Angele had come to know, as others in like case have ever done, how
wretched indeed is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours. She had
saved the Queen’s life upon May Day, and on the evening of that day the
Queen had sent for her, had made such high and tender acknowledgment
of her debt as would seem to justify for her perpetual honour. And what
Elizabeth said she meant; but in a life set in forests of complications
and opposing interests the political overlapped the personal in her
nature. Thus it was that she had kept the princes of the world dangling,
advancing towards marriage with them, retreating suddenly, setting
off one house against the other, allying herself to one European power
to-day, with another to-morrow, her own person and her crown the pawn
with which she played. It was not a beautiful thing in a woman, but it
was what a woman could do; and, denied other powers given to men--as to
her father--she resorted to astute but doubtful devices to advance her
diplomacy. Over all was self-infatuation, the bane of princes, the curse
of greatness, the source of wide injustice. It was not to be expected,
as Leicester had said, that Elizabeth, save for the whim of the moment,
would turn aside to confer benefit upon Angele or to keep her in mind,
unless constrained to do so for some political reason.
The girl had charmed the Queen, had, by saving her life, made England
her long debtor; but Leicester had judged rightly in believing that the
Queen might find the debt irksome; that her gratitude would be corroded
by other destructive emotions. It was true that Angele had saved her
life, but Michel had charmed her eye. He had proved himself a more
gallant fighter than any in her kingdom; and had done it, as he had
said, in her honour. So, as her admiration for Michel grew, her debt to
Angele became burdensome; and, despite her will, there stole into her
mind the old petulance and smothered anger against beauty and love and
marriage. She could ill bear that one near her person should not be
content to flourish in the light and warmth of her own favour, setting
aside all other small affections. So it was that she had sent Angele to
her father and kept De la Foret in the palace. Perplexed, troubled by
new developments, the birth of a son to Mary Queen of Scots, the demand
of her Parliament that she should marry, the pressure of foreign policy
which compelled her to open up again negotiations for marriage with the
Duke of Anjou--all these combined to detach her from the interest
she had suddenly felt in Angele. But, by instinct, she knew also that
Leicester, through jealousy, had increased the complication; and,
fretful under the long influence he had had upon her, she steadily
lessened intercourse with him. The duel he fought with Lempriere on May
Day came to her ears through the Duke’s Daughter, and she seized upon it
with sharp petulance. First she ostentatiously gave housing and care
to Lempriere, and went to visit him; then, having refused Leicester
audience, wrote to him.
“What is this I hear,” she scrawled upon the paper, “that you have
forced a quarrel with the Lord of Rozel, and have well-ny ta’en his
life! Is swording then your dearest vice that you must urge it on a
harmless gentle man, and my visitor? Do you think you hold a charter
of freedom for your self-will? Have a care, Leicester, or, by God! you
shall know another sword surer than your own.”
The rage of Leicester on receiving this knew no bounds; for though he
had received from Elizabeth stormy letters before, none had had in it
the cold irony of this missive. The cause of it? Desperation seized
him. With a mad disloyalty he read in every word of Elizabeth’s letter,
Michel de la Foret, refugee. With madder fury he determined to strike
for the immediate ruin of De la Foret, and Angele with him--for had
she not thrice repulsed him as though he had been some village captain?
After the meeting in the maze he had kept his promise of visiting her
“prison.” By every art, and without avail, he had through patient days
sought to gain an influence over her; for he saw that if he could but
show the Queen that the girl was open to his advances, accepted his
protection, her ruin would be certain--in anger Elizabeth would take
revenge upon both refugees. But however much he succeeded with Monsieur
Aubert, he failed wholly with Angele. She repulsed him still with the
most certain courtesy, with the greatest outward composure; but she had
to make her fight alone, for the Queen forbade intercourse with Michel,
and she must have despaired but for the messages sent now and then by
the Duke’s Daughter.
Through M. Aubert, to whom Leicester was diligently courteous, and whom
he sought daily, discussing piously the question of religion so dear to
the old man’s heart, he strove to foster in Angele’s mind the suspicion
he had ventured at their meeting in the maze, that the Queen, through
personal interest in Michel, was saving his life to keep him in her
household. So well did he work on the old man’s feelings that when he
offered his own protection to M. Aubert and Angele, whatever the issue
with De la Foret might be, he was met with an almost tearful response of
gratitude. It was the moment to convey a deep distrust of De la Foret to
the mind of the old refugee, and it was subtly done.
Were it not better to leave the Court where only danger surrounded them,
and find safety on Leicester’s own estate, where no man living could
molest them? Were it not well to leave Michel de la Foret to his fate,
what ever it would be? Thrice within a week the Queen had sent for De
la Foret--what reason was there for that, unless the Queen had a secret
personal interest in him? Did M. Aubert think it was only a rare touch
of humour which had turned De la Foret into a preacher, and set his fate
upon a sermon to be preached before the Court? He himself had long held
high office, had been near to her Majesty, and he could speak with more
knowledge than he might use--it grieved him that Mademoiselle Aubert
should be placed in so painful a position.
Sometimes as the two talked Angele would join them; and then there was
a sudden silence, which made her flush with embarrassment, anxiety or
anger. In vain did she assume a cold composure, in vain school herself
to treat Leicester with a precise courtesy; in vain her heart protested
the goodness of De la Foret and high uprightness of the Queen; the
persistent suggestions of the dark Earl worked upon her mind in spite of
all. Why had the Queen forbidden her to meet Michel, or write to him,
or to receive letters from him? Why had the Queen, who had spoken such
gratitude, deserted her? And now even the Duke’s Daughter wrote to her
no more, sent her no further messages. She felt herself a prisoner, and
that the Queen had forgotten her debt. She took to wandering to that
part of the palace-grounds where she could see the windows of the tower
her lover inhabited. Her old habit of cheerful talk deserted her,
and she brooded. It was long before she heard of the duel between the
Seigneur and Lord Leicester--the Duke’s Daughter had kept this from her,
lest she should be unduly troubled--and when, in anxiety, she went to
the house where Lempriere had been quartered, he had gone, none could
tell her whither. Buonespoir was now in close confinement, by secret
orders of Leicester, and not allowed to walk abroad; and thus with no
friend save her father, now so much under the influence of the Earl, she
was bitterly solitary. Bravely she fought the growing care and suspicion
in her heart; but she was being tried beyond her strength. Her father
had urged her to make personal appeal to the Queen; and at times,
despite her better judgment, she was on the verge of doing so. Yet what
could she say? She could not go to the Queen of England and cry out,
like a silly milk-maid: “You have taken my lover--give him back to me!”
What proof had she that the Queen wanted her lover? And if she spoke,
the impertinence of the suggestion might send back to the fierce Medici
that same lover, to lose his head.
Leicester, who now was playing the game as though it were a hazard for
states and kingdoms, read the increasing trouble in her face; and
waited confidently for the moment when in desperation she would lose her
self-control and go to the Queen.
But he did not reckon with the depth of the girl’s nature and her true
sense of life. Her brain told her that what she was tempted to do she
should not; that her only way was to wait; to trust that the Queen
of England was as much true woman as Queen, and as much Queen as
true woman; and that the one was held in high equipoise by the other.
Besides, Trinity Day would bring the end of it all, and that was not far
off. She steeled her will to wait till then, no matter how dark the sky
might be.
As time went on, Leicester became impatient. He had not been able
to induce M. Aubert to compel Angele to accept a quiet refuge at
Kenilworth; he saw that this plan would not work, and he deployed his
mind upon another. If he could but get Angele to seek De la Foret in
his apartment in the palace, and then bring the matter to Elizabeth’s
knowledge with sure proof, De la Foret’s doom would be sealed. At great
expense, however; for, in order to make the scheme effective, Angele
should visit De la Foret at night. This would mean the ruin of the girl
as well. Still that could be set right; because, once De la Foret was
sent to the Medici the girl’s character could be cleared; and, if not,
so much the surer would she come at last to his protection. What he had
professed in cold deliberation had become in some sense a fact. She had
roused in him an eager passion. He might even dare, when De la Foret was
gone, to confess his own action in the matter to the Queen, once she was
again within his influence. She had forgiven him more than that in the
past, when he had made his own mad devotion to herself excuse for his
rashness or misconduct.
He waited opportunity, he arranged all details carefully, he secured the
passive agents of his purpose; and when the right day came he acted.
About ten o’clock one night, a half-hour before the closing of the
palace gates, when no one could go in or go out save by permit of the
Lord Chamberlain, a footman from a surgeon of the palace came to Angele,
bearing a note which read:
“Your friend is very ill, and asks for you. Come hither alone; and
now, if you would come at all.”
Her father was confined to bed with some ailment of the hour, and
asleep--it were no good to awaken him. Her mind was at once made up.
There was no time to ask permission of the Queen. She knew the surgeon’s
messengers by sight, this one was in the usual livery, and his master’s
name was duly signed. In haste she made herself ready, and went forth
into the night with the messenger, her heart beating hard, a pitiful
anxiety shaking her. Her steps were fleet between the lodge and the
palace. They were challenged nowhere, and the surgeon’s servant,
entering a side door of the palace, led her hastily through gloomy halls
and passages where they met no one, though once in a dark corridor some
one brushed against her. She wondered why there were no servants to
show the way, why the footman carried no torch or candle; but haste and
urgency seemed due excuse, and she thought only of Michel, and that she
would soon see him-dying, dead perhaps before she could touch his hand!
At last they emerged into a lighter and larger hallway, where her guide
suddenly paused, and said to Angel, motioning towards a door: “Enter. He
is there.”
For a moment she stood still, scarce able to breathe, her heart hurt her
so. It seemed to her as though life itself was arrested. As the servant,
without further words, turned and left her, she knocked, opened the door
without awaiting a reply, and stepping into semidarkness, said softly:
“Michel! Michel!”