LETTER XV.

Paris.

My friend F—— called on me a few days since, and as soon as he understood that I had no particular engagement, he insisted that I should drive somewhere into the country, dine tête-à-tête with him, and return in time for the play.

When we had drove a few miles I perceived a genteel-looking young fellow, dressed in an old uniform. He sat under a tree, on the grass, at a little distance from the road, and amused himself by playing on the violin. As we came nearer we perceived he had a wooden leg, part of which lay in fragments by his side.

What do you there, soldier? said the Marquis.—I am on my way home to my own village, mon officier, said the soldier.—But, my poor friend, resumed the Marquis, you will be a furious long time before you arrive at your journey’s end, if you have no other carriage besides these, pointing at the fragments of his wooden leg.—I wait for my equipage and all my suite, said the soldier; and I am greatly mistaken if I do not see them this moment coming down the hill.

We saw a kind of cart, drawn by one horse, in which was a woman, and a peasant who drove the horse.—While they drew near, the soldier told us he had been wounded in Corsica—that his leg had been cut off—that before setting out on that expedition, he had been contracted to a young woman in the neighbourhood—that the marriage had been postponed till his return;—but when he appeared with a wooden leg, that all the girl’s relations had opposed the match.—The girl’s mother, who was her only surviving parent, when he began his courtship, had always been his friend; but she had died while he was abroad.—The young woman herself, however, remained constant in her affections, received him with open arms, and had agreed to leave her relations, and accompany him to Paris, from whence they intended to set out in the diligence to the town where he was born, and where his father still lived:—That on the way to Paris his wooden leg had snapped; which had obliged his mistress to leave him, and go to the next village in quest of a cart to carry him thither, where he would remain till such time as the carpenter should renew his leg.—C’est un malheur, mon officier, concluded the soldier, qui sera bientôt réparé—et voici mon amie!—

The girl sprang before the cart, seized the outstretched hand of her lover, and told him with a smile full of affection,—that she had seen an admirable carpenter, who had promised to make a leg that would not break, that it would be ready by the morrow, and they might resume their journey as soon after as they pleased.

The soldier received his mistress’s compliment as it deserved.

She seemed about twenty years of age, a beautiful, fine-shaped girl—a Brunette, whose countenance indicated sentiment and vivacity.

You must be much fatigued, my dear, said the Marquis.—On ne se fatigue pas, Monsieur, quand on travaille pour ce qu’on aime, replied the girl.—The soldier kissed her hand with a gallant and tender air.—When a woman has fixed her heart upon a man, you see, said the Marquis, turning to me, it is not a leg more or less that will make her change her sentiments.—Nor was it his legs, said Fanchon, which made any impression on my heart. If they had made a little, however, said the Marquis, you would not have been singular in your way of thinking; but, allons, continued he, addressing himself to me.—This girl is quite charming—her lover has the appearance of a brave fellow;—they have but three legs betwixt them, and we have four;—if you have no objection, they shall have the carriage, and we will follow on foot to the next village, and see what can be done for these lovers.—I never agreed to a proposal with more pleasure in my life.

The soldier began to make difficulties about entering into the vis-à-vis.—Come, come, friend, said the Marquis, I am a Colonel, and it is your duty to obey: Get in without much ado, and your mistress shall follow.

Entrons, mon bon ami, said the girl, since these gentlemen insist upon doing us so much honour.

A girl like you would do honour to the finest coach in France. Nothing could please me more than to have it in my power to make you happy, said the Marquis,—Laisez moi faire, mon Colonel, said the soldier. Je suis heureuse comme une reine, said Fanchon.—Away moved the chaise, and the Marquis and I followed.

Voyez vous, combien nous sommes heureux nous autres François à bon marché, said the Marquis to me, adding with a smile, le bonheur, à ce qu’on m’a dit, est plus cher en Angleterre. But answered I, how long will this last with these poor people?—Ah, pour le coup, said he, voilà une reflexion bien Angloise—that, indeed, is what I cannot tell; neither do I know how long you or I may live; but I fancy it would be great folly to be sorrowful through life, because we do not know how soon misfortunes may come, and because we are quite certain that death is to come at last.

When we arrived at the inn to which we had ordered the postilion to drive, we found the soldier and Fanchon. After having ordered some victuals and wine—Pray, said I to the soldier, how do you propose to maintain your wife and yourself?—One who has contrived to live for five years on soldier’s pay, replied he, can have little difficulty for the rest of his life.—I can play tolerably well on the fiddle, added he, and perhaps there is not a village in all France of the size, where there are so many marriages as in that in which we are going to settle—I shall never want employment.—And I, said Fanchon, can weave hair nets and silk purses, and mend stockings. Besides, my uncle has two hundred livres of mine in his hands, and although he is brother-in-law to the Bailiff, and volontiers brutal, yet I will make him pay it every sou.—And I, said the soldier, have fifteen livres in my pocket; besides two louis that I lent to a poor farmer to enable him to pay the taxes, and which he will repay me when he is able.

You see, Sir, said Fanchon to me, that we are not objects of compassion.—May we not be happy, my good friend (turning to her lover with a look of exquisite tenderness), if it be not our own fault?—If you are not, ma douce amie! said the soldier with great warmth, je ferai bien à plaindre.—I never felt a more charming sensation.—The tear trembled in the Marquis’s eye.—Ma foi, said he to me, c’est une comédie larmoyante—Then, turning to Fanchon, Come hither, my dear, said he, till such time as you can get payment of the two hundred livres, and my friend here recovers his two louis, accept of this from me, putting a purse of louis into her hand—I hope you will continue to love your husband, and to be loved by him.—Let me know from time to time how your affairs go on, and how I can serve you. This will inform you of my name, and where I live. But if ever you do me the pleasure of calling at my house at Paris,—be sure to bring your husband with you; for I would not wish to esteem you less or love you more than I do this moment. Let me see you sometimes; but always bring your husband along with you.—I shall never be afraid to trust her with you, said the soldier:—She shall see you as often as she pleases, without my going with her.

It was by too much venturing (as your serjeant told me) that you lost your leg, my best friend, said Fanchon, with a smile, to her lover. Monsieur le Colonel n’est que trop aimable. I shall follow his advice literally, and when I have the honour of waiting on him, you shall always attend me.

Heaven bless you both, my good friends, said the Marquis; may he never know what happiness is who attempts to interrupt your felicity!—It shall be my business to find out some employment for you, my fellow-soldier, more profitable than playing on the fiddle. In the mean time, stay here till a coach comes, which shall bring you both this night to Paris; my servant shall provide lodgings for you, and the best surgeon for wooden legs that can be found. When you are properly equipped, let me see you before you go home. Adieu, my honest fellow; be kind to Fanchon; She seems to deserve your love. Adieu, Fanchon; I shall be happy to hear that you are as fond of Dubois two years hence as you are at present. So saying, he shook Dubois by the hand, saluted Fanchon, pushed me into the carriage before him, and away we drove.

As we returned to town, he broke out several times into warm praises of Fanchon’s beauty, which inspired me with some suspicion that he might have further views upon her.

I was sufficiently acquainted with his free manner of life, and I had a little before seen him on the point of being married to one woman, after he had arranged every thing, as he called it, with another.

To satisfy myself in this particular, I questioned him in a jocular style on this subject.

No, my friend, said he, Fanchon shall never be attempted by me.—Though I think her exceedingly pretty, and of that kind of beauty too that is most to my taste; yet I am more charmed with her constancy to honest Dubois, than with any other thing about her: If she loses that, she will lose her greatest beauty in my eyes. Had she been shackled to a morose, exhausted, jealous fellow, and desired a redress of grievances, the case would have been different; but her heart is fixed upon her old lover Dubois, who seems to be a worthy man, and I dare say will make her happy. If I were inclined to try her, very probably it would be in vain:—The constancy which has stood firm against absence, and a cannon-ball, would not be overturned by the airs, the tinsel, and the jargon of a petit-maître.—It gives me pleasure to believe it would not, and I am determined never to make the trial.

F—— never appeared so perfectly amiable.

B—— called and supped with me the same evening. I was too full of the adventure of Fanchon and Dubois not to mention it to him, with all the particulars of the Marquis’s behaviour.—This F—— of yours, said he, is an honest fellow. Do—contrive to let us dine with him to-morrow.—By the bye, continued he after a little pause, are not those F——’s originally from England?—I think I have heard of such a name in Yorkshire.

Adieu.