Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Certainly, my lord, but then your grace is determined — —”

  “‘My lord! your grace!’ you have repeatedly called me this before a stranger,” said the Gascon with a threatening manner, thinking thus to make a master stroke. “What would happen if this gentleman were not in the secret?”

  “Oh, I know well that if this stranger is here at this time, it follows that one may speak before him as before your grace and before madame. But is it possible, my lord, that you intend to go away?”

  “The little fox wishes to have the air of detaining me in order to better play her part,” thought Croustillac. “But who has informed her? who has designed this rôle for her so well? Decidedly, there must be jugglery going on here.”

  “But, my lord,” continued Mirette, “what shall I say to madame?”

  “You may say to her,” said poor Croustillac, with a tenderness which the colonel attributed to most natural regrets, “you may say to this dear and good woman not to be afraid, do you hear, Mirette? not to be afraid; assure her that the short journey I am going to take is absolutely in her interest; tell her to think sometimes of me.”

  “Sometimes, my lord! why madame thinks of you and will think of you always,” replied she, in an agitated voice, for she understood the hidden sense of Croustillac’s words. “Be easy, my lord, madame knows how you love her, and she never forgets. But you will be here to-morrow, before she awakens, will you not?”

  “Yes,” said Croustillac, “certainly, to-morrow morning. Come, Mirette, hurry and warn the negro fishermen and open the gates; it is necessary to leave without delay.”

  “Yes, my lord, and at the same time I will bring your sword and your mantle in the salon, because the night is cold in the mountains. Ah! I had forgotten; here is your bonbonière which you carry always with you, and which you left in madame’s room.” So saying, Angela gave Gascon the box, warmly pressed his hand and left.

  “Heaven be praised, my lord duke, that things are turning out better than I hoped,” said the colonel. “Is the house very far off?”

  “No; after we have climbed this last terrace we shall arrive there.”

  At the end of several minutes, Rutler and his captive entered the drawing room; the chevalier found Angela, who had put on a large veil and a long cloak which hid her figure; the young woman offered the chevalier a cloak which she had placed on a sofa.

  “Here are your cloak and sword, my lord,” she said to Croustillac, giving him a magnificent sword. “Now I will go and see if the slaves are ready.” So saying she left the room.

  The sword of which we have spoken was as rich in workmanship as curious in shape; the hilt was of massive gold; the scabbard enameled with the coat of arms of England; the hilt bore on it a rampant lion whose head, surmounted by a royal crown, served as a handle; the belt of great richness, although worn by frequent use, was of red velvet embroidered with fine pearls, in the midst of which the letters “C. S.” were reproduced repeatedly.

  Before putting on his sword Croustillac said to the colonel, “I am your prisoner, sir; may I retain my sword? I repeat my word not to make any use of it against you.”

  Doubtless this historic weapon was known to the colonel, for he replied, “I knew that this royal sword was in the hands of your grace; I have been ordered to respect it in case you followed me willingly.”

  “I understand,” said Croustillac to himself. “Blue Beard continues to act with consummate cunning. She has decorated me with a part of the outfit of this mysterious duke, in order to clinch the error of this Flemish bear. My only regret is not knowing my name. I know, it is true, that my head was cut off; that is something; but that is not sufficient to prove my identity, as the lawyers say. Finally this will last as long as God pleases; once I have turned my back, Blue Beard will, doubtless, put her husband in some safe place. That is the principal thing. Meanwhile, let me put on his cloak and my disguise will be complete.”

  The mantle was of peculiar cut and was of blue with a kind of cape of red cloth trimmed with gold lace; it was easy to see that it had been in use a long time.

  The colonel said to the chevalier, “You are faithful to the memory of the day at Bridgewater, my lord!”

  “Hum, hum — faithful — here or there; that depends on the disposition in which I find myself.”

  “Nevertheless, my lord,” returned the colonel, “I recognize the mantle of the red troops who fought so gallantly under your orders on that fatal day.”

  “That is what I tell you; whether I am cold or warm, I wear this mantle, but it is always in commemoration of that battle, when the red troops, as you say, fought so valiantly under me.” The chevalier had placed the snuff box on the table. He took it up and looked at it mechanically; on the cover he recognized a very characteristic face which he had several times seen reproduced in engravings or paintings. After having searched his memory he remembered that the features were those of Charles II. of England.

  Rutler said, “My lord, may your grace pardon me for recalling you from thoughts it is easy to divine on seeing the portrait on that box — but time is precious.”

  Angela entered at this moment and said to Croustillac: “My lord, the negroes are waiting with torches to light the way.”

  “Let us go, sir,” said the chevalier, taking his hat from the hands of the young woman, who said to him in a low voice, “Next to my husband, it is you whom I love most in the world, for you have saved him.”

  The massive doors of Devil’s Cliff closed on the chevalier and the colonel, and they at once started on their road, preceded by four blacks carrying torches to light the way.

  . . . . . . . . .

  While the adventurer left Devil’s Cliff as Colonel Rutler’s prisoner, we will introduce the reader into a secret apartment belonging to Blue Beard.

  This was a large room very simply furnished; here and there, hung on the walls, were costly arms. Above a couch was a beautiful portrait of King Charles II. of England; beyond this was a miniature representing a woman of most enchanting beauty. In an ebony frame were many studies in crayon, well designed, and representing always the same people. It was easy to see that they were drawn as portraits from memory. The frame was supported by a kind of stand in chased silver, representing funeral symbols, in the midst of which one might read the date, “July 15, 1685.”

  This apartment was occupied by a young man in the prime of manhood — large, supple and robust. His noble proportions recalled vividly the height and figure of Captain Whirlwind, of the buccaneer Rend-your-Soul, or of the Caribbean Youmäale. By coloring the fine features of the man of whom we speak to the copper-colored tint of the mulatto, the ruddy color of the Caribbean, or by half-concealing them under the thick black beard of the buccaneer, one could almost see the three individuals in the same person.

  We will here say to the reader, who has doubtless penetrated this mystery, that the disguises of the buccaneer, the filibuster, and the Caribbean, had been successively assumed by the same man, who was none other than the natural son of Charles II., James, Duke of Monmouth, executed at London, July 15, 1685, as guilty of high treason. All historians agree in saying that this prince was very brave, very affable, and of a very generous nature and a face beautiful and noble. “Such was the end of a prince,” says Hume, in (speaking of Monmouth) “whose great qualities would have made him an ornament to the court, and who was capable of serving well his country. The tenderness which his father, the king, bore for him; the praises of a large faction and the blind devotion of the populace, drew him into an enterprise beyond his strength. The love of the people followed him in all the vicissitudes of fortune; even after his execution, his followers cherished the belief that they would some day see him at their head.”

  We will explain later the cause of this singular hope of the prince’s adherents, and how Monmouth had, in effect, survived his execution.

  Having removed his disguise as the Caribbean, and the dye which stained his features, Monmouth wore an a
mple gown of light blue covered with orange flowers, and read attentively a large number of papers spread before him.

  In order to explain the mistake of which the chevalier was the voluntary victim, we must explain that Croustillac, without really resembling Monmouth, was of the same age, the same height, brown as the other, as slender, and that the duke had, in common with the Gascon, a nose decidedly prominent, and a strong chin. Others beside Rutler, a Dutch officer arrived from the United Provinces in the suite of William of Orange, would have fallen into the same error, above all, seeing in the hands of Croustillac certain priceless objects known to have belonged to the son of Charles II.

  As to the choice of Rutler, one must understand that in order to fulfill such a mission with all its consequences, it needed a man careful, fearless, blindly devoted, and capable of pushing that devotion even to assassination. The choice of William of Orange was necessarily circumscribed by such exigencies; it would have been probably impossible for him to have found a man who knew Monmouth personally who would not have recoiled before such terrible extremities as were entailed in this perilous and cruel undertaking.

  Monmouth was deeply absorbed in reading several English journals. All at once the door of his room opened violently, and Angela threw herself on his neck, crying, “Saved! saved!”

  Then, bursting into tears, laughing and sobbing by turn, kissing his hands, his forehead, his eyes, she repeated, in a stifled voice, “Saved! my beloved James! Saved! there is no longer any danger for thee, my lover, my husband. God be praised, the danger is past! But what terror has been mine! Alas! I tremble still!”

  Startled by the transports of Angela, Monmouth said to her with infinite tenderness, “What is the matter, child? What do you say?”

  Without replying to him, Angela cried, “But this is not all; we must fly, do you understand? King William of England is on our track; to-morrow we must quit this island. All will be ready; I have given the order to one of our negro fishermen to go and say to Captain Ralph to have the Chameleon ready to set sail; it is anchored at Cayman’s Creek; and in two hours we shall have left Martinique.”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE BETRAYAL.

  THE DUKE COULD hardly believe what he heard; he looked at his wife in agony. “What do you say?” cried he. “King William knows that I am on this island?”

  “He knows it. One of his emissaries has obtained entrance here this night. But be calm; he has gone; there is no danger,” cried Angela, seeing Monmouth run to arm himself.

  “But this man — this man?”

  “He has gone, I tell you; the danger is past. Should I be here if not so? No; you have nothing to fear, at present, at least. But do you know who has aided me in overcoming this threatening cloud?”

  “No; for mercy’s sake explain.”

  “It was the poor adventurer whom we have made our butt.”

  “Croustillac?”

  “Yes, his presence of mind saved us; God be praised, the danger is past.”

  “Truly, Angela, I believe I am dreaming.”

  “Listen to me, then. It was an hour ago, when you left me to read the papers arrived from England. I went into the garden with the chevalier. I had a presentiment of our danger and I was sad and thoughtful. I wished to get rid of our guest as soon as possible, not caring to amuse myself with him longer. I said to him that I could not explain the mystery of my three widowhoods; that my hand could belong to no one, and that he must leave the house at break of day. Our object was thus accomplished. The Gascon, by his exaggerated tales of what he had seen, will give more credence still to the stories which have been circulated during the past three years on the island, absurd stories but useful, and which until now alas! have been our safeguards by so confusing events that it has been impossible to separate the true from the false.”

  “Doubtless, but through what fatality this mystery? Tell me!”

  “Having informed the chevalier that he could no longer remain here, I told him that we wished, nevertheless, to give him a valuable token of his sojourn at Devil’s Cliff. To my great surprise he refused with a manner so painfully humiliated that I pitied him. Knowing how poor he was, and wishing, for the very reason that he showed some delicacy, to oblige him to accept a present, I came here to seek a medallion surrounded by diamonds on which was my monogram, hoping that the chevalier would not refuse that. I returned carrying this token, when in approaching the inclosure where I had left him, at the end of the park, near the fountain — Ah! my love, I tremble still!” And the young woman threw her two arms around James’ neck, as if she would protect him against this past danger.

  “Angela, I beg of you, calm yourself,” said Monmouth tenderly. “Finish your story.”

  “Ah, well,” she continued, “when I approached the fountain I heard voices; frightened, I listened.”

  “It was this emissary, I presume?”

  “Yes, my beloved.”

  “But how had he effected an entrance? How did he leave? How did he confide his designs to the Gascon?”

  “He mistook the chevalier for you!”

  “He mistook the chevalier for me?” cried Monmouth.

  “Yes, James. Doubtless he was deceived by the resemblance in figure, and by the suit that the Gascon wore, and which you had had made, in order to satisfy one of my caprices in dressing yourself like the portrait of which you have told me.”

  “Oh,” said Monmouth, passing his hand across his forehead, “Oh! you do not realize the terrible memories that all this awakens in me.”

  Then, after having heaved a deep sigh and looking sadly at the ebony frame encrusted with silver containing the drawing of a portrait, the duke resumed: “But what was the result of this strange encounter? What did the chevalier say? What did you do? Truly, if your presence and your words did not assure me, I should go myself — —”

  Angela interrupted the duke. “Again, my beloved James, should I be so calm if there was anything to fear at this hour?”

  “Very well. I hear you, but you can understand my impatience.”

  “You shall not be in doubt long. From the few words I overheard I divined that the chevalier, leaving our enemy in error, did not know how to get him out of the place, fearing he would not be obeyed by our servants. Counting, with reason, on the Gascon’s intelligence, I presented myself to him at the moment when he approached the house, taking care to warn him, indirectly, that he must take me for Mirette. Having seen that the emissary of King William, believing he was addressing you, called him ‘my lord duke’ or ‘my lord,’ I called him so also; I caused the doors to be opened, and, in order to complete the illusion, I gave the Gascon your sword, your enameled snuff box, and the old cloak to which you are so attached.”

  “Ah! What have you done, Angela?” cried the duke, “my father’s sword, the snuff box my mother gave me, and the cloak which belonged to the most saintly, the most admirable martyr who ever sacrificed himself to friendship.”

  “James, my love, pardon. I thought I was doing for the best,” cried Angela, overcome by the expression of bitterness and chagrin which she read in the features of James.

  “Poor beloved angel,” replied Monmouth, taking her hands in his, “I do not reproach you, but I have so great a respect for these holy relics that it grieves me to see them profaned by a falsehood, even of a few moments’ duration. I repeat, you do not know the terrible memories which are attached to the cloak. Alas! I have not told you all!”

  “You have not told me all?” said Angela in surprise. “When you came to seek me in France in the name of my second father, my benefactor, dead on the field of battle,” and Angela sighed sorrowfully, “did you not offer to share your life with me, poor orphan that I was, did you not say that you loved me? what matters the rest? If it did not concern your well-being, your life, should I ever have dreamed of speaking to you of your condition, of your birth? I married you proscribed, flying from the furious hate of your enemies. We have escaped many dangers, evaded many suspicio
ns, thanks to my pretended marriages, and your various disguises. Then, what can you have hidden from me? If it is some new danger, James, my beloved husband, my lover, I will never forgive you, for I must partake all with you, good or bad fortune. Your life is my life; your enemies my enemies. Although this attempt happily failed, now that they know your retreat, they will continue to seek you with increased malignity. You must fly. In two hours the Chameleon will be ready to set sail.”

  Deeply occupied with his thoughts, Monmouth had not heard Angela. He walked up and down with long strides, repeating to himself, “There is no doubt, they know I am living; but how has William of Orange penetrated this secret which was known only to Father Griffen and myself, because the holy martyr who carried this secret to the tomb, and De Crussol, last governor of this island, are dead. When I think that for greater safety I have concealed my real name from my devoted and adored wife, who then can have betrayed me? Father Griffen is incapable of such sacrilege; for it is under the seal of the confessional that the governor made the revelation to him.”

  After some minutes of silent thought the duke said, “And what means did the chevalier employ to discover the designs of the emissary of William of Orange?”

  “His designs, my love, were not concealed; I heard them; he wished to carry you away, dead or alive, to the Tower of London.”

  “Without doubt. Since the Revolution of 1688 they fear that I may become reconciled to the dethroned king; the public prints even announce that my old partisans are moving,” said Monmouth, speaking to himself. “I recognize there the policy of my old friend William of Orange. But by what right does he suspect me capable of ambitious designs? Again, who has aroused in William these unjust suspicions, these ill-founded fears?”

  After another silence he said to Angela, “God be praised, my child, the storm is past; thanks to thee; thanks to this brave adventurer! Nevertheless I am not sure if, in spite of the devotion which he has shown on this occasion, I can confide to him a part of the truth; perhaps it would be wiser to have him in ignorance and to persuade him that the emissary had been misled by false information. What do you think, Angela? Dare I appear to the chevalier under any other form than that of Youmäale, or shall I charge you to-night to see and thank this brave man? As to recompense, we will find a way to do that without wounding his delicacy.”