Denounced

"Is it possible monsieur does not know?"

"Know! What should I know? Woman, I tell you I have been dead to the world for forty-five years-buried alive in a place to which no news ever comes. Where," he continued, "where are my wife and child?"

"Alas! monsieur," she said, seeming while she spoke as though endeavouring to avoid answering him, "I have heard of you from my father; he was garde chasse at the Château de Chevagny many years ago."

"Lenoir! Was he your father?"

"Yes, monsieur, but he has been dead these twenty years; and then-"

"My wife and child!" he interrupted-"my wife and child! Are they dead, too?"

"Alas! monsieur, I never saw Madame la Marquise. She-she-died the year I was born."

De Chevagny straightened himself upon the bench-as he did so there came to Bertie's recollection how his own father had so straightened himself as he died in his arms a few years before, and he wondered why he recalled that incident at this moment-then the marquis said:

"The year you were born? How old are you?"

"Forty-one, monsieur."

"Forty-one!" he whispered, "forty-one! So! she lived four years. Four years. And I-I-have been hoping, praying-O God! how I have prayed! – to see her again-to see her again, while for forty-one years she has been lying in her grave-in her grave!"

He paused awhile, perhaps because he heard the sobs of Bertie and the woman mingling with his own; then he said:

"And the little child-my dear, dear little babe! Is-is she dead, too?"

"Non, monsieur-at least I think not. She-"

"Thank God!"

"She married, very young, the Vicomte de Brunet," the woman answered through her tears, "and went with him to Guadeloupe; and sometimes, at intervals, she writes to her friends in Paris, and they send me news of her. Also, she has once written to me."

"And she is well? Has she children of her own, perhaps?"

"No, monsieur. Her marriage has not been so blessed by the bon Dieu!"

He sat thinking awhile, meditating deeply ere he spoke again; then he said:

"But this house and the château-they were good properties; we have drawn large sums from them for generations. Who takes the rents, the produce, now-to whom do they belong?"

"To the state, I have heard, monsieur; to the King; though, it is said, in trust only. Yet, I know not. I cannot say. But I suppose so. Twice annually a monsieur comes from the minister of the King to visit us, and twice, also, I hear, one visits the château. If all has been saved for you, monsieur, during your long absence, you should be very rich."

"Rich," he repeated-"rich! very rich! Yes, yes, very rich." Then, turning on the woman suddenly, almost fiercely for him, he asked:

"Where-where, do you know-did my wife die? Where did my little child live until she married? If the state, the King, took possession of my property, they would not let them stay here nor at the château."

"Madame la Marquise went back to stay with her father after monsieur had gone away. Mademoiselle de Chevagny lived with him also until she married." Then, observing that the old man looked even more feeble and drawn than she had at first noticed, she said: "But, monsieur, do not stay here in this cold hall. Come into the saloon, I beg of you. There is no fire, but I can soon make one. Come, monsieur, come."

Slowly leaning on Bertie's arm, he rose at her behest-and now the latter perceived that he weighed more heavily on him than before-and, all together, they went into a fair-sized salon, or morning-room, to the left of the corridor; while the woman, preceding them, made haste to open the window shutters and to let a flood of light from the wintry sun pour into the room.

It seemed to have been left much as it must have been in those long-past years, when so dreadful a doom had fallen upon that unhappy family-perhaps had scarcely undergone any alteration since those days. Upon the walls there hung several pictures: one, of a man in half armour, bearing a strong resemblance to him who now tottered on Bertie's arm; another, of an elderly woman, of a long anterior date; a third, of a young man in all the bravery of the rich apparel of Louis XIV's date, a young man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile-De Chevagny himself. Also, there were many chairs, none very comfortable, since, fifty years before this time, comfortable chairs were almost unknown articles; a table or so and a tabouret; also a woman's worktable in a corner by the fireplace with, above it, a painting of a fair young girl with a soft, gentle expression, done in what was, at the period in which it was painted, quite a new style-the style of Antoine Watteau-and much embellished with a rural landscape behind the portrait.

With a gasp, a cry of recognition, De Chevagny regarded this portrait in the light of the thin December sun, and then, leaning now so heavily on Bertie's arm as to be almost entirely held up and supported by him, he exclaimed:

"See! see! She has come back to me; we have met again! Again, Jeanne, my love, my wife, my dear! O Jeanne, Jeanne, we shall be so happy now!"

The woman and Bertie regarded each other significantly, though neither could speak from emotion, while De Chevagny addressed the latter, saying:

"See! there is the table where nightly she sits and works, making little things for the child that is to come-the babe that shall make us so happy. Here," and he put his finger on a gilt nail by the chimney-piece, "where she hangs her workbasket at night; here," and he pointed to a low stool, "where I sit by her side and tell her all I have done at the court."

He broke off, and appeared to be listening.

"Hark!" he said, "hark! It is striking eleven-we are going to bed-the great cloche is ringing; there is a noise in the courtyard. God!" he screamed, "it is full of torches; the exempts are there; they have come to seize me-to drag me to the Bastille-to part us! Hide! oh, hide me!"

"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Bertie, soothingly, as he held him in his arms, and noticed once again how heavy and inert his poor form was-"courage, courage! They will never come for you again. You are free forever now. Dispel these illusions. Be brave."

"Free," he repeated, "free!" and his wandering blue eyes sought Bertie's once more, while in them there was again that wistful look which so wrung his heart. "Free! yes, I am free!" and as he spoke he released himself from Elphinston's grasp and flung himself upon his knees before his wife's picture.

"My darling," he murmured, gazing up at it, "ma mignonne, we shall never part more. I am free! free! free! And so happy! oh, so happy!" and he clasped his hands together and bent over the low chair before the picture. And once again he looked up and murmured, "So-so happy now!"

When at last they ventured to speak to him, and, getting no answer, to raise his head, they saw upon his face so sweet and placid a smile that, remembering all, Bertie would not have wished to call him back to the world in which he had suffered so much.

CHAPTER XXXI

"AN OUTSTAYED WELCOME."

It was the night of Monday, the 10th of December, 1748, and once again all Paris lay under the snow-snow that hung in great masses over the eaves of the houses, threatening, when the next thaw should come, to fall and envelop the passers-by; that was caked and hardened on the chaussées of all the streets by the recent hard frost; that, out on the quays, was of the consistency of iron almost from the same cause; while, so severe had that frost been, that on the river the snow had been frozen into huge solid blocks, which swirled round and round in vast masses as, under the stars, they floated slowly down towards the open country and the sea.

There were but few abroad on this cold night, certainly few pedestrians; yet, as the clocks from Nôtre Dame and all the other churches round struck eleven, there was one who, swiftly making his way along the Quai des Théatins, directly opposite the Louvre, seemed neither to heed the cold nor the snow beneath his feet. Wrapped in a long cloak, or roquelaure, held up sufficiently, however, not to impede his limbs in their stride, and with his three-cornered hat pressed down closely over his head, this man, without turning round to regard even the few casual passers-by, went onward until, as he neared the edge of the quay, on which stood a large, imposing hotel, from the windows of which issued a blaze of lights, he suddenly stopped in amazement; for outside this great mansion there was what he least would have expected to see-a large concourse of people assembled together, indiscriminately mixed with whom were exempts, other officers of police, and a considerable body of soldiers, as well as several sergeants of the grenadiers clad in their cuirasses and skullcaps. Also he saw a number of musketeers (or horse guards) standing by their horses ready to mount them, as well as several of the guets, or street watchmen, near them; while, to make this concourse more astonishing to those who did not know what might be its object, in the road were half a dozen scaling ladders, with, by them, several of the guets, with axes and hammers in their hands.

But that which was more astonishing for him to behold than aught else was that between the ordinary people or onlookers in the streets and the officials, civil and military, who stood in front of the mansion, was stretched as a barrier a thick, handsome, crimson silk cord fringed with gold. This cord, attached to gilt poles or staves about four feet high, served with the hotel itself to form an exact square, the house making the fourth side; and inside that square itself it was that the musketeers, sergeants of the grenadiers, and superior officers of the police were standing, as well as several other officers of high rank, as testified by their gorgeous uniforms and trappings.

"It is the Prince's house," Bertie whispered to himself, for he was the man who had been making his way swiftly along the Quai des Théatins but a few moments ago-"the Prince's house! What can be intended towards him? He should be safe here in Paris, if anywhere. And Kate is within-a lady of his suite-ill, and, my mother said, sick almost to death. Heaven! I may not be able to see her even now, after so long! What a fate is mine! On the first night that I am able to approach her after so long and cruel a separation, to find the way barred thus!"

He was about to ask a man in the crowd which he had now joined what the strange scene meant, when a murmur arose amongst those collected there, and at the same moment the order was given to the musketeers to mount their horses and the sergeants of grenadiers to form their men into double line. And at that instant the tramp of other animals' hoofs was heard and the roll of wheels. Then, a moment later, a handsome and much-gilded coach drawn by four horses came swiftly along the quay until it reached the crowd, and the astonished coachman, seeing the gilt-embroidered crimson cord with the military behind it, pulled his animals up sharply.

From the interior of the coach a voice, clear, crisp, and distinct, was heard exclaiming in French:

"What is the meaning of this assembly? Why am I prevented from entering my house?" and directly afterwards a gloved hand was put out from the open window, while a tall young man of about thirty years of age stepped from the coach.

He was clad, perhaps because of the wintry weather, in a thick rose-coloured velvet suit embroidered with silver and lined with peach-coloured satin and silver tissue, and his waistcoat was a rich gold brocade with a spangled fringe set on in scallops; his silk stockings were also peach-coloured; in his lace cravat there sparkled a magnificent diamond solitaire. Over his shoulders he wore the insignia of the Garter of England and the order of St. Andrew, and on his breast there hung a gold medal by a blue satin ribbon, on which, if it could have been inspected, would have been seen the words, "Carolus, Walliæ Princeps, Amor et Spes Britanniæ." As to his appearance, his face was oval and of a good complexion, though now he seemed somewhat pallid in the torchlight, and his eyes, which were very prominent and full, were blue.

"God bless your Royal Highness!" cried Bertie loudly, in which he was imitated by many, while all the officers and soldiers saluted him, and the richly clad civilians in the inclosure uncovered their hats.

The Prince glanced at the spot where Elphinston's voice came from, and gave a look of recognition at his tall, stalwart form; then, turning to two of the gentlemen who surrounded him, he said, while he threw over his shoulders a small fleecy cape of ermine he had brought in his hand from the carriage: "Monseigneur le Duc de Biron, and you, Monsieur de Vaudreville, you are friends of mine-friends ever, as I have thought-explain to me, therefore, I beg you, why my way is barred to my abode, and why I see you amongst those who so bar it? And, Monsieur le Duc and gentlemen, the night is more than cold; be covered, I beseech you," and he put on his own hat, in the lace of which there sparkled another superb diamond as an aigrette, while the white cockade was visible.

But the others remained uncovered, while the Duc de Biron said:

"May it please you, monseigneur-"

"Monseigneur!" interrupted Charles Edward. "I am the Prince of Wales! Either that, or nothing! Now, if you please, the reason of this guet-apens. Do I owe it to my cousin Louis?"

The duke shrugged his shoulders, as though deprecating the Prince's wrath, then he said:

"His Majesty regrets that your Highness would not conform to his desire that you should leave France, according to the terms of the recent peace made at Aix-la-Chapelle, as conveyed to you by the Duc de Gesvres-"

"Neither my royal father nor I had part in that peace," again interrupted the Prince.

"Therefore," went on the Duc de Biron, "his Majesty has thought it well that you shall be conducted, with all respect and reverence, to the frontier. Yet some forms must be observed, which I pray your Highness to pardon." Then, turning to Monsieur de Vaudreville, he said:

"Your duty."

"Monseigneur," said De Vaudreville, "I arrest you in the name of the King, my master."

"Then," exclaimed Bertie, as with a bound he rushed under the crimson cord, "arrest me also! This is the Prince of Wales, my master; we fought near to one another in the Scotch campaign; where he goes I go too!"

"Captain Elphinston," said Charles Edward, who had recognised him when first he spoke, "I am, indeed, rejoiced to see you by my side again. There could be no truer friend. Yet it must not be. Your services have already been too many; I can never requite them. Henceforth live for yourself and those who love you." And turning to the duke and De Vaudreville, who with the soldiers and the crowd had been astounded-indeed, touched-with this proof of devotion to the unfortunate Prince, he said: "I shall not dispute his Majesty's orders. Yet, I think the manner is a little too violent."

"I hope not, monseigneur," De Biron said. "I should be au desespoir if such were the case. But since there are other formalities to be gone through and your Highness does not contest his Majesty's decree, will you please to enter your house, and to permit of our accompanying you?"

"As you please," replied the Prince. "But," he said, pointing to Bertie, "here is a gallant gentleman of the family of my Lord Balmerino, who was done to death on Tower Hill in my cause. He is a devoted adherent of our house, though I have lost sight of him for some time. Gentlemen, I am alone, save for my grooms. I beg of you to allow him to enter also."

The Duc de Biron and De Vaudreville bowed at his words, and bowed again to Elphinston, after which the order was given for the soldiers to stand out of the way while his Highness entered the house. Then, with another bow, the duke begged the Prince to precede them, motioning also to Bertie to accompany them.

"I am glad to see you, Captain Elphinston," Charles Edward said as they approached the hall. "I have thought often of you and of your poor friend, and mine, Mr. Sholto. And-you will find in my house one to whom your coming may be a new life. You understand?"

"I understand, your Royal Highness. I should have been here long before, but that I have been a prisoner in the Bastille."

"In the Bastille! You! So that is where you have been hidden from all human knowledge. But stay-we cannot talk now. What do they intend to me? Do you know? I do not, though I have long known that my presence in Paris is unwelcome."

Bertie shook his head mournfully, and then they entered the hall of the mansion which the Prince had hired from a French nobleman. A huge fire burned in the grate at one end of it, and to this Charles Edward advanced, and, holding out his hands to the blaze, warmed them.

"Your Highness," said the Duc de Biron, who by no means appeared to relish the task before him, "again I beg you to believe that in what we have now to do no disrespect is intended. Yet, it must be done. I have to ask you for your sword and any other weapons you may have about you."

The Prince started and coloured at these words, then, with a calmness which he never lost until the end of his life-when despair and, alas! drink had done their worst with him-he said:

"I shall never deliver my sword to you, nor any man. But, since I am helpless- No, Captain Elphinston," seeing a movement on the latter's part, "do not interfere, I beg you. Since I am helpless, you may take them, and what else I have of arms."

At a sign from the duke, De Vaudreville undid the sash of his dress sword-he had been that night to a gala performance at the opera in the Palais Royal-and took the weapon from him, and then, seeing a melancholy smile upon his face, the other, with many profusions of apology and regret, gently felt in his pockets and removed from them two small ivory-handled and silver-inlaid pistols and a little knife with two blades.

"Do not be surprised," the Prince said, "at seeing the pistols. Since I was hunted like a wild beast in Scotland-ay, hunted even by dogs-I, a king's son-I have carried them ever. And here in Paris also my life has been sought."

"I have to ask your Highness to give a promise that you will make no attempt on your own life nor that of any other person," De Vaudreville said.

The Prince shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the pistols and knife in the other's hands; then he said, "I promise. What more?"

"Your Highness," said the duke, "will be conducted to Vincennes to-night. De Chatelet has received orders to prepare a room for you. To-morrow you will set out upon your journey. But, for the present, again I ask your Highness to pardon me," and he faltered as he continued, "it is necessary for the greater security that you should be bound."

"Bound!" the Prince exclaimed, and now he turned white as death. "Bound! I! The Prince of Wales!"

"Alas! sire," said the duke, "it is the King's orders. Yet, I pledge you my word as a peer of France, such orders are issued solely out of regard to your Highness's person, and to prevent you making any attempt on that person."

"I shall make no attempt," Charles Edward replied. "But I am unused to such proceedings as these. And I do not even say whether they are justifiable or not; the disgrace does not affect me, but your master alone."

While he was speaking, De Vaudreville continued to bind him, using crimson cord of a similar nature to that which formed the barrier outside, and at last both his legs and arms were securely tied, when the unhappy Prince lost his calmness, and, looking down on De Vaudreville with a glance that has been described as "menacing and terrible," exclaimed:

"Have you not enough now?"

"Not yet," replied the other, "though it is nearly ended."

It was, indeed, nearly ended, since the Prince's body was now so swathed with the cords that it would have been impossible for more to be placed round it or his limbs, and, looking at the duke with still his sad smile upon his face, he said:

"I hope, monsieur, no other Englishman will ever be treated thus. They are not made for such a purpose;" after which he asked what was to be done next.

"To Vincennes next," replied De Biron, with a low bow.

"My horses are fatigued," the Prince said; "they cannot travel so far and back to-night."

"Have no fear," the duke answered. "A coach has been secured."

And now they prepared to lift the unhappy descendant of a family of kings, the last descendant who ever made a bid or struck a blow for all that his ancestors had lost-since his brother the cardinal, Henry, Duke of York, was a mere shadow of a Stuart-and to carry him to the hired coach that waited without. But Bertie, who had been a furious witness of this insult to him whom, rightly or wrongly, he deemed-in agreement with three fourths of his country people and perhaps one half of the English-to be the rightful heir to the English throne, could not part thus from him. As he saw him tied and bound, there arose before him once more the memory of the bright young chieftain with whom he had embarked at Port St. Lazare, with whom he had landed in Lochaber, and before whom the old Marquis of Tullibardine had unfurled at Glenfinnan his white, blue, and red silk standard, with, on it, the proud and happy motto, "Tandem Triumphans."

Also before his eyes there rose the progress through Scotland, the joyous welcome at Edinburgh, the victory at Prestonpans, the surrender at Carlisle, the glorious march to and arrival at Derby, with the news which succeeded that arrival, to the effect that the German King was trembling for fear at St. James's, and all London mad with terror. And then Culloden! – that bitter day, when, as Cumberland's butchers hacked and shot the wounded and the dying, Charles urged on the living to avenge their comrades, and was at last forced off the field against his will, his face bespattered with the dirt thrown up by the cannon balls that fell around him.

And now to see him thus!

"Oh, sir," he cried, flinging himself at the Prince's feet, "let me go with you wherever the King of France may see fit to send you. Give me but leave to see her I love, to tell her that once more I have returned to her, and then let me follow you, as is my duty and desire, wherever you go!"

It was not only Charles Edward who was affected by this manly speech; even De Biron, who understood English well, and De Vaudreville, who did not, but evidently guessed accurately what he had said, were touched by it.

"No, Elphinston, no," the Prince replied. "As I said but now, the day is past for services to be rendered to me or my cause. That cause is lost; this is the last blow. When France joins hands with England, how can a Stuart hope? Farewell, Captain Elphinston; she whom you love-I know all! – will recover yet, ill as she is, I hope. I pray to God that He may bless you both. Farewell! we shall never meet again-never again! Yet, remember, I beseech you, when you hear my name mentioned, that we fought side by side once-that we were comrades-and-and-so, try to think well of me."

They bore him away after this, scarce giving Bertie time to kiss his hand, and from that night they never did meet again. To the Prince there were still to be forty years of life accorded; what that life became, with every hope shattered and every desire unaccomplished, the world well knows.

Between them the grenadiers and De Vaudreville carried him to the hired coach-for owing to his silken fetters he was unable to walk-and put him into it at the spot where it waited, behind the kitchens. And Bertie, following like a faithful dog who perceives its master departing, thus saw the last of him and received his last look. De Vaudreville, he observed, sat by him; two captains of the musketeers entered the coach and sat opposite to him; two other officers rode on each side of the vehicle, with a hand upon the door; six grenadiers with fixed bayonets mounted behind like footmen, and the rest of the soldiers accompanied them on foot.[Note E]

Thus the last but one of the Stuarts left Paris; thus the last hospitality and favour of France were withdrawn from the representative of the unhappy family whose cause France had so long espoused.

"And now," said Bertie to himself, as with a final courteous bow the Duc de Biron entered his own gorgeous carriage and departed to give an account of the proceedings to Louis-"and now for her whom I have pined for so long! God grant that the report of her ill-health may be exaggerated! If I lose her, I have nothing more to live for!"