THE HISTORY OF MONSIEUR CABIEUX.
THE HISTORY OF MONSIEUR CABIEUX.
In the year of grace one thousand seven hundred
and sixty-two, the inhabitants of our village (as well as,
in due course, the inhabitants of the Tuilleries) were
greatly astounded, one morning, at the appearance of
an English fleet riding quietly at their moorings in
this bay of Colleville. The minister, in his wisdom,
had armed to the very teeth every great town on the
sea-side from Marseilles to Calais; but he forgot, or
did not know, that in this Bay of Colleville there was
as pretty a landing-place as you shall see on the coast
of France. ‘There is, besides, close by, the river
Orne, which, they say, by means of a little money and
labour might be made to float a squadron of ships of
war into the very heart of the country—but that is
neither here nor there.
The villagers, you may be sure, were a little con- fused, Frenchmen though they were ; but a council of war was held, at which it was unanimously resolved that the most prudent as well as dutiful course would be to send off an express to the King. Some little time was lost in finding a horse that would trot, and a little more in making a bargain with his owner— for a Norman would not receive the sacrament from a priest on his death-bed without haggling about the price; but, at length, all was arranged; and, as the courier left the village at a fierce trot, in boots that reached to the hip-joint, and weighed thirty-five pounds, a shout accompanied him that must have ter- rified the souls of the English in the bay.
This respectable person, however, although he executed his mission with great pains and fidelity, was more circumspect than could have been desired. The errand was an important one, and the message fraught with life and death; it was therefore not to be entrusted lightly to every body. The honour of a courier, besides, he knew to consist in secrecy; and he therefore determined that what he had to say hould be said into the ear of the minister at war. Perhaps, also, like a true Norman, he looked for some reward at his journey’s end, and was unwilling to put it into the power of any one to anticipate him—which, I do suppose, might easily have been done, the horse not being able to make much head way while carrying, in boots and man, well nigh to fourteen stone. How- ever this may be; instead of raising the country, as it might have been desirable that his sense of honour or interest had permitted him to do, on he trotted through field and town as silent as death. Every body ran to their doors and windows to see him pass, clambering and clanking through the streets; a thousand conjec- tures were afloat as to the nature of his business; but no human being ever suspected that he was a courier sent to announce to the French nation that an enemy’s fleet was at anchor in the bay of Colleville.
Now, do you see, the villagers all this tine were not so comfortable as they could have wished. The whole world seemed to have deserted them. There was not even a strolling beggar took them on his way from a pilgrimage of speculation to Notre Dame de la Delivrande. The English fleet sat grimly quiet on the water, each ship showing her rows of teeth, as she was hove round with the tide, like a shark turning about to bite. But day after day the same spectacle presented itself/—the same rows of teeth, the same grim quiet; and, at last, the object was a matter of such custom, that if the fleet had disappeared as sud- denly as it came, the villagers, perhaps, would have felt it as a deprivation. Nevertheless, they kept on the alert like brave men; a coast-guard was organised, which watched day and night, and a drum—God knows how they came by it!—was beaten at intervals
to show the enemy they knew what war was as well as they.
One night the coast-guard were, as usual, on thee watch on this very spot, when the discourse tual upon such subjects as might be expected in that situation.
“Suppose they do land?” said one of them, pursy. ing the conversation.
“Why then we would beat the drum” —
“ I would beat the drum!” interrupted Tambour.
“ And we should, of course, retire upon Bayeux.”
“ No!—upon Caen.”
“What say you, serjeant Cabieux?” demandg several voices.
“ We should retire,” said the serjeant coolly, “whey beaten ; but not till then.”
“To oppose such a force would be to consent to by beaten. 1 could not take it upon my conscience j bring this disgrace upon the French arms—besides we might have to answer it with our heads.”
“Our heels,” said Cabieux. The sneer produced q laugh, and Cabieux went on.
“ For what are we here?” said he ; “ is it to guani the coast, or run away from the danger? What is the use of our staring at the enemy, if we do nothing more! Could they not land their troops without our looking on? For shame, comrades; consider that the eyes of all France—nay, of all Europe, are upon you; think of your honour, think of your—your”—
“ Mistress!’ suggested one. Cabieux blushed the tips of his ears.
“ My mistress,” said" he, “ is glory
“Indeed! I thought it had been Isabelle!” A laugh at the serjeant’s expense changed the discourse; and, soon after, Monsieur Cabieux left the guard-house to stroll alone, as was his wont, along the shore.
Isabelle was a sore point with Monsieur Cabiew. He had loved her when he was a child; he had loved her when he was a boy; and now he loved her, with all the energies of his stout heart and noble spirit, when he was a man. Nor was Isabelle indifferent to him. She was grateful for his love ; she admired his fine qualities ; and habit had reconciled her to his athletic but somewhat ungainly form, and coane though honest physiognomy. In proof of her senti- ments, she had offered him her own fair hand, in the absolute conviction that her heart was in it; and any man in France but Monsieur Cabieux would have felt himself in the ninth heaven.
My ancestor, however, had a fund of sensibility, perhaps of a morbid nature, concealed beneath his rough exterior; and, for some time past, he had been tormented by a kind of misgiving which sickened his heart. How it arose I cannot say; but he imagined that Isabelle deceived herself when she supposed that in offering her hand she included her heart. Perhaps this fancy may have been caused by the unconscious comparison he must have frequently drawn between their personal appearance ; for Isabelle was so beautiful that, although the gentlest and most timid of human beings, the young men of the village were terrified to approach her. Cabieux himself, but for the accidental circumstance of their having been brought up together, would, in all probability, have worshipped her at a distance like a star.
Perhaps, too, the difference in their education may have added to his uneasiness; for Isabelle had been living for three years with a relation at Bayeux, only returning occasionally to visit her parents in the village. In that ancient city she had learnt some things
that Cabieux knew nothing about, and, for my part!
