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Love of Monsieur

<h2>CHAPTER III MONSIEUR MORNAY BECOMES UNPOPULAR</h2></div> 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[32] 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[33] 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[34] 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: [35] “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[36] 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[37] 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[38] 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[39] 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.[40] “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.” [41] 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[42] 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.” [43] 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?” [44] 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[45] 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[46] 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!” <hr class="chap" /> [47] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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