Patroon van Volkenberg

by Henry Thew Stephenson

“I have done him wrong.”

“Therefore you would do him more?”

“Is not that logic? I would break him upon the rack. Bah, he is no fool. I must watch him close.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Ay, dead if not alive. Lately he had the impudence to hang about that very window and spy upon my affairs.”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, but he kept his eyes on me. I saw through his plot clearly. He did not know that I was Le Bourse, but he thought so, and wanted me to betray myself. I was more than a match for him, however, as events soon proved. He told me briefly what he knew of my escapade of a few nights before and how it led up to his expulsion from the privy-council. All the while he watched me narrowly, though now and then glancing for a moment at Louis, who seemed more asleep than awake in the great chair. At last the patroon let his cane slip. It came down with a startling rattle upon the floor, and when he picked it up again he leaned back in his chair with a silent, sullen manner. He was evidently at the end of his string for that moment. My first ordeal was over. He had tried me in the balance and found—nothing. Evidently the patroon was not convinced one way or the other.

He did not wait long before he was at me again. This time he took a new tack that was harder to resist ten times over. He began to talk about Ruth. So long as his thrusts were aimed at me alone the game was in my own hands. But he played strong cards when he alluded to my sister. I had much ado to control my feelings. He must have seen me wince more than once. But, besides an angry flush or two, or a sign of sullen humor, I did nothing to increase his suspicions, though, on the other hand, I did nothing to allay them. For my part, I was drawn tight as a harp string. I felt that one more twist of the key would snap me, come what would. Then it all ended suddenly and in a marvelous way. Just as I was at my wit’s end for self-control, I heard the patroon gasp and cry out:

“My God, St. Vincent, do you know whom I took you for? I thought you were Le Bourse.”

They say it is nearly a hundred years since the English play writer wrote his Hamlet; yet it is so good a play that it can still be seen upon the London stage. I well remember a scene in it where Hamlet is laying what he calls a mouse-trap to catch his uncle Claudius. Hamlet has the players play something like the murder of his father before the King. Hamlet thought that if the King were guilty he would betray himself by some sign. Once in dumb show and once in real acting the murder was performed before the King, who remained calm and silent, betraying no sign of guilt. This failure of his plan so exasperated Hamlet that he broke down himself and flew into hysterics singing little nonsense songs. In the confusion, the King called for a light and took his leave. But I could see from the expression of his face that another moment would have broken him.

This was the situation of the patroon. While he had been piercing me with one prong of the fork the other turned and twisted among his own nerves. It was when my calm behavior became too much for him that he broke down pitifully, crying that he took me for Le Bourse. Hardly had he said it than he repented; but it was too late. For very shame he had to disguise his suspicion now. So he carried on his play-acting; but I was well aware that the confidence he now pretended to show in me was acting like the rest.