The
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
CHAPTER I
THE FLEECE TAVERN
“WHO is this Mornay?”
Captain Cornbury paused to kindle his tobago.
“Mornay is of the Embassy of France, at any game of chance the luckiest blade in the world and a Damon for success with the petticoats, whether they’re doxies or duchesses.”
“Soho! a pretty fellow.”
“A French chevalier—a fellow of the Marine; but a die juggler—a man of no caste,” sneered Mr. Wynne.
“He has a wit with a point.”
“Ay, and a rapier, too,” said Lord Downey.
“The devil fly with these foreign lady-killers,” growled Wynne again.
“Oh, Mornay is a man-killer, too, never fear. He’s not named Bras-de-Fer for nothing,” laughed Cornbury.
“Bah!” said a voice near the door. “A foundling—an outcast—a man of no birth—I’ll have no more of him.”
Captain Ferrers tossed aside his coat and hat and came forward into the glare of the candles. Behind him followed the tall figure of Sir Henry Heywood, whose gray hair and more sober garb and lineaments made the gay apparel of his companion the more splendid by comparison. Captain Ferrers wore the rich accouterments of a captain in the Body-guard, and his manner and address showed the bluster of a bully of the barracks. The face, somewhat ruddy in color, was of a certain heavy regularity of feature, but his eyes were small, like a pig’s, and as he came into the light they flickered and guttered like a candle at a puff of the breath. There were lines, too, at the corners of the mouth, and the pursing of the thin lips gave him the air of a man older than his years.
“Come, Ferrers,” said Cornbury, good-naturedly, “give the devil his due.”
Wynne laughed. “Gawd, man! he’s givin’ him his due. Aren’t you, Ferrers?”
The captain scowled. “I’ faith I am. Two hundred guineas again last night. May the plague take him! Such luck is not in nature.”
“He wins upon us all, by the Lord!” said Cornbury, stoutly.
Heywood sneered. “Bah! You Irish are too easy with your likes—”
“And dislikes, too,” returned Cornbury, with a swift glance.
“Faugh!” snapped Ferrers. “The man saved your life, but you can’t thrust him down our throats, Captain Cornbury.”
“He’s cooked his goose well this time, thank God!” said Wynne. “We’ll soon be rid of him.”
“Another duel?” asked Heywood, carelessly.
“What!” cried Downey. “Have you not heard of the struggle for precedence this afternoon? Why, man, ’tis the talk of London. To-day there was a fight between the coaches and retainers of the Embassades of France and Spain. Thanks to Mornay, the French coach was disastrously defeated by the Spaniards. There is a great to-do at Whitehall, for the Grand Monarque thinks more of his prestige in London even than in Paris. God help the man who thwarts him in this! It is death or the Bastile, and our own King would rather offend God than Louis.”
“And Mornay—”
“As for Mornay—” For an answer, Lord Downey significantly blew out one of the candles upon the table. “Pf!—That is what will happen to Mornay. The story is this: The coaches were drawn up on Tower Wharf, waiting to follow the King. In the French coach were seated Mornay and the son of the ambassador. In the Spanish coach were Baron de Batteville and two ladies. After his Majesty had passed, both the French and Spanish coaches endeavored to be first in the street, which is here so narrow that but one may pass at a time. The Frenchman had something of the advantage of position, and, cutting into the Spaniard with a great crash, sent the coach whirling over half-way upon its side, to the great hazard of the Spaniard and ladies within. Then Mornay, who has a most ingenious art of getting into the very thick of things, leaped upon the coachman’s seat and seized the reins of the coach-horses. He was beset by the Spaniards and cut upon the head.”
“And he hung on?”
“What d’ye think the fellow did? Pulled the French horses back and aside and let the Spanish coach down upon four wheels and out of danger. Was it not a pretty pass? The rest was as simple as you please. The Spaniard whipped, and though smashed and battered, won first through the narrow passage.”
“And Mornay?”
“Does not deny it. He says it would have been impossible for a gentleman to see such ladies thrown into a dirty ditchwater.”
“And the ladies, man? Who were the ladies?” said Ferrers.
“Aha! that is the best of it. The Spaniards relate that Mornay came down from the coachman’s seat wiping the blood from his cheek. To one of the ladies he said, ‘Madame, the kingdom of France yields precedence only to a rank greater than Majesty. The honor France loses belongs not to Spain, but to the beautiful Barbara Clerke.’”
Sir Henry Heywood caught at a quick breath. “Mistress Clerke! My ward!”
Captain Ferrers looked from Downey to Cornbury, only to see verification written upon their faces. He pushed back his bench from the table, his countenance fairly blazing with anger, and cried, in a choking voice:
“Mornay again! To drag her name into every ordinary and gaming hell in London! Coxcomb!—scoundrel!—upstart that he is! Mornay, always Mornay—”
The candles flickered gayly as Monsieur Mornay entered. His figure and costume were the perfection of studied elegance. The perruque was admirably curled, and the laces and jewels were such that a king might have envied him. A black patch extending along the forehead gave him an odd appearance, and the white brow seemed the more pallid by contrast. His features in repose bore the look of settled melancholy one sometimes sees on the faces of men who live for pleasure alone. But as his eyes turned towards the table a smile, full of careless good-humor, came over his features. He advanced, pausing a moment as Wynne and Heywood pushed Ferrers down by main force into his seat.
“Messieurs,” said Mornay, smiling quizzically, “your servitor.” He stopped again. “I thought my name was spoken. No?” He looked from one to the other. “My name I comprehend, but, messieurs, my titles—my new titles! To whom am I indebted for my titles? Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, mon ami, I am glad that you are here. I thought that I had fallen among enemies.”
He laughed gayly. It was rippling and mellow, a laugh from the very cockles of the heart, full of the joy of living, in which there lurked no suspicion of doubt or insincerity—the situation was so vastly amusing. Cornbury laughed, too. He was an Irishman with a galloping humor; nor was Downey slow to follow his example.
For Heywood and Ferrers it was another matter. The elder man sat rigidly, glaring at the Frenchman with eyes that glittered from lids narrow with hate. Ferrers, disconcerted by the defenselessness of the Frenchman, sat stupidly, his features swollen with rage, his lips uncertain and trembling for a word to bring the quarrel to a head. But before he could speak, Sir Henry Heywood, very pale, had thrust himself forward over the table to Mornay in a way not to be mistaken, and said, briefly:
“Gad, sirrah, your laugh is the sign of an empty mind!”
Mornay was truly taken by surprise. But as he looked up at this new enemy he found no difficulty in understanding Heywood’s meaning. He rose to his feet, still smiling, and said, coolly, with a sedulous politeness:
“I am empty of brains? It takes a wit like that of monsieur to discover something which does not exist.”
Captain Ferrers had floundered to his feet, blustering and maddened at being cheated out of his quarrel. He burst violently upon the colloquy, and, seizing Heywood by the arm, dragged him back to the window-seat.
“’Tis not your quarrel, Heywood,” he began.
But Sir Henry shook himself free of Ferrers, and they both faced Monsieur Mornay, who, somewhat languidly, but with a polite tolerance, stood leaning against the table watching this unlooked for development of the drama.
“Messieurs,” he smiled, “an embarras de richesse. Never have I been so greatly honored. I pray that you do not come to blows on my account. One of you might kill the other, which would rob me of the honor of killing you both.”
Captain Cornbury until this time had been an interested and amused onlooker. He dearly loved a fight, and the situation was enjoyable; but here was the evening flying and his game of cards gone a-glimmering.
“Zounds, gentlemen!” he broke in. “A pretty business—to fight at the Fleece Tavern. Pleasant reading for the Courant—a fitting end to a comedy begun upon the street.”
“’Tis not your quarrel, Cornbury,” growled Ferrers.
“Nor yours, Ferrers,” said Heywood, coldly.
“You see, monsieur,” said Mornay to Downey, with mock helplessness, “there is no help for it.”
Cornbury swore a round oath:
“I’ faith, I wash my hands of ye. If fight ye must, quarrel dacently over the cards, man; but do not drag a lady’s name through the streets of London.”
Mornay turned to Cornbury. “It is true, mon ami—it is true.” Then, in a flash, gayly, aloud, almost like a child, he shouted: “Allons, time is flying. To-morrow we shall fight, but to-night—to-night we shall play at quinze. Monsieur Ferraire, you owe me three hundred guineas. We shall play for these. If you win, you will die to-morrow with a clear conscience. If you lose, monsieur, I’ll be your undertaker. Come, maître d’hôtel!—wine!”