The Shoes of Fortune

by Neil Munro

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE

  And now I come to an affair of which there have been many accountswritten, some of them within a mile or two of the truth, the most butsheer romantics. I have in my mind notably the account of the officerBuhot printed two years after the events in question, in which he makesthe most fabulous statement as to the valiancy of Father Hamilton'sstand in the private house in the Rue des Reservoirs, and maintains thatmyself--_le fier Eccossais_, as he is flattering enough to designateme--drew my sword upon himself and threatened to run him through for hisproposition that I should confess to a complicity in the attempt uponhis Royal Highness. I have seen his statement reproduced with some extraornament in the _Edinburgh Courant_, and the result of all this isthat till this day my neighbours give me credit, of which I am loth toadvantage myself, for having felled two or three of the French officersbefore I was overcome at the hinder-end.

  The matter is, in truth, more prosaic as it happened, and if thesememorials of mine leave the shadow of a doubt in the minds of anyinterested in an old story that created some stir in its time, I praythem see the archives of M. Bertin, the late Lieut.-General of thepolice. Bertin was no particular friend of mine, that had been theunconscious cause of great trouble and annoyance to him, but he has thetruth in the deposition I made and signed prior to my appointment to acompany of the d'Auvergne regiment.

  Well, to take matters in their right order, it was the evening of theday I had given the letter to the Prince that Father Hamilton expressedhis intention of passing that night in the house of a friend.

  I looked at him with manifest surprise, for he had been at the bottlemost of the afternoon, and was by now more in a state for his bed thanfor going among friends.

  "Well," he cried peevishly, observing my dubiety. "Do you think me toodrunk for the society of a parcel of priests? _Ma foi!_ it is a prettything that I cannot budge from my ordinary habitude of things without astuck owl setting up a silent protest."

  To a speech so wanting in dignity I felt it better there should be noreply, and instead I helped him into his great-coat. As I did so, hemade an awkward lurching movement due to his corpulence, and what jumpedout of an inner pocket but a pistol? Which of us was the more confusedat that it would be hard to say. For my part, the weapon--that Ihad never seen in his possession before--was a fillip to my sleepingconscience; I picked it up with a distaste, and he took it from me withtrembling fingers and an averted look.

  "A dangerous place, Versailles, after dark," he explained feebly. "Onenever knows, one never knows," and into his pocket hurriedly with it.

  "I shall be back for breakfast," he went on. "Unless--unless--oh, Icertainly shall be back." And off he set.

  The incident of the pistol disturbed me for a while. I made a score ofspeculations as to why a fat priest should burden himself with such anarticle, and finally concluded that it was as he suggested, to defendhimself from night birds if danger offered; though that at the time hadbeen the last thing I myself would have looked for in the well-orderedtown of Versailles. I sat in the common-room or _salle_ of the inn fora while after he had gone, and thereafter retired to my own bedchamber,meaning to read or write for an hour or two before going to bed. In thepriest's room--which was on the same landing and next to my own--I heardthe whistle of Bernard the Swiss, but I had no letters for him thatevening, and we did not meet each other. I was at first uncommon dull,feeling more than usually the hame-wae that must have been greatlywanting in the experience of my Uncle Andrew to make him for so long awanderer on the face of the earth. But there is no condition of lifeso miserable but what one finds in it remissions, diversions, nay, anddelights also, and soon I was--of all things in the world to be doingwhen what followed came to pass!--inditing a song to a lady, my quillscratching across the paper in spurts and dashes, and baffled pauseswhere the matter would not attend close enough on the mood, stoppingaltogether at a stanza's end to hum the stuff over to myself with greatsatisfaction. I was, as I say, in the midst of this; the Swiss had gonedownstairs; all in my part of the house was still, though vehicles movedabout in the courtyard, when unusually noisy footsteps sounded on thestair, with what seemed like the tap of scabbards on the treads.

  It was a sound so strange that my hand flew by instinct to the smallsword I was now in the habit of wearing and had learned some of the useof from Thurot.

  There was no knock for entrance; the door was boldly opened and fourofficers with Buhot at their head were immediately in the room.

  Buhot intimated in French that I was to consider myself under arrest,and repeated the same in indifferent English that there might be nomistake about a fact as patent as that the sword was in his hand.

  For a moment I thought the consequence of my crime had followed meabroad, and that this squat, dark officer, watching me with the scrutinyof a forest animal, partly in a dread that my superior bulk shouldendanger himself, was in league with the law of my own country. ThatI should after all be dragged back in chains to a Scots gallows was aprospect unendurable; I put up the ridiculous small sword and daredhim to lay a hand on me. But I had no sooner done so than its folly wasapparent, and I laid the weapon down.

  "_Tant mieux!_" said he, much relieved, and then an assurance that heknew I was a gentleman of discretion and would not make unnecessarytrouble. "Indeed," he went on, "_Voyez!_ I take these men away; I havethe infinite trust in Monsieur; Monsieur and I shall settle this littleaffair between us."

  And he sent his friends to the foot of the stair.

  "Monsieur may compose himself," he assured me with a profoundinclination.

  "I am very much obliged to you," I said, seating myself on the corner ofthe table and crushing my poor verses into my pocket as I did so, "I amvery much obliged to you, but I'm at a loss to understand to what I owethe honour."

  "Indeed!" he said, also seating himself on the table to show, Isupposed, that he was on terms of confidence with his prisoner."Monsieur is Father Hamilton's secretary?"

  "So I believe," I said; "at least I engaged for the office that'ssomething of a sinecure, to tell the truth."

  And then Buhot told me a strange story.

  He told me that Father Hamilton was now a prisoner, and on his way tothe prison of Bicetre. He was--this Buhot--something of the artist andloved to make his effects most telling (which accounts, no doubt, forthe romantical nature of the accounts aforesaid), and sitting upon thetable-edge he embarked upon a narrative of the most crowded two hoursthat had perhaps been in Father Hamilton's lifetime.

  It seemed that when the priest had left the Cerf d'Or, he had gone toa place till recently called the Bureau des Carrosses pour la Rochelle,and now unoccupied save by a concierge, and the property of some personor persons unknown. There he had ensconced himself in the only habitableroom and waited for a visitor regarding whom the concierge had hisinstructions.

  "You must imagine him," said the officer, always with the fastidiousnessof an artist for his effects, "you must imagine him, Monsieur, sittingin this room, all alone, breathing hard, with a pistol before him on thetable, and--"

  "What! a pistol!" I cried, astounded and alarmed. "_Certainement_" saidBuhot, charmed with the effect his dramatic narrative was creating."Your friend, _mon ami_, would be little good, I fancy, with a rapier.Anyway, 'twas a pistol. A carriage drives up to the door; the priestrises to his feet with the pistol in his hand; there is the rap at thedoor. '_Entrez!_' cries the priest, cocking the pistol, and no soonerwas his visitor within than he pulled the trigger; the explosion rangthrough the dwelling; the chamber was full of smoke."

  "Good heavens!" I cried in horror, "and who was the unhappy wretch?"

  Buhot shrugged his shoulders, made a French gesture with his hands, andpursed his mouth.

  "Whom did you invite to the room at the hour of ten, M. Greig?" heasked.

  "Invite!" I cried. "It's your humour to deal in parables. I declare toyou I invited no one."

  "And yet, my good sir, you are Hamilton'
s secretary and you areHamilton's envoy. 'Twas you handed to the Prince the _poulet_ that wasdesigned to bring him to his fate."

  My instinct grasped the situation in a second; I had been the ignoranttool of a madman; the whole events of the past week made the fact plain,and I was for the moment stunned.

  Buhot watched me closely, and not unkindly, I can well believe, fromwhat I can recall of our interview and all that followed after it.

  "And you tell me he killed the Prince?" I cried at last.

  "No, Monsieur," said Buhot; "I am happy to say he did not. The Princewas better advised than to accept the invitation you sent to him."

  "Still," I cried with remorse, "there's a man dead, and 'tis as much ashappens when princes themselves are clay."

  "_Parfaitement_, Monsieur, though it is indiscreet to shout it here.Luckily there is no one at all dead in this case, otherwise it had beenmyself, for I was the man who entered to the priest and received hispistol fire. It was not the merriest of duties either," he went on,always determined I should lose no iota of the drama, "for the priestmight have discovered before I got there that the balls of his pistolhad been abstracted."

  "Then Father Hamilton has been under watch?"

  "Since ever you set foot in Versailles last Friday," said Buhotcomplacently. "The Damiens affair has sharpened our wits, I warrantyou."

  "Well, sir," I said, "let me protest that I have been till this momentin utter darkness about Hamilton's character or plans. I took him forwhat he seemed--a genial buffoon of a kind with more gear thanguidance."

  "We cannot, with infinite regret, assume that, Monsieur, but personallyI would venture a suggestion," said Buhot, coming closer on the tableand assuming an affable air. "In this business, Hamilton is a tool--nomore; and a poor one at that, badly wanting the grindstone. To breakhim--phew!--'twere as easy as to break a glass, but he is one of a greatmovement and the man we seek is his master--one Father Fleuriau of theJesuits. Hamilton's travels were but part of a great scheme that hassent half a dozen of his kind chasing the Prince in the past year ortwo from Paris to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Orleans, from Orleans toHamburg, Seville, Lisbon, Rome, Brussels, Potsdam, Nuremburg, Berlin.The same hand that extracted his bullets tapped the priest's portfolioand found the wretch was in promise of a bishopric and a great sum ofmoney. You see, M. Greig, I am curiously frank with my prisoner."

  "And no doubt you have your reasons," said I, but beat, myself,to imagine what they could be save that he might have proofs of myinnocence.

  "Very well," said M. Buhot. "To come to the point, it is this, that wedesire to have the scheme of the Jesuits for the Prince's assassination,and other atrocities shocking to all that revere the divinity ofprinces, crumbled up. Father Hamilton is at the very roots of thesecret; if, say, a gentleman so much in his confidence as yourself--now,if such a one were, say, to share a cell with this regicide for a nightor two, and pursue judicious inquiries----"

  "Stop! stop!" I cried, my blood hammering in my head, and the words liketo choke me. "Am I to understand that you would make me your spy andinformer upon this miserable old madman that has led me such a gowk'serrand?"

  Buhot slid back off the table edge and on to his feet. "Oh," said he,"the terms are not happily chosen: 'spy'--'informer'--come, MonsieurGreig; this man is in all but the actual accomplishment of his purposean assassin. 'Tis the duty of every honest man to help in discoveringthe band of murderers whose tool he has been."

  "Then I'm no honest man, M. Buhot," said I bitterly, "for I've nostomach for a duty so dirty."

  "Think of it for a moment," he pressed, with evident surprise at mydecision. "Bicetre is an unwholesome hostelry, I give you my word.Consider that your choice is between a night or two there and--whoknows?--a lifetime of Galbanon that is infinitely worse."

  "Then let it be Galbanon!" I said, and lifted my sword and slapped itfuriously, sheathed as it was, like a switch upon the table.

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  Buhot leaped back in a fear that I was to attack him, and cried his menfrom the stair foot.

  "This force is not needed at all," I said. "I am innocent enough to beprepared to go quietly."