Some one started a Jacobite song, “Awa’, Whigs, awa’!” and there was a rousing chorus, at which Bess, on her dais, stood up, and her rich and powerful soprano could be heard ringing like a bird above the masculine voices. Presently a stranger entered, who seemed to have news; and in a few moments François Delaunay left the group which surrounded the new-comer, and coming out of the room to Bess, said, with a pale face,—
“There is very desperate news about Richard Egremont. He went to England three weeks ago, was apprehended, and now lies in Newgate gaol under sentence of death. Such is the news brought from London.”
Bess remained silent for a moment.
“They’ll hang him, sure,” she said. “They hanged Sir John Fenwick and the rest; and Dicky,—Mr. Egremont, I mean,—being a Jesuit, will have no chance for his life.”
Then, after a moment, she continued: “If I were there, with money, I might help him. It a’n’t so hard to get out of Newgate—” She stopped at this, and François said,—
“If I had the money I would give it you; but, alas!” He turned out his pockets, showing a few crowns.
“I have some money at Paris, but there’s no knowing how much might be needed; we might have to charter a vessel to bring him back. I wonder,” she continued, an idea striking her, “if that old woman—”
“The Duchess? She is a free and liberal woman—sometimes,” replied François.
“You come with me,” was Bess’s sudden response, seizing her hood and cloak, and calling for Jacques to take her place.
In two minutes she was walking rapidly through the quiet streets, and then through the forest, black and still, François finding difficulty in keeping up with her. It was little more than ten o’clock at night when they reached the château de Beaumanoir, a mile from the edge of the forest; but all was dark in the building, except a single window. François led Bess through a small door, and then she demanded of a sleepy porter to be shown Madame do Beaumanoir’s room.