Traitor and True. John Bloundelle-Burton
also be put on board, and money to the extent of two million francs will be provided. Van den Enden goes now to Brussels to finally decide everything and----"
"To bring a portion of the money away with him," Van den Enden put in. "We want money badly in spite of having already received something as earnest of the matter being considered."
"But Basle! Why Basle?" Emérance exclaimed, while as she spoke her eyes rested on De Beaurepaire's face. "It is far away," she continued, speaking with emphasis. "Far from Paris and farther still from Normandy. It is going a long distance."
"It is outside France," La Truaumont said, "and, consequently, safe. While Spain is doing the business in company with the Normans in the North-West, those who are directing the puppets will be doing so from the South-East."
"He cannot be there," Emérance said, her eyes still fixed on De Beaurepaire.
"No," De Beaurepaire replied, "I must remain in Paris. I may indeed be required in Normandy. But there is a certain lady, a certain grande dame de par le monde who will pass through Basle from Nancy on her road to Italy. You know that, Madame de Villiers-Bordéville, as well as you know that I have promised to see her to, and safely outside, the gates of Paris."
"Yes, I know," the woman said, her eyes lowered now as his were raised to them, while her usual pallor had once more given way to the flush that at intervals tinged her cheeks, "I know."
"Also you know, madame, you must in very truth know, that I have agreed to find for this lady some trifling escort as far as Basle, whence she may cross the St. Gothard or go to Geneva if she decides to pass the St. Bernard. Now, that escort will be composed of Fleur de Mai, as he elects to call himself, and Boisfleury----"
"Which is a name his fathers bore," that worthy interrupted.
"Both," went on De Beaurepaire, "are Normans as you, madame, are. Both, like you, are heart and soul in this great scheme now so near to its accomplishment. And, since they, perforce, must find themselves at Basle, though not necessarily at Geneva, it is to Basle that Van den Enden will go. Thence, from that place, they can all return in safety to Paris, since who, entering France from Switzerland, can be suspected of coming from the Spanish Netherlands or of having any dealings with the Normans?"
"And I? Where shall I be? I who am as much heart and soul in this as you, or any of you?" looking round on all present. "I who am Norman as La Truaumont, Boisfleury and Fleur de Mai are? Though heart and soul in it from no desire of reward but only in the hope to obtain justice at last."
"Later, I will tell you where you will be in this great scheme," De Beaurepaire said in a low voice, his almost whispered words being unheard by the others who had begun to read a number of letters that Van den Enden had produced. Letters that, in those days, had they been signed by the actual names of the writers instead of by assumed ones, would have meant death to each and all: letters that now, old and dingy and with the black ink turned red and rusty, still repose in the archives of Paris. Yet letters now--and long ago--known to have been written by those whose names are scrawled plainly across them in a far more recent hand than those of the original writers; names such as De Longueville, Saint Ibal, Franquetot-Barberousse, De Fiesque and many others illustrious for centuries in the North-West.
"I will speak with you later. To-night," De Beaurepaire said, even as Fleur de Mai and his companions still conversed and told each other that, with such men as these at their backs and with, towering over all, the wealth and power of Spain--though they forgot that Spain could scarcely be still powerful when ruled over by its baby King, Charles, who was later to become an idiot in mind and an invalid in body--they could not fail in their great attempt.
And so the talk--the discussions of the future arrangements, of how Van den Enden was to correspond with De Beaurepaire by first sending his news in cypher to Basle, whence it would be re-written and sent to him, while other re-written copies would be sent to Rouen--went on until, at last, the meeting drew near to its end.
"And you, Emérance," La Truaumont said, as now the men were resuming their swords and preparing to depart from the Hôtel des Muses, "do you know what part you have next to play? There are no more hesitating Norman nobles or gentlemen left in Paris for you to watch; they have all returned to their homes, being persuaded that the attempt is as good as made and carried through triumphantly. Likewise, you can do nought in Normandy yourself."
"Somewhere I can do something."
"Doubtless," the man said, looking down on her with a glance that might well have been taken for one of pity. "And it may be--we will hope so--under happier, more cheerful circumstances than this," now looking round the room they were in with a glance that might have been considered as embracing the whole of Van den Enden's delectable abode. "Your life," he went on, "has never been a happy one; your circumstances here, in Paris, are of the worst. They may now improve."
"What is to be done with me?" the unfortunate woman asked listlessly. "Or for me? I have no hopes. Or only one--which will never be realised. My greatest hope," she almost whispered to herself, "is that at last I may lose all hope."
"Be cheered," La Truaumont said, the roughness of the old soldier of fortune--part bravo, part hero, part swashbuckler--the usual ingredients of most soldiers of fortune!--smoothed out of his features so that, for the moment, he presented the appearance of a tender father talking to an unhappy child: "Be cheered. If that which we hope for and, hoping, greatly dare to attempt, should succeed, you will, you shall, rise as we rise. Whatever you can wish for, aspire to, he 'Monsieur Louis'--le Dédaigneux as he is sometimes called, will see that you attain."
"It is impossible," the girl whispered. "Impossible. What I wish for he cannot give, not possessing it himself."
"Be not so sure. He is young, passionate, and, though many a silken thread has held him lightly for a time----"
"I have no silken thread wherewith to bind him," Emérance said, her eyes cast down, her breast heaving painfully. "Nor do I desire any other woman's--women's----"
"You do not understand, Emérance," La Truaumont said very gently. "Much as trouble and sorrow have taught you, you have not yet learnt all the secrets of a man's heart. A silken thread!" he went on, turning his back still more on the others so that, while they could not hear his words, neither should they see the movement of his lips, which movement, on occasions, will sometimes tell as much as words themselves. "A silken thread! What species of cord, of thong is that to hold a strong, reckless man? A thing befitting the place where it is most often found--a lady's boudoir, her bower, the seat in a tower window; a gilded chamber where carpets from Smyrna, skins, rugs, make all soft to the feet; the plaything of a rêveuse, a love-lorn dame."
"Well?" Emérance whispered, lifting her eyes to the other. "Well?"
"But there are other cords," La Truaumont went on. "The heart-strings of women to whom dalliance is unknown: women who will starve, intrigue, follow, dare all for him they love: who will bravely bear the cords, the threads that make them regard the block, the gibbet, as a sweeter thing than bowers and tapestry and silken hangings--so long as block or gibbet are risked with him they love."
"Ah!" the woman gasped in an indrawn breath.
"What does he want now with women in their great saloons, their oratories, their boudoirs? Is he not risking his life upon one cast; does he not therefore want women as well as men of action to help him, women who will keep steady before their eyes, even as he keeps, as all of us keep before our eyes, the diadem of France, the throne of France--France itself, on one side? As also he keeps, and we keep before our eyes, the scaffold outside the Bastille, the Wheel at the Cross Roads, the Gibbet--on the other side? And for such a woman will there be no reward, no acknowledgment?"
"Alas!" the unhappy creature murmured. "He is De Beaurepaire. I am--what?"
"A sorely tried, a deeply injured woman, a lady. One evilly, wickedly, entreated by the land she now hopes to aid. One who loves De Beaurepaire," he added softly.
"Heaven knows how much," the other whispered. "That only!"
"To-night