"TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST."
Some of those who came to Amiens as attendants upon the fair had not
yet sought their beds, whether in the straw of the stables, on the
brick floors of the kitchens, or in the sweltering garrets under the
red-tiled roofs. Night birds, however, were most of these, creatures
who found their account in roaming the streets, seeking whom they
might devour. Night birds, such as the bellowing, red-faced bullies
who had been shouting all day for drink and food in the _Croix
Blanche_, and who, managing to keep sober in spite of all their
potations, sallied forth at midnight. For it was then their work
began. Then horse dealers, merchants, buyers, dissolute members of the
local _bourgeoisie_ and the _petite noblesse_, making their way to
their lodgings or houses, found themselves suddenly seized by the
throat or from behind, and their watches, trinkets and rings taken
from them and their purses cut--nay, might deem themselves fortunate
if their throats were not cut too.
Once or twice men of this stamp passed Douglas after he had quitted
his friend--fellows in soiled finery with great swords by their sides,
and with their huge hats drawn down over their faces--who looked at
him askance, seeing his sword also by his side and noting his
well-knit form and military bearing. But, as they observed his glance
fixed keenly on them and his hand ready enough to his weapon, they
passed on with a surly "Good-night."
Making his way back to the inn, Douglas came to a sudden halt as he
arrived under the _Beau Dieu_ on the pillar of the great west doorway
of _Nôtre Dame d'Amiens_, for, in the open space in front of that
entrance he saw two of these very night birds standing, evidently, as
he supposed at first, planning and concocting some villainy. Regarding
them from behind a buttress of that old cathedral of Robert de
Luzarches, he could observe them and all their movements plainly
enough, since the full moon was high in the heavens by now; and,
although the towers obscured somewhat the light, a great stream of it
poured down into the place before the west doorway and with its rays
illuminated the space.
Great brawny fellows they were, he could see; good types of the half
swashbuckler, half highwayman, of the period--the class of men who
would be found one day fighting as mercenaries at Placentia or
Raucoux, another robbing a church or some lonely grange, another hung
or broken on the wheel, or swinging in chains on a gibbet on some
heath or by the seashore.
"By St. Firmin!" he heard one say to the other, while he balanced
something in his hand which sparkled in the moonlight as he gazed down
at it, "who would have thought the scarecrow had such valuables upon
him? _Regardez moi ça!_" and again he moved what he had in his hand,
so that it glittered as though on fire.
"'Tis enough," replied the other, "we have done well this fairing. Now
for Paris and _vogue la galère!_ We have the wherewithal to amuse
ourselves for a year. Come, let us ride to-night; to-morrow he may
raise a hue and cry. Come, the horses are outside; the gates do not
shut till midnight. Hark! it wants but a quarter," he broke off as the
big clock above them boomed out that hour. "Come," and clasping his
companion's arm they disappeared round the other side of the
cathedral.
The first impulse of Douglas was to seize these men, if possible;
the next, since they were two to one, to follow them to the gate and
there to call on the watchman to prevent their exit. And knowing that
some robbery had been committed, perhaps some murder--as was very
likely--he was about to put this idea in practice when his action was
arrested by what startled him far more than the sight of the two
scoundrels regarding their stolen wealth had done.
That which so startled him was a man's form creeping up behind him in
the shadow of the cathedral, a man who had come so near to him without
his knowing it that, as Douglas turned and faced him, he sprang out at
him and endeavoured to seize him by the throat. And as he did so he
shrieked out, "Villain, thief, give me back my property! Give it back,
I say, or," and he hissed the words out, "I will kill you! See, I am
armed: you have left me this," and he brandished a long knife that
shone in the moonlight--into which Douglas had now dragged him--as the
jewels had heretofore shone.
Of the man himself, nor of his dagger, Douglas had no fear; he was
stronger than his antagonist, and his hand held the other's, which
grasped the weapon, as in a vice. But what appalled, almost unnerved
him, was that he knew the voice--and he knew the man. It was
Fordingbridge.
"You fool!" he cried, "do you not know me? I am Douglas Sholto," and
as he said the words he felt the other's hold relax, felt him
disengage himself and stagger back against the wall of the cathedral,
where, the moon lighting up his pale, cadaverous face, he stood
gasping and glaring at him.
"Douglas Sholto!" he muttered, whispering to himself, "Douglas Sholto
here? So, you herd with thieves and robbers, do you? Where are they
gone, those others? Where, where, I say?"
"To the gates, I imagine. Beyond them by now," for as he spoke the
hour boomed forth from the clock in the tower above, and was repeated
by all the other clocks in the city. "Your property, Lord
Fordingbridge, is gone. I cannot say that I am sorry for it, though,
had you not come when you did, I was about to follow the men who
robbed you and have them stopped at the gate. Now, knowing whom they
have despoiled, I can only say I rejoice that for once you have met
with scoundrels as great as yourself."
Glowering, staring at him intently, the other leaned back against the
cathedral, while from his eyes there shone a light which looked like
the light of madness. Nay, in that moment Douglas decided in his own
mind that he was mad. Still, so great a villain did he know
Fordingbridge to be, that, gentle as he was to all others, he could
feel no pity towards him. Instead, he said:
"So, my lord, not content with having nearly sacrificed our lives in
England, you have tracked us all to this place, doubtless in
furtherance of some scheme of your own, though what it is I cannot
even guess. You can harm no one here. Your spite----"
"It is false," said Fordingbridge; "I have done no such thing. I am
myself on the road to Paris"--he did not say that he was a fugitive
from England--"and I have been robbed of all--jewels, money, bills."
"To Paris!" echoed Douglas. "I am afraid you will scarcely be welcome
there. The base hint you gave about being a priest will surely lead
you into trouble--for it is a lie, as my brother has discovered," and
he saw the other start at his words. But he went on: "Moreover, there
are many ardent adherents of the Stuart cause in Paris. How do you
imagine they will receive the intelligence that you, a supposed
adherent yourself, endeavoured to betray three others to their doom in
London? Lord Fordingbridge, take my advice, do not go to Paris."
In truth, he had no intention of going to Paris, as has been already
told. After much deliberation, when he stole away from his house at
Kensington, and during the time occupied in escaping to France, he had
been meditating much upon where he should live, where go to until the
trouble he had brought upon himself by his own evil actions should
have blown over. Money he did not want, having a large sum in France
that had been invested by his father, as well as that which he could
procure from his property in England, and so, at last, he decided that
he would for some time at least take up his abode at Amiens. There he
was comparatively near Paris if he wished at any time to visit the
capital, and at the same time he was but a day's journey to the
seaports of Calais and Boulogne, should he find it necessary at any
time to quit France suddenly. Full of these ideas, and certain that it
would not be long before he could either return to England or take up
his position in Paris, he had come on to Amiens and was now staying
at a larger inn than the _Croix Blanche_ under the name of Mr.
Chester--which had been his mother's.
He had come out that night, partly driven forth by the shouts and
carousings that were going on in his own hostelry in the same manner
that they were in all the others in the city, and which, with his
brain in the state it had been for some time now, were maddening to
him. And partly, also, he had been driven forth by discovering that a
large group of English visitors had arrived during the afternoon, the
very sight of whom was terrifying to him, since amongst them were one
or two young men of fashion whom he had more than once met at King
George's levees. Therefore, he had determined to wander about the city
until it was time to go to bed, and then to return and keep his room
until the English party had gone on to Paris the next morning and the
hubbub of the fair was over. But near the cathedral he had been
attacked and robbed of his money and trinkets--which, for precaution,
as he imagined, he had kept on his person--and in endeavouring to
follow the thieves he had stumbled on Douglas Sholto.
"No one would know that I was in Paris," he said, with a cunning leer
in his eyes, as he answered the other's remark. "No one, no one."
"On the contrary," replied Douglas, "everyone would know--Bertie, my
brother, your wife, all."
Again the other leered at him with so sidelong a glance, with such a
snake-like look, that Douglas, remembering how Archibald had said that
night that he must be mad, began to feel sure that he was, indeed, in
the presence of a demoniac--a creature whose pursuit of evil had
turned his brain. And again, for some reason, the young man shuddered
violently as he looked at him, as he had shuddered more than once
before.
"No," hissed Fordingbridge, glinting his eyes round the open space in
front of the great cathedral, which, with the exception of the spot
where they stood, close up by the door, was now bathed in moonlight.
"No; they do not know, they will never know. They think I am still in
England; that I shall not leave it."
"Indeed! Will they think so to-morrow when I tell them I have met you
to-night?"
"Tell them to-morrow! To-morrow?" he whispered. "How can you do that,
Douglas Sholto?"
"Very easily. They are all here."
"Here!" He almost screamed the word "here," and his eyes roved round
the place as though he thought they might be hiding behind some
buttress, or pillar, ready to spring out on him.
"Ay, here. One, who seeks for you ever, at the Citadel, another at the
Jesuits' College, and your wife at an inn in the town."
Fordingbridge reeled back against the cathedral walls once more as he
heard this unexpected disclosure--he had until now imagined that
Douglas was alone in Amiens; and there he stood absolutely paralysed
with apprehension. In Amiens! The very place he had selected for a
refuge. In Amiens. They would know all to-morrow, all. And he would be
brought face to face with Elphinston, who would slay him, he never
doubted; with Archibald Sholto, who would denounce him to the
Jacobites, of whom there were many in this city as well as Paris; to
the Church, which he had slandered by falsely stating himself to be
one of its priests. A Church which, he knew--had reason enough to
know--was sufficiently powerful to resent any affront to it; a Church
which--though the Inquisition had no foothold in France--could make
its vengeance felt. And he remembered he had bound himself to that
Church by many oaths to further the Stuart cause in England, and had
ended by denouncing three of its most active partisans! No need for
Elphinston to force him to fight; no need for the Jacobites to take
vengeance on him for his treachery; Archibald Sholto would see that
the punishment was accorded.
As he stood there, while Douglas remained regarding him, he thought it
all out as well as his disordered mind would permit; remembered that
but for the hated form of the man before him they would never know he
was in France. And if they never knew, then he might remain in peace
until things could be smoothed over in England. But could they be so
smoothed? He must know that first.
"You drove me out of England," he said, or rather whined; "now you
would drive me out of France"; and he folded his hands across his
breast as he spoke, and stood shaking before the other.
"Your own cowardice, your own wickedness, drove you out," replied
Douglas. "Nought else. And, Lord Fordingbridge, because I would not
have you regard us upon the same bad level as yourself, let me tell
you this: None of us are spies, denouncers, informers. None. We do not
shift from white to black cockade to save our necks nor to gratify a
base hatred. You were not denounced by us to the English Government
even after your execrable lies at Lady Belrose's; we but frightened
you into silence till we had time to quit England ourselves. You have
been terrified by a bugbear--by your own evil nature."
Alas! poor Douglas. He was no match for this crafty, frenzied villain.
He told more than he should. He showed Fordingbridge that England was
still open to him; he presented him with the knowledge that, besides
himself, there was no one knew of his presence in France.
In a moment the wretch had grasped this fact; in another he had
resolved on what he would do. His glittering eye still upon Douglas,
who stood there calmly contemptuous, his left hand idly resting on his
sword hilt, and his right in the lace of his ruffles, he asked:
"Is this true?"
For answer Douglas shrugged his shoulders and replied, "All men are
not born liars."
Alas! poor Douglas. Unready as he was, he had no time to save himself.
With a harsh, raucous cry the other sprang at him; the knife, which he
had held hidden in his sleeve so long, gleamed in the moonlight; a
moment later and it was buried in Douglas's bosom.
"So," said the assassin, "in this way I am free of France too."
As he struck the unhappy man the latter reeled back three paces and
then fell prone in the full blaze of the moonlight, while the
murderer, with a hurried glance round, prepared to skulk away in the
deep shadow thrown by the cathedral walls on a side street. Yet, as
though the horror of the deed he had done were not enough for him to
carry away, he knew that it had been observed.
As he turned to fly, he saw looking at him from a window in a darkened
room the white face of a woman distorted with terror; a face from
which the eyes seemed starting. And, as he crept by the buttress in
the shadow, he also saw her raise her finger and point as though
denouncing him.