THE MARTYR.
"James! James! what are you saying? you terrify me!" exclaimed Angela,
as she witnessed the duke's emotion.
"You know," said the duke to Croustillac, "in consequence of what
political events I was arrested and confined to the Tower of London in
1685?"
"You will excuse me, your highness, if I know not a word of it; I am as
ignorant as a fish of contemporaneous history, which, be it said in
passing, and without boasting, rendered my part outrageously difficult
to play; for I was always afraid I should make some ridiculous
statement, and thus compromise, not my reputation as a scholar--I am no
priest--but your fortune which I so imprudently assumed."
"Very well then," said the duke; "after the death of my father; when the
Duke of York, my uncle, ascended the throne under the title of James
II., I entered into a conspiracy against him. I shall not seek to
justify my conduct; years of reflection have made things clear to me. I
know now that I was as culpable as I was insane; the young Duke of
Argyle was the soul in this plot. All this was carried on under the very
eyes of the Prince of Orange, then a stadtholder, now King of England.
Argyle knew my views of the Protestant action, my ambition, my
resentment against James II.; he had no trouble in associating me with
his plans. At once, owing to my name and influence, I was at the head of
the conspiracy. I had news from England which only waited my presence
there to overthrow the throne of the papist king to proclaim me king in
his place. I departed from the Texel with three vessels transporting
soldiers whom I had recruited. Argyle, having preceded me in Scotland,
had paid with his head for the audacity of his attempt. I landed in
England at the head of a number of devoted partisans. I realized then
how greatly I had been deceived. Three or four thousand men at the most
joined the handful of brave men who were pledged to my cause, and among
others were Mortimer, Rothsay and Dudley. The son of Monck, the young
Duke of Albemarle, advanced against me at the head of a royal army; and
I, desiring to bring fortune to the point, made a decisive move. I
attacked the enemy at Sedgemore, near Bridgewater; I was beaten in spite
of the prodigies of valor shown by my little army, and, above all, by my
cavalry, commanded by the brave Lord George Sidney." In pronouncing this
name, the voice of the prince failed him, and deep emotion was depicted
upon his face.
"George Sidney! my second father! my benefactor!" cried Angela. "It was
in fighting for you he was killed! it was at that battle, then, that he
was killed? This is the secret you have hidden from me?"
The duke bent his head, and after a few minutes' silence, said, "You
will know all, very soon, child! Our rout was complete. I wandered off
at hazard; my head had a price upon it. I was seized the day after this
fatal defeat and conducted to the Tower of London. My case was tried.
Convicted of high treason, I was condemned to death."
"Oh," cried Angela, throwing herself into the duke's arms; "you deceived
me; I believed you to be only exiled."
"Be calm, Angela; yet I have hidden this from you, as much that you
should not be troubled as--." Then, after a moment's hesitation,
Monmouth continued, "you shall know all; it requires much courage to
make this revelation."
"Why? What have you to fear?" said Angela.
"Alas! poor child, when you have heard me, perhaps you will regard me
with horror!"
"You, James? do you believe that I can ever do that?"
"Well," said Monmouth, "whatever the result, I must speak, at the risk,
perhaps, of separating us forever."
"Never, never!" cried Angela despairingly.
"Zounds! I will sooner throw De Chemerant from these cliffs at the least
pretense," cried Croustillac. "And, as for that, with your slaves, we
could furnish him a fine escort. But I think--will you try this method?
How many slaves can you arm, sir?"
"You forget that De Chemerant's escort is considerable; the negro
fishermen have gone--there are not more than four or five men here.
Violent means are impossible. Providence doubtless wills that I shall
expiate a great crime. I will be resigned."
"A crime, James? guilty of a great crime? I will never believe it!"
cried Angela.
"If my crime was involuntary, it was none the less horrible. Angela, it
is now my duty to tell you what I owe to Sidney, your noble relative who
took such care of you in your infancy, poor orphan! While you were
receiving your education in France, where he had himself taken you,
Sidney, whom I had seen in Holland, attached himself to my fortunes; a
singular similarity of tastes, of principles and thoughts, had drawn us
together; but he was so proud that I was obliged to make the advances.
How happy I was at having first pressed his hand! Never was there a
living soul as beautiful as Sidney's. Never was there a nobler character
or a more generous and ardent heart! Dreaming of the happiness of the
people, deceived as I was myself as to the true end of my plans, he
believed that he was serving the holy cause of humanity, when he was in
reality only serving the fatal ambition of a man! While the conspiracy
was organizing, he was my most active emissary and my most intimate
confidant. To describe to you, my child, the profound, blind attachment
of Sidney for myself would be impossible; one affection only struggled
in his heart with that which he had vowed to me; it was his tenderness
for you--you, his distant relative of whom he had assumed the care. Oh!
how he cherished you! Through all the agitations, and the perils of his
life as a soldier and conspirator, he always found some moments in which
to visit his Angela. There were ever tears in his eyes when he spoke to
me of you. Yes, this man, of intrepid courage and indomitable energy,
wept like a child in speaking of your tender grace, the qualities of
your heart, and your sad and studious youth, poor little abandoned one,
for you had no one in the world but Sidney. On that fatal day at
Bridgewater he commanded my cavalry. After prodigies of valor, he was
left for dead on the battlefield; as for me, carried away in a rush of
flying troops, grievously wounded, it was impossible for me to find
him."
"Was not that the day when he died?" said Angela, wiping her eyes.
"Listen, Angela; oh, you do not know how these sad memories break my
heart!"
"And ours also," said Croustillac. "Brave Sidney! I do not know what it
is that tells me that he did not die that day at Bridgewater, and that
we shall hear of him again."
Monmouth trembled, remained silent a moment, and then continued: "I must
have courage. I will tell you all. Sidney was left for dead on the
battlefield; I was arrested, condemned to death, and my execution fixed
for the 15th of July, 1685. When they told me I was to be executed the
following day, I was alone in my prison.
"In the midst of the terrible thoughts to which I was a prey during
those dreadful hours that preceded the moment of my execution, I swear
to you, Angela, before the God that hears me, if I had any sweet and
consoling thoughts to calm me, they were those I gave to Sidney, in
recalling the beautiful days of our friendship. I believed him dead and
I said, 'In a few hours I shall be united to him forever.' All at once
the door of my cell opened and Sidney appeared!"
"Zounds! so much the better! I was sure he was not dead," exclaimed
Croustillac.
"No, he was not dead," replied the duke with a sigh. "Would to God he
had died as a soldier on the field of battle."
Angela and Croustillac looked at Monmouth in astonishment. He continued:
"At the sight of Sidney I believed myself the dupe of a fancy conjured
up by my extreme agitation; but I soon felt his tears on my cheek, and
myself pressed within his arms. 'Saved! you are saved!' he said,
through his tears. 'Saved?' said I, gazing at him stupidly. 'Saved, yes;
listen to me,' said he, and this was what he told me: My uncle the king
could not openly show me mercy; policy forbade; but he did not wish his
brother's son to perish on the scaffold. Informed by one of his
courtiers who was, notwithstanding, one of my friends, of the
resemblance between Sidney and myself, a resemblance which so struck you
the first time you saw me," said Monmouth to Angela, "King James had
secretly provided Sidney with means to get into my prison. This devoted
friend was to assume my clothes, and I to put on his, and go out of the
Tower by means of this strategy. The next day, learning of my escape and
the devotion of Sidney remaining prisoner in my stead, the king would
put him at liberty and give orders to seek me out; but these orders
would only be in appearance. He favored, secretly, my departure for
France. I was only to write to the king and give him my word to never
return to England."
"Ah, well," said Angela, interested to the last degree by this recital;
"you accepted Sidney's offer, and he remained a prisoner in your stead?"
"Alas! yes, I accepted it, for all that Sidney said to me seemed so
probable; his presence at that hour in the prison, in spite of the
severe watch to which I was subjected, made me believe that an
all-powerful will aided mysteriously in my flight."
"It was not so, then?" cried Angela.
"Nothing could be more naturally arranged, it seems to me," said
Croustillac.
"In effect," said Monmouth, smiling bitterly, "nothing was more
naturally arranged; it was only too easy for Sidney to persuade me, to
turn aside my objections."
"And what objections could you make?" said Angela. "What was there
astonishing in that King James, not wishing to shed your blood on the
scaffold, should connive at your escape?"
"And how could Sidney succeed in getting into the prison, sir, without
the assistance of some powerful influence?" said the adventurer.
"Oh, is it not so?" said the duke with sad satisfaction, "was it not
that all that Sidney said to me might seem probable, possible? Was I not
justified in believing him?"
"Undoubtedly," said Angela.
"Was it not," continued Monmouth, "was it not possible to put faith in
his words without being misled by the fear of death, without being
influenced by a cowardly, horrible egotism? And still, I swear to you, I
did not agree to what Sidney said to me. Before accepting life and
liberty which he came to offer me in the name of my uncle, I asked
myself what would happen to my friend if James did not keep his promise?
I said to myself that the greatest punishment that could befall a man
who was an accomplice in aiding another to escape, was imprisonment in
turn; thus, admitting this hypothesis, once free, although compelled to
hide myself, I had sufficient resources at my disposal not to quit
England before having, in my turn, liberated Sidney. What more can I say
to you? The instinct of life, the fear of death, doubtless obscured my
judgment, troubled my discernment. I accepted, for I believed everything
Sidney said to me. Alas! why was I so insane?"
"Insane? Faith, you would have been insane had you not accepted!" cried
Croustillac.
"Who, indeed, would have hesitated in your place?" added Angela.
"No, no, I tell you that I should not have accepted; my heart, if not my
head, should have revolted at this deceptive thought. But what did I
know. A strange fatality, perhaps a frightful egotism, pushed me on. I
accepted. I pressed Sidney in my arms, I took his clothes, and I said to
him, 'To-morrow!' with the conviction that I should see him the
following day. I left my cell; the jailer escorted me to the gate;
thanks to my resemblance to Sidney, he noticed nothing wrong, and led me
in haste by a secret road as far as a door of the Tower. I was free! I
forgot to tell you that Sidney had informed me of a house in the city
where I could wait for him safely, for he would return, he said, to me
the following day, in order to plan our departure. At last I found, at
this house in the city, the precious stones I had confided to Sidney on
my departure from Holland, the value of which was enormous. Wrapped up
in his mantle, a mantle which you wear to-day, and which has remained
sacred to me, I directed my steps toward the city. I rapped at the door;
an old woman opened it, and leading me into a secluded chamber, she gave
into my hands the iron casket, the key of which Sidney had handed me. I
found there my precious stones. Broken with fatigue, for the sleepless
hours I had passed were frightful, I fell into a slumber. For the first
time since my sentence to death, I sought sleep without saying to myself
that the scaffold awaited me on my awakening. When I arose the following
day it was broad daylight; a bright sun penetrated between my curtains.
I raised them; the sky was clear; it was a radiant summer day. Oh! I
felt such rapturous joy and such inexpressible happiness. I had seen my
open tomb, and I still lived. I breathed the air in every pore. Seized
with gratitude, I threw myself upon my knees, and blessed God, the king,
and Sidney. I waited to see this dear friend from one moment to another.
I did not doubt, no, I could not doubt, the king's clemency. All at once
I heard in the distance the criers announcing important events; it
seemed to me that I heard my name. I thought it was an illusion, but, in
fact, it was my name. Oh, then, a frightful presentiment seized me; my
hair stood on end. I remained on my knees. I listened with my heart
beating violently; the voices came nearer; I still heard my name mingled
with other words. A ray of joy, as foolish as my presentiment had been
horrible, changed my terror into hope. Madman! I believed they were
crying the details of the _escape of the Duke of Monmouth_. In my
impatience, I descended to the street; I bought the account; I mounted
again with palpitating heart, holding the paper in my hands."
Saying these words, Monmouth became frightfully pale, and could hardly
support himself. A cold perspiration bathed his forehead.
"Well?" cried Angela and Croustillac, who experienced a piercing agony.
"Ah," cried the duke despairingly, "it was the details of the _execution
of the Duke of Monmouth_."[B]
"And Sidney?" cried Angela.
"Sidney had died for me, died a martyr to friendship. His blood, his
noble blood, had been shed upon the scaffold instead of mine. Now,
Angela, you see, unhappy child, why I have always hidden this terrible
secret."
At these words the duke fell back on the sofa, hiding his face in his
hands. Angela threw herself at his feet, sobbing bitterly.
{[B] Hume says: "After his execution, his partisans held to the
hope of yet seeing him at their head; they flattered themselves
that the prisoner who had been beheaded was not the Duke of
Monmouth, but one of his friends, who resembled him greatly, and
who had had the courage to die in his stead."
Sainte-Foix, in a letter on the Iron Mask (Amsterdam, 1768), says:
"It is true that the report spread through London that an officer
of Monmouth's army who greatly resembled the duke, having been
taken prisoner, and knowing death to be inevitable, received a
proposition to represent the duke with as much joy as if life had
been offered him; and hearing this, that a great lady, having
bribed those who could open his coffin, and having looked at the
form, cried, 'Ah, that is not the Duke of Monmouth.'" Furthermore,
Sainte-Foix, who sought to prove that the Iron Mask was no other
than the Duke of Monmouth, cited a passage of another English work
by Pyms, in which he says: "Count Landy sent to seek Colonel
Skelton, who was the ex-lieutenant of the Tower, and whom the
Prince of Orange had dismissed to give the place to Lord Lucas."
"Skelton," said Count Landy to him the previous evening, in dining
with Robert Johnston, "you say that the Duke of Monmouth is living
and imprisoned in an English castle?" "I cannot vouch for this,
because I do not really know," said Skelton, "but I affirm that the
night after the pretended execution of the Duke of Monmouth, the
king, accompanied by three men, came himself to the tower and
carried the duke away."
Sainte-Foix cites still another conversation with Father
Tournemine, saying, "The Duchess of Portsmouth said to Father
Tournemine and to the confessor of King James that she always
imputed to that prince the execution of the Duke of Monmouth,
because Charles II., at the moment of his death and when about to
receive the last communion, had made King James (then Duke of York)
promise on the Host, which Huldeston, a Catholic priest, secretly
carried, that whatever revolt the Duke of Monmouth might attempt he
(James) would never punish him with death; so King James did not
put him to death," said Father Sanders.
We will not multiply citations. We only desire to establish that
the foundation of this story is not merely a romantic fiction, and
that if it is not based upon a historic certainty, it is at least
based upon a likely supposition.}