Devereux — Complete

“Nay, you cannot deny it; if one can once succeed in impudence, one is irresistible.”

“Sir William,” cried Lady Hasselton, “you may give the Count your chariot of green and gold, and your four Flanders mares, and send his mother’s maid with him. He shall not go with me.”

“Cruel! and why?” said I.

“You are too”—the lady paused, and looked at me over her fan. She was really very handsome—“you are too old, Count. You must be more than nine.”

“Pardon me,” said I, “I am nine,—a very mystical number nine is too, and represents the Muses, who, you know, were always attendant upon Venus—or you, which is the same thing; so you can no more dispense with my company than you can with that of the Graces.”

“Good morning, Sir William,” cried the Lady Hasselton, rising.

I offered to hand her to the door; with great difficulty, for her hoop was of the very newest enormity of circumference; I effected this object. “Well, Count,” said she, “I am glad to see you have brought so much learning from school; make the best use of it while it lasts, for your memory will not furnish you with a single simile out of the mythology by the end of next winter.”

“That would be a pity,” said I, “for I intend having as many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should like to worship them in a classical fashion.”

“Oh, the young reprobate!” said the beauty, tapping me with her fan. “And pray, what other deities besides Venus do I resemble?”

“All!” said I,—“at least, all the celestial ones!”

Though half way through the door, the beauty extricated her hoop, and drew back. “Bless me, the gods as well as the goddesses?”

“Certainly.”

“You jest: tell me how.”

“Nothing can be easier; you resemble Mercury because of your thefts.”

“Thefts!”

“Ay; stolen hearts, and,” added I, in a whisper, “glances; Jupiter, partly because of your lightning, which you lock up in the said glances,—principally because all things are subservient to you; Neptune, because you are as changeable as the seas; Vulcan, because you live among the flames you excite; and Mars, because—”

“You are so destructive,” cried my uncle.

“Exactly so; and because,” added I—as I shut the door upon the beauty—“because, thanks to your hoop, you cover nine acres of ground.”

“Ods fish, Morton,” said my uncle, “you surprise me at times: one while you are so reserved, at another so assured; to-day so brisk, to-morrow so gloomy. Why now, Lady Hasselton (she is very comely, eh! faith, but not comparable to her mother) told me, a week ago, that she, gave you up in despair, that you were dull, past hoping for; and now, ‘Gad, you had a life in you that Sid himself could not have surpassed. How comes it, Sir, eh?”

“Why, Uncle, you have explained the reason; it was exactly because she said I was dull that I was resolved to convict her in an untruth.”

“Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy; always contradict ill report by personal merit. But what think you of her ladyship? ‘Gad, you know what old Bellair said of Emilia. ‘Make much of her: she’s one of the best of your acquaintance. I like her countenance and behaviour. Well, she has a modesty not i’ this age, a-dad she has.’ Applicable enough; eh, boy?”

“‘I know her value, Sir, and esteem her accordingly,’” answered I, out of the same play, which by dint of long study I had got by heart. “But, to confess the truth,” added I, “I think you might have left out the passage about her modesty.”

“There, now; you young chaps are so censorious; why, ‘sdeath, sir, you don’t think the worse of her virtue because of her wit?”

“Humph!”

“Ah, boy! when you are my age, you’ll know that your demure cats are not the best; and that reminds me of a little story; shall I tell it you, child?”

“If it so please you, Sir.”

“Zauns—where’s my snuff-box?—oh, here it is. Well, Sir, you shall have the whole thing, from beginning to end. Sedley and I were one day conversing together about women. Sid was a very deep fellow in that game: no passion you know; no love on his own side; nothing of the sort; all done by rule and compass; knew women as well as dice, and calculated the exact moment when his snares would catch them, according to the principles of geometry. D——d clever fellow, faith; but a confounded rascal: but let it go no further; mum’s the word! must not slander the dead; and ‘tis only my suspicion, you know, after all. Poor fellow: I don’t think he was such a rascal; he gave a beggar an angel once,—well, boy, have a pinch?—Well, so I said to Sir Charles, ‘I think you will lose the widow, after all,—‘Gad I do.’ ‘Upon what principle of science, Sir William?’ said he. ‘Why, faith, man, she is so modest, you see, and has such a pretty way of blushing.’ ‘Hark ye, friend Devereux,’ said Sir Charles, smoothing his collar and mincing his words musically, as he was wont to do,—‘hark ye, friend Devereux, I will give you the whole experience of my life in one maxim: I can answer for its being new, and I think it is profound; and that maxim is—,’ no, faith, Morton—no, I can’t tell it thee: it is villanous, and then it’s so desperately against all the sex.”

“My dear uncle, don’t tantalize me so: pray tell it me; it shall be a secret.”

“No, boy, no: it will corrupt thee; besides, it will do poor Sid’s memory no good. But, ‘sdeath, it was a most wonderfully shrewd saying,—i’ faith, it was. But, zounds, Morton, I forgot to tell you that I have had a letter from the Abbe to-day.”

“Ha! and when does he return?”

“To-morrow, God willing!” said the knight, with a sigh.

“So soon, or rather after so long an absence! Well, I am glad of it. I wish much to see him before I leave you.”

“Indeed!” quoth my uncle; “you have an advantage over me, then! But, ods fish, Morton, how is it that you grew so friendly with the priest before his departure? He used to speak very suspiciously of thee formerly; and, when I last saw him, he lauded thee to the skies.”

“Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of defending the strong and crushing the weak, I believe; that’s all. He once thought I was dull enough to damn my fortune, and then he had some strange doubts for my soul; now he thinks me wise enough to become prosperous, and it is astonishing what a respect he has conceived for my principles.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—you have a spice of your uncle’s humour in you; and, ‘Gad, you have no small knowledge of the world, considering you have seen so little of it.”

A hit at the popish clergy was, in my good uncle’s eyes, the exact acme of wit and wisdom. We are always clever with those who imagine we think as they do. To be shallow you must differ from people: to be profound you must agree with them. “Why, Sir,” answered the sage nephew, “you forget that I have seen more of the world than many of twice my age. Your house has been full of company ever since I have been in it, and you set me to making observations on what I saw before I was thirteen. And then, too, if one is reading books about real life, at the very time one is mixing in it, it is astonishing how naturally one remarks and how well one remembers.”

“Especially if one has a genius for it,—eh, boy? And then too, you have read my play; turned Horace’s Satires into a lampoon upon the boys at school; been regularly to assizes during the vacation; attended the county balls, and been a most premature male coquette with the ladies. Ods fish, boy! it is quite curious to see how the young sparks of the present day get on with their lovemaking.”

“Especially if one has a genius for it,—eh, sir?” said I.

“Besides, too,” said my uncle, ironically, “you have had the Abbe’s instructions.”

“Ay, and if the priests would communicate to their pupils their experience in frailty, as well as in virtue, how wise they would make us!”

“Ods fish! Morton, you are quite oracular. How got you that fancy of priests?—by observation in life already?”

“No, Uncle: by observation in plays, which you tell me are the mirrors of life; you remember what Lee says,—

        “‘‘Tis thought That earth is more obliged to priests for bodies Than Heaven for souls.’”

And my uncle laughed, and called me a smart fellow.

CHAPTER XII

THE ABBE’S RETURN.—A SWORD, AND A SOLILOQUY

THE next evening, when I was sitting alone in my room, the Abbe Montreuil suddenly entered. “Ah, is it you? welcome!” cried I. The priest held out his arms, and embraced me in the most paternal manner.

“It is your friend,” said he, “returned at last to bless and congratulate you. Behold my success in your service,” and the Abbe produced a long leather case richly inlaid with gold.

“Faith, Abbe,” said I, “am I to understand that this is a present for your eldest pupil?”

“You are,” said Montreuil, opening the case, and producing a sword. The light fell upon the hilt, and I drew back, dazzled with its lustre; it was covered with stones, apparently of the most costly value. Attached to the hilt was a label of purple velvet, on which, in letters of gold, was inscribed, “To the son of Marshal Devereux, the soldier of France, and the friend of Louis XIV.”

Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, the Abbe said: “It was from the King’s own hand that I received this sword, and I have authority to inform you that if ever you wield it in the service of France it will be accompanied by a post worthy of your name.”

“The service of France!” I repeated; “why, at present that is the service of an enemy.”

“An enemy only to a part of England!” said the Abbe, emphatically; “perhaps I have overtures to you from other monarchs, and the friendship of the court of France may be synonymous with the friendship of the true sovereign of England.”

There was no mistaking the purport of this speech, and even in the midst of my gratified vanity I drew back alarmed.

The Abbe noted the changed expression of my countenance, and artfully turned the subject to comments on the sword, on which I still gazed with a lover’s ardour. Thence he veered to a description of the grace and greatness of the royal donor: he dwelt at length upon the flattering terms in which Louis had spoken of my father, and had inquired concerning myself; he enumerated all the hopes that the illustrious house into which my father had first married expressed for a speedy introduction to his son; he lingered with an eloquence more savouring of the court than of the cloister on the dazzling circle which surrounded the French throne; and when my vanity, my curiosity, my love of pleasure, my ambition, all that are most susceptible in young minds, were fully aroused, he suddenly ceased, and wished me a good night.

“Stay,” said I; and looking at him more attentively than I had hitherto done, I perceived a change in his external appearance which somewhat startled and surprised me. Montreuil had always hitherto been remarkably plain in his dress; but he was now richly attired, and by his side hung a rapier, which had never adorned it before. Something in his aspect seemed to suit the alteration in his garb: and whether it was that long absence had effaced enough of the familiarity of his features to allow me to be more alive than formerly to the real impression they were calculated to produce, or whether a commune with kings and nobles had of late dignified their old expression, as power was said to have clothed the soldier-mien of Cromwell with a monarch’s bearing,—I do not affect to decide; but I thought that, in his high brow and Roman features, the compression of his lip, and his calm but haughty air, there was a nobleness, which I acknowledged for the first time. “Stay, my father,” said I, surveying him, “and tell me, if there be no irreverence in the question, whether brocade and a sword are compatible with the laws of the Order of Jesus?”

“Policy, Morton,” answered Montreuil, “often dispenses with custom; and the declarations of the Institute provide, with their usual wisdom, for worldly and temporary occasions. Even while the constitution ordains us to discard habits repugnant to our professions of poverty, the following exception is made: ‘Si in occurrenti aliqua occasione, vel necessitate, quis vestibus melioribus, honestis tamen, indueretur.’”3

“There is now, then, some occasion for a more glittering display than ordinary?” said I.

“There is, my pupil,” answered Montreuil; “and whenever you embrace the offer of my friendship made to you more than two years ago,—whenever, too, your ambition points to a lofty and sublime career,—whenever to make and unmake kings, and in the noblest sphere to execute the will of God, indemnifies you for a sacrifice of petty wishes and momentary passions,—I will confide to you schemes worthy of your ancestors and yourself.”

With this the priest departed. Left to myself, I revolved his hints, and marvelled at the power he seemed to possess. “Closeted with kings,” said I, soliloquizing,—“bearing their presents through armed men and military espionage; speaking of empires and their overthrow as of ordinary objects of ambition; and he himself a low-born and undignified priest, of a poor though a wise order,—well, there is more in this than I can fathom: but I will hesitate before I embark in his dangerous and concealed intrigues; above all, I will look well ere I hazard my safe heritage of these broad lands in the service of that House which is reported to be ungrateful, and which is certainly exiled.”

After this prudent and notable resolution, I took up the sword, re-examined it, kissed the hilt once and the blade twice, put it under my pillow, sent for my valet, undressed, went to bed, fell asleep, and dreamed that I was teaching the Marechal de Villars the thrust en seconde.

But Fate, that arch-gossip, who, like her prototypes on earth, settles all our affairs for us without our knowledge of the matter, had decreed that my friendship with the Abbe Montreuil should be of very short continuance, and that my adventures on earth should flow through a different channel than, in all probability, they would have done under his spiritual direction.

CHAPTER XIII

A MYSTERIOUS LETTER.—A DUEL.—THE DEPARTURE OF ONE OF THE FAMILY

THE next morning I communicated to the Abbe my intention of proceeding to London. He received it with favour. “I myself,” said he, “shall soon meet you there: my office in your family has expired; and your mother, after so long an absence, will perhaps readily dispense with my spiritual advice to her. But time presses: since you depart so soon, give me an audience to-night in your apartment. Perhaps our conversation may be of moment.”

I agreed; the hour was fixed, and I left the Abbe to join my uncle and his guests. While I was employing among them my time and genius with equal dignity and profit, one of the servants informed me that a man at the gate wished to see me—and alone.

Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend me there. In a few minutes, a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and meanness, made his appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and presented a letter, which, he said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands, “with,” he added in a low tone, “a special desire that none should, till I had carefully read it, be made acquainted with its contents.” I was not a little startled by this request; and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the seal. A letter, enclosed in the envelope, in the Abbe’s own handwriting, was the first thing that met my eyes. At that instant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose countenance evinced something of surprise and consternation at beholding him; and, hastening up to me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried, “Do not read it—not a word—not a word: there is poison in it!” And so saying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the other, said,—

“Pardon me, Father, directly I have read it you shall have that pleasure,—not till then!” and, as I said this, my eye falling upon the letter discovered my own name written in two places. My suspicions were aroused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood, with the view of addressing some question to him respecting his employer, when, to my surprise, I perceived he was already gone; I had no time, however, to follow him.

“Boy,” said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing me with his lean, bony hand,—“boy, give me that letter instantly; I charge you not to disobey me.”

“You forget yourself, Sir,” said I, endeavouring to shake him off, “you forget yourself: there is no longer between us the distinction of pupil and teacher; and if you have not yet learned the respect due to my station, suffer me to tell you that it is time you should.”

“Give me that letter, I beseech you,” said Montreuil, changing his voice from anger to supplication; “I ask your pardon for my violence: the letter does not concern you but me; there is a secret in those lines which you see are in my handwriting that implicates my personal safety. Give it me, my dear, dear son: your own honour, if not your affection for me, demands that you should.”

I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my suspicions, but his gentleness weakened them. “Besides,” thought I, “the handwriting is his; and even if my life depended upon reading the letter of another, I do not think my honour would suffer me to do so against his consent.” A thought struck me,—

“Will you swear,” said I, “that this letter does not concern me?”

“Solemnly,” answered the Abbe, raising his eyes.

“Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it?”

“Upon peril of my soul, I will.”

“Liar! traitor! perjured blasphemer!” cried I, in an inexpressible rage, “look here, and here!” and I pointed out to the priest various lines in which my name legibly and frequently occurred. A change came over Montreuil’s face: he released my arm and staggered back against the wainscot; but recovering his composure instantaneously, he said, “I forgot, my son—I forgot—your name is mentioned, it is true, but with honourable eulogy, that is all.”

“Bravo, honest Father!” cried I, losing my fury in admiring surprise at his address,—“bravo! However, if that be all, you can have no objection to allow me to read the lines in which my name occurs; your benevolence cannot refuse me such a gratification as the sight of your written panegyric!”

“Count Devereux,” said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark face worked with suppressed passion, “this is trifling with me, and I warn you not to push my patience too far. I will have that letter, or—” he ceased abruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword.

“Dare you threaten me?” I said, and the natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened by vague and strong suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.

“Dare I?” repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. “Dare I!—ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and forever your most deadly foe; deadly—ay—deadly, deadly!” and he shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacing that I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.

The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hitherto waited. “Draw then,” he said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier.

Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my weapon: I was deceived; I found him far more adroit than myself in the art of offence; and perhaps it would have fared ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct against my life all the science he possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably saw that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the life of his pupil as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion we mutually drew back. Recovering my presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost at that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and, affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss over our rencontre, now approached me.

“Count,” he said, with a collected and cool voice, “suffer me to request you to exchange three words with me in a spot less liable than this to interruption.”

“Follow me then!” said I; and I led the way to a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. “How is this?” I said, pointing to his unarmed side, “have you not come hither to renew our engagement?”

“No!” answered Montreuil, “I repent me of my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all further possibility of unseemly warfare. That letter, young man, I still demand from you; I demanded it from your own sense of honour and of right: it was written by me; it was not intended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives of others besides myself; now, read it if you will.”

“You are right, Sir,” said I, after a short pause; “there is the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour to secure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!”

So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper; I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me in French:—

A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the contents of which it is essential for His safety that he should know.

C. D. B.

“Umph!” said I, “a very satisfactory intimation, considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger!” and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was already gone; on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a few words to my valet, Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him.