express it in clothing marvelously splendid and effective. The palace
in which she was abiding also demanded it: the enormous spaces given to
stairways and apartments, the magnificent furniture, the gorgeously
liveried servants, were only the natural accessories of some personage
whose nobility or authority or wealth found in such splendour a fitting
expression.
One afternoon Matilda stood at a window watching the crowds passing
incessantly from palace to palace. Silk and velvet and lace fluttered
in the bright sunshine; jewels flashed from the soft hats, and the
gleaming vests and the ready weapons. They were kissing hands, drawing
swords, falling on one knee before some beauty or dignitary; they were
laughing and swearing, and wooing and fighting, and riding and driving,
as if life was only a grand Court pageant.
To the right was the palace of the great King Louis, and not far away
the palace of his Eminence, the great Cardinal Mazarin; and between
them, the crowd amused itself, conscious all the time of that other
palace for the Unfortunates, called the Bastile. Its shadow was always
over Place Royale; dark, inexorable, mysterious; and every soul of them
knew that either road, or any road, might lead them to that silent,
living sepulchre. How different was all this from the cool, gray, busy
streets of London, with their steady movement of purposeful men and
women!
Matilda appeared to be watching the brilliant scene in La Place Royale,
but she was taking no special notice of it. She had just received a
letter from Jane, and was pondering the news it brought her and waiting.
She was wonderfully dressed, and wonderfully lovely, the delicate
brightness of her complexion admirably enhanced by the darkness of her
hair, and the robe of ruby-coloured Lyons velvet in which she was
dressed. It fell away in billows of lace from her white throat and
shoulders; and its large sleeves were lifted above the elbows with bands
of Oriental pearls. There were pearls round her throat and round her
arms, and the golden combs that held back her hair were ornamented with
them.
She was dressed for her lover, and awaiting his arrival, her soul
flashing from her watching eyes, her whole sweet body at attention.
When to ordinary ears there would have been nothing to give notice,
Matilda heard a step. She let Jane's letter drop to her feet, and stood
facing the door with hands dropped and tightly clasped. She was very
tall and her long velvet gown gave emphasis to her stature.
Unconsciously she had advanced her right foot--indeed, her whole body
had the eager look of one whose soul was outreaching it.
A moment later the footsteps were very distinct; they were ascending the
stairway quickly, peremptorily--the tread of impatience where all
obstacles have been removed. A perfectly ravishing light spread itself
over Matilda's face. A moment was an hour. Then the door flew open and
Prince Rupert entered; "entered," however, being too small a word, for
with the opening of the door he was on his knees at Matilda's feet, his
arms were round her waist, she had bent her face to his, they were both
near to weeping and knew it not; for love must weep when it snatches
from some hard Fate's control the hours that years have sighed for.
"Adorable Mata! O lovely and beloved! O my love," he sighed. "O Mata,
my flower! my wine! my music! my sacred secret!"
She kissed him, and made him rise. And he told her again, all the
waste, weary remembrance of his life apart from her, and showed her the
long tress of hair which had kept for him the kisses and vows of long
ago. And with what sweet sighs she answered him! Her tender eyes, her
happy mouth, her soft tones, her gentle touch, were all tokens from her
heart's immediate sanctuary. Amid the sins and sorrows and shows of
Paris, there was paradise for two hearts in the Hotel de Fransac.
In these days men and women did really live and die for love, and a
lover who did not fall at his mistress' feet was held graceless and
joyless, and without natural fervour. And Rupert could do everything in
excess and yet be natural, for all his being was abnormally developed;
his gigantic stature, his passionate soul, his unreasoning love, his
reckless bravery, his magnificent generosity, his bitter enmities, were
all points in which he offended against the usual standard--though it
was a large standard, if measured by the conventions of the present day.
He had been dangerously ill after his arrival in Paris, and he was not
the Rupert who had invaded the high seas three years previously. In
these three years he had endured every evil that tempests, bad climates,
war, fever, want of food and "strange hardnesses" of all kinds could
bring him; and above all he had practically failed in everything. He
had lost most of the treasure so hardly won; his ships and his men and
his idolised brother, Maurice; and all these losses had taken with them
some of the finer parts of his nature. He had come home a disappointed
and cynical man, his youth melted away in the fiery crucible of constant
strife with human and elemental forces.
Yet he was the most picturesque figure in Paris. The young King Louis
delighted in his society. Mazarin was his friend, and not only the
English Court in exile, but also the French Court paid him the most
extraordinary attentions. His striking personality, his barbaric retinue
of black servants, his supposed wealth, the whispers of his skill in
necromancy, were added to a military and naval reputation every one
seemed desirous to embellish. Many great ladies were deeply in love
with him, but their perfumed billet-doux touched neither his heart nor
his vanity.
He loved Matilda. All the glory and the sorrow of his youth were in
that love, and as he knelt at her feet in his princely, soldierly
splendour, there was nothing lacking in the picture of romantic
devotion. "Adorable, ravishing Mata!" he cried, "at your feet I am paid
for my life's misery." And Matilda leaned towards him till their
handsome faces touched, and Rupert could look love into her eyes, soft
and languishing with an equal affection.
"How tall you have grown. You have the stature of a goddess," he cried
with rapture; and then in a tone full of seriousness he added,
"You are my mate. You are the only woman I can ever love. I vow that
you shall be my princess, or I will die unmarried for your sake."
For a little while their conversation was purely personal, but their own
interests were so blent with public affairs that it was not possible to
separate them for any length of time.
"We have sold all our cargoes," he said triumphantly, "in spite of old
Cromwell's remonstrances. Mazarin helped us, and the money is
distributed. What can Cromwell do? Will he go to war with France for a
merchant's bill of lading? The King and the Cardinal laugh at his
demands. He is an insolent fellow. Does he think he can match his
Eminence? But, this or that, the money is scattered to the four
quarters of the world. Let him recover it."
"I will tell you something, Rupert. I had a letter to-day from my
friend, Mistress Jane Swaffham. She says her lover, Lord Cluny Neville,
must be in Paris about this time, and that he will call on me. He is on
Cromwell's business; there is no doubt of it."
"Do you wish to see the man?"
"No. He has stolen my brother's mistress. He has done Stephen a great
wrong; and he is also full of perfections. A very sufficient youth in
his own opinion, and much honoured and trusted by his Excellency, the
Lord General Cromwell."
She spoke with evident scorn, and Rupert said, "I shall have to reckon
with him. Stephen's wrongs are my wrongs. Is the lady fair and rich?"
"'Tis thought so. I once loved her."
"And now, you love her not; eh, sweetheart?"
"There is Cromwell between us--and Neville."
"What is the appearance of Neville? I think I saw him this morning."
Then Matilda described the young lord, and the particularity of her
knowledge regarding his eyes and hair and voice and manner did not
please Prince Rupert. At least, he affected to be jealous of such
intimate observation, and for a few minutes the affairs of Cromwell and
Mazarin were forgotten in one of those whiffs of displeasure with which
lovers season their affections. But during it, Matilda had felt obliged
to speak disparagingly and disagreeably of Neville, and she was only too
sensible afterwards of all the ill-will she had expressed. In putting
the dormant dislike into words, she had brought it into actual
existence.
"A very haughty youth," said Rupert when the conversation was resumed.
"He was with the Cardinal this morning, and bore himself as if he
carried the honour of England on his shoulders. And now I begin to
remember his business was such as in a manner concerns us. 'Twas about
a merchant ship which that old farmer on King Charles' throne wants
payment for. My men took it in fair fight, and 'tis against all usage
to give back spoils. The demands of Cromwell are beyond measure
insolent, and the goods are gone and the ship is sold and the money
scattered, and what can old Ironsides do in the matter?"
They talked of these things until Rupert's engagements called him away,
then they rose, and leaning towards each other, walked slowly down the
long splendid room together. Large mirrors repeated the moving picture
they made, and before one of them Rupert stood, and bid Matilda survey
her own beauty. It was very great and bewitching, and its effect was
certainly heightened by the handsome, picturesque figure at her side.
There he kissed her with the fondest love and pride, promising an early
visit on the following day.
She went then to find her uncle and aunt, for she knew that she owed to
their love and generosity her present opportunities, and though her
gratitude had in it, very likely, a certain sense of favours to come,
she was really pleased and thankful for the happiness present and within
her reach. But she quickly noticed in them an air of anxiety and gloom,
and it annoyed her. "Could she never be happy and find all her
surroundings in key with her? It was too bad!" Such thoughts gave a
tone of injury to her inquiry, "Is anything particularly wrong, aunt?
Have I been making some trouble again?"
"Sir Thomas is very unhappy, niece. He has heard news that frightens
him, and we are longing to be in the peace and safety of our own home."
Then Matilda began to complain. "As soon as a joy is at my hand, it is
taken away," she said. "And what a lovely city is Paris! How can any
one want to leave it and go to London? It is cruel. It is beyond
bearing!"
"Niece, dear niece," said Sir Thomas, "you have had many happy meetings
now with your lover. You said 'one' would make you happy. While he was
so ill, consider to what trouble and expense I gladly went, in order
that you might have the satisfaction of knowing his constant condition.
Be reasonable, Matilda. I have already done far more than I promised,
and now affairs are in such a state that I feel it best to go home. I
do long for my home and my garden. I have missed all my roses this
summer. And the business I came to settle has been suddenly settled for
me."
"You are going to lose a little gold, and so you are wretched, and must
go to the City-of-the-Miserable."
"I am not going to lose a penny."
"Well, then?"
"There may be trouble because of this very thing, and I do not want to
be in Paris with the two women I love better than myself, if Cromwell
and Mazarin come to blows. I might be taken from you. I should very
likely be sent to the Bastile; you would not wish that, Matilda?"
"That is nonsense! But will you tell me what is this last outrage of
Cromwell's?"
"Blake, by his orders, has taken a French merchantman. It was brought to
London and sold with the cargo, and the money received from this sale
was used to cancel the debt owing me by the French Government. All the
papers relating to the transaction, with the balance of the money, were
turned over to Mazarin this morning. The Cardinal was furious. He
called me into his Presence Chamber, and though his words were smooth as
oil, he pointed out the wrong of such high-handed management of debit
and credit between two nations. Also, he was much chagrined at the seal
on the papers, the design of which represents England's navy as filling
the seas. He said scornfully, 'I perceive his Excellency has very
merchant-like ways of business, and has not yet learned king-craft;'
then he was silent a moment, and smiled,--my dear wife and niece, try
and fancy a serpent smiling,--after which he handed me the seals again,
and still smiling, continued, ''Tis in the mercy of the Almighty that He
has been kind enough to make the seas so wide as to permit poor French
sailormen a little pathway through His great waters. His Excellency,
Oliver Cromwell, would have no ships but English ships--very patriotic,
but perhaps patriotism is a smaller virtue than people think; justice
may be greater. As for me,' he added, casting his eyes to heaven, 'as
for me, 'tis in my vows to love all men.' Much more was said, but these
are the particulars as I remember them."
"He is a great hypocrite," said Lady Jevery. "He loves very few men,
and no one loves him."
"Is that all, uncle?"
"He turned sharply to Lord Neville, asked to look at his credentials
again, and called for an accountant. He seemed to forget my existence,
and I asked permission to retire. I am very uneasy in my mind.
Mazarin's good words are not to be trusted; his silence is to be feared.
I must leave France as soon as possible. My affairs have been taken out
of Mazarin's hands by Cromwell; he will visit the offense on me. Every
moment is full of uncertainty and danger."
"Prince Rupert will not see us injured."
"I cannot take Prince Rupert for our surety. He has not yet spoken to
me about your marriage. He is at the mercy of so many minds."
"That detestable Lord Neville! Ever and always, he brings me trouble
and sorrow. There are half-a-dozen of my lovers who would run him
through for a look. I would do it myself. You need not smile, sir, I
am as ready with the sword as any man, and have matched both Stephen and
Cymlin Swaffam. I hate Neville. I would most willingly make an end of
him."
"Hush, Matilda! Your words belie you. You mean them not. But there is
no time for words now, we shall leave here for England in two days. If
Prince Rupert loves you so much as to marry you, there are ways and
means to accomplish that end. If money only is the lack, I shall be no
miser, if I may ensure your happiness."
"Dear uncle, shall we not return by The Hague?"
"No. Lord Neville has promised to do my business there. It is only a
matter of collecting a thousand pounds from my merchant; but he is going
to take charge of your aunt's jewels, and you had better trust yours
also with him. They will be safer in the saddle of a horseman than in a
guarded traveling coach. In the latter case, robbers are sure there is
plunder; in the former it is most unlikely."
"I will not trust anything I possess to Lord Neville. Nothing!"
"The man trusted by Cromwell is above suspicion."
"It is his interest to be honest with Cromwell."
"You are angry at Neville."
"I have good reason. He is always the bringer of bad news. The order
to leave Paris and the Prince could have come only through him."
"The Prince knows how he may keep you at his side."
"Oh! I am weary of balancing things impossible. The Prince cannot marry
like a common man."
"Then he should only make love to such women as are fit to marry with
him. I have said often what I thought right in this affair; I have
offered to help it with my gold as far as I can--that is all about it,
Matilda. I say no more."
"It is enough," answered Lady Jevery. "Matilda cannot wish to put in
danger your liberty or life."
"My happiness is of less consequence, aunt."
"Certainly it is;" and there was such an air of finality in Lady
Jevery's voice that Matilda rose and went to her own apartments to
continue her complaints. This she did with passionate feeling in a
letter to Prince Rupert, in which she expressed without stint her hatred
of Lord Neville and her desire for his punishment. Rupert was well
inclined to humour her wish. He had seen the young Commonwealth
messenger, and his handsome person and patrician manner had given him a
moment's envious look back to the days when he also had been young and
hopeful, and full of faith in his own great future. The slight hauteur
of Neville, his punctilious care for Cromwell's instructions, his whole
bearing of victory, as against his own listless attitude of "failure,"
set his mind in a mood either to ignore the young man, or else by the
simplest word or incident to change from indifference to dislike.
Matilda's letter furnished the impetus to dislike. He said to himself,
"Neville showed more insolence and self-approval in the presence of his
Eminence than I, after all my wars and adventures, would have presumed
on, under any circumstances. He wants a lesson, and it will please
Matilda if I give him it; and God knows there is so little I can do to
pleasure her!" At this point in his reflections, he called his equerry
and bid him "find out the lodgings of Lord Neville, and watch him by day
and night;" adding, "Have my Barbary horse saddled, and when this
Englishman leaves his lodging, bring me instant word of the course he
takes."
The next morning he spent with Matilda. She was in tears and despair,
and Rupert could do nothing but weep and despair with her. He indeed
renewed with passionate affection his promise to marry her as soon as
this was possible, but the possibility did not appear at hand to either
of them. Rupert certainly could have defied every family and caste
tradition, and made the girl so long faithful to him at once his wife;
but how were they to live as became his rank? For in spite of popular
suppositions to the contrary, he was in reality a poor man, and he could
not become a pensioner on Sir Thomas Jevery, even if Sir Thomas had been
able to give him an income at all in unison with Rupert's ideas of the
splendid life due to his position and achievements.
But he had not long to wait for an opportunity to meet Neville. While
he was playing billiards the following afternoon with the Duke of Yorke,
his equerry arrived at the Palais Royale with his horse. Neville had
taken the northern road out of the city, and it was presumably the
homeward road. Rupert followed quickly, but Neville was a swift, steady
rider, and he was not overtaken till twenty miles had been covered, and
the daylight was nearly lost in the radiance of the full moon. Rupert
put spurs to his horse, passed Neville at a swift gallop, then suddenly
wheeling, came at a rush towards him, catching his bridle as they met.
"Alight," he said peremptorily.
Neville shook his bridle free, and asked,
"By whose orders?"
"Mine."
"I will not obey them."
"You will alight. I have a quarrel to settle with you."
"On what ground?"
"Say it is on the ground of your mistress. I am Earl de Wick's friend."
"I will not fight on such pretense. My mistress would deny me if I
did."
"Fight for your honour, then."
Neville laughed. "I know better. And before what you call Honour, I
put Duty."
"Then fight for the papers and money in your possession. I want them."
"Ha! I thought so. You are a robber, it seems. The papers and gold
are not mine, and I will fight rather than lose them. But I warn you
that I am a good swordsman."
"Heaven and hell! What do I care? Alight, and prove your boast."
"If you are in such a hurry to die, go and hang yourself. On second
thoughts, I will not fight a thief. I am a noble, and an honourable
man."
"If you do not alight at once, I will slay your horse. You shall fight
me, here and now, with or without pretense."
Then Neville flung himself from his horse and tied the animal to a tree.
Rupert did likewise, and the two men rapidly removed such of their
garments as would interfere with their bloody play. They were in a
lonely road, partially shaded with great trees; not a human habitation
was visible, and there were no seconds to see justice done in the fight,
or secure help after it, if help was needed. But at this time the lack
of recognised formalities was no impediment to the duel. Rupert quickly
found that he had met his match. Neville left him not a moment's
breathing space, but never followed up his attacks; until at last Rupert
called out insolently, "When are you going to kill me?"
The angry impatience of the inquiry probably induced a moment's
carelessness, and Rupert did not notice that in the struggle their
ground had insensibly been changed, and Neville now stood directly in
front of a large tree. Not heeding the impediment, Rupert made a fierce
thrust with the point of his sword, which Neville evaded by a vault to
one side, so that Rupert's sword striking the tree, sprang from his hand
at the impact. As it fell to the ground, Neville reached it first, and
placed his foot upon it. Rupert stood still and bowed gravely. He was
at Neville's mercy, and he indicated his knowledge of this fact by the
proud stillness of his attitude.
[Illustration: "RUPERT STOOD STILL, AND BOWED GRAVELY."]
"It was an accident," said Neville; "and an accident is God's part in
any affair. Take your life from my hand. I have no will to wish your
death." He offered his hand as he spoke, and Rupert took it frankly,
answering,
"'Tis no disgrace to take life from one so gallant and generous, and I
am glad that I can repay the favour of your clemency;" then he almost
whispered in Cluny's ear three words, and the young man started visibly,
and with great haste untied his horse.
"We would better change horses," said Rupert; "mine is a Barb, swift as
the wind."
But Cluny could not make the change proposed without some delay, his
papers and jewels being bestowed in his saddle linings. So with a good
wish the two men parted, and there was no anger between
them;--admiration and good will had taken its place. Neville hastened
forward, as he had been advised, and Rupert returned to Paris. He knew
Matilda was expecting him, and he pictured to himself her disappointment
and anxiety at his non-appearance; it was also her last evening in
Paris, and it grieved him to miss precious hours of love, that might
never be given him again. Yet he was physically exhausted, and as soon
as he threw himself upon a couch he forgot all his weariness and all his
anxieties in a deep sleep.
Matilda was not so happy as to find this oblivion. She knew over what
social pitfalls every man of prominence in Paris walked--in the King's
favour one day, in the Bastile the next day--and that this very
insecurity of all good things made men reckless. Rupert might have
offended King Louis or the great Cardinal. She imagined a hundred
causes for flight or fight or imprisonment; she recalled one story after
another of nobles and gentlemen seen flourishing in the presence of
Louis one day and then never seen again. She knew that plots and
counterplots, party feuds and family hatreds, were everywhere rife; and
that Rupert was rash and outspoken, and had many enemies among the
courtiers of Louis and the exiled nobles of England, not to speak of the
Commonwealth spies, to whom he was an object of superstitious hatred,
who regarded his blackamoors as familiar spirits, and believed firmly
that "he had a devil," and worked evil charms by the devil's help and
advice. And above all, and through these sad forebodings, there was the
ever present likelihood of a duel. Every man had sword in hand, ready
to settle some terrible or trivial quarrel--though it did not require a
quarrel to provoke the duel; men fought for a word, for a sign, for the
colour of a ribbon, for nothing at all, for the pleasure of killing
themselves to kill time.
Matilda was keenly alive to all these possible tragedies, and when her
lover failed to keep what was likely to be their last tryst, she was
more frightened than angry; yet when Rupert came at an exceptionally
early hour in the morning, and she saw him safe and well, her anxiety
became flavoured with displeasure.
"How could you so cruelly disappoint me?" she cried. "You see now that
our time is nearly gone; in a few hours we must part, perhaps forever."
"My dearest, loveliest Mata, I was about your pleasure. I was following
Lord Neville, and he took me further than I expected. When my business
was done with him, I had twenty miles to ride back to Paris; and I
confess to you, I was so weary that I could only sleep. In your love,
remember how lately I have been sick to death."
"Lord Neville again! The man is an incubus. Why did you follow him?"