MONSIEUR WAITS UPON A LADY
Captain Cornbury was no fledgling. He was the younger son, none too
highly esteemed by the elder branch, of a hard-drinking, quick-fighting
stock of ne’er-do-wells. He knew a trick with a sword, and for twenty
years had kept a certain position by his readiness to use it. His last
employment had been in the King’s service as captain in a regiment
of dragoons, but he lived, of a preference, upon his wits. There was
never a game of dice or cards at which he could not hold his own at
luck or skill. Skill at the Fleece Tavern, too, often meant dexterity
in manipulation; and where every man with whom he played took shrewd
advantage of his neighbor there was little to cavil at.
But of late fortune had turned a wry face upon the man. His regiment
was disbanded for lack of money, his pittance from the Earl, his
brother, ceased altogether; and, with a reckless manner of living,
a debtors’ prison stared him in the face. He sat upon the couch in
Mornay’s new room at the Swan Tavern, watching with a somewhat scornful
expression of countenance Vigot help his master to make his toilet. His
eyes blinked sleepily at the light, for it was high noon; and his wig
having been removed for comfort, the light shone brilliantly upon a
short crop of carroty-red hair which took all the colors of the rainbow.
Mornay wore a splendid silken night-gown, little in keeping with the
dinginess of the apartment. While Vigot dressed his master’s perruque,
Mornay told the Irishman of the note from the King and of the arrival
of the post from France, with the news of the anger of the Grand
Monarque and of his promise of death or imprisonment should Mornay be
brought to France.
Cornbury pursed his lips in a thin whistle.
“Viscount,” he said, frowning, “ye’re skatin’ on thin ice.”
Mornay had completely recovered his good spirits. He tossed his
night-robe to Vigot and snapped his fingers.
“_Mais, monsieur_,” he smiled. “’Tis an exercise so exhilarating.”
“D--n it, man, ’tis no time for jesting,” growled the Irishman, rising.
“The post from France to-day says ye are to be put in the Bastile or
have your head chopped off; in London ye’re a fugitive from justice
for killing; and, lastly, yer good friend Charles has turned a cold
shoulder on ye. And ye talk of exhilaration!” Cornbury’s disgust was
illimitable.
Mornay dusted a speck from his sleeve and smiled gayly. “It is
not every day, my good Cornbury, that a man may become possessed
of a family, a fortune, and, _ma foi_, such a beautiful, scornful
she-cousin--”
“Zoons, man! How can ye prove it without the papers? The mere word
‘D’Añasco’ will not open their ears or their hearts. I believe it, but
who else would?”
“I can prove that I am the boy Ruiz, I tell you.”
“And ye’re fleeing for your life?”
Mornay’s face grew stern. “Yes, I am fleeing for my life,” he cried,
“but they have not caught me yet. Last night I would not have cared
if they had sent me back to France. To-day it is different. They have
robbed me of my estates, of my name; they have made me a mere creeping
thing--a viper. _Morbleu!_ they shall feel the viper’s sting. Monsieur
de Heywood is dead. Mistress Barbara Clerke--”
Cornbury leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you don’t mean--”
“Oh, put your mind at rest, _mon ami_. I shall do my pretty cousin no
violence. I shall see her--that’s all. But first--first, about the
papers with this Capitaine Ferraire--”
Cornbury smiled dryly.
“Why, ye have but to poke a nose an inch beyond the door to be carted
to the Tower. How will ye see Captain Ferrers, then? ’Tis the height of
absurdity. Take my advice and keep close till ye find a ship. Then set
your course for the Plantations till yer matter is cooled. I’ve a debt
or two myself, and I’m inclined to accompany ye.”
Mornay looked at him in surprise. “Why, Cornbury, you have but a faint
heart!”
“It is this news from France--ye have no backing--”
“Come! have done!” cried Mornay. “You sap my will. If you cannot look
the situation gallantly in the face, why, then--” He stopped and
lowered his voice, casting a glance at the Irishman. “_Mon ami_, I
expect too much. More than I can claim.” Mornay walked towards the door
and took Cornbury’s cloak and hat. “_Allons!_ You shall leave me at
once. Your only danger is in my society. Go at once upon the street,
and they can prove nothing; stay with me, and you harbor an enemy of
the state and a fugitive from justice.”
Cornbury threw a look at him and rose to his feet with an oath. “D--n
ye, man, d’ye think I’d quit ye now? Ye give me credit for a smallish
sense of dacency.” He walked to the window and looked down upon the
street. Mornay followed him at once and took him by the hand.
“I have offended you? Forgive me. This matter is the turning of gall to
honey for me, Cornbury. I cannot leave it without a struggle. I pray
you, bear with me.”
Cornbury was smiling in a moment. “What do ye plan?” he said.
“Listen. Vigot is clever. He shall discover for me when Captain Ferrers
will wait upon madame, _ma cousine_. I, too, will call upon her.”
“And ye’ve just killed her guardian!” said Cornbury, dryly. “She’ll not
receive ye with kisses.”
Mornay smiled and slowly answered:
“You will think it strange that a gentleman should intrude upon a
woman. But to-morrow, perhaps to-day, I may go from this city and
country forever. Before that I shall make one effort to establish my
good name. I shall not succeed; but I shall have done my duty to myself
and the mother who bore me. As for the Capitaine Ferraire--” Mornay’s
eyes flashed ominously. “If I knew where he had put the papers--if I
could but get him to fight--”
“Fight! Ye couldn’t coax a fight from Ferrers with the flat of yer
hand. He’d rather see ye in the Bastile or the Tower. He’s too sure
to take any risks. Besides, if ye’d kill him the papers would be
lost forever. No, he’ll not fight. He owes ye money, and while the
constables can cancel the debt ye may be sure that _he_ will _not_.”
Mornay passed his hand over his brow. “’Tis true. But I must see them
together. That is the only chance. I will go to-day.”
“But how, Mornay?” asked Cornbury, dryly. “In a coach and four?”
Mornay sprang to his feet in delight. “_C’est ça!_” he cried, joyfully.
“Oh, monsieur, but you have the Irish wit. Vigot shall bring me a
coach. I shall ride in state.”
Cornbury rose to his feet angrily.
“What nonsense is this?” he cried. Mornay smiled on him benignly.
“Can you not see, Monsieur le Capitaine? While they are looking for me
at the Fleece, in Covent Garden, in the Heaven Inn, or in the Hell
Tavern, here will I be riding along the Mall to the very place they
would be least likely to look for me--in my lady’s boudoir!”
Cornbury at once saw the value of the plan, but he never looked more
sober.
“And after?” he asked.
“After?” replied Mornay, lightly. “After? Monsieur, you leave too
little to the imagination. I think but of the present. _Le bon Dieu_
will provide for the future.”
Vigot was given his orders to make shrewd inquiries of the servants of
the neighbors of Mistress Clerke as to the hour of Captain Ferrers’s
daily visits. He was also told to get a coach for monsieur. He stood
puzzled a moment.
“Monsieur wishes a haquenée?” he asked.
“A haquenée? No, sirrah!” said Mornay, brusquely.
“A pair, then?” he asked, scratching his head.
“A pair?” roared Mornay. “No, sirrah! _Foi de ma vie!_ I wish a coach
and four. Twenty guineas at the very least. If I wait upon madame at
night, a dozen links. Be off with you!”
Cornbury shook his head hopelessly.
“Ye’re going to your funeral in style,” he said.
* * * * *
Mistress Barbara sat alone, looking out upon the quiet street.
While she looked she saw nothing, and every line of her figure, in
abandonment to her mood, spoke of sorrow and distraction. Her eyelids
were red, and the richly laced _mouchoir_ which fell from the hand
beneath her chin was moist with tears. Upon a tray were the dishes of
a luncheon, untouched, and a number of papers, some of them torn, fell
from her hand upon the floor. A dish of roses, a few French romances,
a _manteau_ girdle, a copy of the _Annus Mirabilis_ of Dryden, a pair
of scented gloves of Martial, and a cittern in the corner completed the
gently bred disorder of the room.
True, Sir Henry Heywood was no blood relation of hers, and had only
been her guardian. A man of the world in the worst rather than the
better sense, there had been little in his life to appeal to her. But
he loved her in his own way and had been good to her in all matters
that pertained to her estate, and so she mourned him as one would mourn
the loss of one whom nearness had made dear. There was some bond which
seemed to bind them more closely than their mere surface relations of
ward and guardian--an undercurrent of devotion and servitude which she
felt, though she could not understand the meaning. His death wrung her
mind, if it did not wring her heart.
And by this Frenchman! There had been a moment or two of regret the
other night that she should have used this Mornay so cruelly, a moment
when the bitterness, the grief, the utter loneliness and longing she
had seen in his face had filled her rebellious soul with compassion
for his misery. For she had a glimpse--the very first--of his pride
overborne and beaten to earth in spite of its mighty struggle to rise.
But now! Now, whatever regret had sprung into her heart, whatever
kindliness, had been engulfed again in a bitterness which cried out
for justice. While the woman in her had shrunk from the thought of him
and wished him well away from London, a sense of the fitness of things
called for retribution for the wrong that had been done her and hers.
They had not caught him yet. Oh, he was cunning and skillful; that
she knew. But Captain Ferrers had assured her that to oblige Louis of
France, the King had directed all the constables of London to be upon
the watch for him. It could not be long before they would have him fast
behind the walls of the Tower, with God knows what in store for him
there, or at the Bastile if he were taken back to France. The Bastile?
She shivered a little and put her kerchief over her face.
“God forgive me,” she murmured, “if I have misjudged him!”
There was a commotion below in the street--the sound of galloping
horses and the rumble of a fast-flying vehicle. A plum-colored calash
with red wheels and splendid equipments was coming at a round pace
up the street. There were four sorrel horses, a coachman, footman,
and two outriders. With a whirl of dust and the shouting of men the
horses were thrown upon their haunches and the coach came to a stop
directly before Mistress Barbara’s door. She peered out of the window,
curiously agape, to know the identity of her visitor. From the way in
which he traveled abroad it must be a person of condition--she felt
assured a minister or dignitary of the city, come perhaps to beseech
her influence. There was a glimmer of bright color in the sunlight. A
splendid figure, periwigged and bonneted in the latest mode, sprang out
and to her front door. She had barely time to withdraw her head before
there was a knock and her lackey opened in some trepidation.
“Madame, ’tis Monsieur the Vicomte de Bresac--”
“Did I not give orders--” she began, and then stopped. “De Bresac! De
Bresac! What can it mean?”
“Madame, ’tis a matter of importance and--er--”
She stood debating whether she should call her governess or deny
herself to her visitor, but before she could do the one or the other
footsteps came along the hallway and the lackey stepped aside as
Monsieur Mornay entered.
Mistress Clerke turned a pallid face towards him. She stepped back a
pace or two, her hands upon her breast, her eyes glowing with fear.
Monsieur Mornay turned to the lackey, who still stood doubtful upon the
threshold. The look he gave the man sent him through the doorway and
hall, where the sound of his footsteps mingled with those of others
without. Mistress Clerke cast a fleeting glance towards the boudoir,
but Monsieur Mornay had taken his stand where he could command both
entrances to the room. She scorned to cry aloud for assistance, nor
would she risk his interference by trying to pass him. He read her
easily. She made no motion to leave or speak to him, but stood against
the wall of the fireplace, her muscles rigid and tense with fear and
her eyes regarding him with all the calmness she could command.
“Madame,” he said, solemnly, looking out at her from under his dark
brows, “before God, I mean you no harm!” He said it as though it were
a sacrament. “In half an hour or less I shall be gone from this room,
from your life forever. But you must hear what I have to say.” He
paused. “No, no, madame. It is not that which you suppose--you need
have no fear of me. It is not that--I swear it!”
Mistress Barbara moved uneasily.
“I pray that you will be seated, madame. No? As you please. What I have
to say is not short. Shall I begin?”
“’Twere sooner over,” she said, hoarsely.
He bowed politely. “I will endeavor to be brief. Many years ago, your
great-grandfather went to Florida with the expedition of Jean Ribault.
Perhaps you have been told of the massacre by the Spanish and how the
Seigneur de Bresac escaped to France? _Merci!_ You also doubtless know
his and your grandfather’s great hatred of the Spanish people as the
result of this massacre? _Eh bien._ Your grandfather told his three
daughters--one of whom was your mother--that if one of them married a
Spaniard he would refuse her a part of his fortune and deny her as a
child of his--”
“I pray you, monsieur--”
“I crave your patience. Lorance, your mother, married Monsieur Clerke,
and Julie, the younger sister, married Sir George Maltby. That is well
known. The elder sister was Eloise.” His voice fell, and the name was
spoken with all the soft tenderness of the name itself. “Perhaps you do
not know, madame, that she, too, was married--”
“There was a mystery,” she muttered. “I heard--” Then she stopped.
“Madame heard?” he asked, politely. But she was silent again.
“Eloise was married,” he continued, “while visiting at the château
of the Duc de Nemours, near Paris, to Don Luis d’Añasco, who was
a Spaniard. Fearing her father’s wrath and disinheritance, this
unfortunate woman concealed the facts of this marriage, the record of
which was the acknowledgment of the priest who married them and the
statements of a nurse and another witness who had accompanied her to
Amiens, where in or about the year 1635 she gave birth to a son--”
If Mistress Clerke had allowed herself to relax a little before, her
interest now had dominated all feeling of fear and suspense. She leaned
a little forward, breathless, her hand upon the chair before her, her
eyes fixed upon the lips of the Frenchman, who spoke slowly, concisely,
and held her with an almost irresistible fascination.
“The saddest part of the story is to come, madame. The mother was
grievously ill--she suffered besides all the pangs of solitude at a
time when a woman needs consolation and sympathy the most. Her mother
had died, her husband was worse than useless, and she feared to let her
father know the truth, lest his stern and pitiless nature would wreak
some terrible vengeance upon the Spanish husband, whom she still loved,
in spite of the fact that he had married her for her fortune and not
for herself. She had almost made up her mind to tell her father all
when--she died.” He paused a moment to give her the full import of his
words. And then, looking at her steadily and somewhat sternly, “Her
son, René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac, is still alive.”
Mistress Barbara stood looking at him. He met the look unflinchingly.
At last her eyes fell. When she lifted them she did so suddenly and
drew herself up at the same time, all instinct with doubt and suspicion
of this man, who had first insulted, then injured her, and was now
seeking to rob her of her birthright.
“And you?” she asked, bitterly, her scorn giving wings to her fear.
“And _you_? Can I believe _you_?”
It was as though she had expressed her thought in words. Monsieur
Mornay felt the thrust. But where the other night it could wound him
mortally, to-day it glanced harmlessly aside. He still looked calmly at
her, and the least perceptible touch of irony played at the corners of
his lips.
She mistook the smile for effrontery--for the mere impudence of a man
without caste who recks nothing for God or man. She flung her back
towards him with a sudden gesture and turned towards the window.
“You lie,” she said, contemptuously.
Monsieur Mornay knit his brows, and his eyes followed her angrily, but
he did not even take a step towards her. His voice was as low as before
when he spoke.
“Madame has a certain skill at hatred,” he said. “Insults fall as
readily from her lips as the petals from a flower.” He paused. “But
they do not smell so sweet. I do not lie, madame,” he said, with a
gesture as though to brush the insult aside. When he raised his voice
it was with a tone and inflection of command which surprised and
affrighted her. She turned in alarm, but he had not moved from his
position near the door.
“Hear me you shall, madame. Listen.” And rapidly, forcefully,
masterfully even, he told the story of the fate of the young D’Añasco,
called Ruiz, the perfidy of the drunken father in sending him away upon
the ship _Castillano_, and the bargain by which his inheritance had
been sold. She heard him through, because she could not help it, but
as he proceeded, and the names of her father, Sir Wilfred Clerke, and
Sir Henry Heywood were mentioned, she arose to her full height, and
with magnificent disdain threw fear to the winds and said, coldly:
“Stop! I have heard enough.” And with reckless mockery, “You, monsieur,
I presume, are René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac?”
Monsieur Mornay bowed.
The door of the room opened suddenly and Captain Ferrers entered. A
look of bewilderment was on his features as he glanced at Mistress
Clerke.
“Why, Barbara--these men without-- What--?” Monsieur Mornay had turned
his head, and the flowing curls no longer hid his countenance.
“I was expecting you, Capitaine Ferraire,” said the Frenchman.
Ferrers stepped back a pace or two, astonishment and consternation
written upon his features. Had Sir Henry Heywood come back to life,
the Captain could not have been put into a greater quandary. He looked
at the Frenchman and then at Mistress Clerke for the solution of the
enigma. But Mistress Barbara had sunk upon the couch in an agony of
fear. A moment before she had prayed for this interruption. Now that it
had come she was in a terror as to its consequences. She made no reply,
but looked at the two men who stood a few feet apart with lowering
looks--the Englishman flushed red with anger, the Frenchman cool,
impassive, dangerous.
Ferrers spoke first. He stepped a pace or two towards the Frenchman,
his brow gathered, his shoulders forward, menace in every line of his
figure.
“You have dared to force your way into this house?”
The elbow was bent and the fist was clinched, and an exclamation burst
from Mistress Barbara, who was gazing horror-struck at the impending
brutality. But the Frenchman did not move. The only sign of anything
unusual in his appearance was the look in his eyes, which met those
of the Englishman with an angry glitter of defiance. If Ferrers had
meant personal violence to the Frenchman, he did not carry out his
intentions. He cast his eyes for a moment in the direction of Mistress
Barbara, and then, drawing back again with a muttered exclamation, made
straight for the door. Before he could place his hand upon the knob
Mornay interposed.
“One moment, Ferraire. My men were told to let you in--_not_ to let
you out.” And as Ferrers paused a moment, “Have patience, Monsieur le
Capitaine. Presently I will leave madame and you; but first you must
listen.” Ferrers had grown white with rage, and his hand had flown to
his sword hilt. He looked at the quiet figure of the Frenchman and at
Mistress Barbara, whose eyes were staring at him widely. He bit his lip
in chagrin, and then struggled to control his voice.
“Your reckoning is not far distant, Monsieur Mornay,” he said,
hoarsely. “If there is justice in England, you shall hang this day
week.”