Petticoat Rule Part 46

Fatigue and gloom had oppressed Gaston at first, now it was unconquerable rage, seething and terrible, which caused him to remain silent. De Mortemar was racking his brains for an excuse to break up this wearisome _tete-a-tete_ without overstepping the bounds of good-breeding, whilst cursing his own impetuosity which had prompted him to take this surly guest under his wing.

Jean Marie now entered with the candles, causing a welcome diversion.

He placed one ma.s.sive pewter candelabrum on the table occupied by Gaston and de Mortemar: the other he carried to the further end of the room. Having placed that down too, he lolled back toward de Mortemar.

His rubicund face looked troubled, great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and his fat fingers wandered along the velvety surface of his round, closely-cropped crown.

"M'sieu le Comte . . ." he began hesitatingly.

"What is it?" asked Mortemar smothering a yawn.

"A stranger, M'sieu le Comte . . ." stammered Jean Marie.

"What, another? . . . I mean," added the young man with a nervous little laugh, feeling that the sudden exclamation of undisguised annoyance was not altogether courteous to his guest, "I mean a . . .

an . . . an . . . unknown stranger? . . . altogether different to M.

le Comte de Stainville, of course!"

"A stranger, M'sieu," repeated Jean Marie curtly. "He came at midday.

"And you told us nothing about him?"

"I did not think it was necessary, nor that the stranger would trouble M'sieu le Comte. He asked for a clean room and a bed and said nothing about supper at the time. . . . He seemed very tired and gave me a couple of louis, just if as they were half livres."

"No doubt 'twas the stranger with whom Lieutenant Tellier had speech outside 'Le Gros Normand!'" suggested de Mortemar.

"Mayhap! mayhap!" rejoined Jean Marie thoughtfully. "I took him up a bowl of sack and half a cold capon, but what he wanted most was a large wash-tub and plenty of water . . . it seems he needed a bath!"

"Then he was English," commented Mortemar decisively.

But at these words, Gaston, who had been listening with half an ear to mine host's explanations, roused himself from his heavy torpor.

The stranger who had forestalled him and sent _Le Monarque_ on her secret voyage to-day was English!

Then it was . . .

"Where is that stranger now?" he demanded peremptorily.

"That's just it, M'sieu le Comte!" replied Jean Marie, obstinately ignoring Gaston and still addressing de Mortemar, "he slept all the afternoon. Now he wants some supper. He throws louis about as if they were dirt, and I can't serve him in there!" he added with unanswerable logic and pointing to the stuffy room in the rear.

"Pardi! . . ." began Mortemar.

But Gaston de Stainville was fully alert now; with sudden vigour he jumped to his feet and brought his fist crashing down on the table so that the candelabrum, the mugs, and decanters of wine shook under the blow.

"I beseech you, friend, admit the stranger into this room without delay," he said loudly. "Ma foi! you have found me dull and listless, ill-humoured in spite of your lavish hospitality; I swear to you by all the devils in h.e.l.l that you'll not yawn once for the next half-hour, and that Gaston de Stainville and the mysterious stranger, who thwarts his will and forestalls his orders, will afford you a measure of amus.e.m.e.nt such as you'll never forget."

His face was flushed, and his eyes, somewhat hazy from the copiousness of his libations, had an evil leer in them and an inward glow of deadly hate. There was no longer any weakness, nor yet ill-humour, visible in his att.i.tude. His hands were clenched, one resting on the table, the other roughly pushing back the chair on which he had been sitting.

"Admit the stranger, friend host!" he shouted savagely. "I'll vouch for it that your patron will not regret his presence in this room."

"Ma foi! I trust not," said a quiet voice, which seemed to come suddenly from out the gloom. "Gentlemen, your servant!"

Mortemar turned toward the door, whence had proceeded that gentle, courteous voice. Lord Eglinton was standing under the lintel, elegantly attired in full riding dress, with top boots and closely-fitting coat. He wore no sword, and carried a heavy cloak on his arm.

He made a comprehensive bow which included every one there present, then he stepped forward into the room.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

REVENGE

We must surmise that surprise and rage had rendered Gaston speechless for the moment.

Of all the conjectures which had racked his brains for the past two hours none had come near this amazing reality. Gaston was no fool, and in one vivid flash he saw before his mental vision not only his own discomfiture, the annihilation of all his hopes, but also the failure of King Louis' plans, the relegation of those fifteen millions back into the pockets of His Grace the Duke of c.u.mberland.

That Eglinton had not ridden to Le Havre on the King's business but on his own, that he had not sent _Le Monarque_ to Scotland in order that he might share in those millions was of course obvious.

No! no! it was clear enough! Lydie having found that Gaston had failed her, had turned to her husband for help: and he, still nominally Comptroller-General of Finance, had found it quite easy to send Captain Barre on his way with secret orders to find Charles Edward Stuart and ensure the safety of the Jacobites at once and at any cost.

Milor was immensely rich; that had helped him too, of course; bribes, promises, presents of money were nothing to him. Mentally he was weak--reasoned Gaston's vanity--and Lydie had commanded him.

But physically he was as strong as a horse, impervious to fatigue, and whilst Gaston rested last night preparing for his journey, _le pet.i.t Anglais_ was in the saddle at midnight and had killed a horse under him ere de Stainville was midway.

What King Louis' att.i.tude would be over this disappointment it were premature to conjecture. Royal disfavour coupled with Pompadour's ill-humour would make itself felt on innocent and guilty alike.

That he himself was a ruined man and that, through the interference of that weak-kneed young fop, whom it had been the fashion in Versailles mildly to despise, was the one great, all-absorbing fact which seemed to turn Gaston's blood into living fire within his veins.

And the man who had thus deliberately s.n.a.t.c.hed a couple of millions or more from his grip stood there, not twenty paces away, calm, somewhat gauche in manner, yet with that certain stiff dignity peculiar to Englishmen of high rank, and withal apparently unconscious of the fact that the rival whom he had deprived of a fortune was in this same room with him, burning with rage and thirsting for revenge.

Gaston watched his enemy for awhile as he now settled himself at the table, with Jean Marie ministering obsequiously to his wants. Soon mine host had arranged everything to his guest's liking, had placed a dish of stewed veal before him, a bottle of wine, some nice fresh bread, then retired walking backwards, so wonderfully deferential was he to the man who dealt with gold as others would with tin.

One grim thought had now risen in Stainville's mind, the revival of a memory, half-faded: an insult, a challenge, refused by that man, who had thwarted him!

A coward? Eh?

These English would not fight! 'twas well known; in battle, yes! but not in single combat, not in a meeting 'twixt gentlemen, after a heady bottle of wine when tempers wax hot, and swords skip almost of themselves out of the scabbard.

Aye! he would ride a hundred and eighty leagues, to frustrate a plan, or nathless to dip into the well-filled coffers of the Jacobite Alliance--such things were possible--but he would not fight!

Gaston hugged the thought! it was grim but delicious! revenge, bitter, awful, complete revenge was there, quite easy of accomplishment.

Fortune was lost to him, but not revenge! Not before his hand had struck the cheek of his enemy.

This was his right. No one could blame him. Not even the King, sworn foe of duelling though he might profess to be.

A long laugh now broke from Gaston's burning throat! Was it not all ridiculous, senseless, and puerile?

His Majesty the King, Pompadour, the Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of France, and he himself, Gaston de Stainville, the most ruthlessly ambitious man in the kingdom, all fooled, stupidly fooled and tricked by that man, who was too great a coward to meet the rival whom he had insulted.