Enguerrande’s Child.
La Comtesse Marie holds festival
In the fairest nook of her fair demesne,
For courtly gallants and smiling dames
To mimic the sports of the village green,
In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems,
And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.
But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May,
Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press,
And sits on her floral throne distrait,
Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess
What troubles this heiress, free to choose
From the proudest peers of the haute noblesse.
She sighs—and a suitor the sigh repeats;
Again—and another bends over her chair,
For every mood of a lady charms
When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair;
She speaks—and the murmur of talk is hushed,
And they throng around with expectant air:
“Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance—
Shall our sport take sober cast to-night?
And gathering under the fragrant limes,
Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright,
Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim,
Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”
Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale
To please the layde, has racked his brain;
While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache,
His last duello fights o’er again,
And fancies that Marie’s cheek grows pale
As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain.
But on one tall figure, that stands aloof,
The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall:
And hast thou nothing to tell?” she asks,
“Canst thou from the past no deed recall,
That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood?
Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.”
Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows,
A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned,
A man more prized in the camp than court,
Steps into the circle and glances round;
And scornful eyes on his boldness frown,
But Marie has smiled, and he holds his ground.
What boots the rest if she bids him speak?
What matter who lists if he gains her ear?
The shaft of malice is launched in vain,
That aims at the stranger a barbèd sneer,
And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie
Unchecked may flout him while she is near.
He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles,
Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote
Till treasured mem’ries awake—and then
His full lip quivers, and swells his throat,
And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft
It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle’s note.
And thus le capitaine tells his tale:
“Revolt and faction had cursed our land—
Tonnerre! that Frenchmen should be such curs!
Our city walls was were but poorly manned;
I—sous lieutenant—a boy in years;
“We had one treasure, we soldiers, then—
Enguerrande’s daughter, a happy child;
She had no mother, but fifty slaves,
By her winning looks and ways beguiled—
Great bearded fellows—were at her call,
And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled.
“One night—sharp—sudden—resistless broke
The storm upon us: from every den
The lawless rabble came howling forth,
And we—ah, blind! not to learn till then,
That in all that city we loved so well,
There was but one handful of loyal men!
“For life, for honor we fought, and still
Our foes increased as the tumult spread,
Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande
I stood till we fell together—he, dead;
I, wounded—how badly, these scars reveal;
And then our last man, in his terror, fled.
“Over our bodies the crowd tramped on,
Nor recked if ’twere brothers their feet defiled;
The city was all their own, and the greed
Of plunder had made them mad or wild;
And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh,
Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande’s child.
“At that sound the blood to my heart returns,
And fiercely I struggle on to my knees!
Never must Enguerrande’s orphaned one
Fall into such miscreant hands as these!
To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob
Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees!
“Doubling upon them, and first to gain
The little chamber wherein she slept,
Where, roused from repose by the horrid din,
In the darkest corner she cowered and wept,
I bore her down by a winding stair,
And into the streets with my burden crept.
“Hushing her sobs I staggered on,
Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair;
For sadly we needed some refuge safe,
And who would offer it?—nay, who dare?
Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out
Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there.
“But, alas! though almost too old to live,
She feared the mob, and she feared to die,
And in selfish dread, when again night fell,
From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly;
Yet she flung me a blouse, and bonnet rouge,
That none should my soldier’s dress descry.
“Bribed with the little one’s rosary—
Le voici, I have it here on my breast;
I brought it back for its weight in gold—
A fellow I drew aside from the rest,
Let us slip by while he kept the guard,
And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed.
“Scarce half a league from the city walls,
Lo! swooping down like a fiery blast—
Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath—
Rank after rank spurring quickly past—
The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande,
And I felt that his child was safe at last!
“She knew their leader—she shrieked his name—
He halted—I told you what garb I wore,
They thought me a rebel; the little one
With oaths and blows from my arms they tore,
And left me for dead on the cold hard earth;
But the child was safe—and my tale is o’er.”
“But your payment?” a dozen voices ask,
And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain;
“Pardon, mesdames! for a deed of love
No soldier his palm with gold would stain;
Only this boon did I ever crave—
One look at her angel face again!
“Qu’importe? she is rich and happy, and I——”
He pauses—la Comtesse has left her throne;
Once more on his breast a fair head lies,
Once more round his neck are white arms thrown,
And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave!
Let my poor love for the past atone!”
The play is ended—the guests depart—
La Comtesse was none so fair after all!
But many an eye looks back with regret
On the broad domain, and the princely hall,
That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows
On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.