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 fatherowned 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to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from the support of the wall.I said so, and the sappers were withdrawn.After that I was the friend of the family, and many a flask of Chianti have I cracked with the father and many a sweet lesson have I had from the daughter.Some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 Ihave 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 dashedout 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.
