No matter though their conquerors lay around the city--for conquerors
in one form the French and their auxiliaries were--and no matter
whether their grasp would tighten more and more upon the beleaguered
place, or be suddenly relieved and loosed by the English and their
allies as they advanced near to Liége, the inhabitants did not cease
to continue as far as might be their ordinary pursuits, and also their
relaxations.
It is true, the business that they did was much curtailed: their silks
and satins, spices, and other tropical wares could now no longer reach
Liége either by water or land, or, having reached it, could not in
many cases enter. Also, it was true, the burghers could neither feast
nor drink as copiously as had once been their wont, since food was
required for the investors inside and outside the city, who took care
to be first served.
But some things there were that neither investment nor a reduction in
rations, nor, which was the same thing, a tremendous increase in the
price of all rations, could prevent them from enjoying. Such things,
to wit, as their walks and promenades along the quays on either side
of the river or in the public gardens and places of the city.
For which reason fathers and mothers still took their daughters out of
evenings and gave them an airing, and treated them to the coffee
drinking beloved of Dutch wives and maidens, while the men smoked
solemnly their pipes, since the city was well provisioned with such
things as coffee and tobacco, no matter how short it might fall of
fresh bread and meat and fish and vegetables.
And, because the heart can ever remain light so long as the most
terrible calamities have not yet befallen that can well befall, and
can especially do so when the heart is young, the daughters and sons
of the honest Liègois would laugh and talk and sip their coffee under
the flowering acacias, while, through the eyelits of their masks, the
former would cast many a glance of curiosity at those whom they were
taught to hate and loathe.
For now that the city, as well as the country that lay around it, was
filled with French soldiery, there would sometimes pass before their
eyes handsomely accoutred mousquetaires and dragoons, or sometimes a
fierce and swarthy Cravate, and sometimes a young cadet of the
regiment of Royal-Condé or of the superbly decorated Garde de la
Reine. And from the eyes that sparkled behind the half-masks would
be shot glances that told of one of two things--or it may be of
both!--namely, of hatred for the invader or of that admiration which
scarlet or blue, or gold and silver lace, scarcely ever fail to
extort.
Beneath the leafy branches of some acacia and ialanthus trees there
sat this evening a group of four people watching all the promenaders,
native and foreign, who passed before them. One, the chief of the
group, was an elderly man who seemed more immersed in intricate
thought than concerned in what met his eyes. By his side was a lady,
herself no longer young, and, consequently, unmasked; a woman with a
sweet, sad face, who might have given to any onlooker the idea that
her thoughts were little enough occupied with the affairs of this
world--an idea that would, perhaps, have been increased in the minds
of those who should regard her by the appearance of delicate health
which her face wore.
Next to her were two ladies, each masked and young, though one, if the
lower and uncovered portion of the face was sufficient to judge by,
was much younger than her companion. For surely the dark, chestnut
hair of this latter, as it curled beneath the broad-brimmed,
black-feathered hat she wore, while undisfigured by any wig or powder,
belonged only to a woman in her first blush of early womanhood. So,
too, must have done the tall, slight form clad outwardly in a long,
dark-coloured satin cloak, and the slim hands from which the white
gauntlets had been withdrawn. Also, the eyes that looked calmly
through the eyelets of the mask, the sweet yet grave-set mouth
beneath, and the white, smooth chin, would have told that here sat one
who was young yet sedate, beautiful but grave.
As for the lady next to her, she too was grave and solemn, and, for
the rest, clad much the same as her companion.
"And so," said the elderly gentleman, speaking now, though not until
he had looked carefully round the _bosquet_ in which they all sat to
see that there was no one about to overhear his words, "and so you are
resolved to go--both of you--and to inform your--your cavalier of your
determination to-night?"
"Yes," the elder of the two masked ladies replied, "we are resolved.
If for no other reason than for the one that, while we remain, he will
not go himself. And, ah! he is too brave, too noble, to have his life
sacrificed by us. Is it not so, Sylvia?"
"In very truth it is," the girl replied. "If he remains here he does
so at imminent deadly peril to himself; and that must not be. I, at
least, will not have it so."
"Nor I," said the Comtesse de Valorme.
"I do aver," Madame Van Ryk said now, with a half-smile upon her sad
face, "that Mademoiselle de Scudéry and Madame de Lafayette might have
drawn inspiration for one of their romances from you. And--how strange
a working of chance is here! This cavalier sets forth to rescue a
maiden who, in plain fact, needs no rescuer, but in her turn is forced
to save the cavalier. Our Netherlanders have no romance. 'Tis pity!
They should know this tale."
"Romance or no romance," Sylvia replied, "this gentleman shall throw
away no chance of safety, and it rests with me to prevent him from
doing so. Ah! ah!" she went on, "if evil should befall him through his
hopes of succouring me how should I bear my life?"
Van Ryk shot a glance at his wife as Sylvia spoke thus--a glance that
the lady well understood--then he said drily:
"At least he wins a rich reward, a rich guerdon"--and Sylvia started
at the word, remembering how the Earl of Peterborough had himself used
it, as well as in what sense he had used it--"in having gained your
interest in his welfare."
"Should he not gain reward, does he not deserve it, remembering the
interest he has testified in my welfare? And he will do so. If I
should chance to stand face to face with my Lord Marlborough, he shall
know how much 'Monsieur de Belleville' aspires to wear his sword for
the Queen."
"And so shall he know it from me," the Comtesse said, "if I, too, find
myself before this great commander."
"We go together," Sylvia said. "If I obtain the ear of his lordship so
shall you."
"What must be must be," Van Ryk said. "Now, see, the twilight is at
hand. Soon it will be dark. I will but call my wife's chair and send
her home, and then escort you to your own house. Monsieur de
Belleville will doubtless be awaiting your coming--your decision."
Half an hour later the three stood outside the wall of the Weiss Haus,
by the side entrance that led past the stables and through the little
copse in which, that morning, Bevill had found Sparmann seated dead.
[Illustration: "Sylvia heard a soft, yet firm footstep on the path."]
Tapping on the door gently as she sought admission to her own house,
Sylvia heard a soft, yet firm footstep on the path a moment later.
Another instant and the door was opened, and Bevill stood before them.
Then, when they had all exchanged greetings and Sylvia had asked him
how the previous night had passed, receiving for answer the
information that, after the storm was over, he had been enabled to
sleep, Bevill desired to know where they wished to retire to, there to
confer on any plans that she and Madame de Valorme might have decided
on.
"Let us remain outside," Sylvia replied, "in one of the arbours. The
night is warm, and the sun to-day has dried the wet of last night.
Come," she said, addressing the others, "to the _bosquet_ on the lawn.
There we can talk in comfort."
Upon which they proceeded along the path that ran through the
copse--there was no silent figure now on the seat around the great
tree, though Bevill could not refrain from casting one glance at the
spot where it had been in the morning--and so reached the arbour the
girl had spoken of.
One thing Bevill had determined on, and, in so doing, had also
impressed on old Karl, and this was that no word should be uttered to
Sylvia of all that had occurred in the house overnight. For he knew,
or, at least, already understood, that, should she be made cognisant
of these occurrences, no power on earth would prevent her from
instantly deciding to set out with him from Liége, so as, thereby, to
ensure, if possible, what she would believe to be his safety. Yet in
doing this she might not be absolutely ensuring his safety, while,
undoubtedly, she would be jeopardising her own. And he would not have
that. If Sylvia desired to go, she should go with him in her train,
but she should not go on his behalf. Never! He had come there to save
her, not to force her to imperil herself by saving him. That must
never be. While, for the rest, what mattered it to him now whether he
stayed here in danger, or, if she desired it, courted additional
danger by going with her? In either case he would be by her side
unless disaster came; while, if it came, he would still be near to, it
might be, shield and protect her, perhaps to save her. He would leave
the decision in her hands, would abide by her determination. He was
learning to love her--pshaw! _was_ learning! Nay, he did love her.
Nothing should drive him from her. As she decided so it should
be--short of her deciding to do aught that should part him from her.
Now that they were all seated in the arbour, Sylvia at once began to
unfold her plans by saying:
"Mr. Bracton, the Comtesse and I have decided to quit Liége to-morrow
night."
"Ah, yes," he answered, seeing that, beneath the stars now twinkling
in the evening sky, another pair of stars, not less bright than those
above, were looking into his eyes as though expectant of his reply.
"Ah, yes. Yet are you well advised? Have you thought deeply on what
you do? You told me but a few days past that you were safe here, being
a woman."
"Safe--yes, perhaps. Yet desperately desirous of leaving this
war-ridden land, of reaching my own; of imploring the assistance of
the Captain-General of our forces to put me in the way of doing so.
Also, I desire to snatch the chance of travelling with Madame de
Valorme, who is herself resolved to implore Lord Marlborough
to--to--ah! you know what her desires are."
"As all know here," the Comtesse said. "There is no need for silence.
England has promised help to us poor Protestants in Languedoc, and,
for the help that England can give, Lord Marlborough alone can decide.
Today, he stands here as England, he is England; he is the one foe
whom Louis fears, the one who may bring Louis to his demands. And the
time is now. Environed east and west and north and south by his
enemies, England's help given in the Cevennes may free us from our
sufferings; may enable us at last to worship God in our own way, as
his grandsire allowed our people to do. I must see Marlborough. I
must! I must!"
"Being resolved," Bevill said, "doubtless your plans for leaving Liége
are decided on. How have you determined to quit the city?"
"For our purpose," Sylvia answered, "we are all French. You are M. de
Belleville, Madame is truly the Comtesse de Valorme, I am her maid."
"Yet her actual maid is old," Bevill said.
"They will not know that at the gate."
"'Tis best," Van Ryk said now, speaking for the first time, while
remarking that the wind was rising and rustling the leaves behind the
arbour, "that you leave at a fixed time. The east gate is the last
left open, but even for the French themselves that is closed to them
and all and every as the clock from St. Lambert's strikes eleven,
after which none can enter or pass out. It will be well, therefore,
that you should meet the ladies," he continued, addressing Bevill,
"ere they reach the gate. If chance is with you all you should be
outside in safety ere the hour has struck."
"Where and when shall it be?" Bevill asked.
"By the Prince's palace at ten of the night. Then are our townsmen in
their houses and shortly after in their beds, and the streets are
therefore well-nigh deserted. Also our invaders," he went on bitterly,
"are all called in at sunset, the town is quiet. Beyond your
questioning at the gate there will be naught to impede you."
"Is it agreed on?" Sylvia asked of Bevill.
"As you command," he answered, "it shall be. At ten of the night
to-morrow I shall be outside the Prince's palace or no longer alive."
"Ah!" exclaimed Sylvia, shuddering at the very thought of Bevill's
being no longer in existence twenty-four hours hence. "Never speak nor
dream of it. If I thought there was danger of such horrors would I
quit Liége?"
An instant after Bevill had spoken he knew that his words were
ill-timed. He recognised that to alarm Sylvia at this moment--the
moment when she had decided to set out on the road to England--was
madness. Madness, because he knew--he could not help but know--that
after the episodes of the last night in the now gloomy and deserted
Weiss Haus his own life was in serious danger; not from any violence
that Francbois might attempt against him--that, he doubted not, he
could meet and overthrow--but from his treachery. And though,
soldier-like, he thought but little of his life and was willing to
freely set it against the prize that success and increase of honour
would bring, he was not willing to set it against the sweet, new-born
hopes that had sprung to his heart; against the desire to win this
beautiful and stately woman for his wife.
"Yet," he mused, even as he heard Van Ryk telling her how he charged
himself henceforth with all care of her property and affairs; how, in
truth, he would regard himself as her steward and agent in Liége until
brighter days should dawn, "yet, if I am betrayed, if I die here, I
lose more than my life, more than that life is worth; while she--ah!
no--I may not dream nor hope as yet to win what I desire. Though
still--still I fain would hope that this life of mine may grow
precious to her--that she would as little part from me as I from her.
If it should be so! If it should!"
They had all risen now, and were once more making their way towards
the thicket by the stables, Mynheer Van Ryk walking with Madame de
Valorme and Bevill by Sylvia's side; and as they went, he said to her:
"There is one fear within my heart, one dread that I would have
allayed. May I ask a question, hoping to receive an answer to it from
you?"
"Ask," Sylvia replied, looking at him in the starlight, while, since
she herself was tall, her eyes were not so far from his but that he
could gaze easily into them.
"You do not set out upon this journey, do not leave Liége on my
account alone!" he said now. "I could not bear to deem that you are
going on a perilous journey--for perilous it may be--only to ensure
the safety of one who, perhaps foolishly then, placed himself in a
position of which there was no need."
"Then--And now?" Sylvia murmured.
"But who now regards the enterprise he undertook as--it may well be
so--the happiest, the best determination he ever embarked upon. Ah!
answer me, Sylvia."
"I set out to-morrow night," the girl replied, "because I fain
would quit Liége--because I would be gone from out of it at once.
The place thrusts against my desires, my wishes--ay, all my hopes
of--happiness--to come. Ask me no more since I have answered you.
Farewell," holding out her slim, white hand to him. "Farewell until
to-morrow night. You will not fail, I know."
"I shall never fail you. Farewell. Goodnight."