[Illusration: "'Not forgotten, monsieur dares to hope.'"--_p_. 10.]
The bilander _Le Grand Roi_, flying French colours, was making her way
slowly up the Scheldt to Antwerp, as she had been doing for five
hours, namely, from the time she had entered the river. Two days
before this time she had left Harwich, while, since the proclamation
had been made in London and the principal cities of England that all
French and Spanish subjects were to quit the country, and that they
would be permitted to depart without molestation and also would not be
interfered with while proceeding on the high seas to their
destination, she had arrived safely. She was close to Antwerp now; the
spire of the cathedral had long since become visible as _Le Grand Roi_
passed between the flat, marshy plains that bordered the river; she
would be moored, the sailors said, within another hour--moored in
Antwerp, which, since the death of Charles II. of Spain, eighteen
months before this time, had been seized by the French. For the whole
of this region, the whole of Flanders, was now no longer the vast
barrier of Western Europe against the power and ambition of the Great
King, but was absolutely his own outworks and barrier against his
foes.
On board the old-fashioned craft--which had brought away from England
Frenchmen and Frenchwomen of all classes, from secretaries of the
Embassy and ladies attached to the suite of the ambassadress, down to
the croupiers of the faro banks and the women employed by the French
milliners in London, as well as a choice collection of French spies
who had been earning their living in the capital--all was now
excitement. For, ere anyone on board would be permitted to land, their
passports would have to be examined, their features, height, and other
details of their appearance compared with those passports, and any
baggage they might possess would be scrupulously inspected. If all
were ashore and housed by the afternoon, or were enabled to set out on
their further journey, the sailors told the travellers they might
indeed consider themselves lucky.
"Nevertheless," said a young man who sat on the small raised deck on
which the wheelhouse stood, while he addressed a young French lady who
sat by his side, "it troubles me but very little. So that I reach
Louvain in two days, or three, for the matter of that, or even four, I
shall be well content."
"Monsieur is not pressed?" this young lady said, after looking at her
mother who sat asleep on the other side of her, and then glancing at
the young man. And, in truth, the object of her second glance was
worthy of observation, since he was good-looking enough to merit
scrutiny. His dark features were well set off by his wig, his manly
form was none the worse for the gallooned, dark blue travelling coat
and deep vest he wore. A handsome young man this, many had said in the
last two days on board; a credit to France, the land, as they, told
each other often--perhaps because they feared the fact might be
overlooked even by themselves--of handsome men and lovely women. Even
his _mouches_ on the cheeks, his extremely fine lace and his sparkling
rings were forgiven by his fellow-passengers, since, after all, were
not patches and lace of the best, and jewels, the appanage of a true
French gentleman? And a gentleman M. de Belleville was--a gentleman
worthy of the greatest country in the universe, they modestly added.
"Not the least in all the world," this graceful, airified young man
answered the young lady now in an easy manner; "not the least, I do
assure you, mademoiselle. In truth, I am so happy to have left England
behind that now I am out of it I care not where else I am."
"Monsieur has seemed happy since he has been on board. He has played
with the children, given his arm to the elderly ladies, assisted the
older men as they staggered about with the roll of the ship, played
cards with the younger. Monsieur will be missed by all when we part at
Antwerp."
"But not forgotten, monsieur dares to hope," the graceful M. de
Belleville said.
"Agreeable persons are never forgotten," his companion of the moment
replied, she being evidently accustomed to the _riposte_. "But,
monsieur, this war, this Grand Alliance, as our enemies term
it--tell me, it surely cannot last long? This Malbrouck of whom they
speak, this fierce English general--he cannot--undoubtedly he
cannot--prevail against King Louis' marshals!"
"Impossible, mademoiselle!" the young man exclaimed, while his eyes
laughed as he answered. "Impossible! What? Against De Boufflers,
Tallard, Villeroy, and the others? Yet there is one thing in his
favour, too. He served France once."
"He! This Malbrouck. He! Yet now he fights against her!"
"In truth he did, and so learnt the art of war. He was colonel of the
English regiment in the Palatinate under Turenne. That should have
taught him something. Also----"
But there came an interruption at this moment. The side of the
bilander grated against the great timbers of the dock, the hawsers
were thrown out; _Le Grand Roi_ had arrived at the end of her journey.
A moment later the _douaniers_ were swarming into the vessel, hoarse
cries were heard, the passengers were ordered to prepare their
necessaries for inspection, and to have their papers ready.
Among some of the first, though not absolutely one of the first, M. de
Belleville was subjected to inspection. His passport was perused by
the _douanier_, who mumbled out as he did so, "Height, five feet ten.
_Hein!_" raising his eyes to the young man's face. "I should have said
an inch more."
"I should have said two more," M. de Belleville replied with a laugh.
"_Mais, que voulez vous?_ The monsieur at our embassy would have it
so, in spite of my pardonable remonstrances. Therefore five feet ten I
have to be. And he was short himself. Let us forgive him."
"Monsieur is gay and debonair. _Bon!_ That is the way to live long.
Eyes, dark. _Bon!_ Hair," putting up a forefinger and lifting M. de
Belleville's peruke an inch or so, "dark. _Bon!_ Age, twenty-nine."
"Another affront. I assure you, monsieur, I told the gentleman I am
but twenty-eight and four months."
"_Ohé!_ Monsieur has a light vein. When a man has passed twenty-eight
he is twenty-nine in the eyes of the law. Monsieur's vanity need not
be offended. Now, monsieur, the pockets. 'Tis but a ceremony, I assure
monsieur."
The pockets were soon done with. The man saw a purse through which
glistened many pistoles and louis d'or and gold crowns, several bills
drawn by the great French banker Bernard, which could be changed
almost anywhere, and--a portrait.
"_Hein!_" the man said, though not rudely. "A beautiful young lady.
Handsome as monsieur himself, doubtless one whom----"
"Precisely. There is nothing more?"
"Except the baggage."
"I have none. By to-night, or to-morrow, or the next day, I hope to be
in Marshal de Boufflers' lines."
"Monsieur must ride then. The Marshal's lines stretch from----"
"I know. I shall reach them as soon as horse can carry me."
After which the young man was permitted to walk ashore.
"So," 'Monsieur de Belleville' said to himself, as now, with his
large cloak over his arm, he made his way to the vicinity of the
cathedral, "I am here. So far so good. Yet this is but the first step.
I must be wary. Vengeance confound the vagabond!" he went on as his
thought changed. "I wish he had not looked on that sweet face and
stately form of Sylvia Thorne. Almost it seems a sacrilege. Cousin
Mordaunt gave me that as my passport to her. I wonder if he dreams of
how many times I have gazed on it since I parted from him? Still, it
had to be shown."
Consoled with this reflection, the young man continued on his way
until the _carillons_ sounding above his head told him that the
cathedral was close at hand. Then, emerging suddenly from a narrow
street full of lofty houses, he found himself on the cathedral
_place_, and looked around for some hostelry where he might rest for
the day and part of the night.
His first necessity was a horse. This it was important he should
obtain at once, directly after he had procured a room and a meal. Yet,
he thought, there should be no difficulty in that. The French, who
never neglected the art of possessing themselves of the spoils of war,
were reported to have laid all the country round under such
contributions of food, cattle, forage, and other things, that he had
read in the _Flying Post_ ere he left London how, in spite of their
large armies scattered over Flanders, they were now selling back at
very small prices the things they had plundered.
"But first for an inn," said Bevill Bracton (the _soi-disant_ M. de
Belleville) to himself. Directing his steps, therefore, across the
wide _place_ and towards a deep archway, over which was announced the
name of an inn, he entered the house and stated that he wanted a room
for the night.
"A room?" the surly Dutch landlord repeated, looking up as he heard
himself addressed in the French language--doubtless he had good reason
to be surly! "A room? Two dollars a night, payable in advance."
"'Tis very well. You do not refuse French money?"
"No, 'specially as we see little enough of it. Hans," addressing a boy
in the courtyard after he had received the equivalent of two dollars,
"show the French gentleman to No. 89. All food and wine," he added,
"is also payable in advance."
"That can also be accomplished. Likewise the price of a horse, if I
can purchase one."
"_Ja, ja!_ Very well!" the man said, brisking up at this. "If monsieur
desires a horse, and will pay for it, I have many from which he may
choose."
"So be it; when I descend I will inspect them. Now," to the boy, "show
me to the room."
Arrived at No. 89, which, like all Dutch rooms, was scrupulously clean
if bare of aught but the most necessary furniture, Bevill, after
having made some sort of toilette, and one which would have to suffice
until he had bought a haversack and some brushes and other
necessaries, was ready for his meal.
He went downstairs now to where the surly Dutch landlord still sat in
his little bureau, and asked him if the horses were ready for
inspection. Receiving, however, the information that two or three had
been sent for from some stables that were in another street, he
decided to proceed to the long, low room where repasts were partaken
of. Before he did so, however, the landlord told him that it was
necessary to inscribe his name and calling in a register that was kept
of all guests staying at the inn.
Knowing this to be an invariable custom, as it had always been for
many long years--for centuries, indeed--on the Continent, Bevill made
no demur, but, taking a pen, he dipped it in the inkhorn and wrote
down, "André de Belleville, Français, Secrétaire d'Embassade récemment
à Londres," since thus ran the passport which had been procured for
him by Lord Peterborough.
After which, on the landlord having stated that this information was
all that the Lieutenant of Police would require, Bevill proceeded to
the room where a meal could be obtained--a meal which, as he had
already been warned, he would have to pay for in advance. For now--and
it was not to be marvelled at--there was no Dutchman in all Holland
who would trust any Frenchman a sol for bite, or sup, or bed.
By the time this repast was finished, the horses from which Bevill was
to select one were in the courtyard, and, being informed of this, he
went out to see them. One glance from his accustomed eye, the eye of
an ex-cuirassier who had followed William of Orange and fought under
his command, was enough to show him that any one of them was
sufficient for his purpose of reaching Liége by ordinary stages.
Therefore the bargain was soon struck, six pistoles[1] being paid for
the stoutest of the animals, a strong, good-looking black horse, and
the one that seemed as if, at an emergency, it could attain a good
speed--an emergency which, Bevill thought, might well occur at any
moment on his route through roads and towns bristling with French
soldiers.
As, however, the landlord and he returned to the bureau to complete
the transaction, Bevill saw, somewhat to his surprise, a man leave the
bureau--a man elderly and cadaverous--one who wore a bushy beard that
was almost grey, and who looked as though he was far advanced in a
decline. A man whose face appeared familiar to Bracton, yet one which,
while being thus familiar, did not at first recall to him the moment
or place where he had once seen or known him.
"Fore 'gad!" he said to himself. "Where have I seen that fellow?" And
Bevill Bracton glanced down the passage as though desiring that the
man would return. Not seeing him, however, he stepped back from the
gloom of the passage into the sunshine of the courtyard and counted
out into his hand the six pistoles he was to pay. Then, as he did so,
he heard a step behind him--a step which he imagined to be that of the
landlord as he came forth with the receipt, and, looking round, saw
that the strange man was now in the bureau, and bending over the
register. A moment later he heard him say to the landlord, while
speaking in a husky, soddened voice:
"There was no secretary named André de Belleville at the French
Embassy. The statement is false. I shall communicate with the
Lieutenant of Police at once. I warn you not to let him depart."
Then, in an instant, the man was gone, he passing down the passage and
out into the Dutch kitchen garden.
But Bevill had heard enough, had learnt enough.
The voice of the man, added to what he had already seen of him, aided
his wandering recollection--it told him who the man was.
"'Tis Sparmann," he said to himself. "Sparmann, who, two years ago,
had my sword through him from front to back. It is enough. There is no
rest here for me. To-night I must be far from Antwerp. My lord said
well. It is death if I am discovered."