The historical nights' entertainment : second series

The Historical Nights
Entertainment

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

ROMANCES :

THE TAVERN KNIGHT

THE SHAME OF MOTLEY

BARDELYS THE MAGNIFICENT

THE TRAMPLING OF THE LILIES

LOVE-AT-ARMS

ST MARTIN'S SUMMER

THE LION'S SKIN

THE JUSTICE OF THE DUKE

THE GATES OF DOOM

THE STROLLING SAINT

THE SEA-HAWK

THE BANNER OF THE BULL

THE SNARE

HISTORICAL ESSAYS :

THE LIFE OF CESARE BORGIA

TORQUEMADA AND THE SPANISH INQUISITION

The Historical Nights'
Entertainment

By Rafael Sabatini

SECOND SERSES

Philadelphia
J. B. Lippincott Company

TO
DAVID WHITELAW

MY DEAR DAVID,

Since the narratives collected here as well as in
the preceding volume under the title of THE HISTORICAL
NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT — narratives originally published
in THE PREMIER MAGAZINE, which you so ably edit —
owe their being to your suggestion, it is fitting that some
acknowledgment of the fact should be made. To what
is hardly less than a duty, allow me to add the pleasure
of dedicating to you, in earnest of my friendship and
esteem, not merely this volume, but the work of which this
volume is the second.

Sincerely yours,

RAFAEL SABATINI.
London, June, 1919.

Printed in Great Britain*

Preface

THE kindly reception accorded to the first volume of
THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT, issued in
December of 1917, has encouraged me to prepare the
second series here assembled.

As in the case of the narratives that made up the first
volume, I set out again with the same ambitious aim of
adhering scrupulously in every instance to actual, recorded
facts ; and once again I find it desirable at the outset to
reveal how far the achievement may have fallen short of
the admitted aim.

On the whole, I have to confess to having allowed myself
perhaps a wider latitude, and to having taken greater
liberties than was the case with the essays constituting
the previous collection. This, however, applies, where
applicable, to the parts rather than to the whole.

The only entirely apocryphal narrative here included is
the first — " The Absolution." This is one of those
stories which, if resting upon no sufficient authority to
compel its acceptance, will, nevertheless, resist all attempts
at final refutation, having its roots at least in the soil of
fact. It is given in the rather discredited Portuguese
chronicles of Acenheiro, and finds place, more or less as
related here, in Duarte Galvao's " Chronicle of Aflonso
Henriques," whence it was taken by the Portuguese
historical writer, Alexandre Herculano, to be included in
his " Lendas e Narrativas." If it is to be relegated to

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the Limbo of the ben trovato, at least I esteem it to afford
us a precious glimpse of the naive spirit of the age in which
it is set, and find in that my justification for including it.

The next to require apology is " His Insolence of
Buckingham," but only in so far as the incident of the
diamond studs is concerned. The remainder of the nar-
rative, the character of Buckingham, the details of his
embassy to Paris, and the particulars of his audacious
courtship of Anne of Austria, rest upon unassailable
evidence. I would have omitted the very apocryphal
incident of the studs, but that I considered it of peculiar
interest as revealing the source of the main theme of one
of the most famous historical romances ever written —
" The Three Musketeers." I give the story as related by
La Rochefoucauld in his " Memoirs," whence Alexandre
Dumas culled it that he might turn it to such excellent
romantic account. In La Rochefoucauld's narrative it
is the painter Gerbier who, in a far less heroic manner,
plays the part assigned by Dumas to d'Artagnan, and it
is the Countess of Carlisle who carries out the political
theft which Dumas attributes to Milady. For the rest,
I do not invite you to attach undue credit to it, which is
not, liowever, to say that I account it wholly false.

In the case of " The Hermosa Fembra " I confess to
having blended together into one single narrative two
historical episodes closely connected in time and place.
Susan's daughter was, in fact, herself the betrayer of her
father, and it was in penitence for that unnatural act that
she desired her skull to be exhibited as I describe. Into
the story of Susan's daughter I have woven that of another
New-Christian girl, who, like the Hermosa Fembra, had
taken a Castilian lover — in this case a youth of the house
of Guzman. This youth was driven into concealrrtent
in circumstances more or less as I describe them. He over-
heard the judaizing of several New-Christians there
assembled, and bore word of it at once to Ojeda. The

Preface 7

two episodes were separated in fact by an interval of
three years, and the first afforded Ojeda a strong argument
for the institution of the Holy Office in Seville. Between
the two there are many points of contact, and each supplies
what the other lacks to make an interesting narrative
having for background the introduction of the Inquisition
to Castile. The denouement I supply is entirely fictitious,
and the introduction of Torquemada is quite arbitrary.
Ojeda was the inquisitor who dealt with both cases. But
if there I stray into fiction, at least I claim to have sketched
a faithful portrait of the Grand Inquisitor as I know him
from fairly exhaustive researches into his life and times.

The story of the False Demetrius is here related from
the point of view of my adopted solution of what is gener-
ally regarded as a historical mystery. The mystery lies,
of course, in the man's identity. He has been held by
some to have been the unfrocked monk, Grishka Otropiev,
by others to have been a son of Stephen Bathory, King
of Poland. I am not aware that the theory that he was
both at one and the same time has ever been put forward,
and whilst admitting that it is speculative, yet I claim
that no other would appear so aptly to fit all the known
facts of his career or to shed light upon its mysteries.

Undoubtedly I have allowed myself a good deal of
licence and speculation in treating certain unwitnessed
scenes in " The Barren Wooing." But the theory that I
develop in it to account for the miscarriage of the matri-
monial plans of Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley
seems to me to be not only very fully warranted by de
Quadra's correspondence, but the only theory that will
convincingly explain the events. Elizabeth, as I show,
was widely believed to be an accessory to the murder of
Amy Robsart. But in carefully following her words and
actions at that critical time, as reported by de Quadra,
my reading of the transaction is as given here. The most
damning fact against Elizabeth was held to be her own

8 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

statement to de Quadra on the eve of Lady Robert Dudley's
murder to the effect that Lady Robert was " already dead,
or very nearly so." This foreknowledge of the fate of that
unfortunate lady has been accepted as positive evidence
that the Queen was a party to the crime at Cumnor, which
was to set her lover free to marry again. Far from that,
however, I account i<t positive proof of Elizabeth's inno-
cence of any such part in the deed. Elizabeth was far
too crafty and clear-sighted not to realize how her words
must incriminate her afterwards if she knew that the
murder of Lady Robert was projected. She must have
been merely repeating what Dudley himself had told her ;
and what he must have told her — and she believed — was
that his wife was at the point of a natural death. Similarly,
Dudley would not have told her this, unless his aim had
been to procure his wife's removal by means which would
admit of a natural interpretation. Difficulties encoun-
tered, much as I relate them — and for which there is abun-
dant evidence — drove his too-zealous agents to rather
desperate lengths, and thus brought suspicion, not only
upon the guilty Dudley, but also upon the innocent
Queen. The manner of Amy's murder is pure conjecture ;
but it should not be far from what actually took place.
The possibility of an accident — extraordinarily and suspi-
ciously opportune for Dudley as it would have been —
could not be altogether ruled out but for the further
circumstance that Lady Robert had removed everybody
from Cumnor on that day. To what can this point — unless
we accept an altogether incredible chain of coincidence —
but to some such plotting as I here suggest ?

In the remaining six essays in this volume the liberties
taken with the absolute facts are so slight as to require no
apology or comment.

R. S
London, June, 1919.

Contents

I. THE ABSOLUTION Page 11

Affonso Henriques, First King of Portugal

II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS „ 33

Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of
Ivan the Terrible

III. THE HERMOSA FEMBRA „ 55

An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville

IV. THE PASTRY-COOK OF MADRIGAL „ 83

The Story of the False Sebastian of
Portugal

V. THE END OF THE VEM GALANT „ 115

The Assassination of Henry IV

VI. THE BARREN WOOING „ 143

The Murder of Amy Robsart

VII. SIR JUDAS „ 173

The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh

VIII. HIS INSOLENCE OF BUCKINGHAM „ 199

George Villiers' Courtship of Anne of
Austria

IX. THE PATH OF EXILE „ 223

The Fall of Lord Clarendon

X. THE TRAGEDY OF HERRENHAUSEN „ 249

Count Philip Konigsmark and the
Princess Sophia Dorothea

XI. THE TYRANNICIDE „ 273

Charlotte Corday and Jean Paul Marat

9

/. The Absohition

Affonso Henriques, first King of Portugal

/. The Absolution

IN 1093 the Moors of the Almoravide dynasty, under the
Caliph Yusuf, swept irresistibly upwards into the
Iberian Peninsula, recapturing Lisbon and Santarem in
the west, and pushing their conquest as far as the river
Mondego.

To meet this revival of Mohammedan power, Alfonso VI.
of Castile summoned the chivalry of Christendom to his
aid. Among the knights who answered the call was
Count Henry of Burgundy (grandson of Robert, first Duke
of Burgundy) to whom Alfonso gave his natural daughter
Theresa in marriage, together with the Counties of Oporto
and Coimbra, with the title of Count of Portugal.

That is the first chapter of the history of Portugal.

Count Henry fought hard to defend his southern fron-
tiers from the incursion of the Moors until his death in 1 1 14.
Thereafter his widow Theresa became Regent of Portugal
during the minority of their son, Affonso Henriques. A
woman of great energy, resource and ambition, she success-
fully waged war against the Moors, and in other ways laid
the foundations upon which her son was to build the
Kingdom of Portugal. But her passionate infatuation for
one of her knights — Don Fernando Peres de Trava — and
the excessive honours she bestowed upon him, made

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enemies for her in the new state, and estranged her from
her son.

In 1127 Alfonso VII. of Castile invaded Portugal, com-
pelling Theresa to recognize him as her suzerain. But
Affonso Henriques, now aged seventeen — and declared
by the citizens of the capital to be of age and competent
to reign — incontinently refused to recognize the submission
made by his mother, and in the following year assembled
an army for the purpose of expelling her and her lover
from the country. The warlike Theresa resisted until
defeated in the battle of San Mamede and taken prisoner.

He was little more than a boy, although four years were
sped already since, as a mere lad of fourteen, he had kept
vigil throughout the night over his arms in the Cathedral
of Zamora, preparatory to receiving the honour of knight-
hood at the hands of his cousin, Alfonso VII. of Castile.
Yet already he was looked upon as the very pattern of what
a Christian, knight should be, worthy son of the father who
had devoted his life to doing battle against the Infidel,
wheresoever he might be found. He was well-grown and
tall, and of a bodily strength that is almost a byword
to this day in that Portugal of which he was the real founder
and first king. He was skilled beyond the common wont
in all knightly exercises of arms and horsemanship, ai
equipped with far more learning — though much of it \\
ill-digested, as this story will serve to show — than tlie
twelfth century considered useful or even proper in a
knight. And he was at least true to his time in that he
combined a fervid piety with a weakness of the flesh
and an impetuous arrogance that was to bring him under

The Absolution 15

the ban of greater excommunication at the very outset of
his reign.

It happened that his imprisonment of his mother was not
at all pleasing in the sight of Rome. Dona Theresa had
powerful friends, who so used their influence at the Vatican
on her behalf that the Holy Father — conveniently ignoring
the provocation she had given and the scandalous, un-
motherly conduct of which she had been guilty — came to
consider the behaviour of the Infante of Portugal as repre-
hensibly unfilial, and commanded him to deliver Dona
Theresa at once from duress.

This Papal order, backed by a threat of excommunica-
tion in the event of disobedience, was brought to the
young prince by the Bishop of Coimbra, whom he counted
among his friends.

Affonso Henriques, ever impetuous and quick to anger,
flushed scarlet when he heard that uncompromising
message. His dark eyes smouldered as they considered
the aged prelate.

" You come here to bid me let loose again upon this land
of Portugal that author of strife, to deliver over the people
once more to the oppression of the Lord of Trava ? " he
asked. " And you tell me that unless by obeying this
command I am false to the duty I owe this country, you will
launch the curse of Rome against me ? You tell me this ? "

The bishop, deeply stirred, torn between his duty to the
Holy See and his affection for his prince, bowed his head and
wrung his hands. " What choice have I ? " he asked, on
a quavering note.

" I raised you from the dust." Thunder was rumbling
in the prince's voice. " Myself I placed the episcopal ring
upon your finger."

16 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" My lord, my lord ! Could I forget ? All that I have I
owe to you — save only my soul, which I owe to God ; my
faith, which I owe to Christ ; and my obedience, which I
owe to our Holy Father the Pope."

The prince considered him in silence, mastering his
passionate, impetuous nature. " Go," he growled at last.

The prelate bowed his head, his eyes not daring to meet
his prince's.

" God keep you, lord," he almost sobbed, and so went out.

But though stirred by his affection for the prince to
whom he owed so much, though knowing in his inmost
heart that Affonso Henriques was in the right, the Bishop
of Coimbra did not swerve from his duty to Rome, which
was as plain as it was unpalatable. Betimes next morning
word was brought to Affonso Henriques in the Alcazar
of Coimbra that a parchment was nailed to the door of the
Cathedral, setting forth his excommunication, and that the
Bishop — either out of fear or out of sorrow — had left the
city, journeying northward towards Oporto.

Affonso Henriques passed swiftly from incredulity to
anger ; then almost as swiftly came to a resolve, which was
as mad and harebrained as could have been expected from
a lad in his eighteenth year who held the reins of power.
Yet by its very directness and its superb ignoring of all
obstacles, legal and canonical, it was invested with a
certain wild sanity.

In full armour, a white cloak simply embroidered in gold
at the edge and knotted at the shoulder, he rode to the
Cathedral, attended by his half-brother Pedro Affonso,
and two of his knights, Emigio Moniz and Sancho Nunes.
There on the great iron-studded doors he found, as he had
been warned, the Roman parchment pronouncing him

The Absolution 17

accursed, its sonorous Latin periods set forth in a fine round
clerkly hand.

He swung down from his great horse and clanked up the
Cathedral steps, his attendants following. He had for
witnesses no more than a few loiterers, who had paused at
sight of their prince.

The interdict had so far attracted no attention, for in
the twelfth century the art of letters was a mystery to
which there were few initiates.

Affonso Henriques tore the sheepskin from its nails, and
crumpled it in his hand ; then he passed into the Cathedral,
and thence came out presently into the cloisters. Overhead
a bell was clanging by his orders, summoning the chapter.

To the Infante, waiting there in the sun-drenched close,
came presently the canons, austere, aloof, majestic in their
unhurried progress through the fretted cloisters, with flow-
ing garments and hands tucked into their wide sleeves
before them. In a semi-circle they arrayed themselves
before him, and waited impassively to learn his will. Over-
head the bell had ceased.

Affonso Henriques wasted no words.

' I have summoned you," he announced, " to command
that you proceed to the election of a bishop."

A rustle stirred through the priestly throng. The canons
looked askance at the prince and at one another. Then
one of them spoke.

" Habemus episcopum," he said gravely, and several
instantly made chorus : " We have a bishop."

The eyes of the young sovereign kindled. " You are
wrong," he told them. " You had a bishop, but he is
here no longer. He has deserted his see, after publishing
this shameful thing." And he held aloft the crumpled

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interdict. " As I am a God-fearing, Christian knight, I
will not live under this ban. Since the bishop who ex-
communicated me is gone, you will at once elect another
in his place who shall absolve me."

They stood before him, silent and impassive, in their
priestly dignity, and in their assurance that the law was
on their side.

" Well ? " the boy growled at them.

" Habemus episcopum," droned a voice again.

" Amen," boomed in chorus through the cloisters.

u I tell you that your bishop is gone," he insisted, his
voice quivering now with anger, " and I tell you that he
shall not return, that he shall never set foot again within
my city of Coimbra. Proceed you therefore at once to the
election of his successor."

" Lord," he was answered coldly by one of them, " no
such election is possible or lawful."

" Do you dare stand before my face, and tell me this ? "
he roared, infuriated by their cold resistance. He flung
out an arm in a gesture of terrible dismissal. " Out of my
sight, you proud and evil men ! Back to your cells, to
await my pleasure. Since in your arrogant, stiff-necked
pride you refuse to do my will, you shall receive the bishop
I shall myself select."

He was so terrific in his rage that they dared not tell
him that he had no power, prince though he might be, to
make such an election. They bowed to him, ever impas-
sively, and with their hands still folded, unhurried as they
had come, they now turned and filed past him in departure.

He watched them with scowling brows and tightened
lips, Moniz and Nunes silent behind him. Suddenly those
dark, watchful eyes of his were held by the last figure of all

The Absolution 19

in that austere procession — a tall, gaunt young man, whose
copper-coloured skin and hawk-featured face proclaimed
his Moorish blood. Instantly, maliciously, it flashed
through the prince's boyish mind how he might make of
this man an instrument to humble the pride of that insolent
clergy. He raised his hand, and beckoned the cleric to him.

" What is your name ? " he asked him.

" I am called Zuleyman, lord," he was answered, and
the name confirmed — where, indeed, no confirmation was
necessary — the fellow's Moorish origin.

Affonso Henriques laughed. It would be an excellent
jest to thrust upon these arrogant priests, who refused to
appoint a bishop of their choice, a bishop who was little
better than a blackamoor.

" Don Zuleyman," said the prince, " I name you Bishop
of Coimbra in the room of the rebel who has fled. You
will prepare to celebrate High Mass this morning, and to
pronounce my absolution."

The Christianized Moor fell back a step, his face paling
under its copper skin to a sickly grey. In the background,
the hindmost members of the retreating clerical procession
turned and stood at gaze, angered and scandalized by what
they heard, which was indeed a thing beyond belief.

" Ah no, my lord ! Ah no ! " Don Zuleyman was falter-
ing. " Not that ! "

The prospect terrified him, and in his agitation he had
recourse to Latin. " Domine, non sum dignus," he cried,
and beat his breast.

But the uncompromising Affonso Henriques gave him
back Latin for Latin.

" Dixi — I have spoken ! " he answered sternly. " Do
not fail me in obedience, on your life." And on that he

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clanked out again with his attendants, well-pleased with
his morning's work.

As he had disposed with boyish, almost irresponsible
rashness, and in flagrant contravention of all canon law,
so it fell out. Don Zuleyman, wearing the bishop's robes
and the bishop's mitre, intoned the Kyfie Eleison before
noon that day in the Cathedral of Coimbra, and pronounced
the absolution of the Infante of Portugal, who knelt so
submissively and devoutly before him.

Affonso Henriques was very pleased with himself. He
made a jest of the affair, and invited his intimates to laugh
with him. But Emigio Moniz and the elder members of
his council refused to laugh. They looked with awe upon
a deed that went perilously near to sacrilege, and implored
him to take their own sober view of the thing he had done.

" By the bones of St. James ! " he cried. " A prince
is not to be brow-beaten by a priest."

Such a view in the twelfth century was little short of
revolutionary. The chapter of the Cathedral of Coimbra
held the converse opinion that priests were not to be brow-
beaten by a prince, and set themselves to make Affonso
Henriques realize this to his bitter cost. They dispatched
to Rome an account of his unconscionable, high-handed,
incredible sacrilege, and invited Rome to administer con-
dign spiritual flagellation upon this errant child of Mother
Church. Rome made haste to vindicate her authority,
and dispatched a legate to the recalcitrant, audacious boy
who ruled in Portugal. But the distance being consider-
able, and means of travel inadequate and slow, it was not
until Don Zuleyman had presided in the See of Coimbra
for a full two months that the Papal Legate made his
appearance in Affonso Henriques' capital.

The Absolution 21

A very splendid Prince of the Church was Cardinal
Corrado, the envoy dispatched by Pope Honorius II.,
full armed with apostolic weapons to reduce the rebellious
Infante of Portugal into proper subjection.

His approach was heralded by the voice of rumour.
Affonso Henriques heard of it without perturbation. His
conscience at ease in the absolution which he had wrung
from Mother Church after his own fashion, he was entirely
absorbed in preparations for a campaign against the Moors
which was to widen his dominions. Therefore when at
length the thunderbolt descended, it fell — so far as he was
concerned — from a sky entirely clear.

It was towards dusk of a summer evening when the
legate, in a litter slung in line between two mules, entered
Coimbra. He was attended by two nephews, Giannino
and Pierluigi da Corrado, both patricians of Rome, and a
little knot of servants. Empanoplied in his sacred office,
the cardinal had no need of the protection of men-at-arms
upon a journey through god-fearing lands.

He was borne straight to the old Moorish palace where
the Infante resided, and came upon him there amid a
numerous company in the great pillared hall. Against a
background of battle trophies, livid weapons, implements
of war, and suits of mail both Saracen and Christian, with
which the bare walls were hung, moved a gaily*clad, courtly
gathering of nobles and their women-folk, when the great
cardinal, clad from head to foot in scarlet, entered un-
announced.

Laughter rippled into silence. A hush descended upon
the company, which stood now at gaze, considering the
imposing and unbidden guest. Slowly the legate, followed
by the two Roman youths, advanced down the hall, the

22 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

soft pad of his slippered feet and the rustle of his silken
robes being at first the only sound. On he came, until he
stood before the shallow dais, where in a massively carved
chair sat the Infante of Portugal, mistrustfully observing
him. Alfonso Henriques scented here an enemy, an ally
of his mother's, the bearer of a fresh declaration of hostili-
ties. Therefore of deliberate purpose he kept his seat, as
if to stress the fact that here he was the master.

" Lord Cardinal," he greeted the legate, " be welcome to
my land of Portugal."

The cardinal bowed stiffly, resentful of this reception.
In his long journey across the Spains, princes and nobles
had flocked to kiss his hand, and .bend the knee before him,
seeking his blessing. Yet this mere boy, beardless save
for a silky down about his firm young cheeks, retained his
seat and greeted him with no more submissiveness than if
he had been the envoy of some temporal prince.

" I am the representative of our Holy Father," he
announced, in a voice of stern reproof. " I am from Rome,
with these my well-beloved nephews."

" From Rome ? " quoth Affonso Henriques. For all
his length of limb and massive thews he could be impish
upon occasion. He was impish now. " Although no good
has ever yet come to me. from Rome, you make me hopeful.
His Holiness will have heard of the preparations I am
making for a war against the Infidel that shall carry the
Cross where now stands the Crescent, and sends me,
perhaps, a gift of gold to assist me in this holy
work."

The mockery of it stung the legate sharply. His sallow,
ascetic face empurpled.

" It is not gold I bring you," he answered, " but a lesson

The Absolution 23

in the faith which you would seem to have forgotten. I
am come to teach you your Christian duty, and to require
of you immediate reparation of the sacrilegious wrongs
you have done. The Holy Father demands of you the
instant re-instatement of the Bishop of Coimbra, whom you
have driven out with threats of violence, and the degrada-
tion of the cleric you blasphemously appointed .Bishop in
his stead."

" And is that all ? " quoth the boy, in a voice dangerously
quiet.

" No." Fearless in his sense of right, the legate towered
before him. " It is demanded of you further that you
instantly release the lady, your mother, from the unjust
confinement in which you hold her."

" That confinement is not unjust, as all here can witness,"
the Infante answered. " Rome may believe it, because
lies have been carried to Rome. Dona Theresa's life was
a scandal, her regency an injustice to my people. She and
the infamous Lord of Trava lighted the torch of civil war
in these dominions. Learn here the truth, and carry it to
Rome. Thus shall you do worthy service."

But the prelate was obstinate and proud.

" That is not the answer that our Holy Father awaits."

" It is the answer that I send,"

" Rash, rebellious youth, beware ! " The cardinal's
anger flamed up, and his voice swelled. " I come armed
with spiritual weapons of destruction. Do not abuse
the patience of Mother Church, or you shall feel the full
weight of her wrath released against you."

Exasperated, Alfonso Henriques bounded to his feet*
his face livid now with passion, his eyes ablaze.

" Out ! Away ! " he cried. " Go, my lord, and go

24 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

quickly, or as God watches us I will add here and now yet
another sacrilege to those of which you accuse me."

The prelate gathered his ample robes about him. If
pale, he was entirely calm once more. With stern dignity,
he bowed to the angry youth, and so departed, but with
such outward impassivity that it would have been difficult
to say with whom lay the victory. If AfTonso Henriques
thought that night that he had conquered, morning was
to shatter the illusion.

He was awakened early by a chamberlain at the urgent
instances of Emigio Moniz, who was demanding immediate
audience. AfTonso Henriques sat up in bed, and bade him
to be admitted.

The elderly knight and faithful counsellor came in,
treading heavily. His swarthy face was overcast, his
mouth set in stern lines under its grizzled beard.

" God keep you, lord," was his greeting, so lugubriously
delivered as to sound like a pious, but rather hopeless, wish.

" And you, Emigio," answered him the Infante. " You
are early astir. What is the cause ? "

" 111 tidings, lord." He crossed the room, unlatched
and flung wide a window. " Listen," he bade the prince.

On the still morning air arose a sound like the drone of
some gigantic hive, or of the sea when the tide is making.
Affonso Henriques recognized it for the murmur of the
multitude.

" What does it mean ? " he asked, and thrust a sinewy
leg from the bed.

" It means that the Papal Legate has done all that he
threatened, and something more. He has placed your
city of Coimbra under a ban of excommunication. The
churches are closed, and until the ban is lifted no priest

The Absolution 25

will be found to baptize, marry, shrive or perform any other
sacrament of Holy Church. The people are stricken with
terror, knowing that they share the curse with you. They
are massing below at the gates of the alcazar, demanding
to see you that they may implore you to lift from them the
horror of this excommunication."

Affonso Henriques had come to his feet by now, and he
stood there staring at the old knight, his face blenched, his
stout heart clutched by fear of these impalpable, blasting
weapons that were being used against him.

" My God ! " he groaned, and asked : " What must I do ?"

Moniz was preternaturally grave. " It is of the first
importance that the people should be pacified."

" But how ? "

" There is one way only — by a promise that you will
submit to the will of the Holy Father, and by penance seek
absolution for yourself and your city."

A red flush swept into the young cheeks that had been
so pale.

" What ? " he cried, his voice a roar. " Release my
mother, depose Zuleyman, recall that fugitive recreant
who cursed me, and humble myself to seek pardon at the
hands of this insolent Italian cleric ? May my bones rot,
may I roast for ever in hell-fire if I show myself such a
craven ! And do you counsel it, Emigio — do you really
counsel that ? " He was in a towering rage.

" Listen to that voice," Emigio answered him, and
waved a hand to the open window. " How else will you
silence it ? "

Alfonso Henriques sat down on the edge of the bed, and
took his head in his hands. He was checkmated — and
yet

26 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

He rose and beat his hands together, summoning
chamberlain and pages to help him dress and arm.

" Where is the legate lodged ? " he asked Moniz.

" He is gone," the knight answered him. " He left at
cock-crow, taking the road to Spain along the Mondego —
so I learnt from the watch at the River Gate."

" How came they to open for him ? "

" His office, lord, is a key that opens all doors at any hour
of day or night. They dared not detain or delay him."

" Ha ! " grunted the Infante. " We will go after him,
then." And he made haste to complete his dressing. Then
he buckled on his great sword, and they departed.

In the courtyard of the alcazar, he summoned Sancho
Nunes and a half-dozen men-at-arms to attend him,
mounted a charger and with Emigio Moniz at his side and
the others following, he rode out across the draw-bridge
into the open space that was thronged with the clamant
inhabitants of the stricken city.

A great cry went up when he showed himself — a mighty
appeal to him for mercy and the remission of the curse.
Then silence fell, a silence that invited him to answer and
give comfort.

He reined in his horse, and standing in his stirrups
very tall and virile, he addressed them.

" People of Coimbra," he announced, " I go to obtain
this city's absolution from the ban that has been laid upon
it. I shall return before sunset. Till then do you keep the
peace."

The voice of the multitude was raised again, this time to
hail him as the father and protector of the Portuguese,
and to invoke the blessing of Heaven upon his handsome
head

The A bsolution 27

Riding between Moniz and Nunes, and followed by his
glittering men-at-arms, he crossed the city and took the
road along the river by which it was known that the legate
had departed. All that morning they rode briskly amain,
the Infante fasting, as he had risen, yet unconscious of
hunger and of all else but the purpose that was consuming
him. He rode in utter silence, his face set, his brows stern ;
and Moniz, watching him furtively the while, wondered
what thoughts were stirring in that rash, impetuous young
brain, and was afraid.

Towards noon at last they overtook the legate's party.
They espied his mule-litter at the door of an _inn in a little
village some ten miles beyond the foothills of the Bussaco
range. The Infante reined up sharply, a hoarse, fierce
cry escaping him, akin to that of some creature of the wild
when it espies its prey.

Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm.

" My lord, my lord," he cried, fearfully. " What is your
purpose ? "

The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips
curled in a smile that was not altogether sweet.

" I am going to beg Cardinal Corrado to have compassion
on me," he answered, subtly mocking, and on that he swung
down from his horse, and tossed the reins to a man-at-arms.

Into the inn he clanked, Moniz and Nunes following
closely. He thrust aside the vinter who, not knowing
him, would have hindered him, great lord though he seemed,
from disturbing the holy guest who was honouring the
house. He strode on, and into the room where the Cardinal
with his noble nephews sat at dinner.

At sight of him, fearing violence, Giannino and Pierluigi
came instantly to their feet, their hands upon their daggers.

28 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

But Cardinal da Corrado sat unmoved. He looked up, a
smile of ineffable gentleness upon his ascetic face.

" I had hoped that you would come after me, my son,"
he said. " If you come a penitent, then has my prayer
been heard."

" A penitent ! " cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed
wickedly, and plucked his dagger from its sheath.

Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his
prince's arm.

" My lord," he cried in a voice that shook, " you will not
strike the Lord's anointed — that were to destroy yourself
for ever."

" A curse," said Affonso Henriques, " perishes with him
that uttered it." He could reason loosely, you see, this
hot-blooded, impetuous young cutter of Gordian knots.
" And it imports above all else that the curse should be
lifted from my city of Coimbra."

" It shall be, my son, as soon as you show penitence and
a Christian submission to the Holy Father's will," said
the undaunted Cardinal.

"God give me patience with you," Affonso Henriques
answered him. " Listen to me now, lord Cardinal." And
he leaned forward on his dagger, burying the point of it
some inches into the deal table. " That you should punish
me with the weapons of the Faith for the sins that you
allege against me I can understand and suffer. There is
reason in that, perhaps. But will you tell me what reasons
there can be in punishing a whole city for an offence
which, if it exists at all, is mine alone ? — and in punishing
it by a curse so terrible that all the consolations of religion
are denied those true children of Mother Church, that no
priestly office may be performed within the city, that men

The Absolution 29

and women may not approach the altars of the Faith, that
they must die unshriven with their sins upon them, and so
be damned through all eternity ? Where is the reason that
urges this ? "

The cardinal's smile had changed from one of benignity
to one of guile.

" Why, I will answer you. Out of their terror they will
be moved to revolt against you, unless you relieve them of
the ban. Thus, Lord Prince, I hold you in check. You
make submission or else you are destroyed."

Affonso Henriques considered him a moment. " You
answer me indeed," said he, and then his voice swelled up
in denunciation. " But this is statecraft, not religion.
And when a prince has no statecraft to match that which is
opposed to him, do you know what follows ? He has
recourse to force, Lord Cardinal. You compel me to it ;
upon your own head the consequences."

The legate almost sneered. " What is the force of your
poor lethal weapons compared with the spiritual power I
wield ? Do you threaten me with death ? Do you think
I fear it ? " He rose in a surge of sudden wrath, and tore
open his scarlet robe. " Strike here with your poniard.
I wear no mail. Strike if you dare, and by the sacrilegious
blow destroy yourself in this world and the next."

The Infante considered him. Slowly he sheathed his
dagger, smiling a little. Then he beat his hands together.
His men-at-arms came in.

" Seize me those two Roman whelps," he commanded, and
pointed to Giannino and Pierluigi. " Seize them, and make
them fast. About it ! "

" Lord Prince ! " cried the legate in a voice of appeal,
wherein fear and anger trembled.

30 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

It was the note of fear that heartened Affonso Henriques.
" About it ! " he cried again, though needlessly, for already
his men-at-arms were at grips with the Cardinal's nephews.
In a trice the kicking, biting, swearing pair were over-
powered, deprived of arms, and pinioned. The men looked
to their prince for further orders. In the background
Moniz and Nunes witnessed all with troubled countenances,
whilst the Cardinal, beyond the table, white to the lips,
demanded in a quavering voice to know what violence was
intended, implored the Infante to consider, and in the same
breath threatened him with dread consequences of this
affront.

AfTonso Henriques, unmoved, pointed through the window
to a stalwart oak that stood before the inn.

" Take them out there, and hang them unshriven," he
commanded.

The Cardinal swayed, and almost fell forward. He
clutched the table, speechless with terror for those lads
who were as the very apple of his eye, he who so fearlessly
had bared his own breast to the steel.

The two comely Italian youths were dragged out writhing
in their captors' hands.

At last the half-swooning legate found his voice. " Lord
Prince," he gasped. " Lord Prince . . . you cannot do
this infamy ! You cannot ! I warn you that . . .
that. . ." The threat perished unuttered, slain by
mounting terror. " Mercy ! Have mercy, lord ! as you
hope for mercy ! "

" What mercy do you practise, you who preach a gospel
of mercy in the world, and cry for mercy now ? " the
Infante asked him.

" But this is an infamy ! What harm have^those poor

The Absolution 31

children done ? What concern is it of theirs that I have
offended you in performing my sacred duty ? "

Swift into that opening flashed the home-thrust of the
Infante's answer.

" What harm have my people of Coimbra done ? What
concern is it of theirs that I have offended you ? Yet to
master me you did not hesitate to strike at them with the
spiritual weapons that are yours. To master you I do not
hesitate to strike at your nephews with the lethal weapons
that are mine. When you shall have seen them hang you
will understand the things that argument could not make
clear to you. In the vileness of my act you will see a re-
flection of the vileness of your own, and perhaps your heart
will be touched, your monstrous pride abated."

Outside, under the tree, the figures of the men-at-arms
were moving. Expeditiously, and with indifference, they
went about the preparations for the task entrusted to them.

The Cardinal writhed, and fought for breath. " Lord
Prince, this must not be ! " He stretched forth supplicat-
ing hands. " Lord Prince, you must release my nephews."

" Lord Cardinal, you must absolve my people."

" If ... if you will first make submission. My duty
... to the Holy See ... Oh God ! Will nothing move
you ? "

" When they have been hanged you^will understand, and
out of your own affliction learn compassion." The Infante's
voice was so cold, his mien so resolute that the legate
despaired of conquering his purpose. Abruptly he
capitulated, even as the halters went about the necks
of his two cherished lads.

" Stop I " he screamed. " Bid them stop ! The curse
shall be lifted,"

3 2 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Affonso Henriques opened the window with a leisureli-
ness which to the legate seemed to belong to the realm of
nightmare.

" Wait yet a moment," the Infante called to those out-
side, about whom by now a little knot of awe-stricken
villagers had gathered. Then he turned again to Cardinal
Corrado, who had sunk to his chair like a man exhausted,
and sat now panting, his elbows on the table, his head in his
hands. " Here," said the prince, " are the terms upon
which you may have their lives : Complete absolution, and
Apostolic benediction for my people and myself this very
night, I on my side making submission to the Holy Father's
will to the extent of releasing my mother from duress, with
the condition that she leaves Portugal at once and does not
return. As for the banished bishop and his successor,
matters must remain as they are ; but you can satisfy your
conscience on that score by yourself confirming the appoint-
ment of Don Zuleyman. Come, my lord, I am being
generous, I think. In the enlargement of my mother I
afford you the means of satisfying Rome. If you have
learnt your lesson from what I here proposed, your con-
science should satisfy you of the rest."

" Be it so," the Cardinal answered hoarsely. " I will
return with you to Coimbra and do your will."

Thereupon, without any tinge of mockery, but in com-
pletest sincerity in token that the feud between them was
now completely healed, Affonso Henriques went down upon
his knees, like the true and humble son of Holy Church he
accounted himself, to ask a blessing at the Cardinal's hands.

//. The False Demetrius

Boris God^inofv and the Pretended Son of
Ivan the Terrible

//. The False Demetriits

* | ^HE news of it first reached him whilst he sat at
X supper in the great hall of his palace in the Krem-
lin. It came at a time when already there was enough
to distract his mind ; for although the table before him was
spread and equipped as became an emperor's, the gaunt
spectre of famine stalked outside in the streets of Moscow,
and men and women were so reduced by it that cannibalism
was alleged to be breaking out amongst them.

Alone, save for the ministering pages, sat Boris Godunov
under the iron lamps that made of the table, with its white
napery and vessels of gold and silver plate, an island of light
in the gloom of that vast apartment. The air was fragrant
with the scent'of burning pine, for although the time of
year was May, thejiights were chill, and a great log-fire
was blazing on the distant hearth. To him, as he sat there,
came his trusted Basmanov with those tidings which startled
him^at first, seeming to herald that at last the sword of
Nemesis was swung above his sinful head.

Basmanov, a flush tinting the prominent cheek-bones
of his sallow face, an excited glitter in his long eyes, began
by ordering the pages out of earshot, then leaning forward
quickly muttered forth his news.

35 3*

36 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

At the first words of it, the Tsar's knife clashed in:o his
golden platter, and his short, powerful hands clutched
the carved arms of his great gilded chair. Quickly he
controlled himself, and then as he continued to listen he
was moved to scorn, and a faint smile began to stir under
his grizzled beard.

A man had appeared in Poland — such was the burden
of Basmanov's story — coming none knew exactly whence,
who claimed to be Demetrius, the son of Ivan Vassielivitch,
and lawful Tsar of Russia — Demetrius, who was believed
to have died at Uglich ten years ago, and whose remains
lay buried in Moscow, in the Church of St. Michael. This
man had found shelter in Lithuania, in the house of Prince
Wisniowiecki, and thither the nobles of Poland were now
flocking to do him homage, acknowledging him the son of
Ivan the Terrible. He was said to be the living image of
the dead Tsar, save that he was swarthy and black-haired,
like the dowager Tsarina, and there were two warts on his
face, such as it was remembered had disfigured the counte-
nance of the boy Demetrius.

Thus Basmanov, adding that he had dispatched a
messenger into Lithuania to obtain more precise confirma-
tion of the story. That messenger — chosen in consequence
of something else that Basmanov had been told — was
Smirnoy Otrepiev.

The Tsar Boris sat back in his chair, his eyes on the gem-
encrusted goblet, the stem of which his fingers were
mechanically turning. There was now no vestige of the
smile on his round white face. It had grown set and
thoughtful.

" Find Prince Shuiski," he said presently, " and send
him to me here."

The False Demetrius 37

Upon the tale the boyar had brought him he offered now
no comment.

" We will talk of this again, Basmanov," was all he said
in acknowledgment that he had heard, and in dismissal.

But when the boyar had gone, Boris Godunov heaved
himself to his feet, and strode over to the fire, his great
head sunk between his massive shoulders. He was a
short, thick-set, bow-legged man, inclining to corpulence.
He set a foot, shod in red leather reversed with ermine,
upon an andiron, and, leaning an elbow on the carved
overmantel, rested his brow against his hand. His eyes
stared into the very heart of the fire, as if they beheld
there the pageant of the past, upon which his mind was
bent.

Nineteen years were sped since Ivan the Terrible had
passed away, leaving two sons, Feodor Ivanovitch, who
had succeeded him, and the infant Demetrius. Feodor,
a weakling who was almost imbecile, had married Irene,
the daughter of Boris Godunov, whereby it had fallen out
that Boris became the real ruler of Russia, the power
behind the throne. But his insatiable ambition coveted
still more. He must wear the crown as well as wield the
sceptre ; and this could not be until the Ruric dynasty
which had ruled Russia for nearly seven centuries should
be stamped out. Between himself and the throne stood
his daughter's husband and their child, and the boy
Demetrius, who had been dispatched with his mother, the
dowager Tsarina, to Uglich. The three must be re-
moved.

Boris began with the last, and sought at first to drive
him out of the succession without bloodshed. He
attempted to have him pronounced illegitimate, on the

38 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

ground that he was the son of Ivan's seventh wife (the
orthodox Church recognizing no wife as legitimate beyond
the third). But in this he failed. The memory of the
terrible Tsar, the fear of him, was still alive in superstitious
Russia, and none dared to dishonour his son. So Boris
had recourse to other and surer means. He dispatched
his agents to Uglich, and presently there came thence a
story that the boy, whilst playing with a knife, had been
taken with a fit of epilepsy, and had fallen, running the
blade into his throat. But it was not a story that could
carry conviction to the Muscovites, since with it came
the news that the town of Uglich had risen against the
emissaries of Boris, charging them with the murder of the
boy, and killing them out of hand.

Terrible had been the vengeance which Boris had
exacted. Of the luckless inhabitants of the town two
hundred were put to death by his orders, and the rest
sent into banishment beyond the Ural Mountains, whilst
the Tsarina Maria, Demetrius's mother, for having said
that her boy was murdered at the instigation of Boris,
was packed off to a convent, and had remained there ever
since in close confinement.

That had been in 1591. The next to go was Feodor's
infant son, and lastly — in 1598 — Feodor himself, suc-
cumbing to a mysterious illness, and leaving Boris a clear
path to the throne. But he ascended it under the burden
of his daughter's curse. Feodor's widow had boldly faced
her father, boldly accused him of poisoning her husband
to gratify his remorseless ambitions, and on a passionate
appeal to God to let it be done by him as he had done by
others she had departed to a convent, swearing never to
set eyes upon him again

The False Demetrius 39

The thought of her was with him now, as he stood there
looking into the heart of the fire ; and perhaps it was the
memory of her curse that turned his stout heart to water,
and made him afraid where there could surely be no cause
for fear. For five years now had he been Tsar of Russia,
and in these five years he had taken such a grip of power
as was not lightly to be loosened.

Long he stood there, and there he was found by the
magnificent Prince Shuiski, whom he had bidden Basmanov
to summon.

" You went to Uglich when the Tsarevitch Demetrius
was slain," said Boris. His voice and mien were calm
and normal. " Yourself you saw the body. There is no
possibility that you could have been mistaken in it ? "

" Mistaken ? " The boyar was taken aback by the
question. He was a tall man, considerably younger than
Boris, who was in his fiftieth year. His face was lean and
saturnine, and there was something sinister in the dark,
close-set eyes under a single, heavy line of eyebrow.

Boris explained his question, telling him what he had
learnt from Basmanov. Basil Shuiski laughed. The
story was an absurd one. Demetrius was dead. Himself
he had held the body in his arms, and no mistake was
possible.

Despite himself, a sigh of relief fluttered from the lips of
Boris. Shuiski was right. It was an absurd story, this.
There was nothing to fear. He had been a fool to have
trembled for a moment.

Nevertheless, in the weeks that followed, he brooded
more and more over all that Basmanov had said. It was
in the thought that the nobility of Poland was flocking
to the house of Wisniowiecki to do honour to this false

40 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

son of Ivan the Terrible, that Boris found the chief cause
of uneasiness. There was famine in Moscow, and empty
bellies do not make for loyalty. Then, too, the Muscovite
nobles did not love him. He had ruled too sternly, and
had curbed their power. There were men like Basil
Siiuiski who knew too much — greedy, ambitious men, who
might turn their knowledge to evil account. The moment
might be propitious to the pretender, however false his
claim. Therefore Boris dispatched a messenger to Wis-
niowiecki with the offer of a heavy bribe if he would yield
up the person of this false Demetrius.

But that messenger returned empty-handed. He had
reached Bragin too late. The pretender had already
left the place, and was safely lodged in the castle of George
Mniszek, the Palatine of Sandomir, to whose daughter
Maryna he was betrothed. If these were ill tidings for
Boris, there were worse to follow soon. Within a few
months he learned from Sandomir that Demetrius had
removed to Cracow, and that there he had been publicly
acknowledged by Sigismund III. of Poland as the son of
Ivan Vassielivitch, the rightful heir to the crown of Russia.
He heard, too, the story upon which this belief was founded.
Demetrius had declared that one of the agents employed
by Boris Godunov to procure his murder at Uglich had
bribed his physician Simon to perform the deed. Simon
had pretended to agree as the only means of saving him.
He had dressed the son of a serf, who slightly resembled
Demetrius, in garments similar to those worn by the
young prince, and thereafter cut the lad's throat, leaving
those who had found the body to presume it to be the
prince's. Meanwhile, Demetrius himself had been con-
cealed by the physician, and very shortly thereafter carried

The False Demetrius 41

away from Uglich, to be placed in safety in a monastery,
where he had been educated.

Such, in brief, was the story with which Demetrius
convinced the court of Poland, and not a few who had
known the boy at Uglich came forward now to identify
with him the grown man, who carried in his face so strong
a resemblance to Ivan the Terrible. That story which
Boris now heard was soon heard by all Russia, and Boris
realized that something must be done to refute it.

But something more than assurances — his own assur-
ances— were necessary if the Muscovites were to believe
him. And so at last Boris bethought him of the Tsarina
Maria, the mother of the murdered boy. He had her
fetched to Moscow from her convent, and told her of this
pretender who was setting up a claim to the throne of
Russia, supported by the King of Poland.

She listened impassively, standing before him in the
black robes and conventual coif which his tyranny had
imposed upon her. When he had done, a faint smile
swept over the face that had grown so hard in these last
twelve years since that day when her boy had been slain
almost under her very eyes.

" It is a circumstantial tale," she said. " It is perhaps
true. It is probably true."

" True ! " He bounded from his seat. " True ? What
are you saying, woman ? Yourself you saw the boy dead."

" I did, and I know who killed him."

" But you saw him. You recognized him for your own,
since you set the people on to kill those whom you believed
had slain him."

" Yes," she answered. And added the question :
" What do you want of me now ? "

42 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" What do I want ? " He was amazed that she should
ask, exasperated. Had the conventual confinement turned
her head ? " I want your testimony. I want you to
denounce this fellow for the impostor that he is. The
people will believe you."

" You think they will ? " Interest had kindled in her
glance.

" What else ? Are you not the mother of Demetrius,
and shall not a mother know her own son ? "

" You forget. He was ten years of age then — a child.
Now he is a grown man of three-and-twenty. How can I
be sure ? How can I be sure of anything ? "

He swore a full round oath at her. " Because you saw
him dead."

" Yet I may have been mistaken. I thought I knew the
agents of yours who killed him. Yet you made me swear
— as the price of my brothers' lives — that I was mistaken.
Perhaps I was more mistaken than we thought. Perhaps
my little Demetrius was not slain at all. Perhaps this
man's tale is true."

" Perhaps . . ." He broke off to stare at her, mis-
trustfully, searchingly. " What do you mean r " he asked
her sharply.

Again that wan smile crossed the hard, sharp-featured
face that once had been so lovely. " I mean that if the
devil came out of hell and called himself my son, I should
acknowledge him to your undoing."

Thus the pent-up hate and bitterness of years of brood-
ing upon her wrongs broke forth. Taken aback, he quailed
before it. His jaw dropped foolishly, and he stared at
her with wide, unblinking eyes.

" The people will believe me, you say — they will believe

The False Demetrius 43

that a mother should know her own son. Then are your
hours of usurpation numbered."

If for a moment it appalled him, yet in the end, fore-
warned, he was forearmed. It was foolish of her to let
him look upon the weapon with which she could destroy
him. The result of it was that she went back to her
convent under close guard, and was thereafter confined
with greater rigour than hitherto.

Desperately Boris heard how the belief in Demetrius
was gaining ground in Russia with the people. The
nobles might still be sceptical, but Boris knew that he could
not trust them, since they had no cause to love him.
He began perhaps to realize that it is not good to rule by
fear.

And then at last came Smirnoy Otrepiev back from
Cracow, where he had been sent by Basmanov to obtain
with his own eyes confirmation of the rumour which
had reached the boyar on the score of the pretender's
real identity.

The rumour, he declared, was right. The false
Demetrius was none other than his own nephew, Grishka
Otrepiev, who had once been a monk, but, unfrocked,
had embraced the Roman heresy, and had abandoned
kimself to licentious ways. You realize now why Smirnoy
had been chosen by Basmanov for this particular
mission.

The news heartened Boris. At last he could denounce
the impostor in proper terms, and denounce him he did.
He sent an envoy to Sigismund III. to proclaim the fellow's
true identity, and to demand his expulsion from the
Kingdom of Poland ; and his denunciation was supported
by a solemn excommunication pronounced by the Patriarch

44 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

of Moscow against the unfrocked monk, Grishka Otrepiev,
who now falsely called himself Demetrius Ivanovitch.

But the denunciation did not carry the conviction that
Boris expected. It was reported that the Tsarevitch was
a courtly, accomplished man, speaking Polish and Latin,
as well as Russian, skilled in horsemanship and in the
use of arms, and it was asked how an unfrocked monk
had come by these accomplishments. Moreover, although
BOJ^, fore-warned, had prevented the Tsarina Maria
fronr supporting the pretender out of motives of revenge,
he had forgotten her two brothers ; he had not foreseen
that, actuated by the same motives, they might do that
which, .he had prevented her from doing. This was what
occurred. The brothers Nagoy repaired to Cracow
publicly to acknowledge Demetrius their nephew, and to
enrol themselves under his banner.

Against this Boris realized that mere words were useless.
The sword of Nemesis was drawn indeed. His sins had
found him out. Nothing remained him but to arm and go
forth to meet the impostor, who was advancing upon
Moscow with a great host of Poles and Cossacks.

He appraised the support of the Nagoys at its right
value. They, too, had been at Uglich, and had seen the
dead boy, almost seen him slain. Vengeance upon him-
self was their sole motive. But was it possible that
Sigismund of Poland was really deceived, as well as the
Palatine of Sandomir, whose daughter was betrothed to
the adventurer, Prince Adam Wisniowiecki, in whose
house the false Demetrius had first made his appearance,
and all those Polish nobles who flocked to his banner ?
Or were they, too, moved by some ulterior motive which
he could not fathom ?

The False Demetrius 45

That was the riddle that plagued Boris Godunov what
time — in the winter of 1604 — he sent his armies to meet
the invader. He sent them because, crippled now by
gout, even the satisfaction of leading them was denied
him. He was forced to stay at home in the gloomy apart-
ments of the Kremlin, fretted by care, with the ghosts of
his evil past to keep him company, and assure him that
the hour of judgment was at hand.

With deepening rage he heard how town after ^^n.
capitulated to the adventurer, and mistrusting Basmanov,
who was in command, he sent Shuiski to replace him.
In January of 1605 the armies met at Dobrinichi, and
Demetrius suffered a severe defeat, which compelled
him to fall back on Putioli. He lost all his infantry, and
every Russian taken in arms on the pretender's side was
remorselessly hanged as Boris had directed.

Hope began to revive in the heart of Boris ; but as
months passed and no decision came, those hopes faded
again, and the canker of the past gnawed at his vitals
and sapped his strength. And then there was ever present
to his mind the nightmare riddle of the pretender's iden-
tity. At last, one evening in April, he sent for Smirnoy
Otrepiev to question him again concerning that nephew
of his. Otrepiev came in fear this time. It is not good
to be the uncle of a man who is giving so much trouble
to a great prince.

Boris glared at him from blood-injected eyes. His
round, white face was haggard, his cheeks sagged, and his
fleshly body had lost all its erstwhile firm vigour.

" I have sent for you to question you again," he said,
" touching this lewd nephew of yours, this Grishka
Otrepiev, this unfrocked monk, who claims to be Tsar of

46 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Muscovy. Are you sure, man, that you have made no
% mistake — are you sure ? "

Otrepiev was shaken by the Tsar's manner, by the
ferocity of his mien. But he made answer : " Alas,
Highness ! I could not be mistaken. I am sure."

Boris grunted, and moved his body irritably in his
chair. His terrible eyes watched Otrepiev mistrustfully.
He had reached the mental stage in which he mistrusted
everything and everybody.

" You lie, you dog," he snarled savagely.
" Highness, I swear . . ."

" Lies ! " Boris roared him down. " And here's the
proof. Would Sigismund of Poland have acknowledged
him had he been what you say ? When I denounced him
the unfrocked monk Grishka Otrepiev, would not Sigis-
mund have verified the statement had it been true ? "

" The brothers Nagoy, the uncles of the dead Deme-
trius . . ." Otrepiev ^was beginning, when again Boris
interrupted him.

" Their acknowledgment of him came after Sigismund's,
after — long after — my denunciation," He. broke into
oaths. " I say you lie. Will you stand there and palter
with me, man ? Will you wait until the rack pulls you
joint from joint before you speak the truth ? "

" Highness 1 " cried Otrepiev, " I have served you
faithfully these years."

" The truth, man ; as you hope for life," thundered the
Tsar, " the whole truth of this foul nephew of yours, if
so be he is your nephew."

And Otrepiev spoke the whole truth at last in his great
dread. " He is not my nephew."
" Not ? " It was a roar of rage. " You dared lie to me ? "

The False Demetrius 47

Otrepiev's knees were loosened by terror, and he went
down upon them before the irate Tsar.

" I did not lie — not altogether. I told you a half-
truth, Highness. His name is Grishka Otrepiev ; it is
the name by which he always has been known, and he is
an unfrocked monk, all as I said, and the son of my brother's
wife."

" Then . . . then . . ." Boris was bewildered. Sud-
denly he understood. " And his father ? "

" Was Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. Grishka
Otrepiev is King Stephen's natural son."

Boris seemed to fight for breath for a moment.

" This is true f " he asked, and himself answered the
question. " Of course it is true. It is the light at last
... at last. You may go."

Otrepiev stumbled out, thankful, surprised to escape
so lightly. He could not know of how little account to
Boris was the deception he had practised in comparison
with the truth he had now revealed, a truth that shed a
fearful, dazzling light upon the dark mystery of the false
Demetrius. The problem that so long had plagued the
Tsar was solved at last.

This pretended Demetrius, this unfrocked monk, was
a natural son of Stephen Bathory, and a Roman Catholic.
Such men as Sigismund of Poland and the Voyvode of
Sandomir were not deceived on the score of his identity.
They, and no doubt other of the leading nobles of Poland,
knew the man for what he was, and because of it sup-
ported him, using the fiction of his being Demetrius
Ivanovitch to impose upon the masses, and facilitate the
pretender's occupation of the throne of Russia. And the
object of it was to set up in Muscovy a ruler who should

48 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

be a Pole and a Roman Catholic. Boris knew the bigotry
of Sigismund, who already had sacrificed a throne — that
of Sweden — to his devout conscience, and he saw clearly
to the heart of this intrigue. Had he not heard that a
Papal Nuncio had been at Cracow, and that this Nuncio
had been a stout supporter of the pretender's claim ?
What could be the Pope's concern in the Muscovite suc-
cession ? Why should a Roman priest support the claim
of a prince to the throne of a country devoted to the Greek
faith?

At last all was clear indeed to Boris. Rome was at
the bottom of this business, whose true aim was the
Romanization of Russia ; and Sigismund had fetched
Rome into it, had set Rome on. Himself an elected
King of Poland, Sigismund may have seen in the ambi-
tious son of Stephen Bathory one who might perhaps
supplant him on the Polish throne. To divert his ambi-
tion into another channel he had fathered — if he had not
invented — this fiction that the pretender was the dead
Demetrius.

Had that fool Smirnoy Otrepiev but dealt frankly with
him from the first, what months of annoyance might he
not have been spared ; how easy it might have been to
prick this bubble of imposture. But better late than
never. To-morrow he would publish the true facts, and
all the world should know the truth ; and it was a truth
that must give pause to those fools in this superstitious
Russia, so devoted to the Orthodox Greek Church, who
favoured the pretender. They should see the trap that
was being baited for them.

There was a banquet in the Kremlin that night to certain
foreign envoys, and Boris came to table in better spirits

The False Demetrius 49

than he had been for many a day. He was heartened
by the thought of what was now to do, by the conviction
that he held the false Demetrius in the hollow of his hand.
There to those envoys he would announce to-night what
to-morrow he would announce to all Russia — tell them
of the discovery he had made, and reveal to his subjects
the peril in which they stood. Towards the close of the
banquet he rose to address his guests, announcing that
he had an important communication for them. In silence
they waited for him to speak. And then, abruptly, with
no word yet spoken, he sank back into his chair, fighting
for breath, clawing the air, his face empurpling until
suddenly the blood gushed copiously from his mouth and
nostrils.

He was vouchsafed time in which to strip off his splendid
apparel and wrap himself in a monk's robe, thus sym-
bolizing the putting aside of earthly vanities, and then
he expired.

It has been now and then suggested that he was poisoned.
His death was certainly most opportune to Demetrius.
But there is nothing in the manner of it to justify the
opinion that it resulted from anything other than an
apoplexy.

His death brought the sinister opportunist Shuiski back
to Moscow to place Boris's son Feodor on the throne. But
the reign of this lad of sixteen was very brief. Basmanov«>
who had gone back to the army, being now inspired by
jealousy and fear of the ambitious Shuiski, went ovei
at once to the pretender, and proclaimed him Tsar of
Russia. Thereafter events moved swiftly. Basmanov
marched on Moscow, entered it in triumph, and again
proclaimed Demetrius, whereupon the people rose in

4

50 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

revolt against the son of the usurper Boris, stormed the
Kremlin, and strangled the boy and his mother.
'" Basil Shuiski would have shared their fate had he not
bought his life at the price of betrayal. Publicly he
declared to the Muscovites that the boy whose body he
had seen at Uglich was not that of Demetrius, but
of a peasant's son, who had been murdered in his
stead.

That statement cleared the last obstacle from the pre-
tender's path, and he advanced now to take possession of
his throne. Yet before he occupied it, he showed the real
principles that actuated him, proved how true had been
Boris's conclusion. He ordered the arrest and degrada-
tion of the Patriarch who had denounced and excom-
municated him, and in his place appointed Ignatius,
Bishop of Riazan, a man suspected of belonging to the
Roman communion.

On the 3Oth of June of that year 1605, Demetrius
made his triumphal entry into Moscow. He went to
prostrate himself before the tomb of Ivan the Terrible,
and then to visit the Tsarina Maria, who, after a brief
communion with him in private, came forth publicly to
acknowledge him as her son.

Just as Shuiski had purchased his life by a falsehood,
so did she purchase her enlargement from that convent
where so long she had been a prisoner, and restoration to
the rank that was her proper due. After all, she had
cause for gratitude to Demetrius, ^who, in addition to
restoring her these things, had avenged her upon the
hated Boris Godunov.

His coronation followed in due"season, and at last this
amazing adventurer found himself firmly seated upon the

The False Demetrius 51

throne of Russia, with. Basmanov at his right hand to
help and guide him. And at first all went well, and the
young Tsar earned a certain measure of popularity. If his
swarthy face was coarse-featured, yet his bearing was so
courtly and gracious that he won his way quickly to
the hearts of his people. For the rest he was of a tall,
graceful figure, a fine horseman, and of a knightly address
at arms.

But he soon found himself in the impossible position of
having to serve two masters. On the one hand there was
Russia, and the orthodox Russians whose tsar he was, and
on the other there were the Poles, who had made him so
at a price, and who now demanded payment. Because
he saw that this payment would be difficult and fraught
with peril to himself he would — after the common wont of
princes who have attained their objects — have repudiated
the debt. And so he was disposed to ignore, or at least
to evade, the persistent reminders that reached him from
the Papal Nuncio, to whom he had promised the intro-
duction into Russia of the Roman faith.

But presently came a letter from Sigismund couched in
different terms. The King of Poland wrote to Demetrius
that word had reached him that Boris Godunov was still
alive, and that he had taken refuge in England, adding
that he might be tempted to restore the fugitive to the
throne of Muscovy.

The threat contained in that bitter piece of sarcasm
aroused Demetrius to a sense of the responsibilities he
had undertaken, which were precisely as Boris Godunov
had surmised. As a beginning he granted the Jesuits
permission to build a church within the sacred walls of the
Kremlin, whereby he gave great scandal. Soon followed

4*

52 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

other signs that he was not a true son of the Orthodox
Greek Church ; he gave offence by his indifference to public
worship, by his neglect of Russian customs, and by sur-
rounding himself with Roman Catholic Poles, upon whom
he conferred high offices and dignities.

And there were those at hand ready to stir up public
feeling against him, resentful boyars quick to suspect that
perhaps they had been swindled. Foremost among these
was the sinister turncoat Shuiski, who had not derived
from his perjury all the profit he expected, who resented,
above all, to see Basmanov — who had ever been his rival —
invested with a power second only to that of the Tsar
himself. Shuiski, skilled in intrigue, went to work in his
underground, burrowing fashion. He wrought upon the
clergy, who in their turn wrought upon the populace, and
presently all was seething disaffection under a surface
apparently calm.

The eruption came in the following May, when Maryna,
the daughter of the Palatine of Sandomir, made her splendid
entry into Moscow, the bride-elect of the young Tsar.
The dazzling procession and the feasting that followed
found little favour in the eyes of the Muscovites, who now
beheld their city aswarm with heretic Poles.

The marriage was magnificently solemnized on the
j8th of May, 1606. And now Shuiski applied a match to
the train he had so skilfully laid. Demetrius had caused
a timber fort to be built before the walls of Moscow for
a martial spectacle which he had planned for the enter-
tainment of his bride. Shuiski put it abroad that the fort
was intended to serve as an engine of destruction, and
that the martial spectacle was a pretence, the real object
being that from the fort the Poles were to cast firebrands

The False Demetrius 53

into the city, and then proceed to the slaughter of the
inhabitants.

No more was necessary to infuriate an already exas-
perated populace. They flew to arms, and on the night
of the 29th of May they stormed the Kremlin, led on by
the arch-traitor Shuiski himself, to the cry of " Death
to the heretic ! Death to the impostor ! "

They broke into the palace, and swarmed up the stairs
into the Tsar's bedchamber, slaying the faithful Bas-
manov, who stood sword in hand to bar the way and
give his master time to escape. The Tsar leapt from a
balcony thirty feet to the ground, broke his leg, and lay
there helpless, to be dispatched by his enemies, who
presently discovered him.

He died firmly and fearlessly protesting that he was
Demetrius Ivanovitch. Nevertheless, he was Grishka
Otrepiev, the unfrocked monk.

It has been said that he was no more than an instru-
ment in the hands of priestcraft, and that because he
played his part badly he met his doom. But something
more he was. He was an instrument indeed, not of priest-
craft, but of Fate, to bring home to Boris Godunov the
hideous sins that stained his soul, and to avenge his
victims by personating one of them. In that personation
he had haunted Boris as effectively as if he had been the
very ghost of the boy murdered at Uglich, haunted and
tortured, and finally broken him so that he died.

That was the part assigned him by Fate in the mys-
terious scheme of human things. And that part being
played, the rest mattered little. In the nature of him and
of his position it was impossible that his imposture should
be other than ephemeral.

///. The Hermosa Fembra

An Rpisode of the Inquisition in Seville

///. The Hermosa Fembra

A PPREHENSION, hung like a thundercloud over
-IJL the city of Seville in those early days of the year
1481. It had been growing since the previous October,
when the Cardinal of Spain and Frey Tomas de Tor-
quemada, acting jointly on behalf of the Sovereigns —
Ferdinand and Isabella — had appointed the first inquisitors
for Castile, ordering them to set up a Tribunal of the Faith
in Seville, to deal with the apostatizing said to be rampant
among the New-Christians, or baptized Jews, who made
up so large a proportion of the population.

Among the many oppressive Spanish enactments
against the Children of Israel, it was prescribed that all
should wear the distinguishing circlet of red cloth on the
shoulder of their gabardines ; that they should reside
within the walled confines of their ghettos and never
be found beyond them after nightfall, and that they
should not practise as doctors, surgeons, apothecaries,
or innkeepers. The desire to emancipate themselves
from these and other restrictions upon their commerce
with Christians and from the generally intolerable condi-
tions of bondage and ignominy imposed upon them, had
driven many to accept baptism and embrace Christianity.

57

58 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

But even such New-Christians as were sincere in their
professions of faith failed to find in this baptism the
peace they sought. Bitter racial hostility, though some-
times tempered, was never extinguished by their
conversion.

Hence the alarm with which they viewed the gloomy,
funereal, sinister pageant — the white-robed, black-
mantled and hooded inquisitors, with their attendant
familiars and barefoot friars — headed by a Dominican
bearing the white Cross, which invaded the city of Seville
one day towards the end of December, and took its way
to the Convent of St. Paul, there to establish the Holy
Office of the Inquisition. The fear of the New-Christians
that they were to be the object of the attentions of this
dread tribunal had sufficed to drive some thousands of
them out of the city, to seek refuge in such feudal lordships
as those of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquis of
Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos.

This exodus had led to the publication by the newly-
appointed inquisitors of the edict of 2nd January, in which
they set forth that inasmuch as it had come to their know-
ledge that many persons had departed out of Seville in
fear of prosecution upon grounds of heretical pravity, they
commanded the nobles of the Kingdom of Castile that
within fifteen days they should make an exact return of
the persons of both sexes who had sought refuge in their
lordships or jurisdictions ; that they arrest all these and
lodge them in the prison of the Inquisition in Seville,
confiscating their property, and holding it at the disposal
of the inquisitors ; that none should shelter any fugitive
under pain of greater excommunication and of other
penalties by law established against abettors of heretics.

The Hermosa Fembra 59

The harsh injustice that lay in this call to arrest men
and women merely because they had departed from
Seville before departure was in any way forbidden, revealed
the severity with which the inquisitors intended to pro-
ceed. It completed the consternation of the New-Chris-
tians who had remained behind, and how numerous these
were may be gathered from the fact that -in the district
of Seville alone they numbered a hundred thousand,
many of them occupying, thanks to the industry and
talent characteristic of their race, positions of great
eminence. It even disquieted the well-favoured young
Don Rodrigo de Cardona, who in all his vain, empty, pam-
pered and rather vicious life had never yet known perturba-
tion. Not that he was a New-Christian. He wras of a
lineage that went back to the Visigoths, of purest red
Castilian blood, untainted by any strain of that dark-
hued, unclean fluid alleged to flow in Hebrew veins. But
it happened that he was in love with the daughter of the
millionaire Diego de Susan, a girl whose beauty was so
extraordinary that she was known throughout Seville
and for many a mile around as la Hermosa Fembra ; and
he knew that such commerce — licit or illicitly conducted
— was disapproved by the holy fathers. His relations
with the girl had been perforce clandestine, because the
disapproval of the holy fathers was matched in thorough-
ness by that of Diego de Susan. It had been vexatious
enough on that account not to be able to bqast himself
the favoured of the beautiful and opulent Isabella de
Susan ; it was exasperating to discover now a new and
more imperative reason for this odious secrecy.

Never sped a lover to his mistress in a frame of mind
more aggrieved? than that which afflicted Don Rodrigo as,

60 The Historical Nights1 Entertainment

tight- wrapped in his black cloak, he gained the Calle de
Ataud on that January night.

Anon, however, when by way of a garden gate and an
easily escaladed balcony he found himself in the pre-
sence of Isabella, the delight of her effaced all other con-
siderations. Her father was from home, as she had told
him in the note that summoned him; he was away at
Palacios on some merchant's errand, and would not return
until the morrow. The servants were all abed, and so
Don Rodrigo might put off his cloak and hat, and lounge
at his ease upon the low Moorish divan, what time she
waited upon him with a Saracen goblet filled with sweet
wine of Malaga. The room in which she received him
was one set apart for her own use, her bower, a long, low-
ceilinged chamber, furnished with luxury and taste. The
walls were hung with tapestries, the floor spread with
costly Eastern rugs ; on an inlaid Moorish table a tall,
three-beaked lamp of beaten copper charged with aromatic
oil shed light and perfume through the apartment.

Don Rodrigo sipped his wine, and his dark, hungry
eyes followed her as she moved about him with vaguely
voluptuous, almost feline grace. The wine, the heavy
perfume of the lamp, and the beauty of her played havoc
among them with his senses, so that he forgot for the
moment his Castilian lineage and clean Christian blood,
forgot that she derived from the accursed race of the
Crucifiers. All that he remembered was that she was the
loveliest woman in Seville, daughter to the wealthiest
man, and in that hour of weakness he decided to convert
into reality that which had hitherto been no more than aa
infamous pretence. He would loyally fulfil the false,
disloyal promises he had made. He would take her to

The Hermosa Fembra 61

wife. It was a sacrifice which her beauty and her wealth
should make worth while. Upon that impulse he spoke
now, abruptly :

" Isabella, when will you marry me ? "

She stood before him, looking down into his weak,
handsome face, her fingers interlacing his own. She
merely smiled. The question did not greatly move her.
Not knowing him for the scoundrel that he was, guessing
nothing of the present perturbation of his senses, she
found it very natural that he should ask her to appoint
the day.

" It is a question you must ask my father," she answered
him.

" I will," said he, " to-morrow, on his return." And he
drew her down beside him.

But that father was nearer than either of them dreamed.
At that very moment the soft thud of the closing house-
door sounded through the house. It brought her sharply
to her feet, and loose from his coiling arms, with quickened
breath and blanching face. A moment she hung there,
tense, then sped to the door of the room, set it ajar and
listened.

Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of mutter-
ing voices. It was her father, and others with him.

With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo,
and breathed the question : " If they should come here ? "

The Castilian stood where he had risen by the divan,
his face paler now than its pale, aristocratic wont, his
eyes reflecting the fear that glittered in her own. He had
no delusion as to what action Diego de Susan would take
upon discovering him. These Jewish dogs were quickly
stirred to passion, and as jealous as their betters of the

62 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

honour of their womenfolk. Already Don Rodrigo in
imagination saw his clean red Christian blood bespattering
that Hebrew floor, for he had no weapon save the heavy
Toledo dagger at his girdle, and Diego de Susan was not
alone.

It was, he felt, a ridiculous position for a Hidalgo of
Spain. But his dignity was to suffer still greater damage.
In another moment she had bundled him into an alcove
behind the arras at the chamber's end, a tiny closet that
was no better than a cupboard contrived for the storing
of household linen. She had moved with a swift pre-
cision which at another time might have provoked his
admiration, snatching up his cloak and hat, and other
evidences of his presence, quenching the lamp, and drag-
ging him to that place of cramped concealment, which
she remained to share with him.

Came presently movements in the room beyond, and the
voice of her father :

" We shall be securest from intrusion here. It is my
daughter's room. If you will give me leave, I will go
down again to admit our other friends."

Those other friends, as Don Rodrigo gathered, continued
to arrive for the next half-hour, until in the end there
must have been some twenty of them assembled in that
chamber. The mutter of voices had steadily increased,
but so confused that no more than odd words, affording no
clue to the reason of this gathering, had reached the
hidden couple.

And then quite suddenly a silence fell, and on that
silence beat the sharp, clear voice of Diego de Susan
addressing them.

" My friends," he said, " I have- called you hither that

The Hermosa Fembra 63

we may concert measures for the protection of ourselves
and all New-Christians in Seville from the fresh peril by
which we are menaced. The edict of the inquisitors
reveals how much we have to fear. You may gather
from it that the court of the Holy Office is hardly likely
to deal in justice, and that the most innocent may find
himself at any moment exposed to its cruel mercies.
Therefore it is for us now to consider how to protect
ourselves and our property from the unscrupulous acti-
vities of this tribunal. You are the principal New-
Christian citizens of Seville ; you are wealthy, not only
in property, but also in the goodwill of the people, who
trust and respect, and at need will follow, you. If nothing
less will serve, we must have recourse to arms ; and so
that we are resolute and united, my friends, we shall
prevail against the inquisitors."

Within the alcove, Don Rodrigo felt his skin roughening
with horror at this speech, which breathed sedition not
only against the Sovereigns, but against the very Church.
And with his horror was blent a certain increase of fear.
If his situation had been perilous before, it was tenfold
more dangerous now. Discovery, since he had overheard
this treason, must mean his certain death. And Isabella,
realizing the same to the exclusion of all else, clutched
his arm and cowered against him in the dark.

There was worse to follow. Susan's address was
received with a murmur of applause, and then others
spoke, and several were named, and their presence thus
disclosed. There was the influential Manuel Sauli, who
next to Susan was the wealthiest man in Seville ; there
was^Torralba, the Governor of Triana ; Juan Abolafio,
the^farmer of the royal customs, and his brother Fer-

64 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

nandez, the licentiate, and there were others — all of them
men of substance, some even holding office under the
Crown. Not one was there who dissented from anything
that Susan had said ; rather did each contribute some spur
to the general resolve. In the end it was concerted that
each of those present should engage himself to raise a pro-
portion of the men, arms and money that would be needed
for their enterprise. And upon that the meeting was
dissolved, and they departed. Susan himself went with
them. He had work to do in the common cause, he
announced, and he would do it that very night in which
it was supposed that he was absent at Palacios.

At last, when all had gone, and the house was still
again, Isabella and her lover crept forth from their con-
cealment, and in the light of the lamp which Susan had
left burning each looked into the other's white, startled
face. So shaken was Don Rodrigo with horror of what
he had overheard, and with the terror of discovery, that
it was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.

" Heaven protect us ! " he gasped. " What Judaizing
was this ? "

" Judaizing ! " she echoed. It was the term applied
to apostacy, to the relapse of New-Christians to Judaism,
an offence to be expiated at the stake. " Here was no
Judaizing. Are you mad, Rodrigo ? You heard no single
word that sinned against the Faith."

" Did I not ? I heard treason enough to . . ."

" No, nor treason either. You heard honourable,
upright men considering measures of defence against
oppression, injustice, and evil acquisitiveness masquerading
in the holy garments of religion."

He stared askance at her for a moment, then his full

The Hermosa Fembra 65

lips curled into a sneer. " Of course you would seek to
justify them," he said. " You are of that foul brood your-
self. But you cannot think to cozen me, who am of clean
Old-Christian blood and a true son of Mother Church.
These men plot evil against the Holy Inquisition. Is
that not Judaizing when it is done by Jews ? "

She was white to the lips, and a new horror stared at
him from her great dark eyes ; her lovely bosom rose and
fell in tumult. Yet still she sought to reason with him.

" They are not Jews — not one of them. Why, Perez
is himself in holy orders. All of them are Christians,
and . . ."

" Newly-baptized ! " he broke in, sneering viciously.
" A defilement of that holy sacrament to gain them worldly
advantages. That is revealed by what passed here just
now. Jews they were born, the sons of Jews, and Jews
they remain under their cloak of mock Christianity, to be
damned as Jews in the end." He was panting now with
fiery indignation ; a holy zeal inflamed this profligate
defiler. " God forgive me that ever I entered here. Yet
I do believe that it was His will that I should come to
overhear what is being plotted. Let me depart from
hence."

With a passionate gesture of abhorrence he swung
towards the door. Her clutch upon his arm arrested
him.

" Whither do you go ? " she asked him sharply. He
looked now into her eyes, and of all that they contained
he saw only fear ; he saw nothing of the hatred into
which her love had been transmuted in that moment by
his unsparing insults to herself, her race and her home, by
the purpose which she clearly read in him.

5

66 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Whither ? " he echoed, and sought to shake her off.
" Whither my Christian duty bids me."

It was enough for her. Before he could prevent or
suspect her purpose, she had snatched the heavy Toledo
blade from his girdle, and armed with it stood between
the door and him.

" A moment, Don Rodrigo. Do not attempt to advance,
or, as Heaven watches us, I strike, and it maybe that I
shall kill you. We must talk awhile before you go."

Amazed, chapfallen, half-palsied, he stood before her,
his fine religious zeal wiped out by fear of that knife in her
weak woman's hand. Rapidly to-night was she coming
into real knowledge of this Castilian gentleman, whom with
pride she had taken for her lover. It was a knowledge
that was to sear her presently with self-loathing and self-
contempt. But for the moment her only consideration
was that, as a direct result of her own wantonness, her
father stood in mortal peril. If he should perish through
the delation of this creature, she would account herself
his slayer.

" You have not considered that the delation you intend
will destroy my father," she said quietly.

" There is my Christian duty to consider," answered
he, but without boldness now.

" Perhaps. But there is something you must set
against it. Have you no duty as a lover — no duty to
me ? "

" No earthly duty can weigh against a spiritual obliga-
tion. . . ."

" Ah, wait ! Have patience. You have not well
considered, that is plain. In coming here in secret you
wronged my father. You will not trouble to deny it.

The Hermosa Fembra 67

Jointly we wronged him, you and I. Will you then take
advantage of something learnt whilst you were hiding
there like a thief from the consequences of what you did,
and so do him yet this further wrong ? "

" Must I wrong my conscience ? " he asked her sullenly.

" Indeed, I fear you must."

" Imperil my immortal soul ? " He almost laughed.
" You talk in vain."

" But I have something more than words for you."
With her left hand she drew upon the fine gold chain about
her neck, and brought forth a tiny jewelled cross. Passing
the chaiivover her head, she held it out.

" Take this," she bade him. " Take it, I say. Now,
with that sacred symbol in your hand, make solemn oath
to divulge no word of what you have learnt here to-night,
or else resign yourself to an unshriven death. For either
you take that oath, or I rouse the servants and have
you dealt with as one who has intruded here unbidden for
an evil end." She backed away from him as she spoke,
and threw wide the door. Then, confronting him from
the threshold, she admonished him again, her voice no
louder than a whisper. " Quick now 1 Resolve yourself.
Will you die here with all your sins upon you, and so
destroy for all eternity the immortal soul that urges you
to this betrayal, or will you take the oath that I require ? "

He began an argument that was like a sermon of the
Faith. But she cut him short. " For the last time ! "
she bade him. " Will you decide ? "

He chose the coward's part, of course, and did violence
to his fine conscience. With the cross in his hand he
repeated after her the words of the formidable oath that
she administered, an oath which it must damn his ira-

5*

68 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

mortal soul to break. Because of that, because she
imagined that she had taken the measure of his faith, she
returned him his dagger, and let him go at last. She
imagined that she had bound him fast in irrefragable
spiritual bonds.

And even on the morrow, when her father and all those
who had been present at that meeting at Susan's house
were arrested by order of the Holy Office of the Inqui-
sition, she still clung to that belief. Yet presently a doubt
crept in, a doubt that she must at all costs resolve. And
so presently she called for her litter, and had herself carried
to the Convent of St. Paul, where she asked to see Frey
Alonso de Ojeda, the Prior of the Dominicans of
Seville.

She was left to wait in a square, cheerless, dimly-lighted
room pervaded by a musty smell, that had for only furni-
ture a couple of chairs and a praying-stool, and for only
ornament a great, gaunt crucifix hanging upon one of its
whitewashed walls.

Thither came presently two Dominican friars. One of
these was a harsh-featured man of middle height and
square build, the uncompromising zealot Ojeda. The other
was tall and lean, stooping slightly at the shoulders,
haggard and pale of countenance, with deep-set, luminous
dark eyes, and a tender, wistful mouth. This was the
Queen's confessor, Frey Tomas de Torquemada, Grand
Inquisitor of Castile. He approached her, leaving Ojeda
in the background, and stood a moment regarding her
with eyes of infinite kindliness and compassion.

" You are the daughter of that misguided man, Diego de
Susan," he said, in a gentle voice. " God help and
strengthen you, my child, against the trials that may be

The Hermosa Fembra 69

in store for you. What do you seek at our poor hands ?
Speak, child, without fear."

" Father," she faltered, " I come to implore your pity."

" No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity
who stand myself in need of pity, being a sinner — as are
we all."

" It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy."

" So I supposed." A shade crossed the gentle, wistful
face ; the tender melancholy deepened in the eyes that
regarded her. " If your father is innocent of what has
been alleged against him, the benign tribunal of the Holy
Office will bring his innocence to light, and rejoice therein ;
if he is guilty, if he has strayed — as we may all stray
unless fortified by heavenly grace — he shall be given the
means of expiation, that his salvation may be assured
him."

She shivered at the words. She knew the mercy in
which the inquisitors dealt, a mercy so spiritual that it
took no account of the temporal agonies inflicted to
ensure it.

" My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith,"
said she.

" Are you so sure ? " croaked the harsh voice of Ojeda,
breaking in. " Consider well. Remember that your
duty as a Christian is above your duty as a daughter."

Almost had she bluntly demanded the name of her
father's accuser, that thus she might reach the object of
her visit. Betimes she checked the rash impulse, perceiving
that subtlety was here required ; that a direct question
would close the door to all information. Skilfully, then,
she chose her line of attack.

" I am sure," she exclaimed, " that he is a more fervent

70 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

and pious Christian — New-Christian though he be — than
his accuser."

The wistfulness faded from Torquemada's eyes. They
grew keen, as became the eyes of an inquisitor, the eyes
of a sleuth, quick to fasten on a spoor. But he shook his
head.

Ojeda advanced. " That I cannot believe," said he.
" The delation was made from a sense of duty so pure
that the delator did not hesitate to confess the sin of his
own commission through which he had discovered the
treachery of Don Diego and his associates."

She could have cried out in anguish at this answer to
her unspoken question. Yet she controlled herself, and
that no single doubt should linger, she thrust boldly home.

" He confessed it ? " she cried, seemingly aghast. The
friar slowly nodded. " Don Rodrigo confessed ? " she
insisted, as will the incredulous.

Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly
checked, recollecting himself.

" Don Rodrigo ? " he echoed, and asked : " Who men-
tioned Don Rodrigo ? "

But it Was too late. His assenting nod had betrayed
the truth, had confirmed her worst fear. She swayed a
little ; the room swam round her, she felt as she would
swoon. Then blind indignation against that forsworn
betrayer surged to revive her. If it was through her
weakness and undutifulness that her father had been
destroyed, through her strength should he be avenged,
though in doing so she pulled down and destroyed herself.

" And he confessed to his own sin ? " she was repeating
slowly, ever on that musing, incredulous note. u He dared
confess himself a Judaizer ? "

The Hermosa Fembra 71

" A Judaizer ! " Sheer horror now overspread the
friar's grim countenance. " A Judaizer 1 Don Rodrigo ?
Oh, impossible ! "

" But I thought you said he had confessed."
" Why, yes, but . . . but not to that." Her pale lips
smiled, sadly contemptuous.

" I see. He set limits of prudence upon his confession.
He left out his Judaizing practices. He did not tell you,
for instance, that this delation was an act of revenge
against me who refused to marry him, having discovered
his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this world
and the next."

Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement.
And then Torquemada spoke : " Do you say that Don
Rodrigo de Cardona is a Judaizer ? Oh, it is unbelievable."
"Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you."
" Then so you shall. It is your sacred duty, lest you
become an abettor of heresy, and yourself liable to the
extreme penalty."

It would be a half-hour later, perhaps, when she quitted
the Convent of St. Paul to return home, with Hell in her
heart, knowing in life no purpose but that of avenging the
parent her folly had destroyed. As she was being carried
past the Alcazar, she espied across the open space a tall,
slim figure in black, in whom she recognized her lover,
and straightway she sent the page who paced beside her
litter to call him to her side. The summons surprised
him after what had passed between them ; moreover,
considering her father's present condition, he was reluctant
to be seen in attendance upon the beautiful, wealthy
Isabella de Susan. Nevertheless, urged on by curiosity,
he went.

72 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Her greeting increased his surprise.

" I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,'*
she told him sadly. " You will have heard what has
befallen my father ? "

He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but love-
liness rendered more appealing by sorrow. Clearly she
did not suspect him of betrayal ; did not realize that an
oath extorted by violence — and an oath, moreover, to be
false to a sacred duty — could not be accounted binding.

" I ... I heard of it an hour ago," he lied a thought
unsteadily. " I ... I commiserate you deeply."

" I deserve commiseration," answered she, " and so does
my poor father, and those others. It is plain that
amongst those he trusted there was a traitor, a spy, who
went straight from that meeting to inform against them.
If I but had a list it were easy to discover the betrayer.
One need but ascertain who is the one of all who were
present whose arrest has been omitted." Her lovely
sorrowful eyes turned full upon" him. " What is to become
of me now, alone in the world ? " she asked him. " My
father was my only friend."

The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly. Besides,
he saw here a noble opportunity worth surely some little
risk.

" Your only friend ? " he asked her thickly. " Was
there no one else ? Is there no one else, Isabella ? "

" There was," she said, and sighed heavily. " But after
what befell last night, when . . . You know what is in
my mind. I was distraught then, mad with fear for this
poor father of mine, so that I could not even consider
his sin in its full heinousness, nor see how righteous was
your intent to inform against him. Yet I am thankful

The Hermosa Fembra 73

that it was not by your delation that he was taken. The
thought of that is to-day my only consolation."

They had reached her house by now. Don Rodrigo put
forth his arm to assist her to alight from her litter, and
begged leave to accompany her within. But she denied
him.

" Not now — though I am grateful to you, Rodrigo.
Soon, if you will come and comfort me, you may. I will
send you word when I am more able to receive you — that is,
if I am forgiven for . . ."

" Not another word," he begged her. " I honour you
for what you did. It is I who should sue to you for for-
giveness."

" You are very noble and generous, Don Rodrigo.
God keep you ! " And so she left him.

She had found him — had she but known it — a *d ejected,
miserable man in the act of reckoning up all that he had
lost. In betraying Susan he had acted upon an impulse
that sprang partly from rage,' and partly from a sense of
religious duty. In counting later the cost to himself, he
cursed the folly of his rage, and began to wonder if such
strivt observance of religious duty was really worth while
to a man who had his way to make in the world. In
short, he was in the throes of reaction. But now, in her
unsuspicion, he found his hopes revive. She need never
know. The Holy Office preserved inviolate secrecy on the
score of delations — since to do otherwise might be to
discourage delators — and there were no confrontations of
accuser and accused, such as took place in temporal
courts. Don Rodrigo left the Calle de Ataud better
pleased with the world than he had been since morning.

On the morrow he went openly to visit her ; but he was

74 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

denied, a servant announcing her indisposed. This fretted
him, damped his hopes, and thereby increased his longing.
But on the next day he received from her a letter which
made him the most ample amends :

" RODRIGO, — There is a matter on which we must come
early to an understanding. Should my poor father be
convicted of heresy and sentenced, it follows that his
property will be confiscated, since as the daughter of a
convicted heretic I may not inherit. For myself I care
little ; but I am concerned for you, Rodrigo, since if in
spite of what has happened you would still wish to make
me your wife, as you declared on Monday, it would be
my wish to come to you well dowered. Now the inherit-
ance which would be confiscated by the Holy Office from
the daughter of a heretic might not be so confiscated from
the wife of a gentleman of Castile. I say no more. Con-
sider this well, and decide as your heart dictates. I shall
receive you to-morrow if you come to me.

" ISABELLA."

She bade him consider well. But the matter really
needed little consideration. Diego de Susan was sure
to go to the fire. His fortune was estimated at ten million
maravedis. That fortune, it seemed, Rodrigo was given
the chance to make his own by marrying the beautiful
Isabella ^at once, before sentence came to be passed upon
her ^father. The Holy Office might impose a fine, but
would not go further where the inheritance of a Castiiian
nobleman of clean lineage was concerned. He was swayed
between admiration of her shrewdness and amazement
at his own good fortune. Also his vanity was immensely
flattered. ;

The Hermosa Fembra 75

He sent her three lines to protest his undying love,
and his resolve to marry her upon the morrow, and went
next day in person, as she had bidden him, to carry out
the resolve.

She received him in the mansion's best room, a noble
chamber furnished with a richness such as no other house
in Seville could have boasted. She had arrayed herself
for the interview with an almost wanton cunning that
should enhance her natural endowments. Her high-
waisted gown, low-cut and close-fitting in the bodice, was
of cloth of gold, edged with miniver at skirt and cuffs
and neck. On her white bosom hung a priceless carcanet
of limpid diamonds, and through the heavy tresses of her
bronze-coloured hair was coiled a string of lustrous pearls.

Never had Don Rodrigo found her more desirable ;
never had he felt so secure and glad in his possession of
her. The quickening blood flushing now his olive face,
he gathered her slim shapeliness into his arms, kissing her
cheek, her lips, her neck.

" My pearl, my beautiful, my wife ! " he murmured,
rapturously. Then added the impatient question : " The
priest ? Where is the priest that shall make us one ? "

Deep, unfathomable eyes looked up to meet his burning
glance. Languorously she lay against his breast, and
her red lips parted in a smile that maddened him.

" You love me, Rodrigo — in spite of all ? "

" Love you ! " It was a throbbing, strangled cry,
an almost inarticulate ejaculation. " Better than life
— better than salvation."

She fetched a -sigh, as of deep content, and nestled
closer. " Oh, I am glad — so glad — that your love for me
is truly strong. I am about to put it to the test, perhaps."

76 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

He held her very close. " What is this test, beloved ? "

" It is that I want this marriage knot so tied that it
shall be indissoluble save by death."

" Why, so do I," quoth he, who had so much to gain.

" And, therefore, because after all, though I profess
Christianity, there is Jewish blood in my veins, I would
have a marriage that must satisfy even my father when
he regains his freedom, as I believe he will — for, after all,
he is not charged with any sin against the faith."

She paused, and he was conscious of a premonitory
chill upon his ardour.

" What do you mean ? " he asked her, and his voice
was strained.

" I mean — you'll not be angry with me ? — I mean
that I would have us married not only by a Christian
priest, and in the Christian manner, but also and first of
all by a Rabbi, and in accordance with the Jewish
rites."

Upon the words, she felt his encircling arms turn limp,
and relax their grip upon her, whereupon she clung to him
the more tightly.

" Rodrigo ! Rodrigo ! If you truly love me, if you truly
want me, you'll not deny me this condition, for I swear
to you that once I am your wife you shall never hear any-
thing again to remind you that I am of Jewish blood."

His face turned ghastly pale, his lips writhed and
twitched, and beads of sweat stood out upon his brow.

" My God ! " he groaned. " What do you ask ? I ...
I can't. It were a desecration, a defilement."

She thrust him from her in a passion. " You regard
it so ? You protest love, and in the very hour when I
propose to sacrifice all to you, you will not make this little

The Hermosa Fembra 77

sacrifice for my sake, you even insult the faith that was my
forbears', if it is not wholly mine. I misjudged you, else
I had not bidden you here to-day. I think you had
better leave me."

Trembling, appalled, a prey to an ineffable tangle of
emotion, he sought to plead, to extenuate his attitude,
to move her from her own. He ranted torrentially, but
in vain. She stood as cold and aloof as earlier she had
been warm and clinging. He had proved the measure
of his love. He could go his ways.

The thing she proposed was to him, as he had truly said,
a desecration, a defilement. Yet to have dreamed yourself
master of ten million maravedis, and a matchless woman,
is a dream not easily relinquished. There was enough
cupidity in his nature, enough neediness in his condition,
to make the realization of that dream worth the defile-
ment of the abominable marriage rites upon which she
insisted. But fear remained where Christian scruples
were already half-effaced.

" You do not realize," he cried. " If it were known that
I so much as contemplated this, the Holy Office would
account it clear proof of apostasy, and send me to the
fire."

" If that were your only objection it were easily over-
come," she informed him coldly. " For who should ever
inform against you ? The Rabbi who is waiting above-
stairs dare not for his own life's sake betray us, and who
else will ever know ? "

" You can be sure of that ? "

He was conquered. But she played him yet awhile,
compelling him in his turn to conquer the reluctance which
his earlier hesitation had begotten in her, until it was he

78 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

who pleaded insistently for this Jewish marriage that filled
him with such repugnance.

And" so at last she yielded, and led him up to that bower
of hers in which the conspirators had met.

" Where is the Rabbi ? " he asked impatiently, looking
round that empty room.

" I will summon him if you are quite sure that you desire
him."

" Sure ? Have I not protested enough ? Can you
still doubt me ? "

" No," she said. She stood apart, conning him steadily.
" Yet I would not have it supposed that you were in any
way coerced to this." They were odd words ; but he
heeded not their oddness. He was hardly master of the
wits which in themselves were never of the brightest.
" I require you to declare that it is your own desire that
our marriage should be solemnized in accordance with the
Jewish rites and the law of Moses."

And he, fretted now by impatience, anxious to have
this thing done and ended, made answer hastily :

" Why, to be sure I do declare it to be my wish that we
should be so married — in the Jewish manner, and in
accordance with the law of Moses. And now, where is

%

the Rabbi ? " He caught a sound and saw a quiver in
the tapestries that masked the door of the alcove. " Ah !
He is here, I suppose. . . ."

He checked abruptly, and recoiled as from a blow,
throwing up his hands in a convulsive gesture. The
tapestry had been swept aside, and forth stepped not the
Rabbi he expected, but a tall, gaunt man, stooping slightly
at the shoulders, dressed in the white habit and black
cloak of the order of St. Dominic, his face lost in the shadows

The Hermosa Fembra 79

of a black cowl. Behind him stood two lay brothers of
the order, two armed familiars of the Holy Office, dis-
playing the white cross on their sable doublets.

Terrified by that apparition, evoked, as it seemed,
by those terribly damning words he had pronounced,
Don Rodrigo stood blankly at gaze a moment, not even
seeking to understand how this dread thing had come to
pass.

The friar pushed back his cowl, as he advanced, and
displayed the tender, compassionate, infinitely wistful
countenance of Frey Tomas de Torquemada. And
infinitely compassionate and wistful came the voice of
that deeply sincere and saintly man.

" My son, I was told this of you — that you were a
Judaizer — yet before I could bring myself to believe so
incredible a thing in one of your lineage, I required the
evidence of my own senses. Oh, my poor child, by what
wicked counsels have you been led so far astray ? " The
sweet, tender eyes of the inquisitor were luminous with
unshed tears. Sorrowing pity shook his gentle voice.

And then Don Rodrigo's terror changed to wrath, and
this exploded. He flung out an arm towards Isabella
in passionate denunciation.

" It was that woman who bewitched and fooled and
seduced me into this. It was a trap she baited for my
undoing."

" It was, indeed. She had my consent to do so, to test
the faith which I was told you lacked. Had your heart
been free of heretical pravity the trap had never caught
you ; had your faith been strong, my son, you could not
have been seduced from loyalty to your Redeemer."

" Father ! Hear me, I implore you ! " He flung down

80 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

upon his knees, and held out 'shaking, supplicating
hands.

" Yoti shall be heard, my son. The Holy Office does not
condemn any man unheard. But what hope can you put
in protestations ? I had been told that your life was
disorderly and vain, and I grieved that it should be so,
trembled for you when I heard how wide you opened the
gates of your soul to evil. But remembering that age and
reason will often make good and penitent amends for the
follies of early life, I hoped and prayed for you. Yet that
you should Judaize — that you should be bound in wedlock
by the unclean ties of Judaism — Oh ! " The melancholy
voice broke off upon a sob, and Torquemada covered his
pale face with his hands — long, white, emaciated, almost
transparent hands. " Pray now, my child, for grace and
strength," he exhorted. " Offer up the little temporal
suffering that may yet be yours in atonement for your
error, and so that your heart be truly contrite and penitent,
you shall deserve salvation from that Divine Mercy which
is boundless. You shall have my prayers, my son. I can
do no more. Take him hence."

On the 6th of February of that year 1481, Seville wit-
nessed the first Auto de Fe*, the sufferers being Diego de
Susan, his fellow-conspirators, and Don Rodrigo de Car-
dona. The function presented but little of the ghastly
pomp that was soon to distinguish these proceedings.
But the essentials were already present.

In a procession headed by a Dominican bearing aloft
the green Cross of the Inquisition, swathed in a veil of
crepe, behind whom walked two by two the members of
the Confraternity of St. Peter the Martyr, the familiars

The Hermosa Fembra 81

of the Holy Office, came the condemned, candle in hand,
barefoot, in the ignominious yellow penitential sack.
Hemmed about by halberdiers, they were paraded through
the streets to the Cathedral, where Mass was said and a
sermon of the faith preached to them by the stern Ojeda.
Thereafter they were conveyed beyond the city to the
meadows of Tablada, where the stake and faggots awaited
them.

Thus the perjured accuser perished in the same holo-
caust with the accused. Thus was Isabella de Susan,
known as la Hcrmosa Ftml*a, avenged by falseness upon
the worthless lover who made her by falseness the instru-
ment of her father's ruin.

For herself, when all was over, she sought the refuge
of a convent. But she quitted it without professing.
The past gave her no peace, and she returned to the world
to seek in excesses an oblivion which the cloister denied
her and only death could give. In her will she disposed
that her skull should be placed over the doorway of the
house in the Calle de Ataud, as a measure of posthumous
atonement for her sins. And there the fleshless, grinning
skull of that once lovely head abode for close upon four
hundred years. It was still to be seen there when Buona-
parte's legions demolished the Holy Office of the Inquisi-
tion.

IV. The Pastry-cook of Madrigal

The Story of the False Sebastian of
Portugal

IV. The Pas try -cook of Madrigal

THERE is not in all that bitter tragi-comic record of
human frailty which we call History a sadder story
than this of the Princess Anne, the natural daughter of
the splendid Don John of Austria, natural son of the
Emperor Charles V. and, so, half-brother to the bowelless
King Philip II. of Spain. Never was woman born to
royal or semi-royal state who was more utterly the victim
of the circumstances of her birth.

Of the natural sons of princes something could be made,
as witness the dazzling career of Anne's own father ; but
for natural daughters — and especially for one who, like
herself, bore a double load of cadency — there was little
use or hope. Their royal blood set them in a class apart ;
their bastardy denied them the worldly advantages
of that spurious eminence. Their royal blood prescribed
that they must mate with princes ; their bastardy
raised obstacles to their doing so. Therefore, since the
world would seem to hold no worthy place for them, it
was expedient to withdraw them from the world before
its vanities beglamoured them, and to immure them in
convents, where they might aspire with confidence to the
sterile dignity of abbesshood.

Thus it befell with Anne. At the early age of six she had

85

86 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

been sent to the Benedictine convent at Burgos, and in
adolescence removed thence to the Monastery of Santa
Maria la Real at Madrigal, where it was foreordained that
she should take the veil. She went unwillingly. She had
youth, and youth's hunger of life, and not even the re-
pressive conditions in which she had been reared had
succeeded in extinguishing her high spirit or in concealing
from her the fact that she was beautiful. On the threshold
of that convent which by her dread uncle's will was to be
her living tomb, above whose gates her spirit may have
beheld the inscription, " Lasciate ogni speranza, voi
cV entrate ! " she made her protest, called upon the bishop
who accompanied her to bear witness that she did not go
of her own free will.

But what she willed was a matter of no account. King
Philip's was, under God's, the only will in Spain. Still,
less perhaps to soften the sacrifice imposed upon her than
because of what he accounted due to one of his own blood,
his Catholic Majesty accorded her certain privileges unusual
to members of religious communities : he granted her a
little civil list — two ladies-in-waiting and two grooms —
and conferred upon her the title of Excellency, which she
still retained even when after her hurried novitiate of a
single year she had taken the veil. She submitted where
to have striven would have been to have spent herself
in vain ; but her resignation was only of the body, and
this dejected body moved mechanically through the tasks
and recreations that go to make up the grey monotone
of conventual existence ; in which one day is as another
day, one hour as another hour; in which the seasons
of the year lose their significance ; in which time has no
purpose save for its subdivision into periods devoted to

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 87

sleeping and waking, to eating and fasting, to praying and
contemplating, until life loses all purpose and object, and
sterilizes itself into preparation for death.

Though they might command and compel her body,
her. spirit remained unfettered in rebellion. Anon the
claustral apathy might encompass her ; in time and by
slow degrees she might become absorbed into the grey
spirit of the place. But that time was not yet. For the
present she must nourish her caged and starving soul
with memories of glimpses caught in passing of the bright,
active, stirring world without ; and where memory stopped
she had now beside her a companion to regale her with
tales of high adventure and romantic deeds and knightly
feats, which served but to feed and swell her yearnings.

This companion, Frey Miguel de Souza, was a Portu-
guese friar of the order of St. Augustine, a learned, courtly
man who had moved in the great world and spoke with
the authority of an eye-witness. And above all he loved
to talk of that last romantic King of Portugal, with whom
he had been intimate, that high-spirited, headstrong,
gallant, fair-haired lad Sebastian, who at the age of four-
and-twenty had led the disastrous overseas expedition
against the Infidel, which had been shattered on the field
of Alcacer-el-Kebir some fifteen years ago. /^^

He loved to paint for her in words the dazzling knightly
pageants he had seen along the quays at Lisbon, when that
expedition was embarking with crusader ardour, the files
of Portuguese knights and men-at-arms, the array of
German and Italian mercenaries, the young king in his
bright armour, bare of head — an incarnation of St. Michael
— moving forward exultantly amid flowers and acclama-
tions to take ship for Africa. And she would listen with

88 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

parted lips and glistening eyes, her slim body bending
forward in her eagerness to miss no word of this great
epic. Anon when he came to tell of that disastrous day
of Alcacer-el-Kebir, her dark, eager eyes would fill with
tears. His tale of it was hardly truthful. He did not
say that military incompetence and a presumptuous vanity
which would listen to no counsels had been the cause of
a ruin that had engulfed the chivalry of Portugal, and
finally the very kingdom itself. He represented the defeat
as due to the overwhelming numbers of the Infidel, and
dwelt at length upon the closing scene, told her in fullest
detail how Sebastian had scornfully rejected the counsels
of those who urged him to fly when all was lost, how the
young king, who had fought with a lion-hearted courage,
unwilling to survive the day's defeat, had turned and
ridden back alone into the Saracen host to fight his last
fight and find a knightly death. Thereafter he was seen
no more.

It was a tale she never tired of hearing, and it moved
her more and more deeply each time she listened to it.
She would ply him with questions touching this Sebastian,
who had been her cousin, concerning his ways of life,
his boyhood, and his enactments when he came to the
.crown of Portugal. And all that Frey Miguel de Souza
told her served but to engrave more deeply upon her virgin
mind the adorable image of the knightly king. Ever
present in the daily thoughts of this ardent girl, his em-
panoplied figure haunted now her sleep, so real and vivid
that her waking senses would dwell fondly upon the dream-
figure as upon the memory of someone seen in actual
life ; likewise she treasured up the memory of the dream-
words he had uttered, words it would seem begotten of

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 89

the longings of her starved and empty heart, words of a
kind not calculated to bring peace to the soul of a nun
professed. She was enamoured, deeply, fervently, and
passionately enamoured of a myth, a mental image of a
man who had been dust these fifteen years. She mourned
him with a fond widow's mourning ; prayed daily and
nightly for the repose of his soul, and in her exaltation
waited now almost impatiently for death that should unite
her with him. Taking joy in the thought that she should
go to him a maid, she ceased at last to resent the maiden-
hood that had been imposed upon her.

One day a sudden, wild thought filled her with a strange
excitement.

" Is it so certain that lie is dead ? " she asked. " When
all is said, none actually saw him die, and you tell me
that the body surrendered by Mulai-Ahmed-ben-Mahomet
was disfigured beyond recognition. Is it not possible that
he may have survived ? "

The lean, swarthy face of Frey Miguel grew pensive.
He did not impatiently scorn the suggestion as she had
half-feared he would.

" In Portugal," he answered slowly, " it is firmly believed
that he lives, and that one day he will come, like another
Redeemer, to deliver his country from the thrall of Spain."

" Then . . . then . . ."

Wistfully, he smiled. " A people will always believe
what it wishes to believe."

" But you, yourself ? " she pressed him.

He did not answer her at once. The cloud of thought
deepened on his ascetic face. He half turned from her —
they were standing in the shadow of the fretted cloisters
— and his pensive eyes roamed over the wide quadrangle

go The Historical Nights' Entertainment

that was at once the convent garden and burial ground.
Out there in the sunshine amid the hum of invisible but
ubiquitously pulsating life, three nuns, young and vigorous,
their arms bared to the elbows, the skirts of their black
habits shortened by a cincture of rope, revealing feet
roughly shod in wood, were at work with spade and
mattock, digging their own graves in memento mori. Amid
the shadows of the cloisters, within sight but beyond
earshot, hovered Dona Maria de Grado and Dona Luiza
Nieto, the two nobly-born nuns appointed by King Philip
to an office as nearly akin to that of ladies-in-waiting as
claustral conditions would permit.

At length Frey Miguel seemed to resolve himself.

" Since you ask me, why should I not tell you ? When
I was on my way to preach the funeral oration in the
Cathedral at Lisbon, as befitted one who had been Don
Sebastian's preacher, I was warned by a person of
eminence to have a care of what I said of Don Sebastian,
for not only was he alive, but he would be secretly present
at the Requiem."

He met her dilating glance, noted the quivering of her
parted lips.

" But that," he added, " was fifteen years ago, and since
then I have had no sign. At first I thought it possible . . .
there was a story afloat that might have been true . . .
But fifteen years ! " He sighed, and shook his head.

"What . . . what was the story ?" She was trembling
from head to foot.

" On the night after the battle three horsemen rode up
to the gates of the fortified coast-town of Arzilla. When
the timid guard refused to open to them, they announced
that one of them was King Sebastian, and so won admit-

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 91

tance. One of the three was wrapped in a cloak, his
face concealed, and his two companions were observed to
show him the deference due to royalty."
" Why, then . . ." she was beginning.
" Ah, but afterwards," he interrupted her, " after-
wards, when all Portugal was thrown into commotion by
that tale, it was denied that King Sebastian had been
among these horsemen. It was affirmed to have been no
more than a ruse of those men's to gain the shelter of the
city."

She questioned and cross-questioned him upon that,
seeking to draw from him the admission that it was possible
denial and explanation obeyed the wishes of the hidden
prince.

" Yes, it is possible," he admitted at length, " and it
is believed by many to be the fact. Don Sebastian was
as sensitive as high-spirited. The shame of his defeat
may have hung so heavily upon him that he preferred to
remain in hiding, and to sacrifice a throne of which he
now felt himself unworthy. Half Portugal believes it so,
and waits and hopes."

When Frey Miguel parted from her that day, he took
with him the clear conviction that not in all Portugal was
there a soul who hoped more fervently than she that Don
Sebastian lived, or yearned more passionately to acclaim
him should he show himself. And that was much to
think, for the yearning of Portugal was as the yearning
of the slave for freedom.

Sebastian's mother was King Philip's sister, whereby
King Philip had claimed the succession, and taken pos-
session of the throne of Portugal. Portugal writhed under
the oppressive heel of that foreign rule, and Frey Miguel

92 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

de Souza himself, a deeply, passionately patriotic man,
had been foremost among those who had sought to liberate
her. When Don Antonio, the sometime Prior of Crato,
Sebastian's natural cousin, and a bold, ambitious, enter-
prising man, had raised the standard of revolt, the friar
had been the most active of all his coadjutators. In those
days Frey Miguel, who was the Provincial of his order, a
man widely renowned for his learning and experience of
affairs, who had been preacher to Don Sebastian and
confessor to Don Antonio, had wielded a vast influence
in Portugal. That influence he had unstintingly exerted
on behalf of the Pretender, to whom he was profoundly
devoted. After Don Antonio's army had been defeated
on land by the Duke of Alba, and his fleet shattered in the
Azores in 1582 by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, Frey Miguel
found himself deeply compromised by his active share in
the rebellion. He was arrested and suffered a long
imprisonment in Spain. In the end, because he expressed
repentance, and because Philip II., aware of the man's
gifts and worth, desired to attach him to himself by grati-
tude, he was enlarged, and appointed Vicar of Santa Maria
la Real, where he was now become confessor, counsellor
and confidant of the Princess Anne of Austria.

But his gratitude to King Philip was not of a kind
to change his nature, to extinguish his devotion to the
Pretender, Don Antonio — who, restlessly ambitious, con-
tinued ceaselessly to plot abroad — or yet to abate the
fervour of his patriotism. The dream of his life was ever
the independence of Portugal, with a native prince upon
the throne. And because of Anne's fervent hope, a hope
that grew almost daily into conviction, that Sebastian
had survived and would return one day to claim his king-

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 93

dom, those two at Madrigal, in that quiet eddy of the
great stream of life, were drawn more closely to each
other.

But as the years passed, and Anne's prayers remained
unanswered and the deliverer did not come, her hopes
began to fade again. Gradually she reverted to her earlier
frame of mind in which all hopes were set upon a reunion
with the unknown beloved in the world to come.

One evening in the spring of 1594 — ^our 7ears after
the name of Sebastian had first passed between the priest
and the princess — Frey Miguel was walking down the
main street of Madrigal, a village whose every inhabitant
was known to him, when he came suddenly face to face
with a stranger. A stranger would in any case have
drawn his attention, but there was about this man some-
thing familiar to the friar, something that stirred in him
vague memories of things long forgotten. His garb of
shabby black was that of a common townsman, but there
was something in his air and glance, his soldierly carriage,
and the tilt of his bearded chin, that belied his garb. He
bore upon his person the stamp of intrepidity and
assurance.

Both halted, each staring at the other, a faint smile on
the lips of the stranger — who, in the fading light, might
have been of any age from thirty to fifty — a puzzled frown
upon the brow of the friar. Then the man swept off his
broad-brimmed hat.

" God save your paternity," was his greeting.

" God save you, my son," replied Frey Miguel, still
pondering him. " I seem to know you. Do I ? "
£ The stranger laughed. " Though all the world forget,
your paternity should remember me."

94 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

And then Frey Miguel sucked in his breath sharply,
" My God ! " he cried, and set a hand upon the fellow's
shoulder, looking deeply into those bold, grey eyes. " What
make you here ? "

" I am a pastry-cook."

" A pastry-cook ? You ? "

"One must live, and it is a more honest trade than
most. I was in Valiadolid, when I heard that your
paternity was the Vicar of the Convent here, and so for
the sake of old times — of happier times — I bethought me
that I might claim your paternity's support." He spoke
with a careless arrogance, half-tinged with mockery.

"Assuredly . . ." began the priest, and then he checked.
" Where is your shop ? "

" Just down the street. Will your paternity honour
me?"

Frey Miguel bowed, and together they departed.

For three days thereafter the convent saw the friar
only in the celebration of the Mass. But on the morning
of the fourth, he went straight from the sacristy to the
parlour, and, despite the early hour, desired to see her
Excellency.

" Lady," he told her, " I have great news ; news that
will rejoice your heart." She looked at him, and saw the
feverish glitter in his sunken eyes, the hectic flush on his
prominent cheek-bones. " Don Sebastian lives. I have
seen him."

A moment she stared at him as if she did not understand.
Then she'paled until her face became as white as the nun's
coif uponjher brow ; her breath came in a faint moan,
she stiffened, and swayed upon her feet, and caught at
the back of a prie-dieu to steady and save herself from

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 95

falling. He saw that he had blundered by his abruptness,
that he had failed to gauge the full depth of her feelings
for the Hidden Prince, and for a moment feared that
she would swoon under the shock of the news he had so
recklessly delivered.

" What do you say ? Oh, what do you say ? " she
moaned, her eyes half-closed.

He repeated the news in more measured, careful terms,
exerting all the magnetism of his will to sustain her reeling
senses. Gradually she quelled the storm of her emotions.

" And you say that you have seen him ? Oh ! " Once
more the colour suffused her cheeks, and her eyes glowed,
her expression became radiant. " Where is he ? "

" Here. Here in Madrigal.5'

** In Madrigal ? " She was all amazement. " But
why in Madrigal ? "

"He was in Valladolid, and there heard that I — his
sometime preacher and counsellor — was Vicar here at
Santa Maria la Real. He came to seek me. He comes
disguised, under the false name of Gabriel de Espinosa,
and setting up as a pastry-cook until his term of penance
shall be completed, and he shall be free to disclose himself
once more to his impatiently awaiting people."

It was bewildering, intoxicating news to her. It set
her mind in turmoil, made of her soul a battle-ground for
mad hope and dreadful fear. This dream-prince, who for
four years had been the constant companion of her
thoughts, whom her exalted, ardent, imaginative, starved
soul had come to love with a consuming passion, was a
living reality near at hand, to be seen in the flesh by the
eyes of her body. It was a thought that set her in an
ecstasy of terror, so that she dared not ask Frey Miguel

96 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

to bring Don Sebastian to her. But she plied him with
questions, and so elicited from him a very circumstantial
story.

Sebastian, after his defeat and escape, had made a
vow upon the Holy Sepulchre to lay aside the royal
dignity of which he deemed that he had proved himself
unworthy, and to do penance for the pride that had
brought him down, by roaming the world in humble guise,
earning his bread by the labour of his hands and the
sweat of his brow like any common hind, until he should
have purged his offence and rendered himself worthy once
more to resume the estate to which he had been born.

It was a tale that moved her pity to the point of tears.
It exalted her hero even beyond the eminence he had
already held in her fond dreams, particularly when to that
general outline were added in the days that followed
details of the wanderings and sufferings of the Hidden
Prince. At last, some few weeks after that first startling
announcement of his presence, in the early days of August
of that year 1594, Frey Miguel proposed to her the thing
she most desired, yet dared not beg.

"I have told His Majesty of your attachment to his
memory in all these years in which we thought him dead,
and he is deeply touched. He desires your leave to come
and prostrate himself at your feet."

She crimsoned from brow to chin, then paled again ;
her bosom heaved in tumult. Between dread and yearn-
ing she spoke a faint consent.

Next day he came, brought by Frey Miguel to the
convent parlour, where her Excellency waited, her two
attendant nuns discreetly in the background. Her eager,
frightened eyes beheld a man of middle height, dignified

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 97

of mien and carriage, dressed with extreme simplicity,
yet without the shabbiness in which Frey Miguel had
first discovered him.

His hair was of a light brown — the colour to which the
golden locks of the boy who had sailed for Africa some
fifteen years ago might well have faded — his beard of an
auburn tint, and his eyes were grey. His face was hand-
some, and save for the colour of his eyes and the high arch
of his nose presented none of the distinguishing and
marring features peculiar to the House of Austria, from
which Don Sebastian derived through his mother.

Hat in hand, he came forward, and went down on one
knee before her.

" I am here to receive your Excellency's commands,"
he said.

She steadied her shuddering knees and trembling lips.

" Are you Gabriel de Espinosa, who has come to Madrigal
to set up as a pastry-cook ? " she asked him.

" To serve your Excellency."

" Then be welcome, though I am sure that the trade
you least understand is that of a pastry-cook."

The kneeling man bowed his handsome head, and
fetched a deep sigh.

" If in the past I had better understood another trade,
I should not now be reduced to following this one."

She urged him now to rise, whereafter the enter-
tainment between them was very brief on that first
occasion. He departed upon a promise to come soon
again, and the undertaking on her side to procure for his
shop the patronage of the convent.

Thereafter it became his custom to attend the morning
Mass celebrated by Frey Miguel in the convent chapel —

7

98 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

which was open to the public — and afterwards to seek the
friar in the sacristy and accompany him thence to the
convent parlour, where the Princess waited, usually with
one or another of her attendant nuns. These daily inter-
views were brief at first, but gradually they lengthened
until they came to consume the hours to dinner-time, and
presently even that did not suffice, and Sebastian must
come again later in the day.

And as the interviews increased and lengthened, so
they grew also in intimacy between the royal pair, and
plans for Sebastian's future came to be discussed. She
urged him to proclaim himself. His penance had been
overlong already for what was really no fault at all, since
it is the heart rather than the deed that Heaven judges
and his heart had been pure, his intention in making war
upon the Infidel loftily pious. Diffidently he admitted
that it might Se so, but both he and Frey Miguel were of
opinion that it would be wiser now to await the death of
Philip II., which, considering his years and infirmities,
could not be long delayed. Out of jealousy for his pos-
sessions, King Philip might oppose Sebastian's claims.

Meanwhile these daily visits of Espinosa's, and the long
hours he spent in Anne's company gave, as was inevitable,
rise to scandal, within and without the convent. She
was a nun professed, interdicted from seeing any man but
her confessor other than through the parlour grating, and
even then not at such length or with such constancy as
this. The intimacy between them — fostered and furthered
by Frey Miguel — had so ripened in a few weeks that
Anne was justified in looking upon him as her saviour
from the living tomb to which she had been condemned,
in hoping that he would restore her to the life and liberty

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 99

for which she had ever yearned by taking her to Queen
when his time came to claim his own. What if she was a
nun professed ? Her profession had been against her
will, preceded by only one year of novitiate, and she was
still within the five probationary years prescribed. There-
fore, in her view, her vows were revocable.

But this was a matter beyond the general consideration
or knowledge, and so the scandal grew. Within the con-
vent there was none bold enough, considering Anne's
royal rank, to offer remonstrance or advice, particularly
too, considering that her behaviour had the sanction of
Frey Miguel, the convent's spiritual adviser. But from
without, from the Provincial of the Order of St. Augustine,
came at last a letter to Anne, respectfully stern in tone,
to inform her that the numerous visits she received
from a pastry-cook were giving rise to talk, for which it
would be wise to cease to give occasion. That recom-
mendation scorched her proud, sensitive soul with shame.
She sent her servant Roderos at once to fetch Frey Miguel,
and placed the letter in his hands.

The friar's dark eyes scanned it and grew troubled.

" It was to have been feared," he said, and sighed.
" There is but one remedy, lest worse follow and all be
ruined. Don Sebastian must go."

" Go ? " Fear robbed her of breath. « Go where : "

" Away from Madrigal — anywhere — and at once ; to-
morrow at latest." And then, seeing the look of horror
in her face, " What else, what else r " he added, im-
patiently. " This meddlesome provincial may be stirring
up trouble already."

She fought down her emotion. " I ... I shall see him
before he goes ? " she begged.

7*

ioo The Historical Nights' Entertainment

11 I don't know. It may not be wise. I must con-
sider." He flung away in deepest perturbation, leaving
her with a sense that life was slipping from her.

That late September evening, as she sat stricken in her
room, hoping against hope for at least another glimpse of
him, Dona Maria de Grado brought word that Espinosa
was even then in the convent in Frey Miguel's cell. Fear-
ful lest he should be smuggled thence without her seeing
him, and careless of the impropriety of the hour — it was
already eight o'clock and dusk was falling — she a't once
dispatched Roderos to the friar, bidding him bring Espinosa
to her in the parlour.

The friar obeyed, and the lovers — they were no less by
now — came face to face in anguish.

" My lord, my lord," she cried, casting all prudence to
the winds, " what is decided ? "

" That I leave in the morning," he answered.
" To go where ? " She was distraught.
" Where ? " He shrugged. " To Valladolid at first,
and then . . . where God pleases."
" And when shall I see you again ? "
" When . . . when God pleases."

" Oh, I am terrified ... if I should lose you ... if I

should never see you more ! " She was panting, distraught.

" Nay, lady, nay," he answered. " I shall come for you

when the time is ripe. I shall return by All Saints, or by

fc Christmas at the latest, and I shall bring with me one who

will avouch me."

" What need any to avouch you to me ? " she protested,
on a note of fierceness. " We belong to each other, you
and I. But you are free to roam the world, and I am caged
here and helpless. . . ."

The Pastry-cook of 'MaMgal [ -101

" Ah, but I shall free you soon, and we'll go hence to-
gether. See." He stepped to the table. There was an
ink-horn, a box of pounce, some quills, and a sheaf of paper
there. He took up a quill, and wrote — with labour, for
princes are notoriously poor scholars :

" 7, Don Sebastian, by the Grace of God King oj Portu-
gal, take to wife the most serene Dona Ana oj Austria,
daughter oj the most serene Prince, Don John oj Austria,
by virtue oj the dispensation which I hold from two pontiffs."

And he signed it — after the manner of the Kings of Portu-
gal in all ages—" El Rev "—the King.

" Will that content you, lady r " he pleaded, handing
it to her.

" How shall this scrawl content me ? "

" It is a bond I shall redeem as soon as Heaven will
permit."

* Thereafter she fell to weeping, and he to protesting, until
Frey Miguel urged him to depart, as it grew late. And then
she forgot her own grief, and became all solicitude for him,
until naught would content her but she must empty into
his hands her little store of treasure — a hundred ducats and
such jewels as she possessed, including a gold watch set
with diamonds and a ring bearing a cameo portrait of
King Philip, and last of all a portrait of herself, of the size
of a playing-card.

At last, as ten was striking, he was hurried away. Frey
Miguel had gone on his knees to him, and kissed his hand,
what time he had passionately urged him not to linger ;
and then Sebastian had done the same, by the Princess,
both weeping now. At last he was gone, and on the arm of

102 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Dona Maria de Grado the forlorn Anne staggered back to
her cell to weep and pray.

In the days that followed she moved, pale and listless,
oppressed by her sense of .loss and desolation, a desolation
which at last she sought to mitigate by writing to him to
Valladolid, whither he had repaired. Of all those letters
only two survive.

" My king and lord," she wrote in one of these, " alas !
How we suffer by absence ! I am so filled with the pain of
it that if I did not seek the relief of writing to your Majesty
and thus spend some moments in communion with you,
there would be an end to me. What I feel to-day is what I
feel every day when I recall the happy moments sodeli-
ciously spent, which are no more. This privation is for
me so severe a punishment of heaven that I should call it
unjust, for without cause I find myself deprived of the
happiness missed by me for so many years and purchased
at the price of suffering and tears. Ah, my lord, how
willingly, nevertheless, would I not suffer all over again
the misfortunes that have crushed me if thus I might spare
your Majesty' the least of them. May He who rules the
world grant my prayers and set a term to so great an un-
happiness, and to the intolerable torment I suffer through
being deprived of the presence of your Majesty. It were
impossible for long to suffer so much pain and live.

" I belong to you, my lord ; you know it already. The
troth I plighted to you I shall keep in life and in death, for
death itself could not tear it from my soul, and this im-
mortal soul will harbour it through eternity. . . ."

Thus and much more in the same manner wrote the niece
of King Philip of Spain to Gabriel Espinosa, the pastry-

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 103

cook, in his Valladolid retreat. How he filled his days we
do not know, beyond the fact that he moved freely abroad.
For it was in the streets of that town that meddlesome Fate
brought him face to face one day with Gregorio Gonzales,
under whom Espinosa had been a scullion once in -the
service of the Count of Nyeba.

Gregorio hailed him, staring round-eyed ; for although
Espinosa's garments were not in their first freshness they
were far from being those of a plebeian.

" In whose service may you be now ? " quoth the
intrigued Gregorio, so soon as greetings had passed between
them.

Espinosa shook off his momentary embarrassment, and
took the hand of his sometime comrade. " Times are
changed, friend Gregorio. I am not in anybody's service,
rather do I require servants myself."

" Why, what is your present situation ? "
Loftily Espinosa put' him off. " No matter for that,"
he answered, with a dignity that forbade further questions.
He gathered his cloak about him to proceed upon his way.
" If there is anything you wish for I shall be happy, for
old times' sake, to oblige you."

But Gregorio was by no means disposed to part from him.
We do not readily part from an old friend whom we re-
discover in an unsuspected state of affluence. Espinosa must
home with Gregorio. Gregorio's wife would be charmed
to renew his acquaintance, and to hear from his own lips
of his improved and prosperous state. Gregorio would
take no refusal, and in the end Espinosa, yielding to his
insistence, went with him to the sordid quarter where
Gregorio had his dwelling.

About an unclean table of pine, in a squalid room, sat

104 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

the three — Espinosa, Gregorio, and Gregorio's wife ; but
the latter displayed none of the signs of satisfaction at
Espinosa's prosperity which Gregorio had promised.
Perhaps Espinosa observed her evil envy, and it may have
been to nourish it — which is the surest way to punish
envy — that he made Gregorio a magnificent offer of em-
ployment.

" Enter my service," said he, " and I will pay you fifty
ducats down and four ducats a month."

Obviously they were incredulous of his affluence. To
convince them he displayed a gold watch — most rare
possession — set with diamonds, a ring of price, and other
costly jewels. The couple stared now with dazzled eyes.
" But didn't you tell me when we were in Madrid to-
gether that you had been a pastry-cook at Ocana ? " burst
from Gregorio.

Espinosa smiled. " How many kings and princes have
been compelled to conceal themselves under disguises ? "
he asked oracularly. And seeing them stricken, he must
play upon them further. Nothing, it seems, was sacred to
him — not even the portrait of that lovely, desolate royal
lady in her convent at Madrigal. Forth he plucked it,
and thrust it to them across the stains of wine and oil that
befouled their table.

" Look at this beautiful lady, the most beautiful in
Spain," he bade them. " A prince could not have a lovelier
bride."

" But she is dressed as a nun," the woman protested.
" How, then, can she marry ? "

" For kings there are no laws," he told her with
finality.
At last he departed, but bidding Gregorio to think of the

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 105

offer he had made him. He would come again for the
cook's reply, leaving word meanwhile of where he was
lodged.

They deemed him mad, and were disposed to be derisive.
Yet the woman's disbelief was quickened into malevolence
by the jealous fear that what he had told them of himself
might, after all, be true. Upon that malevolence she acted
forthwith, lodging an information with Don Rodrigo de
Santillan, the Alcalde of Valladolid.

Very late that night Espinosa was roused from his sleep
to find his room invaded by alguaziles — the police of the
Alcalde. He was arrested and dragged before Don
Rodrigo to give an account of himself and of certain objects
of value found in his possession — more particularly of a ring,
on the cameo of which was carved a portrait of King Philip.

" I am Gabriel de Espinosa," he answered firmly, " a
pastry-cook of Madrigal."

" Then how come you by these jewels ? "

" They were given me by Dona Ana of Austria to sell
for her account. That is the business that has brought me
to Valladolid."

" Is this Dona Ana's portrait r "

" It is."

" And this lock of hair : Is that also Dona Ana's ?
And do you, then, pretend that these were also given you
to sell ? "

" Why else should they be given me ? "

Don Rodrigo wondered. They were useless things to
steal, and as for the lock of hair, where should the fellow
find a buyer for that r The Alcalde conned his man more
closely, and noted that dignity of bearing, that calm
assurance which usually is founded upon birth and worth.

io6 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

He sent him to wait in prison, what time he went to ran-
sack the fellow's house in Madrigal.

Don Rodrigo was prompt in acting ; yet even so his
prisoner mysteriously found means to send a warning that
enabled Frey Miguel to forestall the Alcalde. Before Don
Rodrigo's arrival, the friar had abstracted from Espinosa's
house a box of papers which he reduced to ashes. Unfortu-
nately Espinosa had been careless. Four letters not con-
fided to the box were discovered by the alguaziles. Two
of them were from Anne — one of which supplies the extract
I have given ; the other two from Frey Miguel himself.

Those letters startled Don Rodrigo de Santillan. He was
a shrewd reasoner and well-informed. He knew how the
justice of Castile was kept on the alert by the persistent
plottings of the Portuguese Pretender, Don Antonio,
sometime Prior of Crato. He was intimate with the past
life of Frey Miguel, knew his self-sacrificing patriotism
and passionate devotion to the cause of Don Antonio,
remembered the firm dignity of his prisoner, and leapt at a
justifiable conclusion. The man in his hands — the man
whom the Princess Anne addressed in such passionate terms
by the title of Majesty — was the Prior of Crato. He con-
ceived that he had stumbled here upon something grave
and dangerous. He ordered the arrest of Frey Miguel,
and then proceeded to visit Dona Ana at the convent. His
methods were crafty, and depended upon the effect of
surprise. He opened the interview by holding up before
her one of the letters he had found, asking her if she
acknowledged it for her own.

She stared a moment panic-stridfcen ; then snatched it
from his hands, tore it across, and would have torn again,
but that he caught her wrists in a grip of iron to prevent her,

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 107

with little regard in that moment for the blood royal in
her veins. King Philip was a stern master, pitiless to
blunderers, and Don Rodrigo knew he never would be
forgiven did he suffer that precious letter to be destroyed.

Overpowered in body and in spirit, she surrendered the
fragments and confessed the letter her own.

" What is the real name of this man, who calls himself
a pastry-cook, and to whom you write in such terms as
these ? " quoth the magistrate.

" He is Don Sebastian, King of Portugal." And to that
declaration she added briefly the story of his escape from
Alcacer-el-Kebir and subsequent penitential wanderings*

Don Rodrigo departed, not knowing what to think or
believe, but convinced that it was time he laid the whole
matter before King Philip. His Catholic Majesty was
deeply perturbed. He at once dispatched Don Juan de
Llano, the Apostolic Commissary of the Holy Office to
Madrigal to sift the matter, and ordered that Anne should
be solitarily confined in her cell, and her nuns-in-waiting
and servants placed under arrest.

Espinosa, for greater security, was sent from Valladolid
to the prison of Medina del Campo. He was taken thither
in a coach with an escort of arquebusiers.

" Why convey a poor pastry-cook with so much honour ? "
he asked his guards, half-mockingly.

Within the coach he was accompanied by a soldier
named Cervatos, a travelled man, who fell into talk with
him, and discovered that he spoke both French and
German fluently. But when Cervatos addressed him in
Portuguese the prisoner seemed confused, and replied
that although he had been in Portugal, he could not speak
the language.

loS The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Thereafter, throughout that winter, examinations of the
three chief prisoners — Espinosa, Frey Miguel, and the
Princess Anne — succeeded one another with a wearisome
monotony of results. The Apostolic Commissary interro-
gated the princess and Frey Miguel ; Don Rodrigo con-
ducted the examinations of Espinosa. But nothing was
elicited that took the matter forward or tended to dispel
its mystery.

The princess replied with a candour that became more
and more tinged with indignation under the persistent and
at times insulting interrogatories. She insisted that the
prisoner was Don Sebastian, and wrote passionate letters
to Espinosa, begging him for her honour's sake to proclaim
himself what he really was, declaring to him that the time
had come to cast off all disguise.

Yet the prisoner, unmoved by these appeals, persisted
that he was Gabriel de Espinosa, a pastry-cook. But the
man's bearing, and the air of mystery cloaking him, seemed
in themselves to belie that asseveration. That he could
not be the Prior of Crato, Don Rodrigo had now assured
himself. He fenced skilfully under examination, ever
evading the magistrate's practised point when it sought to
pin him, and he was no less careful to say nothing that
should incriminate either of the other two prisoners. He
denied that he had ever given himself out to be Don Sebas-
tian, though he admitted that Frey Miguel and the princess
had persuaded themselves that he was that lost prince.

He pleaded ignorance when asked who were his parents,
stating that he had never known either of them — an answer
this which would have fitted the case of Don Sebastian,
who was born after his father's death, and quitted in early
infancy by his mother.

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 109

As for Frey Miguel, he stated boldly under examination
the conviction that Don Sebastian had survived the African
expedition, and the belief that Espinosa might well be the
missing monarch. He protested that he had acted in good
faith throughout, and without any thought of disloyalty
to' the King of Spain.

Late one night, after he had been some three months in
prison, Espinosa was roused from sleep by an unexpected
visit from the Alcalde. At once he would have risen and
dressed.

" Nay," said Don Rodrigo, restraining him, " that is not
necessary for what is intended."

It was a dark phrase which the prisoner, sitting up in
bed with touzled hair, and blinking in the light of the
torches, instantly interpreted into a threat of torture. His
face grew white.

" It is impossible," he protested. " The King cannot
have ordered what you suggest. His Majesty will take
into^ecount that I am a man of honour. He may require
my death, but in an honourable manner, and not upon the
rack. And as for its being used to make me speak, I
have nothing to add to what I have said already."

The stern, dark face of the Alcalde was overspread by a
grim smile.

" I would have you remark that you fall into contra-
dictions. Sometimes you pretend to be of humble and lowly
origin, and sometimes a person of honourable degree. To
hear you at this moment one might suppose that to submit
you to torture would be to outrage your dignity. What
then . . ."

Don Rodrigo broke off suddenly to stare, then snatched
a torch from the hand of his alguaziles and held it close to

no The Historical Nights' Entertainment

the face of the prisoner, who cowered now, knowing full
well what it was the Alcalde had detected. In that strong
light Don Rodrigo saw that the prisoner's hair and beard
had turned grey at the roots, and so received the last proof
that he had to do with the basest of impostures. The
fellow had been using dyes, the supply of which had been
cut short by his imprisonment. Don Rodrigo departed
well-satisfied with the results of that surprise visit.

Thereafter Espinosa immediately shaved himself. But
it was too late, and even so, before many weeks were past
his hair had faded to its natural grey, and he presented
the appearance of what in fact he was — a man of sixty,
or thereabouts.

Yet the torture to which he was presently submitted
drew nothing from him that could explain all that yet
remained obscure. It was from Frey Miguel, after a thou-
sand prevarications and tergiversations, that the full
truth — known to himself alone — was extracted by the rack.

He confessed that, inspired by the love of country and
the ardent desire to liberate Portugal from the Spanish
yoke, he had never abandoned the hope of achieving this,
and of placing Don Antonio, the Prior of Crato, on the
throne of his ancestors. He had devised a plan, primarily
inspired by the ardent nature of the Princess Anne and
her impatience of the conventual life. It was while casting
about for the chief instrument that he fortuitously met
Espinosa in the streets of Madrigal. Espinosa had been a
soldier, and had seen the world. During the war between
Spain and Portugal he had served in the armies of King
Philip, had befriended Frey Miguel when the friar's convent
was on the point of being invaded by soldiery, and had
rescued him from the peril of it. Thus they had become

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal in

acquainted, and Frey Miguel had had an instance of the
man's resource and courage. Further, he was of the height
of Don Sebastian and of the build to which the king might
have grown in the years that were sped, and he presented
other superficial resemblances to the late king. The colour
of his hair and beard could be corrected ; and he might be
made to play the part of the Hidden Prince for whose return
Portugal was waiting so passionately and confidently.
There had been other impostors aforetime, but they had
lacked the endowments of Espinosa, and their origins could
be traced without difficulty. In addition to these natural
endowments, Espinosa should be avouched by Frey Miguel
— than whom nobody in the world was better qualified in
such a matter — and by the niece of King Philip, to whom he
would be married when he raised his standard. It was
arranged that the three should go to Paris so soon as the
arrangements were complete, where the Pretender would
be accredited by the exiled friends of Don Antonio residing
there — the Prior of Crato being a party to the plot. From
France Frey Miguel would have worked in Portugal
through his agents, and presently would have gone there
himself to stir up a national movement in favour of a
pretender so fully accredited. Thus he had every hope of
restoring Portugal to her independence. Once this should
have been accomplished, Don Antonio would appear in
Lisbon, unmask the impostor, and himself assume the
crown of the kingdom which had been forcibly and defi-
nitely wrenched from Spain.

That was the crafty plan which the priest had laid with a
singleness of aim and a detachment from minor considera-
tions that never hesitated to sacrifice the princess, together
with the chief instrument of the intrigue. Was the libera-

112 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

tion of a kingdom, the deliverance of a nation from servi-
tude, the happiness of a whole people, to weigh in the
balance against the fates of a natural daughter of Don John
of Austria and a soldier of fortune turned pastry-cook ?
Frey Miguel thought not, and his plot might well have
succeeded but for the base strain in Espinosa and the man's
overweening vanity, which had urged him to dazzle the
Gonzales at Valladolid. That vanity sustained him to
the end, which he suffered in October of 1595, a full year
after his arrest. To the last he avoided admissions that
should throw light upon his obscure identity and origin.

" If it were known who I am . . ." he would say, and
there break off.

He was hanged, drawn and quartered, and he endured his
fate with calm fortitude. Frey Miguel suffered in the
same way with the like dignity, after having undergone
degradation from his priestly dignity.

As for the unfortunate Princess Anne, crushed under a
load of shame and humiliation, she had gone to her punish-
ment in the previous July. The Apostolic Commissary
notified her of the sentence which King Philip had con-
firmed. She was to be transferred to another convent,
there to undergo a term of four years' solitary confinement
in her cell, and to fast on bread and water every Friday.
She was pronounced incapable of ever holding any office,
and was to be treated on the expiry of her term as an
ordinary nun, her civil list abolished, her title of Excellency
to be extinguished, together with all other honours and
privileges conferred upon her by King Philip.

The piteous letters of supplication that she addressed
to the King, her uncle, still exist. But they left the cold,
implacable Philip of Suain unmoved. Her only sin was

The Pastry-cook of Madrigal 113

that, yielding to the hunger of her starved heart, and chafing
under the ascetic life imposed upon her, she had allowed
herself to be fascinated by the prospect of becoming the
protectress of one whom she believed to be an unfortunate
and romantic prince, and of exchanging her convent for
a throne.

Her punishment — poor soul — endured for close upon
forty years, but the most terrible part of it was not that
which lay within the prescription of King Philip, but that
which arose from her own broken and humiliated spirit.
She had been uplifted a moment by a glorious hope, to be
cast down again into the blackest despair, to which a shame
unspeakable and a tortured pride were added.

Than hers, as I have said, there is in history no sadder
story.

V. The End of the ' ' Vert Galant
The Assassination of Henry IV

V. The End of the ' ' Vert Galant "

IN the year 1609 died the last Duke of Cleves, and
King Henry IV. of France and Navarre fell in love
with Charlotte de Montmorency.

In their conjunction these two events were to influence
the destinies of Europe. In themselves they were trivial
enough, since it was as much a commonplace that an old
gentleman should die as that Henry of Beam should fall
in love. Love had been the main relaxation of his other-
wise strenuous life, and neither the advancing years — he
was fifty-six at this date — nor the recriminations of Maria
de' Medici, his long-suffering Florentine wife, sufficed to curb
his zest.

Possibly there may have been a husband more unfaithful
than King Henry ; probably there was not. His gallantries
were outrageous, his taste in women catholic, and his
illegitimate progeny outnumbered that of his grandson,
the English sultan Charles II. He differs, however, from
the latter in that he was not quite as Oriental in the manner
of his ^elf-indulgence. Charles, by comparison, was a
mere dullard who turned Whitehall into a seraglio. Henry
preferred the romantic manner, the high adventure, and
knew how to be gallant in two senses.

This gallantry of his is not, perhaps, seen to best advan-
tage in the affair of Charlotte de Montmorency To begin

117

n8 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

uith he was, as I have said, in his fifty-sixth year, an
age at which it is difficult, without being ridiculous, to
unbridle a passion for a girl of twenty. Unfortunately
for him, Charlotte does not appear to have found him so.
On the contrary, her lovely, empty head was so turned
by the flattery of his addresses, that she came to recip-
rocate the passion she inspired.

Her family had proposed to marry her to the gay and
witty Marshal de Bassompierre ; and although his heart
was not at all engaged, the marshal found the match
extremely suitable, and was willing enough, until the King
declared himself. Henry used the most impudent
frankness.

" Bassompierre, I will speak to you as a friend," said he.
" I am in love, and desperately in love, with Mademoiselle
de Montmorency. If you should marry her I should hate
you. If she should love me you would hate me. A breach
of our friendship would desolate me, for I love you with
sincere affection."

That was enough for Bassompierre. He had no mind
to go further with a marriage of convenience which in
the sequel would most probably give him to choose between
assuming the ridiculous rdle of a complacent husband
and being involved in a feud with his prince. He said as
much, and thanked the King for his frankness, whereupon
Henry, liking him more than ever for his good sense, further
opened his mind to him.

" I am thinking of marrying her to my nephew, Conde.
Thus I shall have her in my family to be the comfort of my
old age, which is coming on. Conde, who thinks of nothing
but hunting, shall have a hundred thousand livres a year
with which to amuse himself."

The End of the " Vert Galant " 119

Bassompierre understood perfectly the kind of bargain
that was in Henry's mind. As for the Prince de Conde,
he appears to^have been less acute, no doubt because his
vision was dazzled by the prospect of a hundred thousand
livres a year. So desperately poor was he that for half
that sum he would have taken Lucifer's own daughter to
wife, without stopping to consider the disadvantages it
might entail.

The marriage was quietly celebrated at Chantilly in
February of 1609. Trouble followed fast. Not only
did Conde perceive at last precisely what was expected
of him, and indignantly rebel against it, but the Queen,
too, was carefully instructed in the matter by Concino
Concini and his wife Leonora Galigai, the ambitious
adventurers who had come from Florence in her train, and
who saw in the King's weakness their own opportunity.

The scandal that ensued was appalling. Never before
had the relations between Henry and his queen been
strained so nearly to breaking-point. And then, whilst
the trouble of Henry's own making was growing about him
until it threatened to overwhelm him, he received a letter
from Vaucelas, his ambassador at Madrid, containing revela-
tions that changed his annoyance into stark apprehension.

When the last Duke of Cleves died a few months before,
'* leaving all the world his heirs " — to use Henry's own
phrase — the Emperor had stepped in, and over-riding the
rights of certain German princes had bestowed the fief
upon his own nephew, the Archduke Leopold. Now this
was an arrangement that did not suit Henry's policy at all,
and being then — as the result of a wise husbanding of
resources — the most powerful prince in Europe, Henry
was not likely to submit tamely to arrangements that did

120 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

not suit him. His instructions to Vaucelas were to keep
open the difference between France and the House of
Austria arising out of this matter of Cleves. All Europe
knew that Henry desired to marry the Dauphin to the
heiress of Lorraine, so that this State might one day be
united with France ; and it was partly to support this
claim that he was now disposed to attach the German
princes to his interests.

Yet what Vaucelas told him in that letter was that
certain agents at the court of Spain, chief among whom was
the Florentine ambassador, acting upon instructions from
certain members of the household of the Queen of France,
and from others whom Vaucelas said he dared not mention,
were intriguing to blast Henry's designs against the house
of Austria, and to bring him willy-nilly into a union with
Spain. These agents had gone so far in their utter dis-
regard of Henry's own intentions as to propose to the
Council of Madrid that the alliance should be cemented by
a marriage between the Dauphin and the Infanta.

That letter sent Henry early one morning hot-foot to
the Arsenal, where Sully, his Minister of State, had his
residence. Maximilien de Bethune, Duke of Sully, was
not merely the King's servant, he was his closest friend,
the very keeper of his soul ; and the King leaned upon
him and sought his guidance not only in State affairs, but
in the most intimate and domestic matters. Often already
had it fallen to Sully to patch up the differences created
between husband and wife by Henry's persistent infidelities.

The King, arriving like the whirlwind, turned every-
body out of the closet in which the duke — but newly risen
— received him in bed-gown and night-cap. Alone with
his minister, Henry came abruptly to the matter.

The End of the " Vert Galant " 121

" You have heard what is being said of me ? " he burst
out. He stood with his back to the window, a sturdy,
erect, soldierly figure, a little above the middle height,
dressed like a captain of fortune in jerkin and long boots
of grey leather, and a grey hat with a wine-coloured ostrich
plume. His countenance matched his raiment. Keen-
eyed, broad of brow, with a high-bridged, pendulous nose,
red lips, a tuft of beard and a pair of grizzled, bristling
moustachios, he looked half-hero, half-satyr ; half-Captain,
half-Polichinelle.

Sully, tall and broad, the incarnation of respectability
and dignity, despite bed-gown and slippers and the night-
cap covering his high, bald crown, made no pretence of
misunderstanding him.

" Of you and the Princesse de Conde, you mean, sire ? "
quoth he, and gravely he shook his head. " It is a matter
that has filled me with apprehension, for I foresee from it
far greater trouble than from any former attachment of
yours."

" So they have convinced you, too, Grand-Master ! "
Henry's tone was almost sorrowful. " Yet I swear that
all is greatly exaggerated. It is the work of that dog
Concini. Venire St. Gr is ! If he has no respect for me,
at least he might consider how he slanders a child of such
grace and wit and beauty, a lady of her high birth and
noble lineage."

There was a dangerous quiver of emotion in his voice
that was not missed by the keen ears of Sully. Henry
moved from the window, and flung into a chair.

" Concini works to enrage the Queen against me, and to
drive her to take violent resolutions which might give
colour to their pernicious designs."

122 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Sire ! " It was a cry of protest from Sully.

Henry laughed grimly at his minister's incredulity, and
plucked forth the letter from Vaucelas.

" Read that."

Sully read, and, aghast at what the letter told him,
ejaculated : " They must be mad ! "

" Oh, no," said the King. " They are not mad. They
are most wickedly sane, which is why their designs fill me
with apprehension. What do you infer, Grand-Master,
from such deliberate plots against resolutions from which
they know that nothing can turn me while I have life ? "

" What can I infer r " quoth Sully, aghast.

" In acting thus — in daring to act thus," the King
expounded, " they proceed as if they knew that I can have
but a short time to live."

" Sire ! "

" What else ? They plan events which cannot take place
until I am dead."

Sully stared at his master for a long moment, in stupefied
silence, his loyal Huguenot soul refusing to discount by
flattery the truth that he perceived.

" Sire," he said at last, bowing his fine head, " you must
take your measures."

" Ay, but against whom : Who are these that Vaucelas
says he dare not name ? Can you suggest another
than . . ." He paused, shrinking in horror from com-
pleting the utterance of his thought. Then, with an
abrupt gesture, he went on, "... than tne Queen her-
self ? "

Sully quietly placed the letter on the table, and sat down.
He took his chin in his hand, and looked squarely across
at Henry.

The End of the " Vert Galant " 123

" Sire, you have brought this upon yourself. You have
exasperated her Majesty ; you have driven her in despair
to seek and act upon the councils of this scoundrel Concini-
There never was an attachment of yours that did not beget
trouble with the Queen, but never such trouble as I have
been foreseeing from your attachment to the Princess of
Conde. Sire, will you not consider where you stand ? "

" They are lies, I tell you," Henry stormed. But Sully
the uncompromising gravely shook his head. " At least,"
Henry amended, " they are gross exaggerations. Oh, I con-
fess to you, my friend, that I am sick with love of her.
Day and night I see nothing but her gracious image. I
sigh and fret and fume like any callow lad of twenty. I
suffer the tortures of the. damned. And yet . . . and yet,
I swear to you, Sully, that I will curb this passion though
it kill me. I will stifle these fires, though they consume
my soul to ashes. No harm shall come to her from me.
No harm has come yet. I swear it. These stories that are
put about are the inventions of Concini to set my wife
against me. Do you know how far he and his wife have
dared to go ? They have persuaded the Queen to eat
nothing that is not prepared in the kitchen they have set
up for her in their own apartments. What can you con-
clude from that but that they suggest that I desire to
poison her ? "

" Why suffer it, sire ? " quoth Sully gravely. " Send
the pair packing back to Florence, and so be rid of them."

Henry rose in agitation. " I have a mind to. Fentre
St. Gris ! I have a mind to. Yes, it is the only thing.
You can manage it, Sully. Disabuse her mind of her
suspicions regarding the Princess of Conde ; make my peace
with her ; convince her of my sincerity, of my firm inten-

124 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

tion to have done with gallantry, so that she on her side
will make me the sacrifice of banishing the Concinis. You
will do this, my friend ? "

It was no less than Sully had been expecting from past
experience, and the task was one in which he was by now
well-practised ; but the situation had never before been
quite so difficult. He rose.

" Why, surely, sire," said he. " But her Majesty on her
side may require something more to reconcile her to the
sacrifice. She may reopen the question of her coronation
so long and — in her view — so unreasonably postponed."

Henry's face grew overcast, his brows knit. " I have
always had an instinct against it, as you know, Grand
Master," said he, " and this instinct is strengthened by what
that letter has taught me. If she will dare so much, having
so little real power, what might she not do if . . ." He
broke off, and fell to musing. " If she demands it we must
yield, I suppose," he said at length. " But give her to
understand that if I discover any more of her designs with
Spain I shall be provoked to the last degree against her.
And as an antidote to these machinations at Madrid you
may publish my intention to uphold the claims of the
German Princes in the matter of Cleves, and let all the
world know that we are arming to that end."

He may have thought — as was long afterwards alleged —
that the threat itself should be sufficient, for there was at
that time no power in Europe that could have stood against
his armies in the field.

On that they parted, with a final injunction from Sully
that Henry should see the Princesse de Conde no more.

" I swear to you, Grand Master, that I will use restraint
and respect the sacred tie I formed between my nephew

The End of the " Vert Galant " 125

and Charlotte solely so that I might impose silence upon
my own passion."

And the good Sully writes in comment upon this : " I
should have relied absolutely upon these assurances had I
not known how easy it is for a heart tender and passionate
as was his to deceive itself " — which is the most amiable
conceivable way of saying that he attached not the slightest
faith to the King's promise.

Nevertheless he went about the task of making the peace
between the royal couple with all the skill and tact that
experience had taught him ; and he might have driven a
good bargain on his master's behalf but for his master's
own weakness in supporting him. Maria de' Medici would
not hear of the banishment of the Concinis, to whom she
was so deeply attached. She insisted with perfect justice
that she was a bitterly injured woman, and refused to enter-
tain any idea of reconciliation save with the condition that
arrangements for her coronation as Queen of France —
which was no more than her due — should be made at once,
and that the King should give an undertaking not to make
himself ridiculous any longer by his pursuit of the Princess
of Conde. Of the matters contained in the letter of

i

Vaucelas she denied all knowledge, nor would suffer any
further inquisition.

From Henry's point of view this was anything but satis-
factory. But he yielded. Conscience made a coward of
him. He had wronged her so much in one way that he
must make some compensating concessions to her in
another. This weakness was part of his mental attitude
towards her, which swung constantly between confidence
and diffidence, esteem and indifference, affection and cold-
ness ; at times he inclined to put her from him entirely ;

126 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

at others he opined that no one on his Council was more
capable of the administration of affairs. Even in the indig-
nation aroused by tjie proof he held of her disloyalty, he
was too just not to admit the provocation he had given her.
So he submitted to a reconciliation on her own terms, and
pledged himself to renounce Charlotte. We have no right
to assume from thejsequel that he was not sincere in the
intention.

By the following May events proved the accuracy of
Sully's judgment. The court was at Fontainebleau when
the last bulwark of Henry's prudence was battered down
by the vanity of that lovely fool, Charlotte, who must
be encouraging her royal lover to resume his flattering
homage. But both appear to have reckoned without the
lady's husband.

Henry presented Charlotte with jewels to the value of
eighteen thousand livres, purchased from Messier, the
jeweller of the Pont au Change ; and you conceive what
the charitable ladies of the Court had to say about it.
At the first hint of scandal Monsieur de Conde put himself
into a fine heat, and said things which pained and annoyed
the King exceedingly. Henry had amassed a considerable
and varied experience of jealous husbands in his time ;
but he had never met one quite so intolerable as this
nephew of his. He complained of it in a letter to Sully.

" My friend, — Monsieur the Prince is here, but he acts like a man
possessed. You will be angry and ashamed at the things he says of me.
I shall end by losing all patience with him. In the meanwhile I am
obliged to talk to him with severity."

More severe than any talk was Henry's instruction to
Sully to withhold payment of the last quarter of the

The End of the " Vert Galant " 127

prince's allowance, and to give refusals to his creditors
and purveyors. Thus he intended also, no doubt, to
make it clear to Conde that he did not receive a pension
of a hundred thousand livres a year for nothing.

" If this does not keep him in bounds," Henry con-
cluded, " we must think of some other method, for he says
the most injurious things of me."

So little did it keep the prince in bounds — as Henry
understood the phrase — that he immediately packed his
belongings, and carried his wife off to his country house.
It was quite in vain that Henry wrote to him representing
that this conduct was dishonouring to them both, and that
the only place for a prince of the blood was the court of
his sovereign.

The end of it all was that the reckless and romantic
Henry took to night-prowling about the grounds of Conde's
chateau. In the disguise of a peasant you see his Majesty
of France and Navarre, whose will was law in Europe,
shivering behind damp hedges, ankle-deep in wet grass,
spending long hours in love-lorn, ecstatic contemplation
of her lighted window, and all — so far as we can gather —
for no other result than the aggravation of certain rheumatic
troubles which should have reminded him that he was no
longer of an age to pursue these amorous pernocta-
tions.

But where his stiffening joints failed, the Queen suc-
ceeded. Henry had been spied upon, of course, as he
always was when he strayed from the path of matrimonial
rectitude. The Concinis saw to that. And when they
judged the season ripe, they put her Majesty in possession of
the facts. So inflamed was she by this fresh breach of trust
that war was declared_anew_ between the royal couple,

128 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

and the best that Sully's wit and labours could now
accomplish was a sort of armed truce.

And then at last in the following November the Prince
de Conde took the desperate resolve of quitting France
with his wife, without troubling — as was his duty — to
obtain the King's consent. On the last night of that
month, as Henry was at cards in the Louvre, the Chevalier
du Guet brought him the news of the prince's flight.

" I never in my life," says Bassompierre, who was
present, " saw a man so distracted or in so violent a
passion."

He flung down his cards, and rose, sending his chair
crashing over behind him. " I am undone ! " was his
cry. " Undone ! This madman has carried off his wife —
perhaps to kill her." White and shaking, he turned to
Bassompierre. " Take care of my money," he bade
him, " and go on with the game."

He lurched out of the room, and dispatched a messenger
to the Arsenal to fetch M. de Sully. Sully obeyed the
summons and came at once, but in an extremely bad
temper, for it was late at night, and he was overburdened
with work.

He found the King in the Queen's chamber, walking
backward and forward, his head sunk upon his breast,
his hands clenched behind him. The Queen, a squarely-
built, square-faced woman, sat apart, attended by a few
of her ladies and one or two gentlemen of her train. Her
countenance was set and inscrutable, and her brooding
eyes were fixed upon the King.

" Ha, Grand Master ! " was Henry's greeting, his voice
harsh and strained. " What do you say to this ? WThat
is to be done now ? "

The End of the " Vert Galant " 129

" Nothing at all, sire," says Sully, as calm as his master
was excited.

" Nothing ! What sort of advice is that ? "

" The best advice that you can follow, sire. This
affair should be talked of as little as possible, nor should
it appear to be of any consequence to you, or capable of
giving you the least uneasiness."

The Queen cleared her throat huskily. " Good advice,
Monsieur le Due," she approved him. " He will be wise
to follow it." Her voice strained, almost threatening.
" But in this matter I doubt wisdom and he Have long
since become strangers."

That put him in a passion, and in a passion he left her
to do the maddest thing he had ever done. In the garb of
a courier, and with a patch over one eye to complete his
disguise, he set out in pursuit of the fugitives. He had
learnt that they had taken the road to Landrecy, which
was enough for him. Stage by stage he followed them in
that flight to Flanders, picking up the trail as he went,
and never pausing until he had reached the frontier without
overtaking them.

It was all most romantic, and the lady, when she learnt
of it, shed tears of mingled joy and rage, and wrote him
impassioned letters in which she addressed him as her
knight, and implored him, as he loved her, to come and
deliver her from the detestable tyrant who held her in
thrall. Those perfervid appeals completed his undoing,
drove him mad, and blinded him to everything — even to
the fact that his wife, too, was shedding tears, and that
these were of rage undiluted by any more tender emotion.

He began by sending Praslin to require the Archduke
to order jhe^Prmcejrf Conde to leave his dominions. And

9

130 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

when the Archduke declined with dignity to be guilty of
any such breach of the law of nations, Henry dispatched
Cceuvres secretly to Brussels to carry off thence the
princess. But Maria de' Medici was on the alert, and
frustrated the design by sending a warning of what was
intended to the Marquis Spinola, as a result of which the
Prince de Conde and his wife \vere housed for greater
security in the Archduke's own palace.

Checkmated at all points, yet goaded further by the
letters which he continued to receive from that most
foolish of princesses, Henry took the wild decision that to
obtain her he would invade the Low Countries as the
first step in the execution of that design of a war with
Spain which hitherto had been little more than a pretence.
The matter of the Duchy of Cleves was a pretext ready to
his hand. To obtain the woman he desired he would
set Europe in a blaze.

He took that monstrous resolve at the very beginning
of the new year, and in the months that followed France
rang with preparations. It rang, too, with other things
which 'should have given him pause. It rang with the
voice of preachers giving expression to the popular view
that Cleves was not worth fighting for, that the war was
unrighteous — a war undertaken by Catholic France to
defend Protestant interests against the very champions of
Catholicism in Europe. And soon it began to ring, too,
with prophecies of the King's approaching end.

These prognostics rained upon him from every quarter.
Thomassin, and the astrologer La Brosse, warned him
of a message from the stars that May would be fraught
with danger for him. From Rome — from the very Pope
himself — came notice of a conspiracy against him in which

The End of the " VertGalant " 131

he was told that the very highest in the land were engaged.
From Embrun, Bayonne, and Douai came messages of
like purport, and early in May a note was found one
morning on the altar of the church of Montargis announcing
the King's approaching death.

But that is to anticipate. Meanwhile, Henry had
pursued his preparations undeterred by either warnings
or prognostications. There had been so many conspiracies
against his life already that he was become careless and
indifferent in such matters. Yet surely there never had
been one that was so abundantly heralded from every
quarter, or ever one that was hatched under conditions
so propitious as those which he had himself created now.
In his soul he was not at ease, and the source of his un-
easiness was the coronation of the Queen, for which the
preparations were now going forward.

He must have known that if danger of assassination
threatened him from any quarter it was most to be feared
from those whose influence with the Queen was almost
such as to give them a control over her — the Concinis and
their unavowed but obvious ally the Duke of Epernon.
If he were dead, and the Queen so left that she could be
made absolute regent during the Dauphin's minority, it
was those adventurers who would become through her
the true rulers of France, and so enrich themselves and
gratify to the full their covetous ambitions. He saw
clearly that his safety lay in opposing this coronation —
already fixed for the I3th May — which Maria de' Medici
was so insistent should take place before his departure for
the wars. The matter so preyed upon his mind that
at last he unburdened himself to Sully one day at the
Arsenal.

9*

132 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Oh, my friend," he cried, " this coronation does not
please me. My heart tells me that some fatality will
follow."

He sat down, grasping the case of his reading-glass,
whilst Sully could only stare at him amazed by this out-
burst. Thus he remained awhile in deep thought. Then
he started up again.

" Pardieu ! " he cried. " I shall be murdered in this
city. It is their only resource. I see it plainly. This
cursed coronation will be the cause of my death."

" What a thought, sire ! "

" You think that I have been reading the almanach or
paying heed to the prophets, eh ? But listen to me now,
Grand Master." And wrinkles deepened about the bold,
piercing eyes. " It is four months and more since we
announced our intention of going to war, and France has
resounded with our preparations. We have made no
secret of it. Yet in Spain not a finger has been lifted
in preparation to resist us, not a sword has been sharpened.
Upon what does Spain build ? Whence her confidence
that in despite of my firm resolve and my abundant
preparations, despite the fact announced that I am to
march on the i/th of this month, despite the fact that
my troops are already in Champagne with a train of
artillery so complete and well-furnished that France has
never seen the like of it, and perhaps never will again —
whence the confidence that despite all this there is no need
to prepare defences ? Upon what do they build, I say,
when they assume, as assume they must, that there will
be no war ? Resolve me that, Grand Master."

But Sully, overwhelmed, could only gasp and ejaculate.

" You had not thought of it, eh ? Yet it is clear enough.

The End of the " Vert Galant " 133

Spain builds on my death. And who are the friends of
Spain here in France ? Who was it intrigued with Spain
in such a way and to such ends as in my lifetime could never
have been carried to an issue ? Ha ! You see."

" I cannot, sire. It is too horrible. It is impossible ! "
cried that loyal, honest gentleman. " And yet if you are
convinced of it, you should break off this coronation, your
journey, and your war. If you wish it so, it is not difficult
to satisfy you."

" Ay, that is it." He came to his feet, and gripped
the duke's shoulder in his strong, nervous hand. " Break
off this coronation, and never let me hear of it again.
That will suffice. Thus I can rid my mind of apprehensions,
and leave Paris with nothing to fear."

" Very well. I will send at once to Notre Dame and to
St. Denis, to stop the preparations and dismiss the work-
men."

" Ah, wait." The eyes that for a moment had sparkled
with new hope, grew dull again ; the lines of care descended
between the brows. " Oh, what to decide ! What to
decide ! It is what I wish, my friend. But how will my
wife take it ? "

" Let her take it as she will. I cannot believe that she
will continue obstinate when she knows what apprehensions
you have of disaster."

" Perhaps not, perhaps not," he answered. But his tone
was not sanguine. " Try to persuade her, Sully. Without
her consent I cannot do this thing. But you will know
how to persuade her. Go to her."

Sully suspended the preparations for the coronation,
and sought the Queen. For three days, he tells us, he
used prayers, entreaties, and arguments with which to

134 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

endeavour to move her. But all was labour lost. Maria
oV Medici was not to be moved. To all Sully's arguments
she opposed an argument that was unanswerable.

Unless she were crowned Queen of France, as was
her absolute right, she would be a person of no account
and subject to the Council of Regency during the King's
absence, a position unworthy and intolerable to her,
the mother of the Dauphin.

And so it was Henry's part to yield. His hands were
tied by the wrongs that he had done, and the culminating
wrong that he was doing her by this very war, as he had
himself openly acknowledged. ,He had chanced one day
to ask the Papal Nuncio what Rome thought of this war.

" Those who have the best information," the Nuncio
answered boldly, " are of opinion that the principal object
of the war is the Princess of Conde, whom your Majesty
wishes to bring back to France."

Angered by this priestly insolence, Henry's answer had
been an impudently defiant acknowledgment of the truth
of that allegation.

" Yes, by God ! " he cried. " Yes — most certainly
I want to have her back, and I will have her back ; no one
shall hinder me, not even God's vicegerent on earth."

Having uttered those words, which he knew to have
been carried to the Queen, and to have wounded her perhaps
more deeply than anything that had yet happened in this
affair, his conscience left him, despite his fears, powerless
now to thwart her even to the extent of removing those
pernicious familiars of hers of whose plottings he had all but
positive evidence.

And so the coronation was at last performed with proper
pomp and magnificence at St. Denis on Thursday, the

The End of the " Vert Galant " 135

May. It had been concerted that the festivities should
last four days and conclude on the Sunday with the
Queen's public entry into Paris. On the Monday the King
was to set out to take command of his armies, which were
already marching upon the frontiers.

Thus Henry proposed, but the Queen — convinced by his
own admission of the real aim and object of the war, and
driven by outraged pride to hate the man who offered her
this crowning insult, and determined that at all costs it
must be thwarted — had lent an ear to Concini's purpose
to avenge her, and was ready to repay infidelity with
infidelity. Concini and his fellow-conspirators had gone
to work so confidently that a week before the coronation
a courier had appeared in Liege, announcing that he was
going with news of Henry's assassination to the Princes
of Germany, whilst at the same time accounts of the
King's death were being published in France and Italy.

Meanwhile, whatever inward misgivings Henry may
have entertained, outwardly at least he appeared serene
and good-humoured at his wife's coronation, gaily greeting
her at the end of the ceremony by the title of " Madam
Regent."

The little incident may have touched her, arousing her
conscience. For that night she disturbed his slumbers by
sudden screams, and when he sprang up in solicitous alarm
she falteringly told him of a dream in which she had seen
him slain, and fell to imploring him with a tenderness
such as had been utterly foreign to her Qf late to take
great care of himself in the days to come. In the morning
she renewed those entreaties, beseeching him not to leave
the Louvre that day, urging that she had a premonitioa
it would be fatal to him.

136 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

He laughed for answer. " You have heard of the
predictions of La Brosse," said he. " Bah ! You should
not attach credit to such nonsense."

Anon came the Duke of Vend6me, his natural son by
the Marquise de Verneuil, with a like warning and a like
entreaty, only to receive a like answer.

Being dull and indisposed as a consequence of last
night's broken rest, Henry lay down after dinner. But
finding sleep denied him, he rose, pensive . and gloomy,
and wandered aimlessly down, and out into the courtyard.
There an exempt of the guard, of whom he casually asked
the time, observing the King's pallor and listlessness, took
the liberty of suggesting that his Majesty might benefit
if he took the air.

That chance remark decided Henry's fate. His eyes
quickened responsively. " You advise well," said he.
" Order my coach. I will go to the Arsenal to see the Due
de Sully, who is indisposed."

On the stones beyond the gates, where lackeys were
wont to await their masters, sat a lean fellow of some
thirty years of age, in a dingy, clerkly attire, so repulsively
evil of countenance that he had once been arrested on no
better grounds than because it was deemed impossible
that a man with such a face could be other than a villain.

Whilst the coach was being got ready, Henry re-entered
the Louvre, and startled the Queen by announcing his
intention. With fearful insistence she besought him to
countermand the order, and not to leave the palace.

" I will but go there and back," he said, laughing at her
fears. " I shall have returned before you realize that I
have gone." And so he went, never to return alive.

He sat at the back of the coach, and the weather being

The End of the " Vert Galant " 137

fine all the curtains were drawn up so that he might view
the decorations of the city against the Queen's public entry
on Sunday. The Due d'Epernon was on his right, the
Due de Montbazon and the Marquis de la Force on his left.
Lavordin and Roquelaure were in the right boot, whilst
near the left boot, opposite to Henry , sat Mirebeau and
du Plessis Liancourt. He was attended only by a small
number of gentlemen on horseback, and some footmen.

The coach turned from the Rue St. Honore into the
narrow Rue de la Ferronerie, and there was brought to a
halt by a block occasioned by the meeting of two carts,
one laden with hay, the other with wine. The footmen
went ahead with the exception of two. Of these, one
advanced to clear a way for the royal vehicle, whilst the
other took the opportunity to fasten his garter.

At that moment, gliding like a shadow between the coach
and the shops, came that shabby, hideous fellow who had
been sitting on the stones outside the Louvre an hour ago.
Raising himself by deliberately standing upon one of the
spokes of the stationary wheel, he leaned over the Due
d'Epernon, and, whipping a long, stout knife from his
sleeve, stabbed Henry in the breast. The King, who was
in the act of reading a letter, cried out, and threw up his
arms in an instinctive warding movement, thereby exposing
his heart. The assassin stabbed again, and this time the
blade went deep.

With a little gasping cough, Henry sank together, and
blood gushed from his mouth.

The predictions were fulfilled ; the tale borne by the
courier riding through Liege a week ago was made true,
as were the stories of his death already at that very hour
circulating in Antwerp, Malines, Brussels, and elsewhere.

138 The Historical Nights1 Entertainment

The murderer aimed yet a third blow, but this at last
was parried by Epernon, whereupon the fellow stepped
back from the coach, and stood there, making no attempt
to escape, or even to rid himself of the incriminating knife.
St. Michel, one of the King's gentlemen-in-waiting, who had
followed the coach, whipped out his sword and would have
slain him on the spot had he not been restrained by Eper-
non. The footmen seized the fellow, and delivered him over
to the captain of the guard. He proved to be a school-
master of Angouleme — which was Epernon's country.
His name was Ravaillac.

The curtains of the coach were drawn, the vehicle was
put about, and driven back to the Louvre, whilst to avoid
all disturbance it was announced to the people that the King
was merely wounded.

But St. Michel went on to the Arsenal, taking with him
the knife that had stabbed his master, to bear the sinister
tidings to Henry's loyal and devoted friend. Sully knew
enough to gauge exactly whence the blow had proceeded.
With anger and grief in his heart he got to horse, ill as he
was, and, calling together his people, set out presently for
the Louvre, with a train one hundred strong, which was
presently increased to twice that number by many of the
King's faithful servants who joined his company as he
advanced. In the Rue de la Pourpointiere a man in passing
slipped a note into his hand.

It was a brief scrawl : " Monsieur, where are you going ?
It is done. I have seen him dead. Ij you enter the Louvre
you will not escape any more than he did."

Nearing St. Innocent, the warning was repeated, this
time by a gentleman named du Jon, who stopped to
mutter :

The End of the " Vert Galant " 139

" Monsieur le Due, our evil is without remedy. Look to
yourself, for this strange blow will have fearful conse-
quences."

Again in the Rue St. Honore another note was thrown
him, whose contents were akin to those of the first. Yet
with misgivings mounting swiftly to certainty, Sully rode
amain towards the Louvre, his train by now amounting
to some three hundred horse. But at the end of the street
he was stopped by M. de Vitry, who drew rein as they met.
" Ah, monsieur," Vitry greeted him, " where are you
going with such a following ? They will never suffer you
to enter the Louvre with more than two or three attendants,
which I would not advise you to do. For this plot does not
end here. I have seen some persons so little sensible of the
loss they have sustained that they cannot even simulate
the grief they should feel. Go back, monsieur. There is
enough for you to do without going to the Louvre."

Persuaded by Vitry's solemnity, and by what he knew
in his heart, Sully faced about and set out to retrace his
steps. But presently he was overtaken by a messenger
from the Queen, begging him to come at once to her at
the Louvre, and to bring as few persons as possible with
him. " This proposal," he writes, " to go alone and deliver
myself into the hands of my enemies, who filled the Louvre,
was not calculated to allay my suspicions."

Moreover he received word at that moment that an
exempt of the guards and a force of soldiers were already
at the gates of the Arsenal, that others had been sent to the
Temple, where the powder was stored, and others again to
the treasurer of the Exchequer to stop all the money there.
" Convey to the Queen my duty and service," he bade
the messenger, " and assure her that until she acquaints

140 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

me with her orders I shall continue assiduously to attend
the affairs of my office." And with that he went to shut
himself up in the Bastille, whither he was presently fol-
lowed by a stream of her Majesty's envoys, all bidding
him to the Louvre. But Sully, ill as he was, and now
utterly prostrated by all that he had endured, put himself
to bed and made of his indisposition a sufficient excuse.

Yet on the morrow he allowed himself to be persuaded
to obey her summons, receiving certain assurances that he
had no ground for any apprehensions. Moreover, he may
by now have felt a certain security in the esteem in which
the Parisians held him. An attempt against him in the
Louvre itself would prove that the blow that had killed
his master was not the independent act of a fanatic, as it
was being represented ; and vengeance would follow
swiftly upon the heads of those who would thus betray
themselves of having made of that poor wretch's fanaticism
an instrument to their evil ends.

In that assurance he went, and he has left on record the
burning indignation aroused in him at the signs of satis-
faction, complacency, and even mirth that he discovered
in that house of death. The Queen herself, however,
overwrought by the events, and perhaps conscience-stricken
by the tragedy which in the eleventh hour she had sought
to avert, burst into tears at sight of Sully, and brought in
the Dauphin, who flung himself upon the Duke's neck.

" My son," the Queen addressed him, " this is Monsieur
de Sully. You must love him well, for he was one of the
best and most faithful servants of the King your father,
and I entreat him to continue to serve you in the same
manner."

Words so fair might have convinced a man less astute

The End of the " Vert Galant " 141

that all his suspicions were unworthy. But, even then,
the sequel would very quickly have undeceived him.
For very soon thereafter his fall was brought about by the
Concinis and their creatures, so that no obstacle should
remain between themselves and the full gratification of
their fell ambitions.

At once he saw the whole policy of the dead King sub-
versed ; he saw the renouncing of all ancient alliances, and
the union of the crowns of France and Spain ; the repealing
of all acts of pacification ; the destruction of the Pro-
testants ; the dissipation of the treasures amassed by
Henry ; the disgrace of those who would not receive the
yoke of the new favourites. All this Sully witnessed in
his declining years, and he witnessed, too, the rapid rise
to the greatest power and dignity in the State of that
Florentine adventurer, Concino Concini — now bearing the
title of Marshal d'Ancre — who had so cunningly known how
to profit by a Queen's jealousy and a King's indiscretions.

As for the miserable Ravaillac, it is pretended that he
maintained under torture and to the very hour of his death
that he had no accomplices, that what he had done he had
done to prevent an unrighteous war against Catholicism
and the Pope — which was, no doubt, the falsehood with
which those who used him played upon his fanaticism
and whetted him to their service. I say " pretended "
because, after all, complete records of his examinations are
not discoverable, and there is a story that when at the
point of death, seeing himself abandoned by those in whom
perhaps he had trusted, he signified a desire to confess, and
did so confess ; but the notary Voisin, who took his deposi-
tions in articulo mortis, set them down in a hand so
slovenly as to be afterwards undecipherable.

142 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

That may or may not be true. But the statement
that when the President du Harlay sought to pursue in-
quiries into certain allegations by a woman named
d'Escoman, which incriminated the Due d'Epernon, he
received a royal order to desist, rests upon sound authority.

That is the story of the assassination of Henry IV.
re-told in the light of certain records which appear to me to
have been insufficiently studied. They should suggest a
train of speculation leading to inferences which, whilst
obvious, I hesitate to define absolutely.

" If it be asked," says Perefixe, " who were the friends
that suggested to Ravaillac so damnable a design, history
replies that it is ignorant and that upon an action of such
consequences it is not permissible to give suspicions and
conjectures for certain truths. The judges themselves
who interrogated him dared not open their mouths, and
never mentioned the matter but with gestures of horror
and amazement."

VI. The Barren Wooing
The Murder of Amy Robsart

VI. The Barren Wooing

"^HERE had been a banquet, followed by a masque,
-*• and this again by a dance in which the young queen
had paired off with Lord Robert Dudley, who in repute was
the handsomest man in Europe, just as in fact he was the
vainest, shallowest, and most unscrupulous. There had
been homage and flattery lavishly expressed, and there was
a hint of masked hostility from certain quarters to spice
the adventure, and to thrill her bold young spirit. Never
yet in all the months of her reign since her coronation in
January of last year had she felt so much a queen, and so
conscious of the power of her high estate , never so much a
woman, and so conscious of the weakness of her sex. Th e
interaction of those conflicting senses wrought upon her
like a heady wine. She leaned more heavily upon the
silken arm of her handsome Master of the Horse, and
careless in her intoxication of what might be thought or
said, she — who by the intimate favour shown him haci
already loosed the tongue of Scandal and set it chattering
in every court in Europe — drew him forth from that
thronged and glittering chamber of the Palace of White-
hall into the outer solitude and friendly gloom.

And he, nothing loth to obey the suasion of that white
hand upon his arm, exultant, indeed, to parade before them

145 10

146 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

all the power he had with her, went willingly enough. Let
Norfolk and Sussex scowl, let Arundel bite his lip until it
bled, and sober Cecil stare cold disapproval. They should
mend their countenances soon, and weigh their words or
be for ever silenced, when he was master in England.
And that he would soon be master he was assured to-night
by every glance of her blue eyes, by the pressure of that
fair hand upon his arm, by the languishing abandonment
with which that warm young body swayed towards him,
as they passed out from the blaze of lights and the strains
of music into the gloom and silence of the gallery leading
to the terrace.

" Out — let us go out, Robin. Let me have air," she
almost panted, as she drew him on.

Assuredly he would b« master soon. Indeed, he might
have been master already but for that wife of his, that
stumbling-block to his ambition, who practised the house-
wifely virtues at Cumnor Place, and clung so tenaciously
and so inconsiderately to life in spite of all his plans to
relieve her of the burden of it.

For a year and more his name had been coupled with
the Queen's in a tale that hurt her honour as a woman
and imperilled her dignity as a sovereign. Already in
October of 1559 Alvarez de Quadra, the Spanish ambassa-
dor, had written home : " I have learnt certain things as
to the terms on which the Queen and Lord Robert stand
towards each other which I could not have believed."

That was at a time when de Quadra was one of a dozen
ambassadors who were competing for her hand, and Lord
Robert had, himself, appeared to be an ally of de Quadra
and an advocate of the Spanish marriage with the Arch-
duke" Charles. But it was a pretence which nowise deceived

The Barren Wooing 147

the astute Spaniard, who employed a legion of spies to
keep him well informed.

" All the dallying with us," he wrote, " all the dallying
with the Swede, all the dallying there will be with the rest,
one after another, is merely to keep Lord Robert's enemies
in play until his villainy about his wife can be executed."

What that particular villainy was, the ambassador had
already stated earlier in his letter. " I have learnt from a
person who usually gives me true information that Lord
Robert has sent to have his wife poisoned."

What had actually happened was that Sir Richard
Verney — a trusted retainer of Lord Robert's — had reported
to Dr. Bayley, of New College, Oxford, that Lady Robert
Dudley was " sad and ailing," and had asked him for a
potion. But the doctor was learned in more matters than
physic. He had caught an echo of the tale of Lord Robert's
ambition ; he had heard a whisper that whatever suitors
might come from overseas for Elizabeth, she would marry
none but " my lord " — as Lord Robert was now commonly
styled. More, he had aforetime heard rumours of the
indispositions of Lady Robert, yet had never found those
rumours verified by the fact. Some months ago, it had
been 'reported that her ladyship was suffering from cancer
of the breast and likely soon to die of it. Yet Dr. Bayiey
had reason to know that a healthier woman did not live
in Berkshire.

The good doctor was a capable deductive reasoner, and
the conclusion to which he came was that if they poisoned
her under cover of his potion — she standing in no need of
physic — he might afterwards be hanged as a cover for their
crime. So he refused to prescribe as he was invited, nor
troubled to make a secret of invitation and refusal.

10*

148 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

For awhile, then, Lord Robert had prudently held his
hand ; moreover, the urgency there had been a year ago,
when that host of foreign suitors laid siege to Elizabeth of
England, had passed, and his lordship could afford to wait.
But now of a sudden the urgency was returned. Under
the pressure brought to bear upon her to choose a husband,
Elizabeth had half-committed herself to marry the Arch-
duke Charles, promising the Spanish ambassador a definite
answer within a few days.

Lord Robert had felt the earth to be quaking under
him ; he had seen the ruin of his high ambitions ; he had
watched with rage the expanding mockery upon the counte-
nances of Norfolk, Sussex, and those others who hated and
despised him ; and he had cursed that wife of his who knew
not when to die. But for that obstinacy with which she
clung to life he had been the Queen's husband these many
months, so making an end to suspense and to the danger
that lies in delay.

To-night the wantonness with which the Queen flaunted
before the eyes of all her court the predilection in which
she held him, came not merely to lull his recent doubts
and fears, to feed his egregious vanity, and to assure him
that in her heart he need fear no rival ; it came also to set
his soul aquiver with impotent rage. He had but to put
forth his hands to possess himself of this splendid prize.
Yet those hands of his were bound while that woman lived
at Cumnor. Conceive his feelings as they stole away
together like any pair of lovers.

Arm in arm they came by a stone gallery, where a stal-
wart scarlet sentinel, a yeoman of the guard, with a Tudor
rose embroidered in gold upon his back, stood under a lamp
set in the wall, with grounded pike and body stiffly erect.

The Barren Wooing 149

The tall young Queen was in crimson satin with cunningly-
wrought silver embroideries, trimmed with tufted silver
fringe, her stomacher stiff with silver bullion studded with
gold rosettes and Roman pearls, her bodice cut low to
display her splendid neck, decked by a carcanet of pearls
and rubies, and surmounted by a fan-like ruff of guipure,
high behind and sloping towards the bust. Thus she
appeared to the sentinel as the rays of the single lamp
behind him struck fire from her red-gold hair. As if by her
very gait to express the wantonness of her mood, she
pointed her toes and walked with head thrown back,
smiling up into the gipsy face of her companion, who
was arrayed from head to foot in shimmering ivory
satin, with an elegance no man in England could have
matched.

They came by that stone gallery to a little terrace above
the Privy Steps. A crescent moon hung low over the
Lambeth marshes across the river. From a barge that
floated gay with lights in mid-stream came a tinkle of
lutes, and the sweet voice of a singing boy. A moment
the lovers stood at gaze, entranced by the beauty of the
soft, tepid September night, so subtly adapted to their
mood. Then she fetched a sigh, and hung more heavily
upon his arm, leaned nearer to his tall, vigorous, graceful
figure.

" Robin, Robin ! " was all she said, but in her voice
throbbed a world of passionate longing, an exquisite blend
of delight and pain.

Judging the season ripe, his arm flashed round her, and
drew her fiercely close. For a moment she was content
to yield, her head against his stalwart shoulder, a very
woman nestling to the mate of her choice, surrendering

150 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

to her master. Then the queen in her awoke and strangled
nature. Roughly she disengaged he-rself from his arm,
and stood away, her breathing quickened.

" God's Death, Robin ! " There was a harsh note in the
voice that lately had cooed so softly. " You are strangely
free, I think."

But he, impudence incarnate, nothing abashed, accus-
tomed to her gusty moods, to her 4 alternations between
the two [natures she had inherited — from overbearing
father and wanton mother — was determined at all costs
to take the fullest advantage of the hour, to make an end
of suspense.

" I am not free, but enslaved — by love and worship
of you. Would you deny me ? Would you ? "

" Not I, but fate," she answered heavily, and he knew
that the woman at Cumnor was in her mind.

" Fate will soon mend the wrong that fate has done —
very soon now." He took her hand, and, melted again
from her dignity, she let it lie in his. " When that is done,
sweet, then will I claim you for my own."

" When that is done, Robin ? " she questioned almost
fearfully, as if a sudden dread suspicion broke upon her
mind. " When what is done ? "

He paused a moment to choose his words, what time
she stared intently into the face that gleamed white in the
surrounding gloom.

" When that poor ailing spirit is at rest." And he
added : " It will be soon."

" Thou hast said the same ' aforetime, Robin. Yet it
has not so fallen out."

" She has clung to life beyond what could have been
believed of her condition," he explained, unconscious of

The Barren Wooing 151

any sinister ambiguity. " But the end, I know, is very
near — a matter but of days."

" Of days ! " she shivered, and moved forward to the
edge of the terrace, he keeping step beside her. Then she
stood awhile in silence, looking down at the dark oily surge
of water. " You loved her once, Robin ? " she asked, in a
queer, unnatural voice.

" I never loved but once," answered that perfect courtier.

" Yet you married her — men say it was a love marriage.
It was a marriage, anyway, and you can speak so calmly
of her death ? " Her tone was brooding. She sought
understanding that should silence her own lingering doubt
of him.

" Where lies the blame ? Who made me what I am ? "
Again his bold arm encompassed her. Side by side they
peered down through the gloom at the rushing waters, and
he seized an image from them. " Our love is like that
seething tide," he said. " To resist it is to labour in
agony awhile, and then to perish."

" And to yield is to be swept away."

" To happiness," he cried, and reverted to his earlier
prayer. ^" Say that when . . . that afterwards, I may
claim you for my own. Be true to yourself, obey the voice
of instinct, and so win to happiness."

She looked up at him, seeking to scan the handsome
face in that dim light that baffled her, and he observed th e
tumultuous heave of her white breast.

" Can I trust thee, Robin ? Can I trust thee ? Answer
me true ! " she implored him, adorably weak, entirely
woman now.

" What does your own heart answer you ? " quoth he,
leaning close above her.

152 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" I think I can, Robin. And, anyway, I must. I
cannot help myself. I am but a woman, after all," she
murmured, and sighed. " Be it as thou wilt. Come to
me again when thou art free."

He bent lower, murmuring incoherently, and she put
up a hand to pat his swarthy bearded cheek.

" I shall make thee greater than any man in England,
so thou make me happier than any woman."

He caught the hand in his and kissed it passionately,
his soul singing a triumph song within him. Norfolk and
Sussex and those other scowling ones should soon be
whistled to the master's heel.

As they turned arm in arm into the gallery to retrace
their steps, they came suddenly face to face with a slim,
sleek gentleman, who bowed profoundly, a smile upon his
crafty, shaven, priestly face. In a smooth voice and an
accent markedly foreign, he explained that he, too, sought
the cool of the terrace, not thinking to intrude ; and
upon that, bowing again, he passed on and effaced himself.
It was Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, the argus-
eyed ambassador of Spain.

The young face of the Queen hardened.

" I would I were as well served abroad as the King of
Spain is here," she said aloud, that the retreating ambas-
sador might hear the dubious compliment ; and for my
lord's ear alone she added under her breath : " The spy !
Philip of Spain will hear of this."

" So that he hears something more, what shall it
signify ? " quoth my lord, and laughed.

They paced the length of the gallery in silence, past the
yeoman of the guard, who kept his watch, and into the
first antechamber. Perhaps it was that ^meeting with

The Barren Wooing 153

de Quadra and my lord's answer to her comment that
prompted what now she asked : " What is it ails her,
Robin ? "

" A wasting sickness," he answered, never doubting to
whom the question alluded.

" You said, I think, that . . . that the end is very near."

He caught her meaning instantly. " Indeed, if she is
not dead already, she is very nearly so."

He lied, for never had Amy Dudley been in better
health. And yet he spoke the truth, for in so much as her
life depended upon his will, it was as good as spent. This
was, he knew, a decisive moment of his career. The hour
was big with fate. If now he were weak or hesitant, the
chance might slip away and be for ever lost to him. Eliza-
bath's moods were as uncertain as were certain the hostile
activities of my lord's enemies. He must strike quickly
whilst she was in her present frame of mind, and bring her
to wedlock, be it in public or in private. But first he
must shake off the paralysing encumbrance of that house-
wife down at Cumnor.

I believe — from evidence that I account abundant —
that he considered it with the cold remorselessness of the
monstrous egotist he was. An upstart, great-grandson
to a carpenter, noble only in two descents, and in both
of them stained by the block, he found a queen — the
victim of a physical passion that took no account of the
worthlessness underlying his splendid exterior — reaching
out a hand to raise him to a throne. Being what he was,
he weighed his young wife's life at naught in the evil
scales of his ambition. And yet he had loved her once,
more truly perhaps than he could now pretend to love
the Queen.

154 The Historical Nights9 Entertainment

It was some ten years since, as a lad of eighteen, he had
taken Sir John Robsart's nineteen-year-old daughter to
wife. She had brought him considerable wealth and still
more devotion. Because of this devotion she was content
to spend her days at Cumnor, whilst he ruffled it at court ;
content to take such crumbs of attention as he could spare
her upon occasion. And during the past year, whilst
he had been plotting her death, she had been diligently
caring for his interests and fostering the prosperity of the
Berkshire estate. If he thought of this at all, he allowed
no weakly sentiment to turn him from his purpose. There
was too much at stake for that — a throne, no less.

And so, on the morning after that half-surrender of
Elizabeth's, we find my lord closeted with his henchman,
Sir Richard Verney. Sir Richard — like his master — was
a greedy, unscrupulous, ambitious scoundrel, prepared to
go to any lengths for the sake of such worldly advancement
as it lay in my lord's power to give him. My lord perforce
used perfect frankness with this perfect servant.

" Thou'lt rise or fall with me, Dick," quoth he. " Help
me up, then, and so mount with me. When I am King,
as soon now I shall be, look to me. Now to the thing that
is to do. Thou'lt have guessed it."

To Sir Richard it was an easy guess, considering how
much already he had been about this business. He sig-
nified as muck.

My lord shifted in his elbow-chair, and drew his em-
broidered bedgown of yellow satin closer about his shapely
limbs.

" Hast failed me twice before, Richard," said he.
" God's death, man, fail me not again, or the last chance
may go the way of the others. There's a magic in the

The Barren Wooing 155

number three. See that I profit by it, or I am undone,
and thou with me."

" I'd not have failed before, but for that suspicious
dotard Bayley," grumbled Verney. " Your lordship
bade me see that all was covered."

" Aye, aye. And I bid thee so again. On thy life, leave
no footprints by which we may be tracked. Bayley is
not the only physician in Oxford. About it, then, and
swiftly. Time is the very soul of fortune in this business,
with the Spaniard straining at the leash, and Cecil and
the rest pleading his case with her. Succeed, and thy
fortune's made ; fail, and trouble not to seek me again."

Sir Richard bowed, and took his leave. As he reached
the door, his lordship stayed him. " If thou bungle, do
not look to me. The court goes to Windsor to-morrow.
Bring me word there within the week." He rose, mag-
nificently tall and stately, in his bedgown of embroidered
yellow satin, his handsome head thrown back, and went
after his retainer. " Thou'lt not fail me, Dick," said he,
a hand upon the lesser scoundrel's shoulder. " There is
much at issue for me, and for thee with me."

" I will not fail you, my lord," Sir Richard rashly
promised, and on that they parted.

Sir Richard did not mean to fail. He knew the import-
ance of succeeding, and he appreciated the urgency of the
business as much as did my lord himself. But between his
cold, remorseless will to succeed and success itself there
lay a gulf which it needed all his resource to bridge. He
paid a short visit to Lady Robert at Cumnor, and pro-
fessed deepest concern to find in her a pallor and an ailing
air which no one else had yet observed. He expressed
himself on the subject to Mrs. Buttelar and the other

156 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

members of her ladyship's household, reproaching them
with their lack of care of their mistress. Mrs. Buttelar
became indignant under his reproaches.

" Nay, now, Sir Richard, do you wonder that my lady
is sad and downcast with such tales as are going of my
lord's doings at court, and of what there is 'twixt the Queen
and him ? Her ladyship may be too proud to complain,
but she suffers the more for that, poor lamb. There was
talk of a divorce awhile ago that got to her ears."

" Old wives' tales," snorted Sir Richard.

" Likely," agreed Mrs. Buttelar. " Yet when my lord
neither comes to Cumnor, nor requires her ladyship to go
to him, what is she to think, poor soul ? "

Sir Richard made light of all, and went off to Oxford
to find a physician more accommodating than Dr. Bayley.
But Dr. Bayley had talked too much, and it was in vain
that Sir Richard pleaded with each of the two physicians
he sought that her ladyship was ailing — " sad and heavy "
— and that he must have a potion for her.

Each in turn shook his head. They had no medicine
for sorrow, was their discreet answer. From his descrip-
tion of her condition, said each, it was plain that her
ladyship's sickness was of the mind, and, considering the
tales that were afloat, neither was surprised.

Sir Richard went back to his Oxford lodging with the
feeling of a man checkmated. For two whole days of that
precious time he lay there considering what to do. He
thought of going to seek a physician in Abingdon. But
fearing no better success in that quarter, fearing, indeed,
that in view of the rumours abroad he would merely be
multiplying what my lord called " footprints," he decided
to take some other way to his master's ends. He was a

The Barren Wooing 157

resourceful, inventive scoundrel, and soon he had devised
a plan.

On Friday he wrote from Oxford to Lady Robert, stating
that he had a communication for her on the subject of his
lordship as secret as it was urgent. That he desired to
come to her at Cumnor again, but dared not do so openly.
He would come if she would contrive that her servants
should be absent, and he exhorted her to let no one of
them know that he was coming, else he might be ruined,
out of his desire to serve her.

That letter he dispatched by the hand of his servant
Nunweek, desiring him to bring an answer. It was a
communication that had upon her ladyship's troubled
mind precisely the effect that the rascal conceived. There
was about Sir Richard's personality nothing that could
suggest the villain. He was a smiling, blue-eyed, florid
gentleman, of a kindly manner that led folk to trust him.
And on the occasion of his late visit to Cumnor he had
displayed such tender solicitude that her ladyship —
starved of affection as she was — had been deeply touched.

His letter so cunningly couched filled her with vague
alarm and with anxiety. She had heard so many and
such afflicting rumours, and had received in my lord's
cruel neglect of her such circumstantial confirmation of
them, that she fastened avidly upon what she deemed
the chance of learning at last the truth. Sir Richard
Verney had my lord's confidence, and was much about the
court in his attendance upon my lord. He would know
the truth, and what could this letter mean but that he
was disposed to tell it.

So she sent him back a line in answer, bidding him come
on Sunday afternoon. She would contrive to be alone

158 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

in the house, so that he need not fear being seen by
any.

As she promised, so she performed, and on the Sunday
packed off her household to the fair that was being held
at Abingdon that day, using insistence with the reluctant,
and particularly with one of her women, a Mrs. Odding-
sell, who expressed herself strongly against leaving her
ladyship alone in that lonely house. At length, however,
the last of them was got off, and my lady was left im-
patiently to await her secret visitor. It was late afternoon
when he arrived, accompanied by Nunweek, whom he left
to hold the horses under the chestnuts in the avenue
Himself he reached the house across the garden, where
the blighting hand of autumn was already at work.

Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her
impatience. ^i|]

" It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard,"
was her gracious greeting.

" I am your ladyship's devoted servant," was his suffi-
cient answer, and he doffed his plumed bonnet, and bowed
low before her. " We shall be private in your bower
above stairs," he added.

" Why, we are private anywhere. I am all alone, as
you desired."

" That is very wise — most wise," said he. " Will your
ladyship lead the way ? "

So they went up that steep, spiral staircase, which had
loomed so prominently in the plans the ingenious scoundrel
had evolved. Across the gallery on the first floor they
entered a little room whose windows overlooked the
garden. This was her bower — an intimate cosy room,
reflecting on every hand the gentle, industrious personality

The Barren Wooing 159

of the owner. On an oak table near the window were
spread some papers and account-books concerned with
the estate — with which she had sought to beguile the
time of waiting. She led the way towards this, and,
sinking into the high-backed chair that stood before it,
she looked up at him expectantly. She was pale, there
were dark stains under her eyes, and wistful lines had
crept into the sweet face of that neglected wife.

Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may
have compared her with the woman by whom my lord
desired so impatiently to supplant her. She was tali
and beautifully shaped, despite an almost maidenly
slenderness. Her countenance was gentle and adorable,
with its soft grey eyes and light brown hair, and tender,
wistful mouth.

It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as
ardently desired her to wife five years ago as he now
desired to be rid of her. Then he obeyed the insistent
spur of passion ; now he obeyed the remorseless spur of
ambition. In reality, then as now, his beacon-light was
love of self.

Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious
impatience to hear the news of her lord which he had
promised her, Sir Richard may have felt some pang of
pity. But, like my lord, he was of those whose love of
self suffers the rivalry of no weak emotion.

" Your news, Sir Richard," she besought him, her
dove-like glance upon his florid face — less florid now than
was its wont.

He leaned against the table, his back to the window.
" Why, it is briefly this," said he. " My lord . . ."
And then he checked, and fell into a listening attitude.

160 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" What was that ? Did you hear anything, niy
lady ? "

" No. What is it ? " Her face betrayed alarm, her
anxiety mounting under so much mystery.

" Sh ! Stay you here," he enjoined. " If we are spied
upon . . ." He left the sentence there. Already he was
moving quickly, stealthily, towards the door. He paused
before opening it. " Stay where you are, my lady," he
enjoined again, so gravely that she could have no thought
of disobeying him. " I will return at once."

He stepped out, closed the door, and crossed to the
stairs. There he stooped. From his pouch he had drawn
a fine length of whipcord, attached at one end to a tiny
bodkin of needle sharpness. That bodkin he drove into
the edge of one of the panels of the wainscot, in line with
the topmost step ; drawing the cord taut at a height of
a foot or so above this step, he made fast its other end to
the newel-post at the stair-head. He had so rehearsed
the thing in his mind that the performance of it occupied
but a few seconds. Such dim light of that autumn after-
noon as reached the spot would leave that fine cord
invisible.

Sir Richard went back to her ladyship. She had not
moved in his absence, so brief as scarcely to have left her
time in which to resolve upon disobeying his injunction.

" We move in secret like conspirators," said he, " and
so we are easily affrighted. I should have known it could
be none but my lord himself . . ."

" My lord ! " she interrupted, coming excitedly to her
feet. " Lord Robert ? "

" To be sure, my lady. It was he had need to visit
you in secret — for did the Queen have knowledge of his

The Barren Wooing 161

coming here, it would mean the Tower for him. You
cannot think what, out of love for you, his lordship suffers.
The Queen . . ."

" But do you say that he is here, man . . . here ? "
her voice shrilled up in excitement.

" He is below, my lady. Such is his peril that he dared
not set foot in Cumnor until he was certain beyond doubt
that you are here alone."

" He is below ! " she cried, and a flush dyed her pale
cheeks, a light of gladness quickened her sad eyes. Already
she had gathered from his cunning words a new and com-
forting explanation of the things reported to her. " He
is below ! " she repeated. " Oh ! " She turned from him,
and in an instant was speeding towards the door.

He stood rooted there, his nether lip between his teeth,
his face a ghastly white, whilst she ran on.

" My lord ! Robin ! Robin ! " he heard her calling, as
she crossed the corridor. Then came a piercing scream
that echoed through the silent house ; a pause ; a crashing
thud below ; and — silence.

Sir Richard remained by the table, immovable. Blood
was trickling down his chin. He had sunk his teeth through
his lip when that scream rang out. A long moment thus,
as if entranced, awe-stricken. Then he braced himself,
and went forward, reeling at first like a drunken man.
But by the time he had reached the stairs he was master
of himself again. Swiftly, for all his trembling fingers,
he unfastened the cord's end from the newel-post. The
wrench upon it had already pulled the bodkin from the
wainscot. He went down that abrupt spiral staircase at
a moderate pace, mechanically coiling the length of whip-
cord, and bestowing it with the bodkin in his pouch again,

II

162 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

and all the while his eyes were fixed upon the grey bundle
that lay so still at the stairs' foot.

He came to it at last, and, pausing, looked more closely.
He was thankful that there was not the need to touch it.
The position of the brown-haired head was such as to leave
no doubt of the complete success of his design. Her neck
was broken. Lord Robert Dudley was free to marry the
Queen.

Deliberately Sir Richard stepped over the huddled
body of that poor victim of a knave's ambition, crossed
the hall, and passed out, closing the door. An excellent
day's work, thought he, most excellently accomplished.
The servants, returning from Abingdon Fair on that
Sunday evening, would find her there. They would
publish the fact that in their absence her ladyship had
fallen downstairs and broken her neck, and that was the
end of the matter.

But that was not the end at all. Fate, the ironic inter-
loper, had taken a hand in this evil game.

The court had moved a few days earlier to Windsor,
and thither on the Friday — the 6th of September — came
Alvarez de Quadra to seek the definite answer which the
Queen had promised him on the subject of the Spanish
marriage. What he had seen that night at Whitehall,
coupled with his mistrust of her promises and experience
of her fickleness, had rendered him uneasy. Either she
was trifling with him, or else she was behaving in a manner
utterly unbecoming the future wife of the Archduke. In
either case some explanation was necessary. De Quadra
must know where he stood. Having failed to obtain an

The Barren Wooing 163

audience before the court left London, he had followed
it to Windsor, cursing all women and contemplating the
advantages of the Salic law.

He found at Windsor an atmosphere of constraint, and
it was not until the morrow that he obtained an audience
with the Queen. Even then this was due to chance rather
than to design on the part of Elizabeth. For they met
on the terrace as she was returning from hunting. She
dismissed those about her, including the stalwart Robert
Dudley, and, alone with de Quadra, invited him to speak.

" Madame," he said, " I am writing to my master, and
I desire to know whether your Majesty would wish me
to add anything to what you have announced already as
your intention regarding the Archduke."

She knit her brows. The wily Spaniard fenced so
closely that there was no alternative but to come to grips.

" Why, sir," she answered dryly, " you may tell his
Majesty that I have come to an absolute decision — which
is that I will not marry the Archduke."

The colour mounted to the Spaniard's sallow cheeks.
Iron self-control alone saved him from uttering unpardon-
able words. Even so he spoke sternly :

" This, madame, is not what you had led me to believe
when last we talked upon the subject."

At another time Elizabeth might have turned upon
him and rent him for that speech. But it happened that
she was in high good-humour that afternoon, and disposed
to indulgence. She laughed, surveying herself in the
small steel mirror that dangled from her waist.

" You are ungallant to remind me, my lord," said she.
" My sex, you may have heard, is privileged to change
of mind."

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164 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Then, madame, I pray that you may change it yet
again." His tone was bitter.

"Your prayer will not be heard. This time I am resolved."

De Quadra bowed. " The King, my master, will not
be pleased, I fear."

She looked him straightly in the face, her dark eyes
kindling.

" God's death 1 " said she, " I marry to please myself,
and not the King your master."

" You are resolved on marriage then ? " flashed he.

" And it please you," she mocked him archly, her mood
of joyousness already conquering her momentary indig-
nation.

" What pleases you must please me also, madame,"
he answered, in a tone so cold that it belied his words.
" That it please you is reason enough why you should
marry . . . Whom did your Majesty say ? "

" Nay. I named no names. Yet one so astute might
hazard a shrewd guess." Half-challenging, half-coy, she
eyed him over her fan.

" A guess ? Nay, madame. I might affront your
Majesty."

" How so ? "

" If I were deluded by appearances. If I named a
subject who signally enjoys your royal favour."

" You mean Lord Robert Dudley." She paled a little,
and her bosom's heave was quickened. " Why should
the guess affront me ? "

" Because a queen — a wise queen, madame— does not
mate with a subject — particularly with one who has a
wife already."

He had stung her. He had wounded at once the pride

The Barren Wooing 165

of the woman and the dignity of the queen, yet in a way
that made it difficult for her to take direct offence. She
bit her lip and mastered her surge of anger. Then she
laughed, a thought sneeringly.

" Why, as to my Lord Robert's wife, it seems you are
less well-informed than usual, sir. Lady Robert Dudley
is dead, or very nearly so."

And as blank amazement overspread his face, she passed
upon her way and left him.

But anon, considering, she grew vaguely uneasy, and
that very night expressed her afflicting doubt to my lord,
reporting to him de Quadra's words. His lordship, who
was mentally near-sighted, laughed.

" He'll change his tone before long," said he.

She set her hands upon his shoulders, and looked up
adoringly into his handsome gipsy face. Never had he
known her so fond as in these last days since her surrender
to him that night upon the terrace at Whitehall, never
had she been more the woman and less the queen in her
bearing towards him.

" You are sure, Robin ? You are quite sure ? " she pleaded.

He drew her close, she yielding herself to his embrace.
" With so much at stake could I be less than sure, sweet ? "
said he, and so convinced her — the more easily since he
afforded her the conviction she desired.

That was on the night of Saturday, and early on Monday
came the news which justified him of his assurances.
It was brought him to Windsor by one of Amy's Cumnor
servants, a fellow named Bowes, who, with the others,
had been away at Abingdon Fair yesterday afternoon,
and had returned to find his mistress dead at the stairs'
foot — the result of an accident, as all believed.

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It was not quite the news that my lord had been expect-
ing. It staggered him a little that an accident so very
opportune should have come to resolve his difficulties,
obviating the need for recourse to those more dangerous
measures with which he had charged Sir Richard Verney.
He perceived how suspicion might now fall upon himself,
how his enemies would direct it, and on the instant made
provision. There and then he seized a pen, and wrote to
his kinsman, Sir Thomas Blount, who even then was on
his way to Cumnor. He stated in the letter what he had
learnt from Bowes, bade Blount engage the coroner to
make the strictest investigation, and send for Amy's
natural brother, Appleyard. " Have no respect to any
living person," was the final injunction of that letter
which he sent Blount by the hand of Bowes*

And, then, before he could carry to the Queen the news
of this accident which had broken his matrimonial shackles,
Sir Richard Verney arrived with the true account. He
had expected praise and thanks from his master. Instead,
he met first dismay, and then anger and fierce reproaches.

" My lord, this is unjust," the faithful retainer protested.
" Knowing the urgency, I took the only way — contrived
the accident."

" Pray God," said Dudley, " that the jury find it to
have been an accident ; for if the truth should come to
be discovered, I leave you to the consequences. I warned
you of that before you engaged in this. Look for no help
from me."

" I look for none," said Sir Richard, stung to hot con-
tempt by the meanness and cowardice so characteristic
of the miserable egotist he served. " Nor will there be
the need, for I have left no footprints

The Barren Wooing 167

" I hope that may be so, for I tell you, man, that I have
ordered a strict inquiry, bidding them have no respect to
any living person, and to that I shall adhere."

" And if, in spite of that, I am not hanged ? " quoth
Sir Richard, a sneer upon his white face.

" Come to me again when the affair is closed, and we
will talk of it."

Sir Richard went out, rage and disgust in his heart,
leaving my lord with rage and fear in his.

Grown calmer now, my lord dressed himself with care
and sought the Queen to tell her of the accident that had
removed the obstacle to their marriage. And that same
night her Majesty coldly informed de Quadra that Lady
Robert Dudley had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken
her neck.

The Spaniard received the information with a counte-
nance that was inscrutable.

" Your Majesty's gift of prophecy is not so widely known
as it deserves to be," was his cryptic comment.

She stared at him blankly a moment. Then a sudden
uneasy memory awakened by his words, she drew him
forward to a window embrasure apart from those who
had stood about her, and for greater security addressed
him, as he tells us, in Italian.

" I do not think I understand you, sir. Will you be
plain with me ? " She stood erect and stiff, and frowned
upon him after the manner of her bullying father. But
de Quadra held the trumps, and was not easily intimidated.

" About the prophecy ? " said he. " Why, did not your
Majesty foretell the poor lady's death a full day before
it came to pass ? Did you not say that she was already
dead, or nearly so ? "

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He saw her blench ; saw fear stare from those dark
eyes that could be so very bold. Then her ever-ready
anger followed swiftly.

" 'Sblood, man ! What do you imply ? " she cried,
and went on without waiting for his answer. " The poor
woman was sick and ill, and must soon have succumbed ;
it will no doubt be found that the accident which antici-
pated nature was due to her condition."

Gently he shook his head, relishing her discomfiture,
taking satisfaction in torturing her who had flouted him
and his master, in punishing her whom he had every
reason to believe guilty.

" Your Majesty, I fear, has been ill-informed on that
score. The poor lady was in excellent health — and like
to have lived for many years — at least, so I gather from
Sir William Cecil, whose information is usually exact."

She clutched his arm. " You told him what I had said ? "

" It was indiscreet, perhaps. Yet, how was I to
know . . . ? " He left his sentence there. " I but ex-
pressed my chagrin at your decision on the score of the
Archduke — hardly a wise decision, if I may be so bold,"
he added slyly.

She caught the suggestion of a bargain, and became
instantly suspicious.

" You transcend the duties of your office, my lord,"
she rebuked him, and turned away.

But soon that night she was closeted with Dudley, and
closely questioning him about the affair. My lord was
mightily vehement.

" I take Heaven to be my witness," quoth he, when
she all but taxed him with having procured his lady's
death, " that I am innocent of any part in it. My in-

The Barren Wooing 169

junctions to Blount, who has gone to Cumnor, are that
the matter be sifted without respect to any person, and
if it can be shown that this is other than the accident I
deem it, the murderer shall hang."

She flung her arms about his neck, and laid her head
on his shoulder. " Oh, Robin, Robin, I am full of fears,"
she wailed, and was nearer to tears than he had ever seen
her.

But, anon, as the days passed their fears diminished,
and finally the jury at Cumnor — delayed in their finding,
and spurred by my lord to exhaustive inquiries — returned
a verdict of " found dead," which in all the circumstances
left his lordship — who was known, moreover, to have been
at Windsor when his lady died — fully acquitted. Both
he and the Queen took courage from that finding, and
made no secret of it now that they would very soon be wed.

But there were many whom that finding did not con-
vince, who read my lord too well, and would never suffer
him to reap the fruits of his evil deed. Prominent among
these were Arundel — who himself had aimed at the Queen's
hand — Norfolk and Pembroke, and behind them was a
great mass of the people. Indignation against Lord
Robert was blazing out, fanned by such screaming preachers
as Lever, who, from the London pulpits, denounced the
projected marriage, hinting darkly at the truth of Amy
Dudley's death.

What was hinted at home was openly expressed abroad,
and in Paris Mary Stuart ventured a cruel witticism that
Elizabeth was to conserve in her memory : " The Queen
of England," she said, " is about to marry her horse-
keeper, who has killed his wife to make a place for her."

Yet Elizabeth persisted in her intent to marry Dudley,

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until the sober Cecil conveyed to her towards the end of
that month of September some notion of the rebellion
that was smouldering.

She flared out at him, of course. But he stood his
ground.

" There is," he reminded her, " this unfortunate matter
of a prophecy, as the Bishop of Aquila persists in calling it."

" God's Body ! Is the rogue blabbing ? "

" What else did your Majesty expect from a man smart-
ing under a sense of injury ? He has published it broad-
cast that on the day before Lady Robert broke her neck,
you told him that she was dead or nearly so. And he
argues from it a guilty foreknowledge on your Majesty's
part of what was planned."

" A guilty foreknowledge ! " She almost choked in
rage, and then fell to swearing as furiously in that moment
as old King Harry at his worst.

" Madame ! " he cried, shaken by her vehemence. " I
but report the phrase he uses. It is not mine."

" Do you believe it ? "

" I do not, madame. If I did I should not be here at
present."

" Does any subject of mine believe it ? "

" They suspend their judgment. They wait to learn
the truth from the sequel."

" You mean ? "

" That if your motive prove to be such as de Quadra
and others allege, they will be in danger of believing."

" Be plain, man, in God's name. What exactly is
alleged ? "

He obeyed her very fully.

" That my lord contrived the killing of his wife so that

The Barren Wooing 171

he might have liberty to marry your Majesty, and that
your Majesty was privy to the deed." He spoke out
boldly, and hurried on before she could let loose her wrath.
" It is still in your power, madame, to save your honour,
which is now in peril. But there is only one way in which
you can accomplish it. If you put from you all thought
of marrying Lord Robert, England will believe that
de Quadra and those others lied. If you persist and carry
out your intention, you proclaim the truth oFhis report ;
and you see what must inevitably follow."

She saw indeed, and, seeing, was afraid.

Within a few hours of that interview she delivered her
answer to Cecil, which was that she had no intention of
marrying Dudley.

Because of her fear she saved her honour by sacrificing
her heart, by renouncing marriage with the only man
she could have taken for her mate of all who had wooed
her. Yet the wound of that renunciation was slow to
heal. She trifled with the notion of other marriages, but
ever and anon, in her despair, perhaps, we see her turning
longing eyes towards the handsome Lord Robert, later
made Earl of Leicester. Once, indeed, some six years
after Amy's death, there was again some talk of her marry-
ing him, which was quickly quelled by a reopening of the
question of how Amy died. Between these two, between
the fulfilment of her desire and his ambition, stood the
irreconcilable ghost of his poor murdered wife.

Perhaps it was some thought of this that found ex-
pression in her passionate outburst when she learnt- of the
birth of Mary Stuart's child : " The Queen of Scots is
lighter of a fair son ; and I am but a barren stock."

. Sir fudas
The Betrayal of Sir Walter Ralegh

VII. Sir Judas

SIR WALTER was met on landing at Plymouth
from his ill-starred voyage to El Dorado by Sir
Lewis Stukeley, which was but natural, seeing that Sir
Lewis was not only Vice-Admiral of Devon, but also Sir
Walter's very good friend and kinsman.

If Sir Walter doubted whether it was in Us quality
as kinsman or as Vice-Admiral that Sir Lewis met him,
the cordiality of the latter's embrace and the noble enter-
tainment following at the house of Sir Christopher Hare,
near the port, whither Sir Lewis conducted him, set this
doubt at rest and relighted the lamp of hope in the despair-
ing soul of our adventurer. In Sir Lewis he saw only his
kinsman — his very good friend and kinsman, to insist
upon Stukeley's own description of himself — at a time
when of all others in his crowded life he needed the
support of a kinsman and the guidance of a friend.

You know the story of this Sir Walter, who had been
one of the brightest ornaments of the re/gn of Queen
Elizabeth, and might have added lustre to that of King
James, had not his Sowship — to employ the title bestowed
upon that prince by his own queen — been too mean of
soul to appreciate the man's great worth. Courtier,
philosopher, soldier, man of letters and man of action

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176 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

alike, Ralegh was at once the greatest prose-writer, and
one of the greatest captains of his age, the last survivor
of that glorious company — whose other members were
Drake and Frobisher and Hawkins — that had given
England supremacy upon the seas, that had broken the
power and lowered the pride of Spain.

His was a name that had resounded, to the honour and
glory of England, throughout the world, a name that,
like Drake's, was a thing of hate and terror to King Philip
and his Spaniards ; yet the King of Scots, unclean of
body and of mind, who had succeeded to the throne of
Elizabeth, must affect ignorance of that great name
which shall never die while England lives.

When the splendid courtier stood before him — for at
fifty Sir Walter was still handsome of person and magni-
ficent of apparel — James looked him over and inquired
who he might be. When they had told him :

" I've rawly heard of thee," quoth the royal punster, who
sought by such atrocities of speech to be acclaimed a wit.

It was ominous of what must follow, and soon there-
after you see this great and gallant gentleman arrested
on a trumped-up charge of high treason, bullied, vitu-
perated, and insulted by venal, peddling lawyers, and,
finally, although his wit and sincerity had shattered every
fragment of evidence brought against him, sentenced to
death. Thus far James went ; but he hesitated to go
further, hesitated to carry out the sentence. Sir Walter
had too many friends in England then ; the memory of
his glorious deeds was still too fresh in the public mind,
and execution might have been attended by serious con-
sequences for King James. Besides, one at least of the
main objects was achieved. Sir Walter's broad acres

Sir Judas 177

were confiscate by virtue of that sentence, and King
James wanted the land — filched thus from one who was
England's pride — to bestow it upon one of those golden
calves of his who were England's shame.

" I maun hae the land for Carr. I maun hae it," was his
brazen and peevish answer to an appeal against the con-
fiscation.

For thirteen years Sir Walter lay in the Tower, under
that sentence of death passed in 1603, enjoying after a
season a certain liberty, visited there by his dear lady and
his friends, among whom was Henry, Prince of Wales, who
did not hesitate to publish that no man but his father
— whom he detested — would keep such a bird in a cage.
He beguiled the time in literary and scientific pursuits,
distilling his essences and writing that stupendous work
of his, " The History of the World." Thus old age crept
upon him ; but fai from quenching the fires of enterprise
within his adventurer's soul, it brought a restlessness that
urged him at last to make a bid for liberty. Despairing
of winning it from the clemency of James, he applied his
wits to extracting it from the King's cupidity.

Throughout his life, since the day when first he had
brought himself to the notice of a Queen by making of his
cloak a carpet for her feet, he had retained side by side
with the dignity of the sage and the greatness of the hero,
the craft and opportunism of the adventurer. His oppor-
tunity now was the straitened condition of the royal
treasury, a hint of which, had been let fall by Winwood,
the Secretary of State. He announced at once that he knew
of a gold mine in Guiana, the El Dorado of the Spaniards.

On his return from a voyage to Guiana in 1595, he had
written of it thusj

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178 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" There the common soldier shall fight for gold instead
of pence, pay himself with plates half a foot broad, whereas
he breaks his bones in other wars for provant and penury.
Those commanders and chieftains that shoot at honour
and abundance shall find here more rich and beautiful
cities, more temples adorned with golden images, more
sepulchres filled with treasure than either Cortex found in
Mexico or Pizarro in Peru."

Winwood now reminded him that as a consequence
many expeditions had gone out, but failed to discover
any of these things.

" That," said Ralegh, " is because those adventurers
were ignorant alike of the country and of the art of con-
ciliating its inhabitants. Were I permitted to go, I
would make Guiana to England what Peru has been to
Spain."

That statement, reported to James in his need, was
enough to fire his cupidity, and when Ralegh had further
added that he would guarantee to the Crown one-fifth of
the treasure without asking any contribution towards the
adventure either in money or in ships, he was permitted
to come forth and prepare for the expedition.

His friends came to his assistance, and in March of 1617
he set sail for El Dorado with a well-manned and well-
equipped fleet of fourteen ships, the Earls of Arundel and
Pembroke standing sureties for his return.

From the outset the fates were unpropitious. Disaster
closed the adventure. Gondomar, the Ambassador of
Spain at Whitehall, too well-informed of what was afoot,
had warned his master. Spanish ships waited to frustrate
Sir Walter, who was under pledge to avoid all conflict
with the forces of King Philip. But conflict there was, and

Sir Judas 179

bloodshed in plenty, about the city of Manoa, which the
Spaniards held as the key to the country into which the
English adventurers sought to penetrate. Among the
slain were the Governor of Manoa, who was Gondomar's
own brother, and Sir Walter's eldest son.

To Ralegh, waiting at the mouth of the Orinoco, came
his beaten forces in retreat, with the terrible news of a
happening that meant his ruin. Half-maddened, his
anguish increased by the loss of his boy, he upbraided them
so fiercely that Keymis, who had been in charge of the
expedition, shut himself up in his cabin and shot himself
with a pocket-pistol. Mutiny followed, and Whitney —
most trusted of Sir Walter's captains — set sail for England,
being followed by six other ships of that fleet, which
meanwhile had been reduced to twelve. With the remain-
ing five the stricken Sir Walter had followed more at
leisure. What need to hurry ? Disgrace, and perhaps
death, awaited him in England. He knew the power of
Spain with James, who was so set upon a Spanish marriage
for his heir, knew Spain's hatred of himself, and what elo-
quence it would gather in the mouth of Gondomar, intent
upon avenging his brother's death.

He feared the worst, and so was glad upon landing to
have by him a kinsman upon whom he could lean for
counsel and guidance in this the darkest hour of all his
life. Sitting late that night in the library of Sir Christo-
pher Hare's house, Sir Walter told his cousin in detail the
story of his misadventure, and confessed to his misgivings. '

" My brains are broken," was his cry.

Stukeley combed his beard in thought. He had little
comfort to offer.

" It was not expected," said he, " that you would return.

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180 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Not expected ? " Sir Walter's bowed white head was
suddenly flung back. Indignation blazed in the eyes that
age had left undimmed. " What act in all my life justified
the belief I should be false to honour ? My danger here
was made quite plain, and Captain King would have had
me steer a course for France, where I had found a welcome
and a harbour. But to consent I must have been false to
my Lords of Arundel and Pembroke, who were sureties
to the King for my return. Life is still sweet to me, despite
my three-score years and more, but honour is sweeter still."

And then, because life was sweet, he bluntly asked his
cousin : " What is the King's intent by me ? "

" Nay, now," said Stukeley, " who shall know what
passes in the King's mind ? From the signs, I judge your
case to be none so desperate. You have good friends in
plenty, among whom, although the poorest, count myself
the first. Anon, when you are rested, we'll to London by
easy stages, baiting at the houses of your friends, and
enlisting their good offices on your behalf."

Ralegh took counsel on the matter with Captain King,
a bluff, tawny-bearded seaman, who was devoted to him
body and soul.

" Sir Lewis proposes it, eh ? " quoth the hardy seaman.
" And Sir Lewis is Vice-Admiral of Devon ? He is not
by chance bidden to escort you to London ? "

The Captain, clearly, had escaped the spell of Stukeley's
affability. Sir Walter was indignant. He had never
held his kinsman in great esteem, and had never been on
the best of terms with him in the past. Nevertheless, he
was very far from suspecting him of what King implied.
To convince him that he did Sir Lewis an injustice, Ralegh
put the blunt question to his kinsman in King's presence.

Sir Judas 181

" Nay," said Sir Lewis, " I am not yet bidden to escort
you. But as Vice-Admiral of Devon I may at any moment
be so bidden. It were wiser, I hold, not to await such an
order. Though even if it come," he made haste to add,
" you may still count upon my friendship. I am your
kinsman first, and Vice-Admiral after."

With a smile that irradiated his handsome, virile counte-
nance, Sir Walter held out his hand to clasp his cousin's
in token of appreciation. Captain King expressed no
opinion save what might be conveyed in a grunt and a shrug.

Guided now unreservedly by his cousin's counsel, Sir
Walter set out with him upon that journey to London.
Captain King went with them, as well as Sir Walter's body-
servant, Cotterell, and a Frenchman named Manourie, who
had made his first appearance in the Plymouth household
on the previous day. Stukeley explained the fellow as a
gifted man of medicine, whom he had sent for to cure him
of a trivial but inconvenient ailment by which he was
afflicted.

Journeying by slow stages, as Sir Lewis had directed,
they came at last to Brentford. Sir Walter, had he
followed his own bent, would have journeyed more slowly
still, for in a measure, as he neared London, apprehensions
of what might await him there grew ever darker. He spoke
of them to King, and the blunt Captain said nothing to
dispel them.

" You are being led like a sheep to the shambles," he
declared, " and you go like a sheep. You should have
landed in France, where you have friends. Even now it
is not too late. A ship could be procured . . ."

"And my honour could be sunk at sea," Sir Walter
harshly concluded, in reproof of such counsel.

182 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

But at the inn at Brentford he was sought out by a
visitor, who brought him the like advice in rather different
terms. This was De Chesne, the secretary of the French
envoy, Le Clerc. Cordially welcomed by Ralegh, the
Frenchman expressed his deep concern to see Sir Walter
under arrest.

" You conclude too hastily," laughed Sir Walter.

" Monsieur, I do not conclude. I speak of what I am
inform'."

" Misinformed, sir. I am not a prisoner — at least, not
yet," he added, with a sigh. " I travel of my own free
will to London with my good friend and kinsman Stukeley,
to lay the account of my voyage before the King."

" Of your own free will ? You travel of your own free
will ? And you are not a prisoner ? Ha ! " There was
bitter mockery in De Chesne's short laugh. " C'est bien
drole!" And he explained: "Milord the Duke of
Buckingham, he has write in his master's name to the
ambassador Gondomar that you are taken and held at the
disposal of the King of Spain. Gondomar is to inform him
whether King Philip wish that you^be sent to Spain to essay
the justice of his Catholic Majesty, or that you suffer here.
Meanwhile your quarters are being made ready in the Tower.
Yet you tell me you are not prisoner ! You go of your own
free will to London. Sir Walter, do not be deceive'.
If you reach London, you are lost."

Now here was news to shatter Sir Walter's last illusion.
Yet desperately he clung to the fragments of it. The
envoy's secretary must be at fault.

" 'Tis yourself are at fault, Sir Walter, in that you trust
those about you," the Frenchman insisted.

Sir Walter stared at him, frowning. " D'ye mean

Sir Judas 183

Stukeley ? " quoth he, half-indignant already at the mere
suggestion.

" Sir Lewis, he is your kinsman." De Chesne shrugged.
" You should know your family better than I. But who
is this Manourie who accompanies you ? Where is he
come from ? What you know of him ? "

Sir Walter confessed that he knew nothing.

" But I know much. He is a fellow of evil reputation. A
spy who does not scruple to sell his own people. And I
know that letters of commission from the Privy Council
for your arrest were give* to him in London ten days ago.
Whether those letters were to himself, or he was just the
messenger to another, imports nothing. The fact is every-
thing. The warrant against you exists, and it is in the
hands of one or another of those that accompany you. I
say no more. As I have tol' you, you should know your
own family. But of this be sure, they mean that you go to
the Tower, and so to your death. And now, Sir Walter,
if I show you the disease I also bring the remedy. I am
command' by my master to offer you a French barque
which is in the Thames, and a safe conduct to the Governor
of Calais. In France you will find safety and honour,
as your worth deserve'."

Up sprang Sir Walter from his chair, and flung off the
cloak of thought in which he had been mantled.

" Impossible," he said. " Impossible ! There is my
plighted word to return, and there are my Lords of Arundel
and Pembroke, who are sureties for me. I cannot leave
them to suffer by my default."

" They will not suffer at all," De Chesne assured him.
He was very well informed. " King James has yielded to
Spain partly because he fears, partly because he will have

184 The Historical Nights9 Entertainment

a Spanish marriage for Prince Charles, and will do nothing
to trouble his good relations with King Philip. But, after
all, you have friends, whom his Majesty also fears. If you
escape* you would resolve all his perplexities. I do not
believe that any obstacle will be offer' to your escape —
else why they permit you to travel thus without any guard,
and to retain your sword ? "

Half distracted as he was by what he had learnt, yet Sir
Walter clung stoutly and obstinately to what he believed
to be the only course for a man of honour. And so he
dismissed De Chesne with messages of gratitude but
refusal to his master, and sent for Captain King. Together
they considered all that the secretary had stated, and King
agreed with De Chesne's implied opinion that it was Sir
Lewis himself who held the warrant.

They sent for him at once, and Ralegh straightly taxed
him with it. Sir Lewis as straightly admitted it, and when
King thereupon charged him with deceit he showed no
anger, but only the profoundest grief. He sank into a
chair, and took his head in his hands.

" What could I do ? What could I do r " he cried.
" The warrant came in the very moment we were setting
out. At first I thought of telling you ; and then I be-
thought me that to do so would be but to trouble your
mind, without being able to offer you help."

Sir Walter understood what was implied. " Did you
not say," he asked, " that you were my kinsman first
and Vice-Admiral of Devon after ? "

" Ay — and so I am. Though I must lose my office of
Vice-Admiral, which has cost me six hundred pounds, if I
suffer you to escape, Pd never hesitate if it were not for
Manourie, who watches me as closely as he watches you,

Sir Judas 185

and would baulk us at the last. And that is why I have
held my peace on the score of this warrant. What can it
help that I should trouble you with the matter until at the
same time I can offer you some way out ? "

" The Frenchman has a throat, and throats can be slit,"
said the downright King.

" So they can ; and men can be hanged for slitting
them," returned Sir Lewis, and thereafter resumed and
elaborated his first argument, using now such forceful logic
and obvious sincerity that Sir Walter was convinced. He
was no less convinced, too, of the peril in which he stood.
He plied those wits of his, which had rarely failed him in
an extremity. Manourie was the difficulty. But in his
time he had known many of these agents who, without
sentimental interest and purely for the sake of gold, were
ready to play such parts ; and never yet had he known
one who was not to be corrupted. So that evening he
desired Manourie's company in the room above stairs that
had been set apart for Sir Walter's use. Facing him across
the table at which both were seated, Sir Walter thrust his
clenched fist upon the board, and, suddenly opening it,
dazzled the Frenchman's beady eyes with the jewel spark-
ling in his palm.

" Tell me, Manourie, are you paid as much as that to.
betray me ? "

Manourie paled a little under his tan. He was a swarthy,
sharp-featured fellow, slight and wiry. He looked into
Sir Walter's grimly smiling eyes, then again at the white
diamond, from which the candlelight was striking every
colour of the rainbow. He made a shrewd estimate of its
price, and shook his black head. He had quite recovered
from the shock of Sir Walter's question.

186 The Historical Nights1 Entertainment

" Not half as much," he confessed, with impudence.

" Then you might find it more remunerative to serve me,"
said the knight. " This jewel is to be earned."

The agent's eyes flickered ; he passed his tongue over his
lips. " As how ? " quoth he.

" Briefly thus : I have but learnt of the trammel in
which I am taken. I must have time to concert my
measures of escape, and time is almost at an end. You are
skilled in drugs, so my kinsman tells me. Can you so drug
me as to deceive physicians that I am in extremis ? "

Manourie considered awhile.

"I . . . I think I could," he answered presently.

" And keep faith with me in this, at the price of, say —
two such stones ? "

The venal knave gasped in amazement. This was not
generosity ; it was prodigality. He recovered again, and
swore himself Sir Walter's.

" About it, then." Sir Walter rolled the gem across the
board into the clutch of the spy, which pounced to meet it.
" Keep that in earnest. The other will follow when we have
cozened them."

Next morning Sir Walter could not resume the journey.
When Cotterell went to dress him he found his master taken
with vomits, and reeling like a drunkard. The valet
ran to fetch Sir Lewis, and when they returned together
they found Sir Walter on all fours gnawing the rushes of
the floor, his face livid and horribly distorted, his brow
glistening with sweat.

Stukeley, in alarm, ordered Cotterell to get his master
back to bed and to foment him, which was done. But on
the next day there was no improvement, and on the third
things were in far more serious case. The skin 0f his

Sir Judas 187

brow and arms and breast was inflamed, and covered with
horrible purple blotches — the result of an otherwise harm-
less ointment with which the French empiric had supplied
him.

When Stukeley beheld him thus disfigured, and lying
apparently inert and but half-conscious upon his bed, he
backed away in terror. The Vice-Admiral had seen afore-
time the horrible manifestations of the plague, and could
not be mistaken here. He fled from the infected air of his
kinsman's chamber, and summoned what physicians were
available to pronounce and prescribe. The physicians
came — three in number — but manifested no eagerness to
approach the patient closely. The mere sight of him was
enough to lead them to the decision that he was afflicted
with the plague in a singularly virulent form.

Presently one of them plucked up courage so far as to
feel the pulse of the apparently delirious patient. Its
feebleness confirmed his diagnosis ; moreover the hand he
held was cold and turgid. He was not to know that Sir
Walter had tightly wrapped about his upper arm the ribbon
from his poniard, and so he was entirely deceived.

The physicians withdrew, and delivered their verdict,
whereupon Sir Lewis at once sent word of it to the Privy
Council.

That afternoon the faithful Captain King, sorely
afflicted by the news, came to visit his master, and was
introduced to Sir Walter's chamber by Manourie, who was
in attendance upon him. To the seaman's amazement
he found Sir Walter sitting up in bed, surveying in a hand-
mirror a face that was horrible beyond description with the
complacent smile of one who takes satisfaction in his
appearance. Yet there was no fevered madness in the

i88 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

smiling eyes. They were alive with intelligence, amount-
ing, indeed, to craft.

" Ah, King ! " was the glad welcome. " The prophet
David did make himself a fool, and suffered spittle to fall
upon his beard, to escape from the hands of his enemies.
And there was Brutus, ay, and others as memorable who
have descended to such artifice."

Though he laughed, it is clear that he was seeking to
excuse an unworthiness of which he was conscious.

" Artifice ? " quoth King, aghast " Is this artifice ? "

" Ay — a hedge against my enemies, who will be afraid
to approach me."

King sat himself down by his master's bed. " A better
hedge against your enemies, Sir Walter, would have been
the strip of sea 'twixt here and France. Would to Heaven
you had done as I advised ere you set foot in this un-
grateful land."

" The omission may be repaired," said Sir Walter.

Before the imminence of his peril, as now disclosed to
him, Sir Walter had been reconsidering De Chesne's
assurance touching my Lords of Arundel and Pembroke,
and he had come to conclude — the more readily, perhaps,
because it was as he would have it — that De Chesne was
right ; that to break faith with them were no such great
matter after all, nor one for which they would be called
upon to suffer. And so, now, when it was all but too
late, he yielded to the insistence of Captain King, and
consented to save himself by flight to France. King
was to go about the business of procuring a ship without
loss of time. Yet there was no need of desperate haste,
as was shown when presently orders came to Brentford
for the disposal of the prisoner. The King, who was at

Sir Judas 189

Salisbury, desired that Sir Walter should be conveyed to
his own house in London. Stukeley reported this to him,
proclaiming it a sign of royal favour. Sir Walter was not
deceived. He knew the reason to be fear lest he should
infect the Tower with the plague by which he was reported
stricken.

So the journey was resumed, and Sir Walter was brought
to London, and safely bestowed in his own house, but ever
in the care of his loving friend and kinsman. Manourie' s
part being fulfilled and the aim accomplished, Sir Walter
completed the promised payment by bestowing upon him
the second diamond — a form of eminently portable currency
with which the knight was well supplied. On the morrow
Manourie was gone, dismissed as a consequence of the part
he had played.

It was Stukeley who told Sir Walter this — a very well
informed and injured Stukeley, who asked to know what
he had done to forfeit the knight's confidence that behind
his back Sir Walter secretly concerted means of escape.
Had his cousin ceased to trust him ?

Sir Walter wondered. Looking into that lean, crafty face,
he considered King's unquenchable mistrust of the man,
bethought him of his kinsman's general neediness, remem-
bered past events that shed light upon his ways and
nature, and began now at last to have a sense of the man's
hypocrisy and double-dealing. Yet he reasoned in regard
to him precisely as he had reasoned in regard to Manourie.
The fellow was acquisitive, and therefore corruptible.
If, indeed, he was so base that he had been bought to
betray Sir Walter, then he could be bought again to betray
those who had so bought him.

" Nay, nay," said Sir Walter easily. " It is not lack

igo The Historical Nights' Entertainment

of trust in you, my good friend. But you are the holder
of an office, and knowing as I do the upright honesty of
your character I feared to embarrass you with things
whose very knowledge must give you the parlous choice
of being false to that office or false to me."

Stukeley broke forth into imprecations. He was, he
vowed, the most accursed and miserable of men that such
a task as this should have fallen to his lot. And he was
a poor man, too, he would have his cousin remember. It
was unthinkable that he should use the knowledge he had
gained to attempt to frustrate Sir Walter's plans of escape
to France. And this notwithstanding that if Sir Walter
escaped, it is certain he would lose his office of Vice- Admiral
and the six hundred pounds he had paid for it.

" As to that, you shall be at no loss/' Sir Walter assured
him. " I could not suffer it. I pledge you my honour,
Lewis, that you shall have a thousand pounds from my
wife on the day that I am safely landed in France or
Holland. Meanwhile, in earnest of what is to come, here
is a toy of value for you." And he presented Sir Lewis
with a jewel of price, a great ruby encrusted in diamonds.

Thus reassured that he would be immune from pecuniary
loss, Sir Lewis was ready to throw himself whole-heartedly
into Sir Walter's plans, and to render him all possible
assistance. True, this assistance was a costly matter ;
there was this person to be bought and that one ; there
were expenses here and expenses there, incurred by Sir
Lewis on his kinsman's behalf ; and there were odd
presents, too, which Stukeley seemed to expect and which
Sir Walter could not deny him. He had no illusions
now that King had been right ; that here he was dealing
with a rogue who would exact the uttermost farthing

Sir Judas 191

for his services, but he was gratified at the shrewdness with
which he had taken his cousin's measure, and did not
grudge the bribes by which he was to escape the scaffold.

De Chesne came again to the house in London, to renew
his master's offer of a ship to carry Sir Walter overseas, and
such other assistance as Sir Walter might require. But
by now the knight's arrangements were complete. His
servant Cotterell had come to inform him that his own
boatswain, now in London, was the owner of a ketch, at
present lying at Tilbury, admirably suited for the enterprise
and entirely at Sir Walter's disposal. It had been decided,
then, with the agreement of Captain King, that they should
avail themselves of this ; and accordingly Cotterell was
bidden desire the boatswain to have the craft made
ready for sea at once. In view of this, and anxious to
avoid unnecessarily compromising the French envoy, Sir
Walter gratefully declin^r! the latter's offer.

And so we come at last to that July evening appointed
for the flight. Ralegh, who, having for some time dis-
carded the use of Manourie's ointment, had practically
recovered his normal appearance, covering his long white
hair under a Spanish hat, and muffling the half of his face
in the folds of a cloak, came to Wapping Stairs — that
ill-omened place of execution of pirates and sea-rovers —
accompanied by Cotterell, who carried the knight's cloak-
bag, and by Sir Lewis and Sir Lewis's son. Out of
solicitude for their dear friend and kinsman, the Stukeleys
could not part from him until he was safely launched
upon his voyage. At the head of the stairs they were met
by Captain King ; at the foot of them a boat was waiting,
as concerted, the boatswain at the tiller.

King greeted them with an air of obvious relief,

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" You feared perhaps we should not come," said Stukeley,
with a sneer at the Captain's avowed mistrust of him.
" Yet now, I trust, you'll do me the justice to admit that
I have shown myself an honest man."

The uncompromising King looked at him and frowned,
misliking the words.

" I hope that you'll continue so," he answered stiffly.

They went down the slippery steps to the boat, and then
the shore glided slowly past them as they pushed off into
the stream of the ebbing tide.

A moment later, King, whose suspicious eyes kept a
sharp look-out, observed another boat put off some two
hundred yards higher up the river. At first he saw it
breast the stream as if proceeding towards London Bridge,
then abruptly swing about and follow them. Instantly
he drew the attention of Sir Walter to that pursuing wherry.

" What's this ? " quoth Sir Walter harshly. " Are we
betrayed ? "

The watermen, taking fright at the words, hung now
upon their oars.

" Put back," Sir Walter bade them. " I'll not betray

my friends to no purpose. Put back, and let us home

. ,,
again.

" Nay, now," said Stukeley gravely, himself watching
the wherry. " We are more than a match for them in
oars, even if their purpose be such as you suspect — for
which suspicion, when all is said, there is no ground. On
then ! " He addressed himself to the watermen, whipping
out a pistol, and growing truculent in mien and voice.
" To your oars ! Row, you dogs, or I'll pistol you where
you sit."

The men bent their backs forthwith, and the boat swept

Sir Judas 193

on. But Sir Walter was still full of apprehensions, still
questioning the wisdom of keeping to their down-stream
course if they were being followed.

" But are we followed ? " cried the impatient Sir Lewis.
" 'Sdeath, cousin, is not the river a highway for all the
world to use, and must every wherry that chances to go
our way be in pursuit of us ? If you are to halt at every
shadow, faith, you'll never accomplish anything. I vow
I am unfortunate in having a friend whom I would save
so full of doubts and fears."

Sir Walter gave him reason, and even King came to
conclude that he had suspected him unjustly, whilst the
rowers, under Stukeley's suasion, now threw themselves
heartily into their task, and onward sped the boat through
the deepening night, taking but little account of that other
wherry that hung ever in their wake. In this wise they
came at length to Greenwich on the last of the ebb. But
here finding the water beginning to grow against them,
and wearied by the exertion into which Stukeley's en-
thusiasm had flogged them, the watermen paused again,
declaring that they could not reach Gravesend before
morning.

Followed a brief discussion, at the end of which Sir
Walter bade them put him ashore at Purfleet.

" And that's the soundest counsel," quoth the boatswain.
" For at Purfleet we can get horses on to Tilbury."

Stukeley was of the same opinion ; but not so the more
practical Captain King.

" Tis useless," he declared to them. " At this hour
how shall you get horses to go by land ? "

And now, Sir Walter, looking over his shoulder, saw the
other wherry bearing down upon them through the faintly

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194 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

opalescent mists of dawn. A hail came to them across
the water.

"Oh, 'Sdeath! We are betrayed!" cried Ralegh
bitterly, and Stukeley swore more fiercely still. Sir
Walter turned to him. " Put ashore," he said shortly,
" and let us home."

" Ay, perhaps 'twere best. For to-night there's an end
to the enterprise, and if I am taken in your company now,
what shall be said to me for this active assistance in your
escape ? " His voiceVas'gloomy, his face drawn and white.

" Could you not plead that you had but pretended to
go with me to seize on my private papers ? " suggested
the ingenious mind of Ralegh.

" I could. But shall I be believed ? Shall I ? " His
gloom was deepening to despair.

Ralegh was stricken almost with remorse on his cousin's
account. His generous heart was now more concerned
with the harm to his friends than with his own doom.
He desired to make amends to Stukeley, but had no means
save such as^lay in the power of that currency he used.
Having naught else to give, he must give that. He plunged
his hand into an inner pocket, and brought forth a handful
of jewels, which he thrust upon his kinsman.

" Courage," he urged him. " Up now, and we may yet
win out and home, so that all will be well with you at
least, and you shall not suffer for your friendship to me."

Stukeley embraced him then, protesting his love and
desire to serve him.

They came to landjat last, just below Greenwich bridge,
and almost at the same moment the other wherry grounded
immediately above them. Men sprang from her, with
the obvious intent of cutting off their retreat.

Sir Judas 195

" Too late ! " said Ralegh, and sighed, entirely without
passion now that the dice had fallen and showed that the
game was lost. " You must act on my suggestion to
explain your presence, Lewis."

" Indeed, there is no other course," Sir Lewis agreed.
" And you are in the same case, Captain King. You must
confess that you joined with me but to betray Sir Walter.
I'll bear you out. Thus, each supporting the other . . ."

" I'll roast in Hell before I brand myself a traitor,"
roared the Captain furiously. " And were you an honest
man, Sir Lewis, you'id understand my meaning."

" So, so ? " said Stukeley, in a quiet, wicked voice.
And it was observed that his son and one or two of the
watermen had taken their stand beside him as if in readiness
for action. " Why, then, since you will have it so, Captain,
I arrest you, in the King's name, on a charge of abetting
treason."

The Captain fell back a step, stricken a moment by
sheer amazement. Then he groped for a pistol to do at
last what he realized he should have done long since.
Instantly he was overpowered. It was only then that
Sir Walter understood the thing that had happened, and
with understanding came fury. The old adventurer
flung back his cloak, and snatched at his rapier to put
it through the vitals of his dear friend and kinsman. But
he was too late. Hands seized upon him, and he found
himself held by the men from the wherry, confronted by
a Mr. William Herbert, whom he knew for Stukeley's
cousin, and he heard Mr. Herbert formally asking him
for the surrender of his sword.

Instantly he governed himself, repressed his fury.
He looked coldly at his kinsman, whose face showed white

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and evil in the growing light of the early summer dawn.
" Sir Lewis," was all he said, " these actions will not turn
out to your credit."

He had no illusion left. His understanding was now a
very full one. His dear friend and kinsman had played
him false throughout, intending first to drain him of his
resources before finally flinging the empty husk to the
executioner. Manourie had been in the plot ; he had run
with the hare and hunted with the hounds ; and Sir
Walter's own servant Cotterell had done no less. Amongst
them they had " cozened the great cozener " — to use
Stukeley's own cynical expression. Even so, it was only on
his trial that Sir Walter plumbed the full depth of Stukeley's
baseness ; for it was only then he learnt that his kinsman
had been armed by a warrant of immunity to assist his
projects of escape, so that he might the more effectively
incriminate and betray him ; and Sir Walter discovered
also that the ship in which he had landed, and other
matters, were to provide additional Judas' fees to this
acquisitive betrayer.

If to escape his enemies Sir Walter had had recourse to
artifices unworthy the great hero that he was, now that
all hope was lost he conducted himself with a dignity and
cheerfulness beyond equal. So calm and self-possessed
and masterly was his defence from the charge of piracy
preferred at the request of Spain, and so shrewd in its
inflaming appeal to public opinion, that his judges were
constrained to abandon that line of prosecution, and could
discover no way of giving his head to King James save
by falling back upon the thirteen-year old sentence of
death against him. Of this they now ordered execution.

Never a man who loved his life as dearly as Sir Walter

Sir Judas 197

loved it met death as blithely. He dressed himself for
the scaffold with that elegance and richness which all his
life he had observed. He wore a ruff band and black
velvet wrought nightgown over a doublet of hair-coloured
satin, a black wrought waistcoat, black cut taffety breeches
and ash-coloured silk stockings. Under his plumed hat
he covered his white locks with a wrought nightcap.
This last he bestowed on his way to the scaffold upon a
bald-headed old man who had come to take a last look of
him, with the observation that he was more in need of it
than himself. When he had removed it, it was observed
that his hair was not curled as usual. This was a matter
that had fretted his barber Peter in the prison of the
Gatehouse at Westminster that morning. But Sir Walter
had put him off with a laugh and a jest.

" Let them comb it that shall have it," he had said of
his own head.

Having taken his leave of the friends who had flocked
about him with the observation that he had a long journey
before him, he called for the axe, and, when presented to
him, ran his fingers along the edge, and smiled.

" Sharp medicine," quoth he, " but a sound cure for
all diseases."

When presently the executioner bade him turn his head
to the East :

" It is no great matter which way a man's head stands,
so that his heart lies right," he said.

Thus passed one of England's greatest heroes, indeed
one of the very makers of this England, and than his death
there is no more shameful blot upon the shameful reign
of that pusillanimous James, unclean of body and of soul,
who sacrificed him to the King of Spain.

1 98 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

A spectator of his death, who suffered for his words —
as men must ever suffer for the regardless utterance of
Truth — declared that England had not such another
head to cut off.

As for Stukeley, the acquisitiveness which had made
a Judas of him was destined, by a poetic justice, ever
desired but rarely forthcoming for knaves, soon to be his
ruin. He was caught diminishing the gold coin of the
realm by the operation known to-day as " clipping," and
with him was taken his creature Manourie, who, to save
himself, turned chief witness against Stukeley. Sir Lewis
was sentenced to death, but saved himself by purchasing his
pardon at the cost of every ill-gotten shilling he possessed,
and he lived thereafter as bankrupt of means as he was
of honour.

Yet before all this happened, Sir Lewis had for his part
in Sir Walter Ralegh's death come to be an object of
execration throughout the land, and to be commonly
known as " Sir Judas." At Whitehall he suffered rebuffs
and insults that found a climax in the words addressed to
him by the Lord Admiral, to whom he went to give an
account of his office.

" Base fellow, darest thou who art the contempt and
scorn of men offer thyself in my presence ? "

For a man of honour there was but one course. Sir
Judas was not a man of honour. He carried his grievance
to the King. James leered at him.

" What wouldst thou have me do ? Wouldst thou have
me hang him ? On my soul, if I should hang all that
speak ill of thee, all the trees of the country would not
suffice, so great is the number."

VIII. His Insolence of Buckingham

George Villiers' Courtship of Anne of
Austria

VIII. His Insolence of Buckingham

HE was Insolence incarnate.
Since the day when, a mere country lad, his
singular good looks had attracted the attention of King
James — notoriously partial to good-looking lads — and had
earned him the office of cup-bearer to his Majesty, the
career of George Villiers is to be read in a series of acts
of violent and ever-increasing arrogance, expressing the
vanity and levity inherent in his nature. Scarcely was
he established in the royal favour than he distinguished
himself by striking an offending gentleman in the very
presence of his sovereign — an act of such gross disrespect
to royalty that his hand would have paid forfeit, as by law
demanded, had not the maudlin king deemed him too
lovely a fellow to be so cruelly maimed.

Over the mind and will of King Charles his ascendancy
became even greater than it had been over that of King
James ; and it were easy to show that the acts of George
Villiers' life supplied the main planks of that scaffold in
Whitehall whereupon Charles Stuart came to lose his
head. Charles was indeed a martyr; a martyr chiefly
to the reckless, insolent, irresponsible vanity of this
Villiers, who, from a simple country squire with nothing
but personal beauty to recommend him, had risen to be,
as Duke of Buckingham, the first gentleman in England.

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The heady wine of power had gone to his brain, and so
addled it that, as John Chamberlain tells us, there was
presently a touch of craziness in him — of the variety, no
doubt, known to modern psychologists as megalomania.
He lost the sense of proportion, and was without respect
for anybody or anything. The Commons of England
and the immensely dignified Court of Spain — during
that disgraceful, pseudo-romantic adventure at Madrid —
were alike the butts of this parvenu's unmeasured arrogance.
But the crowning insolence of his career was that tragi-
comedy the second act of which was played on a June
evening in an Amiens garden on the banks of the river
Somme.

Three weeks ago — on the I4th May, 1625, to be precise —
Buckingham had arrived in Paris as Ambassador Extra-
ordinary, charged with the task of conducting to
England the King of France's sister, Henrietta Maria,
who three days earlier had been married by proxy to
King Charles. ^

The occasion enabled Buckingham to fling the reins on
to the neck of his mad vanity, to indulge to the very
fullest his crazy passion for ostentation and magnificence.
Because the Court of France was proverbially renowned
for splendour and luxury, Buckingham felt it due to himself
to extinguish its brilliance by his own. On his first
coming to the Louvre he literally blazed. He wore a suit
of white satin velvet with a short cloak in the Spanish
fashion, the whole powdered over with diamonds to the
value of some ten thousand pounds. An enormous
diamond clasped the heron's plume in his hat ; diamonds
flashed in the hilt of his sword ; diamonds studded his
very spurs, which were of beaten gold ; the highest orders

His Insolence of Buckingham 203

of England, Spain, and France flamed on his breast. On
the occasion of his second visit he wore a suit of purple
satin, of intent so lightly sewn with pearls that as he
moved he shook them off like raindrops, and left them to
lie where they fell, as largesse for pages and the lesser fry of
the Court.

His equipages and retinue were of a kind to match his
personal effulgence. His coaches were lined with velvet
and covered with cloth of gold, and some seven hundred
people made up his train. There were musicians, watermen,
grooms of the chamber, thirty chief yeomen, a score of
cooks, as many grooms, a dozen pages, two dozen footmen,
six outriders, and twenty gentlemen, each with his own
attendants, all arrayed as became the satellites of a star
of such great magnitude.

Buckingham succeeded in his ambition. Paris, that
hitherto had set the fashion to the world, stared mouth-
agape, dazzled by the splendour of this superb and scin-
tillating ambassador.

Another, by betraying consciousness of the figure that
he cut, might have made himself ridiculous. But Buck-
ingham's insolent assurance was proof against that peril.
Supremely self-satisfied, he was conscious only that what
he did could not be better done, and he ruffled it with an
air of easy insouciance, as if in all this costly display there
was nothing that was not normal. He treated with
princes, and even with the gloomy Louis XIII., as with
equals ; and, becoming more and more intoxicated with
his very obvious success, he condescended to observe
approvingly the fresh beauty of the young Queen.

Anne of Austria, then in her twenty-fourth year, was
said to be one of the most beautiful women in Europe.

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She was of a good height and carriage, slight, and very
gracefully built, of a ravishing fairness of skin and hair,
whilst a look of wistfulness had come to invest with an
indefinable tenderness her splendid eyes. Her childless
marriage to the young King of France, which had endured
now for ten years, had hardly been successful. Gloomy,
taciturn, easily moved to suspicion, and difficult to convince
of error, Louis XIII. held his wife aloof, throwing up
between himself and her a wall of coldness, almost of
dislike.

There is a story — and Tallemant des Reaux gives credit
to it — that in the early days of her reign as Queen of
France, Richelieu had fallen deeply in love with her,
and that she, with the mischief of an irresponsible young
girl, had encouraged him, merely to betray him to a
ridicule which his proud spirit had never been able to
forgive. Be that or another the reason, the fact that
Richelieu hated her, and subjected her to his vindictive
persecution, is beyond dispute. And it was he who by a
hundred suggestions poisoned against her the King's mind,
and thus kept ever open the gulf between the two.

The eyes of that neglected young wife dilated a little,
and admiration kindled in them, when they rested upon
the dazzling figure of my Lord of Buckingham. He must
have seemed to her a figure of romance, a prince out of a
fairy-tale.

That betraying glance he caught, and it inflamed at once
his monstrous arrogance. To the scalps already adorning
the belt of his vanity he would add that of the love of a
beautiful young queen. Perhaps he was thrilled in his
madness by the thought of the peril that would spice such
an adventure. Into that adventure he plunged forthwith.

His Insolence of Buckingham 205

He wooed her during the eight days that he abode in
Paris, flagrantly, openly, contemptuous of courtiers and
of the very King himself. At the Louvre, at the H6tel de
Chevreuse, at the Luxembourg, where the Queen-Mother
held her Court, at the H6tel de Guise, and elsewhere he
was ever at the Queen's side.

Richelieu, whose hard pride and self-love had been
wounded by the Duke's cavalier behaviour, who despised
the fellow for an upstart, and may even have resented that
so shallow a man should have been sent to treat with a
statesman of his own calibre — for other business beside
the marriage had brought Buckingham to Paris — suggested
to the King that the Duke's manner in approaching the
Queen lacked a proper deference, and the Queen's manner
of receiving him a proper circumspection. Therefore the
King's long face became longer, his gloomy eyes gloomier,
as he looked on. Far, however, from acting as a deterrent,
the royal scowl was mere incense to the vanity of Bucking-
ham, a spur to goad him on to greater daring.

On the 2nd of June a splendid company of some four
thousand French nobles and ladies, besides Buckingham
and his retinue, quitted Paris to accompany Henrietta
Maria, now Queen of England, on the first stage of her
journey to her new home. The King was not of the party.
He had gone with Richelieu to Fontainebleau, leaving it
to the Queen and the Queen-Mother to accompany his sister.

Buckingham missed no chance upon that journey of
pressing his attentions upon Anne of Austria. Duty
dictated that his place should be beside the carriage of
Henrietta Maria. But duty did not apply to His Insolence
of Buckingham, so indifferent of whom he might slight
or offend. And then the devil took a hand in the game.

206 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

At Amiens, the Queen-Mother fell ill, so that the Court
was compelled to halt there for a few days to give her
Majesty the repose she required. Whilst Amiens was thus
honoured by the presence of three queens at one and the
same time within its walls, the Due de Chaulnes gave an
entertainment in the Citadel. Buckingham attended this,
and in the dance that followed the banquet it was Buck-
ingham who led out the Queen.

Thereafter the royal party had returned to the Bishop's
Palace, where it was lodged, and a small company went
out to take the evening cool in the Bishop's fragrant
gardens on the Somme, Buckingham ever at the Queen's
side. Anne of Austria was attended by her Mistress of
the Household, the beautiful, witty Marie de Rohan,
Duchess of Chevreuse, and by her equerry, Monsieur
de Putange. Madame de Chevreuse had for cavalier that
handsome coxcomb, Lord Holland, who was one of
Buckingham's creatures, between whom and herself a
certain transient tenderness had sprung up. M. de Putange
was accompanied by Madame de Vernet, with whom at the
time he was over head and ears in love. Elsewhere about
the spacious gardens other courtiers sauntered.

Now either Madame de Chevreuse and M. de Putange
were too deeply engrossed in their respective companions,
or else the state of their own hearts and the tepid, lan-
guorous eventide disposed them complacently towards the
affair of gallantry upon which their mistress almost seemed
to wish to be embarked. They forgot, it would seem, that
she was a queen, and remembered sympathetically that she
was a woman, and that she had for companion the most
splendid cavalier in all the world. Thus they committed
the unpardonable fault of lagging behind, and allowing

His Insolence of Buckingham 207

her to pass out of their sight round the bend of an avenue
by the water.

No sooner did Buckingham realize that he was alone
with the Queen, that the friendly dusk and a screen of
trees secured them from observation, than, piling audacity
upon audacity, he determined to accomplish here and now
the conquest of this lovely lady who had used him so
graciously and received his advances with such manifest
pleasure.

" How soft the night ! How exquisite ! " he sighed.

" Indeed," she agreed. " And how still, but for the
gentle murmur of the river."

" The river ! " he cried, on a new note. " That is no
gentle murmur. The river laughs, maliciously mocking.
The river is evil."

" Evil ? " quoth she. He had checked in his step, and
they stood now side by side.

" Evil," he repeated. " Evil and cruel. It goes to
swell the sea that soon shall divide me from you, and it
mocks me, rejoicing wickedly in the pain that will presently
be mine."

It took her aback. She laughed, a little breathlessly,
to hide her discomposure, and scarce knew how to answer
him, scarce knew whether she took pleasure or offence in
his daring encroachment upon that royal aloofness in
which she dwelt, and in which her Spanish rearing had
taught her she must ever dwell.

" Oh, but Monsieur PAmbassadeur, you will be with
us again, perhaps before so very long."

His answer came in a swift, throbbing question, his lips so
near her face that she could feel his breath hot upon her
cheek.

2o8 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Do you wish it, madame ? Do you wish it ? I implore
you, of your pity, say but that you wish it, and I will
come, though I tear down half a world to reach you."

She recoiled in affright and displeasure before a wooing
so impetuous and violently outspoken ; though the dis-
pleasure was perhaps but a passing emotion, the result
of early training. Yet she contrived to answer him with
the proper icy dignity due to her position as a princess of
Spain, now Queen of France.

" Monsieur, you forget yourself. The Queen of France
does not listen to such words. You are mad, I think."

" Yes, I am mad," he flung back. " Mad with love-
so mad that I have forgot that you are a queen and I an
ambassador. Under the ambassador there is a man,
under the queen a woman — our real selves, not the titles
with which Fate seeks to dissemble our true natures. And
with the whole strength of my true nature do I love you,
so potently, so overwhelmingly that I will not believe you
sensible of no response."

Thus torrentially he delivered himself, and swept her a
little off her feet. She was a woman, as he said ; a queen,
it is true ; but also a neglected, coldly-used wife ; and
no one had ever addressed her in anything approaching
this manner, no one had ever so much as suggested that
her existence could matter greatly, that in her woman's
nature there was the magic power of awakening passion
and devotion. He was so splendidly magnificent, so
masterful and unrivalled, and he came thus to lay his
being, as it were, in homage at her feet. It touched her a
little, who knew so little of the real man. It cost her
an effort to repulse him, and the effort was not very
convincing.

His Insolence of Buckingham 209

" Hush, monsieur, for pity's sake ! You must not talk
so to me. It ... it hurts."

O fatal word ! She meant that it was her dignity as
Queen he wounded, for she clung to that as to the anchor
of salvation. But he in his egregious vanity must of course
misunderstand.

" Hurts ! " he cried, and the rapture in his accents should
have warned her. " Because you resist it, because you
fight against the commands of your true self. Anne ! "
He seized her, and crushed her to him. " Anne ! "

Wild terror gripped her at that almost brutal contact,
and anger, too, her dignity surging up in violent outraged
rebellion. A scream, loud and piercing, broke from her,
and rang through the still garden. It brought him to his
senses. It was as if he had been lifted up into the air, and
then suddenly allowed to fall.

He sprang away from her, an incoherent exclamation on
his lips, and when an instant later Monsieur de Putange
came running up in alarm, his hand upon his sword, those
two stood with the width of the avenue between them,
Buckingham erect and defiant, the Queen breathing hard
and trembling, a hand upon her heaving breast as if to
repress its tumult.

" Madame ! Madame ! " had been Putange's cry, as he
sprang forward in alarm and self-reproach.

He stood now almost between them, looking from one
to the other in bewilderment. Neither spoke.

" You cried out^Madame," M. de Putange reminded her,
and Buckingham may well have wondered whether
presently he would be receiving M. de Putange's sword
in his vitals. He must have known that his life now
hung upon her answer.

14

210 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" I called you, that was all," said the Queen, in a voice
that she strove to render calm. " I confess that I was
startled to find myself alone with M. 1'Ambassadeur. Do
not let it occur again, M. de Putange ! "

The equerry bowed in silence. His itching fingers fell
away from his sword-hilt, and he breathed more freely.
He had no illusions as to what must have happened. But
he was relieved there were to be no complications. The
others now coming up with them, the party thereafter kept
together until presently Buckingham and Lord Holland
took their leave.

On the morrow the last stage of the escorting journey
was accomplished. A little way beyond Amiens the Court
took its leave of Henrietta Maria, entrusting her now to
Buckingham and his followers, who were to convey her
safely to Charles.

It was a very contrite and downcast Buckingham who
came now to Anne of Austria as she sat in her coach with
the Princesse de Conti for only companion.

" Madame," he said, " I am come to take my leave."

" Fare you well, Monsieur 1'Ambassadeur," she said, and
her voice was warm and gentle, as if to show him that she
bore no malice.

" I am come to ask your pardon, madame," he said,
in a low voice.

" Oh, monsieur — no more, I beg you." She looked down ;
her hands were trembling, her cheeks going red and white
by turns.

He put his head behind the curtains of the coach, so that
none might see him from outside, and looking at him now,
she beheld tears in his eyes.

" Do not misunderstand me, madame. I ask your pardon

His Insolence of Buckingham 211

only for having discomposed you, startled you. As for what
I said, it were idle to ask pardon, since I could no more
help saying it than I can help drawing breath. I obeyed
an instinct stronger than the will to live. I gave expression
to something that dominates my whole being, and will ever
dominate it as long as I have life. Adieu, madame !
At need you know where a servant who will gladly die for
you is to be found." He kissed the hem of her robe, dashed
the back of his hand across his eyes, and was gone before
she could say a word in answer.

She sat pale, and very thoughtful, and the Princesse de
Conti, watching her furtively, observed that her eyes were
moist.

" I will answer for the Queen's virtue," she stated after-
wards, " but I cannot speak so positively for the hardness
of her heart, since without doubt the Duke's tears affected
her spirits."

But it was not yet the end. As Buckingham was nearing
Calais, he was met by a courier from Whitehall, with in-
structions for him regarding the negotiations he had been
empowered to carry out with France in the matter of an
alliance against Spain — negotiations which had not
thriven with Louis and Richelieu, possibly because the
ambassador was ill-chosen. The instructions came too
late to be of use, but in time to serve as a pretext for
Buckingham's return to Amiens. There he sought an
audience of the Queen-Mother, and delivered himself to
her of a futile message for the King. This chimerical
business — as Madame de Motteville shrewdly calls it —
being accomplished, he came to the real matter which had
prompted him to use that pretext for his return, and
sought audience of Anne of Austria.

14*

212 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

It was early morning, and the Queen was not yet risen.
But the levees at the Court of France were precisely what
the word implies, and they were held by royalty whilst
still abed. It was not, therefore, amazing that he should
have been admitted to her presence. She was alone save
for her lady-in-waiting, Madame de Lannoi, who was, we
are told, aged, prudent and virtuous. Conceive, there-
fore, the outraged feelings of this lady upon seeing the
English duke precipitate himself wildly into the room,
and on his knees at the royal bedside seize the coverlet
and bear it to his lips.

Whilst the young Queen looked confused and agitated,
Madame de Lannoi became a pillar of icy dignity.

" M. le Due," says she, " it is not customary in France
to kneel when speaking to the Queen."

" I care nothing for the customs of France, madame,"
he answered rudely. " I am not a Frenchman."

" That is too obvious, monsieur," snapped the elderly,
prudent and virtuous countess. " Nevertheless, whilst
in France perhaps monsieur will perceive the convenience
of conforming to French customs. Let me call for a
chair for Monsieur le Due."

" I do not want a chair, madame."

The countess cast her eyes to Heaven, as if to say, " I
suppose one cannot expect anything else in a foreigner,"
and let him kneel as he insisted, placing herself, however,
protectingly at the Queen's pillow.

Nevertheless, entirely unabashed, heeding Madame de
Lannoi's presence no more than if she had been part of
the room's furniture, the Duke delivered himself freely of
what was in his mind. He had been obliged to return to
Amiens on a matter of State. It was unthinkable that

His Insolence of Buckingham 213

he should be so near to her Majesty and not hasten to
cast himself at her feet ; and whilst gladdening the eyes
of his body with the sight of her matchless perfection, the
image of which was ever before the eyes of his soul, allow
himself the only felicity life now held for him — that of
protesting himself her utter slave. This, and much more
of the kind, did he pour out, what time the Queen, embar-
rassed and annoyed beyond utterance, could only stare at
him in silence.

Apart from the matchless impudence of it, it was also
of a rashness beyond pardon. Unless Madame de Lannoi
were the most circumspect of women, here was a fine
tale for Court gossips, and for the King's ears, a tale that
must hopelessly compromise the Queen. For that, Buck-
ingham, in his self-sufficiency and arrogance, appears to
have cared nothing. One suspects that it would have
pleased his vanity to have his name linked with the
Queen's by the lips of scandal.

She found her tongue at last.

" Monsieur le Due," she said in her confusion, **it was
not necessary, it was not worth while, to have asked
audience of me for this. You have leave to go."

He looked up in doubt, and saw only confusion ; attri-
buted it perhaps to the presence of that third party to
which himself he had been so indifferent. He kissed the
coverlet again, stumbled to his feet, and reached the door.
Thence he sent her a flaming glance of his bold eyes, and
hand on heart —

" Adieu, madame ! " said he in tragic tones, and so
departed.

Madame de Lannoi was discreet, and related at the
time nothing of what had passed at that interview. But

214 " The Historical Nights' Entertainment

that the interview itself had takenTplace under such con-
ditions was enough to set the tongue of gossip wagging.
An echo of it reached the King, together with the story
of that other business in the garden, and he was glad
to know that the Duke of Buckingham was back in
London. Richelieu, to vent his own malice against the
Queen, sought to feed the King's suspicions.

" Why did she cry out, sire ? " he will have asked.
" What did M. de Buckingham do to make her cry
out ? "

" I don't know. But whatever it was, she was no party
to it since she did cry out."

Richelieu did not pursue the matter just then. But
neither did he abandon it. He had his agents in London
and elsewhere, and he desired of them a close report
upon the Duke of Buckingham's movements, and the
fullest particulars of his private life.

Meanwhile, Buckingham had left behind him in France
two faithful agents of his own, with instructions to keep
his memory green with the Queen. For he intended to
return upon one pretext or another before very long, and
complete the conquest. Those agents of his were Lord
Holland and the artist Balthazar Gerbier. It is to be
presumed that they served the Duke's interests well, and
it is no less to be presumed from that which followed
that they found her Majesty willing enough to hear news
Of that amazingly romantic fellow who had flashed across
the path of her grey life, touching it for a moment with
his own flaming radiance. In her loneliness she came
to think of him with tenderness and pity, in which pity for
herself and her dull lot was also blent. He was away,
overseas ; she might never see him again ; therefore

His Insolence of Buckingham 215

there could be little harm in indulging the romantic tender-
ness he had inspired.

So one day, many months after his departure, she begged
Gerbier — as La Rochefoucauld tells us — to journey to
London and bear the Duke a trifling memento of her — a
set of diamond studs. That love-token — for it amounted
to no less — Gerbier conveyed to England, and delivered
to the Duke.

Buckingham's head was so completely turned by the
event, and his desire to see Anne of Austria again became
thereupon so overmastering, that he at once communi-
cated to France that he was coming over as the ambas-
sador of the King of England to treat of certain matters
connected with Spain. But Richelieu had heard from
the French ambassador in London that portraits of the
Queen of France were excessively abundant at York
House, the Duke's residence, and he had considered it
his duty to inform the King. Louis was angry, but not
with the Queen. To have believed her guilty of any indis-
cretion would have hurt his gloomy pride too deeply. All
that he believed was that this was merely an expression
of Buckingham's fanfaronading, thrasonical disposition,
a form of vain, empty boasting peculiar to megalomaniacs.

As a consequence, the King of England was informed
that the Duke of Buckingham, for reasons well known to
himself, would not be agreeable as Charles's ambassador
to his Most Christian Majesty. Upon learning this, the
vainglorious Buckingham was loud in proclaiming the
reason (" well known to himself ") and in protesting that
he would go to France to see the Queen with the French
King's consent or without it. This was duly reported to
Richelieu, and by Richelieu to King Louis. But his Most

216 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Christian Majesty merely sneered, accounted it more
empty boasting on the part of the parvenu, and dismissed
it from his mind.

Richelieu found this attitude singularly exasperating
in a King who was temperamentally suspicious. It so
piqued and annoyed him, that when considered in addition
to his undying rancour against Anne of Austria, it is easily
believed he spared no pains to obtain something in the
nature of a proof that the Queen was not as innocent as
Louis insisted upon believing.

Now it happened that one of his London agents in-
formed him, among other matters connected with the
Duke's private life, that he had a bitter and secret enemy
in the Countess of Carlisle, between whom and himself
there had been a passage of some tenderness too abruptly
ended by the Duke. Richelieu, acting upon this informa-
tion, contrived to enter into -correspondence with Lady
Carlisle, and in the course of this correspondence he
managed her so craftily — says La Rochefoucauld — that
very soon she was, whilst hardly realizing it, his Eminence's
most valuable spy near Buckingham. Richelieu informed
her that he was mainly concerned with information that
would throw light upon the real relations of Buckingham
and the Queen of France, and he persuaded her that nothing
was too insignificant to be communicated. Her resent-
ment of the treatment she had received from Buckingham,
a resentment the more bitter for being stifled — since for
her reputation's sake she dared not have given it expres-
sion— made her a very ready instrument in Richelieu's
hands, and there was no scrap of gossip she did not care-
fully gather up and dispatch to him. But all was naught
until one day at last she was able to tell him something

His Insolence of Buckingham 217

that set his pulses beating more quickly than their
habit.

She had it upon the best authority that a set of diamond
studs constantly worn of late by the Duke was a love-
token from the Queen of France sent over to Buckingham
by a messenger of her own. Here, indeed, was news.
Here was a weapon by which the Queen might be destroyed.
Richelieu considered. If he could but obtain possession
of the studs, the rest would be easy. There would be an
end — and such an end ! — to the King's obstinate, indolent
faith in his wife's indifference to that boastful, flamboyant
English upstart. Richelieu held his peace for the time
being, and wrote to the Countess.

Some little time thereafter there was a sumptuous ball
given at York House, graced by the presence of King
Charles and his young French Queen. Lady Carlisle was
present, and in the course of the evening Buckingham
danced with her. She was a very beautiful, accom-
plished and ready-witted woman, and to-night his Grace
found her charms so alluring that he was almost disposed
to blame himself for having perhaps treated her too lightly.
Yet she seemed at pains to show him that it was his to
take up again the affair at the point at which it had been
dropped. She was gay, arch, provoking and irresistible.
So irresistible that presently, yielding to the lure of her,
the Duke slipped away from his guests with the lady on
his arm, and they found themselves at the foot of the
garden in the shadow of the water-gate that Inigo Jones
had just completed for him. My lady languished at his
side, permitted him to encircle her with a protecting arm,
and for a moment lay heavily against him. He caught
her violently to him, and now her ladyship, hitherto so yield-

2i8 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

ing, with true feminine contrariness set herself to resist
him. A scuffle ensued between them. She broke from
him at last, and sped swift as a doe across the lawn towards
the lights of the great house, his Grace in pursuit between
vexation and amusement.

But he did not overtake her, and it was with a sense of
having been fooled that he rejoined his guests. His
questing eyes could discern her nowhere. Presently he
made inquiries, to be told that she had desired her carriage
to be called, and had left York House immediately upon
coming in from the garden.

He concluded that she was gone off iu a pet. It was
very odd. It was, in fact, most flagrantly contradictory
that she should have taken offence at that which she had
so obviously invited. But then she always had been a
perverse and provoking jade. With that reflection he put
her from his mind.

But anon, when his guests had departed, and the lights
in the great house were extinguished, Buckingham thought
of the incident again. Cogitating it, he sat in his room,
his fingers combing his fine, pointed, auburn beard. At last,
with a shrug and a half-laugh, he rose to undress for bed.
And then a cry escaped him, and brought in his valet from
an adjoining room. The riband of diamond studs was gone.

Reckless and indifferent as he was, a sense of evil took
him in the moment of his discovery of that loss, so that
he stood there pale, staring, and moist of brow. It was
no ordinary theft. There were upon his person a dozen
ornaments of greater value, any one of which could have
been more easily detached. This was the work of some
French agent. He had made no secret of whence those
studs had come to him.

His Insolence of Buckingham 219

There his thoughts checked on a sudden. As in a flash
of revelation, he saw the meaning of Lady Carlisle's oddly
contradictory behaviour. The jade had fooled him. It
was she who had stolen the riband. He sat down again,
his head in his hands, and swiftly, link by link, he pieced
together a complete chain.

Almost as swiftly he decided upon the course of action
which he must adopt so as to protect the Queen of France's
honour. He was virtually the ruler of England, master
in these islands of an almost boundless power. That
power he would exert to the full this very night to thwart
those enemies of his own and of the Queen's, who worked
so subtly in concert. Many would be wronged, much
harm would be done, the liberties of some thousands of
freeborn Englishmen would be trampled underfoot. What
did it matter ? It was necessary that his Grace of
Buckingham should cover up an indiscretion.

" Set ink and paper yonder," he bade his gaping valet.
" Then go call M. Gerbier. Rouse Lacy and Thorn, and
send them to me at once, and leave word that I shall
require a score of couriers to be in the saddle and ready
to set out in half an hour."

Bewildered, the valet went off upon his errand. The
Duke sat down to write. And next morning English mer-
chants learnt that the ports of England were closed by
the King's express command — delivered by his minister,
the Duke of Buckingham — that measures were being
taken — were already taken in all southern ports — so that
no vessel of any kind should leave the island until the
King's further pleasure were made known. Startled, the
people wondered was this enactment the forerunner of
war. Had they known the truth, they might have been

22O The Historical Nights' Entertainment

more startled still, though in a different manner. As
swiftly as couriers could travel — and certainly well ahead
of any messenger seeking escape overseas — did this
blockade spread, until the gates of England were tight-
locked against the outgoing of those diamond studs which
meant the honour of the Queen of France.

And meanwhile a diamond-cutter was replacing the
purloined stones by others, matching them so closely that
no man should be able to say which were the originals and
which the copies. Buckingham and Gerbier between
them guided the work. Soon it was accomplished, and a
vessel slipped down the Thames, allowed to pass by those
who kept close watch to enforce the royal decree, and
made sail for Calais, which was beginning to manifest
surprise at this entire cessation of traffic from England.
From that vessel landed Gerbier, and rode straight to
Paris, carrying the Queen of France the duplicate
studs, which were to replace those which she had sent
to Buckingham.

Twenty-four hours later the ports of England were
unsealed, and commerce was free and unhampered once
more. But it was twenty-four hours too late for Richelieu
and his agent, the Countess of Carlisle. His Eminence
deplored a fine chance lost through the excessive power
that was wielded in England by the parvenu.

jf

Yet that is not quite the end of the story. Buckingham's
inflamed and reckless mind would ^stop at nothing now to
achieve the object of his desires — to go to France and see
the Queen. Since the country was closed to him, he would
force a way into it, the red way of war. Blood should
flow, ruin and misery desolate the land, but in the end

His Insolence of Buckingham 221

he would go to Paris to negotiate a peace, and that should
be his opportunity. Other reasons there may have been,
but none so dominant, none that could not have been
removed by negotiation. The pretexted casus belli was
the matter of the Protestants of La Rochelle, who were
in rebellion against their king.

To their aid sailed Buckingham with an English expedi-
tion. Disaster and defeat awaited it. Its shattered
remnant crept back in disgrace to England, and the Duke
found himself more detested by the people than he had
been already — which is saying much. He went off to seek
comfort at the hands of the two persons who really loved
him — his doting King and his splendid wife.

But the defeat had neither lessened his resolve nor
chastened his insolence. He prepared a second expedi-
tion in the very teeth of a long-suffering nation's hostility,
indifferent to the mutinies and mutterings about him.
What signified to him the will of a nation ? He desired
to win to the woman whom he loved, and to accomplish
that he nothing recked that he should set Europe in a
blaze, nothing recked what blood should be poured out,
what treasure dissipated.

Hatred of him by now was so widespread and vocal,
that his friends, fearing that soon it would pass from
words to deeds, urged him to take precautions, advised
the wearing of a shirt of mail for greater safety.

But he laughed sneeringly, ever arrogant and scornful.

" It needs not. There are no Roman spirits left," was
his contemptuous answer.

He was mistaken. One morning after breakfast, as
he was leaving the house in the High Street, Portsmouth,
where he lodged whilst superintending the final prepara-

222 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

tions for that unpopular expedition, John Felton, a self-
appointed instrument of national vengeance, drove a knife
to the hilt into the Duke's breast.

" May the Lord have mercy on your soul ! " was the
pious exclamation with which the slayer struck home.
And, in all the circumstances, there seems to have been
occasion for the prayer.

IX. The Path of Exile
The Fall of Lord Clarendon

IX. The Path of Exile

TIGHT-WRAPPED in his cloak against the icy
whips of the black winter's night, a portly gentle-
man, well advanced in years, picked his way carefully
down the wet, slippery steps of the jetty by the light of
a lanthorn, whose rays gleamed lividly on crushed brown
seaweed and trailing green sea slime. Leaning heavily
upon the arm which a sailor held out to his assistance, he
stepped into the waiting boat that rose and fell on the
heaving black waters. A boathook scraped against the
stones, and the frail craft was pushed off.

The oars dipped, and the boat slipped away through the
darkness, steering a course for the two great poop lanterns
that were swinging rhythmically high up against the black
background of the night. The elderly gentleman, huddled
now in the stern-sheets, looked behind him — to look his last
upon the England he had loved and served and ruled.
The lanthorn, shedding its wheel of yellow light upon the
jetty steps, was all of it that he could now see.

He sighed, and settled down again to face the poop
lights, dancing there above the invisible hull of the ship
that was to carry Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon,
lately Lord Chancellor of England, into exile.

As a dying man looks down the foreshortened vista of

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226 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

his active life, so may Edward Hyde — whose career had
reached a finality but one degree removed from the
finality of death — have reviewed in that moment those
thirty years of sincere endeavour and high achievement
since he had been a law student in the Temple when
Charles I. was King.

That King he had served faithfully, so faithfully that
when the desperate fortunes of the Royalist party made
it necessary to place the Prince of Wales beyond the
reach of Cromwell, it was in Sir Edward Hyde's care that
the boy was sent upon his travels. The present was not
to be Hyde's first experience of exile. He had known it,
and of a bitter sort, in those impecunious days when the
Second Charles, whose steps he guided, was a needy,
homeless outcast. A man less staunch and loyal might
have thrown over so profitless a service. He had talents
that would have commanded a price in the Roundhead
market. Yet staunchly adhering to the Stuart fortunes,
labouring ceaselessly and shrewdly in the Stuart interest,
employing his great ability and statecraft, he achieved at
long length the restoration of the Stuarts to the Throne
of England. And for all those loyal, self-denying labours
in exile on the Stuart behalf, all the reward he had at itfie
time was that James Stuart, Duke of York, debaucned
his daughter.

Nor did Hyde's labours cease when he had made possible
the Restoration ; it was Hyde who, when that Restoration
was accomplished, took in hand and carried out the diffi-
cult task of welding together the old and the new condi-
tions of political affairs. And it was Hyde who was
the scapegoat when things did not run the course that
Englishmen desired. As the head of the administration

The Path cf Exile 227

he was held responsible ev n or those acts which he had
strongly but vainly reprobated in Council. It was Hyde
who was blamed when Charles old Dunkirk to the French,
and spent the money in harlotry ; it was Hyde who was
blamed b. cause the Queen was childless.

The reason for this last lay in the fact that the wrong
done to I'y e's daughter Anne had now been righted by
nir.r age with the Duke of York. Now the Duke of York
v.ViS the heir-apparent, and the people, ever ready to attach
3 lost credit to that which is most incredible and fantastic,
..Sieved that to ensure the succession of his own grand-
children Hyde had deliberately provided Charles with a
barren wife.

\Yhen the Dutch, sailing up the Thames, had burnt the
ships of war at Chatham, and Londoners heard the thunder
of enemy guns, Hyde was openly denounced as a traitor
by a people stricken with terror and seeking a victim in the
blind, unreasoning way of public feeling. They broke his
windows, ravaged his garden, and erected a gibbet before
the gates of his superb mansion on the north side of
Piccadilly.

Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, and Lord Chancellor
of England, commanded the love ^f his intimates, but did
not possess those qualities of cheap glitter that make for
popularity with the masses. Nor did he court popularity
elsewhere. Because he was austere in his morals, grave
and sober in his conduct, he was hated by those who made
up the debauched court of his prince. Because he was
deeply religious in his principles, the Puritans mistrusted
him for a bigot. Because he was autocratic in his policy,
he was detested by the Commons, the day of autocracy
being done.

15*

228 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Yet might he have weathered the general hostility had
Charles been half as loyal to him as he had ever been loyal
to Charles. For a time, it is true, the King stood his
friend, and might so have continued to the end had not
the women become mixed up in the business. As Evelyn,
the diarist, puts it, this great man's fall was the work of
" the buffoones and ladys of pleasure."

It really is a very tangled story — this inner history of
the fall of Clarendon, with which the school-books are not
concerned. In a sense, it is also the story of the King's
marriage and of Catherine of Braganza, his unfortunate
little ugly Queen, who must have suffered as much as any
woman wedded to a sultan in any country where the
seraglio is not a natural and proper institution.

If Clarendon could not be said to have brought about
the marriage, at least he had given it his suffrages when
proposed by Portugal, which was anxious to establish an
alliance with England as some protection against the pre-
datory designs of Spain. He had been influenced by the
dowry offered — five hundred thousand pounds in money,
Tangier, which would give England a commanding position
on the Mediterranean, and the Island of Bombay. With-
out yet foreseeing that the possession of Bombay, and the
freedom to trade in the East Indies — which Portugal
had hitherto kept jealously to herself — were to enable
England to build up her great Indian Empire, yet the
commercial advantages alone were obvious enough to
make the match desirable.

Catherine of Braganza sailed for England, and on the
igth of May, 1662, Charles, attended by a splendid follow-
ing, went to meet his bride at Portsmouth. He was
himself a very personable man, tall — he stood a full six

The Path of Exile 229

feet high — lean and elegantly vigorous. The ugliness of
his drawn, harsh-featured face was mitigated by the glory
of full, low-lidded, dark eyes, and his smile could be
irresistibly captivating. He was as graceful in manner
as in person, felicitous of speech, and of an indolent good
temper that found expression in a charming urbanity.

Good temper and urbanity alike suffered rudely when he
beheld the wife they brought him. Catherine, who was
in her twenty-fifth year, was of an absurdly low stature,
so long in the body and short in the legs that, dressed as
she was in an outlandish, full-skirted farthingale, she had
the appearance of being on her knees when she stood
before him. Her complexion was sallow, and though her
eyes, like his own, were fine, they were not fine enough to
redeem the dull plainness of her face. Her black hair
was grotesquely dressed, with a long fore-top and two
great ribbon bows standing out, one on each side of her
head, like a pair of miniature wings.

It is little wonder that the Merry Monarch, the fastidious
voluptuary, with his nice discernment in women, should
have checked in his long stride, and halted a moment in
consternation.

" Lord ! " was his wry comment to Etheredge, who
was beside him. " They've brought me a bat, not a
woman."

But if she lacked beauty, she was well dowered, and
Charles was in desperate need of money.

" I suppose," he told Clarendon anon, " I must swallow
this black draught to get the jam that goes with it."

The Chancellor's grave eyes considered him almost
sternly what time he coldly recited the advantages of
this marriage. If he did not presume to rebuke the

230 The 1 istorical Nights' Entertainment

ribaldry of his master, neither would he condescend to
• mile at it. He was too honest ever to be a sycophant.

Catherine was immediately attended — in the words of
Grammont — by six frights who called themselves maids-
of-honour, and a governess who was a monster. With
this retinue she r paired to Hampton Court, where the
honeymoon was spent, and where for a brief season the
oor woman — entirely enamoured of the graceful, long-
jepeed rake she ha I married — lived in a fool's paradise.

Disillusion was to follow soon enough. She might be,
by he grace of her dowry, Queen of England, but she was
eoon to discover that to King Charles she was no more
than a wife de jure. With wives de jacto Charles would
people his seraglio as fancy moved him ; and the present
wife de jacto, the mistress of his heart, the first lady of his
harem, was that beautiful termagant, Barbara Villiers,
wife of the accommodating Roger Palmer, Earl of Castle-
maine.

There was no lack — there never is in such cases — of
those who out of concern and love for the happily deluded
wife lifted the veil for her, and made her aware of the
facts of his Majesty's association with my Lady Castle-
maine — an association dating back to the time when he
was still a homeless wanderer. The knowledge would
appear to have troubled the poor soul profoundly ; but the
climax of her distress was reached when, on her coming to
Whitehall, she found at the head of the list of ladies-in-
waiting assigned to her the name of my Lady Castlemaine.
The forlorn little woman's pride rose up before this outrage.
She struck out that offending name, and gave orders that
the favourite was not to be admitted to her presence.

But she reckoned without Charles. For all his urbane,

The Path of Exile 231

good-tempered, debonair ways, there was an ugly cynical
streak in his nature, manifested now in the manner in
which he dealt with this situation. Himself he led his
boldly handsome favourite by the hand into his wife's
presence, before the whole Court assembled, and himself
presented her to Catherine, what time that Court, disso-
lute and profligate as it was, looked on in amazement at
so outrageous a slight to the dignity of a queen.

What followed may well have exceeded all expecta-
tions. Catherine stiffened as if the blow dealt her had
been physical. Gradually her face paled until it was grey
and drawn ; tears of outraged pride and mortification
flooded her eyes. And then, as if something snapped
within her brain under this stress of bitter emotion, blood
gushed from her nostrils, and she sank back in a swoon
into the arms of her Portuguese ladies.

Confusion followed, and under cover of it Charles and
his light of love withdrew, realizing that if he lingered
not all his easy skill in handling delicate situations could
avail him to save his royal dignity.

Naturally the experiment was not to be repeated.
But since it was his wish that the Countess of Castlemaine
should be established as one of the Queen's ladies — or,
rather, since it was her ladyship's wish, and since Charles
was as wax in her ladyship's hands — it became necessary
to have the Queen instructed in what was, in her husband's
view, fitting. For this task he selected Clarendon. But
the Chancellor, who had so long and loyally played
Mentor to Charles's Telemachus, sought now to guide him
in matters moral as he had hitherto guided him in matters
political.

Clarendon declined the office of mediator, and even

232 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

expostulated with Charles upon the unseemliness of the
course upon which his Majesty was bent.

" Surely, sire, it is for her Majesty to say who shall
and who shall not be the ladies of her bedchamber. And
I nothing marvel at her decision in this instance."

" Yet I tell you, my lord, that it is a decision that shall
be revoked."

" By whom, sire ? " the Chancellor asked him gravely.

" By her Majesty, of course."

" Under coercion, of which you ask me to be the instru-
ment," said Clarendon, in the tutorly manner he had
used with the King from the latter's boyhood. " Your-
self, sire, at a time when your own wishes did not warp
your judgment, have condemned the very thing that
now you are urging. Yourself, sire, hotly blamed your
cousin, King Louis, for thrusting Mademoiselle de Valliere
upon his queen. You will not have forgotten the things
you said then of King Louis."

Charles remembered those unflattering criticisms which
he was now invited to apply to his own case. He bit his
lip, admitting himself in check.

But anon — no doubt in obedience to the overbearing
suasion of my Lady Castlemaine— he returned to the
attack, and sent the Chancellor his orders in a letter
demanding unquestioning obedience.

" Use your best endeavours," wrote Charles, " to facili-
tate what I am sure my honour is so much concerned in.
And whosoever I find to be my Lady Castlemaine's enemy
in this matter, I do promise upon my word to be his
enemy so long as I live."

My Lord Clarendon had few illusions on the score of
mankind. He knew his world from froth to dregs—

The Path of Exile 233

having studied it under a variety of conditions. Yet that
letter from his King was a bitter draught. All that Charles
possessed and was he owed to Clarendon. Yet in such
a contest as this, Charles did not hesitate to pen that
bitter, threatening line : " Whosoever I find to be my Lady
Castlemaine's enemy in this matter, I do promise upon
my word to be his enemy so long as I live."

All that Clarendon had done in the past was to count
for nothing unless he also did the unworthy thing that
Charles now demanded. All that he had accomplished in
the service of his King was to be swept into oblivion by
the breath of a spiteful wanton.

Clarendon swallowed the draught and sought the
Queen, upon that odious embassy with whose ends he was
30 entirely out of sympathy. He used arguments whose
hollowness was not more obvious to the Queen than to
himself.

That industrious and entertaining chronicler of trifles,
Mr. Pepys, tells us, scandalized, in his diary that on the
following day the talk of the Court was all upon a midnight
scene between the royal couple in the privacy of their
own apartments, so stormy that the sounds of it were
plainly to be heard in the neighbouring chambers.

You conceive the poor little woman, smarting under the
insult of Charles's proposal by the mouth of Clarendon,
assailing her royal husband, and fiercely upbraiding him
with his lack not merely of affection but even of the
respect that was her absolute due. And Charles, his
purpose set, urged to it by the handsome termagant whom
he dared not refuse, stirred out of his indolent good-nature,
turning upon her, storming back, and finally threatening
her with the greater disgrace of seeing herself packed home

234 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

to Portugal, unless she would submit to the lesser disgrace
he thrust upon her here.

Whether by these or by other arguments he made his
will prevail, prevail it did. Catherine of Braganza
swallowed her pride and submitted. And a very complete
submission it was. Lady Castlemaine was not only
installed as a Lady of the Bedchamber, but very soon we
find the Queen treating her with a friendliness that pro-
voked comment and amazement.

The favourite's triumph was complete, and marked by
an increasing insolence, most marked in her demeanour
towards the Chancellor, of whose views on the subject,
as expressed to the King, she was aware. Consequently
she hated him with all the spiteful bitterness that is in-
separable from the nature of such women. And she
hated him the more because, wrapped in his cold con-
tempt, he moved in utter unconcern of her hostility. In
this hatred she certainly did not lack for allies, members
of that licentious court whose hostility towards the
austere Chancellor was begotten of his own scorn of them.
Among them they worked to pull him down.

The attempt to undermine his influence with the King
proving vain — for Charles was as well aware of its inspira-
tion as of the Chancellor's value to him — that crew of
rakes went laboriously and insidiously to work upon the
public mind, which is to say the public ignorance — most
fruitful soil for scandal against the great. Who shall say
how far my lady and the Court were responsible for the
lampoon affixed one day to my Lord Clarendon's gatepost :

Three sights to be seen :

Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren queen.

The Path of Exile 235

Her ladyship might well have considered the unpopu-
larity of the Chancellor as the crown of her triumph, had
this triumph been as stable as she could have wished.
But, Charles being what he was, it follows that her lady-
ship had frequent, if transient, anxious jealousies to mar
the perfection of her existence, to remind her how insecure
is the tenure of positions such as hers, ever at the
mercy of the very caprice to which they owe their
existence.

And then, at long length, there came a day of horrid
dread for her, a day when she found herself bereft of her
influence with her royal lover, when pleadings and railings
failed alike to sway him. In part she owed it to an indis-
cretion of her' own, but in far greater measure to a child
of sixteen, of a golden-headed, fresh, youthful loveliness,
and a nature that still found pleasure in dolls and kindred
childish things, yet of a quick and lively wit, and a clear,
intelligent mind, untroubled either by the assiduity of the
royal attentions or the fact that she was become the toast
of the day.

This was Miss Frances Stewart, the daughter of Lord
Blantyre, newly come to Court as a Lady-in- Waiting to
her Majesty. How profound an impression her beauty
made upon the admittedly impressionable old Pepys you
may study in his diary. He had a glimpse of her one day
riding in the Park with the King, and a troop of ladies,
among whom my Lady Castlemaine, looking, as he tells
us, " mighty out of humour." There was a moment when
Miss Stewart came very near to becoming Queen of
England, and although she never reached that eminence,
yet her effigy not only found, its way into the coinage,
but abides there to this day (more perdurable than that

236 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

of any actual queen) in the figure of Britannia, for which
she was the model.

Charles wooed her openly. It was never his way to
study appearances in these matters. He was so assiduous
that it became customary in that winter of 1666 for those
seeking the King at Whitehall to inquire whether he were
above or below — " below " meaning Miss Stewart's apart-
ments on the ground-floor of the palace, in which apart-
ments his Majesty was a constant visitor. And since
where the King goes the Court follows, and where the
King smiles there the Court fawns, it resulted that this
child now found herself queening it over a court that
flocked to her apartments. Gallants and ladies came
there to flirt and to gossip, to gamble and to pay homage.

About a great table in her splendid salon, a company
of rustling, iridescent fops in satin and heavy periwigs,
and of ladies with curled head-dresses and bare shoulders,
played at basset one night in January. Conversation
rippled, breaking here and there into laughter, white,
jewelled hands reached out for cards, or for a share of the
heaps of gold that swept this way and that with the
varying fortunes of the game.

My Lady Castlemaine, seated between Etheredge and
Rochester, played in silence, with lips tight-set and
brooding eyes. She had lost, it is true, some £1,500
that night ; yet, a prodigal gamester, and one who came
easily by money, she had been known to lose ten times
that sum and yet preserve her smile. The source of her
ill-humour was not the game. She played recklessly,
her attention wandering ; those handsome, brooding
eyes of hers were intent upon watching what went on at
the other end of the long room. There, at a smaller table,

The Path of Exile 237

sat Miss Stewart, half a dozen gallants hovering near her,
engaged upon a game of cards of a vastly different sort.
Miss Stewart did not gamble. The only purpose she could
find for cards was to build castles ; and here she was
building one with the assistance of her gallants, and under
the superintendence of his Grace of Buckingham, who
was as skilled in this as in other equally unstable forme
of architecture.

Apart, over by the fire, in a great chair of gilt leather,
lounged the King, languidly observing this smaller party,
a faint, indolent smile on his swarthy, saturnine counte-
nance. Absently, with one hand he stroked a little
spaniel that was curled in his lap. A black boy in a gor-
geous, plumed turban and a long, crimson surcoat
arabesqued in gold — there were three or four such atten-
dants about the room — proffered him a cup of posset on
a golden salver.

The King rose, thrust aside the little blackamoor, and
with his spaniel under his arm, sauntered across to Miss
Stewart's table. Soon he found himself alone with her
— the others having removed themselves on his approach,
as jackals fall back before the coming of the lion. The
last to go, and with signs of obvious reluctance, was his
Grace of Richmond, a delicately-built, uncomely, but
very glittering gentleman.

Charles faced her across the table, the tall house of
cards standing between them.

Miss invited his Majesty's admiration for my Lord of
Buckingham's architecture. Pouf ! His Majesty blew,
and the edifice rustled down to a mere heap of cards again.

" Symbol of kingly power," said Miss, pertly. " You
demolish better than you build, sire."

238 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Oddsfish ! If you challenge me, it were easy to prove
you wrong," quoth he.

" Pray do. The cards are here."

" Cards ! Pooh ! Card castles are well enough for
Buckingham. But such is not the castle Pll build you
if you command me."

"I command the King's Majesty? Mon Dieu! But
it would be treason surely."

" Not greater treason than to have enslaved me." His
fine eyes were oddly ardent. " Shall I ^ build you this
castle, child ? "

Miss looked at him, and looked away. Her eyelids
fluttered distractingly. She fetched a sigh.

" The castle that your Majesty would build for any
but your Queen must prove a prison."

She rose, and, looking across the room, she met the
handsome, scowling eyes of the neglected favourite.
" My Lady Castlemaine looks as if she feared that fortune
were not favouring her." She was so artless that Charles
could not be sure there was a double meaning to her
speech. " Shall we go see how she is faring ? " she
added, with a disregard for etiquette, whose artlessness he
also doubted.

He yielded, of course. That was his way with beauty,
especially with beauty not yet reduced into possession.
But the characteristic urbanity with which he sauntered
beside her across the room was no more than a mask upon
his chagrin. It was always thus that pretty Frances
Stewart used him. She always knew how to elude him
and, always with that cursed air of artlessness, uttered
seemingly simple sentences that clung to his mind to
tantalize him.

The Path of Exile 239

" The castle your Majesty would build for any but your
Queen must prove a prison." What had she meant by
that ? Must he take her to queen before she would
allow him to build a castle for her ?

It was an insistent, haunting thought, wracking his
mind. He knew there was a party hostile to the Duke
of York and Clarendon, which, fearing the succession of
the former, and, so, of the grandchildren of the latter, as
a result of Catherine of Braganza's childlessness, strongly
favoured the King's divorce.

It was a singular irony that my Lady Castlemaine
should be largely responsible for the existence of that
party. In her hatred for Clarendon, and her blind search
for weapons that would slay the Chancellor, she had, if
not actually invented, at least helped to give currency to
the silly slander that Clarendon had deliberately chosen
for Charles a barren queen, so as to ensure the ultimate
succession of his own daughter's children. But she had
never thought to see that slander recoil upon her as it now
did ; she had never thought that a party would come to
rise up in consequence that would urge divorce upon the
King at the very moment when he was consumed by
passion for the unattainable, artlessly artful Frances
Stewart.

It was Buckingham, greatly daring, who slyly made
himself that party's mouthpiece. The suggestion startled
Charles, voicing, as perhaps it did, the temptation by which
he was secretly assailed. He looked at Buckingham,
frowning.

" I verily believe you are the wickedest dog in England."

The impudent gallant made a leg. " For a subject, sire,
I believe I am."

240 The Historical Nights* Entertainment

Charles — with whom the amusing word seems ever to
have, been more compelling than the serious — laughed his
soft, mellow laugh. Then he sighed, and the frown of
thought returned.

" It would be a wicked thing to make a poor lady
miserable only because she is my wife, and has no children
by me, which is no fault of hers."

He was a thoroughly bad husband, but his indolent
good-nature shrank from purchasing his desires at the price
of so much ignominy to the Queen. Before that could
come to pass it would be necessary to give the screw of
temptation another turn or two. And it was Miss Stewart
herself who — in all innocence — supplied what was required
in that direction. Driven to bay by the importunities of
Charles, she announced at last that it was her intention
to retire from Court, so as to preserve herself from the
temptations by which she was beset, and to determine
the uneasiness which, through no fault of her own, her
presence was occasioning the Queen : and she announced
further, that, so desperate had she been rendered that she
would marry any gentleman of fifteen hundred pounds a
year who would have her in honour.

You behold Charles reduced to a state of panic. He
sought to bribe her with offers of any settlements she
chose to name, or any title she coveted, offering her these
things at the nation's expense as freely and lightly as the
jewels he had tossed into her lap, or the collar of pearls
worth sixteen hundred pounds he had put about her neck.
The offers were ineffectual, and Charles, driven almost to
distraction by such invulnerable virtue, might now have
yielded to the insidious whispers of divorce and re-marriage
had not my Lady Castlemaine taken a hand in the game.

The Path of Exile 241

Her ladyship, dwelling already, as a consequence of
that royal infatuation for Miss Stewart, in the cold, rarefied
atmosphere of a neglect that amounted almost to disgrace,
may have considered with bitterness how her attempt to
exploit her hatred of the Chancellor had recoiled upon
herself.

In the blackest hour of her despair, when hope seemed
almost dead, she made a discovery — or, rather, the King's
page, the ineffable Chiffinch, Lord Keeper of the Back
Stairs and Grand-Eunuch of the Royal Seraglio, who was
her ladyship's friend, made it and communicated it to her.

There had been one ardent respondent in the Duke of
Richmond to that proclamation of Miss Stewart's that
she would marry any gentleman of fifteen hundred pounds
a year. Long enamoured of her, his Grace saw here his
opportunity, and he seized it. Consequently he was now
in constant attendance upon "'her, but very secretly, since
he feared the King's displeasure.

My Lady Castlemaine, having discovered this, and being
well served in the matter by Chiffinch, spied her oppor-
tunity. It came one cold night towards the end of
February of that year 1667. Charles, going below at a
late hour to visit Miss Stewart, when he judged that she
would be alone, was informed by her maid that Miss was
not receiving, a headache compelling her to keep her
room. ,

His Majesty returned above in a very ill-humour, to
find himself confronted in his own apartments by my
Lady Castlemaine. Chiffinch had introduced her by the
back-stairs entrance. Charles stiffened at sight of her.

" I hope I may be allowed to pay my homage," says
she, on a note of irony, " although the angelic Stewart

16

242 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

has forbid you to see me at my own house. I come to
condole with you upon the affliction and grief into which
the new-fashioned chastity of the inhuman Stewart has
reduced your Majesty."

" You are pleased to be amused, ma'am," says Charles
frostily.

" I will not," she returned him, " make use of reproaches
which wrould disgrace myself ; still less will I endeavour
to excuse frailties in myself which nothing can justify,
since your constancy for me deprives me of all defence."
Her ladyship, you see, had a considerable gift of sarcasm.

" In that case, may I ask you why you have come ? "

" To open your eyes. Because I cannot bear that you
should be made the jest of your own Court."

" Madam ! "

" Ah ! You didn't know, of course, that you are being
laughed at for the gross manner in which you are being
imposed upon by the Stewart's affectations, any more
than you know that whilst you are denied adm'ittance to
her apartments, under the pretence of some indisposition,
the Duke of Richmond is with her now."

" That is false," he was beginning, very indignantly.

" I do not desire you to take my word for it. If you
will follow me, you will no longer be the dupe of a false
prude, who makes you act so ridiculous a part."

She took him, still half-resisting, by the hand, and in
silence led him, despite his reluctance, back by the way
he had so lately come. Outside her rival's door she left
him, but she paused at the end of the gallery to make
sure that he had entered.

Within he found himself confronted by several of Miss
Stewart's chambermaids, who respectfully barred his

The Path of Exile 243

way, one of them informing him scarcely above a whisper
that her mistress had been very ill since his Majesty left,
but that, being gone to bed, she was, God be thanked, in
a very fine sleep.

" That I must see," said the King. And, since one of
the women placed herself before the door of the inner
room, his Majesty unceremoniously took her by the
shoulders and put her aside.

He thrust open the door, and stepped without further
ceremony into the well-lighted bedroom. Miss Stewart
occupied the handsome, canopied bed. But far from being,
as he had been told, in " a very fine sleep," she was sitting
up ; and far from presenting an ailing appearance, she
looked radiantly well and very lovely in her diaphanous
sleeping toilet, with golden ringlets in distracting disarray.
Nor was she alone. By her pillow sat one who, if at first
to be presumed her physician, proved upon scrutiny to be
the Duke of Richmond.

The King's swarthy face turned a variety of colours,
his languid eyes lost all trace of languor. Those who
knew his nature might have expected that he would now
deliver himself with that sneering sarcasm, that indolent
cynicism, which he used upon occasion. But he was too
deeply stirred for acting. His self-control deserted him
entirely. Exactly what he said has not been preserved for
us. All that we are told is that he signified his resentment
in such terms as he had never before used ; and that his
Grace, almost petrified by the King's most royal rage,
uttered never a word in answer. The windows of the
room overlooked the Thames. The King's eyes strayed
towards them. Richmond was slight of build, Charles
vigorous and athletic. His Grace took the door betimes,

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244 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

lest the window should occur to his Majesty, and so he
left the lady alone with the outraged monarch.

Thereafter Charles did not have it all quite his own way.
Miss Stewart faced him in an indignation nothing less
than his own, and she was very far from attempting any
such justification of herself, or her conduct, as he may
have expected.

" Will your Majesty be more precise as to the grounds
of your complaint ? " she invited him challengingly.

That checked his wildness. It brought him up with a
round turn. His jaw fell, and he stared at her, lost now
for words. Of this she took the fullest advantage.

" If I am not allowed to receive visits from a man of
the Duke of Richmond's rank, who comes with honour-
able intentions, then I am a slave in a free country. I
know of no engagement that should prevent me from dis-
posing of my hand as I think fit. But if this is not per-
mitted me in your Majesty's dominions, I do not believe
there is any power on earth can prevent me going back
to France, and throwing myself into a convent, there to
enjoy the peace denied me at this Court."

With that she melted into tears, and his discomfiture
was complete. On his knees he begged her forgiveness
for the injury he had done her. But Miss was not in a
forgiving humour.

" If your Majesty would graciously consent to leave
me now in peace," said she, " you would avoid offending
by a longer visit those who accompanied or conducted
you to my apartments."

She had drawn a bow at a venture, but shrewdly, and
the shaft went home. Charles rose, red in the face.
Swearing he would never speak to her again, he stalked out.

The Path of Exile 245

Later, however, he considered. If he felt bitterly
aggrieved, he must also have realized that he had no just
grounds for this, and that in his conduct in Miss Stewart's
room he had been entirely ridiculous. She was rightly
resolved against being lightly worn by any man. If any-
thing, the reflection must have fanned his passion. It
was impossible, he thought, that she should love that
knock-kneed fellow, Richmond, who had no graces either
of body or of mind, and if she suffered the man's suit,
it must be, as she had all but said, so that she might be
delivered from the persecution to which his Majesty had
submitted her. The thought of her marrying Richmond,
or, indeed, anybody, was unbearable to Charles, and it
may have stifled his last scruple in the matter of the divorce.

His first measure next morning was to banish Rich-
mond from the Court. But Richmond had not stayed
for the order to quit. The King's messenger found him
gone already.

Then Charles took counsel in the matter with the Chan-
cellor. Clarendon's habitual gravity was increased to
sternness. He spoke to the King — taking the fullest
advantage of the tutelary position in which for the last
twenty-five years he had stood to him — much as he had
spoken when Charles had proposed to make Barbara
Palmer a Lady of the Queen's Bedchamber, saving that
he was now even more uncompromising. The King was
not pleased with him. But just as he had had his way,
despite the Chancellor, in that other matter, so he would
have his way despite him now.

This time, however, the Chancellor took no risks. He
feared too much the consequences for Charles, and he
determined to spare no effort to avoid a scandal, and to

246 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

save the already deeply-injured Queen. So he went
secretly to work to outwit the King. He made himself
the protector of those lovers, the Duke of Richmond and
Miss Stewart, with the result that one dark night, a week
or two later, the lady stole away from the Palace of White-
hall, and made her way to the Bear Tavern, at the Bridge-
foot, Westminster, where Richmond awaited her with a
coach. And so, by the secret favour of the Lord Chan-
cellor, they stole away to Kent and matrimony.

That was checkmate indeed to Charles, who swore all
manner of things in his mortification. But it was not
until some six weeks later that he learnt by whose agency
the thing had been accomplished. He learnt it, not a
doubt, from my Lady Castlemaine.

The estrangement between her ladyship and the King,
which dated back to the time of his desperate courtship
of Miss Stewart, was at last made up ; and once again
we see her ladyship triumphant, and firmly established in
the amorous King's affections. She had cause to be
grateful to the Chancellor for this. But her vindictive
nature remembered only the earlier injury still unavenged.
Here at last was her chance to pay off that score. Claren-
don, beset by enemies on every hand, yet trusting in the
King whom he had served so well, stood his ground un-
intimidated and unmoved — an oak that had weathered
mightier storms than this. He did not dream that he was
in the power of an evil woman. And that woman used
her power. When all else failed, she told the King of
Clarendon's part in the flight of Miss Stewart, and lest the
King should be disposed to pardon the Chancellor out of
consideration for his motives, represented him as a self-
seeker, and charged him with having acted thus so as to

The Path of Exile 247

make sure of keeping his daughter's children by the Duke
of York in the succession.

That was the end. Charles withdrew his protection,
threw Clarendon to the wolves. He sent the Duke of
Albemarle to him with a command that he should sur-
render his seals of office. The proud old man refused
to yield his seals to any but the King himself. He may
have hoped that the memory of all that lay between them
would rise up once more when they were face to face.
So he came in person to Whitehall to make surrender.
He walked deliberately, firmly, and with head erect,
through the hostile throng of courtiers — " especially the
buffoones and ladys of pleasure," as Evelyn says.

Of his departure thence, his disgrace now consummated,
Pepys has left us a vivid picture :

" When he went from the King on Monday morning my
Lady Castlemaine was in bed (though about twelve
o'clock), and ran out in her smock into her aviary looking
into Whitehall Gardens ; and thither her woman brought
her her nightgown ; and she stood, blessing herself at the
old man's going away ; and several of the gallants of White-
hall— of which there were many staying to see the Chan-
cellor's return — did talk to her in her birdcage ; among
others Blandford, telling her she was the bird of passage."

Clarendon lingered, melancholy and disillusioned, at
his fine house in Piccadilly until, impeached by Parliament,
he remembered Strafford's fate, and set out to tread once
more and for the remainder of his days the path of exile.

Time avenged him. Two of his granddaughters — Mary
and Anne — reigned successively as queens in England.

X. The Tragedy of Herrenhausen

Count Philip Konigsniark and the
Princess Sophia Dorothea

X. The Tragedy of Herrenhaiisen

HE was accounted something of a scamp throughout
Europe, and particularly in England, where he had
been associated with his brother in the killing of Mr.
Thynne. But the seventeenth century did not look for
excessively nice scruples in a soldier of fortune ; and so it
condoned the lack of virtue in Count Philip Christof
Konigsmark for the sake of his personal beauty, his ele-
gance, his ready wit, and his magnificent address. The
court of Hanover made him warmly welcome, counting
itself the richer for his presence ; whilst he, on his side, was
retained there by the Colonelcy in the Electoral Guard to
which he had been appointed, and by his deep and ill-
starred affection for the Princess Sophia Dorothea, the wife
of the Electoral Prince, who later was to reign in England
as King George I.

His acquaintance with her dated back to childhood, for
they had been playmates at her father's ducal court of
Zell, where Konigsmark had been brought up. With
adolescence he had gone out into the world to seek the
broader education which it offered to men of quality and
spirit. He had fought bulls in Madrid, and the infidel
overseas ; he had wooed adventure wherever it was to be
met, until romance hung about him like an aura. Thus

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252 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

Sophia met him again, a dazzling personality, whose efful-
gence shone the more brightly against the dull background
of that gross Hanoverian court ; an accomplished, graceful,
self-reliant man of the world, in whom she scarcely recog-
nized her sometime playmate.

The change he found in her was no less marked, though
of a different kind. The sweet child he had known — she
had been married in 1682, at the age of sixteen — had come
in her ten years of wedded life to the fulfilment of the
handsome promise of her maidenhood. But her beauty
was spiritualized by a certain wistfulness that had not been
there before, that should not have been there now had all
been well. The sprightliness inherent in her had not
abated, but it had assumed a certain warp of bitterness ;
humour, which is of the heart, had given place in her to
wit, which is of the mind, and this wit was barbed, and a
little reckless of how or where it offended.

Konigsmark observed these changes that the years
had wrought, and knew enough of her story to account for
them. He knew of her thwarted love for her cousin, the
Duke of Wolfenbiittel, thwarted for the sake of dynastic
ambition, to the end that by marrying her to the Electoral
Prince George the whole of the Duchy of Liineberg might
be united. Thus, for political reasons, she had been thrust
into a union that was mutually loveless ; for Prince George
had as little affection to bring to it as herself. Yet for a
prince the door to compensations is ever open. Prince
George's taste, as is notorious, was ever for ugly women,
and this taste he indulged so freely, openly, and grossly
that the coldness towards him with which Sophia had
entered the alliance was eventually converted into disgust
and contempt.

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 253

Thus matters stood between that ill-matched couple ;
contempt on her side, cold dislike on his, a dislike that was
fully shared by his father, the Elector, Ernest Augustus,
and encouraged in the latter by the Countess von Platen.

Madame von Platen, the wife of the Elector's chief
minister of state, was — with the connivance of her despic-
able husband, who saw therein the means to his own
advancement — the acknowledged mistress of Ernest
Augustus. She was a fleshly, gauche, vain, and ill-favoured
woman. Malevolence sat in the creases of her painted
face, and peered from her mean eyes. Yet, such as she
was, the Elector Ernest loved her. His son's taste for
ugly women would appear to have been hereditary.

Between the Countess and Sophia there was a deadly
feud. The princess had mortally offended her father-in-
law's favourite. Not only had she never troubled to
dissemble the loathing which that detestable woman in-
spired in her, but she had actually given it such free and
stinging expression as had provoked against Madame von
Platen the derision of the court, a derision so ill-concealed
that echoes of it had reached its object, and made her aware
of the source from whence it sprang.

It was into this atmosphere of hostility that the advent
of the elegant, romantic Konigsmark took place. He found
the stage set for comedy of a grim and bitter kind, which
he was himself, by his recklessness, to convert into tragedy.

It began by the Countess von Platen's falling in love
with him. It was some time before he suspected it, though
heaven knows he did not lack for self-esteem. Perhaps it
was this very self-esteem that blinded him here to the
appalling truth. Yet in the end understanding came to
him. When the precise significance of the fond leer of

254 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

that painted harridan's repellent coquetry was borne in
upon him he felt the skin of his body creep and roughen.
But he dissembled craftily. He was a venal scamp,
after all, and in the court of Hanover he saw opportunities
to employ his gifts and his knowledge of the great world
in such a way as to win to eminence. He saw that-the
Elector's favourite could be of use to him ; and it is not
your adventurer's way to look too closely into the nature
of the ladder by which he has the chance to climb.

Skilfully, craftily, then, he played the enamoured
countess so long as her fondness for him might be useful,
her hostility detrimental. But once the Colonelcy of the
Electoral Guards was firmly in his grasp, and an intimate
friendship had ripened between himself and Prince Charles
— the Elector's younger son — sufficiently to ensure his
future, he plucked off the mask and allied himself with
Sophia in her hostility towards Madame von Platen. He
did worse. Some little time thereafter, whilst on a visit
to the court of Poland, he made one night in his cups a
droll story of the amorous persecution which he had suffered
at Madame von Platen's hands.

It was a tale that set the profligate company in a roar.
But there was one present who afterwards sent a report of
it to the Countess, and you conceive the nature of the
emotions it aroused in her. Her rage was the greater for
being stifled. It was obviously impossible for her to appeal
to her lover, the Elector, to avenge her. From the Elector,
above all others, must the matter be kept concealed.
But not on that account would she forgo the vengeance
due. She would present a reckoning in full ere all was
done, and bitterly should the presumptuous young
adventurer who had flouted her be made to pay.

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 255

The opportunity was very soon to be afforded her. It
arose more or less directly out of an act in which she indulged
her spite against Sophia. This lay in throwing Melusina
Schulemberg into the arms of the Electoral Prince.
Melusina, who was years afterwards to be created Duchess
of Kendal, had not yet attained to that completeness of
lank, bony hideousness that was later to distinguish her
in England. But even in youth she could boast of little
attraction. Prince George, however, was easily attracted.
A dull, undignified libertine, addicted to over-eating, heavy
drinking, and low conversation, he found in Melusina von
Schulemberg an ideal mate. Her installation as maitresse
fn-titre took place publicly at a ball given by Prince George
at Herrenhausen, a ball at which the Princess Sophia was
present.

Accustomed, inured, as she was to the coarse profligacy
of her dullard husband, and indifferent to his philandering
as her contempt of him now left her, yet in the affront thus
publicly offered her, she felt that the limit of endurance
had been reached. Next day it was found that she had
disappeared from Herrenhausen. She had fled to her
father's court at Zell.

But her father received her coldly ; lectured her upon
the freedom and levity of her manners, which he condemned
as unbecoming the dignity of her rank ; recommended her
to use in future greater prudence, and a proper, wifely
submission ; and, the homily delivered, packed her back
to her husband at Herrenhausen.

George's reception of her on her return was bitterly
hostile. She had been guilty of a more than usual, of an
unpardonable want of respect for him. She must learn
what was due to her station, and to her husband. He

256 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

would thank her to instruct herself in these matters against
his return from Berlin, whither he was about to journey,
and he warned her that he would suffer no more tantrums
of that kind.

Thus he delivered himself, with cold hate in his white,
flabby, frog-face and in the very poise of his squat, un-
gainly figure.

Thereafter he uo^'ted for Berlin, bearing hate of her
with him, and leaving ro, , ^ despair behind.

It was then, in this despair, that Sophia looked about her
for a true friend to lend her the aid she so urgently required ;
to rescue her from her intolerable, soul-destroying fate.
And at her elbow, against this dreadful need, Destiny had
placed her sometime playmate, her most devoted friend —
as she accounted him, and as, indeed, he was — the elegant,
reckless Konigsmark, with his beautiful face, his golden
mane, and his unfathomable blue eyes.

Walking with him one summer day between clipped
hedges in the formal gardens of Herrenhausen — that
palace as squat and ungraceful as those who had built
and who inhabited it — she opened Ler heart to him very
fully, allowed him, in her overwhelming need of sympathy,
to see things which for very shame she had hitherto veiled
from all other eyes. She kept nothing back ; she dwelt
upon her unhappiness with her boorish husband, told him
of slights and indignities innumerable, whose pain she had
hitherto so bravely di<- embled, confessed, even, that he had
beaten her upon occasion.

Konigsmark went red and white by turns, with the
violent surge of his emotions, and the deep sapphire eyes
blazed with wrath when she came at last to the culminating
horror of blows endured.

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 257

" It is enough, madame," he cried. " I swear to you,
as Heaven hears me, that he shall be punished."

" Punished ? " she echoed, checking in her stride, and
looked at him with a smile of sad incredulity. " It is not
his punishment I seek, my friend, but my own salva-
tion."

" The one can be accomplished with the other," he
answered hotly, and struck the cut-stfefeiflillt of his sword.
" You shall be rid of this lout c. - ever I can come to

him. I go after him to Berlin to-night."

The colour all faded from her cheeks, her sensitive lips
fell apart, as she looked at him aghast.

" Why, what would you do ? What do you mean ? " she
asked him.

" I will send him the length of my sword, and so make
a widow of you, madame."

She shook her head. " Princes do not fight," she said,
on a note of contempt.

" I shall so shame him that he will have no alternative —
unless, indeed, he is shameless. I will choose my occasion
shrewdly, put an affront on him one evening in his cups,
when drink shall have made him valiant enough tb commit
himself to a meeting. If even that will not answer, and
he still shields himself behind his rank — why, there are
other ways to serve him." He was thinking, perhaps, of
Mr. Thynne.

The heat of so much reckless, ror^ntic fury on her
behalf warmed the poor lady, who had so long been chilled
for want of sympathy, and starved of love. Impulsively
she caught his hand in hers.

" My friend, my friend ! " she cried, on a note that
quivered and broke, " you are mad — wonderfully, beauti-

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258 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

fully mad, but mad. What would become of you if you did
this ? "

He swept the consideration aside by a contemptuous,
almost angry gesture. " Does that matter ? I am con-
cerned with what is to become of you. I was born for your
service, my princess, and the service being rendered . . ."
He shrugged and smiled, threw out his hands and let them
fall again to his sides in an eloquent gesture. He was the
complete courtier, the knight-errant, the romantic preux-
chevalier all in one.

She drew closer to him, took the blue lapels of his mili-
tary coat in her white hands, and looked pathetically up
into his beautiful face. If ever she wanted to kiss a man,
she surely wanted to kiss Konigsmark in that moment, but
as she might have kissed a loving brother, in token of her
deep gratitude for his devotion to her ivho had known so
little true devotion.

" If you knew," she said, " what balsam this proof of
your friendship has poured upon the wounds of my soul,
you would understand my utter lack of words in which to
thank you. You dumbfound me, my friend ; I can find
no expression for my gratitude."

" I ask no gratitude," quoth he. " I am all gratitude
myself that you should have come to me in the hour of your
need. I but ask your leave to serve you in my own way."

She shook her head. She saw his blue eyes grow troubled.
He was about to speak, to protest, but she hurried on.
" Serve me if you will — God knows I need the service of a
loyal friend — but serve me as I shall myself decide — no
other way."

" But what alternative service can exist ? " he asked,
almost impatiently.

The Tragedy of Henenhausen 259

" I have it in mind to escape from this horrible place —
to quit Hanover, never to return."

" But to go whither ? "

" Does it matter ? Anywhere away from this hateful
court, and this hateful life ; anywhere, since my father will
not let me find shelter at Zell, as I had hoped. Had it not
been for the thought of my children, I should have fled
long ago. For the sake of those two little ones I have
suffered patiently through all these years. But the limit
of endurance has been reached and passed. Take me a\vay,
Konigsmark ! " She was clutching his lapels again. " If
you would really serve me, help me to escape."

His hands descended upon hers, and held them prisoned
against his breast. A flush crept into his fair cheeks, there
was a sudden kindling of the eyes that looked down into
her own piteous ones. These sensitive, romantic natures
are quickly stirred to passion, ever ready to yield to the
adventure of it.

" My princess," he said, " you may count upon your
Konigsmark while he has life." Disengaging her hands
from his lapels, but still holding them, he bowed low over
them, so low that his heavy golden mane tumbled forward
on either side of his handsome head to form a screen under
cover of which he pressed his lips upon her fingers.

She let him have his will with her hands. It was little
enough reward for so much devotion.

" I thank you again," she breathed. " And now I
must think — I must consider where I can count upon finding
refuge."

That cooled his ardour a little. His own high romantic
notion was, no doubt, to fling her there and then upon the
withers of his horse, and so ride out into the wide world to

260 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

carve a kingdom for her with his sword. Her sober words
dispelled the dream, revealed to him that it was not quite
intended he should hereafter be her custodian. And there
for the moment the matter was suspended.

Both had behaved quite recklessly. Each should have
remembered that an Electoral Princess is not wise to grant
a protracted interview, accompanied by lapel-holding, hand-
holding, and hand-kissings, within sight of the windows of
a palace. And, as it happened, behind one of those win-
dows lurked the Countess von Platen, watching them
jealously, and without any disposition to construe the
meeting innocently. Was she not the deadly enemy of
both ? Had not the Princess whetted satire upon her, and
had not Konigsmark scorned the love she proffered him,
and then unpardonably published it in a ribald story to
excite the mirth of profligates ?

That evening the Countess purposefully sought her lover,
the Elector.

" Your son is away in Prussia," quoth she. " Who
guards his honour in his absence ? "

" George's honour ? " quoth the Elector, bulging eyes
staring at the Countess. He did not laugh, as might have
been expected at the notion of guarding something whose
existence was not easily discerned. He had no sense of
humour, as his appearance suggested. He was a short,
fat man with a face shaped like a pear — narrow in the brow
and heavy in the jowl. " What the devil do you mean ? "
he asked.

" I mean that this foreign adventurer, Konigsmark,
and Sophia grow too intimate."

" Sophia ! " Thick eyebrows were raised until they
almost met the line of his ponderous peruke. His

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 261

face broke into malevolent creases expressive of con-
tempt.

" That white-faced ninny ! Bah ! " Her very virtue
was matter for his scorn.

" It is these white-faced ninnies can be most sly,"
replied the Countess, out of her worldly wisdom. " Listen
a moment now." And she related, with interest rather
than discount, you may be sure, what she had witnessed
that afternoon.

The malevolence deepened in his face. He had never
loved Sophia, and he felt none the kinder towards her for
her recent trip to Zell. Then, too, being a libertine, and
the father of a libertine, it logically followed that unchastity
in his women-folk was in his eyes the unpardonable sin.

He heaved himself out of his deep chair. " How far
has this gone ? " he demanded.

Prudence restrained the Countess from any over-state-
ment that might afterwards be disproved. Besides,
there was not the need, if she could trust her senses.
Patience and vigilance would presently afford her all the
evidence required to damn the pair. She said as much,
and promised the Elector that she would exercise herself
the latter quality in his son's service. Again the Elector
did not find it grotesque that his mistress should appoint
herself the guardian of his son's honour.

The Countess went about that congenial task with zeal
— though George's honour was the least thing that con-
cerned her. What concerned her was the dishonour of
Sophia, and the ruin of Konigsmark. So she watched
assiduously, and set others, too, to watch for her and
to report. And almost daily now she had for the Elector
a tale of whisperings and hand-pressings, and secret stolen

262 The Historical Nights1 Entertainment

meetings between the guilty twain. The Elector enraged,
and would have taken action, but that the guileful Countess
curbed him. All this was not enough. An accusation
that could not be substantiated would ruin all chance of
punishing the offenders, might recoil, indeed, upon the
accusers by bringing the Duke of Zell to his daughter's
aid. So they must wait yet awhile until they held more
absolute proof of this intrigue.

And then at last one day the Countess sped in haste
to the Elector with word that Konigsmark and the Princess
had shut themselves up together in the garden pavilion.
Let him come at once, and he should so discover them for
himself, and thus at last be able to take action. The
Countess was flushed with triumph. Be that meeting never
so innocent — and Madame von Platen could not, being
what she was, and having seen what she had seen, con-
ceive it innocent — it was in an Electoral Princess an unfor-
givable indiscretion, to take the most charitable view,
which none would dream of taking. So the Elector,
fiercely red in the face, hurried off to the pavilion with
Madame von Platen following. He came too late, despite
the diligence of his spy.

Sophia had been there, but her interview with the
Count had been a brief one. She had to tell him that at
last she was resolved in all particulars. She would seek a
refuge at the court of her cousin, the Duke of Wolfen-
biittel, who, she was sure — for the sake of what once had
lain between them — would not now refuse to shelter and
protect her. Of Konigsmark she desired that he should
act as her escort to her cousin's court.

Konigsmark was ready, eager. In Hanover he would
leave nothing that he regretted. At Wolfenbuttel, having

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 263

served Sophia faithfully, his ever-growing, romantic
passion for her might find expression. She would make
all dispositions, and advise him when she was ready to
set out. But they must use caution, for they were being
spied upon. Madame von Platen's over-eagerness had
in part betrayed her. It was, indeed, their consciousness
of espionage which had led to this dangerous meeting
in the seclusion of the pavilion, and which urged him to
linger after Sophia had left him. They were not to be
seen to emerge together.

The young Dane sat alone on the window-seat, his chin
in his hands, his eyes dreamy, a faint smile on his shapely
lips, when Ernest Augustus burst furiously in, the Countess
von Platen lingering just beyond the threshold. The
Elector's face was apoplectically purple from rage and
haste, his breath came in wheezing gasps. His bulging
eyes swept round the chamber, and fastened finally,
glaring, upon the startled Konigsmark.

" Where is the Princess ? " he blurted out.

The Count espied Madame von Platen in the back-
ground, and had the scent of mischief very strong. But
he preserved an air of innocent mystification. He rose
and answered with courteous ease :

" Your Highness is seeking her ? Shall I ascertain for
you ? "

At a loss, Ernest Augustus stared a moment, then
flung a glance over his shoulder at the Countess.

" I was told that her Highness was here," he said.

" Plainly," said Konigsmark, with perfect calm, " you
have been misinformed." And his quiet glance and
gesture invited the Elector to look round for himself.
" How long have you been here yourself ? " Feeling at

264 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

a disadvantage, the Elector avoided the direct question
that was in his mind.

" Half an hour at least.'

" And in that time you have not seen the Princess ? "

" Seen the Princess ? " Konigsmark's brows were knit
perplexedly. " I scarcely understand your Highness."

The Elector moved a step and trod on a soft substance.
He looked down, then stooped, and rose again, holding
in his hand a woman's glove.

" What's this ? " quoth he. " Whose glove is this ? "

If Konigsmark's heart missed a beat — as well it may
have done — he did not betray it outwardly. He
smiled ; indeed he almost laughed.

" Your Highness is amusing himself at my expense by
asking me questions that only a seer could answer."

The Elector was still considering him with his pon-
derously suspicious glance, when quick steps approached.
A serving-maid, one of Sophia's women, appeared in the
doorway of the pavilion.

" What do you want ? " the Elector snapped [at
her.

" A glove her Highness lately dropped here," was the
timid answer, innocently precipitating the very discovery
which the woman had been too hastily dispatched te
avert.

The Elector flung the glove at her, and there was a
creak of evil laughter from him. When she had departed,
he turned again to Konigsmark.

" You fence skilfully," said he, sneering, " too skilfully
for an honest man. Will you now tell me without any
more of this, precisely what the Princess Sophia was doing
here with you ? "

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 265

Konigsmark drew himself stiffly up, looking squarely
into the furnace of the Elector's face.

" Your Highness assumes that the Princess was here
with me, and a prince is not to be contradicted, even
when he insults a lady whose spotless purity is beyond
his understanding. But your Highness can hardly expect
me to become in never so slight a degree a party to that
insult by vouchsafing any answer to your question."

" That is your last word, sir ? " The Elector shook
with suppressed anger.

" Your Highness cannot think that words are necessary ? "

The bulging eyes grew narrow, the heavy nether lip was
thrust forth in scorn and menace.

" You are relieved, sir, of your duties in the Electoral
Guard, and as that is the only tie binding you to Hanover,
we see no reason why your sojourn here should be pro-
tracted."

Konigsmark bowed stiffly, formally. " It shall end,
your Highness, as soon as I can make the necessary
arrangements for my departure — in a week at most."

" You are accorded three days, sir." The Elector turned,
and waddled out, leaving Konigsmark to breathe freely
again. The three days should suffice for the Princess
also. It was very well.

The Elector, too, thought that it was very well. He
had given this troublesome fellow his dismissal, averted a
scandal, and placed his daughter-in-law out of the reach
of harm. Madame von Platen was the only one concerned
who thought that it was not well at all, the consumma-
tion being far from that which she had desired. She had
dreamt of a flaming scandal, that should utterly con-
»umc her two enemies, Sophia and Konigsmark. Instead,

266 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

she saw them both escaping, and the fact that she was —
as she may have supposed — effectively separating two
loving hearts could be no sort of adequate satisfaction for
such bitter spite as hers. Therefore she plied her wicked
wits to force an issue more germane to her desires.

The course she took was fraught with a certain peril.
Yet confident that at worst she could justify it, and little
fearing that the worst would happen, she boldly went to
work. She forged next day a brief note in which the
Princess Sophia urgently bade Konigsmark to come to her
at ten o'clock that night in her own apartments, and
with threat and bribe induced the waiting woman of the
glove to bear that letter.

Now it so happened that Konigsmark, through the kind
offices of Sophia's maid-of-honour, Mademoiselle de
Knesebeck, who was in the secret of their intentions, had
sent the Princess a note that morning, briefly stating the
urgency of departure, and begging her so to arrange
that she could leave Herrenhausen with him on the
morrow. He imagined the note now brought him to be
in answer to that appeal of his. Its genuineness he never
doubted, being unacquainted with Sophia's writing. He
was aghast at the rashness which dictated such an assigna-
tion, yet never hesitated as to keeping it. It was not his
way to hesitate. He trusted to the gods who watch over
the destinies of the bold.

And meanwhile Madame von Platen was reproaching her
lover with having dealt too softly with the Dane.

" Bah ! " said the Elector. " To-morrow he goes his
ways, and we are rid of him. Is not that enough ? "

" Enough, if, soon as he goes, he goes not too late
already," quoth she.

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 267

" Now what will you be hinting ? " he asked her
peevishly.

" I'll be more plain. I will tell you what I know. I t
is this. Konigsmark has an assignation with the Princess
Sophia this very night at ten o'clock — and where do you
suppose ? In her Highness's own apartments."

The Elector came to his feet with an oath. " That is
not true ! " he cried. " It cannot be ! "

" Then I'll say no more," quoth Jezebel, and snapped
her thin lips.

" Ah, but you shall. How do you know this ? "

" That I cannot tell you without betraying a confidence.
Let it suffice you that I do know it. Consider now whether
in banishing this profligate you have sufficiently avenged
the honour of your son."

" My God, if I thought this were true. . . ." He choked
with rage, stood shaking a moment, then strode to the
door, calling.

" The truth is easily ascertained," said Madame.
" Conceal yourself in the Rittersaal, and await his coming
forth. But you had best go attended, for it is a very reck-
less rogue, and he has been known aforetime to practise
murder."

Whilst the Elector, acting upon this advice, was getting
his men together, Konigsmark was wasting precious
moments in Sophia's antechamber, whilst Mademoiselle
de Knesebeck apprised her Highness of his visit. Sophia
had already retired to bed, and the amazing announce-
ment of the Count's presence there startled her into a fear
of untoward happenings. She was overwhelmed, too, by
the rashness of this step of his, coming after the events
of yesterday. If it should be known that he had visited

268 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

her thus, terrible consequences might ensue. She rose,
and with Mademoiselle de Knesebeck's aid made ready
to receive him. Yet for all that she made haste, the
precious irreclaimable moments sped.

She came to him at last, Mademoiselle de Knesebeck
following, for propriety's sake.

" What is it ? " she asked him breathlessly. " What
brings you here at such an hour ? "

" What brings me ? " quoth he, surprised at that
reception. " Why, your commands — your letter."

" My letter ? What letter ? "

A sense of doom, of being trapped, suddenly awoke
in him. He plucked forth the treacherous note, and
proffered it.

" Why, what does this mean ? " She swept a white
hand over her eyes and brows, as if to brush away some-
thing that obscured her vision. " That is not mine. I
never wrote it. How could you dream I should be so
imprudent as to bid you hither, and at such an hour ?
How could you dream it ? "

" You are right," said he, and laughed, perhaps to ease
her alarm, perhaps in sheer bitter mirth. " It will be,
no doubt, the work of our friend, Madame von Platen.
I had best begone. For the rest, my travelling chaise
will wait from noon until sunset to-morrow by the Markt
Kirck in Hanover, and I shall wait within it. I shall
hope to conduct you safely to Wolfenbiittel."

" I will come, I will come. But go now — oh, go ! "

He looked very deeply into her eyes — a valedictory
glance against the worst befalling him. Then he took her
hand, bowed over it and kissed it, and so departed.

He crossed the outer ante-room, descended the short

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 269

flight of stairs, and pushed open the heavy door of the
Hall of Knights. He passed through, and thrust the
door behind him, then stood a moment looking round the
vast apartment. If he was too late to avoid the springs
of the baited trap, it was here that they should snap
upon him. Yet all was still. A single lamp on a table
in the middle of the vast chamber shed a feeble, flickering
light, yet sufficient to assure him that no one waited here.
He sighed relief, wrapped his cloak about him, and set
out swiftly to cross the hall.

But even as he passed, four shadows detached them-
selves from the tall stove, resolved themselves into armed
men, and sprang after him.

He heard them, wheeled about, flung off his cloak,
and disengaged his sword, all with the speed of lightning
and the address of the man who for ten years had walked
amid perils, and learned to depend upon his blade. That
swift action sealed his doom. Their orders were to take
him living or dead, and standing in awe of his repute, they
were not the men to incur risks. Even as he came on
guard, a partisan grazed his head, and another opened his
breast.

He went down, coughing and gasping, blood dabbling
his bright golden hair, and staining the priceless Mechlin
at his throat, yet his right hand still desperately clutching
his useless sword.

His assassins stood about him, their partisans levelled
to strike again, and summoned him to yield. Then, beside
one of them, he suddenly beheld the Countess von Platen
materializing out of the surrounding shadows as it seemed,
and behind her the squat, ungraceful figure of the Elector.
He fought for breath.

270 The Historical Nights1 Entertainment

" I am slain," he gasped, " and as I am to appear before
my Maker I swear to you that the Princess Sophia is
innocent. Spare her at least, your Highness."

" Innocent ! " said the Elector hoarsely. " Then what
did you now in her apartments ? "

" It was a trap set for us by this foul hag, who . . ."

The heel of the vindictive harridan ground viciously
upon the lips of the dying man and choked his utterance.
Thereafter the halberts finished him off, and he was
buried there and then, in lime, under the floor of the
Hall of Knights, under the very spot where he had fallen,
which was long to remain imbrued with his blood.

Thus miserably perished the glittering Konigsmark,
a martyr to his own irrepressible romanticism.

As for Sophia, better might it have been for her had
she shared his fate that night. She was placed under
arrest next morning, and Prince George was summoned
back from Berlin at once.

The evidence may have satisfied him that his honour
had not suffered, for he was disposed to let the matter
drop, content that they should remain in the forbidding
relations which had existed between them before this
happening. But Sophia was uncompromising in her
demand for strict justice.

" If I am guilty, I am unworthy of you," she told-him.
" If innocent, you are unworthy of me."

There was no more to be said. A consistory court was
assembled to divorce them. But since with the best
intentions there was no faintest evidence of her adultery,
this court had to be content to pronounce the divorce
upon the ground of her desertion.

She protested against the iniquity of this. But she

The Tragedy of Herrenhausen 271

protested in vain. She was carried off into the grim
captivity of a castle on the Ahlen, to drag out in that
melancholy duress another thirty-two years of life.

Her death took place in November of 1726. And the
story runs that on her death-bed she delivered to a person
of trust a letter to her sometime husband, now King
George I. of England. Seven months later, as King
George was on his way to his beloved Hanover, that letter
was placed in his carriage as it crossed the frontier into
Germany. It contained Sophia's dying declaration of
innocence, and her solemn summons to King George to
stand by her side before the judgment-seat of Heaven
within a year, and there make answer in her presence for
the wrongs he had done her, for her blighted life and her
miserable death.

King George's answer to that summons was immediate.
The reading of that letter brought on the apoplectic seizure
of which he died in his carriage next day — the 9th of June,
1727 — on the road to Osnabriick.

XI. The Tyrannicide

Charlotte Core/ay and Jean Paul Marat

18

-

XL The Tyrannicide

'TYRANNICIDE was the term applied to her deed by
-L Adam Lux, her lover in the sublimest and most
spiritual sense of the word — for he never so much as spoke
to her, and she never so much as knew of his existence.

The sudden spiritual passion which inflamed him when he
beheld her in the tumbril on her way to the scaffold is a
fitting corollary to her action. She in her way and he
in his were alike sublime ; her tranquil martyrdom upon
the altar of Republicanism and his exultant martyrdom
upon the altar of Love were alike splendidly futile.

It is surely the strangest love-story enshrined in history.
It has its pathos, yet leaves no regrets behind, for there is
no might-have-been which death had thwarted. Because
she died, he loved her ; because he loved her, he died.
That is all, but for the details which I am now to give you.

The convent-bred Marie Charlotte Corday d'Armont
was the daughter of a landless squire of Normandy, a
member of the cbetive noblesse, a man of gentle birth, whose
sadly reduced fortune may have predisposed him against
the law of entail or primogeniture — the prime cause of the
inequality out of which were sprung so many of the evils
that afflicted France. Like many of his order and condition
he was among the earliest converts to Republicanism —
the pure, ideal republicanism, demanding constitutional
government of the people by the people, holding monarchical
and aristocratic rule an effete and parasitic anachronism.

275 18*

276 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

From M. de Corday Charlotte absorbed the lofty Re-
publican doctrines to which anon she was to sacrifice her
life; and she rejoiced when the hour of awakening sounded
and the children of France rose up and snapped the fetters
in which they had been trammelled for centuries by an
insolent minority of their fellow-countrymen.

In the early violence of the revolution she thought she
saw a transient phase — horrible, but inevitable in the dread
convulsion of that awakening. Soon this would pass,
and the sane, ideal government of her dreams would
follow — must follow, since among the people's elected
representatives was a goodly number of unselfish, single-
minded men of her father's class of life ; men of breeding
and education, impelled by a lofty altruistic patriotism ;
men who gradually came to form a party presently to be
known as the Girondins.

But the formation of one party argues the formation of
at least another. And this other in the National Assembly
was that of the Jacobins, less pure of motive, less restrained
in deed, a party in which stood pre-eminent such ruthless,
uncompromising men as Robespierre, Danton, — and Marat.

Where the Girondins stood for Republicanism, the
Jacobins stood for Anarchy. War was declared between
the two. The Girondins arraigned Marat and Robespierre
for complicity in the September massacres, and thereby
precipitated their own fall. The triumphant acquittal of
Marat was the prelude to the ruin of the Girondins, and
the proscription of twenty-nine deputies followed at once
as the first step. These fled into the country, hoping to
raise an army that should yet save France, and several
of the fugitives made their way to Caen. Thence by
pamphlets and oratory they laboured to arouse true

The Tyrannicide 277

Republican enthusiasm. They were gifted, able men,
eloquent speakers and skilled writers, and they might have
succeeded but that in Paris sat another man no less gifted,
and with surer knowledge of the temper of the proletariat,
tirelessly wielding a vitriolic pen, skilled in the art of
inflaming the passions of the mob.

That man was Jean Paul Marat, sometime medical
practitioner, sometime professor of literature, a graduate
of the Scottish University of St. Andrews, author of some
scientific and many sociological works, inveterate pam-
phleteer and revolutionary journalist, proprietor and
editor of VAmi du Peuple^ and idol of the Parisian rabble,
who had bestowed upon him the name borne by his
gazette, so that he was known as The People's Friend.

Such was the foe of the Girondins, and of the pure,
altruistic, Utopian Republicanism for which they stood ;
and whilst he lived and laboured, their own endeavours
to influence the people were all in vain. From his vile
lodging in the Rue de 1'Ecole de Medecine in Paris he span
with his clever, wicked pen a web that paralysed their
high endeavours and threatened finally to choke them.

He was not alone, of course. He was one of the dread
triumvirate in which Danton and Robespierre were his
associates. But to the Girondins he appeared by far the
most formidable and ruthless and implacable of the
three, whilst to Charlotte Corday — the friend and asso-
ciate now of the proscribed Girondins who had sought
refuge in Caen — he loomed so vast and terrible as to
eclipse his associates entirely. To her young mind,
inflamed with enthusiasm for the religion of Liberty as
preached by the Girondins, Marat was a loathly, dan-
gerous heresiarch, threatening to corrupt that sublime

278 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

new faith with false, anarchical doctrine, and to replace
the tyranny that had been overthrown by a tyranny more
odious still.

She witnessed in Caen the failure of the Girondin
attempt to raise an army with which to deliver Paris
from the foul clutches of the Jacobins. An anguished
spectator of this failure, she saw in it a sign that Liberty
was being strangled at its birth. On the lips of her
friends the Girondins she caught again the name of Marat,
the murderer of Liberty ; and, brooding, she reached a
conclusion embodied in a phrase of a letter which she
wrote about that time.

" As long as Marat lives there will never be any safety
for the friends of law and humanity."

From that negative conclusion to its positive, logical
equivalent it was but a step. That step she took. She
may have considered awhile the proposition thus pre-
sented to her, or resolve may have come to her with
realization. She understood that a great sacrifice was
necessary ; that who undertook to rid France of that
unclean monster must go prepared for self-immolation.
She counted the cost calmly and soberly — for calm and
sober was now her every act.

She made her packages, and set out one morning by
the Paris coach from Caen, leaving a note for her father,
in which she had written :

41 1 am going to England, because I do not believe that it will be possible
for a long time to live happily and tranquilly in France. On leaving I
post this letter to you. When you receive it I shall no longer be here.
Heaven denied us the happiness of living together, as it has denied us
other happinesses. May it show itself more clement to our country.
Good-bye, dear Father. Embrace my sister for me, and do not forget

The Tyrannicide 279

That was all. The fiction that she was going to
England was intended to save him pain. For she had so
laid her plans that her identity should remain undisclosed
She would seek Marat in the very Hall of the Convention,
and publicly slay him in his seat. Thus Paris should
behold Nemesis overtaking the false Republican in the
very Assembly which he corrupted, and anon should
adduce a moral from the spectacle of the monster's death.
For herself she counted upon instant destruction at the
hands of the furious spectators. Thus, thinking to die
unidentified, she trusted that her father, hearing, as all
France must hear, the great tidings that Marat was dead,
would never connect her with the instrument of Fate
shattered by the fury of the mob.

You realize, then, how great and how terrible was the
purpose of this maid of twenty-five, who so demurely took
her seat in the Paris diligence on that July morning of
the Year 2 of the Republic — 1793, old style. She was
becomingly dressed in brown cloth, a lace fichu folded
across her well-developed breast, a conical hat above her
light brown hair. She was of a good height and finely
proportioned, and her carriage as full of dignity as of
grace. Her skin was of such white loveliness that a
contemporary compares it with the lily. Like Athene,
she was grey-eyed, and, like Athene, noble-featured,
the oval of her face squaring a little at the chin, in which
there was a cleft. Calm was her habit, calm her slow
moving eyes, calm and deliberate her movements, and
calm the mind reflected in all this.

And as the heavy diligence trundles out of Caen and
takes the open country and the Paris road, not even the
thought of the errand upon which she goes, of her death-

280 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

dealing and death-receiving mission, can shake that
normal calm. Here is no wild exaltation, no hysterical
obedience to hotly-conceived impulse. Here is purpose,
as cold as it is lofty, to liberate France and pay with her
life for the privilege of doing so.

That lover of hers, whom we are presently to see, has
compared her ineptly with Joan of Arc, that other maid
of France. But Joan moved with pomp in a gorgeous
pageantry, amid acclamations, sustained by the heady
wine of combat and of enthusiasm openly indulged, towards
a goal of triumph. Charlotte travelled quietly in the stuffy
diligence with the quiet conviction that her days were
numbered.

So normal did she appear to her travelling com-
panions, that one among them, with an eye for beauty,
pestered her with amorous attentions, and actually pro-
posed marriage to her before the coach had rolled over the
bridge of Neuilly into Paris two days later.

She repaired to the Providence Inn in the Rue des
Vieux Augustins, where she engaged a room on the first
floor, and then she set out in quest of the Deputy Duperret.
She had a letter of Introduction to him from the Girondin
Barbaroux, with whom she had been on friendly terms
at Caen. Duperret was to assist her to obtain an inter-
view with the Minister of the Interior. She had under-
taken to see the latter on the subject of certain papers
relating to the affairs of a nun of Caen, an old convent
friend of her own, and she was in haste to discharge this
errand, so as to be free for the great task upon which she
was come.

From inquiries that she made, she learnt at ence that
Marat was ill, and confined to his house. This rendered

The Tyrannicide 281

necessary a change of plans, and the relinquishing of her
project of affording him a spectacular death in the crowded
hall of the Convention.

The next day, which was Friday, she devoted to further-
ing the business of her friend the nun. On Saturday
morning she rose early, and by six o'clock she was walking
in the cool gardens of the Palais Royal, considering with
that almost unnatural calm of hers the ways and means
of accomplishing her purpose in the unexpected conditions
that she found.

Towards eight o'clock, when Paris was awakening to
the business of the day and taking down its shutters,
she entered a cutler's shop in the Palais Royal, and bought
for two francs a stout kitchen knife in a shagreen case.
She then returned to her hotel to breakfast, and afterwards,
dressed in her brown travelling-gown and conical hat, she
went forth again, and, hailing a hackney carriage, drove
to Marat's house in the Rue de 1'Ecole de Medecine.

But admittance to that squalid dwelling was denied
her. The Citizen Marat was ill, she was told, and could
receive no visitors. It wras Simonne Everard, the
triumvir's mistress — later to be known as the Widow
Marat — who barred her ingress with this message.

Checked, she drove back to the Providence Inn and
wrote a letter to the triumvir :

" Paris, 1 3th July, Year 2 of the Republic.
" CITIZEN, — I have arrived from Caen. Your love for
your country leads me to assume that you will be anxious
to hear of the unfortunate events which are taking place
in that part of the Republic. I shall therefore call upon
you towards one o'clock. Have the kindness to receive

282 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

me, and accord me a moment's audience. I shall put you
in the way of rendering a great service to France.

" MARIE CORDAY."

Having dispatched that letter to Marat, she sat until
late afternoon waiting vainly for an answer. Despairing
at last of receiving any, she wrote a second note, more
peremptory in tone :

"I wrote to }o-i this morning, Marat. Have you
received my letter ? May I hope for a moment's audience ?
If you have received my letter, I hope you will not refuse
me, considering the importance of the matter. It should
suffice for you that I am very unfortunate to give me the
right to your protection."

Having changed into a grey-striped dimity gown — you
observe this further manifestation of a calm so complete
that it admits of no departure from the ordinary habits
of life — she goes forth to deliver in person this second
letter, the knife concealed in the folds of the muslin fichu
crossed high upon her breast.

In a mean, brick-paved, ill-lighted, and almost unfur-
nished room of that house in the Rue de 1'Ecole de
Medecine, the People's Friend is seated in a bath. It is
no instinct of cleanliness he is obeying, for in all France
there is no man more filthy in his person and his habits
than this triumvir. His bath is medicated. The horrible,
loathsome disease that corrodes his flesh demands these
long immersions to quiet the gnawing pains which distract
his active, restless mind. In these baths he can benumb
the torment of the body with which he is encumbered.

The Tyrannicide 283

For Marat is an intellect, and nothing more — leastways,
nothing more that matters. What else there is to him of
trunk and limbs and organs he has neglected until it has
all fallen into decay. His very lack of personal clean-
liness, the squalor in which he lives, the insufficient sleep
which he allows himself, his habit of careless feeding at
irregular intervals, all have their source in his contempt
for the physical part of him. This talented man of varied
attainments, accomplished linguist, skilled physician,
able naturalist and profound psychologist, lives in his
intellect alone, impatient of all physical interruptions.
If he consents to these immersions, if he spends whole days
seated in this medicated bath, it is solely because it
quenches or cools the fires that are devouring him, and
thus permits him to bend his mind to the work that is
his life. But his long-suffering body is avenging upon
the mind the neglect to which it has been submitted. The
morbid condition of the former is being communicated to
the latter, whence results that disconcerting admixture
of cold, cynical cruelty and exalted sensibility which
marked his nature in the closing years of his life.

In his bath, then, sat the People's Friend on that July
evening, immersed to the hips, his head swathed in a
filthy turban, his emaciated body cased in a sleeveless
waistcoat. He is fifty years of age, dying of consumption
and other things, so that, did Charlotte but know it, there
is no need to murder him. Disease and Death have marked
him for their own, and grow impatient.

A board covering the bath served him for writing-table ;
an empty wooden box at his side bore an inkstand, some
pens, sheets of paper, and two or three copies of I? Ami
du Peuple. There was no sound in the room but the

284 The Historical Nights9 Entertainment

scratch and splutter of his quill. He was writing dili-
gently, revising and editing a proof of the forthcoming
issue of his paper.

A noise of voices raised in the outer room invaded the
quiet in which he was at work, and gradually penetrated
his absorption, until it disturbed and irritated him. He
moved restlessly in his bath, listened a moment, then,
with intent to make an end of the interruption, he raised
a hoarse, croaking voice to inquire what might be taking
place.

The door opened, and Simonne, his mistress and house-
hold drudge, entered the room. She was fully twenty
years younger than himself, and under the slattern appear-
ance which life in that house had imposed upon her there
were vestiges of a certain comeliness.

" There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands
insistently to see you upon a matter of national import-
ance."

The dull eyes kindle at the mention of Caen ; interest
quickens in that leaden-hued countenance. Was it not
in Caen that those old foes of his, the Girondins, were
stirring up rebellion ?

" She says," Simonne continued, " that she wrote a
letter to you this morning, and she brings you a second
note herself. I have told her that you will not receive
anyone, and . . ."

" Give me the note," he snapped. Setting down his
pen, he thrust out an unclean paw to snatch the folded
sheet from Simonne's hand. He spread it, and read, his
bloodless lips compressed, his eyes narrowing to slits.

" Let her in," he commanded sharply, and Simonne
obeyed him without more ado. She admitted Charlotte,

The Tyrannicide 285

and left them alone together — the avenger and her victim.
For a moment each regarded the other. Marat beheld
a handsome young woman, elegantly attired. But these
things had no interest for the People's Friend. What to
him was woman and the lure of beauty ? Charlotte beheld
a feeble man of a repulsive hideousness, and was full
satisfied, for in this outward loathsomeness she imagined
a confirmation of the vileness of the mind she was come
to blot out.

Then Marat spoke. " So you are from Caen, child ? "
he said. " And what is doing in Caen that makes you so
anxious to see me ? "

She approached him.

" Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat."

" Rebellion, ha ! " It was a sound between a laugh
and a croak. " Tell me what deputies are sheltered in
Caen. Come, child, their names." He took up and
dipped his quill, and drew a sheet of paper towards him.

She approached still nearer ; she came to stand close
beside him, erect and calm. She recited the names of her
friends, the Girondins, whilst hunched there in his bath
his pen scratched briskly.

" So many for the guillotine," he snarled, when it was
done.

But whilst he was writing, she had drawn the knife
from her fichu, and as he uttered those words of doom
to others his own doom descended upon him in a lightning
stroke. Straight driven by that strong young arm, the
long, stout blade was buried to its black hilt in his breast.

He looked at her with eyes in which there was a faint
surprise as he sank back. Then he raised his voice for
the last time.

286 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

" Help, chere amie ! Help ! " he cried, and was for ever
silent.

The hand still grasping the pen trailed on the ground
beside the bath at the end of his long, emaciated arm.
His body sank sideways in the same direction, the head
lolling nervelessly upon his right shoulder, whilst from
the great rent in his breast the blood gushed forth, embruing
the water of his bath, trickling to the brick-paved floor,
bespattering — symbolically almost — a copy of U Ami
du Peuple, the journal to which he had devoted so much of
his uneasy life.

In answer to that cry of his came now Simonne in haste.
A glance sufficed to reveal to her the horrible event, and,
like a tigress, she sprang upon the unresisting slayer,
seizing her by the head, and calling loudly the while for
assistance. Came instantly from the anteroom Jeanne,
the old cook, the portress of the house, and Laurent Basse,
a folder of Marat's paper ; and now Charlotte found herself
confronted by four maddened, vociferous beings, at whose
hands she may well have expected to receive the death for
which she was prepared.

Laurent, indeed, snatched up a chair, and felled her by
a blow of it across her head. He would, no doubt, have
proceeded in his fury to have battered her to death, but
for the arrival of gens tfarmes and the police commissioner
of the district, who took her in their protecting charge.

The soul of Paris was convulsed by the tragedy when it
became known. All night terror and confusion were
abroad. All night the revolutionary rabble, in angry
grief, surged about and kept watch upon the house wherein
the People's Friend lay dead.

That night, and for two days and nights thereafter,

The Tyrannicide 287

Charlotte Corday lay in the Prison of the Abbaye, sup-
porting with fortitude the indignities that for a woman
were almost inseparable from revolutionary incarceration.
She preserved throughout her imperturbable calm, based
now upon a state of mind content in the contemplation
of accomplished purpose, duty done. She had saved
France, she believed ; saved Liberty, by slaying the man
who would have strangled it. In that illusion she was
content. Her own life was a small price to pay for the
splendid achievement.

Some of her time of waiting she spent in writing letters
to her friends, in which tranquilly and sanely she dwelt
upon what she had done, expounding fully the motives
that had impelled her, dwelling upon the details of the
execution, and of all that had followed. Among the
letters written by her during those " days of the prepara-
tion of peace " — as she calls that period, dating in such
terms a long epistle to Barbaroux — was one to the Com-
mittee of Public Safety, in which she begs that a miniature-
painter may be sent to her to paint her portrait, so that
she may leave this token of remembrance to her friends.
It is only in this, as the end approaches, that we see in her
conduct any thought for her own self, any suggestion that
she is anything more than an instrument in the hands
of Fate.

On the 1 5th, at eight o'clock in the morning, her
trial began before the Revolutionary Tribunal. A murmur
ran through the hall as she appeared in her gown of grey-
striped dimity, composed and calm — always calm.

The trial opened with the examination of witnesses
into that of the cutler, who had sold her the knife, she
broke impatiently.

288 The Historical Nights9 Entertainment

" These details are a waste of time. It is I who killed
Marat."

The audience gasped, and rumbled ominously. Mon-
tane turned to examine her.

" What was the object of your visit to Paris ? " he
asks.

" To kill Marat."

" What motives induced you to this horrible deed ? "

" His many crimes."

" Of what crimes do you accuse him ? "

" That he instigated the massacre of September ; that
he kept alive the fires of civil war, so that he might be
elected dictator ; that he sought to infringe upon the
sovereignty of the People by causing the arrest and im-
prisonment of the deputies to the Convention on May
3ist."

" What proof have you of this ? "

" The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs
behind a mask of patriotism."

Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory.

" Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act ? "

" I have none." ,

Montane shook his head. " You cannot convince any-
one that a person of your age and sex could have con-
ceived such a crime unless instigated by some person or
persons whom you are unwilling to name."

Charlotte almost smiled. " That shows but a poor
knowledge of the human heart. It is easier to carry out
such a project upon the strength of one's own hatred than
upon that of others." And then, raising her voice, she
proclaimed : " I killed one man to save a hundred thousand ;
I killed a villain to save innocents ; I killed a savage wild-

The Tyrannicide 289

beast to give repose to France. I was a Republican before
the Revolution. I never lacked for energy."

What more was there to say ? Her guilt was com-
pletely established. Her fearless self-possession was not
to be ruffled. Yet Fouquier-Tinville, the dread prosecutor,
made the attempt. Beholding her so virginal and fair
and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had
the best of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary
filth to restore the balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety
eyes upon her.

" How many children have you had ? " he rasped,
sardonic, his tone a slur, an insult.

Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was com-
posed, disdainful, as she answered coldly :

" Have I not stated that I am not married ? "

A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete
the impression he sought to convey, and he sat down
again.

It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate
instructed to defend her. But what defence was possible ?
And Chauveau had been intimidated. He had received
a note from the jury ordering him to remain silent,
another from the President bidding him declare her mad.

Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech
is admirable ; it satisfied his self-respect, without
derogating from his client. It uttered the whole truth.

" The prisoner," he said, " confesses with calm the
horrible crime she has committed ; she confesses with
calm its premeditation ; she confesses its most dreadful
details ; in short, she confesses everything, and does
not seek to justify herself. That, citizens of the jury,
is her whole defence. This imperturbable calm, this utter

19

290 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

abnegation of self, which displays no remorse even in the
very presence of death, are contrary to nature. They
can only be explained by the excitement of political
fanaticism which armed her hand. It is for you, citizens
of the jury, to judge what weight that moral consideration
should have in the scales of justice."

The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand
the full sentence of the law.

It was the end. She was removed to the Conciergerie,
the antechamber of the guillotine. A constitutional
priest was sent to her, but she dismissed him with thanks,
not requiring his ministrations. She preferred the painter
Hauer, who had received the Revolutionary Tribunal's
permission to paint her portrait in accordance with her
request. And during the sitting, which lasted half an hour,
she conversed with him quietly on ordinary topics, the
tranquillity of her spirit unruffled by any fear of the death
that was so swiftly approaching.

The door opened, and Sanson, the public executioner,
came in. He carried the red smock worn by those con-
victed of assassination. She showed no dismay ; no
more, indeed, than a faint surprise that the time spent
with Hauer should have gone so quickly. She begged
for a few moments in which to write a note, and, the
request being granted, acquitted herself briskly of that
task; then announcing herself ready, she removed her
cap that Sanson might cut her luxuriant hair. Yet first,
taking his scissors, she herself cut off a lock and gave it
to Hauer for remembrance. When Sanson would have
bound her hands, she begged that she might be allowed
to wear gloves, as her wrists were bruised and cut by the
cord with which she had been pinioned in Marat's house.

The Tyrannicide 291

He answered that she might do so if she wished, but that
it was unnecessary, as he could bind her without causing
pain.

" To be sure," she said, " those others had not your
experience," and she proffered her bare wrists to his cord
without further demur. " If this toilet of death is per-
formed by rude hands," she commented, " at least it
leads to immortality."

She mounted the tumbril awaiting in the prison yard,
and, disdaining the chair offered her by Sanson, remained
standing, to show herself dauntless to the mob and brave
its rage. And fierce was that rage, indeed. So densely
thronged were the streets that the tumbril proceeded at
a crawl, and the people surging about the cart screamed
death and insult at the doomed woman. It took two
hours to reach the Place de la Revolution, and meanwhile
a terrific summer thunderstorm had broken over Paris,
and a torrential rain had descended upon the densely
packed streets. Charlotte's garments were soaked through
and through, so that her red smock, becoming glued now to
her body and fitting her like a skin, threw into relief its
sculptural beauty, whilst a reflection of the vivid crimson
of the garment faintly tinged her cheeks, and thus
heightened her appearance of complete composure.

And it is now in the Rue St. Honore that at long last
we reach the opening of our tragic love-story.

A tall, slim, fair young man, named Adam Lux — sent
to Paris by the city of Mayence as Deputy Extraordinary
to the National Convention — was standing there in the
howling press of spectators. He was an accomplished,
learned young gentleman, doctor at once of philosophy
and of medicine, although in the latter capacity he had

2 92 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

never practised owing to an extreme sensibility of nature,
which rendered anatomical work repugnant to him. He
was a man of a rather exalted imagination, unhappily
married — the not uncommon fate of such delicate tem-
peraments— and now living apart from his wife. He had
heard, as all Paris had heard, every detail of the affair,
and of the trial, and he waited there, curious to see this
woman, with whose deed he was secretly in sympathy.

The tumbril slowly approached, the groans and execra-
tions swelled up around him, and at last he beheld her —
beautiful, serene, full of life, a still smile upon her lips.
For a long moment he gazed upon her, standing as if
stricken into stone. Then heedless of those about him,
he bared his head, and thus silently saluted and paid
homage to her. She did not see him. He had not thought
that she would. He saluted her as the devout salute the
unresponsive image of a saint. The tumbril crawled
on. He turned his head, and followed her with his eyes
for awhile ; then, driving his elbows into the ribs of those
about him, he clove himself a passage through the throng*
and so followed, bare-headed now, with fixed gaze, a man
entranced.

He was at the foot of the scaffold when her head fell.
To the last he had seen that noble countenance preserve
its immutable calm, and in the hush that followed the
sibilant fall of the great knife his voice suddenly rang
out.

" She is greater than Brutus ! " was his cry ; and he
added, addressing those who stared at him in stupefaction :
" It were beautiful to have died with her ! "

He was suffered to depart unmolested. Chiefly, perhaps,
because at that moment the attention of the crowd was

The Tyrannicide 293

upon the executioner's attendant, who, in holding up
Charlotte's truncated head, slapped the cheek with his
hand. The story runs that the dead face reddened under
the blow. Scientists of the day disputed over this, some
arguing from it a proof that consciousness does not at
once depart the brain upon decapitation.

That night, while Paris slept, its walls were secretly
placarded with copies of a eulogy of Charlotte Corday, the
martyr of Republicanism, the deliverer of France, in which
occurs the comparison with Joan of Arc, that other great
heroine of France. This was the work of Adam Lux.
He made no secret of it. The vision of her had so wrought
upon the imagination of this susceptible dreamer, had fired
his spirit with such enthusiasm, that he was utterly reck
less in yielding to his emotions, in expressing the phrenetic,
immaterial love with which in her last moments of life
she had inspired him.

Two days after her execution he issued a long manifesto,
in which he urged the purity of her motive as the fullest
justification of her act, placed her on the level of Brutus
and Cato, and passionately demanded for her the honour
and veneration of posterity. It is in this manifesto that
he applies euphemistically to her deed the term " tyran-
nicide." That document he boldly signed with his own
name, realizing that he would pay for that temerity with
his life.

He was arrested on the 24th of July — exactly a week
from the day on which he had seen her die. He had
powerful friends, and they exerted themselves to obtain
for him a promise of pardon and release if he would
publicly retract what he had written. But he laughed the
proposal to scorn, ardently resolved to follow into death

294 The Historical Nights' Entertainment

the woman who had aroused the hopeless, immaterial
love that made his present torment.

Still his friends strove for him. His trial was put off.
A doctor named Wetekind was found to testify that Adam
Lux was mad, that the sight of Charlotte Corday had
turned his head. He wrote a paper on this plea, recom-
mending that clemency be shown to the young doctor on
the score of his affliction, and that he should be sent to a
hospital or to America. Adam Lux was angry when he
heard of this, and protested indignantly against the
allegations of Dr. Wetekind. He wrote to the Journal
de la Montague, which published his declaration on the
26th of September, to the effect that he was not mad
enough to desire to live, and that his anxiety to meet
death half-way was a crowning proof of his sanity.

He languished on in the prison of La Force until the
loth of October, \vhen at last he was brought to trial. He
stood it joyously, in a mood of exultation at his approach-
ing deliverance. He assured the court that he did not
fear the guillotine, and that all ignominy had been removed
from such a death by the pure blood of Charlotte.

They sentenced him to death, and he thanked them for
the boon.

" Forgive me, sublime Charlotte," he exclaimed, " if
I should find it impossible to exhibit at the last the courage
and gentleness that were yours. I glory in your supe-
riority, for it is right that the adored should be above the
adorer."

Yet his courage did not fail him. Far from it, indeed ;
if hers had been a mood of gentle calm, his was one of
ecstatic exaltation. At five o'clock that same afternoon
he stepped from the tumbril under the gaunt shadow of the

The Tyrannicide 295

guillotine. He turned to the people, his eyes bright, a
flush on his cheeks.

" At last I am to have the happiness of dying for Char-
lotte," he told them, and mounted the scaffold with the
eager step of the bridegroom on his way to the nuptial
altar.

PKINTKD AT

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