The Hurlyburly's Husband by Jean Teulé Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean Teulé
vision faltered. She was everything to him, and thanks be! Then he ran to the sea, but the soldiers were trying in vain to free a grounded launch where a hundred or more wounded lay. So, with Saint-Germain and three of his men, he returned to the beach. Saint-Germain had been wounded in the thigh, and collapsed in the water. Followed by his three companions, Louis-Henri hurled himself in fury at the first Kabyles and killed two of them with his sword (without even knowing how he did it), breaking the enemy’s momentum. When he saw that at last the launch was moving away from the shore, he fell back and threw himself into the water with the last remaining soldiers. The Turks were now lined up on the beach and used the bobbing figures in the shallows for target practice. Two men were killed, but the third was saved from drowning. Saint-Germain was wounded twice more. His strength was failing. In a final burst he managed to reach up to the outstretched arms on the launch. Louis-Henri, already on board, clutched his hand and hoisted him slowly out of the sea. Saint-Germain, streaming with water, promised, ‘I am very close to the King and will convey your perspicacity and heroism to him. His Majesty shall reward…’
Just at this moment a cannonball caught him right in the head. The chevalier’s torso fell into Montespan’s out-stretched arms.
The waves rose and fell in the starless night amid the muted sounds and creaking of the vessel – La Lune – where the Gascon had found a berth. The ship, overloaded with the wounded, was the last to weigh anchor. The other transport ships – L’Hercule and La Reine – (in better condition) carried the high command to the open sea whilst Louis-Henri was on board his leaky, sluggish tub. It had been poorly refitted by Rodolphe, a carpenter in Toulon. Planks were giving way on deck, where the badly burned survivors had left their shirts of skin. Winds drifted over human detritus where the marquis was seated. The stumps in that military laundry, that public bathhouse, were wrapped in blue and white cloth; to those of a sensitive nature, these men were more terrifying than monsters. Over there were the sweating shapes of hundreds of Christ-like faces with dark, gentle eyes. Not far from Louis-Henri a man lay humming, his guts spilling out. His mouth gaped open and his sleeves gestured in the air, making mad signs that no one responded to. He sang,
‘Beaufort, you’re a clever one
And we’re right to fear ye
But the way ye’re reasoning
We’d take ye for a gosling.’
Long oars reached out and lapped the rhythm across the surface of the water. In the morning, near the peninsula of Giens, a terrible cracking sound ripped through La Lune : it split in two and sank in a second, like a block of marble. One thousand two hundred wounded men from the regiments of Picardy and Normandy were lost. A few survived miraculously, clinging to a rowing boat. Montespan was pulled deep into the roiling waves. He struggled to make it back to the surface, burdened by his saddlebag, which had not left his side. The gold was weighing him down. He had to get rid of it. In the rush of swirling water as the ship touched bottom, sand rose and scratched his face; he groped blindly in his treasure and filled the pockets of his military greatcoat. He let go of the saddlebag and rose breathless to the surface, his lungs bursting. The rowing boat was far away and he had no strength left to shout. He tried to calm himself and swam among the mutilated bodies. He clung to one of them to recover his breath and, at water level, contemplated the disaster of this failed expedition against the Barbary corsairs. He was astonished to find himself thinking, ‘Where is La Fontaine? Could the fabulist not pen a lovely sonnet? And Le Brun – these floating stumps, would they not inspire a pretty tapestry?’ Slowly he set off, swimming across a Mediterranean in mourning, but he was truly too exhausted and, on
Just at this moment a cannonball caught him right in the head. The chevalier’s torso fell into Montespan’s out-stretched arms.
The waves rose and fell in the starless night amid the muted sounds and creaking of the vessel – La Lune – where the Gascon had found a berth. The ship, overloaded with the wounded, was the last to weigh anchor. The other transport ships – L’Hercule and La Reine – (in better condition) carried the high command to the open sea whilst Louis-Henri was on board his leaky, sluggish tub. It had been poorly refitted by Rodolphe, a carpenter in Toulon. Planks were giving way on deck, where the badly burned survivors had left their shirts of skin. Winds drifted over human detritus where the marquis was seated. The stumps in that military laundry, that public bathhouse, were wrapped in blue and white cloth; to those of a sensitive nature, these men were more terrifying than monsters. Over there were the sweating shapes of hundreds of Christ-like faces with dark, gentle eyes. Not far from Louis-Henri a man lay humming, his guts spilling out. His mouth gaped open and his sleeves gestured in the air, making mad signs that no one responded to. He sang,
‘Beaufort, you’re a clever one
And we’re right to fear ye
But the way ye’re reasoning
We’d take ye for a gosling.’
Long oars reached out and lapped the rhythm across the surface of the water. In the morning, near the peninsula of Giens, a terrible cracking sound ripped through La Lune : it split in two and sank in a second, like a block of marble. One thousand two hundred wounded men from the regiments of Picardy and Normandy were lost. A few survived miraculously, clinging to a rowing boat. Montespan was pulled deep into the roiling waves. He struggled to make it back to the surface, burdened by his saddlebag, which had not left his side. The gold was weighing him down. He had to get rid of it. In the rush of swirling water as the ship touched bottom, sand rose and scratched his face; he groped blindly in his treasure and filled the pockets of his military greatcoat. He let go of the saddlebag and rose breathless to the surface, his lungs bursting. The rowing boat was far away and he had no strength left to shout. He tried to calm himself and swam among the mutilated bodies. He clung to one of them to recover his breath and, at water level, contemplated the disaster of this failed expedition against the Barbary corsairs. He was astonished to find himself thinking, ‘Where is La Fontaine? Could the fabulist not pen a lovely sonnet? And Le Brun – these floating stumps, would they not inspire a pretty tapestry?’ Slowly he set off, swimming across a Mediterranean in mourning, but he was truly too exhausted and, on