THE FATE OF THE STUART PRINCE
Lydie hardly knew how she reached her apartments. Earlier in the day
she had thought once or twice that she had reached the deepest abyss
of sorrow and humiliation into which it was possible for a woman of
pride to descend. When her husband first asked an explanation from
her, and taxed her with lending an ear to the King's base proposals;
when she found that her own father, whom she respected and loved, had
himself delved deeply in the mire of treachery; when she stood face to
face with Gaston de Stainville and realized that he was an infamous
liar and she a weak, confiding fool; when Irène had accused her
publicly of scheming that which she would have given her life's blood
to avert, all these were moments when she felt that the shame of them
was more than she could bear.
Yet how simple and childish, how paltry seemed the agony of those
mental tortures in comparison with that she endured now.
She felt as if she had received a blow in the face, a blow which had
left a hideous, disfiguring mark on her which everyone henceforth
would see: the scarlet letter of ignominy with which in the New World
beyond the seas a puritanic inquisition branded the shameless
outcasts. By her husband's silence rather than by his words she had
been branded with a mark of infamy.
Ye saints and angels above, how terribly it hurt!
Yet why did she suffer so? Was it only because she had failed to
obtain that which she almost begged for on her knees? Lydie, proud,
dictatorial, domineering Lydie, felt that she had humiliated herself
beyond what she would have thought possible less than twelve hours
ago, and she had been refused.
Was it that, that made her heart, her head, her very limbs ache with
almost unendurable agony?
Her mind--though almost on the verge of madness--retained just one
glimmer of reason. It answered "No! the pain has deeper roots, more
mysterious, at present incomprehensible, and death-dealing in their
tenacity."
Her husband thought that if he entrusted her with a letter for the
Stuart prince, she might use that letter for treacherous ends. That
was the reason of his refusal. He so hated, so despised her that his
mind classed her as one of the most ignoble of her sex!
Well! Awhile ago, in the Queen's antechamber, Irène de Stainville had
publicly accused her of selling her royal friend for gold. Most people
there had believed Irène readily enough! That had hurt too, but not so
much.
Then why this? Why these terrible thoughts which went hammering in her
mind? whispers of peace to escape from this racking torture? peace
that could only be found in death!
"Great God, am I going mad?"
Monsieur Achille had been accompanying Madame la Marquise on her way
along the corridors; he was carrying a candelabrum, wherein four wax
candles spluttered and flickered in the incessant draught. Lydie had
been unconscious of the man's presence, but she had followed the
light mechanically, her eyes fixed on the four yellowish flames which
looked like mocking mouths that laughed, and emitted a trail of black
smoke, foul as the pestilential breath of shame.
Arrived at the door of her own antechamber, she was met by one of her
liveried servants, who told her that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont was
within and awaiting to see her. To her hastily put query, the man
replied that Monsieur le Duc had arrived about half an hour ago, and,
hearing that Madame la Marquise was closeted with milor, he had
elected to wait.
This visit from her father at this hour of the night meant a grave
crisis, of course. At once Lydie's mind flew back to the Stuart
prince. She had almost forgotten him since she left her husband's
room. It seemed as if the overwhelming misery of that silent and
deadly indictment had weighed down all other thoughts, until they sank
into complete insignificance.
Vaguely, too, she had the sensation that there was no immediate
necessity for her to rack her overtired brain to-night on the subject
of the Jacobite's fate. She had at least six clear days before her,
before _Le Levantin_, which was to start on the dire expedition, could
be ready to put to sea. There was _Le Monarque_, on the other hand,
quite ready to sail within an hour of receiving her orders. And
Captain Barre was an honest man, a gallant sailor; he would only be
too willing to make top speed in order to circumvent a treacherous
plot, which he would abhor if he knew of it.
True, Lydie had now no means of locating the fugitives exactly, but
with a six days' start of _Le Levantin_ this want of precise
knowledge need not necessarily prove fatal. She could trust to her
memory somewhat, for she had repeatedly studied and fingered the map;
she could draw something approximate from memory, and Captain Barre's
determination and enthusiasm would surely do the rest.
These suggestions all rushed into her mind directly she heard that her
father had come to visit her at this late hour. At first her desire
was to avoid seeing him at risk even of offending him: but in spite of
all that she had gone through, Lydie still retained sufficient
presence of mind not to allow any impulse to rule her at such a
critical moment. She forced herself to reflect on the Stuart prince
and on him alone, on his danger and the treacherous plot against him,
for at least twenty seconds, time enough to realize that it was
absolutely necessary that she should see her father, in order to glean
from him if possible every detail of the proposed expedition. She
would indeed be helpless if she remained in ignorance of what had been
planned between the King, Gaston, and her father. Perhaps--who
knows?--in accordance with the habits of a lifetime, the Duke might
even at this moment be anxious to consult his daughter--his helpmeet
in all such matters--as to the final arrangements for the equipment of
_Le Levantin_.
Satisfied with her conclusions, she therefore went straight into the
boudoir where the lacquey said that Monsieur le Duc was waiting.
The first look at his benign face proved to her that he, at least, was
not in any trouble. Whatever his daughter's views on the subject might
be, he evidently was not altogether dissatisfied with the events of
the day. He still wore a perturbed look, certainly; the scene which
had occurred in Her Majesty's throne-room would not tend to decrease
his mental worry; but beyond the slightly troubled look in his kindly
eyes, and the obvious solicitude with which he took her hand and led
her to a low divan, he seemed fairly serene.
"Well?" he said in a tone of anxious query.
"Well, father dear?"
"Your husband . . . what did he say?"
She looked at him, a little bewildered, with a stupid, vacant stare
which puzzled him.
"What should he have said, father dear?" she asked. "I do not
understand."
"About the fracas to-night, my child. Was he there when Irène de
Stainville spoke up so indiscreetly?"
"No . . . no . . . I mean yes . . ." she said vaguely, "yes, milor was
there; he heard every word which Irène de Stainville said."
"Well? What did he say?" he repeated with marked impatience. "Lydie,
my child, this is not like you. . . . Cannot you see that I am
anxious? . . . I have been waiting here for over an half hour in a
perfect agony of uncertainty. . . . Your servants told me you were
closeted with milor. . . . You must tell me what he said."
"He said nothing, father," she replied simply.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Monsieur le Duc looked at her very keenly, but her eyes were clear now
and met his straight and full. There was obviously no deceit there, no
desire to conceal more serious matters from him. He shrugged his
shoulders, in token that he gave up all desire to understand. His
son-in-law had always been a shadowy personality to him, and this
attitude of his now, in face of the public scandal resting on his
wife's name, was quite beyond Monsieur le Duc's comprehension.
Had Lydie told him that her husband had heaped torrents of abuse on
her, and had concluded a noisy scene by striking her, he would have
been very angry, but he would have understood.
"Hm!" he said placidly, "these English are mad, of a truth; we men of
honour here cannot really comprehend them. Nevertheless, my dear
Lydie, I suppose I, as your father, must be thankful that he did not
lay hands on you, for English husbands are notoriously brutal. You are
quite sure that you have nothing to complain of in your husband's
conduct?"
"Quite sure, father dear."
"I had come prepared to take you away with me. My coach is below and I
am driving to Château d'Aumont to-night. Would you like to come?"
"Not to-night, dear," she replied serenely, and her father was glad to
note that a slight smile hovered round her lips. "I am a little tired,
and will go straight to bed. . . . But to-morrow I'll come."
"Permanently?"
"If you will have me."
"Well! until you go to your Château of Vincennes, you know my views on
that subject?"
"Yes, father dear. . . . We will talk of that another time. . . . I am
very tired to-night."
"I understand that, my child," said Monsieur le Duc rather fussily
now, and clearing his throat, as if there was something which still
oppressed him and of which he would have liked to speak before leaving
her.
There was that awkward pause, the result of a want of mutual
understanding between two people who hitherto have been all in all to
each other, but whom certain untoward events have suddenly drawn
apart. Lydie sincerely wished that her father would go. She had much
to think about, a great deal to do, and the strain of keeping up a
semblance of serenity was very trying to her overwrought nerves. He on
the other hand felt uncomfortable in her presence: he left quite angry
with himself for not being able to discuss freely with her the subject
matter which was uppermost in his mind. There were one or two details
in connection with the expedition to the Scottish coast that he very
much wanted to talk over with his daughter. The habits of a lifetime
gave him the desire to consult her about these details, just as he had
been wont to do on all public and official matters. He had come to her
apartments chiefly for that purpose. Was she not at one with him, with
the King and Gaston over the scheme? She had given substantial proof
that she favoured the expedition. His Majesty had thanked her for her
help: she had rendered such assistance as now made the whole affair
not only feasible but easy of accomplishment.
It was therefore passing strange that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont still
felt an unaccountable bashfulness in her presence when referring to
the Stuart prince at all.
So he went to work in a circuitous way, for there was another matter
that troubled him, but less so than the expedition: therefore,
perhaps, he spoke of it first.
"I presume, my dear child," he said lightly, "that you are
sufficiently a woman of the world to understand that some sort of
reparation is due from your husband to Monsieur de Stainville."
"Reparation? . . ." she asked. "For what?"
Again she stared at him blankly, and with that vague expression of
puzzlement which irritated whilst it half-frightened him.
"You were there, my dear," he said impatiently, "you know . . . and of
course you must have seen . . ."
"What?"
"Milor jeered at Gaston, then tripped him up with his foot, so that
Monsieur de Stainville measured his full length on the floor."
"I did not notice. . . ." she said simply.
"But many people did . . . enough at all events to give Monsieur de
Stainville the initiative in the necessary reparation. He was the
insulted party."
"Oh! a duel, you mean," she said indifferently, "yes, I suppose my
husband will fight Monsieur de Stainville if His Majesty will grant
them leave."
"Gaston will not appeal to His Majesty, and milor cannot very well
refuse to meet him. The King has oft declared his intention of
permanently suppressing all duelling just as it has been done in
England. Even to-night after the unfortunate fracas, when I had the
honour of paying my final respects, His Majesty said to me: 'If milor
Eglinton and Monsieur de Stainville fight and one of them is killed,
we'll hang the survivor!'"
"Then they'll not fight, you think?"
Monsieur le Duc stared at his daughter. Such complete indifference as
to her husband's actions in so grave a matter passed the bounds of
correct behaviour.
"_Mais oui!_ they will fight, my dear!" he said sternly. "You know as
well as I do that Gaston could not pocket the slight put upon him by
milor without covering himself with ridicule. But the duel need not be
serious . . . a scratch or two and no more. . . . Gaston is a perfect
swordsman . . . he never misses his man," added the Duke hesitatingly.
"Is milor clever with the foils?"
"I do not know."
"He has never fought a duel to your knowledge?"
"I think never."
"Whilst Gaston's skill is famous. . . . But, my dear, you need have no
anxiety. . . . It was also with a view to reassuring you on the
subject that I have sought you so late. . . . You will believe your
father's word, Lydie, if he tells you that your husband is in no grave
danger at the hands of Gaston."
"I thank you, father dear," she rejoined with the same natural, even
tone of voice which should have tranquillised him as to her mental
condition, but which somehow failed to do so.
"Gaston must take up the matter . . . you understand that. . . . It is
quite public and . . . he would be laughed at if he appealed for leave
to fight from His Majesty . . . the matter was not serious and the
result will be likewise. . . . Gaston will administer a slight
punishment to milor . . . such a perfect swordsman, you understand,
can select the very place on his opponent's body where he will inflict
the scratch . . . it will be the shoulder perhaps . . . or . . . or
. . . the cheek . . . nothing to be anxious about. . ."
"I am not anxious, father dear," she said with a serene smile, amused
in spite of herself at his many circumlocutions, his obvious
confusion, and his still quite apparent wish to speak of one more
matter which seemed to be weighing on his mind.
"Is that all that you wished to say to me, dear?" she said gently,
"for if so I can assure you that you need not be troubled on my
account. I am neither anxious nor upset. . . . Milor I feel confident
will take tender care of his shoulder . . . or of his cheek just as he
does of his comfort and of his . . . his dignity."
"And you will not take it amiss from me, my dear, if I do not offer to
be one of your husband's seconds in the affair?" he asked suddenly,
throwing off his hesitation and speaking more frankly.
"Certainly not, father dear. . . . I feel sure that milor himself
would not have suggested it. . . ."
"My position near His Majesty . . . you understand, my dear," he
explained volubly, "and also my . . . our association with Gaston.
. . ."
"Certainly--certainly," she repeated, emphasizing her words, "our
association with Gaston. . . ."
"And he really is acting like a perfect gentleman . . . a man of
honour. . . ."
"Indeed?"
"His enthusiasm, his courage, and devotion have been quite marvellous.
And though we shall primarily owe the success of our enterprise to
you, my dear, yet His Majesty feels as I do, that we also owe much to
Monsieur de Stainville. Ah! _mon Dieu!_ what it is to be young!"
"What has Monsieur de Stainville done, dear, to arouse your special
enthusiasm?" she asked.
"You shall judge of it yourself, my dear. After the esclandre provoked
by Irène to-night, the publicity given to our scheme, we held a
hurried boudoir meeting, at which His Majesty and Madame de Pompadour
were present, as well as myself and Gaston. We all felt that you too
should have been there, dear, but you had gone with milor, and . . ."
"Yes, yes, never mind about me, father," she interrupted impatiently,
seeing that he was getting lost in the mazes of his polite apologies.
"You held a boudoir meeting. What did you decide? . . ."
"That after the publicity given to the main idea of our scheme, you
understand," he rejoined, "it would be no longer safe to wait for its
execution until _Le Levantin_ was ready for sea. Something had to be
risked, of course, but on the whole we all thought that now that the
matter had become 'le secret de Polichinelle' a six days' delay would
be dangerous, if not fatal to success. You were not there, Lydie," he
repeated diffidently, "we could not consult you. . . ."
"No, no! Then what did you decide?"
"That we must send _Le Monarque_ off at once."
"_Le Monarque_? . . . at once? . . ."
"Yes! she is quite ready, so you told me this morning. And though we
feared that Captain Barre might be too firm an adherent of the Stuart
cause to be altogether reliable, still--as we had your own letter--we
finally decided that we had better trust him now, rather than wait for
_Le Levantin_. . . . I think we did right, do you not? . . . Lydie.
. . . Lydie . . . child, what is it?"
The desperately anxious query had its justification in Lydie's
terrible pallor, the wild dilation of her pupils, the dark purple
rings which circled her eyes.
As her father spoke she had risen from the divan, and now she seemed
unable to stand; she was trembling from head to foot, her hands were
held out before her, as in a pathetic appeal for physical support. In
a moment his arm was round her, and with gentle force he drew her back
to the couch, pressing her head against his shoulder.
"Lydie . . . Lydie, dear . . . I am sure you are ill."
But already she had recovered from this sudden attack of faintness and
dizziness, of which, with characteristic impatience for all feminine
weaknesses, she was now thoroughly ashamed. Her nervous system had
received so many severe shocks in the course of this terrible and
memorable day, that it was small wonder that this last awful blow
struck her physically as well as mentally.
"No, no, dear father," she said as lightly as she could for she still
felt very faint and ill, "I am quite well, I assure you . . . please
. . . please . . ." she urged earnestly, "do not worry about me now,
but tell me quite clearly--and as briefly as you can--exactly what are
your plans at this moment . . . yours and Gaston's, with regard to the
expedition against the Stuart prince . . . you spoke of a duel just
now . . . and then of Monsieur de Stainville's enthusiasm and courage.
. . . I . . . I am a little confused . . . and I would like to
understand."
"I will tell you as briefly as I can, my dear," he rejoined, not
feeling altogether reassured, and regarding her with loving anxiety.
"We decided that, instead of waiting for _Le Levantin_ to be ready for
sea, we would send _Le Monarque_, and instruct Captain Barre in
accordance with the plan and the letter which you gave us, and the
secret orders framed by His Majesty and myself. _Le Monarque_ having
got the Stuart and his friends on board will make straight for the
north-west coast of England, and land the Jacobites at the first
possible port, where they can be handed over to the English
authorities. Once this was settled, Gaston immediately offered to
start for Le Havre at dawn with the secret orders. We are not really
afraid of Captain Barre's possible disloyalty--and, of course, he is
compelled to obey orders or suffer for his insubordination, which he
is not likely to contemplate. On the whole I think we may safely say
that we run far less risk by sending _Le Monarque_ than by waiting for
_Le Levantin_: and Gaston has full powers to promise Captain Barre a
heavy bribe in accordance with the speed which _Le Monarque_ will
make. After that His Majesty was pleased to dismiss Monsieur de
Stainville and myself, being most specially gratified with Gaston's
enthusiastic offer to ride at breakneck speed to Le Havre, as soon as
he could get to horse. Outside the boudoir, Gaston explained to me,
however, that he could not shirk the duel with Lord Eglinton: his
seconds, Monsieur de Belle-Isle and Monsieur de Lugeac, already had
his instructions and would wait on milor to-night: to put it off now
would be to cover himself with ridicule and to risk social ostracism;
the affront put upon his wife could not be allowed to rest until after
his own return. But the duel could take place at dawn, and then he
could get to horse half an hour later. . . . So you see, my dear,
that the duel cannot--because of these weighty reasons--have any
serious consequences. As for our expedition, methinks everything now
is most satisfactorily arranged, as Gaston swears that he will reach
Le Havre ere the shades of the evening fall upon the sea."
Lydie had listened quite quietly to this long explanation, taking in
every detail of the project, lest anything should escape her. Her
father could indeed be completely reassured. She was perfectly calm,
apparently cheerful, and when he had finished speaking she thanked him
quite naturally and expressed approval of all that had been done.
"Everything is beautifully planned and arranged, my dear father," she
said pleasantly, "methinks I cannot do better than take a rest. I fear
I have been overwrought all day and have caused you much anxiety. All
is for the best now, is it not? . . . Shall we both go to bed?"
Monsieur le Duc sighed with satisfaction. He seemed to have found a
long-lost daughter. This was the one he knew, self-possessed,
clear-headed, a comfort and a guide.
He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and if there was a
suggestion of shrinking, of withdrawal in the young body, he was
certainly too preoccupied to notice it. He bade her "good-night," and
then with obvious relief and a light, elastic step, he finally went
out of the room.