St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
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St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
As I had half expected, both made their appearance the next day. I
struck so fine a shade betwixt the pride that is allowed to soldiers and
the sorrowful humility that befits a captive, that I declare, as I went
to meet them, I might have afforded a subject for a painter. So much was
high comedy, I must confess; but so soon as my eyes lighted full on her
dark face and eloquent eyes, the blood leaped into my cheeks—and that was
nature! I thanked them, but not the least with exultation; it was my cue
to be mournful, and to take the pair of them as one.
‘I have been thinking,’ I said, ‘you have been so good to me, both of
you, stranger and prisoner as I am, that I have been thinking how I could
testify to my gratitude. It may seem a strange subject for a confidence,
but there is actually no one here, even of my comrades, that knows me by
my name and title. By these I am called plain Champdivers, a name to
which I have a right, but not the name which I should bear, and which
(but a little while ago) I must hide like a crime. Miss Flora, suffer me
to present to you the Vicomte Anne de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, a private
soldier.’
‘I knew it!’ cried the boy; ‘I knew he was a noble!’
And I thought the eyes of Miss Flora said the same, but more
persuasively. All through this interview she kept them on the ground, or
only gave them to me for a moment at a time, and with a serious
sweetness.
‘You may conceive, my friends, that this is rather a painful confession,’
I continued. ‘To stand here before you, vanquished, a prisoner in a
fortress, and take my own name upon my lips, is painful to the proud.
And yet I wished that you should know me. Long after this, we may yet
hear of one another—perhaps Mr. Gilchrist and myself in the field and
from opposing camps—and it would be a pity if we heard and did not
recognise.’
They were both moved; and began at once to press upon me offers of
service, such as to lend me books, get me tobacco if I used it, and the
like. This would have been all mighty welcome, before the tunnel was
ready. Now it signified no more to me than to offer the transition I
required.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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