by Eugène Sue
“Your highness forgets that it means perpetual imprisonment for you if you do not place yourself at the head of this movement?”
“It is because it means for me the escape from a danger that I do not choose to sacrifice you, sir. When I learned that you were taken prisoner by Rutler I was going to rush to your assistance in order to release you.”
“My God, James! think of the prison! of eternal confinement! but it is not possible! and what will become of me, if I should be forbidden to accompany you? No, no! you will not reject the sacrifice which this generous man offers to make!”
“Angela!” said the duke, in a tone of reproach; “Angela! and this generous man, shall we abandon him shamefully when he is devoted to us — to escape imprisonment, shall we condemn him to an eternal captivity?”
“Him?”
“Doubtless! is he not the possessor of a state secret? Will not De Chemerant be furious at seeing himself tricked. I tell you, he cannot escape prison when the trick shall be discovered.”
“Confound it! my duke, attend to your own affairs!” cried Croustillac, “and do not take the bread out of my mouth, as they say. Prisoner of state! that disgusts you, but do you not know that that would be an assured retreat for me, a refuge for my old days? To be frank, the life of an adventurer palls upon me; there must be an end to it. I would have something more sure; judge, then, if that would not suit me? Prisoner of state! can I not secure that? I beg of you not to take from me the last resource of my old age; do not destroy my future.”
“Listen to me, you brave and worthy man,” responded Monmouth, affectionately pressing his hand. “I am not deceived by your ingenious pretenses.”
“Your highness, I swear — —”
“Listen, I beg of you; when you have heard me you will no longer be surprised at my refusal. You will see that I cannot accept your generous offer without being doubly culpable. You will understand the sad memories, not to say remorse, that your devoted offer and the present chain of circumstances awake in me. And you, Angela, my dearly beloved, you shall at last learn a secret that until this present moment I have hidden from you; it needed circumstances as grave as these in which I am now placed to force me to make this sad revelation.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MARTYR.
“JAMES! JAMES! WHAT are you saying? you terrify me!” exclaimed Angela, as she witnessed the duke’s emotion.
“You know,” said the duke to Croustillac, “in consequence of what political events I was arrested and confined to the Tower of London in 1685?”
“You will excuse me, your highness, if I know not a word of it; I am as ignorant as a fish of contemporaneous history, which, be it said in passing, and without boasting, rendered my part outrageously difficult to play; for I was always afraid I should make some ridiculous statement, and thus compromise, not my reputation as a scholar — I am no priest — but your fortune which I so imprudently assumed.”
“Very well then,” said the duke; “after the death of my father; when the Duke of York, my uncle, ascended the throne under the title of James II., I entered into a conspiracy against him. I shall not seek to justify my conduct; years of reflection have made things clear to me. I know now that I was as culpable as I was insane; the young Duke of Argyle was the soul in this plot. All this was carried on under the very eyes of the Prince of Orange, then a stadtholder, now King of England. Argyle knew my views of the Protestant action, my ambition, my resentment against James II.; he had no trouble in associating me with his plans. At once, owing to my name and influence, I was at the head of the conspiracy. I had news from England which only waited my presence there to overthrow the throne of the papist king to proclaim me king in his place. I departed from the Texel with three vessels transporting soldiers whom I had recruited. Argyle, having preceded me in Scotland, had paid with his head for the audacity of his attempt. I landed in England at the head of a number of devoted partisans. I realized then how greatly I had been deceived. Three or four thousand men at the most joined the handful of brave men who were pledged to my cause, and among others were Mortimer, Rothsay and Dudley. The son of Monck, the young Duke of Albemarle, advanced against me at the head of a royal army; and I, desiring to bring fortune to the point, made a decisive move. I attacked the enemy at Sedgemore, near Bridgewater; I was beaten in spite of the prodigies of valor shown by my little army, and, above all, by my cavalry, commanded by the brave Lord George Sidney.” In pronouncing this name, the voice of the prince failed him, and deep emotion was depicted upon his face.
“George Sidney! my second father! my benefactor!” cried Angela. “It was in fighting for you he was killed! it was at that battle, then, that he was killed? This is the secret you have hidden from me?”
The duke bent his head, and after a few minutes’ silence, said, “You will know all, very soon, child! Our rout was complete. I wandered off at hazard; my head had a price upon it. I was seized the day after this fatal defeat and conducted to the Tower of London. My case was tried. Convicted of high treason, I was condemned to death.”
“Oh,” cried Angela, throwing herself into the duke’s arms; “you deceived me; I believed you to be only exiled.”
“Be calm, Angela; yet I have hidden this from you, as much that you should not be troubled as — .” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Monmouth continued, “you shall know all; it requires much courage to make this revelation.”
“Why? What have you to fear?” said Angela.
“Alas! poor child, when you have heard me, perhaps you will regard me with horror!”
“You, James? do you believe that I can ever do that?”
“Well,” said Monmouth, “whatever the result, I must speak, at the risk, perhaps, of separating us forever.”
“Never, never!” cried Angela despairingly.
“Zounds! I will sooner throw De Chemerant from these cliffs at the least pretense,” cried Croustillac. “And, as for that, with your slaves, we could furnish him a fine escort. But I think — will you try this method? How many slaves can you arm, sir?”
“You forget that De Chemerant’s escort is considerable; the negro fishermen have gone — there are not more than four or five men here. Violent means are impossible. Providence doubtless wills that I shall expiate a great crime. I will be resigned.”
“A crime, James? guilty of a great crime? I will never believe it!” cried Angela.
“If my crime was involuntary, it was none the less horrible. Angela, it is now my duty to tell you what I owe to Sidney, your noble relative who took such care of you in your infancy, poor orphan! While you were receiving your education in France, where he had himself taken you, Sidney, whom I had seen in Holland, attached himself to my fortunes; a singular similarity of tastes, of principles and thoughts, had drawn us together; but he was so proud that I was obliged to make the advances. How happy I was at having first pressed his hand! Never was there a living soul as beautiful as Sidney’s. Never was there a nobler character or a more generous and ardent heart! Dreaming of the happiness of the people, deceived as I was myself as to the true end of my plans, he believed that he was serving the holy cause of humanity, when he was in reality only serving the fatal ambition of a man! While the conspiracy was organizing, he was my most active emissary and my most intimate confidant. To describe to you, my child, the profound, blind attachment of Sidney for myself would be impossible; one affection only struggled in his heart with that which he had vowed to me; it was his tenderness for you — you, his distant relative of whom he had assumed the care. Oh! how he cherished you! Through all the agitations, and the perils of his life as a soldier and conspirator, he always found some moments in which to visit his Angela. There were ever tears in his eyes when he spoke to me of you. Yes, this man, of intrepid courage and indomitable energy, wept like a child in speaking of your tender grace, the qualities of your heart, and your sad and studious youth, poor little abandoned one, for you had no one in the world but Sidney. On that fatal day a
t Bridgewater he commanded my cavalry. After prodigies of valor, he was left for dead on the battlefield; as for me, carried away in a rush of flying troops, grievously wounded, it was impossible for me to find him.”
“Was not that the day when he died?” said Angela, wiping her eyes.
“Listen, Angela; oh, you do not know how these sad memories break my heart!”
“And ours also,” said Croustillac. “Brave Sidney! I do not know what it is that tells me that he did not die that day at Bridgewater, and that we shall hear of him again.”
Monmouth trembled, remained silent a moment, and then continued: “I must have courage. I will tell you all. Sidney was left for dead on the battlefield; I was arrested, condemned to death, and my execution fixed for the 15th of July, 1685. When they told me I was to be executed the following day, I was alone in my prison.
“In the midst of the terrible thoughts to which I was a prey during those dreadful hours that preceded the moment of my execution, I swear to you, Angela, before the God that hears me, if I had any sweet and consoling thoughts to calm me, they were those I gave to Sidney, in recalling the beautiful days of our friendship. I believed him dead and I said, ‘In a few hours I shall be united to him forever.’ All at once the door of my cell opened and Sidney appeared!”
“Zounds! so much the better! I was sure he was not dead,” exclaimed Croustillac.
“No, he was not dead,” replied the duke with a sigh. “Would to God he had died as a soldier on the field of battle.”
Angela and Croustillac looked at Monmouth in astonishment. He continued: “At the sight of Sidney I believed myself the dupe of a fancy conjured up by my extreme agitation; but I soon felt his tears on my cheek, and myself pressed within his arms. ‘Saved! you are saved!’ he said, through his tears. ‘Saved?’ said I, gazing at him stupidly. ‘Saved, yes; listen to me,’ said he, and this was what he told me: My uncle the king could not openly show me mercy; policy forbade; but he did not wish his brother’s son to perish on the scaffold. Informed by one of his courtiers who was, notwithstanding, one of my friends, of the resemblance between Sidney and myself, a resemblance which so struck you the first time you saw me,” said Monmouth to Angela, “King James had secretly provided Sidney with means to get into my prison. This devoted friend was to assume my clothes, and I to put on his, and go out of the Tower by means of this strategy. The next day, learning of my escape and the devotion of Sidney remaining prisoner in my stead, the king would put him at liberty and give orders to seek me out; but these orders would only be in appearance. He favored, secretly, my departure for France. I was only to write to the king and give him my word to never return to England.”
“Ah, well,” said Angela, interested to the last degree by this recital; “you accepted Sidney’s offer, and he remained a prisoner in your stead?”
“Alas! yes, I accepted it, for all that Sidney said to me seemed so probable; his presence at that hour in the prison, in spite of the severe watch to which I was subjected, made me believe that an all-powerful will aided mysteriously in my flight.”
“It was not so, then?” cried Angela.
“Nothing could be more naturally arranged, it seems to me,” said Croustillac.
“In effect,” said Monmouth, smiling bitterly, “nothing was more naturally arranged; it was only too easy for Sidney to persuade me, to turn aside my objections.”
“And what objections could you make?” said Angela. “What was there astonishing in that King James, not wishing to shed your blood on the scaffold, should connive at your escape?”
“And how could Sidney succeed in getting into the prison, sir, without the assistance of some powerful influence?” said the adventurer.
“Oh, is it not so?” said the duke with sad satisfaction, “was it not that all that Sidney said to me might seem probable, possible? Was I not justified in believing him?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Angela.
“Was it not,” continued Monmouth, “was it not possible to put faith in his words without being misled by the fear of death, without being influenced by a cowardly, horrible egotism? And still, I swear to you, I did not agree to what Sidney said to me. Before accepting life and liberty which he came to offer me in the name of my uncle, I asked myself what would happen to my friend if James did not keep his promise? I said to myself that the greatest punishment that could befall a man who was an accomplice in aiding another to escape, was imprisonment in turn; thus, admitting this hypothesis, once free, although compelled to hide myself, I had sufficient resources at my disposal not to quit England before having, in my turn, liberated Sidney. What more can I say to you? The instinct of life, the fear of death, doubtless obscured my judgment, troubled my discernment. I accepted, for I believed everything Sidney said to me. Alas! why was I so insane?”
“Insane? Faith, you would have been insane had you not accepted!” cried Croustillac.
“Who, indeed, would have hesitated in your place?” added Angela.
“No, no, I tell you that I should not have accepted; my heart, if not my head, should have revolted at this deceptive thought. But what did I know. A strange fatality, perhaps a frightful egotism, pushed me on. I accepted. I pressed Sidney in my arms, I took his clothes, and I said to him, ‘To-morrow!’ with the conviction that I should see him the following day. I left my cell; the jailer escorted me to the gate; thanks to my resemblance to Sidney, he noticed nothing wrong, and led me in haste by a secret road as far as a door of the Tower. I was free! I forgot to tell you that Sidney had informed me of a house in the city where I could wait for him safely, for he would return, he said, to me the following day, in order to plan our departure. At last I found, at this house in the city, the precious stones I had confided to Sidney on my departure from Holland, the value of which was enormous. Wrapped up in his mantle, a mantle which you wear to-day, and which has remained sacred to me, I directed my steps toward the city. I rapped at the door; an old woman opened it, and leading me into a secluded chamber, she gave into my hands the iron casket, the key of which Sidney had handed me. I found there my precious stones. Broken with fatigue, for the sleepless hours I had passed were frightful, I fell into a slumber. For the first time since my sentence to death, I sought sleep without saying to myself that the scaffold awaited me on my awakening. When I arose the following day it was broad daylight; a bright sun penetrated between my curtains. I raised them; the sky was clear; it was a radiant summer day. Oh! I felt such rapturous joy and such inexpressible happiness. I had seen my open tomb, and I still lived. I breathed the air in every pore. Seized with gratitude, I threw myself upon my knees, and blessed God, the king, and Sidney. I waited to see this dear friend from one moment to another. I did not doubt, no, I could not doubt, the king’s clemency. All at once I heard in the distance the criers announcing important events; it seemed to me that I heard my name. I thought it was an illusion, but, in fact, it was my name. Oh, then, a frightful presentiment seized me; my hair stood on end. I remained on my knees. I listened with my heart beating violently; the voices came nearer; I still heard my name mingled with other words. A ray of joy, as foolish as my presentiment had been horrible, changed my terror into hope. Madman! I believed they were crying the details of the escape of the Duke of Monmouth. In my impatience, I descended to the street; I bought the account; I mounted again with palpitating heart, holding the paper in my hands.”
Saying these words, Monmouth became frightfully pale, and could hardly support himself. A cold perspiration bathed his forehead.
“Well?” cried Angela and Croustillac, who experienced a piercing agony.
“Ah,” cried the duke despairingly, “it was the details of the execution of the Duke of Monmouth.”[B]
“And Sidney?” cried Angela.
“Sidney had died for me, died a martyr to friendship. His blood, his noble blood, had been shed upon the scaffold instead of mine. Now, Angela, you see, unhappy child, why I have always hidden this terrible secret.”
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sp; At these words the duke fell back on the sofa, hiding his face in his hands. Angela threw herself at his feet, sobbing bitterly.
[B] Hume says: “After his execution, his partisans held to the hope of yet seeing him at their head; they flattered themselves that the prisoner who had been beheaded was not the Duke of Monmouth, but one of his friends, who resembled him greatly, and who had had the courage to die in his stead.”
Sainte-Foix, in a letter on the Iron Mask (Amsterdam, 1768), says: “It is true that the report spread through London that an officer of Monmouth’s army who greatly resembled the duke, having been taken prisoner, and knowing death to be inevitable, received a proposition to represent the duke with as much joy as if life had been offered him; and hearing this, that a great lady, having bribed those who could open his coffin, and having looked at the form, cried, ‘Ah, that is not the Duke of Monmouth.’” Furthermore, Sainte-Foix, who sought to prove that the Iron Mask was no other than the Duke of Monmouth, cited a passage of another English work by Pyms, in which he says: “Count Landy sent to seek Colonel Skelton, who was the ex-lieutenant of the Tower, and whom the Prince of Orange had dismissed to give the place to Lord Lucas.” “Skelton,” said Count Landy to him the previous evening, in dining with Robert Johnston, “you say that the Duke of Monmouth is living and imprisoned in an English castle?” “I cannot vouch for this, because I do not really know,” said Skelton, “but I affirm that the night after the pretended execution of the Duke of Monmouth, the king, accompanied by three men, came himself to the tower and carried the duke away.”