The Love of Monsieur

“The way out, ye vermin!” he said. “Quick! No. Not the front – the back door.”

The man was sallow with terror.

“The b-back door?” he chattered. “There is no back door.”

“A window, then,” jerked out Cornbury. “Quick!” There was a warning prod of the sword. The man cried out, but staggered through the mercer’s shop into a passage. Mornay and Cornbury thrust ahead of him.

“Which way?” they cried, in unison.

He indicated a window. When it was opened they saw it was not six feet from the ground.

By this time the whole neighborhood was aroused, and cries and shouts resounded in all quarters. Mornay had put the light out, and, pausing not a moment, stepped over the sill and let himself down into a kind of roofed alley or court which ran between the rear portions of the buildings. While Mornay covered the landlord to keep him silent, Cornbury and the others quickly followed. Without waiting a moment, the four men gathered themselves into a compact body and dashed down the alley as fast as they could run. It was a case now for speed and stout blows. There was a turn in the alley before it reached the street. It was on rounding this that they came full into the midst of a party of men who were running in to meet them. The surprise was mutual. All the commotion had been on the roof and in the main street, and there was so much noise that the constables had not even heard the footfalls around the corner. But Mornay’s men had the advantage of being on the offensive. There was a hurried discharge of firearms, and a shout broke from Bill Quinn, but he kept on running. Cornbury fired his pistol at one man and then threw the weapon full at another who cut at him with a pike. In a moment they were through and in the street. A scattering of shots sent the dust and stones flying from a wall beside them, but the moon was gone and aim was uncertain. The shouting had increased and the sound of footfalls was just behind.

“Which way?” said Mornay.

“Straight ahead,” replied Cornbury. “To the river afterwards. Our chances with a boat are best.”

They turned into a dark street, and Trice, who was slender and nimble-footed, led the way into the darkness with the speed of a deer. He wound in and out of alleys and narrow streets where the shadows were deeper, closely followed by Mornay and Cornbury. The pace was so rapid that Quinn was nearly spent. Seeing that if he were not heartened he would be taken, Mornay slackened and came back beside him. As he glanced around he saw that two men were approaching rapidly not a hundred yards away.

“There’s nothing for it,” panted Cornbury. “If I had a pistol I could wing the man in front.” Mornay drew his own from his pocket and handed it to him. Cornbury leaned against a wall and carefully fired. With a shout the man clapped his hand to his leg. He hobbled a few paces, and then fell head over heels into the gutter. With singular discretion the other man slackened his speed and stopped to await his fellows, who were coming up in a body not far behind.

Tom Trice had disappeared, but the river was not far distant. Cornbury saw the shimmer of it and said so to poor Quinn. This plucked up his courage, and with a hand at either arm he managed to make so good a progress that they had crossed the wide docks and tumbled into a boat before the first of their pursuers had emerged from the darkness. Quinn fell like a gasping fish under the thwarts, but Cornbury and Mornay pulled at the oars with such vigor that before a single black figure appeared upon the coping of the dock they had put fifty feet of water between themselves and the shore. There was a splash of light – and another – and the bullets spat viciously around them. But they kept on pulling, and made the lee of a barge not far away in safety. When they heard the constables clatter down into one of the boats, they took off their doublets and pulled for their lives. The tide was running out, and they shot the bridge like an arrow, but they could see the black mass of the boat of their pursuers as it stole, like some huge black bug, from the inky reflection into the gray of the open water. There was a patch of light under the bows, and the frequent glimmer of the wind-swept sky upon the oars was far too rapid and steady for their comfort. A fellow stood up in the stern, giving the word for the oarsmen, and, hard as the fugitives pulled, the boat gained steadily upon them. Bill Quinn was useless, and, even had he been able to row, there were only two pairs of oars. So they set him to loading the pistols, while they cast their eyes over their shoulders in search of a place of refuge. They knew if they made immediately for the shore they would fall too probably into the hands of the watch, for the streets here were wider and there were fewer places for concealment than in the thickly settled part of the city which they had left. Their course was set directly across the bows of a large vessel getting under way. The anchor had clanked up to the bows, and there was a creak of halyard and sheet-block as her canvases took the wind, a clamor of hoarse orders mingled with oaths and the sound of maudlin singing. But the boat of the constables was every moment splashing nearer and nearer, and Mornay, seeing escape by this means impossible, determined to lay aboard the ship and take his chances. Accordingly they stopped rowing and waited until the vessel should gather way enough to come up with them. When the black boat-load of men saw this they gave a cheer, for they thought themselves certain of their game. For answer there was a volley from three pistols, which sent one man into the bottom of the boat, so that the oars upon one side caught so badly in the water that the boat slewed around from her course and lost her way in the water.

At the sound of the shots a dozen heads appeared in the bows of the ship, which was coming up rapidly.

“What ho, there!” yelled a heavy voice. “Out o’ the way, or I’ll run ye down!”

Cornbury and Quinn arose to their feet, but Mornay sat at his oars, keeping the boat broadside to the approaching vessel.

“Jump before she strikes, man – the fore-chains and spritsail-rigging.”

The huge fabric loomed like a pall upon the sky, and they could see two long lines of foam springing away from the forefoot, which was coming nearer – nearer.

“Look alive there!” shouted the gruff voice again.

There was a grinding crash as Cornbury and Quinn sprang for the rigging. Quinn struck his head upon a steel stay, and had not the strength to haul himself clear of the water. With a cry he fell back into the submerged boat. Mornay waited a moment too long, and the vessel struck him fairly in the body. He, too, fell back into the water, but as he was tossed aside he fell as by a miracle into the friendly arms of the anchor, which, not having been hauled clear, dragged just at the surface of the water. With an effort he pulled himself up, and at last climbed upon the stock, and so to the deck unharmed.

A cluster of dark faces surrounded him, and a short, broad man, with a black beard and rings in his ears, thrust his way through. He looked at the shivering and dripping figures before him with a laugh.

“Soho! Soho! Just in the very nick of the hoccasion, my bullies. ’Ere be three beauties. Ha! ha! Jail-birds at a guinea a ’ead!”

There was a sound of cries and the clatter of oars; but the vessel was moving rapidly through the water, and the constables were rapidly left astern.

“In the King’s name,” shouted the voice of Captain Ferrers, “let me aboard!”

The man with the black beard ran aft and leaned over the rail towards the boat which was struggling in the water.

“An’ who might you be!” he roared.

“I represent the law,” cried Ferrers, and his voice seemed dimmer in the distance. “These men are officers of the King, to arrest – ” The remainder of the sentence was caught in the winds and blown away.

The black-bearded man slapped his leg. “The law! The law!” he shouted. Then he made a trumpet of his hands to make his meaning clear, and roared, “Go to ’ell!” He clapped his hand to his thigh and laughed immoderately.

Monsieur Mornay, who had been looking aft over the bulwarks, saw the figure of Ferrers stand up in the stern-sheets and shake his fist at the vessel. Then the boat pulled around to the half-sunken craft which the fugitives had abandoned. All in dark shadow they saw Quinn pulled out of the water by the constables, and then the figures leaned over again and lifted something out of the water and passed it to the figure in the stern.

The Frenchman took Cornbury wildly by the arm.

“God, God!” he cried. “My doublet! The papers were in my doublet!” He put a hand upon the rail and would have jumped into the water if Cornbury had not seized him and held him until the fit was past.

CHAPTER VII

BARBARA

After Monsieur Mornay’s coach had rumbled away, Mistress Barbara excused herself to Captain Ferrers and threw herself upon her couch in poignant distress and indecision. Why she had hated this Monsieur Mornay so she could not for her life have told herself. Perhaps it was that she had begun by hating him. But now, when he had killed her friend and counsellor and had used violent means to approach and coerce her – now when she had every right and reason for hating him, she made the sudden discovery that she did not. The shock of it came over her like the sight of her disordered countenance in the mirror. The instinct and habit of defense, amplified by a nameless apprehension in the presence of the man, had excited her imagination so that she had been willing to believe anything of him in order to justify her conscience for her cruelty. But now that he was gone – in all probability to the gallows – and she was no longer harassed by the thought of his presence, she underwent a strange revulsion of feeling. She knew it was not pity she felt for him. It would be hard, she thought, to speak of pity and Monsieur Mornay in the same breath. It was something else – something that put her pride at odds with her conscience, her mind at odds with her heart. She lay upon the couch dry-eyed, clasping and unclasping her hands. What was he to her that she should give him the high dignity of a thought? Why should the coming or the going of such a man as he – scapegrace, gambler, duelist, and now fugitive from justice – make the difference of a jot to a woman who had the proudest in England at her feet? Fugitive from justice! Ah, God! Why were men such fools? Here was a brave man, scapegrace and gambler if you like, but gallant sailor, soldier, and chevalier of France, a favorite of fortune, who, through that law of nature by which men rise or sink to their own level, had achieved a position in which he consorted with kings, dukes, and princes of the realm, and boasted of a king for an intimate. In a moment he had rendered at naught the struggles of years – had tossed aside, as one would discard a worn-out hat or glove, all chances of future preferment in France and England – all for a foolish whim, for a pair of silly gray eyes. She hid her face in her arms. Fools! all fools!

She hated herself that she did not hate Monsieur Mornay. Struggle as she would, now that he was gone she knew that the impulsive words that she had used when she had spurned him had sprung from no origin of thought or reflection, but were the rebellious utterings of anger at his intrusion – of resentment and uncharity at the tale he told. But what if it were true? She sat upright, and with a struggle tried dispassionately and calmly to go over, one by one, each word of his speech, each incident of his bearing, as he told his portentous story of the secrets of her family. How had Monsieur Mornay come into possession of all this information? She knew that Eloise de Bresac had died in France and that the Duke of Nemours had sent the body to be buried on the estates in Normandy, where it lay in the family tomb. She knew that Sir Henry Heywood’s intimacy with the Duke was of long standing, and that there was a mystery in regard to the death of this daughter of the house which had never been explained to her. Her grandfather had been ill at the time, she remembered, and had died before Sir Henry Heywood and her father – who had gone to France – had returned. The story of the Frenchman tallied strangely with the facts as she knew them. How did Mornay know of the unfortunate woman’s death at Amiens? Was the story of the Spaniard D’Añasco invented to comport with the family’s traditionary hatred of the Spanish? Were the names Castillano, of the ship, and Ruiz, of the boy, mere fabrications, to achieve an end? How did he know these things? The family history of the Bresacs was not an open book to all the world. No one but Sir Henry Heywood and herself had known of the visits to Paris and the death-place of Eloise.

And Captain Ferrers! How could she explain his loss of countenance when the tale was told? What papers were these the very mention of which could deprive him of his self-possession? And what reason had he for keeping papers referring to her estate from her knowledge? They were matters which put her mind upon a rack of indecision. She should know, and at once. The Frenchman had planned well. He had proved that Captain Ferrers was concealing something from her – of this she was confident; although in her discovery she had scorned to show Mornay that she believed him in anything. If Sir Henry Heywood had intrusted matters pertaining to the estate to Captain Ferrers, she was resolved that she should know what they were. She judged from his actions that Captain Ferrers had reasons for wishing these papers kept from her; she therefore resolved to learn what they contained. If he would not give them to her – and this she thought possible – she would meet him in a different spirit and try with art and diplomacy what she might not accomplish by straightforward methods.

“What if Mornay’s tale were true?” she asked herself again. “What if these papers were the secret proofs of the marriage of Eloise de Bresac and of the birth of a son and heir to the estates in accordance with her grandfather’s will? What if Monsieur Mornay could prove that he was Ruiz, son of D’Añasco, and had sailed from Valencia upon the Castillano?” In the cool light of her reasoning it did not seem impossible. She recalled the face of Monsieur Mornay and read him again to herself. It seemed as though every expression and modulation of his voice had been burned upon her memory. Had he flinched – had he quivered an eyelash? Had he not borne the face and figure of an honest man? Argue with herself as she might, she had only to compare the bearing of the Frenchman with that of Stephen Ferrers for an answer to her questions.

She arose and walked to the table by the window. The sun was setting in an effusion of red, picking out the chimney-pots and gables opposite in crimson splendor, glorifying the somber things it touched in magnificent detail.

She looked long – until the top of the very highest chimney-pots became again a somber blur against the greenish glow of the east.

“I shall know,” she murmured at last. “At whatever cost, Captain Ferrers shall tell me.”

And before the captain arrived the next day she had resolved upon a plan of action. In justice to Monsieur Mornay, she would give his tale the most exhaustive test. For the sake of the experiment she would assume that it was true. But if it were, and she believed it, the difficulty lay in getting Captain Ferrers to acknowledge anything. She must deceive him. If her deception did not avail, she would try something else; but of one thing she was resolved – that tell he should, or all the friendship she bore him should cease forever.

Captain Ferrers wore a jubilant look as he came in the door.

“My service, Barbara. You are better, I hope.”

She smiled. “Well?”

“He’s gone. Escaped us last night and got to ship in the river. By this time he is well into the Channel.”

Mistress Barbara frowned perceptibly.

“You have allowed him to get away?” she asked, her eyebrows upraised.

“Yes,” he muttered; “a very demon possesses the man. If I had my way the fellow should never have left this room.”

She motioned to a seat beside her.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

He sat and told her such of the happenings at the Fleece Tavern as he thought well for her to hear, but he omitted to mention the rape of the papers from his pockets. Of this attack he said:

“After all, the fellow is but a common blusterer and bully. He waited for his chance and then set upon me like a fish-monger.”

Her eyes sparkled. “And you?” she asked.

“He had me off my guard, but as he broke away from me I shot at him” – he paused for a word – “as I would at a common thief.”

“And you did not kill him?” The words fell cold and impassive from her lips.

He looked at her in some surprise. She had set her teeth, and her hands were tightly clasped upon her knees, but her eyes were looking straight before her and gave no sign of any emotion.

“Why, Barbara,” he said, “’tis truly a mighty hatred you have for the fellow! I thought if you were rid of him – ”

“I despise him!” she cried, vehemently. “I hate him!”

Captain Ferrers paused a moment, and the smile that crossed his lips told her how sweet her words sounded in his ears.

“Ever since he has been in London,” she went on, coolly, “he has crossed my path at every rout and levee. Wherever I’d turn I’d see his eyes fixed upon me. From such a man it was an insult. His attentions were odious.” She gave a hard, dry little laugh. “Why could he not have been killed then – before he told me this fine tale of his right to my fortunes and estates – ”

“But surely you don’t believe – ” Ferrers broke in.

“I do and I do not,” she said, carefully considering her reply. “It is a plain tale, and he tells it well, whether it be likely or unlikely.”

“Why, Barbara, ’tis a palpable lie! Can you not see – ”

“I can and I cannot,” she said, evenly. Then she turned around, so that she looked full in his eyes. “I care not whether he be the heir or no – I would not listen to his pleadings were he my cousin thrice over.”

Captain Ferrers laughed.

“’Tis plain he has not endeared himself, mistress mine”; and then, with lowered voice and glance full of meaning, “Do you really mean that you hate him so?”

It was the first time that his manner had given a hint of a secret. She turned her head away and looked at the opposite wall.

“I do,” she replied, firmly. “I do hate him with all my heart.”

Ferrers leaned towards her and laid his hand upon one of hers. She did not withdraw it – her fingers even moved a little as though in response to his touch.

“Barbara, this man” – he paused to look down while he fingered one of her rings – “is an impostor. But if he were not, would you – would you – still wish him dead?”

She looked around at him in surprise.

“Why, what – ’tis a strange question. Is there a chance that it is true – that he is what he says?”

He halted at this abrupt questioning and did not meet her eye. “No, Barbara, I have not said so. But suppose he were the real Vicomte de Bresac, would you still wish him dead?”

It was her turn to be discomfited. She averted her head, and her eyes moved restlessly from one object upon the table to another.

“Have I not told you that I hate him?” she said; the voice was almost a whisper. Ferrers looked at her as though he would read the inmost depths of her heart. She met his eyes a moment and then smiled with a little bitter irony that had a touch of melancholy in it.

“Can I find it pleasant thinking,” she went on, “that the houses, the lands, the people who owe me allegiance, my goods, my habits, my very life, are not mine, but another’s?”

A look of satisfaction crossed Captain Ferrers’s face. He relinquished her hand and arose.

“What nonsense is this, Barbara, to be bothering your pretty head about such a matter! Zounds, dear lady, it is the silliest thing imaginable!”

“Nay,” she said, with a gesture of annoyance and a woful look that was only half assumed – “nay, it is no nonsense or silliness. Should Monsieur Mornay come back, my quandary becomes as grievous as ever.”

Ferrers had been pacing up and down, his hands behind his back. “He will not come back. Besides, what could he prove?” He stopped before her.

She did not answer, but, trembling, waited for him to continue.

“Listen, Barbara. There has been something I have had in my mind to tell you. The Frenchman’s story has made some impression upon you.”

She looked up almost plaintively. “How could it fail?” Then she went on, for his encouragement: “It would make no difference to me whether he is the heir or no. So why should it make a difference to you?”

“That decides me. The fellow is gone forever. He will never cross your path again. You think your quandary is grievous. Even if the fellow came back, what could he prove? Nothing. I will tell you why. Because the only proofs of another heir to the estate are in my possession.”

It was out at last. The thing she half hoped yet most dreaded to hear rang in her ears. She got up, making no effort to conceal her emotion, and, walking to a window, leaned heavily upon the back of a chair.

“The proof – the papers – are in your possession?” And then, with an attempt at gayety which rang somewhat discordantly, “’Tis fortunate that they still remain in the hands of my friends.”

“I have been through fire and water for them, dear Barbara, and will go again if need be. Last Wednesday night these papers were given me in sacred trust to safely keep or destroy. It were better had I destroyed them. As you know, my regiment is about to take the field. I have but just changed my lodgings, and had no place of security for them. So since then I have carried them upon my person, until I could place them safely.” And then he told her how they had been taken from him by Mornay, and how he had recovered them, to his surprise and delight, somewhat moist but perfectly legible, from the doublet in the boat which was sunk by the vessel in the river. She listened to him with eyes that spoke volumes of her interest and wonder. When that was done she asked him more of the secret. And he told her how her guardian had so long kept it from her, and how Captain Cornbury had carried the story to Mornay. He broke off suddenly and went over to where she stood.

“Barbara, can you not put this matter from your mind? Will you ruin our day with this silly business? Have you no word for me? Have you no thought for me – no answer to the question that is forever on my lips, in my eyes and heart?”

She looked around at him, her clear eyes smiling up with an expression he could not fathom. The level brows were calm and judicial – the eyes, though smiling, were cognizant and searching.

“The lips – yes, Stephen,” said she, in a tantalizing way; “the eyes – a little, perhaps; but the heart” – she dropped her eyes and turned her head away – “the heart of man is a mystery.”

But Captain Ferrers was undaunted. He took in his the hand that hung at her side.

“Why, Barbara,” he said, “have I not given you all my devotion? Can you not learn – ”

She drew a little away from him.

“I am but a dumb scholar.”

“Then do not add deafness to your failings. Listen to me. I have asked you again and again the same question. Answer me now, Barbara. Promise me that you will – ”

She had turned around and faced him, looking him full in the eyes.

“What would you do for me if I promised you what you wish?”

“By my love! anything – anything in my power to win, anything in my gift to bestow.”

She smiled gayly. “Very well,” she said, “I shall begin at once. First, I shall want the papers in your possession.”

His face clouded; he dropped her hand and fell back a pace or two.

“The proofs – ”

“The very same,” she said, coolly.

“My trust!” he exclaimed. “I have sworn to keep them secret or destroy them!”

She turned away pettishly.

“So much for your love, Captain Ferrers. You swear to give me anything. The first favor I ask, you refuse.”

“But my honor, Barbara. You would not have me break oath with the dead?”

“Will you give me the papers?” she asked again, imperturbably. He looked at her uncertainly.

“And if I do not give them to you?”

“Then you may go.” She pointed imperiously to the door.

“You are cruel. And if I do give them?”