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His eyes followed the young man to the gate, and presently, with a quick lifting of the shoulders, he said: "Robert Belward!" Then added: "Impossible! But he is a Belward." He saw Gaston mount, then entered and went slowly up the aisle. He paused beside the tomb of that other Belward. His wrinkled hand rested on it. "That is it," he said at last. "He is like the picture of this Sir Gaston.
The little pale-faced man who had first held the position disappeared one night, and in another twenty-four hours a new one was in his place. Many stories had gone about. It was rumoured that the little man was short in his accounts, and had been got out of the way by Gaston Belward.
He was Sir Gaston Robert Belward, Baronet. He remembered now how, at Prince Rupert's side, he had sped on after Ireton's horse, cutting down Roundheads as he passed, on and on, mad with conquest, yet wondering that Rupert kept so long in pursuit while Charles was in danger with Cromwell: how, as the word came to wheel back, a shot tore away the pommel of his saddle; then another, and another, and with a sharp twinge in his neck he fell from his horse.
The next morning Brillon brought a note from Ian Belward, which said that he was starting, and asked Gaston to be sure and come to Paris. The note was carelessly friendly. After reading it, he lay thinking. Presently he chanced to see Jacques look intently at him. "Well, Brillon, what is it?" he asked genially.
"How?" In a few concise words he explained, scanning the other's face eagerly. Gaston showed nothing. He had passed the apogee of irritation. "A model?" he questioned drily. "Well, if you put it that way. 'Portrait' sounds better. It shall be Gaston Belward, gentleman; but we will call it in public, 'Monmouth the Trespasser." Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed.
It lay, hands folded, in the dress of Prince Rupert's cavaliers, a sword at side, and great spurs laid beside the heels. "'Gaston Robert Belward'!" As this other Gaston Robert Belward looked at the image of his dead ancestor, a wild thought came: Had he himself not fought with Prince Rupert? Was he not looking at himself in stone?
Meanwhile he was in Paris, and every morning early he could be seen with Jacques riding up the Champs Elysee and out to the Bois de Boulogne. Every afternoon at three he sat for "Monmouth" or the "King of Ys" with his horse in his uncle's garden. Ian Belward might have lived in a fashionable part; he preferred the Latin Quarter, with incursions into the other at fancy.
A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if possible. There was something in it, he was sure.
A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went. Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if possible. There was something in it, he was sure.
"In a few weeks." He looked at both. The girl, seeing that he was going to speak further, bowed and left the room. His eyes followed her. After a moment, he said firmly "Mr. Gasgoyne, I am going to face all." "To live it down, Belward?" "I am going to fight it down." "Well, there's a difference. You have made a mess of things, and shocked us all. I needn't say what more.
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