The Lady’s Slipper (continued 2)

“Rise, my friend,” she said, with that gentle grace, that benignity, that ought to have endeared her to the whole of France, high and low, rich and poor; “were you at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet on last Wednesday night?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Were you in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars?”

“I was, Your Majesty.”

“Between the hours of eleven and twelve?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Was the Marquis du Trémigon there?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“And you would believe a servant’s word before mine?” said du Trémigon furiously.

“We shall see. Call Monsieur Burnham,” she said to the attendant.

I did not wait to be called. I was through the door in an instant. Du Trémigon started with additional surprise when he saw me.

“What do you know of this charge of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked the Queen after I had saluted her.

“Your Majesty, I know that the Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel between the hours of eight in the evening and one in the morning. By no possibility could he have been in the apartment of Mademoiselle de Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin was in his employ yesterday.”

“You hound!” cried du Trémigon, and then I stepped close to him. He shrank back. I stepped nearer. The Queen might have interfered, but I rather think she enjoyed it.

“You know,” I said, frowning at him, “that you were not in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars on that evening or any other evening.” He opened his mouth as if to speak. “Not a word or I’ll kill you where you stand!”

“Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously avoiding me, “will you condemn me on the words of a lackey and a criminal?”

I started toward him again, but the Queen raised her hand. She looked at the equerry again, an old and trusted attendant, upon whom she could rely.

“The Duc de Rivau-Huet”—she pointed to the door—“bring him here.”

The Duke was almost as quick as I. The curtain was torn aside and he came in erect, with his hand on his sword.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed low before her, a graceful and gallant old gentleman.

“Monsieur le Duc,” said the Queen, extending her hand to be kissed, “you are ever welcome. As the head of the house to which the Marquis du Trémigon belongs. I wish you to hear his charges and his denials, that you may judge him accordingly.”

“I have heard, Your Majesty,” said the Duke, “and give me leave to say I need neither the evidence of Éspiau nor of this gentleman—whoever he may be—to convince me that the Marquis du Trémigon has lied.”

“And I tell you,” burst out the Marquis, “that this man is a common thief, a highway robber and—” He pointed to me.

“Have a care, Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette quickly; “highway robbery is a grave accusation. Was it on the road to Paris that he committed this highway robbery? This is a most serious indictment. Look again. Think! Do you press the charge? Do you really mean it?”

VII THE SLIPPER FINDS ITS WEARER

“His Majesty the King!” cried an usher at the great door, throwing it open. “His Excellency, the Minister of the United States, Dr. Franklin, Commodore John Paul Jones, Monsieur Bucknall, sailor,” he added.

Into the room came the King of France, a stout, heavy-set, rather stupid-looking young man. Following him I saw the familiar figure—I had seen many portraits of him in public print—of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. By his side—and it was a good sight for any eyes—walked the handsome little daredevil of a Scotsman in his naval uniform, looking as cocky as if he had been strutting on his own quarter-deck. And then—did my eyes deceive me?—came the rolling form of worthy Master Bucknall. I blessed that man in my heart. He had brought Mademoiselle to my assistance in the prison and now he had completed his work by looking up Dr. Franklin and the rest. Where he had found the Commodore I did not know.

I had heard he had recently arrived at L’Orient, but not that he had come to Paris.

“Madame,” said the King, approaching the Queen who courtesied deeply before him, “I wish you good morning. Ah, Duke, I am always glad to see you. Mademoiselle de Villars, you are fit to stand before Her Majesty, and I could pay you no higher compliment.”

I was amazed to hear this fat, commonplace, prosy-looking man speak so pleasantly, but in sooth Mademoiselle, with her cheeks flushed, a little sparkle of tears in her eyes, her head thrown back—well, any man of taste would have recognized which was Queen of Love and Beauty in that room. The King bowed shortly and coldly to du Trémigon and looked with some interest at me.

“Monsieur,” said the Queen to her husband, “will you allow me to present to you Monsieur Burnham, an American naval officer?”

I bowed low before the King. France was our ally and we hoped much from her, and although we in America had cut kings and queens out of our books, I felt it necessary for me to be politic.

“Dr. Franklin, you are always welcome,” continued the Queen, “even though you do come garbed in sober gray to our gay Court.”

“Your Majesty,” returned the old Quaker gallantly, “I wear gray that it may contrast the better with the high color of my admiration for the Queen of France.”

“And this is our old friend, the Commodore. We are glad to have you back at Versailles after your splendid fighting, Monsieur,” said the Queen, dimpling with pleasure at Dr. Franklin’s compliment and giving her hand to Paul Jones, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for this recognition of his rank and station.

“To see you again, Your Majesty,” began the doughty little Captain, with a shade too much fervor, I thought, “is better fortune than to capture a ship like the Serapis.”

“You must tell me about that action, Monsieur.”

“I shall be pleased to attend upon Your Majesty at any time for that or any other purpose,” he replied. “And if it were necessary to secure entrance to your levee, I would cheerfully engage to capture another British frigate.”

The Queen laughed kindly at the little Captain, and then she stared toward Bucknall, who stood shifting from one foot to another, twisting his hat in his hand. She was a good-hearted woman and would fain neglect no one—not even the humblest.

“And who is this?” she asked.

“Madame, give me leave,” I interposed. “He is a sailor to whom I owe life, liberty and—love!”

“Looks he not like a cupid’s messenger?” queried Her Majesty, smiling, and then the King broke in.

“Have you sent for the prisoner, Madame?”

“Your Majesty, he is here?”

“What, this gentleman?”

The Queen bowed.

“What have you to say for yourself, sir?” the King asked me.

“Much, Your Majesty. I am an American naval officer, as Commodore Paul Jones can bear witness.”

“’Tis true, Your Majesty. He sailed with me on the Alfred, and a better officer I did not have, and I say it who have a right to testify.”

“Good,” said the King. “Proceed, Monsieur.”

“I was captured with Captain Cunningham in the Revenge.”

“Give me a fleet, Your Majesty,” interrupted Commodore Jones, “and we’ll stop all that.”

The King smiled and nodded to me.

“I escaped from a British prison-ship, robbed a gentleman in England, got money from him, came to France hoping to find Dr. Franklin or Commodore Jones. Neither was in Paris. I lost my money, fell into the hands of an enemy, and was lodged in jail, whence I have been this morning brought here by Her Majesty’s gracious interference.”

“How did you lose your money?” asked the King, quite as a father might have spoken to his son. There was something pleasant about the plain, homely man. I hesitated not a moment.

“I am sorry to say, Sire, that I gambled it away.”

The King shook his head.

“I can make good your loss,” he said; “but play is the curse of the young nobles of my Court, and of all strangers who come to Paris, as well.”

“Your Majesty is most kind. When I can hear from America I shall be able to discharge all my obligations, and I wish to say to Your Majesty and before you all”—all meant Mademoiselle—“that I shall eschew play in the future.”

“There were charges against you of highway robbery, I believe?”

“On information laid by me, Your Majesty,” broke in du Trémigon.

“But Monsieur du Trémigon withdraws the charges now. Highway robbery! It hath an ugly sound,” said the Queen. “How is that, Monsieur du Trémigon?”

I never saw such a look of baffled rage and hatred as that on du Trémigon’s face. He was completely powerless. The evidence against him was too strong. He tried to speak, but there was no help for it. He bowed at last.

“I am too much of a gentleman”—I have always been suspicious of a man who protests his quality overmuch, by the way—“to contradict the Queen of France.”

“Good,” said the King. “But there were some papers?”

“Monsieur du Trémigon lost them, unfortunately,” again interposed the Queen.

“Very careless, I’m sure,” commented the King severely.

“I,” volunteered Dr. Franklin, “will be surety for Monsieur Burnham’s debts to the Marquis du Trémigon.”

“The word of a gentleman so vouched for is sufficient,” said the Marquis, raging in his heart, but helpless.

“I’d rather pay him the money, doctor, and owe it to you,” I said softly to Dr. Franklin.

“Is it a great sum, lad?” whispered the Quaker aside. “Our exchequer is running low. And, hark ye, that highway robbery in England. ’Tis hardly a crime of which you could be convicted in France.”

Now, why had neither I nor anyone else thought of that!

“We will attend to the debt,” said the King, after a momentary consultation with the Queen. “Now, gentlemen, no more of this.”

Of course when he put on his royal look and said that, there was nothing more for me to do.

“Pardon, Your Majesty,” said the Duc de Rivau-Huet, who had noted all that had occurred with ill-concealed impatience. “Monsieur du Trémigon has another announcement to make.”

“What is that, Duke?” asked the King.

“Your Majesty is doubtless aware that my son and the father of the Marquis du Trémigon entered into a contract that their children should be married at a suitable age, provided they were both willing to carry out the agreement?”

“I have heard so,” answered the King.

“The Marquis du Trémigon wishes, in the presence of these witnesses, to renounce all pretension to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villars.”

“Your Majesty,” protested the Marquis in one last desperate attempt to gain his end, “Monsieur le Duc mis——”

“I believe I am not mistaken, Monsieur,” said the Duke, very stately and magnificent, with his hand on his sword—my heart went out to him—looking hard at the Marquis.

“I am sure,” added the Queen in her silvery voice—and you would have thought she were conferring the greatest favor in her power upon the wretched du Trémigon—“that the Duke is right. Monsieur du Trémigon,” she went on, with a woman’s spitefulness—but indeed I could not blame her, “is no more desirous of marrying Mademoiselle de Villars than he is of pressing the charge of highway robbery against Monsieur Burnham.”

Du Trémigon could not trust himself to speak again. He clenched his hands and bowed low before the Queen.

“Furthermore,” continued the Duke imperturbably, “Monsieur du Trémigon wishes Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw from Paris and retire to his estates.”

“As the Marquis pleases,” said the King indifferently.

Had I been King I should have been consumed with curiosity to know what this was all about, but His Majesty cared little about it, apparently, for after turning his back on du Trémigon, who backed out of the room, he said to Dr. Franklin:

“Now that we have settled this affair, doctor, I want you to look at a lock in my cabinet that interests me greatly. Gamain brought it today. Its mechanism is curious and complex. It will interest a scientific man like yourself, I am sure.”

“I shall be glad to attend Your Majesty.”

“Give me leave, Sire,” again said the Duc de Rivau-Huet. “Your Majesty,” continued the old man, standing very erect, “the Marquis du Trémigon averred that he was in my granddaughter’s apartments until a late hour the other night.”

“It is false,” said the Queen.

“Madame, I know that. What I wish to know is, who was there?”

“Monsieur! Before them all!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, startled beyond measure by this surprising development. This unlucky speech in itself was a confession.

“The King is the fountain of nobility in the land,” continued the Duke, striving to regain his composure. “You are a maid of honor to the Queen, Mademoiselle. That gentleman”—he pointed to me—“heard the accusation and denied it. These are his friends. Here is some mystery. I wish an explanation.”

“But, Duke—” began the King, with a puzzled look.

“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon. Even royalty may give place to the feelings of a grandsire. Will you allow me to conduct this affair in my own way?”

“Go on,” said the King.

“I am satisfied that the Marquis du Trémigon, whom I shall see later, with the King’s permission——”

“I will give you a lettre de cachet to the Bastile for him, if you like.”

“Thank you, Sire. Monsieur du Trémigon was not there, but I insist someone was, and I demand to know who.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“Éspiau, you know?”

“I have nothing to say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the old servant, turning pale.

“Will no one tell me?” cried the old man, grief in his heart, appeal in his tones, shame in his bearing.

“I will,” I said boldly; “I was there.”

“You, sir!”

“Even I, Monsieur.”

“How dared you? What do you mean?” He put his hand to his heart. I was nearest him. I stretched out my arm to help him, but he thrust me away. “Answer!” he cried, imperiously forgetful of the King, the Queen, everybody.

“It is very simple,” I replied quietly. “On my approach to Paris I had the good fortune to be of assistance to Mademoiselle.”

“In what capacity?”

“She was set upon by three ruffians. I drove them off.”

“Whereabouts?”

I was ignorant of the road, but Mademoiselle came to my rescue.

“Near Paris, on the Versailles road, Monsieur.”

“Where was your escort?” queried the Duke.

“I was alone.”

“Alone on the Versailles road?”

“In my service, Duke,” said the Queen softly.

“Pardon, Your Majesty. That is sufficient. Proceed, Monsieur.”

“I fell in love with your granddaughter.”

“How dared you, sir; a beggarly——?”

“Monsieur Burnham’s patrimony includes rich land enough to make a county in France,” deftly put in Dr. Franklin at this juncture.

“But in America—” said the Duke scornfully.

“The finest land the sun ever set on, Monsieur,” broke in Commodore Jones hotly.

The King waved his hand for silence, and the Duke turned to me again.

“I sought your granddaughter far and wide, and at last found her at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet.”

I had a hard task to keep to the truth and yet make a satisfactory story.

“And was it at her invitation you entered her apartment?”

“Monsieur le Duc!” exclaimed the King hastily, in warning.

“Grandfather!” cried the girl, recoiling from the outrageous accusation.

“Sir!” I replied, with spirit, “the question is an insult to your blood! I came unexpectedly, unknown, unwelcome—like a thief in the night.”

“You dared——?”

“It was a prank, a foolish trick; I have no excuse but my passion.”

“And you were alone with my granddaughter?”

“I was there, Monsieur le Duc,” said Éspiau.

“Then tell me the truth now, unless you forget your ancient fidelity,” exclaimed the Duke, turning to the unhappy servant. “You saw this gentleman there?”

I shook my head at him, but he was looking at Mademoiselle. Disregarding my warning glance, she nodded. The seal upon the servant’s lips was broken.

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” he said.

“And where was he?”

“In Mademoiselle’s—” he hesitated.

“Speak!” thundered the old man.

“Bedchamber, Monsieur.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the Duke, his composure giving way at last. He put his face in his hands with a movement singularly like that of Mademoiselle a short time before.

Is it that Master Shakespeare in great crises voices the universal cry of the human heart? For like the father of Hero in “Much Ado About Nothing”—and indeed the whole affair was somewhat similar in my mind—the Duke finally broke forth:

“‘Hath no man here a sword for me?’”

I have not the sentence exactly, but I give the sense of it, and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. But the love of the young is often cruel to the old.

“My grandfather! my grandfather!” cried Mademoiselle, sinking to his feet, “think not bitterly of me! This gentleman has told the truth. I had but spoken a few words to him when you came. He did me a great service. I concealed him.”

“Why?” groaned the Duke.

“I was afraid that you would kill him.”

“Afraid? What is he to you?”

It was a dreadful situation for a young girl. She had never told me in so many words, although I was sure of it in my own mind, and to have to declare it before all these men was indeed hard. Yet with a heroism for which I can never be sufficiently grateful she said it.

“I love him!”

“You love him!” exclaimed her grandfather in amazement.

“Monsieur le Duc de Rivau-Huet,” I cried in my turn, springing to her side, lifting her up, and slipping my arm about her waist, “I have the honor to ask you to give me the hand of your granddaughter in marriage.”

“She is a countess of France,” replied the Duke. “The best blood in the land flows in her veins, Monsieur.”

“I have some indifferent good in my own veins, Monsieur le Duc,” I asserted, naming some of my mother’s people.

“Is this true, Monsieur?”

“I vouch for it,” said Paul Jones.

“Your Majesty,” said the Duke, turning to the King, but he got no help there.

“If you will give your consent, Duke,” said Louis, “I shall not withhold mine. Indeed, under the circumstances—”He paused significantly.

The Duke groaned and the gracious Queen came to our rescue again.

“Monsieur le Duc,” she said, stepping near him and laying her hand on his arm, “think! Monsieur Burnham is a gallant gentleman. As good blood as any in France flows in his veins. In America they have no kings, but they are all princes. His Majesty in his kindness consents. This will cement the union between the two countries against England, which is so dear to think of. Will you sacrifice your pride if I ask you, and bless the pair who love each other?”

“Madame, it is as you will,” he faltered. “I had cherished other dreams. Still, there can be no higher degree than that of gentleman, after all. No, though he sit upon a throne.”

“The royalty of virtue, the royalty of honor, the royalty of courage,” said Dr. Franklin kindly, “make this marriage not an unequal one.”

“I am an old man,” continued the Duke; “this has been hard on me. Let the young love have its way.”

“And you will forgive me?” pleaded Mademoiselle, approaching him nearer.

“Your Majesty will permit me?” asked the Duke. He took her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her forehead and blessed her.

“Sir,” he said, turning to me and bowing, “I hope to know more of you before I commit this child to your keeping.”

“Now that all is settled for the second time,” said the King, greatly relieved. “Dr. Franklin, Commodore, and you, Duke, will you come with me?”

“We attend Your Majesty.”

The four gentlemen bowed low before the Queen. The King bowed to me, Dr. Franklin and Commodore Jones shook my hand. Our kindly minister made an appointment to meet me later in the palace.

“You were lucky,” he said.

Indeed I realized that, for I replied: “Thanks to you and the Commodore.”

“Nay,” said the Quaker, smiling, “thanks to Mademoiselle herself, and to your own ready wit.”

Then they left us alone with the Queen and Bucknall.

“It strikes me,” said Her Majesty, looking at the old sailor, “that nobody has said anything about the part you have played in this affair.”

“Aye, aye, mum,” began the sailor in great confusion, “w’ich I means yer honor——”

“‘Mum’ is delightful,” laughed Marie Antoinette.

“I was at me wit’s end wot course to lay this mornin’, an’ w’en as luck would hev it I run into Commodore Jones in the street, jist in from L’Orient—he never forgits a shipmate, ma’am, no matter how humble—an’ I ups an’ told him about Mr. Burnham. He fetched me to Dr. Franklin, an’ you knows the rest, Yer Ladyship.”

“I shall not forget you,” said the Queen, lifting a well-filled purse from the table and putting it in Bucknall’s hand. The old sailor was not without a streak of gallantry.

“It’s the hand wot gives it, lady,” he said, “wot makes me wally it more’n the gold pieces.”

“You will await Monsieur Burnham without the door,” she said, dismissing him graciously.

“Monsieur Burnham,” she began as we three were alone, “you are a thief after all. You have stolen the fairest jewel of my Court. I ought to be angry with you, but—I am not.”

“I thank Your Majesty.”

“You will be very good to this daughter of France in your own land?”

“Madame, I will cherish her as the King his crown. Nay,” I added quickly, “as I would cherish Your Majesty were I the King.”

“You pay me in pretty speeches.”

“They come, Madame, from my heart of hearts. After my country and my wife, my sword is yours.”

She was gone. Of course I took Mademoiselle in my arms, and this time there was no hesitation on her part in returning my ardent caresses. I do not know what we said or what happened. After a space—how long or how short I cannot tell, for I took no notice of time or place—I said that while we each had the gold pieces I regretted that I had no ring to slip on her finger, nothing of my own to give her to bind the engagement. Of course I could not give her the Queen’s diamond—yet! She was very close to me and doubtless could feel what was in my breast-pocket.

“You have one thing,” she replied demurely, “that you could slip on.”

“What is that?”

“Have you forgotten the talisman?”

“The talisman?” I cried.

I am stupid sometimes, not often, and I was thinking so hard of her that I did not catch her meaning at first.

“That which Master Bucknall brought you—that I gave back to you.”

“Oh!” said I; “the slipper saved my life; it gave me hope.”

“And hope gave you assurance?”

“And assurance won me you.”

She drew herself away and sat down in the Queen’s chair, and no royal person ever became it so well as she. Then she fumbled at her shoe a moment, and thrust out one dainty stockinged little foot at me.

“You might put it on,” she whispered, blushing vividly.

I am not ashamed to say that I kissed that foot before I covered it with my lady’s slipper.