Collected works of eugen.., p.1001
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 1001
Chemerant with a light and joyful heart slept, cradled by the most pleasing and ambitious thoughts.
It was half-past ten in the morning; the wind was fresh, the sea a little rough, but very beautiful; the Thunderer left behind her a shining wake. The land was no longer to be seen. The ship was in mid-ocean.
The officer of the watch, armed with a glass, examined with attention a three-masted vessel about two cannon shots distant, which kept precisely the same route as the frigate and sailed as quickly as she did, although carrying a few light sails the less.
On the extreme horizon the officer remarked also another ship which he as yet distinguished vaguely, but which seemed to follow the same direction as the three-master, whose maneuver we have just pointed out. Wishing to find out if this latter ship would persist in imitating the movements of the Thunderer, the officer ordered the man at the wheel to bear away a little more to the north.
The three-master bore away a little more to the north.
The officer gave orders to bear away to the west.
The three-master bore away to the west.
More annoyed than startled at this persistence, because the three-master was not capable of a struggle with a frigate, the officer, by the order of the captain, tacked about and sailed straight down upon the importunate vessel.
The importunate three-master tacked about also, and continued to scrupulously imitate the evolutions of the frigate, and sailed in concert with her, but always beyond reach of her guns.
The captain, irritated by this, veered about and ran straight down upon the three-master. The three-master proved that she was, if not a better sailer, at least as good a one as the frigate, which was never able to shorten the distance between them. The captain, not wishing to lose precious time in this useless chase, resumed his course.
The vexatious three-master also resumed its course.
This mysterious ship was no other than the peaceable Unicorn. Captain Daniel, in spite of the refusal of De Chemerant, had judged it proper to attach himself obstinately to the Thunderer until they reached the open sea.
A new personage appeared on the deck of the frigate. This was a man of about fifty years of age, large, stout, wearing a buff coat with wide scarlet breeches, and boots of sheepskin. His hair and mustache were red, his eyes light blue, the eyeballs veined with little vessels which the slightest emotion injected with blood, showing a violent and passionate temper.
We hasten to inform the reader that this athletic personage was the most fanatical of all the fanatical partisans of Monmouth, and he would have thought himself a thousand times blessed to have shared the fate of Sidney; in a word, this man was Lord Percy Mortimer. His disquietude, his agitation, his impatience, were inexpressible; he could not stay in one place a moment.
Twenty times had Lord Mortimer descended to the door of Croustillac’s cabin to know if “my lord the duke” had not asked for him. In vain had he implored the officer to send word to the duke that Mortimer, his best friend, his old companion in arms, wished to throw himself at his feet; his wishes were vain, the orders of the unhappy Croustillac, who regarded each minute gained as a precious conquest, were rigorously carried out.
Chemerant also went upon deck, clothed in a magnificent dress, his air radiant and triumphant; he seemed to say to all: “If the prince is here, that is thanks to my ability, to my courage.” Seeing him, Mortimer approached him quickly.
“Well, sir,” he said to him, “may we know at last at what hour the duke will receive us?”
“The duke has forbidden any one to enter his apartment without his order.”
“I am on red-hot coals,” replied Mortimer; “I shall never forgive myself for having gone to bed this night, and not to have been the first to press our James in my arms, to throw myself at his feet — to kiss his royal hand.”
“Ah, Lord Mortimer, you love our brave duke well?” said De Chemerant; “partisans such as you are rare!”
“If I love our James!” cried Mortimer, turning a deep and apoplectic red, “if I love him! Hold! I and Dick Dudley, my best friend, who loves the duke, not as much as I (we fought once because he made this absurd claim) — I and Dudley, I tell you, asked each other just now if we should have the strength to again see our James without giving way — like silly women.”
“The duke was right,” thought De Chemerant. “What enthusiasm! It is not attachment, it is frenzy.” Mortimer resumed with vehemence: “This morning on rising we embraced each other; we committed a thousand extravagances on thinking we should see him again to-day. We could not believe it, and even yet I doubt it. Ah! what a day! what a day! To see again in flesh and blood a friend, a companion in arms whom we had believed dead, whom we had wept for for five years! Ah! you do not know how he was cherished and regretted, our James! How we recalled his bravery, his courage, his gayety! What happiness to say, not it was, but it is the heart of a king, a true heart of a king, that of our duke.”
“It must be that this is true, my lord, since with the exception of yourself, of Lord Dudley, and this poor Lord Rothsay who, ill as he is from his old wounds, has chosen to accompany you, the other gentlemen who came to offer their arms, their lives and their fortunes to our duke, knew him only by reputation.”
“And I should like well to see if, on his renown alone, and on our guarantee, they would not love him as much as we love him. This recalls to me that once I fought my friend Dick Dudley because he vowed he loved me a little more than our James!”
“The fact is, my lord,” said De Chemerant, “that few princes are capable of inspiring such enthusiasm simply by their renown.”
“Few princes, sir!” cried Lord Mortimer in a formidable voice, “few princes! Say, then, no other prince — ask Dudley!”
Lord Dudley appeared at this moment on the deck. The hair and mustache of this nobleman were black and beginning to turn gray; in stature, strength, and stoutness there was a great conformity between him and Mortimer; true types (physically speaking) of what are called gentlemen-farmers.
“What’s the matter, Percy?” said Lord Dudley familiarly to his friend.
“Is it not true, Dick, that no prince can be compared with our James?”
“Excepting our worthy friends and allies on this vessel, any dog who dares maintain that James is not the best of men I will beat him till the blood comes, and cut him in quarters,” said this robust personage, striking with one of his fists the gunwale of the ship. Then, addressing De Chemerant: “But now you know him as well as we — you, the chosen you, the happy man who saw him first! Your hand, De Chemerant, your brave and loyal hand — more brave and more loyal, if it is possible, since it has touched that of our duke!”
Dudley violently shook the right hand of De Chemerant, while Mortimer shook no less violently the left hand.
There is nothing more contagious than enthusiasm. The partisans of Monmouth had one by one come up on deck and grouped themselves around the two noblemen — all wishing in their turn to press the hand which had touched that of the prince.
“Ah! gentlemen, I suspect that his grace puts off the honor of seeing you. He fears the emotion inseparable from such a moment.”
“And we, then!” cried Dudley. “It is now about forty days since we left Rochelle, is it not? Well, may I die if I have slept more than three or four hours any night, and then the sleep, at once agitated and pleasant, that one sleeps on the eve of a duel — when one is sure of killing one’s man. At least, that is the effect of this impatience on me. And you, Percy?” said the robust gladiator to Mortimer.
“On me, Dick?” responded the latter; “it has a contrary effect on me; every moment I wake with a start. It seems to me that I should sleep thus the eve of the day that I was going to be shot.”
“As for me,” said another gentleman, “I know the duke only from his portrait.”
“I only from his renown.”
“I, as soon as I knew that it concerned marching against the Orange faction — I quitted all, friends, wife, child.”
“So did we — —”
“Ah, sir, it is also for James of Monmouth,” said another, “that is a name which is like the sound of a trumpet.”
“It suffices to pronounce this name in Old England,” said another, “to drive all these Holland rats into their marshes.”
“Beginning with this William — —”
“On my honor, gentlemen,” said De Chemerant, “you make me almost proud of having succeeded so well in an enterprise which, I dare to say, is a very delicate one. I do not wish to attribute to my reasoning, to my influence, the resolution of the prince — but believe, at least, gentlemen, that I have known how to make good use with him of the enthusiasm with which his memory has inspired you.”
“And so, our friend, we will never forget what you have done! You have brought him here to us — our duke!” cried Mortimer cordially.
“For that alone we owe you eternal gratitude,” added Dudley.
“To see him! to see him,” cried Mortimer in a new access of feeling, “to see him again whom we believed to be dead — to see him indeed face to face — to again find before our eyes this proud and noble figure — to see it again in the midst of the fire — the — the — ah, well — yes, I weep — I weep,” cried the brave Mortimer, no longer restraining his emotion; “yes, I weep like a child, and a thousand thunderbolts crush those who do not comprehend that an old soldier thus can weep.”
Emotion is as contagious as enthusiasm.
Dick, followed the example of his friend Percy, and the others did as Dick and his friend Percy did.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE JUDGMENT.
A NEW PERSONAGE came to augment the number of the passionate admirers of Monmouth. There was seen advancing, supported by two servants, a man still young, but condemned to premature infirmity by numerous wounds.
Lord Jocelyn Rothsay, in spite of his sufferings, had wished to join himself to the partisans of the prince, and if not to fight for the cause that Monmouth was going to defend, at least to come before the duke and to be one of the first to felicitate him on his resurrection.
Lord Rothsay’s hair was white, although his pale face was still young and his mustache was as black as his bold and brilliant eyes. Enveloped in a long dressing-gown, he advanced with difficulty, supported on the shoulders of the two servants.
“Here is the brave Rothsay who has as many wounds as hairs in his mustache,” cried Lord Dudley.
“By the devil, who will not carry me away before I have seen our duke, at least,” said Rothsay, “I will be, like you, one of the first to press his hand. Have I not, in my fresh youth, risked my life to hasten by a quarter of an hour a love tryst? Why should I not risk it in order to see our duke a quarter of an hour sooner?”
A man with troubled face appeared on deck shortly after Rothsay.
“My lord,” said he entreatingly, “my lord, you expose your life by this imprudence! The least violent movement may renew the hemorrhage from this old wound which — —”
“The devil! doctor, could my blood flow better or more nobly than at the feet of James of Monmouth?” cried Rothsay with enthusiasm.
“But, my lord, the danger — —”
“But, doctor, it would be to his everlasting shame if Jocelyn Rothsay should be one of the last to embrace our duke. I made this voyage for no other purpose. Dick will lend me one shoulder, Percy another, and it is sustained by these two brave champions that I shall come to say to James: Here are three of your faithful soldiers of Bridgewater.”
So saying, the young man abandoned his two servants, and supported himself on the shoulders of the two robust noblemen.
The roll of drums, to which was added the flourish of trumpets, the shrill noise of the boatswain’s whistle, announced that the marines and infantry belonging to the frigate were assembling; very soon they were drawn up on deck, with their officers at their head.
“Why this show of arms?” asked Mortimer of Chemerant.
“To render homage to the duke and to receive him with the honors of war when he comes directly to review the troops.”
The captain of the frigate advanced toward the group of gentlemen: “Gentlemen, I have just received the orders of his grace.”
“Well?” all said with one voice.
“His highness will receive you at eleven o’clock precisely; that is to say, in exactly five minutes.”
It is impossible to give any idea of the exclamations of profound joy which escaped from every breast.
“Hold! now, Dick, I feel myself growing faint,” said Mortimer.
“The devil! pay attention, Percy,” said Rothsay; “do not fall; you are one of my legs.”
“I,” said Dudley, “I have a sort of vertigo — —”
“Listen, Dick; listen, Jocelyn,” said Mortimer; “these worthy companions have never seen our duke; be generous, let them go first; we shall see him first from a distance; that will give us time to place ourselves in his sight. Is it done?”
“Yes, yes,” said Dick and Jocelyn.
Eleven o’clock sounded. For some moments the deck of the frigate offered a spectacle truly grand. The soldiers and marines in arms covered the gangways. The officers, bareheaded, preceding the gentlemen, slowly descended the narrow stairway which led to the apartment appropriated to the Duke of Monmouth.
Last, behind this first group advanced Mortimer and Dudley, sustaining between them the young Lord Rothsay, whose bowed figure and trembling steps contrasted with the tall stature and manly bearing of his two supports.
While the other gentlemen incumbered the narrow stairway, the three lords — these three noble types of chivalrous fidelity — remained on the deck.
“Listen, listen,” said Dudley, “perhaps we shall hear the voice of James — —”
In fact, the most profound silence reigned at first, but it was soon interrupted by exclamations of joy with which mingled lively and tender protestations. At last the stairway was free.
Scarcely moderating their impatience from regard for Lord Rothsay, who descended with difficulty, the two lords reached the gun-deck and entered in their turn the great cabin of the frigate, where Croustillac gave audience to his partisans. For some moments the three noblemen were stupefied by the tableau presented to their eyes.
At the back of the great cabin, which was lighted by five portholes, Croustillac, clothed in his old green coat and pink stockings, stood proudly beside De Chemerant; the latter, swelling with pride, seemed to triumphantly present the chevalier to the English gentlemen.
A little back of De Chemerant stood the captain of the frigate and his staff. The partisans of Monmouth, picturesquely grouped, surrounded the Gascon.
The adventurer, although a little pale, retained his audacity; seeing that he was not recognized, he resumed little by little his accustomed assurance, and said to himself: “Mortimer must have boasted of knowing me intimately in order to give himself airs of familiarity with a nobleman of my degree. Come then, zounds! let that last which can!”
The force of illusion is such that among the gentlemen who pressed around the adventurer some discovered a very decided “family look” to Charles II.; others, a striking resemblance to his portraits.
“My lords and gentlemen,” said Croustillac, with a gesture toward De Chemerant, “this gentleman, in reporting to me your wishes, has decided me to return to your midst.”
“My lord duke, with us it is to the death!” cried the most enthusiastic.
“I count on that, my lords; as for me, my motto shall be: ‘All for England and’ — —”
“This is too much impudence! blood and murder!” thundered Lord Mortimer, interrupting the chevalier and springing toward him with blazing eyes and clinched fists, while Dudley upheld Lord Jocelyn.
The apostrophe of Mortimer had an astounding effect on the spectators and the actors in this scene. The English gentlemen turned quickly toward Mortimer. De Chemerant and the officers looked at each other with astonishment, as yet comprehending none of his words.
“Zounds! here we are,” thought Croustillac; “only to see this tipsy brute; I should smell the Mortimer a league off.” The nobleman stepped into the empty space that the gentlemen had left between the Gascon and themselves, in recoiling; he planted himself before him, his arms crossed, his eyes flashing, looking him straight in the face, exclaiming in a voice trembling with rage: “Ah! you are James of Monmouth — you! — it is to me — Mortimer — that you say that?”
Croustillac was sublime in his impudence and coolness; he answered Mortimer with an accent of melancholy reproach: “Exile and adversity must indeed have changed me much if my best friend no longer recognizes me!” Then, half-turning toward De Chemerant, the chevalier added in a low tone: “You see, it is as I told you; the emotion has been too violent; his poor head is completely upset. Alas, this unhappy man does not know me!”
Croustillac expressed himself so naturally and with so much assurance, that De Chemerant still hesitated to believe himself the dupe of so enormous an imposition; he did not long retain any doubts on this subject.
Lord Dudley and Lord Rothsay joined Mortimer and the other gentlemen in showering upon the unfortunate Gascon the most furious apostrophes and insults.
“This miserable vagabond dares to call himself James of Monmouth!”
“The infamous impostor!”
“The scoundrel must have murdered him in order to pass himself off for him!”
“He is an emissary of William!”
“That beggar, James, our duke!”
“What audacity!”
“To dare to tell such a lie!”
“He ought to have his tongue torn out!”
“To deceive us so impudently — we who had never seen the duke!”
“This cries for vengeance!”
“Since he takes his name he must know where he is!”
