Good fortune and bad had combined
to make me somewhat more of a figure in the eyes of
the Court than was warranted by my abilities or my
station. The friend of Mistress Gwyn and the favourite
of the Duke of Monmouth (for this latter title his
Grace’s signal kindness soon extorted from the
amused and the envious) was a man whom great folk
recognised, and to whom small folk paid civility.
Lord Carford had become again all smiles and courtesy;
Darrell, who arrived in the Secretary’s train,
compensated in cordiality for what he lacked in confidence;
my Lord Arlington himself presented me in most flattering
terms to the French King’s envoy, M. Colbert
de Croissy, who, in his turn, greeted me with a warmth
and regarded me with a curiosity that produced equal
gratification and bewilderment in my mind. Finally,
the Duke of Monmouth insisted on having me with him
in the Castle, though the greater part of the gentlemen
attached to the Royal and noble persons were sent
to lodge in the town for want of accommodation within
the walls. My private distress, from which I recovered
but slowly, or, to speak more properly, suppressed
with difficulty, served to prevent me from becoming
puffed up with the conceit which this success might
well have inspired.
The first part of Betty Nasroth’s
prophecy now stood fulfilled, ay, as I trusted, utterly
finished and accomplished; the rest tarried. I
had guessed that there was a secret, what it was remained
unknown to me and, as I soon suspected, to people
more important. The interval before the arrival
of the Duchess of Orleans was occupied in many councils
and conferences; at most of them the Duke of Monmouth
was present, and he told me no more than all the Court
conjectured when he said that Madame d’Orléans
came with a project for a new French Alliance and a
fresh war with the Dutch. But there were conferences
at which he was not present, nor the Duke of Buckingham,
but only the King, his brother (so soon as his Royal
Highness joined us from London), the French Envoy,
and Clifford and Arlington. Of what passed at
these my master knew nothing, though he feigned knowledge;
he would be restless when I, having used my eyes,
told him that the King had been with M. Colbert de
Croissy for two hours, and that the Duke of York had
walked on the wall above an hour in earnest conversation
with the Treasurer. He felt himself ignored, and
poured out his indignation unreservedly to Carford.
Carford would frown and throw his eyes towards me,
as though to ask if I were to hear these things, but
the Duke refused his suggestion. Nay, once he
said in jest:
“What I say is as safe with
him as with you, my lord, or safer.”
I wondered to see Carford indignant.
“Why do you say safer, sir?”
he asked haughtily, while the colour on his cheeks
was heightened. “Is any man’s honour
more to be trusted than mine?”
“Ah, man, I meant nothing against
your honour; but Simon here has a discretion that
heaven does not give to everyone.”
Now, when I see a man so sensitive
to suspicion as to find it in every careless word,
I am set thinking whether he may not have some cause
to fear suspicion. Honesty expects no accusation.
Carford’s readiness to repel a charge not brought
caught my notice, and made me ponder more on certain
other conferences to which also his Grace my patron
was a stranger. More than once had I found Arlington
and Carford together, with M. Colbert in their company,
and on the last occasion of such an encounter Carford
had requested me not to mention his whereabouts to
the Duke, advancing the trivial pretext that he should
have been engaged on his Grace’s business.
His Grace was not our schoolmaster. But I was
deceived, most amiably deceived, and held my tongue
as he prayed. Yet I watched him close, and soon,
had a man told me that the Duke of York thought it
well to maintain a friend of his own in his nephew’s
confidence, I would have hazarded that friend’s
name without fear of mistake.
So far the affair was little to me,
but when Mistress Barbara came from London the day
before Madame was to arrive, hardly an hour passed
before I perceived that she also, although she knew
it not, had her part to play. I cannot tell what
reward they offered Carford for successful service;
if a man who sells himself at a high price be in any
way less a villain than he who takes a penny, I trust
that the price was high; for in pursuance of the effort
to obtain Monmouth’s confidence and an ascendency
over him, Carford made use of the lady whom he had
courted, and, as I believed, still courted, for his
own wife. He threw her in Monmouth’s way
by tricks too subtle for her to detect, but plain to
an attentive observer. I knew from her father
that lately he had again begged her hand, and that
she had listened with more show of favour. Yet
he was the Duke’s very humble servant in all
the plans which that headstrong young man now laid
against the lady’s peace and honour. Is
there need to state the scheme more plainly? In
those days a man might rise high and learn great secrets,
if he knew when to shut his eyes and how to knock
loud before he entered the room.
I should have warned her. It
is true; but the mischief lay in the fact that by
no means could I induce her to exchange a word with
me. She was harder by far to me than she had
shewn herself in London. Perhaps she had heard
how I had gone to Chelsea; but whether for good reason
or bad, my crime now seemed beyond pardon. Stay;
perhaps my condition was below her notice; or sin
and condition so worked together that she would have
nothing of me, and I could do nothing but look on with
outward calm and hidden sourness while the Duke plied
her with flatteries that soon grew to passionate
avowals, and Carford paid deferential suit when his
superior was not in the way. She triumphed in
her success as girls will, blind to its perils as
girls are; and Monmouth made no secret of his hopes
of success, as he sat between Carford’s stolid
face and my downcast eyes.
“She’s the loveliest creature
in the world,” he would cry. “Come,
drink a toast to her!” I drank silently, while
Carford led him on to unrestrained boasts and artfully
fanned his passion.
At last it was the evening
of the day before Madame was to come I met
her where she could not avoid me, by the Constable’s
Tower, and alone. I took my courage in my hands
and faced her, warning her of her peril in what delicate
words I could find. Alas, I made nothing of it.
A scornful jest at me and my righteousness (of which,
said she, all London had been talking a little while
back) was the first shot from her battery. The
mention of the Duke’s name brought a blush and
a mischievous smile, as she answered:
“Shouldn’t I make a fine Duchess, Mr Dale?”
“Ay, if he made you one,” said I with
gloomy bluntness.
“You insult me, sir,” she cried, and the
flush on her face deepened.
“Then I do in few words what his Grace does
in many,” I retorted.
I went about it like a dolt, I do
not doubt. For she flew out at me, demanding
in what esteem I held her, and in what her birth fell
short of Anne Hyde’s “who is
now Duchess of York, and in whose service I have the
honour to be.”
“Is that your pattern?”
I asked. “Will the King interpose for you
as he did for the daughter of Lord Clarendon?”
She tossed her head, answering:
“Perhaps so much interference will not be needed.”
“And does my Lord Carford share
these plans of yours?” I asked with a sneer.
The question touched her; she flushed again, but gave
way not an inch.
“Lord Carford has done me much
honour, as you know,” said she, “but he
wouldn’t stand in my way here.”
“Indeed he doesn’t!” I cried.
“Nor in his Grace’s!”
“Have you done, sir?” says she most scornfully.
“I have done, madame,” said I, and
on she swept.
“Yet you shall come to no harm,”
I added to myself as I watched her proud free steps
carry her away. She also, it seemed, had her dream;
I hoped that no more than hurt pride and a heart for
the moment sore would come of it. Yet if the
flatteries of princes pleased, she was to be
better pleased soon, and the Duke of Monmouth seem
scarcely higher to her than Simon Dale.
Then came Madame in the morning from
Dunkirk, escorted by the Vice-Admiral, and met above
a mile from the coast by the King in his barge; the
Duke of York, Prince Rupert, and my Duke (on whom,
I attended) accompanying His Majesty. Madame
seemed scarcely as beautiful as I had heard, although
of a very high air and most admirable carriage and
address; and my eyes, prone, I must confess, to seek
the fairest face, wandered from hers to a lady who
stood near, gifted with a delicate and alluring, yet
childish, beauty, who gazed on the gay scene with
innocent interest and a fresh enjoyment. Madame,
having embraced her kinsmen, presented the lady to
His Majesty by the name of Mademoiselle Louise Renee
de Perrencourt de Querouaille (the name was much shortened
by our common folk in later days), and the King kissed
her hand, saying that he was rejoiced to see her as
indeed he seemed to be, if a man might judge by the
time he spent in looking at her, and the carelessness
with which he greeted the others in attendance on
Madame.
“And these are all who come with you, sister?”
he asked.
She answered him clearly, almost loudly:
“Except a gentleman who is to
join me from Calais to-morrow, with messages from
the King.”
I heard no more, being forced to move
away and leave the royal group alone. I had closely
examined all who came. For in the presence of
Madame I read Je viens, in our King’s,
Tu viens; but I saw none whose coming would
make the tidings Il vient worthy of a special
messenger to London. But there was a gentleman
to arrive from Calais. I had enough curiosity
to ask M. lé Comte d’Albon, who (with
his wife) accompanied Madame and stood by me on deck
as we returned to land, who this gentleman might be.
“He is called M. de Perrencourt,”
the Count replied, “and is related remotely
to the lady whom you saw with Madame.”
I was disappointed, or rather checked.
Was M. de Perrencourt so important that they wrote
Il vient about him and sent the tidings to
London?
After some time, when we were already
coming near to shore, I observed Madame leave the
King and go walking to and fro on the deck in company
with Monmouth. He was very merry and she was very
gracious; I amused myself with watching so handsome
and well-matched a pair. I did not wonder that
my Duke was in a mighty good temper, for, even had
she been no Princess, her company was such as would
please a man’s pride and content his fancy.
So I leant against the mast, thinking it a pity that
they troubled their pretty heads with Dutch wars and
the like tiresome matters, and were not content to
ornament the world, leaving its rule to others.
But presently I saw the Duke point towards me, and
Madame’s glance follow his finger; he talked
to her again and both laughed. Then, just as
we came by the landing-stage, she laid her hand on
his arm, as though in command. He laughed again,
shrugging his shoulders, then raised his hand and
beckoned to me. Now I, while watching, had been
most diligent in seeming not to watch, and it needed
a second and unmistakable signal from his Grace before
I hastened up, hat in hand. Madame was laughing,
and, as I came, I heard her say, “Yes, but I
will speak to him.” The Duke, with another
shrug, bade me come near, and in due form presented
me. She gave me her hand to kiss, saying with
a smile that showed her white teeth,
“Sir, I asked to be shown the
most honest man in Dover, and my cousin Monmouth has
brought you to me.”
I perceived that Monmouth, seeking
how to entertain her, had not scrupled to press me
into his service. This I could not resent, and
since I saw that she was not too dull to be answered
in the spirit of her address, I made her a low bow
and said:
“His Grace, Madame, conceived
you to mean in Dover Castle. The townsmen, I
believe, are very honest.”
“And you, though the most honest
in the Castle, are not very honest?”
“I take what I find, Madame,” I answered.
“So M. Colbert tells me,”
she said with a swift glance at me. “Yet
it’s not always worth taking.”
“I keep it, in case it should
become so,” I answered, for I guessed that Colbert
had told her of my encounter with M. de Fontelles;
if that were so, she might have a curiosity to see
me without the added inducement of Monmouth’s
malicious stories.
“Not if it be a secret? No man keeps that,”
she cried.
“He may, if he be not in love, Madame.”
“But are you that monster, Mr
Dale?” said she. “Shame on the ladies
of my native land! Yet I’m glad! For,
if you’re not in love, you’ll be more
ready to serve me, perhaps.”
“Mr Dale, Madame, is not incapable
of falling in love,” said Monmouth with a bow.
“Don’t try his virtue too much.”
“He shall fall in love then with Louise,”
she cried.
Monmouth made a grimace, and the Duchess
suddenly fell to laughing, as she glanced over her
shoulder towards the King, who was busily engaged
in conversation with Mlle. de Querouaille.
“Indeed, no!” I exclaimed
with a fervour that I had not intended. No more
of that part of Betty Nasroth’s prophecy for
me, and the King’s attentions were already particular.
“But if I can serve your Royal Highness, I am
body and soul at your service.”
“Body and soul?” said
she. “Ah, you mean saving what
is it? Haven’t you reservations?”
“His Grace has spared me nothing,”
said I, with a reproachful glance at Monmouth.
“The more told of you the better
you’re liked, Simon,” said he kindly.
“See, Madame, we’re at the landing, and
there’s a crowd of loyal folk to greet you.”
“I know the loyalty of the English
well,” said she in a low voice and with a curling
lip. “They have their reservations like
Mr Dale. Ah, you’re speaking, Mr Dale?”
“To myself, Madame,” I
answered, bowing profoundly. She laughed, shaking
her head at me, and passed on. I was glad she
did not press me, for what I had said was, “Thank
God,” and I might likely enough have told a lie
if she had put me to the question.
That night the King entertained his
sister at a great banquet in the hall of the Castle,
where there was much drinking of toasts, and much
talk of the love that the King of France had for the
King of England, and our King for the other King,
and we for the French (whereas we hated them) and
they for us (although they wasted no kindness on us);
but at least every man got as much wine as he wanted,
and many of them more than they had fair occasion
for; and among these last I must count the Duke of
Monmouth. For after the rest had risen from table
he sat there still, calling Carford to join him, and
even bidding me sit down by his side. Carford
seemed in no haste to get him away, although very anxious
to relieve me of my post behind his chair, but at last,
by dint of upbraiding them both, I prevailed on Carford
to offer his arm and the Duke to accept it, while
I supported him on the other side. Thus we set
out for his Grace’s quarters, making a spectacle
sad enough to a moralist, but too ordinary at Court
for any remark to be excited by it. Carford insisted
that he could take the Duke alone; I would not budge.
My lord grew offensive, hinting of busybodies who came
between the Duke and his friends. Pushed hard,
I asked the Duke himself if I should leave him.
He bade me stay, swearing that I was an honest fellow
and no Papist, as were some he knew. I saw Carford
start; his Grace saw nothing save the entrance of
his chamber, and that not over-plainly. But we
got him in, and into a seat, and the door shut.
Then he called for more wine, and Carford at once
brought it to him and pledged him once and again,
Monmouth drinking deep.
“He’s had more than he
can carry already,” I whispered. Carford
turned straight to the Duke, crying, “Mr Dale
here says that your Grace is drunk.” He
made nothing by the move, for the Duke answered good-humouredly,
“Truly I am drunk, but in the
legs only, my good Simon. My head is clear, clear
as daylight, or the ” He looked
round cunningly, and caught each of us by the arm.
“We’re good Protestants here?” he
asked with a would-be shrewd, wine-muddled glance.
“Sound and true, your Grace,”
said Carford. Then he whispered to me, “Indeed
I think he’s ill. Pray run for the King’s
physician, Mr Dale.”
“Nay, he’d do well enough
if he were alone with me. If you desire the physician’s
presence, my lord, he’s easy to find.”
I cared not a jot for Carford’s
anger, and was determined not to give ground.
But we had no more time for quarrelling.
“I am as loyal as
loyal to my father as any man in the kingdom,”
said the Duke in maudlin confidence. “But
you know what’s afoot?”
“A new war with the Dutch, I’m told, sir,”
said I.
“A fig for the Dutch! Hush,
we must speak low, there may be Papists about.
There are some in the Castle, Carford. Hush, hush!
Some say my uncle’s one, some say the Secretary’s
one. Gentlemen, I I say no more.
Traitors have said that my father is ”
Carford interrupted him.
“Don’t trouble your mind with these slanders,
sir,” he urged.
“I won’t believe it.
I’ll stand by my father. But if the Duke
of York But I’ll say no more.”
His head fell on his breast. But in a moment
he sprang to his feet, crying, “But I’m
a Protestant. Yes, and I’m the King’s
son.” He caught Carford by the arm, whispering,
“Not a word of it. I’m ready.
We know what’s afoot. We’re loyal
to the King; we must save him. But if we can’t if
we can’t, isn’t there one who who ?”
He lost his tongue for an instant.
We stood looking at him, till he spoke again.
“One who would be a Protestant King?”
He spoke the last words loud and fiercely;
it was the final effort, and he sank back in his chair
in a stupor. Carford gave a hasty glance at his
face.
“I’ll go for the physician,”
he cried. “His Grace may need blood-letting.”
I stepped between him and the door as he advanced.
“His Grace needs nothing,”
said I, “except the discretion of his friends.
We’ve heard foolish words that we should not
have heard to-night, my lord.”
“I am sure they’re safe with you,”
he answered.
“And with you?” I retorted quickly.
He drew himself up haughtily.
“Stand aside, sir, and let me pass.”
“Where are you going?”
“To fetch the physician. I’ll answer
none of your questions.”
I could not stop him without an open
brawl, and that I would not encounter, for it could
lead only to my own expulsion. Yet I was sure
that he would go straight to Arlington, and that every
word the Duke had spoken would be carried to York,
and perhaps to the King, before next morning.
The King would be informed, if it were thought possible
to prejudice him against his son; York, at least,
would be warned of the mad scheme which was in the
young Duke’s head. I drew aside and with
a surly bow let Carford pass. He returned my
salutation with an equal economy of politeness, and
left me alone with Monmouth, who had now sunk into
a heavy and uneasy sleep. I roused him and got
him to bed, glad to think that his unwary tongue would
be silent for a few hours at least. Yet what
he had said brought me nearer to the secret and the
mystery. There was indeed more afoot than the
war with the Dutch. There was, if I mistook not,
a matter that touched the religion of the King.
Monmouth, whose wits were sharp enough, had gained
scent of it; the wits went out as the wine went in,
and he blurted out what he suspected, robbing his
knowledge of all value by betraying its possession.
Our best knowledge lies in what we are not known to
know.
I repaired, thoughtful and disturbed,
to my own small chamber, next the Duke’s; but
the night was fine and I had no mind for sleep.
I turned back again and made my way on to the wall,
where it faces towards the sea. The wind was
blowing fresh and the sound of the waves filled my
ears. No doubt the same sound hid the noise of
my feet, for when I came to the wall, I passed unheeded
by three persons who stood in a group together.
I knew all and made haste to pass by; the man was the
King himself, the lady on his right was Mistress Barbara;
in the third I recognised Madame’s lady, Louise
de Querouaille. I proceeded some distance farther
till I was at the end of the wall nearest the sea.
There I took my stand, looking not at the sea but covertly
at the little group. Presently two of them moved
away; the third curtseyed low but did not accompany
them. When they were gone, she turned and leant
on the parapet of the wall with clasped hands.
Drawn by some impulse, I moved towards her. She
was unconscious of my approach until I came quite near
to her; then she turned on me a face stained with tears
and pale with agitation and alarm. I stood before
her, speechless, and she found no words in which to
address me. I was too proud to force my company
on her, and made as though to pass with a bow; but
her face arrested me.
“What ails you, Mistress Barbara?”
I cried impetuously. She smoothed her face to
composure as she answered me:
“Nothing, sir.” Then
she added carelessly, “Unless it be that sometimes
the King’s conversation is too free for my liking.”
“When you want me, I’m
here,” I said, answering not her words but the
frightened look that there was in her eyes.
For an instant I seemed to see in
her an impulse to trust me and to lay bare what troubled
her. The feeling passed; her face regained its
natural hue, and she said petulantly,
“Why, yes, it seems fated that
you should always be there, Simon, yet Betty Nasroth
said nothing of it.”
“It may be well for you that
I’m here,” I answered hotly; for her scorn
stirred me to say what I should have left unsaid.
I do not know how she would have answered,
for at the moment we heard a shout from the watchman
who stood looking over the sea. He hailed a boat
that came prancing over the waves; a light answered
his signal. Who came to the Castle? Barbara’s
eyes and mine sought the ship; we did not know the
stranger, but he was expected; for a minute later Darrell
ran quickly by us with an eager look on his face;
with him was the Count d’Albon, who had come
with Madame, and Depuy, the Duke of York’s servant.
They went by at the top of their speed and in visible
excitement. Barbara forgot her anger and haughtiness
in fresh girlish interest.
“Who can it be?” she cried,
coming so near to me that her sleeve touched mine,
and leaning over the wall towards where the ship’s
black hull was to be seen far below in the moonlight
by the jetty.
“Doubtless it’s the gentleman
whom Madame expects,” said I.
Many minutes passed, but through them
Barbara and I stood silent side by side. Then
the party came back through the gate, which had been
opened for them. Depuy walked first, carrying
a small trunk; two or three servants followed with
more luggage; then came Darrell in company with a
short man who walked with a bold and confident air.
The rest passed us, and the last pair approached.
Now Darrell saw Mistress Barbara and doffed his hat
to her. The new-comer did the like and more; he
halted immediately opposite to us and looked curiously
at her, sparing a curious glance for me. I bowed;
she waited unmoved until the gentleman said to Darrell,
“Pray present me.”
“This, madame,” said
Darrell, in whose voice there was a ring of excitement
and tremulous agitation, “is M. de Perrencourt,
who has the honour of serving Her Royal Highness the
Duchess. This lady, sir, is Mistress Barbara
Quinton, maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and
now in attendance on Madame.”
Barbara made a curtsey, M. de Perrencourt
bowed. His eyes were fixed on her face; he studied
her openly and fearlessly, yet the regard was difficult
to resent, it was so calm, assured, and dignified.
It seemed beyond challenge, if not beyond reproach.
I stood by in silence, angry at a scrutiny so prolonged,
but without title to interfere.
“I trust, madame,
that we shall be better acquainted,” he said
at last, and with a lingering look at her face passed
on. I turned to her; she was gazing after him
with eager eyes. My presence seemed forgotten;
I would not remind her of it; I turned away in silence,
and hastened after Darrell and his companion.
The curve of the wall hid them from my sight, but
I quickened my pace; I gained on them, for now I heard
their steps ahead; I ran round the next corner, for
I was ablaze with curiosity to see more of this man,
who came at so strange an hour and yet was expected,
who bore himself so loftily, and yet was but a gentleman-in-waiting
as I was. Round the next corner I should come
in sight of him. Round I went, and I came plump
into the arms of my good friend Darrell, who stood
there, squarely across the path!
“Whither away, Simon?” said he coldly.
I halted, stood still, looked him
in the face. He met my gaze with a calm, self-controlled
smile.
“Why,” said I, “I’m
on my way to bed, Darrell. Let me pass, I beg
you.”
“A moment later will serve,” said he.
“Not a moment,” I replied
testily, and caught him by the arm. He was stiff
as a rock, but I put out my strength and in another
instant should have thrown him aside. But he
cried in a loud angry voice,
“By the King’s orders, no man is to pass
this way.”
Amazed, I fell back. But over
his head, some twenty yards from us, I saw two men
embracing one another warmly. Nobody else was
near; Darrell’s eyes were fixed on me, and his
hand detained me in an eager grasp. But I looked
hard at the pair there ahead of me; there was a cloud
over the moon now, in a second it passed. The
next moment the two had turned their backs and were
walking off together. Darrell, seeing my fixed
gaze, turned also. His face was pale, as if with
excitement, but he spoke in cool, level tones.
“It’s only M. Colbert
greeting M. de Perrencourt,” said he.
“Ah, of course!” I cried,
turning to him with a smile. “But where
did M. Colbert get that Star?” For the glitter
of the decoration had caught my eye, as it sparkled
in the moonlight.
There was a pause before Darrell answered. Then
he said,
“The King gave him his own Star to-night, in
compliment to Madame.”
And in truth M. Colbert wore that
Star when he walked abroad next morning, and professed
much gratitude for it to the King. I have wondered
since whether he should not have thanked a humbler
man. Had I not seen the Star on the breast of
the gentleman who embraced M. de Perrencourt, should
I have seen it on the breast of M. Colbert de Croissy?
In truth I doubt it.