The First of the English: A Novel
remarks: “You see your way across the Esplanade; the street of the
Beguins is straight ahead of you!” and with a friendly salute marches
back to the Citadel.
For one second the Englishman turns after him, a question that has been
on his mind every instant since he left her, is now full upon his lips.
The next moment he pauses, thinking, “No—to ask from the officer in
whose charge she placed me the name and station of my—my love—” he
rolls the sound in his mind as if it were a very sweet morsel—“would be
too dangerous. I at least should know the lady I have escorted to
Antwerp.”
So he strides across the Esplanade, which is kept free of trees and all
other impediment to the fire of the guns of the Spanish Citadel, that
dominates this Flemish town. Cogitating upon this being of his dream,
Chester mutters: “That painter can tell me, he knows,” and quickens his
pace.
A moment after the Englishman finds himself at the entrance of the
great street of the Beguins, which leads into the heart of the city.
Here, clapping his hands several times, he calls out: “Link boy! Light!
Link boy!” which in the course of a little time brings to him a
wandering urchin of the street carrying a flaming pine torch.
“Which way, your nobleness?” asks the Arab, for Guy’s manner and
bearing are patrician.
“To Wool street! The house of Jacques Touraine.”
“Oh! The blood-letter and barber,” answers the boy. “I know his painted
pole.”
So skipping along ahead of the young Englishman’s rapid strides, they
proceed down the street of the Beguins, lighted occasionally by lamps
hanging from the gable ends of the houses of the burghers, and pass by
the imposing Church of our Dear Lady of Antwerp, now known as the
Cathedral Notre Dame, from which the chimes come every quarter of an
hour, silvery and sweet upon the midnight air. Then they dive into the
labyrinth of narrow streets filled with the mediæval filth that still
clings to them even to this day, making toward the northern end of the
town.
A few minutes of struggling through close alleys and they stop at a
long pole painted in alternate stripes of red, blue and white, that
distinguishes the house of Monsieur Jacques Touraine, the little French
leecher, surgeon, blood-letter and barber.
Late as it is there is no need to knock and rouse him, for this
gentleman is in front of his door, talking excitedly in his Gallic way
to several of his neighbors. He has a little child of some seven years
of age by the hand, and is saying nervously: “Mon Dieu! if the tide
reaches here!”
“Drommelsch!” answers one of his companions, “The devil himself
couldn’t make the flood run up this hill! The mark of the deluge of
1300 is fifty feet below us.” Then he gives a hideous laugh and jeers:
“How you French hate water.”
Breaking in upon this colloquy, Guy beckons the barber to one side and
says to him: “Is the painter who lodges with you, Antony Oliver, in
to-night?”
The answer he gets is discouraging: “No, he is in Brussels.”
“Ah!” assents Guy, the corners of his mouth drooping at these words,
for it is this Oliver he has braved so much to see, and he dares not
remain long in Antwerp. Then he asks anxiously: “Do you know when he
will return?”
“To-morrow. He will come with his master, the Duke of Alva, to-morrow.
He is herald and under-secretary to the Viceroy.”
“Yes!” cries the little boy, “I’m so glad of it, because when Monsieur
Oliver comes we have so much pigeon pie. I like pigeon pie—don’t you?”
“Desperately,” laughs Guy, relieved at the knowledge of the painter’s
quick return.
“Then I hope you won’t ask Monsieur Oliver for my share of pigeon pie,”
babbles the child. “Perhaps, though, we won’t get any—a man carried so
many pigeons away to-day.”
“Well, here’s a stiver to buy pigeon pie for yourself, my little man,”
laughs Chester, giving the child a coin. Then he says to the father:
“You are sure about your information?”
“Oh, I think so. You can make absolutely sure by asking his great
friends, the Bodé Volckers. They will certainly know. He is a nice man,
this Oliver, and a great painter—at least, he thinks himself a great
painter. He has my son Achille as his student—my youngest is the little
Maredie, the one who likes pigeon pie,” babbles the Frenchman, who has
apparently been relieved from fear of the flood and pleased by Guy’s
douceur to his child. Then he queries suddenly: “Haven’t I seen you
before? You came to visit Monsieur Antony six months ago.”
“Yes,” answers the Englishman shortly, and to prevent further
interrogation queries: “Can you tell me where the Bodé Volckers’ live?”
“Oh, every one knows that; he is our ex-Burgomaster, the merchant
prince, Niklaas Bodé Volcker, who lives on the Place de Meir.”
“Ah, the Place de Meir, thank you, señor,” answers Guy. He turns away,
and calling the link boy again, says: “Bodé Volcker’s!”
“That means two stivers more,” cries the urchin; “anyone that would
visit a burgomaster’s could afford two stivers.”
“Four, if you take me there quickly.”
“Four? Pots dit en dat! you must be a count,” cries the delighted
child, and, skipping vivaciously before his patron, he soon guides him
back past the cathedral to the magnificent residence where old Bodé
Volcker, merchant prince of that day, whose argosies sailed to the
Indies, the Baltic and the Mediterranean, lived in great state and pomp
and wealth, but for all that was still only a merchant, trader and
burgher; and to the haughty nobles of that day nothing more than the
dust of the earth—unless they wanted to borrow his money. But as has
always been the case, great financial success has prompted social
ambition. Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family is even now knocking at noble
and aristocratic doors.
Evidences of this comes to Guy almost as he reaches the portals of the
merchant.
The house is pretentious, being built of cut stone around a large
courtyard, the archway to this permitting a carriage to drive in, and
acting as the entrance to the mansion itself, which is lighted up, one
portion more brilliantly than the other. This is apparently the
counting and sample room of Niklaas Bodé Volcker himself. From out its
open doors several clerks and half a dozen porters are passing, and big
vans of goods are arriving loaded with what are apparently cloths,
silks and satins from the flooded water-front. Everyone seems to be on
the alert.
“I must see Heer Bodé Volcker for a moment,” says Guy to a bustling
apprentice.
“Must see Heer Bodé Volcker to-night?” gasps the man; “the night in
which his warehouses are all flooded?”
“I must see him. Do you hear me, fellow? Quick!” mutters Chester, who,
being of gentle blood, is accustomed to command merchants, burghers,
tradesmen and the like.
“That’s impossible, unless you go to the docks,” returns the
apprentice. “Heer Bodé Volcker is seeing to the removal of his
perishable merchandise at his big warehouse below the English quay.”
Baffled in this direction, our adventurer turns his steps from the
counting room and going to the principal entrance of the house finds a
voluble servant girl in conversation with a man who is apparently the
family coachman, the horses and equipage being drawn up in front of the
house. They are evidently discussing the inundation of the city, for
the girl is interspersing her periods with a good many excited “Och
Armes!” and “Groote genades!”
As there are lights in the front windows of the house Guy immediately
addresses the girl, saying: “Is it possible for me to see any of the
members of Niklaas Bodé Volcker’s family?”
“I’m not sure,” is the answer. “If Mijn Heer would step in I’ll ask.”
She emphasizes this with a respectful courtesy, as Guy’s ready hand
puts a few stivers into hers. His manner is commanding, his appearance
aristocratic, his hand is generous, and the girl is anxious to do his
bidding.
Turning toward the right she shows the way into a large vaulted room
hung with Spanish stamped leather, the furniture and appointments of
which have all the indications of wealth, even luxury, as it has
tapestries upon its floor, and many of the articles of its furnishing
have been imported from Italy, Spain, and even Turkey itself, some of
the rugs being from the looms of Ispahan and Bokara. The apartment is
illuminated by a handsome swinging candelabra full of lighted wax
candles. From this room a carved oaken stairway leads apparently to the
upper apartments of the house.
“Wiarda Schwartz!” cries the girl; “Wiarda!” clapping her hands.
Receiving no answer to this she says: “I’ll be back in a minute,” and
running lightly upstairs returns in a few minutes followed by a bright,
vivacious, dark-eyed lady’s maid, whose attire indicates she is the
favorite of her mistress, and whose short muslin skirts and white, high
Friesian peasant’s cap denotes the soubrette.
In answer to the girl’s rather off-hand courtesy, Chester remarks: “I
am the Captain Guido Amati, of Romero’s foot. Can I see Vrouw Bodé
Volcker for a moment?”
“Not unless you go to the other world,” answers the girl pertly. “Vrouw
Bodé Volcker has been dead four years.”
“That is going further than walking to the warehouses for her widower,”
smiles Guy. Then he asks: “Can I see the mistress of the house?”
“Oh, you mean Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker,” says the girl. Next adds
majestically: “Freule Wilhelmina Bodé Volcker is at present at the fête
of the Countess de Mansfeld.”
Remembering the Countess Mansfeld’s lackey’s slurring remarks about the
daughter of an ex-burgomaster dancing in his highest priced silks for
the entertainment of the company, it is difficult for Chester to fight
down a chuckle. However, being very anxious for information, he
suggests: “Then, perhaps, you can answer my question. Do you know when
Antony Oliver, the herald of the Duke of Alva, is returning to
Brussels?”
And this ruins Captain Guido Amati in the estimation of Wiarda
Schwartz, maid in waiting to the ex-burgomaster’s daughter. She says
with pert arrogance: “Well, I never! That good-for-nothing, beggarly
painter? I know nothing about him. I had supposed Mijn Heer Captain was
acquainted with the nobility!”
As Guy passes out of the house without information, he sees
Mademoiselle Schwartz’s pert nose very much up in the air and
Mademoiselle Schwartz’s red stockinged ankle and shapely foot patting
the floor in jeering gesture.
“There is nothing but to be quiet and sleep until morning. I might as
well get some of that,” cogitates the Englishman. “God only knows what
to-morrow will bring to me.”
So getting hold of the link boy again, who has evidently loitered about
in hopes that Guy’s visit at the Bodé Volckers’ will be short, Chester
gives him his orders, and is conducted to the inn known as “The Painted
House,” celebrated for its wine and beer, and situated on the
Shoemarket opposite the Place de Meir. It is but a few steps from the
residence of the merchant, and can be easily distinguished, Guy notes
as he approaches, by its high, painted gables, which give it its name.
Lights are showing from its lower rooms, the pentice or wooden awning
in front of it is ornamented by evergreens and shrubs and illuminated
by swinging lamps; chairs and tables are under these, on which lounge
several of the better-to-do burghers of the town, a couple of Spanish
officers, and half a dozen travelers. Late as it is the sound of
revelry comes from the main inner room.
He is welcomed at the door by mine host, the obsequious Herman Van
Oncle, who is making a fortune out of his famous supper parties and
weddings, for this is the house of festivity par excellence of the
town. Den Rooden Leeuw (“Red Lion”) may be more aristocratic, but for
wine bibbing, beer drinking and gorgeous wedding festivities that last