This was a large room very simply furnished; here and there, hung on the walls, were costly arms. Above a couch was a beautiful portrait of King Charles II. of England; beyond this was a miniature representing a woman of most enchanting beauty. In an ebony frame were many studies in crayon, well designed, and representing always the same people. It was easy to see that they were drawn as portraits from memory. The frame was supported by a kind of stand in chased silver, representing funeral symbols, in the midst of which one might read the date, "July 15, 1685."
This apartment was occupied by a young man in the prime of manhood—large, supple and robust. His noble proportions recalled vividly the height and figure of Captain Whirlwind, of the buccaneer Rend-your-Soul, or of the Caribbean Youmäale. By coloring the fine features of the man of whom we speak to the copper-colored tint of the mulatto, the ruddy color of the Caribbean, or by half-concealing them under the thick black beard of the buccaneer, one could almost see the three individuals in the same person.
We will here say to the reader, who has doubtless penetrated this mystery, that the disguises of the buccaneer, the filibuster, and the Caribbean, had been successively assumed by the same man, who was none other than the natural son of Charles II., James, Duke of Monmouth, executed at London, July 15, 1685, as guilty of high treason. All historians agree in saying that this prince was very brave, very affable, and of a very generous nature and a face beautiful and noble. "Such was the end of a prince," says Hume, in (speaking of Monmouth) "whose great qualities would have made him an ornament to the court, and who was capable of serving well his country. The tenderness which his father, the king, bore for him; the praises of a large faction and the blind devotion of the populace, drew him into an enterprise beyond his strength. The love of the people followed him in all the vicissitudes of fortune; even after his execution, his followers cherished the belief that they would some day see him at their head."
We will explain later the cause of this singular hope of the prince's adherents, and how Monmouth had, in effect, survived his execution.
Having removed his disguise as the Caribbean, and the dye which stained his features, Monmouth wore an ample gown of light blue covered with orange flowers, and read attentively a large number of papers spread before him.
In order to explain the mistake of which the chevalier was the voluntary victim, we must explain that Croustillac, without really resembling Monmouth, was of the same age, the same height, brown as the other, as slender, and that the duke had, in common with the Gascon, a nose decidedly prominent, and a strong chin. Others beside Rutler, a Dutch officer arrived from the United Provinces in the suite of William of Orange, would have fallen into the same error, above all, seeing in the hands of Croustillac certain priceless objects known to have belonged to the son of Charles II.
As to the choice of Rutler, one must understand that in order to fulfill such a mission with all its consequences, it needed a man careful, fearless, blindly devoted, and capable of pushing that devotion even to assassination. The choice of William of Orange was necessarily circumscribed by such exigencies; it would have been probably impossible for him to have found a man who knew Monmouth personally who would not have recoiled before such terrible extremities as were entailed in this perilous and cruel undertaking.
Monmouth was deeply absorbed in reading several English journals. All at once the door of his room opened violently, and Angela threw herself on his neck, crying, "Saved! saved!"
Then, bursting into tears, laughing and sobbing by turn, kissing his hands, his forehead, his eyes, she repeated, in a stifled voice, "Saved! my beloved James! Saved! there is no longer any danger for thee, my lover, my husband. God be praised, the danger is past! But what terror has been mine! Alas! I tremble still!"
Startled by the transports of Angela, Monmouth said to her with infinite tenderness, "What is the matter, child? What do you say?"