CHAPTER XV
HOW M. DE LANDAS PRACTISED THE GENTLE ART OF TREACHERY
The conduct of de Landas—of the one man whom in her childish way she had at one time loved—had been a bitter blow to Jacqueline's sensitive heart, also one to her pride. How she could have been so blind as not to see his baseness behind his unctuous speech, she could not imagine. How had she never suspected those languorous eyes of his of treachery, those full, sensual lips of falsehood? Now her cheeks still tingled with shame at the remembrance of those hateful kisses which he had forced on her when she was helpless, and her whole being quivered with the humiliation of his insults. He never, never could have loved her, not even in the past. He was just a fortune-hunter, goaded to desperation when he saw that her wealth and her influence were slipping from his grasp. 'Flemish cinder-wench,' he had called her, not just in a moment of wild exasperation, but because he had always hated her and her kin and the fair land of Flanders, which she worshipped and which all these Spanish grandees so cordially despised. Jacqueline, whose whole nature—unbeknown to herself—was just awakening from childhood's trance, felt that she, too, hated now that arrogant and outwardly pliant Spaniard, the man who with cajoleries and soft, servile words had wound his way into her heart and into the confidence of Monseigneur. She had realized in one moment, while he was pouring forth that torrent of abuse and vituperation into her face, that he was an enemy—a bitter enemy to her and to her country—an enemy all the more fierce and dangerous that he had kept his hatred and contempt so well concealed for all these years.
And now her whole mind was set on trying to find a means to undo the harm which her own weakness and her own overtrustfulness had helped to bring about. Monseigneur the governor had not of late shown great cordiality toward M. de Landas; at the same time, he did not appear to mistrust him, had not yet perceived the vicious claws underneath the velvet glove or the serpent's tongue behind the supple speech. To a sensitive girl, reared in the reserve and aloofness which characterized the upbringing of women of high rank in these days, the very thought of confiding to her guardian the story of de Landas' infamous conduct towards her was abhorrent in the extreme; but, in spite of that, she was already determined to put Monseigneur on his guard, and if mere hints did not produce the desired effect, she would tell him frankly what had happened, for Jacqueline's conscience was as sensitive as her heart and she had no thought of placing her private feelings in direct conflict with the welfare of her country.
But, strangely enough, when she broached the unpleasant subject with Monseigneur, she found him unresponsive. What to her had been a vital turning point in her life did not appear to him as more than a girlish and undue susceptibility in the face of an aggrieved lover. He made light of de Landas' fury, even of the insults which Jacqueline could hardly bring herself to repeat; and she—wounded to the quick by the indifference of one who should have been her protector and if need be her avenger—did not insist, withdrew into her own shell of aloofness and reserve, merely begging Monseigneur to spare her the sight of de Landas in the future.
This Monseigneur cordially promised that he would do. He meant to keep de Landas at arm's length for the future, even though he was quite genuine in his belief that Jacqueline had exaggerated the violence of the Spaniard's outburst of hatred. In his innermost heart, M. le Baron d'Inchy was congratulating himself that the young girl had been so completely, if somewhat rudely, awakened from her infatuation for de Landas. Matters were shaping themselves more and more easily with regard to the alliance which he and his party had so much at heart. Monsieur showed no sign of desiring to leave Cambray, which plainly proved that he had not abandoned the project. But for this, as for all delicate political situations, secrecy was essential above all things, and Monseigneur had received a severe shock when de Landas had so boldly suggested that rumour would soon begin to stir around the mysterious personality of the masked stranger.
Because of this, too, d'Inchy did not desire to quarrel just then with de Landas—whose misdemeanour he had already condoned—and turned a deaf ear to Jacqueline's grave accusations against her former lover. The next few days would see the end of the present ticklish situation and in the meanwhile, fortunately for himself and his schemes, most of those young hotheads who had taken part in the midnight drama were more or less sick, and safely out of the way.
We may take it that M. le Baron d'Inchy heard no further complaints about the unfortunate affair from his exalted guest: certain it is that neither M. de Landas nor any of his friends suffered punishment for that night's dastardly outrage. Whether they actually offered abject apologies to Messire le Prince de Froidmont, we do not know; but it is on record that the latter made no further allusion to the affair, and that subsequently, whenever he chanced to meet any of his whilom enemies in the streets, he always greeted them with unvarying cordiality and courtesy.
De Landas had in effect burnt his boats. He knew that sooner or later Jacqueline's resentment would get the better of her reserve and that his position inside the city would become untenable, unless indeed he succeeded in winning by force what he had for ever forfeited as a right—the hand of Jacqueline de Broyart, and with it the wealth, the power and influence for which his ambitious soul had thirsted to the exclusion of every other feeling of chivalry or honour.
He had left her presence and the Archiepiscopal Palace that afternoon with hatred and rage seething in his heart and brain, his body in a fever, his mind torn with conflicting plans, all designed for the undoing of the man whom he believed to be both his rival and his deadly enemy. An hour later, Du Pret and Maarege, the only two of his friends who were able to rise from their bed of sickness in response to a hasty summons from their acknowledged chief, were closeted with him in his lodgings in the Rue des Chanoines. A man dressed in rough clothes, with shaggy hair and black, unkempt beard, stood before the three gallants, in the centre of the room, whilst Pierre, M. de Landas' confidential henchman, stood on guard beside the door.
'Well?' queried de Landas curtly of the man. 'What have you found out?'
'Very little, Magnificence,' replied the man. 'Messire le Prince de Froidmont is lying sick at the hostelry of "Les Trois Rois," and hath not been seen to-day. His equerry received a messenger in the course of the morning from Monseigneur the governor and went subsequently to the Archiepiscopal Palace, where he remained one hour; and the henchman started at dawn, on horseback, went out of the city, and hath not since returned.'
'Pardi! we knew all that,' broke in de Landas roughly, 'and do not pay you for such obvious information. If you have nothing more to say——'
'Pardon, Magnificence; nothing else occurred of any importance. But I was entrusted with other matter besides following the movements of Messire le Prince de Froidmont and his servants.'
'Well! and what did you do?'
'Obeyed orders. The people of Cambray are in a surly mood to-day. For the first time this morning, food supplies failed completely to reach the town. Rumours are rife that the armies of the Duke of Parma are within ten kilometres of the gates of the city, and that already he proposes to starve Cambray into capitulation.'
'All that is good—very good!' assented de Landas, who nodded to his friends.
They too signified their approval of the news.
'It is most fortunate,' said young Maarege, 'that all this has occurred this morning. It helps our plans prodigiously.'
'Go on, Sancho,' broke in de Landas impatiently. 'What did you do in the matter?'
'I and my comrades mixed with the crowd. It was easy enough to throw in a word here and a word there ... the masked stranger in the city ... a banquet at once given in his honour, where the last food supplies intended for the people were consumed by those who would sell Cambray back to the Spaniards ... Spanish spies lurking in the city.... Oh! I know how to do that work, Magnificence!' the man went on with conscious pride. 'You may rely on me!'
'Parbleu, fellow!' retorted de Landas haughtily. 'I would not pay thee if I could not.'
'Well! what else?' queried one of the others eagerly.
'As luck would have it, Magnificence,' continued the man, 'one of the strangers—he who is said to be equerry to the Prince de Froidmont—chanced to be walking down the street when I was by. I had a small crowd round me at the time and was holding forth on the subject of Flanders and her wrongs and the wickedness and tyranny of our Spanish masters ... I had thrown out a judicious hint or two about strangers who might be Spanish spies ... Magnificence, you would have been satisfied with the results! The crowd espied the stranger, hooted him vigorously, though for the nonce they dared not actually lay hands on him. But 'tis only a matter of time. The seeds are sown; within the week, if food becomes more scarce and dear, you will have the crowd throwing stones at the stranger! ... I have earned my pay, Magnificence! Those Flemish dogs are yapping already ... to-morrow they'll snarl ... and after that...'
'After that, 'tis the Duke of Parma who will bring them back to heel,' concluded de Landas in a triumphant tone. 'And now, Sancho, I have other work for thee!'
'I am entirely at the commands of His Magnificence,' the man rejoined obsequiously.
'The seeds here are sown, as thou sayest! Let Sandro and Alfonzo and the others continue thy work amongst the loutish crowds of Cambray. Thou'lt start to-night for Cateau-Cambrésis.'
'Yes, Magnificence.'
'The Duke of Parma is there. Thou'lt take a message from me to him.'
'Yes, Magnificence.'
'A verbal message, Sancho; for letters may be stolen or lost.'
'Not when I carry them, Magnificence.'
'Perhaps not. But a verbal message cannot be lost or stolen. If it is not transmitted I'll have thee hanged, Sancho.'
'I know it, Magnificence.'
'Well then, thou'lt seek out His Highness the Duke of Parma. Tell him all that has occurred in this city—the arrival of the stranger; the manner in which he stalks about the town under cover of a mask; the extraordinary honour wherewith the governor regards him. Dost understand?'
'Perfectly, Magnificence.'
'Then tell the Duke—and this is the most important part of thy mission—that on any given day which he may select, I can provoke a riot in this city—a serious riot, wherein every civil and military authority will be forced to take a part—and that this will be the opportunity for which His Highness hath been waiting. While the rioters inside Cambray will be engaged in throwing stones at one another, the Duke of Parma need only to strike one blow and he can enter the city unopposed with his armies, in the name of our Most Catholic King Philip of Spain.'
He rose from his chair as he did so and crossed himself devoutly, his friends doing likewise. Though they were Flemish born—these two young men—they had for some unavowable reason espoused the cause of their tyrants, rather than that of their own people. A look of comprehension had darted from Sancho's eyes as he received these final instructions from his employer, a look of satisfaction, too, and of hatred; for Sancho was a pure bred Castilian and despised and loathed all these Flemings as cordially as did his betters. Whether he served his own country from a sense of patriotism or from one of greed, it were impossible to say. No one had ever found it worth while to probe the depths of Sancho's soul—-a common man, a churl, a paid spadassin or suborned spy—he was worth employing, for he was sharp and unscrupulous; but as to what went on behind those shifty, deep-set eyes of his and that perpetually frowning brow, was of a truth no concern of his noble employers. All that mattered to them was that Sancho had—in common with most men of his type—an unavowable past, one which would land him on the cross, the gibbet or the stake, in the torture-chamber or under the lash, whenever his duties were ill-performed or his discretion came to be a matter of doubt.
'If you serve me well in this, Sancho,' resumed de Landas after a brief while, 'the reward will surpass your expectations.'
'In this as in all things,' said the man with obsequious servility, 'I trust in the generosity of your Magnificence.'
'Thou must travel without a safe-conduct, fellow.'
'I am accustomed to doing that, Magnificence.'
'No papers of any kind, no written word must be found about thy person, if perchance thou fall into Flemish hands ere thou canst reach His Highness the Duke of Parma's camp.'
'I quite understand that, Magnificence.'
'Nothing wilt thou carry save the verbal message. And if as much as a single word of that is spoken to any living soul save to the Duke of Parma himself, I pledge thee my word that twenty-four hours later thou shalt be minus thy tongue, thine ears, thine eyes and thy right hand, and in that state be dangling on the gibbet at the Pré d'Amour for the example of any of thy fellows who had thought or dreamt of treachery.'
While de Landas spoke, Sancho kept his eyes resolutely fixed upon the ground, and his shaggy black beard hid every line of his mouth. Nor were de Landas and his young friends very observant or deeply versed in the science of psychology, else, no doubt, they would have noticed that though Sancho's attitude had remained entirely servile, his rough, bony hand was clutching his cap with a nervy grip which betrayed a stupendous effort at self-control. The next moment, however, he raised his eyes once more and looked his employer squarely and quite respectfully in the face.
'Your Magnificence need have no fear,' he said. 'I understand perfectly.'
'Very well,' rejoined de Landas lightly. 'Then just repeat the message as thou wilt deliver it before His Highness the Duke of Parma, and then thou canst go.'
Obediently Sancho went through the business required of him. 'I am to tell His Highness,' he said, 'that on any day which he may select, Monseigneur le Marquis de Landas and his friends will provoke a riot within this city—a serious riot, wherein every civil and military authority will be forced to take a part—and that this will be the opportunity for which His Highness hath been waiting. I am to tell him also that while the rioters inside Cambray will be engaged in throwing stones at one another, the Duke of Parma need only to strike one blow and he can enter the city unopposed, with his armies, in the name of our Most Catholic King Philip of Spain.'
De Landas gave a short, dry laugh.
'Thou hast a good memory, fellow,' he said: 'or a wholesome fear of the lash—which is it?'
'A profound respect for Your Magnificence,' replied Sancho, literally cringing and fawning now before his noble master, like a dog who has been whipped; 'and the earnest desire to serve him well in all things.'
'Parbleu!' was de Landas' calm rejoinder.
Two minutes later, Sancho was dismissed. He walked backwards, his spine almost bent double in the excess of his abasement; nor did he straighten out his tall, bony figure till Pierre had finally closed the door after him and there was the width of an antechamber and a corridor between him and the possibility of being overheard. Then he gave a smothered cry, like that of a choking bull; he threw his cap down upon the floor and stamped upon it; kicked it with his foot, as if it were the person of an enemy whom he hated with all the bitterness of his soul. Finally he turned, and raising his arm, he clenched his fist and shook it with a gesture of weird and impotent menace in the direction from whence he had just come, whilst in his deep-set eyes there glowed a fire of rancour and of fury which of a truth would have caused those young gallants to think. Then he picked up his cap and almost ran out into the street.
But neither de Landas nor his friends troubled themselves any further about Sancho once the latter was out of their sight. They were too intent on their own affairs to give a thought to the susceptibilities of a down-at-heel outlaw whom they were paying to do dirty work for them.
'We could not have found a more useful fellow for our purpose than Sancho,' was de Landas' complacent comment.
'A reliable rascal, certainly,' assented Maarege. 'But it is not easy to get out of the city without a safe-conduct these days.'
'Bah! Sancho will manage it.'
'He might get a musket-shot for his pains.'
'That would not matter,' rejoined de Landas with a cynical laugh, 'so long as his tongue is silenced at the same time.'
'Yes, silenced,' urged one of the others; 'but in that event our message would not be delivered to the Duke of Parma.'
'We must risk something.'
'And yet must make sure of the message reaching the Duke. We want as little delay as possible.'
'If food gets short here our own position will be none too pleasant. These Flemings seem to think that the churls have just as much right to eat as their betters.'
'Preposterous, of course,' concluded de Landas. 'But, as you say, we'll make sure that our message does reach the Duke as soon as may be. Let Sancho take one chance. Pierre shall take the other.'
Pierre, motionless beside the door, pricked up his ears at sound of his own name.
'Here, Pierre!' commanded his master.
'Yes, Monseigneur.'
'Thou hast heard my instructions to Sancho.'
'Yes, Monseigneur.'
'And couldst repeat the message which I am sending to His Highness the Duke of Parma?'
'Word for word, Monseigneur.'
'Say it then!'
Pierre repeated the message, just as Sancho had done, fluently and without a mistake.
'Very well, then,' said de Landas; 'thine instructions are the same as those which I gave to Sancho. Understand?'
'Yes, Monseigneur.'
'Thou'lt leave the city to-night.'
'Yes, Monseigneur.'
'Without a safe-conduct.'
'I can slip through the gates. I have done it before.'
'Very good. Then thou'lt go to Cateau-Cambrésis and present thyself before His Highness. If Sancho has forestalled thee, thy mission ends there. If, however, there has been a hitch and Sancho has not put in an appearance, thou'lt deliver the message and bring me back His Highness' answer.'
'I quite understand, Monseigneur.'
Thus it was that M. le Marquis de Landas made sure that his treacherous and infamous message reached the Generalissimo of the Spanish armies. To himself and to his conscience he reconciled that infamy by many specious arguments, foremost among these being that Jacqueline had played him false. Well! he had still a few days before him wherein to study two parts, one or the other of which he would have to play on the day when Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma, demanded the surrender of the city of Cambray in the name of His Majesty King Philip of Spain. The one rôle would consist in a magnificent show of loyalty to the country of his adoption, the rallying of the garrison troops under the Flemish flag and his own leadership; the deliverance of Cambray from the Spanish yoke and the overthrow of the Duke of Parma and his magnificent army. The other rôle, equally easy for this subtle traitor to play, meant handing over Cambray and its inhabitants to the tender mercies of the Spanish general, in the hope of earning a rich reward for services rendered to His Majesty the King of Spain. The first course of action would depend on whether Jacqueline would return to his arms, humbled and repentant: the second on whether the masked stranger was indeed the personage whom he—de Landas—more than suspected him of being, namely, Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, own brother to the King of France, come to snatch the Sovereignty of the Netherlands, together with their richest heiress, from the arms of her former lover.
Well! whichever way matters went, de Landas stood to win a fair guerdon. He even found it in his heart to be grateful to that mysterious stranger who had so unexpectedly come across his path. But now he was tired and overwrought. His work for the day was done and there was much strenuous business ahead of him. So he took leave of his friends and, having ordered the leech to administer to him a soothing draught, he finally sought rest.