The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec. William McLennan
Act had raised me to the niche of a hero in her temple, and again it was the Vicomte who had contributed to this elevation.
Margaret now began to grow anxious again concerning her brother. Why did he not join us? Could any new complication have arisen to cause his re-arrest? These and a thousand other disturbing speculations troubled her unceasingly, until they were put beyond all doubt by a letter, which fell upon us like a bomb:
“January 19, 1748.
“My dearest Peggy—I have resolved on a step which I can scarce expect you to approve, perhaps not even to understand at present, though I have every hope that some day you will do both.
“My situation briefly is this: I have no hope whatever of another effectual attempt on the part of the Prince, and I have set my face against foreign service. Still, I was bred to the sword, and so must bide by it. As I have neither the means nor the inclination for an idle existence, and it has pleased the King to grant me my pardon without exacting any terms, I am resolved to offer him my sword and duty without reserve.
“Let no one persuade you into thinking that I am playing a part, or have been won over by new friends or promises. I have won myself over from empty plots and idle dreams to an honourable career, and I have put the past from me without a regret, save that my decision will cause you pain, my dear and only sister.
“Whether you write me in anger or write not at all, you cannot in any way lessen the affection in which I will always cherish you.
“Your loving brother,
“Archd. Nairn.”
“A most sensible determination,” I thought, “and does much credit both to his sense of honour and his judgment,” but I need hardly say I took care not to air my appreciations of his course before Lady Jane, and still less before Mistress Margaret, who was little short of distracted.
The poor girl had swooned on receiving the news, and for two days was utterly overwhelmed by what she held to be the disgrace of his desertion.
The Vicomte was singularly unfortunate in his attempt at consolation.
“Marguerite, mon amie,” he said one evening, before us all, “your brother should lose no claim to your esteem. Remember, the cause of the Prince Charles is lost beyond all redemption. Your brother is under the greatest of all obligations to his legal King; he owes him his life. If my humble opinion be of value, I conceive he has acted strictly within the laws which govern the conscience of a gentleman and a man of honour.”
“Gaston! How dare you? I am not a child; I am a woman loyal to my heart's core! I know nothing of your fine distinctions which constitute 'a gentleman and a man of honour,' But I do know the feeling which made men charge almost single-handed on the English line at Culloden. I know, too, the feeling which made the humblest Highland mother give up the child of her heart, and wish she had twenty more, to die for her King and her Prince. Better—far, far better that my brother had died unpardoned but loyal! He died for me the day his hand signed that traitorous compact. God pity me! I have neither father, mother, nor brother left. I have naught but you,” she cried, as she buried her face on Lady Jane's shoulder, and shook with the storm of grief that swept over her. Lady Jane motioned us to leave, and we withdrew sorrowfully enough.
It was weeks before the poor girl recovered her old liveliness; but she could not combat against the natural elasticity of youth, though the struggle left its trace in a sudden maturity quite unlooked for. Her relation towards the Vicomte became visibly colder; and he, simple soul, instead of being spurred to greater effort, went blundering on in his direct childlike way, with but small effect, though warmly reinforced by Lady Jane.
All this time His Royal Highness Prince Charles was making no slight stir in Paris. He was in deep disgrace with the King, whom he treated with the most studied discourtesy. An unwelcome and dangerous intruder, he paid not the slightest attention to the repeated requests that he should leave the capital; he kept open house in his hotel on the Quai des Théatins, and appeared nightly at the Opera despite every consideration of good taste and breeding. And yet one-half Paris looked on and applauded, blaming the King for his inhospitality to this hero of a hundred flights.
I did my own prospects of advancement no small harm by allowing myself to accompany Margaret and Lady Jane to one of his levees, where he bestowed much fulsome flattery on me, though he took good care it should reflect on himself, for he never could pass over an occasion to shine before a woman—one of the weakest vanities that ever inflated the soul of man.
The Vicomte was much chagrined over our going, and inclined to lay the blame upon me.
“M. de Kirkconnel,” said he, addressing Margaret, “should know that such a proceeding is extremely injudicious when the Prince stands in such ambiguous relations towards the Court; especially when aware of my position towards you and my official duty in the present difficult negotiations with the Prince.”
“'M. de Kirkconnel,' as you style him,” retorted Margaret, with great spirit, “has only done his duty, M. le Vicomte, as 'a gentleman and a man of honour,' in accompanying two ladies to pay their respects to the son of their King—whatever may be his relations towards a time-serving government.”
“Tut, tut, Margaret!” broke in Lady Jane, “none of your hoity-toity airs? Gaston is perfectly right. I blame myself for not having thought of his position in the matter. We'll keep ourselves outside these delicate questions, for which women have too hot heads, until wiser ones settle them, one way or another.”
That Lady Jane was much displeased was evidenced by the strenuous efforts to procure me a captaincy which she put on foot again with renewed vigour, and, to tell the truth, I was not sorry, for I was beginning to find no little embarrassment in Margaret's unconscious revelation of her feelings towards me, and I was heartily sorry for the Vicomte as well.
Nothing came of Lady Jane's efforts, and now we all began to live a life of much discomfort. That the Vicomte disliked me was patent, and yet he would make no effective efforts to better his own position with Margaret; that Lady Jane was troubled at my presence was writ large on her expressive countenance, and yet she could not bear me to leave unless fittingly provided; and that Margaret, our Pearl of Great Price, was as cold to the Vicomte as she was affectionate to me I could not greatly, and all this to our common disquiet. The Vicomte sighed for possession, Lady Jane for the fulfilment of her plans, and I for the end of a situation that had become wellnigh impossible.
At length the explosion came.
It was an open secret that the Prince would be removed by force, as he had obstinately refused to listen to either proposals, entreaties, or commands, and in short was courting disgrace, for Heaven only knows what, unless perchance he hoped to rise only by his failures and reverses. At all events, preparations were made without concealment for his arrest on the evening of the 10th of December, as he drove to the Opera, and the Vicomte, from his position in the Household Troops, had charge of the arrangements.
Margaret had heard the rumour that very day, and had sent the Vicomte peremptory word to come to the rue Dauphine; but no doubt it was his duties, certainly not any hesitation at facing the interview, which prevented his complying with her command.
The next day, when he presented himself, the news of the arrest was all over Paris, with every absurd exaggeration of detail.
He entered admirably composed, though knowing a painful scene was before him, and after saluting Lady Jane, he advanced towards Margaret, holding out his hand.
She stood erect, her face white with emotion.
“One moment, M. le Vicomte, until I see whether I can touch that hand again or not. Is it true that it was laid on my Prince?”
“No, mademoiselle, it was not.”
“Who, then, arrested him?”
“M.