Sir George raised his eyebrows, and pondered. He had guessed as much for some time. Though with so many new interests, he had busied himself of late but little with politics, yet it was not in his nature to be entirely unobservant of public affairs. He had seen plenty of clouds on the horizon, and knew they portended storms; but the old habits of military caution had not deserted him, and he answered, carelessly—
“That depends on what you think, you know. These Jesuits—pardon me, comrade, I cannot help addressing you as a Musketeer—these Jesuits sometimes know a great deal more than their prayers, but rather than prove mistaken, they will themselves create the complications they claim to have discovered. Frankly, you may speak out here. Our oak panels have no ears, and my servants are most of them deaf, and all faithful. What is the last infallible scheme at St. Omer? How many priests are stirring hard at the broth? How many marshals of France are longing to scald their mouths? Who is blowing the fire up, to keep it all hot and insure the caldron’s bubbling over at the right moment?”
Florian laughed. “Greater names than you think for,” he replied; “fewer priests, more marshals. Peers of France to light the fire, and a prince of the blood to take the cover off. Oh! trust me this is no soupe maigre. The stock is rich, the liquid savoury, and many a tempting morsel lies floating here and there for those who are not afraid of a dash with the flesh-hook, and will take their chance of burnt fingers in the process.”
“That is all very well for people who are hungry,” answered Sir George; “but when a man has dined, you can no longer tempt with a ragoût. The desire of a full man is to sit still and digest his food.”
“Ambition has never dined,” argued the other; “ambition is always hungry and has the digestion of an ostrich. Like that insatiable bird, it can swallow an earl’s patent, parchment, ribbons, seals, and all, thankfully and at a gulp!”
The baronet considered, took a draught of claret, and spoke out.
“Earls’ patents don’t go begging about in a Jesuit’s pocket without reason; nor are they given to the first comer who asks, only because he can swallow them. Tell me honestly what you mean Eugène—Florian. How am I to call you? With me, you are as safe as in the confessional at St. Omer. But speak no more in parables. Riddles are my aversion. A hidden meaning is as irritating as an ugly woman in a mask, and I never in my life could fence for ten minutes with an equal adversary, but I longed to take the buttons off the foils!”
Thus adjured, Florian proceeded to unfold the object of his mission.
“You were surprised, perhaps,” said he, “to learn from Slap-Jack, who no doubt thought me a ghost till I spoke first, that your old comrade would be sitting with his legs at the same table as yourself this afternoon. You were gratified, I am sure, but you must have been puzzled. Now, Sir George, if you believe that my only reason for crossing the Channel, and riding post a couple of hundred miles, was that I might empty a stoup of this excellent claret in your company, you are mistaken.” He stopped, blushed violently, somewhat to his host’s astonishment, and hid his confusion by replenishing his glass.
“I had another object of far more importance both to yourself and to your country. Besides this, I am but fulfilling the orders of my superiors. They employed me—Heaven knows why they employed me!” he broke out vehemently, “except that they thought you the dearest friend I had on earth. And so you are! and so you shall be! Listen, Sir George. The last person I spoke with before leaving France, had dined with Villeroy, previous to setting out for St. Omer. The young King had just seen the Marshal, the latter was charged with his Majesty’s congratulations to the King of England (the real King of England) on his infant’s recovery. The boy who had been ailing is still in arms, and his Majesty asked if the young Prince Charles could speak yet? ‘When he does,’ said Villeroy, who has been a courtier for forty years, ‘the first sentence he ought to say is ‘God bless the King of France.’ ‘Not so,’ answered his Majesty, laughing, ‘let him learn the Jacobite countersign, “Box it about, it will come to my father!” If they only “box it about” enough,’ he added, ‘that child in arms should be as sure of the British crown as I am of the French!’ This is almost a declaration in form. It is considered so in Paris. The King’s sentiments can no longer be called doubtful, and with the strong party that I have every reason to believe exists in England disaffected to your present Government, surely the time for action has arrived. They thought so at St. Omer, in a conclave to which I am a mere mouthpiece. I should think so myself, might a humble novice presume to offer an opinion; and when the movement takes place, if Sir George Hamilton is found where his blood, his antecedents, his high spirit and adventurous character are likely to lead him, I have authority to declare that he will be Sir George Hamilton no longer. The earl’s patent is already made out, which any moment he pleases may be swallowed at a gulp, for digestion at his leisure. I have said my say; I have made a clean breast of it; send for Slap-Jack and your venerable butler; put me in irons; hand me over to your municipal authorities, if you have any, and let them drag me to prison; but give me another glass of that excellent claret first, for my throat is dry with so much talking!”