Devereux — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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sword.
“Dare you threaten me?” I said, and the natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened by vague and strong suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.
“Dare I?” repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. “Dare I!—ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and forever your most deadly foe; deadly—ay—deadly, deadly!” and he shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacing that I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.
The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hitherto waited. “Draw then,” he said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier.
Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my weapon: I was deceived; I found him far more adroit than myself in the art of offence; and perhaps it would have fared ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct against my life all the science he possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably saw that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the life of his pupil as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion we mutually drew back. Recovering my presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost at that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and, affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss over our rencontre, now approached me.
“Count,” he said, with a collected and cool voice, “suffer me to request you to exchange three words with me in a spot less liable than this to interruption.”
“Follow me then!” said I; and I led the way to a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. “How is this?” I said, pointing to his unarmed side, “have you not come hither to renew our engagement?”
“No!” answered Montreuil, “I repent me of my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all further possibility of unseemly warfare. That letter, young man, I still demand from you; I demanded it from your own sense of honour and of right: it was written by me; it was not intended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives of others besides myself; now, read it if you will.”
“You are right, Sir,” said I, after a short pause; “there is the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour to secure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!”
So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper; I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me in French:—
A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the contents of which it is essential for His safety that he should know.
“Umph!” said I, “a very satisfactory intimation, considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger!” and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was already gone; on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a few words to my valet, Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him.
“The dirty fellow,” said the Frenchman, pointing to his spattered stockings with a lachrymose air, “splashed me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while I was screaming for very anguish, he stopped and said, ‘Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but that the letter requires no answer.’”
I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened to my uncle with a determination to reveal to him all that had occurred. Sir William was in his dressing-room, and his gentleman was very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated him to dismiss the coiffeur, and then, without much preliminary detail, acquainted him with all that had passed between the Abbe and myself.
The knight seemed startled when I came to the story of the sword. “‘Gad, Sir Count, what have you been doing?” said he; “know you not that this may be a very ticklish matter? The King of France is a very great man, to be sure,—a very great man,—and a very fine gentleman; but you will please to remember that we are at war with his Majesty, and I cannot guess how far the accepting such presents may be held treasonable.”
And Sir William shook his head with a mournful significance. “Ah,” cried he, at last (when I had concluded my whole story), with a complacent look, “I have not lived at court, and studied human nature, for nothing: and I will wager my best full-bottom to a night-cap that the crafty old fox is as much a Jacobite as he is a rogue! The letter would have proved it, Sir; it would have proved it!”
“But what shall be done now?” said I; “will you suffer him to remain any longer in the house?”
“Why,” replied the knight, suddenly recollecting his reverence to the fair sex, “he is your mother’s guest, not mine; we must refer the matter to her. But zauns, Sir, with all deference to her ladyship, we cannot suffer our house to be a conspiracy-hatch as well as a popish chapel; and to attempt your life too—the devil! Ods fish, boy, I will go to the countess myself, if you will just let Nicholls finish my wig,—never attend the ladies en deshabille,—always, with them, take care of your person most, when you most want to display your mind;” and my uncle ringing a little silver bell on his dressing-table, the sound immediately brought Nicholls to his toilet.
Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose hatred to the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be an efficacious adjunct to his diplomatic address, and not unwilling to avoid being myself the person to acquaint my mother with the suspected delinquency of her favourite, I hastened from the knight’s apartment in search of Aubrey. He was not in the house. His attendants (for my uncle, with old-fashioned grandeur of respect, suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic temper, allotted to each of us a separate suite of servants as well as of apartments) believed he was in the park. Thither I repaired, and found him, at length, seated by an old tree, with a large book of a religious cast before him, on which his eyes were intently bent.
“I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother,” said I, throwing myself on the green turf by his side; “in truth you have chosen a fitting and fair place for study.”
“I have chosen,” said Aubrey, “a place meet for the peculiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we better read of the power and benevolence of God than among the living testimonies of both? Beautiful—how very beautiful!—is this happy world; but I fear,” added Aubrey, and the glow of his countenance died away,—“I fear that we enjoy it too much.”
“We hold different interpretations of our creed then,” said I, “for I