The First of the English: A Novel
Antony Oliver, for none, not even the greatest gambler in the town, has
so high a stake at risk upon this battle of giants at the shrine of
Bacchus.
All the time the crowd gets greater, and dogs creep snarling in—they
have scented the feast, and hope for bones and pickings—and the dresses
of women can be seen in the great balcony used by musicians at the
wedding banquets, that stands at the further end of the hall; and
friends commence to send flagons of wine with their compliments and
good wishes to the various contestants.
But the drinking is even, flagon for flagon, each man tossing off his
goblet at the same moment with the others, and then calling for
another—though sometimes the brand of wine is changed to stimulate
their appetites by varying flavors. Rothenberger has succeeded
Markobrunner and been displaced by Hochheimer.
It is the tenth round. Seven immense silver mugs of strongest Rhine
wine are just passing the lips and sizzling down the gullets of the
contestants.
“At the fifteenth,” whispers Oliver.
“Why not do it now?” says Guy in his ear.
“No, it wouldn’t be prudent before the fifteenth,” returns the painter.
“No one would believe that ten goblets would be the death of him.”
A minute or two and the twelfth turn has passed, and after drinking
this one of the contestants, the little weazened Italian, Guisseppi
Pisa, attempting to rise from his chair—staggers, and goes down quietly
under the table.
“Do it now,” whispers Guy.
“I dare not—not yet,” returns Oliver.
The thirteenth round is quaffed amid laughter and cheers, and as De
Guerra takes the goblet from his lips, Oliver’s face grows white and
drawn, and Guy’s also, for to their horror they see the man they
intended to poison at the fifteenth round, reel and fall insensible
beneath the table.
“Too late! My God, he’s escaped me,” falters Antony.
“We can get the documents anyway, from his insensible carcass when the
bout is over,” mutters the Englishman, recovering first.
“Yes, but that is only postponing my destruction. Vasco’s suspicions
are aroused—the torture chamber gapes for me. I shall have to fly. I
can no longer do the work I had laid out for myself.” This is sighed
from white lips.
But another shout goes up from the surrounding crowd; at the fourteenth
round two of the remaining Drunkards of Brussels have gone down. Two
more are left for the painter to vanquish, but these are very tough
ones. De Vriendt smiles in triumph; his Flemish face, though red and
flushed, appears mocking now; but his legs are a little shaky.
Thus four more rounds pass; another of the Drunkards of Brussels joins
the company of those beneath the table. Now only one, little Tomasito,
is standing up for the ducats his friends have wagered upon him, and
the honor of the capital; when suddenly (for Guy has turned away his
head, only awaiting his opportunity at the finish of the bout to rob De
Guerra of the papers, and cares but little who wins the contest) the
Englishman feels his sleeve plucked, and looking up, sees Antony’s eyes
blazing.
“He’s recovering!” whispers Oliver.
“Who?”
“Vasco! See him! He is staggering up to his feet again. He will win the
bout. It’s a trick—a trick to gain the advantage of so many flagons
over De Vriendt.”
This is the feeling of Floris’s friends; and when De Guerra, staggering
up, shouts: “Another stoup of Rhine wine for the Drunkards of
Brussels,” they interpose and engage in angry altercation.
But De Vriendt says: “I give him the advantage of five flagons, I will
finish him up also.”
Another round is quaffed. Before it little Tomasito goes down as if
struck by a cannon ball, leaving only De Guerra and Floris standing
fronting each other, looking in each other’s faces, one with the smile
of the Fleming, the other filled with that curious rage peculiar to the
Spaniard, who, when excited, becomes savage in everything—savage in
war, savage in play, savage in love.
Each pours down another beaker, and Floris is reeling.
“Now’s your last chance,” whispers Guy.
Calling a waiter Antony says: “A flagon of your strongest Rhine wine at
once.”
While De Vriendt and the Spaniard are appetizing themselves for another
bout, one eating caviare savagely and the other lovingly dallying with
some pickled cod’s livers, to give him greater thirst, is the
opportunity of Oliver.
The waiter, pouring the wine from the flask into the flagon, goes his
way, and a moment after, with a hand that has become deft by using the
delicate brushes of his art, the hunted artist skillfully unseals the
little vial and drops unnoticed a portion of its subtle poison into the
beaker.
“Be sure you give him enough,” whispers Guy, who has been standing in
front of his friend to screen him, though the crowd is so great and the
excitement so intense, bets being offered two to one on the Spaniard,
it would have been unnoticed had no precaution been taken.
At this suggestion Oliver pours a double dose into the flagon. Then,
handing it to Achille, who has been devoting his time to sucking the
oranges thrown from the table by the reeling and unsteady hands of the
contestants, he whispers: “Take this to the Spaniard, Vasco de Guerra.”
“Yes!”
“Be sure! The one with the black mustache with the single gray lock!”
“Certainly, the brunette, I’m not a fool!”
“Give it to him with the compliments and good wishes of Mademoiselle
Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker. Quick! get it to him at once!”
As the two contestants rise and confront each other for another round,
the Spaniard standing up more strongly, for his tactics have given him
a great advantage, the boy Achille glides to De Guerra, gives him the
beaker prepared for him by the hand of the hunted one, and whispers
words into his ear that makes a flush of delight run over the drunken
redness of his face.
Tossing aside the goblet that was to his hand, Vasco de Guerra cries:
“This is old red Rhine wine; I drink this, my reeling Floris, to the
beauty of Antwerp!”
And clapping the flagon to his lips he pours down the whole stoup in
one long continued, triumphant gulp. Then looking at his rival the joy
of winning comes into Vasco de Guerra’s eye, for the painter, having
drunk his flagon, can scarce keep his feet.
“Malediction!” whispers Oliver, “The drug does not work.”
“Wait,” answers Guy.
Then, too anxious to speak, their faces distorted with suspense, the
two gaze on while the contesting topers sink into their chairs and
fortify themselves with condiments for the next round.
As the Spaniard eats he smiles on the painter, whose hands seem scarce
able to do their office.
But their goblets are re-filled, and the two rise once more, Floris
supporting himself with one hand, as his feet need help now.
“Drink!” says De Guerra, and the painter manages to get his portion
down, his competitor standing firm, erect and mocking.
“Now see me!” and Vasco raises his flagon lightly, easily,
triumphantly, his backers giving a shout of joy.
But just as he gets the goblet to his lips a kind of dazed expression
comes into De Guerra’s face, his hand falls nerveless by his side, and
the beaker, dropping from it, goes clattering to the floor, then
clutching with both hands at his throat as if for breath, he sinks
down, senseless and inert, upon the bodies of his companions, who lie
there in drunken stupor, while a cry of triumph goes up from the
assembled backers of Floris.
A moment after De Vriendt, staggering, reeling, surrounded by his
friends, gets to the fresh air of the street, which gives him new
strength. Assisted by his six pupils, who will take him home and put
him to bed and nurse him after his drunken bout, he cries: “Ho! for
another stoup of Rhine wine, strong Rhine wine, landlord of the Painted
Inn!” and putting one foot in the stirrup, quaffs down a mighty
libation to his defeated ones. Then he rides reeling to his palace on
the street named after him, surrounded by happy creditors, who think if
Floris lives he will paint more pictures and pay some of his debts.
The crowd, as it surges about, gives very little attention to the
Drunkards of Brussels, save one who indulges in a sly kick or two at
the recumbent forms that have lost him his money; but almost as he fell
Guy and Oliver have taken De Guerra, who is breathing heavily, and
borne him to an adjoining room.
Here hastily opening his doublet the painter slips his hand in, and
sewn between the linings of his garments he feels a little packet.
Ripping this out, he whispers, as he examines it, “Thank God! the six
letters from Louis of Nassau!”
A moment after, Guy, putting his hand upon the breast of the Spaniard,
mutters: “The spy is dead.” And a great, deep-drawn breath of relief
comes from the Fleming—this one of his many dangers has died with Vasco
de Guerra.
The color has returned to his face, and he laughs: “It was your lucky
coming and the pigeon pie that saved me—for a little while—my friend,
my Guido!”
The two go out together, and on the street Oliver again looks serious
and mutters: “Alva! Here before his time. He was not to arrive till
evening. What has brought him so suddenly from Brussels?”
For a cavalcade is prancing up the street; thirty horsemen armored in
steel with long lances bearing the pennon of Vargas. Before these, upon
a strong Andalusian charger, rides a man of spare but very tall
stature, in complete, glistening, gold-embossed Milan armor. Over the
gorget about his neck is the ribbon of the Golden Fleece upon which
hangs the Lamb of God, the insignia of that Order. This is covered by a
long sable, silvered beard that falls in two peculiar pointed locks
upon his breast, his dark hair cut short, is likewise grizzled; so is
his mustache, which drapes peculiar lips, the upper thin, firm and
determined; the lower sensual—but determined also; his forehead high,
pale, blue-veined and strangely intellectual, that of the military
mathematician; his nose aquiline and of rare beauty, keen cut, precise,
immovable, his cheeks sallow and pallid—altogether a face cold as
death, lighted by two blazing, sparkling, unflinching, serpent’s eyes,
and yet at times in certain features so like the woman that made Guy’s
heart beat with love the night before that he knows it is her father,
and murmurs: “Alva!”
The Duke is talking quietly to Alfonso de Ulloa and Pedro Paciotto, his
great military engineer, who ride immediately behind him. All are
covered with the dust of hasty travel.
As they pass the Painted Inn the Viceroy’s piercing eyes look haughtily
upon the crowd that stand upon the steps and throng the pentice of the
hostelry with doffed hats to do him reverence. Suddenly reining up, he
cries: “Oliver! Antonius Oliver!” and the painter, stepping forth, bows
before the Duke of Alva’s charger.
“It is fate I have got word with you so soon. Find for me at once one
Vasco de Guerra, ex-Captain in Ladroño’s Musketeers. Tell him I will
hear his tale within the hour, and bring him with you to the Citadel at
once,” commands the captain-general.
“Under favor, your—your Highness,” returns Oliver, “the—the man you ask
for—”
“Yes, speak quickly. What are you stammering about?” says the Viceroy,
for the sudden demand for the man he has murdered has staggered the
painter, tactician though he is—for a moment.
“I was about to say, your Highness, that this Vasco de Guerra, who is
one of the Six Drunkards of Brussels, now lies stupefied from his
potations at the drinking bout.”
“What, with that rattle-brain artist Floris!” says Alva; then he
suddenly remarks in tones that send a tremor through the frame of
Oliver: “And that drunkard thought I would reinstate him in his rank in
the army! Some communication he would make to me to-day—something upon