanity. The Chevalier de Vivancourt sank prostrate on the floor, while Chataigneur, who seemed also about to sink, turned and stared with a powerless aspect of rage and alarm at Donna Elvira.

"Virginia had sunk upon her knees and hid her face in the skirt of her torn dress; but her mother stood erect, and, with her arms outstretched towards us, shrieked in a frightful voice between a moan and a yell, while a murderous rage, alike fiendish and terrible, caused her tall form to tremble, her proud nostrils to dilate, and her large dark eyes to gleam like those of a rattlesnake.

"'At last we have avenged ourselves! Perros y ladrones! Frenchmen, dogs, and murderers, let me scream into your dying ears, that we are Castilian women, and have avenged our wrongs! I have lost my brave husband and his noble sons--by numbers you destroyed them, and side by side they fell on the palace threshold of the kings of Castile. Oh, bloodhounds--worse than devils in the form of men, ye murdered them, and now--my daughter (her voice became choked), my innocent little daughter--but we are revenged--revenged--revenged! Oh, Santa Maria, Virgin, y Madre de Jesu! let us be forgiven--but, fiends, the sure, cold hands of death are upon you--you are dying, for the wine you have drunk is poisoned!'

"Mon Dieu!" said St. Florian, pausing while the perspiration almost suffused his forehead, "still the screech-owl voice of that detestable hag seems to ring in my tingling ears!

"Inspired by terror and rage, I made an effort to spring up, to draw my sabre, to run her through the heart; but the moment my hand touched the hilt, a deadly numbness crept over me; I staggered backward, and while sleep and despair came over my soul, sank prone and insensible on the corpses of my comrades!"

St. Florian paused again for an instant, for he really seemed considerably excited by the recollection of the adventure.

"Parbleu! 'twas a most unpleasant denouement--a devil of a winding-up. Next morning I found my self lying prostrate on the chilly floor of the Church of the Conception, which, with many others, had been converted into a temporary hospital for the sick and wounded. I was sick for seventeen days, and my head ached as if it had been crushed in a vice; while my miserable throat was skinned by the stomach pump and other engines of the medical science, which the staff surgeon had kept at work on me, as they afterwards said, for two consecutive hours.

"Poor Jacques Chataigneur was in the same wretched condition, and lay opposite to me, kennelled on a bed of straw, under the gothic canopy which covered the grave perhaps of some long-bearded hidalgo of old Castile.

"We alone recovered.

"The gay Chevalier de Vivancourt and his three comrades of la Garde Imperiale died; so did poor Jean Graule and all our servants; for the little fury Virginia had administered part of her infernal potion to them too. So to this hour, my friend, I entertain such a horror of all kinds of prepared wine, that I may safely say, 'tis not in the power of man, or even woman, with all her superlative cunning and witchery, to make me taste a single drop that is not pure as when it came from the wine-press."

"And the ladies--what became of them?"

"Donna Elvira," continued my garrulous friend, "disappeared from Madrid on that very night, taking with her the unlucky Virginia, and for a time we heard no more of them, save in the columns of the 'Moniteur' and 'El Espanol,' where, the Lord knows, our malheur made more than noise enough! May mischief dog their heels as two revengeful vixens. But I afterwards learned that the girl assumed another name, and, bestowing her hand on a certain hidalgo of Alava, actually had the happiness to give me shelter one night on the retreat from Vittoria. My whiskers had grown, and she did not recognise me; sacre bleu, if she had! I was never discovered, and blessed my stars that I was sound, wind and limb, when I left her mansion in the morning--Ouf! let me think no more of it, for altogether 't is a story that makes me shudder."

"Excuse me, Captain St. Florian," said I, when he had ceased; "but on my honour, you make me blush for the army of France."

"Morbleu!" said he; "they were only Spaniards."

"But I have heard many an episode of horror blacker even than that of Donna Elvira, for I was one of those who followed up the retreating army of Massena, from the frontiers of Portuguese Estremadura, through desert fields and desolate cities, marked by fire and blood, and all that the wantonness and wickedness your devastators could inflict on a poor, a prostrate, and a defenceless people. I am warm, monsieur, but I pray you pardon me----"

"Ah! he was a stern old routier, Massena, and handled the dons so roughly, that the Emperor named him rightly the 'child of rapine.' I care not for being his apologist, as I never either loved or admired him, and once positively hated the old pagan, for reprimanding me in general orders, because, on our retreat from the lines of Torres Vedras, I neglected to destroy the house of a poor old hidalgo near Santarem, who had been so kind to me, that I omitted him in the list of devastations to be made by my foragers. Ouf! I got a lecture that was printed in the 'Moniteur,' and read at the head of every regiment in the division. But in revenge, that very night I affixed a scroll to the door of the marshal's quarters, saying--

"'This is the residence of the mighty Massena, Prince of Essling and Duke of Rivoli, who has made more noise in the world by beating the drum than by beating the British!'

"Corboeuf! what a frightful rage the old Turk was in, but he could never discover the author of the pasquil, which made him the laughing-stock of the whole army. But the sparing of that hidalgo's mansion and family was a most fortunate circumstance for me, as it was the means of saving my life three days after."

"In what manner?"

"He ransomed me for a hundred dollars from some rascally frontier guerillas who had captured me, and were on the point of putting me to death. Ouf! 'twas a devil of an adventure that. Shall I tell it you?"

"If you please," said I, lighting a fourth cigar.

"Well, then, listen, though perhaps it is not so much my story as that of a poor peasant whom the Estremadurans named Perez the Potter."