Angèle had come to know, as others in like case have ever done, how
wretched indeed is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors. 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
honor. 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 Angèle 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 Angèle 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 honor. So, as her admiration for Michel grew, her
debt to Angèle 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
favor, setting aside all other small affections. So it was that she
had sent Angèle to her father and kept De la Forêt 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 Angèle. 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 Lemprière 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 Lemprière, 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 gentleman, and my visitor? Do you think you hold a charter
of freedom for your selfwill? 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 Forêt, refugee. With madder fury he determined
to strike for the immediate ruin of De la Forêt, and Angèle 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 Angèle.
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 Angèle’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
Angèle, whatever the issue with De la Forêt might be, he was met with
an almost tearful response of gratitude. It was the moment to convey
a deep distrust of De la Forêt into 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 Forêt to
his fate, whatever it would be? Thrice within a week the Queen had
sent for De la Forêt--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 humor which had turned De la Forêt 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 Angèle 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 Forêt 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 more 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 Lemprière 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 milkmaid, “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 Angèle 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 Angèle to seek De la Forêt
in his apartment in the palace, and then bring the matter to
Elizabeth’s knowledge, with sure proof, De la Forêt’s doom would be
sealed. At great expense, however; for, in order to make the scheme
effective, Angèle should visit De la Forêt at night. This would mean
the ruin of the girl as well. Still that could be set right; because,
once De la Forêt 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 Forêt 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
Angèle, 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 nor 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 hall-way, where her guide
suddenly paused, and said to Angèle, 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 if 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!”