The Polander stared at the weapon and at his Master, then went on his knees, very Pale in his Countenance.
“This is plain Murder,” he answered, very troubled, “and I have Lived an Innocent Life, even at the war, twenty crowns would pay for all I took in Plunder and I have been Compassionate, nor given to Treachery or Swearing—”
“I ask you to do no Wrong,” said Vratz, “only to Obey your Master–If a man will not Duel how can one Come at him but this Way?”
“It is a Just thing,” added Stern, “to obey those we have an Obligation to–and I am Pledged to you, yet I am willing to be Instructed in the Laws ofEnglandto discover what Penalty one must Pay for this—”
“Why, None,” replied the Captain, “for we will leave the Country by the first pair of oars going toGravesend, and should we be taken–first we have a friend in that Noble Prince, the Count of Conningsmarke, and secondly, all will fall on me as the Principal and none on you as the Agents or mere Engines of my Will–And Afterwards,” he added, “you shall be Rich Men.”
“Not for Money,” said the Polander sadly. “I would rather spend my Days with Horses than the Rich. I would sooner die Old and Comfortable than in Prison in a Strange Country–but I have promised to serve you and if God does not directly tell me it is a Sin I will do this for you.”
“You may trust me when I tell you it is no Sin but an Act Necessary to Wipe out Dishonour,” returned the Captain.
“I do trust you!” replied the Polander “yet I will also ask God about this matter.”
Then the Captain laughed and dismissed him, bidding him be Ready on the Morrow, and the Polander went to a Bed set for him ina Garret of theBlack Bull. He was Much Troubled in his Mind that the first Service asked of him by the Captain should be a Murder and that on the second night of his stay in a Strange Country he should have such a Task put on him as to Shoot a Gentleman coming fromChurch, for it seemed an unmanly Action.
What Penalties might follow he did not know, for he was Ignorant of the Laws ofEngland; to this he gave Little Heed for, however: he had faith in the Captain and that Great Gentleman who was his friend, Charles, Count of Conningsmarke. As he sat in the Dark wondering where the right lay in this Case he decided to make Proof of it and to that end went on his Knees and Recited theLord’s Prayervery Gravely and Earnestly. And when he had finished he rose up again and Searched in his Heart to see if he was Strengthened against this Action; but he found no change in his Feelings: so he thought that if it had been anything Wrong God would have this Way told him; so was Comforted and Decided to Help the Captain.
Having come to this Resolve he lay down on his bed, dressed as he was, and Chanced to Dream of Poland which Country he had not seen this Great While–but he saw it in the Dream very Clear with the sparkle of Snow in Winter and the bright-coloured dresses in the Streets.
He thought he saw a Church too and dreamt he stood on the threshold and was thinking with much pleasure of Entering when he was awakened by the voice of Christopher Vratz.
The Polander got to his Feet, Remembering everything and the Captain put in his hand a Blunderbuss and bade him be Silent; the two went down to the stables of theBlack Bullwhere was Ernest Stern and three Horses and it was then about Seven of the Clock.
And the Polander, on seeing he was to be Mounted was greatly Encouraged, for he believed no evil could come to him when he was on the back of a Horse, so took this for a Good Omen.
“I wish we had Another Man,” said Captain Vratz, “for Esquire Thynne is one to go with a great Medley of Servants about him.”
They mounted then and as they Rode out of the Yard theGermanasked what this Mr. Thynne was?
And the Captain made answer that he was a Man Well Known inLondonfor his marriage to Elizabeth, my Lady Ogle, last of the Percies, who was heiress to Five Baronies and one of the richest Women in the World; she had been married before, yet was but a child of fifteen and still under Governance atThe Hagueand Mr. Thynne was looked upon as a lucky Man to have all this Wealth without the trouble of a Wife.
“The death of such a One will make a Stir inEngland,” said the lieutenant with an air of Misgiving; but Vratz bid him take Courage. “For,” he declared, “if there be any Penalties, I will pay them all.”
And the Polander Rode behind them patiently, much Remarked by the passers-by for his foreign air and Great Stature, and so they came to theMallwhere there was a goodly number of People.
And one of Them, who was a Young Man with a Mirror in his hat, Pranking on a Sizeable Horse, the Captain stopped and, Saying he was new come toLondonand Desirous of seeing the Notables, asked if Esquire Thynne had yet passed?
The Englishman, making out this request with some difficulty from the Swedelander’s strange accent, answered at length Courteously that Mr. Thynne was Driving Out with His Grace of Monmouth, and would be coming fromNorthumberland House, where they had made a visit, anon,Northumberland Housebeing nearly at the End of theMall, on the river atCharing Cross.
So they waited and the Sun mounted the Snow Clouds pleasantly but it was yet scarcely light, and the Bells of the Big Churches near by sounded in their first Ringing.
And after a few minutes a Coach and four Horses came swinging on its Leathers with Six Servants Riding at the Sides and Vratz knew the colours.
Before came a Fellow with a Flambeau; the Captain rode Past him and Caught the Reins of the Foremost horses, stopping the coach, and Stern cried out to the Polander: “Shoot!” at the same time Threatening the Coachman. Like one in a Stupour the Polander rode round to the Side of the Coach, and saw the Handsome Face of anEnglishmanwith Brown Eyes looking out of the window.
“Shoot!” cried Captain Vratz.
And the Polander raised his Blunderbuss and Fired into the lace-covered Bosom of Esquire Thynne.
“DamnyourForeigntricks, I’m murdered!” cried theEnglishman; he fell back on the Seat of the Coach and the Polander Turned and Galloped away upSt. James StreetandAlban Streetwith the Captain and Stern after him; and the Servant with the Flambeau put a Pursuit on them as far as theHaymarket, then could go no Further; but the Polander had Cast away his Blunderbuss and that the Servant Caught up and carried back to theMall, where was a Great Press and Mr. Thynne Dying with three bullets in him and the People saying how his Grace of Monmouth had but just left the coach and what a stroke that was, for he might have been Murdered else.
And the three rode to my Lord’s Lodgings inSt. Martin’s Laneand asked for him.
“For it may be Well,” said the Captain, “that we ask my Lord to let us Lie at theSwedish Resident’s—”
But when they answered his knock he was told that the Count had gone early that Morning to Windsor wearing a Black Periwig and in a Coat he had borrowed of a Servant. At hearing this news the Captain came back with a Look of Death in his face.
“If he hath Fled to Gravesend—” he said, and They All went Back to theBlack Bulland Mounted to the Captain’s Chamber and sat Still and Silly, looking at each other.
“We have trustedYou,” said Stern, “and there is your Word to it that we are Safe.”
“I had the Count of Conningsmarke’s Word,” answered the Captain, “but he hath failed me—”
“Will you Fail us?” asked Stern.
The Polander said nothing but watched the Captain in a Troubled Way.
The German got to his feet and laid his hand on Vratz’s Shoulder.
“If my Lord hath gone toGravesendin a Black Periwig–should not we go after him and slip downthe ThamestoMargatewhere we may likely enough get a Ship for Home?”
The Captain looked up like one Undecided, then in a moment was on his Feet, for there had come a Great Knocking on the Door; nor did those without Long stay atKnockingbut burst open the door andEntered.
They were Constables and the People of the Inn and in front of them a Man in Squire Thynne’s Liveries carrying a Musquetoon, and on seeing the three he gave a Cry and called out:
“That is the man did shoot my Master!”
And the Polander saw that it was the Blunderbuss he had Dropt in theHaymarket.
“Why do you put this onUs?” asked Captain Vratz in his ill English.
A Constable spoke to him and answered:
“We took this Musquetoon to the Maker whose name is thereon, and he told us he had sold it yesterday to one Captain Vratz who lodged at theBlack Bull.”
“I do admit,” answered the Captain, “that I was at the shooting of Mr. Thynne, but I went with the design to Challenge him, he having Refused me Satisfaction, and I took these Two with me as Protection, Mr. Thynne being a Gentleman who has commonly a great Press of Servants about him which he might have set on me. And in theMeléemy Servant fired and that I know nothing of.”
At this they were all three disarmed and arrested, at which the Polander Wept mightily.
And when they had a Lodgement in Prison it came to them that my Lord of Conningsmarke had been arrested atDeptfordby an Agent of the Duke of Monmouth when he had been taking a Pair of Sculls forGravesend.
In the Prison they were separated and the Polander sat alone till his trial and when they Pressed him he said that he had Acted only as His Master Directed and that was the Law he had been brought up in–to obey his Master; and he added that not having been Strengthened against the deed after the Recital of the Lord’s Prayer he Concluded that God had meant him to do this thing.
Stern also Confessed to the Fact and accused the Captain of drawing him into a Snare, but Vratz maintained his first Story and would not bring my Lordinto the Business.
And the Count of Conningsmarke denied all of them.
Now this Trial was held before the Lord Chief Justice and the other Great Judges with manifest and open Fairness, according to theEnglishLaw, even to have the Jury part Foreign and giving all rights to the Prisoners, such as having an Interpreter, oneVandore, who interpreted to them all theEnglishSpoken, putting it intoHigh DutchorFrench.
Yet there was Little Doubt as to the End of this Trial, as all three Confessed to the Design on Esquire Thynne and the Polander to the actual shooting; but Captain Vratz would by no means bring the Count of Conningsmarke in, but took the Whole Matter on his own shoulders; but the other two, Stern from Anger and the Polander from Simplicity, told what they knew of my Lord’s part in This.
Yet at the End it was the Count who was Acquitted and the three Humble Ones who were Condemned, and my Lord left Them to the Law; yet even Then Captain Vratz Persisted that he was alone Guilty.
And when the Prisoners were asked what they had to say for Themselves, the Captain Vratz Said that he had not been rightly Examined, Stern that he had gone into the Affair as Second to the Captain and in that Capacity would end it, and the Polander asked God for Mercy.
When in Prison these Three were seen by Dr. Burnet and Dr. Horneck who knew ForeignLanguages and to both of these Priests Stern and the Polander Confessed, but Vratz would write nor say Nothing, but to their solicitations Replied with great Composure that the Matter was between him and God and that he Perceived that they wished to draw him to Implicate the Count, which he would by no Means do.
Dr. Horneck was Much Impressed by the Innocent Lives these Men had led and by their Devotion to the Captain and the nice sense of Honour Stern showed and the Humble Ingenuousness of the Polander, and he brought all three together and exhorted Vratz to a Confession.
And Stern added his Words, saying:
“I Forgive you for having Drawn me into this Business, for the Count of Conningsmarke deluded you, but Repent now, for we are very near the Judgment of God.”
Thereupon Vratz fell into a passion, and gave him Reproachful Words, saying he Lied.
“Put no Blame on my Lord,” he said, “for he is Guiltless.”
And with that he was Going, when the Polander Spoke.
“Give me a Word,” he said, “for soon I must Die.”
But Vratz looked at him with quick Kindled Wrath.
“You too defamed my Lord,” he said, “and I thought you were a Faithful Servant.” Then he left them.
And the Polander Wept mightily.
“The Two things I have most trusted In have Betrayed me,” he said, “first the Captain who sadly Deceived me in this matter–then I had a great Love for Horses and thought to spend my Life in the care of them, but when this Late Misfortune happened, I was on the back of One.”
Stern asked if he might be Buried, not Gibbeted, if he made a Written Confession, and they told him, Yes, maybe, so he wrote what he knew of it all.
Now the Night before their Execution there came a Message from the Captain, Confessing that he had drawn them into this Snare and asking their Forgiveness.
Upon which they Both Returned him a Message of Great Affection and the Polander felt indeed Happy and Almost Satisfied to die if he might be on these Terms with the Captain.
So they came to be Hanged, on the Tenth ofMarch, inPall Mallon the Spot where Esquire Thynne had been Murdered; and Vratz was Buried but the other two Hung in Chains, and the Great Frame of the Polander hung near Camden Town long after his crime had been Forgotten by the General.
There was a Fine Marble put up in the Abbey Church ofWestminsterto the Memory of Mr. Thynne, and next year his Widow, the Lady Ogle, married the Duke of Somerset, who was the Proudest Man inEngland.
As for Charles Count of Conningsmarke, he went to the Wars and became Famous for his Achievements, but it was Believed that he was a Haunted Man, and it has been Rumoured that he Confessed to being Troubled, not by Mr. Thynne, or either of the two Soldiers, but by the figure of the Polander in the New Coat and carrying the new Broadsword Mr. Hanson had Bought, smiling, very humble and Grateful.
This Figure Followed him so Persistently that his Death at the Siege of Argos in 1685 was a Release from a Life that had becomeUnbearable.
Grace Endicott hath had as remarkable history as any woman of her times, and slander, calumny and malice, as well as curiosity and wonder, having noised and mouthed her story until it hath been used as a scorn against the Nonconformists and the town of Bedford, one who was well acquainted with her here putteth forth the facts as they were known to him, of the which he can solemnly attest and sware the truth, by his faith in Christianity. After this preamble he now giveth the case, leaving the judgment thereof to the charity of the human heart and the Eye of God Almighty, only adding for himself that never was there a stranger instance of the dealings of Heaven and Hell with man and woman.
Mrs. Endicott was born at Edworth, in the county of Bedford, in the year 1652, being the period of the high glory of our late the Lord Protector.
Her family was of the yeomanry and of considerable substance; she early lost her mother and had but one sister, younger than herself.
Her father being a pious man, she was brought up to walk in the ways of righteousness, and was well educated beside in the accomplishments of her sex; and she became a hopeful sprightly maiden, full of winning graces, so that she drew unto her many likely swains, yet would have none of them, being contented enough in her presentsituation.
In the year 1672, Mrs. Endicott being then twenty years of age and her sister married into a house of her own rank, her father left his farm in charge of a steward and bought a residence in Bedford, where he came to live with this remaining daughter.
Here Mrs. Endicott, by reason of her personal endowment and handsome fortune promised, found herself in the midst of much courtship and flush of friendship from the better sort and received many a treat and compliment; in fine she began to lead a life of uselessness and vanity and to lose pleasure in everything but the gauds of the world.
Full often have I seen her setting forth in a little chariot with pearls on her head and a marvel of silk and braid about her person and a coat on her back of sable fur that would have brought a copyhold.
And many of those who watched this maiden thought the Father of Darkness had set some springe to catch her soul, so different was she from the meekness of her tender years, and this was a curious thing withal, for her people had ever leant to Puritan doctrine, and during the civil war had stood for the Godly side. And those who thus made talk of the lightness of Mrs. Endicott’s behaviour soon found a cause for it in the person of Gilbert Farry, who was an attorney of the place.
Now this Farry, for divers reasons, was neither loved nor liked; the main argument against him being that he and his family were unknown in the neighbourhood where he had lived but a few years, and therefore he was, in a manner, a foreigner; nay, some held it that he was foreign indeed, and had false French or Italian blood in him, for his complexion was unnaturally dark and his temper sudden and gusty.
Though he had money enough, and indeed lived above his station, yet he never honestly proclaimed how he came by it nor openly spoke of his parents or former residence, and this closeness caused people to take up a dislike to him and predict no good of his end.
There was something strange in his dress, for he greatly affected outlandish colours of a brightness ill-befitting a Christian, and often when he went abroad there would be a set of boys of the baser sort calling after him, for he had the affliction of a limp that caused his garments to be the more noticeable; yet methinks it true that he overtopped the Bedford gallants in presence and speech, and the old wives said there would have been many a wench glad enough to take him, for there was nought definite against him and he never missed his church-going, though the malicious said it was but fear of the fine that sent him there.
Now it seemed that from the moment of their first meeting this Farry took no manner of heed of any woman but Mrs. Endicott, and she gave him no discouragements, and her father wasfriendly enough and clearly looked upon the young man as a suitor, and when wise folks shook their heads he would laugh and bid them wait till affairs were riper. Inasmuch as the whole town took notice of this courtship which went on in open freedom a wonderment began to grow that Farry, having screwed himself into the favour of the father, did not demand the hand of Mrs. Endicott.
And there was much pursing of lips and many a round declaration that Mr. Endicott would have done a wiser thing in lending his countenance to one of his own knowledge and county.
Now about this time, it being near Christmas, Mr. Endicott gave a ball, and the expectants said that his daughter’s betrothal would follow this feast, and using curiosity as a cloak for carnal inclinations many worthy folk went who would have served the Lord better by remaining by their own hearth.
The dance was continued till late, indeed when every one became much animated, for Mr. Endicott was open-handed with his meat and drink, and there was music of fiddles and a harp.
At midnight Mr. Farry led out Mrs. Endicott for some new fangled step from the court (and there were many wanted to hear how he came to know it and how he had found occasion to teach her), and they came down the room hand in hand, she in a pink taffeta with trimmings of silvered silks which had been bought in London and her hair trimmed and dressed like a city Madam at least.
So they came down the room, and all eyes were on them; they looked only at each other, and it was commonly averred afterwards that the look on the face of Mrs. Endicott was that of one whom earthly passion hurrieth forward to inevitable actions, maybe of folly or wickedness.
Still gazing at him, she changed hands in the centre of the room, and moving round for the first figure gave him her left.
Then of a sudden her radiant face withered; she cast an affrighted glance at her feet, recoiled like one who has stepped on a springe and with a shriek fell on the ground, passing into fit after fit with many frantic gestures and maniac words.
This thing did completely put an end to that festival, and was blazing matter for talk, for Mrs. Endicott lay ill for many weeks and gave for reason for her sudden disorder that she had had a vision of Hell.
Yea, she declared with floods of tears to all who came about her that Hell itself had opened at her feet, and she gave such details and spoke with such earnestness of the horrid spectacle of smoke and flame and the faces grinning up at her and the hands endeavouring to pull her down that there was none who dare entirely slight or discredit her tale lest they should be casting scorn on one of the Judgments of God; so all made agree to tell her that it was a forewarning brought on her by her careless life and she used all haste to make amends.
She sold all her gauds and fine things andgave the money to the needy; she came often to the prayers and devoted herself to household stuff as was beseeming one in her situation. No longer did she go prinking like an idle wanton lady, but went in a humble habit without adornment and took up thrifty ways and a sober conversation.
Nor would she have any manner of intercourse with Gilbert nor even speak of him; nay, he was of all others the creature she most hated to hear tell of, and though she could give no reason for the aversion she discovered yet she maintained it against her opposition.
Her father argued this matter with her with some heat, declaring that the young man deserved some kindness from her who had so lately encouraged him in a way that had made public comment; in short, being still close in friendship with Mr. Farry, Mr. Endicott made every endeavour to bring him again into his daughter’s favour, yet without success, for she was resolved in this and was by no means to be moved.
She gave as her reasons the horror she felt at the sneering irreverent way Mr. Farry had of talking of holy things and the general looseness and idleness of his life.
To such a height was her hatred against him now raised that when one day in springtide he did send her a wattle basket full of the first rose blooms she cast them from her with a shudder, and let them lie in the garden, where the sun sucked the life from them; yet was she commonly fond of flowers.
Yet did she have to suffer him about the house, for her father every day drew nearer with him in friendship, and even drew up a will leaving most of his goods to Mrs. Grace on condition of her marriage to this Farry.
At this time a wonderful man preached at the Baptist Chapel in Bedford; he had been a soldier in the Parliamentary Army, and of great profanity and wickedness, but having been marvellously converted he had taken to preach the pure Word of God, and there were a many went to listen to him, some to scoff, for he was unlettered to be talking of learned things, but many to pray, moved by the truth that was in him.
Now to hear this preacher, who began to be well known in these parts, went Grace Endicott, and ofttimes took her father and her sister and brother-in-law, for, as hath been told, the family leant to the Noncomformist views. After but a little while Mrs. Endicott became wrapt up in the spiritual life and an ardent convert to the preachings of this poor preacher, Mr. John Bunyan, whose doctrines filled her life with gladness and rejoicings.
Surely she was like a woman transformed, and took no delight save in the meetings at the Baptist Chapel, which were often enough broken by Mr. Bunyan being in Bedford Gaol, for the King had lately issued strong laws against the Nonconformists and had no mind to suffer them to worship in peace.
At first Mr. Endicott was much uplifted bythese meetings, and inclined to turn from worldly things and to uphold his daughter in her devotions, but after a while Gilbert Farry worked on him again, and he went but seldom and his fervour died.
Yet truly he in no way interfered with his daughter, but allowed her her will in the matter, and though Farry screwed more and more into his confidence, yet Mrs. Endicott was unmolested in her devotions. About the year 1678 Mr. Endicott sold his house in Bedford and returned to his farm at Edworth, which was at some distance from the chapel where Mr. Bunyan preached.
Yet Mrs. Endicott was nothing daunted by difficulties of road or weather, and attended the meetings as regularly as any grave elder of them all.
Now this persistency of hers gave occasion for Gilbert Farry to influence her father’s mind in an evil fashion; it was not in nature, he said, for a woman young and excessively comely (and who had been addicted to gay things) to be so blinded, addicted and possessed by religious zeal as was Grace Endicott. He hinted that John Bunyan was a personable man and one who had not so long been reformed from the most carnal ways of the Devil; he related how the preacher and the maiden held long conversations, going to and from the chapel, and he spread these scandals until they were known to all Bedford. It happened that while things were in this pass, in the winter of this year ’78, Mr. Bunyan was appointed to preach and administer the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper at Gamlingay, which is some distance from Edworth.
Mrs. Endicott made her preparations to go, but when it came to asking the consent of her father it was angrily withheld.
Whereupon she fell into a great travail of mind and besought him with utter earnestness and piteous entreaties to permit her to attend this meeting, until he weakened before her importunities and gave his consent on the two conditions–that she did her household before she went and that she returned the same night at a godly hour.
On the Friday, therefore, Mrs. Endicott, having well looked to all her duties, left her home and went to her brother-in-law’s house, where she was to wait for a Baptist minister who was to escort her to Gamlingay.
Here she waited, but the hour became late and the minister did not come; then did Mrs. Endicott implore her relative to lend her a horse, but he had not one which was not at work, save only that on which he and his wife were riding to the meeting themselves.
Hearing this, Mrs. Endicott broke into a passion of despair and paced about the apartment in an extremity of anguish, and made such a plaint that even her own sister thought she showed an excess of sorrow. In the midst of this scene Mr. Bunyan himself came riding past, and Mrs. Endicott had him stopped and bid her brother-in law ask if the preacher would take her upon his pillion.
And down she came and stood on the doorstepto second this request.
“Will you take me, Mr. Bunyan,” she asked, “for my soul’s sake?”
And he was mute, for he was both loath and unwilling, for he knew the hard things said of him and her in Bedford town.
“It is for my soul,” says Mrs. Endicott again; and so he must be persuaded, and take her up behind him through the darkling lanes to Gamlingay.
And the chance was that they had not gone a mile before they passed the man Farry standing by the cross roads, who closely looked at them.
Mr. Bunyan did not salute him, not being of his acquaintance, and Mrs. Endicott stared at him with eyes that might have been of glass, so blank they were; thereupon Gilbert Farry went softly to Edworth and spoke to George Endicott, and said–
“I have seen your daughter riding pillion with John Bunyan to Gamlingay as if they were man and wife.”
Now whether or no she pictured Mr. Farry poisoning her father, Mrs. Endicott stayed to the end of the meeting and seemed wrapt in the ecstasy of worship and the joy of the moment.
Yet when the meeting was over her sorrows began again; Mr. Bunyan was riding another way, and there was no manner of means for her to get home. There was much delay and argument, and then she found a woman who had a cart and who would take her as far as her sister-in-law’s house, but from there was no convenience, yet mindful of her promise to her father Mrs. Endicott set out onthe dark, miry and rough roads and so came to her home, spent with walking and affrighted with loneliness. Still it was not more than eleven of the clock, and it caused her amaze to see the windows dark and the door locked.
With trembling hands she knocked at the door, and her father came to an upper window with a candle in his hand and demanded who was there.
“It is I, father, come home wet and dirty,” replied Mrs. Endicott. “I pray you let me in.”
“Nay,” he answered. “Where you have been all the evening you may go all the night–and never do you cross my threshold until I have your promise not to see John Bunyan again.”
“That is to give up my soul’s life,” she said; “and I cannot.”
Thereupon he shut the window and took away the light.
Mrs. Endicott did plead desperately and tearfully but to no avail, for the bitter night winds took her words away and her father heard not.
Then, the storm coming up apace, she was fain to go into the barn, and there to lay her down on the straw till the morning.
When her father made his round he saw her there, with her clothes frozen on her and her eyes wet and wild.
“Good morrow, father,” she said. “I have had a dreary night, but it had been worse had not God sustained me.”
“No matter for that,” he answered; “here you stay until you promise never to frequent meetings again and never to speak to John Bunyan.”
Thereupon she hung upon him with vain tears and entreaties, but he would have none of it without her promise, and that she would in no wise give; so at length he flung her from him roughly, and she lay along a byre and wept for comfortlessness.
At noontide up came her brother-in-law, and made the endeavour to conclude a peace, but this was beyond his powers, for George Endicott was obdurate and his daughter would not give her promise; neither would she leave her father’s house, but dwelt without it for several days, living on such food as the pity of the servants gave her and sleeping on the ground or in the stalls of the horses.
And day by day came Gilbert Farry and tempted her with promises of love and comfort, but she would have none of it, but remained a beggar before her father’s door.
On the tenth day her father came to her and again demanded of her her promise; and if she gave it not, he added, she should no longer have even the shelter of his barns, but be cast out upon the high-road among the knaves and gipsies. Grace Endicott rose up from the straw and stood erect in her torn, soiled garments, with her hair unbound and her cheeks stained with weeping.
“Sir,” she made answer, “I stand between Good and Evil, and you would have me chooseEvil. This is my immortal soul you ask for. For certainly I was in the power of the Devil from whom I was rescued by Mr. Bunyan, and if you deny me his converse, then I am no better than lost.”
But her father was in no way moved, and asked if she would promise or go upon the roads.
“Well and well again,” she said with much wildness, “I promise, but it is a lost soul you take into your house.”
Thereupon her father took her by the hand and led her in, and as she crossed the threshold she said again–
“It is a damned soul you bring home, my father.”
In the parlour was a feast spread and wine laid out and Gilbert Farry waiting, and he took her to him with no excuse and kissed her.
“So you have won,” she murmured, and made no resistance.
So for a month she lived quietly in her father’s house, until one day near on Christmas she met Mr. Bunyan in the market-place of Bedford town, and he was being taken to prison for his preaching, and there were many of his following going with him with words of encouragement and love. But Grace Endicott denied him, and looked as if she did not know his face, even asking one who stood by, “Who is that fellow?”
At this John Bunyan looked through the press and spoke to her, quoting scripture–
“Whosoever shall deny Me before men, him will I also deny before My Father which is in Heaven,” he said.
“I obeymyfather,” answered Mrs. Endicott.
“He that loveth father or mother before Me is not worthy of Me,” spake Mr. Bunyan, and went on his way to gaol.
Now all the rest of that day, being Tuesday, Mrs. Endicott was very silent; those among whom she moved marked it with concern. The next night she came running through the darkness to her sister’s house, all wild and beside herself, and implored them all to come home with her, which they did in a great fright.
Upon the way she told them that her father had fallen ill, and was now dying.
This they found true enough; George Endicott was crouching over a hastily lit fire and bemoaning his sins, and in little while without further speech he died. Mrs. Endicott was taken to her sister’s home on the way, it being then dawn, and they met Gilbert Farry, and told him Mr. Endicott was sudden dead.
“It is no more than I looked for,” said he; whereupon Mrs. Endicott shocked those with her in the cart by laughing, and his remark and her manner of taking it were remembered afterwards.
The end of this business was that the doctors made discovery that George Endicott had been poisoned by a drug given him in his ale; and a drug of this nature had been bought by Mrs. Endicott in Bedford a few hours after John Bunyan had spoken to her; this, together with the circumstances of her late dispute with her father, her being alone with him in the house,the suddenness of his illness and some broken words he had let drop in his last moments, was evidence enough, and Mrs. Endicott was arrested on the awful charge of murdering her father and lodged in Bedford Gaol, to the great scandal and confusion of all Nonconformists and damage to the cause of John Bunyan.
The trial is within the memory of all, and no account of it is here required. Mrs. Endicott defended herself with prudence and spirit and strove to cast the guilt on the man Farry, who was the principal witness against her; and, indeed, his known spite towards her, the fact that Mr. Endicott’s will was in his favour and the misty kind of character he bore gave her some handle, but since she could no wise explain the drug she had bought save lamely saying it was for cleaning tiles and that she knew not its deadly properties, the case looked ill against the woman. Nevertheless, her youth, her comeliness, her known piety and long sweet behaviour, the influence of her relatives and the feeling of the people pleaded for her, and there was no one who doubted that she would be acquitted when on the last day of her trial she startled the court by rising up and declaring herself guilty and a helpmate of the Devil from the moment she abjured John Bunyan in her father’s barn.
In fine she vowed herself a witch, and baring her arm showed them a purple hoof-print on the flesh that was known for the particular mark and sign of Hell. After this she refused to speakagain either to her relatives or to the clergyman, and came forth to be hanged next day in a green tabinet gown with red ribbons. Not a word spoke she while being led through Bedford town, but was composed and seemed in a meditation.
With her own hands she tied down her skirts and put up her hair, and so without a prayer or any plea for mercy was hanged in full sight of all Bedford.
There was afterwards found in her gown a paper which was taken possession of by me, being one of the clergy present, and here published by me that all the facts be known to all who care to read. As for Gilbert Farry, he came to the execution and stood close to the gallows, and when she was dead went westward, leaving his properties in his lodgings, nor was he ever seen or heard of again in Bedford.
And his belongings were principally books in pagan languages and gaudy clothes, which were burnt before the Town Hall, for there was a great distrust of this man, it being thought that he had brought to ruin the soul of Grace Endicott.
Here followeth the paper written by Mrs. Endicott the day before she died:–
“Bedford Gaol, Wednesday, March 25th, 1679.“Powerful is evil and hard to escape, and wise are those who step aside from the world which is set with springes into one of which I fell, who was once a Chrisom child and spun Church linen at my father’s door.“When I was in my tender years I thought ofneither good nor evil, but went my way in empty vanity; then, behold! I had a warning and beheld Hell in its flames and saw that Love was but the Devil and so let go his hand.“Soon there came a man, wonderful and strong, who took my soul from the embrace of Evil and set it on the road to Heaven and for six years I laboured in that thorny way, and thought I had found peace.“Yet was the Devil busy, and pursued me and set his hounds on my soul, and his traps for my feet, but the preacher bade me hold fast to him, and surely he was drawing me Heavenwards. Yet through weakness of body I denied him, and the Devil kissed me, and I was a damned soul, and the net was so tight about me I could not move, and being damned could not pray.“Yet I brooded still on Heaven and the Preacher, and conceived a great wrath against him who had wrung that denial from me, so having the seal of the Devil on me I slew my father and saw him die in the night. And being put on my trial cast spells till they thought me innocent. Yet I was presently weary of this, and did admit my master and to-morrow shall die and be returned to that Great Wickedness of which I am a part, yet once was a saved soul, grace to Master John Bunyan.“May He whose name I dare not write save others from what befell Grace Endicott.”
“Bedford Gaol, Wednesday, March 25th, 1679.
“Powerful is evil and hard to escape, and wise are those who step aside from the world which is set with springes into one of which I fell, who was once a Chrisom child and spun Church linen at my father’s door.
“When I was in my tender years I thought ofneither good nor evil, but went my way in empty vanity; then, behold! I had a warning and beheld Hell in its flames and saw that Love was but the Devil and so let go his hand.
“Soon there came a man, wonderful and strong, who took my soul from the embrace of Evil and set it on the road to Heaven and for six years I laboured in that thorny way, and thought I had found peace.
“Yet was the Devil busy, and pursued me and set his hounds on my soul, and his traps for my feet, but the preacher bade me hold fast to him, and surely he was drawing me Heavenwards. Yet through weakness of body I denied him, and the Devil kissed me, and I was a damned soul, and the net was so tight about me I could not move, and being damned could not pray.
“Yet I brooded still on Heaven and the Preacher, and conceived a great wrath against him who had wrung that denial from me, so having the seal of the Devil on me I slew my father and saw him die in the night. And being put on my trial cast spells till they thought me innocent. Yet I was presently weary of this, and did admit my master and to-morrow shall die and be returned to that Great Wickedness of which I am a part, yet once was a saved soul, grace to Master John Bunyan.
“May He whose name I dare not write save others from what befell Grace Endicott.”
Many who read this paper did say she was a mad woman, and many did say she was a witch, and Gilbert Farry the Devil himself, while others swore she was crazed with love for John Bunyan and was innocent and the old man died naturally (for, indeed, the doctors afterwards fell out about his having been poisoned), and yet others held she had lost her wits through the terror she had been in through denying her faith–and who shall make truth out of all this tangle?
“Madame se Meurt! Madame est Morte!”
Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.“O nuit desastreuse! O nuit effroyable, ou retentit tout a coup comme un eclat de tonnerre cette etonnante nouvelle: Madame se meurt! Madame est morte!”
Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.
Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.
Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,
Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas.
“O nuit desastreuse! O nuit effroyable, ou retentit tout a coup comme un eclat de tonnerre cette etonnante nouvelle: Madame se meurt! Madame est morte!”
Madame found herself at the pinnacle of her desires; she had returned to France with news of the treaty of Dover signed, with the friendship of her brother for Louis de Bourbon, with the prospect of yet another conquest to offer to the glorious nation that had adopted her; her triumphant charms had sealed the league between England and France; she had seen Arlington put his name to the paper that rendered void the Triple Alliance. Her influence, they said, and the languishing eyes of Louise de la Querowaille had done it. It was thecoup de theatre, though a secret one, of a brilliant and unscrupulous policy; it was praised by M. de Louvois and by the King; it was the most dishonourable bargain a sovereign of England had ever set his hand to; it was false, lying, treacherous; it involved the ruin of two nations to satisfy the greed of one man and the ambition of another.
Also it was the seeds from which many years after sprang the hydra-headed league that laid in the slime of defeat the glories of invincible France.
But Madame never knew of that.
All who spoke to her praised her–her, the daughter of an English King and the sister of an English King–for this treaty which betrayed the English people and their allies; she had been always courted for her beauty, her rank; now she found herself courted for her political influence and her skill in the affairs of men–most exquisite of compliments for a clever woman proud of her cleverness.
The greatest nation in the world was beholden to her; there were many to tell her so. Afterwards the Dutch called her a wanton woman, and the English people cursed her as they cursed her brother. But Madame never heard them.
There were two Queens at the Court of France, but Madame was above either; she was the most brilliant, the most admired princess in France, which is to say in the world.
Madame was Henriette-Anne d’Angleterre, Duchesse d’Orleans, sister of Charles Stewart and the sister-in-law of Louis de Bourbon, granddaughter of Henri Quartre and his Medicis Queen, great-granddaughter of Marie Stewart, on both sides of a rich illustrious blood, yet born in the midst of civil war in the beleaguered town of Exeter and brought up a penniless exile.
Now, at five and twenty, at the apogee of her fame with these things forgotten; her brother was restored to her father’s throne, and had avenged himself, God knows, on the English people, Madame lending her delicate aid.
Nine months ago Henriette-Marie de France,Madame’s mother, had died, and Madame had listened to her funeral sermon, preached by the Bishop of Condom. As his glowing eloquence fell on her ears Madame had wept, her gay, light heart touched for the first and perhaps the last time.
She resolved to alter her frivolous, pleasure-loving useless life; she appointed the Bishop her confessor, and made, it may be, some little progress on another path to that which she had followed so far.
His grace of Condom called her a virtuous princess, and, in common with all who knew her, loved her for her gaiety, her charm, her sweetness; his one-time reproof had melted into flatteries now: there could be no censure for her who had detached England from The Triple Alliance.
Her return from England had been celebrated by a succession of balls, fêtes, masques; she had re-conquered France with her dazzling English beauty, her graceful easy manners, and the brilliant success of her mission. Flushed and roseate from her victory she descended like a goddess into her throne in the most glorious court in Europe; she was the idol of the people too, “the most adorable princess who ever lived,” one of her ladies called her. There seemed no word to express her complex charm.
In the midst of her gorgeous triumph Madame was a little grieved, a little stung by the obvious coldness of Monsieur; his jealousy had been the background of her life for the eight years since she had married him. Defying him, she had come more than once very near to giving him cause for open outraged clamour, but her wit, her courage had saved her; it had always ended in Madame laughing at Monsieur.
She laughed at Monsieur now; it had become a habit, though, knowing him to be something justified and not being shallow herself, there was a little ache to be hidden beneath her sparkling demeanour, an ache strengthened perhaps by a memory of the Bishop of Condom’s words and a vague desire to follow them. But there was all her life, she thought; now there was no time for anything but gaiety, applause, the sweet incense of adulation. In the court that toasted Mme d’Armagnac, Louise de la Vallière, Madame Valentinois, Madame de Soissons, she was reckoned the most beautiful woman; she believed that the King loved her; in her heart she believed that he, Adonis and Mars among men, loved her, the unattainable. If she had been free–or even perhaps the wife of any other man–she might have been the Queen of France.
She had coquetted with many; the splendid de Guiche, the romantic de Vardes, Marsillac and Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, but–the King—
The queen and Monsieur paid her the infinite compliment of being furiously jealous; the d’Armagnacs, the Mancinis, the la Vallières and the lesser beauties spread abroad to dazzle the eyes of majesty were openly overshadowed; Racine wrote for her “Berenice,” and all who saw it performed knew who the heroine stood for–and who was Titus.
The past was stormy but glorious, the future vague but golden; she had the praises of Louis and the endearments of Charles in her ears; she had come from England where she had queened it for a period of meteor-like splendour to France, where she was permanently enthroned.
“This is a glorious year for me,” said Madame. “I think that I am happier than I have ever been.”
It was the twenty-ninth of June, the year 1670, eight days after Madame’s return to France. She and Monsieur had gone to St. Cloud; Madame loved the château; despite the commands of her physician, M. Vyelen, she bathed every morning in the river that flowed down from Paris past the park and wandered at night in the moonlight that was so chilly after the heat of the day. Madame, whose short life had been torn with several fierce illnesses, was careless of her health. This day, the twenty-ninth of June, she had passed quietly. Madame de la Fayette had arrived at St. Cloud, and Madame had been pleased to see her; they had walked in the garden gaily and Madame had talked of her stay in England, of the King her brother; speaking of these things pleased her. She laughed, and was very cheerful. An Englishman was painting Monsieur and Mademoiselle, her eldest daughter; she went to see these pictures, and spoke again of England to Madame de la Fayette and Madame d’Epernon.
Dinner was served in the studio; afterwards Madame lay along the couch and slept, her headalmost on the shoulder of Madame de la Fayette.
Monsieur sat for his portrait; his extremely handsome, cold face was turned towards his wife; he appeared not to notice her, but once he remarked that her countenance had changed curiously in her sleep. Madame de la Fayette, looking down, noticed that this was so. Madame did not look beautiful or even agreeable now; the lady reflected that it must be that her loveliness lay in her spirit, but reflected again that she was wrong, for she had often seen Madame asleep and never seen her look less than beautiful before.
Monsieur talked indifferently of many things. Presently the sitting was concluded, and Madame awoke. Monsieur remarked that she looked ill; she took up the glass at her girdle and surveyed herself. She wore a tight-laced gown of pearl-coloured satin, embroidered with wreaths of pink roses; it well suited her blue-eyed loveliness. She dropped the mirror.
“I look well enough,” she smiled.
Monsieur left the room; he had expressed his intention of going to Paris.
Madame descended with Mme Gourdon into the saloon that looked upon the terraces, the fountains, the parkland. It was a beautiful afternoon, lacking but a few moments of five o’clock; the salon was filled with sunshine that showed the dark walls, the polished floor, the furniture heavy, gilded, and Madame walked up and down talking to M. Boisfeane, the treasurer of Monsieur. She complained, laughing, of a pain in her side, and held her hand to it as she walked; the long windowwas open and a breeze blowing in ruffled the long auburn curls back from her face. Presently Monsieur entered; he wore a pink velvet riding suit and was booted and spurred; he looked at his wife as if he would have spoken to her, but changed his mind and crossed to the window.
“I asked for a cup of chicory water,” said Madame, ignoring him. “Where is Mme de Mecklenbourg?”
As she spoke that lady entered with the Comtesse de Gamaches.
Madame smiled at them; Monsieur turned in the window recess and looked at her; his hands held his gloves behind his back; the sunlight made stars of his spurs and twinkled on his sword-handle. Madame crossed the long room, taking no heed of him; her satin gown rippled with light. She held out her hand delicately.
“I have such a pain in my side,” she said. Chicory water had eased her before. She laughed.
Mme de Mecklenbourg handed the cup to Mme de Gourdon, who gave it the Princess.
Monsieur began putting on his gloves, looking, however, at his wife. Monsieur de Boisfeane was choosing a flower from the vase on the side-table, with an idea of fastening it in his cravat.
The heavy pendulum clock struck five. Madame drank.
When she had finished she moved a step awayfrom the three ladies, the cup in one hand, the other clasped to her heart.
“My side,” she said in a tone of agony; the colour rushed into her face. “Ah!–the pain–I can no more.”
They stood staring at her, Monsieur de Boisfeane with a pink rose held in his hand.
“Ah, my God!” cried Madame; she was now livid, and the cup fell from her grasp. “Hold me up–I cannot stand.”
The Comtesse de Gamaches took her under the arms, for she was falling backwards, and Mme de la Fayette took her hands.
As her husband did not move, Mons. Boisfeane dared not offer his aid. The four ladies supported her to the door; she walked with difficulty; her head, with its fair hair outspread, sank against Mme de Gamaches’ shoulder; her pearl comb, that had been her mother’s, fell out of her locks and rattled on the smooth floor.
Monsieur, moving for the first time since her outcry, picked it up and ordered Mons. Boisfeane to call a doctor.
Madame, moaning, almost fainting, was half lifted, half dragged to her chamber.
This was a handsome room full of the summer sunshine and overlooking the rose terrace. Madame sank across the chair before her dressing-table; Mme de la Fayette held her up while the other ladies unlaced her. In an instant they had her undressed and in a night-gown; they lifted her into the great red-curtained bed.
Her constant complaints and the tears in herblue eyes startled and astonished them; they knew that she was usually patient under pain.
“You are in great anguish?” asked Mme de la Fayette.
“It is inconceivable,” she answered. “What have I done?”
She threw herself from side to side in her agony, clutching at the pillows and her thin night-rail. Mme de Gamaches drew the silk curtains over the bright sunlight and the terraces of St. Cloud. Her first physician came, stared down at her as she lay tossing.
He said she had caught a chill from her bathing, that it was nothing; he could offer no remedy.
She sat up in bed, shuddering with pain.
“I am wiser than you think,” she cried. “I am dying–send me a confessor.”
The doctor repeated that it was nothing dangerous, and left the chamber to prepare a powder.
Madame fell on her side again; her sufferings were horrible. She opened her eyes from a swoon of anguish to see her husband holding back the bed curtains and looking down at her.
She spoke, panting from the pillow.
“Ah, Monsieur!–you have ceased to love me–a long while now–but I–I have never deceived you.”
He turned away without a word.
She lay now on her back exhausted; the curtains were drawn so that she was enclosed in her bed. Her sick eyes traced the pattern on the canopy above her; she heard her ladies whispering.
She thought of de Guiche smuggled into her apartments under the guise of a fortune-teller, of his letters–three, four a day–when she was last sick; she thought of Marsillac, of de Vardes, of M. de Lorraine and of the King—
She thought of the King’s brother, her husband, of how she had angered, flouted, wounded him, of how she had laughed at him.
All at once she sat up and dragged the curtains apart.
“Look to that water I drank,” she gasped. “I am poisoned!” As she spoke she saw that Monsieur was still in her chamber, and she seemed confused. “They mistook one bottle for another,” she said, and fell down again in the bed.
A little tremor of horror ran through the ladies. Madame de la Fayette looked at Monsieur; he appeared neither startled nor terrified.
“Give some of the chicory water to a dog,” he said, “and watch if it be poison or no.”
But Mme de Gamaches said that the cup she had given to Madame had contained the last there was in the bottle.
It was now half-past five; the doctor returned and gave Madame a glass of viper powders mixed with milk; as she dragged herself up to take it she noticed that the sun was still shining brightly through a chink in the curtains, and it shot across her agony; it was a strange thing that the sun glimmered still over the terraces, the rose-beds, the terraces of St. Cloud, and the broad river running from Paris.
The loathsome mixture did her no good; she was smitten with a deadly sickness, and lay quite still, shivering. M. Vyelen felt her hands, icy cold, her feet as cold.
“I am poisoned,” she said; “I am dying.”
The room was crowded with people; many of them were weeping. The noise of it came heavily to her ears; her eyes were closed.
She wondered why they should weep; nobody was there whom she had imagined fond of her; neither De Guiche, Marsillac, M. de Lorraine–her brother, De Vardes or–the King.
And these? Would any of these care? She trusted none but the last.
How far to Versailles? Why did they not send for him?
The curtain was drawn again; this time Mme Desbordes. She declared that she had made the chicory water herself and had drunk of it. This to comfort Madame; it was not–as to the last–true.
Madame persisted that she was poisoned. She sat up in bed; the tears lay in her eyes.
“Give me an antidote,” she said through locked teeth. She was not going to die, she told herself; it was too horrible. People did not die like this in the midst of glory. She clenched her hand against her side and demanded an antidote.
Sainte-Foy, the valet de chambre of Monsieur, brought her a draught composed of Jesuit’s bark and pulverised mummy. Monsieur had sent it, he said; the doctor could recommend no betterantidote. She drank it, shivering; the eyes were distracted.
Her ladies whispered and sobbed together; there were now so many men and women in the room that she felt the air close and heavy. She implored Sainte-Foy to open the window; the doctor forbade it.
With that she fell back, tossing in the grip of pain, crying out that she was poisoned.
M. Vyelen brought her a glass of oil; she forced it down, shuddering with nausea.
Then after the administration of several horrible nameless drugs she lay in a half-stupor.
The pain had ceased to be localised; it shuddered through her limbs like her very blood and seemed one with the thick air about her.
Her thoughts raced at a fever pace; she saw the towers of Exeter, the first thing she could remember; she saw the mean room in Paris where her girlhood had been spent and the waves tossing in the channel as she stood on the deck of the ship by her mother’s side: a man in cut velvet was there–George Villiers, the first man to profess himself mad for love of her.
Then masques, festivals, adorations, ballets danced with the King, snatched interviews with De Guiche, passionate letters from De Vardes, hunting parties with M. de Lorraine, little scenes with Monsieur, with the Queen Mother,–her last great triumph only a few days ago–and now?
Not the end? Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Not the end!
“She is better,” whispered Madame de la Fayette, seeing her lie still.
She opened her poor tortured blue eyes.
“The pain is always the same,” she said, “only I have no strength to complain.”
Then after a moment–
“Is there no remedy for this agony?”
They wept and whispered and talked. Monsieur was in the ante-chamber. The doctors seemed bewildered, frightened; one felt her pulse; it was beating furiously. She complained of heat though she had tossed the bedclothes off and torn open her night-gown; but there were so many people in the room, and they pressed so close to the bed that she obtained little air.
The curé of St. Cloud had arrived; they argued in the ante-chamber whether he should be admitted or not; to let Madame see a confessor was to admit that she was dying.
She had now been ill for three hours. The room was full of the yellow light of lamps and candles; some of it penetrated through her bed curtains. A spasm of horror shook her. What if she never saw the sun again! She resolved to live at least till dawn–so her thoughts, panting with her pain.
Monsieur came to her bedside; she opened her eyes and looked at him as he stood holding back her curtains. He had a spray of jasmine in the buttonhole of his pink coat; she noted that. He had not worn it when she had fainted in the saloon; since then he had found time to fix it there.
“Will you see the confessor, Madame?” he asked. How little he had changed since she had first known him; she looked up into his cold face, and their eyes met.
“No,” she murmured, and her heavy lids fell. “I am not dying. I shall be better soon.”
The light hurt her eyes; she was glad when he dropped the curtain and turned away.
How she had lied to Monsieur and laughed at him–especially laughed at him–never with malice; now she was prostrate, helpless before him.
She called Madame de la Fayette.
“Cannot you do anything for me?” she whispered desperately.
She was told that they had sent to Paris for a doctor, to Versailles for the King’s physician.
“Versailles,” she repeated; her eyes lit.
Madame de la Fayette put her arm about her and held her up in bed; she seemed for the moment a little eased of her agony.
M. Vyelen roused her as she lay in this half swoon to bleed her arm.
All her poor vanity was roused; there was a great ballet on Thursday–she might be there yet–and her arms were her especial beauty.
“My foot!” she pleaded; “Monsieur, bleed my foot.”
He insisted; her husband came and added his authority; she must be bled in the arm if M. Vyelen commanded it.
She protested still and moaned; Monsieur helped to support her while the doctor bared her arm.
She looked so pale, so worn with pain, so patient, she lifted her eyes with such a look of dumb helplessness that Monsieur was troubled and turned his face away.
The doctor opened a vein; she shuddered to see the blood run into the basin; she began to make complaint when all his bandaging would not stop the bleeding and her pillow began to be stained with the quick-spreading red.
Monsieur Vyelen had lost his nerve and cut too deeply. Madame de la Fayette had to hold Madame’s arm up. Monsieur moved away; the sight of blood made him sick.
Madame, lamentably feeble, strove with a clutching fear of death and demanded the confessor. They endeavoured to dispersuade her, vowing she was better. She shook her head with such a look of anguish that they cleared the room and brought the priest.
Madame de la Fayette remained, holding her up.
She was too weak to do more than repeat the formula of the church. When the priest had gone she lay back and tried hard to think of her real sins, but hopeless confusion engulfed her.
God was so shadowy. No one had ever told her what He wanted of her; she had thought very little about Him, very little about death. She wondered if it would ever be remembered to her that she was very young. What did it mean to be good? She had never wilfully injured any one, she had never felt wicked; but she hoped God would remember she was very young. For awhile this thought gave her some ease; then it flashed across her mind that the Queen was no older, and the Queen was virtuous, obviously virtuous.
La Vallière also; she knew Louise de la Vallière was a good woman and one whom she had shamefully treated.
Surely her sins were not difficult to remember now. She fell out of Madame de la Fayette’s arms and lay silent on the pillow. The room had filled again; the King’s physician, M. Vallot, had arrived.
He was an old man and pompous; he came to the bedside and Madame lifted her head.
“Thank you for your attention, Monsieur,” she said. “But I am poisoned. Unless you can treat me for that—” She sank down again.
Monsieur Vallot smiled.
There was no danger, he said; it was merely the pain that frightened her. He retired to consult with the other doctors.
M. le Prince came to see her; she seemed pleased and tried to look at him, but he wore a black and gold brocade, and the candle light on it dazzled her. She half closed her eyes.
“I am dying,” she murmured.
M. le Prince was greatly moved; he tried to tell her that she was better.
She shook her head and asked what time it was.
“Nine o’clock, Madame,” he answered.
She asked if they might have the window open, and complained of the heat; but no one dared for fear of the doctor.
Then Madame caught hold of Monsieur le Prince’s arm so as to draw him down to her, and breathed the question she had so longed to ask.
“The King–does he know? Is he coming?”
The news was at Versailles, he told her; but no one thought her dying–she was not dying.
Monsieur came to her bedside. M. Vallot, he said, had come to him four times and assured him on his life that there was no danger; the other doctors had agreed with him, and he had returned to Versailles.
Madame looked at the pink figure of her husband and the jasmine drooping in his buttonhole.
“I know my state better than the doctors,” she said; “and I think there is no remedy.”
Her husband moved away with M. le Prince. Every one in the room seemed talking together; their voices echoed in her head horribly. She tried to compose her thoughts, but could not. If she might only have some respite from her pain! Why did not the King come?
Mme d’Epernon brought her a draught of senna that M. Vallot had ordered.
She drank it, and Mme Gamaches, approaching, said that the King had sent for news.
“Tell his Majesty I am dying,” said Madame. Not content with that, she asked them to send M. de Crequi to Versailles to say that she was in great peril.
Meanwhile no remedy had given her any ease; she asked if they could not bring her something to assuage her anguish.