‘Je n’écris pas pour les femmes, j’écris pour les militaires’, was the author’s proud boast. Despite the grand pen-name she was born, humbly enough, Maria Louise Ramé at Bury St Edmunds. Her Guernsey-born father, Louis Ramé, was a teacher of French; her mother (née Sutton) was as English as Suffolk mutton. M. Ramé gave his quick-witted, artistic and precocious daughter an unusually good education for a country girl of her background, but paternal care he did not give. In the 1860s he went off to Paris and – as she liked to think – disappeared during the upheaval of the 1871 Commune. Or he may just have walked out on what had proved to be an uninteresting entanglement in the English provinces.
Ouida made her name, young and glamorously, as a writer of sporting novels. Under Two Flags became a perennial bestseller, and the archetype of innumerable French Foreign Legion novels (see BEAU GESTE) – although this rag-tag scum were not the militaires Ouida claimed to cater for.
The Hon. Bertie Cecil of the Life Guards is a dashing man about town, a champion of the race course, a lover of beautiful women and a gambler ‘known generally in the Brigades as “Beauty.” The appellative, gained at Eton, was in no way undeserved’. He is ‘one of the cracks of the Household’.
But the good life ends when he fakes his own death and leaves London in order to protect the reputation of a lady and the honour of his unworthy younger brother Berkeley. Using the name ‘Louis Victor’, Bertie enlists as a chasseur d’Afrique and performs prodigies of horsey valour against the Arab rebels in Algeria. He also incurs the implacable enmity of the sadistic Colonel Chateauroy. Bertie is loved by the beautiful camp follower, Cigarette. Although he treats her courteously, he gives his heart to the mysterious Princess Corona (who eventually turns out to be Bertie’s best friend’s sister).
The hero’s elder brother dies and the Royallieu title (rightfully Bertie’s) goes to Berkeley, who also turns up in North Africa, which by this time is becoming rather crowded with aristocratic English folk. In a tremendous climax Bertie strikes Chateauroy for daring to insult the Princess Corona and is sentenced to death. Cigarette takes to her horse to inform a marshal of France of the condemned man’s true identity and wins his reprieve. She gallops back, neck and crop, but a smidgen too late. Bertie has already given the firing squad the signal for his own ‘deathshot’. Fingers are tightening on triggers. Cigarette hurls herself into the fusillade, taking into her heart the bullets intended for Bertie. Ouida describes it rather more richly:
The flash of fire was not so fleet as the swiftness of her love; and on his breast she threw herself, and flung her arms about him, and turned her head backward with her old, dauntless, sunlit smile as the balls pierced her bosom, and broke her limbs, and were turned away by the shield of warm young life from him.
She dies a martyr for love and Bertie marries the princess. The ‘little one’ will lie, for ever honoured, in a North African grave, under a white stone:
troops, as they passed it by, saluted and lowered their arms in tender reverence, in faithful, unasked homage, because beneath the Flag they honoured there was carved in the white stone one name that spoke to every heart within the army she had loved, one name on which the Arab sun streamed as with a martyr’s glory:
‘CIGARETTE, “ENFANT DE L’ARMEE, SOLDAT DE LA FRANCE.’
Vive la France! Vive l’amour!