they say.”
“But the prisons?”
“Are but her trade to-day – perhaps to-morrow – that’s all. What do ye think? She has but just promised the coranto and an hour alone in the garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from the King.”
“The cutpurse?”
“The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the scaffold.”
“Pardieu!” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.”
Cornbury laughed. “I’ faith, so far as she’s concerned, they’re one and the same, I’m thinking. A stroke of janius, Mornay! Have yourself but thrown into prison, and you may win her, after all.”
He moved away. Mornay looked around him for this scornful mistress, but she had gone into the garden with Captain Ferrers.
“Mordieu!” he growled. “There’s truth in that jest. In prison I’ll be, soon enough, unless the King – ” He paused, with a curious smile. “The King – aha! I’ve a better use for Charles than that,” and he made his way to the retiring-room, where his lackey, Vigot, resplendent in a yellow coat and black waistcoat, was awaiting his orders.
The night progressed. Came next the country dances – invented upon a time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce to the court some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but the sibilance of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed them of much of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color heightened, held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress Stewart and my lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige, called their recalcitrant admirers to account. His grace of Dorset, somewhat red and breathless, could contain himself no longer. “By my faith!” he said, “Castlemaine and Hamilton had better look to their laurels. Nay, she has a wit as pretty as that of my lord of Rochester.”
“But cleaner,” put in Jermyn, dryly.
In the meanwhile Monsieur Mornay had received a packet.
“In God’s name, what have you done?” (it ran). “You juggle too lightly with the affairs of nations, Monsieur Mornay. ’Tis a serious offense for you, and means death, or the Bastile at the very least. Here is what you ask. I have no more favors to give. Leave London at once, for when the post from France arrives, I cannot help you. – C.”
Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers, and then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too strong a test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his friendship even.”
He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the gallery, where the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the coranto. He sought the Duke at once. His grace was standing near Mistress Barbara’s chair, watching with amusement a discussion of the rival claims of the Earl of St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon her clemency for the dance.
“Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the coranto.”
“With la belle Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.”
“A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon the Duke. Ferrers made way; he did not see the figure at the heels of Dorset.
“Madame,” said his grace, with a noble flourish of the arm, “I present to you a gentleman of fine distinction in Germany and England, a gallant captain in the Marine of France – René Bras-de-Fer – Monsieur le Chevalier Mornay.”
During the prelude she had sat complaisantly, a queen in the center of her court. But as Mornay came forward she arose and drew herself to her splendid height, looking at the Frenchman coldly, her lips framed for the words she would have uttered. But Monsieur Mornay spoke first.
“Madame,” he said, quietly, his hand upon his heart, “I am come for the coranto.”
She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no sound came from her lips.
“Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger – “monsieur – ”
Mornay affected not to hear her.
“The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has promised me the coranto.”
“’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her.
“It is the pardon, madame.”
That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over the writing.
“Clemency – thief – murderer – Nick Rawlings – pardon? – a pardon for me, monsieur?”
Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. Voilà! Here is the pardon. There is the musique. Will madame not dance?”
A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply.
The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red by turns as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to her breast to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips.
Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them, but Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress Clerke break her silence.
“Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this – this Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through with the bitterness of utter contempt.
And then, giving Mornay her fingers, she went with him to the middle of the gallery. While the company, too interested or amazed to follow in the dance, stood along the walls of the ballroom, Mistress Barbara Clerke and Monsieur Mornay ran through the mazes of the dance.
Mornay moved with an incomparable grace and skill. It was a dance from Paris, and every turn of the wrist, neck, or heel proclaimed him master. From his face one could only discover the signal joy he felt at being honored by so gracious and beautiful a companion. The countenance of Mistress Clerke betrayed a less fortunate disposition. In the bitterness of her defeat by this man whom she had promised herself publicly to demean, she maintained her outward composure with difficulty. The physical action of dancing gave her some relief, but as she faced him her eyes blazed with hatred and her fingers, fairly spurning a contact, chilled him with the rigidness of their antipathy.
Twice they made the round of the room, when Ferrers, who had mounted the steps into the loft, bade the musicians stop playing. A look of relief chased the scorn for a moment from Mistress Barbara’s face, and, as though half unconscious of Mornay’s presence, she said aloud, in a kind of gasp:
“Thank God, ’tis done!”
They stood opposite an open window that led to the garden. Mornay frowned at her.
“And the hour alone?”
