M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS
As I walked briskly from my quarters down to the sea, M. de
Perrencourt's last whisper, "With my favour and such a lady for his
wife, a gentleman might climb high," echoed in my ears so loudly and
insistently as to smother all thought of what had passed in the Council
Chamber, and to make of no moment for me the plots and plans alike of
Kings, Catholics, and Ranters. That night I cared little though the King
had signed away the liberties of our religion and his realm; I spared no
more than a passing wonder for the attempt to which conscience run mad
had urged Phineas Tate, and in which he in his turn had involved my
simpleton of a servant. Let them all plot and plan; the issue lay in
God's hand, above my knowledge and beyond my power. My task was enough,
and more than enough, for my weakness; to it I turned, with no fixed
design and no lively hope, with a prayer for success only, and a resolve
not to be King Louis' catspaw. A month ago I might have marvelled that
he offered such a part to any gentleman; the illusions of youth and
ignorance were melting fast; now I was left to ask why he had selected
one so humble for a place that great men held in those days with open
profit and without open shame; aye, and have held since. For although I
have lived to call myself a Whig, I do not hold that the devil left
England for good and all with the House of Stuart.
We were on the quay now, and the little ship lay ready for us. A very
light breeze blew off the land, enough to carry us over if it held, but
promising a long passage; the weather was damp and misty. M. Colbert had
shrugged his shoulders over the prospect of a fog; his master would hear
of no delay, and the King had sent for Thomas Lie, a famous pilot of the
Cinque Ports, to go with us till the French coast should be sighted. The
two Kings were walking up and down together in eager and engrossed
conversation. Looking about, I perceived the figures of two women
standing near the edge of the water. I saw Colbert approach them and
enter into conversation; soon he came to me, and with the smoothest of
smiles bade me charge myself with the care of Mistress Quinton.
"Madame," said he, "has sent a discreet and trustworthy waiting-woman
with her, but a lady needs a squire, and we are still hampered by
business." With which he went off to join his master, bestowing another
significant smile on me.
I lost no time in approaching Barbara. The woman with her was stout and
short, having a broad hard face; she stood by her charge square and
sturdy as a soldier on guard. Barbara acknowledged my salutation
stiffly; she was pale and seemed anxious, but in no great distress or
horror. But did she know what was planned for her or the part I was to
play? The first words she spoke showed me that she knew nothing, for
when I began to feel my way, saying: "The wind is fair for us," she
started, crying: "For us? Why, are you coming with us?"
I glanced at the waiting-woman, who stood stolidly by.
"She understands no English," said Barbara, catching my meaning. "You
can speak freely. Why are you coming?"
"Nay, but why are you going?"
She answered me with a touch of defiance in her voice.
"The Duchess of York is to return with Madame on a visit to the French
Court, and I go to prepare for her coming."
So this was the story by which they were inducing her to trust herself
in their hands. Doubtless they might have forced her, but deceit
furnished a better way. Yet agitation had mingled with defiance in her
voice. In an instant she went on:
"You are coming, in truth are you? Don't jest with me."
"Indeed I'm coming, madame. I hope my company is to your liking?"
"But why, why?"
"M. de Perrencourt has one answer to that question and I another."
Her eyes questioned me, but she did not put her question into words.
With a little shiver she said:
"I am glad to be quit of this place."
"You're right in that," I answered gravely.
Her cheek flushed, and her eyes fell to the ground.
"Yes," she murmured.
"But Dover Castle is not the only place where danger lies," said I.
"Madame has sworn----" she began impetuously.
"And M. de Perrencourt?" I interrupted.
"He--he gave his word to his sister," she said in a very low voice. Then
she stretched her hand out towards me, whispering, "Simon, Simon!"
I interpreted the appeal, although it was but an inarticulate cry,
witnessing to a fear of dangers unknown. The woman had edged a little
away, but still kept a careful watch. I paid no heed to her. I must give
my warning.
"My services are always at your disposal, Mistress Barbara," said I,
"even without the right to them that M. de Perrencourt purposes to give
you."
"I don't understand. How can he--Why, you wouldn't enter my service?"
She laughed a little as she made this suggestion, but there was an
eagerness in her voice; my heart answered to it, for I saw that she
found comfort in the thought of my company.
"M. de Perrencourt," said I, "purposes that I should enter your service,
and his also."
"Mine and his?" she murmured, puzzled and alarmed.
I did not know how to tell her; I was ashamed. But the last moments
fled, and she must know before we were at sea.
"Yonder where we're going," I said, "the word of M. de Perrencourt is
law and his pleasure right."
She took alarm, and her voice trembled.
"He has promised--Madame told me," she stammered. "Ah, Simon, must I go?
Yet I should be worse here."
"You must go. What can we do here? I go willingly."
"For what?"
"To serve you, if it be in my power. Will you listen?"
"Quick, quick. Tell me!"
"Of all that he swore, he will observe nothing. Hush, don't cry out.
Nothing."
I feared that she would fall, for she reeled where she stood. I dared
not support her.
"If he asks a strange thing, agree to it. It's the only way."
"What? What will he ask?"
"He will propose a husband to you."
She tore at the lace wrapping about her throat as though it were
choking her; her eyes were fixed on mine. I answered her gaze with a
steady regard, and her cheek grew red with a hot blush.
"His motive you may guess," said I. "There is convenience in a husband."
I had put it at last plainly enough, and when I had said it I averted my
eyes from hers.
"I won't go," I heard her gasp. "I'll throw myself at the King's feet."
"He'll make a clever jest on you," said I bitterly.
"I'll implore M. de Perrencourt----"
"His answer will be--polite."
For a while there was silence. Then she spoke again in a low whisper;
her voice now sounded hard and cold, and she stood rigid.
"Who is the man?" she asked. Then she broke into a sudden passion, and,
forgetting caution, seized me by the arm, whispering, "Have you your
sword?"
"Aye, it is here."
"Will you use it for me?"
"At your bidding."
"Then use it on the body of the man."
"I'm the man," said I.
"You, Simon!"
Now what a poor thing is this writing, and how small a fragment of truth
can it hold! "You, Simon!" The words are nothing, but they came from her
lips full-charged with wonder, most incredulous, yet coloured with
sudden hope of deliverance. She doubted, yet she caught at the strange
chance. Nay, there was more still, but what I could not tell; for her
eyes lit up with a sudden sparkle, which shone a brief moment and then
was screened by drooping lids.
"That is why I go," said I. "With M. de Perrencourt's favour and such a
lady for my wife I might climb high. So whispered M. de Perrencourt
himself."
"You!" she murmured again; and again her cheek was red.
"We must not reach Calais, if we can escape by the way. Be near me
always on the ship, fortune may give us a chance. And if we come to
Calais, be near me, while you can."
"But if we can't escape?"
I was puzzled by her. It must be that she found in my company new hope
of escape. Hence came the light in her eyes, and the agitation which
seemed to show excitement rather than fear. But I had no answer to her
question, "If we can't escape?"
Had I been ready with fifty answers, time would have failed for one. M.
Colbert called to me. The King was embracing his guest for the last
time; the sails were spread; Thomas Lie was at the helm. I hastened to
obey M. Colbert's summons. He pointed to the King; going forward, I
knelt and kissed the hand extended to me. Then I rose and stood for a
moment, in case it should be the King's pleasure to address me. M. de
Perrencourt was by his side.
The King's face wore a smile and the smile broadened as he spoke to me.
"You're a wilful man, Mr Dale," said he, "but fortune is more wilful
still. You would not woo her, therefore woman-like she loves you. You
were stubborn, but she is resolute to overcome your stubbornness. But
don't try her too far. She stands waiting for you open-armed. Isn't it
so, my brother?"
"Your Majesty speaks no more than truth," answered M. de Perrencourt.
"Will you accept her embraces?" asked the King.
I bowed very low and raised my head with a cheerful and gay smile.
"Most willingly," I answered.
"And what of reservations, Mr. Dale?"
"May it please your Majesty, they do not hold across the water."
"Good. My brother is more fortunate than I. God be with you, Mr Dale."
At that I smiled again. And the King smiled. My errand was a strange one
to earn a benediction.
"Be off with you," he said with an impatient laugh. "A man must pick his
words in talking with you." A gesture of his hand dismissed me. I went
on board and watched him standing on the quay as Thomas Lie steered us
out of harbour and laid us so as to catch the wind. As we moved, the
King turned and began to mount the hill.
We moved, but slowly. For an hour we made way. All this while I was
alone on deck, except for the crew and Thomas Lie. The rest had gone
below; I had offered to follow, but a gesture from M. Colbert sent me
back. The sense of helplessness was on me, overwhelming and bitter. When
the time came for my part I should be sent for, until then none had need
of me. I could guess well enough what was passing below, and I found no
comfort in the knowledge of it. Up and down I walked quickly, as a man
torn and tormented with thoughts that his steps, however hasty, cannot
outstrip. The crew stared at me, the pilot himself spared a glance of
amused wonder at the man who strode to and fro so restlessly. Once I
paused at the stern of the ship, where Lie's boat, towed behind us, cut
through the water as a diamond cuts a pane of glass. For an instant I
thought of leaping in and making a bid for liberty alone. The strange
tone in which "You, Simon!" had struck home to my heart forbade me. But
I was sick with the world, and turned from the boat to gaze over the
sea. There is a power in the quiet water by night; it draws a man with a
promise of peace in the soft lap of forgetfulness. So strong is the
allurement that, though I count myself sane and of sound mind, I do not
love to look too long on the bosom of deep waters when the night is
full; for the doubt comes then whether to live is sanity and not rather
to die and have an end of the tossing of life and the unresting
dissatisfaction of our state. That night the impulse came on me
mightily, and I fought it, forcing myself to look, refusing the weakness
of flight from the seductive siren. For I was fenced round with troubles
and of a sore heart: there lay the open country and a heart at peace.
Suddenly I gave a low exclamation; the water, which had fled from us as
we moved, seeming glad to pass us by and rush again on its race
undisturbed, stood still. From the swill came quiet, out of the shimmer
a mirror disentangled itself, and lay there on the sea, smooth and
bright. But it grew dull in an instant; I heard the sails flap, but saw
them no more. A dense white vapour settled on us, the length of my arm
bounded my sight, all movement ceased, and we lay on the water, inert
and idle. I leant beside the gunwale, feeling the fog moist on my face,
seeing in its baffling folds a type of the toils that bound and fettered
me. Now voices rose round me, and again fell; the crew questioned, the
captain urged; I heard Colbert's voice as he hurried on deck. The
sufficient answer was all around us; where the mist was there could be
no wind; in grumbling the voices died away.
The rest of what passed seems even now a strange dream that I can hardly
follow, whose issue alone I know, which I can recover only dimly and
vaguely in my memory. I was there in the stern, leaning over, listening
to the soft sound of the sea as Thomas Lie's boat rolled lazily from
side to side and the water murmured gently under the gentle stroke. Then
came voices again just by my shoulder. I did not move. I knew the tones
that spoke, the persuasive commanding tones hard to resist, apt to
compel. Slowly I turned myself round; the speakers must be within eight
or ten feet of me, but I could not see them. Still they came nearer.
Then I heard the sound of a sob, and at it sprang to rigidity, poised on
ready feet, with my hand on the hilt of my sword.
"You're weary now," said the smooth strong voice. "We will talk again in
the morning. From my heart I grieve to have distressed you. Come, we'll
find the gentleman whom you desire to speak with, and I'll trouble you
no more. Indeed I count myself fortunate in having asked my good brother
for one whose company is agreeable to you. For your sake, your friend
shall be mine. Come, I'll take you to him, and then leave you."
Barbara's sobs ceased; I did not wonder that his persuasions won her to
repose and almost to trust. It seemed that the mist grew a little less
thick; I saw their figures. Knowing that at the same moment I must
myself be seen, I spoke on the instant.
"I am here, at Mistress Quinton's service."
M. de Perrencourt (to call him still by his chosen name) came forward
and groped his way to my arm, whispering in French,
"All is easy. Be gentle with her. Why, she turns to you of her own
accord! All will go smoothly."
"You may be sure of it, sir," I said. "Will you leave her with me?"
"Yes," he answered. "I can trust you, can't I?"
"I may be trusted to death," I answered, smiling behind the mist's kind
screen.
Barbara was by his side now; with a bow he drew back. I traced him as he
went towards where Lie stood, and I heard a murmur of voices as he and
the helmsman spoke to one another. Then I heard no more, and lost sight
of him in the thick close darkness. I put out my hand and felt for
Barbara's; it came straight to mine.
"You--you'll stay with me?" she murmured. "I'm frightened, Simon."
As she spoke, I felt on my cheek the cold breath of the wind. Turning my
full face, I felt it more. The breeze was rising, the sails flapped
again, Thomas Lie's boat buffeted the waves with a quicker beat. When I
looked towards her, I saw her face, framed in mist, pale and wet with
tears, beseeching me. There at that moment, born in danger and nursed by
her helplessness, there came to me a new feeling, that was yet an old
one; now I knew that I would not leave her. Nay, for an instant I was
tempted to abandon all effort and drift on to the French shore, looking
there to play my own game, despite of her and despite of King Louis
himself. But the risk was too desperate.
"No, I won't leave you," I said in low tones that trembled under the
fresh burden which they bore.
But yes, the wind rose, the mist began to lift, the water was running
lazily from under our keel, the little boat bobbed and danced to a
leisurely tune.
"The wind serves," cried Thomas Lie. "We shall make land in two hours if
it hold as it blows now."
The plan was in my head. It was such an impulse as coming to a man seems
revelation and forbids all questioning of its authority. I held Barbara
still by the hand, and drew her to me. There, leaning over the gunwale,
we saw Thomas Lie's boat moving after us. His sculls lay ready. I looked
in her eyes, and was answered with wonder, perplexity, and dawning
intelligence.
"I daren't let him carry you to Calais," I whispered; "we should be
helpless there."
"But you--it's you."
"As his tool and his fool," I muttered. Low as I spoke, she heard me,
and asked despairingly:
"What then, Simon? What can we do?"
"If I go there, will you jump into my arms? The distance isn't far."
"Into the boat! Into your arms in the boat?"
"Yes. I can hold you. There's a chance if we go now--now, before the
mist lifts more."
"If we're seen?"
"We're no worse off."
"Yes, I'll jump, Simon."
We were moving now briskly enough, though the wind came in fitful gusts
and with no steady blast, and the mist now lifted, now again swathed us
in close folds. I gripped Barbara's hand, whispering, "Be ready," and,
throwing one leg over the side, followed with the other, and dropped
gently into Thomas Lie's boat. It swayed under me, but it was broad in
the beam and rode high in the water; no harm happened. Then I stood
square in the bows and whispered "Now!" For the beating of my heart I
scarcely heard my own voice, but I spoke louder than I knew. At the same
instant that Barbara sprang into my arms, there was a rush of feet
across the deck, an oath rang loud in French, and another figure
appeared on the gunwale, with one leg thrown over. Barbara was in my
arms. I felt her trembling body cling to mine, but I disengaged her
grasp quickly and roughly--for gentleness asks time, and time had we
none--and set her down in the boat. Then I turned to the figure above
me. A momentary glance showed me the face of King Louis. I paid no more
heed, but drew my knife and flung myself on the rope that bound the boat
to the ship.
Then the breeze dropped, and the fog fell thick and enveloping. My knife
was on the rope and I severed the strands with desperate strength. One
by one I felt them go. As the last went I raised my head. From the ship
above me flashed the fire of a pistol, and a ball whistled by my ear.
Wild with excitement, I laughed derisively. The last strand was gone,
slowly the ship forged ahead; but then the man on the gunwale gathered
himself together and sprang across the water between us. He came full on
the top of me, and we fell together on the floor of the boat. By the
narrowest chance we escaped foundering, but the sturdy boat proved true.
I clutched my assailant with all my strength, pinning him arm to arm,
breast to breast, shoulder to shoulder. His breath was hot on my face. I
gasped "Row, row." From the ship came a sudden alarmed cry: "The boat,
the boat!" But already the ship grew dim and indistinct.
"Row, row," I muttered; then I heard the sculls set in their tholes, and
with a slow faltering stroke the boat was guided away from the ship,
moving nearly at a right angle to it. I put out all my strength. I was
by far a bigger man than the King, and I did not spare him. I hugged him
with a bear's hug, and his strength was squeezed out of him. Now I was
on the top and he below. I twisted his pistol from his hand and flung it
overboard. Tumultuous cries came from the blurred mass that was the
ship; but the breeze had fallen, the fog was thick, they had no other
boat. The King lay still. "Give me the sculls," I whispered. Barbara
yielded them; her hands were cold as death when they encountered mine.
She scrambled into the stern. I dragged the King back--he was like a
log now--till he lay with the middle of his body under the seat on which
I sat; his face looked up from between my feet. Then I fell to rowing,
choosing no course except that our way should be from the ship, and
ready, at any movement of the still form below me, to drop my sculls and
set my pistol at his head. Yet till that need came I bent lustily to my
work, and when I looked over the sea the ship was not to be seen, but
all around hung the white vapour, the friendly accomplice of my
enterprise.
That leap of his was a gallant thing. He knew that I was his master in
strength, and that I stood where no motive of prudence could reach and
no fear restrain me. If I were caught, the grave or a French prison
would be my fate; to get clear off, he might suppose that I should count
even the most august life in Christendom well taken. Yet he had leapt,
and, before heaven, I feared that I had killed him. If it were so, I
must set Barbara in safety, and then follow him where he was gone; there
would be no place for me among living men, and I had better choose my
own end than be hunted to death like a mad dog. These thoughts spun
through my brain as my arms drove the blades into the water, on an
aimless course through the mist, till the mass of the ship utterly
disappeared, and we three were alone on the sea. Then the fear overcame
me. I rested on my oars, and leaning over to where Barbara sat in the
stern, I shaped with awe-struck lips the question--"Is he dead? My God,
is he dead?"
She sat there, herself, as it seemed, half-dead. But at my words she
shivered and with an effort mastered her relaxed limbs. Slowly she
dropped on her knees by the King and raised his head in her arms. She
felt in her bosom and drew out a flask of salts, which she set to his
nostrils. I watched his face; the muscles of it contracted into a
grimace, then were smoothed again to calmness; he opened his eyes.
"Thank God," I muttered to myself; and the peril to him being gone by, I
remembered our danger, and taking out my pistol looked to it, and sat
dangling it in my hand.
Barbara, still supporting the King's head, looked up at me.
"What will become of us?" she asked.
"At least we shan't be married in Calais," I answered with a grim smile.
"No," she murmured, and bent again over the King.
Now his eyes were wide-opened, and I fixed mine on them. I saw the
return of consciousness and intelligence; the quick glance that fell on
me, on the oars, on the pistol in my hand, witnessed to it. Then he
raised himself on his elbow, Barbara drawing quickly away, and so rested
an instant, regarding me still. He drew himself up into a sitting
posture, and seemed as though he would rise to his feet. I raised the
pistol and pointed it at him.
"No higher, if you please," said I. "It's a matter of danger to walk
about in so small a boat, and you came near to upsetting us before."
He turned his head and saw Barbara, then gazed round on the sea. No sail
was to be seen, and the fog still screened the boat in impenetrable
solitude. The sight brought to his mind a conviction of what his plight
was. Yet no dismay nor fear showed in his face. He sat there, regarding
me with an earnest curiosity. At last he spoke.
"You were deluding me all the time?" he asked.
"Even so," said I, with an inclination of my head.
"You did not mean to take my offer?"
"Since I am a gentleman, I did not."
"I also am accounted a gentleman, sir."
"Nay, I took you for a prince," said I.
He made me no answer, but, looking round him again, observed:
"The ship must be near. But for this cursed fog she would be in sight."
"It's well for us she isn't," I said.
"Why, sir?" he asked brusquely.
"If she were, there's the pistol for the lady, and this sword here for
you and me," said I coolly. For a man may contrive to speak coolly,
though his bearing be a lie and his heart beat quick.
"You daren't," he cried in amazement.
"I should be unwilling," I conceded.
For an instant there was silence. Then came Barbara's voice, soft and
fearful:
"Simon, the fog lifts."
It was true. The breeze blew and the fog lifted. Louis' eyes sparkled.
All three of us, by one impulse, looked round on the sea. The fresh wind
struck my cheek, and the enveloping folds curled lazily away. Barbara
held up her hand and pointed. Away on the right, dimly visible, just
detached from the remaining clouds of mist, was a dark object, sitting
high on the water. A ship it was, in all likelihood the king's ship. We
should be sighted soon. My eyes met the King's and his were exultant and
joyful; he did not yet believe that I would do what I had said, and he
thought that the trap closed on us again. For still the mist rose, and
in a few moments they on the ship must see us.
"You shall pay for your trick," he said between his teeth.
"It is very likely," said I. "But I think that the debt will be paid to
your Majesty's successor."
Still he did not believe. I burst into a laugh of grim amusement. These
great folk find it hard to understand how sometimes their greatness is
nothing, and the thing is man to man; but now and then fortune takes a
whim and teaches them the lesson for her sport.
"But since you are a King," said I, "you shall have your privilege. You
shall pass out before the lady. See, the ship is very plain now. Soon we
shall be plain to the ship. Come, sir, you go first."
He looked at me, now puzzled and alarmed.
"I am unarmed," he said.
"It is no fight," I answered. Then I turned to Barbara. "Go and sit in
the stern," I said, "and cover your face with your hands."
"Simon, Simon," she moaned, but she obeyed me, and threw herself down,
burying her face in her hands. I turned to the king.
"How will you die, sir?" said I quietly, and, as I believe, in a civil
manner.
A sudden shout rang in my ears. I would not look away from him, lest he
should spring on me or fling himself from the boat. But I knew whence
the shout came, for it was charged with joy and the relief of unbearable
anxiety. The ship was the King's ship and his servants had seen their
master. Yet they would not dare to fire without his orders, and with the
risk of killing him; therefore I was easy concerning musket shot. But we
must not come near enough for a voice to be heard from us, and a pistol
to carry to us.
"How will you die?" I asked again. His eyes questioned me. I added, "As
God lives I will." And I smiled at him.