Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Here; in my lodging,” I answered.

  “My son is here?” he said.

  “In the next room,” I replied, smiling indulgently at his astonishment, which was only less amusing than his terror. “I have but to touch this bell, and Maignan will bring him to you.”

  Full of wonder and admiration, he implored me to ring and have him brought immediately; since until he had set eyes on him he could not feel safe. Accordingly I rang my hand-bell, and Maignan opened the door. “The clockmaker,” I said nodding.

  He looked at me stupidly. “The clock-maker, your excellency?”

  “Yes; bring him in,” I said.

  “But — he has gone!” he exclaimed.

  “Gone?” I cried, scarcely able to believe my ears. “Gone, sirrah! and I told you to detain him!”

  “Until he had mended the clock, my lord,” Maignan stammered, quite out of countenance. “But he set it going half-an-hour ago; and I let him go, according to your order.”

  It is in the face of such CONTRETEMPS as these that the low-bred man betrays himself. Yet such was my chagrin on this occasion, and so sudden the shock, that it was all I could do to maintain my SANGFROID, and, dismissing Maignan with a look, be content to punish M. de Perrot with a sneer. “I did not know that your son was a tradesman,” I said. He wrung his hands. “He has low tastes,” he cried. “He always had. He has amused himself that way, And now by this time he is with Madame de Beaufort and we are undone!”

  “Not we,” I answered curtly; “speak for yourself, M. de Perrot.”

  But though, having no mind to appear in his eyes dependent on Madame’s favour or caprice, I thus checked his familiarity, I am free to confess that my calmness was partly assumed; and that, though I knew my position to be unassailable — based as it was on solid services rendered to the King, my master, and on the familiar affection with which he honoured me through so many years — I could not view the prospect of a fresh collision with Madame without some misgiving. Having gained the mastery in the two quarrels we had had, I was the less inclined to excite her to fresh intrigues; and as unwilling to give the King reason to think that we could not live at peace. Accordingly, after a moment’s consideration, I told Perrot that, rather than he should suffer, I would go to Madame de Beaufort myself, and give such explanations as would place another complexion on the matter.

  He overwhelmed me with thanks, and, besides, to show his gratitude — for he was still on thorns, picturing her wrath and resentment he insisted on accompanying me to the Cloitre de St. Germain, where Madame had her apartment. By the way, he asked me what I should say to her.

  “Whatever will get you out of the scrape,” I answered curtly.

  “Then anything!” he cried with fervour. “Anything, my dear friend. Oh, that unnatural boy!”

  “I suppose that the girl is as big a fool?” I said.

  “Bigger! bigger!” he answered. “I don’t know where she learned such things!”

  “She prated of love, too, then?”

  “To be sure,” he groaned, “and without a sou of DOT!”

  “Well, well,” I said, “here we are. I will do what I can.”

  Fortunately the King was not there, and Madame would receive me. I thought, indeed, that her doors flew open with suspicious speed, and that way was made for me more easily than usual; and I soon found that I was not wrong in the inference I drew from these facts. For when I entered her chamber that remarkable woman, who, whatever her enemies may say, combined with her beauty a very uncommon degree of sense and discretion, met me with a low courtesy and a smile of derision. “So,” she said, “M. de Rosny, not satisfied with furnishing me with evidence, gives me proof.”

  “How, Madame?” I said; though I well understood.

  “By his presence here,” she answered. “An hour ago,” she continued, “the King was with me. I had not then the slightest ground to expect this honour, or I am sure that his Majesty would have stayed to share it. But I have since seen reason to expect it, and you observe that I am not unprepared.”

  She spoke with a sparkling eye, and an expression of the most lively resentment; so that, had M. de Perrot been in my place I think that he would have shed more tears. I was myself somewhat dashed, though I knew the prudence that governed her in her most impetuous sallies; still, to avoid the risk of hearing things which we might both afterwards wish unsaid, I came to the point. “I fear that I have timed my visit ill, Madame,” I said. “You have some complaint against me.”

  “Only that you are like the others,” she answered with a fine contempt. “You profess one thing and do another.”

  “As for example?”

  “For example!” she replied, with a scornful laugh. “How many times have you told me that you left women, and intrigues in which women had part, on one side?”

  I bowed.

  “And now I find you — you and that Perrot, that creature! — intriguing against me; intriguing with some country chit to—”

  “Madame!” I said, cutting her short with a show of temper, “where did you get this?”

  “Do you deny it?” she cried, looking so beautiful in her anger that I thought I had never seen her to such advantage. “Do you deny that you took the King there?”

  “No. Certainly I took the King there.”

  “To Perrot’s? You admit it?”

  “Certainly,” I said, “for a purpose.”

  “A purpose!” she cried with withering scorn. “Was it not that the King might see that girl?”

  “Yes,” I replied patiently, “it was.”

  She stared at me. “And you can tell me that to my face!” she said.

  “I see no reason why I should not, Madame,” I replied easily— “I cannot conceive why you should object to the union — and many why you should desire to see two people happy. Otherwise, if I had had any idea, even the slightest, that the matter was obnoxious to you, I would not have engaged in it.”

  “But — what was your purpose then?” she muttered, in a different tone.

  “To obtain the King’s good word with M. de Perrot to permit the marriage of his son with his niece; who is, unfortunately, without a portion.”

  Madame uttered a low exclamation, and her eyes wandering from me, she took up — as if her thoughts strayed also — a small ornament; from the table beside her. “Ah!” she said, looking at it closely. “But Perrot’s son did he know of this?”

  “No,” I answered, smiling. “But I have heard that women can love as well as men, Madame. And sometimes ingenuously.”

  I heard her draw a sigh of relief, and I knew that if I had not persuaded her I had accomplished much. I was not surprised when, laying down the ornament with which she had been toying, she turned on me one of those rare smiles to which the King could refuse nothing; and wherein wit, tenderness, and gaiety were so happily blended that no conceivable beauty of feature, uninspired by sensibility, could vie with them. “Good friend, I have sinned,” she said. “But I am a woman, and I love. Pardon me. As for your PROTEGEE, from this moment she is mine also. I will speak to the King this evening; and if he does not at once,” Madame continued, with a gleam of archness that showed me that she was not yet free from suspicion, “issue his commands to M. de Perrot, I shall know what to think; and his Majesty will suffer!”

  I thanked her profusely, and in fitting terms. Then, after a word or two about some assignments for the expenses of her household, in settling which there had been delay — a matter wherein, also, I contrived to do her pleasure and the King’s service no wrong — I very willingly took my leave, and, calling my people, started homewards on foot. I had not gone twenty paces, however, before M. de Perrot, whose impatience had chained him to the spot, crossed the street and joined himself to me. “My dear friend,” he cried, embracing me fervently, “is all well?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “She is appeased?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He heaved a deep sigh of relief, and, almost
crying in his joy, began to thank me, with all the extravagance of phrase and gesture to which men of his mean spirit are prone. Through all I heard him silently, and with secret amusement, knowing that the end was not yet. At length he asked me what explanation I had given.

  “The only explanation possible,” I answered bluntly. “I had to combat Madame’s jealousy. I did it in the only way in which it could be done: by stating that your niece loved your son, and by imploring her good word on their behalf.”

  He sprang a pace from me with a cry of rage and astonishment. “You did that?” he screamed.

  “Softly, softly, M. de Perrot,” I said, in a voice which brought him somewhat to his senses. “Certainly I did. You bade me say whatever was necessary, and I did so. No more. If you wish, however,” I added grimly, “to explain to Madame that—”

  But with a wail of lamentation he rushed from me, and in a moment was lost in the darkness; leaving me to smile at this odd termination of an intrigue that, but for a lad’s adroitness, might have altered the fortunes not of M. de Perrot only but of the King my master and of France.

  II.

  THE TENNIS BALLS.

  A few weeks before the death of the Duchess of Beaufort, on Easter Eve, 1599, made so great a change in the relations of all at Court that “Sourdis mourning” came to be a phrase for grief, genuine because interested, an affair that might have had a serious issue began, imperceptibly at the time, in the veriest trifle.

  One day, while the King was still absent from Paris, I had a mind to play tennis, and for that purpose summoned La Trape, who had the charge of my balls, and sometimes, in the absence of better company, played with me. Of late the balls he bought had given me small satisfaction, and I bade him bring me the bag, that I might choose the best. He did so, and I had not handled half-a-dozen before I found one, and later three others, so much more neatly sewn than the rest, and in all points so superior, that even an untrained eye could not fail to detect the difference.

  “Look, man!” I said, holding out one of these for his inspection. “These are balls; the rest are rubbish. Cannot you see the difference? Where did you buy these? At Constant’s?”

  He muttered, “No, my lord,” and looked confused.

  This roused my curiosity. “Where, then?” I said sharply.

  “Of a man who was at the gate yesterday.”

  “Oh!” I said. “Selling tennis balls?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Some rogue of a marker,” I exclaimed, “from whom you bought filched goods! Who was it, man?”

  “I don’t know his name,” La Trape answered. “He was a Spaniard.”

  “Well?”

  “Who wanted to have an audience of your excellency.”

  “Ho!” I said drily. “Now I understand. Bring me your book. Or, tell me, what have you charged me for these balls?”

  “Two francs,” he muttered reluctantly.

  “And never gave a sou, I’ll swear!” I retorted. “You took the poor devil’s balls, and left him at the gate! Ay, it is rogues like you get me a bad name!” I continued, affecting more anger than I felt — for, in truth, I was rather pleased with my quickness in discovering the cheat. “You steal and I bear the blame, and pay to boot! Off with you and find the fellow, and bring him to me, or it will be the worse for you!”

  Glad to escape so easily, La Trape ran to the gate; but he failed to find his friend, and two or three days elapsed before I thought again of the matter, such petty rogueries being ingrained in a great man’s VALETAILLE, and being no more to be removed than the hairs from a man’s arm. At the end of that time La Trape came to me, bringing the Spaniard; who had appeared again at the gate. The stranger proved to be a small, slight man, pale and yet brown, with quick-glancing eyes. His dress was decent, but very poor, with more than one rent neatly darned. He made me a profound reverence, and stood waiting, with his cap in his hand, to be addressed; but, with all his humility, I did not fail to detect an easiness of deportment and a propriety that did not seem absolutely strange since he was a Spaniard, but which struck me, nevertheless, as requiring some explanation. I asked him, civilly, who he was. He answered that his name was Diego.

  “You speak French?”

  “I am of Guipuzcoa, my lord,” he answered, “where we sometimes speak three tongues.”

  “That is true,” I said. “And it is your trade to make tennis balls?”

  “No, my lord; to use them,” he answered with a certain dignity.

  “You are a player, then?”

  “If it please your excellency.”

  “Where have you played?”

  “At Madrid, where I was the keeper of the Duke of Segovia’s court; and at Toledo, where I frequently had the honour of playing against M. de Montserrat.”

  “You are a good player?”

  “If your excellency,” he answered impulsively, “will give me an opportunity—”

  “Softly, softly,” I said, somewhat taken aback by his earnestness. “Granted that you are a player, you seem to have played to small purpose.. Why are you here, my friend, and not in Madrid?”

  He drew up his sleeves, and showed me that his wrists were deeply scarred.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “You have been in the hands of the Holy Brotherhood?” I said.

  “No, my lord,” he answered bitterly. “Of the Holy Inquisition.”

  “You are a Protestant?”

  He bowed.

  On that I fell to considering him with more attention, but at the same time with some distrust; reflecting that he was a Spaniard, and recalling the numberless plots against his Majesty of which that nation had been guilty. Still, if his tale were true he deserved support; with a view therefore to testing this I questioned him farther, and learned that he had for a long time disguised his opinions, until, opening them in an easy moment to a fellow servant, he found himself upon the first occasion of quarrel betrayed to the Fathers. After suffering much, and giving himself up for lost in their dungeons, he made his escape in a manner sufficiently remarkable, if I might believe his story. In the prison with him lay a Moor, for whose exchange against a Christian taken by the Sallee pirates an order came down. It arrived in the evening; the Moor was to be removed in the morning. An hour after the arrival of the news, however, and when the two had just been locked up for the night, the Moor, overcome with excess of joy, suddenly expired. At first the Spaniard was for giving the alarm; but, being an ingenious fellow, in a few minutes he summoned all his wits together and made a plan. Contriving to blacken his face and hands with charcoal he changed clothes with the corpse, and muffling himself up after the fashion of the Moors in a cold climate he succeeded in the early morning in passing out in his place. Those who had charge of him had no reason to expect an escape, and once on the road he had little difficulty in getting away, and eventually reached France after a succession of narrow chances.

  All this the man told me so simply that I knew not which to admire more, the daring of his device — since for a white man to pass for a brown is beyond the common scope of such disguises — or his present modesty in relating it. However, neither of these things seemed to my mind a good reason for disbelief. As to the one, I considered that an impostor would have put forward something more simple; and as to the other, I have all my life long observed that those who have had strange experiences tell them in a very ordinary way. Besides, I had fresh in my mind the diverting escape of the Duke of Nemours from Lyons, which I have elsewhere related. On the other hand, and despite all these things, the story might be false; so with a view to testing one part of it, at least, I bade him come and play with me that afternoon.

  “My lord,” he said bluntly, “I had rather not. For if I defeat your excellency, I may defeat also your good intentions. And if I permit you to win, I shall seem to be an impostor.”

  Somewhat surprised by his forethought, I reassured him on this point; and his game, which proved to be one of remarkable strength and finesse, and fairly on an equal
ity, as it seemed to me, with that of the best French players, persuaded me that at any rate the first part of his tale was true. Accordingly I made him a present, and, in addition, bade Maignan pay him a small allowance for a while. For this he showed his gratitude by attaching himself to my household; and as it was the fashion at that time to keep tennis masters of this class, I found it occasionally amusing to pit him against other well-known players. In the course of a few weeks he gained me great credit; and though I am not so foolish as to attach importance to such trifles, but, on the contrary, think an old soldier who stood fast at Coutras, or even a clerk who has served the King honestly — if such a prodigy there be — more deserving than these professors, still I do not err on the other side; but count him a fool who, because he has solid cause to value himself, disdains the ECLAT which the attachment of such persons gives him in the public eye.

  The man went by the name of Diego the Spaniard, and his story, which gradually became known, together with the excellence of his play, made him so much the fashion that more than one tried to detach him from my service. The King heard of him, and would have played with him, but the sudden death of Madame de Beaufort, which occurred soon afterwards, threw the Court into mourning; and for a while, in pursuing the negotiations for the King’s divorce, and in conducting a correspondence of the most delicate character with the Queen, I lost sight of my player — insomuch, that I scarcely knew whether he still formed part of my suite or not.

  My attention was presently recalled to him, however, in a rather remarkable manner. One morning Don Antonio d’Evora, Secretary to the Spanish Embassy, and a brother of that d’Evora who commanded the Spanish Foot at Paris in ‘94, called on me at the Arsenal, to which I had just removed, and desired to see me. I bade them admit him; but as my secretaries were at the time at work with me, I left them and received him in the garden — supposing that he wished to speak to me, about the affair of Saluces, and preferring, like the King my master, to talk of matters of State in the open air.

  However, I was mistaken. Don Antonio said nothing about Savoy, but after the usual preliminaries, which a Spaniard never omits, plunged into a long harangue upon the comity which, now that peace reigned, should exist between the two nations. For some time I waited patiently to learn what he would be at; but he seemed to be lost in his own eloquence, and at last I took him up.