The First of the English: A Novel
arrested, perhaps I fall with you. Besides, we owe it to our countries
to use every weapon that God throws into our hands. READ!”
While saying this he has opened the delicately scented billet, which
has only been held together by its seal, and is suspending it before
the eyes of the Englishman, which become radiant with hope as they read
this short but pithy note in the very prettiest of feminine
handwriting:
“Dear Papa:
“Please make the bearer of this, Captain Guido, of Romero’s foot,
my rescuer from the Beggars of the Sea (though he is too modest to
give me any other name) a Colonel as soon as possible, and then
give him a chance to make himself a General, and oblige, your
loving
Hermoine.”
Rapture and pride are too great in the Englishman for him to avoid
showing this note to his friend and mentor.
“By Saint Denis!” cries Oliver, inspecting the missive, “I believe she
does love you. If you have hit her heart you’re the first, and she has
had half of Spain at her feet, I’m told.” Then, looking over the young
man, he adds contemplatively: “It must be your peculiar blonde ferocity
that has done it. If you had been a brunette Adonis, I wouldn’t have
given a stiver for your chance. Dark eyed dandies about here are as
plentiful as windmills.”
“With this in my hand can I fail to make the attempt to see her before
I go?” says Guy stoutly, securing the missive with a lover’s care in
the breast of his doublet.
“Apparently you will not, no matter what I say,” smiles the artist.
Then he goes on earnestly and solemnly: “But let me give you a little
advice. Under no circumstances; no matter how much she loves you; no
matter if she swears to you she adores you better than all else in this
world, do you tell her your secret.”
“You think she would betray me?”
“No! A thousand times no!”
“You think it might destroy her love for me?”
“Not if she loved you before. Hermoine de Alva once true, will be
forever true.”
“Then why should I fear to tell her?”
“For this reason. She knows how much her father loves her. She has no
fear of the human tiger; to her his claws are always velvet. By this
note you can tell that Doña Hermoine thinks her word is law with the
dictator of the Netherlands. So it is in little things!—a diamond
necklace, a dozen new dresses, even the discarding of a suitor; for if
she says no, that is the end of the gentleman with her father also. But
in matters of State policy she has never run against him. She does not
know that in affairs of government, in upholding his own laws, edicts
and proclamations, Alva is ice and iron together. What I fear is that
you may one day be persuaded to go with her and tell the dictator your
story, and she will tell papa that she loves you, assured that he will
spare you and pardon you and put you up on high for her sake; but for
God’s sake don’t ever deceive yourself about Alva’s mercy. If you do,
you are lost. Her tears, her prayers, will never save you. Remember
that, my Guido, who are in love with the tiger’s cub!”
“Why should you call her that?” cries Guy savagely.
“I should not call her that,” returns the painter sadly. “She has been
all condescension and kindness to me; she has permitted me to take her
beautiful face and put it on my canvas, to give me a chance for fame
and immortality.”
“Ah! she has granted you sittings here?”
“Yes, with her duenna present.”
“Then arrange an interview for me this afternoon here.”
“It would do you no good. She would not come without attendants. Do not
think that Hermoine de Alva will forget any point of etiquette, even
though she adores you—of which you seem to be very confident.”
“But I must arrange a meeting. I’ll kill two birds with one stone. She
will know the words of the night. From her I can obtain them. She will
come to me, I know,” says Guy very confidently. “You can gain admission
to her as the under-secretary of Alva. Do so to-day. Give her this
ring;” he takes the beautiful ruby from his finger and puts it into the
painter’s hand.
“Mon Dieu! You have exchanged rings—did kisses go with them?” laughs
Oliver; and as a flaming blush appears upon Guy’s face, he mutters:
“Parbleu! I believe they have. Talk about Italian passion! It is as ice
to you wonderful English.” Getting no answer from Chester he continues:
“I can arrange an interview to-day, but it cannot be here. The duenna
would stand in the path of any tête-à-tête between you. The only way I
can think of private word for you with your love, you fortunate young
man—you unfortunate young man—is at the house of the man I hope one day
to call ‘papa.’”
“The burgomaster, Niklaas Bodé Volcker?” exclaims Guy.
“Yes. On the plea of rare bargains in silks that have been slightly
damaged by the flood Doña Hermoine can bring her duenna into the town.
At the merchant’s you can speak privately with Doña de Alva.”
“But the duenna—the infernal duenna?” growls Chester.
“The duenna will be made blind and harmless in the next room inspecting
bargains. If we arrange to have Bodé Volcker’s stock low enough, the
Countess de Pariza is good for an hour of rapture and bargains.
Besides, they will probably be coming in to-day to learn the talk of
the town, about the great drinking bout between”—here the painter
flushes with indignation—“between the man who disgraces his genius and
his art, by intemperance, and the Six Drunkards of Brussels. You have
seen it placarded on the walls of the inns and wine houses, bearing the
name of the greatest artist the Netherlands has yet produced, the
Raphael of the North, the man whose disciple I was, the man whose altar
piece in the great Church of Our Dear Lady would have made him renowned
forever had it not been burnt by the Iconoclasts four years ago, when
they threw down all the images of the church, and destroyed innumerable
masterpieces of art, in blind rage at the Inquisition. I and another
old pupil of Floris’s saved that night one picture of his, a smaller
one, ‘The Fall of the Angels;’ it is not his best work; in fact, it is
very much beneath his genius, but it is the one thing of his that will
go down to posterity, for now he has become a sot and a drunkard,” and
Oliver sighs.
“Very well,” cries Guy, breaking in upon the artist’s indignant
rhapsody, during which he has remembered he has not eaten since he has
risen. “Now having finished our business, perhaps when Achille returns
with the provisions you will give me a little breakfast, perchance a
little pigeon pie, eh?” and he playfully pokes the painter in the ribs,
for Antony’s remarks about Hermoine de Alva have made this audacious
young man very jovially happy.
It is a laughing remark, but the laugh dies away as Guy sees its
extraordinary effect upon the Flemish painter. At the words “pigeon
pie” Oliver’s face grows pale. He turns and says suspiciously: “What do
you know about pigeon pie?”
“Only what I heard last evening from little Marvedie, son of Touraine
the barber.”
“What did he say about pigeon pie?” asks the painter, whose manner
begins to impress Guy, as he mutters; “Speak quick—our lives may depend
upon it!”
“Only this,” says the Englishman, “that when you were here he had
plenty of pigeon pie. He asked me if I liked pigeon pie, and then
afterward—I think, yes, I am almost positive, he said perhaps he
wouldn’t have so much pigeon pie now, as a man had taken away so many
pigeons.”
“A man—taken away so many pigeons—from here!” falters Antony. Then he
suddenly exclaims: “That explains why there were no letters from Louis
of Nassau in my cote above—no pigeons bearing them. I thought it was
curious; I was nervous. My God! I must know.”
Just then a rap coming upon the door he draws aside the curtain and
opens it, confronting his apprentice Achille, a bright-eyed French
youth, who says discontentedly: “I can’t get anything without the cash.
Our great artist, Frans Floris, owes so much money that no other
artists can buy anything for credit.”
“Very well, put down your basket. I’ll see if I can get you some
money,” says Oliver meditatively. Then a sudden idea seems to come to
him, he cries: “Achille, where is little Marvedie? Bring him up, and
we’ll send out and get some pigeons, and have some pigeon pie for him,”
affecting great lightness of manner, though with evident effort.
“All right. Marvedie is death on pigeon pie, and so am I,” says the
youth, and flies downstairs.
“I must question him,” murmurs the painter. “If this is true, the sword
suspended by the hair is about to fall.”
A moment later and the laughing voices of childhood are heard on the
stairs, Achille and his little brother bound into the room, crying:
“Pigeon pie! pigeon pie! Hurrah for Monsieur Oliver’s pigeon pie!”
“Yes, pigeon pie,” cries the painter, “pigeon pie. But what has become
of my pigeons? Have you taken them, Achille?”
“No!”
“Were there any flying about the cote? Not those in the coop, but in
the cote—around in the air flying?” The artist’s voice has become
hoarse—his eyes terrible.
“Oh yes, a good many, for the last day or two,” answers the boy. Then
noting his master’s manner, he screams out: “But I have not taken them,
I swear to heaven, Monsieur Oliver, I have never taken any from the
cote. On the word of an honest boy—do not discharge me!”
“No, he didn’t take any,” cries little Marvedie; “a big tall man with
nasty black eyes took them away.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did you see him? How do you know?”
“Oh, I remember him because he laughed and seemed very happy, and gave
me two stivers to get him a bag to put them in.”
“Can you tell anything about him? Do you know his name, little
Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” gasps Antony, attempting a
grimace, with a face that is like a death mask.
“No, but he was ugly and had nasty eyes, eyes that looked like the
codfish they sell in the market.”
“How many pigeons did this man take away? Did you count them, little
Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” and the painter achieves a
ghastly chuckle.
“Yes, there were six, with bunches on their beaks and eyes that looked
back and front. The kind whose necks you wring when you give me pigeon
pie,” says the little child.
“And where was your brother?” The painter’s voice is low and stern.
“Oh, I was out trying to sell one of your pictures,” says Achille. “At
least I think I was. That’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since you
went away, but they’re all here yet. The Duke’s tenth penny is ruining
everybody. No body has any money to spare, at least not for works of
art.”
“Very well,” sighs Antony, “here’s a florin. Yes, get the pigeons!” he
laughs dismally. “We’ll have the pigeon pie.”
The two boys run away. The painter’s face is white as his own chalk,
and he falters. “At last it has come. Some one has my secret.”
“What secret” mutters Guy, half guessing.
“The letters brought to me by carrier pigeons from Louis of Nassau,
with whom I am in correspondence for the benefit of the Netherlands. Of
course they are in cipher, they cannot be construed in a moment; but
the hair has been cut, the sword is descending, I am no better than a
dead man; worse than that—I am a tortured man! Oh, my God! think of the
rack, the faggot, that await me!” and the Fleming’s eyes become
bloodshot, his cheeks gray, and his lips blue.
“If we could discover the man who has your secret,” says the
Englishman, prompt to action, well knowing that danger to Oliver now
means danger to himself.
“Ah! but how? When Alva arrives the man will surely give him the
information; it would be very valuable, warning of a traitor in the
Duke’s own corresponding bureau. I—I had been anxious all the morning.
When I—I arrived here I expected to find the pigeons with the letters