DANGER AHEAD
In looking back upon the events of those days—as I now do from the calm autumn of my life—I am always struck by the extraordinary fact that I am still alive. For, from the moment that it began to be whispered about in the fashionable parts of Paris that the Princesa Ana de Carbajal was tricking his Highness the Prince of Csaba (in Hungary) and Miranda Vitoria (in Spain), who, although of the Royal House of Austria, intended to espouse her morganatically if he possibly could, my life began to be in danger. That is to say, it would begin to be in danger directly the Prince of Csaba learned, as he very soon must learn, that the Princess was being gallanted about by an Englishman, who was considered to be so far her inferior as to cause it to be said that she had contracted a love affair with a person beneath her.
For these haughty, arrogant Spanish-Austrians living in Paris had the impertinence to state that I, Adrian Trent, an English gentleman (to say nothing of my being also an English nobleman and an officer of French mousquetaires), was beneath the Princess, or—or Damaris, as I always thought of her. It made my blood boil, I can tell you, when I learned such was the case (and I hope it makes yours boil, too, who read, if you are a countryman of mine), and if there had ever been on my part any idea of drawing back from the part I had agreed to play with Damaris—which, in solemn truth, there was not—it only confirmed me all the more in the determination to play that part out to the very end.
I would, I swore to myself, so enact the part of the girl's lover that Csaba should have nothing left to do but to retire from his position of prétendu and aspirant and resign all claims to her hand; and also, which I hoped would be the case, I would so irritate his absurd hidalgo pride as to draw him into an embroglio with me; and then—even though he were forty times the hidalgo and don he was, and had forty times the blood of Charles qui triche and of that murderer, Philip II. in his veins—I would so humiliate him and all his following that they would never dare to be insolent to any English gentleman again.
Only—I forgot one thing. Or, perhaps, I did not know one thing which I should have known. I should not have forgotten that no descendant of Philip, nor any one who was related to him, was likely to meet me in a fair and open way. Not they! Be sure of that. And it was from this lack of knowledge, or this forgetfulness, that I nearly got caught in a trap, that I was nearly done barbarously to death, and that I nearly lost the great happiness of my life. However, this you shall read.
But Damaris knew, and, knowing, she did not mean to have me fall into the trap. And all this you are to read as well.
"Now, my lord," she said to me one fine night, when I had waited on her, "this is the very occasion when we are to begin to arouse the demon of jealousy in Csaba's manly bosom. To-night we are going to sow the poison seed. Therefore prepare yourself."
"I am prepared. What is to be done?"
"I am going to the ball at the Hôtel d'Aragon, his house. But you are not—yet you will be there. See, here is his invitation to Monsieur—blank. That blank is left because I forced him to give me an invitation for a friend of mine, whose name I would fill up. Observe, mon ami, I fill it up with yours." Whereon, stooping over a scrutoire, she wrote in the name of Lord Trent.
"It will be pleasant to go to the ball," I said. "I presume I shall have one dance with you?"
"You will not go to the ball, and you will not dance with me."
"What am I to do then? Go to bed, perhaps!"
"Nor that either. In a manner of speaking, indeed, you will go to the ball, but only to pass through the great apartments, making your obeisance to Csaba as you do so; then—well, then—you will go out into the garden and wait until I come to you. Wait by a fountain in the middle of the garden—within it, in the centre, a representation of Hercules destroying the Hydra. Wait, and do exactly what I tell you."
"Shall you be alone?"
"Nay, nay," she replied, with one of her usual smiles. "Ah no, he will be with me. But of that take no notice. Do exactly what I tell you—when we meet—and when he overhears what I say."
"When he overhears!"
"'Tis so. Now, for last instructions, take these. Come not to the Hôtel d'Aragon till midnight strikes. I shall be there earlier, but come not yourself till then."
"And——?"
"Take your cue from me."
At midnight I was there, outside the great doors of the Hôtel d'Aragon, descending from my chaise-roulante and seeing a few late arrivals like myself pass in, as well as perceiving through those wide open doors a mighty great assembly within. Whereon I, too, went in, the Prince's menials bawling out my name, though, as not one of them pronounced it aright, simple though it was, they might as well not have done so at all.
Through a vast crowd of ladies and of gentlemen in wigs and scarlet coats, with, for the former, flowered dresses and hoops and panniers and Heaven knows what, I passed, looking right and left for where the Prince might be. Then, suddenly, on a little daïs I saw him seated with, for companion by his side, Damaris, or rather Ana, Princess of Carbajal; and he was bending over her, talking with what our beloved friends call empressement, and it seemed to me as though he were utterly oblivious of every other person there.
But, since I stood at the foot of the daïs waiting to attract his attention and then pay my respects to him, I observed that she—my confederate—or rather she whose confederate I was—gave a slight start, and into her face there came a lovely, heavenly tinge of red, while from between her parted lips I heard the whispered word "Adrian." Also I saw her left hand, which lay along her dress, clutch a fold or so of that dress as though in agitation extreme.
And the Prince heard the word too, since, after a momentary glance at her, he cast his eyes in my direction and then again bent them on the girl.
"Monseigneur," she said, "it is the gentleman for whom I demanded an invitation."
"Ha!" he said, rising and bowing somewhat stiffly to me I thought. "Ha! a gentleman named Adrian."
"Nay," she replied; "a gentleman, an English nobleman, called Lord Trent."
"I ask a thousand pardons," he said, bending low before her. "I thought you uttered the name Adrian." Then he turned to me, saying coldly, "My lord, you are welcome," after which he turned away and began talking to his companion again, whereon I sought the garden as she had bid me do.
"Was she acting?" I asked myself, as I passed through the windows to the gardens beyond, to find and take up my station by the fountain in which was the statue of Hercules killing the Hydra; "was she acting when she whispered my name and when she made that slight but perceptible clutch at her dress?" As for the tinge of red, I doubted if she could act that, since, so far as I knew, it was not to be accomplished—no! not even by La Gautier, whom I had seen often enough in the past at the Odéon. Still, I remembered she was a good actress—had she not impersonated a wandering singing-girl from Provence when I first knew her; and had she not deceived even so astute a beast as Marcieu, the spy who tried to arrest her! So I could not answer the question, but went on down the allées, and past stone fauns and satyrs, and gentlemen in togas and ladies in—well! not in gowns made by court furnishers—and, at last, in the centre of a great rond, covered with crushed shells and tiny pebbles that hurt the feet, I came upon the fountain and the figure of Hercules. Then, being there, I sat me down on the high stone rim of the basin, into which the water was falling from the hydra heads with a vastly cool and pleasing splash, and waited, beneath the moon, which sailed clear and cloudless in the skies, for the dénouement. That, however, was a little while in coming, and though more than one couple passed me, the vizard-masked face of the cavalier being almost invariably bent down over the upturned vizard-masked face of the accompanying dame (so that one might well guess it was the eternal romance being whispered in willing ears), she for whom I waited did not herself appear.
Not for a little while, as I have said—yet, at last.
Down one of the little pleached alleys I heard the rustle of a woman's robe, and saw the long, lithe figure that I knew so well—that I had never forgotten since I first saw it in the spangled dress of the mountebank she pretended to be. I saw, too, the moonbeams glint upon the lovely face, and recognised it instantly, though she, too, wore her vizard-mask. Then she was close to me, close to where I had stepped out on to the shell-strewn path, and calling "Adrian"—somewhat loudly, as I thought—while she drew near.
"I am here," I said, joining her.
Then, speaking in a lower tone now, she said, "He is close behind—behind a bosquet in the alley. He is watching us, I know. Kiss my hand—do something lover-like—call me by some lover's name of endearment. And speak in French; he knows no English."
"Kiss my hand—do something lover-like."
"A la fin! ma mie," I said, falling in with her cue at once, and going on in the tongue she bade me speak. "I thought you would never come;" after which, remembering her injunction, I stooped and kissed her hand, holding it to my lips for some seconds, while all the time the great jewels on her fingers sparkled in the moonlight.
"Farewell," she said, "I may not stay. To-night—to-night," and now she spoke loudly again, clearly, so that none within fifty paces of us could fail to hear her words—"to-night at two o'clock come to supper with me at my house. I await you. Till then, adieu. And come to the side-door, that opening on to the Rue des Fleurs. Till then, adieu."
"Do you mean it?" I whispered now, wondering if this was play-acting too. "Do you mean it, Damaris?"
"Ay, I mean it. We must play the comedy out. But," and now she spoke in English, and her voice sunk to its deepest whisper, "forget not your rapier. You may need it."
"I shall not forget." Then, while again she had given me her hand, which, at this moment, she was making great pretence of withdrawing from my grasp, I whispered, also in English, "But this has got to be paid for, Damaris; and the reward I shall demand will be enormous."
But she only laughed, showing her little white teeth, and went swiftly back up the alley she had come down, turning once and saying in a fairly clear voice, "Remember."
Whereon, when she had gone and joined her companion, as I could tell very well by overhearing them talking as they withdrew, I sat me down on the stone edge of the fountain and fell a-musing.
"Bring my rapier, she said," I muttered to myself. "Ay, and so I will. But not this plaything by my side, fit only to match a court suit. Instead, my good Flamberg. 'Ware that, my illustrious rival, if you come near me! Ay, I will in truth bring it. And so—so—so—I shall win her. For though Damaris were forty thousand times a Spanish and Austrian Princess, this thing has gone too far to stop here. She has got to sink her title now in a lowlier one, namely, that of the Viscountess Trent, or—or——"
I paused. Adown another path than that along which she had come to me there was advancing a tall and stately gentleman, alone. A man with a peaked beard, and dressed all in black satin—like myself; a man who walked with gravity extreme. Then, as he drew close to me, he removed the hat he wore, and standing stock-still before me, said in French—
"Have I the honour to address the Milord Trent?"
"That, sir, is my name," I said, rising from my seat and removing also my hat, since I could not allow myself to be outdone in politeness by a foreigner, by which I mean a man who was not an Englishman.
"I have a little message," he proceeded, "from my master, the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria—from your host of the moment."
"I shall be honoured to receive it, sir."
"It is," the grave and courteous gentleman said, "a warning, a hint. The Prince, my master, desires me to tell you that it will not be for your good to go out to supper to-night—not for the good of your health."
"The Prince, your master, being aware, sir," I demanded, "that it is to an Englishman he sends this message?"
"I imagine his Highness may be aware that such is the case."
"Will you, sir, then, in your courtesy, constitute yourself the bearer of my reply?"
"I am your servant, sir; I shall deem it an honour to do so."
"Sir, you place me in your debt. And, such being the case, will you please to tell the Prince, your master, that I look forward with eagerness to my supper to-night, to which I shall proceed without fail; also that my health is most excellent, as are both my appetite and digestion; and, likewise, that when I require a doctor's advice I shall not insult so illustrious a person as the Prince by asking him to take so humble a function as that on himself? Sir, I salute you."
Whereon, with the exchange of most polite bows between us, I strode away, leaving him alone.
CHAPTER III