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diff --git a/7949-0.txt b/7949-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..369537d --- /dev/null +++ b/7949-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8610 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series, by Rafael Sabatini + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series + +Author: Rafael Sabatini + +Release Date: June 4, 2003 [eBook #7949] +[Most recently updated: January 8, 2023] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: J. C. Byers, Abdulh Ameed Alhassan and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES *** + + + + +THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES + +By Rafael Sabatini + + + + +To David Whitelaw + +My Dear David, + +Since the narratives collected here as well as in the preceding volume +under the title of the Historical Nights Entertainment—narratives +originally published in The Premier Magazine, which you so ably +edit—owe their being to your suggestion, it is fitting that some +acknowledgment of the fact should be made. To what is hardly less than +a duty, allow me to add the pleasure of dedicating to you, in earnest +of my friendship and esteem, not merely this volume, but the work of +which this volume is the second. + +Sincerely yours, + +Rafael Sabatini + +London, June, 1919. + + + + +Contents + + Preface + I. THE ABSOLUTION + Affonso Henriques, First King of Portugal + II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS + Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of Ivan the Terrible + III. THE HERMOSA FEMBRA + An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville + IV. THE PASTRY-COOK OF MADRIGAL + The Story of the False Sebastian of Portugal + V. THE END OF THE “VERT GALANT” + The Assassination of Henry IV + VI. THE BARREN WOOING + The Murder of Amy Robsart + VII. SIR JUDAS + The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh + VIII. HIS INSOLENCE OF BUCKINGHAM + George Villiers’ Courtship of Anne of Austria + IX. THE PATH OF EXILE + The Fall of Lord Clarendon + X. THE TRAGEDY OF HERRENHAUSEN + Count Philip Königsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea + XI. THE TYRANNICIDE + Charlotte Corday and Jean Paul Marat + + + + +Preface + + +The kindly reception accorded to the first volume of the Historical +Nights Entertainment, issued in December of 1917, has encouraged me to +prepare the second series here assembled. + +As in the case of the narratives that made up the first volume, I set +out again with the same ambitious aim of adhering scrupulously in every +instance to actual, recorded facts; and once again I find it desirable +at the outset to reveal how far the achievement may have fallen short +of the admitted aim. + +On the whole, I have to confess to having allowed myself perhaps a +wider latitude, and to having taken greater liberties than was the case +with the essays constituting the previous collection. This, however, +applies, where applicable, to the parts rather than to the whole. + +The only entirely apocryphal narrative here included is the first—“The +Absolution.” This is one of those stories which, if resting upon no +sufficient authority to compel its acceptance, will, nevertheless, +resist all attempts at final refutation, having its roots at least in +the soil of fact. It is given in the rather discredited Portuguese +chronicles of Acenheiro, and finds place, more or less as related here, +in Duarte Galvao’s “Chronicle of Affonso Henriques,” whence it was +taken by the Portuguese historical writer, Alexandre Herculano, to be +included in his “Lendas e Narrativas.” If it is to be relegated to the +Limbo of the ben trovato, at least I esteem it to afford us a precious +glimpse of the naive spirit of the age in which it is set, and find in +that my justification for including it. + +The next to require apology is “His Insolence of Buckingham,” but only +in so far as the incident of the diamond studs is concerned. The +remainder of the narrative, the character of Buckingham, the details of +his embassy to Paris, and the particulars of his audacious courtship of +Anne of Austria, rest upon unassailable evidence. I would have omitted +the very apocryphal incident of the studs, but that I considered it of +peculiar interest as revealing the source of the main theme of one of +the most famous historical romances ever written—“The Three +Musketeers.” I give the story as related by La Rochefoucauld in his +“Memoirs,” whence Alexandre Dumas culled it that he might turn it to +such excellent romantic account. In La Rochefoucauld’s narrative it is +the painter Gerbier who, in a far less heroic manner, plays the part +assigned by Dumas to d’Artagnan, and it is the Countess of Carlisle who +carries out the political theft which Dumas attributes to Milady. For +the rest, I do not invite you to attach undue credit to it, which is +not, however, to say that I account it wholly false. + +In the case of “The _Hermosa Fembra_” I confess to having blended +together into one single narrative two historical episodes closely +connected in time and place. Susan’s daughter was, in fact, herself the +betrayer of her father, and it was in penitence for that unnatural act +that she desired her skull to be exhibited as I describe. Into the +story of Susan’s daughter I have woven that of another New-Christian +girl, who, like the Hermosa Fembra, her taken a Castilian lover—in this +case a youth of the house of Guzman. This youth was driven into +concealment in circumstances more or less as I describe them. He +overheard the judaizing of several New-Christians there assembled, and +bore word of it at once to Ojeda. The two episodes were separated in +fact by an interval of three years, and the first afforded Ojeda a +strong argument for the institution of the Holy Office in Seville. +Between the two there are many points of contact, and each supplies +what the other lacks to make an interesting narrative having for +background the introduction of the Inquisition to Castile. The +denouement I supply is entirely fictitious, and the introduction of +Torquemada is quite arbitrary. Ojeda was the inquisitor who dealt with +both cases. But if there I stray into fiction, at least I claim to have +sketched a faithful portrait of the Grand Inquisitor as I know him from +fairly exhaustive researches into his life and times. + +The story of the False Demetrius is here related from the point of view +of my adopted solution of what is generally regarded as a historical +mystery. The mystery lies, of course, in the man’s identity. He has +been held by some to have been the unfrocked monk, Grishka Otropiev, by +others to have been a son of Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. I am not +aware that the theory that he was both at one and the same time has +ever been put forward, and whilst admitting that it is speculative, yet +I claim that no other would appear so aptly to fit all the known facts +of his career or to shed light upon its mysteries. + +Undoubtedly I have allowed myself a good deal of licence and +speculation in treating certain unwitnessed scenes in “The Barren +Wooing.” But the theory that I develop in it to account for the +miscarriage of the matrimonial plans of Queen Elizabeth and Robert +Dudley seems to me to be not only very fully warranted by de Quadra’s +correspondence, but the only theory that will convincingly explain the +events. Elizabeth, as I show, was widely believed to be an accessory to +the murder of Amy Robsart. But in carefully following her words and +actions at that critical time, as reported by de Quadra, my reading of +the transaction is as given here. The most damning fact against +Elizabeth was held to be her own statement to de Quadra on the eve of +Lady Robert Dudley’s murder to the effect that Lady Robert was “already +dead, or very nearly so.” This foreknowledge of the fate of that +unfortunate lady has been accepted as positive evidence that the Queen +was a party to the crime at Cumnor, which was to set her lover free to +marry again. Far from that, however, I account it positive proof of +Elizabeth’s innocence of any such part in the deed. Elizabeth was far +too crafty and clear-sighted not to realize how her words must +incriminate her afterwards if she knew that the murder of Lady Robert +was projected. She must have been merely repeating what Dudley himself +had told her; and what he must have told her—and she believed—was that +his wife was at the point of a natural death. Similarly, Dudley would +not have told her this, unless his aim had been to procure his wife’s +removal by means which would admit of a natural interpretation. +Difficulties encountered, much as I relate them—and for which there is +abundant evidence—drove his too-zealous agents to rather desperate +lengths, and thus brought suspicion, not only upon the guilty Dudley, +but also upon the innocent Queen. The manner of Amy’s murder is pure +conjecture; but it should not be far from what actually took place. The +possibility of an accident—extraordinarily and suspiciously opportune +for Dudley as it would have been—could not be altogether ruled out but +for the further circumstance that Lady Robert had removed everybody +from Cumnor on that day. To what can this point—unless we accept an +altogether incredible chain of coincidence—but to some such plotting as +I here suggest? + +In the remaining six essays in this volume the liberties taken with the +absolute facts are so slight as to require no apology or comment. + +R. S. + +London, June, 1919. + + + + +I. THE ABSOLUTION + +Aftonso Henriques, first King of Portugal + + +In 1093 the Moors of the Almoravide dynasty, under the Caliph Yusuf, +swept irresistibly upwards into the Iberian Peninsula, recapturing +Lisbon and Santarem in the west, and pushing their conquest as far as +the river Mondego. + +To meet this revival of Mohammedan power, Alfonso VI. Of Castile +summoned the chivalry of Christendom to his aid. Among the knights who +answered the call was Count Henry of Burgundy (grandson of Robert, +first Duke of Burgundy) to whom Alfonso gave his natural daughter +Theresa in marriage, together with the Counties of Oporto and Coimbra, +with the title of Count of Portugal. + +That is the first chapter of the history of Portugal. + +Count Henry fought hard to defend his southern frontiers from the +incursion of the Moors until his death in 1114. Thereafter his widow +Theresa became Regent of Portugal during the minority of their son, +Affonso Henriques. A woman of great energy, resource and ambition, she +successfully waged war against the Moors, and in other ways laid the +foundations upon which her son was to build the Kingdom of Portugal. +But her passionate infatuation for one of her knights—Don Fernando +Peres de Trava—and the excessive honours she bestowed upon him, made +enemies for her in the new state, and estranged her from her son. + +In 1127 Alfonso VII. of Castile invaded Portugal, compelling Theresa to +recognize him as her suzerain. But Affonso Henriques, now aged +seventeen—and declared by the citizens of the capital to be of age and +competent to reign—incontinently refused to recognize the submission +made by his mother, and in the following year assembled an army for the +purpose of expelling her and her lover from the country. The warlike +Theresa resisted until defeated in the battle of San Mamede and taken +prisoner. + + +He was little more than a boy, although four years were sped already +since, as a mere lad of fourteen, he had kept vigil throughout the +night over his arms in the Cathedral of Zamora, preparatory to +receiving the honour of knighthood at the hands of his cousin, Alfonso +VII. of Castile. Yet already he was looked upon as the very pattern of +what a Christian knight should be, worthy son of the father who had +devoted his life to doing battle against the Infidel, wheresoever he +might be found. He was well-grown and tall, and of a bodily strength +that is almost a byword to this day in that Portugal of which he was +the real founder and first king. He was skilled beyond the common wont +in all knightly exercises of arms and horsemanship, and equipped with +far more learning—though much of it was ill-digested, as this story +will serve to show—than the twelfth century considered useful or even +proper in a knight. And he was at least true to his time in that he +combined a fervid piety with a weakness of the flesh and an impetuous +arrogance that was to bring him under the ban of greater +excommunication at the very outset of his reign. + +It happened that his imprisonment of his mother was not at all pleasing +in the sight of Rome. Dona Theresa had powerful friends, who so used +their influence at the Vatican on her behalf that the Holy +Father—conveniently ignoring the provocation she had given and the +scandalous, unmotherly conduct of which she had been guilty—came to +consider the behaviour of the Infante of Portugal as reprehensibly +unfilial, and commanded him to deliver Dona Theresa at once from +duress. + +This Papal order, backed by a threat of excommunication in the event of +disobedience, was brought to the young prince by the Bishop of Coimbra, +whom he counted among his friends. + +Affonso Henriques, ever impetuous and quick to anger, flushed scarlet +when he heard that uncompromising message. His dark eyes smouldered as +they considered the aged prelate. + +“You come here to bid me let loose again upon this land of Portugal +that author of strife, to deliver over the people once more to the +oppression of the Lord of Trava?” he asked. “And you tell me that +unless by obeying this command I am false to the duty I owe this +country, you will launch the curse of Rome against me? You tell me +this?” + +The bishop, deeply stirred, torn between his duty to the Holy See and +his affection for his prince, bowed his head and wrung his hands. “What +choice have I?” he asked, on a quavering note. + +“I raised you from the dust.” Thunder was rumbling in the prince’s +voice. “Myself I placed the episcopal ring upon your finger.” + +“My lord, my lord! Could I forget? All that I have I owe to you—save +only my soul, which I owe to God; my faith, which I owe to Christ; and +my obedience, which I owe to our Holy Father the Pope.” + +The prince considered him in silence, mastering his passionate, +impetuous nature. “Go,” he growled at last. + +The prelate bowed his head, his eyes not daring to meet his prince’s. + +“God keep you, lord,” he almost sobbed, and so went out. + +But though stirred by his affection for the prince to whom he owed so +much, though knowing in his inmost heart that Affonso Henriques was in +the right, the Bishop of Coimbra did not swerve from his duty to Rome, +which was as plain as it was unpalatable. Betimes next morning word was +brought to Affonso Henriques in the Alcazar of Coimbra that a parchment +was nailed to the door of the Cathedral, setting forth his +excommunication, and that the Bishop—either out of fear or out of +sorrow—had left the city, journeying northward towards Oporto. + +Affonso Henriques passed swiftly from incredulity to anger; then almost +as swiftly came to a resolve, which was as mad and harebrained as could +have been expected from a lad in his eighteenth year who held the reins +of power. Yet by its very directness and its superb ignoring of all +obstacles, legal and canonical, it was invested with a certain wild +sanity. + +In full armour, a white cloak simply embroidered in gold at the edge +and knotted at the shoulder, he rode to the Cathedral, attended by his +half-brother Pedro Affonso, and two of his knights, Emigio Moniz and +Sancho Nunes. There on the great iron-studded doors he found, as he had +been warned, the Roman parchment pronouncing him accursed, its sonorous +Latin periods set forth in a fine round clerkly hand. + +He swung down from his great horse and clanked up the Cathedral steps, +his attendants following. He had for witnesses no more than a few +loiterers, who had paused at sight of their prince. + +The interdict had so far attracted no attention, for in the twelfth +century the art of letters was a mystery to which there were few +initiates. + +Affonso Henriques tore the sheepskin from its nails, and crumpled it in +his hand; then he passed into the Cathedral, and thence came out +presently into the cloisters. Overhead a bell was clanging by his +orders, summoning the chapter. + +To the Infante, waiting there in the sun-drenched close, came presently +the canons, austere, aloof, majestic in their unhurried progress +through the fretted cloisters, with flowing garments and hands tucked +into their wide sleeves before them. In a semi-circle they arrayed +themselves before him, and waited impassively to learn his will. +Overhead the bell had ceased. + +Affonso Henriques wasted no words. + +“I have summoned you,” he announced, “to command that you proceed to +the election of a bishop.” + +A rustle stirred through the priestly throng. The canons looked askance +at the prince and at one another. Then one of them spoke. + +“Habemus episcopum,” he said gravely, and several instantly made +chorus: “We have a bishop.” + +The eyes of the young sovereign kindled. “You are wrong,” he told them. +“You had a bishop, but he is here no longer. He has deserted his see, +after publishing this shameful thing.” And he held aloft the crumpled +interdict. “As I am a God-fearing, Christian knight, I will not live +under this ban. Since the bishop who excommunicated me is gone, you +will at once elect another in his place who shall absolve me.” + +They stood before him, silent and impassive, in their priestly dignity, +and in their assurance that the law was on their side. + +“Well?” the boy growled at them. + +“Habemus episcopum,” droned a voice again. + +“Amen,” boomed in chorus through the cloisters. + +“I tell you that your bishop is gone,” he insisted, his voice quivering +now with anger, “and I tell you that he shall not return, that he shall +never set foot again within my city of Coimbra. Proceed you therefore +at once to the election of his successor.” + +“Lord,” he was answered coldly by one of them, “no such election is +possible or lawful.” + +“Do you dare stand before my face, and tell me this?” he roared, +infuriated by their cold resistance. He flung out an arm in a gesture +of terrible dismissal. “Out of my sight, you proud and evil men! Back +to your cells, to await my pleasure. Since in your arrogant, +stiff-necked pride you refuse to do my will, you shall receive the +bishop I shall myself select.” + +He was so terrific in his rage that they dared not tell him that he had +no power, prince though he might be, to make such an election, bowed to +him, ever impassively, and with their hands still folded, unhurried as +they had come, they now turned and filed past him in departure. + +He watched them with scowling brows and tightened lips, Moniz and Nunes +silent behind him. Suddenly those dark, watchful eyes of his were held +by the last figure of all in that austere procession—a tall, gaunt +young man, whose copper-coloured skin and hawk-featured face proclaimed +his Moorish blood. Instantly, maliciously, it flashed through the +prince’s boyish mind how he might make of this man an instrument to +humble the pride of that insolent clergy. He raised his hand, and +beckoned the cleric to him. + +“What is your name?” he asked him. + +“I am called Zuleyman, lord,” he was answered, and the name +confirmed—where, indeed, no confirmation was necessary—the fellow’s +Moorish origin. + +Affonso Henriques laughed. It would be an excellent jest to thrust upon +these arrogant priests, who refused to appoint a bishop of their +choice, a bishop who was little better than a blackamoor. + +“Don Zuleyman,” said the prince, “I name you Bishop of Coimbra in the +room of the rebel who has fled. You will prepare to celebrate High Mass +this morning, and to pronounce my absolution.” + +The Christianized Moor fell back a step, his face paling under its +copper skin to a sickly grey. In the background, the hindmost members +of the retreating clerical procession turned and stood at gaze, angered +and scandalized by what they heard, which was indeed a thing beyond +belief. + +“Ah no, my lord! Ah no!” Don Zuleyman was faltering. “Not that!” + +The prospect terrified him, and in his agitation he had recourse to +Latin. “Domine, non sum dignus,” he cried, and beat his breast. + +But the uncompromising Affonso Henriques gave him back Latin for Latin. + +“Dixi—I have spoken!” he answered sternly. “Do not fail me in +obedience, on your life.” And on that he clanked out again with his +attendants, well-pleased with his morning’s work. + +As he had disposed with boyish, almost irresponsible rashness, and in +flagrant contravention of all canon law, so it fell out. Don Zuleyman, +wearing the bishop’s robes and the bishop’s mitre, intoned the Kyrie +Eleison before noon that day in the Cathedral of Coimbra, and +pronounced the absolution of the Infante of Portugal, who knelt so +submissively and devoutly before him. + +Affonso Henriques was very pleased with himself. He made a jest of the +affair, and invited his intimates to laugh with him. But Emigio Moniz +and the elder members of his council refused to laugh. They looked with +awe upon a deed that went perilously near to sacrilege, and implored +him to take their own sober view of the thing he had done. + +“By the bones of St. James!” he cried. “A prince is not to be +brow-beaten by a priest.” + +Such a view in the twelfth century was little short of revolutionary. +The chapter of the Cathedral of Coimbra held the converse opinion that +priests were not to be browbeaten by a prince, and set themselves to +make Affonso Henriques realize this to his bitter cost. They dispatched +to Rome an account of his unconscionable, high-handed, incredible +sacrilege, and invited Rome to administer condign spiritual +flagellation upon this errant child of Mother Church. Rome made haste +to vindicate her authority, and dispatched a legate to the +recalcitrant, audacious boy who ruled in Portugal. But the distance +being considerable, and means of travel inadequate and slow, it was not +until Don Zuleyman had presided in the See of Coimbra for a full two +months that the Papal Legate made his appearance in Affonso Henriques’ +capital. + +A very splendid Prince of the Church was Cardinal Corrado, the envoy +dispatched by Pope Honorius II., full armed with apostolic weapons to +reduce the rebellious Infante of Portugal into proper subjection. + +His approach was heralded by the voice of rumour. Affonso Henriques +heard of it without perturbation. His conscience at ease in the +absolution which he had wrung from Mother Church after his own fashion, +he was entirely absorbed in preparations for a campaign against the +Moors which was to widen his dominions. Therefore when at length the +thunderbolt descended, it fell—so far as he was concerned—from a sky +entirely clear. + +It was towards dusk of a summer evening when the legate, in a litter +slung in line between two mules, entered Coimbra. He was attended by +two nephews, Giannino and Pierluigi da Corrado, both patricians of +Rome, and a little knot of servants. Empanoplied in his sacred office, +the cardinal had no need of the protection of men-at-arms upon a +journey through god-fearing lands. + +He was borne straight to the old Moorish palace where the Infante +resided, and came upon him there amid a numerous company in the great +pillared hall. Against a background of battle trophies, livid weapons, +implements of war, and suits of mail both Saracen and Christian, with +which the bare walls were hung, moved a gaily-clad, courtly gathering +of nobles and their women-folk, when the great cardinal, clad from head +to foot in scarlet, entered unannounced. + +Laughter rippled into silence. A hush descended upon the company, which +stood now at gaze, considering the imposing and unbidden guest. Slowly +the legate, followed by the two Roman youths, advanced down the hall, +the soft pad of his slippered feet and the rustle of his silken robes +being at first the only sound. On he came, until he stood before the +shallow dais, where in a massively carved chair sat the Infante of +Portugal, mistrustfully observing him. Affonso Henriques scented here +an enemy, an ally of his mother’s, the bearer of a fresh declaration of +hostilities. Therefore of deliberate purpose he kept his seat, as if to +stress the fact that here he was the master. + +“Lord Cardinal,” he greeted the legate, “be welcome to my land of +Portugal.” + +The cardinal bowed stiffly, resentful of this reception. In his long +journey across the Spains, princes and nobles had flocked to kiss his +hand, and bend the knee before him, seeking his blessing. Yet this mere +boy, beardless save for a silky down about his firm young cheeks, +retained his seat and greeted him with no more submissiveness than if +he had been the envoy of some temporal prince. + +“I am the representative of our Holy Father,” he announced, in a voice +of stern reproof. “I am from Rome, with these my well-beloved nephews.” + +“From Rome?” quoth Affonso Henriques. For all his length of limb and +massive thews he could be impish upon occasion. He was impish now. +“Although no good has ever yet come to me from Rome, you make me +hopeful. His Holiness will have heard of the preparations I am making +for a war against the Infidel that shall carry the Cross where now +stands the Crescent, and sends me perhaps, a gift of gold or assist me +in this holy work.” + +The mockery of it stung the legate sharply. His sallow, ascetic face +empurpled. + +“It is not gold I bring you,” he answered, “but a lesson in the faith +which you would seem to have forgotten. I am come to teach you your +Christian duty, and to require of you immediate reparation of the +sacrilegious wrongs you have done. The Holy Father demands of you the +instant re-instatement of the Bishop of Coimbra, whom you have driven +out with threats of violence, and the degradation of the cleric you +blasphemously appointed Bishop in his stead.” + +“And is that all?” quoth the boy, in a voice dangerously quiet. + +“No.” Fearless in his sense of right, the legate towered before him. +“It is demanded of you further that you instantly release the lady, +your mother, from the unjust confinement in which you hold her.” + +“That confinement is not unjust, as all here can witness,” the Infante +answered. “Rome may believe it, because lies have been carried to Rome. +Dona Theresa’s life was a scandal, her regency an injustice to my +people. She and the infamous Lord of Trava lighted the torch of civil +war in these dominions. Learn here the truth, and carry it to Rome. +Thus shall you do worthy service.” + +But the prelate was obstinate and proud. + +“That is not the answer that our Holy Father awaits.” + +“It is the answer that I send.” + +“Rash, rebellious youth, beware!” The cardinal’s anger flamed up, and +his voice swelled. “I come armed with spiritual weapons of destruction. +Do not abuse the patience of Mother Church, or you shall feel the full +weight of her wrath released against you.” + +Exasperated, Affonso Henriques bounded to his feet, his face livid now +with passion, his eyes ablaze. + +“Out! Away!” he cried. “Go, my lord, and go quickly, or as God watches +us I will add here and now yet another sacrilege to those of which you +accuse me.” + +The prelate gathered his ample robes about him. If pale, he was +entirely calm once more. With stern dignity, he bowed to the angry +youth, and so departed, but with such outward impassivity that it would +have been difficult to say with whom lay the victory. If Affonso +Henriques thought that night that he had conquered, morning was to +shatter the illusion. + +He was awakened early by a chamberlain at the urgent instances of +Emigio Moniz, who was demanding immediate audience. Affonso Henriques +sat up in bed, and bade him to be admitted. + +The elderly knight and faithful counsellor came in, treading heavily. +His swarthy face was overcast, his mouth set in stern lines under its +grizzled beard. + +“God keep you, lord,” was his greeting, so lugubriously delivered as to +sound like a pious, but rather hopeless, wish. + +“And you, Emigio,” answered him the Infante. “You are early astir. What +is the cause?” + +“I’ll tidings, lord.” He crossed the room, unlatched and flung wide a +window. “Listen,” he bade the prince. + +On the still morning air arose a sound like the drone of some gigantic +hive, or of the sea when the tide is making. Affonso Henriques +recognized it for the murmur of the multitude. + +“What does it mean?” he asked, and thrust a sinewy leg from the bed. + +“It means that the Papal Legate has done all that he threatened, and +something more. He has placed your city of Coimbra under a ban of +excommunication. The churches are closed, and until the ban is lifted +no priest will be found to baptize, marry, shrive or perform any other +Sacrament of Holy Church. The people are stricken with terror, knowing +that they share the curse with you. They are massing below at the gates +of the alcazar, demanding to see you that they may implore you to lift +from them the horror of this excommunication.” + +Affonso Henriques had come to his feet by now, and he stood there +staring at the old knight, his face blenched, his stout heart clutched +by fear of these impalpable, blasting weapons that were being used +against him. + +“My God!” he groaned, and asked: “What must I do?” + +Moniz was preternaturally grave. “It is of the first importance that +the people should be pacified.” + +“But how?” + +“There is one way only—by a promise that you will submit to the will of +the Holy Father, and by penance seek absolution for yourself and your +city.” + +A red flush swept into the young cheeks that had been so pale. + +“What?” he cried, his voice a roar. “Release my mother, depose +Zuleyman, recall that fugitive recreant who cursed me, and humble +myself to seek pardon at the hands of this insolent Italian cleric? May +my bones rot, may I roast for ever in hell-fire if I show myself such a +craven! And do you counsel it, Emigio—do you really counsel that?” He +was in a towering rage. + +“Listen to that voice,” Emigio answered him, and waved a hand to the +open window. “How else will you silence it?” + +Affonso Henriques sat down on the edge of the bed, and took his head in +his hands. He was checkmated—and yet.... + +He rose and beat his hands together, summoning chamberlain and pages to +help him dress and arm. + +“Where is the legate lodged?” he asked Moniz. + +“He is gone,” the knight answered him. “He left at cock-crow, taking +the road to Spain along the Mondego—so I learnt from the watch at the +River Gate.” + +“How came they to open for him?” + +“His office, lord, is a key that opens all doors at any hour of day or +night. They dared not detain or delay him.” + +“Ha!” grunted the Infante. “We will go after him, then.” And he made +haste to complete his dressing. Then he buckled on his great sword, and +they departed. + +In the courtyard of the alcazar, he summoned Sancho Nunes and a +half-dozen men-at-arms to attend him, mounted a charger and with Emigio +Moniz at his side and the others following, he rode out across the +draw-bridge into the open space that was thronged with the clamant +inhabitants of the stricken city. + +A great cry went up when he showed himself—a mighty appeal to him for +mercy and the remission of the curse. Then silence fell, a silence that +invited him to answer and give comfort. + +He reined in his horse, and standing in his stirrups very tall and +virile, he addressed them. + +“People of Coimbra,” he announced, “I go to obtain this city’s +absolution from the ban that has been laid upon it. I shall return +before sunset. Till then do you keep the peace.” + +The voice of the multitude was raised again, this time to hail him as +the father and protector of the Portuguese, and to invoke the blessing +of Heaven upon his handsome head. + +Riding between Moniz and Nunes, and followed by his glittering +men-at-arms, he crossed the city and took the road along the river by +which it was known that the legate had departed. All that morning they +rode briskly amain, the Infante fasting, as he had risen, yet +unconscious of hunger and of all else but the purpose that was +consuming him. He rode in utter silence, his face set, his brows stern; +and Moniz, watching him furtively the while, wondered what thoughts +were stirring in that rash, impetuous young brain, and was afraid. + +Towards noon at last they overtook the legate’s party. They espied his +mule-litter at the door of an inn in a little village some ten miles +beyond the foothills of the Bussaco range. The Infante reined up +sharply, a hoarse, fierce cry escaping him, akin to that of some +creature of the wild when it espies its prey. + +Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm. + +“My lord, my lord,” he cried, fearfully. “What is your purpose?” + +The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips curled in a smile +that was not altogether sweet. + +“I am going to beg Cardinal Corrado to have compassion on me,” he +answered, subtly mocking, and on that he swung down from his horse, and +tossed the reins to a man-at-arms. + +Into the inn he clanked, Moniz and Nunes following closely. He thrust +aside the vintner who, not knowing him, would have hindered him, great +lord though he seemed, from disturbing the holy guest who was honouring +the house. He strode on, and into the room where the Cardinal with his +noble nephews sat at dinner. + +At sight of him, fearing violence, Giannino and Pierluigi came +instantly to their feet, their hands upon their daggers. But Cardinal +da Corrado sat unmoved. He looked up, a smile of ineffable gentleness +upon his ascetic face. + +“I had hoped that you would come after me, my son,” he said. “If you +come a penitent, then has my prayer been heard.” + +“A penitent!” cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed wickedly, and plucked +his dagger from its sheath. + +Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his prince’s arm. + +“My lord,” he cried in a voice that shook, “you will not strike the +Lord’s anointed—that were to destroy yourself for ever.” + +“A curse,” said Affonso Henriques, “perishes with him that uttered it.” +He could reason loosely, you see, this hot-blooded, impetuous young +cutter of Gordian knots. “And it imports above all else that the curse +should be lifted from my city of Coimbra.” + +“It shall be, my son, as soon as you show penitence and a Christian +submission to the Holy Father’s will,” said the undaunted Cardinal. + +“God give me patience with you,” Affonso Henriques answered him. +“Listen to me now, lord Cardinal.” And he leaned forward on his dagger, +burying the point of it some inches into the deal table. “That you +should punish me with the weapons of the Faith for the sins that you +allege against me I can understand and suffer. There is reason in that, +perhaps. But will you tell me what reasons there can be in punishing a +whole city for an offence which, if it exists at all, is mine +alone?—and in punishing it by a curse so terrible that all the +consolations of religion are denied those true children of Mother +Church, that no priestly office may be performed within the city, that +men and women may not approach the altars of the Faith, that they must +die unshriven with their sins upon them, and so be damned through all +eternity? Where is the reason that urges this?” + +The cardinal’s smile had changed from one of benignity to one of guile. + +“Why, I will answer you. Out of their terror they will be moved to +revolt against you, unless you relieve them of the ban. Thus, Lord +Prince, I hold you in check. You make submission or else you are +destroyed.” + +Affonso Henriques considered him a moment. “You answer me indeed,” said +he, and then his voice swelled up in denunciation. “But this is +statecraft, not religion. And when a prince has no statecraft to match +that which is opposed to him, do you know what follows? He has recourse +to force, Lord Cardinal. You compel me to it; upon your own head the +consequences.” + +The legate almost sneered. “What is the force of your poor lethal +weapons compared with the spiritual power I wield? Do you threaten me +with death? Do you think I fear it?” He rose in a surge of sudden +wrath, and tore open his scarlet robe. “Strike here with your poniard. +I wear no mail. Strike if you dare, and by the sacrilegious blow +destroy yourself in this world and the next.” + +The Infante considered him. Slowly he sheathed his dagger, smiling a +little. Then he beat his hands together. His men-at-arms came in. + +“Seize me those two Roman whelps,” he commanded, and pointed to +Giannino and Pierlulgi. “Seize them, and make them fast. About it!” + +“Lord Prince!” cried the legate in a voice of appeal, wherein fear and +anger trembled. + +It was the note of fear that heartened Affonso Henriques. “About it!” +he cried again, though needlessly, for already his men-at-arms were at +grips with the Cardinal’s nephews. In a trice the kicking, biting, +swearing pair were overpowered, deprived of arms, and pinioned. The men +looked to their prince for further orders. In the background Moniz and +Nunes witnessed all with troubled countenances, whilst the Cardinal, +beyond the table, white to the lips, demanded in a quavering voice to +know what violence was intended, implored the Infante to consider, and +in the same breath threatened him with dread consequences of this +affront. + +Affonso Henriques, unmoved, pointed through the window to a stalwart +oak that stood before the inn. + +“Take them out there, and hang them unshriven,” he commanded. + +The Cardinal swayed, and almost fell forward. He clutched the table, +speechless with terror for those lads who were as the very apple of his +eye, he who so fearlessly had bared his own breast to the steel. + +The two comely Italian youths were dragged out writhing in their +captors’ hands. + +At last the half-swooning legate found his voice. “Lord Prince,” he +gasped. “Lord Prince... you cannot do this infamy! You cannot! I warn +you that... that...” The threat perished unuttered, slain by mounting +terror. “Mercy! Have mercy, lord! as you hope for mercy!” + +“What mercy do you practice, you who preach a gospel of mercy in the +world, and cry for mercy now?” the Infante asked him. + +“But this is an infamy! What harm have those poor children done? What +concern is it of theirs that I have offended you in performing my +sacred duty?” + +Swift into that opening flashed the home-thrust of the Infante’s +answer. + +“What harm have my people of Coimbra done? What concern is it of theirs +that I have offended you? Yet to master me you did not hesitate to +strike at them with the spiritual weapons that are yours. To master you +I do not hesitate to strike at your nephews with the lethal weapons +that are mine. When you shall have seen them hang you will understand +the things that argument could not make clear to you. In the vileness +of my act you will see a reflection of the vileness of your own, and +perhaps your heart will be touched, your monstrous pride abated.” + +Outside, under the tree, the figures of the men-at-arms were moving. +Expeditiously, and with indifference, they went about the preparations +for the task entrusted to them. + +The Cardinal writhed, and fought for breath. “Lord Prince, this must +not be!” He stretched forth supplicating hands. “Lord Prince, you must +release my nephews.” + +“Lord Cardinal, you must absolve my people.” + +“If... if you will first make submission. My duty... to the Holy See... +Oh God! Will nothing move you?” + +“When they have been hanged you will understand, and out of your own +affliction learn compassion.” The Infante’s voice was so cold, his mien +so resolute that the legate despaired of conquering his purpose. +Abruptly he capitulated, even as the halters went about the necks of +his two cherished lads. + +“Stop!” he screamed. “Bid them stop! The curse shall be lifted.” + +Affonso Henriques opened the window with a leisureliness which to the +legate seemed to belong to the realm of nightmare. + +“Wait yet a moment,” the Infante called to those outside, about whom by +now a little knot of awe-stricken villagers had gathered. Then he +turned again to Cardinal Corrado, who had sunk to his chair like a man +exhausted, and sat now panting, his elbows on the table, his head in +his hands. “Here,” said the prince, “are the terms upon which you may +have their lives: Complete absolution, and Apostolic benediction for my +people and myself this very night, I on my side making submission to +the Holy Father’s will to the extent of releasing my mother from +duress, with the condition that she leaves Portugal at once and does +not return. As for the banished bishop and his successor, matters must +remain as they are; but you can satisfy your conscience on that score +by yourself confirming the appointment of Don Zuleyman. Come, my lord, +I am being generous, I think. In the enlargement of my mother I afford +you the means of satisfying Rome. If you have learnt your lesson from +what I here proposed, your conscience should satisfy you of the rest.” + +“Be it so,” the Cardinal answered hoarsely. “I will return with you to +Coimbra and do your will.” + +Thereupon, without any tinge of mockery, but in completest sincerity in +token that the feud between them was now completely healed, Affonso +Henriques went down upon his knees, like the true and humble son of +Holy Church he accounted himself, to ask a blessing at the Cardinal’s +hands. + + + + +II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS + +Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of Ivan the Terrible + + +The news of it first reached him whilst he sat at supper in the great +hall of his palace in the Kremlin. It came at a time when already there +was enough to distract his mind; for although the table before him was +spread and equipped as became an emperor’s, the gaunt spectre of famine +stalked outside in the streets of Moscow, and men and women were so +reduced by it that cannibalism was alleged to be breaking out amongst +them. + +Alone, save for the ministering pages, sat Boris Godunov under the iron +lamps that made of the table, with its white napery and vessels of gold +and silver plate, an island of light in the gloom of that vast +apartment. The air was fragrant with the scent of burning pine, for +although the time of year was May, the nights were chill, and a great +log-fire was blazing on the distant hearth. To him, as he sat there, +came his trusted Basmanov with those tidings which startled him at +first, seeming to herald that at last the sword of Nemesis was swung +above his sinful head. + +Basmanov, a flush tinting the prominent cheek-bones of his sallow face, +an excited glitter in his long eyes, began by ordering the pages out of +earshot, then leaning forward quickly muttered forth his news. + +At the first words of it, the Tsar’s knife clashed into his golden +platter, and his short, powerful hands clutched the carved arms of his +great gilded chair. Quickly he controlled himself, and then as he +continued to listen he was moved to scorn, and a faint smile began to +stir under his grizzled beard. + +A man had appeared in Poland—such was the burden of Basmanov’s +story—coming none knew exactly whence, who claimed to be Demetrius, the +son of Ivan Vassielivitch, and lawful Tsar of Russia—Demetrius, who was +believed to have died at Uglich ten years ago, and whose remains lay +buried in Moscow, in the Church of St. Michael. This man had found +shelter in Lithuania, in the house of Prince Wisniowiecki, and thither +the nobles of Poland were now flocking to do him homage, acknowledging +him the son of Ivan the Terrible. He was said to be the living image of +the dead Tsar, save that he was swarthy and black-haired, like the +dowager Tsarina, and there were two warts on his face, such as it was +remembered had disfigured the countenance of the boy Demetrius. + +Thus Basmanov, adding that he had dispatched a messenger into Lithuania +to obtain more precise confirmation of the story. That messenger—chosen +in consequence of something else that Basmanov had been told—was +Smirnoy Otrepiev. + +The Tsar Boris sat back in his chair, his eyes on the gem encrusted +goblet, the stem of which his fingers were mechanically turning. There +was now no vestige of the smile on his round white face. It had grown +set and thoughtful. + +“Find Prince Shuiski,” he said presently, “and send him to me here.” + +Upon the tale the boyar had brought him he offered now no comment. + +“We will talk of this again, Basmanov,” was all he said in +acknowledgment that he had heard, and in dismissal. + +But when the boyar had gone, Boris Godunov heaved himself to his feet, +and strode over to the fire, his great head sunk between his massive +shoulders. He was a short, thick-set, bow-legged man, inclining to +corpulence. He set a foot, shod in red leather reversed with ermine, +upon an andiron, and, leaning an elbow on the carved overmantel, rested +his brow against his hand. His eyes stared into the very heart of the +fire, as if they beheld there the pageant of the past, upon which his +mind was bent. + +Nineteen years were sped since Ivan the Terrible had passed away, +leaving two sons, Feodor Ivanovitch, who had succeeded him, and the +infant Demetrius. Feodor, a weakling who was almost imbecile, had +married Irene, the daughter of Boris Godunov, whereby it had fallen out +that Boris became the real ruler of Russia, the power behind the +throne. But his insatiable ambition coveted still more. He must wear +the crown as well as wield the sceptre; and this could not be until the +Ruric dynasty which had ruled Russia for nearly seven centuries should +be stamped out. Between himself and the throne stood his daughter’s +husband and their child, and the boy Demetrius, who had been dispatched +with his mother, the dowager Tsarina, to Uglich. The three must be +removed. + +Boris began with the last, and sought at first to drive him out of the +succession without bloodshed. He attempted to have him pronounced +illegitimate, on the ground that he was the son of Ivan’s seventh wife +(the orthodox Church recognizing no wife as legitimate beyond the +third). But in this he failed. The memory of the terrible Tsar, the +fear of him, was still alive in superstitious Russia, and none dared to +dishonour his son. So Boris had recourse to other and surer means. He +dispatched his agents to Uglich, and presently there came thence a +story that the boy, whilst playing with a knife, had been taken with a +fit of epilepsy, and had fallen, running the blade into his throat. But +it was not a story that could carry conviction to the Muscovites, since +with it came the news that the town of Uglich had risen against the +emissaries of Boris, charging them with the murder of the boy, and +killing them out of hand. + +Terrible had been the vengeance which Boris had exacted. Of the +luckless inhabitants of the town two hundred were put to death by his +orders, and the rest sent into banishment beyond the Ural Mountains, +whilst the Tsarina Maria, Demetrius’s mother, for having said that her +boy was murdered at the instigation of Boris, was packed off to a +convent, and had remained there ever since in close confinement. + +That had been in 1591. The next to go was Feodor’s infant son, and +lastly—in 1598—Feodor himself, succumbing to a mysterious illness, and +leaving Boris a clear path to the throne. But he ascended it under the +burden of his daughter’s curse. Feodor’s widow had boldly faced her +father, boldly accused him of poisoning her husband to gratify his +remorseless ambitions, and on a passionate appeal to God to let it be +done by him as he had done by others she had departed to a convent, +swearing never to set eyes upon him again. + +The thought of her was with him now, as he stood there looking into the +heart of the fire; and perhaps it was the memory of her curse that +turned his stout heart to water, and made him afraid where there could +surely be no cause for fear. For five years now had he been Tsar of +Russia, and in these five years he had taken such a grip of power as +was not lightly to be loosened. + +Long he stood there, and there he was found by the magnificent Prince +Shuiski, whom he had bidden Basmanov to summon. + +“You went to Uglich when the Tsarevitch Demetrius was slain,” said +Boris. His voice and mien were calm and normal. “Yourself you saw the +body. There is no possibility that you could have been mistaken in it?” + +“Mistaken?” The boyar was taken aback by the question. He was a tall +man, considerably younger than Boris, who was in his fiftieth year. His +face was lean and saturnine, and there was something sinister in the +dark, close-set eyes under a single, heavy line of eyebrow. + +Boris explained his question, telling him what he had learnt from +Basmanov. Basil Shuiski laughed. The story was an absurd one. Demetrius +was dead. Himself he had held the body in his arms, and no mistake was +possible. + +Despite himself, a sigh of relief fluttered from the lips of Boris. +Shuiski was right. It was an absurd story, this. There was nothing to +fear. He had been a fool to have trembled for a moment. + +Nevertheless, in the weeks that followed, he brooded more and more over +all that Basmanov had said. It was in the thought that the nobility of +Poland was flocking to the house of Wisniowiecki to do honour to this +false son of Ivan the Terrible, that Boris found the chief cause of +uneasiness. There was famine in Moscow, and empty bellies do not make +for loyalty. Then, too, the Muscovite nobles did not love him. He had +ruled too sternly, and had curbed their power. There were men like +Basil Shuiski who knew too much—greedy, ambitious men, who might turn +their knowledge to evil account. The moment might be propitious to the +pretender, however false his claim. Therefore Boris dispatched a +messenger to Wisniowiecki with the offer of a heavy bribe if he would +yield up the person of this false Demetrius. + +But that messenger returned empty-handed. He had reached Bragin too +late. The pretender had already left the place, and was safely lodged +in the castle of George Mniszek, the Palatine of Sandomir, to whose +daughter Maryna he was betrothed. If these were ill tidings for Boris, +there were worse to follow soon. Within a few months he learned from +Sandomir that Demetrius had removed to Cracow, and that there he had +been publicly acknowledged by Sigismund III. of Poland as the son of +Ivan Vassielivitch, the rightful heir to the crown of Russia. He heard, +too, the story upon which this belief was founded. Demetrius had +declared that one of the agents employed by Boris Godunov to procure +his murder at Uglich had bribed his physician Simon to perform the +deed. Simon had pretended to agree as the only means of saving him. He +had dressed the son of a serf, who slightly resembled Demetrius, in +garments similar to those worn by the young prince, and thereafter cut +the lad’s throat, leaving those who had found the body to presume it to +be the prince’s. Meanwhile, Demetrius himself had been concealed by the +physician, and very shortly thereafter carried away from Uglich, to be +placed in safety in a monastery, where he had been educated. + +Such, in brief, was the story with which Demetrius convinced the court +of Poland, and not a few who had known the boy at Uglich came forward +now to identify with him the grown man, who carried in his face so +strong a resemblance to Ivan the Terrible. That story which Boris now +heard was soon heard by all Russia, and Boris realized that something +must be done to refute it. + +But something more than assurances—his own assurances—were necessary if +the Muscovites were to believe him. And so at last Boris bethought him +of the Tsarina Maria, the mother of the murdered boy. He had her +fetched to Moscow from her convent, and told her of this pretender who +was setting up a claim to the throne of Russia, supported by the King +of Poland. + +She listened impassively, standing before him in the black robes and +conventual coif which his tyranny had imposed upon her. When he had +done, a faint smile swept over the face that had grown so hard in these +last twelve years since that day when her boy had been slain almost +under her very eyes. + +“It is a circumstantial tale,” she said. “It is perhaps true. It is +probably true.” + +“True!” He bounded from his seat. “True? What are you saying, woman? +Yourself you saw the boy dead.” + +“I did, and I know who killed him.” + +“But you saw him. You recognized him for your own, since you set the +people on to kill those whom you believed had slain him.” + +“Yes,” she answered. And added the question: “What do you want of me +now?” + +“What do I want?” He was amazed that she should ask, exasperated. Had +the conventual confinement turned her head? “I want your testimony. I +want you to denounce this fellow for the impostor that he is. The +people will believe you.” + +“You think they will?” Interest had kindled in her glance. + +“What else? Are you not the mother of Demetrius, and shall not a mother +know her own son?” + +“You forget. He was ten years of age then—a child. Now he is a grown +man of three-and-twenty. How can I be sure? How can I be sure of +anything?” + +He swore a full round oath at her. “Because you saw him dead.” + +“Yet I may have been mistaken. I thought I knew the agents of yours who +killed him. Yet you made me swear—as the price of my brothers’ +lives—that I was mistaken. Perhaps I was more mistaken than we thought. +Perhaps my little Demetrius was not slain at all. Perhaps this man’s +tale is true.” + +“Perhaps...” He broke off to stare at her, mistrustfully, searchingly. +“What do you mean?” he asked her sharply. + +Again that wan smile crossed the hard, sharp-featured face that once +had been so lovely. “I mean that if the devil came out of hell and +called himself my son, I should acknowledge him to your undoing.” + +Thus the pent-up hate and bitterness of years of brooding upon her +wrongs broke forth. Taken aback, he quailed before it. His jaw dropped +foolishly, and he stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes. + +“The people will believe me, you say—they will believe that a mother +should know her own son. Then are your hours of usurpation numbered.” + +If for a moment it appalled him, yet in the end, forewarned, he was +forearmed. It was foolish of her to let him look upon the weapon with +which she could destroy him. The result of it was that she went back to +her convent under close guard, and was thereafter confined with greater +rigour than hitherto. + +Desperately Boris heard how the belief in Demetrius was gaining ground +in Russia with the people. The nobles might still be sceptical, but +Boris knew that he could not trust them, since they had no cause to +love him. He began perhaps to realize that it is not good to rule by +fear. + +And then at last came Smirnoy Otrepiev back from Cracow, where he had +been sent by Basmanov to obtain with his own eyes confirmation of the +rumour which had reached the boyar on the score of the pretender’s real +identity. + +The rumour, he declared, was right. The false Demetrius was none other +than his own nephew, Grishka Otrepiev, who had once been a monk, but, +unfrocked, had embraced the Roman heresy, and had abandoned himself to +licentious ways. You realize now why Smirnoy had been chosen by +Basmanov for this particular mission. + +The news heartened Boris. At last he could denounce the impostor in +proper terms, and denounce him he did. He sent an envoy to Sigismund +III. to proclaim the fellow’s true identity, and to demand his +expulsion from the Kingdom of Poland; and his denunciation was +supported by a solemn excommunication pronounced by the Patriarch of +Moscow against the unfrocked monk, Grishka Otrepiev, who now falsely +called himself Demetrius Ivanovitch. + +But the denunciation did not carry the conviction that Boris expected. +It was reported that the Tsarevitch was a courtly, accomplished man, +speaking Polish and Latin, as well as Russian, skilled in horsemanship +and in the use of arms, and it was asked how an unfrocked monk had come +by these accomplishments. Moreover, although Boris, fore-warned, had +prevented the Tsarina Maria from supporting the pretender out of +motives of revenge, he had forgotten her two brothers; he had not +foreseen that, actuated by the same motives, they might do that which +he had prevented her from doing. This was what occurred. The brothers +Nagoy repaired to Cracow publicly to acknowledge Demetrius their +nephew, and to enrol themselves under his banner. + +Against this Boris realized that mere words were useless. The sword of +Nemesis was drawn indeed. His sins had found him out. Nothing remained +him but to arm and go forth to meet the impostor, who was advancing +upon Moscow with a great host of Poles and Cossacks. + +He appraised the support of the Nagoys at its right value. They, too, +had been at Uglich, and had seen the dead boy, almost seen him slain. +Vengeance upon himself was their sole motive. But was it possible that +Sigismund of Poland was really deceived, as well as the Palatine of +Sandomir, whose daughter was betrothed to the adventurer, Prince Adam +Wisniowiecki, in whose house the false Demetrius had first made his +appearance, and all those Polish nobles who flocked to his banner? Or +were they, too, moved by some ulterior motive which he could not +fathom? + +That was the riddle that plagued Boris Godunov what time—in the winter +of 1604—he sent his armies to meet the invader. He sent them because, +crippled now by gout, even the satisfaction of leading them was denied +him. He was forced to stay at home in the gloomy apartments of the +Kremlin, fretted by care, with the ghosts of his evil past to keep him +company, and assure him that the hour of judgment was at hand. + +With deepening rage he heard how town after town capitulated to the +adventurer, and mistrusting Basmanov, who was in command, he sent +Shuiski to replace him. In January of 1605 the armies met at +Dobrinichi, and Demetrius suffered a severe defeat, which compelled him +to fall back on Putioli. He lost all his infantry, and every Russian +taken in arms on the pretender’s side was remorselessly hanged as Boris +had directed. + +Hope began to revive in the heart of Boris; but as months passed and no +decision came, those hopes faded again, and the canker of the past +gnawed at his vitals and sapped his strength. And then there was ever +present to his mind the nightmare riddle of the pretender’s identity. +At last, one evening in April, he sent for Smirnoy Otrepiev to question +him again concerning that nephew of his. Otrepiev came in fear this +time. It is not good to be the uncle of a man who is giving so much +trouble to a great prince. + +Boris glared at him from blood-injected eyes. His round, white face was +haggard, his cheeks sagged, and his fleshly body had lost all its +erstwhile firm vigour. + +“I have sent for you to question you again,” he said, “touching this +lewd nephew of yours, this Grishka Otrepiev, this unfrocked monk, who +claims to be Tsar of Muscovy. Are you sure, man, that you have made no +mistake—are you sure?” + +Otrepiev was shaken by the Tsar’s manner, by the ferocity of his mien. +But he made answer: “Alas, Highness! I could not be mistaken. I am +sure.” + +Boris grunted, and moved his body irritably in his chair. His terrible +eyes watched Otrepiev mistrustfully. He had reached the mental stage in +which he mistrusted everything and everybody. + +“You lie, you dog,” he snarled savagely. + +“Highness, I swear...” + +“Lies!” Boris roared him down. “And here’s the proof. Would Sigismund +of Poland have acknowledged him had he been what you say? When I +denounced him the unfrocked monk Grishka Otrepiev, would not Sigismund +have verified the statement had it been true?” + +“The brothers Nagoy, the uncles of the dead Demetrius...” Otrepiev was +beginning, when again Boris interrupted him. + +“Their acknowledgment of him came after Sigismund’s, after—long +after—my denunciation.” He broke into oaths. “I say you lie. Will you +stand there and pelter with me, man? Will you wait until the rack pulls +you joint from joint before you speak the truth?” + +“Highness!” cried Otrepiev, “I have served you faithfully these years.” + +“The truth, man; as you hope for life,” thundered the Tsar, “the whole +truth of this foul nephew of yours, if so be he is your nephew.” + +And Otrepiev spoke the whole truth at last in his great dread. “He is +not my nephew.” + +“Not?” It was a roar of rage. “You dared lie to me?” + +Otrepiev’s knees were loosened by terror, and he went down upon them +before the irate Tsar. + +“I did not lie—not altogether. I told you a half-truth, Highness. His +name is Grishka Otrepiev; it is the name by which he always has been +known, and he is an unfrocked monk, all as I said, and the son of my +brother’s wife.” + +“Then... then...” Boris was bewildered. Suddenly he understood. “And +his father?” + +“Was Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. Grishka Otrepiev is King +Stephen’s natural son.” + +Boris seemed to fight for breath for a moment. + +“This is true?” he asked, and himself answered the question. “Of course +it is true. It is the light at last... at last. You may go.” + +Otrepiev stumbled out, thankful, surprised to escape so lightly. He +could not know of how little account to Boris was the deception he had +practiced in comparison with the truth he had now revealed, a truth +that shed a fearful, dazzling light upon the dark mystery of the false +Demetrius. The problem that so long had plagued the Tsar was solved at +last. + +This pretended Demetrius, this unfrocked monk, was a natural son of +Stephen Bathory, and a Roman Catholic. Such men as Sigismund of Poland +and the Voyvode of Sandomir were not deceived on the score of his +identity. They, and no doubt other of the leading nobles of Poland, +knew the man for what he was, and because of it supported him, using +the fiction of his being Demetrius Ivanovitch to impose upon the +masses, and facilitate the pretenders occupation of the throne of +Russia. And the object of it was to set up in Muscovy a ruler who +should be a Pole and a Roman Catholic. Boris knew the bigotry of +Sigismund, who already had sacrificed a throne—that of Sweden—to his +devout conscience, and he saw clearly to the heart of this intrigue. +Had he not heard that a Papal Nuncio had been at Cracow, and that this +Nuncio had been a stout supporter of the pretender’s claim? What could +be the Pope’s concern in the Muscovite succession? Why should a Roman +priest support the claim of a prince to the throne of a country devoted +to the Greek faith? + +At last all was clear indeed to Boris. Rome was at the bottom of this +business, whose true aim was the Romanization of Russia; and Sigismund +had fetched Rome into it, had set Rome on. Himself an elected King of +Poland, Sigismund may have seen in the ambitious son of Stephen Bathory +one who might perhaps supplant him on the Polish throne. To divert his +ambition into another channel he had fathered—if he had not +invented—this fiction that the pretender was the dead Demetrius. + +Had that fool Smirnoy Otrepiev but dealt frankly with him from the +first, what months of annoyance might he not have been spared; how easy +it might have been to prick this bubble of imposture. But better late +than never. To-morrow he would publish the true facts, and all the +world should know the truth; and it was a truth that must give pause to +those fools in this superstitious Russia, so devoted to the Orthodox +Greek Church, who favoured the pretender. They should see the trap that +was being baited for them. + +There was a banquet in the Kremlin that night to certain foreign +envoys, and Boris came to table in better spirits than he had been for +many a day. He was heartened by the thought of what was now to do, by +the conviction that he held the false Demetrius in the hollow of his +hand. There to those envoys he would announce to-night what to-morrow +he would announce to all Russia—tell them of the discovery he had made, +and reveal to his subjects the peril in which they stood. Towards the +close of the banquet he rose to address his guests, announcing that he +had an important communication for them. In silence they waited for him +to speak. And then, abruptly, with no word yet spoken, he sank back +into his chair, fighting for breath, clawing the air, his face +empurpling until suddenly the blood gushed copiously from his mouth and +nostrils. + +He was vouchsafed time in which to strip off his splendid apparel and +wrap himself in a monk’s robe, thus symbolizing the putting aside of +earthly vanities, and then he expired. + +It has been now and then suggested that he was poisoned. His death was +certainly most opportune to Demetrius. But there is nothing in the +manner of it to justify the opinion that it resulted from anything +other than an apoplexy. + +His death brought the sinister opportunist Shuiski back to Moscow to +place Boris’s son Feodor on the throne. But the reign of this lad of +sixteen was very brief. Basmanov, who had gone back to the army, being +now inspired by jealousy and fear of the ambitious Shuiski, went over +at once to the pretender, and proclaimed him Tsar of Russia. Thereafter +events moved swiftly. Basmanov marched on Moscow, entered it in +triumph, and again proclaimed Demetrius, whereupon the people rose in +revolt against the son of the usurper Boris, stormed the Kremlin, and +strangled the boy and his mother. + +Basil Shuiski would have shared their fate had he not bought his life +at the price of betrayal. Publicly he declared to the Muscovites that +the boy whose body he had seen at Uglich was not that of Demetrius, but +of a peasant’s son, who had been murdered in his stead. + +That statement cleared the last obstacle from the pretender’s path, and +he advanced now to take possession of his throne. Yet before he +occupied it, he showed the real principles that actuated him, proved +how true had been Boris’s conclusion. He ordered the arrest and +degradation of the Patriarch who had denounced and excommunicated him, +and in his place appointed Ignatius, Bishop of Riazan, a man suspected +of belonging to the Roman communion. + +On the 30th of June of that year 1605, Demetrius made his triumphal +entry into Moscow. He went to prostrate himself before the tomb of Ivan +the Terrible, and then to visit the Tsarina Maria, who, after a brief +communion with him in private, came forth publicly to acknowledge him +as her son. + +Just as Shuiski had purchased his life by a falsehood, so did she +purchase her enlargement from that convent where so long she had been a +prisoner, and restoration to the rank that was her proper due. After +all, she had cause for gratitude to Demetrius, who, in addition to +restoring her these things, had avenged her upon the hated Boris +Godunov. + +His coronation followed in due season, and at last this amazing +adventurer found himself firmly seated upon the throne of Russia, with +Basmanov at his right hand to help and guide him. And at first all went +well, and the young Tsar earned a certain measure of popularity. If his +swarthy face was coarse-featured, yet his bearing was so courtly and +gracious that he won his way quickly to the hearts of his people. For +the rest he was of a tall, graceful figure, a fine horseman, and of a +knightly address at arms. + +But he soon found himself in the impossible position of having to serve +two masters. On the one hand there was Russia, and the orthodox +Russians whose tsar he was, and on the other there were the Poles, who +had made him so at a price, and who now demanded payment. Because he +saw that this payment would be difficult and fraught with peril to +himself he would—after the common wont of princes who have attained +their objects—have repudiated the debt. And so he was disposed to +ignore, or at least to evade, the persistent reminders that reached him +from the Papal Nuncio, to whom he had promised the introduction into +Russia of the Roman faith. + +But presently came a letter from Sigismund couched in different terms. +The King of Poland wrote to Demetrius that word had reached him that +Boris Godunov was still alive, and that he had taken refuge in England, +adding that he might be tempted to restore the fugitive to the throne +of Muscovy. + +The threat contained in that bitter piece of sarcasm aroused Demetrius +to a sense of the responsibilities he had undertaken, which were +precisely as Boris Godunov had surmised. As a beginning he granted the +Jesuits permission to build a church within the sacred walls of the +Kremlin, whereby he gave great scandal. Soon followed other signs that +he was not a true son of the Orthodox Greek Church; he gave offence by +his indifference to public worship, by his neglect of Russian customs, +and by surrounding himself with Roman Catholic Poles, upon whom he +conferred high offices and dignities. + +And there were those at hand ready to stir up public feeling against +him, resentful boyars quick to suspect that perhaps they had been +swindled. Foremost among these was the sinister turncoat Shuiski, who +had not derived from his perjury all the profit he expected, who +resented, above all, to see Basmanov—who had ever been his +rival—invested with a power second only to that of the Tsar himself. +Shuiski, skilled in intrigue, went to work in his underground, +burrowing fashion. He wrought upon the clergy, who in their turn +wrought upon the populace, and presently all was seething disaffection +under a surface apparently calm. + +The eruption came in the following May, when Maryna, the daughter of +the Palatine of Sandomir, made her splendid entry into Moscow, the +bride-elect of the young Tsar. The dazzling procession and the feasting +that followed found little favour in the eyes of the Muscovites, who +now beheld their city aswarm with heretic Poles. + +The marriage was magnificently solemnized on the 18th of May, 1606. And +now Shuiski applied a match to the train he had so skilfully laid. +Demetrius had caused a timber fort to be built before the walls of +Moscow for a martial spectacle which he had planned for the +entertainment of his bride. Shuiski put it abroad that the fort was +intended to serve as an engine of destruction, and that the martial +spectacle was a pretence, the real object being that from the fort the +Poles were to cast firebrands into the city, and then proceed to the +slaughter of the inhabitants. + +No more was necessary to infuriate an already exasperated populace. +They flew to arms, and on the night of the 29th of May they stormed the +Kremlin, led on by the arch-traitor Shuiski himself, to the cry of +“Death to the heretic! Death to the impostor!” + +They broke into the palace, and swarmed up the stairs into the Tsar’s +bedchamber, slaying the faithful Basmanov, who stood sword in hand to +bar the way and give his master time to escape. The Tsar leapt from a +balcony thirty feet to the ground, broke his leg, and lay there +helpless, to be dispatched by his enemies, who presently discovered +him. + +He died firmly and fearlessly protesting that he was Demetrius +Ivanovitch. Nevertheless, he was Grishka Otrepiev, the unfrocked monk. + +It has been said that he was no more than an instrument in the hands of +priestcraft, and that because he played his part badly he met his doom. +But something more he was. He was an instrument indeed, not of +priestcraft, but of Fate, to bring home to Boris Godunov the hideous +sins that stained his soul, and to avenge his victims by personating +one of them. In that personation he had haunted Boris as effectively as +if he had been the very ghost of the boy murdered at Uglich, haunted +and tortured, and finally broken him so that he died. + +That was the part assigned him by Fate in the mysterious scheme of +human things. And that part being played, the rest mattered little. In +the nature of him and of his position it was impossible that his +imposture should be other than ephemeral. + + + + +III. THE HERMOSA FEMBRA + +An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville + + +Apprehension hung like a thundercloud over the city of Seville in those +early days of the year 1481. It had been growing since the previous +October, when the Cardinal of Spain and Frey Tomas de Torquemada, +acting jointly on behalf of the Sovereigns—Ferdinand and Isabella—had +appointed the first inquisitors for Castile, ordering them to set up a +Tribunal of the Faith in Seville, to deal with the apostatizing said to +be rampant among the New-Christians, or baptized Jews, who made up so +large a proportion of the population. + +Among the many oppressive Spanish enactments against the Children of +Israel, it was prescribed that all should wear the distinguishing +circlet of red cloth on the shoulder of their gabardines; that they +should reside within the walled confines of their ghettos and never be +found beyond them after nightfall, and that they should not practice as +doctors, surgeons, apothecaries, or innkeepers. The desire to +emancipate themselves from these and other restrictions upon their +commerce with Christians and from the generally intolerable conditions +of bondage and ignominy imposed upon them, had driven many to accept +baptism and embrace Christianity. + +But even such New-Christians as were sincere in their professions of +faith failed to find in this baptism the peace they sought. Bitter +racial hostility, though sometimes tempered, was never extinguished by +their conversion. + +Hence the alarm with which they viewed the gloomy, funereal, sinister +pageant—the white-robed, black-mantled and hooded inquisitors, with +their attendant familiars and barefoot friars—headed by a Dominican +bearing the white Cross, which invaded the city of Seville one day +towards the end of December and took its way to the Convent of St. +Paul, there to establish the Holy Office of the Inquisition. The fear +of the New-Christians that they were to be the object of the attentions +of this dread tribunal had sufficed to drive some thousands of them out +of the city, to seek refuge in such feudal lordships as those of the +Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquis of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos. + +This exodus had led to the publication by the newly appointed +inquisitors of the edict of 2nd January, in which they set forth that +inasmuch as it had come to their knowledge that many persons had +departed out of Seville in fear of prosecution upon grounds of +heretical pravity, they commanded the nobles of the Kingdom of Castile +that within fifteen days they should make an exact return of the +persons of both sexes who had sought refuge in their lordships or +jurisdictions; that they arrest all these and lodge them in the prison +of the Inquisition in Seville, confiscating their property, and holding +it at the disposal of the inquisitors; that none should shelter any +fugitive under pain of greater excommunication and of other penalties +by law established against abettors of heretics. + +The harsh injustice that lay in this call to arrest men and women +merely because they had departed from Seville before departure was in +any way forbidden, revealed the severity with which the inquisitors +intended to proceed. It completed the consternation of the +New-Christians who had remained behind, and how numerous these were may +be gathered from the fact that in the district of Seville alone they +numbered a hundred thousand, many of them occupying, thanks to the +industry and talent characteristic of their race, positions of great +eminence. It even disquieted the well-favoured young Don Rodrigo de +Cardona, who in all his vain, empty, pampered and rather vicious life +had never yet known perturbation. Not that he was a New-Christian. He +was of a lineage that went back to the Visigoths, of purest red +Castilian blood, untainted by any strain of that dark-hued, unclean +fluid alleged to flow in Hebrew veins. But it happened that he was in +love with the daughter of the millionaire Diego de Susan, a girl whose +beauty was so extraordinary that she was known throughout Seville and +for many a mile around as la Hermosa Fembra; and he knew that such +commerce—licit or illicitly conducted—was disapproved by the holy +fathers. His relations with the girl had been perforce clandestine, +because the disapproval of the holy fathers was matched in thoroughness +by that of Diego de Susan. It had been vexatious enough on that account +not to be able to boast himself the favoured of the beautiful and +opulent Isabella de Susan; it was exasperating to discover now a new +and more imperative reason for this odious secrecy. + +Never sped a lover to his mistress in a frame of mind more aggrieved +than that which afflicted Don Rodrigo as, tight-wrapped in his black +cloak, he gained the Calle de Ataud on that January night. + +Anon, however, when by way of a garden gate and an easily escaladed +balcony he found himself in the presence of Isabella, the delight of +her effaced all other considerations. Her father was from home, as she +had told him in the note that summoned him; he was away at Palacios on +some merchant’s errand, and would not return until the morrow. The +servants were all abed, and so Don Rodrigo might put off his cloak and +hat, and lounge at his ease upon the low Moorish divan, what time she +waited upon him with a Saracen goblet filled with sweet wine of Malaga. +The room in which she received him was one set apart for her own use, +her bower, a long, low ceilinged chamber, furnished with luxury and +taste. The walls were hung with tapestries, the floor spread with +costly Eastern rugs; on an inlaid Moorish table a tall, three-beaked +lamp of beaten copper charged with aromatic oil shed light and perfume +through the apartment. + +Don Rodrigo sipped his wine, and his dark, hungry eyes followed her as +she moved about him with vaguely voluptuous, almost feline grace. The +wine, the heavy perfume of the lamp, and the beauty of her played havoc +among them with his senses, so that he forgot for the moment his +Castilian lineage and clean Christian blood, forgot that she derived +from the accursed race of the Crucifiers. All that he remembered was +that she was the loveliest woman in Seville, daughter to the wealthiest +man, and in that hour of weakness he decided to convert into reality +that which had hitherto been no more than an infamous presence. He +would loyally fulfil the false, disloyal promises he had made. He would +take her to wife. It was a sacrifice which her beauty and her wealth +should make worth while. Upon that impulse he spoke now, abruptly: + +“Isabella, when will you marry me?” + +She stood before him, looking down into his weak, handsome face, her +fingers interlacing his own. She merely smiled. The question did not +greatly move her. Not knowing him for the scoundrel that he was, +guessing nothing of the present perturbation of his senses, she found +it very natural that he should ask her to appoint the day. + +“It is a question you must ask my father,” she answered him. + +“I will,” said he, “to-morrow, on his return.” And he drew her down +beside him. + +But that father was nearer than either of them dreamed. At that very +moment the soft thud of the closing housedoor sounded through the +house. It brought her sharply to her feet, and loose from his coiling +arms, with quickened breath and blanching face. A moment she hung +there, tense, then sped to the door of the room, set it ajar and +listened. + +Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of muttering voices. It +was her father, and others with him. + +With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo, and breathed the +question: “If they should come here?” + +The Castilian stood where he had risen by the divan, his face paler now +than its pale, aristocratic wont, his eyes reflecting the fear that +glittered in her own. He had no delusion as to what action Diego de +Susan would take upon discovering him. These Jewish dogs were quickly +stirred to passion, and as jealous as their betters of the honour of +their womenfolk. Already Don Rodrigo in imagination saw his clean red +Christian blood bespattering that Hebrew floor, for he had no weapon +save the heavy Toledo dagger at his girdle, and Diego de Susan was not +alone. + +It was, he felt, a ridiculous position for a Hidalgo of Spain. But his +dignity was to suffer still greater damage. In another moment she had +bundled him into an alcove behind the arras at the chamber’s end, a +tiny closet that was no better than a cupboard contrived for the +storing of household linen. She had-moved with a swift precision which +at another time might have provoked his admiration, snatching up his +cloak and hat, and other evidences of his presence, quenching the lamp, +and dragging him to that place of cramped concealment, which she +remained to share with him. + +Came presently movements in the room beyond, and the voice of her +father: + +“We shall be securest from intrusion here. It is my daughter’s room. If +you will give me leave, I will go down again to admit our other +friends.” + +Those other friends, as Don Rodrigo gathered, continued to arrive for +the next half-hour, until in the end there must have been some twenty +of them assembled in that chamber. The mutter of voices had steadily +increased, but so confused that no more than odd words, affording no +clue to the reason of this gathering, had reached the hidden couple. + +And then quite suddenly a silence fell, and on that silence beat the +sharp, clear voice of Diego de Susan addressing them. + +“My friends,” he said, “I have called you hither that we may concert +measures for the protection of ourselves and all New-Christians in +Seville from the fresh peril by which we are menaced. The edict of the +inquisitors reveals how much we have to fear. You may gather from it +that the court of the Holy Office is hardly likely to deal in justice, +and that the most innocent may find himself at any moment exposed to +its cruel mercies. Therefore it is for us now to consider how to +protect ourselves and our property from the unscrupulous activities of +this tribunal. You are the principal New Christian citizens of Seville; +you are wealthy, not only in property, but also in the goodwill of the +people, who trust and respect, and at need will follow, you. If nothing +less will serve, we must have recourse to arms; and so that we are +resolute and united, my friends, we shall prevail against the +inquisitors.” + +Within the alcove, Don Rodrigo felt his skin roughening with horror at +this speech, which breathed sedition not only against the Sovereigns, +but against the very Church. And with his horror was blent a certain +increase of fear. If his situation had been perilous before, it was +tenfold more dangerous now. Discovery, since he had overheard this +treason, must mean his certain death. And Isabella, realizing the same +to the exclusion of all else, clutched his arm and cowered against him +in the dark. + +There was worse to follow. Susan’s address was received with a murmur +of applause, and then others spoke, and several were named, and their +presence thus disclosed. There was the influential Manuel Sauli, who +next to Susan was the wealthiest man in Seville; there was Torralba, +the Governor of Triana; Juan Abolafio, the farmer of the royal customs, +and his brother Fernandez, the licentiate, and there were others—all of +them men of substance, some even holding office under the Crown. Not +one was there who dissented from anything that Susan had said; rather +did each contribute some spur to the general resolve. In the end it was +concerted that each of those present should engage himself to raise a +proportion of the men, arms and money that would be needed for their +enterprise. And upon that the meeting was dissolved, and they departed. +Susan himself went with them. He had work to do in the common cause, he +announced, and he would do it that very night in which it was supposed +that he was absent at Palacios. + +At last, when all had gone, and the house was still again, Isabella and +her lover crept forth from their concealment, and in the light of the +lamp which Susan had left burning each looked into the other’s white, +startled face. So shaken was Don Rodrigo with horror of what he had +overheard, and with the terror of discovery, that it was with +difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering. + +“Heaven protect us!” he gasped. “What Judaizing was this?” + +“Judaizing!” she echoed. It was the term applied to apostacy, to the +relapse of New-Christians to Judaism, an offense to be expiated at the +stake. “Here was no Judaizing. Are you mad, Rodrigo? You heard no +single word that sinned against the Faith.” + +“Did I not? I heard treason enough to.” + +“No, nor treason either. You heard honourable, upright men considering +measures of defence against oppression, injustice, and evil +acquisitiveness masquerading in the holy garments of religion.” + +He stared askance at her for a moment, then his full lips curled into a +sneer. “Of course you would seek to justify them,” he said. “You are of +that foul brood yourself. But you cannot think to cozen me, who am of +clean Old-christian blood and a true son of Mother Church. These men +plot evil against the Holy Inquisition. Is that not Judaizing when it +is done by Jews?” + +She was white to the lips, and a new horror stared at him from her +great dark eyes; her lovely bosom rose and fell in tumult. Yet still +she sought to reason with him. + +“They are not Jews—not one of them. Why, Perez is himself in holy +orders. All of them are Christians, and...” + +“Newly-baptized!” he broke in, sneering viciously. “A defilement of +that holy sacrament to gain them worldly advantages. That is revealed +by what passed here just now. Jews they were born, the sons of Jews, +and Jews they remain under their cloak of mock Christianity, to be +damned as Jews in the end.” He was panting now with fiery indignation; +a holy zeal inflamed this profligate defiler. “God forgive me that ever +I entered here. Yet I do believe that it was His will that I should +come to overhear what is being plotted. Let me depart from hence.” + +With a passionate gesture of abhorrence he swung towards the door. Her +clutch upon his arm arrested him. + +“Whither do you go?” she asked him sharply. He looked now into her +eyes, and of all that they contained he saw only fear; he saw nothing +of the hatred into which her love had been transmuted in that moment by +his unsparing insults to herself, her race and her home, by the purpose +which she clearly read in him. + +“Whither?” he echoed, and sought to shake her off. + +“Whither my Christian duty bids me.” + +It was enough for her. Before he could prevent or suspect her purpose, +she had snatched the heavy Toledo blade from his girdle, and armed with +it stood between the door and him. + +“A moment, Don Rodrigo. Do not attempt to advance, or, as Heaven +watches us, I strike, and it maybe that I shall kill you. We must talk +awhile before you go.” + +Amazed, chapfallen, half-palsied, he stood before her, his fine +religious zeal wiped out by fear of that knife in her weak woman’s +hand. Rapidly to-night was she coming into real knowledge of this +Castilian gentleman, whom with pride she had taken for her lover. It +was a knowledge that was to sear her presently with self-loathing and +self-contempt. But for the moment her only consideration was that, as a +direct result of her own wantonness, her father stood in mortal peril. +If he should perish through the deletion of this creature, she would +account herself his slayer. + +“You have not considered that the deletion you intend will destroy my +father,” she said quietly. + +“There is my Christian duty to consider,” answered he, but without +boldness now. + +“Perhaps. But there is something you must set against it. Have you no +duty as a lover—no duty to me?” + +“No earthly duty can weigh against a spiritual obligation....” + +“Ah, wait! Have patience. You have not well considered, that is plain. +In coming here in secret you wronged my father. You will not trouble to +deny it. + +“Jointly we wronged him, you and I. Will you then take advantage of +something learnt whilst you were hiding there like a thief from the +consequences of what you did, and so do him yet this further wrong?” + +“Must I wrong my conscience?” he asked her sullenly. + +“Indeed, I fear you must.” + +“Imperil my immortal soul?” He almost laughed. + +“You talk in vain.” + +“But I have something more than words for you.” With her left hand she +drew upon the fine gold chain about her neck, and brought forth a tiny +jewelled cross. Passing the chain over her head, she held it out. + +“Take this,” she bade him. “Take it, I say. Now, with that sacred +symbol in your hand, make solemn oath to divulge no word of what you +have learnt here tonight, or else resign yourself to an unshriven +death. For either you take that oath, or I rouse the servants and have +you dealt with as one who has intruded here unbidden for an evil end.” +She backed away from him as she spoke, and threw wide the door. Then, +confronting him from the threshold, she admonished him again, her voice +no louder than a whisper. “Quick now! Resolve yourself. Will you die +here with all your sins upon you, and so destroy for all eternity the +immortal soul that urges you to this betrayal, or will you take the +oath that I require?” + +He began an argument that was like a sermon of the Faith. But she cut +him short. “For the last time!” she bade him. “Will you decide?” + +He chose the coward’s part, of course, and did violence tomb fine +conscience. With the cross in his hand he repeated after her the words +of the formidable oath that she administered, an oath which it must +damn his immortal soul to break. Because of that, because she imagined +that she had taken the measure of his faith, she returned him his +dagger, and let him go at last. She imagined that she had bound him +fast in irrefragable spiritual bonds. + +And even on the morrow, when her father and all those who had been +present at that meeting at Susan’s house were arrested by order of the +Holy Office of the Inquisition, she still clung to that belief. Yet +presently a doubt crept in, a doubt that she must at all costs resolve. +And so presently she called for her litter, and had herself carried to +the Convent of St. Paul, where she asked to see Frey Alonso de Ojeda, +the Prior of the Dominicans of Seville. + +She was left to wait in a square, cheerless, dimly-lighted room +pervaded by a musty smell, that had for only furniture a couple of +chairs and a praying-stool, and for only ornament a great, gaunt +crucifix hanging upon one of its whitewashed walls. + +Thither came presently two Dominican friars. One of these was a +harsh-featured man of middle height and square build, the +uncompromising zealot Ojeda. The other was tall and lean, stooping +slightly at the shoulders, haggard and pale of countenance, with +deep-set, luminous dark eyes, and a tender, wistful mouth. This was the +Queen’s confessor, Frey Tomas de Torquemada, Grand Inquisitor of +Castile. He approached her, leaving Ojeda in the background, and stood +a moment regarding her with eyes of infinite kindliness and compassion. + +“You are the daughter of that misguided man, Diego de Susan,” he said, +in a gentle voice. “God help and strengthen you, my child, against the +trials that may be in store for you. What do you seek at our poor +hands? Speak, child, without fear.” + +“Father,” she faltered, “I come to implore your pity.” + +“No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity who stand myself +in need of pity, being a sinner—as are we all.” + +“It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy.” + +“So I supposed.” A shade crossed the gentle, wistful face; the tender +melancholy deepened in the eyes that regarded her. “If your father is +innocent of what has been alleged against him, the benign tribunal of +the Holy Office will bring his innocence to light, and rejoice therein; +if he is guilty, if he has strayed—as we may all stray unless fortified +by heavenly grace—he shall be given the means of expiation, that his +salvation may be assured him.” + +She shivered at the words. She knew the mercy in which the inquisitors +dealt, a mercy so spiritual that it took no account of the temporal +agonies inflicted to ensure it. + +“My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith,” said she. + +“Are you so sure?” croaked the harsh voice of Ojeda, breaking in. +“Consider well. Remember that your duty as a Christian is above your +duty as a daughter.” + +Almost had she bluntly demanded the name of her father’s accuser, that +thus she might reach the object of her visit. Betimes she checked the +rash impulse, perceiving that subtlety was here required; that a direct +question would close the door to all information. Skilfully, then, she +chose her line of attack. + +“I am sure,” she exclaimed, “that he is a more fervent and pious +Christian—New-Christian though he be—than his accuser.” + +The wistfulness faded from Torquemada’s eyes. They grew keen, as became +the eyes of an inquisitor, the eyes of a sleuth, quick to fasten on a +spoor. But he shook his head. + +Ojeda advanced. “That I cannot believe,” said he. “The deletion was +made from a sense of duty so pure that the delator did not hesitate to +confess the sin of his own commission through which he had discovered +the treachery of Don Diego and his associates.” + +She could have cried out in anguish at this answer to her unspoken +question. Yet she controlled herself, and that no single doubt should +linger, she thrust boldly home. + +“He confessed it?” she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly +nodded. “Don Rodrigo confessed?” she insisted, as will the incredulous. + +Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting +himself. + +“Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked: “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?” + +But it was too late. His assenting nod had betrayed the truth, had +confirmed her worst fear. She swayed a little; the room swam round her, +she felt as she would swoon. Then blind indignation against that +forsworn betrayer surged to revive her. If it was through her weakness +and undutifulness that her father had been destroyed, through her +strength should he be avenged, though in doing so she pulled down and +destroyed herself. + +“And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating slowly, ever on +that musing, incredulous note. “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?” + +“A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance. +“A Judaizer! Don Rodrigo? Oh, impossible!” + +“But I thought you said he had confessed.” + +“Why, yes, but... but not to that.” Her pale lips smiled, sadly +contemptuous. + +“I see. He set limits of prudence upon his confession. He left out his +Judatting practices. He did not tell you, for instance, that this +deletion was an act of revenge against me who refused to marry him, +having discovered his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this +world and the next.” + +Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement. + +And then Torquemada spoke: “Do you say that Don Rodrigo de Cardona is a +Judaizer? Oh, it is unbelievable.” + +“Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you.” + +“Then so you shall. It is your sacred duty, lest you become an abettor +of heresy, and yourself liable to the extreme penalty.” + +It would be a half-hour later, perhaps, when she quitted the Convent of +St. Paul to return home, with Hell in her heart, knowing in life no +purpose but that of avenging the parent her folly had destroyed. As she +was being carried past the Alcazar, she espied across the open space a +tall, slim figure in black, in whom she recognized her lover, and +straightway she sent the page who paced beside her litter to call him +to her side. The summons surprised him after what had passed between +them; moreover, considering her father’s present condition, he was +reluctant to be seen in attendance upon the beautiful, wealthy Isabella +de Susan. Nevertheless, urged on by curiosity, he went. + +Her greeting increased his surprise. + +“I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,” she told him sadly. +“You will have heard what has befallen my father?” + +He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but loveliness rendered more +appealing by sorrow. Clearly she did not suspect him of betrayal; did +not realize that an oath extorted by violence—and an oath, moreover, to +be false to a sacred duty—could not be accounted binding. + +“I... I heard of it an hour ago,” he lied a thought unsteadily. “I... I +commiserate you deeply.” + +“I deserve commiseration,” answered she, “and so does my poor father, +and those others. It is plain that amongst those he trusted there was a +traitor, a spy, who went straight from that meeting to inform against +them. If I but had a list it were easy to discover the betrayer. One +need but ascertain who is the one of all who were present whose arrest +has been omitted.” Her lovely sorrowful eyes turned full upon him. +“What is to become of me now, alone in the world?” she asked him. “My +father was my only friend.” + +The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly. Besides, he saw here a +noble opportunity worth surely some little risk. + +“Your only friend?” he asked her thickly. “Was there no one else? Is +there no one else, Isabella?” + +“There was,” she said, and sighed heavily. “But after what befell last +night, when... You know what is in my mind. I was distraught then, mad +with fear for this poor father of mine, so that I could not even +consider his sin in its full heinousness, nor see how righteous was +your intent to inform against him. Yet I am thankful that it was not by +your deletion that he was taken. The thought of that is to-day my only +consolation.” + +They had reached her house by now. Don Rodrigo put forth his arm to +assist her to alight from her litter, and begged leave to accompany her +within. But she denied him. + +“Not now—though I am grateful to you, Rodrigo. Soon, if you will come +and comfort me, you may. I will send you word when I am more able to +receive you—that is, if I am forgiven for...” + +“Not another word,” he begged her. “I honour you for what you did. It +is I who should sue to you for forgiveness.” + +“You are very noble and generous, Don Rodrigo. God keep you!” And so +she left him. + +She had found him—had she but known it—a dejected, miserable man in the +act of reckoning up all that he had lost. In betraying Susan he had +acted upon an impulse that sprang partly from rage, and partly from a +sense of religious duty. In counting later the cost to himself, he +cursed the folly of his rage, and began to wonder if such strict +observance of religious duty was really worth while to a man who had +his way to make in the world. In short, he was in the throes of +reaction. But now, in her unsuspicion, he found his hopes revive. She +need never know. The Holy Office preserved inviolate secrecy on the +score of deletions—since to do otherwise might be to discourage +delators—and there were no confrontations of accuser and accused, such +as took place in temporal courts. Don Rodrigo left the Calle de Ataud +better pleased with the world than he had been since morning. + +On the morrow he went openly to visit her; but he was denied, a servant +announcing her indisposed. This fretted him, damped his hopes, and +thereby increased his longing. But on the next day he received from her +a letter which made him the most ample amends: + +“Rodrigo,—There is a matter on which we must come early to an +understanding. Should my poor father be convicted of heresy and +sentenced, it follows that his property will be confiscated, since as +the daughter of a convicted heretic I may not inherit. For myself I +care little; but I am concerned for you, Rodrigo, since if in spite of +what has happened you would still wish to make me your wife, as you +declared on Monday, it would be my wish to come to you well dowered. +Now the inheritance which would be confiscated by the Holy Office from +the daughter of a heretic might not be so confiscated from the wife of +a gentleman of Castile. I say no more. Consider this well, and decide +as your heart dictates. I shall receive you to-morrow if you come to +me. + +“Isabella.” + +She bade him consider well. But the matter really needed little +consideration. Diego de Susan was sure to go to the fire. His fortune +was estimated at ten million maravedis. That fortune, it seemed, +Rodrigo was given the chance to make his own by marrying the beautiful +Isabella at once, before sentence came to be passed upon her father. +The Holy Office might impose a fine, but would not go further where the +inheritance of a Castilian nobleman of clean lineage was concerned. He +was swayed between admiration of her shrewdness and amazement at his +own good fortune. Also his vanity was immensely flattered. + +He sent her three lines to protest his undying love, and his resolve to +marry her upon the morrow, and went next day in person, as she had +bidden him, to carry out the resolve. + +She received him in the mansion’s best room, a noble chamber furnished +with a richness such as no other house in Seville could have boasted. +She had arrayed herself for the interview with an almost wanton cunning +that should enhance her natural endowments. Her high-waisted gown, +low-cut and close-fitting in the bodice, was of cloth of gold, edged +with miniver at skirt and cuffs and neck. On her white bosom hung a +priceless carcanet of limpid diamonds, and through the heavy tresses of +her bronze-coloured hair was coiled a string of lustrous pearls. Never +had Don Rodrigo found her more desirable; never had he felt so secure +and glad in his possession of her. The quickening blood flushing now +his olive face, he gathered her slim shapeliness into his arms, kissing +her cheek, her lips, her neck. + +“My pearl, my beautiful, my wife!” he murmured, rapturously. Then added +the impatient question: “The priest? Where is the priest that shall +make us one?” + +Deep, unfathomable eyes looked up to meet his burning glance. +Languorously she lay against his breast, and her red lips parted in a +smile that maddened him. + +“You love me, Rodrigo—in spite of all?” + +“Love you!” It was a throbbing, strangled cry, an almost inarticulate +ejaculation. “Better than life—better than salvation.” + +She fetched a sigh, as of deep content, and nestled closer. “Oh, I am +glad—so glad—that your love for me is truly strong. I am about to put +it to the test, perhaps.” + +He held her very close. “What is this test, beloved?” + +“It is that I want this marriage knot so tied that it shall be +indissoluble save by death.” + +“Why, so do I,” quoth he, who had so much to gain. + +“And, therefore, because after all, though I profess Christianity, +there is Jewish blood in my veins, I would have a marriage that must +satisfy even my father when he regains his freedom, as I believe he +will—for, after all, he is not charged with any sin against the faith.” + +She paused, and he was conscious of a premonitory chill upon his +ardour. + +“What do you mean?” he asked her, and his voice was strained. + +“I mean—you’ll not be angry with me?—I mean that I would have us +married not only by a Christian priest, and in the Christian manner, +but also and first of all by a Rabbi, and in accordance with the Jewish +rites.” + +Upon the words, she felt his encircling arms turn limp, and relax their +grip upon her, whereupon she clung to him the more tightly. + +“Rodrigo! Rodrigo! If you truly love me, if you truly want me, you’ll +not deny me this condition, for I swear to you that once I am your wife +you shall never hear anything again to remind you that I am of Jewish +blood.” + +His face turned ghastly pale, his lips writhed and twitched, and beads +of sweat stood out upon his brow. + +“My God!” he groaned. “What do you ask? I... I can’t. It were a +desecration, a defilement.” + +She thrust him from her in a passion. “You regard it so? You protest +love, and in the very hour when I propose to sacrifice all to you, you +will not make this little sacrifice for my sake, you even insult the +faith that was my forbears’, if it is not wholly mine. I misjudged you, +else I had not bidden you here to-day. I think you had better leave +me.” + +Trembling, appalled, a prey to an ineffable tangle of emotion, he +sought to plead, to extenuate his attitude, to move her from her own. +He ranted torrentially, but in vain. She stood as cold and aloof as +earlier she had been warm and clinging. He had proved the measure of +his love. He could go his ways. + +The thing she proposed was to him, as he had truly said, a desecration, +a defilement. Yet to have dreamed yourself master of ten million +maravedis, and a matchless woman, is a dream not easily relinquished. +There was enough cupidity in his nature, enough neediness in his +condition, to make the realization of that dream worth the defilement +of the abominable marriage rites upon which she insisted. But fear +remained where Christian scruples were already half-effaced. + +“You do not realize,” he cried. “If it were known that I so much as +contemplated this, the Holy Office would account it clear proof of +apostasy, and send me to the fire.” + +“If that were your only objection it were easily overcome,” she +informed him coldly. “For who should ever inform against you? The Rabbi +who is waiting above-stairs dare not for his own life’s sake betray us, +and who else will ever know?” + +“You can be sure of that?” + +He was conquered. But she played him yet awhile, compelling him in his +turn to conquer the reluctance which his earlier hesitation had +begotten in her, until it was he who pleaded insistently for this +Jewish marriage that filled him with such repugnance. + +And so at last she yielded, and led him up to that bower of hers in +which the conspirators had met. + +“Where is the Rabbi?” he asked impatiently, looking round that empty +room. + +“I will summon him if you are quite sure that you desire him.” + +“Sure? Have I not protested enough? Can you still doubt me?” + +“No,” she said. She stood apart, conning him steadily. “Yet I would not +have it supposed that you were in any way coerced to this.” They were +odd words; but he heeded not their oddness. He was hardly master of the +wits which in themselves were never of the brightest. “I require you to +declare that it is your own desire that our marriage should be +solemnized in accordance with the Jewish rites and the law of Moses.” + +And he, fretted now by impatience, anxious to have this thing done and +ended, made answer hastily: + +“Why, to be sure I do declare it to be my wish that we should be so +married—in the Jewish manner, and in accordance with the law of Moses. +And now, where is the Rabbi?” He caught a sound and saw a quiver in the +tapestries that masked the door of the alcove. “Ah! He is here, I +suppose....” + +He checked abruptly, and recoiled as from a blow, throwing up his hands +in a convulsive gesture. The tapestry had been swept aside, and forth +stepped not the Rabbi he expected, but a tall, gaunt man, stooping +slightly at the shoulders, dressed in the white habit and black cloak +of the order of St. Dominic, his face lost in the shadows of a black +cowl. Behind him stood two lay brothers of the order, two armed +familiars of the Holy Office, displaying the white cross on their sable +doublets. + +Terrified by that apparition, evoked, as it seemed, by those terribly +damning words he had pronounced, Don Rodrigo stood blankly at gaze a +moment, not even seeking to understand how this dread thing had come to +pass. + +The friar pushed back his cowl, as he advanced, and displayed the +tender, compassionate, infinitely wistful countenance of Frey Tomas de +Torquemada. And infinitely compassionate and wistful came the voice of +that deeply sincere and saintly man. + +“My son, I was told this of you—that you were a Judaizer—yet before I +could bring myself to believe so incredible a thing in one of your +lineage, I required the evidence of my own senses. Oh, my poor child, +by what wicked counsels have you been led so far astray?” The sweet, +tender eyes of the inquisitor were luminous with unshed tears. +Sorrowing pity shook his gentle voice. + +And then Don Rodrigo’s terror changed to wrath, and this exploded. He +flung out an arm towards Isabella in passionate denunciation. + +“It was that woman who bewitched and fooled and seduced me into this. +It was a trap she baited for my undoing.” + +“It was, indeed. She had my consent to do so, to test the faith which I +was told you lacked. Had your heart been free of heretical pravity the +trap had never caught you; had your faith been strong, my son, you +could not have been seduced from loyalty to your Redeemers.” + +“Father! Hear me, I implore you!” He flung down upon his knees, and +held out shaking, supplicating hands. + +“You shall be heard, my son. The Holy Office does not condemn any man +unheard. But what hope can you put in protestations? I had been told +that your life was disorderly and vain, and I grieved that it should be +so, trembled for you when I heard how wide you opened the gates of your +soul to evil. But remembering that age and reason will often make good +and penitent amends for the follies of early life, I hoped and prayed +for you. Yet that you should Judaize—that you should be bound in +wedlock by the unclean ties of Judaism—Oh!” The melancholy voice broke +off upon a sob, and Torquemada covered his pale face with his +hands—long, white, emaciated, almost transparent hands. “Pray now, my +child, for grace and strength,” he exhorted. “Offer up the little +temporal suffering that may yet be yours in atonement for your error, +and so that your heart be truly contrite and penitent, you shall +deserve salvation from that Divine Mercy which is boundless. You shall +have my prayers, my son. I can do no more. Take him hence.” + +On the 6th of February of that year 1481, Seville witnessed the first +Auto de Fe, the sufferers being Diego de Susan, his +fellow-conspirators, and Don Rodrigo de Cardona. The function presented +but little of the ghastly pomp that was soon to distinguish these +proceedings. But the essentials were already present. + +In a procession headed by a Dominican bearing aloft the green Cross of +the Inquisition, swathed in a veil of crepe, behind whom walked two by +two the members of the Confraternity of St. Peter the Martyr, the +familiars of the Holy Office, came the condemned, candle in hand, +barefoot, in the ignominious yellow penitential sack. Hemmed about by +halberdiers, they were paraded through the streets to the Cathedral, +where Mass was said and a sermon of the faith preached to them by the +stern Ojeda. Thereafter they were conveyed beyond the city to the +meadows of Tablada, where the stake and faggots awaited them. + +Thus the perjured accuser perished in the same holocaust with the +accused. Thus was Isabella de Susan, known as la Hermosa Fembra, +avenged by falseness upon the worthless lover who made her by falseness +the instrument of her father’s ruin. + +For herself, when all was over, she sought the refuge of a convent. But +she quitted it without professing. The past gave her no peace, and she +returned to the world to seek in excesses an oblivion which the +cloister denied her and only death could give. In her will she disposed +that her skull should be placed over the doorway of the house in the +Calle de Ataud, as a measure of posthumous atonement for her sins. And +there the fleshless, grinning skull of that once lovely head abode for +close upon four hundred years. It was still to be seen there when +Buonaparte’s legions demolished the Holy Office of the Inquisition. + + + + +IV. THE PASTRY-COOK OF MADRIGAL + +The Story of the False Sebastian of Portugal + + +There is not in all that bitter tragi-comic record of human frailty +which we call History a sadder story than this of the Princess Anne, +the natural daughter of the splendid Don John of Austria, natural son +of the Emperor Charles V. and, so, half-brother to the bowelless King +Philip II. of Spain. Never was woman born to royal or semi-royal state +who was more utterly the victim of the circumstances of her birth. + +Of the natural sons of princes something could be made, as witness the +dazzling career of Anne’s own father; but for natural daughters—and +especially for one who, like herself, bore a double load of +cadency—there was little use or hope. Their royal blood set them in a +class apart; their bastardy denied them the worldly advantages of that +spurious eminence. Their royal blood prescribed that they must mate +with princes; their bastardy raised obstacles to their doing so. +Therefore, since the world would seem to hold no worthy place for them, +it was expedient to withdraw them from the world before its vanities +beglamoured them, and to immure them in convents, where they might +aspire with confidence to the sterile dignity of abbesshood. + +Thus it befell with Anne. At the early age of six she had been sent to +the Benedictine convent at Burgos, and in adolescence removed thence to +the Monastery of Santa Maria la Real at Madrigal, where it was +foreordained that she should take the veil. She went unwillingly. She +had youth, and youth’s hunger of life, and not even the repressive +conditions in which she had been reared had succeeded in extinguishing +her high spirit or in concealing from her the fact that she was +beautiful. On the threshold of that convent which by her dread uncle’s +will was to be her living tomb, above whose gates her spirit may have +beheld the inscription, “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’ entrate!” she +made her protest, called upon the bishop who accompanied her to bear +witness that she did not go of her own free will. + +But what she willed was a matter of no account. King Philip’s was, +under God’s, the only will in Spain. Still, less perhaps to soften the +sacrifice imposed upon her than because of what he accounted due to one +of his own blood, his Catholic Majesty accorded her certain privileges +unusual to members of religious communities: he granted her a little +civil list—two ladies-in-waiting and two grooms—and conferred upon her +the title of Excellency, which she still retained even when after her +hurried novitiate of a single year she had taken the veil. She +submitted where to have striven would have been to have spent herself +in vain; but her resignation was only of the body, and this dejected +body moved mechanically through the tasks and recreations that go to +make up the grey monotone of conventual existence; in which one day is +as another day, one hour as another hour; in which the seasons of the +year lose their significance; in which time has no purpose save for its +subdivision into periods devoted to sleeping and waking, to eating and +fasting, to praying and contemplating, until life loses all purpose and +object, and sterilizes itself into preparation for death. + +Though they might command and compel her body, her spirit remained +unfettered in rebellion. Anon the claustral apathy might encompass her; +in time and by slow degrees she might become absorbed into the grey +spirit of the place. But that time was not yet. For the present she +must nourish her caged and starving soul with memories of glimpses +caught in passing of the bright, active, stirring world without; and +where memory stopped she had now beside her a companion to regale her +with tales of high adventure and romantic deeds and knightly feats, +which served but to feed and swell her yearnings. + +This companion, Frey Miguel de Souza, was a Portuguese friar of the +order of St. Augustine, a learned, courtly man who had moved in the +great world and spoke with the authority of an eye-witness. And above +all he loved to talk of that last romantic King of Portugal, with whom +he had been intimate, that high-spirited, headstrong, gallant, +fair-haired lad Sebastian, who at the age of four-and-twenty had led +the disastrous overseas expedition against the Infidel, which had been +shattered on the field of Alcacer-el-Kebir some fifteen years ago. + +He loved to paint for her in words the dazzling knightly pageants he +had seen along the quays at Lisbon, when that expedition was embarking +with crusader ardour, the files of Portuguese knights and men-at-arms, +the array of German and Italian mercenaries, the young king in his +bright armour, bare of head—an incarnation of St. Michael—moving +forward exultantly amid flowers and acclamations to take ship for +Africa. And she would listen with parted lips and glistening eyes, her +slim body bending forward in her eagerness to miss no word of this +great epic. Anon when he came to tell of that disastrous day of +Alcacer-el-Kebir, her dark, eager eyes would fill with tears. His tale +of it was hardly truthful. He did not say that military incompetence +and a presumptuous vanity which would listen to no counsels had been +the cause of a ruin that had engulfed the chivalry of Portugal, and +finally the very kingdom itself. He represented the defeat as due to +the overwhelming numbers of the Infidel, and dwelt at length upon the +closing scene, told her in fullest detail how Sebastian had scornfully +rejected the counsels of those who urged him to fly when all was lost, +how the young king, who had fought with a lion-hearted courage, +unwilling to survive the day’s defeat, had turned and ridden back alone +into the Saracen host to fight his last fight and find a knightly +death. Thereafter he was seen no more. + +It was a tale she never tired of hearing, and it moved her more and +more deeply each time she listened to it. She would ply him with +questions touching this Sebastian, who had been her cousin, concerning +his ways of life, his boyhood, and his enactments when he came to the +crown of Portugal. And all that Frey Miguel de Souza told her served +but to engrave more deeply upon her virgin mind the adorable image of +the knightly king. Ever present in the daily thoughts of this ardent +girl, his empanoplied figure haunted now her sleep, so real and vivid +that her waking senses would dwell fondly upon the dream-figure as upon +the memory of someone seen in actual life; likewise she treasured up +the memory of the dream—words he had uttered, words it would seem +begotten of the longings of her starved and empty heart, words of a +kind not calculated to bring peace to the soul of a nun professed. She +was enamoured, deeply, fervently, and passionately enamoured of a myth, +a mental image of a man who had been dust these fifteen years. She +mourned him with a fond widow’s mourning; prayed daily and nightly for +the repose of his soul, and in her exaltation waited now almost +impatiently for death that should unite her with him. Taking joy in the +thought that she should go to him a maid, she ceased at last to resent +the maidenhood that had been imposed upon her. + +One day a sudden, wild thought filled her with a strange excitement. + +“Is it so certain that he is dead?” she asked. “When all is said, none +actually saw him die, and you tell me that the body surrendered by +Mulai-Ahmed-ben-Mahomet was disfigured beyond recognition. Is it not +possible that he may have survived?” + +The lean, swarthy face of Frey Miguel grew pensive. He did not +impatiently scorn the suggestion as she had half-feared he would. + +“In Portugal,” he answered slowly, “it is firmly believed that he +lives, and that one day he will come, like another Redeemer, to deliver +his country from the thrall of Spain.” + +“Then... then...” + +Wistfully, he smiled. “A people will always believe what it wishes to +believe.” + +“But you, yourself?” she pressed him. + +He did not answer her at once. The cloud of thought deepened on his +ascetic face. He half turned from her—they were standing in the shadow +of the fretted cloisters—and his pensive eyes roamed over the wide +quadrangle that was at once the convent garden and burial ground. Out +there in the sunshine amid the hum of invisible but ubiquitously +pulsating life, three nuns, young and vigorous, their arms bared to the +elbows, the skirts of their black habits shortened by a cincture of +rope, revealing feet roughly shod in wood, were at work with spade and +mattock, digging their own graves in memento mori. Amid the shadows of +the cloisters, within sight but beyond earshot, hovered Dona Maria de +Grado and Dona Luiza Nieto, the two nobly-born nuns appointed by King +Philip to an office as nearly akin to that of ladies-in-waiting as +claustral conditions would permit. + +At length Frey Miguel seemed to resolve himself. + +“Since you ask me, why should I not tell you? When I was on my way to +preach the funeral oration in the Cathedral at Lisbon, as befitted one +who had been Don Sebastian’s preacher, I was warned by a person of +eminence to have a care of what I said of Don Sebastian, for not only +was he alive, but he would be secretly present at the Requiem.” + +He met her dilating glance, noted the quivering of her parted lips. + +“But that,” he added, “was fifteen years ago, and since then I have had +no sign. At first I thought it possible... there was a story afloat +that might have been true... But fifteen years!” He sighed, and shook +his head. + +“What... what was the story?” She was trembling from head to foot. + +“On the night after the battle three horsemen rode up to the gates of +the fortified coast-town of Arzilla. When the timid guard refused to +open to them, they announced that one of them was King Sebastian, and +so won admittance. One of the three was wrapped in a cloak, his face +concealed, and his two companions were observed to show him the +deference due to royalty.” + +“Why, then...” she was beginning. + +“Ah, but afterwards,” he interrupted her, “afterwards, when all +Portugal was thrown into commotion by that tale, it was denied that +King Sebastian had been among these horsemen. It was affirmed to have +been no more than a ruse of those men’s to gain the shelter of the +city.” + +She questioned and cross-questioned him upon that, seeking to draw from +him the admission that it was possible denial and explanation obeyed +the wishes of the hidden prince. + +“Yes, it is possible,” he admitted at length, “and it is believed by +many to be the fact. Don Sebastian was as sensitive as high-spirited. +The shame of his defeat may have hung so heavily upon him that he +preferred to remain in hiding, and to sacrifice a throne of which he +now felt himself unworthy. Half Portugal believes it so, and waits and +hopes.” + +When Frey Miguel parted from her that day, he took with him the clear +conviction that not in all Portugal was there a soul who hoped more +fervently than she that Don Sebastian lived, or yearned more +passionately to acclaim him should he show himself. And that was much +to think, for the yearning of Portugal was as the yearning of the slave +for freedom. + +Sebastian’s mother was King Philip’s sister, whereby King Philip had +claimed the succession, and taken possession of the throne of Portugal. +Portugal writhed under the oppressive heel of that foreign rule, and +Frey Miguel de Sousa himself, a deeply, passionately patriotic man, had +been foremost among those who had sought to liberate her. When Don +Antonio, the sometime Prior of Crato, Sebastian’s natural cousin, and a +bold, ambitious, enterprising man, had raised the standard of revolt, +the friar had been the most active of all his coadjutators. In those +days Frey Miguel, who was the Provincial of his order, a man widely +renowned for his learning and experience of affairs, who had been +preacher to Don Sebastian and confessor to Don Antonio, had wielded a +vast influence in Portugal. That influence he had unstintingly exerted +on behalf of the Pretender, to whom he was profoundly devoted. After +Don Antonio’s army had been defeated on land by the Duke of Alba, and +his fleet shattered in the Azores in 1582 by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, +Frey Miguel found himself deeply compromised by his active share in the +rebellion. He was arrested and suffered a long imprisonment in Spain. +In the end, because he expressed repentance, and because Philip II., +aware of the man’s gifts and worth, desired to attach him to himself by +gratitude, he was enlarged, and appointed Vicar of Santa Maria la Real, +where he was now become confessor, counsellor and confidant of the +Princess Anne of Austria. + +But his gratitude to King Philip was not of a kind to change his +nature, to extinguish his devotion to the Pretender, Don Antonio—who, +restlessly ambitious, continued ceaselessly to plot abroad—or yet to +abate the fervour of his patriotism. The dream of his life was ever the +independence of Portugal, with a native prince upon the throne. And +because of Anne’s fervent hope, a hope that grew almost daily into +conviction, that Sebastian had survived and would return one day to +claim his kingdom, those two at Madrigal, in that quiet eddy of the +great stream of life, were drawn more closely to each other. + +But as the years passed, and Anne’s prayers remained unanswered and the +deliverer did not come, her hopes began to fade again. Gradually she +reverted to her earlier frame of mind in which all hopes were set upon +a reunion with the unknown beloved in the world to come. + +One evening in the spring of 1594—four years after the name of +Sebastian had first passed between the priest and the princess—Frey +Miguel was walking down the main street of Madrigal, a village whose +every inhabitant was known to him, when he came suddenly face to face +with a stranger. A stranger would in any case have drawn his attention, +but there was about this man something familiar to the friar, something +that stirred in him vague memories of things long forgotten. His garb +of shabby black was that of a common townsman, but there was something +in his air and glance, his soldierly carriage, and the tilt of his +bearded chin, that belied his garb. He bore upon his person the stamp +of intrepidity and assurance. + +Both halted, each staring at the other, a faint smile on the lips of +the stranger—who, in the fading light, might have been of any age from +thirty to fifty—a puzzled frown upon the brow of the friar. Then the +man swept off his broad-brimmed hat. + +“God save your paternity,” was his greeting. + +“God save you, my son,” replied Frey Miguel, still pondering him. “I +seem to know you. Do I?” + +The stranger laughed. “Though all the world forget, your paternity +should remember me.” + +And then Frey Miguel sucked in his breath sharply. “My God!” he cried, +and set a hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, looking deeply into those +bold, grey eyes. “What make you here?” + +“I am a pastry-cook.” + +“A pastry-cook? You?” + +“One must live, and it is a more honest trade than most. I was in +Valladolid, when I heard that your paternity was the Vicar of the +Convent here, and so for the sake of old times—of happier times—I +bethought me that I might claim your paternity’s support.” He spoke +with a careless arrogance, half-tinged with mockery. + +“Assuredly...” began the priest, and then he checked. “Where is your +shop?” + +“Just down the street. Will your paternity honour me?” + +Frey Miguel bowed, and together they departed. + +For three days thereafter the convent saw the friar only in the +celebration of the Mass. But on the morning of the fourth, he went +straight from the sacristy to the parlour, and, despite the early hour, +desired to see her Excellency. + +“Lady,” he told her, “I have great news; news that will rejoice your +heart.” She looked at him, and saw the feverish glitter in his sunken +eyes, the hectic flush on his prominent cheek-bones. “Don Sebastian +lives. I have seen him.” + +A moment she stared at him as if she did not understand. Then she paled +until her face became as white as the nun’s coil upon her brow; her +breath came in a faint moan, she stiffened, and swayed upon her feet, +and caught at the back of a prie-dieu to steady and save herself from +falling. He saw that he had blundered by his abruptness, that he had +failed to gauge the full depth of her feelings for the Hidden Prince, +and for a moment feared that she would swoon under the shock of the +news he had so recklessly delivered. + +“What do you say? Oh, what do you say?” she moaned, her eyes +half-closed. + +He repeated the news in more measured, careful terms, exerting all the +magnetism of his will to sustain her reeling senses. Gradually she +quelled the storm of her emotions. + +“And you say that you have seen him? Oh!” Once more the colour suffused +her cheeks, and her eyes glowed, her expression became radiant. “Where +is he?” + +“Here. Here in Madrigal.” + +“In Madrigal?” She was all amazement. “But why in Madrigal?” + +“He was in Valladolid, and there heard that I—his sometime preacher and +counsellor—was Vicar here at Santa Maria la Real. He came to seek me. +He comes disguised, under the false name of Gabriel de Espinosa, and +setting up as a pastry-cook until his term of penance shall be +completed, and he shall be free to disclose himself once more to his +impatiently awaiting people.” + +It was bewildering, intoxicating news to her. It set her mind in +turmoil, made of her soul a battle-ground for mad hope and dreadful +fear. This dream-prince, who for four years had been the constant +companion of her thoughts, whom her exalted, ardent, imaginative, +starved Soul had come to love with a consuming passion, was a living +reality near at hand, to be seen in the flesh by the eyes of her body. +It was a thought that set her in an ecstasy of terror, so that she +dared not ask Frey Miguel to bring Don Sebastian to her. But she plied +him with questions, and so elicited from him a very circumstantial +story. + +Sebastian, after his defeat and escape, had made a vow upon the Holy +Sepulchre to lay aside the royal dignity of which he deemed that he had +proved himself unworthy, and to do penance for the pride that had +brought him down, by roaming the world in humble guise, earning his +bread by the labour of his hands and the sweat of his brow like any +common hind, until he should have purged his offense and rendered +himself worthy once more to resume the estate to which he had been +born. + +It was a tale that moved her pity to the point of tears. It exalted her +hero even beyond the eminence he had already held in her fond dreams, +particularly when to that general outline were added in the days that +followed details of the wanderings and sufferings of the Hidden Prince. +At last, some few weeks after that first startling announcement of his +presence, in the early days of August of that year 1594, Frey Miguel +proposed to her the thing she most desired, yet dared not beg. + +“I have told His Majesty of your attachment to his memory in all these +years in which we thought him dead, and he is deeply touched. He +desires your leave to come and prostrate himself at your feet.” + +She crimsoned from brow to chin, then paled again; her bosom heaved in +tumult. Between dread and yearning she spoke a faint consent. + +Next day he came, brought by Frey Miguel to the convent parlour, where +her Excellency waited, her two attendant nuns discreetly in the +background. Her eager, frightened eyes beheld a man of middle height, +dignified of mien and carriage, dressed with extreme simplicity, yet +without the shabbiness in which Frey Miguel had first discovered him. + +His hair was of a light brown—the colour to which the golden locks of +the boy who had sailed for Africa some fifteen years ago might well +have faded—his beard of an auburn tint, and his eyes were grey. His +face was handsome, and save for the colour of his eyes and the high +arch of his nose presented none of the distinguishing and marring +features peculiar to the House of Austria, from which Don Sebastian +derived through his mother. + +Hat in hand, he came forward, and went down on one knee before her. + +“I am here to receive your Excellency’s commands,” he said. + +She steadied her shuddering knees and trembling lips. + +“Are you Gabriel de Espinosa, who has come to Madrigal to set up as a +pastry-cook?” she asked him. + +“To serve your Excellency.” + +“Then be welcome, though I am sure that the trade you least understand +is that of a pastry-cook.” + +The kneeling man bowed his handsome head, and fetched a deep sigh. + +“If in the past I had better understood another trade, I should not now +be reduced to following this one.” + +She urged him now to rise, hereafter the entertainment between them was +very brief on that first occasion. He departed upon a promise to come +soon again, and the undertaking on her side to procure for his shop the +patronage of the convent. + +Thereafter it became his custom to attend the morning Mass celebrated +by Frey Miguel in the convent chapel—which was open to the public—and +afterwards to seek the friar in the sacristy and accompany him thence +to the convent parlour, where the Princess waited, usually with one or +another of her attendant nuns. These daily interviews were brief at +first, but gradually they lengthened until they came to consume the +hours to dinner-time, and presently even that did not suffice, and +Sebastian must come again later in the day. + +And as the interviews increased and lengthened, so they grew also in +intimacy between the royal pair, and plans for Sebastian’s future came +to be discussed. She urged him to proclaim himself. His penance had +been overlong already for what was really no fault at all, since it is +the heart rather than the deed that Heaven judges, and his heart had +been pure, his intention in making war upon the Infidel loftily pious. +Diffidently he admitted that it might be so, but both he and Frey +Miguel were of opinion that it would be wiser now to await the death of +Philip II., which, considering his years and infirmities, could not be +long delayed. Out of jealousy for his possessions, King Philip might +oppose Sebastian’s claims. + +Meanwhile these daily visits of Espinosa’s, and the long hours he spent +in Anne’s company gave, as was inevitable, rise to scandal, within and +without the convent. She was a nun professed, interdicted from seeing +any man but her confessor other than through the parlour grating, and +even then not at such length or with such constancy as this. The +intimacy between them—fostered and furthered by Frey Miguel—had so +ripened in a few weeks that Anne was justified in looking upon him as +her saviour from the living tomb to which she had been condemned, in +hoping that he would restore her to the life and liberty for which she +had ever yearned by taking her to Queen when his time came to claim his +own. What if she was a nun professed? Her profession had been against +her will, preceded by only one year of novitiate, and she was still +within the five probationary years prescribed. Therefore, in her view, +her vows were revocable. + +But this was a matter beyond the general consideration or knowledge, +and so the scandal grew. Within the convent there was none bold enough, +considering Anne’s royal rank, to offer remonstrance or advice, +particularly too, considering that her behaviour had the sanction of +Frey Miguel, the convent’s spiritual adviser. But from without, from +the Provincial of the Order of St. Augustine, came at last a letter to +Anne, respectfully stern in tone, to inform her that the numerous +visits she received from a pastry-cook were giving rise to talk, for +which it would be wise to cease to give occasion. That recommendation +scorched her proud, sensitive soul with shame. She sent her servant +Roderos at once to fetch Frey Miguel, and placed the letter in his +hands. + +The friar’s dark eyes scanned it and grew troubled. + +“It was to have been feared,” he said, and sighed. + +“There is but one remedy, lest worse follow and all be ruined. Don +Sebastian must go.” + +“Go?” Fear robbed her of breath. “Go where?” + +“Away from Madrigal—anywhere—and at once; tomorrow at latest.” And +then, seeing the look of horror in her face, “What else, what else?” he +added, impatiently. “This meddlesome provincial may be stirring up +trouble already.” + +She fought down her emotion. “I... I shall see him before he goes?” she +begged. + +“I don’t know. It may not be wise. I must consider.” He flung away in +deepest perturbation, leaving her with a sense that life was slipping +from her. + +That late September evening, as she sat stricken in her room, hoping +against hope for at least another glimpse of him, Dona Maria de Grado +brought word that Espinosa was even then in the convent in Frey +Miguel’s cell. Fearful lest he should be smuggled thence without her +seeing him, And careless of the impropriety of the hour—it was already +eight o’clock and dusk was falling—she at once dispatched Roderos to +the friar, bidding him bring Espinosa to her in the parlour. + +The friar obeyed, and the lovers—they were no less by now—came face to +face in anguish. + +“My lord, my lord,” she cried, casting all prudence to the winds, “what +is decided?” + +“That I leave in the morning,” he answered. + +“To go where?” She was distraught. + +“Where?” He shrugged. “To Valladolid at first, and then... where God +pleases.” + +“And when shall I see you again?” + +“When... when God pleases.” + +“Oh, I am terrified... if I should lose you... if I should never see +you more!” She was panting, distraught. + +“Nay, lady, nay,” he answered. “I shall come for you when the time is +ripe. I shall return by All Saints, or by Christmas at the latest, and +I shall bring with me one who will avouch me.” + +“What need any to avouch you to me?” she protested, on a note of +fierceness. “We belong to each other, you and I. But you are free to +roam the world, and I am caged here and helpless...” + +“Ah, but I shall free you soon, and we’ll go hence together. See.” He +stepped to the table. There was an ink-horn, a box of pounce, some +quills, and a sheaf of paper there. He took up a quill, and wrote with +labour, for princes are notoriously poor scholars: + +“I, Don Sebastian, by the Grace of God King of Portugal, take to wife +the most serene Dona ulna of Austria, daughter of the most serene +Prince, Don John of Austria, by virtue of the dispensation which I hold +from two pontiffs.” + +And he signed it—after the manner of the Kings of Portugal in all +ages—“El Rey”—the King. + +“Will that content you, lady?” he pleaded, handing it to her. + +“How shall this scrawl content me?” + +“It is a bond I shall redeem as soon as Heaven will permit.” + +Thereafter she fell to weeping, and he to protesting, until Frey Miguel +urged him to depart, as it grew late. And then she forgot her own +grief, and became all solicitude for him, until naught would content +her but she must empty into his hands her little store of treasure—a +hundred ducats and such jewels as she possessed, including a gold watch +set with diamonds and a ring bearing a cameo portrait of King Philip, +and last of all a portrait of herself, of the size of a playing-card. + +At last, as ten was striking, he was hurried away. Frey Miguel had gone +on his knees to him, and kissed his hand, what time he had passionately +urged him not to linger; and then Sebastian had done the same by the +Princess both weeping now. At last he was gone, and on the arm of Dona +Maria de Grado the forlorn Anne staggered back to her cell to weep and +pray. + +In the days that followed she moved, pale and listless, oppressed by +her sense of loss and desolation, a desolation which at last she sought +to mitigate by writing to him to Valladolid, whither he had repaired. +Of all those letters only two survive. + +“My king and lord,” she wrote in one of these, “alas! How we suffer by +absence! I am so filled with the pain of it that if I did not seek the +relief of writing to your Majesty and thus spend some moments in +communion with you, there would be an end to me. What I feel to-day is +what I feel every day when I recall the happy moments so deliciously +spent, which are no more. This privation is for me so severe a +punishment of heaven that I should call it unjust, for without cause I +find myself deprived of the happiness missed by me for so many years +and purchased at the price of suffering and tears. Ah, my lord, how +willingly, nevertheless, would I not suffer all over again the +misfortunes that have crushed me if thus I might spare your Majesty the +least of them. May He who rules the world grant my prayers and set a +term to so great an unhappiness, and to the intolerable torment I +suffer through being deprived of the presence of your Majesty. It were +impossible for long to suffer so much pain and live. + +“I belong to you, my lord; you know it already. The troth I plighted to +you I shall keep in life and in death, for death itself could not tear +it from my soul, and this immortal soul will harbour it through +eternity...” + +Thus and much more in the same manner wrote the niece of King Philip of +Spain to Gabriel Espinosa, the pastry-cook, in his Valladolid retreat. +How he filled his days we do not know, beyond the fact that he moved +freely abroad. For it was in the streets of that town that meddlesome +Fate brought him face to face one day with Gregorio Gonzales, under +whom Espinosa had been a scullion once in the service of the Count of +Nyeba. + +Gregorio hailed him, staring round-eyed; for although Espinosa’s +garments were not in their first freshness they were far from being +those of a plebeian. + +“In whose service may you be now?” quoth the intrigued Gregorio, so +soon as greetings had passed between them. + +Espinosa shook off his momentary embarrassment, and took the hand of +his sometime comrade. “Times are changed, friend Gregorio. I am not in +anybody’s service, rather do I require servants myself.” + +“Why, what is your present situation?” + +Loftily Espinosa put him off. “No matter for that,” he answered, with a +dignity that forbade further questions. He gathered his cloak about him +to proceed upon his way. “If there is anything you wish for I shall be +happy, for old times’ sake, to oblige you.” + +But Gregorio was by no means disposed to part from him. We do not +readily part from an old friend whom we rediscover in an unsuspected +state of affluence. Espinosa must home with Gregorio. Gregorio’s wife +would be charmed to renew his acquaintance, and to hear from his own +lips of his improved and prosperous state. Gregorio would take no +refusal, and in the end Espinosa, yielding to his insistence, went with +him to the sordid quarter where Gregorio had his dwelling. + +About an unclean table of pine, in a squalid room, sat the +three—Espinosa, Gregorio, and Gregorio’s wife; but the latter displayed +none of the signs of satisfaction at Espinosa’s prosperity which +Gregorio had promised. Perhaps Espinosa observed her evil envy, and it +may have been to nourish it—which is the surest way to punish envy—that +he made Gregorio a magnificent offer of employment. + +“Enter my service,” said he, “and I will pay you fifty ducats down and +four ducats a month.” + +Obviously they were incredulous of his affluence. To convince them he +displayed a gold watch—most rare possession—set with diamonds, a ring +of price, and other costly jewels. The couple stared now with dazzled +eyes. + +“But didn’t you tell me when we were in Madrid together that you had +been a pastry-cook at Ocana?” burst from Gregorio. + +Espinosa smiled. “How many kings and princes have been compelled to +conceal themselves under disguises?” he asked oracularly. And seeing +them stricken, he must play upon them further. Nothing, it seems, was +sacred to him—not even the portrait of that lovely, desolate royal lady +in her convent at Madrigal. Forth he plucked it, and thrust it to them +across the stains of wine and oil that befouled their table. + +“Look at this beautiful lady, the most beautiful in Spain,” he bade +them. “A prince could not have a lovelier bride.” + +“But she is dressed as a nun,” the woman protested. “How, then, can she +marry?” + +“For kings there are no laws,” he told her with finality. + +At last he departed, but bidding Gregorio to think of the offer he had +made him. He would come again for the cook’s reply, leaving word +meanwhile of where he was lodged. + +They deemed him mad, and were disposed to be derisive. Yet the woman’s +disbelief was quickened into malevolence by the jealous fear that what +he had told them of himself might, after all, be true. Upon that +malevolence she acted forthwith, lodging an information with Don +Rodrigo de Santillan, the Alcalde of Valladolid. + +Very late that night Espinosa was roused from his sleep to find his +room invaded by alguaziles—the police of the Alcalde. He was arrested +and dragged before Don Rodrigo to give an account of himself and of +certain objects of value found in his possession—more particularly of a +ring, on the cameo of which was carved a portrait of King Philip. + +“I am Gabriel de Espinosa,” he answered firmly, “a pastry-cook of +Madrigal.” + +“Then how come you by these jewels?” + +“They were given me by Dona Ana of Austria to sell for her account. +That is the business that has brought me to Valladolid.” + +“Is this Dona Ana’s portrait?” + +“It is.” + +“And this lock of hair? Is that also Dona Ana’s? And do you, then, +pretend that these were also given you to sell?” + +“Why else should they be given me?” + +Don Rodrigo wondered. They were useless things to steal, and as for the +lock of hair, where should the fellow find a buyer for that? The +Alcalde conned his man more closely, and noted that dignity of bearing, +that calm assurance which usually is founded upon birth and worth. He +sent him to wait in prison, what time he went to ransack the fellow’s +house in Madrigal. + +Don Rodrigo was prompt in acting; yet even so his prisoner mysteriously +found means to send a warning that enabled Frey Miguel to forestall the +Alcalde. Before Don Rodrigo’s arrival, the friar had abstracted from +Espinosa’s house a box of papers which he reduced to ashes. +Unfortunately Espinosa had been careless. Four letters not confided to +the box were discovered by the alguaziles. Two of them were from +Anne—one of which supplies the extract I have given; the other two from +Frey Miguel himself. + +Those letters startled Don Rodrigo de Santillan. He was a shrewd +reasoner and well-informed. He knew how the justice of Castile was kept +on the alert by the persistent plottings of the Portuguese Pretender, +Don Antonio, sometime Prior of Crato. He was intimate with the past +life of Frey Miguel, knew his self-sacrificing patriotism and +passionate devotion to the cause of Don Antonio, remembered the firm +dignity of his prisoner, and leapt at a justifiable conclusion. The man +in his hands—the man whom the Princess Anne addressed in such +passionate terms by the title of Majesty—was the Prior of Crato. He +conceived that he had stumbled here upon something grave and dangerous. +He ordered the arrest of Frey Miguel, and then proceeded to visit Dona +Ana at the convent. His methods were crafty, and depended upon the +effect of surprise. He opened the interview by holding up before her +one of the letters he had found, asking her if she acknowledged it for +her own. + +She stared a moment panic-stricken; then snatched it from his hands, +tore it across, and would have torn again, but that he caught her +wrists in a grip of iron to prevent her, with little regard in that +moment for the blood royal in her veins. King Philip was a stern +master, pitiless to blunderers, and Don Rodrigo knew he never would be +forgiven did he suffer that precious letter to be destroyed. + +Overpowered in body and in spirit, she surrendered the fragments and +confessed the letter her own. + +“What is the real name of this man, who calls himself a pastry-cook, +and to whom you write in such terms as these?” quoth the magistrate. + +“He is Don Sebastian, King of Portugal.” And to that declaration she +added briefly the story of his escape from Alcacer-el-Kebir and +subsequent penitential wanderings. + +Don Rodrigo departed, not knowing what to think or believe, but +convinced that it was time he laid the whole matter before King Philip. +His Catholic Majesty was deeply perturbed. He at once dispatched Don +Juan de Llano, the Apostolic Commissary of the Holy Office to Madrigal +to sift the matter, and ordered that Anne should be solitarily confined +in her cell, and her nuns-in-waiting and servants placed under arrest. + +Espinosa, for greater security, was sent from Valladolid to the prison +of Medina del Campo. He was taken thither in a coach with an escort of +arquebusiers. + +“Why convey a poor pastry-cook with so much honour?” he asked his +guards, half-mockingly. + +Within the coach he was accompanied by a soldier named Cervatos, a +travelled man, who fell into talk with him, and discovered that he +spoke both French and German fluently. But when Cervatos addressed him +in Portuguese the prisoner seemed confused, and replied that although +he had been in Portugal, he could not speak the language. + +Thereafter, throughout that winter, examinations of the three chief +prisoners—Espinosa, Frey Miguel, and the Princess Anne—succeeded one +another with a wearisome monotony of results. The Apostolic Commissary +interrogated the princess and Frey Miguel; Don Rodrigo conducted the +examinations of Espinosa. But nothing was elicited that took the matter +forward or tended to dispel its mystery. + +The princess replied with a candour that became more and more tinged +with indignation under the persistent and at times insulting +interrogatories. She insisted that the prisoner was Don Sebastian, and +wrote passionate letters to Espinosa, begging him for her honour’s sake +to proclaim himself what he really was, declaring to him that the time +had come to cast off all disguise. + +Yet the prisoner, unmoved by these appeals, persisted that he was +Gabriel de Espinosa, a pastry-cook. But the man’s bearing, and the air +of mystery cloaking him, seemed in themselves to belie that +asseveration. That he could not be the Prior of Crato, Don Rodrigo had +now assured himself. He fenced skilfully under examination, ever +evading the magistrate’s practiced point when it sought to pin him, and +he was no less careful to say nothing that should incriminate either of +the other two prisoners. He denied that he had ever given himself out +to be Don Sebastian, though he admitted that Frey Miguel and the +princess had persuaded themselves that he was that lost prince. + +He pleaded ignorance when asked who were his parents, stating that he +had never known either of them—an answer this which would have fitted +the case of Don Sebastian, who was born after his father’s death, and +quitted in early infancy by his mother. + +As for Frey Miguel, he stated boldly under examination the conviction +that Don Sebastian had survived the African expedition, and the belief +that Espinosa might well be the missing monarch. He protested that he +had acted in good faith throughout, and without any thought of +disloyalty to the King of Spain. + +Late one night, after he had been some three months in prison, Espinosa +was roused from sleep by an unexpected visit from the Alcalde. At once +he would have risen and dressed. + +“Nay,” said Don Rodrigo, restraining him, “that is not necessary for +what is intended.” + +It was a dark phrase which the prisoner, sitting up in bed with tousled +hair, and blinking in the light of the torches, instantly interpreted +into a threat of torture. His face grew white. + +“It is impossible,” he protested. “The King cannot have ordered what +you suggest. His Majesty will take into account that I am a man of +honour. He may require my death, but in an honourable manner, and not +upon the rack. And as for its being used to make me speak, I have +nothing to add to what I have said already.” + +The stern, dark face of the Alcalde was overspread by a grim smile. + +“I would have you remark that you fall into contradictions. Sometimes +you pretend to be of humble and lowly origin, and sometimes a person of +honourable degree. To hear you at this moment one might suppose that to +submit you to torture would be to outrage your dignity. What then...” + +Don Rodrigo broke off suddenly to stare, then snatched a torch from the +hand of his alguaziles and held it close to the face of the prisoner, +who cowered now, knowing full well what it was the Alcalde had +detected. In that strong light Don Rodrigo saw that the prisoner’s hair +and beard had turned grey at the roots, and so received the last proof +that he had to do with the basest of impostures. The fellow had been +using dyes, the supply of which had been cut short by his imprisonment. +Don Rodrigo departed well-satisfied with the results of that surprise +visit. + +Thereafter Espinosa immediately shaved himself. But it was too late, +and even so, before many weeks were past his hair had faded to its +natural grey, and he presented the appearance of what in fact he was—a +man of sixty, or thereabouts. + +Yet the torture to which he was presently submitted drew nothing from +him that could explain all that yet remained obscure. It was from Frey +Miguel, after a thousand prevarications and tergiversations, that the +full truth—known to himself alone—was extracted by the rack. + +He confessed that, inspired by the love of country and the ardent +desire to liberate Portugal from the Spanish yoke, he had never +abandoned the hope of achieving this, and of placing Don Antonio, the +Prior of Crato, on the throne of his ancestors. He had devised a plan, +primarily inspired by the ardent nature of the Princess Anne and her +impatience of the conventual life. It was while casting about for the +chief instrument that he fortuitously met Espinosa in the streets of +Madrigal. Espinosa had been a soldier, and had seen the world. During +the war between Spain and Portugal he had served in the armies of King +Philip, had befriended Frey Miguel when the friar’s convent was on the +point of being invaded by soldiery, and had rescued him from the peril +of it. Thus they had become acquainted, and Frey Miguel had had an +instance of the man’s resource and courage. Further, he was of the +height of Don Sebastian and of the build to which the king might have +grown in the years that were sped, and he presented other superficial +resemblances to the late king. The colour of his hair and beard could +be corrected; and he might be made to play the part of the Hidden +Prince for whose return Portugal was waiting so passionately and +confidently. There had been other impostors aforetime, but they had +lacked the endowments of Espinosa, and their origins could be traced +without difficulty. In addition to these natural endowments, Espinosa +should be avouched by Frey Miguel than whom nobody in the world was +better qualified in such a matter—and by the niece of King Philip, to +whom he would be married when he raised his standard. It was arranged +that the three should go to Paris so soon as the arrangements were +complete, where the Pretender would be accredited by the exiled friends +of Don Antonio residing there—the Prior of Crato being a party to the +plot. From France Frey Miguel would have worked in Portugal through his +agents, and presently would have gone there himself to stir up a +national movement in favour of a pretender so fully accredited. Thus he +had every hope of restoring Portugal to her independence. Once this +should have been accomplished, Don Antonio would appear in Lisbon, +unmask the impostor, and himself assume the crown of the kingdom which +had been forcibly and definitely wrenched from Spain. + +That was the crafty plan which the priest had laid with a singleness of +aim and a detachment from minor considerations that never hesitated to +sacrifice the princess, together with the chief instrument of the +intrigue. Was the liberation of a kingdom, the deliverance of a nation +from servitude, the happiness of a whole people, to weigh in the +balance against the fates of a natural daughter of Don John of Austria +and a soldier of fortune turned pastry-cook? Frey Miguel thought not, +and his plot might well have succeeded but for the base strain in +Espinosa and the man’s overweening vanity, which had urged him to +dazzle the Gonzales at Valladolid. That vanity sustained him to the +end, which he suffered in October of 1595, a full year after his +arrest. To the last he avoided admissions that should throw light upon +his obscure identity and origin. + +“If it were known who I am...” he would say, and there break off. + +He was hanged, drawn and quartered, and he endured his fate with calm +fortitude. Frey Miguel suffered in the same way with the like dignity, +after having undergone degradation from his priestly dignity. + +As for the unfortunate Princess Anne, crushed under a load of shame and +humiliation, she had gone to her punishment in the previous July. The +Apostolic Commissary notified her of the sentence which King Philip had +confirmed. She was to be transferred to another convent, there to +undergo a term of four years’ solitary confinement in her cell, and to +fast on bread and water every Friday. She was pronounced incapable of +ever holding any office, and was to be treated on the expiry of her +term as an ordinary nun, her civil list abolished, her title of +Excellency to be extinguished, together with all other honours and +privileges conferred upon her by King Philip. + +The piteous letters of supplication that she addressed to the King, her +uncle, still exist. But they left the cold, implacable Philip of Spain +unmoved. Her only sin was that, yielding to the hunger of her starved +heart, and chafing under the ascetic life imposed upon her, she had +allowed herself to be fascinated by the prospect of becoming the +protectress of one whom she believed to be an unfortunate and romantic +prince, and of exchanging her convent for a throne. + +Her punishment—poor soul—endured for close upon forty years, but the +most terrible part of it was not that which lay within the prescription +of King Philip, but that which arose from her own broken and humiliated +spirit. She had been uplifted a moment by a glorious hope, to be cast +down again into the blackest despair, to which a shame unspeakable and +a tortured pride were added. + +Than hers, as I have said, there is in history no sadder story. + + + + +V. THE END OF THE “VERT GALANT” + +The Assassination of Henry IV + + +In the year 1609 died the last Duke of Cleves, and King Henry IV. of +France and Navarre fell in love with Charlotte de Montmorency. + +In their conjunction these two events were to influence the destinies +of Europe. In themselves they were trivial enough, since it was as much +a commonplace that an old gentleman should die as that Henry of Bearn +should fall in love. Love had been the main relaxation of his otherwise +strenuous life, and neither the advancing years—he was fifty-six at +this date—nor the recriminations of Maria de’ Medici, his +long-suffering Florentine wife, sufficed to curb his zest. + +Possibly there may have been a husband more unfaithful than King Henry; +probably there was not. His gallantries were outrageous, his taste in +women catholic, and his illegitimate progeny outnumbered that of his +grandson, the English sultan Charles II. He differs, however, from the +latter in that he was not quite as Oriental in the manner of his +self-indulgence. Charles, by comparison, was a mere dullard who turned +Whitehall into a seraglio. Henry preferred the romantic manner, the +high adventure, and knew how to be gallant in two senses. + +This gallantry of his is not, perhaps, seen to best advantage in the +affair of Charlotte de Montmorency To begin with he was, as I have +said, in his fifty-sixth year, an age at which it is difficult, without +being ridiculous, to unbridle a passion for a girl of twenty. +Unfortunately for him, Charlotte does not appear to have found him so. +On the contrary, her lovely, empty head was so turned by the flattery +of his addresses, that she came to reciprocate the passion she +inspired. + +Her family had proposed to marry her to the gay and witty Marshal de +Bassompierre; and although his heart was not at all engaged, the +marshal found the match extremely suitable, and was willing enough, +until the King declared himself. Henry used the most impudent +frankness. + +“Bassompierre, I will speak to you as a friend,” said he. “I am in +love, and desperately in love, with Mademoiselle de Montmorency. If you +should marry her I should hate you. If she should love me you would +hate me. A breach of our friendship would desolate me, for I love you +with sincere affection.” + +That was enough for Bassompierre. He had no mind to go further with a +marriage of convenience which in the sequel would most probably give +him to choose between assuming the ridiculous role of a complacent +husband and being involved in a feud with his prince. He said as much, +and thanked the King for his frankness, whereupon Henry, liking him +more than ever for his good sense, further opened his mind to him. + +“I am thinking of marrying her to my nephew, Conde. Thus I shall have +her in my family to be the comfort of my old age, which is coming on. +Conde, who thinks of nothing but hunting, shall have a hundred thousand +livres a year with which to amuse himself.” + +Bassompierre understood perfectly the kind of bargain that was in +Henry’s mind. As for the Prince de Conde, he appears to have been less +acute, no doubt because his vision was dazzled by the prospect of a +hundred thousand livres a year. So desperately poor was he that for +half that sum he would have taken Lucifer’s own daughter to wife, +without stopping to consider the disadvantages it might entail. + +The marriage was quietly celebrated at Chantilly in February of 1609. +Trouble followed fast. Not only did Conde perceive at last precisely +what was expected of him, and indignantly rebel against it, but the +Queen, too, was carefully instructed in the matter by Concino Concini +and his wife Leonora Galigai, the ambitious adventurers who had come +from Florence in her train, and who saw in the King’s weakness their +own opportunity. + +The scandal that ensued was appalling. Never before had the relations +between Henry and his queen been strained so nearly to breaking-point. +And then, whilst the trouble of Henry’s own making was growing about +him until it threatened to overwhelm him, he received a letter from +Vaucelas, his ambassador at Madrid, containing revelations that changed +his annoyance into stark apprehension. + +When the last Duke of Cleves died a few months before, “leaving all the +world his heirs”—to use Henry’s own phrase—the Emperor had stepped in, +and over-riding the rights of certain German princes had bestowed the +fief upon his own nephew, the Archduke Leopold. Now this was an +arrangement that did not suit Henry’s policy at all, and being then—as +the result of a wise husbanding of resources—the most powerful prince +in Europe, Henry was not likely to submit tamely to arrangements that +did not suit him. His instructions to Vaucelas were to keep open the +difference between France and the House of Austria arising out of this +matter of Cleves. All Europe knew that Henry desired to marry the +Dauphin to the heiress of Lorraine, so that this State might one day be +united with France; and it was partly to support this claim that he was +now disposed to attach the German princes to his interests. + +Yet what Vaucelas told him in that letter was that certain agents at +the court of Spain, chief among whom was the Florentine ambassador, +acting upon instructions from certain members of the household of the +Queen of France, and from others whom Vaucelas said he dared not +mention, were intriguing to blast Henry’s designs against the house of +Austria, and to bring him willy-nilly into a union with Spain. These +agents had gone so far in their utter disregard of Henry’s own +intentions as to propose to the Council of Madrid that the alliance +should be cemented by a marriage between the Dauphin and the Infanta. + +That letter sent Henry early one morning hot-foot to the Arsenal, where +Sully, his Minister of State, had his residence. Maximilien de Bethune, +Duke of Sully, was not merely the King’s servant, he was his closest +friend, the very keeper of his soul; and the King leaned upon him and +sought his guidance not only in State affairs, but in the most intimate +and domestic matters. Often already had it fallen to Sully to patch up +the differences created between husband and wife by Henry’s persistent +infidelities. + +The King, arriving like the whirlwind, turned everybody out of the +closet in which the duke—but newly risen—received him in bed-gown and +night-cap. Alone with his minister, Henry came abruptly to the matter. + +“You have heard what is being said of me?” he burst out. He stood with +his back to the window, a sturdy, erect, soldierly figure, a little +above the middle height, dressed like a captain of fortune in jerkin +and long boots of grey leather, and a grey hat with a wine-coloured +ostrich plume. His countenance matched his raiment. Keeneyed, broad of +brow, with a high-bridged, pendulous nose, red lips, a tuft of beard +and a pair of grizzled, bristling moustachios, he looked half-hero, +half-satyr; half-Captain, half-Polichinelle. + +Sully, tall and broad, the incarnation of respectability and dignity, +despite bed-gown and slippers and the nightcap covering his high, bald +crown, made no presence of misunderstanding him. + +“Of you and the Princesse de Conde, you mean, sire?” quoth he, and +gravely he shook his head. “It is a matter that has filled me with +apprehension, for I foresee from it far greater trouble than from any +former attachment of yours.” + +“So they have convinced you, too, Grand-Master?” Henry’s tone was +almost sorrowful. “Yet I swear that all is greatly exaggerated. It is +the work of that dog Concini. _Ventre St. Gris!_ If he has no respect +for me, at least he might consider how he slanders a child of such +grace and wit and beauty, a lady of her high birth and noble lineage.” + +There was a dangerous quiver of emotion in his voice that was not +missed by the keen ears of Sully. Henry moved from the window, and +flung into a chair. + +“Concini works to enrage the Queen against me, and to drive her to take +violent resolutions which might give colour to their pernicious +designs.” + +“Sire!” It was a cry of protest from Sully. + +Henry laughed grimly at his minister’s incredulity, and plucked forth +the letter from Vaucelas. + +“Read that.” + +Sully read, and, aghast at what the letter told him, ejaculated: “They +must be mad!” + +“Oh, no,” said the King. “They are not mad. They are most wickedly +sane, which is why their designs fill me with apprehension. What do you +infer, Grand-Master, from such deliberate plots against resolutions +from which they know that nothing can turn me while I have life?” + +“What can I infer?” quoth Sully, aghast. + +“In acting thus—in daring to act thus,” the King expounded, “they +proceed as if they knew that I can have but a short time to live.” + +“Sire!” + +“What else? They plan events which cannot take place until I am dead.” + +Sully stared at his master for a long moment, in stupefied silence, his +loyal Huguenot soul refusing to discount by flattery the truth that he +perceived. + +“Sire,” he said at last, bowing his fine head, “you must take your +measures.” + +“Ay, but against whom? Who are these that Vaucelas says he dare not +name? Can you suggest another than...” He paused, shrinking in horror +from completing the utterance of his thought. Then, with an abrupt +gesture, he went on, “... than the Queen herself?” + +Sully quietly placed the letter on the table, and sat down. He took his +chin in his hand and looked squarely across at Henry. + +“Sire, you have brought this upon yourself. You have exasperated her +Majesty; you have driven her in despair to seek and act upon the +councils of this scoundrel Concini. There never was an attachment of +yours that did not beget trouble with the Queen, but never such trouble +as I have been foreseeing from your attachment to the Princess of +Conde. Sire, will you not consider where you stand?” + +“They are lies, I tell you,” Henry stormed. But Sully the +uncompromising gravely shook his head. “At least,” Henry amended, “they +are gross exaggerations. Oh, I confess to you, my friend, that I am +sick with love of her. Day and night I see nothing but her gracious +image. I sigh and fret and fume like any callow lad of twenty. I suffer +the tortures of the damned. And yet... and yet, I swear to you, Sully, +that I will curb this passion though it kill me. I will stifle these +fires, though they consume my soul to ashes. No harm shall come to her +from me. No harm has come yet. I swear it. These stories that are put +about are the inventions of Concini to set my wife against me. Do you +know how far he and his wife have dared to go? They have persuaded the +Queen to eat nothing that is not prepared in the kitchen they have set +up for her in their own apartments. What can you conclude from that but +that they suggest that I desire to poison her?” + +“Why suffer it, sire?” quoth Sully gravely. “Send the pair packing back +to Florence, and so be rid of them.” + +Henry rose in agitation. “I have a mind to. _Ventre St. Gris!_ I have a +mind to. Yes, it is the only thing. You can manage it, Sully. Disabuse +her mind of her Suspicions regarding the Princess of Conde; make my +peace with her; convince her of my sincerity, of my firm intention to +have done with gallantry, so that she on her side will make me the +sacrifice of banishing the Concinis. You will do this, my friend?” + +It was no less than Sully had been expecting from past experience, and +the task was one in which he was by now well-practiced; but the +situation had never before been quite so difficult. He rose. + +“Why, surely, sire,” said he. “But her Majesty on her side may require +something more to reconcile her to the sacrifice. She may reopen the +question of her coronation so long and—in her view—so unreasonably +postponed.” + +Henry’s face grew overcast, his brows knit. “I have always had an +instinct against it, as you know, Grand Master,” said he, “and this +instinct is strengthened by what that letter has taught me. If she will +dare so much, having so little real power, what might she not do if...” +He broke off, and fell to musing. “If she demands it we must yield, I +suppose,” he said at length. “But give her to understand that if I +discover any more of her designs with Spain I shall be provoked to the +last degree against her. And as an antidote to these machinations at +Madrid you may publish my intention to uphold the claims of the German +Princes in the matter of Cleves, and let all the world know that we are +arming to that end.” + +He may have thought—as was long afterwards alleged—that the threat +itself should be sufficient, for there was at that time no power in +Europe that could have stood against his armies in the field. + +On that they parted, with a final injunction from Sully that Henry +should see the Princesse de Conde no more. + +“I swear to you, Grand Master, that I will use restraint and respect +the sacred tie I formed between my nephew and Charlotte solely so that +I might impose silence upon my own passion.” + +And the good Sully writes in comment upon this: “I should have relied +absolutely upon these assurances had I not known how easy it is for a +heart tender and passionate as was his to deceive itself”—which is the +most amiable conceivable way of saying that he attached not the +slightest faith to the King’s promise. + +Nevertheless he went about the task of making the peace between the +royal couple with all the skill and tact that experience had taught +him; and he might have driven a good bargain on his master’s behalf but +for his master’s own weakness in supporting him. Maria de’ Medici would +not hear of the banishment of the Concinis, to whom she was so deeply +attached. She insisted with perfect justice that she was a bitterly +injured woman, and refused to entertain any idea of reconciliation save +with the condition that arrangements for her coronation as Queen of +France—which was no more than her due—should be made at once, and that +the King should give an undertaking not to make himself ridiculous any +longer by his pursuit of the Princess of Conde. Of the matters +contained in the letter of Vaucelas she denied all knowledge, nor would +suffer any further inquisition. + +From Henry’s point of view this was anything but satisfactory. But he +yielded. Conscience made a coward of him. He had wronged her so much in +one way that he must make some compensating concessions to her in +another. This weakness was part of his mental attitude towards her, +which swung constantly between confidence and diffidence, esteem and +indifference, affection and coldness; at times he inclined to put her +from him entirely; at others he opined that no one on his Council was +more capable of the administration of affairs. Even in the indignation +aroused by the proof he held of her disloyalty, he was too just not to +admit the provocation he had given her. So he submitted to a +reconciliation on her own terms, and pledged himself to renounce +Charlotte. We have no right to assume from the sequel that he was not +sincere in the intention. + +By the following May events proved the accuracy of Sully’s judgment. +The court was at Fontainebleau when the last bulwark of Henry’s +prudence was battered down by the vanity of that lovely fool, +Charlotte, who must be encouraging her royal lover to resume his +flattering homage. But both appear to have reckoned without the lady’s +husband. + +Henry presented Charlotte with jewels to the value of eighteen thousand +livres, purchased from Messier, the jeweller of the Pont au Change; and +you conceive what the charitable ladies of the Court had to say about +it. At the first hint of scandal Monsieur de Conde put himself into a +fine heat, and said things which pained and annoyed the King +exceedingly. Henry had amassed a considerable and varied experience of +jealous husbands in his time; but he had never met one quite so +intolerable as this nephew of his. He complained of it in a letter to +Sully. + +“My friend,—Monsieur the Prince is here, but he acts like a man +possessed. You will be angry and ashamed at the things he says of me. I +shall end by losing all patience with him. In the meanwhile I am +obliged to talk to him with severity.” + +More severe than any talk was Henry’s instruction to Sully to withhold +payment of the last quarter of the prince’s allowance, and to give +refusals to his creditors and purveyors. Thus he intended also, no +doubt, to make it clear to Conde that he did not receive a pension of a +hundred thousand livres a year for nothing. + +“If this does not keep him in bounds,” Henry concluded, “we must think +of some other method, for he says the most injurious things of me.” + +So little did it keep the prince in bounds—as Henry understood the +phrase—that he immediately packed his belongings, and carried his wife +off to his country house. It was quite in vain that Henry wrote to him +representing that this conduct was dishonouring to them both, and that +the only place for a prince of the blood was the court of his +sovereign. + +The end of it all was that the reckless and romantic Henry took to +night-prowling about the grounds of Conde’s chateau. In the disguise of +a peasant you see his Majesty of France and Navarre, whose will was law +in Europe, shivering behind damp hedges, ankle-deep in wet grass, +spending long hours in love-lore, ecstatic contemplation of her lighted +window, and all—so far as we can gather—for no other result than the +aggravation of certain rheumatic troubles which should have reminded +him that he was no longer of an age to pursue these amorous +pernoctations. + +But where his stiffening joints failed, the Queen succeeded. Henry had +been spied upon, of course, as he always was when he strayed from the +path of matrimonial rectitude. The Concinis saw to that. And when they +judged the season ripe, they put her Majesty in possession of the +facts. So inflamed was she by this fresh breach of trust that war was +declared anew between the royal couple, and the best that Sully’s wit +and labours could now accomplish was a sort of armed truce. + +And then at last in the following November the Prince de Conde took the +desperate resolve of quitting France with his wife, without +troubling—as was his duty—to obtain the King’s consent. On the last +night of that month, as Henry was at cards in the Louvre, the Chevalier +du Guet brought him the news of the prince’s flight. + +“I never in my life,” says Bassompierre, who was present, “saw a man so +distracted or in so violent a passion.” + +He flung down his cards, and rose, sending his chair crashing over +behind him. “I am undone!” was his cry. “Undone! This madman has +carried off his wife—perhaps to kill her.” White and shaking, he turned +to Bassompierre. “Take care of my money,” he bade him, “and go on with +the game.” + +He lurched out of the room, and dispatched a messenger to the Arsenal +to fetch M. de Sully. Sully obeyed the summons and came at once, but in +an extremely bad temper, for it was late at night, and he was +overburdened with work. + +He found the King in the Queen’s chamber, walking backward and forward, +his head sunk upon his breast, his hands clenched behind him. The +Queen, a squarely-built, square-faced woman, sat apart, attended by a +few of her ladies and one or two gentlemen of her train. Her +countenance was set and inscrutable, and her brooding eyes were fixed +upon the King. + +“Ha, Grand Master!” was Henry’s greeting, his voice harsh and strained. +“What do you say to this? What is to be done now?” + +“Nothing at all, sire,” says Sully, as calm as his master was excited. + +“Nothing! What sort of advice is that?” + +“The best advice that you can follow, sire. This affair should be +talked of as little as possible, nor should it appear to be of any +consequence to you, or capable of giving you the least uneasiness.” + +The Queen cleared her throat huskily. “Good advice, Monsieur le Duc,” +she approved him. “He will be wise to follow it.” Her voice strained, +almost threatening. “But, in this matter, I doubt wisdom and he have +long since become strangers.” + +That put him in a passion, and in a passion he left her to do the +maddest thing he had ever done. In the garb of a courier, and with a +patch over one eye to complete his disguise, he set out in pursuit of +the fugitives. He had learnt that they had taken the road to Landrecy, +which was enough for him. Stage by stage he followed them in that +flight to Flanders, picking up the trail as he went, and never pausing +until he had reached the frontier without overtaking them. + +It was all most romantic, and the lady, when she learnt of it, shed +tears of mingled joy and rage, and wrote him impassioned letters in +which she addressed him as her knight, and implored him, as he loved +her, to come and deliver her from the detestable tyrant who held her in +thrall. Those perfervid appeals completed his undoing, drove him mad, +and blinded him to everything—even to the fact that his wife, too, was +shedding tears, and that these were of rage undiluted by any more +tender emotion. + +He began by sending Praslin to require the Archduke to order the Prince +of Conde to leave his dominions. And when the Archduke declined with +dignity to be guilty of any such breach of the law of nations, Henry +dispatched Coeuvres secretly to Brussels to carry off thence the +princess. But Maria de’ Medici was on the alert, and frustrated the +design by sending a warning of what was intended to the Marquis +Spinola, as a result of which the Prince de Conde and his wife were +housed for greater security in the Archduke’s own palace. + +Checkmated at all points, yet goaded further by the letters which he +continued to receive from that most foolish of princesses, Henry took +the wild decision that to obtain her he would invade the Low Countries +as the first step in the execution of that design of a war with Spain +which hitherto had been little more than a presence. The matter of the +Duchy of Cleves was a pretext ready to his hand. To obtain the woman he +desired he would set Europe in a blaze. + +He took that monstrous resolve at the very beginning of the new year, +and in the months that followed France rang with preparations. It rang, +too, with other things which should have given him pause. It rang with +the voice of preachers giving expression to the popular view; that +Cleves was not worth fighting for, that the war was unrighteous—a war +undertaken by Catholic France to defend Protestant interests against +the very champions of Catholicism in Europe. And soon it began to ring +too, with prophecies of the King’s approaching end. + +These prognostics rained upon him from every quarter. Thomassin, and +the astrologer La Brosse, warned him of a message from the stars that +May would be fraught with danger for him. From Rome—from the very pope +himself came notice of a conspiracy against him in which he was told +that the very highest in the land were engaged. From Embrun, Bayonne, +and Douai came messages of like purport, and early in May a note was +found one morning on the altar of the church of Montargis announcing +the King’s approaching death. + +But that is to anticipate. Meanwhile, Henry had pursued his +preparations undeterred by either warnings or prognostications. There +had been so many conspiracies against his life already that he was +become careless and indifferent in such matters. Yet surely there never +had been one that was so abundantly heralded from every quarter, or +ever one that was hatched under conditions so propitious as those which +he had himself created now. In his soul he was not at ease, and the +source of his uneasiness was the coronation of the Queen, for which the +preparations were now going forward. + +He must have known that if danger of assassination threatened him from +any quarter it was most to be feared from those whose influence with +the Queen was almost such as to give them a control over her—the +Concinis and their unavowed but obvious ally the Duke of Epernon. If he +were dead, and the Queen so left that she could be made absolute regent +during the Dauphin’s minority, it was those adventurers who would +become through her the true rulers of France, and so enrich themselves +and gratify to the full their covetous ambitions. He saw clearly that +his safety lay in opposing this coronation—already fixed for the 13th +May—which Maria de’ Medici was so insistent should take place before +his departure for the wars. The matter so preyed upon his mind that +last he unburdened himself to Sully one day at the Arsenal. + +“Oh, my friend,” he cried, “this coronation does not please me. My +heart tells me that some fatality will follow.” + +He sat down, grasping the case of his reading-glass, whilst Sully could +only stare at him amazed by this out-burst. Thus he remained awhile in +deep thought. Then he started up again. + +“Pardieu!” he cried. “I shall be murdered in this city. It is their +only resource. I see it plainly. This cursed coronation will be the +cause of my death.” + +“What a thought, sir!” + +“You think that I have been reading the almanach or paying heed to the +prophets, eh? But listen to me now, Grand Master.” And wrinkles +deepened about the bold, piercing eyes. “It is four months and more +since we announced our intention of going to war, and France has +resounded with our preparations. We have made no secret of it. Yet in +Spain not a finger has been lifted in preparation to resist us, not a +sword has been sharpened. Upon what does Spain build? Whence her +confidence that in despite of my firm resolve and my abundant +preparations, despite the fact announced that I am to march on the last +of this month, despite the fact that my troops are already in Champagne +with a train of artillery so complete and well-furnished that France +has never seen the like of it, and perhaps never will again—whence the +confidence that despite all this there is no need to prepare defences? +Upon what do they build, I say, when they assume, as assume they must, +that there will be no war? Resolve me that, Grand Master.” + +But Sully, overwhelmed, could only gasp and ejaculate. + +“You had not thought of it, eh? Yet it is clear enough Spain builds on +my death. And who are the friends of Spain here in France? Who was it +intrigued with Spain in such a way and to such ends as in my lifetime +could never have been carried to an issue? Ha! You see.” + +“I cannot, sire. It is too horrible. It is impossible!” cried that +loyal, honest gentleman. “And yet if you are convinced of it, you +should break off this coronation, your journey, and your war. If you +wish it so, it is not difficult to satisfy you.” + +“Ay, that is it.” He came to his feet, and gripped the duke’s shoulder +in his strong, nervous hand. “Break off this coronation, and never let +me hear of it again. That will suffice. Thus I can rid my mind of +apprehensions, and leave Paris with nothing to fear.” + +“Very well. I will send at once to Notre Dame and to St. Denis, to stop +the preparations and dismiss the workmen.” + +“Ah, wait.” The eyes that for a moment had sparkled with new hope, grew +dull again; the lines of care descended between the brows. “Oh, what to +decide! What to decide! It is what I wish, my friend. But how will my +wife take it?” + +“Let her take it as she will. I cannot believe that she will continue +obstinate when she knows what apprehensions you have of disaster.” + +“Perhaps not, perhaps not,” he answered. But his tone was not sanguine. +“Try to persuade her, Sully. Without her consent I cannot do this +thing. But you will know how to persuade her. Go to her.” + +Sully suspended the preparations for the coronation, and sought the +Queen. For three days, he tells us, he used prayers, entreaties, and +arguments with which to endeavour to move her. But all was labour lost. +Maria de’ Medici was not to be moved. To all Sully’s arguments she +opposed an argument that was unanswerable. + +Unless she were crowned Queen of France, as was her absolute right, she +would be a person of no account and subject to the Council of Regency +during the King’s absence, a position unworthy and intolerable to her, +the mother of the Dauphin. + +And so it was Henry’s part to yield. His hands were tied by the wrongs +that he had done, and the culminating wrong that he was doing her by +this very war, as he had himself openly acknowledged. He had chanced +one day to ask the Papal Nuncio what Rome thought of this war. + +“Those who have the best information,” the Nuncio answered boldly, “are +of opinion that the principal object of the war is the Princess of +Conde, whom your Majesty wishes to bring back to France.” + +Angered by this priestly insolence, Henry’s answer had been an +impudently defiant acknowledgment of the truth of that allegation. + +“Yes, by God!” he cried. “Yes—most certainly I want to have her back, +and I will have her back; no one shall hinder me, not even God’s +viceregent on earth.” + +Having uttered those words, which he knew to have been carried to the +Queen, and to have wounded her perhaps more deeply than anything that +had yet happened in this affair, his conscience left him, despite his +fears, powerless now to thwart her even to the extent of removing those +pernicious familiars of hers of whose plottings he had all but positive +evidence. + +And so the coronation was at last performed with proper pomp and +magnificence at St. Denis on Thursday, the 13th May. It had been +concerted that the festivities should last four days and conclude on +the Sunday with the Queen’s public entry into Paris. On the Monday the +King was to set out to take command of his armies, which were already +marching upon the frontiers. + +Thus Henry proposed, but the Queen—convinced by his own admission of +the real aim and object of the war, and driven by outraged pride to +hate the man who offered her this crowning insult, and determined that +at all costs it must be thwarted—had lent an ear to Concini’s purpose +to avenge her, and was ready to repay infidelity with infidelity. +Concini and his fellow-conspirators had gone to work so confidently +that a week before the coronation a courier had appeared in Liege, +announcing that he was going with news of Henry’s assassination to the +Princes of Germany, whilst at the same time accounts of the King’s +death were being published in France and Italy. + +Meanwhile, whatever inward misgivings Henry may have entertained, +outwardly at least he appeared serene and good-humoured at his wife’s +coronation, gaily greeting her at the end of the ceremony by the title +of “Madam Regent.” + +The little incident may have touched her, arousing her conscience. For +that night she disturbed his slumbers by sudden screams, and when he +sprang up in solicitous alarm she falteringly told him of a dream in +which she had seen him slain, and fell to imploring him with a +tenderness such as had been utterly foreign to her of late to take +great care of himself in the days to come. In the morning she renewed +those entreaties, beseeching him not to leave the Louvre that day, +urging that she had a premonition it would be fatal to him. + +He laughed for answer. “You have heard of the predictions of La +Brosse,” said he. “Bah! You should not attach credit to such nonsense.” + +Anon came the Duke of Vendome, his natural son by the Marquise de +Verneuil, with a like warning and a like entreaty, only to receive a +like answer. + +Being dull and indisposed as a consequence of last night’s broken rest, +Henry lay down after dinner. But finding sleep denied him, he rose, +pensive and gloomy, and wandered aimlessly down, and out into the +courtyard. There an exempt of the guard, of whom he casually asked the +time, observing the King’s pallor and listlessness, took the liberty of +suggesting that his Majesty might benefit if he took the air. + +That chance remark decided Henry’s fate. His eyes quickened +responsively. “You advise well,” said he. “Order my coach. I will go to +the Arsenal to see the Duc de Sully, who is indisposed.” + +On the stones beyond the gates, where lackeys were wont to await their +masters, sat a lean fellow of some thirty years of age, in a dingy, +clerkly attire, so repulsively evil of countenance that he had once +been arrested on no better grounds than because it was deemed +impossible that a man with such a face could be other than a villain. + +Whilst the coach was being got ready, Henry re-entered the Louvre, and +startled the Queen by announcing his intention. With fearful insistence +she besought him to countermand the order, and not to leave the palace. + +“I will but go there and back,” he said, laughing at her fears. “I +shall have returned before you realize that I have gone.” And so he +went, never to return alive. + +He sat at the back of the coach, and the weather being fine all the +curtains were drawn up so that he might view the decorations of the +city against the Queen’s public entry on Sunday. The Duc d’Epernon was +on his right, the Duc de Montbazon and the Marquis de la Force on his +left. Lavordin and Roquelaure were in the right boot, whilst near the +left boot, opposite to Henry, sat Mirebeau and du Plessis Liancourt. He +was attended only by a small number of gentlemen on horseback, and some +footmen. + +The coach turned from the Rue St. Honore into the narrow Rue de la +Ferronerie, and there was brought to a halt by a block occasioned by +the meeting of two carts, one laden with hay, the other with wine. The +footmen went ahead with the exception of two. Of these, one advanced to +clear a way for the royal vehicle, whilst the other took the +opportunity to fasten his garter. + +At that moment, gliding like a shadow between the coach and the shops, +came that shabby, hideous fellow who had been sitting on the stones +outside the Louvre an hour ago. Raising himself by deliberately +standing upon one of the spokes of the stationary wheel, he leaned over +the Duc d’Epernon, and, whipping a long, stout knife from his sleeve, +stabbed Henry in the breast. The King, who was in the act of reading a +letter, cried out, and threw up his arms in an instinctive warding +movement, thereby exposing his heart. The assassin stabbed again, and +this time the blade went deep. + +With a little gasping cough, Henry sank together, and blood gushed from +his mouth. + +The predictions were fulfilled; the tale borne by the courier riding +through Liege a week ago was made true, as were the stories of his +death already at that very hour circulating in Antwerp, Malines, +Brussels, and elsewhere. + +The murderer aimed yet a third blow, but this at last was parried by +Epernon, whereupon the fellow stepped back from the coach, and stood +there, making no attempt to escape, or even to rid himself of the +incriminating knife. St. Michel, one of the King’s +gentlemen-in-waiting, who had followed the coach, whipped out his sword +and would have slain him on the spot had he not been restrained by +Epernon. The footmen seized the fellow, and delivered him over to the +captain of the guard. He proved to be a school-master of +Angouleme—which was Epernon’s country. His name was Ravaillac. + +The curtains of the coach were drawn, the vehicle was put about, and +driven back to the Louvre, whilst to avoid all disturbance it was +announced to the people that the King was merely wounded. + +But St. Michel went on to the Arsenal, taking with him the knife that +had stabbed his master, to bear the sinister tidings to Henry’s loyal +and devoted friend. Sully knew enough to gauge exactly whence the blow +had proceeded. With anger and grief in his heart he got to horse, ill +as he was, and, calling together his people, set out presently for the +Louvre, with a train one hundred strong, which was presently increased +to twice that number by many of the King’s faithful servants who joined +his company as he advanced. In the Rue de la Pourpointicre a man in +passing slipped a note into his hand. + +It was a brief scrawl: “Monsieur, where are ye going? It is done. I +have seen him dead. If you enter the Louvre you will not escape any +more than he did.” + +Nearing St. Innocent, the warning was repeated, this time by a +gentleman named du Jon, who stopped to mutter: + +“Monsieur le Duc, our evil is without remedy. Look to yourself, for +this strange blow will have fearful consequences.” + +Again in the Rue St. Honore another note was thrown him, whose contents +were akin to those of the first. Yet with misgivings mounting swiftly +to certainty, Sully rode amain towards the Louvre, his train by now +amounting to some three hundred horse. But at the end of the street he +was stopped by M. de Vitry, who drew rein as they met. + +“Ah, monsieur,” Vitry greeted him, “where are you going with such a +following? They will never suffer you to enter the Louvre with more +than two or three attendants, which I would not advise you to do. For +this plot does not end here. I have seen some persons so little +sensible of the loss they have sustained that they cannot even simulate +the grief they should feel. Go back, monsieur. There is enough for you +to do without going to the Louvre.” + +Persuaded by Vitry’s solemnity, and by what he knew in his heart, Sully +faced about and set out to retrace his steps. But presently he was +overtaken by a messenger from the Queen, begging him to come at once to +her at the Louvre, and to bring as few persons as possible with him. +“This proposal,” he writes, “to go alone and deliver myself into the +hands of my enemies, who filled the Louvre, was not calculated to allay +my suspicions.” + +Moreover he received word at that moment that an exempt of the guards +and a force of soldiers were already at the gates of the Arsenal, that +others had been sent to the Temple, where the powder was stored, and +others again to the treasurer of the Exchequer to stop all the money +there. + +“Convey to the Queen my duty and service,” he bade the messenger, “and +assure her that until she acquaints me with her orders I shall continue +assiduously to attend the affairs of my office.” And with that he went +to shut himself up in the Bastille, whither he was presently followed +by a stream of her Majesty’s envoys, all bidding him to the Louvre. But +Sully, ill as he was, and now utterly prostrated by all that he had +endured, put himself to bed and made of his indisposition a sufficient +excuse. + +Yet on the morrow he allowed himself to be persuaded to obey her +summons, receiving certain assurances that he had no ground for any +apprehensions. Moreover, he may by now have felt a certain security in +the esteem in which the Parisians held him. An attempt against him in +the Louvre itself would prove that the blow that had killed his master +was not the independent act of a fanatic, as it was being represented; +and vengeance would follow swiftly upon the heads of those who would +thus betray themselves of having made of that poor wretch’s fanaticism +an instrument to their evil ends. + +In that assurance he went, and he has left on record the burning +indignation aroused in him at the signs of satisfaction, complacency, +and even mirth that he discovered in that house of death. The Queen +herself, however, overwrought by the events, and perhaps +conscience-stricken by the tragedy which in the eleventh hour she had +sought to avert, burst into tears at sight of Sully, and brought in the +Dauphin, who flung himself upon the Duke’s neck. + +“My son,” the Queen addressed him, “this is Monsieur de Sully. You must +love him well, for he was one of the best and most faithful servants of +the King your father, and I entreat him to continue to serve you in the +same manner.” + +Words so fair might have convinced a man less astute that all his +suspicions were unworthy. But, even then, the sequel would very quickly +have undeceived him. For very soon thereafter his fall was brought +about by the Concinis and their creatures, so that no obstacle should +remain between themselves and the full gratification of their fell +ambitions. + +At once he saw the whole policy of the dead King subversed; he saw the +renouncing of all ancient alliances, and the union of the crowns of +France and Spain; the repealing of all acts of pacification; the +destruction of the Protestants; the dissipation of the treasures +amassed by Henry; the disgrace of those who would not receive the yoke +of the new favourites. All this Sully witnessed in his declining years, +and he witnessed, too, the rapid rise to the greatest power and dignity +in the State of that Florentine adventurer, Concino Concini—now bearing +the title of Marshal d’Ancre—who had so cunningly known how to profit +by a Queen’s jealousy and a King’s indiscretions. + +As for the miserable Ravaillac, it is pretended that he maintained +under torture and to the very hour of his death that he had no +accomplices, that what he had done he had done to prevent an +unrighteous war against Catholicism and the Pope—which was, no doubt, +the falsehood with which those who used him played upon his fanaticism +and whetted him to their service. I say “pretended” because, after all, +complete records of his examinations are not discoverable, and there is +a story that when at the point of death, seeing himself abandoned by +those in whom perhaps he had trusted, he signified a desire to confess, +and did so confess; but the notary Voisin, who took his depositions in +articulo mortis, set them down in a hand so slovenly as to be +afterwards undecipherable. + +That may or may not be true. But the statement that when the President +du Harlay sought to pursue inquiries into certain allegations by a +woman named d’Escoman, which incriminated the Duc d’Epernon, he +received a royal order to desist, rests upon sound authority. + + +That is the story of the assassination of Henry IV. re-told in the +light of certain records which appear to me to have been insufficiently +studied. They should suggest a train of speculation leading to +inferences which, whilst obvious, I hesitate to define absolutely. + +“If it be asked,” says Perefixe, “who were the friends that suggested +to Ravaillac so damnable a design, history replies that it is ignorant +and that upon an action of such consequences it is not permissible to +give suspicions and conjectures for certain truths. The judges +themselves who interrogated him dared not open their mouths, and never +mentioned the matter but with gestures of horror and amazement.” + + + + +VI. THE BARREN WOOING + +The Murder of Amy Robsart + + +There had been a banquet, followed by a masque, and this again by a +dance in which the young queen had paired off with Lord Robert Dudley, +who in repute was the handsomest man in Europe, just as in fact he was +the vainest, shallowest, and most unscrupulous. There had been homage +and flattery lavishly expressed, and there was a hint of masked +hostility from certain quarters to spice the adventure, and to thrill +her bold young spirit. Never yet in all the months of her reign since +her coronation in January of last year had she felt so much a queen, +and so conscious of the power of her high estate; never so much a +woman, and so conscious of the weakness of her sex. The interaction of +those conflicting senses wrought upon her like a heady wine. She leaned +more heavily upon the silken arm of her handsome Master of the Horse, +and careless in her intoxication of what might be thought or said, +she—who by the intimate favour shown him had already loosed the tongue +of Scandal and set it chattering in every court in Europe—drew him +forth from that thronged and glittering chamber of the Palace of +Whitehall into the outer solitude and friendly gloom. + +And he, nothing loth to obey the suasion of that white hand upon his +arm, exultant, indeed, to parade before them all the power he had with +her, went willingly enough. Let Norfolk and Sussex scowl, let Arundel +bite his lip until it bled, and sober Cecil stare cold disapproval. +They should mend their countenances soon, and weigh their words or be +for ever silenced, when he was master in England. And that he would +soon be master he was assured to-night by every glance of her blue +eyes, by the pressure of that fair hand upon his arm, by the +languishing abandonment with which that warm young body swayed towards +him, as they passed out from the blaze of lights and the strains of +music into the gloom and silence of the gallery leading to the terrace. + +“Out—let us go out, Robin. Let me have air,” she almost panted, as she +drew him on. + +Assuredly he would be master soon. Indeed, he might have been master +already but for that wife of his, that stumbling-block to his ambition, +who practiced the housewifely virtues at Cumnor Place, and clung so +tenaciously and so inconsiderately to life in spite of all his plans to +relieve her of the burden of it. + +For a year and more his name had been coupled with the Queen’s in a +tale that hurt her honour as a woman and imperilled her dignity as a +sovereign. Already in October of 1559 Alvarez de Quadra, the Spanish +ambassador, had written home: “I have learnt certain things as to the +terms on which the Queen and Lord Robert stand towards each other which +I could not have believed.” + +That was at a time when de Quadra was one of a dozen ambassadors who +were competing for her hand, and Lord Robert had, himself, appeared to +be an ally of de Quadra and an advocate of the Spanish marriage with +the Archduke Charles. But it was a presence which nowise deceived the +astute Spaniard, who employed a legion of spies to keep him well +informed. + +“All the dallying with us,” he wrote, “all the dallying with the Swede, +all the dallying there will be with the rest, one after another, is +merely to keep Lord Robert’s enemies in play until his villainy about +his wife can be executed.” + +What that particular villainy was, the ambassador had already stated +earlier in his letter. “I have learnt from a person who usually gives +me true information that Lord Robert has sent to have his wife +poisoned.” + +What had actually happened was that Sir Richard Verney—a trusted +retainer of Lord Robert’s—had reported to Dr. Bayley, of New College, +Oxford, that Lady Robert Dudley was “sad and ailing,” and had asked him +for a potion. But the doctor was learned in more matters than physic. +He had caught an echo of the tale of Lord Robert’s ambition; he had +heard a whisper that whatever suitors might come from overseas for +Elizabeth, she would marry none but “my lord”—as Lord Robert was now +commonly styled. More, he had aforetime heard rumours of the +indispositions of Lady Robert, yet had never found those rumours +verified by the fact. Some months ago, it had been reported that her +ladyship was suffering from cancer of the breast and likely soon to die +of it. Yet Dr. Bayley had reason to know that a healthier woman did not +live in Berkshire. + +The good doctor was a capable deductive reasoner, and the conclusion to +which he came was that if they poisoned her under cover of his +potion—she standing in no need of physic—he might afterwards be hanged +as a cover for their crime. So he refused to prescribe as he was +invited, nor troubled to make a secret of invitation and refusal. + +For awhile, then, Lord Robert had prudently held his hand; moreover, +the urgency there had been a year ago, when that host of foreign +suitors laid siege to Elizabeth of England, had passed, and his +lordship could afford to wait. But now of a sudden the urgency was +returned. Under the pressure brought to bear upon her to choose a +husband, Elizabeth had half-committed herself to marry the Archduke +Charles, promising the Spanish ambassador a definite answer within a +few days. + +Lord Robert had felt the earth to be quaking under him; he had seen the +ruin of his high ambitions; he had watched with rage the expanding +mockery upon the countenances of Norfolk, Sussex, and those others who +hated and despised him; and he had cursed that wife of his who knew not +when to die. But for that obstinacy with which she clung to life he had +been the Queen’s husband these many months, so making an end to +suspense and to the danger that lies in delay. + +To-night the wantonness with which the Queen flaunted before the eyes +of all her court the predilection in which she held him, came not +merely to lull his recent doubts and fears, to feed his egregious +vanity, and to assure him that in her heart he need fear no rival; it +came also to set his soul Quiver impotent rage. He had but to put forth +his hands to possess himself of this splendid prize. Yet those hands of +his were bound while that woman lived at Cumnor. Conceive his feelings +as they stole away together like any pair of lovers. + +Arm in arm they came by a stone gallery, where a stalwart scarlet +sentinel, a yeoman of the guard, with a Tudor rose embroidered in gold +upon his back, stood under a lamp set in the wall, with grounded pike +and body stiffly erect. + +The tall young Queen was in crimson satin with cunningly-wrought silver +embroideries, trimmed with tufted silver fringe, her stomacher stiff +with silver bullion studded with gold rosettes and Roman pearls, her +bodice cut low to display her splendid neck, decked by a carcanet of +pearls and rubies, and surmounted by a fan-like cuff of guipure, high +behind and sloping towards the bust. Thus she appeared to the sentinel +as the rays of the single lamp behind him struck fire from her red-gold +hair. As if by her very gait to express the wantonness of her mood, she +pointed her toes and walked with head thrown back, smiling up into the +gipsy face of her companion, who was arrayed from head to foot in +shimmering ivory satin, with an elegance no man in England could have +matched. + +They came by that stone gallery to a little terrace above the Privy +Steps. A crescent moon hung low over the Lambeth marshes across the +river. From a barge that floated gay with lights in mid-stream came a +tinkle of lutes, and the sweet voice of a singing boy. A moment the +lovers stood at gaze, entranced by the beauty of the soft, tepid +September night, so subtly adapted to their mood. Then she fetched a +sigh, and hung more heavily upon his arm, leaned nearer to his tall, +vigorous, graceful figure. + +“Robin, Robin!” was all she said, but in her voice throbbed a world of +passionate longing, an exquisite blend of delight and pain. + +Judging the season ripe, his arm flashed round her, and drew her +fiercely close. For a moment she was content to yield, her head against +his stalwart shoulder, a very woman nestling to the mate of her choice, +surrendering to her master. Then the queen in her awoke and strangled +nature. Roughly she disengaged herself from his arm, and stood away, +her breathing quickened. + +“God’s Death, Robin!” There was a harsh note in the voice that lately +had cooed so softly. “You are strangely free, I think.” + +But he, impudence incarnate, nothing abashed, accustomed to her gusty +moods, to her alternations between the two natures she had +inherited—from overbearing father and wanton mother—was determined at +all costs to take the fullest advantage of the hour, to make an end of +suspense. + +“I am not free, but enslaved—by love and worship of you. Would you deny +me; Would you?” + +“Not I, but fate,” she answered heavily, and he knew that the woman at +Cumnor was in her mind. + +“Fate will soon mend the wrong that fate has done—very soon now.” He +took her hand, and, melted again from her dignity, she let it lie in +his. “When that is done, sweet, then will I claim you for my own.” + +“When that is done, Robin?” she questioned almost fearfully, as if a +sudden dread suspicion broke upon her mind. “When what is done?” + +He paused a moment to choose his words, what time she stared intently +into the face that gleamed white in the surrounding gloom. + +“When that poor ailing spirit is at rest.” And he added: “It will be +soon.” + +“Thou hast said the same aforetime, Robin. Yet it has not so fallen +out.” + +“She has clung to life beyond what could have been believed of her +condition,” he explained, unconscious of any sinister ambiguity. “But +the end, I know, is very near—a matter but of days.” + +“Of days!” she shivered, and moved forward to the edge of the terrace, +he keeping step beside her. Then she stood awhile in silence, looking +down at the dark oily surge of water. “You loved her once, Robin?” she +asked, in a queer, unnatural voice. + +“I never loved but once,” answered that perfect courtier. + +“Yet you married her—men say it was a love marriage. It was a marriage, +anyway, and you can speak so calmly of her death?” Her tone was +brooding. She sought understanding that should silence her own +lingering doubt of him. + +“Where lies the blame? Who made me what I am?” Again his bold arm +encompassed her. Side by side they peered down through the gloom at the +rushing waters, and he seized an image from them. “Our love is like +that seething tide,” he said. “To resist it is to labour in agony +awhile, and then to perish.” + +“And to yield is to be swept away.” + +“To happiness,” he cried, and reverted to his earlier prayer. “Say that +when... that afterwards, I may claim you for my own. Be true to +yourself, obey the voice of instinct, and so win to happiness.” + +She looked up at him, seeking to scan the handsome face in that dim +light that baffled her, and he observed the tumultuous heave of her +white breast. + +“Can I trust thee, Robin? Can I trust thee? Answer me true!” she +implored him, adorably weak, entirely woman now. + +“What does your own heart answer you?” quoth he, loaning close above +her. + +“I think I can, Robin. And, anyway, I must. I cannot help myself. I am +but a woman, after all,” she murmured, and sighed. “Be it as thou wilt. +Come to me again when thou art free.” + +He bent lower, murmuring incoherently, and she put up a hand to pat his +swarthy bearded cheek. + +“I shall make thee greater than any man in England, so thou make me +happier than any woman.” + +He caught the hand in his and kissed it passionately, his soul singing +a triumph song within him. Norfolk and Sussex and those other scowling +ones should soon be whistled to the master’s heel. + +As they turned arm in arm into the gallery to retrace their steps, they +came suddenly face to face with a slim, sleek gentleman, who bowed +profoundly, a smile upon his crafty, shaven, priestly face. In a smooth +voice and an accent markedly foreign, he explained that he, too, sought +the cool of the terrace, not thinking to intrude; and upon that, bowing +again, he passed on and effaced himself. It was Alvarez de Quadra, +Bishop of Aquila, the argus-eyed ambassador of Spain. + +The young face of the Queen hardened. + +“I would I were as well served abroad as the King of Spain is here,” +she said aloud, that the retreating ambassador might hear the dubious +compliment; and for my lord’s ear alone she added under her breath: +“The spy! Philip of Spain will hear of this.” + +“So that he hears something more, what shall it signify?” quoth my +lord, and laughed. + +They paced the length of the gallery in silence, past the yeoman of the +guard, who kept his watch, and into the first antechamber. Perhaps it +was that meeting with de Quadra and my lord’s answer to her comment +that prompted what now she asked: “What is it ails her, Robin?” + +“A wasting sickness,” he answered, never doubting to whom the question +alluded. + +“You said, I think, that... that the end is very near.” + +He caught her meaning instantly. “Indeed, if she is not dead already, +she is very nearly so.” + +He lied, for never had Amy Dudley been in better health. And yet he +spoke the truth, for in so much as her life depended upon his will, it +was as good as spent. This was, he knew, a decisive moment of his +career. The hour was big with fate. If now he were weak or hesitant, +the chance might slip away and be for ever lost to him. Elizabeth’s +moods were as uncertain as were certain the hostile activities of my +lord’s enemies. He must strike quickly whilst she was in her present +frame of mind, and bring her to wedlock, be it in public or in private. +But first he must shake off the paralysing encumbrance of that +house-wife down at Cumnor. + +I believe—from evidence that I account abundant—that he considered it +with the cold remorselessness of the monstrous egotist he was. An +upstart, great-grandson to a carpenter, noble only in two descents, and +in both of them stained by the block, he found a queen—the victim of a +physical passion that took no account of the worthlessness underlying +his splendid exterior—reaching out a hand to raise him to a throne. +Being what he was, he weighed his young wife’s life at naught in the +evil scales of his ambition. And yet he had loved her once, more truly +perhaps than he could now pretend to love the Queen. + +It was some ten years since, as a lad of eighteen, he had taken Sir +John Robsart’s nineteen-year-old daughter to wife. She had brought him +considerable wealth and still more devotion. Because of this devotion +she was content to spend her days at Cumnor, whilst he ruffled it at +court; content to take such crumbs of attention as he could spare her +upon occasion. And during the past year, whilst he had been plotting +her death, she had been diligently caring for his interests and +fostering the prosperity of the Berkshire estate. If he thought of this +at all, he allowed no weakly sentiment to turn him from his purpose. +There was too much at stake for that—a throne, no less. + +And so, on the morning after that half-surrender of Elizabeth’s, we +find my lord closeted with his henchman, Sir Richard Verney. Sir +Richard—like his master—was a greedy, unscrupulous, ambitious +scoundrel, prepared to go to any lengths for the sake of such worldly +advancement as it lay in my lord’s power to give him. My lord perforce +used perfect frankness with this perfect servant. + +“Thou’lt rise or fall with me, Dick,” quoth he. “Help me up, then, and +so mount with me. When I am King, as soon now I shall be, look to me. +Now to the thing that is to do. Thou’lt have guessed it.” + +To Sir Richard it was an easy guess, considering how much already he +had been about this business. He signified as much. + +My lord shifted in his elbow-chair, and drew his embroidered bedgown of +yellow satin closer about his shapely limbs. + +“Hast failed me twice before, Richard,” said he. “God’s death, man, +fail me not again, or the last chance may go the way of the others. +There’s a magic in the number three. See that I profit by it, or I am +undone, and thou with me.” + +“I’d not have failed before, but for that suspicious dotard Bayley,” +grumbled Verney. “Your lordship bade me see that all was covered.” + +“Aye, aye. And I bid thee so again. On thy life, leave no footprints by +which we may be tracked. Bayley is not the only physician in Oxford. +About it, then, and swiftly. Time is the very soul of fortune in this +business, with the Spaniard straining at the leash, and Cecil and the +rest pleading his case with her. Succeed, and thy fortune’s made; fail, +and trouble not to seek me again.” + +Sir Richard bowed, and took his leave. As he reached the door, his +lordship stayed him. “If thou bungle, do not look to me. The court goes +to Windsor to-morrow. Bring me word there within the week.” He rose, +magnificently tall and stately, in his bedgown of embroidered yellow +satin, his handsome head thrown back, and went after his retainer. +“Thou’lt not fail me, Dick,” said he, a hand upon the lesser +scoundrel’s shoulder. “There is much at issue for me, and for thee with +me.” + +“I will not fail you, my lord,” Sir Richard rashly promised, and on +that they parted. + +Sir Richard did not mean to fail. He knew the importance of succeeding, +and he appreciated the urgency of the business as much as did my lord +himself. But between his cold, remorseless will to succeed and success +itself there lay a gulf which it needed all his resource to bridge. He +paid a short visit to Lady Robert at Cumnor, and professed deepest +concern to find in her a pallor and an ailing air which no one else had +yet observed. He expressed himself on the subject to Mrs. Buttelar and +the other members of her ladyship’s household, reproaching them with +their lack of care of their mistress. Mrs. Buttelar became indignant +under his reproaches. + +“Nay, now, Sir Richard, do you wonder that my lady is sad and downcast +with such tales as are going of my lord’s doings at court, and of what +there is ’twixt the Queen and him? Her ladyship may be too proud to +complain, but she suffers the more for that, poor lamb. There was talk +of a divorce awhile ago that got to her ears.” + +“Old wives’ tales,” snorted Sir Richard. + +“Likely,” agreed Mrs. Buttelar. “Yet when my lord neither comes to +Cumnor, nor requires her ladyship to go to him, what is she to think, +poor soul?” + +Sir Richard made light of all, and went off to Oxford to find a +physician more accommodating than Dr. Bayley. But Dr. Bayley had talked +too much, and it was in vain that Sir Richard pleaded with each of the +two physicians he sought that her ladyship was ailing—“sad and +heavy”—and that he must have a potion for her. + +Each in turn shook his head. They had no medicine for sorrow, was their +discreet answer. From his description of her condition, said each, it +was plain that her ladyship’s sickness was of the mind, and, +considering the tales that were afloat, neither was surprised. + +Sir Richard went back to his Oxford lodging with the feeling of a man +checkmated. For two whole days of that precious time he lay there +considering what to do. He thought of going to seek a physician in +Abingdon. But fearing no better success in that quarter, fearing, +indeed, that in view of the rumours abroad he would merely be +multiplying what my lord called “footprints,” he decided to take some +other way to his master’s ends. He was a resourceful, inventive +scoundrel, and soon he had devised a plan. + +On Friday he wrote from Oxford to Lady Robert, stating that he had a +communication for her on the subject of his lordship as secret as it +was urgent. That he desired to come to her at Cumnor again, but dared +not do so openly. He would come if she would contrive that her servants +should be absent, and he exhorted her to let no one of them know that +he was coming, else he might be ruined, out of his desire to serve her. + +That letter he dispatched by the hand of his servant Nunweek, desiring +him to bring an answer. It was a communication that had upon her +ladyship’s troubled mind precisely the effect that the rascal +conceived. There was about Sir Richard’s personality nothing that could +suggest the villain. He was a smiling, blue-eyed, florid gentleman, of +a kindly manner that led folk to trust him. And on the occasion of his +late visit to Cumnor he had displayed such tender solicitude that her +ladyship—starved of affection as she was—had been deeply touched. + +His letter so cunningly couched filled her with vague alarm and with +anxiety. She had heard so many and such afflicting rumours, and had +received in my lord’s cruel neglect of her such circumstantial +confirmation of them, that she fastened avidly upon what she deemed the +chance of learning at last the truth. Sir Richard Verney had my lord’s +confidence, and was much about the court in his attendance upon my +lord. He would know the truth, and what could this letter mean but that +he was disposed to tell it. + +So she sent him back a line in answer, bidding him come on Sunday +afternoon. She would contrive to be alone in the house, so that he need +not fear being seen by any. + +As she promised, so she performed, and on the Sunday packed off her +household to the fair that was being held at Abingdon that day, using +insistence with the reluctant, and particularly with one of her women, +a Mrs. Oddingsell, who expressed herself strongly against leaving her +ladyship alone in that lonely house. At length, however, the last of +them was got off, and my lady was left impatiently to await her secret +visitor. It was late afternoon when he arrived, accompanied by Nunweek, +whom he left to hold the horses under the chestnuts in the avenue. +Himself he reached the house across the garden, where the blighting +hand of autumn was already at work. + +Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her impatience. + +“It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard,” was her gracious +greeting. + +“I am your ladyship’s devoted servant,” was his sufficient answer, and +he doffed his plumed bonnet, and bowed low before her. “We shall be +private in your bower above stairs,” he added. + +“Why, we are private anywhere. I am all alone, as you desired.” + +“That is very wise—most wise,” said he. “Will your ladyship lead the +way?” + +So they went up that steep, spiral staircase, which had loomed so +prominently in the plans the ingenious scoundrel had evolved. Across +the gallery on the first floor they entered a little room whose windows +overlooked the garden. This was her bower—an intimate cosy room, +reflecting on every hand the gentle, industrious personality of the +owner. On an oak table near the window were spread some papers and +account-books concerned with the estate—with which she had sought to +beguile the time of waiting. She led the way towards this, and, sinking +into the high-backed chair that stood before it, she looked up at him +expectantly. She was pale, there were dark stains under her eyes, and +wistful lines had crept into the sweet face of that neglected wife. + +Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may have compared her +with the woman by whom my lord desired so impatiently to supplant her. +She was tall and beautifully shaped, despite an almost maidenly +slenderness. Her countenance was gentle and adorable, with its soft +grey eyes and light brown hair, and tender, wistful mouth. + +It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as ardently +desired her to wife five years ago as he now desired to be rid of her. +Then he obeyed the insistent spur of passion; now he obeyed the +remorseless spur of ambition. In reality, then as now, his beacon-light +was love of self. + +Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious impatience +to hear the news of her lord which he had promised her, Sir Richard may +have felt some pang of pity. But, like my lord, he was of those whose +love of self suffers the rivalry of no weak emotion. + +“Your news, Sir Richard,” she besought him, her dove-like glance upon +his florid face—less florid now than was its wont. + +He leaned against the table, his back to the window. “Why, it is +briefly this,” said he. “My lord...” And then he checked, and fell into +a listening attitude. + +“What was that? Did you hear anything, my lady?” + +“No. What is it?” Her face betrayed alarm, her anxiety mounting under +so much mystery. + +“Sh! Stay you here,” he enjoined. “If we are spied upon...” He left the +sentence there. Already he was moving quickly, stealthily, towards the +door. He paused before opening it. “Stay where you are, my lady,” he +enjoined again, so gravely that she could have no thought of disobeying +him. “I will return at once.” + +He stepped out, closed the door, and crossed to the stairs. There he +stopped. From his pouch he had drawn a fine length of whipcord, +attached at one end to a tiny bodkin of needle sharpness. That bodkin +he drove into the edge of one of the panels of the wainscot, in line +with the topmost step; drawing the cord taut at a height of a foot or +so above this step, he made fast its other end to the newel-post at the +stair-head. He had so rehearsed the thing in his mind that the +performance of it occupied but a few seconds. Such dim light of that +autumn afternoon as reached the spot would leave that fine cord +invisible. + +Sir Richard went back to her ladyship. She had not moved in his +absence, so brief as scarcely to have left her time in which to resolve +upon disobeying his injunction. + +“We move in secret like conspirators,” said he, “and so we are easily +affrighted.. I should have known it could be none but my lord +himself... here?” + +“My lord!” she interrupted, coming excitedly to her feet. “Lord +Robert?” + +“To be sure, my lady. It was he had need to visit you in secret—for did +the Queen have knowledge of his coming here, it would mean the Tower +for him. You cannot think what, out of love for you, his lordship +suffers. The Queen... + +“But do you say that he is here, man,” her voice shrilled up in +excitement. + +“He is below, my lady. Such is his peril that he dared not set foot in +Cumnor until he was certain beyond doubt that you are here alone.” + +“He is below!” she cried, and a flush dyed her pale cheeks, a light of +gladness quickened her sad eyes. Already she had gathered from his +cunning words a new and comforting explanation of the things reported +to her. “He is below!” she repeated. “Oh!” She turned from him, and in +an instant was speeding towards the door. + +He stood rooted there, his nether lip between his teeth, his face a +ghastly white, whilst she ran on. + +“My lord! Robin! Robin!” he heard her calling, as she crossed the +corridor. Then came a piercing scream that echoed through the silent +house; a pause; a crashing thud below; and—silence. + +Sir Richard remained by the table, immovable. Blood was trickling down +his chin. He had sunk his teeth through his lip when that scream rang +out. A long moment thus, as if entranced, awe-stricken. Then he braced +himself, and went forward, reeling at first like a drunken man. But by +the time he had reached the stairs he was master of himself again. +Swiftly, for all his trembling fingers, he unfastened the cord’s end +from the newel-post. The wrench upon it had already pulled the bodkin +from the wainscot. He went down that abrupt spiral staircase at a +moderate pace, mechanically coiling the length of whip-cord, and +bestowing it with the bodkin in his pouch again, and all the while his +eyes were fixed upon the grey bundle that lay so still at the stairs’ +foot. + +He came to it at last, and, pausing, looked more closely. He was +thankful that there was not the need to touch it. The position of the +brown-haired head was such as to leave no doubt of the complete success +of his design. Her neck was broken. Lord Robert Dudley was free to +marry the Queen. + +Deliberately Sir Richard stepped over the huddled body of that poor +victim of a knave’s ambition, crossed the hall, and passed out, closing +the door. An excellent day’s work, thought he, most excellently +accomplished. The servants, returning from Abingdon Fair on that Sunday +evening, would find her there. They would publish the fact that in +their absence her ladyship had fallen downstairs and broken her neck, +and that was the end of the matter. + + +But that was not the end at all. Fate, the ironic interloper, had taken +a hand in this evil game. + +The court had moved a few days earlier to Windsor, and thither on the +Friday—the 6th of September—came Alvarez de Quadra to seek the definite +answer which the Queen had promised him on the subject of the Spanish +marriage. What he had seen that night at Whitehall, coupled with his +mistrust of her promises and experience of her fickleness, had rendered +him uneasy. Either she was trifling with him, or else she was behaving +in a manner utterly unbecoming the future wife of the Archduke. In +either case some explanation was necessary. De Quadra must know where +he stood. Having failed to obtain an audience before the court left +London, he had followed it to Windsor, cursing all women and +contemplating the advantages of the Salic law. + +He found at Windsor an atmosphere of constraint, and it was not until +the morrow that he obtained an audience with the Queen. Even then this +was due to chance rather than to design on the part of Elizabeth. For +they met on the terrace as she was returning from hunting. She +dismissed those about her, including the stalwart Robert Dudley, and, +alone with de Quadra, invited him to speak. + +“Madame,” he said, “I am writing to my master, and I desire to know +whether your Majesty would wish me to add anything to what you have +announced already as your intention regarding the Archduke.” + +She knit her brows. The wily Spaniard fenced so closely that there was +no alternative but to come to grips. + +“Why, sir,” she answered dryly, “you may tell his Majesty that I have +come to an absolute decision, which is that I will not marry the +Archduke.” + +The colour mounted to the Spaniard’s sallow cheeks. Iron self-control +alone saved him from uttering unpardonable words. Even so he spoke +sternly: + +“This, madame, is not what you had led me to believe when last we +talked upon the subject.” + +At another time Elizabeth might have turned upon him and rent him for +that speech. But it happened that she was in high good-humour that +afternoon, and disposed to indulgence. She laughed, surveying herself +in the small steel mirror that dangled from her waist. + +“You are ungallant to remind me, my lord,” said she. “My sex, you may +have heard, is privileged to change of mind.” + +“Then, madame, I pray that you may change it yet again.” His tone was +bitter. + +“Your prayer will not be heard. This time I am resolved.” + +De Quadra bowed. “The King, my master, will not be pleased, I fear.” + +She looked him straightly in the face, her dark eyes kindling. + +“God’s death!” said she, “I marry to please myself, and not the King +your master.” + +“You are resolved on marriage then?” flashed he. + +“And it please you,” she mocked him archly, her mood of joyousness +already conquering her momentary indignation. + +“What pleases you must please me also, madame,” he answered, in a tone +so cold that it belied his words. “That it please you, is reason enough +why you should marry... Whom did your Majesty say?” + +“Nay. I named no names. Yet one so astute might hazard a shrewd guess.” +Half-challenging, half-coy, she eyed him over her fan. + +“A guess? Nay, madame. I might affront your Majesty.” + +“How so?” + +“If I were deluded by appearances. If I named a subject who signally +enjoys your royal favour.” + +“You mean Lord Robert Dudley.” She paled a little, and her bosom’s +heave was quickened. “Why should the guess affront me?” + +“Because a queen—a wise queen, madame—does not mate with a +subject—particularly with one who has a wife already.” + +He had stung her. He had wounded at once the pride of the woman and the +dignity of the queen, yet in a way that made it difficult for her to +take direct offense. She bit her lip and mastered her surge of anger. +Then she laughed, a thought sneeringly. + +“Why, as to my Lord Robert’s wife, it seems you are less well-informed +than usual, sir. Lady Robert Dudley is dead, or very nearly so.” + +And as blank amazement overspread his face, she passed upon her way and +left him. + +But anon, considering, she grew vaguely uneasy, and that very night +expressed her afflicting doubt to my lord, reporting to him de Quadra’s +words. His lordship, who was mentally near-sighted, laughed. + +“He’ll change his tone before long,” said he. + +She set her hands upon his shoulders, and looked up adoringly into his +handsome gipsy face. Never had he known her so fond as in these last +days since her surrender to him that night upon the terrace at +Whitehall, never had she been more the woman and less the queen in her +bearing towards him. + +“You are sure, Robin? You are quite sure?” she pleaded. + +He drew her close, she yielding herself to his embrace. “With so much +at stake could I be less than sure, sweet?” said he, and so convinced +her—the more easily since he afforded her the conviction she desired. + +That was on the night of Saturday, and early on Monday came the news +which justified him of his assurances. It was brought him to Windsor by +one of Amy’s Cumnor servants, a fellow named Bowes, who, with the +others, had been away at Abingdon Fair yesterday afternoon, and had +returned to find his mistress dead at the stairs’ foot—the result of an +accident, as all believed. + +It was not quite the news that my lord had been expecting. It staggered +him a little that an accident so very opportune should have come to +resolve his difficulties, obviating the need for recourse to those more +dangerous measures with which he had charged Sir Richard Verney. He +perceived how suspicion might now fall upon himself, how his enemies +would direct it, and on the instant made provision. There and then he +seized a pen, and wrote to his kinsman, Sir Thomas Blount, who even +then was on his way to Cumnor. He stated in the letter what he had +learnt from Bowes, bade Blount engage the coroner to make the strictest +investigation, and send for Amy’s natural brother, Appleyard. “Have no +respect to any living person,” was the final injunction of that letter +which he sent Blount by the hand of Bowes. + +And, then, before he could carry to the Queen the news of this accident +which had broken his matrimonial shackles, Sir Richard Verney arrived +with the true account. He had expected praise and thanks from his +master. Instead, he met first dismay, and then anger and fierce +reproaches. + +“My lord, this is unjust,” the faithful retainer protested. “Knowing +the urgency, I took the only way—contrived the accident.” + +“Pray God,” said Dudley, “that the jury find it to have been an +accident; for if the truth should come to be discovered, I leave you to +the consequences. I warned you of that before you engaged in this. Look +for no help from me.” + +“I look for none,” said Sir Richard, stung to hot contempt by the +meanness and cowardice so characteristic of the miserable egotist he +served. “Nor will there be the need, for I have left no footprints. + +“I hope that may be so, for I tell you, man, that I have ordered a +strict inquiry, bidding them have no respect to any living person, and +to that I shall adhere.” + +“And if, in spite of that, I am not hanged?” quoth Sir Richard, a sneer +upon his white face. + +“Come to me again when the affair is closed, and we will talk of it.” + +Sir Richard went out, rage and disgust in his heart, leaving my lord +with rage and fear in his. + +Grown calmer now, my lord dressed himself with care and sought the +Queen to tell her of the accident that had removed the obstacle to +their marriage. And that same night her Majesty coldly informed de +Quadra that Lady Robert Dudley had fallen down a flight of stairs and +broken her neck. + +The Spaniard received the information with a countenance that was +inscrutable. + +“Your Majesty’s gift of prophecy is not so widely known as it deserves +to be,” was his cryptic comment. + +She stared at him blankly a moment. Then a sudden uneasy memory +awakened by his words, she drew him forward to a window embrasure apart +from those who had stood about her, and for greater security addressed +him, as he tells us, in Italian. + +“I do not think I understand you, sir. Will you be plain with me?” She +stood erect and stiff, and frowned upon him after the manner of her +bullying father. But de Quadra held the trumps, and was not easily +intimidated. + +“About the prophecy?” said he. “Why, did not your Majesty foretell the +poor lady’s death a full day before it came to pass? Did you not say +that she was already dead, or nearly so?” + +He saw her blench; saw fear stare from those dark eyes that could be so +very bold. Then her ever-ready anger followed swiftly. + +“’Sblood, man! What do you imply?” she cried, and went on without +waiting for his answer. “The poor woman was sick and ill, and must soon +have succumbed; it will no doubt be found that the accident which +anticipated nature was due to her condition.” + +Gently he shook his head, relishing her discomfiture, taking +satisfaction in torturing her who had flouted him and his master, in +punishing her whom he had every reason to believe guilty. + +“Your Majesty, I fear, has been ill-informed on that score. The poor +lady was in excellent health—and like to have lived for many years—at +least, so I gather from Sir William Cecil, whose information is usually +exact.” + +She clutched his arm. “You told him what I had said?” + +“It was indiscreet, perhaps. Yet, how was I to know...?” He left his +sentence there. “I but expressed my chagrin at your decision on the +score of the Archduke—hardly a wise decision, if I may be so bold,” he +added slyly. + +She caught the suggestion of a bargain, and became instantly +suspicious. + +“You transcend the duties of your office, my lord,” she rebuked him, +and turned away. + +But soon that night she was closeted with Dudley, and closely +questioning him about the affair. My lord was mightily vehement. + +“I take Heaven to be my witness,” quoth he, when she all but taxed him +with having procured his lady’s death, “that I am innocent of any part +in it. My injunctions to Blount, who has gone to Cumnor, are that the +matter be sifted without respect to any person, and if it can be shown +that this is other than the accident I deem it, the murderer shall +hang.” + +She flung her arms about his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. +“Oh, Robin, Robin, I am full of fears,” she wailed, and was nearer to +tears than he had ever seen her. + +But, anon, as the days passed their fears diminished, and finally the +jury at Cumnor—delayed in their finding, and spurred by my lord to +exhaustive inquiries—returned a verdict of “found dead,” which in all +the circumstances left his lordship—who was known, moreover, to have +been at Windsor when his lady died—fully acquitted. Both he and the +Queen took courage from that finding, and made no secret of it now that +they would very soon be wed. + +But there were many whom that finding did not convince, who read my +lord too well, and would never suffer him to reap the fruits of his +evil deed. Prominent among these were Arundel—who himself had aimed at +the Queen’s hand—Norfolk and Pembroke, and behind them was a great mass +of the people. Indignation against Lord Robert was blazing out, fanned +by such screaming preachers as Lever, who, from the London pulpits, +denounced the projected marriage, hinting darkly at the truth of Amy +Dudley’s death. + +What was hinted at home was openly expressed abroad, and in Paris Mary +Stuart ventured a cruel witticism that Elizabeth was to conserve in her +memory: “The Queen of England,” she said, “is about to marry her +horse-keeper, who has killed his wife to make a place for her.” + +Yet Elizabeth persisted in her intent to marry Dudley, until the sober +Cecil conveyed to her towards the end of that month of September some +notion of the rebellion that was smouldering. + +She flared out at him, of course. But he stood his ground. + +“There is,” he reminded her, “this unfortunate matter of a prophecy, as +the Bishop of Aquila persists in calling it.” + +“God’s Body! Is the rogue blabbing?” + +“What else did your Majesty expect from a man smarting under a sense of +injury? He has published it broadcast that on the day before Lady +Robert broke her neck, you told him that she was dead or nearly so. And +he argues from it a guilty foreknowledge on your Majesty’s part of what +was planned.” + +“A guilty foreknowledge!” She almost choked in rage, and then fell to +swearing as furiously in that moment as old King Harry at his worst. + +“Madame!” he cried, shaken by her vehemence. “I but report the phrase +he uses. It is not mine.” + +“Do you believe it?” + +“I do not, madame. If I did I should not be here at present.” + +“Does any subject of mine believe it?” + +“They suspend their judgment. They wait to learn the truth from the +sequel.” + +“You mean?” + +“That if your motive prove to be such as de Quadra and others allege, +they will be in danger of believing.” + +“Be plain, man, in God’s name. What exactly is alleged?” + +He obeyed her very fully. + +“That my lord contrived the killing of his wife so that he might have +liberty to marry your Majesty, and that your Majesty was privy to the +deed.” He spoke out boldly, and hurried on before she could let loose +her wrath. “It is still in your power, madame, to save your honour, +which is now in peril. But there is only one way in which you can +accomplish it. If you put from you all thought of marrying Lord Robert, +England will believe that de Quadra and those others lied. If you +persist and carry out your intention, you proclaim the truth of his +report; and you see what must inevitably follow.” + +She saw indeed, and, seeing, was afraid. + +Within a few hours of that interview she delivered her answer to Cecil, +which was that she had no intention of marrying Dudley. + +Because of her fear she saved her honour by sacrificing her heart, by +renouncing marriage with the only man she could have taken for her mate +of all who had wooed her. Yet the wound of that renunciation was slow +to heal. She trifled with the notion of other marriages, but ever and +anon, in her despair, perhaps, we see her turning longing eyes towards +the handsome Lord Robert, later made Earl of Leicester. Once, indeed, +some six years after Amy’s death, there was again some talk of her +marrying him, which was quickly quelled by a reopening of the question +of how Amy died. Between these two, between the fulfilment of her +desire and his ambition, stood the irreconcilable ghost of his poor +murdered wife. + +Perhaps it was some thought of this that found expression in her +passionate outburst when she learnt of the birth of Mary Stuart’s +child: “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son; and I am but a +barren stock.” + + + + +VII. SIR JUDAS + +The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh + + +Sir Walter was met on landing at Plymouth from his ill-starred voyage +to El Dorado by Sir Lewis Stukeley, which was but natural, seeing that +Sir Lewis was not only Vice-Admiral of Devon, but also Sir Walter’s +very good friend and kinsman. + +If Sir Walter doubted whether it was in his quality as kinsman or as +Vice-Admiral that Sir Lewis met him, the cordiality of the latter’s +embrace and the noble entertainment following at the house of Sir +Christopher Hare, near the port, whither Sir Lewis conducted him, set +this doubt at rest and relighted the lamp of hope in the despairing +soul of our adventurer. In Sir Lewis he saw only his kinsman—his very +good friend and kinsman, to insist upon Stukeley’s own description of +himself—at a time when of all others in his crowded life he needed the +support of a kinsman and the guidance of a friend. + +You know the story of this Sir Walter, who had been one of the +brightest ornaments of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and might have +added lustre to that of King James, had not his Sowship—to employ the +title bestowed upon that prince by his own queen—been too mean of soul +to appreciate the man’s great worth. Courtier, philosopher, soldier, +man of letters and man of action alike, Ralegh was at once the greatest +prose-writer, and one of the greatest captains of his age, the last +survivor of that glorious company—whose other members were Drake and +Frobisher and Hawkins—that had given England supremacy upon the seas, +that had broken the power and lowered the pride of Spain. + +His was a name that had resounded, to the honour and glory of England, +throughout the world, a name that, like Drake’s, was a thing of hate +and terror to King Philip and his Spaniards; yet the King of Scots, +unclean of body and of mind, who had succeeded to the throne of +Elizabeth, must affect ignorance of that great name which shall never +die while England lives. + +When the splendid courtier stood before him—for at fifty Sir Walter was +still handsome of person and magnificent of Apparel—James looked him +over and inquired who he might be. When they had told him: + +“I’ve rawly heard of thee,” quoth the royal punster, who sought by such +atrocities of speech to be acclaimed a wit. + +It was ominous of what must follow, and soon thereafter you see this +great and gallant gentleman arrested on a trumped-up charge of high +treason, bullied, vituperated, and insulted by venal, peddling lawyers, +and, finally, although his wit and sincerity had shattered every +fragment of evidence brought against him, sentenced to death. Thus far +James went; but he hesitated to go further, hesitated to carry out the +sentence. Sir Walter had too many friends in England then; the memory +of his glorious deeds was still too fresh in the public mind, and +execution might have been attended by serious consequences for King +James. Besides, one at least of the main objects was achieved. Sir +Walter’s broad acres were confiscate by virtue of that sentence, and +King James wanted the land—filched thus from one who was England’s +pride—to bestow it upon one of those golden calves of his who were +England’s shame. + +“I maun hae the land for Carr. I maun hae it,” was his brazen and +peevish answer to an appeal against the confiscation. + +For thirteen years Sir Walter lay in the Tower, under that sentence of +death passed in 1603, enjoying after a season a certain liberty, +visited there by his dear lady and his friends, among whom was Henry, +Prince of Wales, who did not hesitate to publish that no man but his +father—whom he detested—would keep such a bird in a cage. He beguiled +the time in literary and scientific pursuits, distilling his essences +and writing that stupendous work of his, “The History of the World.” +Thus old age crept upon him; but far from quenching the fires of +enterprise within his adventurer’s soul, it brought a restlessness that +urged him at last to make a bid for liberty. Despairing of winning it +from the clemency of James, he applied his wits to extracting it from +the King’s cupidity. + +Throughout his life, since the day when first he had brought himself to +the notice of a Queen by making of his cloak a carpet for her feet, he +had retained side by side with the dignity of the sage and the +greatness of the hero, the craft and opportunism of the adventurer. His +opportunity now was the straitened condition of the royal treasury, a +hint of which had been let fall by Winwood the Secretary of State. He +announced at once that he knew of a gold mine in Guiana, the El Dorado +of the Spaniards. + +On his return from a voyage to Guiana in 1595, he had written of it +thus: + +“There the common soldier shall fight for gold instead of pence, pay +himself with plates half a foot broad, whereas he breaks his bones in +other wars for provant and penury Those commanders and chieftains that +shoot at honour and abundance shall find here more rich and beautiful +cities, more temples adorned with golden images, more sepulchres filled +with treasure than either Cortez found in Mexico or Pizarro in Peru.” + +Winwood now reminded him that as a consequence many expeditions had +gone out, but failed to discover any of these things. + +“That,” said Ralegh, “is because those adventurers were ignorant alike +of the country and of the art of conciliating its inhabitants. Were I +permitted to go, I would make Guiana to England what Peru has been to +Spain.” + +That statement, reported to James in his need, was enough to fire his +cupidity, and when Ralegh had further added that he would guarantee to +the Crown one-fifth of the treasure without asking any contribution +towards the adventure either in money or in ships, he was permitted to +come forth and prepare for the expedition. + +His friends came to his assistance, and in March of 1617 he set sail +for El Dorado with a well-manned and well-equipped fleet of fourteen +ships, the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke standing sureties for his +return. + +From the outset the fates were unpropitious. Disaster closed the +adventure. Gondomar, the Ambassador of Spain at Whitehall, too +well-informed of what was afoot, had warned his master. Spanish ships +waited to frustrate Sir Walter, who was under pledge to avoid all +conflict with the forces of King Philip. But conflict there was, and +bloodshed in plenty, about the city of Manoa, which the Spaniards held +as the key to the country into which the English adventurers sought to +penetrate. Among the slain were the Governor of Manoa, who was +Gondomar’s own brother, and Sir Walter’s eldest son. + +To Ralegh, waiting at the mouth of the Orinoco, came his beaten forces +in retreat, with the terrible news of a happening that meant his ruin. +Half-maddened, his anguish increased by the loss of his boy, he +upbraided them so fiercely that Keymis, who had been in charge of the +expedition, shut himself up in his cabin and shot himself with a +pocket-pistol. Mutiny followed, and Whitney—most trusted of Sir +Walter’s captains—set sail for England, being followed by six other +ships of that fleet, which meanwhile had been reduced to twelve. With +the remaining five the stricken Sir Walter had followed more at +leisure. What need to hurry? Disgrace, and perhaps death, awaited him +in England. He knew the power of Spain with James, who was so set upon +a Spanish marriage for his heir, knew Spain’s hatred of himself, and +what eloquence it would gather in the mouth of Gondomar, intent upon +avenging his brother’s death. + +He feared the worst, and so was glad upon landing to have by him a +kinsman upon whom he could lean for counsel and guidance in this the +darkest hour of all his life. Sitting late that night in the library of +Sir Christopher Hare’s house, Sir Walter told his cousin in detail the +story of his misadventure, and confessed to his misgivings. + +“My brains are broken,” was his cry. + +Stukeley combed his beard in thought. He had little comfort to offer. + +“It was not expected,” said he, “that you would return. + +“Not expected?” Sir Walter’s bowed white head was suddenly flung back. +Indignation blazed in the eyes that age had left undimmed. “What act in +all my life justified the belief I should be false to honour? My danger +here was made quite plain, and Captain King would have had me steer a +course for France, where I had found a welcome and a harbour. But to +consent I must have been false to my Lords of Arundel and Pembroke, who +were sureties to the King for my return. Life is still sweet to me, +despite my three-score years and more, but honour is sweeter still.” + +And then, because life was sweet, he bluntly asked his cousin: “What is +the King’s intent by me?” + +“Nay, now,” said Stukeley, “who shall know what passes in the King’s +mind? From the signs, I judge your case to be none so desperate. You +have good friends in plenty, among whom, although the poorest, count +myself the first. Anon, when you are rested, we’ll to London by easy +stages, baiting at the houses of your friends, and enlisting their good +offices on your behalf.” + +Ralegh took counsel on the matter with Captain King, a bluff, +tawny-bearded seaman, who was devoted to him body and soul. + +“Sir Lewis proposes it, eh?” quoth the hardy seaman. “And Sir Lewis is +Vice-Admiral of Devon? He is not by chance bidden to escort you to +London?” + +The Captain, clearly, had escaped the spell of Stukeley’s affability. +Sir Walter was indignant. He had never held his kinsman in great +esteem, and had never been on the best of terms with him in the past. +Nevertheless, he was very far from suspecting him of what King implied. +To convince him that he did Sir Lewis an injustice, Ralegh put the +blunt question to his kinsman in King’s presence. + +“Nay,” said Sir Lewis, “I am not yet bidden to escort you. But as +Vice-Admiral of Devon I may at any moment be so bidden. It were wiser, +I hold, not to await such an order. Though even if it come,” he made +haste to add, “you may still count upon my friendship. I am your +kinsman first, and Vice-Admiral after.” + +With a smile that irradiated his handsome, virile countenance, Sir +Walter held out his hand to clasp his cousin’s in token of +appreciation. Captain King expressed no opinion save what might be +conveyed in a grunt and a shrug. + +Guided now unreservedly by his cousin’s counsel, Sir Walter set out +with him upon that journey to London. Captain King went with them, as +well as Sir Walter’s body-servant, Cotterell, and a Frenchman named +Manourie, who had made his first appearance in the Plymouth household +on the previous day. Stukeley explained the fellow as a gifted man of +medicine, whom he had sent for to cure him of a trivial but +inconvenient ailment by which he was afflicted. + +Journeying by slow stages, as Sir Lewis had directed, they came at last +to Brentford. Sir Walter, had he followed his own bent, would have +journeyed more slowly still, for in a measure, as he neared London, +apprehensions of what might await him there grew ever darker. He spoke +of them to King, and the blunt Captain said nothing to dispel them. + +“You are being led like a sheep to the shambles,” he declared, “and you +go like a sheep. You should have landed in France, where you have +friends. Even now it is not too late. A ship could be procured...” + +“And my honour could be sunk at sea,” Sir Walter harshly concluded, in +reproof of such counsel. + +But at the inn at Brentford he was sought out by a visitor, who brought +him the like advice in rather different terms. This was De Chesne, the +secretary of the French envoy, Le Clerc. Cordially welcomed by Ralegh, +the Frenchman expressed his deep concern to see Sir Walter under +arrest. + +“You conclude too hastily,” laughed Sir Walter. + +“Monsieur, I do not conclude. I speak of what I am inform’.” + +“Misinformed, sir. I am not a prisoner—at least, not yet,” he added, +with a sigh. “I travel of my own free will to London with my good +friend and kinsman Stukeley to lay the account of my voyage before the +King.” + +“Of your own free will? You travel of your own free will? And you are +not a prisoner? Ha!” There was bitter mockery in De Chesne’s short +laugh. “C’est bien drole!” And he explained: “Milord the Duke o +Buckingham, he has write in his master’s name to the ambassador +Gondomar that you are taken and held at the disposal of the King of +Spain. Gondomar is to inform him whether King Philip wish that you be +sent to Spain to essay the justice of his Catholic Majesty, or that you +suffer here. Meanwhile your quarters are being made ready in the Tower. +Yet you tell me you are not prisoner! You go of your own free will to +London. Sir Walter, do not be deceive’. If you reach London, you are +lost.” + +Now here was news to shatter Sir Walter’s last illusion. Yet +desperately he clung to the fragments of it. The envoy’s secretary must +be at fault. + +“’Tis yourself are at fault, Sir Walter, in that you trust those about +you,” the Frenchman insisted. + +Sir Walter stared at him, frowning. “D’ye mean Stukeley?” quoth he, +half-indignant already at the mere suggestion. + +“Sir Lewis, he is your kinsman.” De Chesne shrugged. “You should know +your family better than I. But who is this Manourie who accompanies +you? Where is he come from? What you know of him?” + +Sir Walter confessed that he knew nothing. + +“But I know much. He is a fellow of evil reputation. A spy who does not +scruple to sell his own people. And I know that letters of commission +from the Privy Council for your arrest were give’ to him in London ten +days ago. Whether those letters were to himself, or he was just the +messenger to another, imports nothing. The fact is everything. The +warrant against you exists, and it is in the hands of one or another of +those that accompany you. I say no more. As I have tol’ you, you should +know your own family. But of this be sure, they mean that you go to the +Tower, and so to your death. And now, Sir Walter, if I show you the +disease I also bring the remedy. I am command’ by my master to offer +you a French barque which is in the Thames, and a safe conduct to the +Governor of Calais. In France you will find safety and honour, as your +worth deserve’.” + +Up sprang Sir Walter from his chair, and flung off the cloak of thought +in which he had been mantled. + +“Impossible,” he said. “Impossible! There is my plighted word to +return, and there are my Lords of Arundel and Pembroke, who are +sureties for me. I cannot leave them to suffer by my default.” + +“They will not suffer at all,” De Chesne assured him. He was very well +informed. “King James has yielded to Spain partly because he fears, +partly because he will have a Spanish marriage for Prince Charles, and +will do nothing to trouble his good relations with King Philip. But, +after all, you have friends, whom his Majesty also fears. If you +escape’ you would resolve all his perplexities. I do not believe that +any obstacle will be offer’ to your escape—else why they permit you to +travel thus without any guard, and to retain your sword?” + +Half distracted as he was by what he had learnt, yet Sir Walter clung +stoutly and obstinately to what he believed to be the only course for a +man of honour. And so he dismissed De Chesne with messages of gratitude +but refusal to his master, and sent for Captain King. Together they +considered all that the secretary had stated, and King agreed with De +Chesne’s implied opinion that it was Sir Lewis himself who held the +warrant. + +They sent for him at once, and Ralegh straightly taxed him with it. Sir +Lewis as straightly admitted it, and when King thereupon charged him +with deceit he showed no anger, but only the profoundest grief. He sank +into a chair, and took his head in his hands. + +“What could I do? What could I do?” he cried. “The warrant came in the +very moment we were setting out. At first I thought of telling you; and +then I bethought me that to do so would be but to trouble your mind, +without being able to offer you help.” + +Sir Walter understood what was implied. “Did you not say,” he asked, +“that you were my kinsman first and Vice-Admiral of Devon after?” + +“Ay—and so I am. Though I must lose my office of Vice-Admiral, which +has cost me six hundred pounds, if I suffer you to escape, I’d never +hesitate if it were not for Manourie, who watches me as closely as he +watches you, and would baulk us at the last. And that is why I have +held my peace on the score of this warrant. What can it help that I +should trouble you with the matter until at the same time I can offer +you some way out?” + +“The Frenchman has a throat, and throats can be slit,” said the +downright King. + +“So they can; and men can be hanged for slitting them,” returned Sir +Lewis, and thereafter resumed and elaborated his first argument, using +now such forceful logic and obvious sincerity that Sir Walter was +convinced. He was no less convinced, too, of the peril in which he +stood. He plied those wits of his, which had rarely failed him in an +extremity. Manourie was the difficulty. But in his time he had known +many of these agents who, without sentimental interest and purely for +the sake of gold, were ready to play such parts; and never yet had he +known one who was not to be corrupted. So that evening he desired +Manourie’s company in the room above stairs that had been set apart for +Sir Walter’s use. Facing him across the table at which both were +seated, Sir Walter thrust his clenched fist upon the board, and, +suddenly opening it, dazzled the Frenchman’s beady eyes with the jewel +sparkling in his palm. + +“Tell me, Manourie, are you paid as much as that to betray me?” + +Manourie paled a little under his tan. He was a swarthy, sharp-featured +fellow, slight and wiry. He looked into Sir Walter’s grimly smiling +eyes, then again at the white diamond, from which the candlelight was +striking every colour of the rainbow. He made a shrewd estimate of its +price, and shook his black head. He had quite recovered from the shock +of Sir Walter’s question. + +“Not half as much,” he confessed, with impudence. + +“Then you might find it more remunerative to serve me,” said the +knight. “This jewel is to be earned.” + +The agent’s eyes flickered; he passed his tongue over his lips. “As +how?” quoth he. + +“Briefly thus: I have but learnt of the trammel in which I am taken. I +must have time to concert my measures of escape, and time is almost at +an end. You are skilled in drugs, so my kinsman tells me. Can you so +drug me as to deceive physicians that I am in extremis?” + +Manourie considered awhile. + +“I... I think I could,” he answered presently. + +“And keep faith with me in this, at the price of, say.. two such +stones?” + +The venal knave gasped in amazement. This was not generosity; it was +prodigality. He recovered again, and swore himself Sir Walter’s. + +“About it, then.” Sir Walter rolled the gem across the board into the +clutch of the spy, which pounced to meet it. “Keep that in earnest. The +other will follow when we have cozened them.” + +Next morning Sir Walter could not resume the journey. When Cotterell +went to dress him he found his master taken with vomits, and reeling +like a drunkard. The valet ran to fetch Sir Lewis, and when they +returned together they found Sir Walter on all fours gnawing the rushes +on the floor, his face livid and horribly distorted, his brow +glistening with sweat. + +Stukeley, in alarm, ordered Cotterell to get his master back to bed and +to foment him, which was done. But on the next day there was no +improvement, and on the third things were in far more serious case. The +skin of his brow and arms and breast was inflamed, and covered with +horrible purple blotches—the result of an otherwise harmless ointment +with which the French empiric had supplied him. + +When Stukeley beheld him thus disfigured, and lying apparently inert +and but half-conscious upon his bed, he backed away in terror. The +Vice-Admiral had seen afore-time the horrible manifestations of the +plague, and could not be mistaken here. He fled from the infected air +of his kinsman’s chamber, and summoned what physicians were available +to pronounce and prescribe. The physicians came—three in number—but +manifested no eagerness to approach the patient closely. The mere sight +of him was enough to lead them to the decision that he was afflicted +with the plague in a singularly virulent form. + +Presently one of them plucked up courage so far as to feel the pulse of +the apparently delirious patient. Its feebleness confirmed his +diagnosis; moreover the hand he held was cold and turgid. He was not to +know that Sir Walter had tightly wrapped about his upper arm the ribbon +from his poniard, and so he was entirely deceived. + +The physicians withdrew, and delivered their verdict, whereupon Sir +Lewis at once sent word of it to the Privy Council. + +That afternoon the faithful Captain King, sorely afflicted by the news, +came to visit his master, and was introduced to Sir Walter’s chamber by +Manourie, who was in attendance upon him. To the seaman’s amazement he +found Sir Walter sitting up in bed, surveying in a hand-mirror a face +that was horrible beyond description with the complacent smile of one +who takes satisfaction in his appearance. Yet there was no fevered +madness in the smiling eyes. They were alive with intelligence, +amounting, indeed, to craft. + +“Ah, King!” was the glad welcome “The prophet David did make himself a +fool, and suffered spittle to fall upon his beard, to escape from the +hands of his enemies And there was Brutus, ay, and others as memorable +who have descended to such artifice.” + +Though he laughed, it is clear that he was seeking to excuse an +unworthiness of which he was conscious. + +“Artifice?” quoth King, aghast. “Is this artifice?” + +“Ay—a hedge against my enemies, who will be afraid to approach me.” + +King sat himself down by his master’s bed. “A better hedge against your +enemies, Sir Walter, would have been the strip of sea ’twixt here and +France. Would to Heaven you had done as I advised ere you set foot in +this ungrateful land.” + +“The omission may be repaired,” said Sir Walter. + +Before the imminence of his peril, as now disclosed to him, Sir Walter +had been reconsidering De Chesne’s assurance touching my Lords of +Arundel and Pembroke, and he had come to conclude—the more readily, +perhaps because it was as he would have it—that De Chesne was right; +that to break faith with them were no such great matter after all, nor +one for which they would be called upon to suffer. And so, now, when it +was all but too late, he yielded to the insistence of Captain King, and +consented to save himself by flight to France. King was to go about the +business of procuring a ship without loss of time. Yet there was no +need of desperate haste, as was shown when presently orders came to +Brentford for the disposal of the prisoner. The King, who was at +Salisbury, desired that Sir Walter should be conveyed to his own house +in London. Stukeley reported this to him, proclaiming it a sign of +royal favour. Sir Walter was not deceived. He knew the reason to be +fear lest he should infect the Tower with the plague by which he was +reported stricken. + +So the journey was resumed, and Sir Walter was brought to London, and +safely bestowed in his own house, but ever in the care of his loving +friend and kinsman. Manourie’s part being fulfilled and the aim +accomplished, Sir Walter completed the promised payment by bestowing +upon him the second diamond—a form of eminently portable currency with +which the knight was well supplied. On the morrow Manourie was gone, +dismissed as a consequence of the part he had played. + +It was Stukeley who told Sir Walter this—a very well informed and +injured Stukeley, who asked to know what he had done to forfeit the +knight’s confidence that behind his back Sir Walter secretly concerted +means of escape. Had his cousin ceased to trust him? + +Sir Walter wondered. Looking into that lean, crafty face, he considered +King’s unquenchable mistrust of the man, bethought him of his kinsman’s +general neediness, remembered past events that shed light upon his ways +and nature, and began now at last to have a sense of the man’s +hypocrisy and double-dealing. Yet he reasoned in regard to him +precisely as he had reasoned in regard to Manourie. The fellow was +acquisitive, and therefore corruptible. If, indeed, he was so base that +he had been bought to betray Sir Walter, then he could be bought again +to betray those who had so bought him. + +“Nay, nay,” said Sir Walter easily. “It is not lack of trust in you, my +good friend. But you are the holder of an office, and knowing as I do +the upright honesty of your character I feared to embarrass you with +things whose very knowledge must give you the parlous choice of being +false to that office or false to me.” + +Stukeley broke forth into imprecations. He was, he vowed, the most +accursed and miserable of men that such a task as this should have +fallen to his lot. And he was a poor man, too, he would have his cousin +remember. It was unthinkable that he should use the knowledge he had +gained to attempt to frustrate Sir Walter’s plans of escape to France. +And this notwithstanding that if Sir Walter escaped, it is certain he +would lose his office of Vice-Admiral and the six hundred pounds he had +paid for it. + +“As to that, you shall be at no loss,” Sir Walter assured him. “I could +not suffer it. I pledge you my honour, Lewis, that you shall have a +thousand pounds from my wife on the day that I am safely landed in +France or Holland. Meanwhile, in earnest of what is to come, here is a +toy of value for you.” And he presented Sir Lewis with a jewel of +price, a great ruby encrusted in diamonds. + +Thus reassured that he would be immune from pecuniary loss, Sir Lewis +was ready to throw himself whole-heartedly into Sir Walter’s plans, and +to render him all possible assistance. True, this assistance was a +costly matter; there was this person to be bought and that one; there +were expenses here and expenses there, incurred by Sir Lewis on his +kinsman’s behalf; and there were odd presents, too, which Stukeley +seemed to expect and which Sir Walter could not deny him. He had no +illusions now that King had been right; that here he was dealing with a +rogue who would exact the uttermost farthing for his services, but he +was gratified at the shrewdness with which he had taken his cousin’s +measure, and did not grudge the bribes by which he was to escape the +scaffold. + +De Chesne came again to the house in London, to renew his master’s +offer of a ship to carry Sir Walter overseas, and such other assistance +as Sir Walter might require But by now the knight’s arrangements were +complete. His servant Cotterell had come to inform him that his own +boatswain, now in London, was the owner of a ketch, at present lying at +Tilbury, admirably suited for the enterprise and entirely at Sir +Walter’s disposal. It had been decided, then, with the agreement of +Captain King, that they should avail themselves of this; and +accordingly Cotterell was bidden desire the boatswain to have the craft +made ready for sea at once. In view of this, and anxious to avoid +unnecessarily compromising the French envoy, Sir Walter gratefully +declined the latter’s offer. + +And so we come at last to that July evening appointed for the flight. +Ralegh, who, having for some time discarded the use of Manourie’s +ointment, had practically recovered his normal appearance, covering his +long white hair under a Spanish hat, and muffling the half of his face +in the folds of a cloak, came to Wapping Stairs—that ill-omened place +of execution of pirates and sea-rovers—accompanied by Cotterell, who +carried the knight’s cloak-bag, and by Sir Lewis and Sir Lewis’s son. +Out of solicitude for their dear friend and kinsman, the Stukeleys +could not part from him until he was safely launched upon his voyage. +At the head of the stairs they were met by Captain King; at the foot of +them a boat was waiting, as concerted, the boatswain at the tiller. + +King greeted them with an air of obvious relief. + +“You feared perhaps we should not come,” said Stukeley, with a sneer at +the Captain’s avowed mistrust of him. “Yet now, I trust, you’ll do me +the justice to admit that I have shown myself an honest man.” + +The uncompromising King looked at him and frowned, misliking the words. + +“I hope that you’ll continue so,” he answered stiffly. + +They went down the slippery steps to the boat, and then the shore +glided slowly past them as they pushed off into the stream of the +ebbing tide. + +A moment later, King, whose suspicious eyes kept a sharp look-out, +observed another boat put off some two hundred yards higher up the +river. At first he saw it breast the stream as if proceeding towards +London Bridge, then abruptly swing about and follow them. Instantly he +drew the attention of Sir Walter to that pursuing wherry. + +“What’s this?” quoth Sir Walter harshly. “Are we betrayed?” + +The watermen, taking fright at the words, hung now upon their oars. + +“Put back,” Sir Walter bade them. “I’ll not betray my friends to no +purpose. Put back, and let us home again.” + +“Nay, now,” said Stukeley gravely, himself watching the wherry. “We are +more than a match for them in oars, even if their purpose be such as +you suspect—for which suspicion, when all is said, there is no ground. +On then!” He addressed himself to the watermen, whipping out a pistol, +and growing truculent in mien and voice. “To your oars! Row, you dogs, +or I’ll pistol you where you sit.” + +The men bent their backs forthwith, and the boat swept on. But Sir +Walter was still full of apprehensions, still questioning the wisdom of +keeping to their down-stream course if they were being followed. + +“But are we followed?” cried the impatient Sir Lewis. “’Sdeath, cousin, +is not the river a highway for all the world to use, and must every +wherry that chances to go our way be in pursuit of us? If you are to +halt at every shadow, faith, you’ll never accomplish anything. I vow I +am unfortunate in having a friend whom I would save so full of doubts +and fears.” + +Sir Walter gave him reason, and even King came to conclude that he had +suspected him unjustly, whilst the rowers, under Stukeley’s suasion, +now threw themselves heartily into their task, and onward sped the boat +through the deepening night, taking but little account of that other +wherry that hung ever in their wake. In this wise they came at length +to Greenwich on the last of the ebb. But here finding the water +beginning to grow against them, and wearied by the exertion into which +Stukeley’s enthusiasm had flogged them, the watermen paused again, +declaring that they could not reach Gravesend before morning. + +Followed a brief discussion, at the end of which Sir Walter bade them +put him ashore at Purfleet. + +“And that’s the soundest counsel,” quoth the boatswain. “For at +Purfleet we can get horses on to Tilbury.” + +Stukeley was of the same opinion; but not so the more practical Captain +King. + +“’Tis useless,” he declared to them. “At this hour how shall you get +horses to go by land?” + +And now, Sir Walter, looking over his shoulder, saw the other wherry +bearing down upon them through the faintly opalescent mists of dawn. A +hail came to them across the water. + +“Oh, ’Sdeath! We are betrayed!” cried Ralegh bitterly, and Stukeley +swore more fiercely still. Sir Walter turned to him. “Put ashore,” he +said shortly, “and let us home.” + +“Ay, perhaps ’twere best. For to-night there’s an end to the +enterprise, and if I am taken in your company now, what shall be said +to me for this active assistance in your escape?” His voice was gloomy, +his face drawn and white. + +“Could you not plead that you had but pretended to go with me to seize +on my private papers?” suggested the ingenious mind of Ralegh. + +“I could. But shall I be believed? Shall I?” His loom was deepening to +despair. + +Ralegh was stricken almost with remorse on his cousin’s account. His +generous heart was now more concerned with the harm to his friends than +with his own doom. He desired to make amends to Stukeley, but had no +means save such as lay in the power of that currency he used. Having +naught else to give, he must give that. He plunged his hand into an +inner pocket, and brought forth a handful of jewels, which he thrust +upon his kinsman. + +“Courage,” he urged him. “Up now, and we may yet win out and home, so +that all will be well with you at least, and you shall not suffer for +your friendship to me.” + +Stukeley embraced him then, protesting his love and desire to serve +him. + +They came to land at last, just below Greenwich bridge, and almost at +the same moment the other wherry grounded immediately above them. Men +sprang from her, with the obvious intent of cutting off their retreat. + +“Too late!” said Ralegh, and sighed, entirely without passion now that +the dice had fallen and showed that the game was lost. “You must act on +my suggestion to explain your presence, Lewis.” + +“Indeed, there is no other course,” Sir Lewis agreed. “And you are in +the same case, Captain King. You must confess that you joined with me +but to betray Sir Walter. I’ll bear you out. Thus, each supporting the +other...” + +“I’ll roast in Hell before I brand myself a traitor,” roared the +Captain furiously. “And were you an honest man, Sir Lewis, you’ld +understand my meaning.” + +“So, so?” said Stukeley, in a quiet, wicked voice. And it was observed +that his son and one or two of the watermen had taken their stand +beside him as if in readiness for action. “Why, then, since you will +have it so, Captain, I arrest you, in the King’s name, on a charge of +abetting treason.” + +The Captain fell back a step, stricken a moment by sheer amazement. +Then he groped for a pistol to do at last what he realized he should +have done long since. Instantly he was overpowered. It was only then +that Sir Walter understood the thing that had happened, and with +understanding came fury. The old adventurer flung back his cloak, and +snatched at his rapier to put it through the vitals of his dear friend +and kinsman. But he was too late. Hands seized upon him, and he found +himself held by the men from the wherry, confronted by a Mr. William +Herbert, whom he knew for Stukeley’s cousin, and he heard Mr. Herbert +formally asking him for the surrender of his sword. + +Instantly he governed himself, repressed his fury. He looked coldly at +his kinsman, whose face showed white and evil in the growing light of +the early summer dawn “Sir Lewis,” was all he said, “these actions will +not turn out to your credit.” + +He had no illusion left. His understanding was now a very full one. His +dear friend and kinsman had played him false throughout, intending +first to drain him of his resources before finally flinging the empty +husk to the executioner. Manourie had been in the plot; he had run with +the hare and hunted with the hounds; and Sir Walter’s own servant +Cotterell had done no less. Amongst them they had “cozened the great +cozener”—to use Stukeley’s own cynical expression. Even so, it was only +on his trial that Sir Walter plumbed the full depth of Stukeley’s +baseness; for it was only then he learnt that his kinsman had been +armed by a warrant of immunity to assist his projects of escape, so +that he might the more effectively incriminate and betray him; and Sir +Walter discovered also that the ship in which he had landed, and other +matters, were to provide additional Judas’ fees to this acquisitive +betrayer. + +If to escape his enemies Sir Walter had had recourse to artifices +unworthy the great hero that he was, now that all hope was lost he +conducted himself with a dignity and cheerfulness beyond equal. So calm +and self-possessed and masterly was his defence from the charge of +piracy preferred at the request of Spain, and so shrewd in its +inflaming appeal to public opinion, that his judges were constrained to +abandon that line of prosecution, and could discover no way of giving +his head to King James save by falling back upon the thirteen-year old +sentence of death against him. Of this they now ordered execution. + +Never a man who loved his life as dearly as Sir Walter loved it met +death as blithely. He dressed himself for the scaffold with that +elegance and richness which all his life he had observed. He wore a +ruff band and black velvet wrought nightgown over a doublet of +hair-coloured satin, a black wrought waistcoat, black cut taffety +breeches and ash-coloured silk stockings. Under his plumed hat he +covered his white locks with a wrought nightcap. This last he bestowed +on his way to the scaffold upon a bald-headed old man who had come to +take a last look of him, with the observation that he was more in need +of it than himself. When he had removed it, it was observed that his +hair was not curled as usual. This was a matter that had fretted his +barber Peter in the prison of the Gatehouse at Westminster that +morning. But Sir Walter had put him off with a laugh and a jest. + +“Let them comb it that shall have it,” he had said of his own head. + +Having taken his leave of the friends who had flocked about him with +the observation that he had a long journey before him, he called for +the axe, and, when presented to him, ran his fingers along the edge, +and smiled. + +“Sharp medicine,” quoth he, “but a sound cure for all diseases.” + +When presently the executioner bade him turn his head to the East: + +“It is no great matter which way a man’s head stands, so that his heart +lies right,” he said. + +Thus passed one of England’s greatest heroes, indeed one of the very +makers of this England, and than his death there is no more shameful +blot upon the shameful reign of that pusillanimous James, unclean of +body and of soul, who sacrificed him to the King of Spain. + +A spectator of his death, who suffered for his words—as men must ever +suffer for the regardless utterance of Truth—declared that England had +not such another head to cut off. + +As for Stukeley, the acquisitiveness which had made a Judas of him was +destined, by a poetic justice, ever desired but rarely forthcoming for +knaves, soon to be his ruin. He was caught diminishing the gold coin of +the realm by the operation known to-day as “clipping,” and with him was +taken his creature Manourie, who, to save himself, turned chief witness +against Stukeley. Sir Lewis was sentenced to death, but saved himself +by purchasing his pardon at the cost of every ill-gotten shilling he +possessed, and he lived thereafter as bankrupt of means as he was of +honour. + +Yet before all this happened, Sir Lewis had for his part in Sir Walter +Ralegh’s death come to be an object of execration throughout the land, +and to be commonly known as “Sir Judas.” At Whitehall he suffered +rebuffs and insults that found a climax in the words addressed to him +by the Lord Admiral, to whom he went to give an account of his office. + +“Base fellow, darest thou who art the contempt and scorn of men offer +thyself in my presence?” + +For a man of honour there was but one course. Sir Judas was not a man +of honour. He carried his grievance to the King. James leered at him. + +“What wouldst thou have me do? Wouldst thou have me hang him? On my +soul, if I should hang all that speak ill of thee, all the trees of the +country would not suffice, so great is the number.” + + + + +VIII. HIS INSOLENCE OF BUCKINGHAM + +George Villier’s Courtship of Ann of Austria + + +He was Insolence incarnate. + +Since the day when, a mere country lad, his singular good looks had +attracted the attention of King James—notoriously partial to +good-looking lads—and had earned him the office of cup-bearer to his +Majesty, the career of George Villiers is to be read in a series of +acts of violent and ever-increasing arrogance, expressing the vanity +and levity inherent in his nature. Scarcely was he established in the +royal favour than he distinguished himself by striking an offending +gentleman in the very presence of his sovereign—an act of such gross +disrespect to royalty that his hand would have paid forfeit, as by law +demanded, had not the maudlin king deemed him too lovely a fellow to be +so cruelly maimed. + +Over the mind and will of King Charles his ascendancy became even +greater than it had been over that of King James; and it were easy to +show that the acts of George Villiers’ life supplied the main planks of +that scaffold in Whitehall whereupon Charles Stuart came to lose his +head. Charles was indeed a martyr; a martyr chiefly to the reckless, +insolent, irresponsible vanity of this Villiers, who, from a simple +country squire with nothing but personal beauty to recommend him, had +risen to be, as Duke of Buckingham, the first gentleman in England. + +The heady wine of power had gone to his brain, and so addled it that, +as John Chamberlain tells us, there was presently a touch of craziness +in him—of the variety, no doubt, known to modern psychologists as +megalomania He lost the sense of proportion, and was without respect +for anybody or anything. The Commons of England and the immensely +dignified Court of Spain—during that disgraceful, pseudo-romantic +adventure at Madrid—were alike the butts of this parvenu’s unmeasured +arrogance But the crowning insolence of his career was that tragicomedy +the second act of which was played on a June evening in an Amiens +garden on the banks of the river Somme. + +Three weeks ago—on the 14th May, 1625, to be precise—Buckingham had +arrived in Paris as Ambassador Extra-ordinary, charged with the task of +conducting to England the King of France’s sister, Henrietta Maria, who +three days earlier had been married by proxy to King Charles. + +The occasion enabled Buckingham to fling the reins on to the neck of +his mad vanity, to indulge to the very fullest his crazy passion for +ostentation and magnificence. Because the Court of France was +proverbially renowned for splendour and luxury, Buckingham felt it due +to himself to extinguish its brilliance by his own. On his first coming +to the Louvre he literally blazed. He wore a suit of white satin velvet +with a short cloak in the Spanish fashion, the whole powdered over with +diamonds to the value of some ten thousand pounds. An enormous diamond +clasped the heron’s plume in his hat; diamonds flashed in the hilt of +his sword; diamonds studded his very spurs, which were of beaten gold; +the highest orders of England, Spain, and France flamed on his breast. +On the occasion of his second visit he wore a suit of purple satin, of +intent so lightly sewn with pearls that as he moved he shook them off +like raindrops, and left them to lie where they fell, as largesse for +pages and the lesser fry of the Court. + +His equipages and retinue were of a kind to match his personal +effulgence. His coaches were lined with velvet and covered with cloth +of gold, and some seven hundred people made up his train. There were +musicians, watermen, grooms of the chamber, thirty chief yeomen, a +score of cooks, as many grooms, a dozen pages, two dozen footmen, six +outriders, and twenty gentlemen, each with his own attendants, all +arrayed as became the satellites of a star of such great magnitude. + +Buckingham succeeded in his ambition. Paris, that hitherto had set the +fashion to the world, stared mouth-agape, dazzled by the splendour of +this superb and scintillating ambassador. + +Another, by betraying consciousness of the figure that he cut, might +have made himself ridiculous. But Buckingham’s insolent assurance was +proof against that peril. Supremely self-satisfied, he was conscious +only that what he did could not be better done, and he ruffled it with +an air of easy insouciance, as if in all this costly display there was +nothing that was not normal. He treated with princes, and even with the +gloomy Louis XIII., as with equals; and, becoming more and more +intoxicated with his very obvious success, he condescended to observe +approvingly the fresh beauty of the young Queen. + +Anne of Austria, then in her twenty-fourth year, was said to be one of +the most beautiful women in Europe. She was of a good height and +carriage, slight, and very gracefully built, of a ravishing fairness of +skin and hair, whilst a look of wistfulness had come to invest with an +indefinable tenderness her splendid eyes. Her childless marriage to the +young King of France, which had endured now for ten years, had hardly +been successful. Gloomy, taciturn, easily moved to suspicion, and +difficult to convince of error, Louis XIII. held his wife aloof, +throwing up between himself and her a wall of coldness, almost of +dislike. + +There is a story—and Tallemant des Raux gives credit to it—that in the +early days of her reign as Queen of France, Richelieu had fallen deeply +in love with her, and that she, with the mischief of an irresponsible +young girl, had encouraged him, merely to betray him to a ridicule +which his proud spirit had never been able to forgive. Be that or +another the reason, the fact that Richelieu hated her, and subjected +her to his vindictive persecution, is beyond dispute. And it was he who +by a hundred suggestions poisoned against her the King’s mind, and thus +kept ever open the gulf between the two. + +The eyes of that neglected young wife dilated a little, and admiration +kindled in them, when they rested upon the dazzling figure of my Lord +of Buckingham. He must have seemed to her a figure of romance, a prince +out of a fairy-tale. + +That betraying glance he caught, and it inflamed at once his monstrous +arrogance. To the scalps already adorning the belt of his vanity he +would add that of the love of a beautiful young queen. Perhaps he was +thrilled in his madness by the thought of the peril that would spice +such an adventure. Into that adventure he plunged forthwith. He wooed +her during the eight days that he abode in Paris, flagrantly, openly, +contemptuous of courtiers and of the very King himself. At the Louvre, +at the Hotel de Chevreuse, at the Luxembourg, where the Queen-Mother +held her Court, at the Hotel de Guise, and elsewhere he was ever at the +Queen’s side. + +Richelieu, whose hard pride and self-love had been wounded by the +Duke’s cavalier behaviour, who despised the fellow for an upstart, and +may even have resented that so shallow a man should have been sent to +treat with a statesman of his own caliber—for other business beside the +marriage had brought Buckingham to Paris—suggested to the King that the +Duke’s manner in approaching the Queen lacked a proper deference, and +the Queen’s manner of receiving him a proper circumspection. Therefore +the King’s long face became longer, his gloomy eyes gloomier, as he +looked on. Far, however, from acting as a deterrent, the royal scowl +was mere incense to the vanity of Buckingham, a spur to goad him on to +greater daring. + +On the 2nd of June a splendid company of some four thousand French +nobles and ladies, besides Buckingham and his retinue, quitted Paris to +accompany Henrietta Maria, now Queen of England, on the first stage of +her journey to her new home. The King was not of the party. He had gone +with Richelieu to Fontainebieau, leaving it to the Queen and the +Queen-Mother to accompany his sister. + +Buckingham missed no chance upon that journey of pressing his +attentions upon Anne of Austria. Duty dictated that his place should be +beside the carriage of Henrietta Maria. But duty did not apply to His +Insolence of Buckingham, so indifferent of whom he might slight or +offend. And then the devil took a hand in the game. + +At Amiens, the Queen-Mother fell ill, so that the Court was compelled +to halt there for a few days to give her Majesty the repose she +required. Whilst Amiens was thus honoured by the presence of three +queens at one and the same time within its walls, the Duc de Chaulnes +gave an entertainment in the Citadel. Buckingham attended this, and in +the dance that followed the banquet it was Buckingham who led out the +Queen. + +Thereafter the royal party had returned to the Bishop’s Palace, where +it was lodged, and a small company went out to take the evening cool in +the Bishop’s fragrant gardens on the Somme, Buckingham ever at the +Queen’s side. Anne of Austria was attended by her Mistress of the +Household, the beautiful, witty Marie de Rohan, Duchess of Chevreuse, +and by her equerry, Monsieur de Putange. Madame de Chevreuse had for +cavalier that handsome coxcomb, Lord Holland, who was one of +Buckingham’s creatures, between whom and herself a certain transient +tenderness had sprung up. M. de Putange was accompanied by Madame de +Vernet, with whom at the time he was over head and ears in love. +Elsewhere about the spacious gardens other courtiers sauntered. + +Now either Madame de Chevreuse and M. de Putange were too deeply +engrossed in their respective companions, or else the state of their +own hearts and the tepid, languorous eventide disposed them +complacently towards the affair of gallantry upon which their mistress +almost seemed to wish to be embarked. They forgot, it would seem, that +she was a queen, and remembered sympathetically that she was a woman, +and that she had for companion the most splendid cavalier in all the +world. Thus they committed the unpardonable fault of lagging behind, +and allowing her to pass out of their sight round the bend of an avenue +by the water. + +No sooner did Buckingham realize that he was alone with the Queen, that +the friendly dusk and a screen of trees secured them from observation, +than, piling audacity up on audacity, he determined to accomplish here +and now the conquest of this lovely lady who had used him so graciously +and received his advances with such manifest pleasure. + +“How soft the night! How exquisite!” he sighed. + +“Indeed,” she agreed. “And how still, but for the gentle murmur of the +river.” + +“The river!” he cried, on a new note. “That is no gentle murmur. The +river laughs, maliciously mocking. The river is evil.” + +“Evil?” quoth she. He had checked in his step, and they stood now side +by side. + +“Evil,” he repeated. “Evil and cruel. It goes to swell the sea that +soon shall divide me from you, and it mocks me, rejoicing wickedly in +the pain that will presently be mine.” + +It took her aback. She laughed, a little breathlessly, to hide her +discomposure, and scarce knew how to answer him, scarce knew whether +she took pleasure or offense in his daring encroachment upon that royal +aloofness in which she dwelt, and in which her Spanish rearing had +taught her she must ever dwell. + +“Oh, but Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, you will be with us again, perhaps +before so very long.” + +His answer came in a swift, throbbing question, his lips so near her +face that she could feel his breath hot upon her cheek. + +“Do you wish it, madame? Do you wish it? I implore you, of your pity, +say but that you wish it, and I will come, though I tear down half a +world to reach you.” + +She recoiled in fright and displeasure before a wooing so impetuous and +violently outspoken; though the displeasure was perhaps but a passing +emotion, the result of early training. Yet she contrived to answer him +with the proper icy dignity due to her position as a princess of Spain, +now Queen of France. + +“Monsieur, you forget yourself. The Queen of France does not listen to +such words. You are mad, I think.” + +“Yes, I am mad,” he flung back. “Mad with love—so mad that I have +forgot that you are a queen and I an ambassador. Under the ambassador +there is a man, under the queen a woman—our real selves, not the titles +with which Fate seeks to dissemble our true natures. And with the whole +strength of my true nature do I love you, so potently, so +overwhelmingly that I will not believe you sensible of no response.” + +Thus torrentially he delivered himself, and swept her a little off her +feet. She was a woman, as he said; a queen, it is true; but also a +neglected, coldly-used wife; and no one had ever addressed her in +anything approaching this manner, no one had ever so much as suggested +that her existence could matter greatly, that in her woman’s nature +there was the magic power of awakening passion and devotion. He was so +splendidly magnificent, so masterful and unrivalled, and he came thus +to lay his being, as it were, in homage at her feet. It touched her a +little, who knew so little of the real man. It cost her an effort to +repulse him, and the effort was not very convincing. + +“Hush, monsieur, for pity’s sake! You must not talk so to me. It ... it +hurts.” + +O fatal word! She meant that it was her dignity as Queen he wounded, +for she clung to that as to the anchor of salvation. But he in his +egregious vanity must of course misunderstand. + +“Hurts!” he cried, and the rapture in his accents should have warned +her. “Because you resist it, because you fight against the commands of +your true self. Anne!” He seized her, and crushed her to him. “Anne!” + +Wild terror gripped her at that almost brutal contact, and anger, too, +her dignity surging up in violent outraged rebellion. A scream, loud +and piercing, broke from her and rang through the still garden. It +brought him to his senses. It was as if he had been lifted up into the +air, and then suddenly allowed to fall. + +He sprang away from her, an incoherent exclamation on his lips, and +when an instant later Monsieur de Putange came running up in alarm, his +hand upon his sword, those two stood with the width of the avenue +between them, Buckingham erect and defiant, the Queen breathing hard +and trembling, a hand upon her heaving breast as if to repress its +tumult. + +“Madame! Madame!” had been Putange’s cry, as he sprang forward in alarm +and self-reproach. + +He stood now almost between them, looking from one to the other in +bewilderment. Neither spoke. + +“You cried out, Madame,” M. de Putange reminded her, and Buckingham may +well have wondered whether presently he would be receiving M. de +Putange’s sword in his vitals. He must have known that his life now +hung upon her answer. + +“I called you, that was all,” said the Queen, in a voice that she +strove to render calm. “I confess that I was startled to find myself +alone with M. L’Ambassadeur. Do not let it occur again, M. de Putange!” + +The equerry bowed in silence. His itching fingers fell away from his +sword-hilt, and he breathed more freely. He had no illusions as to what +must have happened. But he was relieved there were to be no +complications. The others now coming up with them, the party thereafter +kept together until presently Buckingham and Lord Holland took their +leave. + +On the morrow the last stage of the escorting journey was accomplished. +A little way beyond Amiens the Court took its leave of Henrietta Maria, +entrusting her now to Buckingham and his followers, who were to convey +her safely to Charles. + +It was a very contrite and downcast Buckingham who came now to Anne of +Austria as she sat in her coach with the Princesse de Conti for only +companion. + +“Madame,” he said, “I am come to take my leave.” + +“Fare you well, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” she said, and her voice was +warm and gentle, as if to show him that she bore no malice. + +“I am come to ask your pardon, madame,” he said, in a low voice. + +“Oh, monsieur—no more, I beg you.” She looked down; her hands were +trembling, her cheeks going red and white by turns. + +He put his head behind the curtains of the coach, so that none might +see him from outside, and looking at him now, she beheld tears in his +eyes. + +“Do not misunderstand me, madame. I ask your pardon only for having +discomposed you, startled you. As for what I said, it were idle to ask +pardon, since I could no more help saying it than I can help drawing +breath. I obeyed an instinct stronger than the will to live. I gave +expression to something that dominates my whole being, and will ever +dominate it as long as I have life. Adieu, madame! At need you know +where a servant who will gladly die for you is to be found.” He kissed +the hem of her robe, dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and +was gone before she could say a word in answer. + +She sat pale, and very thoughtful, and the Princesse de Conti, watching +her furtively, observed that her eyes were moist. + +“I will answer for the Queen’s virtue,” she stated afterwards, “but I +cannot speak so positively for the hardness of her heart, since without +doubt the Duke’s tears affected her spirits.” + +But it was not yet the end. As Buckingham was nearing Calais, he was +met by a courier from Whitehall, with instructions for him regarding +the negotiations he had been empowered to carry out with France in the +matter of an alliance against Spain—negotiations which had not thriven +with Louis and Richelieu, possibly because the ambassador was +ill-chosen. The instructions came too late to be of use, but in time to +serve as a pretext for Buckingham’s return to Amiens. There he sought +an audience of the Queen-Mother, and delivered himself to her of a +futile message for the King. This chimerical business—as Madame de +Motteville shrewdly calls it—being accomplished, he came to the real +matter which had prompted him to use that pretext for his return, and +sought audience of Anne of Austria. + +It was early morning, and the Queen was not yet risen. But the levées +at the Court of France were precisely what the word implies, and they +were held by royalty whilst still abed. It was not, therefore, amazing +that he should have been admitted to her presence. She was alone save +for her lady-in-waiting, Madame de Lannoi, who was, we are told, aged, +prudent and virtuous. Conceive, therefore, the outraged feelings of +this lady upon seeing the English duke precipitate himself wildly into +the room, and on his knees at the royal bedside seize the coverlet and +bear it to his lips. + +Whilst the young Queen looked confused and agitated, Madame de Lannoi +became a pillar of icy dignity. + +“M. le Duc,” says she, “it is not customary in France to kneel when +speaking to the Queen.” + +“I care nothing for the customs of France, madame,” he answered rudely. +“I am not a Frenchman.” + +“That is too obvious, monsieur,” snapped the elderly, prudent and +virtuous countess. “Nevertheless, whilst in France perhaps monsieur +will perceive the convenience of conforming to French customs. Let me +call for a chair for Monsieur le Duc.” + +“I do not want a chair, madame.” + +The countess cast her eyes to Heaven, as if to say, “I suppose one +cannot expect anything else in a foreigner,” and let him kneel as he +insisted, placing herself, however, protectingly at the Queen’s pillow. + +Nevertheless, entirely unabashed, heeding Madame de Lannoi’s presence +no more than if she had been part of the room’s furniture, the Duke +delivered himself freely of what was in his mind. He had been obliged +to return to Amiens on a matter of State. It was unthinkable that he +should be so near to her Majesty and not hasten to cast himself at her +feet; and whilst gladdening the eyes of his body with the sight of her +matchless perfection, the image of which was ever before the eyes of +his soul, allow himself the only felicity life now held for him—that of +protesting himself her utter slave. This, and much more of the kind, +did he pour out, what time the Queen, embarrassed and annoyed beyond +utterance, could only stare at him in silence. + +Apart from the matchless impudence of it, it was also of a rashness +beyond pardon. Unless Madame de Lannoi were the most circumspect of +women, here was a fine tale for Court gossips, and for the King’s ears, +a tale that must hopelessly compromise the Queen. For that, Buckingham, +in his self-sufficiency and arrogance, appears to have cared nothing. +One suspects that it would have pleased his vanity to have his name +linked with the Queen’s by the lips of scandal. + +She found her tongue at last. + +“Monsieur le Duc,” she said in her confusion, “it was not necessary, it +was not worth while, to have asked audience of me for this. You have +leave to go.” + +He looked up in doubt, and saw only confusion; attributed it perhaps to +the presence of that third party to which himself he had been so +indifferent. He kissed the coverlet again, stumbled to his feet, and +reached the door. Thence he sent her a flaming glance of his bold eyes, +and hand on heart— + +“Adieu, madame!” said he in tragic tones, and so departed. + +Madame de Lannoi was discreet, and related at the time nothing of what +had passed at that interview. But that the interview itself had taken +place under such conditions was enough to set the tongue of gossip +wagging. An echo of it reached the King, together with the story of +that other business in the garden, and he was glad to know that the +Duke of Buckingham was back in London. Richelieu, to vent his own +malice against the Queen, sought to feed the King’s suspicions. + +“Why did she cry out, sire?” he will have asked. “What did M. de +Buckingham do to make her cry out?” + +“I don’t know. But whatever it was, she was no party to it since she +did cry out.” + +Richelieu did not pursue the matter just then. But neither did he +abandon it. He had his agents in London and elsewhere, and he desired +of them a close report upon the Duke of Buckingham’s movements, and the +fullest particulars of his private life. + +Meanwhile, Buckingham had left behind him in France two faithful agents +of his own, with instructions to keep his memory green with the Queen. +For he intended to return upon one pretext or another before very long, +and complete the conquest. Those agents of his were Lord Holland and +the artist Balthazar Gerbier. It is to be presumed that they served the +Duke’s interests well, and it is no less to be presumed from that which +followed that they found her Majesty willing enough to hear news of +that amazingly romantic fellow who had flashed across the path of her +grey life, touching it for a moment with his own flaming radiance. In +her loneliness she came to think of him with tenderness and pity, in +which pity for herself and her dull lot was also blent. He was away, +overseas; she might never see him again; therefore there could be +little harm in indulging the romantic tenderness he had inspired. + +So one day, many months after his departure, she begged Gerbier—as La +Rochefoucauld tells us—to journey to London and bear the Duke a +trifling memento of her—a set of diamond studs. That love-token—for it +amounted to no less—Gerbier conveyed to England, and delivered to the +Duke. + +Buckingham’s head was so completely turned by the event, and his desire +to see Anne of Austria again became thereupon so overmastering, that he +at once communicated to France that he was coming over as the +ambassador of the King of England to treat of certain matters connected +with Spain. But Richelieu had heard from the French ambassador in +London that portraits of the Queen of France were excessively abundant +at York House, the Duke’s residence, and he had considered it his duty +to inform the King. Louis was angry, but not with the Queen. To have +believed her guilty of any indiscretion would have hurt his gloomy +pride too deeply. All that he believed was that this was merely an +expression of Buckingham’s fanfaronading, thrasonical disposition, a +form of vain, empty boasting peculiar to megalomaniacs. + +As a consequence, the King of England was informed that the Duke of +Buckingham, for reasons well known to himself, would not be agreeable +as Charles’s ambassador to his Most Christian Majesty. Upon learning +this, the vainglorious Buckingham was loud in proclaiming the reason +(“well known to himself”) and in protesting that he would go to France +to see the Queen with the French King’s consent or without it. This was +duly reported to Richelieu, and by Richelieu to King Louis. But his +Most Christian Majesty merely sneered, accounted it more empty boasting +on the part of the parvenu, and dismissed it from his mind. + +Richelieu found this attitude singularly exasperating in a King who was +temperamentally suspicious. It so piqued and annoyed him, that when +considered in addition to his undying rancour against Anne of Austria, +it is easily believed he spared no pains to obtain something in the +nature of a proof that the Queen was not as innocent as Louis insisted +upon believing. + +Now it happened that one of his London agents informed him, among other +matters connected with the Duke’s private life, that he had a bitter +and secret enemy in the Countess of Carlisle, between whom and himself +there had been a passage of some tenderness too abruptly ended by the +Duke. Richelieu, acting upon this information, contrived to enter into +correspondence with Lady Carlisle, and in the course of this +correspondence he managed her so craftily—says La Rochefoucauld—that +very soon she was, whilst hardly realizing it, his Eminence’s most +valuable spy near Buckingham. Richelieu informed her that he was mainly +concerned with information that would throw light upon the real +relations of Buckingharn and the Queen of France, and he persuaded her +that nothing was too insignificant to be communicated. Her resentment +of the treatment she had received from Buckingham, a resentment the +more bitter for being stifled—since for her reputation’s sake she dared +not have given it expression—made her a very ready instrument in +Richelieu’s hands, and there was no scrap of gossip she did not +carefully gather up and dispatch to him. But all was naught until one +day at last she was able to tell him something that set his pulses +beating more quickly than their habit. + +She had it upon the best authority that a set of diamond studs +constantly worn of late by the Duke was a love-token from the Queen of +France sent over to Buckingham by a messenger of her own. Here, indeed, +was news. Here was a weapon by which the Queen might be destroyed. +Richelieu considered. If he could but obtain possession of the studs, +the rest would be easy. There would be an end—and such an end!—to the +King’s obstinate, indolent faith in his wife’s indifference to that +boastful, flamboyant English upstart. Richelieu held his peace for the +time being, and wrote to the Countess. + +Some little time thereafter there was a sumptuous ball given at York +House, graced by the presence of King Charles and his young French +Queen. Lady Carlisle was present, and in the course of the evening +Buckingham danced with her. She was a very beautiful, accomplished and +ready-witted woman, and to-night his Grace found her charms so alluring +that he was almost disposed to blame himself for having perhaps treated +her too lightly. Yet she seemed at pains to show him that it was his to +take up again the affair at the point at which it had been dropped. She +was gay, arch, provoking and irresistible. So irresistible that +presently, yielding to the lure of her, the Duke slipped away from his +guests with the lady on his arm, and they found themselves at the foot +of the garden in the shadow of the water-gate that Inigo Jones had just +completed for him. My lady languished at his side, permitted him to +encircle her with a protecting arm, and for a moment lay heavily +against him. He caught her violently to him, and now her ladyship, +hitherto so yielding, with true feminine contrariness set herself to +resist him. A scuffle ensued between them. She broke from him at last, +and sped swift as a doe across the lawn towards the lights of the great +house, his Grace in pursuit between vexation and amusement. + +But he did not overtake her, and it was with a sense of having been +fooled that he rejoined his guests. His questing eyes could discern her +nowhere. Presently he made inquiries, to be told that she had desired +her carriage to be called, and had left York House immediately upon +coming in from the garden. + +He concluded that she was gone off in a pet. It was very odd. It was, +in fact, most flagrantly contradictory that she should have taken +offense at that which she had so obviously invited. But then she always +had been a perverse and provoking jade. With that reflection he put her +from his mind. + +But anon, when his guests had departed, and the lights in the great +house were extinguished, Buckingham thought of the incident again. +Cogitating it, he sat in his room, his fingers combing his fine, +pointed, auburn beard. At last, with a shrug and a half-laugh, he rose +to undress for bed. And then a cry escaped him, and brought in his +valet from an adjoining room. The riband of diamond studs was gone. + +Reckless and indifferent as he was, a sense of evil took him in the +moment of his discovery of that loss, so that he stood there pale, +staring, and moist of brow. It was no ordinary theft. There were upon +his person a dozen ornaments of greater value, any one of which could +have been more easily detached. This was the work of some French agent. +He had made no secret of whence those studs had come to him. + +There his thoughts checked on a sudden. As in a flash of revelation, he +saw the meaning of Lady Carlisle’s oddly contradictory behaviour. The +jade had fooled him. It was she who had stolen the riband. He sat down +again, his head in his hands, and swiftly, link by link, he pieced +together a complete chain. + +Almost as swiftly he decided upon the course of action which he must +adopt so as to protect the Queen of France’s honour. He was virtually +the ruler of England, master in these islands of an almost boundless +power. That power he would exert to the full this very night to thwart +those enemies of his own and of the Queen’s, who worked so subtly in +concert. Many would be wronged, much harm would be done, the liberties +of some thousands of freeborn Englishmen would be trampled underfoot. +What did it matter? It was necessary that his Grace of Buckingham +should cover up an indiscretion. + +“Set ink and paper yonder,” he bade his gaping valet. “Then go call M. +Gerbier. Rouse Lacy and Thom, and send them to me at once, and leave +word that I shall require a score of couriers to be in the saddle and +ready to set out in half an hour.” + +Bewildered, the valet went off upon his errand. The Duke sat down to +write. And next morning English merchants learnt that the ports of +England were closed by the King’s express command—delivered by his +minister, the Duke of Buckingham—that measures were being taken—were +already taken in all southern ports—so that no vessel of any kind +should leave the island until the King’s further pleasure were made +known. Startled, the people wondered was this enactment the forerunner +of war. Had they known the truth, they might have been more startled +still, though in a different manner. As swiftly as couriers could +travel—and certainly well ahead of any messenger seeking escape +overseas—did this blockade spread, until the gates of England were +tight locked against the outgoing of those diamond studs which meant +the honour of the Queen of France. + +And meanwhile a diamond-cutter was replacing the purloined stones by +others, matching them so closely that no man should be able to say +which were the originals and which the copies. Buckingham and Gerbier +between them guided the work. Soon it was accomplished, and a vessel +slipped down the Thames, allowed to pass by those who kept close watch +to enforce the royal decree, and made sail for Calais, which was +beginning to manifest surprise at this entire cessation of traffic from +England. From that vessel landed Gerbier, and rode straight to Paris, +carrying the Queen of France the duplicate studs, which were to replace +those which she had sent to Buckingham. + +Twenty-four hours later the ports of England were unsealed, and +commerce was free and unhampered once more. But it was twenty-four +hours too late for Richelieu and his agent, the Countess of Carlisle. +His Eminence deplored a fine chance lost through the excessive power +that was wielded in England by the parvenu. + +Yet that is not quite the end of the story. Buckingham’s inflamed and +reckless mind would stop at nothing now to achieve the object of his +desires—go to France and see the Queen. Since the country was closed to +him, he would force a way into it, the red way of war. Blood should +flow, ruin and misery desolate the land, but in the end he would go to +Paris to negotiate a peace, and that should be his opportunity. Other +reasons there may have been, but none so dominant, none that could not +have been removed by negotiation. The pretexted _casus belli_ was the +matter of the Protestants of La Rochelle, who were in rebellion against +their king. + +To their aid sailed Buckingham with an English expedition. Disaster and +defeat awaited it. Its shattered remnant crept back in disgrace to +England, and the Duke found himself more detested by the people than he +had been already—which is saying much. He went off to seek comfort at +the hands of the two persons who really loved him—his doting King and +his splendid wife. + +But the defeat had neither lessened his resolve nor chastened his +insolence. He prepared a second expedition in the very teeth of a +long-suffering nation’s hostility, indifferent to the mutinies and +mutterings about him. What signified to him the will of a nation? He +desired to win to the woman whom he loved, and to accomplish that he +nothing recked that he should set Europe in a blaze, nothing recked +what blood should be poured out, what treasure dissipated. + +Hatred of him by now was so widespread and vocal, that his friends, +fearing that soon it would pass from words to deeds, urged him to take +precautions, advised the wearing of a shirt of mail for greater safety. + +But he laughed sneeringly, ever arrogant and scornful. + +“It needs not. There are no Roman spirits left,” was his contemptuous +answer. + +He was mistaken. One morning after breakfast, as he was leaving the +house in the High Street, Portsmouth, where he lodged whilst +superintending the final preparations for that unpopular expedition, +John Felton, a self-appointed instrument of national vengeance, drove a +knife to the hilt into the Duke’s breast. + +“May the Lord have mercy on your soul!” was the pious exclamation with +which the slayer struck home. And, in all the circumstances, there +seems to have been occasion for the prayer. + + + + +IX. THE PATH OF EXILE + +The Fall of Lord Clarendon + + +Tight-wrapped in his cloak against the icy whips of the black winter’s +night, a portly gentleman, well advanced in years, picked his way +carefully down the wet, slippery steps of the jetty by the light of a +lanthorn, whose rays gleamed lividly on crushed brown seaweed and +trailing green sea slime. Leaning heavily upon the arm which a sailor +held out to his assistance, he stepped into the waiting boat that rose +and fell on the heaving black waters. A boathook scraped against the +stones, and the frail craft was pushed off. + +The oars dipped, and the boat slipped away through the darkness, +steering a course for the two great poop lanterns that were swinging +rhythmically high up against the black background of the night. The +elderly gentleman, huddled now in the stern-sheets, looked behind +him—to look his last upon the England he had loved and served and +ruled. The lanthorn, shedding its wheel of yellow light upon the jetty +steps, was all of it that he could now see. + +He sighed, and settled down again to face the poop lights, dancing +there above the invisible hull of the ship that was to carry Edward +Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, lately Lord Chancellor of England, into exile. +As a dying man looks down the foreshortened vista of his active life, +so may Edward Hyde—whose career had reached a finality but one degree +removed from the finality of death—have reviewed in that moment those +thirty years of sincere endeavour and high achievement since he had +been a law student in the Temple when Charles I. was King. + +That King he had served faithfully, so faithfully that when the +desperate fortunes of the Royalist party made it necessary to place the +Prince of Wales beyond the reach of Cromwell, it was in Sir Edward +Hyde’s care that the boy was sent upon his travels. The present was not +to be Hyde’s first experience of exile. He had known it, and of a +bitter sort, in those impecunious days when the Second Charles, whose +steps he guided, was a needy, homeless outcast. A man less staunch and +loyal might have thrown over so profitless a service. He had talents +that would have commanded a price in the Roundhead market. Yet +staunchly adhering to the Stuart fortunes, labouring ceaselessly and +shrewdly in the Stuart interest, employing his great ability and +statecraft, he achieved at long length the restoration of the Stuarts +to the Throne of England. And for all those loyal, self-denying labours +in exile on the Stuart behalf, all the reward he had at the time was +that James Stuart, Duke of York, debauched his daughter. + +Nor did Hyde’s labours cease when he had made possible the Restoration; +it was Hyde who, when that Restoration was accomplished, took in hand +and carried out the difficult task of welding together the old and the +new conditions of political affairs. And it was Hyde who was the +scapegoat when things did not run the course that Englishmen desired. +As the head of the administration he was held responsible even for +those acts which he had strongly but vainly reprobated in Council. It +was Hyde who was blamed when Charles sold Dunkirk to the French, and +spent the money in harlotry; it was Hyde who was blamed because the +Queen was childless. + +The reason for this last lay in the fact that the wrong done to Hyde’s +daughter Anne had now been righted by marriage with the Duke of York. +Now the Duke of York was the heir-apparent, and the people, ever ready +to attach most credit to that which is most incredible and fantastic, +believed that to ensure the succession of his own grandchildren Hyde +had deliberately provided Charles with a barren wife. + +When the Dutch, sailing up the Thames, had burnt the ships of war at +Chatham, and Londoners heard the thunder of enemy guns, Hyde was openly +denounced as a traitor by a people stricken with terror and seeking a +victim in the blind, unreasoning way of public feeling. They broke his +windows, ravaged his garden, and erected a gibbet before the gates of +his superb mansion on the north side of Piccadilly. + +Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, and Lord Chancellor of England, +commanded the love of his intimates, but did not possess those +qualities of cheap glitter that make for popularity with the masses. +Nor did he court popularity elsewhere. Because he was austere in his +morals, grave and sober in his conduct, he was hated by those who made +up the debauched court of his prince. Because he was deeply religious +in his principles, the Puritans mistrusted him for a bigot. Because he +was autocratic in his policy he was detested by the Commons, the day of +autocracy being done. + +Yet might he have weathered the general hostility had Charles been half +as loyal to him as he had ever been loyal to Charles. For a time, it is +true, the King stood his friend, and might so have continued to the end +had not the women become mixed up in the business. As Evelyn, the +diarist, puts it, this great man’s fall was the work of “the buffoones +and ladys of pleasure.” + +It really is a very tangled story—this inner history of the fall of +Clarendon, with which the school-books are not concerned. In a sense, +it is also the story of the King’s marriage and of Catherine of +Braganza, his unfortunate little ugly Queen, who must have suffered as +much as any woman wedded to a sultan in any country where the seraglio +is not a natural and proper institution. + +If Clarendon could not be said to have brought about the marriage, at +least he had given it his suffrages when proposed by Portugal, which +was anxious to establish an alliance with England as some protection +against the predatory designs of Spain. He had been influenced by the +dowry offered—five hundred thousand pounds in money, Tangier, which +would give England a commanding position on the Mediterranean, and the +Island of Bombay. Without yet foreseeing that the possession of Bombay, +and the freedom to trade in the East Indies—which Portugal had hitherto +kept jealously to herself—were to enable England to build up her great +Indian Empire, yet the commercial advantages alone were obvious enough +to make the match desirable. + +Catherine of Braganza sailed for England, and on the lath of May, 1662, +Charles, attended by a splendid following, went to meet his bride at +Portsmouth. He was himself a very personable man, tall—he stood a full +six feet high—lean and elegantly vigorous. The ugliness of his drawn, +harsh-featured face was mitigated by the glory of full, low-lidded, +dark eyes, and his smile could be irresistibly captivating. He was as +graceful in manner as in person, felicitous of speech, and of an +indolent good temper that found expression in a charming urbanity. + +Good temper and urbanity alike suffered rudely when he beheld the wife +they brought him. Catherine, who was in her twenty-fifth year, was of +an absurdly low stature, so long in the body and short in the legs +that, dressed as she was in an outlandish, full-skirted farthingale, +she had the appearance of being on her knees when she stood before him. +Her complexion was sallow, and though her eyes, like his own, were +fine, they were not fine enough to redeem the dull plainness of her +face. Her black hair was grotesquely dressed, with a long fore-top and +two great ribbon bows standing out, one on each side of her head, like +a pair of miniature wings. + +It is little wonder that the Merry Monarch, the fastidious voluptuary, +with his nice discernment in women, should have checked in his long +stride, and halted a moment in consternation. + +“Lord!” was his wry comment to Etheredge, who was beside him. “They’ve +brought me a bat, not a woman.” + +But if she lacked beauty, she was well dowered, and Charles was in +desperate need of money. + +“I suppose,” he told Clarendon anon, “I must swallow this black draught +to get the jam that goes with it.” + +The Chancellor’s grave eyes considered him almost sternly what time he +coldly recited the advantages of this marriage. If he did not presume +to rebuke the ribaldry of his master, neither would he condescend to +smile at it. He was too honest ever to be a sycophant. + +Catherine was immediately attended—in the words of Grammont—by six +frights who called themselves maids-of-honour, and a governess who was +a monster. With this retinue she repaired to Hampton Court, where the +honeymoon was spent, and where for a brief season the poor +woman—entirely enamoured of the graceful, long-legged rake she had +married—lived in a fool’s paradise. + +Disillusion was to follow soon enough. She might be, by he grace of her +dowry, Queen of England, but she was soon to discover that to King +Charles she was no more than a wife _de jure_. With wives _de facto_ +Charles would people his seraglio as fancy moved him; and the present +wife _de facto_, the mistress of his heart, the first lady of his +harem, was that beautiful termagant, Barbara Villiers, wife of the +accommodating Roger Palmer, Earl of Castle-maine. + +There was no lack—there never is in such cases—of those who out of +concern and love for the happily deluded wife lifted the veil for her, +and made her aware of the facts of his Majesty’s association with my +Lady Castle-maine—an association dating back to the time when he was +still a homeless wanderer. The knowledge would appear to have troubled +the poor soul profoundly; but the climax of her distress was reached +when, on her coming to Whitehall, she found at the head of the list of +ladies-in-waiting assigned to her the name of my Lady Castlemaine. The +forlorn little woman’s pride rose up before this outrage. She struck +out that offending name, and gave orders that the favourite was not to +be admitted to her presence. + +But she reckoned without Charles. For all his urbane, good-tempered, +debonair ways, there was an ugly cynical streak in his nature, +manifested now in the manner in which he dealt with this situation. +Himself he led his boldly handsome favourite by the hand into his +wife’s presence, before the whole Court assembled, and himself +presented her to Catherine, what time that Court, dissolute and +profligate as it was, looked on in amazement at so outrageous a slight +to the dignity of a queen. + +What followed may well have exceeded all expectations. Catherine +stiffened as if the blow dealt her had been physical. Gradually her +face paled until it was grey and drawn; tears of outraged pride and +mortification flooded her eyes. And then, as if something snapped +within her brain under this stress of bitter emotion, blood gushed from +her nostrils, and she sank back in a swoon into the arms of her +Portuguese ladies. + +Confusion followed, and under cover of it Charles and his light of love +withdrew, realizing that if he lingered not all his easy skill in +handling delicate situations could avail him to save his royal dignity. + +Naturally the experiment was not to be repeated. But since it was his +wish that the Countess of Castlemaine should be established as one of +the Queen’s ladies—or, rather, since it was her ladyship’s wish, and +since Charles was as wax in her ladyship’s hands—it became necessary to +have the Queen instructed in what was, in her husband’s view, fitting. +For this task he selected Clarendon. But the Chancellor, who had so +long and loyally played Mentor to Charles’s Telemachus, sought now to +guide him in matters moral as he had hitherto guided him in matters +political. + +Clarendon declined the office of mediator, and even expostulated with +Charles upon the unseemliness of the course upon which his Majesty was +bent. + +“Surely, sire, it is for her Majesty to say who shall and who shall not +be the ladies of her bedchamber. And I nothing marvel at her decision +in this instance.” + +“Yet I tell you, my lord, that it is a decision that shall be revoked.” + +“By whom, sire?” the Chancellor asked him gravely. + +“By her Majesty, of course.” + +“Under coercion, of which you ask me to be the instrument,” said +Clarendon, in the tutorly manner he had used with the King from the +latter’s boyhood. “Yourself, sire, at a time when your own wishes did +not warp your judgment, have condemned the very thing that now you are +urging. Yourself, sire, hotly blamed your cousin, King Louis, for +thrusting Mademoiselle de Valliere upon his queen. You will not have +forgotten the things you said then of King Louis.” + +Charles remembered those unflattering criticisms which he was now +invited to apply to his own case. He bit his lip, admitting himself in +check. + +But anon—no doubt in obedience to the overbearing suasion of my Lady +Castlemaine—he returned to the attack, and sent the Chancellor his +orders in a letter demanding unquestioning obedience. + +“Use your best endeavours,” wrote Charles, “to facilitate what I am +sure my honour is so much concerned in. And whosoever I find to be my +Lady Castlemaine’s enemy in this matter, I do promise upon my word to +be his enemy so long as I live.” + +My Lord Clarendon had few illusions on the score of mankind. He knew +his world from froth to dregs—having studied it under a variety of +conditions. Yet that letter from his King was a bitter draught. All +that Charles possessed and was he owed to Clarendon. Yet in such a +contest as this, Charles did not hesitate to pen that bitter, +threatening line: “Whosoever I find to be my Lady Castlemaine’s enemy +in this matter, I do promise upon my word to be his enemy so long as I +live.” + +All that Clarendon had done in the past was to count for nothing unless +he also did the unworthy thing that Charles now demanded. All that he +had accomplished in the service of his King was to be swept into +oblivion by the breath of a spiteful wanton. + +Clarendon swallowed the draught and sought the Queen, upon that odious +embassy with whose ends he was so entirely out of sympathy. He used +arguments whose hollowness was not more obvious to the Queen than to +himself. + +That industrious and entertaining chronicler of trifles, Mr. Pepys, +tells us, scandalized, in his diary that on the following day the talk +of the Court was all upon a midnight scene between the royal couple in +the privacy of their own apartments, so stormy that the sounds of it +were plainly to be heard in the neighbouring chambers. + +You conceive the poor little woman, smarting under the insult of +Charles’s proposal by the mouth of Clarendon, assailing her royal +husband, and fiercely upbraiding him with his lack not merely of +affection but even of the respect that was her absolute due. And +Charles, his purpose set, urged to it by the handsome termagant whom he +dared not refuse, stirred out of his indolent good-nature, turning upon +her, storming back, and finally threatening her with the greater +disgrace of seeing herself pack ed home to Portugal, unless she would +submit to the lesser disgrace he thrust upon her here. + +Whether by these or by other arguments he made his will prevail, +prevail it did. Catherine of Braganza swallowed her pride and +submitted. And a very complete submission it was. Lady Castlemaine was +not only installed as a Lady of the Bedchamber, but very soon we find +the Queen treating her with a friendliness that provoked comment and +amazement. + +The favourite’s triumph was complete, and marked by an increasing +insolence, most marked in her demeanour towards the Chancellor, of +whose views on the subject, as expressed to the King, she was aware. +Consequently she hated him with all the spiteful bitterness that is +inseparable from the nature of such women. And she hated him the more +because, wrapped in his cold contempt, he moved in utter unconcern of +her hostility. In this hatred she certainly did not lack for allies, +members of that licentious court whose hostility towards the austere +Chancellor was begotten of his own scorn of them. Among them they +worked to pull him down. + +The attempt to undermine his influence with the King proving vain—for +Charles was as well aware of its inspiration as of the Chancellor’s +value to him—that crew of rakes went laboriously and insidiously to +work upon the public mind, which is to say the public ignorance—most +fruitful soil for scandal against the great. Who shall say how far my +lady and the Court were responsible for the lampoon affixed one day to +my Lord Clarendon’s gatepost: + +Three sights to be seen: +Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren queen. + + +Her ladyship might well have considered the unpopularity of the +Chancellor as the crown of her triumph, had this triumph been as stable +as she could have wished. But, Charles being what he was, it follows +that her ladyship had frequent, if transient, anxious jealousies to mar +the perfection of her existence, to remind her how insecure is the +tenure of positions such as hers, ever at the mercy of the very caprice +to existence. + +And then, at long length, there came a day of horrid dread for her, a +day when she found herself bereft of her influence with her royal +lover, when pleadings and railings failed alike to sway him. In part +she owed it to an indiscretion of her own, but in far greater measure +to a child of sixteen, of a golden-headed, fresh, youthful loveliness, +and a nature that still found pleasure in dolls and kindred childish +things, yet of a quick and lively wit, and a clear, intelligent mind, +untroubled either by the assiduity of the royal attentions or the fact +that she was become the toast of the day. + +This was Miss Frances Stewart, the daughter of Lord Blantyre, newly +come to Court as a Lady-in-Waiting to her Majesty. How profound an +impression her beauty made upon the admittedly impressionable old Pepys +you may study in his diary. He had a glimpse of her one day riding in +the Park with the King, and a troop of ladies, among whom my Lady +Castlemaine, looking, as he tells us, “mighty out of humour.” There was +a moment when Miss Stewart came very near to becoming Queen of England, +and although she never reached that eminence, yet her effigy not only +found its way into the coinage, but abides there to this day (more +perdurable than that of any actual queen) in the figure of Britannia, +for which she was the model. + +Charles wooed her openly. It was never his way to study appearances in +these matters. He was so assiduous that it became customary in that +winter of 1666 for those seeking the King at Whitehall to inquire +whether he were above or below—“below” meaning Miss Stewart’s +apartments on the ground-floor of the palace, in which apartments his +Majesty was a constant visitor. And since where the King goes the Court +follows, and where the King smiles there the Court fawns, it resulted +that this child now found herself queening it over a court that flocked +to her apartments. Gallants and ladies came there to flirt and to +gossip, to gamble and to pay homage. + +About a great table in her splendid salon, a company of rustling, +iridescent fops in satin and heavy periwigs, and of ladies with curled +head-dresses and bare shoulders, played at basset one night in January. +Conversation rippled, breaking here and there into laughter, white, +jewelled hands reached out for cards, or for a share of the heaps of +gold that swept this way and that with the varying fortunes of the +game. + +My Lady Castlemaine, seated between Etheredge and Rochester, played in +silence, with lips tight-set and brooding eyes. She had lost, it is +true, some £1500 that night; yet, a prodigal gamester, and one who came +easily by money, she had been known to lose ten times that sum and yet +preserve her smile. The source of her ill-humour was not the game. She +played recklessly, her attention wandering; those handsome, brooding +eyes of hers were intent upon watching what went on at the other end of +the long room. There, at a smaller table, sat Miss Stewart, half a +dozen gallants hovering near her, engaged upon a game of cards of a +vastly different sort. Miss Stewart did not gamble. The only purpose +she could find for cards was to build castles; and here she was +building one with the assistance of her gallants, and under the +superintendence of his Grace of Buckingham, who was as skilled in this +as in other equally unstable forms of architecture. + +Apart, over by the fire, in a great chair of gilt leather, lounged the +King, languidly observing this smaller party, a faint, indolent smile +on his swarthy, saturnine countenance. Absently, with one hand he +stroked a little spaniel that was curled in his lap. A black boy in a +gorgeous, plumed turban and a long, crimson surcoat arabesqued in +gold—there were three or four such attendants about the room—proffered +him a cup of posset on a golden salver. + +The King rose, thrust aside the little blackamoor, and with his spaniel +under his arm, sauntered across to Miss Stewart’s table. Soon he found +himself alone with her—the others having removed themselves on his +approach, as jackals fall back before the coming of the lion. The last +to go, and with signs of obvious reluctance, was his Grace of Richmond, +a delicately-built, uncomely, but very glittering gentleman. + +Charles faced her across the table, the tall house of cards standing +between them. + +Miss invited his Majesty’s admiration for my Lord of Buckingham’s +architecture. Pouf! His Majesty blew, and the edifice rustled down to a +mere heap of cards again. + +“Symbol of kingly power,” said Miss, pertly. “You demolish better than +you build, sire.” + +“Oddsfish! If you challenge me, it were easy to prove you wrong,” quoth +he. + +“Pray do. The cards are here.” + +“Cards! Pooh! Card castles are well enough for Buckingham. But such is +not the castle I’ll build you if you command me.” + +“I command the King’s Majesty? Mon Dieu! But it would be treason +surely.” + +“Not greater treason than to have enslaved me.” His fine eyes were +oddly ardent. “Shall I build you this castle, child?” + +Miss looked at him, and looked away. Her eyelids fluttered +distractingly. She fetched a sigh. + +“The castle that your Majesty would build for any but your Queen must +prove a prison.” + +She rose, and, looking across the room, she met the handsome, scowling +eyes of the neglected favourite. “My Lady Castlemaine looks as if she +feared that fortune were not favouring her.” She was so artless that +Charles could not be sure there was a double meaning to her speech. +“Shall we go see how she is faring?” she added, with a disregard for +etiquette, whose artlessness he also doubted. + +He yielded, of course. That was his way with beauty, especially with +beauty not yet reduced into possession. But the characteristic urbanity +with which he sauntered beside her across the room was no more than a +mask upon his chagrin. It was always thus that pretty Frances Stewart +used him. She always knew how to elude him and, always with that cursed +air of artlessness, uttered seemingly simple sentences that clung to +his mind to tantalize him. + +“The castle your Majesty would build for any but your Queen must prove +a prison.” What had she meant by that? Must he take her to queen before +she would allow him to build a castle for her? + +It was an insistent, haunting thought, wracking his mind. He knew there +was a party hostile to the Duke of York and Clarendon, which, fearing +the succession of the former, and, so, of the grandchildren of the +latter, as a result of Catherine of Braganza’s childlessness, strongly +favoured the King’s divorce. + +It was a singular irony that my Lady Castlemaine should be largely +responsible for the existence of that party. In her hatred for +Clarendon, and her blind search for weapons that would slay the +Chancellor, she had, if not actually invented, at least helped to give +currency to the silly slander that Clarendon had deliberately chosen +for Charles a barren queen, so as to ensure the ultimate succession of +his own daughter’s children. But she had never thought to see that +slander recoil upon her as it now did; she had never thought that a +party would come to rise up in consequence that would urge divorce upon +the King at the very moment when he was consumed by passion for the +unattainable, artlessly artful Frances Stewart. + +It was Buckingham, greatly daring, who slyly made himself that party’s +mouthpiece. The suggestion startled Charles, voicing, as perhaps it +did, the temptation by which he was secretly assailed. He looked at +Buckingham, frowning. + +“I verily believe you are the wickedest dog in England.” + +The impudent gallant made a leg. “For a subject, sire, I believe I am.” + +Charles—with whom the amusing word seems ever to have been more +compelling than the serious—laughed his soft, mellow laugh. Then he +sighed, and the frown of thought returned. + +“It would be a wicked thing to make a poor lady miserable only because +she is my wife, and has no children by me, which is no fault of hers.” + +He was a thoroughly bad husband, but his indolent good-nature shrank +from purchasing his desires at the price of so much ignominy to the +Queen. Before that could come to pass it would be necessary to give the +screw of temptation another turn or two. And it was Miss Stewart +herself who—in all innocence—supplied what was required in that +direction. Driven to bay by the importunities of Charles, she announced +at last that it was her intention to retire from Court, so as to +preserve herself from the temptations by which she was beset, and to +determine the uneasiness which, through no fault of her own, her +presence was occasioning the Queen; and she announced further, that, so +desperate had she been rendered that she would marry any gentleman of +fifteen hundred pounds a year who would have her in honour. + +You behold Charles reduced to a state of panic. He sought to bribe her +with offers of any settlements she chose to name, or any title she +coveted, offering her these things at the nation’s expense as freely +and lightly as the jewels he had tossed into her lap, or the collar of +pearls worth sixteen hundred pounds he had put about her neck. The +offers were ineffectual, and Charles, driven almost to distraction by +such invulnerable virtue, might now have yielded to the insidious +whispers of divorce and re-marriage had not my Lady Castlemaine taken a +hand in the game. + +Her ladyship, dwelling already, as a consequence of that royal +infatuation for Miss Stewart, in the cold, rarefied atmosphere of a +neglect that amounted almost to disgrace, may have considered with +bitterness how her attempt to exploit her hatred of the Chancellor had +recoiled upon herself. + +In the blackest hour of her despair, when hope seemed almost dead, she +made a discovery—or, rather, the King’s page, the ineffable Chiffinch, +Lord Keeper of the Back Stairs and Grand-Eunuch of the Royal Seraglio, +who was her ladyship’s friend, made it and communicated it to her There +had been one ardent respondent in the Duke of Richmond to that +proclamation of Miss Stewart’s that she would marry any gentleman of +fifteen hundred pounds a year. Long enamoured of her, his Grace saw +here his opportunity, and he seized it. Consequently he was now in +constant attendance upon her, but very secretly, since he feared the +King’s displeasure. + +My Lady Castlemaine, having discovered this, and being well served in +the matter by Chiffinch, spied her opportunity. It came one cold night +towards the end of February of that year 1667. Charles, going below at +a late hour to visit Miss Stewart, when he judged that she would be +alone, was informed by her maid that Miss was not receiving, a headache +compelling her to keep her room. + +His Majesty returned above in a very ill-humour, to find himself +confronted in his own apartments by my Lady Castlemaine. Chiffinch had +introduced her by the back-stairs entrance. Charles stiffened at sight +of her. + +“I hope I may be allowed to pay my homage,” says she, on a note of +irony, “although the angelic Stewart has forbid you to see me at my own +house. I come to condole with you upon the affliction and grief into +which the new-fashioned chastity of the inhuman Stewart has reduced +your Majesty.” + +“You are pleased to be amused, ma’am,” says Charles frostily. + +“I will not,” she returned him, “make use of reproaches which would +disgrace myself; still less will I endeavour to excuse frailties in +myself which nothing can justify, since your constancy for me deprives +me of all defence.” Her ladyship, you see, had a considerable gift of +sarcasm. + +“In that case, may I ask you why you have come?” + +“To open your eyes. Because I cannot bear that you should be made the +jest of your own Court.” + +“Madam!” + +“Ah! You didn’t know, of course, that you are being laughed at for the +gross manner in which you are being imposed upon by the Stewart’s +affectations, any more than you know that whilst you are denied +admittance to her apartments, under the presence of some indisposition, +the Duke of Richmond is with her now.” + +“That is false,” he was beginning, very indignantly. + +“I do not desire you to take my word for it. If you will follow me, you +will no longer be the dupe of a false prude, who makes you act so +ridiculous a part.” + +She took him, still half-resisting, by the hand, and in silence led +him, despite his reluctance, back by the way he had so lately come. +Outside her rival’s door she left him, but she paused at the end of the +gallery to make sure that he had entered. + +Within he found himself confronted by several of Miss Stewart’s +chambermaids, who respectfully barred his way, one of them informing +him scarcely above a whisper that her mistress had been very ill since +his Majesty left, but that, being gone to bed, she was, God be thanked, +in a very fine sleep. + +“That I must see,” said the King. And, since one of the women placed +herself before the door of the inner room, his Majesty unceremoniously +took her by the shoulders and put her aside. + +He thrust open the door, and stepped without further ceremony into the +well-lighted bedroom. Miss Stewart occupied the handsome, canopied bed. +But far from being as he had been told, in “a very fine sleep,” she was +sitting up; and far from presenting an ailing appearance, she looked +radiantly well and very lovely in her diaphanous sleeping toilet, with +golden ringlets in distracting disarray Nor was she alone. By her +pillow sat one who, if at first to be presumed her physician, proved +upon scrutiny to be the Duke of Richmond. + +The King’s swarthy face turned a variety of colours, his languid eyes +lost all trace of languor. Those who knew his nature might have +expected that he would now deliver himself with that sneering sarcasm, +that indolent cynicism, which he used upon occasion. But he was too +deeply stirred for acting. His self-control deserted him entirely. +Exactly what he said has not been preserved for us. All that we are +told is that he signified his resentment in such terms as he had never +before used; and that his Grace, almost petrified by the King’s most +royal rage, uttered never a word in answer. The windows of the room +overlooked the Thames. The King’s eyes strayed towards them. Richmond +was slight of build, Charles vigorous and athletic. His Grace took the +door betimes lest the window should occur to his Majesty, and so he +left the lady alone with the outraged monarch. + +Thereafter Charles did not have it all quite his own way. Miss Stewart +faced him in an indignation nothing less than his own, and she was very +far from attempting any such justification of herself, or her conduct, +as he may have expected. + +“Will your Majesty be more precise as to the grounds of your +complaint?” she invited him challengingly. + +That checked his wildness. It brought him up with a round turn. His jaw +fell, and he stared at her, lost now for words. Of this she took the +fullest advantage. + +“If I am not allowed to receive visits from a man of the Duke of +Richmond’s rank, who comes with honourable intentions, then I am a +slave in a free country. I know of no engagement that should prevent me +from disposing of my hand as I think fit. But if this is not permitted +me in your Majesty’s dominions, I do not believe there is any power on +earth can prevent me going back to France, and throwing myself into a +convent, there to enjoy the peace denied me at this Court.” + +With that she melted into tears, and his discomfiture was complete. On +his knees he begged her forgiveness for the injury he had done her. But +Miss was not in a forgiving humour. + +“If your Majesty would graciously consent to leave me now in peace,” +said she, “you would avoid offending by a longer visit those who +accompanied or conducted you to my apartments.” + +She had drawn a bow at a venture but shrewdly, and the shaft went home. +Charles rose, red in the face. Swearing he would never speak to her +again, he stalked out. + +Later, however, he considered. If he felt bitterly aggrieved, he must +also have realized that he had no just grounds for this, and that in +his conduct in Miss Stewart’s room he had been entirely ridiculous. She +was rightly resolved against being lightly worn by any man. If +anything, the reflection must have fanned his passion. It was +impossible, he thought, that she should love that knock-kneed fellow, +Richmond, who had no graces either of body or of mind, and if she +suffered the man’s suit, it must be, as she had all but said, so that +she might be delivered from the persecution to which his Majesty had +submitted her. The thought of her marrying Richmond, or, indeed, +anybody, was unbearable to Charles, and it may have stifled his last +scruple in the matter of the divorce. + +His first measure next morning was to banish Richmond from the Court. +But Richmond had not stayed for the order to quit. The King’s messenger +found him gone already. + +Then Charles took counsel in the matter with the Chancellor. +Clarendon’s habitual gravity was increased to sternness. He spoke to +the King—taking the fullest advantage of the tutelary position in which +for the last twenty-five years he had stood to him—much as he had +spoken when Charles had proposed to make Barbara Palmer a Lady of the +Queen’s Bedchamber, saving that he was now even more uncompromising. +The King was not pleased with him. But just as he had had his way, +despite the Chancellor, in that other matter, so he would have his way +despite him now. This time, however, the Chancellor took no risks. He +feared too much the consequences for Charles, and he determined to +spare no effort to avoid a scandal, and to save the already +deeply-injured Queen. So he went secretly to work to outwit the King. +He made himself the protector of those lovers, the Duke of Richmond and +Miss Stewart, with the result that one dark night, a week or two later, +the lady stole away from the Palace of Whitehall, and made her way to +the Bear Tavern, at the Bridge-foot, Westminster, where Richmond +awaited her with a coach. And so, by the secret favour of the Lord +Chancellor, they stole away to Kent and matrimony. + +That was checkmate indeed to Charles who swore all manner of things in +his mortification. But it was not until some six weeks later that he +learnt by whose agency the thing had been accomplished. He learnt it, +not a doubt, from my Lady Castlemaine. + +The estrangement between her ladyship and the King, which dated back to +the time of his desperate courtship of Miss Stewart, was at last made +up; and once again we see her ladyship triumphant, and firmly +established in the amorous King’s affections. She had cause to be +grateful to the Chancellor for this. But her vindictive nature +remembered only the earlier injury still unavenged. Here at last was +her chance to pay off that score. Clarendon, beset by enemies on every +hand, yet trusting in the King whom he had served so well, stood his +ground unintimidated and unmoved—an oak that had weathered mightier +storms than this. He did not dream that he was in the power of an evil +woman. And that woman used her power. When all else failed, she told +the King of Clarendon’s part in the flight of Miss Stewart, and lest +the King should be disposed to pardon the Chancellor out of +consideration for his motives, represented him as a self-seeker, and +charged him with having acted thus so as to make sure of keeping his +daughter’s children by the Duke of York in the succession. + +That was the end. Charles withdrew his protection, threw Clarendon to +the wolves. He sent the Duke of Albemarle to him with a command that he +should surrender his seals of office. The proud old man refused to +yield his seals to any but the King himself. He may have hoped that the +memory of all that lay between them would rise up once more when they +were face to face. So he came in person to Whitehall to make surrender. +He walked deliberately, firmly, and with head erect, through the +hostile throng of courtiers—“especially the buffoones and ladys of +pleasure,” as Evelyn says. + +Of his departure thence, his disgrace now consummated, Pepys has left +us a vivid picture: + +“When he went from the King on Monday morning my Lady Castlemaine was +in bed (though about twelve o’clock), and ran out in her smock into her +aviary looking into Whitehall Gardens; and thither her woman brought +her her nightgown; and she stood, blessing herself at the old man’s +going away; and several of the gallants of Whitehall—of which there +were many staying to see the Chancellor’s return—did talk to her in her +birdcage; among others Blandford, telling her she was the bird of +passage.” + +Clarendon lingered, melancholy and disillusioned, at his fine house in +Piccadilly until, impeached by Parliament, he remembered Strafford’s +fate, and set out to tread once more and for the remainder of his days +the path of exile. + +Time avenged him. Two of his granddaughters—Mary and Anne—reigned +successively as queens in England. + + + + +X. THE TRAGEDY OF HERRENHAUSEN + +Count Philip Königsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea + + +He was accounted something of a scamp throughout Europe, and +particularly in England, where he had been associated with his brother +in the killing of Mr. Thynne. But the seventeenth century did not look +for excessively nice scruples in a soldier of fortune; and so it +condoned the lack of virtue in Count Philip Christof Königsmark for the +sake of his personal beauty, his elegance, his ready wit, and his +magnificent address. The court of Hanover made him warmly welcome, +counting itself the richer for his presence; whilst he, on his side, +was retained there by the Colonelcy in the Electoral Guard to which he +had been appointed, and by his deep and ill-starred affection for the +Princess Sophia Dorothea, the wife of the Electoral Prince, who later +was to reign in England as King George I. + +His acquaintance with her dated back to childhood, for they had been +playmates at her father’s ducal court of Zell, where Königsmark had +been brought up. With adolescence he had gone out into the world to +seek the broader education which it offered to men of quality and +spirit. He had fought bulls in Madrid, and the infidel overseas; he had +wooed adventure wherever it was to be met, until romance hung about him +like an aura. Thus Sophia met him again, a dazzling personality, whose +effulgence shone the more brightly against the dull background of that +gross Hanoverian court; an accomplished, graceful, self-reliant man of +the world, in whom she scarcely recognized her sometime playmate. + +The change he found in her was no less marked, though of a different +kind. The sweet child he had known—she had been married in 1682, at the +age of sixteen—had come in her ten years of wedded life to the +fulfilment of the handsome promise of her maidenhood. But her beauty +was spiritualized by a certain wistfulness that had not been there +before, that should not have been there now had all been well. The +sprightliness inherent in her had not abated, but it had assumed a +certain warp of bitterness; humour, which is of the heart, had given +place in her to wit, which is of the mind, and this wit was barbed, and +a little reckless of how or where it offended. + +Königsmark observed these changes that the years had wrought, and knew +enough of her story to account for them. He knew of her thwarted love +for her cousin, the Duke of Wolfenbuttel, thwarted for the sake of +dynastic ambition, to the end that by marrying her to the Electoral +Prince George the whole of the Duchy of Luneberg might be united. Thus, +for political reasons, she had been thrust into a union that was +mutually loveless; for Prince George had as little affection to bring +to it as herself. Yet for a prince the door to compensations is ever +open. Prince George’s taste, as is notorious, was ever for ugly women, +and this taste he indulged so freely, openly, and grossly that the +coldness towards him with which Sophia had entered the alliance was +eventually converted into disgust and contempt. + +Thus matters stood between that ill-matched couple; contempt on her +side, cold dislike on his, a dislike that was fully shared by his +father, the Elector, Ernest Augustus, and encouraged in the latter by +the Countess von Platen. + +Madame von Platen, the wife of the Elector’s chief minister of state, +was—with the connivance of her despicable husband, who saw therein the +means to his own advancement—the acknowledged mistress of Ernest +Augustus. She was a fleshly, gauche, vain, and ill-favoured woman. +Malevolence sat in the creases of her painted face, and peered from her +mean eyes. Yet, such as she was, the Elector Ernest loved her. His +son’s taste for ugly women would appear to have been hereditary. + +Between the Countess and Sophia there was a deadly feud. The princess +had mortally offended her father-in-law’s favourite. Not only had she +never troubled to dissemble the loathing which that detestable woman +inspired in her, but she had actually given it such free and stinging +expression as had provoked against Madame von Platen the derision of +the court, a derision so ill-concealed that echoes of it had reached +its object, and made her aware of the source from whence it sprang. + +It was into this atmosphere of hostility that the advent of the +elegant, romantic Königsmark took place. He found the stage set for +comedy of a grim and bitter kind, which he was himself, by his +recklessness, to convert into tragedy. + +It began by the Countess von Platen’s falling in love with him. It was +some time before he suspected it, though heaven knows he did not lack +for self-esteem. Perhaps it was this very self-esteem that blinded him +here to the appalling truth. Yet in the end understanding came to him. +When the precise significance of the fond leer of that painted +harridan’s repellent coquetry was borne in upon him he felt the skin of +his body creep and roughen But he dissembled craftily. He was a venal +scamp, after all, and in the court of Hanover he saw opportunities to +employ his gifts and his knowledge of the great world in such a way as +to win to eminence. He saw that the Elector’s favourite could be of use +to him; and it is not your adventurer’s way to look too closely into +the nature of the ladder by which he has the chance to climb. + +Skilfully, craftily, then, he played the enamoured countess so long as +her fondness for him might be useful, her hostility detrimental. But +once the Colonelcy of the Electoral Guards was firmly in his grasp, and +an intimate friendship had ripened between himself and Prince +Charles—the Elector’s younger son—sufficiently to ensure his future, he +plucked off the mask and allied himself with Sophia in her hostility +towards Madame von Platen. He did worse. Some little time thereafter, +whilst on a visit to the court of Poland, he made one night in his cups +a droll story of the amorous persecution which he had suffered at +Madame von Platen’s hands. + +It was a tale that set the profligate company in a roar. But there was +one present who afterwards sent a report of it to the Countess, and you +conceive the nature of the emotions it aroused in her. Her rage was the +greater for being stifled. It was obviously impossible for her to +appeal to her lover, the Elector, to avenge her. From the Elector, +above all others, must the matter be kept concealed. But not on that +account would she forgo the vengeance due. She would present a +reckoning in full ere all was done, and bitterly should the +presumptuous young adventurer who had flouted her be made to pay. + +The opportunity was very soon to be afforded her. It arose more or less +directly out of an act in which she indulged her spite against Sophia. +This lay in throwing Melusina Schulemberg into the arms of the +Electoral Prince. Melusina, who was years afterwards to be created +Duchess of Kendal, had not yet attained to that completeness of lank, +bony hideousness that was later to distinguish her in England. But even +in youth she could boast of little attraction. Prince George, however, +was easily attracted. A dull, undignified libertine, addicted to +over-eating, heavy drinking, and low conversation, he found in Melusina +von Schulemberg an ideal mate. Her installation as _maîtresse en-titre_ +took place publicly at a ball given by Prince George at Herrenhausen, a +ball at which the Princess Sophia was present. + +Accustomed, inured, as she was to the coarse profligacy of her dullard +husband, and indifferent to his philandering as her contempt of him now +left her, yet in the affront thus publicly offered her, she felt that +the limit of endurance had been reached. Next day it was found that she +had disappeared from Herrenhausen. She had fled to her father’s court +at Zell. + +But her father received her coldly; lectured her upon the freedom and +levity of her manners, which he condemned as unbecoming the dignity of +her rank; recommended her to use in future greater prudence, and a +proper, wifely submission; and, the homily delivered, packed her back +to her husband at Herrenhausen. + +George’s reception of her on her return was bitterly hostile. She had +been guilty of a more than usual, of an unpardonable want of respect +for him. She must learn what was due to her station, and to her +husband. He would thank her to instruct herself in these matters +against his return from Berlin, whither he was about to journey, and he +warned her that he would suffer no more tantrums of that kind. + +Thus he delivered himself, with cold hate in his white, flabby, +frog-face and in the very poise of his squat, ungainly figure. + +Thereafter he departed for Berlin, bearing hate of her with him, and +leaving hate and despair behind. + +It was then, in this despair, that Sophia looked about her for a true +friend to lend her the aid she so urgently required; to rescue her from +her intolerable, soul-destroying fate. And at her elbow, against this +dreadful need, Destiny had placed her sometime playmate, her most +devoted friend—as she accounted him, and as, indeed, he was—the +elegant, reckless Königsmark, with his beautiful face, his golden mane, +and his unfathomable blue eyes. + +Walking with him one summer day between clipped hedges in the formal +gardens of Herrenhausen—that palace as squat and ungraceful as those +who had built and who inhabited it—she opened her heart to him very +fully, allowed him, in her overwhelming need of sympathy, to see things +which for very shame she had hitherto veiled from all other eyes. She +kept nothing back; she dwelt upon her unhappiness with her boorish +husband, told him of slights and indignities innumerable, whose pain +she had hitherto so bravely dissembled, confessed, even, that he had +beaten her upon occasion. + +Königsmark went red and white by turns, with the violent surge of his +emotions, and the deep sapphire eyes blazed with wrath when she came at +last to the culminating horror of blows endured. + +“It is enough, madame,” he cried. “I swear to you, as Heaven hears me, +that he shall be punished.” + +“Punished?” she echoed, checking in her stride, and looked at him with +a smile of sad incredulity. “It is not his punishment I seek, my +friend, but my own salvation.” + +“The one can be accomplished with the other,” he answered hotly, and +struck the cut-steel hilt of his sword. “You shall be rid of this lout +as soon as ever I can come to him. I go after him to Berlin to-night.” + +The colour all faded from her cheeks, her sensitive lips fell apart, as +she looked at him aghast. + +“Why, what would you do? What do you mean?” she asked him. + +“I will send him the length of my sword, and so make a widow of you, +madame.” + +She shook her head. “Princes do not fight,” she said, on a note of +contempt. + +“I shall so shame him that he will have no alternative—unless, indeed, +he is shameless. I will choose my occasion shrewdly, put an affront on +him one evening in his cups, when drink shall have made him valiant +enough to commit himself to a meeting. If even that will not answer, +and he still shields himself behind his rank—why, there are other ways +to serve him.” He was thinking, perhaps, of Mr. Thynne. + +The heat of so much reckless, romantic fury on her behalf warmed the +poor lady, who had so long been chilled for want of sympathy, and +starved of love. Impulsively she caught his hand in hers. + +“My friend, my friend!” she cried, on a note that quivered and broke. +“You are mad—wonderfully beautifully mad, but mad. What would become of +you if you did this?” + +He swept the consideration aside by a contemptuous, almost angry +gesture. “Does that matter? I am concerned with what is to become of +you. I was born for your service, my princess, and the service being +rendered...” He shrugged and smiled, threw out his hands and let them +fall again to his sides in an eloquent gesture. He was the complete +courtier, the knight-errant, the romantic _preux-chevalier_ all in one. + +She drew closer to him, took the blue lapels of his military coat in +her white hands, and looked pathetically up into his beautiful face. If +ever she wanted to kiss a man, she surely wanted to kiss Königsmark in +that moment, but as she might have kissed a loving brother, in token of +her deep gratitude for his devotion to her who had known so little true +devotion. + +“If you knew,” she said, “what balsam this proof of your friendship has +poured upon the wounds of my soul, you would understand my utter lack +of words in which to thank you. You dumbfound me, my friend; I can find +no expression for my gratitude.” + +“I ask no gratitude,” quoth he. “I am all gratitude myself that you +should have come to me in the hour of your need. I but ask your leave +to serve you in my own way.” + +She shook her head. She saw his blue eyes grow troubled. + +He was about to speak, to protest, but she hurried on. “Serve me if you +will—God knows I need the service of a loyal friend—but serve me as I +shall myself decide—no other way.” + +“But what alternative service can exist?” he asked, almost impatiently. + +“I have it in mind to escape from this horrible place—to quit Hanover, +never to return.” + +“But to go whither?” + +“Does it matter? Anywhere away from this hateful court, and this +hateful life; anywhere, since my father will not let me find shelter at +Zell, as I had hoped. Had it not been for the thought of my children, I +should have fled long ago. For the sake of those two little ones I have +suffered patiently through all these years. But the limit of endurance +has been reached and passed. Take me away. Königsmark!” She was +clutching his lapels again. “If you would really serve me, help me to +escape.” + +His hands descended upon hers, and held them prisoned against his +breast. A flush crept into his fair cheeks, there was a sudden kindling +of the eyes that looked down into her own piteous ones. These +sensitive, romantic natures are quickly stirred to passion, ever ready +to yield to the adventure of it. + +“My princess,” he said, “you may count upon your Königsmark while he +has life.” Disengaging her hands from his lapels, but still holding +them, he bowed low over them, so low that his heavy golden mane tumbled +forward on either side of his handsome head to form a screen under +cover of which he pressed his lips upon her fingers. + +She let him have his will with her hands. It was little enough reward +for so much devotion. + +“I thank you again,” she breathed. “And now I must think—I must +consider where I can count upon finding refuge.” + +That cooled his ardour a little. His own high romantic notion was, no +doubt, to fling her there and then upon the withers of his horse, and +so ride out into the wide world to carve a kingdom for her with his +sword. Her sober words dispelled the dream, revealed to him that it was +not quite intended he should hereafter be her custodian. And there for +the moment the matter was suspended. + +Both had behaved quite recklessly. Each should have remembered that an +Electoral Princess is not wise to grant a protracted interview, +accompanied by lapel-holding, hand-holding, and hand-kissings, within +sight of the windows of a palace. And, as it happened, behind one of +those windows lurked the Countess von Platen, watching them jealously, +and without any disposition to construe the meeting innocently. Was she +not the deadly enemy of both? Had not the Princess whetted satire upon +her, and had not Königsmark scorned the love she proffered him, and +then unpardonably published it in a ribald story to excite the mirth of +profligates? + +That evening the Countess purposefully sought her lover, the Elector. + +“Your son is away in Prussia,” quoth she. “Who guards his honour in his +absence?” + +“George’s honour?” quoth the Elector, bulging eyes staring at the +Countess. He did not laugh, as might have been expected at the notion +of guarding something whose existence was not easily discerned. He had +no sense of humour, as his appearance suggested. He was a short, fat +man with a face shaped like a pear—narrow in the brow and heavy in the +jowl. “What the devil do you mean?” he asked. + +“I mean that this foreign adventurer, Königsmark, and Sophia grow too +intimate.” + +“Sophia!” Thick eyebrows were raised until they almost met the line of +his ponderous peruke. His face broke into malevolent creases expressive +of contempt. + +“That white-faced ninny! Bah!” Her very virtue was matter for his +scorn. + +“It is these white-faced ninnies can be most sly,” replied the +Countess, out of her worldly wisdom. “Listen a moment now.” And she +related, with interest rather than discount, you may be sure, what she +had witnessed that afternoon. + +The malevolence deepened in his face. He had never loved Sophia, and he +felt none the kinder towards her for her recent trip to Zell. Then, +too, being a libertine, and the father of a libertine, it logically +followed that unchastity in his women-folk was in his eyes the +unpardonable sin. + +He heaved himself out of his deep chair. “How far has this gone?” he +demanded. + +Prudence restrained the Countess from any over-statement that might +afterwards be disproved. Besides, there was not the need, if she could +trust her senses. Patience and vigilance would presently afford her all +the evidence required to damn the pair. She said as much, and promised +the Elector that she would exercise herself the latter quality in his +son’s service. Again the Elector did not find it grotesque that his +mistress should appoint herself the guardian of his son’s honour. + +The Countess went about that congenial task with zeal—though George’s +honour was the least thing that concerned her. What concerned her was +the dishonour of Sophia, and the ruin of Königsmark. So she watched +assiduously, and set others, too, to watch for her and to report. And +almost daily now she had for the Elector a tale of whisperings and +hand-pressings, and secret stolen meetings between the guilty twain. +The Elector enraged, and would have taken action, but that the guileful +Countess curbed him. All this was not enough. An accusation that could +not be substantiated would ruin all chance of punishing the offenders, +might recoil, indeed, upon the accusers by bringing the Duke of Zell to +his daughter’s aid. So they must wait yet awhile until they held more +absolute proof of this intrigue. + +And then at last one day the Countess sped in haste to the Elector with +word that Königsmark and the Princess had shut themselves up together +in the garden pavilion. Let him come at once, and he should so discover +them for himself, and thus at last be able to take action. The Countess +was flushed with triumph. Be that meeting never so innocent—and Madame +von Platen could not, being what she was, and having seen what she had +seen, conceive it innocent—it was in an Electoral Princess an +unforgivable indiscretion, to take the most charitable view, which none +would dream of taking. So the Elector, fiercely red in the face, +hurried off to the pavilion with Madame von Platen following. He came +too late, despite the diligence of his spy. + +Sophia had been there, but her interview with the Count had been a +brief one. She had to tell him that at last she was resolved in all +particulars. She would seek a refuge at the court of her cousin, the +Duke of Wolfenbuttel, who, she was sure—for the sake of what once had +lain between them—would not now refuse to shelter and protect her. Of +Königsmark she desired that he should act as her escort to her cousin’s +court. + +Königsmark was ready, eager. In Hanover he would leave nothing that he +regretted. At Wolfenbuttel, having served Sophia faithfully, his +ever-growing, romantic passion for her might find expression. She would +make all dispositions, and advise him when she was ready to set out. +But they must use caution, for they were being spied upon. Madame von +Platen’s over-eagerness had in part betrayed her. It was, indeed, their +consciousness of espionage which had led to this dangerous meeting in +the seclusion of the pavilion, and which urged him to linger after +Sophia had left him. They were not to be seen to emerge together. + +The young Dane sat alone on the window-seat, his chin in his hands, his +eyes dreamy, a faint smile on his shapely lips, when Ernest Augustus +burst furiously in, the Countess von Platen lingering just beyond the +threshold. The Elector’s face was apoplectically purple from rage and +haste, his breath came in wheezing gasps. His bulging eyes swept round +the chamber, and fastened finally, glaring, upon the startled +Königsmark. + +“Where is the Princess?” he blurted out. + +The Count espied Madame von Platen in the back ground, and had the +scent of mischief very strong. But he preserved an air of innocent +mystification. He rose and answered with courteous ease: + +“Your Highness is seeking her? Shall I ascertain for you?” + +At a loss, Ernest Augustus stared a moment, then flung a glance over +his shoulder at the Countess. + +“I was told that her Highness was here,” he said. + +“Plainly,” said Königsmark, with perfect calm, “you have been +misinformed.” And his quiet glance and gesture invited the Elector to +look round for himself. + +“How long have you been here yourself?” Feeling at a disadvantage, the +Elector avoided the direct question that was in his mind. + +“Half an hour at least.” + +“And in that time you have not seen the Princess?” + +“Seen the Princess?” Königsmark’s brows were knit perplexedly. “I +scarcely understand your Highness.” + +The Elector moved a step and trod on a soft substance. He looked down, +then stooped, and rose again, holding in his hand a woman’s glove. + +“What’s this?” quoth he. “Whose glove is this?” + +If Königsmark’s heart missed a beat—as well it may have done—he did not +betray it outwardly. He smiled; indeed he almost laughed. + +“Your Highness is amusing himself at my expense by asking me questions +that only a seer could answer.” + +The Elector was still considering him with his ponderously suspicious +glance, when quick steps approached. A serving-maid, one of Sophia’s +women, appeared in the doorway of the pavilion. + +“What do you want?” the Elector snapped at her. + +“A glove her Highness lately dropped here,” was the timid answer, +innocently precipitating the very discovery which the woman had been +too hastily dispatched to avert. + +The Elector flung the glove at her, and there was a creak of evil +laughter from him. When she had departed’ he turned again to +Königsmark. + +“You fence skilfully,” said he, sneering, “too skilfully for an honest +man. Will you now tell me without any more of this, precisely what the +Princess Sophia was doing here with you?” + +Königsmark drew himself stiffly up, looking squarely into the furnace +of the Elector’s face. + +“Your Highness assumes that the Princess was here with me, and a prince +is not to be contradicted, even when he insults a lady whose spotless +purity is beyond his understanding. But your Highness can hardly expect +me to become in never so slight a degree a party to that insult by +vouchsafing any answer to your question.” + +“That is your last word, sir?” The Elector shook with suppressed anger. + +“Your Highness cannot think that words are necessary?” + +The bulging eyes grew narrow, the heavy nether lip was thrust forth in +scorn and menace. + +“You are relieved, sir, of your duties in the Electoral Guard, and as +that is the only tie binding you to Hanover, we see no reason why your +sojourn here should be protracted.” + +Königsmark bowed stiffly, formally. “It shall end, your Highness, as +soon as I can make the necessary arrangements for my departure—in a +week at most.” + +“You are accorded three days, sir.” The Elector turned, and waddled +out, leaving Königsmark to breathe freely again. The three days should +suffice for the Princess also. It was very well. + +The Elector, too, thought that it was very well. He had given this +troublesome fellow his dismissal, averted a scandal, and placed his +daughter-in-law out of the reach of harm. Madame von Platen was the +only one concerned who thought that it was not well at all, the +consummation being far from that which she had desired. She had dreamt +of a flaming scandal, that should utterly consume her two enemies, +Sophia and Königsmark. Instead, she saw them both escaping, and the +fact that she was—as she may have supposed—effectively separating two +loving hearts could be no sort of adequate satisfaction for such bitter +spite as hers. Therefore she plied her wicked wits to force an issue +more germane to her desires. + +The course she took was fraught with a certain peril. Yet confident +that at worst she could justify it, and little fearing that the worst +would happen, she boldly went to work. She forged next day a brief note +in which the Princess Sophia urgently bade Königsmark to come to her at +ten o’clock that night in her own apartments, and with threat and bribe +induced the waiting woman of the glove to bear that letter. + +Now it so happened that Königsmark, through the kind offices of +Sophia’s maid-of-honour, Mademoiselle de Knesebeck, who was in the +secret of their intentions, had sent the Princess a note that morning, +briefly stating the urgency of departure, and begging her so to arrange +that she could leave Herrenhausen with him on the morrow. He imagined +the note now brought him to be in answer to that appeal of his. Its +genuineness he never doubted, being unacquainted with Sophia’s writing. +He was aghast at the rashness which dictated such an assignation, yet +never hesitated as to keeping it. It was not his way to hesitate. He +trusted to the gods who watch over the destinies of the bold. + +And meanwhile Madame von Platen was reproaching her lover with having +dealt too softly with the Dane. + +“Bah!” said the Elector. “To-morrow he goes his ways, and we are rid of +him. Is not that enough?” + +“Enough, if, soon as he goes, he goes not too late already,” quoth she. + +“Now what will you be hinting?” he asked her peevishly. + +“I’ll be more plain. I will tell you what I know. It is this. +Königsmark has an assignation with the Princess Sophia this very night +at ten o’clock—and where do you suppose? In her Highness’s own +apartments.” + +The Elector came to his feet with an oath. “That is not true!” he +cried. “It cannot be!” + +“Then I’ll say no more,” quoth Jezebel, and snapped her thin lips. + +“Ah, but you shall. How do you know this?” + +“That I cannot tell you without betraying a confidence. Let it suffice +you that I do know it. Consider now whether in banishing this +profligate you have sufficiently avenged the honour of your son.” + +“My God, if I thought this were true....” He choked with rage, stood +shaking a moment, then strode to the door, calling. + +“The truth is easily ascertained,” said Madame. “Conceal yourself in +the Rittersaal, and await his coming forth. But you had best go +attended, for it is a very reckless rogue, and he has been known +aforetime to practice murder.” + +Whilst the Elector, acting upon this advice, was getting his men +together, Königsmark was wasting precious moments in Sophia’s +antechamber, whilst Mademoiselle de Knesebeck apprised her Highness of +his visit. Sophia had already retired to bed, and the amazing +announcement of the Count’s presence there startled her into a fear of +untoward happenings. She was overwhelmed, too, by the rashness of this +step of his, coming after the events of yesterday. If it should be +known that he had visited her thus, terrible consequences might ensue. +She rose, and with Mademoiselle de Knesebeck’s aid made ready to +receive him. Yet for all that she made haste, the precious +irreclaimable moments sped. + +She came to him at last, Mademoiselle de Knesebeck following, for +propriety’s sake. + +“What is it?” she asked him breathlessly. “What brings you here at such +an hour?” + +“What brings me?” quoth he, surprised at that reception. “Why, your +commands—your letter.” + +“My letter? What letter?” + +A sense of doom, of being trapped, suddenly awoke in him. He plucked +forth the treacherous note, and proffered it. + +“Why, what does this mean?” She swept a white hand over her eyes and +brows, as if to brush away some thing that obscured her vision. “That +is not mine. I never wrote it. How could you dream I should be +imprudent as to bid you hither, and at such an hour How could you dream +it?” + +“You are right,” said he, and laughed, perhaps to ease her alarm, +perhaps in sheer bitter mirth. “It will be, no doubt, the work of our +friend, Madame von Platen. I had best begone. For the rest, my +travelling chaise will wait from noon until sunset to-morrow by the +Markt Kirck in Hanover, and I shall wait within it. I shall hope to +conduct you safely to Wolfenbuttel.” + +“I will come, I will come. But go now—oh, go!” + +He looked very deeply into her eyes—a valedictory glance against the +worst befalling him. Then he took her hand, bowed over it and kissed +it, and so departed. + +He crossed the outer ante-room, descended the short flight of stairs, +and pushed open the heavy door of the Hall of Knights. He passed +through, and thrust the door behind him, then stood a moment looking +round the vast apartment. If he was too late to avoid the springs of +the baited trap, it was here that they should snap upon him. Yet all +was still. A single lamp on a table in the middle of the vast chamber +shed a feeble, flickering light, yet sufficient to assure him that no +one waited here. He sighed relief, wrapped his cloak about him, and set +out swiftly to cross the hall. + +But even as he passed, four shadows detached themselves from the tall +stove, resolved themselves into armed men, and sprang after him. + +He heard them, wheeled about, flung off his cloak, and disengaged his +sword, all with the speed of lightning and the address of the man who +for ten years had walked amid perils, and learned to depend upon his +blade. That swift action sealed his doom. Their orders were to take him +living or dead, and standing in awe of his repute, they were not the +men to incur risks. Even as he came on guard, a partisan grazed his +head, and another opened his breast. + +He went down, coughing and gasping, blood dabbling his bright golden +hair, and staining the priceless Mechlin at his throat, yet his right +hand still desperately clutching his useless sword. + +His assassins stood about him, their partisans levelled to strike +again, and summoned him to yield. Then, beside one of them, he suddenly +beheld the Countess von Platen materializing out of the surrounding +shadows as it seemed, and behind her the squat, ungraceful figure of +the Elector. He fought for breath. “I am slain,” he gasped, “and as I +am to appear before my Maker I swear to you that the Princess Sophia is +innocent. Spare her at least, your Highness.” + +“Innocent!” said the Elector hoarsely. “Then what did you now in her +apartments? + +“It was a trap set for us by this foul hag, who...” + +The heel of the vindictive harridan ground viciously upon the lips of +the dying man and choked his utterance. Thereafter the halberts +finished him off, and he was buried there and then, in lime, under the +floor of the Hall of Knights, under the very spot where he had fallen, +which was long to remain imbrued with his blood. + +Thus miserably perished the glittering Königsmark, a martyr to his own +irrepressible romanticism. + +As for Sophia, better might it have been for her had she shared his +fate that night. She was placed under arrest next morning, and Prince +George was summoned back from Berlin at once. + +The evidence may have satisfied him that his honour had not suffered, +for he was disposed to let the matter drop, content that they should +remain in the forbidding relations which had existed between them +before this happening. But Sophia was uncompromising in her demand for +strict justice. + +“If I am guilty, I am unworthy of you,” she told him. “If innocent, you +are unworthy of me.” + +There was no more to be said. A consistory court was assembled to +divorce them. But since with the best intentions there was no faintest +evidence of her adultery, this court had to be content to pronounce the +divorce upon the ground of her desertion. + +She protested against the iniquity of this. But she protested in vain. +She was carried off into the grim captivity of a castle on the Ahlen, +to drag out in that melancholy duress another thirty-two years of life. + +Her death took place in November of 1726. And the story runs that on +her death-bed she delivered to a person of trust a letter to her +sometime husband, now King George I. of England. Seven months later, as +King George was on his way to his beloved Hanover, that letter was +placed in his carriage as it crossed the frontier into Germany. It +contained Sophia’s dying declaration of innocence, and her solemn +summons to King George to stand by her side before the judgment-seat of +Heaven within a year, and there make answer in her presence for the +wrongs he had done her, for her blighted life and her miserable death. + +King George’s answer to that summons was immediate. The reading of that +letter brought on the apoplectic seizure of which he died in his +carriage next day—the 9th of June, 1727—on the road to Osnabruck. + + + + +XI. THE TYRANNICIDE + +Charlotte Corday and Jean Paul Morat + + +Tyrannicide was the term applied to her deed by Adam Lux, her lover in +the sublimest and most spiritual sense of the word—for he never so much +as spoke to her, and she never so much as knew of his existence. + +The sudden spiritual passion which inflamed him when he beheld her in +the tumbril on her way to the scaffold is a fitting corollary to her +action. She in her way and he in his were alike sublime; her tranquil +martyrdom upon the altar of Republicanism and his exultant martyrdom +upon the altar of Love were alike splendidly futile. + +It is surely the strangest love-story enshrined in history. It has its +pathos, yet leaves no regrets behind, for there is no might-have-been +which death had thwarted. Because she died, he loved her; because he +loved her, he died. That is all, but for the details which I am now to +give you. + +The convent-bred Marie Charlotte Corday d’Armont was the daughter of a +landless squire of Normandy, a member of the _chétive noblesse_, a man +of gentle birth, whose sadly reduced fortune may have predisposed him +against the law of entail or primogeniture—the prime cause of the +inequality out of which were sprung so many of the evils that afflicted +France. Like many of his order and condition he was among the earliest +converts to Republicanism—the pure, ideal republicanism, demanding +constitutional government of the people by the people, holding +monarchical and aristocratic rule an effete and parasitic anachronism. + +From M. de Corday Charlotte absorbed the lofty Republican doctrines to +which anon she was to sacrifice her life; and she rejoiced when the +hour of awakening sounded and the children of France rose up and +snapped the fetters in which they had been trammelled for centuries by +an insolent minority of their fellow-countrymen. + +In the early violence of the revolution she thought she saw a transient +phase—horrible, but inevitable in the dread convulsion of that +awakening. Soon this would pass, and the sane, ideal government of her +dreams would follow—must follow, since among the people’s elected +representatives was a goodly number of unselfish, single-minded men of +her father’s class of life; men of breeding and education, impelled by +a lofty altruistic patriotism; men who gradually came to form a party +presently to be known as the Girondins. + +But the formation of one party argues the formation of at least +another. And this other in the National Assembly was that of the +Jacobins, less pure of motive, less restrained in deed, a party in +which stood pre-eminent such ruthless, uncompromising men as +Robespierre, Danton,—and Marat. + +Where the Girondins stood for Republicanism, the Jacobins stood for +Anarchy. War was declared between the two. The Girondins arraigned +Marat and Robespierre for complicity in the September massacres, and +thereby precipitated their own fall. The triumphant acquittal of Marat +was the prelude to the ruin of the Girondins, and the proscription of +twenty-nine deputies followed at once as the first step. These fled +into the country, hoping to raise an army that should yet save France, +and several of the fugitives made their way to Caen. Thence by +pamphlets and oratory they laboured to arouse true Republican +enthusiasm. They were gifted, able men, eloquent speakers and skilled +writers, and they might have succeeded but that in Paris sat another +man no less gifted, and with surer knowledge of the temper of the +proletariat, tirelessly wielding a vitriolic pen, skilled in the art of +inflaming the passions of the mob. + +That man was Jean Paul Marat, sometime medical practitioner, sometime +professor of literature, a graduate of the Scottish University of St. +Andrews, author of some scientific and many sociological works, +inveterate pamphleteer and revolutionary journalist, proprietor and +editor of L’Ami du Peuple, and idol of the Parisian rabble, who had +bestowed upon him the name borne by his gazette, so that he was known +as The People’s Friend. + +Such was the foe of the Girondins, and of the pure, altruistic, Utopian +Republicanism for which they stood; and whilst he lived and laboured, +their own endeavours to influence the people were all in vain. From his +vile lodging in the Rue de l’Ecole de Médecine in Paris he spun with +his clever, wicked pen a web that paralysed their high endeavours and +threatened finally to choke them. + +He was not alone, of course. He was one of the dread triumvirate in +which Danton and Robespierre were his associates. But to the Girondins +he appeared by far the most formidable and ruthless and implacable of +the three, whilst to Charlotte Corday—the friend and associate now of +the proscribed Girondins who had sought refuge in Caen—he loomed so +vast and terrible as to eclipse his associates entirely. To her young +mind, inflamed with enthusiasm for the religion of Liberty as preached +by the Girondins, Marat was a loathly, dangerous heresiarch, +threatening to corrupt that sublime new faith with false, anarchical +doctrine, and to replace the tyranny that had been overthrown by a +tyranny more odious still. + +She witnessed in Caen the failure of the Girondin attempt to raise an +army with which to deliver Paris from the foul clutches of the +Jacobins. An anguished spectator of this failure, she saw in it a sign +that Liberty was being strangled at its birth. On the lips of her +friends the Girondins she caught again the name of Marat, the murderer +of Liberty; and, brooding, she reached a conclusion embodied in a +phrase of a letter which she wrote about that time. + +“As long as Marat lives there will never be any safety for the friends +of law and humanity.” + +From that negative conclusion to its positive, logical equivalent it +was but a step. That step she took. She may have considered awhile the +proposition thus presented to her, or resolve may have come to her with +realization. She understood that a great sacrifice was necessary; that +who undertook to rid France of that unclean monster must go prepared +for self-immolation. She counted the cost calmly and soberly—for calm +and sober was now her every act. + +She made her packages, and set out one morning by the Paris coach from +Caen, leaving a note for her father, in which she had written: + +“I am going to England, because I do not believe that it will be +possible for a long time to live happily and tranquilly in France. On +leaving I post this letter to you. When you receive it I shall no +longer be here. Heaven denied us the happiness of living together, as +it has denied us other happinesses. May it show itself more clement to +our country. Good-by, dear Father. Embrace my sister for me, and do not +forget me.” + +That was all. The fiction that she was going to England was intended to +save him pain. For she had so laid her plans that her identity should +remain undisclosed. She would seek Marat in the very Hall of the +Convention, and publicly slay him in his seat. Thus Paris should behold +Nemesis overtaking the false Republican in the very Assembly which he +corrupted, and anon should adduce a moral from the spectacle of the +monster’s death. For herself she counted upon instant destruction at +the hands of the furious spectators. Thus, thinking to die +unidentified, she trusted that her father, hearing, as all France must +hear, the great tidings that Marat was dead, would never connect her +with the instrument of Fate shattered by the fury of the mob. + +You realize, then, how great and how terrible was the purpose of this +maid of twenty-five, who so demurely took her seat in the Paris +diligence on that July morning of the Year 2 of the Republic—1793, old +style. She was becomingly dressed in brown cloth, a lace fichu folded +across her well-developed breast, a conical hat above her light brown +hair. She was of a good height and finely proportioned, and her +carriage as full of dignity as of grace. Her skin was of such white +loveliness that a contemporary compares it with the lily. Like Athene, +she was gray-eyed, and, like Athene, noble-featured, the oval of her +face squaring a little at the chin, in which there was a cleft. Calm +was her habit, calm her slow-moving eyes, calm and deliberate her +movements, and calm the mind reflected in all this. + +And as the heavy diligence trundles out of Caen and takes the open +country and the Paris road, not even the thought of the errand upon +which she goes, of her death-dealing and death-receiving mission, can +shake that normal calm. Here is no wild exaltation, no hysterical +obedience to hotly-conceived impulse. Here is purpose, as cold as it is +lofty, to liberate France and pay with her life for the privilege of +doing so. + +That lover of hers, whom we are presently to see, has compared her +ineptly with Joan of Arc, that other maid of France. But Joan moved +with pomp in a gorgeous pageantry, amid acclamations, sustained by the +heady wine of combat and of enthusiasm openly indulged, towards a goal +of triumph. Charlotte travelled quietly in the stuffy diligence with +the quiet conviction that her days were numbered. + +So normal did she appear to her travelling companions, that one among +them, with an eye for beauty, pestered her with amorous attentions, and +actually proposed marriage to her before the coach had rolled over the +bridge of Neuilly into Paris two days later. + +She repaired to the Providence Inn in the Rue des Vieux Augustine, +where she engaged a room on the first floor, and then she set out in +quest of the Deputy Duperret. She had a letter of introduction to him +from the Girondin Barbaroux, with whom she had been on friendly terms +at Caen. Duperret was to assist her to obtain an interview with the +Minister of the Interior. She had undertaken to see the latter on the +subject of certain papers relating to the affairs of a nun of Caen, an +old convent friend of her own, and she was in haste to discharge this +errand, so as to be free for the great task upon which she was come. + +From inquiries that she made, she learnt at once that Marat was ill, +and confined to his house. This rendered necessary a change of plans, +and the relinquishing of her project of affording him a spectacular +death in the crowded hall of the Convention. + +The next day, which was Friday, she devoted to furthering the business +of her friend the nun. On Saturday morning she rose early, and by six +o’clock she was walking in the cool gardens of the Palais Royal, +considering with that almost unnatural calm of hers the ways and means +of accomplishing her purpose in the unexpected conditions that she +found. + +Towards eight o’clock, when Paris was awakening to the business of the +day and taking down its shutters, she entered a cutler’s shop in the +Palais Royal, and bought for two francs a stout kitchen knife in a +shagreen case. She then returned to her hotel to breakfast, and +afterwards, dressed in her brown travelling-gown and conical hat, she +went forth again, and, hailing a hackney carriage, drove to Marat’s +house in the Rue de l’Ecole de Médecine. + +But admittance to that squalid dwelling was denied her. The Citizen +Marat was ill, she was told, and could receive no visitors. It was +Simonne Everard, the triumvir’s mistress—later to be known as the Widow +Marat—who barred her ingress with this message. + +Checked, she drove back to the Providence Inn and wrote a letter to the +triumvir: + +“_Paris, 13th July, Year 2 of the Republic_. + +“Citizen,—I have arrived from Caen. Your love for your country leads me +to assume that you will be anxious to hear of the unfortunate events +which are taking place in that part of the Republic. I shall therefore +call upon you towards one o’clock. Have the kindness to receive me, and +accord me a moment’s audience. I shall put you in the way of rendering +a great service to France. + +“Marie Corday.” + +Having dispatched that letter to Marat, she sat until late afternoon +waiting vainly for an answer. Despairing at last of receiving any, she +wrote a second note, more peremptory in tone: + +“I wrote to you this morning, Marat. Have you received my letter? May I +hope for a moment’s audience? If you have received my letter, I hope +you will not refuse me, considering the importance of the matter. It +should suffice for you that I am very unfortunate to give me the right +to your protection.” + +Having changed into a gray-striped dimity gown—you observe this further +manifestation of a calm so complete that it admits of no departure from +the ordinary habits of life—she goes forth to deliver in person this +second letter, the knife concealed in the folds of the muslin fichu +crossed high upon her breast. + +In a mean, brick-paved, ill-lighted, and almost unfurnished room of +that house in the Rue de l’Ecole de Médecine, the People’s Friend is +seated in a bath. It is no instinct of cleanliness he is obeying, for +in all France there is no man more filthy in his person and his habits +than this triumvir. His bath is medicated. The horrible, loathsome +disease that corrodes his flesh demands these long immersions to quiet +the gnawing pains which distract his active, restless mind. In these +baths he can benumb the torment of the body with which he is +encumbered. + +For Marat is an intellect, and nothing more—leastways, nothing more +that matters. What else there is to him of trunk and limbs and organs +he has neglected until it has all fallen into decay. His very lack of +personal cleanliness, the squalor in which he lives, the insufficient +sleep which he allows himself, his habit of careless feeding at +irregular intervals, all have their source in his contempt for the +physical part of him. This talented man of varied attainments, +accomplished linguist, skilled physician, able naturalist and profound +psychologist, lives in his intellect alone, impatient of all physical +interruptions. If he consents to these immersions, if he spends whole +days seated in this medicated bath, it is solely because it quenches or +cools the fires that are devouring him, and thus permits him to bend +his mind to the work that is his life. But his long-suffering body is +avenging upon the mind the neglect to which it has been submitted. The +morbid condition of the former is being communicated to the latter, +whence results that disconcerting admixture of cold, cynical cruelty +and exalted sensibility which marked his nature in the closing years of +his life. + +In his bath, then, sat the People’s Friend on that July evening, +immersed to the hips, his head swathed in a filthy turban, his +emaciated body cased in a sleeveless waistcoat. He is fifty years of +age, dying of consumption and other things, so that, did Charlotte but +know it, there is no need to murder him. Disease and Death have marked +him for their own, and grow impatient. + +A board covering the bath served him for writing-table; an empty wooden +box at his side bore an inkstand, some pens, sheets of paper, and two +or three copies of L’Ami do Peuple. There was no sound in the room but +the scratch and splutter of his quill. He was writing diligently, +revising and editing a proof of the forthcoming issue of his paper. + +A noise of voices raised in the outer room invaded the quiet in which +he was at work, and gradually penetrated his absorption, until it +disturbed and irritated him. He moved restlessly in his bath, listened +a moment, then, with intent to make an end of the interruption, he +raised a hoarse, croaking voice to inquire what might be taking place. + +The door opened, and Simonne, his mistress and household drudge, +entered the room. She was fully twenty years younger than himself, and +under the slattern appearance which life in that house had imposed upon +her there were vestiges of a certain comeliness. + +“There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands insistently to see +you upon a matter of national importance.” + +The dull eyes kindle at the mention of Caen; interest quickens in that +leaden-hued countenance. Was it not in Caen that those old foes of his, +the Girondins, were stirring up rebellion? + +“She says,” Simonne continued, “that she wrote a letter to you this +morning, and she brings you a second note herself. I have told her that +you will not receive anyone, and...” + +“Give me the note,” he snapped. Setting down his pen, he thrust out an +unclean paw to snatch the folded sheet from Simonne’s hand. He spread +it, and read, his bloodless lips compressed, his eyes narrowing to +slits. + +“Let her in,” he commanded sharply, and Simonne obeyed him without more +ado. She admitted Charlotte, and left them alone together—the avenger +and her victim. For a moment each regarded the other. Marat beheld a +handsome young woman, elegantly attired. But these things had no +interest for the People’s Friend. What to him was woman and the lure of +beauty? Charlotte beheld a feeble man of a repulsive hideousness, and +was full satisfied, for in this outward loathsomeness she imagined a +confirmation of the vileness of the mind she was come to blot out. + +Then Marat spoke. “So you are from Caen, child?” he said. “And what is +doing in Caen that makes you so anxious to see me?” + +She approached him. + +“Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat.” + +“Rebellion, ha!” It was a sound between a laugh and a croak. “Tell me +what deputies are sheltered in Caen. Come, child, their names.” He took +up and dipped his quill, and drew a sheet of paper towards him. + +She approached still nearer; she came to stand close beside him, erect +and calm. She recited the names of her friends, the Girondins, whilst +hunched there in his bath his pen scratched briskly. + +“So many for the guillotine,” he snarled, when it was done. + +But whilst he was writing, she had drawn the knife from her fichu, and +as he uttered those words of doom to others his own doom descended upon +him in a lightning stroke. Straight driven by that strong young arm, +the long, stout blade was buried to its black hilt in his breast. + +He looked at her with eyes in which there was a faint surprise as he +sank back. Then he raised his voice for the last time. + +“Help, chére amie! Help!” he cried, and was for ever silent. + +The hand still grasping the pen trailed on the ground beside the bath +at the end of his long, emaciated arm. His body sank sideways in the +same direction, the head lolling nervelessly upon his right shoulder, +whilst from the great rent in his breast the blood gushed forth, +embruing the water of his bath, trickling to the brick-paved floor, +bespattering—symbolically almost—a copy of L’Ami du Peuple, the journal +to which he had devoted so much of his uneasy life. + +In answer to that cry of his came now Simonne in haste. A glance +sufficed to reveal to her the horrible event, and, like a tigress, she +sprang upon the unresisting slayer, seizing her by the head, and +calling loudly the while for assistance. Came instantly from the +anteroom Jeanne, the old cook, the Fortress of the house, and Laurent +Basse, a folder of Marat’s paper; and now Charlotte found herself +confronted by four maddened, vociferous beings, at whose hands she may +well have expected to receive the death for which she was prepared. + +Laurent, indeed, snatched up a chair, and felled her by a blow of it +across her head. He would, no doubt, have proceeded in his fury to have +battered her to death, but for the arrival of _gens d’armes_ and the +police commissioner of the district, who took her in their protecting +charge. + +The soul of Paris was convulsed by the tragedy when it became known. +All night terror and confusion were abroad. All night the revolutionary +rabble, in angry grief, surged about and kept watch upon the house +wherein the People’s Friend lay dead. + +That night, and for two days and nights thereafter, Charlotte Corday +lay in the Prison of the Abbaye, supporting with fortitude the +indignities that for a woman were almost inseparable from revolutionary +incarceration. She preserved throughout her imperturbable calm, based +now upon a state of mind content in the contemplation of accomplished +purpose, duty done. She had saved France, she believed; saved Liberty, +by slaying the man who would have strangled it. In that illusion she +was content. Her own life was a small price to pay for the splendid +achievement. + +Some of her time of waiting she spent in writing letters to her +friends, in which tranquilly and sanely she dwelt upon what she had +done, expounding fully the motives that had impelled her, dwelling upon +the details of the execution, and of all that had followed. Among the +letters written by her during those “days of the preparation of peace +“—as she calls that period, dating in such terms a long epistle to +Barbaroux—was one to the Committee of Public Safety, in which she begs +that a miniature-painter may be sent to her to paint her portrait, so +that she may leave this token of remembrance to her friends. It is only +in this, as the end approaches, that we see in her conduct any thought +for her own self, any suggestion that she is anything more than a +instrument in the hands of Fate. + +On the 15th, at eight o’clock in the morning, her trial began before +the Revolutionary Tribunal. A murmur ran through the hall as she +appeared in her gown of grey-striped dimity, composed and calm—always +calm. + +The trial opened with the examination of witnesses; into that of the +cutler, who had sold her the knife, she broke impatiently. + +“These details are a waste of time. It is I who killed Marat.” + +The audience gasped, and rumbled ominously. Montane turned to examine +her. + +“What was the object of your visit to Paris?” he asks. + +“To kill Marat.” + +“What motives induced you to this horrible deed?” + +“His many crimes.” + +“Of what crimes do you accuse him?” + +“That he instigated the massacre of September; that he kept alive the +fires of civil war, so that he might be elected dictator; that he +sought to infringe upon the sovereignty of the People by causing the +arrest and imprisonment of the deputies to the Convention on May 31st.” + +“What proof have you of this?” + +“The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs behind a mask +of patriotism.” + +Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory. + +“Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act?” + +“I have none.” + +Montane shook his head. “You cannot convince anyone that a person of +your age and sex could have conceived such a crime unless instigated by +some person or persons whom you are unwilling to name.” + +Charlotte almost smiled. “That shows but a poor knowledge of the human +heart. It is easier to carry out such a project upon the strength of +one’s own hatred than upon that of others.” And then, raising her +voice, she proclaimed: “I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; I +killed a villain to save innocents; I killed a savage wild-beast to +give repose to France. I was a Republican before the Revolution. I +never lacked for energy.” + +What more was there to say? Her guilt was completely established. Her +fearless self-obssession was not to be ruffled. Yet Fouquier-Tinville, +the dread prosecutor, made the attempt. Beholding her so virginal and +fair and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had the best +of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary filth to restore the +balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety eyes upon her. + +“How many children have you had?” he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur, +an insult. + +Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, +as she answered coldly: + +“Have I not stated that I am not married?” + +A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the impression +he sought to convey, and he sat down again. + +It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed to +defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had been +intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering him to +remain silent, another from the President bidding him declare her mad. + +Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable; it +satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his client. It +uttered the whole truth. + +“The prisoner,” he said, “confesses with calm the horrible crime she +has committed; she confesses with calm its premeditation; she confesses +its most dreadful details; in short, she confesses everything, and does +not seek to justify herself. That, citizens of the jury, is her whole +defence. This imperturbable calm, this utter abnegation of self, which +displays no remorse even in the very presence of death, are contrary to +nature. They can only be explained by the excitement of political +fanaticism which armed her hand. It is for you, citizens of the jury, +to judge what weight that moral consideration should have in the scales +of justice.” + +The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand the full +sentence of the law. + +It was the end. She was removed to the Conciergerie, the antechamber of +the guillotine. A constitutional priest was sent to her, but she +dismissed him with thanks, not requiring his ministrations. She +preferred the painter Hauer, who had received the Revolutionary +Tribunal’s permission to paint her portrait in accordance with her +request. And during the sitting, which lasted half an hour, she +conversed with him quietly on ordinary topics, the tranquillity of her +spirit unruffled by any fear of the death that was so swiftly +approaching. + +The door opened, and Sanson, the public executioner, came in. He +carried the red smock worn by those convicted of assassination. She +showed no dismay; no more, indeed, than a faint surprise that the time +spent with Hauer should have gone so quickly. She begged for a few +moments in which to write a note, and, the request being granted, +acquitted herself briskly of that task, then announcing herself ready, +she removed her cap that Sanson might cut her luxuriant hair. Yet +first, taking his scissors, she herself cut off a lock and gave it to +Hauer for remembrance. When Sanson would have bound her hands, she +begged that she might be allowed to wear gloves, as her wrists were +bruised and cut by the cord with which she had been pinioned in Marat’s +house. He answered that she might do so if she wished, but that it was +unnecessary, as he could bind her without causing pain. + +“To be sure,” she said, “those others had not your experience,” and she +proffered her bare wrists to his cord without further demur. “If this +toilet of death is performed by rude hands,” she commented, “at least +it leads to immortality.” + +She mounted the tumbril awaiting in the prison yard, and, disdaining +the chair offered her by Sanson, remained standing, to show herself +dauntless to the mob and brave its rage. And fierce was that rage, +indeed. So densely thronged were the streets that the tumbril proceeded +at a crawl, and the people surging about the cart screamed death and +insult at the doomed woman. It took two hours to reach the Place de la +Révolution, and meanwhile a terrific summer thunderstorm had broken +over Paris, and a torrential rain had descended upon the densely packed +streets. Charlotte’s garments were soaked through and through, so that +her red smock, becoming glued now to her body and fitting her like a +skin, threw into relief its sculptural beauty, whilst a reflection of +the vivid crimson of the garment faintly tinged her cheeks, and thus +heightened her appearance of complete composure. + +And it is now in the Rue St. Honoré that at long last we reach the +opening of our tragic love-story. + +A tall, slim, fair young man, named Adam Lux—sent to Paris by the city +of Mayence as Deputy Extraordinary to the National Convention—was +standing there in the howling press of spectators. He was an +accomplished, learned young gentleman, doctor at once of philosophy and +of medicine, although in the latter capacity he had never practiced +owing to an extreme sensibility of nature, which rendered anatomical +work repugnant to him. He was a man of a rather exalted imagination, +unhappily married—the not uncommon fate of such delicate +temperaments—and now living apart from his wife. He had heard, as all +Paris had heard, every detail of the affair, and of the trial, and he +waited there, curious to see this woman, with whose deed he was +secretly in sympathy. + +The tumbril slowly approached, the groans and execrations swelled up +around him, and at last he beheld her—beautiful, serene, full of life, +a still smile upon her lips. For a long moment he gazed upon her, +standing as if stricken into stone. Then heedless of those about him, +he bared his head, and thus silently saluted and paid homage to her. +She did not see him. He had not thought that she would. He saluted her +as the devout salute the unresponsive image of a saint. The tumbril +crawled on. He turned his head, and followed her with his eyes for +awhile; then, driving his elbows into the ribs of those about him, he +clove himself a passage through the throng, and so followed, +bare-headed now, with fixed gaze, a man entranced. + +He was at the foot of the scaffold when her head fell. To the last he +had seen that noble countenance preserve its immutable calm, and in the +hush that followed the sibilant fall of the great knife his voice +suddenly rang out. + +“She is greater than Brutus!” was his cry; and he added, addressing +those who stared at him in stupefaction: “It were beautiful to have +died with her!” + +He was suffered to depart unmolested. Chiefly, perhaps because at that +moment the attention of the crowd was upon the executioner’s attendant, +who, in holding up Charlotte’s truncated head, slapped the cheek with +his hand. The story runs that the dead face reddened under the blow. +Scientists of the day disputed over this, some arguing from it a proof +that consciousness does not at once depart the brain upon decapitation. + +That night, while Paris slept, its walls were secretly placarded with +copies of a eulogy of Charlotte Corday, the martyr of Republicanism, +the deliverer of France, in which occurs the comparison with Joan of +Arc, that other great heroine of France. This was the work of Adam Lux. +He made no secret of it. The vision of her had so wrought upon the +imagination of this susceptible dreamer, had fired his spirit with such +enthusiasm, that he was utterly reckless in yielding to his emotions, +in expressing the phrenetic, immaterial love with which in her last +moments of life she had inspired him. + +Two days after her execution he issued a long manifesto, in which he +urged the purity of her motive as the fullest justification of her act, +placed her on the level of Brutus and Cato, and passionately demanded +for her the honour and veneration of posterity. It is in this manifesto +that he applies euphemistically to her deed the term “tyrannicide.” +That document he boldly signed with his own name, realizing that he +would pay for that temerity with his life. + +He was arrested on the 24th of July—exactly a week from the day on +which he had seen her die. He had powerful friends, and they exerted +themselves to obtain for him a promise of pardon and release if he +would publicly retract what he had written. But he laughed the proposal +to scorn, ardently resolved to follow into death the woman who had +aroused the hopeless, immaterial love that made his present torment. + +Still his friends strove for him. His trial was put off. A doctor named +Wetekind was found to testify that Adam Lux was mad, that the sight of +Charlotte Corday had turned his head. He wrote a paper on this plea, +recommending that clemency be shown to the young doctor on the score of +his affliction, and that he should be sent to a hospital or to America. +Adam Lux was angry when he heard of this, and protested indignantly +against the allegations of Dr. Wetekind. He wrote to the Journal de la +Montagne, which published his declaration on the 26th of September, to +the effect that he was not mad enough to desire to live, and that his +anxiety to meet death half-way was a crowning proof of his sanity. + +He languished on in the prison of La Force until the 10th of October, +when at last he was brought to trial. He stood it joyously, in a mood +of exultation at his approaching deliverance. He assured the court that +he did not fear the guillotine, and that all ignominy had been removed +from such a death by the pure blood of Charlotte. + +They sentenced him to death, and he thanked them for the boon. + +“Forgive me, sublime Charlotte,” he exclaimed, “if I should find it +impossible to exhibit at the last the courage and gentleness that were +yours. I glory in your superiority, for it is right that the adored +should be above the adorer.” + +Yet his courage did not fail him. Far from it, indeed; if hers had been +a mood of gentle calm, his was one of ecstatic exaltation. At five +o’clock that same afternoon he stepped from the tumbril under the gaunt +shadow of the guillotine. He turned to the people, his eyes bright, a +flush on his cheeks. + +“At last I am to have the happiness of dying for Charlotte,” he told +them, and mounted the scaffold with the eager step of the bridegroom on +his way to the nuptial altar. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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