Chapter VIII: The Marechal De Logis

A soldier of the Grey Musketeers, who was on duty at one of the gates, politely directed me to the quarters of Patrick Gordon, the Marechal de Logis of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.

He proved to be a hale and handsome old man, a cadet of the house of Lochinvar; his beard and mustachios were almost white, and his complexion was very dark; a sword-cut, the badge of some battle-field--a badge which he valued more than his crosses of St. Lazare and Mont Carmel--traversed his right cheek by a long and ghastly line. His costume was somewhat of the Spanish fashion, being brown velvet laced with silver; he had a high ruff, and long buff boots, with gold spurs. A white-satin scarf sustained his steel-hilted rapier, into the bowl of which he usually stuffed his laced handkerchief. I announced myself, and all further explanations were cut short, by his saying--

'Welcome, M. Blane, to France, and to the Louvre! I expected you, for the Marquis, who has just left me, mentioned that you were to join us. You shall be at once enrolled in the cuirassiers of the Guard, with those two gentlemen, who have just arrived in Paris, this morning, from Scotland.'

Two gentlemen richly dressed, each with a pair of pistols in his girdle, who were in the recess of a window, where they had been observing a regiment of light horse passing along the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, now came forward, and the Marechal de Logis at once introduced us all.

One who was tall and fair, with a long mustache, his hair cut short, and a stern expression of eye, and who wore a white satin pourpoint, with gloves and boots of pink perfumed leather, proved to be Richard Maxwell, Viscount of Dundrennan. His grandfather, the cunning old commendator, having had influence enough to get the abbey-lands of Dundrennan erected into a temporal lordship, as the reward of certain doubtful services performed under the Regent Mar, who was poisoned by the Regent Morton.

The other, who was a dark man, with aquiline features, a square forehead, a black, expressive eye, and a perpetual smile, was Sir Quentin Home of Ravendean, one of the new baronets of Nova Scotia, usually known at home as the Laird of Redden. Both were young, handsome, and brave gallants, being free, jovial, and soldierly in manner.

'How came you to Paris, Blanerne?' asked the Viscount, who was the only Maxwell that was not against me in the feud with Nithsdale.

'By the way of Havre, my Lord.'

'Sir Quentin and I came by the way of London, for we had both to cross the borders with greater speed than was quite to our taste.'

'How so, sirs?' asked the Marechal de Logis, looking up from the muster-roll.

Lord Dundrennan coloured, but did not reply.

'You must know, sir,' said the Laird of Redden, 'that our friend the Viscount, to the great scandal of the kirk session and whole community of Dundrennan, conceived a vehement regard for the buxom wife of the abbey miller; and, with a dozen of Maxwells, all armed to the teeth, in back, breast, and pot, with partizan and pistol, he laid siege to the mill one night, when the moon was yet below the waves of the Solway. The dame, nothing loth, sprang into his arms from a back-window; but her devil of a husband, who resented this exceedingly, after permitting himself to bawl in a most unseemly manner, had recourse to an arquebuse, and from an eyelet-hole shot one of the Viscount's men through the jaws. A general riot ensued, and somehow, in the confusion, the mill was burned, and the poor miller was found drowned in his dam. My lord of Kirkcudbright, the steward of the stewartry, raised his vassals to punish these proceedings; and to avoid the Commissioners of Justiciary, my friend mounted a horse one night, crossed the borders, and went to London. There he met me in the Scots' Walk one day, looking out for a passage hither, for I too had become involved in an unpleasant scrape.'

'And had to leave Scotland hastily?'

'Yes, Marechal de Logis--it happened thus. One night, when riding near Berwick Bounds, with a few of my friends and kinsmen, all well horsed and armed with jack and spear, we found a herd of fine fat cattle grazing on the Debatable Land; and mistaking them for our own, we very naturally drove them homeward at a smart trot, ever and anon striking them with the flat of our swords, or administering a goad with the lance. Instead of being ours, however, they proved to be, unfortunately, the property of the English Governor of Berwick, who sent after us a party of horse, commanded by one of the King's captains. Now everybody knows that English troops dare not enter Scotland without violating the rights of the nation; thus a conflict ensued--the captain was a very troublesome fellow, so I ran him through the body; but we were defeated, and the cattle retaken. The English Governor complained to Sir Archibald Acheson, of Glencairn, the Secretary of State for Scotland, and warrants were issued against me; so one evening I marched off without beat of drum; but being without a passport, was taken at Carlisle, and sent back to Scotland. Our Secretary was disposed to be vindictive, and placed me in the castle of Lochmaben, charged with riot and felony; but my keeper, the Javellour, fell and broke his arm one day, while speaking to me; so I took care not to miss the opportunity, and wrenching away his keys, locked him up in my place. I then left the castle, and taking with me the best horse I could find, rode to Dumfries, where I sold my nag and a valuable ring, got shipping for England, and reached London with a few crowns in my pouch, bent on seeking foreign service. At the King's Head, in Southwark, I lived with the Viscount Dundrennan, who was on the same errand. The Rye carrier furnished us with saddle-horses, at twelve shillings a man. We reached Rye, one of the Cinque Ports, about sixty miles from the English capital, and put up at the Mermaid, outside the ramparts. The bully host was saucy to us, because we were Scots--so I stuffed his wig down his throat, while the Viscount flung all the furniture out of the windows. The churlish townsmen betook them to staves and bills; but we fought our way to a French lugger--one of those craft that are generally engaged in the conveyance of chalk from the cliffs near the East Bourne--and got clear off, with a few bruises. Landing at Dieppe, we lodged at the house of an Englishman, near the church of St. James. On the very day we arrived, I became, embroiled in an affair of honour. On the ramparts, which are the public promenade, a gentleman jostled me somewhat rudely, and passed on; but I twitched the end of his mantle, saying,

'"Monsieur will, of course, apologise?"

'"That, I think should rather be your task," said he.

'"A task it would be--but it shall be my pleasure to teach you politeness; follow me."

'We reached a retired place near the old castle of Dieppe--threw our hats and cloaks on the ground, and drew our rapiers.

'"You have challenged me," said my antagonist; "I therefore have the right of weapons."

'"Agreed," said I.

'"Your name, Monsieur?" said he; "I always like to know the names of those I kill."

'"Sir Quentin Home, a Baronet of Scotland--yours?"

'"M. le Comte de Forgatz----"'

'Good Heavens!' exclaimed the Marechal de Logis; 'he is the greatest duellist and most deadly shot in France. It is a miracle that you are alive!'

Sir Quentin smiled with careless disdain.

'We tossed up for the first fire and it fell to the Count. He fired, and the ball grazed my right ear--.'

'The devil! that was a close shave.'

'"Now, M. le Comte," said I, "'tis my turn--up with your right hand."

'He delayed.

'"Up with it, or by the soul of St. Andrew, I will shoot you through the heart!"

'He held it up, and in an instant my bullet whistled right through the palm of it.

'"A thousand curses!" he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with rage and pain, as he dashed his pistol at my head; but I forced him to apologise for daring to jostle me, and so the affair ended.'

'Bravo!' said the old Marechal de Logis; '_Fier comme un Ecossais!_ as the French have it.'

'After this camisado, we hired horses, and at Rouen swam them through the river Seine in sheer bravado, because the bridge of boats had been swept away. At Santeville, the Viscount fought a duel in defence of a grisette, and disarmed his antagonist, a gigantic officer of Swiss, at the third pass; and so, without further adventure, we reached Paris this morning. These are our adventures; and now Mr. Blane for yours.'

I soon related mine at least, all with which I deemed it prudent to acquaint two such hare-brained youths as my new comrades.

'Now, my Lord Dundrennan and gentlemen, you are fairly enrolled as members of king Louis' Ancient Scottish Guard,' said the Marshal de Logis; 'be pleased to sign your names here, after the usual oaths of allegiance and fidelity to his most Christian Majesty, which are all in accordance with those acts of the Scottish Parliament, by which the subjects of France and Scotland are naturalised each in the country of the other. Then we shall adjourn to the Fleur-de-lis, where you must all dine with me. I will bring two or three other gentlemen of the corps, and we will have all your news about poor old Scotland, the king and kirk, over a few bottles of prime burgundy.'

'Thanks, Marechal de Logis,' said the Viscount.

'With pleasure,' said I; and after Patrick Gordon had bundled away his documents, we took our swords and cloaks, and sallied forth.

Gordon showed us the new buildings which were in course of erection in the Place Dauphine, and the Bridge Marchand, which had been built a few years before in place of the picturesque Pont aux Meuniers, by Charles le Marchand, captain of the arquebussiers and archers of Paris in 1608, who undertook, with permission of Henry IV., to erect the said bridge, on condition that it should bear his name. Close by were the ruins of the ancient Pont aux Meuniers which had a mill under every arch, and which broke down on the night of the 22nd December, 1596, destroying five hundred persons, every one of whom, as the Marechal de Logis informed us, had enriched themselves by the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Here, too, stood the pigeon market, whence the bridge was named at times the Pont aux Colombes.

'Oho, chevalier,' said Gordon, to a gay gentleman clad in cloth of gold, with a red feather in his hat, who was bidding adieu to a pretty woman, who seemed to be the wife of a bourgeois; 'I see they still sell pigeons on the Pont aux Colombes?'

'Occasionally, Patrick, and game of other kinds, too,' said he, saluting us with a merry smile.

'We are all going to dine at the Fleur-de-lis. Will you join us?'

'With pleasure.'

''Tis one of ourselves, gentlemen,' continued the frank old Marechal de Logis; 'allow me to introduce the Chevalier Livingstone, one of the bravest gallants in the Scottish Guard; Viscount Dundrennan, Sir Quentin Home, and the Laird of Blanerne, have all come, chevalier, from our dear auld mither Scotland, to fight for king Louis of France.'

We all bowed and shook hands.

The Chevalier Livingstone was the younger son of Henry Count of Angoulême, who was the son of Henry II., by a daughter of the Scottish house of Linlithgow, and in right of his grandmother's blood was admitted into the Scottish Guard.

As we rambled towards the Rue d'Ecosse, we passed the magnificent house of the famous courtesan Marion de l'Orme, which by chance had a company of the Cardinal's musketeers drawn up before it. This occasioned a hundred irreverend jokes from the chevalier and the lively old Marechal de Logis; and here another handsome cavalier of the Scottish Guard, Raynold Cheyne, of Dundargle in Fifeshire, joined us. His doublet was of black velvet, so thickly ornamented with jet that it glittered like a corslet in the sun. His mantle was dark crimson; his long boots were of black leather; his sword and dagger hilts of silver, and altogether he was a sombre, picturesque, and impressive-looking fellow.

I saw the statue of Henry the Great as we passed along the Rue St. Honoré, and in that quaint old street the Feronnerie, Cheyne showed me the exact spot where, twenty-three years before, Henry had perished under the dagger of Ravaillac, beneath the windows of a notary named Pontrain, at a place where the street was crowded and rendered more narrow by the little shops which are built against the walls of the churchyard of St. Innocent.

'Hah!' said the old Marechal de Logis, with a grin, 'had our Scottish Guard been with Henry in lieu of his wretched French lacqueys, Ravaillac had never achieved the dreadful deed of that day!'

'And where were they?' asked the Viscount.

'They were marching towards the frontier, as a war was expected with Spain,' replied our veteran comrade, as we found ourselves in the Rue d'Ecosse, and at the sign of the Golden Fleur-de-lis, kept by Maître Pierre Omelette.