Traitor and True

"Sire," Humphrey muttered, having done so, "I-I-must rise-"

"Nay. Instead, I will be seated," and Louis subsided into the chair just vacated by Louvois. Then he said, "Now proceed with your tale. Tell all you know. Everything."

It took perhaps not more than a quarter of an hour for Humphrey to describe all he had overheard in that bedroom of his at Basle; all of what was said in the adjacent salon. Nevertheless, he told the story clearly and succinctly, omitting only one thing, namely, all mention of De Beaurepaire. His name he could not bring himself to pronounce, remembering that he had ever been treated kindly by the chevalier and also that, even now, he was not resolved as to whether the former was the head and front of the whole conspiracy or whether his name and position were not being used by the conspirators without his consent.

"So," said the King, "you overheard all this. And-the names of those who plotted thus? Do you know them? Outside that of La Truaumont with whom you rode in the train of the Duchesse de Castellucchio, are you aware of the names of the others? The name of the woman and also of the man passing as her father?"

"Sire, the woman is known as the Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville."

"The Marquise de Villiers-Bordéville. De Villiers-Bordéville!" the King repeated. Then, after a moment's reflection, he said, "There is no such title in France."

As, however, the words fell from his lips the attitude of De Louvois, while he leant nearer to him, showed that he desired to speak.

Whereupon the King said, "You know her, De Louvois?"

"Sire," the minister answered, "La Reynie, your Surintendant de Police, knows her. He has signalised her to me as dangerous."

"Who is she?"

"She is Louise Belleau de Cortonne. Her husband was Jacques de Mallorties, Seigneur de Villers and Boudéville. Villers and Boudéville are almost akin to Villiers-Bordéville. That husband died mysteriously by poison, she was tried at Rouen for his murder but acquitted. Now-"

"Yes, now?"

"She is a spy in the pay of either Holland or Spain or both, and she loves secretly-the-man-whom-we suspect."

"Dieu!" the King exclaimed, exhibiting, however, as little agitation as, in all the great crises of his long reign-the plots and conspiracies against his life, the combinations of half Europe against him, the treachery of those whom he had enriched and advanced, as well as the treachery, in one extreme case at least, of the women he had loved-he was ever known to show. Turning, however, to Humphrey now, Louis said in a voice that was absolutely calm: -

"Was any great name mentioned in this talk you overheard? Any name so great in all that pertains to it that, almost, it casts a shadow over, or pretends to cast a shadow over, the name of Louis de Bourbon?"

"Your Majesty," Humphrey whispered, "such a name was mentioned, hinted at. But-but-"

"But what?"

"More as the name of one who occupied the position spoken of by Monsieur le Ministre a moment past. As one who is admired, perhaps loved by-"

"That woman, the soi-disant Marquise?"

"Your Majesty has said it. More as that than as the name of a plotter, an intriguer."

"So be it. Let us pass from this. Now, Monsieur West, the name of the other man? The old man who travelled from Paris to take part in this grievous conference after having travelled beforehand from Holland to Paris. The man who passed as the woman's father?"

"Sire, as her father he passed under the name of Châteaugrand. But he was addressed and spoken of as Van den Enden."

"A man," exclaimed De Louvois, "well known to La Reynie and to me. A Dutch Jew, who has been everything: doctor, schoolmaster-he speaks all languages-a preacher of atheism, keeper of a bagnio, proprietor of a tripot and spy and plotter. But principally the latter."

"'Tis well. Very well. Communicate with La Reynie to-night. He will know his work. Now, Monsieur West, let me hear the rest of your story. When that is told you will remain here as the guest of the King whom you have striven so bravely to serve."

CHAPTER XIX

Half an hour later Humphrey had told all that had happened to him since he fell senseless from the foul thrust of Fleur de Mai; or rather he had told all he knew and could remember.

For memory, consciousness, had failed him from the moment when the truculent but craven bully had essayed that botte de lâche and he had sunk insensible upon the straw of the stable until, some two hours later, he had opened his eyes again upon a scene which brought neither recollection nor understanding to him.

He opened his eyes to see a glare shining in them that his disordered mind could not comprehend until, at last, consciousness began to regain its hold upon him, when he was enabled to understand that it proceeded from some miserable light-probably that of a rush-light-which had been placed behind a common bottle filled with water, perhaps with the intention of increasing the flare. He saw, too, that there was a fire burning in the corner of whatever the place might be in which he was lying: a fire made of sticks, not logs, which, since they emitted a horribly pungent odour as well as clouds of smoke, were probably green and damp. Next, as sensibility returned to him, he knew that he was very cold and wet, that he was shivering as a man in a fit of ague shivers, and that he ached all over as though he had been beaten.

A moment later, and when he was about to call out to know if there were any person within hail and, if so, to ask where he was, he heard a woman's voice speaking, yet speaking in so strange a patois, or dialect, that he had to devote all the attention his still giddy brain could furnish to grasp what the possessor of that voice said. Still, he was by a great effort enabled to understand the tenor of the words.

"Nothing on him, father, nothing!" the voice said. "Himmel! a trout of a kilo would have been a better haul. I would have cast him back into the river and have let the rapids have him. Yet," the speaker added, "his clothes are good, of the best. They are worth something and he is a handsome man."

"Nein, nein," a man's voice, gruff and harsh, replied. "I could not do that. Never! My heart is too soft for such deeds as that. And, Therese, I was once nearly caught and dragged into those accursed rapids myself, and I remember my awful fears, my sweat and agony as I was swept along towards them. I could not see another going that way and let him continue his course, especially since the net had got him. And, 'Rese, this is a gentleman; look at his hands. Even though he has no money in his pockets he must have friends and belongings. They will pay me well for the fish I have caught."

"He," the woman's voice said, "is handsome as a picture. When he is well and not so deathly white he must be beautiful as the paintings of the boy angels in our church. I wish I had not seen so handsome a face. I shall think of it for long."

"Bah! you women think of nothing but men and their looks. Now, come, help me to take off his garments and to put him in the warm straw before the fire. Maybe he will recover."

"Ach, mein Gott!" the woman screamed, as she drew near to Humphrey in obedience to the man's command, "look, look, father, his eyes are open, and, ah! what eyes they are. Oh!" she muttered to herself, "I have never seen such eyes, such lashes. 'Tis well you saved him. So handsome a man should never die."

"Good people," Humphrey said, finding his own voice now and wondering if it was his voice, it came so weak and thin from out his lips. "Good people, I pray God to bless you for your mercy to me. And-and-I have heard all you said. If there is no money on me now, as there should be, still I can reward you well. I am not poor."

"Who are you?" the woman, or rather girl, asked in her strange jargon.

"I am a gentleman. I have substance. You shall be well rewarded."

"How came you in the river?"

"Heaven alone knows. I was stabbed in a fight in Basle. Rather tell me how I came here."

"I had a net stretched across from this side to the other," the man said. "The river narrows here and it is easy to get over. When the storms come, the great salmon trout and the pike come down from Rheinfelden. I thought I had two at the least, if not three, when I saw the net nearly torn off its ropes as it caught you."

"They threw me in the river then," Humphrey mused. "It must be so. Ah! if I live, gare à vous, La Truaumont, and you, Fleur de Mai. Heaven help you if we ever come face to face again or I live to reach the King." Then aloud, he said, "How far is this from Basle?"

"A kilometre. Opposite, across the river, is the Fort de Stein."

"A kilometre! I have been borne that far and I am alive! God, I thank Thee." Then turning to the man he said, "Is my wound serious? Have you looked to it?"

"Nein. I knew not even that you were wounded. Where is it?"

"Below my right shoulder. Through the lung, I fear."

"Rese," the man said to his daughter. "Assist me to remove the gentleman's garments."

"Nay, nay. Let the maiden retire. You can do that."

With a grunt and a laugh the fellow did as Humphrey bade him, and did it gently too, so that in a few moments the latter's body was bare while the orifice of a gaping wound was plainly visible two inches below the shoulder. Yet, probably owing to the action of the water through which Humphrey had not only been borne but tossed upon, that wound was neither livid nor covered with blood and was, doubtless, thereby prevented from mortifying. The man found, too, by running his hand under Humphrey's back, that the weapon had not passed through the body, while, by pressing the side and finding that the young man neither winced nor groaned, he opined that the sword had not entered very deeply.

"I am no surgeon," he said; "I can do naught. Yet there are good ones in Basle. When daylight comes, if you will have it so, I will get out my mule and cart in which I take the fish I catch to Basle, and will drive you there."

"Ay," Humphrey said, "in heaven's name do so, I beseech you. And then you shall be rewarded. The Duchess with whom I travel-"

"You are a friend of duchesses?" Therese and her father exclaimed, while the first added, "Was it for this woman you were stabbed and thrown into the river?"

"I rode in her service," Humphrey replied; when, again addressing the man, he said, "You shall be well paid for your services."

"Sus! sus!" the latter grunted, "I seek not reward for saving life. Yet you are rich you say, and we-God help us! – are splitting with hunger and poverty. Now, let me strip you," he went on, "and wrap you in the straw-we have no other covering even for ourselves-and I will dry your habiliments. Meanwhile, a rag to your wound must suffice till we reach Basle. It will not be long; the dayspring will come soon. Sleep, seigneur, sleep; sleep is both food and balm to those who have naught else."

This story Humphrey told-even more briefly than it has been set down-to the King sitting before him and to the harsh, severe-looking minister standing by his master's chair.

He told, too, of how he reached Basle where his wound was dressed by a learned doctor, and of how his bruises and contusions-caused by his being tossed by the rushing river against boulder stones and logs borne down like himself on its cruel bosom-were soothed by cunning unguents and salves as well as might be. He narrated, also, how he found the Duchess and Jacquette almost distraught at his disappearance as well as at that of La Truaumont and Fleur de Mai, while their consternation was enhanced by the disappearance next morning of Boisfleury who had also decamped on the pretence of seeking the Syndic. All were gone, yet, with the exception of Boisfleury's horse, upon which the vagabond rode away, their animals remained in the stalls.

One thing alone Humphrey did not tell the King and De Louvois. He made no mention of how he and Jacquette had met and been together again; how the girl had wept and sighed at his sufferings and laughed and smiled at having him safe in her arms once more, and how she had nursed him and cared for him till he was ready to set out for Paris. Nor did he tell the King how Jacquette swore that the moment her mistress was safe in Milan she would return to Humphrey, or he should set out again to her, and how, the next time they met, they would be wedded and never part more.

"And this Fleur de Mai, the ruffian who bears this nom de fantaisie," the King asked, "this truculent luron, who and what is he? A hired bravo or a conspirator? What? When we have him fast in our hands, as we may do yet, which is he most worthy of, the wheel, the gallows, or the axe?"

"Your Majesty, I know not. His bearing and manner are those of a swashbuckler."

"Sire," De Louvois said now, producing two papers from his pocket, which papers were the letters the King had been reading before supper, the letters of two women. "Sire, the Duchess of Portsmouth writes that in this vile plot which has come to her ears at the English Court, a name is mentioned. That of the Chevalier la Preaux. This may be he, for he, too, is Norman like all the rest-except one. Except the greater one."

"Monsieur West," the King said, as he rose to his feet, and Humphrey, determined to be no longer seated while His Majesty stood, struggled to his feet in spite of Louis' protest, "I would you were a subject of mine, a man born wholly French. Then I could repay you for your care of me and my crown and of, perhaps, my life. Yet, though you are none such, I shall not forget."

"Sire, I-I-could not learn this and not speak. Had I ne'er been permitted to enter your presence I could not have done so. But, sire, my mother! Your Majesty obtained the restoration of our lands and-"

"Ah," the King said, "your mother. She is well and happy?"

"She is well and happy, sire. She owes all to your Majesty."

"She should be proud of you. Proud of such a son." Then, as again he gave Humphrey his hand to kiss, he bade Louvois see to it that the former was well lodged in the château and treated as one of his most honoured guests.

Whether that treatment would have been good for Humphrey had he been heart whole up to now may perhaps be doubted. For, although in England it had been his lot to be surrounded by the butterflies, male and female, of the giddy Court, there had never been anything which singled him out as one to whom particular attention should be paid by the fair sex-except his good looks.

But here, where-though nothing was absolutely known of what he might have done to make him signally favoured by the monarch who ruled the destinies of all in France-the thistle-down of gossip and chatter blew freely about, and whispers were circulated that Humphrey West was one marked out by Le Roi Soleil for high distinction, while, as at Whitehall, his appearance alone would have caused him to be much courted and petted by the favourites and demoiselles of the superb Court.

Therefore, maids of honour, themselves of high birth, vied with those splendid dames who glittered in the dazzling beams of the great ruler's smiles: one and all endeavoured to intoxicate the young man with their charms and their câlineries. They played at nursing him, at waiting on him, even at being driven mad for love of him; and it may be that, in more than one case, the love was more real than simulated. They also, when it was possible, abstained from forming part of the King's retinues that daily set out for the hunts in the huge forest; of joining those dazzling cortéges of which beautiful women, soldiers of distinction, courtiers, statesmen, Church dignitaries, young girls and scheming intrigantes all formed part. They abstained so that they might be with Humphrey whose heart was far away, whose mind held only one image, that of Jacquette, and who, in consequence, could not be tempted by pretty faces and sparkling eyes, love knots and love-locks, subtle perfumes and flowing robes fashioned more to suggest than to disguise the shapely forms beneath.

One woman, too, who, in all that brilliant if garish Court, played the strongest, most dominating part of any, while pretending to play the most retiring and self-effacing, had a smile always for Humphrey, a quiet, modest word and, now and again, a glance which, though it told the young man nothing, must, at least, have assured him that if her friendship was worth anything he possessed it.

The woman who was to be in years to come the evil genius of the splendid monarch now in the full pride of his manhood; who was to cause him to commit one of the wickedest acts ever perpetrated by any monarch-the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. To egg him on to deeds of aggression and spoliation which, at last, caused the whole of Europe to enter into a coalition against him that, if it did not eventually hurl him from his throne, did send him to his grave unlamented by his people.

The woman who, a subtle and crafty wanton in her youth, became an intolerant bigot in her riper years; the woman "so famous, so evil and so terrible" – as the most celebrated of all diarists, the Duc de St. Simon, termed her-who had once been the wife of the diseased and malignant poet, Paul Scarron, and will be known to all time as Madame de Maintenon.

CHAPTER XX

It was a bright, sunny morning when De Beaurepaire drew rein in the long, dirty street of Charenton, and, turning his horse's head, directed it towards the hamlet of Saint Mandé where his Lodge was. The Lodge that, enshrouded in trees, stood on the edge of the Forest of Vincennes and was one of the many which, wherever there was a royal forest, were the residences of the Grand Veneur of the time being.

Leading his animal to the stables, while observing that already the heavy curtains were drawn apart and the inmates stirring, he tethered it in a stall and fetched a feed for it from the bin near at hand. After which he locked the stable door with the key he had drawn from his pocket, retraced his steps to the garden, and, mounting to the verandah, went towards the window.

If, however, he did this with the intention of tapping on it and thus attracting the notice of whosoever might be, within that room, this intention was anticipated.

As his heavy riding-boots sounded on the crushed shell path and his gilt spurs rang at his heels, he heard the frou-frou of a woman's long robe on the parquet of the room and saw the thick folds of the stamped leather hangings drawn aside by a slim white hand, and, next, one side of the window opened.

A moment later he was in the room, and the woman who called herself Emérance de Villiers-Bordéville stood before him.

"So," she exclaimed in a whisper, the very murmur of which told of her joy at having him with her once more; "so you are back once more. And almost to the moment, as you promised. Ah! I have so longed to see you since you quitted Paris for Fontainebleau." Then she said, "Come, see, a meal is prepared. Come, refresh yourself, eat and drink and let us be merry. We meet once more."

Yet, as she spoke and while gazing up into the handsome face of the man before her, she saw something in that face, something in the dark eyes that were looking down into hers, that startled her.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice, a voice that was almost hoarse in its depth. "What?"

"I will tell you," De Beaurepaire answered, "but first a drink of wine. I am parched and dry with my ride, and also with a fever that consumes me within. Give me the drink."

Obeying him, the woman went over to the table which stood at one side of the room; a table set out with cold meats, a pasty and some salads and, also, with a large flask of wine, when, pouring out some into a goblet, she brought it to the man she loved. As he drank, eagerly, thirstily, she let her eyes rest on him till he had finished the draught. After which she said again, "What is it?"

"This. Humphrey West is alive. La Truaumont has either lied to me or been deceived."

"Alive!" Emérance repeated, her face blanching as she spoke, while the softness of it seemed to vanish, to leave it in a moment, and her \ eyes became dim. "Humphrey West-the man who heard-as they all thought-what was said in that room at Basle."

"Yes. Alive and-at Fontainebleau."

"Malheur!" while, as Emérance spoke, the goblet she had taken from his hand after he had finished drinking fell to the floor and shivered into a dozen pieces on the parquet. "At Fontainebleau! Where the King is. So," and she shuddered as though the room had suddenly grown cold. "You are undone. Lost. Oh!"

"You are undone. Lost," she had said. She had not said, "We are undone." And, as she said it, the man knew, if he had never known before, how strong her love was for him. There had been no thought of, no fear for, herself springing quickly to her mind in learning the danger that overhung them both, though there could have been no possibility of her failing to understand that what threatened him threatened her also; she had thought only of him. She had not said, "We are undone." Her wail, her terror had been for him alone.

"Emérance," De Beaurepaire said, taking her to his arms now and kissing her, while-whatever the man's faults were, and they were many and grievous! – indifference to the self-abnegation of this thing that, he now knew, loved him so, could not be counted among them. "Emérance, I think not of myself but you. I have staked and lost. I must stand the hazard. Les battus payent l'amende."

"No, no," Emérance wailed. "What! You think of me! Of me the schemer, the adventuress-the woman who is herself of Normandy, who hoped to see this proud, masterful ruler beaten down by the Normans he despises and treats evilly. The woman who hoped to see the man she loves, the man she worships, help in the work and, perhaps, assume that ruler's place. Who am I that you should think of me? Yet, nevertheless, this sunders our lives. Or! no-no!" she went on, a wan smile stealing on to her face. "For though we go out of each other's lives it may be that we shall set out from each other together, at the same time-though we go different dark roads at parting."

Excited, overmastered, by what her imagination conjured up, at what must be their fate if their conspiracy was known by now to the King, she went toward the table again and, filling another glass, drank it to the dregs. After which, as though inspirited by what she had drunk, she came back to where the other stood, while saying: -

"Tell me all. Have you seen him at Fontainebleau?"

"Five hours past. Ill, white, like a man who has been close to, who has knocked at, death's door, yet has been refused admittance. In the great avenue, on his road to the château."

"You could not have been mistaken?"

"I was not mistaken. Our eyes did not meet as he looked out of the crazy conveyance in which he sat. But in seeing him, I learnt all."

"Was La Truaumont deceived in what he repeated to you-or-or is that wretch, Van den Enden, a double traitor? Yet-yet-you told me ere you went to Fontainebleau that the former said La Preaux forced Humphrey West to fight with him and slew him, leaving the blame to fall on Boisfleury. That he saw the young man slain."

"La Truaumont was not deceived nor did he lie. He saw the fight: he saw the other fall. Yet, now, I have seen him alive. This very day. Alive and making his way to the King."

"And ere the Englishman was killed he had killed Boisfleury?" Emérance asked meditatively.

"Nay. La Truaumont thought not so but that he only wounded him sorely."

"They should have killed him ere they left Basle. They should have killed them both. They should have made sure of their silence for ever. Thus, too, when they were found they would have been thought to have slain each other; their lips would have been sealed-you would have been safe."

"Emérance, think not of me alone. I am but one."

"But one! You are the only one of whom I can think. What are a thousand lives, a thousand murders, to me so long as you are safe!"

Before this overmastering passion of the woman for him, this love that, like the love of the tigress for its mate or its young, would have swept the lives of all in the world away to preserve the one thing precious to it, De Beaurepaire stood speechless. In truth it startled him-startled even him who had known so much of women's love yet had never known such love as this.