"The devil! doctor, could my blood flow better or more nobly than at the feet of James of Monmouth?" cried Rothsay with enthusiasm.

"But, my lord, the danger——"

"But, doctor, it would be to his everlasting shame if Jocelyn Rothsay should be one of the last to embrace our duke. I made this voyage for no other purpose. Dick will lend me one shoulder, Percy another, and it is sustained by these two brave champions that I shall come to say to James: Here are three of your faithful soldiers of Bridgewater."

So saying, the young man abandoned his two servants, and supported himself on the shoulders of the two robust noblemen.

The roll of drums, to which was added the flourish of trumpets, the shrill noise of the boatswain's whistle, announced that the marines and infantry belonging to the frigate were assembling; very soon they were drawn up on deck, with their officers at their head.

"Why this show of arms?" asked Mortimer of Chemerant.

"To render homage to the duke and to receive him with the honors of war when he comes directly to review the troops."

The captain of the frigate advanced toward the group of gentlemen: "Gentlemen, I have just received the orders of his grace."

"Well?" all said with one voice.

"His highness will receive you at eleven o'clock precisely; that is to say, in exactly five minutes."

It is impossible to give any idea of the exclamations of profound joy which escaped from every breast.

"Hold! now, Dick, I feel myself growing faint," said Mortimer.

"The devil! pay attention, Percy," said Rothsay; "do not fall; you are one of my legs."

"I," said Dudley, "I have a sort of vertigo——"

"Listen, Dick; listen, Jocelyn," said Mortimer; "these worthy companions have never seen our duke; be generous, let them go first; we shall see him first from a distance; that will give us time to place ourselves in his sight. Is it done?"

"Yes, yes," said Dick and Jocelyn.

Eleven o'clock sounded. For some moments the deck of the frigate offered a spectacle truly grand. The soldiers and marines in arms covered the gangways. The officers, bareheaded, preceding the gentlemen, slowly descended the narrow stairway which led to the apartment appropriated to the Duke of Monmouth.

Last, behind this first group advanced Mortimer and Dudley, sustaining between them the young Lord Rothsay, whose bowed figure and trembling steps contrasted with the tall stature and manly bearing of his two supports.

While the other gentlemen incumbered the narrow stairway, the three lords—these three noble types of chivalrous fidelity—remained on the deck.

"Listen, listen," said Dudley, "perhaps we shall hear the voice of James——"

In fact, the most profound silence reigned at first, but it was soon interrupted by exclamations of joy with which mingled lively and tender protestations. At last the stairway was free.

Scarcely moderating their impatience from regard for Lord Rothsay, who descended with difficulty, the two lords reached the gun-deck and entered in their turn the great cabin of the frigate, where Croustillac gave audience to his partisans. For some moments the three noblemen were stupefied by the tableau presented to their eyes.

At the back of the great cabin, which was lighted by five portholes, Croustillac, clothed in his old green coat and pink stockings, stood proudly beside De Chemerant; the latter, swelling with pride, seemed to triumphantly present the chevalier to the English gentlemen.

A little back of De Chemerant stood the captain of the frigate and his staff. The partisans of Monmouth, picturesquely grouped, surrounded the Gascon.

The adventurer, although a little pale, retained his audacity; seeing that he was not recognized, he resumed little by little his accustomed assurance, and said to himself: "Mortimer must have boasted of knowing me intimately in order to give himself airs of familiarity with a nobleman of my degree. Come then, zounds! let that last which can!"

The force of illusion is such that among the gentlemen who pressed around the adventurer some discovered a very decided "family look" to Charles II.; others, a striking resemblance to his portraits.

"My lords and gentlemen," said Croustillac, with a gesture toward De Chemerant, "this gentleman, in reporting to me your wishes, has decided me to return to your midst."

"My lord duke, with us it is to the death!" cried the most enthusiastic.

"I count on that, my lords; as for me, my motto shall be: 'All for England and'——"

"This is too much impudence! blood and murder!" thundered Lord Mortimer, interrupting the chevalier and springing toward him with blazing eyes and clinched fists, while Dudley upheld Lord Jocelyn.

The apostrophe of Mortimer had an astounding effect on the spectators and the actors in this scene. The English gentlemen turned quickly toward Mortimer. De Chemerant and the officers looked at each other with astonishment, as yet comprehending none of his words.

"Zounds! here we are," thought Croustillac; "only to see this tipsy brute; I should smell the Mortimer a league off." The nobleman stepped into the empty space that the gentlemen had left between the Gascon and themselves, in recoiling; he planted himself before him, his arms crossed, his eyes flashing, looking him straight in the face, exclaiming in a voice trembling with rage: "Ah! you are James of Monmouth—you!—it is to me—Mortimer—that you say that?"

Croustillac was sublime in his impudence and coolness; he answered Mortimer with an accent of melancholy reproach: "Exile and adversity must indeed have changed me much if my best friend no longer recognizes me!" Then, half-turning toward De Chemerant, the chevalier added in a low tone: "You see, it is as I told you; the emotion has been too violent; his poor head is completely upset. Alas, this unhappy man does not know me!"

Croustillac expressed himself so naturally and with so much assurance, that De Chemerant still hesitated to believe himself the dupe of so enormous an imposition; he did not long retain any doubts on this subject.

Lord Dudley and Lord Rothsay joined Mortimer and the other gentlemen in showering upon the unfortunate Gascon the most furious apostrophes and insults.

"This miserable vagabond dares to call himself James of Monmouth!"

"The infamous impostor!"

"The scoundrel must have murdered him in order to pass himself off for him!"

"He is an emissary of William!"

"That beggar, James, our duke!"

"What audacity!"

"To dare to tell such a lie!"

"He ought to have his tongue torn out!"

"To deceive us so impudently—we who had never seen the duke!"

"This cries for vengeance!"

"Since he takes his name he must know where he is!"

"Yes, he shall answer for our duke!"

"We will throw him into the sea if he does not give our James back to us!"

"We will tear out his nails to make him speak!"

"To play thus with what is most sacred!"

"How could De Chemerant have fallen into a trap so gross!"

"This miserable wretch has deceived me most outrageously, gentlemen!" cried De Chemerant, striving in vain to make himself heard.

"Come, then; explain yourself, sir."

"He shall pay dearly for his audacity, gentlemen."

"First, chain up this traitor."

"He abused my confidence by the most execrable lies. Gentlemen, any one would have been deceived as much as I was."

"One cannot mock thus the faith of brave gentlemen who sacrifice themselves to the good cause."

"De Chemerant, you are as culpable as this miserable scoundrel."

"But, my lords, the English envoy was deceived as well as I."

"It is impossible; you are his accomplice."

"My lords, you insult me!"

"A man of your experience, sir, does not allow himself to be made ridiculous in this way."

"We must avenge ourselves!"

"Yes, vengeance! vengeance!"

These accusations, these reproaches bandied about so rapidly, caused such a tumult that it was impossible for De Chemerant to make himself heard among so many furious cries. The attitude of the English gentlemen became so threatening toward him, their recriminations so violent, that he placed himself alongside the officers of the frigate, and all carried their hands to their swords.

Croustillac, alone between the two groups, was a butt for the invectives, the attacks, and the maledictions of both parties. Intrepid, audacious, his arms crossed, his head high, his eye unblenching, the adventurer heard the muttering and bursting forth of this formidable storm with impassible phlegm, saying to himself: "This ruins all; they may throw me overboard—that is to say, into the open sea; the leap is perilous, though I can swim like a Triton, but I can do no more; this was sure to happen sooner or later; and beside, as I said this morning, one does not sacrifice oneself for people in order to be crowned with flowers and caressed by woodland nymphs."

Although at its height, the tumult was dominated by the voice of Mortimer who cried: "Monsieur De Chemerant, have this wretch hanged first; you owe us this satisfaction."

"Yes, yes, hang him to the yardarm," said the English gentlemen; "we will have our explanations afterward."

"You will oblige me much by explaining yourselves beforehand!" cried Croustillac.

"He speaks! he dares to speak!" cried one.

"Eh! who, then, will speak in my favor, if not myself?" replied the Gascon. "Would it be you, by chance, my gentleman?"

"Gentlemen," cried De Chemerant, "Lord Mortimer is right in proposing that justice be done to this abominable impostor."

"He is wrong; I maintain that he is wrong, a hundred thousand times wrong!" cried Croustillac; "it is an obsolete, tame, vulgar means——"

"Be silent, unhappy wretch!" cried the athletic Mortimer, seizing the hands of the Gascon.

"Do not lay your hands on a gentleman, or, Sdeath! you shall pay dear for this outrage!" cried Croustillac angrily.

"Your sword, scoundrel!" said De Chemerant, while twenty raised arms threatened the adventurer.

"In fact, the lion can do nothing against an hundred wolves," said the Gascon majestically, giving up his rapier.

"Now, gentlemen," resumed De Chemerant, "I continue. Yes, the honorable Lord Mortimer is right in wishing to have this rascal hanged."

"He is wrong! as long as I can raise my voice I will protest that he is wrong! it is a preposterous, an unheard-of idea; it is the reasoning of a horse. A fine argument is the gallows!" cried Croustillac, struggling between two gentlemen who held him by the collar.

"But before administering justice, it is necessary to oblige him to reveal to us the abominable plot which he has concocted. It is necessary that he should unveil to us the mysterious circumstances by the aid of which he has shamelessly betrayed my good faith."

"To what good? 'Dead the beast, dead the venom,'" cried Mortimer roughly.

"I tell you that you reason as ingeniously as a bulldog which leaps at the throat of a bull," cried Croustillac.

"Patience, patience; it is a cravat of good hemp which will stop your preaching very soon," responded Mortimer.

"Believe me, my lords," replied De Chemerant, "a council will be formed; they will interrogate this rascal; if he does not answer, we shall have plenty of means to force him to it; there is more than one kind of torture."

"Ah, so far I am of your mind," said Mortimer; "I consent that he shall not be hanged before being put to the rack; this will be to do two things instead of one."

"You are generous, my lord," said the Gascon.

In thinking of the fury which must have possessed the soul of De Chemerant, who saw the enterprise which he thought he had so skillfully conducted a complete failure, one understands, without excusing it, the cruelty of his resolution in regard to Croustillac.

Their minds were so excited, the disappointment had been so irritating, so distressing even, for the greater part of the adherents of Monmouth, that these gentlemen, humane enough otherwise, allowed themselves on this occasion to be carried away by blind anger, and but little more was needed to bring it about that the unfortunate Croustillac should not even be cited before a species of council of war, whose meeting might at least give an appearance of legality to the violence of which he was the victim.

Five noblemen and five officers assembled immediately under the presidency of the captain of the frigate.

De Chemerant placed himself on the right, the chevalier stood on the left. The session commenced.

De Chemerant said briefly, and with a voice still trembling with anger: "I accuse the man here present with having falsely and wickedly taken the names and titles of his grace the Duke of Monmouth, and with having thus, by his odious imposture, ruined the designs of the king, my master, and under such circumstances the crime of this man should be considered as an attack upon the safety of the state. In consequence, I demand that the accused here present be declared guilty of high treason, and be condemned to death."

"'Sdeath, sir, you draw your conclusions quickly and well; here is something clear and brief," said Croustillac, whose natural courage rose to the occasion.

"Yes, yes, this impostor merits death; but before that, it is necessary that he should speak, and that he should at once be put to the question," said the English lords.

The captain of the frigate, who presided over the council, was not, like De Chemerant, under the influence of personal resentment; he said to the Englishmen: "My lords, we have not yet voted a punishment; it is necessary before interrogating him to listen to his defense, if he can defend himself; after which we will consult as to the punishment which should be inflicted upon him. Let us not forget that we are judges and that he has not yet been declared guilty."

These cool, wise words pleased the five lords less than the angry excitement of De Chemerant; nevertheless, not being able to raise any objection, they were silent.

"Accused," said the captain to the chevalier, "what are your names?"

"Polypheme, Chevalier de Croustillac."

"A Gascon!" said De Chemerant, between his teeth; "I might have known it from his impudence. To have been the sport of such a miserable scoundrel!"

"Your profession?" continued the captain.

"For the moment, that of an accused person before a tribunal over which you worthily preside, captain; for you do not choose, and with reason, that men should be hanged without a hearing."

"You are accused of having knowingly and wickedly deceived Monsieur de Chemerant, who is charged with a mission of state for the king, our master."

"It is De Chemerant who deceived himself; he called me 'your highness,' and I innocently answered to the name."

"Innocently!" cried De Chemerant furiously; "how, scoundrel! have you not abused my confidence by the most atrocious lies? have you not surprised from me the most important secrets of state by your impudent treachery?"

"You have spoken, I have listened. I may even declare, for my justification, that you have appeared to me singularly dull. If it is a crime to have listened to you, you have rendered this crime enormous——"

The captain made a sign to De Chemerant to restrain his indignation; he said to the Gascon: "Will you reveal what you know relative to James, Duke of Monmouth? Will you tell us through what chain of events you came to take his names and titles?"

Croustillac saw that his position was becoming very dangerous; he had a mind to reveal all; he could address himself to the devoted partisans of the prince, assure himself of their support in announcing to them that the duke had been saved, thanks to him. But an honorable scruple withheld him; this secret was not his own; it did not belong to him to betray the mysteries which had concealed and protected the existence of the duke, and might still protect him.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE CHASE.

When the captain intimated anew to Croustillac the order to reveal all he knew about the duke, the adventurer responded, this time with a firmness full of dignity:

"I have nothing to say on this subject, captain; this secret is not mine."

"Thunder and blood!" cried Mortimer, "the torture shall make you speak. Light two bunches of tow dipped in sulphur. I will myself place them under his chin; that will loosen his tongue—and we shall know where our James is. Ah! I had indeed a presentiment that I should never see him again."

"I ought to say to you," said the captain to the Gascon, "that if you obstinately maintain a culpable silence, you will thus compromite in the gravest manner the interests of the king and of the state, and we shall be forced to have recourse to the harshest means in order to make you speak."

These quiet words, calmly pronounced by a man with a venerable countenance, who since the beginning of the scene had endeavored to moderate the violence of the adversaries of Croustillac, made on the latter a lively impression; he shivered slightly, but his resolution was not shaken; he answered with a steady voice: "Excuse me, captain, I have nothing to say, I will say nothing."

"Captain," cried De Chemerant, "in the name of the king, by whom I am empowered, I formally declare that the silence of this criminal may be the occasion of grave prejudice to the interests of his majesty and the state. I found this man in the very domain of my lord the Duke of Monmouth, provided even with precious objects belonging to that nobleman, such as the sword of Charles II., a box with a portrait, etc. All concurs, in fine, to prove that he has the most precise information concerning the existence of his grace the Duke of Monmouth. Now this information is of the highest importance relative to the mission with which the king has charged me. I demand therefore that the accused should immediately be constrained to speak by all the means possible."

"Yes! yes! the torture," cried the noblemen.

"Reflect well, accused," said the captain, again. "Do not expose yourself to terrible suffering; you may hope everything from our indulgence if you tell the truth. If not, take care!"

"I have nothing to say," replied Croustillac; "this secret is not mine."

"This means a cruel torture," said the captain. "Do not force us to these extremities."

The Gascon made a gesture of resignation and repeated: "I have nothing to say."

The captain could not conceal his chagrin at being obliged to employ such measures.

He rang a bell.

An orderly appeared.

"Order the provost to come here, four men to remain on the gun-deck near the forward signal light, and tell the cannoneer to prepare bunches of tow dipped in sulphur."

The orderly went out.

The orders were frightfully positive. In spite of his courage, Croustillac felt his determination waver; the punishment with which they threatened him was fearful. Monmouth was then undoubtedly in safety; the adventurer thought that he had already done much for the duke and for the duchess. He was about to yield to the fear of torture, when his courage returned to him at this reflection, grotesque, without doubt, but which, under the circumstances in which it presented itself to his mind, became almost heroic, "One does not sacrifice oneself for others with the sole aim of being crowned with flowers."

The provost entered the council room.

Croustillac shuddered, but his looks betrayed no emotion.

Suddenly, three reports of a gun, in succession resounded long over the solitude of the ocean.

The members of the improvised council started from their seats.

The captain ran to the portholes of the great cabin, declaring the session suspended. Partisans and officers, forgetting the accused, ascended in haste to the deck.

Croustillac, no less curious than his judges, followed them.

The frigate had received the order to lay to until the issue of the council which was to decide the fate of the chevalier.

We have said that the Unicorn had obstinately followed the Thunderer since the evening before; we have also said that the officer of the watch had discovered on the horizon a ship, at first almost imperceptible, but which very soon approached the frigate with a rapidity almost marvelous.

When the Thunderer lay to, this ship, a light brigantine, was at the most only half a league from her; in proportion as she approached, they distinguished her extraordinarily high masts, her very large sails, her black hull, narrow and slender, which scarcely rose out of the water; in one word, they recognized in this small ship all the appearance of a pirate.

At the apparition of the brigantine the Unicorn at once proceeded to place herself in her wake, at a signal which she made to her.

It was in time of war; the preparations for combat began in a moment on board the frigate. The captain, observing the singular maneuver of the two ships, did not wish to expose himself to a hostile surprise.

The brigantine approached, her sails half reefed, having at her prow a flag of truce.

"Monsieur de Sainval," said the captain to one of his officers, "order the gunners to stand by their guns with lighted matches. If this flag of truce conceals a ruse, this ship will be sunk."

De Chemerant and Croustillac felt the same astonishment in recognizing the Chameleon on board of which the mulatto and Blue Beard had embarked.

Croustillac's heart beat as if it would burst; his friends had not abandoned him, they were coming to succor him—but by what means?

Very soon the Chameleon was within speaking distance of the frigate and crossed her stern. A man of tall stature, magnificently dressed, was standing in the stern of the brigantine.

"James!—our duke! there he is!" cried enthusiastically the three peers, who, leaning over the taffrail of the frigate, at once recognized the duke.

The brigantine then lay to; the two ships remained immovable.

Lord Mortimer, Lord Dudley and Lord Rothsay gave vent to cries of the wildest joy at the sight of the Duke of Monmouth.

"James! our brave duke!—to see you—to see you again at last!"

"Is it possible? you are the Duke of Monmouth, my lord?" cried De Chemerant.

"Yes, I am James of Monmouth," said the duke, "as is proved by the joyful acclamations of my friends."

"Yes, there is our James!"

"It is he indeed, this time!"

"It is indeed our duke, our veritable duke!" cried the noblemen.

"Your highness, I have been most unworthily deceived since day before yesterday, by a miserable wretch who has taken your name."

"Yes, and we are going to hang him in honor of you!" cried Dudley.

"Be careful how you do that," said Monmouth; "the one whom you call a miserable wretch has saved me with the most generous devotion, and I come, De Chemerant, to take his place on board your ship, if he is in any danger for having taken mine."

"Surely, your highness," said De Chemerant, seizing this occasion of assuring himself of the person of the prince, "it is necessary that you should come on board; it is the only means by which you can save this vile impostor."

"That is, if this 'vile impostor' does not save himself, however," said Croustillac, springing upon the taffrail and leaping into the sea.

The movement was so sudden that no one could oppose it. The Gascon plunged under the waves, and reappeared at a short distance from the brigantine, toward which he directed his course.

There was but a short distance between the two vessels; the Chameleon was almost level with the sea; the chevalier, aided by the Duke of Monmouth and some of the sailors, found himself on the deck of the little ship before the passengers on the frigate had recovered from their surprise.

"Here is my savior, the most generous of men!" said Monmouth, embracing Croustillac.

Then James said a few words in the ear of Croustillac, who disappeared with Captain Ralph.

The duke, advancing to the edge of the stern of the brigantine, addressed himself to De Chemerant: "I know, sir, the projects of the king, my uncle, James Stuart, and those of the king, your master; I know that these brave gentlemen come to offer me their arms to aid me in driving William of Orange from the throne of England."

"Yes, yes, when you shall be at our head we will drive away these Dutch rats," cried Mortimer.

"Come, come, our duke, with you we will go to the end of the world," said Dudley.

"My lord, you may count on the support of the king, my master. Once on board, I will communicate to you my full powers," cried De Chemerant, ravished to see that his mission, which he had believed desperate, revived with every chance of success.

"Your highness, do you wish the long boat sent for you, or will you come in one of your own boats?" added De Chemerant; "and since your highness is interested in this miserable rascal, his pardon is assured."

"Make haste, noble duke——"

"Come as you wish, James—our James—but come at once!"

"Yes, come," said Mortimer, "or we will do as this rascal in green cassock and pink stockings; we will leap into the water like a band of wild ducks, to be the sooner with you."

"No imprudence, no imprudence, my old friends," said Monmouth, who sought to gain time since the Gascon disappeared.

At last Captain Ralph came to say a word in the ear of the prince; the latter gave a new order in a low voice and with a radiant air.

"Your highness, they are about launching the long boat," said De Chemerant, who was burning with impatience to see the duke on board.

"It is useless, sir," said the duke. Then, addressing himself formally to the noblemen with an accent of profound emotion: "My old friends, my faithful companions, farewell, and forever farewell, I have sworn by the memory of the most admirable martyr to friendship, never to take part in civil troubles which might deluge England with blood; I will not break my oath. Farewell, brave Mortimer, farewell good Dudley, farewell valiant Rothsay; it breaks my heart not to embrace you for a last time. Forget this my appearance. Henceforth let James of Monmouth—be dead to you as he has been to all the world for five years! Again farewell, and forever farewell!"

Then turning toward his captain, the duke cried quickly in a sonorous voice:

"Set all sails, Ralph!"

At these words Ralph seized the helm; the sails of the brigantine, already prepared, were hoisted and trimmed with marvelous rapidity. Thanks to the breeze and her galley oars, the Chameleon was under way before the passengers of the frigate had recovered from their surprise. The brigantine, in moving off, kept in the direction of the stern of the frigate in order not to be exposed to her guns.

It is impossible to paint the rage of De Chemerant, the despair of the noblemen, in seeing the light vessel rapidly increasing the distance between them.

"Captain," cried De Chemerant, "set all sail; we will overhaul this brigantine; there is no better sailer than the Thunderer."

"Yes, yes," cried the peers, "board her!"

"Let us capture our duke!"

"When we have him we will force him to place himself at our head!"

"He will not refuse his old companions!"

"My boys, two hundred louis to drink the health of James of Monmouth if we overtake this waterfly," cried Mortimer, addressing the sailors, and pointing to the little vessel.

The Chameleon soon found herself beyond reach of the guns of the frigate. She quitted the direction she had first taken, and in place of keeping close to the wind, altered her course.

This maneuver exposed the Unicorn, which during the conference of the duke and De Chemerant had remained behind in the wake of the Chameleon and absolutely in a line with her.

It is on board the latter ship that we shall conduct the reader; he can thus assist at the chase which the frigate is about to give to the brigantine.

Polypheme de Croustillac was on the deck of the Unicorn in company with his old host, Captain Daniel, and Father Griffen, who embarked the evening before on this vessel.

The reader recalls the plunge that Croustillac made in leaping from the taffrail of the frigate into the sea in order to rejoin Monmouth. While the Gascon shook himself, rubbed his eyes, and allowed himself to be cordially embraced by the duke, the latter had said to him: "Go quickly and await me on board the Unicorn; Ralph will conduct you there."

Croustillac, still dizzy from his leap, enraptured at having escaped from De Chemerant, followed Captain Ralph. The latter made him embark in a little yawl rowed by a single sailor.

It was thus that the adventurer boarded the Unicorn. In order not to lose time, Ralph had ordered the sailor to follow the chevalier and abandon the yawl; the transfer of the Gascon was then executed very rapidly.

The duke had not given the order to hoist the sails of the frigate until he knew Croustillac to be in safety, for he foresaw that De Chemerant would inevitably abandon the shadow for the substance, the false Monmouth for the true, the Unicorn for the Chameleon.

Master Daniel, at sight of the Gascon, cried out: "It is written that I never shall see you come aboard my ship but by strange means! In leaving France you fell from the clouds; in quitting the Antilles, you come to me from out of the sea like a marine god; like Neptune in person."

Very much surprised at this encounter, and especially at seeing Father Griffen, who, standing on the poop, attentively observed the maneuvers of the two ships, the chevalier said to the captain: "But how the devil do you find yourself here at a given point to receive me, coming out of that nutshell down there, floating away at hazard?"

"Faith, to tell the truth, I know almost nothing about it."

"How is that, captain?"

"Yesterday morning my shipowner at Rochelle asked me if my cargo was complete. I told him it was; he then ordered me to go to Fort Royal, where a frigate was just leaving, and earnestly demand her escort; if she refused it, I was to make myself escorted all the same, always keeping in sight of the said frigate, whatever she might do to prevent me. Finally, I was to conduct myself toward her almost as a mongrel cur toward a passer-by to whom he attaches himself. The man in vain drives the dog away; the dog always keeps just beyond reach of foot or stone; runs when he runs, walks when he walks, gets out of the way when he pursues him, stops when he stops, and finishes by keeping at his heels in spite of him. That is how I have maneuvered with the frigate. That is not all; my correspondent also said to me: 'You will follow the frigate until you are joined by a brigantine; then you will remain just behind her; it may be that this brigantine will send you a passenger (this passenger I now see was yourself); then you will take him and set sail at once for France without troubling yourself about either the brigantine or the frigate; if not, the brigantine will send you other orders, and you will execute them.' I know only the will of my shipowners; I have followed the frigate from Fort Royal. This morning the brigantine joined me, just now I fished you out of the water; now I set sail for France."

"The duke will not come on board, then?" asked Croustillac.

"The duke? what duke? I know no other duke than my shipowner or his correspondent, which is all the same as—ah! look there! there goes the frigate, giving tremendous chase to the little ship."

"Will you abandon the Chameleon thus?" cried Croustillac. "If the frigate overhauls her will you not go to her aid?"

"Not I, by the Lord, although I have a dozen little guns which can say their word as well as others, and the twenty-four good fellows who form my crew are a match for the marines of the king—but that is not the point. I know only the orders of my shipowners. Ah, now the brigantine cuts out some work for the frigate," said Daniel.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE RETURN.

The Thunderer pursued the Chameleon furiously. Whether from calculation, or from an enforced slackening in her course, several times the brigantine seemed on the point of being overtaken by the frigate; but then, taking a turn better suited to her construction, she regained the advantage she had lost.

Suddenly, by a brisk evolution, the brigantine tacked about, came straight toward the Unicorn, and in a few minutes came within reach of the voice.

One may judge of the joy of the adventurer when on the deck of the Chameleon, which passed astern of the three-master, he saw Blue Beard leaning on the arm of Monmouth, and heard the young woman cry to him in a voice full of emotion: "Adieu, our savior—adieu—may Heaven protect you! We will never forget you!"

"Adieu, our best friend," said Monmouth. "Adieu, brave and worthy chevalier!"

And the Chameleon moved off, while Angela with her handkerchief, and Monmouth with a gesture of the hand, made a last sign of farewell to the adventurer.

Alas! this apparition was as short as it was ravishing. The brigantine, after having for a moment grazed the stern of the Unicorn, turned back on her way and made straight toward the frigate, with incredible boldness, keeping almost within range of her guns.

The Thunderer in her turn tacked about; without doubt the captain, furious at this useless chase, wished to end it at any price. A sudden flash, a dull and prolonged report was heard a long distance, and the frigate left behind her a cloud of bluish smoke.

At this significant demonstration, no longer amusing herself with doubling before the frigate, the Chameleon came close up to the wind—a movement particularly favorable to her—and then took flight seriously. The Thunderer pursued her, both ships directing themselves to the south.

The Unicorn had the cape on the northeast. She sailed splendidly. One thus comprehends that she would leave very soon and very far behind the two ships which sank more and more below the horizon.

Croustillac remained with his eyes riveted on the ship which bore Blue Beard away. He followed it with yearning and desolate eyes until the brigantine had entirely disappeared in space. Then two great tears rolled down the cheeks of the adventurer.

He let his head fall into his two hands with which he covered his face.

Captain Daniel came to suddenly interrupt the sad reverie of the chevalier; he slapped him joyously on the shoulder and cried out: "Ah, ha, our guest, the Unicorn, is well on her way; suppose we go below and drink a madeira sangaree while waiting for supper? I hope you are going to show me again some of your funny tricks which made me laugh so much, you know? when you held forks straight on the end of your nose. Come, let us drink a glass."

"I am not thirsty, Master Daniel," said the Gascon, sadly.

"So much the better; you will only drink with the more pleasure; to drink without thirst—that is what distinguishes the man from the brute, as they say."

"Thanks, Master Daniel, but I cannot."

"Ah! the devil! what is the matter with you then? You have a very queer air; is it because you have not been lucky, you who boasted you were going to marry Blue Beard before a month had passed? Say then, do you remember? You must have lost your bet completely; you have not dared only to go to Devil's Cliff, I am sure."

"You are right, Master Daniel, I have lost my bet."

"As you bet nothing at all it will not ruin you to pay it, fortunately. Ah! say then, I have had several questions on my tongue for a quarter of an hour: how did you come to be on board the frigate? how did the captain of the brigantine pick you up? did you know him? and then, this woman and this lord who said adieu to you just now—what does all this mean? Oh, as to that, if it bothers you, do not answer me; I ask you that, only to know it. If it is a secret, motus, let us speak no more of it."

"I can tell you nothing on that subject, Master Daniel.''

"Let it be understood, then, that I have asked no questions about it, and long live joy! Come, laugh then, laugh then! what makes you sad? Is it because here you are still with your old green coat and the very pink hose so prettily stained with seawater, be it said without offending you? I will lend you a change, although it is as hot as a furnace, because it is not healthy to let one's clothes dry on one's body. Come, come, quit that gloomy air! See, are you not my guest, since you are here by order of my shipowner? And, whatever comes, have I not told you that you can stay on board the Unicorn as much as you please? for, by the Lord, I adore your conversation, your stories, and especially your tricks. Ah! say, I have a species of tow made with a thread of the bark of the palm tree, that will burn like priming; that will be famous, you will swallow that, and you will spit flame and fire like a real demon; is it not true?"

"The chevalier appears not disposed to amuse you very much, Master Daniel," said a grave voice.

Croustillac and the captain turned; it was Father Griffen who, from the poop, had watched the pursuit of the brigantine, and who now was descending to the deck.

"It is true, Father, I feel somewhat sad," said Croustillac.

"Bah! bah! if my guest is not in the mood, he will be, very soon, for he is not naturally a melancholy man. I will go to prepare the sangaree," said Daniel. And he quitted the deck.

After some moments of silence, the priest said to Croustillac:

"Here you are, again, the guest of Captain Daniel; here you are, as poor as you were ten days ago."

"Why should I be richer to-day than I was ten days ago, Father," asked the Gascon.

It must be said to the praise of Croustillac, that his bitter regrets were pure from all covetous thoughts; although poor, he was happy to think that, apart from the little medallion Blue Beard had given him, his devotion had been entirely disinterested.

"I believe," said Father Griffen, "that the Duke of Monmouth will be annoyed at not being able to requite your devotion as he ought. But it is not altogether his fault; events have so pressed upon one another——"

"You do not speak seriously, Father. Why should the duke have wished to humiliate a man who has done what he could to serve him?"

"You have done for the duke what a brother might have done; and why, knowing you to be poor, should he not, as a brother, come to your aid?"

"For a thousand reasons, I should be disturbed beyond measure, Father. I even count on the events of the life, more adventurous than ever, that I am about to lead, to distract my mind, and I hope——"

The Gascon did not finish his sentence, and again concealed his face in his hands. The priest respected his silence and left him.

* * * * *

Thanks to trade winds and a fine passage, the Unicorn was in sight of the coast of France about forty days after her departure from Martinique.

Little by little the gloomy sadness of the chevalier softened. With an instinct of great delicacy—an instinct as new to him as the sentiment which, without doubt, had developed it—the chevalier reserved for solitude the tender and melancholy thoughts awakened in him by the remembrance of Blue Beard, for he did not wish to expose these precious memories to the rude pleasantries of Captain Daniel, or to the interpretations of Father Griffen.

At the end of eight days the chevalier had again become in the eyes of the passengers of the Unicorn what he had been during the first voyage. Knowing that he was to pay his passage by his good companionship, he put that kind of probity which was natural to him into his efforts to amuse Captain Daniel; he showed himself so good a companion that the worthy captain saw with despair the end of the voyage approach.

Croustillac had formally declared that he was going to take service in Moscow where the Czar Peter then received soldiers of fortune gladly.

The sun was on the point of setting when the Unicorn found herself in sight of the shores of France. Captain Daniel, from motives of prudence, preferred waiting for the morning before proceeding to the anchorage.

Shortly before the moment of sitting down to the table, Father Griffen prayed the Gascon to come with him to his room. The grave, almost solemn, air of the priest appeared strange to Croustillac.

The door closed, Father Griffen, his eyes filled with tears, extended his arms to the Gascon, and said: "Come, come, excellent and noble creature; come, my good and dear son."

The chevalier, at once moved and astonished, cordially pressed the priest in his arms and said to him: "What is it, then, my father?"

"What is it? what is it? How, you, a poor adventurer, you, whose past life should have rendered less scrupulous than others, you save the life of the son of a king, you devote yourself to his interests with as much abnegation as intelligence; and then, that done and your friends in safety, you return to your obscure and miserable life, not knowing even at this hour, on the eve of reentering France, where you will lay your head to-morrow! and that without one word, one single word of complaint, of the ingratitude, or at least, of the forgetfulness of those who owe you so much!"

"But, my Father——"

"Oh, I have observed you well during this voyage! Never a bitter word, never even the shadow of a reproach; as in the past, you have become gay and thoughtless again. And yet—no—no—I have well seen that your gayety was assumed; you have lost in this voyage your one possession, your only resource—the careless gayety which has aided you to bear misfortune."

"My Father, I assure you, no."

"Oh, I do not deceive myself, I tell you. At night I have surprised you alone, apart, on the deck, sadly dreaming. Of old, did you ever dream thus?"

"Have I not, on the contrary, during the voyage, diverted Captain Daniel by my pleasantries, good Father?"

"Oh, I have observed you well; if you have consented to amuse Master Daniel, it was in order to recompense him as you could for the hospitality he has given you. Listen, my son—I am old—I can say all to you without offending you; well, conduct such as yours would be very worthy, very fine on the part of a man whose antecedents, whose principles rendered him naturally delicate; but on your part, whom an idle, perhaps culpable youth, should seem to have robbed of all elevation of thought, it is doubly noble and beautiful; it is at once the expiation of the past and the glorification of the present. Thus, such sentiments cannot remain without their recompense—the trial has endured too long. Yes, I almost blame myself for having imposed it on you."

"What trial, my Father?"

"Yet, no; this trial has permitted you to show a delicacy as noble as touching——"

A knock at the door of Father Griffen's room.

"What is it?"

"Supper, Father."

"Come, let us go, my son," said Father Griffen, regarding Croustillac with a peculiar air; "I do not know why it seems to me that the journey will terminate fortunately for you."

The chevalier, very much surprised that the Reverend Father should have brought him to his room in order to hold the discourse we have reported, followed Father Griffen on deck.

To the great astonishment of Croustillac, he saw the crew in gala attire; lighted torches were suspended to the shrouds and the masts. When the adventurer appeared on deck, the twelve guns of the three-master resounded in salute.

"Zounds! Father, what is all this?" said Croustillac; "are we attacked?"

Father Griffen had no leisure to respond to the adventurer; Captain Daniel, in his holiday clothes, followed by his lieutenant, his officer and the masters and mates of the Unicorn, came to respectfully salute Croustillac, and said to him with ill-concealed embarrassment: "Chevalier, you are my shipowner; this ship and its cargo belong to you."

"To the devil with you, comrade Daniel!" responded Croustillac; "if you are as crazy as this before supper, what will you be when you have been drinking, our host?"

"I ask no end of pardons, chevalier, for having made you balance things on your nose, and for having led you to chew oakum in order to spit fire during the voyage. But as true as we are in sight of the coast of France, I did not know that you were the proprietor of the Unicorn."

"Ah, Father, explain to me," said Croustillac.

"The Reverend Father will explain to you many things—so much the better, chevalier," continued Daniel, "that it is he who brought me just now the letter of my correspondent of Fort Royal, which announces to me that in view of the power of attorney he has always had from my shipowner in Rochelle, he has sold the Unicorn and her cargo as attorney to Chevalier Polypheme de Croustillac; thus then the Unicorn and her cargo belong to you, chevalier; you will give me a receipt and discharge of the said Unicorn and of the said cargo when we reach a port of France, or foreign land which it shall suit you to designate; which receipt and discharge I will send to my shipowner for my entire discharge of the said ship and said cargo."

Having pronounced this legal formula all in a breath, Captain Daniel, seeing Croustillac abstracted and anxious, thought that the chevalier bore him some grudge; he replied with new embarrassment: "Father Griffen, who has known me for many years, will affirm to you, and you will believe it, chevalier, I swear to you that in asking you to swallow oakum and spit out flame, I did not know that I had to do with my owner, and the master of the Unicorn. No, no, chevalier, it is not for one who possesses a ship, which, all loaded, might be worth at least two hundred thousand crowns——"

"This ship and her cargo is worth that price?" said the adventurer.

"At the lowest price, sir; at the lowest price, sold in a lump and at once; but, by not hurrying, one would have fifty thousand crowns more."

"Do you now comprehend, my son?" said Father Griffen, "our friends of Devil's Cliff, learning that grave interests recalled me suddenly to France, have charged me with making you accept this gift on their parts. Pardon me, or rather felicitate me for having so well proved the elevation of your character, in revealing to you only at this late hour, the bounty of the prince."

"Ah, Father," said Croustillac bitterly, drawing from his breast the medallion that the duchess had given him, and which he wore suspended by a leathern cord, "with that, I was recompensed as a gentleman, why now do they treat me as a vagabond in giving me this splendid alms?"

The next day the Unicorn entered port, Croustillac, making use of his new rights, borrowed twenty-five louis of Captain Daniel, on the value of the cargo, and forbade him to land for twenty-four hours.

Father Griffen was to lodge at the seminary. Croustillac appointed a meeting with him for the next day at noon. At noon the chevalier did not appear, but sent the priest the following note by a messenger of La Rochelle:

* * * * *

"My good Father I cannot accept the gift which you have offered me. I send you a deed drawn up according to rule, which substitutes you in all my rights over this ship and her cargo. You will employ it all in good works, as you understand how to do. The notary who will send you this note will consult with you as to formalities; he has my power of attorney.

"Adieu, my good Father; sometimes remember the Gascon, and do not forget him in your prayers.

"CHEVALIER DE CROUSTILLAC."

* * * * *

It was years before Father Griffen heard of the adventurer again.



EPILOGUE.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE ABBEY.

The abbey of St. Quentin, situated not far from Abbeville and almost at the mouth of the Somme, possessed the finest farms in the province of Picardy; each week its numerous tenants paid in kind a part of their rents. In order to represent abundance, a painter might have chosen the moment when this enormous tithe was carried to the convent.

At the end of the month of November, 1708, about eighteen years after the events of which we have spoken, the tenants were met together on a misty, cold autumn morning, in a little court situated outside the buildings of the abbey and not far from the lodge of the porter.

Outside one saw the horses, the asses, and the carts which had served for the transportation of the immense quantity of produce destined for the provisioning of the convent.

A bell rang, all the peasants pressed to the foot of a small staircase of a few steps, situated under a shed which occupied the back part of the court. The flight of steps was surmounted by a vault through which one came out from the interior of the convent.

The cellarer, accompanied by two lay brethren, appeared under this vault.

The fat, rubicund, animated face of the Father, detached itself like a Rembrandt on the obscure depth of the passage at the extremity of which he had stopped; from fear of the cold, the monk had drawn over his head the warm hood of his black cloak. A soft soutane of white wool draped itself in large folds about his enormous obesity.

One of the brothers carried an ink bottle at his girdle, a pen behind his ear, and a big register under his arm; he seated himself on one of the steps of the staircase, in order to enter the rents brought by the farmers.

The other brothers classified the goods under the shed as they were placed there; while the cellarer, from the top of the flight of steps, presided solemnly over their admission, his hands concealed in his large cuffs.

It is impossible to number and describe this mass of comestibles placed at the foot of the staircase. Here were enormous fish from the sea, the lake, or the river, which still wriggled on the slabs of the court; there magnificent capons, monstrous geese, large ducks coupled by their feet, fluttered convulsively in the midst of mountains of fresh butter and immense baskets of eggs, vegetables, and winter fruits. Further on were tethered two of these sheep fattened on the salt meadows, which give such fine flavor to their succulent flesh. Fishers rolled along small barrels of oysters; further on were shellfish of every kind, lobsters, eels and shrimps, which shook the wicker baskets in which they were inclosed.

One of the porters of the abbey was on his knees before a buck a year old, in full flesh, and killed the day before; he weighed with his hand a quarter, to make the cellarer admire its weight; near the buck lay two kids, a good number of hares and partridges; while another porter opened hampers filled with every species of marsh fowl and birds of passage, such as wild duck, woodcock, teal, plovers, etc.

Finally, in another corner of the court, were spread out the more modest, but no less useful offerings, such as sacks of the purest flour, dried vegetables, strings of perfumed hams, etc.

At one time these gastronomics were so heaped up that they reached the level of the staircase where the cellarer stood.

Seeing this rotund monk with his shining face, his vast abdomen, standing on this pedestal of comestibles which he watched with the eye of a gormand, one would have called him the genius of good cheer.

According to the quantity or quality of his tribute, each tenant, after having received a word of blame or praise from the cellarer, withdrew with a slight genuflection. The Reverend Father even deigned at times to withdraw from his long sleeves his fat, red hand, to give it to the most favored to kiss.

The roll-call of the lay brother was almost at an end.

There was brought to the cellarer a savory caudle in a silver bowl borne on a tray of the same metal. The Reverend Father swallowed this consomme, a perfect specific against the morning cold and fog. At this moment the lay brother complained of having in vain twice called James, the tenant of the farm of Blaville, who owed ten hens, three sacks of wheat and one hundred crowns for the rent of his farm.

"Ah, well!" said the cellarer, "where then is James? He is ordinarily exact. For fifteen years that he has held the farm of Blaville, he has never failed in his rent."

The peasants still called for James.

James did not appear.

From out the crowd of farmers came two children, a young boy and a young girl from thirteen to fourteen years of age; trembling with confusion, they advanced to the foot of the staircase—redoubtable tribunal!—holding each other by the hand, their eyes downcast and full of tears.

The little girl fingered the corner of the apron of coarse cloth covering her petticoat of whitish cloth rayed with wide black stripes; the young boy convulsively grasped his cap of brown wool. They stopped at the foot of the staircase.

"These are the children of the farmer James," said a voice.

"Very well! and the ten hens, and the three sacks of wheat, and the one hundred crowns from your father?" said the reverend man severely.

The two poor children pressed against each other, nudging one another with the elbow, as an encouragement to answer.

Finally the young boy, having more resolution, raised his noble, handsome face, which his coarse garments rendered still more remarkable, and sadly said to the monk: "Our father has been very ill for two months; our mother is taking care of him—there is no money in the house; we have been obliged to take the wheat and the rent to support the day laborer and his wife who takes my father's place in the farm work, and then it has been necessary to sell the hens to pay the doctor."

"It is always the same story when tenants fail in their rents," said the monk roughly. "James was a good and punctual farmer; this is how he spoils all, just like the others; but in the interests of the abbey as well as in his own, we will not let him wander into the bad way." Then, addressing himself to the children, he added severely: "The father-treasurer will consider this—wait there."

The two children withdrew into an obscure corner of the shed. The young girl seated herself, weeping, on a bench; her brother stood near her, looking at his sister with gloomy sadness.

The roll-call finished, the monks re-entered the abbey, the peasants regained the horses and carts which had brought them, the two children remained alone in the court, waiting with sad disquietude the decision of the treasurer with regard to their father.

A new personage appeared at the gate of the little court. This was a tall old man with large, white mustache and neglected beard; he walked with difficulty with the help of a wooden leg, and wore a uniform-coat of green with an orange-colored collar; a wallet of leather slung on his back carried his modest baggage; he supported himself on a thick cane made from the dogwood tree, and on his head was a big Hungarian cap of black worn fur, which descending to his eyebrows, gave him the most savage air in the world; his hair, as white as his mustache, tied with a leathern string, formed a long queue which fell to his shoulders; his skin was tanned, his eyes were bright and lively, though age had bowed his tall stature.

This old man entered the court without seeing the children; he looked about him like a man seeking to find his way; perceiving the two little peasants, he went straight to them.

The young girl, startled by this strange figure, or rather, by this enormous cap of bristling fur, gave a cry of affright; her brother took her hand to reassure her, and although the poor child wished to withdraw it, he advanced resolutely toward the old man.

The latter stopped, struck with the beauty of these two children, and especially the delicate features of the young girl, whose face of perfect regularity was crowned with two bands of blond hair half concealed under a poor little child's cap of a brown color; she wore, like her brother, rude wooden shoes and wool stockings.

"You are afraid of me then! Zounds! you will not tell me, then, where the Abbey of St. Quentin is?" said the old soldier.

Although he was far from wishing to intimidate the children, the tone of his voice frightened the young girl still more, who, pressing closely to her brother, said to him in a low tone: "Answer him, James, answer him; see what a wicked air he has."

"Have no fear, Angela, have no fear," answered the boy. Then he said to the soldier: "Yes, sir, this is the Abbey of St. Quentin; but if you wish to enter the porter's lodge is on the other side, outside of this court."

The boy might have spoken a long time without the soldier paying attention to his words.

When the young girl called her brother "James" the old man made a movement of surprise; but when James, in his turn, called his sister "Angela" the old man started, let his stick fall, and was obliged to support himself against the wall, so violent was his agitation.

"You call yourselves 'James' and 'Angela,' my children?" said he, in a trembling voice.

"Yes, sir," answered the young boy entirely reassured, but astonished at this question.

"And your parents?"

"Our parents are tenants of the abbey, sir."

"Come," said the soldier, whom the reader has doubtless already recognized, "I am an old fool—but—the union of these two names—James—Angela. Come, come, Polypheme, you lose your head, my friend; because you encounter two little peasants you imagine—" he shrugged his shoulders; "it is hardly worth while to have this big white beard at one's chin only to give way to such visions! If it is to make such discoveries that you return from Moscow, Polypheme, you might just as well—have done——"

While speaking thus to himself, Croustillac had examined the young girl with the greatest curiosity; more and more struck with a resemblance which seemed incomprehensible, he fastened eager eyes on Angela.

The young girl again frightened, said to her brother, hiding her face behind his shoulder: "Heavens! how he frightens me, again!"

"However, these features," said Croustillac, feeling his heart beat with doubt, anxiety, fear and despair all at once, "these charming features recall to me—but no—it is impossible—impossible. By what probability? Decidedly, I am an old fool. Farmers? Come, that sabre cut I got on the head at the siege of Azof has deranged my brain. After all, there are chances so strange (and surely, more than any one else, I should believe in the oddities of chance; I should be an ingrate to deny it); yes, chance might occasion peasants to give their children certain names rather than others, but chance does not make these resemblances—come, it is impossible. After all, I can ask them, and in asking them I shall laugh at myself; it is stupid. My children, tell me, what is your father's name?"

"James, sir."

"Yes, James—but James—what?"

"James, sir."

"James? nothing more?"

"Yes, sir," answered the boy, regarding Croustillac with surprise.

"This is more and more strange," said Croustillac, reflecting.

"Has he been long in France?"

"He has always been here, sir."

"Come, I was mad; decidedly, I was mad. Has your father ever been a soldier, my children?"

Angela and James looked at each other with astonishment.

The young boy answered: "No, sir, he has always been a farmer."

At this moment the door which communicated with the abbey opened and one of the lay brothers appeared at the top of the stairway.

This brother was the type of an ignoble monk, gross and sensual. He made a sign to the children, who tremblingly approached.

"Come here, little one," said he to the girl.

The poor child, after casting a doubtful look at her brother, whom she could not make up her mind to leave, timidly mounted the steps.

The monk took her insolently by the chin with his coarse hand, turned up her face which she held down, and said to her: "Pretty one, you will warn your father that if he does not pay eight days from now his rent in kind and the hundred crowns which he owes, there is a farmer who is more solvent than he who wants the farm and who will obtain it. As your father is a good fellow, they will give him eight days—but for that, they would have turned him out to-day."

"My God! my God!" said the children, weeping and clasping their hands, "there is no money at home. Our poor father is sick. Alas! what shall we do?"

"You will do what you can," said the monk, "that is the order of the prior;" and he made a sign to the young girl to go.

The two children threw themselves into each other's arms, sobbing, and saying: "Our father will die of this—he will die!"

Croustillac, half-hidden by a post of the shed, had been at once touched and angered by this scene. At the moment the monk was about to close the door, the Gascon said to him: "Reverend Father, a word—is this the Abbey of St. Quentin?"

"Yes, and what of it?" said the monk rudely.

"You will willingly give me a lodging till to-morrow, will you not?"

"Hum—always beggars," said the monk. "Very well; go and ring at the porter's gate. They will give you a bundle of straw and give you bread and soup." Then he added: "These vagabonds are the plague of religious houses."

The adventurer became crimson, drew up his tall form, thrust, with a blow of his fist, his fur cap over his eyes, struck the earth with his stick, and cried in a threatening tone: "Zounds! Reverend Father, know your company a little better, at least."

"Who is this old wallet-bearer?" said the irritated monk.

"Because I carry a wallet it does not follow that I ask alms of you, Reverend Father," said Croustillac.

"What dost thou want, then?"

"I ask a supper and a shelter because your rich convent can well afford to give bread and shelter to poor travelers. Charity commands this from your abbot. And beside, in sheltering Christians, you do not give, you restore. Your abbey grows very fat from its tithes."

"Wilt thou be quiet, thou old heretic, thou insolent old fellow!"

"You call me an insolent old fellow. Very well; learn, Don Surly, that I have still a crown in my wallet, and that I can do without your straw and your soup, Don Ribald."

"What dost thou mean by Don Ribald, rascal that thou art?" said the lay brother, advancing to the top of the steps. "Take care lest I give thy old rags a good shaking."

"Since we thee-and-thou each other, Don Drinker, take care in thy turn, Don Greedy, that I do not make thee taste of my stick, Don Big Paunch, infirm as I am, Don Brutal."

The vigorous monk for a moment made as though he was about to descend to chastise the Gascon, but he shrugged his shoulders and said to Croustillac: "If thou hast ever the impudence to present thyself at the porter's lodge, thou wilt be thrashed to some purpose. That is the kind of hospitality thou wilt receive henceforth from the Abbey of St. Quentin." Then addressing himself to the children: "And you be sure to tell your father that in eight days he pays or quits the farm, for, I repeat to you, that there is a farmer more solvent than he who wants it."

The monk shut the door brusquely.

"I cannot tell it to the children," said the adventurer, speaking to himself; "that would be a bad example for youth; but I had something like a feeling of remorse for having aided in the burning of a convent in the Moravian War—well, it pleases me to imagine that the roasted ones resembled this fat, big-bellied animal, and it makes me feel quite cheerful. The scoundrel! to treat those poor children so harshly! It is strange how I interest myself in them—if I had at least some reason for it, I should let myself hope. After all, why not clear up my doubts? What do I risk by it? I have plenty of money. Ah, then, my children," said he to the young peasants, "your father is sick and poor? He will not be vexed to gain a little windfall; although I carry a wallet, I have a purse. Well, instead of going to dine and sleep at the inn (may the lightning strike me if I ever set foot in this abbey, the Lord confound it!) I will go and dine and sleep at your place. I will not be any trouble to you. I have been a soldier, I am not hard to suit; a stool in the chimney corner, a morsel of lard, a glass of cider, and for the night a bundle of fresh straw, the gentle warmth of the stable—that is all I need; and that means a piece of twenty-four sous which will come into your house. What do you say to that?"

"My father is not an innkeeper, sir," answered the young boy.

"Bah! bah! my boy, if the good man has sense; if the good mother is a housekeeper, as she ought to be, they will not regret my coming; this piece of good luck will make your pot boil for a whole day. Come, conduct me to your farm, my children; your father would scold you for not bringing him an old soldier."

In spite of his apparent roughness and his uncouth figure, the chevalier inspired James and Angela with confidence; the children took each other by the hand and walked before the invalid soldier, who followed them absorbed in a profound reverie.

At the end of an hour's walk, they arrived at the entrance of a long avenue of apple trees, which led to the farm.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

REUNION.

James and Angela entered the farm in order to learn if their father would consent to give the old soldier hospitality. While waiting the return of the children, the adventurer closely scanned the outbuildings of the farm.

Everything appeared to be carried on with care and neatness; at the side of the working buildings was the farmer's house; two immense walnut trees shaded the door and its thatched roof of velvety green moss; a light smoke escaped from the brick chimney; the sound of the ocean was heard in the distance, as the farm lay almost on the cliffs of the coast.

The rain began to fall; the wind moaned; a shepherd boy was bringing home from the fields two beautiful brown cows which turned toward their warm stable, causing their little bells to give forth a melancholy sound. The adventurer was touched by this peaceful scene. He envied the lot of the people of this farm, even though he knew their momentary embarrassment. He saw approaching him a woman pale and small in figure, and of middle-age. She was dressed like the peasants of Picardy, but with extreme neatness. Her son accompanied her; her daughter remained in the doorway.

"We are very much grieved, sir."

Hardly had the woman said these words, when Croustillac became as pale as a ghost, extended his arms toward her without saying a word, let his cane escape, lost his equilibrium and fell suddenly his full length on a heap of dry leaves which was, happily, behind him.

The adventurer had fainted.

The Duchess of Monmouth (for it was she) not at once recognizing the chevalier, attributed his weakness to fatigue or need, and hastened, with the assistance of her two children, to resuscitate the stranger.

James, a strong boy for his age, supported the old man to the trunk of one of the walnut trees, while his mother and sister hurried off to seek a cordial. In opening the chevalier's coat in order to facilitate his respiration, James saw, attached by a leathern braid, the rich medallion which the adventurer carried on his breast.

"Mother! see this beautiful reliquary," said the young lad.

The duchess approached and was in turn stupefied at recognizing the medallion she had once given Croustillac. Then, regarding the chevalier with closer attention, she cried:

"It is he! it is the generous man who saved us!"

The chevalier began to revive. When he opened his eyes they were filled with tears.

It would be impossible to paint the happiness, the transports of the good Croustillac.

"You in this dress, madame! you whom I see after so many years! When I heard these children just now call each other James and Angela, my heart beat so strong! But I could not believe—hope—And the duke?"

The Duchess of Monmouth put one finger on her lips, shook her head sadly, and said: "You are going to see him! Alas! why should the pleasure of seeing you again be saddened by the sickness of James? Had it not been for this, to-day would have been beautiful for us."

"I can hardly recognize you again, madame; you, in this costume—in this sad condition."

"Silence! my children may hear you. But wait a moment here; I will go and prepare my husband to receive you."

After some minutes the adventurer entered Monmouth's room; the latter was extended on one of those green serge canopied beds such as may still be seen in the houses of some of the peasants.

Although he was emaciated by suffering, and was at that time more than fifty years old, the physiognomy of the duke showed the same gracious and high character.

Monmouth held out his hands affectionately to Croustillac, and indicating a chair at his bed, said to him: "Seat yourself there, my good friend. To what miraculous chance do we owe this happy meeting? I cannot believe my eyes! So, chevalier, we are reunited after more than eighteen years of separation. Ah! how often Angela and I have spoken of you and of your devoted generosity. Our regret was not being able to tell our children the debt of gratitude that we owe you, and which they also owe you."

"Ah, well, my duke, consider what is most pressing," said the Gascon, "each in his turn."

So saying, he took his knife from his pocket, unfastened his coat, and gravely made a large incision in the lining.

"What are you doing?" asked the duke.

The chevalier drew from his secret pocket a kind of leathern purse, and said to the duke: "There is in this one hundred double-louis, your highness; on the other side there is as much. This is the first of my savings on my pay, and the price of the leg which I left the past year at the battle of Mohiloff, after the passage of Beresina; for he was first, Peter the Great—well-named—in paying generously the soldiers of fortune who enrolled themselves in his service and who gave, many of them, the sacrifice of some one of their limbs."

"But, my friend, I do not understand you," said Monmouth, gently pushing away the purse which the adventurer tendered him.

"I will be explicit, my lord; you are in arrears to the amount of one hundred crowns of rent, and you are threatened with being turned out of this farm in eight days. It is a pot-bellied animal, bearded and corpulent, robed in the garb of a monk, who has made this threat to your poor, dear children but a short time since at the convent door."

"Alas, James! this is only too probable," said Angela, sadly, to her husband.

"I fear it," said Monmouth, "but this is not a reason, my friend, to accept——"

"But, my lord, it seems to me that you made me such a fine gift, it is now eighteen years ago, that we might well share it to-day; and when we speak of the past, in order to disembarrass yourself at once of what concerns me, and to speak henceforth of your affairs at our ease, my lord, in two words, this is my history. Upon my arrival at Rochelle, Father Griffen told me that you had presented me the Unicorn and its cargo!"

"My God! my friend, this was such a small thing after all that you had done for us," said James.

"May we not at least recognize all that you have done for us?" said Angela.

"Without doubt, it was little—it was nothing at all—a cup of coffee well sugared, with rum to soften it, was it not? Only the cup was a ship, and to fill it there was coffee and sugar and rum, the cargo of a vessel of eight hundred tons—the whole worth two hundred thousand crowns. You are right—it was less than nothing—but in order to put aside useless discussion and to be frank, Zounds! this gift wounded me——"

"My friend——"

"I was paid by this medallion—speak no more of it. Besides, I have no longer the right to resent it; I made deed of gift of the whole to Father Griffen in order that he might in his turn give it to the poor, or to the convent, or to the devil if he chose to."

"Can it be possible that you refused it?" exclaimed both husband and wife.

"Yes, I did refuse it, and I am sure, my lord, although you pretend surprise, that you would have acted as I did. I was not already so rich in good works as not to keep the memory of Devil's Cliff pure and without stain. It was a costly luxury, perhaps, but I had been James of Monmouth twenty-four hours, and somewhat of my role of grand seigneur still clung to me."

"Noble and excellent heart!" exclaimed Angela.

"But," said Monmouth, "you were so poor!"

"It is just because I am used to poverty and an adventurous life that that cost me nothing—I said to myself: 'Polypheme—consider! thou hast dreamed this night that thou wast worth two hundred thousand crowns.' I dreamed this dream—all has been said—and that did me good. Yes, often in Russia, when I was in misery—in distress—or when I was nailed to my pallet by a wound, I said to myself, to comfort and to rejoice me: 'After all, Polypheme, for once in thy life thou hast done something noble and generous.' Well, you may believe me, that restored my courage. But this is boasting, and what is worse, it unmans me—let us return to my departure from Rochelle. I avow it to you and I thank you for it; nevertheless, I have profited a little by your generosity. As nothing remained to me of my three unlucky crowns, and that was a small sum to travel to Moscow on, I borrowed twenty-five louis from Master Daniel on the cargo; I paid my passage on a Hamburg ship from Hamburg to Fallo; I embarked for Revel on a Swedish vessel; from Revel I went to Moscow; I arrived there like seafish in Lent; Admiral Lefort was recruiting a forlorn hope to reinforce the polichnie of the czar; in other words, the first company of infantry equipped and maneuvering after the German mode which had existed in Russia. I had made the campaign in Flanders with the 'reiters;' I knew the service; I was then enrolled in the polichnie of the czar, and I had the honor of having this great man for file closer, for he served in this company as a simple soldier, seeing he had the habit of thinking that in order to know a trade it is necessary to learn it.

"Once incorporated in the Muscovite army, I served in all the wars. Do not think, my lord, that I am going to recount to you my campaigns, to speak to you of the siege of Azof, where I received a saber cut on my head; the taking of Astrakhan under Scheremetoff, where I received a lance thrust in my loins; of the siege of Narva, where I had the honor of aiming at his majesty, Charles XII., and the good fortune to miss him; and finally, the great battle of Dorpat.

"No, no, do not fear, my lord; I keep these fine stories to put your children to sleep with during the winter nights, in the chimney corner, when the seawinds rage in the branches of your old walnut trees. All that remains for me to say to you, my lord, is that I have made war ever since I left you, first as a noncommissioned officer, and then as lieutenant. I might have done it still, perhaps, if last year I had not forgotten one of my legs at Mohiloff. The czar generously gave me the capital of my pension, and I returned to France because, after all, it is there that one dies best—when one is born there; I went on foot, lounging along, regaining my paternal valley, lodging and sleeping in the abbeys to spare my purse, when chance—this time, no," said the chevalier, in a grave and penetrating tone which contrasted greatly with his ordinary language, "oh, this time, no—it was not chance, but the providence of the good God which caused me to meet with your children, my lord; they have brought me here; I fell back in a swoon on a heap of dry leaves on recognizing the duchess, and here I am.

"Now, here is my plan—at least, if you consent to it, my lord. My paternal valley is very empty—my father and my mother are long since dead; I should wish, of all things, to establish myself near you. Although lame, I am still good for something, if only to serve as a scarecrow to hinder the birds from eating your apples and cherries. I will forget that you are 'my lord:' I will call you 'Master James,' I will call the duchess, 'Dame James,' your children shall call me Father Polypheme; I will tell them of my battles, and it will go on like that, vitam aeternam."

"Yes! yes! we accept; you shall never leave us," said James and Angela together, their eyes filled with tears.

"But on one condition," said the chevalier, drying his eyes also, "that is, that I, who am as proud as a peacock, shall pay you, in advance, my board; and that you will accept from me these two hundred louis that you refused; total, six thousand livres; at five hundred francs a year, twelve of board. In twelve years we will make another lease."

"But, my friend——"

"But, my lord, it is yes or no. If it is yes, I remain, and I am more happy than I deserve to be. If it is no, I take again my stick, my wallet, and I start for the paternal valley, where I shall die, in a corner sadly and all alone, like an old dog who has lost his master."

Grotesque as were these words, they were spoken in a tone so full of emotion and so touching that the duke and his wife could not refuse the offer of the chevalier: "Well then, I accept."

"Hurrah!" cried Croustillac, in the voice of a stentor, and he accompanied this Muscovite exclamation by throwing into the air his old fur cap.

"Yes, I accept with all my heart, my old friend," said Monmouth, "and—why conceal it from you?—this unexpected succor which you offer us so generously, saves, perhaps, my life—saves, perhaps, my wife and children from misery, for this sum sets us afloat again, and we can brave two years as bad as those which have been the cause of our first embarrassment. Fatigue, chagrin, fear for the future, have made me ill; now, tranquil as to the fate of my dear ones, assured of a friend like you—I am sure that my health will return to me."

"Zounds! my lord, how did it happen that, with the enormous amount of jewels that you had, you are reduced?"

"Angela will tell you that, my friend; emotion at once so keen and so sweet as I feel has fatigued me."

"After having left you on board of the Unicorn," said Angela "we set sail for Brazil; we sojourned there some time, but from prudence, we resolved to depart for India on board a Portuguese vessel. We had lived three years in this little-known country, very happy and very tranquil, when I fell seriously ill. One of the best physicians in Bombay declared that the climate of India would become fatal to me; my native air alone could save me. You know how James loves me; it was impossible for me to alter his resolution; he chose at all hazards to return to Europe, to France, in spite of the dangers that threatened him. We started from the Cape in a Dutch ship, making sail for the Texel. We possessed a very considerable sum coming from the sale of our jewels. Our voyage was very fortunate as far as the coast of France, but there a terrible tempest assailed us. After losing her masts, and being beaten about by the waves for three days, our ship went ashore on the coast a quarter of a league from here; by a miracle of Heaven, James and I alone escaped an almost certain death. Several of the passengers were, like us, cast on the beach during this horrible night—all perished. I repeat to you, my friend, that a miracle from Heaven was necessary to save us, James and me—to save me especially, ill as I was. The tenants whom we replaced on this farm found us almost dying on the shore; they brought us here. The ship was swallowed up with all our riches; James, occupied solely with me, had forgotten all; we no longer possessed anything; I was an orphan with no fortune; James could not apply to any one without being recognized.

"What remained to us in Martinique had, without doubt, been confiscated—and then, how could we claim this property? For all resource there remained to us a ring which I wore on my finger at the time of the ship-wreck; we intrusted it to the tenants of this farm, who had received us, to sell the diamond at Abbeville; they got for it about four thousand livres—that was all our store. My health was so affected that we were obliged to stop here; this measure, besides reconciled both prudence and economy; the farmers were good, full of cares for us.

"Little by little my health became re-established. Almost without resources we thought of the future with terror; however, we were young, misfortune had redoubled our love; the simple, obscure, peaceable life of our hosts impressed us; they were old, without children; we proposed to them to take the half of their farm, and to make our apprenticeship under their direction, avowing to them that we had no other resources than the four thousand livres that we would share with them. Touched with our position, these good people wished at first to dissuade us from this project, representing to us how hard and laborious this life was. I insisted; I felt myself full of courage and strength; James had lived a hard life too long not to accustom himself to that of the fields. We accomplished our design; I was tranquil about James. Who would seek the Duke of Monmouth in an obscure farm in Picardy? At the end of two years we had finished our apprenticeship, thanks to the lessons and teaching of our good forerunners; their little fortune, augmented by our four thousand livres, was sufficient. They made an agreement with the treasurer of the abbey that we should succeed them and we take the entire farm."

"Ah, madame, what resignation! what energy!" cried the chevalier.

"Ah, if you knew, my friend," said Monmouth, "with what admirable serenity of soul, with what gentle gayety Angela endured his rough life—she, accustomed to a life of luxury!—if you knew how she always knew how to be gracious, elegant, and charming, all the while superintending the affairs of the household with admirable activity!—if you knew in fine, what strength I drew from this brave and devoted heart; from this gentle regard always fixed upon me with an admirable expression of happiness and content precarious as was our position! Ah, who will ever recompense this beautiful conduct?"

"My friend," said Angela tenderly, "has not God blessed our laborious and peaceful life? Has He not sent us two little angels to change our duties into pleasures? What shall I say to you?" resumed Angela, addressing the chevalier; "for the almost sixteen years that this uniform life has lasted, of which each day has brought its bread, as the good folks say, never a chagrin had come to trouble it, when, in the past year, a bad harvest hampered us very much. We were obliged to discharge two of our farm hands for economy's sake. James redoubled his efforts and his work, his strength gave out; he took to his bed; our small resources were exhausted. A bad year, you see, for poor farmers," said Angela, smiling softly, "is terrible. In short, without you, I do not know how we could have escaped the fate which threatened us, for the Abbot of St. Quentin is inflexible toward tenants in arrears, and yet it was our pride to pay him always a term in advance. One hundred crowns—as much as that—and a hundred crowns, chevalier, are not easily gotten together."

"A hundred crowns? That does not pay for the embroidery on a baldric," said James with a melancholy smile. "Ah, how many times, in experiencing what misfortune is, have I regretted the good I might have done."

"Listen, my lord," said Croustillac gravely, "I am no devotee. Just now I came near shaking a monk out of his robes; I committed irregularities during my campaign in Moravia, but I am sure there is One above Who does not lose sight of honest people. Now, it is impossible that after nineteen years of work and resignation, now when you grow old, with two beautiful children, you should dream of remaining at the mercy of an avaricious monk or a year of frost. In listening to you, an idea has come to me. If I was the boaster of old, I should say that it was an idea from above; but I wholly believe that it is a fortunate idea. What has become of Father Griffen?"

"We do not know; we did not return to Martinique."

"He belongs to the order of Preaching Friars; he must be at the end of the world," said Monmouth.

"I, who have had no news of France for eighteen years, I know no more than you, my lord, but this is why I concern myself. I left to him the price of the Unicorn; he is a good and honest priest; if he still lives, there must remain to him some of it, for he would have been prudent and careful in his almsgiving. My advice would be to seek to know where the Reverend Father is, for if the good God has willed that he should have kept some good morsel from the Unicorn, own, my lord, that this would not be bad eating at this moment; if not for you, at least, for these two beautiful children, for my heart bleeds to see them with their wooden shoes and their woolen hose, although they may keep their feet warmer than boots of leather and gilded spurs, or shoes of satin with silken hose, should they be red, these hose! red like those I wore in 1690," added the chevalier, with a sigh. Then he resumed: "Ah, well! my lord, what say you to my Griffen idea?"

"I say, my friend, that it is an idle hope. Father Griffen is without doubt dead; he will doubtless have left your fortune to some religious community."

"To the Abbey of St. Quentin, perhaps," said Angela.

"Zounds! it wants but that! I would instantly set fire to the monastery!"

"Ah—fie! fie! chevalier!" said Angela.

"It is also because I am raging at having done what I did with your two hundred thousand crowns; but could I then imagine that I should find again, as a farmer, the son of a king who handled his diamonds by the shovelful? Ah, it is no use to philosophize here; but to find Father Griffen again if he is still living!"

"And how to find him again?" said Monmouth.

"By seeking him, my lord. I who have no reason for concealing myself, to-morrow I will take up this quest, hobbling around. Nothing is more simple; in truth, I am stupid not to have thought of it sooner. I will direct myself at once to the Superior of Foreign Missions, thus we shall know what we have to look to. The Superior will at least inform me if the good Father is alive or not; and even, on this account, I will to-morrow make a visit to your neighbor, the abbot of St. Quentin. He will tell me what to do about it—how to get this information. I will carry him your hundred crowns; that will be a good way to contrive the interview."

The three friends passed the day together. We leave the reader to imagine the stories, the reminiscences, gay, touching, or sad, which were recalled.

On the morrow Croustillac, who had already made friends with young James, started for the abbey. The amount of the rent, in bright louis d'or, was an excellent passport to the presence of the treasurer.

"Father," said Croustillac, "I have a very important letter to place in the hands of a good priest of the order of Preaching Brothers; I do not know if he is alive or dead; if he is in Europe, or at the end of the world; to whom should I address myself for information on this subject?"

"To one of our canons, my son, who has had much to do with missions, and who, after long and painful apostolic labors, came six months since to repose in a canonicate of our abbey."

"And when can I see this venerable canon, Father?"

"This very morning. In descending to the court of the cloister, ask a lay brother to conduct you to Father Griffen."

Croustillac gave so tremendous a blow of his staff on the floor, shouting three times his Muscovite exclamation, "hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" that the reverend treasurer was startled by it, and rang the bell precipitately, thinking he had to do with a madman.

A friar entered.

"Pardon, good Father," said Croustillac; "these savage cries, and this no less savage blow of the stick, paint to you the state of my soul, my astonishment, my joy! It is Father Griffen, himself, that I seek."

"Then conduct this gentleman to Father Griffen," said the treasurer.

We will not attempt to depict this new recognition, so important in the results the Gascon expected from it. We will only say that the good priest, charged with the trust of Croustillac, and fearing lest the chevalier should one day come to regret his disinterestedness, but wishing, however, to execute till then his charitable intentions, and not to deprive the unfortunate of this rich alms, had each year distributed to the poor the revenue of the capital, which he reserved for a pious foundation if the Gascon should not reappear.

The sale of the Unicorn, prudently managed, had brought about seven hundred thousand livres. The Father, finding by chance an advantageous sale of property in the environs of Abbeville, not far from the abbey of St. Quentin, had profited by it. He had thus become proprietor of a very fine estate called Chateauvieux.

On his return from his long voyages, six months before the time of which we speak, Father Griffen had asked by preference, a canonicate in Picardy, in order to be more within reach of the property which he managed, always ignorant whether the Gascon was dead or alive, but inclining rather to the former supposition, after a silence of eighteen years.

Father Griffen, very old, very infirm, quitted the abbey only to visit the estate of Chateauvieux. During the six months he lodged at St. Quentin, he had never gone to the side of the farm of which James of Monmouth was the farmer. The reunion of Father Griffen, the duke and his wife, was as touching as that of the adventurer.

After much discussion it was decided that one-half of the estate belonged to James; the other half to Croustillac, in whose name it remained.

The Gascon immediately made his will in favor of the two children of Monmouth on condition that the son should take the name of Jacques de Chateauvieux.

In order to explain this sudden change of fortune to the eyes of the people of the abbey and the environs, it was agreed that Croustillac should pass as an uncle from America, who had come incognito to test his nephew and his wife, poor cultivators of the soil.

James gave up his farm to the tenant who had been destined to replace him, and departed with his wife, his children and his uncle Croustillac for Chateauvieux.

The three friends lived long and happily in their domain, and their children and grandchildren lived there after them. The chevalier never left Monmouth and his wife. Once a year Father Griffen came to pass some weeks at Chateauvieux.

One single day yearly cast a gloom over this peaceful and happy life; this was the anniversary of the 15th of July, 1685, the anniversary of the sacrifice of the courageous Sidney.

Never did the son of James of Monmouth know that his father descended from a royal race. The secret was always kept by James, by his wife, by Croustillac, and by Father Griffen.

Age had so changed the duke; so many years, beside, had passed over the event of Martinique, that he was no longer disquieted by it. Only sometimes, the children and grandchildren of James of Monmouth opened astonished eyes when their good and old friend, the Chevalier de Croustillac, addressing himself to the Duchess of Monmouth with an air of understanding, said to her, while striving to hide a tear of emotion, the following apparently truly cabalistic words:

Blue Beard, Whirlwind, Rend-your-Soul, Youmaeale, Devil's Cliff.

THE END.

* * * * *

OMEGA

BY

"A REPORTER"

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THE SECRET OF THE EARTH

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