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.
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Love of
Monsieur
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Love of Monsieur

Author: George Gibbs

Release date: March 16, 2016 [eBook #51468]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE OF

MONSIEUR ***
 The
LOVE OF MONSIEUR

THE
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
BY

GEORGE GIBBS
AUTHOR OF

THE YELLOW DOVE,

SACKCLOTH AND SCARLET,
THE BOLTED DOOR, Etc.

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
 PUBLISHERS

copyright, 1903, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers

Copyright, 1903, by J. B. Lippincott Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THIS VOLUME IS
INSCRIBED TO

M. H. G.
THE “NORSE GODDESS”

with all my heart and best endeavors in tender

appreciation of those sympathies and encouragements
which make a pleasure of labor, and life a fruition of
every hope and dream
 CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.The Fleece Tavern 1
II. Mistress Barbara Dances the Coranto 11
III.Monsieur Mornay Becomes Unpopular 31
IV. Monsieur Waits upon a Lady 47
V. Indecision 68
VI. The Escape 87
VII. Barbara 113
VIII. The Saucy Sally 134
IX. “Bras-de-Fer” 146
X. Bras-de-Fer Makes a Capture 165
XI. The Enemy in the House 184
XII. Prisoner and Captor 201
XIII. Monsieur Learns Something 213
XIV. The Unmasking 231
XV. Mutiny 249
XVI. Marooned 268
 The
LOVE OF MONSIEUR
 CHAPTER I
THE FLEECE TAVERN

“W ho is this Mornay?”
Captain Cornbury paused to kindle his tobago.
“Mornay is of the Embassy of France, at any game of chance the
luckiest blade in the world and a Damon for success with the
petticoats, whether they’re doxies or duchesses.”
“Soho! a pretty fellow.”
“A French chevalier—a fellow of the Marine; but a die juggler—a
man of no caste,” sneered Mr. Wynne.
“He has a wit with a point.”
“Ay, and a rapier, too,” said Lord Downey.
“The devil fly with these foreign lady-killers,” growled Wynne
again.
“Oh, Mornay is a man-killer, too, never fear. He’s not named Bras-
de-Fer for nothing,” laughed Cornbury.
“Bah!” said a voice near the door. “A foundling—an outcast—a man
of no birth—I’ll have no more of him.”
Captain Ferrers tossed aside his coat and hat and came forward
into the glare of the candles. Behind him followed the tall figure of
Sir Henry Heywood, whose gray hair and more sober garb and
lineaments made the gay apparel of his companion the more
splendid by comparison. Captain Ferrers wore the rich
accouterments of a captain in the Body-guard, and his manner and
address showed the bluster of a bully of the barracks. The face,
somewhat ruddy in color, was of a certain heavy regularity of
feature, but his eyes were small, like a pig’s, and as he came into
the light they flickered and guttered like a candle at a puff of the
breath. There were lines, too, at the corners of the mouth, and the
pursing of the thin lips gave him the air of a man older than his
years.
“Come, Ferrers,” said Cornbury, good-naturedly, “give the devil his
due.”
Wynne laughed. “Gawd, man! he’s givin’ him his due. Aren’t you,
Ferrers?”
The captain scowled. “I’ faith I am. Two hundred guineas again
last night. May the plague take him! Such luck is not in nature.”
“He wins upon us all, by the Lord!” said Cornbury, stoutly.
Heywood sneered. “Bah! You Irish are too easy with your likes—”
“And dislikes, too,” returned Cornbury, with a swift glance.
“Faugh!” snapped Ferrers. “The man saved your life, but you can’t
thrust him down our throats, Captain Cornbury.”
“He’s cooked his goose well this time, thank God!” said Wynne.
“We’ll soon be rid of him.”
“Another duel?” asked Heywood, carelessly.
“What!” cried Downey. “Have you not heard of the struggle for
precedence this afternoon? Why, man, ’tis the talk of London. To-day
there was a fight between the coaches and retainers of the
Embassades of France and Spain. Thanks to Mornay, the French
coach was disastrously defeated by the Spaniards. There is a great
to-do at Whitehall, for the Grand Monarque thinks more of his
prestige in London even than in Paris. God help the man who
thwarts him in this! It is death or the Bastile, and our own King
would rather offend God than Louis.”
“And Mornay—”
 “As for Mornay—” For an answer, Lord Downey significantly blew
out one of the candles upon the table. “Pf!—That is what will happen
to Mornay. The story is this: The coaches were drawn up on Tower
Wharf, waiting to follow the King. In the French coach were seated
Mornay and the son of the ambassador. In the Spanish coach were
Baron de Batteville and two ladies. After his Majesty had passed,
both the French and Spanish coaches endeavored to be first in the
street, which is here so narrow that but one may pass at a time. The
Frenchman had something of the advantage of position, and, cutting
into the Spaniard with a great crash, sent the coach whirling over
half-way upon its side, to the great hazard of the Spaniard and
ladies within. Then Mornay, who has a most ingenious art of getting
into the very thick of things, leaped upon the coachman’s seat and
seized the reins of the coach-horses. He was beset by the Spaniards
and cut upon the head.”
“And he hung on?”
“What d’ye think the fellow did? Pulled the French horses back and
aside and let the Spanish coach down upon four wheels and out of
danger. Was it not a pretty pass? The rest was as simple as you
please. The Spaniard whipped, and though smashed and battered,
won first through the narrow passage.”
“And Mornay?”
“Does not deny it. He says it would have been impossible for a
gentleman to see such ladies thrown into a dirty ditchwater.”
“And the ladies, man? Who were the ladies?” said Ferrers.
“Aha! that is the best of it. The Spaniards relate that Mornay came
down from the coachman’s seat wiping the blood from his cheek. To
one of the ladies he said, ‘Madame, the kingdom of France yields
precedence only to a rank greater than Majesty. The honor France
loses belongs not to Spain, but to the beautiful Barbara Clerke.’”
Sir Henry Heywood caught at a quick breath.
“Mistress Clerke! My ward!”
 Captain Ferrers looked from Downey to Cornbury, only to see
verification written upon their faces. He pushed back his bench from
the table, his countenance fairly blazing with anger, and cried, in a
choking voice:
“Mornay again! To drag her name into every ordinary and gaming
hell in London! Coxcomb!—scoundrel!—upstart that he is! Mornay,
always Mornay—”
The candles flickered gayly as Monsieur Mornay entered. His
figure and costume were the perfection of studied elegance. The
perruque was admirably curled, and the laces and jewels were such
that a king might have envied him. A black patch extending along
the forehead gave him an odd appearance, and the white brow
seemed the more pallid by contrast. His features in repose bore the
look of settled melancholy one sometimes sees on the faces of men
who live for pleasure alone. But as his eyes turned towards the table
a smile, full of careless good-humor, came over his features. He
advanced, pausing a moment as Wynne and Heywood pushed
Ferrers down by main force into his seat.
“Messieurs,” said Mornay, smiling quizzically, “your servitor.” He
stopped again. “I thought my name was spoken. No?” He looked
from one to the other. “My name I comprehend, but, messieurs, my
titles—my new titles! To whom am I indebted for my titles? Ah,
Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, mon ami, I am glad that you are
here. I thought that I had fallen among enemies.”
He laughed gayly. It was rippling and mellow, a laugh from the
very cockles of the heart, full of the joy of living, in which there
lurked no suspicion of doubt or insincerity—the situation was so
vastly amusing. Cornbury laughed, too. He was an Irishman with a
galloping humor; nor was Downey slow to follow his example.
For Heywood and Ferrers it was another matter. The elder man sat
rigidly, glaring at the Frenchman with eyes that glittered from lids
narrow with hate. Ferrers, disconcerted by the defenselessness of
the Frenchman, sat stupidly, his features swollen with rage, his lips
uncertain and trembling for a word to bring the quarrel to a head.
But before he could speak, Sir Henry Heywood, very pale, had thrust
himself forward over the table to Mornay in a way not to be
mistaken, and said, briefly:
“Gad, sirrah, your laugh is the sign of an empty mind!”
Mornay was truly taken by surprise. But as he looked up at this
new enemy he found no difficulty in understanding Heywood’s
meaning. He rose to his feet, still smiling, and said, coolly, with a
sedulous politeness:
“I am empty of brains? It takes a wit like that of monsieur to
discover something which does not exist.”
Captain Ferrers had floundered to his feet, blustering and
maddened at being cheated out of his quarrel. He burst violently
upon the colloquy, and, seizing Heywood by the arm, dragged him
back to the window-seat.
“’Tis not your quarrel, Heywood,” he began.
But Sir Henry shook himself free of Ferrers, and they both faced
Monsieur Mornay, who, somewhat languidly, but with a polite
tolerance, stood leaning against the table watching this unlooked for
development of the drama.
“Messieurs,” he smiled, “an embarras de richesse. Never have I
been so greatly honored. I pray that you do not come to blows on
my account. One of you might kill the other, which would rob me of
the honor of killing you both.”
Captain Cornbury until this time had been an interested and
amused onlooker. He dearly loved a fight, and the situation was
enjoyable; but here was the evening flying and his game of cards
gone a-glimmering.
“Zounds, gentlemen!” he broke in. “A pretty business—to fight at
the Fleece Tavern. Pleasant reading for the Courant—a fitting end to
a comedy begun upon the street.”
 “’Tis not your quarrel, Cornbury,” growled Ferrers.
“Nor yours, Ferrers,” said Heywood, coldly.
“You see, monsieur,” said Mornay to Downey, with mock
helplessness, “there is no help for it.”
Cornbury swore a round oath:
“I’ faith, I wash my hands of ye. If fight ye must, quarrel dacently
over the cards, man; but do not drag a lady’s name through the
streets of London.”
Mornay turned to Cornbury. “It is true, mon ami—it is true.” Then,
in a flash, gayly, aloud, almost like a child, he shouted: “Allons, time
is flying. To-morrow we shall fight, but to-night—to-night we shall
play at quinze. Monsieur Ferraire, you owe me three hundred
guineas. We shall play for these. If you win, you will die to-morrow
with a clear conscience. If you lose, monsieur, I’ll be your
undertaker. Come, maître d’hôtel!—wine!”
 CHAPTER II
MISTRESS BARBARA DANCES THE CORANTO

M istress Barbara’s deep-abiding dislike for Monsieur Mornay

began even before the struggle for precedence between the
French and Spanish coaches. Such an incident, grown to
international importance, might have turned the heads of ladies with
greater reputations than hers. Nor should it have been a small thing
that a reckless young man had risked his life to say nothing of his
honor, in her service, and got a very bad cut upon his head in the
bargain. But Mistress Clerke was not like some other ladies of the
court. She had heard of the gallantries of Monsieur Mornay, and had
set him down as a woman-hunter and libertine—a type especially
elected for her abomination. His recent attentions to the Countess of
Shrewsbury and the engaging Mrs. Middleton were already the
common gossip of the court. She herself had seen this man,
perfumed and frilled, flaunting himself in Hyde Park or the Mall with
one or the other of his charmers, but the assurance which made him
successful elsewhere only filled her with disgust. What the
Englishwomen could see in such a fellow it was difficult for her to
determine. He was certainly not over-handsome. What strength the
face possessed she ascribed to boldness; what pride in the curve of
the nose and lips—to arrogance; what sensitiveness and delicacy of
molding in lip and chin—to puny aims and habits of fellows of his
trade. She was a person who divined rapidly and with more or less
inaccuracy, and so she had prepared herself thoroughly to dislike the
man, even before his own presumption had heightened her
prejudice. Mistress Barbara had first won and now held her position
at court, not by a lavish display of her talents and charms, but by a
nimble wit and unassailable character and sincerity, qualities of a
particular value, because of their rarity. This was the reason she
could discover no compliment in the gallantry of Monsieur Mornay on
Tower Wharf. For beneath the mask of his subservience she
discovered a gleam of unbridled admiration, which, compliment
though it might have been from another, from him was only an
insult.
Several days of deliberation had brought no change in her spirit.
She resolved, as she put the last dainty touches to her toilet, that if
Monsieur Mornay again thrust his attentions upon her that night at
the ball of the Duchess of Dorset, she would give him a word or two
in public which should establish their personal relations for all time.
And as she stood before her dressing-table, her mirror gave her back
a reflection which justified her every jealous precaution. The candles
shimmered upon the loveliest neck and arms in the world. The
forehead was wide, white, and smooth, and her hair rippled back
from her temples in a shower of gold and fell in a natural order
which made the arts of fashion superfluous. Her cheeks glowed with
a color which put to shame the rouge-pot in her toilet-closet. She
was more like some tall Norse goddess, with the breath of the sea
and the pines in her nostrils, than a figure in a world of luxury and
pampered ease. Her eyes, clear and full, were strangers to qualms
and apprehensions, and the thought of a possible scene with this
impertinent Frenchman gave them a sparkle which added to their
shadowed luster. In the thinking, she did Monsieur Mornay the honor
to add just one more patch to her chin. And then, of course, if
trouble arose and the worst came, there was Captain Ferrers, whom
she might marry some day, or her guardian, Sir Henry Heywood,
who could be called upon. Little did she know of the meeting
between Mornay and Sir Henry, arranged for that very morning,
which had miscarried because of an untimely intervention by the
watch.
The Duke of Dorset danced well. When Mistress Clerke entered his
ballroom the tabors were sounding for a brawl. His grace espied her
at this moment, and, coming forward with an air of the grand
seigneur which many a younger man might have envied him, carried
her off under the very noses of Wynne, Howard, Russell, and
Jermyn, to say nothing of Captain Ferrers, who had brought her
there in his coach.
It was a very merry dance, better suited to young legs than to old,
and Mistress Barbara, with a rare grace, put even his grace’s
spryness to the test. Monsieur Mornay, who had just come in, made
to himself the solemn promise that if it lay in his power she should
favor him upon that evening. If he suspected that she would receive
him with an ill grace, he did not show it, for he made no scruple to
hide his open admiration as she danced along the gallery. Twice she
passed the spot where he stood, and once she looked quite through
him at the blank wall behind. But, unabashed, when the dance was
done he lost no time in letting the Duke of Dorset know that he
wished to be presented, in such a manner that recognition would be
unavoidable.
“With all the good-will in the world,” said his grace. “Another moth
to the flame,” he laughed. “Another star to the constellation. Be
careful, Sir Frenchman. ’Tis not a lady pleased with frivolity.”
“Monsieur, behold,” said Mornay, piously, “I am as solemn as a
judge—as virtuous as—ma foi! as virtuous as the she-dragon duenna
of the Queen.”
“Nor will that please her better,” said Captain Cornbury, who had
come up at this moment. “I’ faith, Mornay, she’s most difficult—as
full of whims as the multiplication table. At present she spends both
her time and her fortune—where d’ye suppose, Monsieur Mornay? In
the fire region and the prisons. Strange tastes for the heiress of half
a province in France and the whole of the fortune of the Bresacs.”
“Ma foi! Une sérieuse!”
“Ochone! she’s saucy enough—with a bit of a temper, too, they
say.”
“But the prisons?”
“Are but her trade to-day—perhaps to-morrow—that’s all. What do
ye think? She has but just promised the coranto and an hour alone
in the garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from
the King.”
“The cutpurse?”
“The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the
scaffold.”
“Pardieu!” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of
followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.”
Cornbury laughed. “I’ faith, so far as she’s concerned, they’re one
and the same, I’m thinking. A stroke of janius, Mornay! Have
yourself but thrown into prison, and you may win her, after all.”
He moved away. Mornay looked around him for this scornful
mistress, but she had gone into the garden with Captain Ferrers.
“Mordieu!” he growled. “There’s truth in that jest. In prison I’ll be,
soon enough, unless the King—” He paused, with a curious smile.
“The King—aha! I’ve a better use for Charles than that,” and he
made his way to the retiring-room, where his lackey, Vigot,
resplendent in a yellow coat and black waistcoat, was awaiting his
orders.
The night progressed. Came next the country dances—invented
upon a time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce
to the court some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but
the sibilance of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed
them of much of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color
heightened, held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress
Stewart and my lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige,
called their recalcitrant admirers to account. His grace of Dorset,
somewhat red and breathless, could contain himself no longer. “By
my faith!” he said, “Castlemaine and Hamilton had better look to
their laurels. Nay, she has a wit as pretty as that of my lord of
Rochester.”
“But cleaner,” put in Jermyn, dryly.
In the meanwhile Monsieur Mornay had received a packet.
 “In God’s name, what have you done?” (it ran). “You juggle too
lightly with the affairs of nations, Monsieur Mornay. ’Tis a serious
offense for you, and means death, or the Bastile at the very least.
Here is what you ask. I have no more favors to give. Leave London
at once, for when the post from France arrives, I cannot help you.—
C.”
Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers,
and then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too
strong a test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his
friendship even.”
He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the
gallery, where the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the
coranto. He sought the Duke at once. His grace was standing near
Mistress Barbara’s chair, watching with amusement a discussion of
the rival claims of the Earl of St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon
her clemency for the dance.
“Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the
coranto.”
“With la belle Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.”
“A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon
the Duke. Ferrers made way; he did not see the figure at the heels
of Dorset.
“Madame,” said his grace, with a noble flourish of the arm, “I
present to you a gentleman of fine distinction in Germany and
England, a gallant captain in the Marine of France—René Bras-de-Fer
—Monsieur le Chevalier Mornay.”
During the prelude she had sat complaisantly, a queen in the
center of her court. But as Mornay came forward she arose and
drew herself to her splendid height, looking at the Frenchman coldly,
her lips framed for the words she would have uttered. But Monsieur
Mornay spoke first.
 “Madame,” he said, quietly, his hand upon his heart, “I am come
for the coranto.”
She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no
sound came from her lips.
“Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger—“monsieur
—”
Mornay affected not to hear her.
“The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has
promised me the coranto.”
“’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving.
Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings.
Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it
towards her.
“It is the pardon, madame.”
That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling
from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced
down over the writing.
“Clemency—thief—murderer—Nick Rawlings—pardon?—a pardon
for me, monsieur?”
Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. Voilà! Here is the
pardon. There is the musique. Will madame not dance?”
A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple
took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir
Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled
bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply.
The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red
by turns as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to
her breast to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips.
 Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them,
but Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress
Clerke break her silence.
“Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this—
this Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through
with the bitterness of utter contempt.
And then, giving Mornay her fingers, she went with him to the
middle of the gallery. While the company, too interested or amazed
to follow in the dance, stood along the walls of the ballroom,
Mistress Barbara Clerke and Monsieur Mornay ran through the mazes
of the dance.
Mornay moved with an incomparable grace and skill. It was a
dance from Paris, and every turn of the wrist, neck, or heel
proclaimed him master. From his face one could only discover the
signal joy he felt at being honored by so gracious and beautiful a
companion. The countenance of Mistress Clerke betrayed a less
fortunate disposition. In the bitterness of her defeat by this man
whom she had promised herself publicly to demean, she maintained
her outward composure with difficulty. The physical action of
dancing gave her some relief, but as she faced him her eyes blazed
with hatred and her fingers, fairly spurning a contact, chilled him
with the rigidness of their antipathy.
Twice they made the round of the room, when Ferrers, who had
mounted the steps into the loft, bade the musicians stop playing. A
look of relief chased the scorn for a moment from Mistress Barbara’s
face, and, as though half unconscious of Mornay’s presence, she
said aloud, in a kind of gasp:
“Thank God, ’tis done!”
They stood opposite an open window that led to the garden.
Mornay frowned at her.
“And the hour alone?” he asked. “Surely madame cannot so soon
have forgotten?”
 Her gray eyes had turned as dark as the open window looking into
the night, and the lids which her scorn let down to hide her anger
concealed but in part the smoldering light of her passion.
“It is preposterous, monsieur!” she said, chokingly. “I cannot! I will
not!”
“And your promise, madame. Mistress Clerke will forget her
promise?”
She looked about helplessly, as though seeking a way to escape.
But Mornay was merciless.
“Perhaps, madame, you fear!” he said, ironically.
He had judged her aright. With a look that might have killed had
Mornay been made of more tender stuff, she caught her gown upon
her arm and swept past him out into the darkness of the terrace
beyond.
The air was warm and fragrant, full of the first sweet freshness of
the summer. The light of the moon sifted softly through the haze
that had fallen over the gardens and trembled upon each dewy
blade and leaf. It was so peaceful and quiet!—so far removed from
rancor and hatred!—a night for fondness, gentleness, and all the soft
confidences of a tenderness divine and all-excelling—a night for
love!
This thought came to them both at the same moment—to Mistress
Barbara with a sense of humiliation and anger, followed by the burst
of passion she had struggled so long to control. She stopped in the
middle of the garden-walk and turned on him:
“You!” she cried, immoderately. “You again! Has a lady no rights
which a man, whatever he be, is bound to respect? Why do you
pursue me? Listen to me, Monsieur Mornay. I hate you!—I hate you!
—I hate you!” And then, overcome by the every excess of her
emotion, she sank to the bench beside her. Monsieur Mornay stood
at a distance and occupied himself with the laces at his sleeves.