The Love of Monsieur. Gibbs George

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      “Ferrers swears it was a plot hatched in the Fleece Tavern, and that I was a party to it.”

      Mornay arose and grasped the Irishman’s shoulder.

      “You! My poor friend, YOU!” he exclaimed; “and I disarmed him twice. It is too much – let us go at once and face them.”

      Cornbury pushed him down. “Ye’ll do no such thing. ’Twould be arrant suicide. The streets are full of men looking for you by this – and me, too.”

      “They cannot – you didn’t even know.”

      “’Tis true, or I’m Dutch. Look ye, man, we’re safe here, and snug. Four-and-twenty lances couldn’t get through Tom Boyle downstairs if he’d set his mind to stop them. Rest awhile and compose yer mind. Besides – ” He broke off abruptly and reached for the bottle. “Give me a drink – I can talk no more. The words are all – parchin’ in my throat.”

      Mornay sank back upon his bench, while the Irishman filled and drained his cup. At last he gave a great grunt of satisfaction, and with smiling face set the vessel down upon the table with a clatter.

      “Ochone! Talking is but a dry thrade.”

      “Allons, Captain,” said Mornay, “tell me all.”

      He drew the platter over and helped himself liberally from the pâté.

      “Well, monsieur, when I went back, Heywood was making a kind of statement to Ferrers – something in the nature of a dying confession. It appears that this fellow Heywood is a thieving rascal, and if ye’ve killed him ’tis good riddance, say I.” He paused a moment to pour his wine. “As ye know,” he continued, his mouth full – “as ye know, the man is the guardian of Mistress Barbara Clerke. He has the disposition in the law of her fortune. Well, from what he confesses, ’tis not her fortune, after all.”

      Mornay’s eyes opened wide with astonishment and interest. He set down upon the table, untasted, the cup he had raised to his lips, and leaned intently forward.

      “Is it true?” he exclaimed; “and Mistress Barbara has nothing – nothing at all?” He broke into a hard, dry little laugh. “Pardieu! ’twill lower her chin, I’m thinking.” Then his face clouded again.

      “Go on, monsieur,” he urged, impatiently – “go on.”

      “If I can remember it, there’s a bit of family history ye have not heard, perhaps. Well, ye must know that the Chevalier Bresac, great-grandfather of this Mistress Clerke, bore a most intolerant hatred of Spain and the Spanish. His son René inherited this antipathy. So when he married an English girl and settled in London, he vowed that if any one of his three daughters married a Spaniard he would cut her off with a louis.”

      He took a long draught of his wine. “Here is where the confession begins. The eldest daughter disobeyed and married a Spaniard in Paris. She kept the marriage from her father, and, going to Amiens, gave birth to a boy. Before she could summon courage to tell old Bresac of her disobedience, poor cratur, she died.”

      “Leaving an heir to the estate.”

      “Not so fast. Ye see, not a word of this was known in London; nor is to-day. At her death the bulk of the fortune went to the second daughter, who was the mother of this Mistress Barbara. The third daughter married Heywood’s uncle. Of this there was no issue, but that’s how the man came to be the guardian.” Cornbury pulled a pipe from a rack and filled it.

      “Now here’s the villainy of the thing. This Spaniard came of gentle birth, but au fond was a sodden beast. Heywood went to Paris as the envoy of Wilfred Clerke – Barbara’s father – and, after a shrewd bargain, bought all the secret papers in evidence of this Spanish marriage.”

      “And the real heir?”

      “As much alive as you are.”

      Monsieur Mornay contemplated the bottom of his bowl.

      “Mille tonnerres!” he growled. “’Tis the very refinement of perfidy.”

      The Irishman drank deep. “A lucky stroke of yours, Mornay, I say. I would it had been mine.”

      “What became of the papers?”

      “That’s why Heywood confessed, I suppose. Ye see, he loved his ward, and wanted Ferrers to destroy them. This he will do, I’m thinking, for he loves the lady himself.”

      “And Mistress Clerke?”

      “Hasn’t a notion of it.”

      Mornay folded his arms and sat looking at the floor, a strange smile upon his lips. “Pardieu!” he said; “’twould touch her pride – ’twould wring her proud heart to have the heir come back to his own.” The bitterness of his tone caused Cornbury to look at him in surprise.

      “Oh, there’s never a chance of it,” he said. “You see, this Spaniard, D’Añasco, put the boy upon a ship. Why, what ails ye, man? What is it? Are ye mad?”

      Mornay had seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and leaned forward with eyes that stared at him like one possessed.

      “The name, monsieur?” he said, huskily – “the name – the Spanish name you said – ?”

      “Gawd, man, don’t grip me so! You’ve spilled the tobago. ’Twas D’Añasco, I think, or Damasco, or some such unspeakable thing.”

      “Think, man – think!” cried Mornay, passionately. “’Tis a matter of life and death. Was the name Luis d’Añasco, of Valencia?”

      It was Cornbury’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Mornay in amazement.

      “I’ faith, now you mention it, I think it was. But how – ”

      “And the name of the boy became Ruiz? The ship was the Castillano?”

      Cornbury’s eyes were wider than ever.

      “It was – it was!”

      Cornbury paused. Mornay had arisen to his feet and stumbled to the dormer-window, where he fell rather than leaned against the sill. The Irishman could see nothing but the upheave of the shoulders and the twitching of the hands as the man straggled for his self-control. Cornbury was devoured with curiosity, but with due respect for the Frenchman’s silence sat smoking vigorously until Mornay chose to speak. As the Frenchman looked out at the quiet stars across the roof-tops of London he became calmer, and at last turned around towards the flickering candles.

      “Monsieur,” began Cornbury, with a touch of sympathy.

      But Mornay raised his hand in quiet protest. “D’Añasco was my father, voilà tout,” he said slowly. And as the Irishman arose, Mornay continued:

      “I can finish the story, Monsieur Cornbury,” he said, lightly, but with a depth of meaning in his tone that did not escape the other. “When the boy Ruiz grew old enough to know, the Spaniard told him that he had no mother – nor ever had – that he was no-woman’s child. He put him on the Castillano and sent him out into the great world, without a thought, without a blessing, without a name – the very shuttle and plaything of fortune. That child, Cornbury, was myself.”

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