CHAPTER III
MONSIEUR MORNAY BECOMES UNPOPULAR
The footsteps of Mistress Barbara and Captain Ferrers vanished into the night. Sir Henry Heywood moved a step nearer Mornay, and the Frenchman turned. His face shone with an unwonted pallor, and an air of distraction had settled in the repose of his features which the dim light of the swinging lanterns could not conceal. His eyes, dark and lustrous, looked at Sir Henry from under half-closed lids, a little ennuyé, but with a perfect composure and studied politeness.
“It is unfortunate that we cannot seem to meet,” said Sir Henry, struggling to control himself.
“I am bereaved, Monsieur de Heywood. Perhaps to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” broke in Heywood, violently. “There may be no to-morrow. I will meet you to-night, monsieur, here – now – at this very spot!” He nervously fingered the laces at his throat.
Mornay paused a moment. “Monsieur de Heywood would violate the hospitality – ”
“Yes,” interrupted Heywood, “we shall have no constables here – ”
“But, monsieur – ”
“Enough! Will you fight, or shall I – ” He made a movement towards Mornay. There came so dangerous a flash in the Frenchman’s eyes that Heywood stopped. Mornay drew back a step and put his hand upon his sword.
“At last,” sneered Heywood – “at last you understand.”
Mornay shrugged his shoulders as though absolving himself from all responsibility.
“Eh bien,” he said. “It shall be as you wish.”
There had been so many duels with fatal results in London during the last few months that it was as much as a man’s life was worth to engage in one, either as principal or second. But this affair admitted of no delay, and Ferrers and Wynne had so deep a dislike for Mornay that they would have risked much to see him killed. Wynne found Captain Cornbury, who hailed with joy the opportunity of returning Mornay a service the Frenchman had twice rendered him. The gentlemen removed their periwigs, coats, and laces, and when Captain Ferrers returned, the game began.
It was soon discovered that Monsieur Mornay had a great superiority in the reach, and he disarmed his elderly opponent immediately. It was child’s play. Almost before the Baronet had taken his weapon in hand it flew to the ground again. With this he lost his temper, and, throwing his seconds aside, sprang upon the Frenchman furiously. A very myriad of lunges and thrusts flashed about Monsieur Mornay, and before the seconds knew what had happened the Baronet seemed to rush upon the point of the Frenchman’s sword, which passed into his body.
Ferrers and Cornbury ran forward and caught the wounded man in their arms, while Wynne, seeing that he still breathed, ran without further ado to the house in search of aid. Monsieur Mornay alone stood erect. As Cornbury rose to his feet the Frenchman asked:
“Well?”
“Clear through. There’s a hole on both sides. Ye must be off. They will be here presently.”
“And you?”
“I’ll stay. I can serve ye better here”; and as Mornay paused, “Come, there’s no time to be lost.” He caught up the Frenchman’s coat, hat, and periwig, and hurried down the garden towards the gate. Mornay cast a glance at the figure upon the ground and followed.
“I mistrust Ferrers,” whispered Cornbury. “If he will but tell a dacent story, his grace may hush the matter. If not – ”
“Eh bien– I care not – ”
“If not, ’tis a case for the constables, perhaps of the prison; ’tis difficult to say – a plea of chance-medley – a petition to the King – ”
Mornay tossed his head impatiently as he replied:
“I have nothing to expect from the King, Cornbury.”
“Tush, man! All will be well. But do ye not go to yer lodgings. Meet me in an hour at the Swan in Fenchurch Street, and I’ll tell ye the lay of the land. Go, and waste no time where ye see the lantern of the watch,” with which he pushed the Frenchman past the grilled door at the garden entrance and out into the street.
Monsieur Mornay paused a moment while he slowly and carefully adjusted his coat, cravat, and periwig. As he moved down the lane in the deep shadow of the high wall in the darkness and alone with his thoughts, his poise and assurance fell from him like a doffed cloak; his head drooped upon his breast, as with shoulders bowed and laggard feet he walked, in the throes of an overmastering misery. He passed from the shadows of the walls of Dorset Gardens and out into the bright moonlight of the sleeping street. Had he wished to hide himself, he could not have done so more effectually, for in this guise he made rather the figure of a grief-ridden beldam than the fiery, impulsive devil-may-care of the Fleece Tavern. When he again reached the protecting shadow he sank upon a neighboring doorstep and buried his face in his knees, the very picture of despair. No sound escaped him. It was the tumultuous, silent man-grief which burns and sears into the soul like hot iron, but knows no saving relief in sob or tear. Once or twice the shoulders tremulously rose and fell, and the arms strained and writhed around the up-bent knees in an agony of self-restraint. Ten, fifteen minutes he sat there, lost to all sense of time or distance, until his struggle was over. Then he raised his head, and, catching his breath sharply, arose.
“If there were but an end,” he sighed aloud, constrainedly – “an end to it all!”
Then a bitter laugh broke from him.
“It is true – what she said was true. I am a loathsome creature – a thing, a creeping thing, that lives because it must, because, like a toad or a lizard, it is too mean to kill.” There was a long silence. At last he brushed his hand across his forehead and rose to his feet abruptly.
“Bah! a bit of womanish folly!” he laughed. “’Tis some humor or sickness. The plague is still in the air. Mordieu!” he shouted. “There is money to win and bright eyes to gleam for Monsieur Mornay. I can laugh and jest still, mes amis– ”
The closing of doors and the clatter of a coach upon the cobbles surprised him into a sense of the present. A footstep here and there and the sound of shouts close at hand recalled him to himself. He saw from the garden gate of Dorset House the flashing of a lantern and heard the shooting of the bolts and the rasp of a rough voice. The spirit of self-preservation rose strong within him and put to rout every thought but flight. He peered cautiously from his doorway, and, finding that the gate was not yet opened, he went forth and hurried down the street and around the corner until all the sounds of pursuit were lost to hearing.
By the time Monsieur Mornay had reached the Swan in Fenchurch Street, he was so far in possession of his senses that, with a manner all his own, he roused the master of the house from his bed and bade him set out a cold pâté and two bottles of wine in the back room upstairs against the coming of the Irishman. Nor had he long to wait, for Captain Cornbury, flushed and breathless, soon burst into the room. When he saw Mornay his face relaxed in a look of relief.
“Egad! ye’re here,” he said. “’Twixt this and that I’ve had a thousand doubts about ye. For the present, then, ye’re safe.”
Mornay pushed a bench towards him.
“Then Ferrers has – ”
“Ferrers and Dorset – I’ faith, between them they’ve raised the divil. And Captain Ferrers – by the ten holy fingers of the Pope! there was a fine notary spoiled when Ferrers took service with the King. For all the lyin’ scoundrels – ”
“He accused me?”
“Egad! he swore you were the head and foot of the whole business – ”
“Tonnerre de Dieu! And the Duke?”
“I raged and swore to no purpose. Dorset believes Ferrers. He says you began it in the gallery.”
The Frenchman looked towards the ceiling with hands upraised. “The unfortunate politesse of Monsieur Mornay! The English I cannot understand.”
“Ferrers swears it was a plot hatched in the Fleece Tavern, and that I was a party to it.”
Mornay arose and grasped the Irishman’s shoulder.
“You! My poor friend, YOU!” he exclaimed; “and I disarmed him twice. It is too much – let us go at once and face them.”
Cornbury pushed him down. “Ye’ll do no such thing. ’Twould be arrant suicide. The streets are full of men looking for you by this – and me, too.”
“They cannot – you didn’t even know.”
“’Tis true, or I’m Dutch. Look ye, man, we’re safe here, and snug. Four-and-twenty lances couldn’t get through Tom Boyle downstairs if he’d set his mind to stop them. Rest awhile and compose yer mind. Besides – ” He broke off abruptly and reached for the bottle. “Give me a drink – I can talk no more. The words are all – parchin’ in my throat.”
Mornay sank back upon his bench, while the Irishman filled and drained his cup. At last he gave a great grunt of satisfaction, and with smiling face set the vessel down upon the table with a clatter.
“Ochone! Talking is but a dry thrade.”
“Allons, Captain,” said Mornay, “tell me all.”
He drew the platter over and helped himself liberally from the pâté.
“Well, monsieur, when I went back, Heywood was making a kind of statement to Ferrers – something in the nature of a dying confession. It appears that this fellow Heywood is a thieving rascal, and if ye’ve killed him ’tis good riddance, say I.” He paused a moment to pour his wine. “As ye know,” he continued, his mouth full – “as ye know, the man is the guardian of Mistress Barbara Clerke. He has the disposition in the law of her fortune. Well, from what he confesses, ’tis not her fortune, after all.”
Mornay’s eyes opened wide with astonishment and interest. He set down upon the table, untasted, the cup he had raised to his lips, and leaned intently forward.
“Is it true?” he exclaimed; “and Mistress Barbara has nothing – nothing at all?” He broke into a hard, dry little laugh. “Pardieu! ’twill lower her chin, I’m thinking.” Then his face clouded again.
“Go on, monsieur,” he urged, impatiently – “go on.”
“If I can remember it, there’s a bit of family history ye have not heard, perhaps. Well, ye must know that the Chevalier Bresac, great-grandfather of this Mistress Clerke, bore a most intolerant hatred of Spain and the Spanish. His son René inherited this antipathy. So when he married an English girl and settled in London, he vowed that if any one of his three daughters married a Spaniard he would cut her off with a louis.”
He took a long draught of his wine. “Here is where the confession begins. The eldest daughter disobeyed and married a Spaniard in Paris. She kept the marriage from her father, and, going to Amiens, gave birth to a boy. Before she could summon courage to tell old Bresac of her disobedience, poor cratur, she died.”
“Leaving an heir to the estate.”
“Not so fast. Ye see, not a word of this was known in London; nor is to-day. At her death the bulk of the fortune went to the second daughter, who was the mother of this Mistress Barbara. The third daughter married Heywood’s uncle. Of this there was no issue, but that’s how the man came to be the guardian.” Cornbury pulled a pipe from a rack and filled it.
“Now here’s the villainy of the thing. This Spaniard came of gentle birth, but au fond was a sodden beast. Heywood went to Paris as the envoy of Wilfred Clerke – Barbara’s father – and, after a shrewd bargain, bought all the secret papers in evidence of this Spanish marriage.”
“And the real heir?”
“As much alive as you are.”
Monsieur Mornay contemplated the bottom of his bowl.
“Mille tonnerres!” he growled. “’Tis the very refinement of perfidy.”
The Irishman drank deep. “A lucky stroke of yours, Mornay, I say. I would it had been mine.”
“What became of the papers?”
“That’s why Heywood confessed, I suppose. Ye see, he loved his ward, and wanted Ferrers to destroy them. This he will do, I’m thinking, for he loves the lady himself.”
“And Mistress Clerke?”
“Hasn’t a notion of it.”
Mornay folded his arms and sat looking at the floor, a strange smile upon his lips. “Pardieu!” he said; “’twould touch her pride – ’twould wring her proud heart to have the heir come back to his own.” The bitterness of his tone caused Cornbury to look at him in surprise.
“Oh, there’s never a chance of it,” he said. “You see, this Spaniard, D’Añasco, put the boy upon a ship. Why, what ails ye, man? What is it? Are ye mad?”
Mornay had seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and leaned forward with eyes that stared at him like one possessed.
“The name, monsieur?” he said, huskily – “the name – the Spanish name you said – ?”
“Gawd, man, don’t grip me so! You’ve spilled the tobago. ’Twas D’Añasco, I think, or Damasco, or some such unspeakable thing.”
“Think, man – think!” cried Mornay, passionately. “’Tis a matter of life and death. Was the name Luis d’Añasco, of Valencia?”
It was Cornbury’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Mornay in amazement.
“I’ faith, now you mention it, I think it was. But how – ”
“And the name of the boy became Ruiz? The ship was the Castillano?”
Cornbury’s eyes were wider than ever.
“It was – it was!”
Cornbury paused. Mornay had arisen to his feet and stumbled to the dormer-window, where he fell rather than leaned against the sill. The Irishman could see nothing but the upheave of the shoulders and the twitching of the hands as the man straggled for his self-control. Cornbury was devoured with curiosity, but with due respect for the Frenchman’s silence sat smoking vigorously until Mornay chose to speak. As the Frenchman looked out at the quiet stars across the roof-tops of London he became calmer, and at last turned around towards the flickering candles.
“Monsieur,” began Cornbury, with a touch of sympathy.
But Mornay raised his hand in quiet protest. “D’Añasco was my father, voilà tout,” he said slowly. And as the Irishman arose, Mornay continued:
“I can finish the story, Monsieur Cornbury,” he said, lightly, but with a depth of meaning in his tone that did not escape the other. “When the boy Ruiz grew old enough to know, the Spaniard told him that he had no mother – nor ever had – that he was no-woman’s child. He put him on the Castillano and sent him out into the great world, without a thought, without a blessing, without a name – the very shuttle and plaything of fortune. That child, Cornbury, was myself.”
The Irishman put his arm upon Monsieur Mornay’s shoulder and clasped him by the hand.
They stood thus a moment until Cornbury broke away and, with a shout that made the rafters ring, again filled the drinking-bowls upon the table.
“A health, monsieur!” he cried. “You’ll never drink a better. To the better fortunes of René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac!”
CHAPTER IV
MONSIEUR WAITS UPON A LADY
Captain Cornbury was no fledgling. He was the younger son, none too highly esteemed by the elder branch, of a hard-drinking, quick-fighting stock of ne’er-do-wells. He knew a trick with a sword, and for twenty years had kept a certain position by his readiness to use it. His last employment had been in the King’s service as captain in a regiment of dragoons, but he lived, of a preference, upon his wits. There was never a game of dice or cards at which he could not hold his own at luck or skill. Skill at the Fleece Tavern, too, often meant dexterity in manipulation; and where every man with whom he played took shrewd advantage of his neighbor there was little to cavil at.
But of late fortune had turned a wry face upon the man. His regiment was disbanded for lack of money, his pittance from the Earl, his brother, ceased altogether; and, with a reckless manner of living, a debtors’ prison stared him in the face. He sat upon the couch in Mornay’s new room at the Swan Tavern, watching with a somewhat scornful expression of countenance Vigot help his master to make his toilet. His eyes blinked sleepily at the light, for it was high noon; and his wig having been removed for comfort, the light shone brilliantly upon a short crop of carroty-red hair which took all the colors of the rainbow.
Mornay wore a splendid silken night-gown, little in keeping with the dinginess of the apartment. While Vigot dressed his master’s perruque, Mornay told the Irishman of the note from the King and of the arrival of the post from France, with the news of the anger of the Grand Monarque and of his promise of death or imprisonment should Mornay be brought to France.
Cornbury pursed his lips in a thin whistle.
“Viscount,” he said, frowning, “ye’re skatin’ on thin ice.”
Mornay had completely recovered his good spirits. He tossed his night-robe to Vigot and snapped his fingers.
“Mais, monsieur,” he smiled. “’Tis an exercise so exhilarating.”
“D – n it, man, ’tis no time for jesting,” growled the Irishman, rising. “The post from France to-day says ye are to be put in the Bastile or have your head chopped off; in London ye’re a fugitive from justice for killing; and, lastly, yer good friend Charles has turned a cold shoulder on ye. And ye talk of exhilaration!” Cornbury’s disgust was illimitable.
Mornay dusted a speck from his sleeve and smiled gayly. “It is not every day, my good Cornbury, that a man may become possessed of a family, a fortune, and, ma foi, such a beautiful, scornful she-cousin – ”
“Zoons, man! How can ye prove it without the papers? The mere word ‘D’Añasco’ will not open their ears or their hearts. I believe it, but who else would?”
“I can prove that I am the boy Ruiz, I tell you.”
“And ye’re fleeing for your life?”
Mornay’s face grew stern. “Yes, I am fleeing for my life,” he cried, “but they have not caught me yet. Last night I would not have cared if they had sent me back to France. To-day it is different. They have robbed me of my estates, of my name; they have made me a mere creeping thing – a viper. Morbleu! they shall feel the viper’s sting. Monsieur de Heywood is dead. Mistress Barbara Clerke – ”
Cornbury leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you don’t mean – ”
“Oh, put your mind at rest, mon ami. I shall do my pretty cousin no violence. I shall see her – that’s all. But first – first, about the papers with this Capitaine Ferraire – ”
Cornbury smiled dryly.
“Why, ye have but to poke a nose an inch beyond the door to be carted to the Tower. How will ye see Captain Ferrers, then? ’Tis the height of absurdity. Take my advice and keep close till ye find a ship. Then set your course for the Plantations till yer matter is cooled. I’ve a debt or two myself, and I’m inclined to accompany ye.”
Mornay looked at him in surprise. “Why, Cornbury, you have but a faint heart!”
“It is this news from France – ye have no backing – ”
“Come! have done!” cried Mornay. “You sap my will. If you cannot look the situation gallantly in the face, why, then – ” He stopped and lowered his voice, casting a glance at the Irishman. “Mon ami, I expect too much. More than I can claim.” Mornay walked towards the door and took Cornbury’s cloak and hat. “Allons! You shall leave me at once. Your only danger is in my society. Go at once upon the street, and they can prove nothing; stay with me, and you harbor an enemy of the state and a fugitive from justice.”
Cornbury threw a look at him and rose to his feet with an oath. “D – n ye, man, d’ye think I’d quit ye now? Ye give me credit for a smallish sense of dacency.” He walked to the window and looked down upon the street. Mornay followed him at once and took him by the hand.
“I have offended you? Forgive me. This matter is the turning of gall to honey for me, Cornbury. I cannot leave it without a struggle. I pray you, bear with me.”
Cornbury was smiling in a moment. “What do ye plan?” he said.
“Listen. Vigot is clever. He shall discover for me when Captain Ferrers will wait upon madame, ma cousine. I, too, will call upon her.”
“And ye’ve just killed her guardian!” said Cornbury, dryly. “She’ll not receive ye with kisses.”
Mornay smiled and slowly answered:
“You will think it strange that a gentleman should intrude upon a woman. But to-morrow, perhaps to-day, I may go from this city and country forever. Before that I shall make one effort to establish my good name. I shall not succeed; but I shall have done my duty to myself and the mother who bore me. As for the Capitaine Ferraire – ” Mornay’s eyes flashed ominously. “If I knew where he had put the papers – if I could but get him to fight – ”
“Fight! Ye couldn’t coax a fight from Ferrers with the flat of yer hand. He’d rather see ye in the Bastile or the Tower. He’s too sure to take any risks. Besides, if ye’d kill him the papers would be lost forever. No, he’ll not fight. He owes ye money, and while the constables can cancel the debt ye may be sure that he will not.”
Mornay passed his hand over his brow. “’Tis true. But I must see them together. That is the only chance. I will go to-day.”
“But how, Mornay?” asked Cornbury, dryly. “In a coach and four?”
Mornay sprang to his feet in delight. “C’est ça!” he cried, joyfully. “Oh, monsieur, but you have the Irish wit. Vigot shall bring me a coach. I shall ride in state.”
Cornbury rose to his feet angrily.
“What nonsense is this?” he cried. Mornay smiled on him benignly.
“Can you not see, Monsieur le Capitaine? While they are looking for me at the Fleece, in Covent Garden, in the Heaven Inn, or in the Hell Tavern, here will I be riding along the Mall to the very place they would be least likely to look for me – in my lady’s boudoir!”
Cornbury at once saw the value of the plan, but he never looked more sober.
“And after?” he asked.
“After?” replied Mornay, lightly. “After? Monsieur, you leave too little to the imagination. I think but of the present. Le bon Dieu will provide for the future.”
Vigot was given his orders to make shrewd inquiries of the servants of the neighbors of Mistress Clerke as to the hour of Captain Ferrers’s daily visits. He was also told to get a coach for monsieur. He stood puzzled a moment.
“Monsieur wishes a haquenée?” he asked.
“A haquenée? No, sirrah!” said Mornay, brusquely.
“A pair, then?” he asked, scratching his head.
“A pair?” roared Mornay. “No, sirrah! Foi de ma vie! I wish a coach and four. Twenty guineas at the very least. If I wait upon madame at night, a dozen links. Be off with you!”
Cornbury shook his head hopelessly.
“Ye’re going to your funeral in style,” he said.
Mistress Barbara sat alone, looking out upon the quiet street. While she looked she saw nothing, and every line of her figure, in abandonment to her mood, spoke of sorrow and distraction. Her eyelids were red, and the richly laced mouchoir which fell from the hand beneath her chin was moist with tears. Upon a tray were the dishes of a luncheon, untouched, and a number of papers, some of them torn, fell from her hand upon the floor. A dish of roses, a few French romances, a manteau girdle, a copy of the Annus Mirabilis of Dryden, a pair of scented gloves of Martial, and a cittern in the corner completed the gently bred disorder of the room.
True, Sir Henry Heywood was no blood relation of hers, and had only been her guardian. A man of the world in the worst rather than the better sense, there had been little in his life to appeal to her. But he loved her in his own way and had been good to her in all matters that pertained to her estate, and so she mourned him as one would mourn the loss of one whom nearness had made dear. There was some bond which seemed to bind them more closely than their mere surface relations of ward and guardian – an undercurrent of devotion and servitude which she felt, though she could not understand the meaning. His death wrung her mind, if it did not wring her heart.
And by this Frenchman! There had been a moment or two of regret the other night that she should have used this Mornay so cruelly, a moment when the bitterness, the grief, the utter loneliness and longing she had seen in his face had filled her rebellious soul with compassion for his misery. For she had a glimpse – the very first – of his pride overborne and beaten to earth in spite of its mighty struggle to rise. But now! Now, whatever regret had sprung into her heart, whatever kindliness, had been engulfed again in a bitterness which cried out for justice. While the woman in her had shrunk from the thought of him and wished him well away from London, a sense of the fitness of things called for retribution for the wrong that had been done her and hers. They had not caught him yet. Oh, he was cunning and skillful; that she knew. But Captain Ferrers had assured her that to oblige Louis of France, the King had directed all the constables of London to be upon the watch for him. It could not be long before they would have him fast behind the walls of the Tower, with God knows what in store for him there, or at the Bastile if he were taken back to France. The Bastile? She shivered a little and put her kerchief over her face.
“God forgive me,” she murmured, “if I have misjudged him!”
There was a commotion below in the street – the sound of galloping horses and the rumble of a fast-flying vehicle. A plum-colored calash with red wheels and splendid equipments was coming at a round pace up the street. There were four sorrel horses, a coachman, footman, and two outriders. With a whirl of dust and the shouting of men the horses were thrown upon their haunches and the coach came to a stop directly before Mistress Barbara’s door. She peered out of the window, curiously agape, to know the identity of her visitor. From the way in which he traveled abroad it must be a person of condition – she felt assured a minister or dignitary of the city, come perhaps to beseech her influence. There was a glimmer of bright color in the sunlight. A splendid figure, periwigged and bonneted in the latest mode, sprang out and to her front door. She had barely time to withdraw her head before there was a knock and her lackey opened in some trepidation.
“Madame, ’tis Monsieur the Vicomte de Bresac – ”
“Did I not give orders – ” she began, and then stopped. “De Bresac! De Bresac! What can it mean?”
“Madame, ’tis a matter of importance and – er – ”
She stood debating whether she should call her governess or deny herself to her visitor, but before she could do the one or the other footsteps came along the hallway and the lackey stepped aside as Monsieur Mornay entered.
Mistress Clerke turned a pallid face towards him. She stepped back a pace or two, her hands upon her breast, her eyes glowing with fear. Monsieur Mornay turned to the lackey, who still stood doubtful upon the threshold. The look he gave the man sent him through the doorway and hall, where the sound of his footsteps mingled with those of others without. Mistress Clerke cast a fleeting glance towards the boudoir, but Monsieur Mornay had taken his stand where he could command both entrances to the room. She scorned to cry aloud for assistance, nor would she risk his interference by trying to pass him. He read her easily. She made no motion to leave or speak to him, but stood against the wall of the fireplace, her muscles rigid and tense with fear and her eyes regarding him with all the calmness she could command.
“Madame,” he said, solemnly, looking out at her from under his dark brows, “before God, I mean you no harm!” He said it as though it were a sacrament. “In half an hour or less I shall be gone from this room, from your life forever. But you must hear what I have to say.” He paused. “No, no, madame. It is not that which you suppose – you need have no fear of me. It is not that – I swear it!”
Mistress Barbara moved uneasily.
“I pray that you will be seated, madame. No? As you please. What I have to say is not short. Shall I begin?”
“’Twere sooner over,” she said, hoarsely.
He bowed politely. “I will endeavor to be brief. Many years ago, your great-grandfather went to Florida with the expedition of Jean Ribault. Perhaps you have been told of the massacre by the Spanish and how the Seigneur de Bresac escaped to France? Merci! You also doubtless know his and your grandfather’s great hatred of the Spanish people as the result of this massacre? Eh bien. Your grandfather told his three daughters – one of whom was your mother – that if one of them married a Spaniard he would refuse her a part of his fortune and deny her as a child of his – ”
“I pray you, monsieur – ”
“I crave your patience. Lorance, your mother, married Monsieur Clerke, and Julie, the younger sister, married Sir George Maltby. That is well known. The elder sister was Eloise.” His voice fell, and the name was spoken with all the soft tenderness of the name itself. “Perhaps you do not know, madame, that she, too, was married – ”
“There was a mystery,” she muttered. “I heard – ” Then she stopped.
“Madame heard?” he asked, politely. But she was silent again.
“Eloise was married,” he continued, “while visiting at the château of the Duc de Nemours, near Paris, to Don Luis d’Añasco, who was a Spaniard. Fearing her father’s wrath and disinheritance, this unfortunate woman concealed the facts of this marriage, the record of which was the acknowledgment of the priest who married them and the statements of a nurse and another witness who had accompanied her to Amiens, where in or about the year 1635 she gave birth to a son – ”
If Mistress Clerke had allowed herself to relax a little before, her interest now had dominated all feeling of fear and suspense. She leaned a little forward, breathless, her hand upon the chair before her, her eyes fixed upon the lips of the Frenchman, who spoke slowly, concisely, and held her with an almost irresistible fascination.
“The saddest part of the story is to come, madame. The mother was grievously ill – she suffered besides all the pangs of solitude at a time when a woman needs consolation and sympathy the most. Her mother had died, her husband was worse than useless, and she feared to let her father know the truth, lest his stern and pitiless nature would wreak some terrible vengeance upon the Spanish husband, whom she still loved, in spite of the fact that he had married her for her fortune and not for herself. She had almost made up her mind to tell her father all when – she died.” He paused a moment to give her the full import of his words. And then, looking at her steadily and somewhat sternly, “Her son, René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac, is still alive.”