The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
Ashurst the fortune she had saved out of her private purse.
Yet 'twas a fortune which would make him rich for life, place him on a
high pinnacle in either France or England, cause women either at St.
James's or Versailles to angle for him, and throw aside forever, as
commodities too expensive to be indulged in, the men whom they loved;
a fortune that would buy him a peerage in England, obtain for him the
_justaucorps à brevet_ in France, and orders and decorations, the
command of regiments, the governorships of provinces, embassies, stars
and ribbons, surround him with parasites and flatterers! Half a
million pistoles! In English money nigh upon five hundred thousand
guineas!
As the berline rolled through St. Ouen and Aubervilliers, the wheels
sometimes sticking in a rut of the ill-kept roads--whereby the great,
cumbersome vehicle lurched so heavily that the young man expected to
be overturned at every moment--sometimes, too, scattering a flock of
ducks and fowls before it as they sought for subsistence amid the dust
and filth, while the coachman and postillion hurled curses at all and
everything that came in their way, and the English man servant in the
banquette roared with laughter, Martin Ashurst thought of what lay
before him in the future. For he knew well enough to what he went--the
princess had long since apprised him of the inheritance that was to be
his--he knew that future. Yet he was not particularly enamoured of it.
"The conditions," he muttered more than once to himself, "are irksome.
To live in France, yet with my thoughts ever cast back to England, to
London, to St. James's and the suppers at Locket's and Pontac's, the
merry nights at Chaves's and White's. And--and--to be banished from
England! Faugh! whatever my aunt has to leave me can scarce be worth
that."
In sober truth, although he knew he was heir to Madame la Princesse,
he did not know how great the inheritance was to be. In thinking it
all over, in talking it all over, too, with his father and mother, he
had imagined with them that there might be some thirty or forty
thousand pounds which would be his, and that, owning this sum of
money, he would thereby be a rich man. But that any such sum as that
which his aunt had really put aside was ever likely to come to him had
never entered his thoughts.
"Also," he mused, "how serve Louis, be subject to him when my own
country may require me? And though we are at peace, how long shall we
be so? Marlborough, the Dutch, are restless; they itch to fly at this
French king's throat. It will come again. It must. No treaty ever yet
put an end to our wars for any considerable time. Also--also--there is
the other thing. In honour I must tell her that, even though by doing
so I cause her to renounce me, to disinherit me. To leave me not so
much as will pay the score at Locket's for suppers. She must know it."
Down the Rue de la Boucherie the berline rumbled, the dry fetid smell
of the blood of slaughtered beasts being perceptible to the young
man's nostrils as he passed through it, since it was still the
shambles of Paris; down the Rue des Chants Poulets and past the Rue
des Mauvais Garçons it went, with still the driver hurling curses at
all who got in his way, at children playing in the road and at a
_cordelier_ telling his beads as he walked, yet glinting an evil eye
at the coachman and muttering maledictions at him under his breath,
and with the English servant still laughing as now he donned his
drugget coat and put on his puff wig. For the driver, in between his
curses and howls and whoops at the animals, had found time to mutter
that the next street was La Rue Champfleury, though, _diantre!_ few
flowers grew there now, except in the gardens of the great Princesse
de Rochebazon.
"Sir," said the man servant, glancing down through the open window in
the back of the great vehicle, "we are nearly there."
"I know it," Martin Ashurst replied. Then asked suddenly, as they
passed under the _Beau Dieu_ stuck in a corner house of the street,
"Why does he roar afresh, and why pull up with such a jerk?"
"There are red cords stretched all about the street, sir, in front of
a great house; also the road is half a foot deep in tan to deaden
sounds. And a fellow with a three-cornered hat as big as a table waves
a gilt stick to him to stop. What shall we do?"
"Why, stop to be sure. Also I will alight. We have arrived."
Whereon he descended out of the berline, bidding the man follow with
his sword, as well as pay the driver and see to the necessaries being
taken off the roof. After which he passed through the cords, and
addressing the Suisse, said:
"How is it with Madame la Princesse?"
"Madame la Princesse still lives, monsieur," the man replied, his eye
roving over the scarlet coat and richly laced hat of the traveller;
noticing, too, the rings upon his fingers and the silver-hilted rapier
carried by the servant. "Doubtless monsieur is the nephew of Madame la
Princesse, expected to-day."
"I am he."
With a bow the man invited Martin Ashurst to follow him, and led him
through a cool vestibule to where some footmen stood about, then
ordered them to conduct monsieur to his apartment, saying that
possibly he would desire to make his toilet.
"The rooms prepared for monsieur are those he has occupied often
before, I hear," this man of importance said. "Upon this _étage_,
giving on the garden, if monsieur pleases."
And now, left alone with only his servant to attend upon him, monsieur
made a hasty toilet, washing from off his hands and face the dust and
dirt of the journey, discarding, too, his scarlet coat and waistcoat
for others of a more suitable colour, changing his wig and shoes and
stockings. Then bade the man go say that if the princess would receive
him he was ready to attend upon her.
Sitting there waiting to be summoned to her presence, his eyes
glancing out through the long open windows on to the fresh, green
garden with its banks of roses, now drooping with the advent of
autumn, he thought of all that she had done for him since first he
could remember. Of how, as a child, when he lived in this great house,
or went with her in the summer heats to fair Touraine--where was a
castle of the de Rochebazon's embowered in woods--or to that other
great château in Perche, or to still a third one which hung over the
golden sands of La Gironde, she seemed to live almost to shower gentle
kindnesses upon him, her brother's child. To do all for him that she
would have done had he been her own; to surround him with luxuries far
too good and dainty for one so young as he; to provide him with tutors
and keepers, with horses and carriages and rich silks and satins, and
gold pieces in his pockets to fling to beggars as other men flung sols
and deniers, because she loved him, and in her love had but one
regret--that he was not a de Rochebazon to succeed to all they owned.
Also, when they were separated, he in England, she at Versailles, how
much she had done for him as he grew to manhood! How much! How much!
Money sent over for his pleasures because she desired that, in all
things, he should have the best, should be able to hold his own with
those who were in the court circle and the fashion. That his early
years should never know any narrowness of means which in after life
might cramp him as he recalled it; also that, as he stepped over the
threshold of youth and reached manhood, he should do so with ease and
comfort.
"I owe her all, everything," he mused to himself as still his eyes
gazed out upon the trim-kept and still luxurious _parterres_ of the
great gardens. "All, all! My father, beggared as he was by his
loyalty, could have done naught beyond equipping me for some
simple, unambitious calling, beyond, perhaps, obtaining me a pair of
colours in some marching regiment. I owe her all--the clothes upon
my back, the food I eat, the very knowledge of how to wield a sword!
And--and--God forgive me! I have deceived her for years, kept back for
years a secret that should not have existed for one hour. Still, she
shall know now. She shall not go to her grave without knowing that I
have no right to own one single livre that she has put aside for me."
As he finished his reflections the door was rapped at, and the
footman, entering at his command, told him that the Demoiselle Manon
was without and waiting to escort him to the bedside of Madame la
Princesse.
CHAPTER III.
A PARTING SOUL.
Looking down upon her as she lay in the great bed whereon had reposed
so many of the de Rochebazons for generations--when they had been the
head of the house--Martin Ashurst told himself how, except for the
reason that he was about to lose the kindest benefactress and
kinswoman any man had ever had, there was no cause for the tears to
rise to his eyes.
For never was a more peaceful parting about to be made, to all
external appearances; never could a woman have trod more calmly the
dark road that, sooner or later, all have to pass along, than was now
treading Aurora, Princesse de Rochebazon. Also it seemed as if death
was smoothing away every wrinkle that time had brought to her face,
changing back that face to the soft, innocent one which, in the spring
of life, had been Aurora Ashurst's greatest charm; the face that had
been hers when, as a winsome child, she played in the meadows round
her father's old home in Worcestershire--demolished by Lambert; the
face that, but a few years later, had won Henri de Beauvilliers away
from the intoxicating charms of Mancinis, of Clerembaults, of
Baufremonts, and Châtillons, and a hundred other beauties who then
revolved round the court of the young king, now grown so old.
"You do not suffer, dear and honoured one," Martin said, bending over
her and gazing into the eyes that were still so bright--the last awful
glazed look and vacant stare, which tell of the near end being still
some hours off; "you do not suffer, dear one. That I can see, and
thank God for so seeing."
"No," the princess said, "I have no pain. I am dying simply of what
comes to all--decay. I am seventy years of age, and it has come to me
a little earlier than it does sometimes. That is all. But, Martin, we
have no time to talk of this. Time is short--I know that." Then,
suddenly lifting the clear eyes to his own, she said, "Do you know why
I sent a special courier to London for you?"
"To bid me hurry to you, I should suppose, dear one. To give me your
blessing. Oh!" he exclaimed, bending a little nearer to her, "you are
a saint. You would not part from me without giving me that. Therefore
bless me now!" and he made as though he would kneel by her side
betwixt the bed and the _ruelle_.
"Wait," she said, "wait. I have something to tell you. After I have
done so I know not if you will still deem me a saint, still desire my
blessing. Bring that chair within the _ruelle_; sit down and listen."
Because he thought that already her mind was beginning to enter that
hazy approach to death in which the senses lose all clearness, and the
dying, when they speak at all, speak wanderingly, he neither showed
nor felt wonderment at her words. Instead, because he desired to
soothe and calm her, he did as she bade him, drawing the chair within
the rail and holding her hand as he did so.
"Whatever," he said softly, "you may tell me can make no difference in
my love and reverence for you--make me desire your blessing less or
deem you less a saint. Yet--yet--if it pleases you to speak, if you
have aught you desire to say, say on. Still, I beseech you, weary not
yourself."
At first she did not answer him, but lay quite still, her eyes fixed
on his face; lay so still that from far down the room he heard the
ticking of the clock, heard the logs fall softly together with a