_By_ Wymond Carey
MONSIEUR MARTIN
A ROMANCE OF THE GREAT SWEDISH WAR
Crown octavo. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_, $1.20
“NO. 101”
Illustrated. Crown octavo. $1.50.
[Illustration]
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
_New York_ _London_
[Illustration: “The Vicomte henceforth cannot without harming himself
visit publicly a _bourgeoise_ grisette.”
(_See page 158._)]
“No. 101”
BY
Wymond Carey
Author of “Monsieur Martin,” “For the White Rose,” etc.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905
BY
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO
MY MOTHER
“But still, Beloved, the best of all my bringings
Belongs to you.”
NOTE
THERE was a real “No. 101.” Unpublished MS. despatches now in the
Record Office of the British Museum reveal the interesting fact that
on more than one occasion the British Government obtained important
French state secrets through an agent known to the British ministers
as “No. 101.” Who this mysterious agent was, whether it was a man
or a woman, why and how he or she so successfully played the part
of a traitor, have not, so far as is known to the present writer,
been discovered by historians or archivists. The references in the
confidential correspondences supply no answer to such questions. If the
British ministers knew all the truth, they kept it to themselves, and
it perished with them. Doubtless there were good reasons for strict
secrecy. But it is more than possible that they themselves did not
know, that throughout they simply dealt with a cipher whose secret
they never penetrated. It is, however, clear that “No. 101” was in a
position to discover some of the most intricate designs in the policy
of the French Court, and that the British Government, through its
agents, was satisfied of the genuineness of the secrets for which it
paid handsomely.
On the undoubted existence of this mysterious cipher, and the riddles
that that existence suggests, the writer has based his historical
romance.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. “NO. 101” 1
II. ONE-FOURTH OF A SECRET AND THREE-FOURTHS OF A MYSTERY 12
III. A FAIR HUNTRESS AND THE GIRL WITH THE SPOTTED COW 26
IV. A LOVER’S TRICK 39
V. THE PRESUMPTION OF A BEARDLESS CHEVALIER 53
VI. THE WISE WOMAN OF “THE COCK WITH THE SPURS OF GOLD” 66
VII. THE KING’S HANDKERCHIEF 78
VIII. THE VIVANDIÈRE OF FONTENOY 95
IX. AT THE CHARCOAL-BURNER’S CABIN IN THE WOODS 109
X. FONTENOY 121
XI. IN THE SALON DE LA PAIX AT VERSAILLES 137
XII. A ROYAL GRISETTE 149
XIII. WHAT THE VICOMTE DE NÉRAC SAW IN THE SECRET PASSAGE 160
XIV. TWO PAGES IN THE BOOK OF LIFE 171
XV. ANDRÉ IS THRICE SURPRISED 182
XVI. THE FOUNTAIN OF NEPTUNE 196
XVII. DENISE’S ANSWER 207
XVIII. THE HEART OF THE POMPADOUR 220
XIX. THE FLOWER GIRL OF “THE GALLOWS AND THE THREE CROWS” 231
XX. AT HOME WITH A CIPHER 244
XXI. THE KING’S COMMISSION 253
XXII. ON SECRET SERVICE 264
XXIII. THE KING FAINTS 274
XXIV. A WISHED-FOR MIRACLE 285
XXV. THE FALL OF THE DICE 297
XXVI. THE THIEF OF THE SECRET DESPATCH 308
XXVII. THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST APPEARANCE 319
XXVIII. THE CARREFOUR DE ST. ANTOINE NO. 3 330
XXIX. ANDRÉ FAILS TO DECIDE 339
XXX. DENISE HAS TO DECIDE FOR THE LAST TIME 354
XXXI. FORTUNE’S BANTER 366
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“THE VICOMTE HENCEFORTH CANNOT WITHOUT HARMING HIMSELF VISIT
PUBLICLY A _BOURGEOISE_ GRISETTE” _Frontispiece_
STATHAM SAT PONDERING, HIS EYES RIVETED ON THE CROSSED DAGGERS 6
“IS THAT LETTER TO THE COMTESSE DES FORGES, ONE OF MY
FRIENDS--MY FRIENDS, _MON DIEU!_--YOURS, OR IS IT NOT?” 48
“FAIR ARCHERESS,” HE SAID, “SURELY THE SHAFTS YOU LOOSE ARE
MORTAL” 88
YES, THAT IS MONSEIGNEUR LE MARÉCHAL DE SAXE, CARRIED IN A
WICKER LITTER, FOR HE CANNOT SIT HIS HORSE 124
MADAME DE POMPADOUR 188
THE CURTAIN WAS SHARPLY FLUNG ASIDE, AND HE SAW DENISE 204
YVONNE VERY MODESTLY DISENGAGED THE ARM WHICH FOR THE FIRST
TIME HE HAD SLIPPED ABOUT HER SUPPLE WAIST 234
YVONNE WITH A FINGER TO HER LIPS, HOLDING HER PETTICOATS OFF
THE FLOOR, STOLE IN, AND BEHIND HER A STRANGER 268
THE CANDLE FELL FROM HER HAND. “GONE!” SHE MUTTERED FEEBLY,
“GONE!” 320
“YVONNE, OF COURSE; YVONNE OF THE SPOTLESS ANKLES,” SHE
LIFTED HER DRESS A FEW INCHES 350
NO. 101.
NO. 101
CHAPTER I
“NO. 101”
ONE evening in the January of 1745, the critical year of Fontenoy and
of the great Jacobite rising, a middle-aged gentleman, the private
secretary of a Secretary of State, was working as usual in the room of
a house in Cleveland Row. The table at which he sat was littered with
papers, but at this precise moment he had leaned back in his chair with
a puzzled expression and his left hand in perplexity pushed his wig
awry.
“Extraordinary,” he muttered, “most extraordinary.” The remark was
apparently caused by an official letter in his other hand--a letter
marked “Most Private,” which came from The Hague, and the passage which
he had just read ran:
“_I have the honour to submit to you the following important
communication in cipher, received, through our agent at Paris, from
‘No. 101,’_” etc.
On the table lay the cipher communication together with a decoded
version which the secretary now studied for the third time. In explicit
language the despatch supplied detailed information as to certain
recent highly confidential negotiations between the Jacobite party in
Paris and the French King, Louis XV., a revelation in short of the most
weighty state secrets of the French Government.
“‘No. 101,’” the secretary murmured, scratching his head, “always ‘No.
101.’ It is marvellous, incredible. How the devil can it be done?”
But there was no answer to this question, save the fact which provoked
it--that closely ciphered paper with its disquieting information so
curiously and mysteriously obtained.
“Ah.” He jumped up and hurriedly straightened his wig. “Good-evening to
you.”
The new-comer was a man of about five-and-thirty, tall, finely built,
and of a muscular physique, with a face of considerable power. Most
noticeable, perhaps, in his appearance was his air of disciplined
reserve, emphasised in his strong mouth and chin, but almost belied by
the glow in his large, dark eyes, which looked you through and through
with a strangely watchful innocence.
“There is work to be done, sir?” he asked as he took the chair offered.
“Exactly. To-day we have received most gratifying and surprising
information from our friend ‘No. 101’--and we have the promise of
more.”
“Yes.” The brief monosyllable was spoken almost softly, but the dark
eyes gleamed, as they roamed over the room.
“The communications from ‘No. 101’ have begun again,” the secretary
pursued; “that in itself is interesting. The Secretary of State
therefore desired me to send at once for you, the most trustworthy
secret agent we have. In a very few minutes Captain Statham of the
First Foot Guards will be here--”
“Sent, I think, from the Low Countries at the request of our agents at
The Hague?”
“Ah, I see you are as well informed as usual. You are quite right. Are
you,” he laughed, “ever wrong?”
The spy paused. “The communications then from ‘No. 101’ concern the
military operations?” was all he said.
“Not yet. But,” he almost laughed, “we have a promise they will. You
know the situation. This will be a critical year in Flanders. Great
Britain and her allies propose to make a great, an unprecedented
effort; his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland will have the supreme
command. Unhappily the French under the Maréchal de Saxe apparently
propose to make even greater efforts. With such a general as the
Maréchal against us we cannot afford to neglect any means, fair or
foul, by which his Royal Highness can defeat the enemy.”
“Then you wish me to assist ‘No. 101’ in betraying the French plans to
our army under the Duke of Cumberland?”
“Not quite,” the other replied; “we cannot spare you as yet. But you
have had dealings with this mysterious cipher, and we ask you to place
all your experience at the disposal of Captain Statham.”
“I agree most willingly,” was the prompt answer.
“This curious ‘No. 101,’” continued the secretary slowly, “you do not
know personally, I believe?”
The other was looking at him carefully but with a puzzled air.
“I ask because--because I am deeply curious.”
“I am as curious as yourself, sir. ‘No. 101’ is to me simply a cipher
number,--nothing more, nothing less.”
“I feared so,” said the secretary. “But is it not incredible? The
information sent always proves to be accurate, but there is never a
trace of how, why, or by whom it is obtained.”
“That is so. Secrecy is the condition on which alone we get it. We pay
handsomely--we obtain the truth--and we are left in the dark.”
“Shall we ever discover the secret, think you?”
“I am sure not.” The tone was conviction itself.
At this moment Captain Statham was ushered in, a typical English
gentleman and officer, ruddy of countenance, blue-eyed, frankness and
courage in every line of his handsome face and of his athletic figure.
“Captain Statham--Mr. George Onslow of the Secret Service--” the
secretary began promptly, adding with a laugh as the two shook hands:
“Ah, I see you have met before. I am not surprised. Mr. Onslow knows
everybody and everything worth knowing.” He gathered up a bundle of
papers. “That is the communication from ‘No. 101’ and the covering
letter. And now, gentlemen, I will leave you to your business.” He
bowed and left the room.
Onslow took the chair he had vacated and for a quarter of an hour
Captain Statham and he chatted earnestly on the position of affairs
in the Low Countries, and the war then raging from the Mediterranean
to the North Sea, on the vast efforts being made by the French for a
great campaign in the coming spring, the military genius of the famous
Maréchal de Saxe, the Austrian and Dutch allies of Great Britain, and
the new English royal commander-in-chief who was shortly to leave to
take over the work of saving Flanders from the arms of Louis XV. Onslow
then briefly explained what the Secret Service agents of the Duke of
Cumberland were to expect and why.
“Communications,” he wound up, “from this mysterious spy and traitor,
‘No. 101,’ invariably come like bolts from the blue. They are, of
course, always in cipher and they will reach you by the most innocent
hands--a peasant, a lackey, a tavern wench--sometimes you will simply
find them, say, under your pillow, or in your boots. No one can tell
how they get there. But never neglect them, however strange or unusual
their contents may be, for they are never wrong--never! The genuine
ones you will recognise by this mark--” he took up the ciphered paper
and put his fingers on a sign--“two crossed daggers and the figures 101
written in blood--you see--so”:
[Illustration]
Captain Statham stared at the sign, entranced.
“A soldier,” Onslow remarked with his slow smile, “can always
distinguish blood from red ink--is it not so?” Statham nodded.
“Remember, then, those crossed daggers with the figures in blood
are the only genuine mark. All others are forgeries--reject them
unhesitatingly. Let me show it you again.” He produced from his
pocket-book a paper with the design in the corner, which, when compared
with the one on the table, corresponded exactly.
“I warn you,” Onslow added, “because the existence of this ‘No. 101’
is becoming known to the French--they suspect treachery--their Secret
Service is clever and they may attempt to deceive you. As they do not
know the countersign, though they may have guessed at the treachery of
‘No. 101’ they cannot really hoodwink you. Cipher papers which come in
the name of ‘101’ without that remarkable signature are simply a _nom
de guerre_, of politics, of love, of anything you like, but they are
either a forgery or a trap; so put them in the fire.”
[Illustration: Statham sat pondering, his eyes riveted on the crossed
daggers.]
Statham sat pondering, his eyes riveted on the crossed daggers.
“You, sir,” he began, “have had dealings with this mysterious person.
Is it a man or a woman?”
“Ah!” Onslow laughed gently. “Every one asks that, every man at least.
I cannot answer; no one, indeed, can. My opinion? Well, I change it
every month. But these are the facts: It is absolutely certain that
the traitor insists on high, very high pay; absolutely certain that he
or she has access to the very best society in Paris and at the Court,
and is at home in the most confidential circles of the King and his
ministers. We have even had documents from the private cabinet of Louis
XV. Furthermore, the traitor can convey the information in such a way
as to baffle detection. If it is a woman she is a very remarkable one;
if it be a man he is one who controls important women. Perhaps it is
both. Such knowledge, so peculiar, so accurate, so extensive, such
skill and such ingenuity scarcely seem to be within the powers of any
individual man or woman.”
“Every word you say sharpens my surprise and my curiosity.”
“Yes, and every transaction you will have with the cipher will sharpen
it more and more. I have been fifteen years in the Secret Service,
but this business is to-day as much a puzzle as it ever was, for ‘No.
101’ has taught me a very important secret, one unknown even to the
French King’s ministers, which, so jealously guarded as it is, may
never be discovered in the King’s lifetime or at all. Can you really
believe that Louis, while professing to act through his ministers, has
stealthily built up a little secret service of his own whose work is to
spy on those ministers, on his ambassadors, generals, and their agents,
to receive privately instructions wholly different from what the King
has officially sanctioned, and frequently directly to thwart, check,
annul, and defeat by intrigue and diplomacy the official policy of
their sovereign?”
“Is it possible?”
“It is a fact,” Onslow said, emphatically. “But the King, ‘No. 101,’
you and I and one or two others alone know it. Let me give you a
proof. To-day officially Louis through his ministers has disavowed the
Jacobites. The ministers believe their master is sincere; many of them
regret it, but their instructions are explicit. In truth, through those
private agents I spoke of, the King is encouraging the Jacobites in
every way and is actually thwarting the steps and the policy which he
has officially and publicly commanded.”
“And the ministers are ignorant of this?”
“Absolutely. But mark you, unless the King is very careful, some day
there will come an awkward crisis. His Majesty will be threatened with
the disclosure of this secret policy which has his royal authority,
but which gives the lie to his public policy, equally authentic. And
unless he can suppress the first he must be shown to be doubly a royal
liar--not to dwell on the consequences to France.”
“What a curious king!” Statham ejaculated.
“Curious!” Onslow laughed softly; “more than curious, because no one
knows the real Louis. The world says he is an ignorant, superstitious,
indolent, extravagant, heartless dullard in a crown who has only
two passions--hunting and women. It is true; he is the prince of
hunters and the emperor of rakes. But he is also a worker, cunning,
impenetrable, obstinate, remorseless.”
“But why does he play such a dangerous game?”
“God knows. The real Louis no man has discovered, or woman either;
he is known only to the Almighty or the devil. But you observe what
chances this double life gives to our friend ‘No. 101.’”
Statham began to pace up and down. “What are the traitor’s motives?” he
demanded, abruptly.
“Ah, there you beat me.” Onslow rose and confronted him. “My dear sir,
a traitor’s motives may be gold, or madness, ambition, love, jealousy,
revenge, singly or together, but above all love and revenge.”
Statham made an impatient gesture. “I would give my commission,” he
exclaimed, “to know the meaning of this mystery.”
A sympathetic gleam lingered in Onslow’s eyes as he calmly scrutinised
the young officer. “Ah,” he said, almost pityingly, “you begin to feel
the spell of this mystery wrapped in a number, the spell of ‘No. 101,’
the fatal spell.”
“Fatal?” Statham took him up sharply.
“Yes. I must warn you. Every single person who, in his dealings with
this cipher, has got near to the heart of the truth has so far met
with a violent end. It is not pleasant, but it is a fact. And the
explanation is easy. Those who might betray the truth are removed
by accident or design, some by this method, some by that. They pass
into the silence of the grave, perhaps just when they could have
revealed what they had discovered.” He paused, for Statham was visibly
impressed. “Really there is no danger,” he added; “but I say as
earnestly as I can, because you are young, and life is sweet for the
young, for God’s sake stifle your curiosity, resist the spell--that
fatal spell. Take the information as it comes, and ask no questions,
push no inquiries, however tempting and easy the path to success seems,
or, as sure as I stand here, His Majesty King George the Second will
lose a promising and gallant officer.”
Statham walked away and resumed his seat. “And you, Mr. Onslow?” he
demanded, looking up with the profoundest interest.
“Do I practise what I preach? Well, I am a spy by profession: to some
men such a life is everything--it is, at least, to me. But I do not
conceal from myself that if my curiosity overpowers me my hour for
silence, too, will come--the silence of the unknown grave in an unknown
land.”
“Then is no one ever to know?” Statham muttered with childish
petulance.
“Probably not. A hundred years hence the secret that baffles you and me
will baffle our successors.”
Statham’s heels tapped on the floor. “Perhaps,” he pronounced, slowly,
“perhaps the truth is well worth the price that is paid for it--death
and the silence of the grave.”
Onslow stared at him. His eyes gleamed curiously as if they were
fixed on visions known only to the inner mind. “Perhaps,” he repeated
gravely. “But really,” he added, with a sudden lightness, “there is
no one to persuade us it is so. Come, Captain Statham, you have not
forgotten supper, I hope, and that I propose to introduce you to-night
to the most seductive enchantress in London?”
“No, indeed. All day I have been hungering for that supper. In the Low
Countries we do not get suppers presided over by ladies such as you
have described to me.”
“In the French army they have both the ladies and the suppers,” Onslow
replied, laughing. “And, my dear Captain, to the victors of the
spring will fall the spoils. To-night shall be a foretaste, and if
my enchantress does not make you forget ‘No. 101,’ I despair of the
gallantry of British officers.”
He locked up the papers, chatting all the time, and then the two
gentlemen went out together.