The licence to travel was obtained from Walsingham easily enough. Beauvallet was closeted with this enigmatic man for a full hour, and protested afterwards that the Secretary made him shiver. But it is believed that they were much of a mind in that both would welcome war with Spain.
With Joshua Dimmock, and a fair stock of money against his needs Sir Nicholas came at last to Paris, and inquired for his distant kinsman, Eustache de Beauvallet, Marquis de Belrémy. This nobleman, whom Nicholas had not met since certain riotous days in Italy, when both were in the early twenties, was not to be found at his town house. His servants reported him to be at Belrémy, in Normandy, but Beauvallet heard other news that placed the Marquis further south, on a visit to a friend. There was nothing to be gained from seeking the elusive Marquis through France; Beauvallet swore genially at the delay, and sat him down to await his kinsman’s return. He did not visit either the English ambassador, or the Court of Henri III. For the one, he preferred his presence in France to be unknown; for the other, the fopperies of the French Court were not at all to his taste. He found the means to amuse himself outside the Court, and passed the time very pleasantly.
At the end of a month the Marquis returned to Paris, and hearing of Beauvallet’s visit, straightway kicked his majordomo for allowing his so dear kinsman to lodge otherwhere than in his house, and set forth at once in a horse-litter to find Sir Nicholas.
Beauvallet had a comfortable lodging near the Seine. It suited him very well, but Joshua muttered darkly, and saw a Catholic murderer in every convivial guest who came there. Saint Bartholomew’s Day was fresh enough yet in a plain Englishman’s mind, said he.
The Marquis, a wiry, resplendent personage, no more than a year older than Beauvallet, came tempestuously into his room, and clasped his kinsman in an ecstatic embrace with many suitable exclamations and reproaches. It was long before Beauvallet could come to his business, for the Marquis had much to say, and much to ask, and many mad memories to recall. But at length the reason for this visit was asked, and then they came to grips. When the Marquis heard that Sir Nicholas wanted a French pass into Spain he at first threw up hands of despair, and cried “Impossible!” At the end of half an hour he said:—“Well, well, perhaps! But it is madness, and it will be a forgery, and you are a good-for-naught to ask it of me!” Within the week he brought the pass, and said only “Aha!” when Beauvallet asked how he had managed to procure it. It gave leave for a M. Gaston de Beauvallet to travel abroad. Beauvallet learned that this Gaston was a cousin of the Marquis, and chuckled.
“But look you, my friend!” the Marquis cautioned him. “Do not stumble upon our Ambassador, for he knows Gaston well, and us all. I caution you, be wary! Ah, but to travel into Spain at all! And with that name! Madness! Unutterable folly!”
“Basta, basta!” said Sir Nicholas, and frowned upon the pass.
Now as he rode south it was in his mind that this pass, though it would safely carry him across the Frontier was likely to lead him to exposure at Madrid. He rode in silence, pondering it rather ruefully, but presently he twitched his shoulders as though to cast off these cares, and spurred his horse to a gallop. Joshua, following at a soberer pace with a led sumpter, watched his master disappear down the road in a cloud of dust, and shook his head. “Our last venture,” said Joshua, and kicked his horse to a brisker pace. “A plague on all women! Come up, jade!”
They made no great haste on the journey, for Sir Nicholas was loth to part with the horse he had bought in Paris. It bore him nobly, and he cherished it well. They went south by degrees, resting at the inns along the post road, and came at last to a lonely tavern within half a day’s ride of the Frontier.
It lay in a squalid village, and was obviously unfrequented by travellers. The last great inn they had passed housed a sick man, whom Joshua was quick to nose out. He got wind of a pestilent fever, and was urgent with his master not to remain. The afternoon was young yet, and the sun warm. Beauvallet consented to ride on.
So they came at dusk to this rude inn, lying a little way off the post road. None came forth to welcome them, so Joshua went to kick the door, and raised a shout. Mine host came out, surly-seeming, but when he saw so richly caparisoned a gentleman he lost his scowl, and bowed to the ground. There was a room for the gentleman to be sure, if monseigneur would condescend to this poor abode.
“I condescend,” said Sir Nicholas. “Have you a truckle-bed, my man? Then set it up in my chamber for my servant.” He swung himself down from the saddle, and fondled his mare a moment. “Eh, my beauty!” He had had her through the Marquis’ advice, a fine, fleet black, with powerful quarters, and a mouth of velvet. “Take her, Joshua.” He stretched himself, and swore at his stiffness. The landlord set open the door, and bowed him into the low-pitched taproom.
Beauvallet sent him to fetch wine, and seemed to snuff the air. “Faugh!” It was squalid in the taproom, of a piece with the untidy yard without. He went to the window and forced it open to let in the clean air.
The landlord came back with the wine, looked askance at the open window, and muttered a little under his breath. Sir Nicholas drank deeply, and
