In The Day Of Adversity Part 21

"In a Christian country!" exclaimed the admiral--"a Christian country!"

"Ay! in a Christian country! Yet I cried, I say, to the man who guarded us: 'But these companions of mine _are_ condemned--I am not. I have undergone no trial!'

"'_Bah!_' he replied, 'your trial is made and done. _Bon Dieu!_ the courts cannot wait until criminals feel themselves in sufficient good health to a.s.sist at the _seances_. Your trial is over,' and the wretch made a joke therewith. 'Your _trials_ have now to commence. Keep a good heart!' 'Show me my sentence, then,' I exclaimed, 'produce it.'

'_a la bonne heure_,' he replied. 'To-morrow I will obtain it from the governor. You shall see.' And the next day he showed it to me. It was not so long but that I remember every word of it now. It ran: 'To Georges St. Georges. For that you, a cas.h.i.+ered officer of his Majesty's forces, have drawn sword upon and threatened a.s.sa.s.sination to his Majesty's chief of the army, Monsieur de Louvois, in his Majesty's own palace of the Louvre; for that, also, you attempted the a.s.sa.s.sination of his Majesty's subject, le Marquis de Roquemaure, appointed captain of his Majesty's Regiment of Picardy, and of a lady of his Majesty's court, you are condemned to the galleys in perpetuity. Signed, Le Marquis de Vrilliere.'"

Again the admiral exclaimed, "In a Christian country!" and again St.

Georges continued:

"A week afterward we were on the road, chained together two and two by the neck, while all along the line through our chains ran another, joining the first couple to the last. The snow lay on the ground until we reached Avignon, six weeks later; at night we slept in barns, in stables, sometimes in the open air. Some--the old and sickly--fell down and were left by the roadside for the _communes_ to bury; more than fifty were left thus ere we reached Ma.r.s.eilles. There we were distributed to the galleys that were short of their complement, though not before the bishop of the province gave us the Roman blessing, saying that thereby the heretic spirit of the devil could alone be driven out of those who were Protestants. From then till now my life has been what my appearance, as you saw me naked, testifies."

"What," asked the admiral very gently, "can you do now? To live is easy enough. You have been both soldier and sailor"--though he uttered the last word with an expression of disgust as he thought of what manner of sailor this unhappy man had been--"your existence is therefore easy. You can serve the king," and he touched his hat with his finger as he spoke. "Many Huguenots are doing so now, and some other old ones who followed Charles back to England. But"--and he leaned forward across the table as he spoke earnestly--"that will bring you no nearer to regaining your poor little babe; will scarce enable you to thrust your sword at last through the villain De Roquemaure's breast; to obtain the dukedom you believe to be yours."

"Obtain the dukedom, sir!" St. Georges replied, looking at him. "Nay, indeed, that is gone forever. You know what befalls the man in France who has been condemned to the galleys for life?"

"What?"

"He is as dead forever in the law's eyes as though he were sunk to the bottom of the sea. He can never inherit, can never dispose of aught that is his; if he is married, his wife is not considered as a married woman, but a mistress--every right has gone from him forever!"

"Is there no pardon?"

"Never. Unless he can by some wild chance prove a wrongful condemnation. And for me, how that? Louvois, the all-powerful minister, is my judge and executioner; and, further, when once I set foot on English ground I shall become an English soldier or sailor."

"But the child! At least"--and the sailor spoke more softly even than before--"you must know her fate. And--De Roquemaure's punishment! How obtain these?"

"Heaven alone knows! May it, in its supreme mercy, direct me! Yet this is what I have thought, planned to do since you, sir, have taken pity on me. England and France are now most happily, as I think it, plunged in war once more. There is much to do----"

"Ay," interposed the admiral, while his handsome face flushed and his eyes glistened, for he was smarting over his and Torrington's recent defeat. "There is. There is Beachy Head to be wiped out--oh, for our next encounter with them!"

"Thereby," continued St. Georges, "my chance may come. For I may meet De Roquemaure. The sentence on me said he was appointed captain in one of the northern regiments; there have been stranger things than foes to the death meeting on the field, on opposite sides. Then for the child!"

"Ay, the child."

"For that I must go back to France, disguised it may be; nay, must be!

That will be easy. The language is mine--though because of my mother's memory I have perfected myself in yours--in hers--there is nothing to reveal who or what I am but one thing"--and he made a gesture toward his shoulder where the hateful _fleur-de-lis_ was branded in forever--"and that thing you may be sure none shall ever see again until my body is prepared for the grave. But--which to do first? To become a soldier or a sailor fighting for England, or travel disguised to Troyes and find out if--if--my child still lives. That would be my desire--only--only----"

"Only?" repeated the admiral, looking at him.

"Only," the other said--then broke off.

And Rooke knew as well as though St. Georges had uttered the words what he would have said. He knew that the man before him was beggared, that he had not a crown in the world to help him perform such a journey.

CHAPTER XX.

"HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!"

St. Georges was lodged in an old inn on Tower Hill now, in a large room that ran from the front to the back of the house and with, on the latter side, a lookout upon an old churchyard, which in the swift-coming spring of 1692--for it was now April of that year--was green and bright with the new shooting buds. Here he worked hard to earn a living, spending part of his day in translating a book or so from French into English--at beggar's wages!--another part in giving lessons in fencing and swordsmans.h.i.+p--he knowing every trick and _pa.s.sade_ of the French school--and a third in giving lessons in his old language. And between them he managed to earn enough to support existence while waiting for that which through the interest of Admiral Rooke had been promised him--namely, permission to volunteer into the first vessel taking detachments of recruits to sea with it.

Meanwhile, there were many about the court who had heard his story and who knew he was a man who had once worn the red dress of the _chiourme_--when his back was not bared to the las.h.i.+ngs of the _comites_!--that he had slaved at the galley oar in summer and been put to road-mending and road-sweeping in the winter, and that he nourished against France a deep revenge. And among them was the king himself.

Rooke had told William his history, over long clay pipes and tankards at Hampton Court, and the astute Dutchman had not hesitated a moment in promising him employment--would, indeed, have taken a hundred such into that employ if he could have found them. He had learned how the exile hated France--as he did himself, his hatred being the mainspring of his life; moreover, that exile knew more about Louis's regiments and whole military system than almost any one else whom the English king could discover. That was sufficient for him.

So St. Georges went on his way, waiting--waiting ever for one of two things to occur: either that the marine regiment should call for volunteers and be sent out again to France, or that he should be able to return disguised to that country and recommence his search for Dorine.

During the period that had elapsed, however, since he was rescued by Rooke, one thing had happened that had brought great happiness to his heart: he had heard more than once from Boussac, now a lieutenant of the Mousquetaires Noirs, and in so hearing had gained news of his child, who was still alive, and, as Boussac believed, well treated.

"_Mon pauvre ami_," that gallant officer had written, in reply to a letter forwarded him by St. Georges and addressed to Paris, where he imagined the Mousquetaires might be, "how shall I answer yours, since, when I received it, I had long deemed you dead? Ah! monsieur, I was desolated when we came into Paris at the tidings I gleaned. I sought for you at once, inquired at the Bureau Militaire, and learned--what?

That you had threatened to murder the minister--had, indeed, almost murdered the Marquis de Roquemaure; and that for this you were condemned to the galley L'Idole, _en perpetuite_. Figure to yourself my dismay--nay, more, my most touching grief--for, my friend, I had news for you of the best, the most important. And I could not deliver it, should never now deliver it to you in this world. Monsieur, I had the news to give you that I had seen your child--had seen it well, and, as I think, not unhappy."

It was St. Georges's habit to sit sometimes in the little, old city churchyard beneath his window, and there to muse on his past and meditate upon the future. It had an attraction for him, this old place, more, perhaps, for the reason that scarce any one ever came into it on week days, except himself and a decrepit gravedigger to occasionally open old graves or prepare new ones, than for any other; but also because there was one tombstone that interested him sadly. It bore upon it a child's name, "Dorothy," and told how she had died, "aged three," in January, "in the yeare of Oure Lorde" 1688. And below the scroll of flowers, with an angel's head in their midst, was the quotation from Kings: "Is it well with the child? And she answered, It is well."

To his seared and bruised heart some sad yet tender comfort seemed to be afforded by this stone, which marked and recorded the death of one whose very name partly resembled the name of her he had lost--whose little life had been taken from her almost at the very time Dorine was s.n.a.t.c.hed away from him. And the question of the prophet was the question that he so often asked in his prayers. The answer was that which so often he beseeched his Maker to vouchsafe to him.

He was seated opposite to this stone on the day he first received Boussac's letter, having brought it out with him to peruse in quiet.

He was seated on it now, many months later, as he reread the mousquetaire's words which told him that Dorine was well, and, he thought, not unhappy. And he raised his eyes to the words of the Shunamite woman and murmured, "It is well with the child," and whispered, "G.o.d, I thank thee!" as he had done on the day when first the letter came to him. Then he continued:

"We pa.s.sed through Troyes, monsieur, three months after you, and I saw her. She was a little outside the town, with an elderly _bonne_, hand in hand. I obtained permission to quit the ranks for a moment--I was not then promoted, you will understand--and, dismounting and leading my horse toward them--you remember the good horse, monsieur?--I said to the woman, 'Whose child is that, madame?' She drew away from me, gathered the _pet.i.te_ to her, and answered, 'Mine,' whereon I smiled; for I could not be harsh with her--the little creature looked so well cared for----"

Again St. Georges lifted up his eyes, again he murmured, "I thank Thee!" and again went on with the letter:

"'And the father,' I demanded, 'where may he be?' 'Dead,' she answered. 'You know that?' I asked hurriedly, and she replied, 'Ay, I know it, monsieur.' But," Boussac continued, "I could see that she repeated a story she had been taught, that she was a paid _gouvernante_. Yet, what to do? Already the troop was out of sight; I might not linger. Had I been alone, it may be I would have s.n.a.t.c.hed the child from her, jumped on my horse, and carried it away as once you carried it, guarded it as you--as _we_, monsieur--guarded it.

_Helas!_ that could not be. Therefore, on your behalf, I kissed the little thing, and I emptied my poor purse into the woman's hand. 'Keep it well,' I said, 'keep it well, and thereby you shall reap a reward greater by far than any you now receive. I know--I know more than you think.' Then the _bonne_ replied to me: 'So long as I am able it will be guarded well. No danger threatens the child at present'--she said 'at present'--I am unhappy that I have to mention those words. But she spoke them. I knew not what had happened then; I know now from your letter. But, monsieur, what does it mean? De Roquemaure tried to slay the child when you had her in your keeping. Now that he has her in his own--for who can doubt it?--he treats her well. Monsieur, again I say, what does it mean? And the 'at present'--what, too, does that mean?"

St. Georges was no more able to answer that silent question than the far-distant writer of it. Instead, he repeated to himself again and again, as he had often done, the same words, "What did it mean?" And as a man stumbling in the dark, he could find no way that led him to the light.

"How can I answer him?" he mused. "What answer find? The villain tried to slay her, as Boussac says, when we were there to guard her; now that he has her in his charge, now that his hate is doubled, must be doubled and intensified by my determination to slay him, as I almost succeeded in doing, he stays his hand. What does the mystery mean?"

And one answer alone presented itself to him. De Roquemaure might have discovered that that which he once suspected to be the case was in reality not so. He might have found that, in truth, he, St. Georges, was _not_ the Duc de Vannes.

"Thus," he reflected, "he would hesitate to murder the harmless child.

His vengeance on me is glutted; he must have known, even so early as Boussac's pa.s.sage through Troyes, that I was as good as dead in that vile galley; if he knew, too, that I am not really De Vannes's heir, the child no longer stands in his light. And devil though he is, even his tigerish nature may have halted at the murder of so helpless a thing."

Also he knew, by now, that both De Roquemaure and Louvois must be perfectly confident that not only was he practically dead but actually so. The galley was gone--sunk; and of the few saved none had gone back to France. And the other galleys--those which had chased the Dutch merchantman--would take the news back; none would suppose that he and a few more were still alive.

As he reflected on this month by month--while often his eyes would rest now on the words before him, "It is well with the child"--another light came at last to his mind: he saw that, almost without any danger, he might return to Troyes. He was a dead man; none would be on the watch for him.

"Return to Troyes!" he repeated. "Return to Troyes!" And starting from his seat he walked hurriedly away after one more glance at the consoling words. He would go at once, find the child, and then return to England forever. Yes, he thought, he would do that. He had money enough now to reach that city.

Excited by this determination, he strode toward his lodging, determined to set out directly. Months had pa.s.sed, no fresh volunteers had been called for, and although he knew that Louis was ma.s.sing together a large number of troops in the north of France--with the intention of once more attempting to put James II on the throne he had fled from--nothing had yet been done. It seemed as if nothing would be done beyond endeavouring to guard the sh.o.r.es of England from a French invasion and securing suspected persons and sending forces to the seacoast. But for himself he heard nothing from any source. Perhaps, he mused, he was forgotten.

Yet as he entered his room he learned that the time had not yet come for him to take that solitary and dangerous journey to France. There was something else to be done first.

Lying on his table were two letters: one, with a great seal upon it, from Admiral Rooke; the other, addressed to a firm of merchants in the city, but with--since its arrival in London--St. Georges's name written over theirs, from Boussac. He read the latter first; before all else it was the child he thought of--then threw it down almost with impatience. He looked eagerly for these letters; they were indeed the anxiety of his life, and now that this had come it told him nothing that he cared to hear.

Yet there was one piece of intelligence in the letter that once would have interested him. The mousquetaire had seen Aurelie de Roquemaure, had spoken with her.