The Love of Monsieur

“I pray that you will be seated, madame. No? As you please. What I have to say is not short. Shall I begin?”

“’Twere sooner over,” she said, hoarsely.

He bowed politely. “I will endeavor to be brief. Many years ago, your great-grandfather went to Florida with the expedition of Jean Ribault. Perhaps you have been told of the massacre by the Spanish and how the Seigneur de Bresac escaped to France? Merci! You also doubtless know his and your grandfather’s great hatred of the Spanish people as the result of this massacre? Eh bien. Your grandfather told his three daughters – one of whom was your mother – that if one of them married a Spaniard he would refuse her a part of his fortune and deny her as a child of his – ”

“I pray you, monsieur – ”

“I crave your patience. Lorance, your mother, married Monsieur Clerke, and Julie, the younger sister, married Sir George Maltby. That is well known. The elder sister was Eloise.” His voice fell, and the name was spoken with all the soft tenderness of the name itself. “Perhaps you do not know, madame, that she, too, was married – ”

“There was a mystery,” she muttered. “I heard – ” Then she stopped.

“Madame heard?” he asked, politely. But she was silent again.

“Eloise was married,” he continued, “while visiting at the château of the Duc de Nemours, near Paris, to Don Luis d’Añasco, who was a Spaniard. Fearing her father’s wrath and disinheritance, this unfortunate woman concealed the facts of this marriage, the record of which was the acknowledgment of the priest who married them and the statements of a nurse and another witness who had accompanied her to Amiens, where in or about the year 1635 she gave birth to a son – ”

If Mistress Clerke had allowed herself to relax a little before, her interest now had dominated all feeling of fear and suspense. She leaned a little forward, breathless, her hand upon the chair before her, her eyes fixed upon the lips of the Frenchman, who spoke slowly, concisely, and held her with an almost irresistible fascination.

“The saddest part of the story is to come, madame. The mother was grievously ill – she suffered besides all the pangs of solitude at a time when a woman needs consolation and sympathy the most. Her mother had died, her husband was worse than useless, and she feared to let her father know the truth, lest his stern and pitiless nature would wreak some terrible vengeance upon the Spanish husband, whom she still loved, in spite of the fact that he had married her for her fortune and not for herself. She had almost made up her mind to tell her father all when – she died.” He paused a moment to give her the full import of his words. And then, looking at her steadily and somewhat sternly, “Her son, René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac, is still alive.”

Mistress Barbara stood looking at him. He met the look unflinchingly. At last her eyes fell. When she lifted them she did so suddenly and drew herself up at the same time, all instinct with doubt and suspicion of this man, who had first insulted, then injured her, and was now seeking to rob her of her birthright.

“And you?” she asked, bitterly, her scorn giving wings to her fear. “And you? Can I believe you?”

It was as though she had expressed her thought in words. Monsieur Mornay felt the thrust. But where the other night it could wound him mortally, to-day it glanced harmlessly aside. He still looked calmly at her, and the least perceptible touch of irony played at the corners of his lips.

She mistook the smile for effrontery – for the mere impudence of a man without caste who recks nothing for God or man. She flung her back towards him with a sudden gesture and turned towards the window.

“You lie,” she said, contemptuously.

Monsieur Mornay knit his brows, and his eyes followed her angrily, but he did not even take a step towards her. His voice was as low as before when he spoke.

“Madame has a certain skill at hatred,” he said. “Insults fall as readily from her lips as the petals from a flower.” He paused. “But they do not smell so sweet. I do not lie, madame,” he said, with a gesture as though to brush the insult aside. When he raised his voice it was with a tone and inflection of command which surprised and affrighted her. She turned in alarm, but he had not moved from his position near the door.

“Hear me you shall, madame. Listen.” And rapidly, forcefully, masterfully even, he told the story of the fate of the young D’Añasco, called Ruiz, the perfidy of the drunken father in sending him away upon the ship Castillano, and the bargain by which his inheritance had been sold. She heard him through, because she could not help it, but as he proceeded, and the names of her father, Sir Wilfred Clerke, and Sir Henry Heywood were mentioned, she arose to her full height, and with magnificent disdain threw fear to the winds and said, coldly:

“Stop! I have heard enough.” And with reckless mockery, “You, monsieur, I presume, are René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac?”

Monsieur Mornay bowed.

The door of the room opened suddenly and Captain Ferrers entered. A look of bewilderment was on his features as he glanced at Mistress Clerke.

“Why, Barbara – these men without – What – ?” Monsieur Mornay had turned his head, and the flowing curls no longer hid his countenance.

“I was expecting you, Capitaine Ferraire,” said the Frenchman.

Ferrers stepped back a pace or two, astonishment and consternation written upon his features. Had Sir Henry Heywood come back to life, the Captain could not have been put into a greater quandary. He looked at the Frenchman and then at Mistress Clerke for the solution of the enigma. But Mistress Barbara had sunk upon the couch in an agony of fear. A moment before she had prayed for this interruption. Now that it had come she was in a terror as to its consequences. She made no reply, but looked at the two men who stood a few feet apart with lowering looks – the Englishman flushed red with anger, the Frenchman cool, impassive, dangerous.

Ferrers spoke first. He stepped a pace or two towards the Frenchman, his brow gathered, his shoulders forward, menace in every line of his figure.

“You have dared to force your way into this house?”

The elbow was bent and the fist was clinched, and an exclamation burst from Mistress Barbara, who was gazing horror-struck at the impending brutality. But the Frenchman did not move. The only sign of anything unusual in his appearance was the look in his eyes, which met those of the Englishman with an angry glitter of defiance. If Ferrers had meant personal violence to the Frenchman, he did not carry out his intentions. He cast his eyes for a moment in the direction of Mistress Barbara, and then, drawing back again with a muttered exclamation, made straight for the door. Before he could place his hand upon the knob Mornay interposed.

“One moment, Ferraire. My men were told to let you in —not to let you out.” And as Ferrers paused a moment, “Have patience, Monsieur le Capitaine. Presently I will leave madame and you; but first you must listen.” Ferrers had grown white with rage, and his hand had flown to his sword hilt. He looked at the quiet figure of the Frenchman and at Mistress Barbara, whose eyes were staring at him widely. He bit his lip in chagrin, and then struggled to control his voice.

“Your reckoning is not far distant, Monsieur Mornay,” he said, hoarsely. “If there is justice in England, you shall hang this day week.”

CHAPTER V

INDECISION

Mornay waited while the Englishman smothered his rage. Then, with a sudden motion, he brushed his kerchief across his temples, as though to wipe the clouds from his forehead.

“If madame will but bear with my brutality a little longer” – he smiled – “a little longer – then she will have done with me forever.” The gesture and the air of contrition were rather racial than personal characteristics. But, as one sometimes will in times of great stress, Mistress Barbara could not but compare Mornay’s ease and sang-froid with the heavy and somewhat brutal bearing of Captain Ferrers. She hated herself for the thought, and, as Monsieur Mornay spoke, turned her face resolutely to the window and away from him.

“If madame will remember what I have had the honor to tell her, she will now discover how Monsieur Ferraire becomes concerned.” He glanced at Ferrers, who stood to one side, his arms folded, his features sullen and heavy with the impotence of his wrath. The Frenchman was playing a desperate game, with every chance against him. To unmask the secret, he must take the somewhat heavier Englishman off his guard. Of one thing he felt sure, Ferrers knew little more as to the papers than did Cornbury and himself. He began abruptly, without further preface:

“Madame has just learned from my lips of certain matters, Monsieur le Capitaine, which bear strongly upon her interests in the estate of Bresac. She has yet to learn how much a part of it all you have become. She has been told of the fortunes of Eloise d’Añasco and of the rightful heir to the estates. What she wishes most to learn is the contents and purport of the papers in your possession.”

Mornay had spoken slowly, to give force to his words, and the effect of his information upon Ferrers was remarkable. The lowering crook came out of his brows, and his hand made an involuntary movement to his breast, the fingers trembling a moment in the air. His face relaxed like heated wax, and he stared at the Frenchman, his mouth open, the picture of wonderment and uncertainty.

Mistress Clerke, who had been about to speak, paused bewildered. Ferrers stammered awkwardly, as though gathering his wits for a reply.

“The papers!” he gasped at last. “The papers!” And then with a futile attempt at sang-froid, “What papers, monsieur?”

If the Englishman had not been so completely off his guard he would have seen a flash of triumph in the Frenchman’s eyes. Mornay narrowly watched his discomfiture; then continued, quietly:

“Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, René d’Añasco has been found. The son of Eloise de Bresac has come to life and is to-day in London. He knows of the sale of his birthright. He has discovered the proofs of his mother’s marriage and of his birth at Amiens. He but awaits a favorable opportunity to bring the matter before a court.” By this time Captain Ferrers had recovered a certain poise. He swaggered over to the mantel, where he turned to Mistress Clerke.

“A fine tale!” he sneered. “A pretty heir, Mistress Barbara, to send a hunted man as his ambassador.” Then the presence of Cornbury at the dying confession came to his memory, and the situation dawned upon him for the first time. He laughed aloud with real blatant merriment.

“I see!” he cried. “It is you —you, Mornay, the outcast – Mornay, the broken gambler, the man without a creed or country, who is now become the Vicomte de Bresac. It is a necromancy worthy of Dr. Bendo.”

He was firm upon his feet again. The very absurdity of the claim had restored his heavy balance – somewhat disturbed by the announcement of his possession of the papers. He turned to Mistress Clerke and found her eyes, full of wonder and inquiry, still turned upon him. She was sensible of an influence which the Frenchman’s words had wrought, and felt rather than saw the surprise and alarm which underlay the somewhat blustery demeanor of Captain Ferrers. During the dénouement not a word had passed her lips. When she had tried to speak it seemed as though she had been deprived of the power. She had sat looking from the one to the other, fear and doubt alternating in her mind as to the intentions of the Frenchman. What did it all mean? Captain Ferrers, at the best of times, was not a man who could conceal his feelings; but why had he lost countenance so at the mention of papers? Why had he not done something at the first that would prove the Frenchman the cheat and impostor that he was? Why did the irony of his words fall so lightly upon the ears of Monsieur Mornay that he seemed not even to hear them? Why were the Frenchman’s eyes so serious, so steady, so clear to return her gaze? With an effort she slowly arose, struggling against she knew not what – something which seemed to oppress her and threaten the freedom of her speech and will. A feeling that she had allowed herself, if even only for a moment, to be influenced against her better judgment, filled her with resentment against this man who had broken past her barriers again and again, and now offended not only the laws of society but the laws of decency by brutally pushing past her servants and holding her against her will a prisoner in her own apartments. As she stood upon her feet she regained her composure, and when she spoke her voice rang with a fearlessness that surprised even herself. It was the exuberance and immoderation of fear – the sending of the pendulum to the other end of its swing.

“For shame, sir, to make war upon a woman! Is there not left a spark of the gallantry of your race that you should break into a woman’s house like a cutpurse, a common pirate and outlaw? Have you no pride of manhood left – no honor? No respect for the sanctity of the sex that bore you? Would you oppress and hold a helpless woman in restraint? Monsieur, you are a coward! – a coward! I repeat for the last time, I do not believe you. I would not believe you if you gave me your oath.”

Ferrers said nothing, but the curl of his lips told the volume of his pleasure.

They were dreadful words to Mornay, but he looked at her with a calmness that gave no sign of hidden discomfiture. His eyes did not drop under her lashing sneers. Instead, as she paused he began speaking, with a quiet insistence in which there was the least touch of patronage.

“Madame, hear me out, I pray you. I have come brutally into your house. I have been the bully with you and yours. I have held you prisoner. To ask your pardon would be still further to insult you. But I leave London to-night and – ” As Ferrers interposed, he raised his hand. “Pardon, monsieur, a moment and I have done. I leave London to-night, and I shall not trouble you more.”

“Thank God for that!” she said, bitterly.

Mornay continued as though he did not hear her: “I have broken in upon you because it was the only way that I could see you – the only way that I could tell you what I had to say. That I have sinned is because – well, because I had hoped that, after all, madame, perhaps the blood could flow warmly from your heart.” He tossed his chin defiantly. “You have scorned me for one who bears false witness, though you have seen your English captain go pale at the mention of those papers. You will believe what he says and scorn me, in whom runs the blood of the same grandparents as yourself. You have looked upon me as an impostor. Eh bien. Think what you will. Impostor I am not.” He drew himself up and said, clearly, in a full measure of pride and dignity, “I am René de Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac.”

He moved to the door, looking not at her or even noticing the contemptuous laugh of Captain Ferrers; then, slowly, “I leave you, madame. To-morrow I will be but a memory – an evil dream, which soon passes away. You have chosen to be my enemy and to send me away from you in scorn, hatred, and disbelief. Let it be so. But remember, madame, when I am gone every pretty sweetmeat you put in your mouth, every dainty frock you put upon your back, every slipper, every glove, every ring and spangle that you wear, is mine – all mine.”