The names of some of its past rulers as well as Spanish governors have
stamped themselves deeply over all Brabant; and scarcely was there an
inn or wayside hostelry to be found in the towns and villages
surrounding the old capital of Brussels that did not bear for sign
either that of "La Duchesse de Parma," "Le Duc de Brabant," "Le Comte
d'Egmont," or, greater still, "Le Prince d'Orange," it being William
the Silent, the great Liberator, to whom reference was made.
These names constituted a strange mixture, and combined to form a
strange gallery of reminiscences. The first recalled a stately woman
of high lineage on one side and base origin on the other. She was the
daughter of Charles Quint, of "_Charles qui triche_,"[2] and the
sister of Philip, the thousandfold murderer--a woman fierce as the
she-wolf when robbed of its whelps, yet often merciful; one who, to
her eternal glory, despised that other murderer, that persecutor of
all of the Reformed Faith, the Duke of Alva, and kept him in his
place, while sometimes forcing even him to cease from shedding the
blood of the innocent. The second recorded those rulers of Brabant,
among whose numbers had been produced holy men and scoffers, poets and
tyrants; _jongleurs_ and minstrels and buffoons; knights as brave as
ever Bayard was, and cowards who shuddered and whimpered in their
innumerable palaces if but a few of their subjects muttered in the
streets or congregated in small knots at the street corners. The third
perpetuated the name of Lamoral d'Egmont, brave, bold, and vain; one
who had been shipwrecked in corners of the world that had then been
hardly heard of; who had fought for the new faith like a lion, yet had
almost dreaded death, but had, nevertheless, died like a hero and a
martyr at the headsman's hands in the great square of Brussels. The
fourth was he who crushed Philip II. and Spain and all their myrmidons
under his heel, who established for ever the Reformed Faith as the
recognised national religion from the German Ocean to the Ural
Mountains, and who perished at the hand of an assassin bribed by
Philip to do the deed.
In St. Trond, where the Comtesse de Valorme had decided to rest for
the night, it was the same as at Louvain, Brussels, and all other
places. Those names were still perpetuated over the doors of the inn;
the lineaments of their bearers swung in the breeze or were painted on
the walls.
"Another 'Duc de Brabant,'" the Comtesse said to Bevill, as now the
coach passed an inn of this name. It was the first they came to, and
the landlord, running out bareheaded, begged of Madame to honour his
house.
"Well, so be it. It is to the former one that I owe my meeting with a
gallant defender. I will rest here. And Monsieur Le Blond--where does
he purpose sojourning for the night?"
Perceiving that there was probably in this question some feeling of
delicacy on the part of Madame de Valorme, some sentiment of propriety
as to their not entering the town in company--they who, until those
whispered words of an hour ago, had been all but unknown to each
other--and of afterwards staying in company in the same inn, Bevill,
casting his eyes across the _place_, said:
"There is another inn for travellers over there, and it is called 'Le
Prince d'Orange.' It has a quiet, peaceful air. It will do very well.
Also, since I have constituted myself the cavalier of Madame until
Liége is reached, I shall be near at hand to keep watch and ward."
"Monsieur is very good. Farewell, monsieur. Goodnight. When," she
asked, as an afterthought, "does monsieur intend to set out?"
"Early, madame. Even though 'tis but little distance to my
destination, yet I would fain be there and about the work I have to
do."
"If," Madame de Valorme said now, after observing with one glance from
her clear eyes that her servants--who had now all descended and were
directing the porters of the inn what baggage was to be taken into
the house and what might be left on the top of the coach for the
night--were out of earshot--"if monsieur seeks for peace and repose in
Liége--though in truth it is not very like that such as he will
require any such things in a French garrison "--and her eyes were on
Bevill, while almost seeming to smile at him and at the knowledge of
his secret, which he now knew she possessed--"I go to join some
kindred whose house will be open to him. Monsieur has been a gallant
chevalier to me----"
"I beseech madame to forget any foolish, trifling service I have
rendered her by chance."
"I shall not forget, and"--though now she paused, and said next a
word, and then paused again as though in hesitation and doubt, and
still, a moment later, went on again--"and it may be that all
service--all mutual service--is not yet at an end between us. If, as I
believe, there is some----"
"Some what, madame?"
"Nay; I will say no more. Or only this: I, too, go to Liége about a
work I have to do. A work"--and now she leant forward in the coach
from which she had naturally not yet descended, while continuing in a
low tone--"to which I am vowed, to which my life is vowed; a task in
which so long as I have life I will not falter. And I have a hope, a
belief, a supposition--call it what you will--that in you I may by
chance light on one who can help me at little cost to himself."
"I protest, madame," Bevill almost stammered at hearing these words,
"I protest that----"
"Listen, Monsieur le Blond," the Comtesse said, speaking so low that
now her voice was no more than a whisper, a murmur, yet a whisper so
clear that, by bending his head, the young man could catch every
syllable she uttered. "Listen. Yet, ere you do so, promise me that no
word I let fall, no thought I give utterance to, shall cause you
offence, or, if I may say it, fear?"
"Fear? I fear nothing on this earth. While as for the rest, I
promise."
"Enough." Then in, if it could be so, a yet lower tone, the Comtesse
de Valorme continued:
"As I have said, you are not what you seem to be. You are not le
Capitaine le Blond for he was a kinsman of mine and I knew him well.
I--I--a Frenchwoman--ah! shame on me, good as my cause is--only hope
you may be----"
"What?"
"As faithful to my desire, my secret, when you learn it, as I will be
to yours. If so, then all will be well!"
"What else can madame believe I shall be? Speak. I will answer
truthfully."
"No; I have said enough--for to-night. Farewell. I, too, leave this
place early. Farewell, or rather adieu." And the Comtesse put out her
hand to Bevill.
The landlord had been standing in the great stoop of his house while
this whispered colloquy had taken place; and now, while seeing with
extreme regret that the handsome, well-apparelled young horseman who
had escorted the lady in the coach to his door, was not himself going
to patronise him, he came forward to the carriage. Wherefore, as
Bevill turned the horse's head towards "Le Prince d'Orange" he
murmured respectfully, "Madame la Comtesse"--since the coronet on the
carriage, if not the servants' own words, had told him the personage
with whom he had to deal--"the necessaries have been taken to madame's
apartments. Will Madame la Comtesse please to enter?"
Meanwhile, Bevill had ridden across to the rival place of
entertainment, had given La Rose into the charge of the stableman, and
had chosen a front room on the first floor of that rambling but
substantial house.
"There is some strange mystery in this woman," he mused, as he stood
on the balcony to which the window of the room gave access, and gazed
across to the opposite inn. "Something that passes comprehension.
Still, no matter, since there is also a mystery about me. And she
knows it; she informs me she knows it, and yet proffers me help and
assistance. Whatever else she is, she is at least no traitor to the
man who has rendered her some light, trifling service. I am here; she
is across the _place_. If in the night aught of evil should befall
her--and in this disturbed land troubles may well come--I am near her.
We are friends, auxiliaries, though enemies by race."
But now, springing from out of these musings, there returned to
Bevill's mind the memory of one word that had risen to it; the
recollection that, in pondering over the mystery of the Comtesse de
Valorme, he had discarded from his thoughts the suggestion that she
could be a traitor of another description.
"To me? No! Never! Perish the thought!" he exclaimed, as he stepped
back from the balcony and threw himself on an old couch by the window.
"No; but what if she be a traitor to her country, to France! By birth,
by blood, by all hereditary instincts we are foes, and yet she offers
me help and protection. Le Blond, the man under whose name I
masquerade, whose very horse I ride, was kinsman to her; yet she,
knowing what I am, makes offers of assistance. She a Frenchwoman and I
an Englishman!
"She prayed," Bevill went on, "that I might be what she believes I am.
She asked earlier if I could give her information of my Lord
Marlborough's movements and plans. Great heavens! Does she desire to
betray her country into his hands?" Then, suddenly, he sprang from his
seat, exclaiming, "No, no! Never will I believe it! Never There is
some other cause that moves thig woman to act as she is doing. That is
the reason for her desire to reach Liége. It is not, cannot be,
treachery."
The evening was at hand now--one of the soft calm evenings which, in
the Netherlands, in fine weather, are at times almost as soft and calm
as the nights of more southern lands; nights when here, through all
this marshy country, made fertile and rich by centuries of toil, the
fireflies dance in the dusk as in far off Italy; when the sun sinks a
globe of flame into the bosom of the German Ocean, and when as it does
so, the stars begin to stud the skies.
Such a night, such a twilight as this was no time for indoors: and
Bevill, recognising that for two hours at least it would be folly to
seek his bed with any hope of sleeping, went forth after his supper to
take the air. Or rather, since his ride had given him sufficient of
that, to observe what might be doing in the little town.
Of French troops he observed that there were few about, though some
men of the Régiment de Monsieur (the Duc d'Orléans) and some others of
the Artillery were drinking outside an inn while being regarded with
lowering looks by groups of the inhabitants.
"French--French always!" he heard one man say to the other. "French
always and everywhere! When will the English or our own troops come?"
"Have patience," another said. "Already, a month ago, even before the
war was declared, was not Kaiserswörth besieged by the English general
Athlone? The city will soon fall now."
"English? Dutch--our countryman--you should say. Is not the Lord
Athlone a Dutchman? Is he not Ginkell?"
"What matters, so that one or the other does it? Soon Marlborough will
be here. Then we shall see."
"Meanwhile, he is not here, and the French are; and they eat us out of
house and home, and do not pay too well."
"They will pay with their skins ere long."
But Bevill knew as much as this himself, so, continuing his walk, he
soon returned towards the inns in which, he on the one side the
_place_ and the Comtesse de Valorme on the other, they were to rest
for the night. But when on the _place_ he could not refrain from
letting his eyes wander to the "Duc de Brabant," while speculating
idly as to where his companion might be installed in it.
He soon knew, however, since on the first floor of the house he
observed that the long wooden shutters were open, and the windows
thrown back, doubtless to admit the cool air of the coming night,
while he also saw that Jeanne passed once or twice before them. As he
did so he could not prevent his thoughts from turning once more to the
mystery in which the Comtesse seemed to be enveloped, or from
wondering again and again why she should testify such interest in him,
a stranger.
Could he have gazed into one of those rooms in the "Duc de Brabant";
could he have seen the Comtesse seated in a deep _fauteuil_ wrapped in
meditation; above all, could he have caught the occasional expressions
that fell from her lips; or, gazing into her mind, have probed her
innermost thoughts, he would have wondered no longer.
"For fourteen years now," he would in such a case have heard her say,
or have gathered from the Comtesse de Valorme's thoughts, "we have
suffered and borne all from him--and from her who sits by his side.
From her, the scourge and curse of France, the snake that sucks the
life-blood from all who do not worship as she does. Oh! God," he would
have heard the undoubtedly unhappy woman exclaim, as she lifted her
eyes, "how long is it to be? How long for all of us? Fathers, mothers,
husbands, all--all--dead--done to death, either on the wheel or the
gallows, or in the galleys or the dungeons. And for what? Because we
desire to worship God in our own way--the way his grandsire promised
solemnly that we should worship: the way for following which this one
burns us, racks us, destroys our homes, drives us forth to exile and
beggary."
Still gazing in at those open windows from the other side of the
_place_, while unable to see the woman on whom his thoughts rested,
Bevill did at last, however, discover that she was there. As he still
stood and meditated, her form came suddenly before his eyes and he
recognised that she must have suddenly sprung up from some chair or
couch; while, from her commencing to pace the room and by her almost
distracted appearance, he gathered that her mind was a prey to the
most agitating thoughts. Even then, however, he could not divine what
those thoughts might be, or that he was the central figure of them.
This was as impossible as it was for him to hear her say:
"And now this man, who is, since he does not deny it, an Englishman;
this man, disguised as a French soldier, while, in sober truth, I do
believe him to be an English one, is on his way to Liége on some
secret mission. 'Some work he has to do,' as he avowed. What work?
What? Is he a spy of the English generals? Above all, can he help me?
Can he bring me to Marlborough, give me the opportunity I have so long
desired of throwing myself at his feet, of beseeching him to hurry
forward that invasion of the South which can alone save those of us
who are still alive? Can he? Can he? Oh, if I did but know!"
Suddenly, as Bevill stood there gazing at the undoubtedly unhappy,
distracted woman there came the ripple of a cool evening breeze
through the heated air that the day had left behind. A light breeze
that shook the leaves of the orange trees in their tubs before the inn
doors, and also those of the pollards which grew round the _place_. A
moment later he saw Jeanne pull to the wooden shutters. Except for a
streak of light that issued from the air slits at the top of them, all
was now dark and veiled.
"Poor lady!" Bevill said to himself, as now, in the same manner as he
had done overnight, and as he would do every night whenever he might
be on the road, or on any journey--and as, perhaps, he would do should
he and Sylvia Thorne be able to make their way out of Liége, in the
endeavour to fall in with any of the English or Dutch forces--he
directed his steps towards the stables of the "Prince d'Orange" to see
that all was well with his horse.
Those stables were reached by passing down a small alley or _ruelle_
that ran by the side of the "Prince d'Orange," and lay behind the
house, entrance being obtained by a turn to the right when the end of
the alley was attained.
Finding an ostler, or horse-watcher, in this alley, Bevill requested
the man to accompany him to the door and unlock it; but, learning that
the stables were not yet closed and would not be for yet another hour,
and that there was a lanthorn hanging on the hook inside, he proceeded
alone.
A moment later he pushed open the door and called to the mare, who by
now knew not only his voice, but the new name he had given her, and
learnt by her whimper that she had recognised his presence.
[Illustration: "'I, too, go to Liége about a work I have to
do.'"--_p_. 318.]
But as he advanced to see that all was well with her, he heard a
rustle in the straw of an empty stall close by the door, and the next
instant saw a man walk swiftly out of that stall and through the door
into the alley--a man whose cloak was thrown across his face and held
by his right hand, and whose slouching hat fell over the upper part of
it. Yet this attempted and almost successful disguise did not
altogether serve to cloak the whole of his features. His eyes, dark
and flashing, appeared above the edging of the cloak. Where his hand
held the folds together there protruded a wisp of grizzled beard.
"Where have I seen those eyes, that beard before?" Bevill wondered,
while remembering a moment later.
"It is Sparmann!" he said. "Sparmann! And he is following either the
Comtesse or me--or both."
After which he went swiftly to the mare and made a rapid but thorough
inspection of her, thereby to discover if she was injured in any part;
and also looked to see if the fodder remained untampered with in the
manger; while, taking up next the half-emptied bucket, he threw the
water that remained in it away, and, going out into the alley,
refilled it.
"I will stay here until the stables are locked for the night," he
said, approaching the horse-watcher. "I mistrust that fellow I saw
creep out from here but a moment ago."