The Love of Monsieur. Gibbs George
the real heir?”
“As much alive as you are.”
Monsieur Mornay contemplated the bottom of his bowl.
“Mille tonnerres!” he growled. “’Tis the very refinement of perfidy.”
The Irishman drank deep. “A lucky stroke of yours, Mornay, I say. I would it had been mine.”
“What became of the papers?”
“That’s why Heywood confessed, I suppose. Ye see, he loved his ward, and wanted Ferrers to destroy them. This he will do, I’m thinking, for he loves the lady himself.”
“And Mistress Clerke?”
“Hasn’t a notion of it.”
Mornay folded his arms and sat looking at the floor, a strange smile upon his lips. “Pardieu!” he said; “’twould touch her pride – ’twould wring her proud heart to have the heir come back to his own.” The bitterness of his tone caused Cornbury to look at him in surprise.
“Oh, there’s never a chance of it,” he said. “You see, this Spaniard, D’Añasco, put the boy upon a ship. Why, what ails ye, man? What is it? Are ye mad?”
Mornay had seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and leaned forward with eyes that stared at him like one possessed.
“The name, monsieur?” he said, huskily – “the name – the Spanish name you said – ?”
“Gawd, man, don’t grip me so! You’ve spilled the tobago. ’Twas D’Añasco, I think, or Damasco, or some such unspeakable thing.”
“Think, man – think!” cried Mornay, passionately. “’Tis a matter of life and death. Was the name Luis d’Añasco, of Valencia?”
It was Cornbury’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Mornay in amazement.
“I’ faith, now you mention it, I think it was. But how – ”
“And the name of the boy became Ruiz? The ship was the Castillano?”
Cornbury’s eyes were wider than ever.
“It was – it was!”
Cornbury paused. Mornay had arisen to his feet and stumbled to the dormer-window, where he fell rather than leaned against the sill. The Irishman could see nothing but the upheave of the shoulders and the twitching of the hands as the man straggled for his self-control. Cornbury was devoured with curiosity, but with due respect for the Frenchman’s silence sat smoking vigorously until Mornay chose to speak. As the Frenchman looked out at the quiet stars across the roof-tops of London he became calmer, and at last turned around towards the flickering candles.
“Monsieur,” began Cornbury, with a touch of sympathy.
But Mornay raised his hand in quiet protest. “D’Añasco was my father, voilà tout,” he said slowly. And as the Irishman arose, Mornay continued:
“I can finish the story, Monsieur Cornbury,” he said, lightly, but with a depth of meaning in his tone that did not escape the other. “When the boy Ruiz grew old enough to know, the Spaniard told him that he had no mother – nor ever had – that he was no-woman’s child. He put him on the Castillano and sent him out into the great world, without a thought, without a blessing, without a name – the very shuttle and plaything of fortune. That child, Cornbury, was myself.”
The Irishman put his arm upon Monsieur Mornay’s shoulder and clasped him by the hand.
They stood thus a moment until Cornbury broke away and, with a shout that made the rafters ring, again filled the drinking-bowls upon the table.
“A health, monsieur!” he cried. “You’ll never drink a better. To the better fortunes of René d’Añasco, Vicomte de Bresac!”
CHAPTER IV
MONSIEUR WAITS UPON A LADY
Captain Cornbury was no fledgling. He was the younger son, none too highly esteemed by the elder branch, of a hard-drinking, quick-fighting stock of ne’er-do-wells. He knew a trick with a sword, and for twenty years had kept a certain position by his readiness to use it. His last employment had been in the King’s service as captain in a regiment of dragoons, but he lived, of a preference, upon his wits. There was never a game of dice or cards at which he could not hold his own at luck or skill. Skill at the Fleece Tavern, too, often meant dexterity in manipulation; and where every man with whom he played took shrewd advantage of his neighbor there was little to cavil at.
But of late fortune had turned a wry face upon the man. His regiment was disbanded for lack of money, his pittance from the Earl, his brother, ceased altogether; and, with a reckless manner of living, a debtors’ prison stared him in the face. He sat upon the couch in Mornay’s new room at the Swan Tavern, watching with a somewhat scornful expression of countenance Vigot help his master to make his toilet. His eyes blinked sleepily at the light, for it was high noon; and his wig having been removed for comfort, the light shone brilliantly upon a short crop of carroty-red hair which took all the colors of the rainbow.
Mornay wore a splendid silken night-gown, little in keeping with the dinginess of the apartment. While Vigot dressed his master’s perruque, Mornay told the Irishman of the note from the King and of the arrival of the post from France, with the news of the anger of the Grand Monarque and of his promise of death or imprisonment should Mornay be brought to France.
Cornbury pursed his lips in a thin whistle.
“Viscount,” he said, frowning, “ye’re skatin’ on thin ice.”
Mornay had completely recovered his good spirits. He tossed his night-robe to Vigot and snapped his fingers.
“Mais, monsieur,” he smiled. “’Tis an exercise so exhilarating.”
“D – n it, man, ’tis no time for jesting,” growled the Irishman, rising. “The post from France to-day says ye are to be put in the Bastile or have your head chopped off; in London ye’re a fugitive from justice for killing; and, lastly, yer good friend Charles has turned a cold shoulder on ye. And ye talk of exhilaration!” Cornbury’s disgust was illimitable.
Mornay dusted a speck from his sleeve and smiled gayly. “It is not every day, my good Cornbury, that a man may become possessed of a family, a fortune, and, ma foi, such a beautiful, scornful she-cousin – ”
“Zoons, man! How can ye prove it without the papers? The mere word ‘D’Añasco’ will not open their ears or their hearts. I believe it, but who else would?”
“I can prove that I am the boy Ruiz, I tell you.”
“And ye’re fleeing for your life?”
Mornay’s face grew stern. “Yes, I am fleeing for my life,” he cried, “but they have not caught me yet. Last night I would not have cared if they had sent me back to France. To-day it is different. They have robbed me of my estates, of my name; they have made me a mere creeping thing – a viper. Morbleu! they shall feel the viper’s sting. Monsieur de Heywood is dead. Mistress Barbara Clerke – ”
Cornbury leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you don’t mean – ”
“Oh, put your mind at rest, mon ami. I shall do my pretty cousin no violence. I shall see her – that’s all. But first – first, about the papers with this Capitaine Ferraire – ”
Cornbury smiled dryly.
“Why, ye have but to poke a nose an inch beyond the door to be carted to the Tower. How will ye see Captain Ferrers, then? ’Tis the height of absurdity. Take my advice and keep close till ye find a ship. Then set your course for the Plantations till yer matter is cooled. I’ve a debt or two myself, and I’m inclined to accompany ye.”
Mornay looked at him in surprise. “Why, Cornbury, you have but a faint heart!”
“It is this news from France – ye have no backing – ”
“Come! have done!” cried Mornay. “You sap my will.