THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS
Good fortune and bad had combined to make me somewhat more of a figure
in the eyes of the Court than was warranted by my abilities or my
station. The friend of Mistress Gwyn and the favourite of the Duke of
Monmouth (for this latter title his Grace's signal kindness soon
extorted from the amused and the envious) was a man whom great folk
recognised, and to whom small folk paid civility. Lord Carford had
become again all smiles and courtesy; Darrell, who arrived in the
Secretary's train, compensated in cordiality for what he lacked in
confidence; my Lord Arlington himself presented me in most flattering
terms to the French King's envoy, M. Colbert de Croissy, who, in his
turn, greeted me with a warmth and regarded me with a curiosity that
produced equal gratification and bewilderment in my mind. Finally, the
Duke of Monmouth insisted on having me with him in the Castle, though
the greater part of the gentlemen attached to the Royal and noble
persons were sent to lodge in the town for want of accommodation within
the walls. My private distress, from which I recovered but slowly, or,
to speak more properly, suppressed with difficulty, served to prevent me
from becoming puffed up with the conceit which this success might well
have inspired.
The first part of Betty Nasroth's prophecy now stood fulfilled, ay, as I
trusted, utterly finished and accomplished; the rest tarried. I had
guessed that there was a secret, what it was remained unknown to me and,
as I soon suspected, to people more important. The interval before the
arrival of the Duchess of Orleans was occupied in many councils and
conferences; at most of them the Duke of Monmouth was present, and he
told me no more than all the Court conjectured when he said that Madame
d'Orléans came with a project for a new French Alliance and a fresh war
with the Dutch. But there were conferences at which he was not present,
nor the Duke of Buckingham, but only the King, his brother (so soon as
his Royal Highness joined us from London), the French Envoy, and
Clifford and Arlington. Of what passed at these my master knew nothing,
though he feigned knowledge; he would be restless when I, having used my
eyes, told him that the King had been with M. Colbert de Croissy for two
hours, and that the Duke of York had walked on the wall above an hour in
earnest conversation with the Treasurer. He felt himself ignored, and
poured out his indignation unreservedly to Carford. Carford would frown
and throw his eyes towards me, as though to ask if I were to hear these
things, but the Duke refused his suggestion. Nay, once he said in jest:
"What I say is as safe with him as with you, my lord, or safer."
I wondered to see Carford indignant.
"Why do you say safer, sir?" he asked haughtily, while the colour on his
cheeks was heightened. "Is any man's honour more to be trusted than
mine?"
"Ah, man, I meant nothing against your honour; but Simon here has a
discretion that heaven does not give to everyone."
Now, when I see a man so sensitive to suspicion as to find it in every
careless word, I am set thinking whether he may not have some cause to
fear suspicion. Honesty expects no accusation. Carford's readiness to
repel a charge not brought caught my notice, and made me ponder more on
certain other conferences to which also his Grace my patron was a
stranger. More than once had I found Arlington and Carford together,
with M. Colbert in their company, and on the last occasion of such an
encounter Carford had requested me not to mention his whereabouts to the
Duke, advancing the trivial pretext that he should have been engaged on
his Grace's business. His Grace was not our schoolmaster. But I was
deceived, most amiably deceived, and held my tongue as he prayed. Yet I
watched him close, and soon, had a man told me that the Duke of York
thought it well to maintain a friend of his own in his nephew's
confidence, I would have hazarded that friend's name without fear of
mistake.
So far the affair was little to me, but when Mistress Barbara came from
London the day before Madame was to arrive, hardly an hour passed before
I perceived that she also, although she knew it not, had her part to
play. I cannot tell what reward they offered Carford for successful
service; if a man who sells himself at a high price be in any way less a
villain than he who takes a penny, I trust that the price was high; for
in pursuance of the effort to obtain Monmouth's confidence and an
ascendency over him, Carford made use of the lady whom he had courted,
and, as I believed, still courted, for his own wife. He threw her in
Monmouth's way by tricks too subtle for her to detect, but plain to an
attentive observer. I knew from her father that lately he had again
begged her hand, and that she had listened with more show of favour. Yet
he was the Duke's very humble servant in all the plans which that
headstrong young man now laid against the lady's peace and honour. Is
there need to state the scheme more plainly? In those days a man might
rise high and learn great secrets, if he knew when to shut his eyes and
how to knock loud before he entered the room.
I should have warned her. It is true; but the mischief lay in the fact
that by no means could I induce her to exchange a word with me. She was
harder by far to me than she had shewn herself in London. Perhaps she
had heard how I had gone to Chelsea; but whether for good reason or bad,
my crime now seemed beyond pardon. Stay; perhaps my condition was below
her notice; or sin and condition so worked together that she would have
nothing of me, and I could do nothing but look on with outward calm and
hidden sourness while the Duke plied her with flatteries that soon grew
to passionate avowals, and Carford paid deferential suit when his
superior was not in the way. She triumphed in her success as girls will,
blind to its perils as girls are; and Monmouth made no secret of his
hopes of success, as he sat between Carford's stolid face and my
downcast eyes.
"She's the loveliest creature in the world," he would cry. "Come, drink
a toast to her!" I drank silently, while Carford led him on to
unrestrained boasts and artfully fanned his passion.
At last--it was the evening of the day before Madame was to come--I met
her where she could not avoid me, by the Constable's Tower, and alone. I
took my courage in my hands and faced her, warning her of her peril in
what delicate words I could find. Alas, I made nothing of it. A scornful
jest at me and my righteousness (of which, said she, all London had been
talking a little while back) was the first shot from her battery. The
mention of the Duke's name brought a blush and a mischievous smile, as
she answered:
"Shouldn't I make a fine Duchess, Mr Dale?"
"Ay, if he made you one," said I with gloomy bluntness.
"You insult me, sir," she cried, and the flush on her face deepened.
"Then I do in few words what his Grace does in many," I retorted.
I went about it like a dolt, I do not doubt. For she flew out at me,
demanding in what esteem I held her, and in what her birth fell short of
Anne Hyde's--"who is now Duchess of York, and in whose service I have
the honour to be."
"Is that your pattern?" I asked. "Will the King interpose for you as he
did for the daughter of Lord Clarendon?"
She tossed her head, answering:
"Perhaps so much interference will not be needed."
"And does my Lord Carford share these plans of yours?" I asked with a
sneer.
The question touched her; she flushed again, but gave way not an inch.
"Lord Carford has done me much honour, as you know," said she, "but he
wouldn't stand in my way here."
"Indeed he doesn't!" I cried. "Nor in his Grace's!"
"Have you done, sir?" says she most scornfully.
"I have done, madame," said I, and on she swept.
"Yet you shall come to no harm," I added to myself as I watched her
proud free steps carry her away. She also, it seemed, had her dream; I
hoped that no more than hurt pride and a heart for the moment sore would
come of it. Yet if the flatteries of princes pleased, she was to be
better pleased soon, and the Duke of Monmouth seem scarcely higher to
her than Simon Dale.
Then came Madame in the morning from Dunkirk, escorted by the
Vice-Admiral, and met above a mile from the coast by the King in his
barge; the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, and my Duke (on whom, I
attended) accompanying His Majesty. Madame seemed scarcely as beautiful
as I had heard, although of a very high air and most admirable carriage
and address; and my eyes, prone, I must confess, to seek the fairest
face, wandered from hers to a lady who stood near, gifted with a
delicate and alluring, yet childish, beauty, who gazed on the gay scene
with innocent interest and a fresh enjoyment. Madame, having embraced
her kinsmen, presented the lady to His Majesty by the name of
Mademoiselle Louise Renée de Perrencourt de Quérouaille (the name was
much shortened by our common folk in later days), and the King kissed
her hand, saying that he was rejoiced to see her--as indeed he seemed to
be, if a man might judge by the time he spent in looking at her, and
the carelessness with which he greeted the others in attendance on
Madame.
"And these are all who come with you, sister?" he asked.
She answered him clearly, almost loudly:
"Except a gentleman who is to join me from Calais to-morrow, with
messages from the King."
I heard no more, being forced to move away and leave the royal group
alone. I had closely examined all who came. For in the presence of
Madame I read _Je viens_, in our King's, _Tu viens_; but I saw none
whose coming would make the tidings _Il vient_ worthy of a special
messenger to London. But there was a gentleman to arrive from Calais. I
had enough curiosity to ask M. le Comte d'Albon, who (with his wife)
accompanied Madame and stood by me on deck as we returned to land, who
this gentleman might be.
"He is called M. de Perrencourt," the Count replied, "and is related
remotely to the lady whom you saw with Madame."
I was disappointed, or rather checked. Was M. de Perrencourt so
important that they wrote _Il vient_ about him and sent the tidings to
London?
After some time, when we were already coming near to shore, I observed
Madame leave the King and go walking to and fro on the deck in company
with Monmouth. He was very merry and she was very gracious; I amused
myself with watching so handsome and well-matched a pair. I did not
wonder that my Duke was in a mighty good temper, for, even had she been
no Princess, her company was such as would please a man's pride and
content his fancy. So I leant against the mast, thinking it a pity that
they troubled their pretty heads with Dutch wars and the like tiresome
matters, and were not content to ornament the world, leaving its rule to
others. But presently I saw the Duke point towards me, and Madame's
glance follow his finger; he talked to her again and both laughed. Then,
just as we came by the landing-stage, she laid her hand on his arm, as
though in command. He laughed again, shrugging his shoulders, then
raised his hand and beckoned to me. Now I, while watching, had been most
diligent in seeming not to watch, and it needed a second and
unmistakable signal from his Grace before I hastened up, hat in hand.
Madame was laughing, and, as I came, I heard her say, "Yes, but I will
speak to him." The Duke, with another shrug, bade me come near, and in
due form presented me. She gave me her hand to kiss, saying with a smile
that showed her white teeth,
"Sir, I asked to be shown the most honest man in Dover, and my cousin
Monmouth has brought you to me."
I perceived that Monmouth, seeking how to entertain her, had not
scrupled to press me into his service. This I could not resent, and
since I saw that she was not too dull to be answered in the spirit of
her address, I made her a low bow and said:
"His Grace, Madame, conceived you to mean in Dover Castle. The townsmen,
I believe, are very honest."
"And you, though the most honest in the Castle, are not very honest?"
"I take what I find, Madame," I answered.
"So M. Colbert tells me," she said with a swift glance at me. "Yet it's
not always worth taking."
"I keep it, in case it should become so," I answered, for I guessed that
Colbert had told her of my encounter with M. de Fontelles; if that were
so, she might have a curiosity to see me without the added inducement of
Monmouth's malicious stories.
"Not if it be a secret? No man keeps that," she cried.
"He may, if he be not in love, Madame."
"But are you that monster, Mr Dale?" said she. "Shame on the ladies of
my native land! Yet I'm glad! For, if you're not in love, you'll be more
ready to serve me, perhaps."
"Mr Dale, Madame, is not incapable of falling in love," said Monmouth
with a bow. "Don't try his virtue too much."
"He shall fall in love then with Louise," she cried.
Monmouth made a grimace, and the Duchess suddenly fell to laughing, as
she glanced over her shoulder towards the King, who was busily engaged
in conversation with Mlle. de Quérouaille.
"Indeed, no!" I exclaimed with a fervour that I had not intended. No
more of that part of Betty Nasroth's prophecy for me, and the King's
attentions were already particular. "But if I can serve your Royal
Highness, I am body and soul at your service."
"Body and soul?" said she. "Ah, you mean saving--what is it? Haven't you
reservations?"
"His Grace has spared me nothing," said I, with a reproachful glance at
Monmouth.
"The more told of you the better you're liked, Simon," said he kindly.
"See, Madame, we're at the landing, and there's a crowd of loyal folk to
greet you."
"I know the loyalty of the English well," said she in a low voice and
with a curling lip. "They have their reservations like Mr Dale. Ah,
you're speaking, Mr Dale?"
"To myself, Madame," I answered, bowing profoundly. She laughed, shaking
her head at me, and passed on. I was glad she did not press me, for what
I had said was, "Thank God," and I might likely enough have told a lie
if she had put me to the question.
That night the King entertained his sister at a great banquet in the
hall of the Castle, where there was much drinking of toasts, and much
talk of the love that the King of France had for the King of England,
and our King for the other King, and we for the French (whereas we hated
them) and they for us (although they wasted no kindness on us); but at
least every man got as much wine as he wanted, and many of them more
than they had fair occasion for; and among these last I must count the
Duke of Monmouth. For after the rest had risen from table he sat there
still, calling Carford to join him, and even bidding me sit down by his
side. Carford seemed in no haste to get him away, although very anxious
to relieve me of my post behind his chair, but at last, by dint of
upbraiding them both, I prevailed on Carford to offer his arm and the
Duke to accept it, while I supported him on the other side. Thus we set
out for his Grace's quarters, making a spectacle sad enough to a
moralist, but too ordinary at Court for any remark to be excited by it.
Carford insisted that he could take the Duke alone; I would not budge.
My lord grew offensive, hinting of busybodies who came between the Duke
and his friends. Pushed hard, I asked the Duke himself if I should leave
him. He bade me stay, swearing that I was an honest fellow and no
Papist, as were some he knew. I saw Carford start; his Grace saw nothing
save the entrance of his chamber, and that not over-plainly. But we got
him in, and into a seat, and the door shut. Then he called for more
wine, and Carford at once brought it to him and pledged him once and
again, Monmouth drinking deep.
"He's had more than he can carry already," I whispered. Carford turned
straight to the Duke, crying, "Mr Dale here says that your Grace is
drunk." He made nothing by the move, for the Duke answered
good-humouredly,
"Truly I am drunk, but in the legs only, my good Simon. My head is
clear, clear as daylight, or the----" He looked round cunningly, and
caught each of us by the arm. "We're good Protestants here?" he asked
with a would-be shrewd, wine-muddled glance.
"Sound and true, your Grace," said Carford. Then he whispered to me,
"Indeed I think he's ill. Pray run for the King's physician, Mr Dale."
"Nay, he'd do well enough if he were alone with me. If you desire the
physician's presence, my lord, he's easy to find."
I cared not a jot for Carford's anger, and was determined not to give
ground. But we had no more time for quarrelling.
"I am as loyal--as loyal to my father as any man in the kingdom," said
the Duke in maudlin confidence. "But you know what's afoot?"
"A new war with the Dutch, I'm told, sir," said I.
"A fig for the Dutch! Hush, we must speak low, there may be Papists
about. There are some in the Castle, Carford. Hush, hush! Some say my
uncle's one, some say the Secretary's one. Gentlemen, I--I say no more.
Traitors have said that my father is----"
Carford interrupted him.
"Don't trouble your mind with these slanders, sir," he urged.
"I won't believe it. I'll stand by my father. But if the Duke of
York--But I'll say no more." His head fell on his breast. But in a
moment he sprang to his feet, crying, "But I'm a Protestant. Yes, and
I'm the King's son." He caught Carford by the arm, whispering, "Not a
word of it. I'm ready. We know what's afoot. We're loyal to the King; we
must save him. But if we can't--if we can't, isn't there one
who--who----?"
He lost his tongue for an instant. We stood looking at him, till he
spoke again. "One who would be a Protestant King?"
He spoke the last words loud and fiercely; it was the final effort, and
he sank back in his chair in a stupor. Carford gave a hasty glance at
his face.
"I'll go for the physician," he cried. "His Grace may need
blood-letting."
I stepped between him and the door as he advanced.
"His Grace needs nothing," said I, "except the discretion of his
friends. We've heard foolish words that we should not have heard
to-night, my lord."
"I am sure they're safe with you," he answered.
"And with you?" I retorted quickly.
He drew himself up haughtily.
"Stand aside, sir, and let me pass."
"Where are you going?"
"To fetch the physician. I'll answer none of your questions."
I could not stop him without an open brawl, and that I would not
encounter, for it could lead only to my own expulsion. Yet I was sure
that he would go straight to Arlington, and that every word the Duke had
spoken would be carried to York, and perhaps to the King, before next
morning. The King would be informed, if it were thought possible to
prejudice him against his son; York, at least, would be warned of the
mad scheme which was in the young Duke's head. I drew aside and with a
surly bow let Carford pass. He returned my salutation with an equal
economy of politeness, and left me alone with Monmouth, who had now sunk
into a heavy and uneasy sleep. I roused him and got him to bed, glad to
think that his unwary tongue would be silent for a few hours at least.
Yet what he had said brought me nearer to the secret and the mystery.
There was indeed more afoot than the war with the Dutch. There was, if I
mistook not, a matter that touched the religion of the King. Monmouth,
whose wits were sharp enough, had gained scent of it; the wits went out
as the wine went in, and he blurted out what he suspected, robbing his
knowledge of all value by betraying its possession. Our best knowledge
lies in what we are not known to know.
I repaired, thoughtful and disturbed, to my own small chamber, next the
Duke's; but the night was fine and I had no mind for sleep. I turned
back again and made my way on to the wall, where it faces towards the
sea. The wind was blowing fresh and the sound of the waves filled my
ears. No doubt the same sound hid the noise of my feet, for when I came
to the wall, I passed unheeded by three persons who stood in a group
together. I knew all and made haste to pass by; the man was the King
himself, the lady on his right was Mistress Barbara; in the third I
recognised Madame's lady, Louise de Quérouaille. I proceeded some
distance farther till I was at the end of the wall nearest the sea.
There I took my stand, looking not at the sea but covertly at the little
group. Presently two of them moved away; the third curtseyed low but did
not accompany them. When they were gone, she turned and leant on the
parapet of the wall with clasped hands. Drawn by some impulse, I moved
towards her. She was unconscious of my approach until I came quite near
to her; then she turned on me a face stained with tears and pale with
agitation and alarm. I stood before her, speechless, and she found no
words in which to address me. I was too proud to force my company on
her, and made as though to pass with a bow; but her face arrested me.
"What ails you, Mistress Barbara?" I cried impetuously. She smoothed her
face to composure as she answered me:
"Nothing, sir." Then she added carelessly, "Unless it be that sometimes
the King's conversation is too free for my liking."
"When you want me, I'm here," I said, answering not her words but the
frightened look that there was in her eyes.
For an instant I seemed to see in her an impulse to trust me and to lay
bare what troubled her. The feeling passed; her face regained its
natural hue, and she said petulantly,
"Why, yes, it seems fated that you should always be there, Simon, yet
Betty Nasroth said nothing of it."
"It may be well for you that I'm here," I answered hotly; for her scorn
stirred me to say what I should have left unsaid.
I do not know how she would have answered, for at the moment we heard a
shout from the watchman who stood looking over the sea. He hailed a boat
that came prancing over the waves; a light answered his signal. Who came
to the Castle? Barbara's eyes and mine sought the ship; we did not know
the stranger, but he was expected; for a minute later Darrell ran
quickly by us with an eager look on his face; with him was the Count
d'Albon, who had come with Madame, and Depuy, the Duke of York's
servant. They went by at the top of their speed and in visible
excitement. Barbara forgot her anger and haughtiness in fresh girlish
interest.
"Who can it be?" she cried, coming so near to me that her sleeve touched
mine, and leaning over the wall towards where the ship's black hull was
to be seen far below in the moonlight by the jetty.
"Doubtless it's the gentleman whom Madame expects," said I.
Many minutes passed, but through them Barbara and I stood silent side by
side. Then the party came back through the gate, which had been opened
for them. Depuy walked first, carrying a small trunk; two or three
servants followed with more luggage; then came Darrell in company with a
short man who walked with a bold and confident air. The rest passed us,
and the last pair approached. Now Darrell saw Mistress Barbara and
doffed his hat to her. The new-comer did the like and more; he halted
immediately opposite to us and looked curiously at her, sparing a
curious glance for me. I bowed; she waited unmoved until the gentleman
said to Darrell,
"Pray present me."
"This, madame," said Darrell, in whose voice there was a ring of
excitement and tremulous agitation, "is M. de Perrencourt, who has the
honour of serving Her Royal Highness the Duchess. This lady, sir, is
Mistress Barbara Quinton, maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and now
in attendance on Madame."
Barbara made a curtsey, M. de Perrencourt bowed. His eyes were fixed on
her face; he studied her openly and fearlessly, yet the regard was
difficult to resent, it was so calm, assured, and dignified. It seemed
beyond challenge, if not beyond reproach. I stood by in silence, angry
at a scrutiny so prolonged, but without title to interfere.
"I trust, madame, that we shall be better acquainted," he said at last,
and with a lingering look at her face passed on. I turned to her; she
was gazing after him with eager eyes. My presence seemed forgotten; I
would not remind her of it; I turned away in silence, and hastened after
Darrell and his companion. The curve of the wall hid them from my sight,
but I quickened my pace; I gained on them, for now I heard their steps
ahead; I ran round the next corner, for I was ablaze with curiosity to
see more of this man, who came at so strange an hour and yet was
expected, who bore himself so loftily, and yet was but a
gentleman-in-waiting as I was. Round the next corner I should come in
sight of him. Round I went, and I came plump into the arms of my good
friend Darrell, who stood there, squarely across the path!
"Whither away, Simon?" said he coldly.
I halted, stood still, looked him in the face. He met my gaze with a
calm, self-controlled smile.
"Why," said I, "I'm on my way to bed, Darrell. Let me pass, I beg you."
"A moment later will serve," said he.
"Not a moment," I replied testily, and caught him by the arm. He was
stiff as a rock, but I put out my strength and in another instant should
have thrown him aside. But he cried in a loud angry voice,
"By the King's orders, no man is to pass this way."
Amazed, I fell back. But over his head, some twenty yards from us, I saw
two men embracing one another warmly. Nobody else was near; Darrell's
eyes were fixed on me, and his hand detained me in an eager grasp. But I
looked hard at the pair there ahead of me; there was a cloud over the
moon now, in a second it passed. The next moment the two had turned
their backs and were walking off together. Darrell, seeing my fixed
gaze, turned also. His face was pale, as if with excitement, but he
spoke in cool, level tones.
"It's only M. Colbert greeting M. de Perrencourt," said he.
"Ah, of course!" I cried, turning to him with a smile. "But where did M.
Colbert get that Star?" For the glitter of the decoration had caught my
eye, as it sparkled in the moonlight.
There was a pause before Darrell answered. Then he said,
"The King gave him his own Star to-night, in compliment to Madame."
And in truth M. Colbert wore that Star when he walked abroad next
morning, and professed much gratitude for it to the King. I have
wondered since whether he should not have thanked a humbler man. Had I
not seen the Star on the breast of the gentleman who embraced M. de
Perrencourt, should I have seen it on the breast of M. Colbert de
Croissy? In truth I doubt it.