MISTRESS BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO
Mistress Barbara’s deep-abiding dislike for Monsieur Mornay began even
before the struggle for precedence between the French and Spanish
coaches. Such an incident, grown to international importance, might
have turned the heads of ladies with greater reputations than hers.
Nor should it have been a small thing that a reckless young man had
risked his life to say nothing of his honor, in her service, and got
a very bad cut upon his head in the bargain. But Mistress Clerke
was not like some other ladies of the court. She had heard of the
gallantries of Monsieur Mornay, and had set him down as a woman-hunter
and libertine--a type especially elected for her abomination. His
recent attentions to the Countess of Shrewsbury and the engaging Mrs.
Middleton were already the common gossip of the court. She herself had
seen this man, perfumed and frilled, flaunting himself in Hyde Park or
the Mall with one or the other of his charmers, but the assurance which
made him successful elsewhere only filled her with disgust. What the
Englishwomen could see in such a fellow it was difficult for her to
determine. He was certainly not over-handsome. What strength the face
possessed she ascribed to boldness; what pride in the curve of the nose
and lips--to arrogance; what sensitiveness and delicacy of molding in
lip and chin--to puny aims and habits of fellows of his trade. She was
a person who divined rapidly and with more or less inaccuracy, and so
she had prepared herself thoroughly to dislike the man, even before
his own presumption had heightened her prejudice. Mistress Barbara
had first won and now held her position at court, not by a lavish
display of her talents and charms, but by a nimble wit and unassailable
character and sincerity, qualities of a particular value, because of
their rarity. This was the reason she could discover no compliment in
the gallantry of Monsieur Mornay on Tower Wharf. For beneath the mask
of his subservience she discovered a gleam of unbridled admiration,
which, compliment though it might have been from another, from him was
only an insult.
Several days of deliberation had brought no change in her spirit. She
resolved, as she put the last dainty touches to her toilet, that if
Monsieur Mornay again thrust his attentions upon her that night at the
ball of the Duchess of Dorset, she would give him a word or two in
public which should establish their personal relations for all time.
And as she stood before her dressing-table, her mirror gave her back a
reflection which justified her every jealous precaution. The candles
shimmered upon the loveliest neck and arms in the world. The forehead
was wide, white, and smooth, and her hair rippled back from her temples
in a shower of gold and fell in a natural order which made the arts of
fashion superfluous. Her cheeks glowed with a color which put to shame
the rouge-pot in her toilet-closet. She was more like some tall Norse
goddess, with the breath of the sea and the pines in her nostrils,
than a figure in a world of luxury and pampered ease. Her eyes, clear
and full, were strangers to qualms and apprehensions, and the thought
of a possible scene with this impertinent Frenchman gave them a sparkle
which added to their shadowed luster. In the thinking, she did Monsieur
Mornay the honor to add just one more patch to her chin. And then, of
course, if trouble arose and the worst came, there was Captain Ferrers,
whom she might marry some day, or her guardian, Sir Henry Heywood, who
could be called upon. Little did she know of the meeting between Mornay
and Sir Henry, arranged for that very morning, which had miscarried
because of an untimely intervention by the watch.
The Duke of Dorset danced well. When Mistress Clerke entered his
ballroom the tabors were sounding for a brawl. His grace espied her at
this moment, and, coming forward with an air of the _grand seigneur_
which many a younger man might have envied him, carried her off under
the very noses of Wynne, Howard, Russell, and Jermyn, to say nothing
of Captain Ferrers, who had brought her there in his coach.
It was a very merry dance, better suited to young legs than to old,
and Mistress Barbara, with a rare grace, put even his grace’s spryness
to the test. Monsieur Mornay, who had just come in, made to himself
the solemn promise that if it lay in his power she should favor him
upon that evening. If he suspected that she would receive him with an
ill grace, he did not show it, for he made no scruple to hide his open
admiration as she danced along the gallery. Twice she passed the spot
where he stood, and once she looked quite through him at the blank wall
behind. But, unabashed, when the dance was done he lost no time in
letting the Duke of Dorset know that he wished to be presented, in such
a manner that recognition would be unavoidable.
“With all the good-will in the world,” said his grace. “Another moth
to the flame,” he laughed. “Another star to the constellation. Be
careful, Sir Frenchman. ’Tis not a lady pleased with frivolity.”
“Monsieur, behold,” said Mornay, piously, “I am as solemn as a
judge--as virtuous as--_ma foi!_ as virtuous as the she-dragon duenna
of the Queen.”
“Nor will that please her better,” said Captain Cornbury, who had
come up at this moment. “I’ faith, Mornay, she’s most difficult--as
full of whims as the multiplication table. At present she spends both
her time and her fortune--where d’ye suppose, Monsieur Mornay? In the
fire region and the prisons. Strange tastes for the heiress of half a
province in France and the whole of the fortune of the Bresacs.”
“Ma foi! Une sérieuse!”
“Ochone! she’s saucy enough--with a bit of a temper, too, they say.”
“But the prisons?”
“Are but her trade to-day--perhaps to-morrow--that’s all. What do ye
think? She has but just promised the coranto and an hour alone in the
garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from the King.”
“The cutpurse?”
“The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the
scaffold.”
“_Pardieu!_” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of
followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.”
Cornbury laughed. “I’ faith, so far as she’s concerned, they’re one and
the same, I’m thinking. A stroke of janius, Mornay! Have yourself but
thrown into prison, and you may win her, after all.”
He moved away. Mornay looked around him for this scornful mistress, but
she had gone into the garden with Captain Ferrers.
“_Mordieu!_” he growled. “There’s truth in that jest. In prison I’ll
be, soon enough, unless the King--” He paused, with a curious smile.
“The King--aha! I’ve a better use for Charles than that,” and he made
his way to the retiring-room, where his lackey, Vigot, resplendent in a
yellow coat and black waistcoat, was awaiting his orders.
The night progressed. Came next the country dances--invented upon a
time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce to the court
some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but the sibilance
of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed them of much
of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color heightened,
held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress Stewart and my
lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige, called their
recalcitrant admirers to account. His grace of Dorset, somewhat red and
breathless, could contain himself no longer. “By my faith!” he said,
“Castlemaine and Hamilton had better look to their laurels. Nay, she
has a wit as pretty as that of my lord of Rochester.”
“But cleaner,” put in Jermyn, dryly.
In the meanwhile Monsieur Mornay had received a packet.
“In God’s name, what have you done?” (it ran). “You juggle too lightly
with the affairs of nations, Monsieur Mornay. ’Tis a serious offense
for you, and means death, or the Bastile at the very least. Here is
what you ask. I have no more favors to give. Leave London at once, for
when the post from France arrives, I cannot help you.--C.”
Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers, and
then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too strong a
test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his friendship
even.”
He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the gallery, where
the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the coranto. He sought
the Duke at once. His grace was standing near Mistress Barbara’s chair,
watching with amusement a discussion of the rival claims of the Earl of
St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon her clemency for the dance.
“Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the coranto.”
“With _la belle_ Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.”
“A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon the
Duke. Ferrers made way; he did not see the figure at the heels of
Dorset.
“Madame,” said his grace, with a noble flourish of the arm, “I present
to you a gentleman of fine distinction in Germany and England, a
gallant captain in the Marine of France--René Bras-de-Fer--Monsieur le
Chevalier Mornay.”
During the prelude she had sat complaisantly, a queen in the center of
her court. But as Mornay came forward she arose and drew herself to her
splendid height, looking at the Frenchman coldly, her lips framed for
the words she would have uttered. But Monsieur Mornay spoke first.
“Madame,” he said, quietly, his hand upon his heart, “I am come for the
coranto.”
She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no sound came
from her lips.
“Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger--“monsieur--”
Mornay affected not to hear her.
“The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has promised me the
coranto.”
“’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay
had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could
finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her.
“It is the pardon, madame.”
That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from
its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over
the writing.
“Clemency--thief--murderer--Nick Rawlings--pardon?--a pardon for _me_,
monsieur?”
Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. _Voilà!_ Here is the
pardon. There is the _musique_. Will madame not dance?”
A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took
the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry
Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely,
and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply.
The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red by turns
as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to her breast
to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips.
Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them, but
Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress Clerke
break her silence.
“Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this--this
Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through with the
bitterness of utter contempt.
And then, giving Mornay her fingers, she went with him to the middle
of the gallery. While the company, too interested or amazed to follow
in the dance, stood along the walls of the ballroom, Mistress Barbara
Clerke and Monsieur Mornay ran through the mazes of the dance.
Mornay moved with an incomparable grace and skill. It was a dance
from Paris, and every turn of the wrist, neck, or heel proclaimed
him master. From his face one could only discover the signal joy he
felt at being honored by so gracious and beautiful a companion. The
countenance of Mistress Clerke betrayed a less fortunate disposition.
In the bitterness of her defeat by this man whom she had promised
herself publicly to demean, she maintained her outward composure with
difficulty. The physical action of dancing gave her some relief, but
as she faced him her eyes blazed with hatred and her fingers, fairly
spurning a contact, chilled him with the rigidness of their antipathy.
Twice they made the round of the room, when Ferrers, who had mounted
the steps into the loft, bade the musicians stop playing. A look of
relief chased the scorn for a moment from Mistress Barbara’s face, and,
as though half unconscious of Mornay’s presence, she said aloud, in a
kind of gasp:
“Thank God, ’tis done!”
They stood opposite an open window that led to the garden. Mornay
frowned at her.
“And the hour alone?” he asked. “Surely madame cannot so soon have
forgotten?”
Her gray eyes had turned as dark as the open window looking into
the night, and the lids which her scorn let down to hide her anger
concealed but in part the smoldering light of her passion.
“It is preposterous, monsieur!” she said, chokingly. “I cannot! I will
not!”
“And your promise, madame. Mistress Clerke will forget her promise?”
She looked about helplessly, as though seeking a way to escape. But
Mornay was merciless.
“Perhaps, madame, you fear!” he said, ironically.
He had judged her aright. With a look that might have killed had Mornay
been made of more tender stuff, she caught her gown upon her arm and
swept past him out into the darkness of the terrace beyond.
The air was warm and fragrant, full of the first sweet freshness of the
summer. The light of the moon sifted softly through the haze that had
fallen over the gardens and trembled upon each dewy blade and leaf. It
was so peaceful and quiet!--so far removed from rancor and hatred!--a
night for fondness, gentleness, and all the soft confidences of a
tenderness divine and all-excelling--a night for love!
This thought came to them both at the same moment--to Mistress Barbara
with a sense of humiliation and anger, followed by the burst of passion
she had struggled so long to control. She stopped in the middle of the
garden-walk and turned on him:
“You!” she cried, immoderately. “You again! Has a lady no rights which
a man, whatever he be, is bound to respect? Why do you pursue me?
Listen to me, Monsieur Mornay. I hate you!--I hate you!--I hate you!”
And then, overcome by the every excess of her emotion, she sank to the
bench beside her. Monsieur Mornay stood at a distance and occupied
himself with the laces at his sleeves.
To a Frenchman this was surely an ill-requiting of his delicate
attentions.
“Madame,” he began, calmly, then paused.
“No, madame does not mean that.” He made no attempt to go nearer, but
stood, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, his eyes, dark and
serious, looking quietly down at her.
She made no reply, but sat rigidly, her arm upon the back of the bench,
the seat of which her skirts had completely covered. There was no
indication of the turmoil that raged within her but the tapping of her
silken shoe upon the graveled walk.
“How have I offended, madame?” he continued. “Is it a fault to admire?
Is my tribute a sin? Is my service a crime? Have I not the right of any
other of your poor prisoners--to do you honor from afar?”
“From afar?” she asked, coldly satirical.
Mornay shrugged his shoulders with a pretty gesture.
“_Ma foi_, madame. My mind cannot imagine a greater distance between
us--”
“Monsieur’s imagination is not without limits,” she interrupted; and
then, after a pause, “In England a lady is allowed the privilege of
choosing her own following.”
“In France,” he replied, with an inclination of the head--“in France
the following confers an honor by choosing the lady.”
“Yes, _in France_, monsieur.”
There was a hidden meaning to her words.
He thought a moment before replying.
“But madame is of a house of France. The English Mistress Clerke is
also the French Vicomtesse de Bresac.”
She turned fully towards him and met his gaze steadily.
“But, thank God! the part of me that is English is the part of me which
scorns such attentions as yours. To be the object of such gallantries
is to be placed in a class”--she paused to measure out the depth of
her scorn--“in a class with your Shrewsburys and Middletons. It is an
insult to breathe the air with you alone. My cavaliers are gentlemen,
monsieur, and in England--”
She broke off abruptly, as if conveying too full an honor by conversing
with him; and then, woman-like, “Why did you save the Spanish coach?”
she cried, passionately.
Monsieur Mornay smiled blithely.
“Madame would not look half so handsome dead as she does alive.” He
took a step as though to go nearer, and she rose to her feet, turning
towards the house.
“Come nearer, monsieur, and I--I leave at once.”
Mornay’s brows contracted dangerously as he said:
“The hour is mine”; and then, with an angry irony, “You need not fear
me, madame. I am no viper or toad that you should loathe me so.”
She looked defiantly up at him.
“There are things even less agreeable than toads and vipers.” The words
dropped with cold and cruel meaning from her lips. In a moment she
would have given her fortune to withdraw them. Monsieur Mornay stepped
back a pace and put the back of his hand to his head where a patch
still hid the scar upon his temple. He stammered painfully, and lowered
his head as though bowing to some power over which he had no control.
“You--you mean the misfortune of my birth?”
Mistress Clerke had turned her face away again; she put her hand to
her brow, her look steadily averted. Deep down in the heart she so
carefully hid, she knew that what she had done was malignant, inhuman.
Whatever his sins of birth or education, was he not built in the
semblance of a gentleman? And had he not jeopardized his life and good
repute in her service? It was true. Whatever his origin, his frank
attachment deserved a better return than the shame she had put upon
it. If he had not stood there directly before her she would have said
something to have taken the bitter sting from her insult. But as she
felt his eyes burn into her, she could not frame her words, and her
pride made her dumb.
“Madame has heard that?” he stammered; and then, without waiting for a
reply, he said, with a quiet dignity, “It is true, I think. If madame
will permit, I will conduct her to the gallery.”
Mistress Clerke did not move. Her eyes were fixed upon the swinging
lanterns at the end of the terrace.
“Come, madame, I give you back your hour,” he said. “Nick Rawlings and
I will take our liberty together. If you will but allow me--”
There was a sound of rapid footsteps upon the walk, and three figures
came into the glare of the shifting lanterns. In the colored light
Mornay could dimly make out Ferrers, Heywood, and Wynne. Heywood peered
forward into their faces.
“Enough of this,” he said, sternly. “Mistress Clerke, be so kind as
to give your arm to Captain Ferrers. If you will but take her to the
Duchess, Ferrers--”
Mistress Clerke had arisen to her feet and looked from her guardian
to Monsieur Mornay, who stood at his ease, awaiting their pleasure.
She opened her lips as though to speak, but the Frenchman, with an air
of finality which could not be mistaken, bowed low, and then, turning
coldly away, stood facing the darkness of the garden.