_The_
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
THE
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
BY
GEORGE GIBBS
AUTHOR OF
THE YELLOW DOVE,
SACKCLOTH AND SCARLET,
THE BOLTED DOOR, ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1903, by J. B. Lippincott Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THIS VOLUME IS
INSCRIBED TO
M. H. G.
THE “NORSE GODDESS”
with all my heart and best endeavors in
tender appreciation of those sympathies
and encouragements which make a pleasure
of labor, and life a fruition of every
hope and dream
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FLEECE TAVERN 1
II. MISTRESS BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO 11
III. MONSIEUR MORNAY BECOMES UNPOPULAR 31
IV. MONSIEUR WAITS UPON A LADY 47
V. INDECISION 68
VI. THE ESCAPE 87
VII. BARBARA 113
VIII. THE SAUCY SALLY 134
IX. “BRAS-DE-FER” 146
X. BRAS-DE-FER MAKES A CAPTURE 165
XI. THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE 184
XII. PRISONER AND CAPTOR 201
XIII. MONSIEUR LEARNS SOMETHING 213
XIV. THE UNMASKING 231
XV. MUTINY 249
XVI. MAROONED 268
_The_
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
CHAPTER I
THE FLEECE TAVERN
“Who is this Mornay?”
Captain Cornbury paused to kindle his tobago.
“Mornay is of the Embassy of France, at any game of chance the luckiest
blade in the world and a Damon for success with the petticoats, whether
they’re doxies or duchesses.”
“Soho! a pretty fellow.”
“A French chevalier--a fellow of the Marine; but a die juggler--a man
of no caste,” sneered Mr. Wynne.
“He has a wit with a point.”
“Ay, and a rapier, too,” said Lord Downey.
“The devil fly with these foreign lady-killers,” growled Wynne again.
“Oh, Mornay is a man-killer, too, never fear. He’s not named
Bras-de-Fer for nothing,” laughed Cornbury.
“Bah!” said a voice near the door. “A foundling--an outcast--a man of
no birth--I’ll have no more of him.”
Captain Ferrers tossed aside his coat and hat and came forward into the
glare of the candles. Behind him followed the tall figure of Sir Henry
Heywood, whose gray hair and more sober garb and lineaments made the
gay apparel of his companion the more splendid by comparison. Captain
Ferrers wore the rich accouterments of a captain in the Body-guard, and
his manner and address showed the bluster of a bully of the barracks.
The face, somewhat ruddy in color, was of a certain heavy regularity
of feature, but his eyes were small, like a pig’s, and as he came into
the light they flickered and guttered like a candle at a puff of the
breath. There were lines, too, at the corners of the mouth, and the
pursing of the thin lips gave him the air of a man older than his years.
“Come, Ferrers,” said Cornbury, good-naturedly, “give the devil his
due.”
Wynne laughed. “Gawd, man! he’s givin’ him his due. Aren’t you,
Ferrers?”
The captain scowled. “I’ faith I am. Two hundred guineas again last
night. May the plague take him! Such luck is not in nature.”
“He wins upon us all, by the Lord!” said Cornbury, stoutly.
Heywood sneered. “Bah! You Irish are too easy with your likes--”
“And dislikes, too,” returned Cornbury, with a swift glance.
“Faugh!” snapped Ferrers. “The man saved your life, but you can’t
thrust him down our throats, Captain Cornbury.”
“He’s cooked his goose well this time, thank God!” said Wynne. “We’ll
soon be rid of him.”
“Another duel?” asked Heywood, carelessly.
“What!” cried Downey. “Have you not heard of the struggle for
precedence this afternoon? Why, man, ’tis the talk of London.
To-day there was a fight between the coaches and retainers of the
Embassades of France and Spain. Thanks to Mornay, the French coach
was disastrously defeated by the Spaniards. There is a great to-do at
Whitehall, for the Grand Monarque thinks more of his prestige in London
even than in Paris. God help the man who thwarts him in this! It is
death or the Bastile, and our own King would rather offend God than
Louis.”
“And Mornay--”
“As for Mornay--” For an answer, Lord Downey significantly blew out
one of the candles upon the table. “Pf!--That is what will happen to
Mornay. The story is this: The coaches were drawn up on Tower Wharf,
waiting to follow the King. In the French coach were seated Mornay
and the son of the ambassador. In the Spanish coach were Baron de
Batteville and two ladies. After his Majesty had passed, both the
French and Spanish coaches endeavored to be first in the street, which
is here so narrow that but one may pass at a time. The Frenchman had
something of the advantage of position, and, cutting into the Spaniard
with a great crash, sent the coach whirling over half-way upon its
side, to the great hazard of the Spaniard and ladies within. Then
Mornay, who has a most ingenious art of getting into the very thick of
things, leaped upon the coachman’s seat and seized the reins of the
coach-horses. He was beset by the Spaniards and cut upon the head.”
“And he hung on?”
“What d’ye think the fellow did? Pulled the French horses back and
aside and let the Spanish coach down upon four wheels and out of
danger. Was it not a pretty pass? The rest was as simple as you please.
The Spaniard whipped, and though smashed and battered, won first
through the narrow passage.”
“And Mornay?”
“Does not deny it. He says it would have been impossible for a
gentleman to see such ladies thrown into a dirty ditchwater.”
“And the ladies, man? Who were the ladies?” said Ferrers.
“Aha! that is the best of it. The Spaniards relate that Mornay came
down from the coachman’s seat wiping the blood from his cheek. To
one of the ladies he said, ‘Madame, the kingdom of France yields
precedence only to a rank greater than Majesty. The honor France loses
belongs not to Spain, but to the beautiful Barbara Clerke.’”
Sir Henry Heywood caught at a quick breath.
“Mistress Clerke! My ward!”
Captain Ferrers looked from Downey to Cornbury, only to see verification
written upon their faces. He pushed back his bench from the table, his
countenance fairly blazing with anger, and cried, in a choking voice:
“Mornay again! To drag her name into every ordinary and gaming hell
in London! Coxcomb!--scoundrel!--upstart that he is! Mornay, always
Mornay--”
The candles flickered gayly as Monsieur Mornay entered. His figure
and costume were the perfection of studied elegance. The perruque was
admirably curled, and the laces and jewels were such that a king might
have envied him. A black patch extending along the forehead gave him an
odd appearance, and the white brow seemed the more pallid by contrast.
His features in repose bore the look of settled melancholy one
sometimes sees on the faces of men who live for pleasure alone. But as
his eyes turned towards the table a smile, full of careless good-humor,
came over his features. He advanced, pausing a moment as Wynne and
Heywood pushed Ferrers down by main force into his seat.
“Messieurs,” said Mornay, smiling quizzically, “your servitor.” He
stopped again. “I thought my name was spoken. No?” He looked from one
to the other. “My name I comprehend, but, messieurs, my titles--my new
titles! To whom am I indebted for my titles? Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine
Ferraire, _mon ami_, I am glad that you are here. I thought that I had
fallen among enemies.”
He laughed gayly. It was rippling and mellow, a laugh from the very
cockles of the heart, full of the joy of living, in which there lurked
no suspicion of doubt or insincerity--the situation was so vastly
amusing. Cornbury laughed, too. He was an Irishman with a galloping
humor; nor was Downey slow to follow his example.
For Heywood and Ferrers it was another matter. The elder man sat
rigidly, glaring at the Frenchman with eyes that glittered from lids
narrow with hate. Ferrers, disconcerted by the defenselessness of the
Frenchman, sat stupidly, his features swollen with rage, his lips
uncertain and trembling for a word to bring the quarrel to a head. But
before he could speak, Sir Henry Heywood, very pale, had thrust himself
forward over the table to Mornay in a way not to be mistaken, and said,
briefly:
“Gad, sirrah, your laugh is the sign of an empty mind!”
Mornay was truly taken by surprise. But as he looked up at this new
enemy he found no difficulty in understanding Heywood’s meaning. He
rose to his feet, still smiling, and said, coolly, with a sedulous
politeness:
“I am empty of brains? It takes a wit like that of monsieur to discover
something which does not exist.”
Captain Ferrers had floundered to his feet, blustering and maddened
at being cheated out of his quarrel. He burst violently upon the
colloquy, and, seizing Heywood by the arm, dragged him back to the
window-seat.
“’Tis not your quarrel, Heywood,” he began.
But Sir Henry shook himself free of Ferrers, and they both faced
Monsieur Mornay, who, somewhat languidly, but with a polite tolerance,
stood leaning against the table watching this unlooked for development
of the drama.
“Messieurs,” he smiled, “an _embarras de richesse_. Never have I been
so greatly honored. I pray that you do not come to blows on my account.
_One_ of you might kill the _other_, which would rob _me_ of the honor
of killing you _both_.”
Captain Cornbury until this time had been an interested and amused
onlooker. He dearly loved a fight, and the situation was enjoyable; but
here was the evening flying and his game of cards gone a-glimmering.
“Zounds, gentlemen!” he broke in. “A pretty business--to fight at the
Fleece Tavern. Pleasant reading for the _Courant_--a fitting end to a
comedy begun upon the street.”
“’Tis not your quarrel, Cornbury,” growled Ferrers.
“Nor yours, Ferrers,” said Heywood, coldly.
“You see, monsieur,” said Mornay to Downey, with mock helplessness,
“there is no help for it.”
Cornbury swore a round oath:
“I’ faith, I wash my hands of ye. If fight ye must, quarrel dacently
over the cards, man; but do not drag a lady’s name through the streets
of London.”
Mornay turned to Cornbury. “It is true, _mon ami_--it is true.” Then,
in a flash, gayly, aloud, almost like a child, he shouted: “_Allons_,
time is flying. To-morrow we shall fight, but to-night--to-night we
shall play at quinze. Monsieur Ferraire, you owe me three hundred
guineas. We shall play for these. If you win, you will die to-morrow
with a clear conscience. If you lose, monsieur, I’ll be your
undertaker. Come, _maître d’hôtel_!--wine!”