LEADS ME TO THE FRONT OF A COFFEE-HOUSE WHERE I AM STARTLED TO SEE A
FACE I KNOW
The occasion for this precaution in our correspondence was beyond my
comprehension; nevertheless I was too proud to have the patronage of so
fine a woman to cavil at what system she should devise for its discreet
conduct, and the Swiss that night got my first letter to frank and
despatch. He got one next evening also, and the evening after that; in
short, I made a diurnal of each stage in our journey and Bernard was my
postman--so to name it--on every occasion that I forwarded the same to
Miss Walkinshaw. He assured me that he was in circumstances to secure
the more prompt forwardation of my epistles than if I trusted in the
common runner, and it was a proof of this that when we got, after some
days, into Versailles, he should bring to me a letter from the lady
herself informing me how much of pleasure she had got from the receipt
of the first communication I had sent her.
Perhaps it is a sign of the injudicious mind that I should not be very
mightily pleased with this same Versailles. We had come into it of a
sunny afternoon and quartered at the Cerf d'Or Inn, and went out in the
evening for the air. Somehow the place gave me an antagonism; its dipt
trees all in rows upon the wayside like a guard of soldiers; its trim
gardens and bits of plots; its fountains crying, as it seemed, for
attention--these things hurt me as a liberty taken with nature. Here,
thought I, is the fitting place for the raff in ruffles and the scented
wanton; it should be the artificial man and the insincere woman should
be condemned to walk for ever in these alleys and drink in these
_bosquets;_ I would not give a fir planting black against the evening
sky at home for all this pompous play-acting at landscape, nor a yard
of the brown heather of the hills for all these well-drilled flower
parterres.
“Eh! M. Croque-mort,” said the priest, delighted visibly with all he saw
about him; “what think'st thou of Le Notre's gardening?”
“A good deal, sir,” I said, “that need never be mentioned. I feel a pity
for the poor trees as I did for yon dipt poodle dog at Griepon.”
“La! la! la! _sots raissonable_, Monsieur,” cried the priest. “We cannot
have the tastes of our Dubarrys and Pompadours and Maintenons so called
in question by an untravelled Scot that knows but the rude mountain and
stunted oaks dying in a murrain of climate. 'Art too ingenuous, youth.
And yet--and yet”--here he paused and tapped his temple and smiled
whimsically--“between ourselves, I prefer the woods of Somme where the
birds sang together so jocund t'other day. But there now--ah, _quelle
gloire!_”
We had come upon the front of the palace, and its huge far-reaching
masonry, that I learned later to regard as cold, formal, and wanting in
a soul, vastly discomposed me. I do not know why it should be so, but
as I gazed at this--the greatest palace I had ever beheld--I felt tears
rush irrestrainably to my eyes. Maybe it was the poor little poet in
MacGibbon's law chamber in Lanark town that used to tenant every ancient
dwelling with spirits of the past, cropped up for the moment in Father
Hamilton's secretary, and made me, in a flash, people the place with
kings--and realise something of the wrench it must have been and still
would be to each and all of them to say adieu at the long last to this
place of noisy grandeur where they had had their time of gaiety and
splendour. Anyhow, I well-nigh wept, and the priest was quick to see it.
“Fore God!” he cried, “here's Andrew Greig again! 'Twas the wickedest
rogue ever threw dice, and yet the man must rain at the eyes like a very
woman.”
And yet he was pleased, I thought, to see me touched. A band was playing
somewhere in a garden unseen; he tapped time to its music with his
finger tips against each other and smiled beatifically and hummed. He
seemed at peace with the world and himself at that moment, yet a second
later he was the picture of distress and apprehension.
We were going towards the Place d'Armes; he had, as was customary, his
arm through mine, leaning on me more than was comfortable, for he was
the poorest judge imaginable of his own corpulence. Of a sudden I felt
him jolt as if he had been startled, and then he gripped my arm with
a nervous grasp. All that was to account for his perturbation was that
among the few pedestrians passing us on the road was one in a uniform
who cast a rapid glance at us. It was not wonderful that he should do
so, for indeed we were a singularly ill-assorted pair, but there was a
recognition of the priest in the glance the man in the uniform threw
at him in passing. Nothing was said; the man went on his way and we on
ours, but looking at Father Hamilton I saw his face had lost its colour
and grown blotched in patches. His hand trembled; for the rest of the
walk he was silent, and he could not too soon hurry us back to the Cerf
d'Or.
Next day was Sunday, and Father Hamilton went to Mass leaving me to my
own affairs, that were not of that complexion perhaps most becoming
on that day to a lad from Scotland. He came back anon and dressed most
scrupulously in a suit of lay clothing.
“Come out, Master Greig,” said he, “and use thine eyes for a poor
priest that has ruined his own in studying the Fathers and seeking for
honesty.”
“It is not in the nature of a compliment to myself, that,” I said, a
little tired of his sour sentiments regarding humanity, and not afraid
in the least to tell him so.
“Eh!” said he. “I spoke not of thee, thou savage. A plague on thy curt
temper; 'twas ever the weakness of the Greigs. Come, and I shall show
thee a house where thy uncle and I had many a game of dominoes.”
We went to a coffee-house and watched the fashionable world go by. It
was a sight monstrously fine. Because it was the Easter Sunday the women
had on their gayest apparel, the men their most belaced _jabots_.
“Now look you well, Friend Scotland,” said Father Hamilton, as we sat
at a little table and watched the stream of quality pass, “look you well
and watch particularly every gentleman that passes to the right, and
when you see one you know tell me quickly.”
He had dropped his Roman manner as if in too sober a mood to act.
“Is it a game?” I asked. “Who can I ken in the town of Versailles that
never saw me here before?”
“Never mind,” said he, “do as I tell you. A sharp eye, and-”
“Why,” I cried, “there's a man I have seen before!”
“Where? where?” said Father Hamilton, with the utmost interest lighting
his countenance.
“Yonder, to the left of the man with the velvet breeches. He will pass
us in a minute or two.”
The person I meant would have been kenspeckle in any company by
the splendour of his clothing, but beyond his clothing there was
a haughtiness in his carriage that singled him out even among the
fashionables of Versailles, who were themselves obviously interested in
his personality, to judge by the looks that they gave him as closely
as breeding permitted. He came sauntering along the pavement swinging
a cane by its tassel, his chin in the air, his eyes anywhere but on the
crowds that parted to give him room. As he came closer I saw it was a
handsome face enough that thus was cocked in haughtiness to the heavens,
not unlike Clancarty's in that it showed the same signs of dissipation,
yet with more of native nobility in it than was in the good enough
countenance of the French-Irish nobleman. Where had I seen that face
before?
It must have been in Scotland; it must have been when I was a boy; it
was never in the Mearns. This was a hat with a Dettingen cock; when I
saw that forehead last it was under a Highland bonnet.
A Highland bonnet--why! yes, and five thousand Highland bonnets were in
its company--whom had I here but Prince Charles Edward!
The recognition set my heart dirling in my breast, for there was
enough of the rebel in me to feel a romantic glow at seeing him who set
Scotland in a blaze, and was now the stuff of songs our women sang
in milking folds among the hills; that heads had fallen for, and the
Hebrides had been searched for in vain for weary seasons. The man was
never a hero of mine so long as I had the cooling influence of my father
to tell me how lamentable for Scotland had been his success had God
permitted the same, yet I was proud to-day to see him.
“Is it he?” asked the priest, dividing his attention between me and the
approaching nobleman.
“It's no other,” said I. “I would know Prince Charles in ten thousand,
though I saw him but the once in a rabble of caterans coming up the
Gallow-gate of Glasgow.”
“Ah,” said the priest, with a curious sighing sound. “They said he
passed here at the hour. And that's our gentleman, is it? I expected
he would have been--would have been different.” When the Prince was
opposite the café where we sat he let his glance come to earth, and it
fell upon myself. His aspect changed; there was something of recognition
in it; though he never slackened his pace and was gazing the next moment
down the vista of the street, I knew that his glance had taken me in
from head to heel, and that I was still the object of his thoughts.
“You see! you see!” cried the priest, “I was right, and he knew the
Greig. Why, lad, shalt have an Easter egg for this--the best horologe in
Versailles upon Monday morning.”
“Why, how could he know me?” I asked. “It is an impossibility, for when
he and I were in the same street last he rode a horse high above an army
and I was only a raw laddie standing at a close-mouth in Duff's Land in
the Gallowgate.”
But all the same I felt the priest was right, and that there was some
sort of recognition in the Prince's glance at me in passing.
Father Hamilton poured himself a generous glass and drank thirstily.
“La! la! la!” said he, resuming his customary manner of address. “I
daresay his Royal Highness has never clapt eyes on thy _croque-mori_
countenance before, but he has seen its like--ay, and had a regard for
it, too! Thine Uncle Andrew has done the thing for thee again; the mole,
the hair, the face, the shoes--sure they advertise the Greig as by a
drum tuck! and Charles Edward knew thy uncle pretty well so I supposed
he would know thee. And this is my gentleman, is it? Well, well! No, not
at all well; mighty ill indeed. Not the sort of fellow I had looked for
at all. Seems a harmless man enough, and has tossed many a goblet in the
way of company. If he had been a sour whey-face now--”
Father Hamilton applied himself most industriously to the bottle that
afternoon, and it was not long till the last of my respect for him was
gone. Something troubled him. He was moody and hilarious by turns, but
neither very long, and completed my distrust of him when he intimated
that there was some possibility of our trip across Europe never coming
into effect. But all the same, I was to be assured of his patronage,
I was to continue in his service as secretary, if, as was possible, he
should take up his residence for a time in Paris. And money--why, look
again! he had a ship's load of it, and 'twould never be said of Father
Hamilton that he could not share with a friend. And there he thrust some
rouleaux upon me and clapped my shoulder and was so affected at his own
love for Andrew Greig's nephew that he must even weep.
Weeping indeed was the priest's odd foible for the week we remained
at Versailles. He that had been so jocular before was now filled with
morose moods, and would ruminate over his bottle by the hour at a time.
He was none the better for the company he met during our stay at the
Cerf d'Or--all priests, and to the number of half a dozen, one of them
an abbé with a most noble and reverent countenance. They used to come to
him late at night, confer with him secretly in his room, and when
they were gone I found him each time drenched in a perspiration and
feverishly gulping spirits.
Every day we went to the café where we had seen the Prince first, and
every day at the same hour we saw his Royal Highness, who, it appeared,
was not known to the world as such, though known to me. The sight of
him seemed to trouble Father Hamilton amazingly, and yet 'twas the grand
object of the day--its only diversion; when we had seen the Prince we
went back straight to the inn every afternoon.
The Cerf d'Or had a courtyard, cobbled with rough stones, in which there
was a great and noisy traffic. In the midst of the court there was a
little clump of evergreen trees and bushes in tubs, round which were
gathered a few tables and chairs whereat--now that the weather was
mild--the world sat in the afternoon. The walls about were covered with
dusty ivy where sparrows had begun to busy themselves with love and
housekeeping; lilacs sprouted into green, and the porter of the house
was for ever scratching at the hard earth about the plants, and tying up
twigs and watering the pots. It was here I used to write my letters to
Miss Walkinshaw at a little table separate from the rest, and I think it
was on Friday I was at this pleasant occupation when I looked up to see
the man with the uniform gazing at me from the other side of the bushes
as if he were waiting to have the letter when I was done with it.
I went in and asked Father Hamilton who this man was.
“What!” he cried in a great disturbance, “the same as we met near the
Trianon! O Lord! Paul, there is something wrong, for that was Buhot.”
“And this Buhot?” I asked.
“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want
you to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into
the hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that
he passes the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest
thing in the world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's
to be done by you.”
“But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by
the Swiss?”
“That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows
you--that is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have
the Swiss with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he
should have this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis
a letter from his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.”
I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address
was in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the
bosom of my coat!
What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be
conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must
carry it!
“Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince.
The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer
clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour
more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my
hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English,
“but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.”
He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes,
and took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction,
reddened, and bit his lip.
“Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the
honour?”
“Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.”
“Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family.
_Charmé, Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance_. M. Andrew Greig-”
“Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?”
“So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of
irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M.
Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a--what was it
now?--a gomeral.”
“It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I
know that he loved you and your cause.”
“I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince,
flushing, and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of
late that the fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it
all I liked M. Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing
Monsieur Greig's nephew soon again. _Au plaisir de vous revoir!_” And
off he went, putting the letter, unread, into his pocket.
When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed,
he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy.