For my own part, I had instantly brought my own troopers into the same formation, so that there we were, hussars and dragoons, with only two hundred yards of grassy sward between us. They carried themselves well, those red-coated troopers, with their silver helmets, their high white plumes, and their long, gleaming swords; while, on the other hand, I am sure that they would acknowledge that they had never looked upon finer light horsemen than the fifty Hussars of Conflans who were facing them. They were heavier, it is true, and they may have seemed the smarter, for Wellington used to make them burnish their metal work, which was not usual among us. On the other hand, it is well known that the English tunics were too tight for the sword-arm, which gave our men an advantage. As to bravery, foolish, inexperienced people of every nation always think that their own soldiers are braver than any others. There is no nation in the world which does not entertain this idea. But when one has seen as much as I have done, one understands that there is no very marked difference, and that although nations differ very much in discipline, they are all equally brave—except that the French have rather more courage than the rest.
Well, the cork was drawn and the glasses ready, when suddenly the English officer raised his sword to me as if in a challenge, and cantered his horse across the grassland. My word, there is no finer sight upon earth than that of a gallant man upon a gallant steed! I could have halted there just to watch him as he came with such careless grace, his sabre down by his horse’s shoulder, his head thrown back, his white plume tossing—youth and strength and courage, with the violet evening sky above and the oak trees behind. But it was not for me to stand and stare. Etienne Gerard may have his faults, but, my faith, he was never accused of being backward in taking his own part. The old horse, Rataplan, knew me so well that he had started off before ever I gave the first shake to the bridle.
There are two things in this world that I am very slow to forget, the face of a pretty woman, and the legs of a fine horse. Well, as we drew together, I kept on saying, “Where have I seen those great roan shoulders? Where have I seen that dainty fetlock?” Then suddenly I remembered, and as I looked up at the reckless eyes and the challenging smile, whom should I recognise but the man who had saved me from the brigands and played me for my freedom—he whose correct title was Milor the Hon. Sir Russell Bart!
“Bart!” I shouted.
He had his arm raised for a cut, and three parts of his body open to my point, for he did not know very much about the use of the sword. As I brought my hilt to the salute he dropped his hand and stared at me.
“Halloa!” said he. “It’s Gerard!” You would have thought by his manner that I had met him by appointment. For my own part I would have embraced him had he but come an inch of the way to meet me.
“I thought we were in for some sport,” said he. “I never dreamed that it was you.”
I found this tone of disappointment somewhat irritating. Instead of being glad at having met a friend, he was sorry at having missed an enemy.
“I should have been happy to join in your sport, my dear Bart,” said I. “But I really cannot turn my sword upon a man who saved my life.”
“Tut, never mind about that.”
“No, it is impossible. I should never forgive myself.”
“You make too much of a trifle.”
“My mother’s one desire is to embrace you. If ever you should be in Gascony—”
“Lord Wellington is coming there with 60,000 men.”
“Then one of them will have a chance of surviving,” said I, laughing. “In the meantime, put your sword in your sheath!”
Our horses were standing head to tail, and the Bart put out his hand and patted me on the thigh.
“You’re a good chap, Gerard,” said he. “I only wish you had been born on the right side of the Channel.”
“I was,” said I.
“Poor fellow!” he cried, with such an earnestness of pity that he set me laughing again. “But look here, Gerard,” he continued, “this is all very well, but it is not business, you know. I don’t know what Massena would say to it, but our Chief would jump out of his riding-boots if he saw us. We weren’t sent out here for a picnic—either of us.”
“What would you have?”
“Well, we had a little argument about our hussars and dragoons, if you remember. I’ve got fifty of the Sixteenth all chewing their carbine bullets behind me. You’ve got as many fine-looking boys over yonder, who seem to be fidgeting in their saddles. If you and I took the right flanks we should not spoil each other’s beauty—though a little bloodletting is a friendly thing in this climate.”
There seemed to me to be a good deal of sense in what he said. For the moment Mr. Alexis Morgan and the Countess of La Ronda and the Abbey of Almeixal went right out of my head, and I could only think of the fine level turf and of the beautiful skirmish which we might have.
“Very good, Bart,” said I. “We have seen the front of your dragoons. We shall now have a look at their backs.”
“Any
