Petticoat Rule

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  REVENGE

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

  Of all the conjectures which had racked his brains for the past twohours none had come near this amazing reality. Gaston was no fool, andin one vivid flash he saw before his mental vision not only his owndiscomfiture, the annihilation of all his hopes, but also the failureof King Louis' plans, the relegation of those fifteen millions backinto the pockets of His Grace the Duke of Cumberland.

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

  No! no! it was clear enough! Lydie having found that Gaston had failedher, had turned to her husband for help: and he, still nominallyComptroller-General of Finance, had found it quite easy to sendCaptain Barre on his way with secret orders to find Charles EdwardStuart 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 wasweak--reasoned Gaston's vanity--and Lydie had commanded him.

  But physically he was as strong as a horse, impervious to fatigue, andwhilst Gaston rested last night preparing for his journey, _le petitAnglais_ was in the saddle at midnight and had killed a horse underhim ere de Stainville was midway.

  What King Louis' attitude would be over this disappointment it werepremature to conjecture. Royal disfavour coupled with Pompadour'sill-humour would make itself felt on innocent and guilty alike.

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

  And the man who had thus deliberately snatched a couple of millions ormore from his grip stood there, not twenty paces away, calm, somewhatgauche in manner, yet with that certain stiff dignity peculiar toEnglishmen of high rank, and withal apparently unconscious of the factthat the rival whom he had deprived of a fortune was in this same roomwith him, burning with rage and thirsting for revenge.

  Gaston watched his enemy for awhile as he now settled himself at thetable, with Jean Marie ministering obsequiously to his wants. Soonmine host had arranged everything to his guest's liking, had placed adish of stewed veal before him, a bottle of wine, some nice freshbread, then retired walking backwards, so wonderfully deferential washe 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 amemory, half-faded: an insult, a challenge, refused by that man, whohad thwarted him!

  A coward? Eh?

  These English would not fight! 'twas well known; in battle, yes! butnot in single combat, not in a meeting 'twixt gentlemen, after a headybottle of wine when tempers wax hot, and swords skip almost ofthemselves 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 JacobiteAlliance--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 hadstruck the cheek of his enemy.

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

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

  His Majesty the King, Pompadour, the Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister ofFrance, and he himself, Gaston de Stainville, the most ruthlesslyambitious man in the kingdom, all fooled, stupidly fooled and trickedby that man, who was too great a coward to meet the rival whom he hadinsulted.

  At Gaston's laugh Eglinton turned to look in his direction, and hiseyes met those of de Mortemar fixed intently upon him.

  "Surely it is M. le Controleur-General," said the latter, jumping tohis feet.

  He had paid no heed to his guest's curious outburst of merriment,putting it down as another expression of his strange humour, else tothe potency of Jean Marie's wine; but he had been deeply interested inthe elegant figure of the stranger, that perfect type of a high-borngentleman which the young man was quick enough to recognise. The face,the quaintly awkward manner, brought back certain recollections of twodays spent at the Court of Versailles.

  Now when Eglinton turned toward him, he at once recognised thehandsome face, and those kind eyes, which always looked grave andperfectly straight at an interlocutor.

  "Milor Eglinton, a thousand pardons," he now said as he moved quicklyacross the room. "I had failed to recognise you at first, and hadlittle thought of seeing so great a personage in this sleepy oldtown."

  Eglinton too had risen at his first words and had stepped forward,with his habitual courtesy, to greet the young man. De Mortemar's handwas cordially stretched out toward him, the next moment he would haveclasped that of the young Englishman, when with one bound and a rushacross the room and with one wild shout of rage, Gaston de Stainvilleovertook his friend and, catching hold of his arm, he drew him roughlyback.

  "Nay! de Mortemar, my friend," he cried loudly, "be warned in timelest your honest hand come in contact with that of a coward."

  His words echoed along the vast, empty room. Then there was deadsilence. Instinctively Mortemar had stepped back as if he had beenstung. He did not of course understand the meaning of it all, and wasso taken aback that he could no nothing but stare amazed at the figureof the young man before him. Eglinton's placidity had in no sensegiven way before the deadly insult; only his face had become pale asdeath, but the eyes still looked grave, earnest and straight at hisenemy.

  "Aye! a coward," said Gaston, who during these few moments of silencehad fought the trembling of his limbs, the quiver of his voice. He sawthe calm of the other man and with a mighty effort smothered thecryings of his rage, leaving cool contempt free play. "Or will youdeny here, before my friend le Comte de Mortemar, who was about totouch your hand, that last night having insulted me you refused togive me satisfaction? Coward! you have no right to touch another'shand . . . the hand of an honourable gentleman. . . . Coward! . . . Doyou hear me? I'll say it again--coward--and coward again ere I shoutit on the house-tops of Versailles--coward!--even now when my hand hasstruck your cheek--coward!"

  How it all happened Mortemar himself could not afterward have said,the movement must have been extraordinarily quick, for even as thelast word "Coward!" rose to Gaston's lips it was drowned in aninvoluntary cry of agony, whilst his hand, raised ready to strike, washeld in a grip which indeed seemed like one of steel.

  "'Tis done, man! 'tis done!" said the gentle, perfectly even voice,"but in the name of Heaven provoke me no further, or it will be murderinstead of fight. There!" he added, releasing the other man's wrist,who staggered back faint and giddy with the pain, "'tis true that Irefused to meet you in combat yester e'en; the life of my friend,lonely and betrayed, out there in far-off Scotland, had been the priceof delay if I did not ride out of Versailles before cock-crow, butnow 'tis another matter," he added lightly, "and I am at yourservice."

  "Aye!" sneered Gaston, still writhing with pain, "at my service now,when you hope that my broken wrist will ensure your impunity."

  "Nay, sir, but at your service across the width of this table,"responded Eglinton coldly, "a pair of pistols, one unloaded. . . . Andwe'll both use the left hand."

  An exclamation of protest broke from Mortemar's lips.

  "Impossible! . . ."

  "Why so, Monsieur le Comte?"

  "'Twere murder, milor!"

  "Does M. le Comte de Stainville protest?" queried the other calmly.

  "No! damn you! . . . Where are the pistols?"

  "Yours, M. le Comte, an you will; surely you have n
ot ridden all theway from Versailles without a pair in your holster."

  "Well guessed, milor," quoth Gaston lightly. "Mortemar, I pray you, inthe pocket of my coat . . . a pair of pistols."

  Mortemar tried again to protest.

  "Silence!" said Gaston savagely, "do you not see that I must killhim?"

  "'Tis obvious as the crescent moon yonder, M. de Mortemar," saidEglinton with a whimsical smile. "I entreat you, the pistols."

  The young man obeyed in silence. He strode across the room to theplace lately vacated by Gaston, and near which his cloak was lyingclose to his hat and whip. Mortemar groped in the pockets: he foundthe two pistols and then rejoined the antagonists.

  "I used one against a couple of footpads in the early dawn," saidGaston, as he took the weapons from Mortemar's hands and placed themon the table.

  "'Twas lucky, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Eglinton gravely, "then allwe need do is to throw for the choice."

  "Dice," said Stainville curtly.

  On a table close by there was a dice-box, left there by one of JeanMarie's customers: Mortemar, without a word, handed it to Eglinton. Hecould not understand the placidity of the man: Gaston's attitude wassimple enough, primitive animal rage, blinding him to the possibilityof immediate death; excitement too, giving him a sense of bravado, anarrogant disregard of the consequences of his own provocation.

  Eglinton was within his rights. He was now the insulted party, hecould make his own conditions, but did he wish to die? or was he sosupremely indifferent to life that he could view with perfect serenitythat pair of pistols, one of which death-dealing of a surety across anarrow table, and that box of dice the arbiter of his fate?

  Of a truth Eglinton was perfectly indifferent as to the issue of thecombat. He did not care if he killed Gaston, nor did he care to live.Lydie hated him, so what mattered if the sky was blue, or if the sunceased to shed radiance over the earth?

  It was the supreme indifference of a man who with life had nothingelse to lose.

  His hand was absolutely steady as he took the dice-box and threw:

  "Blank!" murmured Mortemar under his breath, as he saw the result ofthe throw. Yet the face of milor was as impassive as before, eventhough now by all the rules of chance Gaston's was the winning hand.

  "Three!" he said calmly, as the dice once more rolled on to the table."Monsieur le Comte, the choice of weapon rests with you."

  Once more Mortemar tried to interpose. This was monstrous! horrible! ashocking, brutal murder!

  "Monsieur de Stainville knows his own weapons," he said impulsively,"he discharged one this morning and . . ."

  "Milor should have thought of this before!" retorted Stainvillesavagely.

  "The remark did not come from me, Monsieur," rejoined Eglintonpassively, "an you will choose your weapon, I am fully satisfied."

  But his grave eyes found occasion to send a kindly glance of gratitudeto young de Mortemar. The latter felt a tightening of his very heartstrings: he would at this moment have willingly given his fortune toavert the awful catastrophe.

  "Mortemar, an you interfere," said Gaston, divining his thoughts,"I'll brand you as a meddler before the Court of Versailles. An youare afraid to see bloodshed, get you gone in the name of hell."

  By all the unwritten laws which governed such affairs of honour,Mortemar could not interfere. He did not know the right or wrong ofthe original enmity between these two men, but had already guessedthat mere disappointment with regard to the voyage of _Le Monarque_had not been sufficient to kindle such deadly hate: vaguely hesurmised that somewhere in the background lurked the rustle of a silkpetticoat.

  Without the slightest hesitation now Gaston took one of the pistols inhis left hand: his right still caused him excruciating pain; and everytime he felt the agony, his eyes gleamed with more intense savagery,the lust of a certain revenge.

  He had worked himself up into a passion of hate. Money has the powerto do that sometimes; that vanished hope of fortune had killed everyinstinct in the man, save that of desire for vengeance. He was sure ofhimself. The pistols were his as de Mortemar had said, and he hadhandled them but a few hours ago: he could apprise theirweight--loaded or unloaded--and he was quite satisfied.

  It was hatred alone that prompted him to a final thrust, a blow, hethought, to a dying man. Eglinton was as good as dead, with the muzzleof a loaded pistol a foot away from his breast, and an empty weapon inhis own hand; but his serenity irritated Gaston; the blood whichtingled in his own veins, which had rushed to his head almostobscuring his vision clamoured for a sight of a shrinking enemy, notof a wooden puppet, calm, impassive even before certain death.

  The agony as he lifted the half-broken wrist to his coat wasintolerable, but he almost welcomed it now, for it added a strange,lustful joy to the excitement of this deed. His eyes, glowing andrestless with fumes of wine and passion of hate, were fixed upon themarble-like face of his enemy. Then from the breast-pocket of hiscoat, he drew a packet of papers.

  And although he was nigh giddy with the pain in his wrist, he clutchedthat packet tightly, toyed with it for a while, smoothed out thecreases with a hand which shook with the intensity of his excitement,the intensity of his triumph.

  The proofs in Madame la Marquise d'Eglinton's own writing that she wasat one with the gang who meant to sell the Stuart prince for gold! Themap revealing his hiding-place! and her letter to him bidding himtrust the bearer whose orders--now affixed to map and letter--werethat he deliver the young Pretender into the hands of the Englishauthorities.

  That these orders to _Le Monarque_ had been forestalled by milorEglinton could not exonerate Madame la Marquise from having been atone with Gaston de Stainville and Madame de Pompadour, and others whomight remain nameless, in the blackest treachery ever planned againsta trusting friend.

  No wonder Gaston de Stainville forgot physical suffering when he toyedlovingly with this packet of papers in his hand, the consummation ofhis revenge.

  At last 'twas done. A subtle, indefinable change had come over thecalm face of Lord Eglinton, an ashen grey hue which had chased theformer pallor of the cheeks, and the slender hand, which held thepistol, trembled almost imperceptibly.

  Serenity had given way at sight of that packet of papers.

  "Friend de Mortemar," said Gaston lightly, but with glowing eyes stillfixed on his opponent, "the chances of my demise being at least equalto those of milor's--seeing that I know not, on my honour, which isthe loaded pistol, and that methinks at this moment I can read murderin his eye--I pray you to take charge of this packet. It is a sacredtrust. In case of my death promise me that you will deliver it intothe hands of my wife, and into no other. Madame la Comtesse deStainville will know how to deal with it."

  The young Comte de Mortemar took the packet from Gaston.

  "I will do as you desire," he said coldly.

  "You promise that no one shall touch these papers except my wife,Irene Comtesse de Stainville," reiterated Gaston solemnly.

  "On my word of honour," rejoined the young man.

  The request was perfectly proper and natural, very usual in suchcases; de Mortemar could not help but comply. He could not know thatthe fulfilment of this promise would mean public dishonour to aninnocent and noble woman, and the supreme revenge of a baffledtraitor.

  If Gaston expected protest, rage, or excitement from his foe he wascertainly disappointed. Eglinton had all the characteristics of hisrace, perfect sang-froid in the face of the inevitable, and an almostmorbid consciousness of pride and dignity. He could not filch thosepapers from Gaston nor prevent de Mortemar from accepting andfulfilling a trust, which had all the appearance of being sacred.

  He knew that by this act he had wrested a fortune from a man whosefetish was money, and the power which money gives: true that being anhonest man himself, he had never thought of such an infamous revenge.

  If he died now Heaven help his proud Lydie! but if he lived thenHeaven help them both!