Lord Tony's Wife (10 page)

‘Oh! in that case, Monseigneur…’

‘And with all that, Blakeney,’ continued His Highness’ once more taking up the cards and turning to his friend, ‘remember that we still await your explanation as to your coming so late to the ball.’

‘An omission, your Royal Highness,’ rejoined Blakeney, ‘an absence of mind brought about by your severity, and that of Her Grace. The trouble was that all my calculations with regard to the exact adjustment of the butterfly bow were upset when I realized that the set of the present day waistcoat would not harmonize with it. Less than two hours before I was due to appear at this ball my mind had to make a complete volte-face in the matter of cravats. I became bewildered, lost, utterly confused. I have only just recovered, and one word of criticism on my final efforts would plunge me now into the depths of despair.’

‘Blakeney, you are absolutely incorrigible,’ retorted His Highness with a laugh. ‘M. le duc,’ he added, once more turning to the grave Frenchman with his wonted graciousness, ‘I pray you do not form your judgment on the gilded youth of England by the example of my friend Blakeney. Some of us can be serious when occasion demands, you know.’

‘Your Highness is pleased to jest,’ said M. de Kernogan stiffly. ‘What greater occasion for seriousness can there be than the present one. True, England has never suffered as France is suffering now, but she has engaged in a conflict against the most powerful democracy the world has ever known, she has thrown down the gauntlet to a set of human beasts of prey who are as determined as they are ferocious. England will not emerge victorious from this conflict, Monseigneur, if her sons do not realize that war is not mere sport and that victory can only be attained by the sacrifice of levity and of pleasure.’

He had dropped into French in response to His Highness’ remark, in order to express his thoughts more accurately. The Prince—a little bored no doubt–seemed disinclined to pursue the subject. Nevertheless, it seemed as if once again he made a decided effort not to show ill-humour. He even gave a knowing wink—a wink!–in the direction of his friend Blakeney and of Her Grace as if to beg them to set the ball of conversation rolling once more along a smoother—a less boring–path. He was obviously quite determined not to release M. de Kernogan from attendance near his royal person.

VI

As usual Sir Percy threw himself in the breach, filling the sudden pause with his infectious laugh:

‘La!’ he said gaily, ‘how beautifully M. le duc does talk. Ffoulkes,’ he added, addressing Sir Andrew, who was standing close by, ‘I’ll wager you ten pounds to a pinch of snuff that you couldn’t deliver yourself of such splendid sentiments, even in your own native lingo.’

‘I won’t take you, Blakeney,’ retorted Sir Andrew with a laugh, ‘I’m no good at peroration.’

‘You should hear our distinguished guest M. Martin-Roget on the same subject,’ continued Sir Percy with mock gravity. ‘By Gad! can’t he talk? I feel a d–d worm when he talks about our national levity, our insane worship of sport, our…our…M. le duc,’ he added with becoming seriousness and in atrocious French, ‘I appeal to you. Does not M. Martin-Roget talk beautifully?’

‘M. Martin-Roget,’ replied the duc gravely, ‘is a man of marvellous eloquence, fired by overwhelming patriotism. He is a man who must command respect wherever he goes.’

‘You have known him long, M. le duc?’ queried His Royal Highness graciously.

‘Indeed not very long, Monseigneur. He came over as an ιmigrι from Brest some three months ago, hidden in a smuggler’s ship. He had been denounced as an aristocrat who was furthering the cause of the royalists in Brittany by helping them plentifully with money, but he succeeded in escaping, not only with his life, but also with the bulk of his fortune.’

‘Ah! M. Martin-Roget is rich?’

‘He is sole owner of a rich banking business in Brest, Monseigneur, which has no important branch in America and correspondents all over Europe. Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest recommended him specially to my notice in a very warm letter of introduction, wherein he speaks of M. Martin-Roget as a gentleman of the highest patriotism and integrity. Were I not quite satisfied as to M. Martin-Roget’s antecedents and present connexions I would not have ventured to present him to your Highness.’

‘Nor would you have accepted him as a suitor for your daughter, M. le duc, c’est entendu!’ concluded His Highness urbanely. ‘M. Martin-Roget’s wealth will no doubt cover his lack of birth.’

‘There are plenty of high-born gentlemen devoted to the royalist cause, Monseigneur,’ rejoined the duc in his grave, formal manner. ‘But the most just and purest of causes must at times be helped with money. The Vendιens in Brittany, the Princes at Coblentz are all sorely in need of funds…’

‘And M. Martin-Roget son-in-law of M. le duc de Kernogan is more likely to feed those funds than M. Martin-Roget the plain business man who has no aristocratic connexions,’ concluded His Royal Highness dryly. ‘But even so, M. le duc,’ he added more gravely, ‘surely you cannot be so absolutely certain as you would wish that M. Martin-Roget’s antecedents are just as he has told you. Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest may have acted in perfect good faith…’

‘Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest, your Highness, is a man who has our cause, the cause of our King and of our Faith, as much at heart as I have myself. He would know that on his recommendation I would trust any man absolutely. He was not like to make careless use of such knowledge.’

‘And you are quite satisfied that the worthy Bishop did not act under some dire pressure…?’

‘Quite satisfied, Monseigneur,’ replied the duc firmly. ‘What pressure could there be that would influence a prelate of such high integrity as Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest?’

VII

There was silence for a moment or two, during which the heavy bracket clock over the door struck the first hour after midnight. His Royal Highness looked round at Lady Blakeney, and she gave him a smile and an almost imperceptible nod. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had in the meanwhile quietly slipped away.

‘I understand,’ said His Royal Highness quite gravely, turning back to M. le duc, ‘and I must crave your pardon, sir, for what must have seemed to you an indiscretion. You have given me a very clear exposι of the situation. I confess that until to-night it had seemed to me–and to all your friends, Monsieur, a trifle obscure. In fact, it had been my intention to intercede with you in favour of my young friend Lord Anthony Dewhurst, who of a truth is deeply enamoured of your daughter.’

‘Though your Highness’ wishes are tantamount to a command, yet would I humbly assert that my wishes with regard to my daughter are based upon my loyalty and my duty to my Sovereign King Louis XVII, whom may God guard and protect, and that therefore it is beyond my power now to modify them.’

‘May God trounce you for an obstinate fool,’ murmured His Highness in English, and turning his head away so that the other should not hear him. But aloud and with studied graciousness he said:

‘M. le duc, will you not take a hand at hazard? My luck is turning, and I have faith in yours. We must fleece Blakeney to-night. He has had Satan’s own luck these past few weeks. Such good fortune becomes positively revolting.’

There was no more talk of
Mlle.
de Kernogan after that. Indeed her father felt that her future had already been discussed far too freely by all these well-wishers who of a truth were not a little indiscreet. He thought that the manners and customs of good society were very peculiar here in this fog-ridden England. What business was it of all these high-born ladies and gentlemen—of His Royal Highness himself for that matter—what plans he had made for Yvonne’s future? Martin-Roget was bourgeois by birth, but he was vastly rich and had promised to pour a coupld of millions into the coffers of the royalist army if
Mlle.
de Kernogan became his wife. A couple of millions with more to follow, no doubt, and a loyal adherence to the royalist cause was worth these days all the blue blood that flowed in my lord Anthony Dewhurst’s veins.

So at any rate thought M. le duc this night, while His Royal Highness kept him at cards until the late hours of the morning.

It was close on ten o’clock now in the morning on the following day, and M. le duc de Kernogan was at breakfast in his lodgings in Laura Place, when a courier was announced who was the bearer of a letter for M. le duc.

He thought the man must have been sent by Martin-Roget, who mayhap was sick, seeing that he had not been present at the Assembly Rooms last night, and the duc took the letter and opened it without misgivings. He read the address on the top of the letter: ‘Combwich Hall’—a place unknown to him, and the first words of the letter: ‘Dear father!’ And even then he had no misgivings.

In fact he had to read the letter through three times before the full meaning of its contents had penetrated into his brain. Whilst he read, he sat quite still, and even the hand which held the paper had not the slightest tremor. When he had finished he spoke quite quietly to his valet:

‘Give the courier a glass of ale, Frιdιrick,’ he said, ‘and tell him he can go; there is no answer. And–stay,’ he added, ‘I want you to go round at once to M. Martin-Roget’s lodgings and ask him to come and speak with me as early as possible.’

The valet left the room, and M. le duc deliberately read through the letter from end to end for the fourth time. There was no doubt, no possible misapprehension. His daughter Yvonne de Kernogan had eloped clandestinely with my lord Anthony Dewhurst and had been secretly married to him in the small hours of the morning in the Protestant church of St. James, and subsequently before a priest of her own religion in the Priory Church of St. John the Evangelist.

She apprised her father of this fact in a few sentences which purported to be dictated by profound affection and filial respect, but in which M. de Kernogan failed to detect the slightest trace of contrition. Yvonne! his Yvonne! the sole representative now of the old race—eloped like a kitchen-wench! Yvonne! his daughter! his asset for the future! his thing! his fortune! that which he meant with perfect egoism to sacrifice on the altar of his own beliefs and his own loyalty to the kingship of France! Yvonne had taken her future in her own hands! She knew that her hand, her person, were the purchase price of so many millions to be poured into the coffers of the royalist cause, and she had disposed of both, in direct defiance of her father’s will and of her duty to her King and to his cause!

Yvonne de Kernogan was false to her traditions, false to her father! false to her King and country! In the years to come when the chroniclers of the time came to write the histories of the great families that had rallied round their King in the hour of his deadly peril, the name of Kernogan would be erased from those glorious pages. The Kernogans will have failed in their duty, failed in their loyalty! Oh! the same of it all! The shame!!

The duc was far too proud a gentleman to allow his valet to see him under the stress of violent emotion, but now that he was alone his thin, hard face–with that air of gravity which he had transmitted to his daughter–became distorted with the passio of unbridled fury; he tore the letter up into a thousand little pieces and threw the fragments into the fire. On the bureau beside him there stood a miniature of Yvonne de Kernogan painted by Hall three years ago, and framed in a circlet of brilliants. M. le duc’s eyes casually fell upon it; he picked it up and with a violent gesture of rage threw it on the floor and stamped upon it with his heel, destroying in this paroxysm of silent fury a work of art worth many hundred pounds.

His daughter had deceived him. She had also upset all his plans whereby the army of M. le Prince de Condι would have been enriched by a couple of million francs. In addition to the shame upon her father, she had also brought disgrace upon herself and her good name, for she was a minor and this clandestine marriage, contracted without her father’s consent, was illegal in France, illegal everywhere: save perhaps in England—of this M. de Kernogan was not qutie sure, but he certainly didn’t care. And in this solemn moment he registered a vow that never as long as he lived would he be reconciled to that English nincompoop who had dared to filch his daughter from him, and never—as long as he lived–would he by his consent render the marriage legal, and the children born of that wedlock legitimate in the eyes of his country’s laws.

A calm akin to apathy had followed his first outbreak of fury. He sat down in front of the fire, and buried his chin in his hand. Something of course must be done to get his daughter back. If only Martin-Roget were here, he would know better how to act. Would Martin-Roget stick to his bargain and accept the girl for wife, now that her fame and honour had been irretrievably tarnished? There was the question which the next half-hour would decide. M. de Kernogan cast a feverish, anxious look on the clock. Half an hour had gone by since Frιdιrick went to seek Martin-Roget, and the latter had not yet appeared.

Until he had seen Martin-Roget and spoken with Martin-Roget M. de Kernogan could decide nothing. For one brief, mad moment, the project had formed itself in his disordered brain to rush down to Combwich Hall and provoke that impudent Englishman who had stolen his daughter: to kill him or be killed by him; in either case Yvonne would then be parted from him for ever. But even then, the thought of Martin-Roget brought more sober reflection. Martin-Roget would see to it. Martin-Roget would know what to do. After all, the outrage had hit the accredited lover just as hard as the father.

But why in the name of–did Martin-Roget not come?

II

It was past midday when at last Martin-Roget knocked at the door of M. le duc’s lodgings in Laura Place. The older man had in the meanwhile gone through every phase of overwhelming emotions. The outbreak of unreasoning fury—when like a maddened beast that bites and tears he had broken his daughter’s miniature and trampled it under foot–had been followed by a kind of dull apathy, when for close upon an hour he had sat staring into the flames, trying to grapple with an awful reality which seemed to elude him all the time. He could not believe that this thing had really happened: that Yvonne, his well-bred dutiful daughter, who had shown such marvellous courage and presence of mind when the necessity of flight and of exile had first presented itself in the wake of the awful massacres and wholesale executions of her own friends and kindred, that she should have eloped—like some flirtatious wench–and outraged her father in this monstrous fashion, by a clandestine marriage with a man of alien race and of a heretical religion! M. de Kernogan could not realize it. It passed the bounds of possibility. The very flames in the hearth seemed to dance and to mock the bare suggestion of such an atrocious transgression.