The Love of Monsieur

“Tush, monsieur!” said Mornay, sternly. “You forget yourself. I will be at the Fleece Tavern to-night at eleven. If you would see me before I leave England, you will find me there. Madame, your servitor.” In a moment he had closed the door and was walking down the hallway.

Monsieur Mornay knew that Ferrers would lose but little time in arousing the servants of Mistress Clerke, and that before he should have gone very far upon his way there would be a hue and cry after him. But he had great confidence in Vigot, and the coachman and outriders were rogues with comfortable consciences, who, if they were well paid, could be depended on. He entered the coach and waved his hand. The coachman snapped his lash over the heads of the leaders. The fire flew from the cobbles as the animals clattered into a stride.

The vehicle had not moved its own length before Ferrers and two lackeys came running out of the house, shouting at the top of their bent. But Vigot had his instructions. The lash came down again and the horses broke into a brisk trot. One of the lackeys sprang for the bridle of the nearest outrider, but the horseman gave the man a cut across the face with his whip, and he fell back with a scream of pain. Ferrers was absolutely helpless. There were not half a dozen people in the street. Monsieur Mornay thrust his head out of the window of the coach and took off his hat.

“The Fleece Tavern at eleven,” he said.

Ferrers hurled a curse at him and renewed his shouting, to the end that men by this time came running from the houses and shops farther up the street, through which the coach must pass. But the horses were moving at a full gallop. It would have been easier to stop a charge of cavalry. Most people simply looked back at Ferrers and stared. One or two venturesome fellows rushed out, but a sight of the resolute faces of the outriders, who guarded the leaders’ heads, was enough to make them pause, and the coach clattered on to safety. There were twenty plum-colored calashes in the city, and Mornay knew that detection would be difficult if not impossible at this time of the evening, when the streets were cleared and the coach could wind deviously to the distant purlieus of Fenchurch Street. Soon the clamor they had made was lost in the turns of the winding streets, and the coach was brought by a distant route to the spot at which Monsieur Mornay had entered it – not a stone’s-throw from the Swan.

Cornbury was awaiting him upstairs. He had puffed the room full of smoke, and a look of relief passed over his face as Mornay entered. “Well, monsieur?” he asked.

Mornay did not answer. He tossed his hat down and threw himself into a chair.

“I’ve lost,” he muttered at last. He said no more, and Cornbury did not press him for information. But presently, when the supper was brought, and his eye alighted upon the face of his servant, he broke into a smile.

“Ah, Vigot!” he cried. “Did my honest rogues get back to their stable?”

“In perfect safety, monsieur. ‘Scaldy’ Quinn and Tom Trice are not the ones to be caught napping. They only wish another venture in your service.” Mornay sadly shook his head. “Vigot, I shall need no further service in England. You, too, shall go back to France – and I – ” He paused as a sudden thought came to him. He brought his fist down upon the table. “Parbleu! Wait, Vigot! Perhaps we may yet have need for these fellows. Tell them to come here quietly by ten of the clock.”

Cornbury had been watching him narrowly. Now he broke out angrily.

“Can ye not be satisfied? Why must ye go forever risking yer neck in the noose? Ye’ve escaped this time. How, God knows, save by that presumption which ye wear as a garment. Come, now, I’ve made up my mind to go to the Plantations. Take ship with me, man. I know of a venture there that is worth the pains of the trouble twenty times over. Come at least for the present, until yer peril is grown less.”

Mornay was holding his chin in his hand, lost in thought.

“Mon ami,” he said at last, “I’ve shot my bolt and lost. There was never so heartless a maid since the world began.”

“Tush, dear man! Must ye be forever thinking of the girl? A wench is a wench in England or Ameriky.”

Mornay arose and put his hands frankly upon the other’s shoulders.

“I’ll go with you, my good friend, where you please – after to-night.”

“Ay, and to-night – ye may go to the devil – ”

“’Tis so. I have an appointment with Captain Ferrers at the Fleece for eleven.”

Cornbury’s face fell.

“Egad, man, ye’re incorrigible! And d’ye think he’ll meet ye?”

“I don’t know. He may not, alone. But I think that he will, in company. If he does, I’ll not fail him.”

“Don’t ye go. It will be a trap. The man will not fight, I tell you, while the law of England can do his vengeance for him. Ye’ll run afoul of an army of constables.”

“I know it, but I’ll risk it.”

“And if ye kill him ye destroy the last proof of yer birth,” sneered the Irishman.

“I don’t know,” replied Mornay, coolly. Cornbury stormed up and down the room in a rage.

“Ye’ll have your will,” he cried, “for the sake of a little fight. Go to your death, rash man that ye are, but don’t say that I haven’t warned ye.”

“Cornbury, listen. I’ve a desire to look into the pockets of this Capitaine Ferraire.”

“And what do ye think ye’ll find there – the blessing of the Pope?”

Mornay laughed outright. “Perhaps, but not for me. An idea has grown upon me, and now possesses me body and soul. It is that these papers are in the coat of Monsieur Ferraire.”

Cornbury sent out a sudden volume of smoke to signify his disgust.

“P’sh! Do ye think the man has but one suit? Ye’ll lose your labor, sir. He has hidden yer proofs most secretly by this.”

“None the less, mon ami, I’m going to pick his pocket!”

There was a thin skim of storm over the face of the moon as Mornay and Cornbury left the Swan Tavern. The wind was fitful in the streets, and, though the season was June, as they passed a corner now and then a heavy gust, full of the dampness and rigor of October, flew full in their faces and caused them to pull their summer cloaks more closely about them. Following in their footsteps were three men, one of whom was Vigot. The other two were the rascals who had served as outriders to Monsieur Mornay in the afternoon: Tom Trice, a tall and slender, stoop-shouldered man, who peered uneasily to left and right, and “Scaldy” Quinn, who was short, with a most generous breadth of leg and shoulder. The Frenchman had paid them liberally before leaving the Swan, and the understanding was that they should follow instructions without question, and if necessary be prepared to strike a sturdy blow or two for monsieur, who was going into the camp of his enemies. The Fleece Tavern had lately gained a bad name by reason of the many brawls and homicides that had occurred within its walls. The place was not inaptly named, for its master, Papworth, took money when and how he might, and bore the name of one who would not stop at a sinister deed if it would avail him to achieve his end. But in spite of its disrepute among the more careful of its gamesters at the court, the Fleece was still frequented by a larger following than any other gaming-house in London. There was more money to be seen there. Most of its rooms were filled at all hours with a motley crowd of men of the town, noblemen, and soldiers of fortune, who would play at dice, basset, and quinze for days and nights at a time, dropping out only when the lack of food and sleep made it necessary.

Cornbury strode along, muttering in his cloak.

“Why go on this d – d fool’s errand?” he said, at last. “Why will ye not take ship comfortably, like a gentleman? Like ye the look of a prison that ye must be prying and poking yer head inside the bars? Ye’re a fool, man.”

Mornay paused to look at him curiously for a moment, and then he laughed.

“I am. And you’re another, mon ami, for going with me.” They walked along for a moment in silence before the Frenchman spoke again. “Here is what we shall do, Cornbury: Vigot shall go into the house next to the Fleece, which is upon the corner. It is a mercer’s shop, with lodgings above, to let. He will choose a room, and so gain his way to the roof. He will then steal over the leads to the dormer of the Fleece and down into the hall, making all clear for our escape. The other two rascals will enter by the cook-room, and, gaining their way upstairs, await our signal there. We will then meet Capitaine Ferraire and his friend with an eye in the back of our heads for any signs of his followers.” As Mornay proceeded he could see the eyes of the Irishman flash with delight in the moonlight.

“’Tis a good plan,” he returned, “and but for one thing – ”

“What?”

“They may be too many for you. Ferrers will have half of the watch with him, for by this there’s a pretty premium upon your head.”

“The more credit, then, in outwitting them”; and then, sinking his voice, “Silence, monsieur, we are already in the shadow of St. Paul’s.”

CHAPTER VI

THE ESCAPE

They walked quickly along under a wall, keeping in the shadow. Vigot received his orders and went forward alone. When last they saw him he was swaggering and staggering by turns up to the mercer’s, where he began pounding lustily upon the door for admittance. Trice and Quinn Mornay despatched by a side street to approach the tavern from another direction.

At the Fleece there was no unusual sign. From an open window came the rattle of dice, the clink of the counters, and the laughter of men. The night being still young, many people were passing to and fro upon the streets, and Mornay and Cornbury, wrapped in their cloaks, looking neither to the right nor left, pushed open the door at the front and walked boldly into the room. Several drinkers lounged upon the benches, and there was a game of basset in the corner, but the players were so intent that they had no eyes for the new arrivals. Cornbury drummed loudly upon the floor with his foot, and one of the fellows, a pigeon-breasted ensign in a dragoon regiment, cast a loser’s curse over his shoulder, but failed to recognize them. They ordered a drink and the room on the second floor at the head of the stairway.

Mornay’s reasons for this were obvious. He wanted a narrow passage, where more than two men would be at a disadvantage, and where all opportunity for outside interference would be obviated. The host himself brought their lights and bottles. When he saw that it was Monsieur Mornay who was his guest, he started back in amazement.

“Monsieur!” he cried. “You? I thought – ”

“Sh – Yes, it is I. But keep your tongue, Papworth. Is Captain Ferrers here?”

“No, sir. Two notes have arrived for him, but – ”

Mornay glanced significantly at the Irishman.

“You think he will come?”

“I should be sure of it, sir.”

“Very good. When he comes tell him Captain Cornbury and I are awaiting him.”

“But, sir, if you’ll pardon me, the Fleece Tavern is no place for you, sir. There’s been constables watching for you all yesterday and to-day.”

Mornay laughed a little to himself.

“’Tis plain I’m too popular. Listen, Papworth. I did you a good turn with the King when Captain Lyall was killed in your garden. Now you can return me the compliment.”

“Yes, monsieur, but – ”

“I’ll have no refusal.”

The man rubbed his chin dubiously while Cornbury told him their plans. When the Irishman had finished, Mornay slipped a handful of coins into his palm, which worked a transformation in his point of view.

“I’ll do what I can, monsieur,” he said, jingling the money. “But if there’s to be fighting, the Fleece will lose its good repute forever.” Mornay and Cornbury both laughed at the long face and hollow note of virtuous regretfulness and resignation in his voice.

“Ochone! If there has been a duel in yer garden once in forty years, I’d never be the man to suspect it,” said the Irishman. The landlord raised a deprecating hand and disappeared.

“The garden?” growled Mornay. “I hope it may not be necessary to carry this matter there.”

“But have ye thought? He may not come up to yer room?”

“He must – ”

There was a cautious knock at the door, and Vigot entered, despair and distress written upon his features.

“Monsieur! Ill news! There was no room to let at the mercer’s. To-morrow is market-day, and the house is full to the garret. He would not let me even inside the door.”

“Tonnerre de Dieu!”

“And worse yet, monsieur – this place is watched. A number of black, silent figures are regarding it from the shadows – ”

“Ye have read the man aright, Mornay,” said Cornbury.

“Mille diables! We must go by the roof. It is our only chance. Listen, Vigot. Do you go up those stairs and out upon the leads. Curse the fellow! if you cannot get into his house at the bottom you must get in at the top.”

Vigot was off again as the landlord entered.

“Monsieur Mornay, Captain Ferrers awaits you below.”

A quick glance passed between the two men. Mornay paused a moment before replying.

“Tell him, Papworth,” he said, coolly, “that Monsieur Mornay has a quiet room upstairs where matters can be privately discussed. I will await him here.”

The man departed.

Cornbury drained his bowl.

“The man’s an arrant coward. Ten guineas that he doesn’t come. Why, monsieur, he couldn’t have entrapped us better himself. Ye’ve made the bait too tempting. He’ll smell a rat.”

“Pouf! Cornbury, he has it all his own way. Twenty guineas that he comes.”

Cornbury did not answer; he was bending towards the door, his mouth and eyes agape, as though to make his hearing better. But only the clatter of the game and the sound of the coarsened voices of the players came up the dimly lighted stairway. Upon the coming of this man hung Mornay’s only chance for success.

Five minutes they waited in silence, but at last there was a sound of footsteps upon the stairs, and in a moment Captain Ferrers and Mr. Wynne stood before them. The exuberance and confidence of Captain Ferrers’s smile found no echo in the face of Wynne, who looked sullenly and suspiciously at Cornbury and the Frenchman, as though the adventure were little to his liking. Mornay arose from his bench with great politeness, the perfection of courtesy and good-will, and waved Captain Ferrers to a seat. Cornbury sat puffing volumes of smoke, with an appearance of great contentment and unconcern.

Captain Ferrers was clearly taken off his guard, and his smile became the broader. He had at first thought Monsieur Mornay’s promise to come to the Fleece a mere French flippancy. Surely, after what had happened he could expect no clemency from Ferrers. Monsieur Mornay would have been flattered had he known how much of Captain Ferrers’s thoughts he had occupied during the last few hours. The Frenchman’s demeanor in the house of Mistress Clerke, his earnestness, his self-confidence, his assurance and poise, outdid anything that Ferrers remembered of that presumptuous person. A man with one leg in the grave or a lifetime of imprisonment staring him in the face would only play such a part because of one or two circumstances: he was using a desperate resort to gain some great end – perhaps to influence Mistress Barbara for clemency in the case of the death of Sir Henry Heywood; or else he was the real heir of the estate which Mistress Barbara was enjoying. To tell the truth, Ferrers did not care what he was. If the Frenchman came to the Fleece Tavern, he would be in the Tower by midnight. The prison would know no distinctions. He hated this man as one hates another to whom he is under obligations and who has done him a great injury. And if he was the real heir, come to dispossess Mistress Barbara and balk him in a marriage that meant a fortune beyond the wildest dreams, the worse for him. He should suffer for it!

All of these things passed again somewhat heavily through his mind. The air of unconcern and assurance which he met in the faces of both Mornay and the Irishman disarmed him. He thought how easy it had been to gain his ends, and comfortably fingered the whistle in his pocket with which he should presently call in his hounds upon his enemy. Nor would his pistols be required. If he had wished he could have sent his constables up from below to take these men in the trap they had made for themselves. But he enjoyed the situation. It was as easy as a game of quinze with the mirror behind your opponent’s back.

“Monsieur Ferraire,” began Mornay, pleasantly, “I am meeting you to-night at great risk of my life. I thank you that you have kept my plans and this rendezvous a secret.”

Ferrers’s small eyes blinked as though they had been liberally peppered, but the smile did not disappear.

“What I have to say is to your great advantage. If after I am through you still wish to meet me, I shall be at your service below in the garden, or elsewhere. Will you sit down?”

The Captain’s lip twitched a little and his fingers left the whistle and moved to a chair-back.

It was apparent that Mornay’s mind was a thousand miles from all thought of distrust or suspicion. He was as guileless as a child. Cornbury had filled another pipe and crossed his legs.

“It will be useless to sit or talk, monsieur,” said Ferrers, coldly. “I have brought Mr. Wynne with an object which cannot be mistaken. If you are agreeable, Mr. Wynne will talk with Captain Cornbury as to the arrangements.” He folded his arms and walked to the window with an air of rounding off a conversation.

Mornay arose from his seat and walked around the table to the side nearest the door.

“You must hear me, monsieur,” he said, calmly. “I offer you friendship and a proposition which cannot but be to your advantage.” Ferrers had turned, but his head shook in refusal.

“There can be but one proposition between us, Mornay.”

Mornay shrugged his shoulders.

“Captain Cornbury,” he said, “will you have the kindness to arrange with Monsieur de Wynne?”

He stopped, bit his lip a moment, then turned to Ferrers once more. “I entreat you to listen to me. I have told you that I was the Vicomte de Bresac. No, it is no jest. I am René d’Añasco. Eh bien. One day I shall prove it. What I ask is only to save a little time.”

He moved nearer to the Englishman, until he could have touched him with his outstretched arm.

“Listen, monsieur. If you will but give me the papers – ”

There was a motion – if ever so slight – of the fingers of Ferrers’s right hand. Only Mornay saw it. But it was enough. He sprang forward upon the man, and Ferrers’s whistle never reached his lips. In his wish to give the alarm he did not attempt to draw his fire-arm until Mornay’s hands and arms had pinioned him like a vise. All the fury of a life of longing was in that grasp. It seemed as though the years of sweat and privation had wrought upon his will and energy for this particular moment. He bore the Englishman back until his head struck the wall, and they came to the floor together. At the first sign of trouble, Wynne had started for the door, but Cornbury was there ahead of him. Not until then had there been a word spoken, a cry uttered; but now, almost at the same instant that Mornay and Ferrers crashed to the floor, Wynne set up a loud cry, which resounded down the corridor and stairs. In a moment there was a sound of tumbling furniture, and the cries of men seemed to come from every part of the building. But Vigot and his two fellows from above were first upon the landing, and set so vigorously upon the men mounting the stairs that their ascent was halted and they were thrown back in confusion.

In the meanwhile the struggle between Mornay and Ferrers continued. The Englishman had found his voice, and between his cries and curses and the clashing of the steel of Cornbury and Wynne the room was now a very bedlam of sound. Either the blow of his head at the wall or the sudden fury of Mornay’s assault had given the Frenchman the advantage, for Ferrers lay prone upon the floor, and, though he shouted and struggled, both of his wrists were held helpless in one of Mornay’s sinewy hands.

Suddenly Monsieur Mornay sprang away from the Englishman and to his feet, waving in his hands a packet of papers. He rushed past Cornbury and Wynne to the table, his eyes gleaming with excitement. With a fascination which made him oblivious to everything but his one overmastering passion, he tore the cover from the packet and examined the papers in the glare of the candles. In one of them he saw the name D’Añasco. It was enough.

None but a desperate man would have done so foolhardy a thing at such a time. Captain Ferrers was not slow to take advantage of his opportunity. He struggled painfully to his knee, and, drawing his pistol, took a careful aim and fired at the Frenchman. Mornay’s wig twitched and fell off among the candles. He staggered forward and dropped like a drunken man, his elbows on the table. Ferrers reached his feet, and, drawing his sword, made for the door. But Mornay was only stunned.

“Vigot! Vigot!” he shouted, rising. “Prenez garde, Vigot!”

But before Vigot could turn, Captain Ferrers had rushed out and thrust the unfortunate servant through the back. As Mornay saw Vigot go down he sprang after the Englishman into the corridor. Ferrers had set upon one of the fellows in the passageway at the same time that another and more determined attack was made from below. For a moment it seemed as though the constables had gained the landing. They would have done so had not Mornay, with an incomparable swiftness, engaged Ferrers and driven him step by step to the stairs, where at last he fell back and down into the arms of the men below. At this moment Cornbury, having disabled Wynne, came running to Mornay’s assistance with two heavy benches, which were thrown down the stairs into the thick of the men below, so that they fell back, groaning and bruised, to the foot of the stairway. Then, without the pause of a moment, Mornay dashed out the lights, and, carrying Vigot, ordered a retreat up the second flight of steps.

Vigot had a mortal wound and was even then at the point of death.

“Monsieur,” he said, faintly, “c’est fini! Laissez-moi!”

There were some heavy chests of drawers in the corridor above, and Mornay directed that these be piled for a barricade. The stairway was here very narrow and but one man could come up at a time. So two chests were balanced on the incline of the stairs and two more were ready at the top to replace the others. When this was done, Mornay sent Quinn and Trice up to the next floor to gain the roof and find a way to the street.

When they were gone, Mornay leaned over the dying man upon the floor.

“My poor Vigot,” he said.

“Laissez-moi, monsieur,” whispered Vigot. “C’est fini. They cannot hurt me. Over the roof a window is open into the garret of the mercer’s. Go, but quickly, monsieur – quickly.”

Mornay tried to lift him, but a deep groan broke from his breast.

“Non, monsieur, non.”

Mornay and Cornbury lifted him, and, placing him on a bed in one of the rooms, quietly closed the door.

By this time the men below had reached the landing. Mornay had one advantage. While the movements of the figures below were plainly to be seen, there was no light above, and the Frenchman knew that the constables could not tell whether his party were one or six. It was plain that they did not relish an attack on the dark stairway. If they had not been able to gain the landing below, how could they expect to fare better here? They caught a glimpse of the dim outline of the chests of the barricade, but beyond that all was black and forbidding.

Mornay and Cornbury only waited long enough to give the fellows above a chance to get over the roof, when they, too, quickly followed. As they crawled out of the window they heard the voice of Ferrers cursing the men for laggards, and at last a clatter of feet and the fall of one of the chests down the stairs.

They made their way stealthily but quickly across the leads to the dormer-window of the mercer’s shop, where they saw Trice beckoning. With a last backward glance they stole into the room. Its inmate was sitting upright in bed. Quinn was binding and gagging him with a kerchief and a sheet. They shut the window and took the key from the door, and passing into the hallway, locked their man in his room. It was none too soon, for a sound of shouts above announced that their escape was discovered. Upon this Cornbury threw discretion to the winds, and with drawn sword went down the stairs three steps at a time. The rickety stairs swayed and groaned under this noisy invasion, doors opened, and nightcapped heads with frightened faces peered from narrow doorways. There was a lantern burning in a sconce upon the wall. This Mornay seized as he passed. At the head of the first flight the mercer came out. But Cornbury stuck him in the leg with the point of his sword, and, seizing him by the back of the neck, pushed and dragged him down the stairs.