Petticoat Rule

"Therefore, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, unconscious evidently of the intense cruelty of her words, "I will beg of you not to make it harder for me than need be. I must ask this help from you, in order to succeed, if humanly possible, in outwitting the infamous work of a gang of traitors. Will you, at least, give me this help I need?"

"If it lies within my power," he replied; "I pray you to command Madame."

"I am thinking of sending a messenger post haste to the commander of Le Monarque with orders to set sail at once for Scotland," she continued in matter-of-fact tones. "I should want a fresh copy of the map where Prince Charles Edward is in hiding, and to make assurance doubly sure a letter from you to the prince, asking him to trust Captain Barre implicitly. Le Monarque I know can reach Scotland long ere Le Levantin is ready for sea, and my idea had been originally to commission her to take the prince and his friends on board, and then to skirt the west coast of Ireland, reaching Brittany or mayhap the Pyrenees by a circuitous route. I have firm belief that it is not too late to send this messenger, milor, and thus to put my original plan into execution. And if you will give me a new map and full directions and your signet ring for the prince, I feel confident that I can find someone whom I could thoroughly trust."

"There is no one whom you could thoroughly trust with such an errand, Madame!" he said drily.

"I must risk that, milor. The crisis has become so acute that I must do something to avert that awful catastrophe."

"Betrayal would be the inevitable result."

"I entreat you to leave that to me," she urged firmly. "I know I can find someone, all I ask is for the map, and a word and signet ring from you."

She was leaning forward now, eager and enthusiastic again, self-willed and domineering, determined that he should do what she wished. Her eyes were glowing, the marble was indeed endowed with life; she gleamed like a jewel, white and fragile-looking, in this dull and sombre room, and he forgetting for the moment her cruelty of awhile ago was loth to let her go, to speak the harsh words which anon would have to be said, and which would send her resentful, contemptuous, perhaps heartbroken, out of his sight again.

Would it not have been ten thousand times more simple to throw pride, just anger, reason to the winds, to fall at those exquisite feet, to encircle that glittering marble with passionately tremulous arms, to swear fealty, slavery, obedience to her whims.

How she would smile, and how softly and tenderly would the flush of victory tinge those pale cheeks with delicate rose! to see it gradually chase away the pearl-like tone of her skin, to see her eyes brighten at his word, to feel perhaps the tiny hand tremble with joy as it lay for sheer gratitude a few brief seconds in his, was not that well worth the barren victory of a man's pride over a woman's self-will?

She had thought that he would have yielded at her first word, would at once have fawned at her feet, kissing her hand, swearing that he was her slave. He had done it once.. a year ago, and why not now again? Then she had smiled on him, had allowed him to kneel, to kiss her gown, anon had yielded her cold fingers to his kiss; he had reaped a year of misery for that one moment's joy, and now, just for the space of a few seconds he was again assailed with an awful temptation to throw prudence and pride away, to enjoy one golden hour – less perhaps – but glorious and fulsome whilst it lasted, until it gave way once more to humiliation, far worse to bear than heretofore.

The temptation for those few brief seconds was overwhelming, and 'twas fortunate that he stood in shadow, else she had seen signs of an awful conflict in that young and handsome face which she had been wont to see so gentle and so placid. But he knew that in her, pride had by now absolutely got the upper hand: sorrow had laid down her arms and constituted herself a prisoner of war, following meekly behind the triumphal chariot of her conquering rival.

And because of that, because he knew that there was not one spark yet in her heart which Love had kindled, that Love itself was still lying dormant within her, gagged and bound even in his sleep, kept in subjection thus pinioned and helpless by masterful self-will and by obstinate pride, he would not yield to the temptation of culling the Dead Sea fruit, that would inevitably turn to ashes, even as his lips first tasted its fleeting, if intoxicating savour.

She had half risen from her chair leaning across the bureau, eager, excited, tremulous, sure of victory. Paper and pen lay close to her hand, smiling she pointed to these:

"Oh! I pray you, milor," she said with passionate fervour, "do not delay! Every hour, every minute is precious.. I swear to you that I'll find a messenger. He'll not know the purport of his errand… Oh! I assure you I'll play the part of indifference to perfection!.. The packet to the commander of Le Monarque will seem of the most insignificant kind… I'll not even order the messenger to hurry.. just to guard the packet as inviolate as any secret of State… Nay! hundreds of such messages have to be trusted to indifferent hands, in the course of a single transaction of the nation's business. Believe me, milor, there is not cause for fear! Le Monarque can put to sea within an hour of receiving my orders, and Prince Charles Edward Stuart and his friends will be safely out of reach, ere Le Levantin unfurls her sails, and pins to her masthead the pennant of traitors.."

"But you do not speak, milor," she said suddenly changing the tone of her voice, all eagerness gone from her manner, a strange, nameless anxiety gripping her heart, "will you not do this little I ask?."

"It is impossible, Madame," he said curtly.

"Impossible?.. Why?."

Her voice now was harsh, trenchant, as it had been when she hurled a loud insult at Gaston de Stainville through his wife. She was on her feet, tall and erect; a statue once more, white to the lips, cold and haughty, rigid too, save for the slight trembling of her hands and the tremulous quiver of her mouth when she spoke.

As he did not reply to her question, she said impatiently:

"Will you give me a reason for this unexplainable refusal, milor?"

"No. I refuse, that is all."

"This is not your last word?"

"It is my last word."

"Would you have me think that you are at one with the treacherous scheme, milor? and that you do not desire the safety of the Stuart prince?"

She had raised her voice, boldly accusing him, inwardly knowing that the accusation was groundless, yet wishing to goad him now into passion, into explanation, above all into acquiescence if it still lay in her power to force it.

But he took the insult with apparent calm, shrugged his shoulders and said quietly:

"As you please."

"Or is it.. is it that you do not trust me?.. that you think I.. ?"

She could not finish the sentence, nor put into words the awful suggestion which had sprung like a stinging viper straight across the train of her thoughts. Her eyes dazed and burning tried to pierce the gloom wherein he stood, but the flickering light of the candles only threw weird, fantastic gleams upon his face, which suddenly seemed strange, unknown, incomprehensible to her. His figure appeared preternaturally tall, the sober gray of his coat looked like the pall of an avenging ghost. He was silent and had made no sign of protest, when she framed the terrible query.

A bitter, an awful humiliation overwhelmed her. She felt as if right within her heart something had snapped and crumbled, which nothing on earth could ever set up again.

She said nothing more, but she could not altogether repress a heartbroken moan, which rose from the intensity of her mental agony.

Then she turned and with head thrown back, with silent, trembling lips and half-closed eyes she walked slowly out of the room.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE FATE OF THE STUART PRINCE

Lydie hardly knew how she reached her apartments. Earlier in the day she had thought once or twice that she had reached the deepest abyss of sorrow and humiliation into which it was possible for a woman of pride to descend. When her husband first asked an explanation from her, and taxed her with lending an ear to the King's base proposals; when she found that her own father, whom she respected and loved, had himself delved deeply in the mire of treachery; when she stood face to face with Gaston de Stainville and realized that he was an infamous liar and she a weak, confiding fool; when Irène had accused her publicly of scheming that which she would have given her life's blood to avert, all these were moments when she felt that the shame of them was more than she could bear.

Yet how simple and childish, how paltry seemed the agony of those mental tortures in comparison with that she endured now.

She felt as if she had received a blow in the face, a blow which had left a hideous, disfiguring mark on her which everyone henceforth would see: the scarlet letter of ignominy with which in the New World beyond the seas a puritanic inquisition branded the shameless outcasts. By her husband's silence rather than by his words she had been branded with a mark of infamy.

Ye saints and angels above, how terribly it hurt!

Yet why did she suffer so? Was it only because she had failed to obtain that which she almost begged for on her knees? Lydie, proud, dictatorial, domineering Lydie, felt that she had humiliated herself beyond what she would have thought possible less than twelve hours ago, and she had been refused.

Was it that, that made her heart, her head, her very limbs ache with almost unendurable agony?

Her mind – though almost on the verge of madness – retained just one glimmer of reason. It answered "No! the pain has deeper roots, more mysterious, at present incomprehensible, and death-dealing in their tenacity."

Her husband thought that if he entrusted her with a letter for the Stuart prince, she might use that letter for treacherous ends. That was the reason of his refusal. He so hated, so despised her that his mind classed her as one of the most ignoble of her sex!

Well! Awhile ago, in the Queen's antechamber, Irène de Stainville had publicly accused her of selling her royal friend for gold. Most people there had believed Irène readily enough! That had hurt too, but not so much.

Then why this? Why these terrible thoughts which went hammering in her mind? whispers of peace to escape from this racking torture? peace that could only be found in death!

"Great God, am I going mad?"

Monsieur Achille had been accompanying Madame la Marquise on her way along the corridors; he was carrying a candelabrum, wherein four wax candles spluttered and flickered in the incessant draught. Lydie had been unconscious of the man's presence, but she had followed the light mechanically, her eyes fixed on the four yellowish flames which looked like mocking mouths that laughed, and emitted a trail of black smoke, foul as the pestilential breath of shame.

Arrived at the door of her own antechamber, she was met by one of her liveried servants, who told her that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont was within and awaiting to see her. To her hastily put query, the man replied that Monsieur le Duc had arrived about half an hour ago, and, hearing that Madame la Marquise was closeted with milor, he had elected to wait.

This visit from her father at this hour of the night meant a grave crisis, of course. At once Lydie's mind flew back to the Stuart prince. She had almost forgotten him since she left her husband's room. It seemed as if the overwhelming misery of that silent and deadly indictment had weighed down all other thoughts, until they sank into complete insignificance.

Vaguely, too, she had the sensation that there was no immediate necessity for her to rack her overtired brain to-night on the subject of the Jacobite's fate. She had at least six clear days before her, before Le Levantin, which was to start on the dire expedition, could be ready to put to sea. There was Le Monarque, on the other hand, quite ready to sail within an hour of receiving her orders. And Captain Barre was an honest man, a gallant sailor; he would only be too willing to make top speed in order to circumvent a treacherous plot, which he would abhor if he knew of it.

True, Lydie had now no means of locating the fugitives exactly, but with a six days' start of Le Levantin this want of precise knowledge need not necessarily prove fatal. She could trust to her memory somewhat, for she had repeatedly studied and fingered the map; she could draw something approximate from memory, and Captain Barre's determination and enthusiasm would surely do the rest.

These suggestions all rushed into her mind directly she heard that her father had come to visit her at this late hour. At first her desire was to avoid seeing him at risk even of offending him: but in spite of all that she had gone through, Lydie still retained sufficient presence of mind not to allow any impulse to rule her at such a critical moment. She forced herself to reflect on the Stuart prince and on him alone, on his danger and the treacherous plot against him, for at least twenty seconds, time enough to realize that it was absolutely necessary that she should see her father, in order to glean from him if possible every detail of the proposed expedition. She would indeed be helpless if she remained in ignorance of what had been planned between the King, Gaston, and her father. Perhaps – who knows? – in accordance with the habits of a lifetime, the Duke might even at this moment be anxious to consult his daughter – his helpmeet in all such matters – as to the final arrangements for the equipment of Le Levantin.

Satisfied with her conclusions, she therefore went straight into the boudoir where the lacquey said that Monsieur le Duc was waiting.

The first look at his benign face proved to her that he, at least, was not in any trouble. Whatever his daughter's views on the subject might be, he evidently was not altogether dissatisfied with the events of the day. He still wore a perturbed look, certainly; the scene which had occurred in Her Majesty's throne-room would not tend to decrease his mental worry; but beyond the slightly troubled look in his kindly eyes, and the obvious solicitude with which he took her hand and led her to a low divan, he seemed fairly serene.

"Well?" he said in a tone of anxious query.

"Well, father dear?"

"Your husband.. what did he say?"

She looked at him, a little bewildered, with a stupid, vacant stare which puzzled him.

"What should he have said, father dear?" she asked. "I do not understand."

"About the fracas to-night, my child. Was he there when Irène de Stainville spoke up so indiscreetly?"

"No.. no.. I mean yes." she said vaguely, "yes, milor was there; he heard every word which Irène de Stainville said."

"Well? What did he say?" he repeated with marked impatience. "Lydie, my child, this is not like you… Cannot you see that I am anxious?.. I have been waiting here for over an half hour in a perfect agony of uncertainty… Your servants told me you were closeted with milor… You must tell me what he said."

"He said nothing, father," she replied simply.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Monsieur le Duc looked at her very keenly, but her eyes were clear now and met his straight and full. There was obviously no deceit there, no desire to conceal more serious matters from him. He shrugged his shoulders, in token that he gave up all desire to understand. His son-in-law had always been a shadowy personality to him, and this attitude of his now, in face of the public scandal resting on his wife's name, was quite beyond Monsieur le Duc's comprehension.

Had Lydie told him that her husband had heaped torrents of abuse on her, and had concluded a noisy scene by striking her, he would have been very angry, but he would have understood.

"Hm!" he said placidly, "these English are mad, of a truth; we men of honour here cannot really comprehend them. Nevertheless, my dear Lydie, I suppose I, as your father, must be thankful that he did not lay hands on you, for English husbands are notoriously brutal. You are quite sure that you have nothing to complain of in your husband's conduct?"

"Quite sure, father dear."

"I had come prepared to take you away with me. My coach is below and I am driving to Château d'Aumont to-night. Would you like to come?"

"Not to-night, dear," she replied serenely, and her father was glad to note that a slight smile hovered round her lips. "I am a little tired, and will go straight to bed… But to-morrow I'll come."

"Permanently?"

"If you will have me."

"Well! until you go to your Château of Vincennes, you know my views on that subject?"

"Yes, father dear… We will talk of that another time… I am very tired to-night."

"I understand that, my child," said Monsieur le Duc rather fussily now, and clearing his throat, as if there was something which still oppressed him and of which he would have liked to speak before leaving her.

There was that awkward pause, the result of a want of mutual understanding between two people who hitherto have been all in all to each other, but whom certain untoward events have suddenly drawn apart. Lydie sincerely wished that her father would go. She had much to think about, a great deal to do, and the strain of keeping up a semblance of serenity was very trying to her overwrought nerves. He on the other hand felt uncomfortable in her presence: he left quite angry with himself for not being able to discuss freely with her the subject matter which was uppermost in his mind. There were one or two details in connection with the expedition to the Scottish coast that he very much wanted to talk over with his daughter. The habits of a lifetime gave him the desire to consult her about these details, just as he had been wont to do on all public and official matters. He had come to her apartments chiefly for that purpose. Was she not at one with him, with the King and Gaston over the scheme? She had given substantial proof that she favoured the expedition. His Majesty had thanked her for her help: she had rendered such assistance as now made the whole affair not only feasible but easy of accomplishment.

It was therefore passing strange that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont still felt an unaccountable bashfulness in her presence when referring to the Stuart prince at all.

So he went to work in a circuitous way, for there was another matter that troubled him, but less so than the expedition: therefore, perhaps, he spoke of it first.

"I presume, my dear child," he said lightly, "that you are sufficiently a woman of the world to understand that some sort of reparation is due from your husband to Monsieur de Stainville."

"Reparation?." she asked. "For what?"

Again she stared at him blankly, and with that vague expression of puzzlement which irritated whilst it half-frightened him.

"You were there, my dear," he said impatiently, "you know.. and of course you must have seen."

"What?"

"Milor jeered at Gaston, then tripped him up with his foot, so that Monsieur de Stainville measured his full length on the floor."

"I did not notice.." she said simply.

"But many people did.. enough at all events to give Monsieur de Stainville the initiative in the necessary reparation. He was the insulted party."

"Oh! a duel, you mean," she said indifferently, "yes, I suppose my husband will fight Monsieur de Stainville if His Majesty will grant them leave."

"Gaston will not appeal to His Majesty, and milor cannot very well refuse to meet him. The King has oft declared his intention of permanently suppressing all duelling just as it has been done in England. Even to-night after the unfortunate fracas, when I had the honour of paying my final respects, His Majesty said to me: 'If milor Eglinton and Monsieur de Stainville fight and one of them is killed, we'll hang the survivor!'"

"Then they'll not fight, you think?"

Monsieur le Duc stared at his daughter. Such complete indifference as to her husband's actions in so grave a matter passed the bounds of correct behaviour.

"Mais oui! they will fight, my dear!" he said sternly. "You know as well as I do that Gaston could not pocket the slight put upon him by milor without covering himself with ridicule. But the duel need not be serious.. a scratch or two and no more… Gaston is a perfect swordsman.. he never misses his man," added the Duke hesitatingly. "Is milor clever with the foils?"

"I do not know."

"He has never fought a duel to your knowledge?"

"I think never."

"Whilst Gaston's skill is famous… But, my dear, you need have no anxiety… It was also with a view to reassuring you on the subject that I have sought you so late… You will believe your father's word, Lydie, if he tells you that your husband is in no grave danger at the hands of Gaston."

"I thank you, father dear," she rejoined with the same natural, even tone of voice which should have tranquillised him as to her mental condition, but which somehow failed to do so.

"Gaston must take up the matter.. you understand that… It is quite public and.. he would be laughed at if he appealed for leave to fight from His Majesty.. the matter was not serious and the result will be likewise… Gaston will administer a slight punishment to milor.. such a perfect swordsman, you understand, can select the very place on his opponent's body where he will inflict the scratch.. it will be the shoulder perhaps.. or.. or.. the cheek.. nothing to be anxious about.."

"I am not anxious, father dear," she said with a serene smile, amused in spite of herself at his many circumlocutions, his obvious confusion, and his still quite apparent wish to speak of one more matter which seemed to be weighing on his mind.

"Is that all that you wished to say to me, dear?" she said gently, "for if so I can assure you that you need not be troubled on my account. I am neither anxious nor upset… Milor I feel confident will take tender care of his shoulder.. or of his cheek just as he does of his comfort and of his.. his dignity."

"And you will not take it amiss from me, my dear, if I do not offer to be one of your husband's seconds in the affair?" he asked suddenly, throwing off his hesitation and speaking more frankly.

"Certainly not, father dear… I feel sure that milor himself would not have suggested it.."

"My position near His Majesty.. you understand, my dear," he explained volubly, "and also my.. our association with Gaston.."

"Certainly – certainly," she repeated, emphasizing her words, "our association with Gaston.."

"And he really is acting like a perfect gentleman.. a man of honour.."

"Indeed?"

"His enthusiasm, his courage, and devotion have been quite marvellous. And though we shall primarily owe the success of our enterprise to you, my dear, yet His Majesty feels as I do, that we also owe much to Monsieur de Stainville. Ah! mon Dieu! what it is to be young!"

"What has Monsieur de Stainville done, dear, to arouse your special enthusiasm?" she asked.

"You shall judge of it yourself, my dear. After the esclandre provoked by Irène to-night, the publicity given to our scheme, we held a hurried boudoir meeting, at which His Majesty and Madame de Pompadour were present, as well as myself and Gaston. We all felt that you too should have been there, dear, but you had gone with milor, and."

"Yes, yes, never mind about me, father," she interrupted impatiently, seeing that he was getting lost in the mazes of his polite apologies. "You held a boudoir meeting. What did you decide?."

"That after the publicity given to the main idea of our scheme, you understand," he rejoined, "it would be no longer safe to wait for its execution until Le Levantin was ready for sea. Something had to be risked, of course, but on the whole we all thought that now that the matter had become 'le secret de Polichinelle' a six days' delay would be dangerous, if not fatal to success. You were not there, Lydie," he repeated diffidently, "we could not consult you.."

"No, no! Then what did you decide?"

"That we must send Le Monarque off at once."

"Le Monarque?.. at once?."