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diff --git a/7949-h/7949-h.htm b/7949-h/7949-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c7a091 --- /dev/null +++ b/7949-h/7949-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11074 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Historical Nights’ Entertainment, Second Series, by Rafael Sabatini</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series, by Rafael Sabatini</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Rafael Sabatini</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 4, 2003 [eBook #7949]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 8, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: J. C. Byers, Abdulh Ameed Alhassan and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES ***</div> +<h1>THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Rafael Sabatini</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +To David Whitelaw +</p> + +<p> +My Dear David, +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sincerely yours, +</p> + +<p> +Rafael Sabatini +</p> + +<p> +London, June, 1919. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00">Preface</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. THE ABSOLUTION</a><br/> + Affonso Henriques, First King of Portugal</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS</a><br/> + Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of Ivan the Terrible</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. THE HERMOSA FEMBRA</a><br/> + An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. THE PASTRY-COOK OF MADRIGAL</a><br/> + The Story of the False Sebastian of Portugal</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. THE END OF THE “VERT GALANT”</a><br/> + The Assassination of Henry IV</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. THE BARREN WOOING</a><br/> + The Murder of Amy Robsart</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. SIR JUDAS</a><br/> + The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. HIS INSOLENCE OF BUCKINGHAM</a><br/> + George Villiers’ Courtship of Anne of Austria</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. THE PATH OF EXILE</a><br/> + The Fall of Lord Clarendon</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. THE TRAGEDY OF HERRENHAUSEN</a><br/> + Count Philip Königsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. THE TYRANNICIDE</a><br/> + Charlotte Corday and Jean Paul Marat</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a> +Preface</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In the case of “The <i>Hermosa Fembra</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +R. S. +</p> + +<p> +London, June, 1919. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a> +I. THE ABSOLUTION</h2> + +<h3>Aftonso Henriques, first King of Portugal</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +That is the first chapter of the history of Portugal. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I raised you from the dust.” Thunder was rumbling in the prince’s voice. +“Myself I placed the episcopal ring upon your finger.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The prince considered him in silence, mastering his passionate, impetuous +nature. “Go,” he growled at last. +</p> + +<p> +The prelate bowed his head, his eyes not daring to meet his prince’s. +</p> + +<p> +“God keep you, lord,” he almost sobbed, and so went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Affonso Henriques wasted no words. +</p> + +<p> +“I have summoned you,” he announced, “to command that you proceed to the +election of a bishop.” +</p> + +<p> +A rustle stirred through the priestly throng. The canons looked askance at the +prince and at one another. Then one of them spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Habemus episcopum,” he said gravely, and several instantly made chorus: “We +have a bishop.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +They stood before him, silent and impassive, in their priestly dignity, and in +their assurance that the law was on their side. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” the boy growled at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Habemus episcopum,” droned a voice again. +</p> + +<p> +“Amen,” boomed in chorus through the cloisters. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord,” he was answered coldly by one of them, “no such election is possible or +lawful.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” he asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am called Zuleyman, lord,” he was answered, and the name confirmed—where, +indeed, no confirmation was necessary—the fellow’s Moorish origin. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah no, my lord! Ah no!” Don Zuleyman was faltering. “Not that!” +</p> + +<p> +The prospect terrified him, and in his agitation he had recourse to Latin. +“Domine, non sum dignus,” he cried, and beat his breast. +</p> + +<p> +But the uncompromising Affonso Henriques gave him back Latin for Latin. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“By the bones of St. James!” he cried. “A prince is not to be brow-beaten by a +priest.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Cardinal,” he greeted the legate, “be welcome to my land of Portugal.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The mockery of it stung the legate sharply. His sallow, ascetic face empurpled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is that all?” quoth the boy, in a voice dangerously quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the prelate was obstinate and proud. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not the answer that our Holy Father awaits.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the answer that I send.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Exasperated, Affonso Henriques bounded to his feet, his face livid now with +passion, his eyes ablaze. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God keep you, lord,” was his greeting, so lugubriously delivered as to sound +like a pious, but rather hopeless, wish. +</p> + +<p> +“And you, Emigio,” answered him the Infante. “You are early astir. What is the +cause?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tidings, lord.” He crossed the room, unlatched and flung wide a window. +“Listen,” he bade the prince. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean?” he asked, and thrust a sinewy leg from the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he groaned, and asked: “What must I do?” +</p> + +<p> +Moniz was preternaturally grave. “It is of the first importance that the people +should be pacified.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A red flush swept into the young cheeks that had been so pale. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to that voice,” Emigio answered him, and waved a hand to the open +window. “How else will you silence it?” +</p> + +<p> +Affonso Henriques sat down on the edge of the bed, and took his head in his +hands. He was checkmated—and yet.... +</p> + +<p> +He rose and beat his hands together, summoning chamberlain and pages to help +him dress and arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the legate lodged?” he asked Moniz. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came they to open for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“His office, lord, is a key that opens all doors at any hour of day or night. +They dared not detain or delay him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He reined in his horse, and standing in his stirrups very tall and virile, he +addressed them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, my lord,” he cried, fearfully. “What is your purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips curled in a smile that was +not altogether sweet. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped that you would come after me, my son,” he said. “If you come a +penitent, then has my prayer been heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“A penitent!” cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed wickedly, and plucked his +dagger from its sheath. +</p> + +<p> +Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his prince’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” he cried in a voice that shook, “you will not strike the Lord’s +anointed—that were to destroy yourself for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The cardinal’s smile had changed from one of benignity to one of guile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Infante considered him. Slowly he sheathed his dagger, smiling a little. +Then he beat his hands together. His men-at-arms came in. +</p> + +<p> +“Seize me those two Roman whelps,” he commanded, and pointed to Giannino and +Pierlulgi. “Seize them, and make them fast. About it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Prince!” cried the legate in a voice of appeal, wherein fear and anger +trembled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Affonso Henriques, unmoved, pointed through the window to a stalwart oak that +stood before the inn. +</p> + +<p> +“Take them out there, and hang them unshriven,” he commanded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The two comely Italian youths were dragged out writhing in their captors’ +hands. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What mercy do you practice, you who preach a gospel of mercy in the world, and +cry for mercy now?” the Infante asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Swift into that opening flashed the home-thrust of the Infante’s answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Cardinal, you must absolve my people.” +</p> + +<p> +“If... if you will first make submission. My duty... to the Holy See... Oh God! +Will nothing move you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” he screamed. “Bid them stop! The curse shall be lifted.” +</p> + +<p> +Affonso Henriques opened the window with a leisureliness which to the legate +seemed to belong to the realm of nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it so,” the Cardinal answered hoarsely. “I will return with you to Coimbra +and do your will.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a> +II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS</h2> + +<h3>Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of Ivan the Terrible</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Find Prince Shuiski,” he said presently, “and send him to me here.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon the tale the boyar had brought him he offered now no comment. +</p> + +<p> +“We will talk of this again, Basmanov,” was all he said in acknowledgment that +he had heard, and in dismissal. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Long he stood there, and there he was found by the magnificent Prince Shuiski, +whom he had bidden Basmanov to summon. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a circumstantial tale,” she said. “It is perhaps true. It is probably +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“True!” He bounded from his seat. “True? What are you saying, woman? Yourself +you saw the boy dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, and I know who killed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. And added the question: “What do you want of me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think they will?” Interest had kindled in her glance. +</p> + +<p> +“What else? Are you not the mother of Demetrius, and shall not a mother know +her own son?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He swore a full round oath at her. “Because you saw him dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps...” He broke off to stare at her, mistrustfully, searchingly. “What do +you mean?” he asked her sharply. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You lie, you dog,” he snarled savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Highness, I swear...” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The brothers Nagoy, the uncles of the dead Demetrius...” Otrepiev was +beginning, when again Boris interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Highness!” cried Otrepiev, “I have served you faithfully these years.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Otrepiev spoke the whole truth at last in his great dread. “He is not my +nephew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not?” It was a roar of rage. “You dared lie to me?” +</p> + +<p> +Otrepiev’s knees were loosened by terror, and he went down upon them before the +irate Tsar. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then... then...” Boris was bewildered. Suddenly he understood. “And his +father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Was Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. Grishka Otrepiev is King Stephen’s +natural son.” +</p> + +<p> +Boris seemed to fight for breath for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He died firmly and fearlessly protesting that he was Demetrius Ivanovitch. +Nevertheless, he was Grishka Otrepiev, the unfrocked monk. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a> +III. THE HERMOSA FEMBRA</h2> + +<h3>An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Isabella, when will you marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a question you must ask my father,” she answered him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” said he, “to-morrow, on his return.” And he drew her down beside him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of muttering voices. It was her +father, and others with him. +</p> + +<p> +With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo, and breathed the question: +“If they should come here?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Came presently movements in the room beyond, and the voice of her father: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And then quite suddenly a silence fell, and on that silence beat the sharp, +clear voice of Diego de Susan addressing them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven protect us!” he gasped. “What Judaizing was this?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not? I heard treason enough to.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are not Jews—not one of them. Why, Perez is himself in holy orders. All +of them are Christians, and...” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With a passionate gesture of abhorrence he swung towards the door. Her clutch +upon his arm arrested him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Whither?” he echoed, and sought to shake her off. +</p> + +<p> +“Whither my Christian duty bids me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not considered that the deletion you intend will destroy my father,” +she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is my Christian duty to consider,” answered he, but without boldness +now. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. But there is something you must set against it. Have you no duty as a +lover—no duty to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No earthly duty can weigh against a spiritual obligation....” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Must I wrong my conscience?” he asked her sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I fear you must.” +</p> + +<p> +“Imperil my immortal soul?” He almost laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she faltered, “I come to implore your pity.” +</p> + +<p> +“No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity who stand myself in need +of pity, being a sinner—as are we all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” she exclaimed, “that he is a more fervent and pious +Christian—New-Christian though he be—than his accuser.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He confessed it?” she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly nodded. “Don +Rodrigo confessed?” she insisted, as will the incredulous. +</p> + +<p> +Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked: “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating slowly, ever on that +musing, incredulous note. “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?” +</p> + +<p> +“A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance. “A +Judaizer! Don Rodrigo? Oh, impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought you said he had confessed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, but... but not to that.” Her pale lips smiled, sadly contemptuous. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement. +</p> + +<p> +And then Torquemada spoke: “Do you say that Don Rodrigo de Cardona is a +Judaizer? Oh, it is unbelievable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then so you shall. It is your sacred duty, lest you become an abettor of +heresy, and yourself liable to the extreme penalty.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her greeting increased his surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,” she told him sadly. “You +will have heard what has befallen my father?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I... I heard of it an hour ago,” he lied a thought unsteadily. “I... I +commiserate you deeply.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly. Besides, he saw here a noble +opportunity worth surely some little risk. +</p> + +<p> +“Your only friend?” he asked her thickly. “Was there no one else? Is there no +one else, Isabella?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +“Not another word,” he begged her. “I honour you for what you did. It is I who +should sue to you for forgiveness.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very noble and generous, Don Rodrigo. God keep you!” And so she left +him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabella.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You love me, Rodrigo—in spite of all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Love you!” It was a throbbing, strangled cry, an almost inarticulate +ejaculation. “Better than life—better than salvation.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He held her very close. “What is this test, beloved?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is that I want this marriage knot so tied that it shall be indissoluble +save by death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, so do I,” quoth he, who had so much to gain. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused, and he was conscious of a premonitory chill upon his ardour. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” he asked her, and his voice was strained. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon the words, she felt his encircling arms turn limp, and relax their grip +upon her, whereupon she clung to him the more tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His face turned ghastly pale, his lips writhed and twitched, and beads of sweat +stood out upon his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he groaned. “What do you ask? I... I can’t. It were a desecration, a +defilement.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can be sure of that?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And so at last she yielded, and led him up to that bower of hers in which the +conspirators had met. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the Rabbi?” he asked impatiently, looking round that empty room. +</p> + +<p> +“I will summon him if you are quite sure that you desire him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure? Have I not protested enough? Can you still doubt me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he, fretted now by impatience, anxious to have this thing done and ended, +made answer hastily: +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +And then Don Rodrigo’s terror changed to wrath, and this exploded. He flung out +an arm towards Isabella in passionate denunciation. +</p> + +<p> +“It was that woman who bewitched and fooled and seduced me into this. It was a +trap she baited for my undoing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father! Hear me, I implore you!” He flung down upon his knees, and held out +shaking, supplicating hands. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a> +IV. THE PASTRY-COOK OF MADRIGAL</h2> + +<h3>The Story of the False Sebastian of Portugal</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +One day a sudden, wild thought filled her with a strange excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The lean, swarthy face of Frey Miguel grew pensive. He did not impatiently +scorn the suggestion as she had half-feared he would. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then... then...” +</p> + +<p> +Wistfully, he smiled. “A people will always believe what it wishes to believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you, yourself?” she pressed him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At length Frey Miguel seemed to resolve himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He met her dilating glance, noted the quivering of her parted lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What... what was the story?” She was trembling from head to foot. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then...” she was beginning. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God save your paternity,” was his greeting. +</p> + +<p> +“God save you, my son,” replied Frey Miguel, still pondering him. “I seem to +know you. Do I?” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger laughed. “Though all the world forget, your paternity should +remember me.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a pastry-cook.” +</p> + +<p> +“A pastry-cook? You?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly...” began the priest, and then he checked. “Where is your shop?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just down the street. Will your paternity honour me?” +</p> + +<p> +Frey Miguel bowed, and together they departed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say? Oh, what do you say?” she moaned, her eyes half-closed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here. Here in Madrigal.” +</p> + +<p> +“In Madrigal?” She was all amazement. “But why in Madrigal?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She crimsoned from brow to chin, then paled again; her bosom heaved in tumult. +Between dread and yearning she spoke a faint consent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hat in hand, he came forward, and went down on one knee before her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am here to receive your Excellency’s commands,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She steadied her shuddering knees and trembling lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you Gabriel de Espinosa, who has come to Madrigal to set up as a +pastry-cook?” she asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“To serve your Excellency.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then be welcome, though I am sure that the trade you least understand is that +of a pastry-cook.” +</p> + +<p> +The kneeling man bowed his handsome head, and fetched a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“If in the past I had better understood another trade, I should not now be +reduced to following this one.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The friar’s dark eyes scanned it and grew troubled. +</p> + +<p> +“It was to have been feared,” he said, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“There is but one remedy, lest worse follow and all be ruined. Don Sebastian +must go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go?” Fear robbed her of breath. “Go where?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She fought down her emotion. “I... I shall see him before he goes?” she begged. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The friar obeyed, and the lovers—they were no less by now—came face to face in +anguish. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, my lord,” she cried, casting all prudence to the winds, “what is +decided?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I leave in the morning,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“To go where?” She was distraught. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” He shrugged. “To Valladolid at first, and then... where God pleases.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when shall I see you again?” +</p> + +<p> +“When... when God pleases.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am terrified... if I should lose you... if I should never see you more!” +She was panting, distraught. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he signed it—after the manner of the Kings of Portugal in all ages—“El +Rey”—the King. +</p> + +<p> +“Will that content you, lady?” he pleaded, handing it to her. +</p> + +<p> +“How shall this scrawl content me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a bond I shall redeem as soon as Heaven will permit.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In whose service may you be now?” quoth the intrigued Gregorio, so soon as +greetings had passed between them. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is your present situation?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Enter my service,” said he, “and I will pay you fifty ducats down and four +ducats a month.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But didn’t you tell me when we were in Madrid together that you had been a +pastry-cook at Ocana?” burst from Gregorio. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at this beautiful lady, the most beautiful in Spain,” he bade them. “A +prince could not have a lovelier bride.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she is dressed as a nun,” the woman protested. “How, then, can she marry?” +</p> + +<p> +“For kings there are no laws,” he told her with finality. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Gabriel de Espinosa,” he answered firmly, “a pastry-cook of Madrigal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how come you by these jewels?” +</p> + +<p> +“They were given me by Dona Ana of Austria to sell for her account. That is the +business that has brought me to Valladolid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this Dona Ana’s portrait?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is.” +</p> + +<p> +“And this lock of hair? Is that also Dona Ana’s? And do you, then, pretend that +these were also given you to sell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why else should they be given me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Overpowered in body and in spirit, she surrendered the fragments and confessed +the letter her own. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why convey a poor pastry-cook with so much honour?” he asked his guards, +half-mockingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Don Rodrigo, restraining him, “that is not necessary for what is +intended.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The stern, dark face of the Alcalde was overspread by a grim smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If it were known who I am...” he would say, and there break off. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Than hers, as I have said, there is in history no sadder story. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a> +V. THE END OF THE “VERT GALANT”</h2> + +<h3>The Assassination of Henry IV</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Ventre St. Gris!</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Concini works to enrage the Queen against me, and to drive her to take violent +resolutions which might give colour to their pernicious designs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sire!” It was a cry of protest from Sully. +</p> + +<p> +Henry laughed grimly at his minister’s incredulity, and plucked forth the +letter from Vaucelas. +</p> + +<p> +“Read that.” +</p> + +<p> +Sully read, and, aghast at what the letter told him, ejaculated: “They must be +mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I infer?” quoth Sully, aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sire!” +</p> + +<p> +“What else? They plan events which cannot take place until I am dead.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sire,” he said at last, bowing his fine head, “you must take your measures.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Sully quietly placed the letter on the table, and sat down. He took his chin in +his hand and looked squarely across at Henry. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why suffer it, sire?” quoth Sully gravely. “Send the pair packing back to +Florence, and so be rid of them.” +</p> + +<p> +Henry rose in agitation. “I have a mind to. <i>Ventre St. Gris!</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +On that they parted, with a final injunction from Sully that Henry should see +the Princesse de Conde no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I never in my life,” says Bassompierre, who was present, “saw a man so +distracted or in so violent a passion.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha, Grand Master!” was Henry’s greeting, his voice harsh and strained. “What +do you say to this? What is to be done now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all, sire,” says Sully, as calm as his master was excited. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing! What sort of advice is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my friend,” he cried, “this coronation does not please me. My heart tells +me that some fatality will follow.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a thought, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Sully, overwhelmed, could only gasp and ejaculate. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I will send at once to Notre Dame and to St. Denis, to stop the +preparations and dismiss the workmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her take it as she will. I cannot believe that she will continue obstinate +when she knows what apprehensions you have of disaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Angered by this priestly insolence, Henry’s answer had been an impudently +defiant acknowledgment of the truth of that allegation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed for answer. “You have heard of the predictions of La Brosse,” said +he. “Bah! You should not attach credit to such nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +With a little gasping cough, Henry sank together, and blood gushed from his +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Nearing St. Innocent, the warning was repeated, this time by a gentleman named +du Jon, who stopped to mutter: +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur le Duc, our evil is without remedy. Look to yourself, for this +strange blow will have fearful consequences.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a> +VI. THE BARREN WOOING</h2> + +<h3>The Murder of Amy Robsart</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Out—let us go out, Robin. Let me have air,” she almost panted, as she drew him +on. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Robin, Robin!” was all she said, but in her voice throbbed a world of +passionate longing, an exquisite blend of delight and pain. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God’s Death, Robin!” There was a harsh note in the voice that lately had cooed +so softly. “You are strangely free, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not free, but enslaved—by love and worship of you. Would you deny me; +Would you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, but fate,” she answered heavily, and he knew that the woman at Cumnor +was in her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“When that is done, Robin?” she questioned almost fearfully, as if a sudden +dread suspicion broke upon her mind. “When what is done?” +</p> + +<p> +He paused a moment to choose his words, what time she stared intently into the +face that gleamed white in the surrounding gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“When that poor ailing spirit is at rest.” And he added: “It will be soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast said the same aforetime, Robin. Yet it has not so fallen out.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I never loved but once,” answered that perfect courtier. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to yield is to be swept away.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I trust thee, Robin? Can I trust thee? Answer me true!” she implored him, +adorably weak, entirely woman now. +</p> + +<p> +“What does your own heart answer you?” quoth he, loaning close above her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent lower, murmuring incoherently, and she put up a hand to pat his swarthy +bearded cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make thee greater than any man in England, so thou make me happier +than any woman.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The young face of the Queen hardened. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that he hears something more, what shall it signify?” quoth my lord, and +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“A wasting sickness,” he answered, never doubting to whom the question alluded. +</p> + +<p> +“You said, I think, that... that the end is very near.” +</p> + +<p> +He caught her meaning instantly. “Indeed, if she is not dead already, she is +very nearly so.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +To Sir Richard it was an easy guess, considering how much already he had been +about this business. He signified as much. +</p> + +<p> +My lord shifted in his elbow-chair, and drew his embroidered bedgown of yellow +satin closer about his shapely limbs. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d not have failed before, but for that suspicious dotard Bayley,” grumbled +Verney. “Your lordship bade me see that all was covered.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not fail you, my lord,” Sir Richard rashly promised, and on that they +parted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Old wives’ tales,” snorted Sir Richard. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard,” was her gracious greeting. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, we are private anywhere. I am all alone, as you desired.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very wise—most wise,” said he. “Will your ladyship lead the way?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your news, Sir Richard,” she besought him, her dove-like glance upon his +florid face—less florid now than was its wont. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What was that? Did you hear anything, my lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. What is it?” Her face betrayed alarm, her anxiety mounting under so much +mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord!” she interrupted, coming excitedly to her feet. “Lord Robert?” +</p> + +<p> +“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... +</p> + +<p> +“But do you say that he is here, man,” her voice shrilled up in excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He stood rooted there, his nether lip between his teeth, his face a ghastly +white, whilst she ran on. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +But that was not the end at all. Fate, the ironic interloper, had taken a hand +in this evil game. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She knit her brows. The wily Spaniard fenced so closely that there was no +alternative but to come to grips. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour mounted to the Spaniard’s sallow cheeks. Iron self-control alone +saved him from uttering unpardonable words. Even so he spoke sternly: +</p> + +<p> +“This, madame, is not what you had led me to believe when last we talked upon +the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are ungallant to remind me, my lord,” said she. “My sex, you may have +heard, is privileged to change of mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, madame, I pray that you may change it yet again.” His tone was bitter. +</p> + +<p> +“Your prayer will not be heard. This time I am resolved.” +</p> + +<p> +De Quadra bowed. “The King, my master, will not be pleased, I fear.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked him straightly in the face, her dark eyes kindling. +</p> + +<p> +“God’s death!” said she, “I marry to please myself, and not the King your +master.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are resolved on marriage then?” flashed he. +</p> + +<p> +“And it please you,” she mocked him archly, her mood of joyousness already +conquering her momentary indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay. I named no names. Yet one so astute might hazard a shrewd guess.” +Half-challenging, half-coy, she eyed him over her fan. +</p> + +<p> +“A guess? Nay, madame. I might affront your Majesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“How so?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were deluded by appearances. If I named a subject who signally enjoys +your royal favour.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean Lord Robert Dudley.” She paled a little, and her bosom’s heave was +quickened. “Why should the guess affront me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because a queen—a wise queen, madame—does not mate with a subject—particularly +with one who has a wife already.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And as blank amazement overspread his face, she passed upon her way and left +him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll change his tone before long,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure, Robin? You are quite sure?” she pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, this is unjust,” the faithful retainer protested. “Knowing the +urgency, I took the only way—contrived the accident.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if, in spite of that, I am not hanged?” quoth Sir Richard, a sneer upon +his white face. +</p> + +<p> +“Come to me again when the affair is closed, and we will talk of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Richard went out, rage and disgust in his heart, leaving my lord with rage +and fear in his. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Spaniard received the information with a countenance that was inscrutable. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Majesty’s gift of prophecy is not so widely known as it deserves to be,” +was his cryptic comment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He saw her blench; saw fear stare from those dark eyes that could be so very +bold. Then her ever-ready anger followed swiftly. +</p> + +<p> +“’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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She clutched his arm. “You told him what I had said?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She caught the suggestion of a bargain, and became instantly suspicious. +</p> + +<p> +“You transcend the duties of your office, my lord,” she rebuked him, and turned +away. +</p> + +<p> +But soon that night she was closeted with Dudley, and closely questioning him +about the affair. My lord was mightily vehement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She flared out at him, of course. But he stood his ground. +</p> + +<p> +“There is,” he reminded her, “this unfortunate matter of a prophecy, as the +Bishop of Aquila persists in calling it.” +</p> + +<p> +“God’s Body! Is the rogue blabbing?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame!” he cried, shaken by her vehemence. “I but report the phrase he uses. +It is not mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you believe it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not, madame. If I did I should not be here at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does any subject of mine believe it?” +</p> + +<p> +“They suspend their judgment. They wait to learn the truth from the sequel.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“That if your motive prove to be such as de Quadra and others allege, they will +be in danger of believing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be plain, man, in God’s name. What exactly is alleged?” +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed her very fully. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She saw indeed, and, seeing, was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +Within a few hours of that interview she delivered her answer to Cecil, which +was that she had no intention of marrying Dudley. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a> +VII. SIR JUDAS</h2> + +<h3>The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve rawly heard of thee,” quoth the royal punster, who sought by such +atrocities of speech to be acclaimed a wit. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I maun hae the land for Carr. I maun hae it,” was his brazen and peevish +answer to an appeal against the confiscation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +On his return from a voyage to Guiana in 1595, he had written of it thus: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Winwood now reminded him that as a consequence many expeditions had gone out, +but failed to discover any of these things. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My brains are broken,” was his cry. +</p> + +<p> +Stukeley combed his beard in thought. He had little comfort to offer. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not expected,” said he, “that you would return. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, because life was sweet, he bluntly asked his cousin: “What is the +King’s intent by me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ralegh took counsel on the matter with Captain King, a bluff, tawny-bearded +seaman, who was devoted to him body and soul. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +“And my honour could be sunk at sea,” Sir Walter harshly concluded, in reproof +of such counsel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You conclude too hastily,” laughed Sir Walter. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, I do not conclude. I speak of what I am inform’.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis yourself are at fault, Sir Walter, in that you trust those about you,” +the Frenchman insisted. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Walter stared at him, frowning. “D’ye mean Stukeley?” quoth he, +half-indignant already at the mere suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Walter confessed that he knew nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +Up sprang Sir Walter from his chair, and flung off the cloak of thought in +which he had been mantled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Walter understood what was implied. “Did you not say,” he asked, “that you +were my kinsman first and Vice-Admiral of Devon after?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Frenchman has a throat, and throats can be slit,” said the downright King. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Manourie, are you paid as much as that to betray me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not half as much,” he confessed, with impudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you might find it more remunerative to serve me,” said the knight. “This +jewel is to be earned.” +</p> + +<p> +The agent’s eyes flickered; he passed his tongue over his lips. “As how?” quoth +he. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Manourie considered awhile. +</p> + +<p> +“I... I think I could,” he answered presently. +</p> + +<p> +“And keep faith with me in this, at the price of, say.. two such stones?” +</p> + +<p> +The venal knave gasped in amazement. This was not generosity; it was +prodigality. He recovered again, and swore himself Sir Walter’s. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The physicians withdrew, and delivered their verdict, whereupon Sir Lewis at +once sent word of it to the Privy Council. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Though he laughed, it is clear that he was seeking to excuse an unworthiness of +which he was conscious. +</p> + +<p> +“Artifice?” quoth King, aghast. “Is this artifice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay—a hedge against my enemies, who will be afraid to approach me.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The omission may be repaired,” said Sir Walter. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +King greeted them with an air of obvious relief. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The uncompromising King looked at him and frowned, misliking the words. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that you’ll continue so,” he answered stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this?” quoth Sir Walter harshly. “Are we betrayed?” +</p> + +<p> +The watermen, taking fright at the words, hung now upon their oars. +</p> + +<p> +“Put back,” Sir Walter bade them. “I’ll not betray my friends to no purpose. +Put back, and let us home again.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Followed a brief discussion, at the end of which Sir Walter bade them put him +ashore at Purfleet. +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s the soundest counsel,” quoth the boatswain. “For at Purfleet we can +get horses on to Tilbury.” +</p> + +<p> +Stukeley was of the same opinion; but not so the more practical Captain King. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis useless,” he declared to them. “At this hour how shall you get horses to +go by land?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I could. But shall I be believed? Shall I?” His loom was deepening to despair. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Stukeley embraced him then, protesting his love and desire to serve him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let them comb it that shall have it,” he had said of his own head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sharp medicine,” quoth he, “but a sound cure for all diseases.” +</p> + +<p> +When presently the executioner bade him turn his head to the East: +</p> + +<p> +“It is no great matter which way a man’s head stands, so that his heart lies +right,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Base fellow, darest thou who art the contempt and scorn of men offer thyself +in my presence?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a> +VIII. HIS INSOLENCE OF BUCKINGHAM</h2> + +<h3>George Villier’s Courtship of Ann of Austria</h3> + +<p> +He was Insolence incarnate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How soft the night! How exquisite!” he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” she agreed. “And how still, but for the gentle murmur of the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“The river!” he cried, on a new note. “That is no gentle murmur. The river +laughs, maliciously mocking. The river is evil.” +</p> + +<p> +“Evil?” quoth she. He had checked in his step, and they stood now side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, you will be with us again, perhaps before so +very long.” +</p> + +<p> +His answer came in a swift, throbbing question, his lips so near her face that +she could feel his breath hot upon her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, you forget yourself. The Queen of France does not listen to such +words. You are mad, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, monsieur, for pity’s sake! You must not talk so to me. It ... it hurts.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame! Madame!” had been Putange’s cry, as he sprang forward in alarm and +self-reproach. +</p> + +<p> +He stood now almost between them, looking from one to the other in +bewilderment. Neither spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” he said, “I am come to take my leave.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am come to ask your pardon, madame,” he said, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur—no more, I beg you.” She looked down; her hands were trembling, +her cheeks going red and white by turns. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She sat pale, and very thoughtful, and the Princesse de Conti, watching her +furtively, observed that her eyes were moist. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst the young Queen looked confused and agitated, Madame de Lannoi became a +pillar of icy dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“M. le Duc,” says she, “it is not customary in France to kneel when speaking to +the Queen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I care nothing for the customs of France, madame,” he answered rudely. “I am +not a Frenchman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not want a chair, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She found her tongue at last. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Adieu, madame!” said he in tragic tones, and so departed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did she cry out, sire?” he will have asked. “What did M. de Buckingham do +to make her cry out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. But whatever it was, she was no party to it since she did cry +out.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>casus belli</i> was the matter of the Protestants of La Rochelle, who were +in rebellion against their king. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But he laughed sneeringly, ever arrogant and scornful. +</p> + +<p> +“It needs not. There are no Roman spirits left,” was his contemptuous answer. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a> +IX. THE PATH OF EXILE</h2> + +<h3>The Fall of Lord Clarendon</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord!” was his wry comment to Etheredge, who was beside him. “They’ve brought +me a bat, not a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +But if she lacked beauty, she was well dowered, and Charles was in desperate +need of money. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” he told Clarendon anon, “I must swallow this black draught to get +the jam that goes with it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>de jure</i>. With wives <i>de facto</i> Charles would +people his seraglio as fancy moved him; and the present wife <i>de facto</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Clarendon declined the office of mediator, and even expostulated with Charles +upon the unseemliness of the course upon which his Majesty was bent. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I tell you, my lord, that it is a decision that shall be revoked.” +</p> + +<p> +“By whom, sire?” the Chancellor asked him gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“By her Majesty, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Charles remembered those unflattering criticisms which he was now invited to +apply to his own case. He bit his lip, admitting himself in check. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Three sights to be seen:<br/> +Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren queen. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Charles faced her across the table, the tall house of cards standing between +them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Symbol of kingly power,” said Miss, pertly. “You demolish better than you +build, sire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oddsfish! If you challenge me, it were easy to prove you wrong,” quoth he. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray do. The cards are here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cards! Pooh! Card castles are well enough for Buckingham. But such is not the +castle I’ll build you if you command me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I command the King’s Majesty? Mon Dieu! But it would be treason surely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not greater treason than to have enslaved me.” His fine eyes were oddly +ardent. “Shall I build you this castle, child?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss looked at him, and looked away. Her eyelids fluttered distractingly. She +fetched a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“The castle that your Majesty would build for any but your Queen must prove a +prison.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I verily believe you are the wickedest dog in England.” +</p> + +<p> +The impudent gallant made a leg. “For a subject, sire, I believe I am.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are pleased to be amused, ma’am,” says Charles frostily. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“In that case, may I ask you why you have come?” +</p> + +<p> +“To open your eyes. Because I cannot bear that you should be made the jest of +your own Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is false,” he was beginning, very indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will your Majesty be more precise as to the grounds of your complaint?” she +invited him challengingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Of his departure thence, his disgrace now consummated, Pepys has left us a +vivid picture: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Time avenged him. Two of his granddaughters—Mary and Anne—reigned successively +as queens in England. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a> +X. THE TRAGEDY OF HERRENHAUSEN</h2> + +<h3>Count Philip Königsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>maîtresse en-titre</i> took place publicly at a ball given by Prince George +at Herrenhausen, a ball at which the Princess Sophia was present. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus he delivered himself, with cold hate in his white, flabby, frog-face and +in the very poise of his squat, ungainly figure. +</p> + +<p> +Thereafter he departed for Berlin, bearing hate of her with him, and leaving +hate and despair behind. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is enough, madame,” he cried. “I swear to you, as Heaven hears me, that he +shall be punished.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour all faded from her cheeks, her sensitive lips fell apart, as she +looked at him aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what would you do? What do you mean?” she asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will send him the length of my sword, and so make a widow of you, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “Princes do not fight,” she said, on a note of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>preux-chevalier</i> all in one. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. She saw his blue eyes grow troubled. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what alternative service can exist?” he asked, almost impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“I have it in mind to escape from this horrible place—to quit Hanover, never to +return.” +</p> + +<p> +“But to go whither?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She let him have his will with her hands. It was little enough reward for so +much devotion. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you again,” she breathed. “And now I must think—I must consider where +I can count upon finding refuge.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +That evening the Countess purposefully sought her lover, the Elector. +</p> + +<p> +“Your son is away in Prussia,” quoth she. “Who guards his honour in his +absence?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that this foreign adventurer, Königsmark, and Sophia grow too +intimate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sophia!” Thick eyebrows were raised until they almost met the line of his +ponderous peruke. His face broke into malevolent creases expressive of +contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“That white-faced ninny! Bah!” Her very virtue was matter for his scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He heaved himself out of his deep chair. “How far has this gone?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the Princess?” he blurted out. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Your Highness is seeking her? Shall I ascertain for you?” +</p> + +<p> +At a loss, Ernest Augustus stared a moment, then flung a glance over his +shoulder at the Countess. +</p> + +<p> +“I was told that her Highness was here,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Plainly,” said Königsmark, with perfect calm, “you have been misinformed.” And +his quiet glance and gesture invited the Elector to look round for himself. +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you been here yourself?” Feeling at a disadvantage, the Elector +avoided the direct question that was in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Half an hour at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in that time you have not seen the Princess?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seen the Princess?” Königsmark’s brows were knit perplexedly. “I scarcely +understand your Highness.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this?” quoth he. “Whose glove is this?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Highness is amusing himself at my expense by asking me questions that +only a seer could answer.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” the Elector snapped at her. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Königsmark drew himself stiffly up, looking squarely into the furnace of the +Elector’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is your last word, sir?” The Elector shook with suppressed anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Your Highness cannot think that words are necessary?” +</p> + +<p> +The bulging eyes grew narrow, the heavy nether lip was thrust forth in scorn +and menace. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And meanwhile Madame von Platen was reproaching her lover with having dealt too +softly with the Dane. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said the Elector. “To-morrow he goes his ways, and we are rid of him. Is +not that enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough, if, soon as he goes, he goes not too late already,” quoth she. +</p> + +<p> +“Now what will you be hinting?” he asked her peevishly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Elector came to his feet with an oath. “That is not true!” he cried. “It +cannot be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll say no more,” quoth Jezebel, and snapped her thin lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but you shall. How do you know this?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My God, if I thought this were true....” He choked with rage, stood shaking a +moment, then strode to the door, calling. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She came to him at last, Mademoiselle de Knesebeck following, for propriety’s +sake. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked him breathlessly. “What brings you here at such an +hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“What brings me?” quoth he, surprised at that reception. “Why, your +commands—your letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“My letter? What letter?” +</p> + +<p> +A sense of doom, of being trapped, suddenly awoke in him. He plucked forth the +treacherous note, and proffered it. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come, I will come. But go now—oh, go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But even as he passed, four shadows detached themselves from the tall stove, +resolved themselves into armed men, and sprang after him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Innocent!” said the Elector hoarsely. “Then what did you now in her +apartments? +</p> + +<p> +“It was a trap set for us by this foul hag, who...” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus miserably perished the glittering Königsmark, a martyr to his own +irrepressible romanticism. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am guilty, I am unworthy of you,” she told him. “If innocent, you are +unworthy of me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a> +XI. THE TYRANNICIDE</h2> + +<h3>Charlotte Corday and Jean Paul Morat</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The convent-bred Marie Charlotte Corday d’Armont was the daughter of a landless +squire of Normandy, a member of the <i>chétive noblesse</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“As long as Marat lives there will never be any safety for the friends of law +and humanity.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Checked, she drove back to the Providence Inn and wrote a letter to the +triumvir: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Paris, 13th July, Year 2 of the Republic</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Marie Corday.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands insistently to see you upon +a matter of national importance.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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...” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +She approached him. +</p> + +<p> +“Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So many for the guillotine,” he snarled, when it was done. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Help, chére amie! Help!” he cried, and was for ever silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>gens d’armes</i> and the police commissioner +of the district, who took her in their protecting charge. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The trial opened with the examination of witnesses; into that of the cutler, +who had sold her the knife, she broke impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“These details are a waste of time. It is I who killed Marat.” +</p> + +<p> +The audience gasped, and rumbled ominously. Montane turned to examine her. +</p> + +<p> +“What was the object of your visit to Paris?” he asks. +</p> + +<p> +“To kill Marat.” +</p> + +<p> +“What motives induced you to this horrible deed?” +</p> + +<p> +“His many crimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what crimes do you accuse him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What proof have you of this?” +</p> + +<p> +“The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs behind a mask of +patriotism.” +</p> + +<p> +Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory. +</p> + +<p> +“Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have none.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How many children have you had?” he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur, an +insult. +</p> + +<p> +Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, as she +answered coldly: +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not stated that I am not married?” +</p> + +<p> +A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the impression he sought +to convey, and he sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand the full sentence of the +law. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And it is now in the Rue St. Honoré that at long last we reach the opening of +our tragic love-story. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They sentenced him to death, and he thanked them for the boon. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENT, SECOND SERIES ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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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