CHAPTER I

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

I, Adrian Trent, now known as Lord Trent, and a captain of Les Mousquetaires Gris, sat in my little salon in the Lion d'Or, in the Rue Louis le Grand in Paris, on Midsummer Day, in the year of our Lord 1726. And in my hand I held a little perfumed billet, which I had turned over in my fingers a dozen times, and had, perhaps, read twice as often. For it recalled to me a strange meeting, and some strange scenes in which I had been concerned when I was but a porte-drapeau. Also it recalled to me some other things far sweeter, which, to a young man, must needs be pleasant recollections—to wit, things such as a lovely face flushed now and again with the colour that adorns the blushing rose of Provence; dark eyes, sometimes as soft as velvet, and sometimes sparkling like ice beneath the winter sun; black hair that once—in an awful moment of fear and extremity—I had seen adown the owner's back, almost to her feet; a supple girlish form, and other charms. A girl whom, although I had not seen her for five years, I had never forgotten, but whom I always strove to forget, because she was wealthy and I was poor; because, although I was a man of good rank in my own country, she was almost of the very highest in hers; because she was, in truth, as far above me as the sun is above the earth. Yet once, for a little while, that girl and I had been the best of friends; once, too, it seemed as if that friendship had been very near to a softer and more tender emotion, and as if Adrian Trent and Ana, Princesa de Carbajal, were falling in love with each other—if they had not already done so.

Whereupon, thinking over all these things, I again turned the letter in my hands, and again I read it.

"So you are back in Paris, I hear," it ran; "and would you not like to see a girl called Damaris whom once you knew? I think you would—perhaps in memory of having saved that girl's life on one occasion;[1] of also having once called her by the prettiest epithet a man can bestow on any woman, and of having been much teased and pestered by that girl. If so, then come to the Marais, to the Rue des Vraies Femmes, and to the house which bears the name of my family, and if you come at the proper time I will give you some chocolate and a bonbon. I wonder if you are much changed, and if you will find me so!

Damaris."

The prettiest epithet a man can bestow on any woman! So she remembered it! remembered that I had called her "sweetheart" in all the impudence of boyhood and the possession of my guidon in the mousquetaires, and when I did not know that she was a princess of one of the most ancient and powerful families in Catalonia, and in possession of enormous estates and great wealth.

But did she remember another thing also—namely, that after being highly indignant with me for my presumption, she had laughed and whispered that pretty word to me in return? Did she remember that? If not, I did. And now I would see for it.

An hour later I was outside the great door of the HÔtel de Carbajal, and a lackey answering my summons, I learned that the Princess was within. Whereon I bade him say that Lord Trent waited below to pay his devoirs to her, if it might be that she would receive him.

"Her Highness expects milor," the man said. "Will milor give himself the trouble to follow me?"

Whereon "milor," attired in his best black satin suit—for, alas! he had but recently returned from England, and the funeral of his father—and silver lace, did follow the man through the great gloomy house, and along corridor after corridor, he thinking all the time of what the fellow had said—that "her Highness expected him." "So," "milor" said to himself, "she knew I would come."

Then the door opened, and the footman announced "Milor Trent," and for some reason the midsummer sun seemed to dazzle my eyes, and I saw a figure spring—that is the word, "spring"—from a deep fauteuil, and I felt two slim hands in mine, and I heard a well-remembered voice say, "So you have come, my lord."

"Yes, I have come, your Highness. You knew very well that I should come. Yet, yet," for, somehow, I at once began to grow bold, "there was no word of 'Highness' nor of 'lord' in the old days. Then you were 'a girl called Damaris,' and——"

"And," she interrupted, with a soft laugh, "you were an impudent young soldier called Blue Eyes. But now we are old, staid people. I am twenty-four."

"And I am twenty-five," I interrupted in my turn.

"Wherefore we have grown sober and steady. Still, notwithstanding that, you may tell me if you choose whether you think I have aged very much."

Aged very much! Yes, she had aged, if being more beautiful than ever meant having aged. For now the sun dazzled me no longer, and I could see all her loveliness, I could observe that the tall, slim form had grown a little, just a little, more womanly; that the soft dark eyes had just a little more of calmness in their gaze; that the scarlet lips were as full, and the small white teeth, which I had always admired so much, as brilliant.

"But all the same," she said, while I surveyed her, "you need not hold my hand so long. One does not look at another with their fingers."

Then, when I had released that hand, which, I protest, I did not know I was holding, she bade me sit down by her side, she herself taking a seat upon a great Segovian ottoman close by, and drawing up to her a little ebony table upon which was a little gilt coach, with the doors and windows of glass, and with four little silver horses to it, and a coachman and footman in gold. And she opened one of the doors of this little coach and popped her long slim fingers in and drew out a bonbon, and, I thought, was going to pop it in my mouth too. But, if that had been her intention, she considered better of it, perhaps because she was now "sober and steady," and so, instead, laid it gravely down on the ebony table, and pointed to it, and said, "Eat it;" which I did.

"Now," she said, "we will drink something, À la bonne chance. I drink chocolate; but since you are a great big mousquetaire you may have some wine if you choose. Let me see; there is Florence wine, and Lunel and Muscadine, and——"

"I shall drink the chocolate or nothing," I said firmly, since I was not going to sit toping like a rude mousquetaire before my Princess while she drank the other. Whereon she told me to ring the bell and order the chocolate, and in ten minutes we were discussing that beverage, and the footman had left us alone.

"Oh!" she exclaimed volatilely, "do you remember, Blue Eyes—I mean, my lord—when I sat on the table in the inn at Toulouse and drank wine out of your cup, surrounded by you and your huge troopers, and when I was supposed to be a wandering vagrant girl called Damaris?"

"You will always be Damaris to me. I shan't call you 'Princess' nor 'Highness,' and I wish you would not call me by that silly title of 'lord.' And I've only been one a month, and have not grown used to it."

"But what am I to call you? I mustn't call you Blue Eyes any more, because we are now grave and staid; and Adrian is too familiar. I should poniard you if you were to call me Ana."

"There was another name exchanged between us once," I said—"one alluded to in your letter received by me to-day."

"Ah!" she said, with a little shriek, "don't recall that. How dare you! I only wrote it to bring myself back to your memory."

"Oh!" I said, "did you? Well, now, what did your high—I mean you, Damaris—send for me for at all, if it was only to be so haughty and distant? There are no more burning houses to save you from; and as for—for—old Alberoni——"

"Monseigneur the Cardinal Alberoni, if you please."

"As for Monseigneur the Cardinal Alberoni—well! what has become of him? He has finished his sch—politics—I suppose?"

"He lives the life of a saint at Piacenza. But—but I did not send for you to talk about his Eminence."

"What then, Da—I mean—well!—you understand?"

"You remember," she said, "that you did save my life once? Of course you do; you have but just referred to it."

"Is it in danger now? And am I to save it again?"

"My happiness is. I want you to save me from a man—a man who, though perhaps it may surprise you, wants to marry me."

"Ah! bah!" I said, forgetting my manners and jumping out of my chair, and beginning to walk about the room. "Bah! A man wants to marry you, indeed!" and I felt quite angry at the very idea of such a thing.

"It is strange that he should desire to do so, is it not?" she said, with a queer little, but very pretty, grimace. "All the same, it's the truth. It is indeed, Blue—I mean, my lord."

"Who is the fellow?"

"Oh!" she said, with another of her little shrieks. "The fellow! Why—er—Lord Trent—he is one of the scions of our royal house—of Austria and Spain."

"Shall I run him through? I will if he wants to marry you—and—and—you bid me do so."

"You might have to run more than one through, at that rate, Blue Eyes," and this time she forgot to correct herself, which, if I remember rightly, seemed to please me; "I think you might, indeed. But, no! I imagine you can do better than that."

"How? I'll do it."

"Will you, my lord?" ("Vengeance confound that title!" thought I.) "I wonder if you will?"

"What shall I do? Tell me and it shall be done, Damaris," forgetting myself also in my agitation.

"I suppose," she said, speaking slowly, and with a wondrous look in those witching eyes, "you would not condescend to play at being my lover, would you?—only for a little while—say for a week or so."

"Wouldn't I! Try me! But—but—am I to have all the privileges of a lover during that week or so? Eh, Damaris?"

"Don't call me Damaris; it is not respectful. Yes, you may have all the privileges of a lover—in public."

"Oh! in public. But—in private! Then——"

"Then I am the Princesa de Carbajal and you are Lord Trent."

"What are a lover's privileges in public—I mean with princesses and scions of ancient houses? He has to be a kind of slave, a worshipper, does he not?"

"He does as a rule; but then, you see, Blu—my lord," and while she spoke she held a bonbon out tantalisingly before my eyes, "you have got to play a different part from the ordinary one of a lover to a princess. You will play it, won't you—Adrian?"

"I'll play anything," I said, much agitated by the last word she uttered.

"Bueno! Well, now, see. You must be a humble lover—one beneath me, with whom I have fallen in love in a manner discreditable to my rank. And, thereby, you will make my suitor jealous—oh! so jealous—because we will play such tricks upon him that he will renounce me. Oh! I have invented such schemes to make him do so. Neither Quevedo nor Vega ever thought of such tricks."

"It will be a dangerous game," I said meditatively.

"Dangerous! Dangerous!" she exclaimed. "Why, Blue Eyes, you are not afraid of a Spanish don although he is of the royal house, are you? Fie! and you a soldier."

"That isn't the danger I meant," I replied quietly, so quietly that she guessed my meaning in a moment, as I saw by the rich crimson which mantled her cheek instantly, and the increased brilliancy of her lovely, starlike eyes.

"Dangerous to whom, pray?" she demanded.

"To me!" I answered boldly; "because I shall lo——"

"Hsh! hsh! hsh!" she said, putting her hand up quickly. "None of that! none of that! Yet, nevertheless, there will be danger—to——"

"Whom?" I asked now.

"To you, of course. Oh! not to me, Blue Eyes. Oh no! no!" she continued somewhat nervously, I thought. "Not to me. Oh no. Think not that, my lord."

"I can think what I like," I said. "Even a slave's thoughts are his own. But where's the danger, if you mean ordinary danger?"

"He is great," she almost whispered now, "and powerful, even in Paris. He is, too, enormously rich, richer than I am, and can hire people to do whatsoever he wishes. He might hire vagabonds to assault you—to—to—oh! Adrian!—throw you into the Seine with your throat cut, or stab you under the shoulder in a dark alley, and—and—all because you do this out of friendship for me, and with no hope of reward."

"Stab you under the shoulder in a dark alley."

"I shall get my reward," I said quietly.

For a moment she regarded me calmly; then she said, "You are very confident, very masterful."

"Yes," I replied, "very confident, and—well! very masterful."

CHAPTER II

DANGER AHEAD

In looking back upon the events of those days—as I now do from the calm autumn of my life—I am always struck by the extraordinary fact that I am still alive. For, from the moment that it began to be whispered about in the fashionable parts of Paris that the Princesa Ana de Carbajal was tricking his Highness the Prince of Csaba (in Hungary) and Miranda Vitoria (in Spain), who, although of the Royal House of Austria, intended to espouse her morganatically if he possibly could, my life began to be in danger. That is to say, it would begin to be in danger directly the Prince of Csaba learned, as he very soon must learn, that the Princess was being gallanted about by an Englishman, who was considered to be so far her inferior as to cause it to be said that she had contracted a love affair with a person beneath her.

For these haughty, arrogant Spanish-Austrians living in Paris had the impertinence to state that I, Adrian Trent, an English gentleman (to say nothing of my being also an English nobleman and an officer of French mousquetaires), was beneath the Princess, or—or Damaris, as I always thought of her. It made my blood boil, I can tell you, when I learned such was the case (and I hope it makes yours boil, too, who read, if you are a countryman of mine), and if there had ever been on my part any idea of drawing back from the part I had agreed to play with Damaris—which, in solemn truth, there was not—it only confirmed me all the more in the determination to play that part out to the very end.

I would, I swore to myself, so enact the part of the girl's lover that Csaba should have nothing left to do but to retire from his position of prÉtendu and aspirant and resign all claims to her hand; and also, which I hoped would be the case, I would so irritate his absurd hidalgo pride as to draw him into an embroglio with me; and then—even though he were forty times the hidalgo and don he was, and had forty times the blood of Charles qui triche and of that murderer, Philip II. in his veins—I would so humiliate him and all his following that they would never dare to be insolent to any English gentleman again.

Only—I forgot one thing. Or, perhaps, I did not know one thing which I should have known. I should not have forgotten that no descendant of Philip, nor any one who was related to him, was likely to meet me in a fair and open way. Not they! Be sure of that. And it was from this lack of knowledge, or this forgetfulness, that I nearly got caught in a trap, that I was nearly done barbarously to death, and that I nearly lost the great happiness of my life. However, this you shall read.

But Damaris knew, and, knowing, she did not mean to have me fall into the trap. And all this you are to read as well.

"Now, my lord," she said to me one fine night, when I had waited on her, "this is the very occasion when we are to begin to arouse the demon of jealousy in Csaba's manly bosom. To-night we are going to sow the poison seed. Therefore prepare yourself."

"I am prepared. What is to be done?"

"I am going to the ball at the HÔtel d'Aragon, his house. But you are not—yet you will be there. See, here is his invitation to Monsieur—blank. That blank is left because I forced him to give me an invitation for a friend of mine, whose name I would fill up. Observe, mon ami, I fill it up with yours." Whereon, stooping over a scrutoire, she wrote in the name of Lord Trent.

"It will be pleasant to go to the ball," I said. "I presume I shall have one dance with you?"

"You will not go to the ball, and you will not dance with me."

"What am I to do then? Go to bed, perhaps!"

"Nor that either. In a manner of speaking, indeed, you will go to the ball, but only to pass through the great apartments, making your obeisance to Csaba as you do so; then—well, then—you will go out into the garden and wait until I come to you. Wait by a fountain in the middle of the garden—within it, in the centre, a representation of Hercules destroying the Hydra. Wait, and do exactly what I tell you."

"Shall you be alone?"

"Nay, nay," she replied, with one of her usual smiles. "Ah no, he will be with me. But of that take no notice. Do exactly what I tell you—when we meet—and when he overhears what I say."

"When he overhears!"

"'Tis so. Now, for last instructions, take these. Come not to the HÔtel d'Aragon till midnight strikes. I shall be there earlier, but come not yourself till then."

"And——?"

"Take your cue from me."

At midnight I was there, outside the great doors of the HÔtel d'Aragon, descending from my chaise-roulante and seeing a few late arrivals like myself pass in, as well as perceiving through those wide open doors a mighty great assembly within. Whereon I, too, went in, the Prince's menials bawling out my name, though, as not one of them pronounced it aright, simple though it was, they might as well not have done so at all.

Through a vast crowd of ladies and of gentlemen in wigs and scarlet coats, with, for the former, flowered dresses and hoops and panniers and Heaven knows what, I passed, looking right and left for where the Prince might be. Then, suddenly, on a little daÏs I saw him seated with, for companion by his side, Damaris, or rather Ana, Princess of Carbajal; and he was bending over her, talking with what our beloved friends call empressement, and it seemed to me as though he were utterly oblivious of every other person there.

But, since I stood at the foot of the daÏs waiting to attract his attention and then pay my respects to him, I observed that she—my confederate—or rather she whose confederate I was—gave a slight start, and into her face there came a lovely, heavenly tinge of red, while from between her parted lips I heard the whispered word "Adrian." Also I saw her left hand, which lay along her dress, clutch a fold or so of that dress as though in agitation extreme.

And the Prince heard the word too, since, after a momentary glance at her, he cast his eyes in my direction and then again bent them on the girl.

"Monseigneur," she said, "it is the gentleman for whom I demanded an invitation."

"Ha!" he said, rising and bowing somewhat stiffly to me I thought. "Ha! a gentleman named Adrian."

"Nay," she replied; "a gentleman, an English nobleman, called Lord Trent."

"I ask a thousand pardons," he said, bending low before her. "I thought you uttered the name Adrian." Then he turned to me, saying coldly, "My lord, you are welcome," after which he turned away and began talking to his companion again, whereon I sought the garden as she had bid me do.

"Was she acting?" I asked myself, as I passed through the windows to the gardens beyond, to find and take up my station by the fountain in which was the statue of Hercules killing the Hydra; "was she acting when she whispered my name and when she made that slight but perceptible clutch at her dress?" As for the tinge of red, I doubted if she could act that, since, so far as I knew, it was not to be accomplished—no! not even by La Gautier, whom I had seen often enough in the past at the OdÉon. Still, I remembered she was a good actress—had she not impersonated a wandering singing-girl from Provence when I first knew her; and had she not deceived even so astute a beast as Marcieu, the spy who tried to arrest her! So I could not answer the question, but went on down the allÉes, and past stone fauns and satyrs, and gentlemen in togas and ladies in—well! not in gowns made by court furnishers—and, at last, in the centre of a great rond, covered with crushed shells and tiny pebbles that hurt the feet, I came upon the fountain and the figure of Hercules. Then, being there, I sat me down on the high stone rim of the basin, into which the water was falling from the hydra heads with a vastly cool and pleasing splash, and waited, beneath the moon, which sailed clear and cloudless in the skies, for the dÉnouement. That, however, was a little while in coming, and though more than one couple passed me, the vizard-masked face of the cavalier being almost invariably bent down over the upturned vizard-masked face of the accompanying dame (so that one might well guess it was the eternal romance being whispered in willing ears), she for whom I waited did not herself appear.

Not for a little while, as I have said—yet, at last.

Down one of the little pleached alleys I heard the rustle of a woman's robe, and saw the long, lithe figure that I knew so well—that I had never forgotten since I first saw it in the spangled dress of the mountebank she pretended to be. I saw, too, the moonbeams glint upon the lovely face, and recognised it instantly, though she, too, wore her vizard-mask. Then she was close to me, close to where I had stepped out on to the shell-strewn path, and calling "Adrian"—somewhat loudly, as I thought—while she drew near.

"I am here," I said, joining her.

Then, speaking in a lower tone now, she said, "He is close behind—behind a bosquet in the alley. He is watching us, I know. Kiss my hand—do something lover-like—call me by some lover's name of endearment. And speak in French; he knows no English."

"Kiss my hand—do something lover-like."

"A la fin! ma mie," I said, falling in with her cue at once, and going on in the tongue she bade me speak. "I thought you would never come;" after which, remembering her injunction, I stooped and kissed her hand, holding it to my lips for some seconds, while all the time the great jewels on her fingers sparkled in the moonlight.

"Farewell," she said, "I may not stay. To-night—to-night," and now she spoke loudly again, clearly, so that none within fifty paces of us could fail to hear her words—"to-night at two o'clock come to supper with me at my house. I await you. Till then, adieu. And come to the side-door, that opening on to the Rue des Fleurs. Till then, adieu."

"Do you mean it?" I whispered now, wondering if this was play-acting too. "Do you mean it, Damaris?"

"Ay, I mean it. We must play the comedy out. But," and now she spoke in English, and her voice sunk to its deepest whisper, "forget not your rapier. You may need it."

"I shall not forget." Then, while again she had given me her hand, which, at this moment, she was making great pretence of withdrawing from my grasp, I whispered, also in English, "But this has got to be paid for, Damaris; and the reward I shall demand will be enormous."

But she only laughed, showing her little white teeth, and went swiftly back up the alley she had come down, turning once and saying in a fairly clear voice, "Remember."

Whereon, when she had gone and joined her companion, as I could tell very well by overhearing them talking as they withdrew, I sat me down on the stone edge of the fountain and fell a-musing.

"Bring my rapier, she said," I muttered to myself. "Ay, and so I will. But not this plaything by my side, fit only to match a court suit. Instead, my good Flamberg. 'Ware that, my illustrious rival, if you come near me! Ay, I will in truth bring it. And so—so—so—I shall win her. For though Damaris were forty thousand times a Spanish and Austrian Princess, this thing has gone too far to stop here. She has got to sink her title now in a lowlier one, namely, that of the Viscountess Trent, or—or——"

I paused. Adown another path than that along which she had come to me there was advancing a tall and stately gentleman, alone. A man with a peaked beard, and dressed all in black satin—like myself; a man who walked with gravity extreme. Then, as he drew close to me, he removed the hat he wore, and standing stock-still before me, said in French—

"Have I the honour to address the Milord Trent?"

"That, sir, is my name," I said, rising from my seat and removing also my hat, since I could not allow myself to be outdone in politeness by a foreigner, by which I mean a man who was not an Englishman.

"I have a little message," he proceeded, "from my master, the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria—from your host of the moment."

"I shall be honoured to receive it, sir."

"It is," the grave and courteous gentleman said, "a warning, a hint. The Prince, my master, desires me to tell you that it will not be for your good to go out to supper to-night—not for the good of your health."

"The Prince, your master, being aware, sir," I demanded, "that it is to an Englishman he sends this message?"

"I imagine his Highness may be aware that such is the case."

"Will you, sir, then, in your courtesy, constitute yourself the bearer of my reply?"

"I am your servant, sir; I shall deem it an honour to do so."

"Sir, you place me in your debt. And, such being the case, will you please to tell the Prince, your master, that I look forward with eagerness to my supper to-night, to which I shall proceed without fail; also that my health is most excellent, as are both my appetite and digestion; and, likewise, that when I require a doctor's advice I shall not insult so illustrious a person as the Prince by asking him to take so humble a function as that on himself? Sir, I salute you."

Whereon, with the exchange of most polite bows between us, I strode away, leaving him alone.

CHAPTER III

DANGER CLOSE AT HAND

By now it was half after one o'clock, and I, leaning out of my salon window in the Lion d'Or, knew that it was time for me to be away; to reach Damaris—"my Damaris" I called her now, since I had resolved that mine she had got to be—and see what sort of a supper she proposed to offer me. For my part, I thought the dishes were as like as not to consist of some unwholesome cold steel, or a leaden bullet out of a Spanish trabuco or musquetoon—that is to say, offered but not accepted, if I was to have any word in the matter.

Dallying idly over the window-sill, I thought, I say, of all this, while at the same time there rose ever before me the beauteous features and the laughing eyes of the Princess. And I wondered if she would laugh if she heard the clash of arms outside her side-door in the Rue des Fleurs. Likewise, I wondered if she would laugh, too, when she learnt, after this pleasing little entertainment of the small hours was over, of how masterful an individual I could be—it was her own term, you will please to remember; her very own!—and how I was the sort of man who would know how to turn this "playing" at being her lover into being her lover in true and actual fact. Poor Damaris! Poor, stately, yet roguish Damaris, what a come-down it would seem to her!—to give up her great position to become my wife.

But would it? Would it? Well! I did not quite know. She was a Spaniard, and the Spaniards had the reputation of being very firm in their affections when once they were set in a certain direction. And I thought, only thought—though, perhaps, I hoped too—that those affections were set more or less in my direction. And now, to-night, I was going to see.

I had brought back to Paris from England with me a servant: a rough, queer creature, with an enormous appetite and a desire for sleep which I had never seen equalled; yet one who had served my dear father for many years, and had followed him about over Europe in those pilgrimages which I once told you he had been in the habit of making, in the footsteps of our King, James III. At Rome this man had been, also in Spain, and in these places he had picked up a smattering of tongues other than his own, as well as having the French very well; while, as he had earlier ridden trooper in the regiment of Blues, and, still earlier, had been a sailor for a time, he was a brave and valiant fellow. A rough kind of spaniel thing he was, which would cling close to its master's heels, yet yap and snap and sniff at every one a-nigh that master until sure that such person boded no ill to him. Now, I went to wake him—for, as always, he slept when he had no work to do—from his slumbers in a cupboard on the landing.

"Get up, Giles" (for Giles Bates was his name, and a good honest English one, too, though it had no spot of Norman in it), I cried, stamping on the floor at the same time to wake him. "Get up at once."

"Is the house afire?" he asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes all the time. "I would not be surprised if 'twere so in this silly land. Or is the breakfast ready? I am mortal hungry. Oh!" he exclaimed, seeing me, his master, "it is you, my lord. What is to do now, my lord?"

"I am going to supper at a lady's house, or, at least, I am going to a lady's house. Don't roll your eyes up like that, you fool! the lady will be my wife ere long, I hope. Meanwhile, I have enemies, rivals, and may be attacked, and I want your company."

In a minute he was up off his pallet and had seized his sword and was buckling it on to him, his gooseberry-looking eyes gleaming with delight; for Giles Bates loved a fight as well as any of our island breed, and was ever ready for one.

For myself, I needed no buckling on of my blade. I had, since I returned from the HÔtel d'Aragon, changed my clothes, putting off my fashionable suit of black, and assuming a plainer one in which I travelled. My Flamberg was also already on my thigh, wherefore I felt equal to meeting any of the Prince of Csaba's Spanish asesinos whom he might see fit to send out to attack me in the neighbourhood of my sweetheart's house. That they would be Spanish I felt sure, for more reasons than one; the first of many such reasons being that the Prince was surrounded by a train of Spaniards; and the second, that he would have had no time to procure Frenchmen, even if Frenchmen would have served him, which, since the French are not midnight cut-throats, whatever their other failings may be, I did not think very likely.

"I want your company."

A little later and we drew near to where the Paris mansion of the Carbajals stood in the Marais, it being by this time hard on two o'clock of the morning, and all the streets around very still beneath the light of the moon as she sailed above. The revellers and wassailers seemed to have gone to their beds, and we scarce passed any one as we approached nearer and nearer to the spot we were making for, and all was very calm except for the barking of a dog once and again. Yet, notwithstanding the peacefulness of the night and the desolation of the streets, I observed my mastiff keeping his eyes ever open warily, and glinting first one and then the other into dark corners and up alleys and ruelles.

"A sweet fine night," he muttered to himself, "for a fight. Oh! 'twould make a shark sob" (he had been a sailor, amongst other things, as I have said) "to think we should not come to loggerheads with some one on such a night as this."

"Be still," I said; "we draw near to the house, to——"

"My lady's bower!" he murmured, regarding me with his fish-like eyes, so that I knew not whether he meant to be impertinent—which I did not think he did—or was quoting from some of the sheets of love-ballads I had more than once caught him poring over. "Oh, love! love! love!"

"Peace, fool!" I said, "and hold your silly tongue. We are there."

And so we were; we being now outside a small oak door let into the side of the Carbajal mansion, which stood up grey and solemn in the moonlight.

"Now," I continued, "to get in."

"Ay, my lord," said Giles; "and to get out again afterwards. Do I enter with you?"

"You shall know later. Meanwhile, stand back in the shadow. And take my cloak; 'twill but encumber me if there should be any sword-play inside."

"And serve as guard for my arm if twisted round it," said Giles, as he took the cloak, "if there should be any outside. 'Tis four years since I fleshed a Spaniard. 'Twas by the Puerta del Sol, and he was attacking a Northumbrian Jacobite gentleman, who, alas! was lurching about like the Royal Sovereign in a gale——"

"Silence," I said. "See, the wicket opens;" as in truth it did, and through the bars I saw a moment or so later a pair of soft roguish eyes glistening in the moonlight—eyes that I knew well and loved to see, they making then, as always they have made, a summer in my heart by their glances.

"Are you alone, Adrian?" a gentle voice, equally dear to me as the eyes, whispered.

"Alone," I whispered back, "except for a fool mastiff creature, who is, however, faithful, and can fight as well as be trusted."

"Ay, he can," I heard my follower mutter to himself, "and will not be contented if he fight not to-night."

"Come in," Damaris said, opening now the door (in which the wicket was) about half a foot, so that I might squeeze in, "and leave your watchdog there. He may be attacked——"

"So much the better," growled Giles, he hearing all.

"You understand?" I said to him; "you understand? You may be attacked."

"Ay, my lord, I understand. I am not afeard. Yet I wish I had the wherewithal for supper. I am parlous hungry——"

"Bah! Keep watch well." Whereon I entered by the half-open door, and joined Damaris.

It was quite dark in the passage when I got there—except for the rays of the moon, which glinted and glistened from windows on high—there being no lights in the house so far as I could see. Then, while I was noting this, my girl whispered to me, "There are two in the garden now. I have seen them! have been close to them! Do you know what they are here for, in their long cloaks and vizard-masks?"

"I can guess well enough. Who are they?"

"Menials, I take it. Menials come to—to—O Adrian!"

"I understand. Damaris, you have got to pay me for this service."

"I thought," she whispered, "that English gentlemen, English noblemen, did not ask payment from ladies for services rendered."

"One payment it is always permissible to ask. I mean to have it too."

"It is impossible," she said—"impossible."

"I intend to make it possible. You told me I was very masterful, and I shall be—if I live through this night."

Whereon she only whispered again, "O Adrian!" and then said, "Come and see these men; and—and—loosen your sword in its sheath."

"Never fear," said I. "That's ready."

After which I followed her along the dark corridor or passage, and through a hall, large and lofty—they had built good houses in the old days in that portion of Paris known as the Marais—from out of which there opened the reception saloons, as well as a great salle or banqueting-room. Now, into that hall there shone, from two great windows high up on either side of it, the full moon, so that I could perceive the form of my young princess almost as clearly as I might have done in daylight, and to my intense astonishment I observed that she was very little like a princess now, if such personages are to be judged by the garb they wear. For, now, she was arrayed in the dark NÎmes serge of a waiting-maid; upon her head was the provincial cap worn by so many of those women, hers being the head-dress of Brittany, which, as all the travelled world knows, hides every hair upon a woman's head and quite destroys any good looks that a serving-girl may happen to possess. And I noticed, too, that her hands were no longer adorned with flashing gems; nor were they either the little white snowflakes I had always gazed upon with such rapture—since now they were of a discoloured yellow-brown hue, and the nails discoloured also.

"More play-acting," I said to her, "more play-acting. 'Tis like the night in Toulouse when you played a part."

"Ay, 'tis," she answered; "and, I protest, as necessary now as then that I should play it well. And," she went on, "I am going to play one, and you shall see me do it. Now," she continued, "I must leave you, as I am about to go into the garden."

"Then I go too," I said. "Why! suppose one is Csaba—the Prince."

"Well! he would not hurt me. He pretends to love me—does love me."

"He might carry you off."

"Might he! What! with my faithful Adrian looking at him out of the darkness of this room, and ready to spring forth like a great fierce English lion—that great lion that is so dominating and contemptuous over all the other beasts and fowls of Europe. Might he? Not he. Nor will he while I have this," and, in the moonbeams, I saw her draw a little stiletto from out the pocket of her serving-woman's gown. "Now," she said, "you stay here till I come back. Be a good boy, Blue Eyes, and do what I tell you."

"You do love me, don't you, Damaris? That's understood."

"It is understood that you do as I tell you. Now I go."

Whereon she went through the door from the hall and into the great salle, and then down the huge steps leading from the verandah on to the broad walk, on which there stood large tubs, having in them oleanders and orange and lemon trees. And be sure that, creeping after her, I followed as far as I might without exposing myself to the view of any who might be in the garden; and then, from behind the heavy window-hangings, I gazed out, while listening with all my ears.

Now, no sooner had my girl gotten down some yards upon the broad walk—she having, as she went, thrown a common kind of hood, such as Spanish peasant women wear in the streets over her head—than she commenced, gently, but still audibly, to say, "Hst! hst! Isidore. I am here. Isidore, where are you? Have you kept tryst? Isidore, I say!" and then gave a little kind of muffled shriek as a figure, enshrouded in a cloak and wearing a mask (and followed by another attired in a similar manner), stepped out from behind a lemon-tree tub and seized her by the arm.

CHAPTER IV

A FINALE

That figure stepped forth and seized her by the arm while saying, in tones quite loud enough for me to hear, "What are you making that noise for here? and who are you? and who, in the fiend's name, is Isidore?"

"O kind sir! O monsieur!" I heard the girl answer. "Oh! please, sir, don't kill me, and don't wake the Princess. Oh! what are you doing in her garden at this hour?"

"Who is Isidore?" the masked one asked sternly.

"O kind sir, he is the coachman. We are to be married soon, and we make a little tryst at night when it is fine above. O sir, if the Princess should wake?"

"Wake! How should she be asleep? Is she not entertaining some Englishman to supper to-night?"

"Ah, monsieur! Ah, mon Dieu! You believe that! 'Tis a cold supper then! Look, monsieur, at the salle-a-manger."

"Bah! She has a boudoir, I suppose?"

"Ah! monsieur, would you believe that of the Princess! And all because she played a little jest upon a foolish Englishman who pesters her with his attentions, a poor half-witted thing, who even now, at this moment, is dilly-dallying at the side-door, thinking he will be let in. Peste! he will wait a long while," and she began to sing a song out of Regnard's new comedy about a man waiting for a lady under an elm, and waiting a mighty long time too—

"Attendez-moi sous l'orme," she sang, "vous m'attendrez longtemps."

"A little jest," the cloaked and masked man said, turning round to his companion; "a little jest. And the animal is by the side-door. Is this the truth?" re-turning his face towards the girl.

"Ah! monsieur. The truth! How can it be aught else—when—when the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria honours her with his admiration."

"Come," the man said to his companion now. "Come. We, too, will go round to the side-door and see this ardent lover—and, perhaps, punish his insolence. These English are insupportable. As for you—go to your Isidore, your coachman."

"Oh! non, monsieur, non! He will not come now. There will be no Isidore to-night. He is timorous. If he has seen monsieur, he will have shrunk away."

"Go then to your bed, and stay in it; and, above all, say nothing to the Princess of our being in this garden to-night."

"For certain, monsieur, otherwise I should have to say I was here too. Good-night, monsieur." Then, as the man turned to move away, she suddenly stopped him by catching the end of his cloak, and, thereby, forcing him to turn; he saying somewhat haughtily, "What is it, good woman? What?"

"Only that monsieur will not laugh at the poor Englishman, will not deride him. They cannot bear that!"

"No," the other said, "I will not laugh at him. Rely on me. There will be no laughing," and again he turned and went upon his way, accompanied by the other.

"You have done a fine thing for poor Giles," I said to the Princess, as now she rejoined me in the great salle. "A fine thing. I must get back to him at once and lend a hand if I would not find him hacked to pieces by those two cut-throats sent out by your precious Prince."

"Why," she said calmly, "I thought you said he was a fighter. Is he not so?" she went on, while all the time she was unwrapping the hood from her head and—next—taking off the horrible Brittany cap which hid her beautiful hair that, now it was no longer obscured, gleamed a superb dark chestnut in the rays of the moon.

"He is that," I replied, "and a good one, as most men who have been soldier and sailor both, to say nothing of wandering about Europe as an adherent of an unhappy cause, are like to be. But the man is a good tilter who can hold his own against two."

"Perhaps he will not have to fight two of them," she said, still very calmly. "One has, I imagine, no fighting in him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh! Oh! Well, let us wait and see. Perhaps—well! I can't say."

"You observed that fellow well, anyhow. And heard his voice."

"Yes, yes!" she said; "yes, but it was no—— Come," she said, "let us go and look after the watchdog."

Whereon we now retraced our steps, passing out of the great hall and down the corridor towards where the side-door with the little wicket in it was.

And then, as we drew near that door, we heard (and more especially we did so because Damaris had forgotten to close the little wicket after she had looked through it at me, so that noises outside, if any, might plainly be distinguished) the clash of arms, a sound sweet enough to a soldier's ears.

"Hark!" I said, redoubling my pace as I did so, and catching hold of the girl's hand, whereby she was compelled also to move more swiftly, though, in sober truth, I think she was as anxious to reach the door and get it open as I was myself. "Hark! they have set upon him. And there were two. Oh! this is cowardly, murderous! I must take my share."

"Pray Heaven he, your man, kills not two of them. That would cause a terrible stir, and—and—and would part us for ever, Adrian."

"Nothing shall do that," I muttered determinately, perhaps grimly, through my lips. "Nothing!"

Then, we being by this time close to the door, I seized the latch and opened it, running out into the little open place in front of it, which was flooded by the glorious splendour of the full moon.

What a strange scene it was upon which my eyes lit, even as I heard my sweetheart murmur, "God be praised! he, at least, is not slain—yet."

A strange scene indeed, though with a ludicrous side to it; one that might have made me laugh, maybe, at any other time, and if I had not myself been concerned deeply in all that was a-doing. For there was my brave, courageous servitor, this man who had been a wandering sailor as well as soldier, and also a faithful follower of a hardly-treated race, standing up manfully against another swordsman who was making swift passes at him, they fighting across the body of a third who lay prone and prostrate with Giles's foot upon his body.

And that last was the fact which would have made me laugh in any other circumstance, for, swiftly, I recalled how in the days of my childhood this very Giles had taken me to see Barton Booth in one of Mr. Sotherne's beautiful tragedies at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and how, when the actor struck the villain down—exactly in the middle of the stage!—he had placed his foot upon his chest, and waved his triumphant sword over the fallen one. I recalled, too, how Giles had applauded, and had said, "O Master Adrian, Master Adrian, that is the way to conquer, to subdue a villain!"

"Fighting across the body of a third who lay prone
and prostrate with Giles's foot upon his body."

And now the poor faithful, honest fool had himself struck a villain down, and with his foot upon that villain's chest—in a splendid, tragic, and theatrical manner—was as like to strike another one down ere long; for, even as I tore open the little door, and rushed out followed by Damaris, he disarmed the other fighter, lunged at him, and, missing his heart, yet brought him to his knee, while he drew back his sword once more to plunge it through the other's body.

"Stop!" rang out the Princess's voice, clear and imperious; "stop, man, I command you. Adrian, forbid him. It is the Prince," she whispered in my ear; "I recognised his voice easily in the garden."

"Why?" I asked, hot and excited myself now, "why stop? Why should he, this midnight assassin, be spared?"

"'Tis Csaba, I tell you," she said. "'Tis the Prince. If he is slain there can never be," and she lowered her voice more deeply still, "any union betwixt England and Spain."

"Hold your weapon, Giles," I cried, understanding in a moment what she would convey, and, in honest truth, not deeming this contemptible Prince's life worth the cost of a broken union 'twixt an Englishman and a Spanish girl who loved each other. "Hold up. Be still, I say."

And, obedient to my command, perhaps obedient also to those earlier, haughtier commands uttered in the girl's clear tones, Giles did hold, yet muttering while doing so that he would have been through the other's lungs in a moment.

"So, monseigneur," my sweetheart said, addressing the masked Prince, who now rose from off the knee on to which he had been beaten, "you are content to play the part of murderer, are you? And on a serving-man! For shame!"

"He wore his master's cloak," a deep, muffled voice said. "Until that master appeared just now at your side I thought I was fighting with him."

"Therefore you and your confederate," and I glanced at the dead man at our feet, "sought to murder me. Wherefore?"

"Ay, wherefore?" repeated Damaris.

"Because you loved him, and—and I loved you."

"Nay," she said softly, "I did not love him then; I—I do not think I did, though, in honesty, I will say I deemed him the brightest, most worthy, pleasant man I have ever known. But now——"

"Now!" came from both our pairs of lips, from Csaba's and from mine.

"Now I love him, and no other man shall ever have my heart."

For a moment there was silence amongst us all, though I stole my hand towards that of Damaris, and, finding it, held it fast; yet but a little later Csaba muttered—

"It is impossible. He is beneath you."

Now, though I had heard those sweet words of the girl's only a moment before, these latter ones angered me, drove me beside myself, for I was weary of hearing so often that I, an Englishman, was unworthy to be the mate of any one, no matter how high that one might be placed. Wherefore, furious, and stepping up to this man, this prince who skulked about in the night with secret murder in his heart, I said, bending my face forward so that it was very near to his, and doing so with a desire to give weight to my words—

"Hark you, I have heard these words before. But now, unless you are an arrant cur—such as assassins always are—you shall retract them, or I will cram them down your throat. For if you say that not only I, but also any Englishman, high or low, gentle or simple, is not the equal of any foreigner, even though he be a prince of Austria or of Spain, then you lie. I say, you lie. Do you hear—you lie."

While, even as he started and staggered back, clutching his cloak convulsively with the hand that held its folds together, I continued—

"Now, if there is any fight left in you after the defeat you have received at the hands of this simple, honest English peasant, take your sword in hand and let us see whether you will justify your words or swallow mine." Then, turning to Giles, I said, "Pick up this fellow's weapon and give it to him."

"No," exclaimed Damaris; while, looking round as Giles did as I bade him, I saw her standing by me, pale, and like a statue, yet with her beautiful eyes ablaze. "No, you shall not fight with him, Adrian. Prince as he is, and, alas! of my land, he is unworthy to cross swords with you.—As for you," she said, addressing Csaba, "begone. Begone from off this place, which belongs to my hotel and is mine, and let me never see your face again. Go," she said, stamping her foot on the rough cobblestones; "go, I say."

Yet still he did not move, but, instead, stood there looking like some great black statue in his long cloak and mask, and with his head bent towards the ground, so that I concluded he knew not what to do, but, in his pride and rage, was determined not to quit the ground at her orders.

And she, seeing this, and, as she told me afterwards, understanding very well the tempest that must be raging in his heart, said, "Come, Adrian. Since he will not go, we must."

Wherefore we went back to her house followed by Giles, and leaving the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria still standing in the open space before the little door.

Now the story is done—done, that is, unless you would desire me to tell you what you doubtless can very well imagine; namely, that it was not long before the Princess and I became man and wife. Yet hard enough that marriage was in making, I can assure you, and one which I thought would never be completed. For, although my girl, having once acknowledged that she loved me, was as willing to be my wife as I was eager to have her, the forms and ceremonies we had to go through to get what Giles called "triced up" were enough to irritate one of Damaris's own saints; for there was the Consul of Spain—the Consul of the, by her, hated Philip V.—to be invoked, and the English ambassador to be consulted, who, since he represented King George, was not agreeable to me; and the permission of the Archbishop of Lyons, Primate of France, to be obtained, and a permission sent over from England from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of my church. And we went through all kinds of ceremonies, and were half-married a week before we were finally allowed to consider ourselves man and wife, while I became very irritable through it all, and Damaris muttered all kinds of strange little expletives in Spanish through her pretty teeth and scarlet lips, which, she told me afterwards, would not have sounded so nicely in English. Also, I should not forget to say that Giles signed countless papers and parchments as a witness, and looked very important over it all, and whispered lines of love-ballads to me at intervals to cheer me up, and ate enormously at every opportunity which offered.

However, done it was at last, and we were wedded. And, although my wife could not take me to any of her great possessions because she would not set foot in Spain while Philip ruled, and I could not take her to my home in Staffordshire (where the Trent rises) because of my political principles, we were very well content—since we were both young and hopeful!—and so we settled down in the old Paris house of the Carbajals in the Marais, and have, up to now, lived happy ever after, as the chapbooks say; a happiness which, you may be very sure, was not ruffled when we heard that the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria had married a princess of the ancient house of Ponte-Casoria (which is allied to the greater house of Bourbon), who was extremely rich, but as wizened as a monkey (as my wife told me), and who, report declared, led Csaba a terrible life.