



Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                       IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY






                           COPYRIGHT, 1895,

                     BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

       *       *       *       *       *




PREFACE.


Those who are acquainted with the delightful Memoires Secrets de M. Le
Comte de Bussy Rabutin (particularly the supplements to them), and
with Rousset's Histoire de Louvois, will, perhaps, recognise the
inspiration of this story. Those who are not so acquainted with these
works will, I trust, still be able to take some interest in the
adventures of Georges St. Georges.

                                            J. B.-B.

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS.


   CHAP.                                                    PAGE

     I.--"THE KING'S COMMAND"                                 1

    II.--HOSPITALITY!                                        10

   III.--IT IS THE MAN                                       18

    IV.--"HER LIFE STANDS IN THE PATH OF OTHERS' GREED"      27

     V.--THE GRAVEYARD                                       34

    VI.--A LITTLE LIGHT                                      44

   VII.--A REASON                                            53

  VIII.--DRAWING NEAR                                        62

    IX.--A ROYAL SUMMONS                                     71

     X.--MADAME LA MARQUISE                                  80

    XI.--THE MARQUISE TELLS A STORY                          89

   XII.--LOST                                                96

  XIII.--DE ROQUEMAURE'S WORK                               105

   XIV.--"I MUST SPEAK!"                                    114

    XV.--THE MINISTER OF WAR                                123

   XVI.--PASQUEDIEU!                                        132

  XVII.--"KILL HIM DEAD, RAOUL!"                            140

 XVIII.--LA GALERE GRANDE REALE                             149

   XIX.--"A NEW LIFE"                                       158

    XX.--"HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!"                             166

   XXI.--MAY, 1692                                          175

  XXII.--LA HOGUE                                           183

 XXIII.--THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH                            191

  XXIV.--ON THE ROAD                                        199

   XXV.--"I KNOW YOUR FACE"                                 207

  XXVI.--IN THE SNARE                                       216

 XXVII.--ANOTHER ESCAPE                                     224

XXVIII.--THE FLEUR-DE-LIS                                   231

  XXIX.--FAREWELL HOPE                                      240

   XXX.--"IT IS TRUE"                                       248

  XXXI.--ST. GEORGES'S DOOM                                 256

 XXXII.--THE LAST CHANCE                                    265

XXXIII.--THE DAY OF EXECUTION                               274

 XXXIV.--"I WILL NEVER FORGIVE HER"                         283

  XXXV.--AT LAST                                            291

         CONCLUSION                                         300

       *       *       *       *       *




IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY.

THE FIRST PERIOD.


CHAPTER I.

"THE KING'S COMMAND."


All over Franche-Comte the snow had fallen for three days unceasingly,
yet through it for those three days a man--a soldier--had ridden,
heading his course north, for Paris.

Wrapped in his cloak, and prevented from falling by his bridle arm, he
bore a little child--a girl some three years old--on whom, as the
cloak would sometimes become disarranged, he would look down fondly,
his firm, grave features relaxing into a sad smile as the blue eyes of
the little creature gazed upward and smiled into his own face. Then he
would whisper a word of love to it, press it closer to his great
breast, and again ride on.

For three days the snow had fallen; was falling when he left the
garrison of Pontarlier and threaded his way through the pine woods on
the Jura <DW72>s; fell still as, with the wintry night close at hand,
he approached the city of Dijon. Yet, except to sleep at nights, to
rest himself, the child, and the horse, he had gone on and on
unstopping, or only stopping to shoot once a wolf that, maddened with
hunger, had sprung out at him and endeavoured to leap to his saddle;
and once to cut down two footpads--perhaps poor wretches, also
maddened with hunger--who had striven to stop his way.

On and on and on through the unceasing snow he had gone with the child
still held fast to his bosom, resting the first night at Poligny,
since the snow was so heavy on the ground that his horse could go no
further, and another at Dole for the same reason, until now he drew
near to Dijon.

"A short distance to travel in three days," he muttered to himself,
as, afar off, his eye caught the gleam of a great beacon flaring
surlily through the snow-laden air--the beacon on the southern
watchtower of the city walls--"a short distance. Yet I have done my
best. Have obeyed orders. Now let me see for further instructions."

There was still sufficient light left in the wintry gloom to read by,
whereon, shifting the child a little as he drew rein--it needed not
much drawing, since the good horse beneath him could hardly progress
beyond the slowest walk, owing to the accumulated snow--he took from
his holster a letter, and, passing over the beginning of it, turned to
the last leaf and read:

     "At Dijon you will stay at the chateau of my good friend and
     subject the Marquis Phelypeaux, avoiding all inns; at
     Troyes, at the manoir of Madame la Marquise de Roquemaure;
     at Melun, if you have to halt there, at the chateau of
     Monsieur de Riverac. Between these, if forced to rest, you
     are to select the auberges which offer; but at these three
     towns you are to repose yourself as stated. Above all, fail
     not to present yourself at the manoir of Roquemaure. The
     marquise will deliver to your keeping a message for me.
     Therefore, be sure you travel by the route indicated, and
     not by that which passes by Semur, Tonnerre, and Sens. On
     this, I pray God to have you, M. Georges St. Georges, in his
     holy keeping. Written at Paris, the 9th of December, 1687.

       "_Signe_, LOUIS.

                                      _Soussigne_, LOUVOIS."

"So," said M. Georges St. Georges to himself, as he replaced the
letter in his holster, "it is to the Marquis Phelypeaux that I am to
go. So be it. It may be better for the child than at an inn. And I
cannot gossip, or, if I do, only to my host, who will doubtless retail
it all to the king." Then addressing himself to the watchman on the
southern gate, he cried:

"Open there, and let me in!"

"'Tis too late," the man replied, looking down at him through the
fast-gathering night. "None enter Dijon now after four of the evening.
Ten thousand devils! why could you not have come half an hour earlier?
Yet there is a good auberge outside the walls, and----"

"Open, I say!" called up the horseman. "I ride by the king's orders,
and have to present myself to the Marquis Phelypeaux. Open, I say!"

"_Tiens!_" exclaimed the watchman, peering down at him through the
gray snow and rime with which was now mixed the blackness of the
oncoming night. "You ride in the king's name and would see the
marquis. _C'est autre chose!_ Yet I must be careful. Wait, I will
descend. Draw up to the _grille_ of the gate."

The horseman did as the watchman bid him, looking down once at the
child in his arms, whose face had become uncovered for a moment, and
smiling again into its eyes, while he muttered, "Sweet, ere long you
shall have a softer couch"; then, as the _grille_ opened and the
watchman's ruddy face--all blotched with the consumption of frequent
_pigeolets_ of Macon and other wines--appeared at the grating, he bent
down toward him as though to submit his own face to observation.

"Your name and following?" grunted the man.

"Georges St. Georges. Lieutenant in the Chevaux-Legers of the
Nivernois. In garrison at the Fort de Joux, between Verrieres and
Pontarlier. Recalled to Paris by order of the king. Ordered to visit
the Marquis Phelypeaux. Are you answered, friend?"

"What do you carry in your arms? It seems precious by the way you
clasp it to you."

"It is precious. It is a child--my child."

"_Tiens!_ A strange burden for a soldier _en route_ from the frontier
to Paris. Where is the mother?"

"In her grave! Now open the gate."

For answer the bolts and bars were heard creaking, and presently one
half of the great door swung back to admit the rider. And he,
dismounting, led his horse through it by one hand, while with the
other he clasped his child to his breast beneath the cloak.

Standing in the warder's lodge was a woman--doubtless his wife--who
had heard the conversation; for as St. Georges entered she came
forward and exclaimed gently:

"A cold, long ride, monsieur, for such as that," and she touched with
her finger the rounded back of the child as it lay curled up on his
arm beneath the cloak. Then, still femininely, she went on: "Ah! let
me see the _pauvrette_," and without resistance from him she drew back
the cloak and gazed at it. "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, "a pretty
little thing. Poor little _bebe_. And the mother dead, monsieur?" her
eyes filling with tears as she spoke.

"Dead," he replied--"dead. In giving birth to her. I am father and
mother both. God help her!"

The woman stooped down and kissed the little thing, whose soft blue
eyes smiled up at her; then she said:

"The Marquis Phelypeaux is a solitary--dwelling alone. There is little
provision for children there. What will monsieur do?"

"As I have done for three years--attend to all its wants myself. There
is none other. It had a nurse in the fort; but I could not leave it
nor bring her with me. In Paris I may find another. Now tell me where
the house of this marquis is?" and he made a movement to go forward.

"And its name, monsieur?" the kindly woman asked, still touched with
pity for the little motherless thing being carried on so long and cold
a journey. Two or three of her own children were already in their beds
of rags that were none too clean, but they, at least, were housed and
warm, and not like this one.

"Her name," he replied, "is Dorine. It was her mother's." Then turning
to the warder, who stood by, he exclaimed again, "Now direct me to the
marquis's, I beg you."

The man's method of direction was to seize by the ear a boy who at
that moment had come up--he was one of his own numerous brood--and to
bid him lead the monsieur to the marquis's.

"'Tis but a pistol shot," he said, "at the foot of the Rampe. Be off!"
to his son, "away! Escort the gentleman."

Certainly it was no great distance from the southern gate, yet when
Monsieur St. Georges had arrived there, still leading his horse by one
hand and carrying his precious burden by the other, or by the other
arm, the house had so deserted a look that it seemed as though he was
hardly likely to be able to carry out the orders of the king and his
minister to quarter himself upon the marquis instead of going to an
inn. Therefore, he gazed up at the mansion before which he stood
waiting, wondering what kind of man was this who dwelt in it.

The house itself was large and vast, having innumerable windows giving
on to a large, open, bare _place_ in front of it, while the great
_porte cochere_ had a lock which looked as though it would resist an
attack either of battering rams or gunpowder if brought against it.
But the blinds, or shutters, were all closed; the great door itself
looked as though it had not been opened for a century; the knocker--a
Christ upon the cross!--as though it had not been raised for as long a
time.

"Phelypeaux," muttered St. Georges to himself. "Phelypeaux! I know the
name; what do I know of him? Let me think. Ha! I have it. A soldier
like myself. Also another, a brother, a priest, Bishop of
Lodeve--which is my host, I wonder? For choice the soldier, if all is
true of the bishop that is told. _Mon enfant_," turning to the urchin,
"is the marquis soldier or divine?"

The boy laughed, then said:

"Divine, monsieur. But _en retraite_. Oh! _avez ca_--they say droll
things. Only I am young--I do not know." Whereon he grinned. Then he
exclaimed: "_Voila!_ the door is opening."

It was, in truth, or rather a wicket in the door large enough to admit
a man who should stoop, or the urchin by the side of St. Georges; but
certainly by no means large enough to admit of the passage of his
horse if that was also to be entertained for the night.

At that wicket appeared a face, wine-stained and blotchy, but not so
good-humoured-looking as that of the watchman at the southern gate.
Instead, a scowling face, as of a man on whom good liquor had no
improving effect, but, rather, had soured and embittered him.

"What want you?" he asked, staring out moodily at the soldier before
him and at his horse, and observing the great sword, hat, and cloak of
the former with--beneath the latter--its burden; and also the military
trappings of the steed. "What want you?"

"An audience of the marquis. By order of the king. Also food and
lodging by the same authority. _Ma foi!_ if I had my way I should not
demand it. There is a good auberge over there to all appearances,"
nodding his head toward the white-walled inn on the other side of the
_place_, before which hung a bush and on which was painted the whole
length of the house: "_L'Ours de Bourgogne. Logement a pied et a
cheval._" "Doubtless I could be well accommodated."

"Take your horse there, at any rate," said the sour-faced man; "there
is no accommodation for _it_. Then come back. We will see later about
you." And turning to the boy he cried, gesticulating with his hands:
"_Va t'en_. Be off!"

The lad did not wait to be bidden a second time to depart, but
scampered across the open _place_, while St. Georges, regarding the
morose-looking man in front of him, said: "My friend, neither your
courtesy nor your hospitality is of the best. Does your master bid you
treat all who come to visit him in this manner?"

"I am obeying my master," the other replied; "the only one I
acknowledge--when I parley with you. Show me your warrant, however,
for coming to this house."

"There it is," replied St. Georges; "take it to your master, bid him
read it, and then bring me whatever message he may send me.
Perhaps"--regarding the servitor through the wicket, as he gave him
the paper--"if the master is like the man I had best wait until he has
read the king's letter ere I seek shelter for my horse. It may be that
I shall have to demand it for myself also at the inn."

Then, to his amazement, he saw that the other had opened the leaves of
the king's letter and was calmly reading them. "Fellow!" he exclaimed,
"how dare you make so bold? You read a letter from the king to me--to
be shown to your master----"

"Pish!" replied the other. "Be silent. I am Phelypeaux."

"You!" exclaimed the soldier, stepping back--"you!" and his eye fell
on the rusty-brown clothing of the man half in, half out, the wicket.
"You!"

"Yes, I. Now go and put your horse up at the inn. Then come back. But
stay--what have you beneath your arm?"

"A child."

"A child! Does Louis think I keep a nursery? What are we to do with
the child while you stay here?"

"I will attend to that. If you give me a bed the child will share it,
and if you have some white bread and milk it is enough for its food."

"Best get that at the 'Ours,'" replied he who said he was Phelypeaux.
"Bread I have, but no milk. _Ma foi!_ there is no babes' food here.
Now, I counsel you, go seek the inn. Your horse may take a chill. Then
come back. And"--as the soldier turned to lead his animal across the
snow-covered, deserted _place_--"leave the child there. The _patronne_
is a motherly creature with half a dozen of her own brood. 'Twill be
better there than here. Ring loudly when you return--I am somewhat
deaf," and he banged the wicket in St. Georges's face.

"Humph!" muttered the latter, as he crossed to the inn; "the counsel
is good. That seems no place for a child. Yet, how to leave it? Still,
it is best. It has slept often with its nurse; maybe will sleep well
at the inn. Well, let me see what the _patronne_ is like."

He entered the yard of the "Ours" as he meditated thus, engaged a
stall for the animal, saw it fed and rubbed down, and, then taking his
pistols and the king's letter from the holsters and putting them in
his belt, entered the hostelry and called for a cup of wine. And,
seeing that the woman who served him--evidently the mistress from the
manner in which she joked with one or two customers and gave
directions to a servant--was a motherly looking woman, he asked her if
the child he carried would be safe there for the night?

"A child," she exclaimed, "a child, and in the arms of a soldier! Why,
sir, whence come you with a child? _Mon Dieu!_ Of all burdens,
soldiers rarely carry