The Prisoner in the Mask Read online

  ‘No, Armand, no!’ She struggled away from him. ‘I can’t let you do that. And you must go now. You promised.’

  ‘Indeed I did. But I had not then realised how deeply you cared for me. By your sweet confession you have placed us on an equal footing. You have given me the right to claim what before I would only have begged. The laws of man are made only to be broken, because they are stupid and unjust. Before God we are united by our love. Angela, I need you desperately; and you need me. We cannot now part like this.’

  Her pansy-brown eyes again grew as round as saucers, and she gasped: ‘Are you … are you suggesting that we should run away together?’

  Fortunately for de Quesnoy the light was dim, so she did not see the enthusiasm suddenly drain from his face leaving it like a mask. He found Angela enchanting. Like most upper-class English girls of her day, her governesses had given her a far better education than she could possibly have received in a modern school, and compared to her most continental young women were ignoramuses. Never had he come across such a fascinating combination of female loveliness in which sensible conversation was combined with alluring innocence. He was as much in love with her as he had ever yet been with anyone.

  But to link his life with hers? That was a very different matter. Worldly-wise beyond his years, he realised that she would, almost at once, become a millstone round his neck. He already had an income of his own; so he could take her on a tour of the Italian cities where society was notoriously lax and did not bother overmuch if a foreign nobleman’s fair companion was his wife or not. But what then? In honour bound he would have to do his utmost to persuade the Vatican to grant her an annulment of her marriage to Syveton. And if they did he would have to marry her himself.

  That would mean the abandonment of his most cherished plans. His secret ambition now was to become a soldier and rise to high command in the French Army. Before he could even take the initial step of joining it, he anticipated meeting with the most violent opposition from his father, and if he saddled himself with Angela that would be the end of the matter. How could he possibly expect to rise in an army largely controlled by staunch Catholics, with the scandal of having enticed away another man’s wife blackening the very beginning of his career?

  While these disquieting thoughts had been racing through his mind, Angela’s thoughts had run on with equal swiftness. For a few seconds her earlier visions of life with Armand had again entranced her; but she was quick to realise the many obstacles to its achievement. Without waiting for him to reply, she answered her own question.

  ‘No, no; it is wonderful to dream of but quite impossible. There would be the most terrible scandal. It would break my poor papa’s heart. Besides, think how awful it would be if I failed to secure an annulment. I’d have to live in sin with you for the rest of my life. Then you’d never be able to have a legitimate heir; unless … unless I gave you up to another woman, and I’d rather die than do that.’

  Relieved as de Quesnoy was, it was contrary to his nature to play the hypocrite in such a matter, and he said quickly: ‘Bless you for your sound common sense, my love. I was not proposing that we should elope, and had you suggested our doing so I should have done my best to dissuade you. It could end only in ruin for us both.’

  ‘Then there is no more to be said.’

  ‘Oh, but there is.’

  ‘No, nothing. And you must go now. You really must. You have been here for at least twenty minutes, and every moment you remain we run a greater risk of discovery.’

  ‘My father likes staying up talking and never lets his guests go up to bed till after one; so we are safe for another half-hour at least.’

  ‘But Armand, you promised.’

  ‘I promised that I would go when you had given me your love.’

  ‘I have already confessed that I love you.’

  ‘That was to speak of; not to give it.’

  She shook her head, but he hurried on: ‘The sight of you, the subtle perfume of your hair, and hearing you speak those words carried me to heights sublime, but love can only be given through the sense of touch. Have mercy on me, Angela, and carry me with you to the seventh heaven.’

  There could be no mistaking his meaning now. Angela’s heart was pounding heavily; her mind in a whirl. Armand’s approach was so different from her husband’s, but his intention was the same and his words did not stir in her any answering thrill of physical passion. She was not angry with him but greatly distressed. Under his dark devil’s eyebrows his grey eyes glittered as they were caught for a second in the flame of the night-light. He looked so boyish, so beautiful, yet now so wicked, that he recalled to her mind a picture she had once seen portraying a fallen angel.

  ‘Armand,’ she gulped suddenly. ‘Tell me the truth. Did you come here hoping that I would … would let you get into bed with me?’

  ‘Why, yes, my sweet,’ he replied with a smile. ‘For what other reason does a man come to the bedroom of the woman he loves, in the middle of the night?’

  Angela winced. ‘It … it might be just to tell her that he loved her.’

  ‘There must be a first course to every feast; but words are not enough to still the hunger of love. Had you been staying here longer, or if we lived in the same city, I’d be content tonight with a promise—or even half a one. But this may be the only chance we will ever have to show how much we love one another.’

  ‘I’ve said I love you. I can do no more. You seem to forget that I am married.’

  ‘Forget!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘What an extraordinary thing to say! Were you not, and I had forgotten myself so far as to come to your room, I would be too ashamed to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow morning. It is the very fact that you are married that entitles me to ask you to give me a richer memory of you to treasure than your just saying that you love me.’

  ‘I cannot! Armand, I implore you to leave me! Please go—please!’

  ‘Angela, have pity. You are going away tomorrow. We have only tonight left. Don’t let’s throw away this last precious half-hour. Let’s crown our love; so that even if we never meet again we’ll always be able to look back with undiluted joy on it.’

  ‘What you ask is impossible.’

  ‘In God’s name, why? If you loved your husband your refusal would be understandable. Or if you had already taken a lover, and were obsessed with the thought of getting back to Paris to him; but from a dozen things you have said to me it’s quite clear that you have not.’

  ‘No!’ she burst out with sudden firmness. ‘And I never will.’

  ‘Oh come, Angela, be sensible,’ he protested. ‘It’s absurd to talk like that. Except in rare cases where a marriage is truly made in heaven, every woman does. And yours most certainly was not. What happiness can you expect to get out of life unless you do take lovers? That you will do so is as inevitable as that tomorrow’s sun will rise. Why, then, put it off for another few months and leave me miserable? Please, please, my beautiful Angela, let me be your lover now.’

  Tears started to her eyes. As he sought to put his arm about her again she pushed him roughly away. Her voice bitter with disillusion she half-sobbed: ‘The sense in which you use the word is the very antithesis of what love means to me. It makes men no different from animals.’

  De Quesnoy released her and stepped back. A new light of understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘You poor darling,’ he murmured. ‘So that brute Syveton has been misusing you.’

  Next moment he caught his breath. Every muscle in his body tensed. A muffled sound, and a streak of light on the ceiling, had gripped his attention to the exclusion of all else. He knew then that either he had talked too much or his father too little. Syveton had come up to bed and was now entering the room.

  3

  THE GERM OF A CONSPIRACY

  Although Gabriel Syveton’s snobbish instincts were greatly gratified by staying with a Duke, personal scheming had played no part in his being invited to Jvanets. He was a prominent official of th
e Ligue de la Patrie Française and, with de Camargue, a member of the powerful secret Committee whose object was to restore the Monarchy in France. The Vicomte was an old friend of de Richleau’s, and had been chosen to approach him on a certain matter; but he was afflicted with a lisp, so by no means a fluent speaker, and it was with the idea that Syveton, who was, should act as advocate that he had asked permission to bring him.

  During the first week of their stay they had felt that it would be premature to broach their mission until they had satisfied themselves that de Richleau was capable of playing the role they had in mind for him; and in the past few evenings, although there had been much discussion of French politics, no really suitable opening had presented itself.

  In consequence, on this last night as soon as the ladies had retired to bed, and the men were congregated in the Duke’s sanctum, Syveton had at once turned the conversation to the sad state of affairs in France. And, indeed, there was ample cause for all the Frenchmen present to be concerned for the future of their country; for over a hundred years she had been declining generation by generation from her great estate and afflicted by a steady draining of her power, prestige and population.

  Since 1789 France had been twice a Limited Monarchy, twice an Empire, twice ruled by absolutist Bourbon Kings, twice dominated for a few years by Dictators, once by a Directorate of Five, and had three times been a Republic. She had twice been invaded, conquered and compelled to support an enemy army of occupation, and twice been the victim of civil wars leaving her people bitter and divided. Eighteen years was the longest period for which she had enjoyed any one form of government, and all of them had had to contend with constant conspiracies aimed at their overthrow, strikes, riots and savage street fighting.

  The first Revolution had cost France, in massacres and conflicts, two million lives, the ruin of her industry and the loss of her most valuable colonies. During the twenty-one years of foreign wars that followed a third—and physically the best third—of France’s manpower had perished in Napoleon’s campaigns, and the British had swept her commerce from the seas. In the middle years of the century wars in North Africa, the Crimea, Italy and Mexico had further drained her resources; then in 1870 she had been overtaken by a major disaster.

  By graft, glamour and chicanery the Second Empire had managed to maintain itself against growing opposition until the dissipated and ailing Emperor’s government had, against his will, deliberately picked a quarrel with Prussia over her support of a candidate to the vacant Spanish throne. Mentally drunk on memories of their grandfathers’ victories, and physically drunk from too much liquor, France’s levies had marched to war shouting ‘A Berlin’. At the hands of that terribly efficient triumvirate Chancellor Bismarck, War Minister von Roon and General Count von Moltke, they had been utterly overwhelmed. Three months of appalling slaughter had culminated in Napoleon III being taken prisoner and the Third Republic being proclaimed.

  There had followed the siege of Paris, an ignominious armistice, the payment of a huge indemnity and the loss of Alsace-Lorraine. Then in the spring of ’71 the mobs of Paris had defied the Provisional Government at Versailles and striven to force Communism on the nation.

  The President-Elect, M. Thiers, had shown great resolution and sent the army in to restore order. De Galliffet, barely recovered from his wounds, had been one of the senior commanders charged with this unhappy task, and it was still held against him that, having forced the barricades, they had, within twenty-four hours, shot ten thousand workers.

  This ruthless suppression of Anarchism, Marxism and Syndicalism had ensured the Conservatives ascendancy in the Chamber of Deputies for several years but, unhappily, they were divided among themselves. The Legitimists wanted to put the Count de Chambord on the throne as Henry V of France, the Orleanists wanted the Count de Paris as ‘King of the French’ and the Bonapartists wanted to make the young Prince Imperial Emperor.

  Their divergent aims enabled the Liberal M. Thiess to defeat the machinations of all three parties and when that shrewd old statesman retired none of them fared any better. His successor, Marshal Macmahon, had been a Legitimist by birth and a Bonapartist by circumstances, but with each successive election the Right was losing seats to the Left Centre and by the later seventies Socialism was again becoming a force with which to reckon. A demand by the Chamber that the President should surrender his right to make senior military appointments had so enraged the Marshal that he had given up his office in disgust.

  Henceforth the qualities of integrity, proved statesmanship and even the ability to represent France worthily in a social sense were to play no part in the election of her Presidents. Candidates whose honesty and strength of character might have guided the country to better times were jockeyed from the lists, and mediocre men who could easily be manipulated or coerced were put into the Elysée Palace by groups of unscrupulous politicians.

  Jules Grévy, who followed Macmahon, was just such a man. Long versed in the shadier forms of politicial intrigue, spineless but subtle, and exceptionally mean, he used his office to amass a huge personal fortune. After nine years he was forced to relinquish the Presidency owing to a first-class scandal. A quarrel between two of Paris’s most glamorous prostitutes led to the disclosure of a widespread organisation for the sale of honours, the controlling brain of which was the President’s son-in-law, who actually lived with him in the Palace.

  It was the Radical journalist Clemenceau who secured the election of his successor by urging his fellow politicians to ‘vote for the stupidest candidate’. Sadi Carnot, whose abilities were confined to engineering, was their choice, and they got him in on the fame of his grandfather, the great Carnot, known for his brilliant direction of the wars of the Revolution as ‘The Organiser of Victories’.

  In consequence it was the Prime Ministers and leading politicians, rather than her Presidents, who had been the arbiters of France’s destinies for the past fifteen years. The result had been a bitter and unceasing cold war waged between the factions for personal ends, instead of a united effort to bring the country back to its once dominant position in Europe.

  The death of the Count de Chambord had merged the Legitimist and Orleanist succession in the person of the Count de Paris, who for a while had lived in the capital with all the state becoming a monarch, except for a crown; but by ’86 the rising power of the Socialists had enabled them to get a law passed expelling him, and all other claimants to the throne, from the country.

  Bonapartist hopes had received a sad blow in the death of the young Prince Imperial while fighting as a volunteer with the British forces in the Zulu war; and the next Napoleonic heir had, unhappily for his cause, left his wife, the daughter of the King of Italy, to live openly with a pretty mistress and, worse, was both a declared radical and a free-thinker.

  This last deplorable lapse caused many Bonapartists to go over to the Monarchists, for the nation had now become divided by a bitter struggle between the Church and atheism. The attack on religion was led by Jules Ferry, as Minister of Public Instruction in the Freycinet Government of 1879. And later, as Premier himself, Ferry had, with the backing of the now powerful Socialist party, led by the anarchist Jules Guesde, put through many anti-clerical measures.

  A bill making education compulsory had been followed by others establishing state schools and forbidding the teaching of religion in them, a compulsory secularization of the Universities, and one rescinding the concordat which had existed with Rome; so that in future only radical divines who would prove subservient to the government had any prospect of being made Bishops. In addition, first the Jesuits then other teaching Orders had been expelled from France, and those that remained were allowed to do so only on permits which could be revoked at any time.

  As the greater part of the upper and middle classes were still deeply religious these measures had met with fanatical opposition, and the unity of the country had then been further disrupted by the appointment in ’86 of General Boulanger as Minister
of War.

  His blue eyes, red hair and fair beard made him a striking figure and he soon became the idol of the masses. As a member of a radical ministry he went whole-heartedly to work to socialise the Army. Many of his reforms were excellent, but he set the men against their officers and greatly weakened its effectiveness by dismissing from their posts several of its best commanders simply because they were practising Catholics. In spite of that the ignorant began to regard this flamboyant and vigorous adventurer as another Napoleon, and Paul Déroulède’s League of Patriots, which had been built up to many thousands strong, with the object of launching a war of revenge against Germany, gave him their enthusiastic support.

  A change of government forced his retirement from office and his political associates had by then come to regard him as such a danger to peace that no group of them would include him in a new Ministry. Thereupon, behind the backs of his Socialist allies, he started intrigues with both the Bonapartists and Monarchists. His lying promises to his backers of all parties led them to stage violent riots on his behalf and, had he had the courage to give the word, he could probably have made himself Dictator. Instead, he proved a man of straw, fled to Brussels with his consumptive mistress and, two years later, theatrical to the last, shot himself on her grave.

  All these dissensions had been aggravated by nation-wide financial catastrophes. From ’78 onward the dreaded Phylloxera had destroyed vineyard after vineyard, bringing ruin to thousands of wine-growers during the years that followed. In ’81 the shares of the great Catholic Bank, the Union Générale, were changing hands at six times their nominal value; in ’82, owing, it was said, to the machinations of its Jewish and Protestant-controlled rivals, it went bankrupt, bringing scores of smaller banks down with it and swallowing up the savings of innumerable people. Most disastrous of all, in ’86 the Panama Company collapsed. As usual, numerous venal politicians were involved and it was found that M. Baihaut, the Minister of Works, had accepted a bribe of £15,000 to help to keep it going long after he knew it to be insolvent. The investors lost sixty million pounds, and there was hardly a family in France that was not affected.