In a Glass Darkly J. Sheridan Le Fanu (intellectual books to read .TXT) 📖

save my head, taken up with three stitches, and five days afterwards I was playing ball with an English general, a prisoner in Madrid, against the wall of the convent of the Santa Maria de la Castita! At Arcola, by the great devil himself! that was an action. Every man there, gentlemen, swallowed as much smoke in five minutes as would smother you all, in this room! I received, at the same moment, two musket balls in the thighs, a grape shot through the calf of my leg, a lance through my left shoulder, a piece of a shrapnel in the left deltoid, a bayonet through the cartilage of my right ribs, a sabre-cut that carried away a pound of flesh from my chest, and the better part of a congreve rocket on my forehead. Pretty well, ha, ha! and all while you’d say bah! and in eight days and a half I was making a forced march, without shoes, and only one gaiter, the life and soul of my company, and as sound as a roach!”

“Bravo! Bravissimo! Per Bacco! un gallant uomo!” exclaimed, in a martial ecstacy, a fat little Italian, who manufactured toothpicks and wicker cradles on the island of Notre Dame; “your exploits shall resound through Europe! and the history of those wars should be written in your blood!”

“Never mind! a trifle!” exclaimed the soldier. “At Ligny, the other day, where we smashed the Prussians into ten hundred thousand milliards of atoms, a bit of a shell cut me across the leg and opened an artery. It was spouting as high as the chimney, and in half a minute I had lost enough to fill a pitcher. I must have expired in another minute, if I had not whipped off my sash like a flash of lightning, tied it round my leg above the wound, whipt a bayonet out of the back of a dead Prussian, and passing it under, made a tournequet of it with a couple of twists, and so stayed the hemorrhage, and saved my life. But, sacré bleu! gentlemen, I lost so much blood, I have been as pale as the bottom of a plate ever since. No matter. A trifle. Blood well spent, gentlemen.” He applied himself now to his bottle of vin ordinaire.

The Marquis had closed his eyes, and looked resigned and disgusted, while all this was going on.

“Garçon,” said the officer, for the first time, speaking in a low tone over the back of his chair to the waiter; “who came in that travelling carriage, dark yellow and black, that stands in the middle of the yard, with arms and supporters emblazoned on the door, and a red stork, as red as my facings?”

The waiter could not say.

The eye of the eccentric officer, who had suddenly grown grim and serious, and seemed to have abandoned the general conversation to other people, lighted, as it were, accidentally, on me.

“Pardon me, Monsieur,” he said. “Did I not see you examining the panel of that carriage at the same time that I did so, this evening? Can you tell me who arrived in it?”

“I rather think the Count and Countess de St. Alyre.”

“And are they here, in the Belle Etoile?” he asked.

“They have got apartments upstairs,” I answered.

He started up, and half pushed his chair from the table. He quickly sat down again, and I could hear him sacré-ing and muttering to himself, and grinning and scowling. I could not tell whether he was alarmed or furious.

I turned to say a word or two to the Marquis, but he was gone. Several other people had dropped out also, and the supper party soon broke up.

Two or three substantial pieces of wood smouldered on the hearth, for the night had turned out chilly. I sat down by the fire in a great armchair, of carved oak, with a marvellously high back, that looked as old as the days of Henry IV.

“Garçon,” said I, “do you happen to know who that officer is?”

“That is Colonel Gaillarde, Monsieur.”

“Has he been often here?”

“Once before, Monsieur, for a week; it is a year since.”

“He is the palest man I ever saw.”

“That is true, Monsieur; he has been often taken for a revenant.”

“Can you give me a bottle of really good Burgundy?”

“The best in France, Monsieur.”

“Place it, and a glass by my side, on this table, if you please. I may sit here for half an hour?”

“Certainly, Monsieur.”

I was very comfortable, the wine excellent, and my thoughts glowing and serene. “Beautiful Countess! Beautiful Countess! shall we ever be better acquainted.”

VI The Naked Sword

A man who has been posting all day long, and changing the air he breathes every half hour, who is well pleased with himself, and has nothing on earth to trouble him, and who sits alone by a fire in a comfortable chair after having eaten a hearty supper, may be pardoned if he takes an accidental nap.

I had filled my fourth glass when I fell asleep. My head, I daresay, hung uncomfortably; and it is admitted, that a variety of French dishes is not the most favourable precursor to pleasant dreams.

I had a dream as I took mine ease in mine inn on this occasion. I fancied myself in a huge cathedral, without light, except from four tapers that stood at the corners of a raised platform hung with black, on which lay, draped also in black, what seemed to me the dead body of the Countess de St. Alyre. The place seemed empty, it was cold, and I could see only (in the halo of the candles) a little way round.

The little I saw bore the character of Gothic gloom, and helped my fancy to shape and furnish the black void that yawned all round me. I heard a sound like the slow tread of two persons walking up the flagged aisle. A faint echo told of