The Adventures of Gerard

Chapter 1

How Brigadier Gerard Lost His Ear

--

It was the old Brigadier who was talking in the cafe.

I have seen a great many cities, my friends. I would not dare to

tell you how many I have entered as a conqueror with eight

hundred of my little fighting devils clanking and jingling behind

me. The cavalry were in front of the Grande Armee, and the

Hussars of Conflans were in front of the cavalry, and I was in

front of the Hussars. But of all the cities which we visited

Venice is the most ill-built and ridiculous. I cannot imagine

how the people who laid it out thought that the cavalry could

manoeuvre. It would puzzle Murat or Lassalle to bring a squadron

into that square of theirs. For this reason we left Kellermann's

heavy brigade and also my own Hussars at Padua on the mainland.

But Suchet with the infantry held the town, and he had chosen me

as his aide- de-camp for that winter, because he was pleased

about the affair of the Italian fencing-master at Milan. The

fellow was a good swordsman, and it was fortunate for the credit

of French arms that it was I who was opposed to him. Besides, he

deserved a lesson, for if one does not like a prima donna's

singing one can always be silent, but it is intolerable that a

public affront should be put upon a pretty woman. So the

sympathy was all with me, and after the affair had blown over and

the man's widow had been pensioned Suchet chose me as his own

galloper, and I followed him to Venice, where I had the strange

adventure which I am about to tell you.

You have not been to Venice? No, for it is seldom that the

French travel. We were great travellers in those days. From

Moscow to Cairo we had travelled everywhere, but we went in

larger parties than were convenient to those whom we visited, and

we carried our passports in our limbers. It will be a bad day

for Europe when the French start travelling again, for they are

slow to leave their homes, but when they have done so no one can

say how far they will go if they have a guide like our little man

to point out the way. But the great days are gone and the great

men are dead, and here am I, the last of them, drinking wine of

Suresnes and telling old tales in a cafe.

But it is of Venice that I would speak. The folk there live like

water-rats upon a mud-bank, but the houses are very fine, and the

churches, especially that of St. Mark, are as great as any I have

seen. But above all they are proud of their statues and their

pictures, which are the most famous in Europe. There are many

soldiers who think that because one's trade is to make war one

should never have a thought above fighting and plunder. There

was old Bouvet, for example--the one who was killed by the

Prussians on the day that I won the Emperor's medal; if you took

him away from the camp and the canteen, and spoke to him of books

or of art, he would sit and stare at you. But the highest

soldier is a man like myself who can understand the things of the

mind and the soul. It is true that I was very young when I

joined the army, and that the quarter- master was my only

teacher, but if you go about the world with your eyes open you

cannot help learning a great deal.

Thus I was able to admire the pictures in Venice, and to know the

names of the great men, Michael Titiens, and Angelus, and the

others, who had painted them. No one can say that Napoleon did

not admire them also, for the very first thing which he did when

he captured the town was to send the best of them to Paris. We

all took what we could get, and I had two pictures for my share.

One of them, called "Nymphs Surprised," I kept for myself, and

the other, "Saint Barbara," I sent as a present for my mother.

It must be confessed, however, that some of our men behaved very

badly in this matter of the statues and the pictures. The people

at Venice were very much attached to them, and as to the four

bronze horses which stood over the gate of their great church,

they loved them as dearly as if they had been their children. I

have always been a judge of a horse, and I had a good look at

these ones, but I could not see that there was much to be said

for them. They were too coarse-limbed for light cavalry charges

and they had not the weight for the gun-teams.

However, they were the only four horses, alive or dead, in the

whole town, so it was not to be expected that the people would

know any better. They wept bitterly when they were sent away,

and ten French soldiers were found floating in the canals that

night. As a punishment for these murders a great many more of

their pictures were sent away, and the soldiers took to breaking

the statues and firing their muskets at the stained-glass

windows.

This made the people furious, and there was very bad feeling in

the town. Many officers and men disappeared during that winter,

and even their bodies were never found.

For myself I had plenty to do, and I never found the time heavy

on my hands. In every country it has been my custom to try to

learn the language. For this reason I always look round for some

lady who will be kind enough to teach it to me, and then we

practise it together. This is the most interesting way of

picking it up, and before I was thirty I could speak nearly every

tongue in Europe; but it must be confessed that what you learn is

not of much use for the ordinary purposes of life. My business,

for example, has usually been with soldiers and peasants, and

what advantage is it to be able to say to them that I love only

them, and that I will come back when the wars are over?

Never have I had so sweet a teacher as in Venice. Lucia was her

first name, and her second--but a gentleman forgets second names.

I can say this with all discretion, that she was of one of the

senatorial families of Venice and that her grandfather had been

Doge of the town.

She was of an exquisite beauty--and when I, Etienne Gerard, use

such a word as "exquisite," my friends, it has a meaning. I have

judgment, I have memories, I have the means of comparison. Of

all the women who have loved me there are not twenty to whom I

could apply such a term as that. But I say again that Lucia was

exquisite.

Of the dark type I do not recall her equal unless it were Dolores

of Toledo. There was a little brunette whom I loved at Santarem

when I was soldiering under Massena in Portugal--her name has

escaped me. She was of a perfect beauty, but she had not the

figure nor the grace of Lucia. There was Agnes also. I could

not put one before the other, but I do none an injustice when I

say that Lucia was the equal of the best.

It was over this matter of pictures that I had first met her, for

her father owned a palace on the farther side of the Rialto

Bridge upon the Grand Canal, and it was so packed with

wall-paintings that Suchet sent a party of sappers to cut some of

them out and send them to Paris.

I had gone down with them, and after I had seen Lucia in tears it

appeared to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from

the support of the wall. I said so, and the sappers were

withdrawn. After that I was the friend of the family, and many a

flask of Chianti have I cracked with the father and many a sweet

lesson have I had from the daughter. Some of our French officers

married in Venice that winter, and I might have done the same,

for I loved her with all my heart; but Etienne Gerard has his

sword, his horse, his regiment, his mother, his Emperor, and his

career. A debonair Hussar has room in his life for love, but

none for a wife. So I thought then, my friends, but I did not

see the lonely days when I should long to clasp those vanished

hands, and turn my head away when I saw old comrades with their

tall children standing round their chairs. This love which I had

thought was a joke and a plaything--it is only now that I

understand that it is the moulder of one's life, the most solemn

and sacred of all things-- Thank you, my friend, thank you! It

is a good wine, and a second bottle cannot hurt.

And now I will tell you how my love for Lucia was the cause of

one of the most terrible of all the wonderful adventures which

have ever befallen me, and how it was that I came to lose the top

of my right ear. You have often asked me why it was missing.

To-night for the first time I will tell you.

Suchet's head-quarters at that time was the old palace of the

Doge Dandolo, which stands on the lagoon not far from the place

of San Marco. It was near the end of the winter, and I had

returned one night from the Theatre Goldini, when I found a note

from Lucia and a gondola waiting. She prayed me to come to her

at once as she was in trouble. To a Frenchman and a soldier

there was but one answer to such a note. In an instant I was in

the boat and the gondolier was pushing out into the dark lagoon.

I remember that as I took my seat in the boat I was struck by the

man's great size. He was not tall, but he was one of the

broadest men that I have ever seen in my life. But the

gondoliers of Venice are a strong breed, and powerful men are

common enough among them. The fellow took his place behind me

and began to row.

A good soldier in an enemy's country should everywhere and at all

times be on the alert. It has been one of the rules of my life,

and if I have lived to wear grey hairs it is because I have

observed it. And yet upon that night I was as careless as a

foolish young recruit who fears lest he should be thought to be

afraid. My pistols I had left behind in my hurry. My sword was

at my belt, but it is not always the most convenient of weapons.

I lay back in my seat in the gondola, lulled by the gentle swish

of the water and the steady creaking of the oar. Our way lay

through a network of narrow canals with high houses towering on

either side and a thin slit of star-spangled sky above us. Here

and there, on the bridges which spanned the canal, there was the

dim glimmer of an oil lamp, and sometimes there came a gleam from

some niche where a candle burned before the image of a saint.

But save for this it was all black, and one could only see the

water by the white fringe which curled round the long black nose

of our boat. It was a place and a time for dreaming. I thought

of my own past life, of all the great deeds in which I had been

concerned, of the horses that I had handled, and of the women

that I had loved. Then I thought also of my dear mother, and I

fancied her joy when she heard the folk in the village talking

about the fame of her son. Of the Emperor also I thought, and of

France, the dear fatherland, the sunny France, mother of

beautiful daughters and of gallant sons. My heart glowed within

me as I thought of how we had brought her colours so many hundred

leagues beyond her borders. To her greatness I would dedicate my

life. I placed my hand upon my heart as I swore it, and at that

instant the gondolier fell upon me from behind.

When I say that he fell upon me I do not mean merely that he

attacked me, but that he really did tumble upon me with all his

weight. The fellow stands behind you and above you as he rows,

so that you can neither see him nor can you in any way guard

against such an assault.

One moment I had sat with my mind filled with sublime

resolutions, the next I was flattened out upon the bottom of the

boat, the breath dashed out of my body, and this monster pinning

me down. I felt the fierce pants of his hot breath upon the back

of my neck. In an instant he had torn away my sword, had slipped

a sack over my head, and had tied a rope firmly round the outside

of it.

There I was at the bottom of the gondola as helpless as a trussed

fowl. I could not shout, I could not move; I was a mere bundle.

An instant later I heard once more the swishing of the water and

the creaking of the oar.

This fellow had done his work and had resumed his journey as

quietly and unconcernedly as if he were accustomed to clap a sack

over a colonel of Hussars every day of the week.

I cannot tell you the humiliation and also the fury which filled

my mind as I lay there like a helpless sheep being carried to the

butcher's. I, Etienne Gerard, the champion of the six brigades

of light cavalry and the first swordsman of the Grand Army, to be

overpowered by a single unarmed man in such a fashion! Yet I lay

quiet, for there is a time to resist and there is a time to save

one's strength. I had felt the fellow's grip upon my arms, and I

knew that I would be a child in his hands. I waited quietly,

therefore, with a heart which burned with rage, until my

opportunity should come.

How long I lay there at the bottom of the boat I can not tell;

but it seemed to me to be a long time, and always there were the

hiss of the waters and the steady creaking of the oar. Several

times we turned corners, for I heard the long, sad cry which

these gondoliers give when they wish to warn their fellows that

they are coming. At last, after a considerable journey, I felt

the side of the boat scrape up against a landing-place. The

fellow knocked three times with his oar upon wood, and in answer

to his summons I heard the rasping of bars and the turning of

keys. A great door creaked back upon its hinges.

"Have you got him?" asked a voice, in Italian.

My monster gave a laugh and kicked the sack in which I lay.

"Here he is," said he.

"They are waiting." He added something which I could not

understand.

"Take him, then," said my captor. He raised me in his arms,

ascended some steps, and I was thrown down upon a hard floor. A

moment later the bars creaked and the key whined once more. I

was a prisoner inside a house.

From the voices and the steps there seemed now to be several

people round me. I understand Italian a great deal better than I

speak it, and I could make out very well what they were saying.

"You have not killed him, Matteo?"

"What matter if I have?"

"My faith, you will have to answer for it to the tribunal."

"They will kill him, will they not?"

"Yes, but it is not for you or me to take it out of their hands."

"Tut! I have not killed him. Dead men do not bite, and his

cursed teeth met in my thumb as I pulled the sack over his head."

"He lies very quiet."

"Tumble him out and you will find that he is lively enough."

The cord which bound me was undone and the sack drawn from over

my head. With my eyes closed I lay motionless upon the floor.

"By the saints, Matteo, I tell you that you have broken his

neck."

"Not I. He has only fainted. The better for him if he never

came out of it again."

I felt a hand within my tunic.

"Matteo is right," said a voice. "His heart beats like a hammer.

Let him lie and he will soon find his senses."

I waited for a minute or so and then I ventured to take a

stealthy peep from between my lashes. At first I could see

nothing, for I had been so long in darkness and it was but a dim

light in which I found myself. Soon, however, I made out that a

high and vaulted ceiling covered with painted gods and goddesses

was arching over my head. This was no mean den of cut-throats

into which I had been carried, but it must be the hall of some

Venetian palace. Then, without movement, very slowly and

stealthily I had a peep at the men who surrounded me. There was

the gondolier, a swart, hard-faced, murderous ruffian, and beside

him were three other men, one of them a little, twisted fellow

with an air of authority and several keys in his hand, the other

two tall young servants in a smart livery. As I listened to

their talk I saw that the small man was the steward of the house,

and that the others were under his orders.

There were four of them, then, but the little steward might be

left out of the reckoning. Had I a weapon I should have smiled

at such odds as those. But, hand to hand, I was no match for the

one even without three others to aid him. Cunning, then, not

force, must be my aid. I wished to look round for some mode of

escape, and in doing so I gave an almost imperceptible movement

of my head. Slight as it was it did not escape my guardians.

"Come, wake up, wake up!" cried the steward.

"Get on your feet, little Frenchman," growled the gondolier.

"Get up, I say," and for the second time he spurned me with his

foot.

Never in the world was a command obeyed so promptly as that one.

In an instant I had bounded to my feet and rushed as hard as I

could to the back of the hall. They were after me as I have seen

the English hounds follow a fox, but there was a long passage

down which I tore.

It turned to the left and again to the left, and then I found

myself back in the hall once more. They were almost within touch

of me and there was no time for thought. I turned toward the

staircase, but two men were coming down it. I dodged back and

tried the door through which I had been brought, but it was

fastened with great bars and I could not loosen them. The

gondolier was on me with his knife, but I met him with a kick on

the body which stretched him on his back. His dagger flew with a

clatter across the marble floor. I had no time to seize it, for

there were half a dozen of them now clutching at me. As I rushed

through them the little steward thrust his leg before me and I

fell with a crash, but I was up in an instant, and breaking from

their grasp I burst through the very middle of them and made for

a door at the other end of the hall. I reached it well in front

of them, and I gave a shout of triumph as the handle turned

freely in my hand, for I could see that it led to the outside and

that all was clear for my escape. But I had forgotten this

strange city in which I was. Every house is an island. As I

flung open the door, ready to bound out into the street, the

light of the hall shone upon the deep, still, black water which

lay flush with the topmost step.

I shrank back, and in an instant my pursuers were on me.

But I am not taken so easily. Again I kicked and fought my way

through them, though one of them tore a handful of hair from my

head in his effort to hold me. The little steward struck me with

a key and I was battered and bruised, but once more I cleared a

way in front of me.

Up the grand staircase I rushed, burst open the pair of huge

folding doors which faced me, and learned at last that my efforts

were in vain.

The room into which I had broken was brilliantly lighted. With

its gold cornices, its massive pillars, and its painted walls and

ceilings it was evidently the grand hall of some famous Venetian

palace. There are many hundred such in this strange city, any

one of which has rooms which would grace the Louvre or

Versailles. In the centre of this great hall there was a raised

dais, and upon it in a half circle there sat twelve men all clad

in black gowns, like those of a Franciscan monk, and each with a

mask over the upper part of his face.

A group of armed men--rough-looking rascals--were standing round

the door, and amid them facing the dais was a young fellow in the

uniform of the light infantry. As he turned his head I

recognised him. It was Captain Auret, of the 7th, a young Basque

with whom I had drunk many a glass during the winter.

He was deadly white, poor wretch, but he held himself manfully

amid the assassins who surrounded him. Never shall I forget the

sudden flash of hope which shone in his dark eyes when he saw a

comrade burst into the room, or the look of despair which

followed as he understood that I had come not to change his fate

but to share it.

You can think how amazed these people were when I hurled myself

into their presence. My pursuers had crowded in behind me and

choked the doorway, so that all further flight was out of the

question. It is at such instants that my nature asserts itself.

With dignity I advanced toward the tribunal. My jacket was torn,

my hair was dishevelled, my head was bleeding, but there was that

in my eyes and in my carriage which made them realise that no

common man was before them. Not a hand was raised to arrest me

until I halted in front of a formidable old man, whose long grey

beard and masterful manner told me that both by years and by

character he was the man in authority.

"Sir," said I, "you will, perhaps, tell me why I have been

forcibly arrested and brought to this place. I am an honourable

soldier, as is this other gentleman here, and I demand that you

will instantly set us both at liberty."

There was an appalling silence to my appeal. It was not pleasant

to have twelve masked faces turned upon you and to see twelve

pairs of vindictive Italian eyes fixed with fierce intentness

upon your face. But I stood as a debonair soldier should, and I

could not but reflect how much credit I was bringing upon the

Hussars of Conflans by the dignity of my bearing. I do not think

that anyone could have carried himself better under such

difficult circumstances. I looked with a fearless face from one

assassin to another, and I waited for some reply.

It was the grey-beard who at last broke the silence.

"Who is this man?" he asked.

"His name is Gerard," said the little steward at the door.

"Colonel Gerard," said I. "I will not deceive you. I am Etienne

Gerard, THE Colonel Gerard, five times mentioned in despatches

and recommended for the sword of honour. I am aide-de-camp to

General Suchet, and I demand my instant release, together with

that of my comrade in arms."

The same terrible silence fell upon the assembly, and the same

twelve pairs of merciless eyes were bent upon my face. Again it

was the grey-beard who spoke.

"He is out of his order. There are two names upon our list

before him."

"He escaped from our hands and burst into the room."

"Let him await his turn. Take him down to the wooden cell."

"If he resist us, your Excellency?"

"Bury your knives in his body. The tribunal will uphold you.

Remove him until we have dealt with the others."

They advanced upon me, and for an instant I thought of

resistance. It would have been a heroic death, but who was there

to see it or to chronicle it? I might be only postponing my

fate, and yet I had been in so many bad places and come out

unhurt that I had learned always to hope and to trust my star. I

allowed these rascals to seize me, and I was led from the room,

the gondolier walking at my side with a long naked knife in his

hand. I could see in his brutal eyes the satisfaction which it

would give him if he could find some excuse for plunging it into

my body.

They are wonderful places, these great Venetian houses, palaces,

and fortresses, and prisons all in one. I was led along a

passage and down a bare stone stair until we came to a short

corridor from which three doors opened. Through one of these I

was thrust and the spring lock closed behind me. The only light

came dimly through a small grating which opened on the passage.

Peering and feeling, I carefully examined the chamber in which I

had been placed. I understood from what I had heard that I

should soon have to leave it again in order to appear before this

tribunal, but still it is not my nature to throw away any

possible chances.

The stone floor of the cell was so damp and the walls for some

feet high were so slimy and foul that it was evident they were

beneath the level of the water. A single slanting hole high up

near the ceiling was the only aperture for light or air. Through

it I saw one bright star shining down upon me, and the sight

filled me with comfort and with hope. I have never been a man of

religion, though I have always had a respect for those who were,

but I remember that night that the star shining down the shaft

seemed to be an all-seeing eye which was upon me, and I felt as a

young and frightened recruit might feel in battle when he saw the

calm gaze of his colonel turned upon him.

Three of the sides of my prison were formed of stone, but the

fourth was of wood, and I could see that it had only recently

been erected. Evidently a partition had been thrown up to divide

a single large cell into two smaller ones. There was no hope for

me in the old walls, in the tiny window, or in the massive door.

It was only in this one direction of the wooden screen that there

was any possibility of exploring. My reason told me that if I

should pierce it--which did not seem very difficult--it would

only be to find myself in another cell as strong as that in which

I then was. Yet I had always rather be doing something than

doing nothing, so I bent all my attention and all my energies

upon the wooden wall. Two planks were badly joined, and so loose

that I was certain I could easily detach them. I searched about

for some tool, and I found one in the leg of a small bed which

stood in the corner. I forced the end of this into the c***k of

the planks, and I was about to twist them outward when the sound

of rapid footsteps caused me to pause and to listen.

I wish I could forget what I heard. Many a hundred men have I

seen die in battle, and I have slain more myself than I care to

think of, but all that was fair fight and the duty of a soldier.

It was a very different matter to listen to a murder in this den

of assassins. They were pushing someone along the passage,

someone who resisted and who clung to my door as he passed. They

must have taken him into the third cell, the one which was

farthest from me. "Help! Help!" cried a voice, and then I heard

a blow and a scream. "Help! Help!" cried the voice again, and

then "Gerard! Colonel Gerard!" It was my poor captain of

infantry whom they were slaughtering.

"Murderers! Murderers!" I yelled, and I kicked at my door, but

again I heard him shout and then everything was silent. A minute

later there was a heavy splash, and I knew that no human eye

would ever see Auret again. He had gone as a hundred others had

gone whose names were missing from the roll-calls of their

regiments during that winter in Venice.

The steps returned along the passage, and I thought that they

were coming for me. Instead of that they opened the door of the

cell next to mine and they took someone out of it. I heard the

steps die away up the stair.

At once I renewed my work upon the planks, and within a very few

minutes I had loosened them in such a way that I could remove and

replace them at pleasure. Passing through the aperture I found

myself in the farther cell, which, as I expected, was the other

half of the one in which I had been confined. I was not any

nearer to escape than I had been before, for there was no other

wooden wall which I could penetrate and the spring lock of the

door had been closed. There were no traces to show who was my

companion in misfortune. Closing the two loose planks behind me

I returned to my own cell and waited there with all the courage

which I could command for the summons which would probably be my

death knell.

It was a long time in coming, but at last I heard the sound of

feet once more in the passage, and I nerved myself to listen to

some other odious deed and to hear the cries of the poor victim.

Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the prisoner was

placed in the cell without violence. I had no time to peep

through my hole of communication, for next moment my own door was

flung open and my rascally gondolier, with the other assassins,

came into the cell.

"Come, Frenchman," said he. He held his blood- stained knife in

his great, hairy hand, and I read in his fierce eyes that he only

looked for some excuse in order to plunge it into my heart.

Resistance was useless. I followed without a word. I was led up

the stone stair and back into that gorgeous chamber in which I

had left the secret tribunal. I was ushered in, but to my

surprise it was not on me that their attention was fixed. One of

their own number, a tall, dark young man, was standing before

them and was pleading with them in low, earnest tones. His voice

quivered with anxiety and his hands darted in and out or writhed

together in an agony of entreaty. "You cannot do it! You cannot

do it!" he cried.

"I implore the tribunal to reconsider this decision."

"Stand aside, brother," said the old man who presided.

"The case is decided and another is up for judgment."

"For Heaven's sake be merciful!" cried the young man.

"We have already been merciful," the other answered.

"Death would have been a small penalty for such an offence. Be

silent and let judgment take its course."

I saw the young man throw himself in an agony of grief into his

chair. I had no time, however, to speculate as to what it was

which was troubling him, for his eleven colleagues had already

fixed their stern eyes upon me.

The moment of fate had arrived.

"You are Colonel Gerard?" said the terrible old man.

"I am."

"Aide-de-camp to the robber who calls himself General Suchet, who

in turn represents that arch-robber Buonaparte?"

It was on my lips to tell him that he was a liar, but there is a

time to argue and a time to be silent.

"I am an honourable soldier," said I. "I have obeyed my orders

and done my duty."

The blood flushed into the old man's face and his eyes blazed

through his mask.

"You are thieves and murderers, every man of you," he cried.

"What are you doing here? You are Frenchmen.

Why are you not in France? Did we invite you to Venice? By what

right are you here? Where are our pictures? Where are the

horses of St. Mark? Who are you that you should pilfer those

treasures which our fathers through so many centuries have

collected? We were a great city when France was a desert. Your

drunken, brawling, ignorant soldiers have undone the work of

saints and heroes. What have you to say to it?"

He was, indeed, a formidable old man, for his white beard

bristled with fury and he barked out the little sentences like a

savage hound. For my part I could have told him that his

pictures would be safe in Paris, that his horses were really not

worth making a fuss about, and that he could see heroes--I say

nothing of saints--without going back to his ancestors or even

moving out of his chair. All this I could have pointed out, but

one might as well argue with a Mameluke about religion. I

shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

"The prisoner has no defence," said one of my masked judges.

"Has any one any observation to make before judgment is passed?"

The old man glared round him at the others.

"There is one matter, your Excellency," said another.

"It can scarce be referred to without reopening a brother's

wounds, but I would remind you that there is a very particular

reason why an exemplary punishment should be inflicted in the

case of this officer."

"I had not forgotten it," the old man answered.

"Brother, if the tribunal has injured you in one direction, it

will give you ample satisfaction in another."

The young man who had been pleading when I entered the room

staggered to his feet.

"I cannot endure it," he cried. "Your Excellency must forgive

me. The tribunal can act without me. I am ill.

I am mad." He flung his hands out with a furious gesture and

rushed from the room.

"Let him go! Let him go!" said the president. "It is, indeed,

more than can be asked of flesh and blood that he should remain

under this roof. But he is a true Venetian, and when the first

agony is over he will understand that it could not be otherwise."

I had been forgotten during this episode, and though I am not a

man who is accustomed to being overlooked I should have been all

the happier had they continued to neglect me. But now the old

president glared at me again like a tiger who comes back to his

victim.

"You shall pay for it all, and it is but justice that you

should," he said. "You, an upstart adventurer and foreigner,

have dared to raise your eyes in love to the grand daughter of a

Doge of Venice who was already betrothed to the heir of the

Loredans. He who enjoys such privileges must pay a price for

them."

"It cannot be higher than they are worth," said I.

"You will tell us that when you have made a part p*****t," said

he. "Perhaps your spirit may not be so proud by that time.

Matteo, you will lead this prisoner to the wooden cell. To-night

is Monday. Let him have no food or water, and let him be led

before the tribunal again on Wednesday night. We shall then

decide upon the death which he is to die."

It was not a pleasant prospect, and yet it was a reprieve. One

is thankful for small mercies when a hairy savage with a

blood-stained knife is standing at one's elbow. He dragged me

from the room and I was thrust down the stairs and back into my

cell. The door was locked and I was left to my reflections.

My first thought was to establish connection with my neighbour in

misfortune. I waited until the steps had died away, and then I

cautiously drew aside the two boards and peeped through. The

light was very dim, so dim that I could only just discern a

figure huddled in the corner, and I could hear the low whisper of

a voice which prayed as one prays who is in deadly fear. The

boards must have made a creaking. There was a sharp exclamation

of surprise.

"Courage, friend, courage!" I cried. "All is not lost.

Keep a stout heart, for Etienne Gerard is by your side."

"Etienne!" It was a woman's voice which spoke--a voice which was

always music to my ears. I sprang through the gap and I flung my

arms round her.

"Lucia! Lucia!" I cried.

It was "Etienne!" and "Lucia!" for some minutes, for one does not

make speeches at moments like that. It was she who came to her

senses first.

"Oh, Etienne, they will kill you. How came you into their

hands?"

"In answer to your letter."

"I wrote no letter."

"The cunning demons! But you?"

"I came also in answer to your letter."

"Lucia, I wrote no letter."

"They have trapped us both with the same bait."

"I care nothing about myself, Lucia. Besides, there is no

pressing danger with me. They have simply returned me to my

cell."

"Oh, Etienne, Etienne, they will kill you. Lorenzo is there."

"The old greybeard?"

"No, no, a young dark man. He loved me, and I thought I loved

him until--until I learned what love is, Etienne. He will never

forgive you. He has a heart of stone."

"Let them do what they like. They cannot rob me of the past,

Lucia. But you--what about you?"

"It will be nothing, Etienne. Only a pang for an instant and

then all over. They mean it as a badge of infamy, dear, but I

will carry it like a crown of honour since it was through you

that I gained it."

Her words froze my blood with horror. All my adventures were

insignificant compared to this terrible shadow which was creeping

over my soul.

"Lucia! Lucia!" I cried. "For pity's sake tell me what these

butchers are about to do. Tell me, Lucia!

Tell me!"

"I will not tell you, Etienne, for it would hurt you far more

than it would me. Well, well, I will tell you lest you should

fear it was something worse. The president has ordered that my

ear be cut off, that I may be marked for ever as having loved a

Frenchman."

Her ear! The dear little ear which I had kissed so often. I put

my hand to each little velvet shell to make certain that this

sacrilege had not yet been committed.

Only over my dead body should they reach them. I swore it to her

between my clenched teeth.

"You must not care, Etienne. And yet I love that you should care

all the same."

"They shall not hurt you--the fiends!"

"I have hopes, Etienne. Lorenzo is there. He was silent while I

was judged, but he may have pleaded for me after I was gone."

"He did. I heard him."

"Then he may have softened their hearts."

I knew that it was not so, but how could I bring myself to tell

her? I might as well have done so, for with the quick instinct

of woman my silence was speech to her.

"They would not listen to him! You need not fear to tell me,

dear, for you will find that I am worthy to be loved by such a

soldier. Where is Lorenzo now?"

"He left the hall."

"Then he may have left the house as well."

"I believe that he did."

"He has abandoned me to my fate. Etienne, Etienne, they are

coming!"

Afar off I heard those fateful steps and the jingle of distant

keys. What were they coming for now, since there were no other

prisoners to drag to judgment? It could only be to carry out the

sentence upon my darling.

I stood between her and the door, with the strength of a lion in

my limbs. I would tear the house down before they should touch

her.

"Go back! Go back!" she cried. "They will murder you, Etienne.

My life, at least, is safe. For the love you bear me, Etienne,

go back. It is nothing. I will make no sound. You will not

hear that it is done."

She wrestled with me, this delicate creature, and by main force

she dragged me to the opening between the cells. But a sudden

thought had crossed my mind.

"We may yet be saved," I whispered. "Do what I tell you at once

and without argument. Go into my cell.

Quick!"

I pushed her through the gap and helped her to replace the

planks. I had retained her cloak in my hands, and with this

wrapped round me I crept into the darkest corner of her cell.

There I lay when the door was opened and several men came in. I

had reckoned that they would bring no lantern, for they had none

with them before.

To their eyes I was only a dark blur in the corner.

"Bring a light," said one of them.

"No, no; curse it!" cried a rough voice, which I knew to be that

of the ruffian, Matteo. "It is not a job that I like, and the

more I saw it the less I should like it. I am sorry, signora,

but the order of the tribunal has to be obeyed."

My impulse was to spring to my feet and to rush through them all

and out by the open door. But how would that help Lucia?

Suppose that I got clear away, she would be in their hands until

I could come back with help, for single-handed I could not hope

to clear a way for her. All this flashed through my mind in an

instant, and I saw that the only course for me was to lie still,

take what came, and wait my chance. The fellow's coarse hand

felt about among my curls--those curls in which only a woman's

fingers had ever wandered. The next instant he gripped my ear

and a pain shot through me as if I had been touched with a hot

iron. I bit my lip to stifle a cry, and I felt the blood run

warm down my neck and back.

"There, thank Heaven, that's over," said the fellow, giving me a

friendly pat on the head. "You're a brave girl, signora, I'll

say that for you, and I only wish you'd have better taste than to

love a Frenchman. You can blame him and not me for what I have

done."

What could I do save to lie still and grind my teeth at my own

helplessness? At the same time my pain and my rage were always

soothed by the reflection that I had suffered for the woman whom

I loved. It is the custom of men to say to ladies that they

would willingly endure any pain for their sake, but it was my

privilege to show that I had said no more than I meant. I

thought also how nobly I would seem to have acted if ever the

story came to be told, and how proud the regiment of Conflans

might well be of their colonel. These thoughts helped me to

suffer in silence while the blood still trickled over my neck and

dripped upon the stone floor. It was that sound which nearly led

to my destruction.

"She's bleeding fast," said one of the valets. "You had best

fetch a surgeon or you will find her dead in the morning."

"She lies very still and she has never opened her mouth," said

another. "The shock has killed her."

"Nonsense; a young woman does not die so easily." It was Matteo

who spoke. "Besides, I did but snip off enough to leave the

tribunal's mark upon her. Rouse up, signora, rouse up!"

He shook me by the shoulder, and my heart stood still for fear he

should feel the epaulet under the mantle.

"How is it with you now?" he asked.

I made no answer.

"Curse it, I wish I had to do with a man instead of a woman, and

the fairest woman in Venice," said the gondolier. "Here,

Nicholas, lend me your handkerchief and bring a light."

It was all over. The worst had happened. Nothing could save me.

I still crouched in the corner, but I was tense in every muscle,

like a wild cat about to spring.

If I had to die I was determined that my end should be worthy of

my life.

One of them had gone for a lamp and Matteo was stooping over me

with a handkerchief. In another instant my secret would be

discovered. But he suddenly drew himself straight and stood

motionless. At the same instant there came a confused murmuring

sound through the little window far above my head. It was the

rattle of oars and the buzz of many voices. Then there was a

crash upon the door upstairs, and a terrible voice roared:

"Open! Open in the name of the Emperor!"

The Emperor! It was like the mention of some saint which, by its

very sound, can frighten the demons.

Away they ran with cries of terror--Matteo, the valets, the

steward, all of the murderous gang. Another shout and then the

crash of a hatchet and the splintering of planks. There were the

rattle of arms and the cries of French soldiers in the hall.

Next instant feet came flying down the stair and a man burst

frantically into my cell.

"Lucia!" he cried, "Lucia!" He stood in the dim light, panting

and unable to find his words. Then he broke out again. "Have I

not shown you how I love you, Lucia? What more could I do to

prove it? I have betrayed my country, I have broken my vow, I

have ruined my friends, and I have given my life in order to save

you."

It was young Lorenzo Loredan, the lover whom I had superseded.

My heart was heavy for him at the time, but after all it is every

man for himself in love, and if one fails in the game it is some

consolation to lose to one who can be a graceful and considerate

winner.

I was about to point this out to him, but at the first word I

uttered he gave a shout of astonishment, and, rushing out, he

seized the lamp which hung in the corridor and flashed it in my

face.

"It is you, you villain!" he cried. "You French coxcomb. You

shall pay me for the wrong which you have done me."

But the next instant he saw the pallor of my face and the blood

which was still pouring from my head.

"What is this?" he asked. "How come you to have lost your ear?"

I shook off my weakness, and pressing my handkerchief to my wound

I rose from my couch, the debonair colonel of Hussars.

"My injury, sir, is nothing. With your permission we will not

allude to a matter so trifling and so personal."

But Lucia had burst through from her cell and was pouring out the

whole story while she clasped Lorenzo's arm.

"This noble gentleman--he has taken my place, Lorenzo! He has

borne it for me. He has suffered that I might be saved."

I could sympathise with the struggle which I could see in the

Italian's face. At last he held out his hand to me.

"Colonel Gerard," he said, "you are worthy of a great love. I

forgive you, for if you have wronged me you have made a noble

atonement. But I wonder to see you alive. I left the tribunal

before you were judged, but I understood that no mercy would be

shown to any Frenchman since the destruction of the ornaments of

Venice."

"He did not destroy them," cried Lucia. "He has helped to

preserve those in our palace."

"One of them, at any rate," said I, as I stooped and kissed her

hand.

This was the way, my friends, in which I lost my ear. Lorenzo

was found stabbed to the heart in the Piazza of St. Mark within

two days of the night of my adventure. Of the tribunal and its

ruffians, Matteo and three others were shot, the rest banished

from the town.

Lucia, my lovely Lucia, retired into a convent at Murano after

the French had left the city, and there she still may be, some

gentle lady abbess who has perhaps long forgotten the days when

our hearts throbbed together, and when the whole great world

seemed so small a thing beside the love which burned in our

veins. Or perhaps it may not be so. Perhaps she has not

forgotten.

There may still be times when the peace of the cloister is broken

by the memory of the old soldier who loved her in those distant

days. Youth is past and passion is gone, but the soul of the

gentleman can never change, and still Etienne Gerard would bow

his grey head before her and would very gladly lose his other ear

if he might do her a service.