CHAPTER I.
THE DEATHBED OF A PRINCESS.
Elizabeth Stuyvesant, widow of Duke Oswald, Burgrave of Ghent, (likewise Prince of Aremburg and Count Van Home,) lay dying. A great lady was she, princess, duchess and countess; yet death, that despotic tyrant, had dared to summon her hence. In a gorgeous palace in Brussels, surrounded by all the pageant and ceremony which wealth affords, the soul of this titled lady was passing to judgment.
The Princess Elizabeth was a good woman as the world counts goodness. She was benevolent, just, a loyal adherent and a zealous partisan of the Roman Catholic Church, and upright in all her dealings with those about her; in a word, her moral character was considered unimpeachable. Her faith taught her that such virtues as those enumerated would count for much at that Higher Tribunal to which she was hastening.
Strange as it may seem, these excellencies did not serve as a quietus for a troubled conscience. In spite of her exemplary life, the mind of the illustrious princess was ill at ease.
The silver-toned clock on the mantel struck the hour of midnight. The bells in the tower of St. Gudule sounded forth the Annunciation chimes. The sick woman stirred uneasily, and opened her eyes.
“What o’clock is it, Gretchen?” she inquired of the nurse.
“It is Christmas morning, gracious lady.”
“Has his reverence Monseigneur Ryder come?”
“No, my lady.”
“Pray, my good Gretchen, that he may not arrive too late to hear my confession.”
“Father Heemskirk is here and desires to see you,” said the nurse hesitatingly.
“I shall talk with no one except Monseigneur Ryder,” said the Princess with emphasis.
The hours sped by. The sick woman fell into a troubled slumber. Now and then her lips moved rapidly, and bending lower Gretchen caught these disjointed sentences:
“A prince of Aremburg, the Prince of Aremburg a Protestant! My God, that such should be the truth!... No one robbed him of his rightful heritage... He renounced it that he might follow his mad delusion... I did not disinherit him; his father did it. The blame is not mine... but it weighs heavily on my soul. I must try to make amends before I die... the time is getting short!”
The Princess opened her eyes. A gentle footfall was heard. The door opened noiselessly and a priest entered. He was tall, finely formed, with a refined face and clear-cut, pale features. His eyes were bright with the power of intellect. His voice, though low and well modulated, had yet in it a tone of command, which rendered obedience absolute. He advanced quickly to the bedside, and making the sign of the cross said, “In nomine Patris―et Filii―et Spiritûs Sancti, Amen.”
“The saints be praised, Monseigneur Ryder, that you have arrived in season. I have a secret to impart to you which presses heavily on my soul.”
“Make me a full confession at once,” replied the priest fastening his compelling eyes on the ones so rapidly glowing dim. “Your hours are numbered.”
The nurse entered the room, and after administering a cordial, quietly withdrew. The Princess began in a weak voice:
“Your reverence, I am called a good woman, yet for years I have aided and abetted a lie. It has been generally understood that my husband’s son died, and that in default of an heir these princely estates, at my decease, would revert to the Church. Such in fact were the conditions of Duke Oswald’s will. Father Ryder, the heir to all this property is living!”
The priest started visibly. “Do I understand you that Duke Oswald's son is alive?”
“He is, your reverence, but terrible to relate he is a Protestant.”
“A prince of Aremburg a heretic! What a disgrace!” said the priest. “How did it happen?”
“Francis had a tutor who unbeknown to us was a French Huguenot. He desired to travel with our son, assuring us that a polish and elegance of manner befitting our son’s rank could be obtained in no other way. Accordingly our son, in company with this treacherous tutor, travelled for a year on the continent, finally returning as far as Switzerland. From Geneva, Francis wrote that he had become a Huguenot. The blow fell upon us like lightning from a clear sky. Duke Oswald, in a towering rage, wrote immediately to his son, that unless he renounced these odious doctrines and returned to the Romish faith he would disinherit him. A prompt reply came from Francis, saying that while he regretted angering his father, he could not give up the Huguenot doctrines, for he believed them to be God’s truth. He furthermore announced that he would not bring disgrace upon our noble house by longer bearing its honored name: but that henceforth Francis Stuyvesant was dead. ‘Be it so!’ said the Duke in a voice like thunder. ‘My son is dead!’ The Duke then informed his household and his friends that Francis had died of a malignant fever and was buried abroad. We went into the deepest mourning and no one doubted our words.
“We heard nothing more from this ungrateful son until Duke Oswald lay upon his deathbed. Then a letter came from Francis begging his father to forgive him before he died. He wanted none of the princely fortune, but he desired a father’s blessing. His letter was dated at Borges and was signed by Francis La Force. The Duke tore the letter into strips, and turned his face to the wall. He would not allow me to summon Francis or even write to him. The next day he died without granting his son’s request. That was about ten years ago. Francis must now be in the neighborhood of twenty-five years of age, loveable, handsome, talented! My God, that such rare gifts should be so squandered!
“Your reverence, I have sent for Francis to come to me. I waited to consult with you before taking this important step, but as you delayed your coming, I acted as my heart dictated. I love the lad and I want to try to persuade him to return to the arms of the Church. Perhaps by this time, he will be glad to cast aside his delusions. If he consents to renounce his Huguenot ideas, and will become a good Catholic, he shall inherit my private fortune, which will make him independently rich. If he fails to come, or refuses my request, this money will go to charitable objects. I trust that I have not displeased your reverence.”
“You have acted unwisely, my daughter, but in your present condition this is not surprising. Had I been with you, I should have counselled you differently. Your offence has been merely the result of physical weakness, and is therefore pardonable. If you will promise that you will not leave your fortune to that heretic if he continues in wilful sin, I will grant you absolution.”
“I promise.”
An unusual noise was heard in the courtyard. Voices were raised and doors were hastily opened and closed.
“Francis has come!” said the Princess. “Leave me, I pray you, Monseigneur, but remain within call. Bid Gretchen to admit my guest without delay.”
Her commands were obeyed, and shortly the dying woman and the Prince of Aremburg were face to face. The young stranger was certainly attractive. His figure, though slight, was well proportioned, and there was a dignity and grace in every movement. His face, with its aristocratic curves, bore a striking resemblance to the deceased Prince of Aremburg. Its expression was sweet, yet there were firm lines about the mouth, indicative of an ability to decide and to abide by his decisions with the courage born of conviction. His complexion was pale, but it was not the sickly pallor of an invalid, but rather the scholarly reflection from books.
For a moment the young man stood by the bedside of the dying Princess in silence. Then he said:
“We meet once more, Madame la Princesse. Tell me your commands quickly, that I may leave this place so full of sad remembrances.”
“Francis, I have summoned you to beg of you to return to the one true fold. You know that I love you, and your soul's salvation is dear to my heart. My fortune is at your disposal if you will only renounce your Huguenot doctrines. Will you not grant my dying request?”
“Dear madam,” said the young man with emotion, “your words affect me deeply, but my duty to God and my own conscience must precede my duty to a man. I do not desire your money. I am a Protestant and shall always remain so. Is it possible that you do not know who I am?” He stooped and whispered a name in her ear. The effect was startling. With a shriek the Princess cried: “You, that vile, blasphemous preacher! Holy Mother! this is too much!” With a groan she sank fainting upon her pillows.
Monseigneur Ryder and the nurse hearing the Princess cry out, hurried to the bedside. The latter administered a strong stimulant, but it was in vain. The last great change was stealing over the face of the great lady. After giving the stranger a keen glance, the holy father began to perform the last rites of the Church. Before he had finished his prayers for the passing soul, the Princess Elizabeth was dead. Amid the lamentations and the confusion which the news of the great lady's decease caused her household, the Protestant preacher went unobserved from the palace.
It was only when Monseigneur Ryder's place was taken by other functionaries of the Church, and he was seated in the dead lady's oratory, that the face of the young man returned to his mind.
"That countenance is familiar," he mused. "Where have I met that man? Ah, I have it! It was two years ago when I was sent on a secret mission to Geneva. This young fellow was creating quite a stir with his wonderful oratorical gifts. The Prince of Aremburg and the proscribed preacher Francis Junius are one and the same person."
Father Ryder sprang to his feet and paced the floor in excitement. "May the saints forgive me, if I have unwittingly allowed the most dangerous heretic in all the Netherlands to slip out of my hands."
The priest left the oratory, and made his way with catlike tread to the courtyard, where several guards were lounging. Beckoning one of them into an anteroom, Father Ryder said, "Did you mark that stranger who was with the Princess during her last hours?”
“Yes, your reverence.”
“Where is he now?”
“He hurried off some time ago. I did not notice which way he went.”
“You must find him at all hazards.”
“I can try, your reverence.”
“Can you hold your tongue?”
“Surely, your reverence.”
“Then God and the Holy Virgin speed you on your way. If you are successful, you shall have a handful of ducats. But if I find you unfaithful, your back shall smart for many a day. Now begone!”
The priest returned to the oratory, but instead of repeating prayers for the dead, he was planning a scene in which Monseigneur Ryder and the heretic Francis Junius were to be chief actors.