“No, I suppose not—that is, legally.”
“Well, if I show you that Montalvo has two wives, how much?”
Brant became interested. He hated Montalvo; he guessed, indeed he knew something of the part which the man had played in this infamous affair, and knew also that it would be a true kindness to Lysbeth to rid her of him.
“If you proved it,” he said, “let us say two hundred florins.”
“It is not enough, Mynheer.”
“It is all I have to offer, and, mind you, what I promise to pay.”
“Ah! yes, the other promises and doesn’t pay—the rogue, the rogue,” she added, striking a bony fist upon the table. “Well, I agree, and I ask no bond, for you merchant folk are not like cavaliers, your word is as good as your paper. Now read these,” and she opened the packet and pushed its contents towards him.
With the exception of two miniatures, which he placed upon one side, they were letters written in Spanish and in a very delicate hand. Brant knew Spanish well, and in twenty minutes he had read them all. They proved to be epistles from a lady who signed herself Juanita de Montalvo, written to the Count Juan de Montalvo, whom she addressed as her husband. Very piteous documents they were also, telling a tale that need not be set out here of heartless desertion; pleading for the writer’s sake and for the sake of certain children, that the husband and father would return to them, or at least remit them means to live, for they, his wife and family, were sunk in great poverty.
“All this is sad enough,” said Brant with a gesture of disgust as he glanced at the miniature of the lady and her children, “but it proves nothing. How are we to know that she is the man’s wife?”
Black Meg put her hand into the bosom of her dress and produced another letter dated not more than three months ago. It was, or purported to be, written by the priest of the village where the lady lived, and was addressed to the Captain the Count Juan de Montalvo at Leyden. In substance this epistle was an earnest appeal to the noble count from one who had a right to speak, as the man who had christened him, taught him, and married him to his wife, either to return to her or to forward her the means to join him. “A dreadful rumour,” the letter ended, “has reached us here in Spain that you have taken to wife a Dutch lady at Leyden named Van Hout, but this I do not believe, since never could you have committed such a crime before God and man. Write, write at once, my son, and disperse this black cloud of scandal which is gathering on your honoured and ancient name.”