



Produced by James Rusk and David Widger





THE BLACK ROBE

by Wilkie Collins




BEFORE THE STORY.




FIRST SCENE.--BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.--THE DUEL.

I.

THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.

When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years of age
recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they mean in plain
language that they have arrived at the end of their resources. Her
ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and then decided (as
she herself expressed it) to "die at home." Traveling slowly, she had
reached Paris at the date when I last heard of her. It was then the
beginning of November. A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis
Romayne, at the club.

"What brings you to London at this time of year?" I asked.

"The fatality that pursues me," he answered grimly. "I am one of the
unluckiest men living."

He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable
possessor of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he had no
poor relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in England. When I
add that I am, myself, a retired army officer, with a wretched income, a
disagreeable wife, four ugly children, and a burden of fifty years on
my back, no one will be surprised to hear that I answered Romayne, with
bitter sincerity, in these words:

"I wish to heaven I could change places with you!"

"I wish to heaven you could!" he burst out, with equal sincerity on his
side. "Read that."

He handed me a letter addressed to him by the traveling medical
attendant of Lady Berrick. After resting in Paris, the patient had
continued her homeward journey as far as Boulogne. In her suffering
condition, she was liable to sudden fits of caprice. An insurmountable
horror of the Channel passage had got possession of her; she positively
refused to be taken on board the steamboat. In this difficulty, the lady
who held the post of her "companion" had ventured on a suggestion. Would
Lady Berrick consent to make the Channel passage if her nephew came to
Boulogne expressly to accompany her on the voyage? The reply had been
so immediately favorable, that the doctor lost no time in communicating
with Mr. Lewis Romayne. This was the substance of the letter.

It was needless to ask any more questions--Romayne was plainly on his
way to Boulogne. I gave him some useful information. "Try the oysters,"
I said, "at the restaurant on the pier."

He never even thanked me. He was thinking entirely of himself.

"Just look at my position," he said. "I detest Boulogne; I cordially
share my aunt's horror of the Channel passage; I had looked forward to
some months of happy retirement in the country among my books--and what
happens to me? I am brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel
by the tidal train at seven to-morrow morning--and all for a woman with
whom I have no sympathies in common. If I am not an unlucky man--who
is?"

He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me, under the
circumstances, to be simply absurd. But _my_ nervous system is not the
irritable system--sorely tried by night study and strong tea--of my
friend Romayne. "It's only a matter of two days," I remarked, by way of
reconciling him to his situation.

"How do I know that?" he retorted. "In two days the weather may be
stormy. In two days she may be too ill to be moved. Unfortunately, I am
her heir; and I am told I must submit to any whim that seizes her. I'm
rich enough already; I don't want her money. Besides, I dislike all
traveling--and especially traveling alone. You are an idle man. If you
were a good friend, you would offer to go with me." He added, with the
delicacy which was one of the redeeming points in his wayward character.
"Of course as my guest."

I had known him long enough not to take offense at his reminding me,
in this considerate way, that I was a poor man. The proposed change
of scene tempted me. What did I care for the Channel passage? Besides,
there was the irresistible attraction of getting away from home. The end
of it was that I accepted Romayne's invitation.

II.

SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were established at
Boulogne--near Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel. "If we live in the
same house," Romayne reminded me, "we shall be bored by the companion
and the doctor. Meetings on the stairs, you know, and exchanging bows
and small talk." He hated those trivial conventionalities of society,
in which, other people delight. When somebody once asked him in what
company he felt most at ease? he made a shocking answer--he said, "In
the company of dogs."

I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her ladyship. He
joined me again with his bitterest smile. "What did I tell you? She
is not well enough to see me to-day. The doctor looks grave, and the
companion puts her handkerchief to her eyes. We may be kept in this
place for weeks to come."

The afternoon proved to be rainy. Our early dinner was a bad one. This
last circumstance tried his temper sorely. He was no gourmand; the
question of cookery was (with him) purely a matter of digestion. Those
late hours of study, and that abuse of tea to which I have already
alluded, had sadly injured his stomach. The doctors warned him of
serious consequences to his nervous system, unless he altered his
habits. He had little faith in medical science, and he greatly overrated
the restorative capacity of his constitution. So far as I know, he had
always neglected the doctors' advice.

The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk. We
passed a church--a Roman Catholic church, of course--the doors of which
were still open. Some poor women were kneeling at their prayers in the
dim light. "Wait a minute," said Romayne. "I am in a vile temper. Let me
try to put myself into a better frame of mind."

I followed him into the church. He knelt down in a dark corner by
himself. I confess I was surprised. He had been baptized in the Church
of England; but, so far as outward practice was concerned, he belonged
to no religious community. I had often heard him speak with sincere
reverence and admiration of the spirit of Christianity--but he never,
to my knowledge, attended any place of public worship. When we met
again outside the church, I asked if he had been converted to the Roman
Catholic faith.

"No," he said. "I hate the inveterate striving of that priesthood
after social influence and political power as cordially as the fiercest
Protestant living. But let us not forget that the Church of Rome has
great merits to set against great faults. Its system is administered
with an admirable knowledge of the higher needs of human nature. Take
as one example what you have just seen. The solemn tranquillity of that
church, the poor people praying near me, the few words of prayer by
which I silently united myself to my fellow-creatures, have calmed
me and done me good. In _our_ country I should have found the church
closed, out of service hours." He took my arm and abruptly changed the
subject. "How will you occupy yourself," he asked, "if my aunt receives
me to-morrow?"

I assured him that I should easily find ways and means of getting
through the time. The next morning a message came from Lady Berrick,
to say that she would see her nephew after breakfast. Left by myself,
I walked toward the pier, and met with a man who asked me to hire his
boat. He had lines and bait, at my service. Most unfortunately, as the
event proved, I decided on occupying an hour or two by sea fishing.

The wind shifted while we were out, and before we could get back to
the harbor, the tide had turned against us. It was six o'clock when I
arrived at the hotel. A little open carriage was waiting at the door.
I found Romayne impatiently expecting me, and no signs of dinner on the
table. He informed me that he had accepted an invitation, in which I was
included, and promised to explain everything in the carriage.

Our driver took the road that led toward the High Town. I subordinated
my curiosity to my sense of politeness, and asked for news of his aunt's
health.

"She is seriously ill, poor soul," he said. "I am sorry I spoke so
petulantly and so unfairly when we met at the club. The near prospect
of death has developed qualities in her nature which I ought to have
seen before this. No matter how it may be delayed, I will patiently wait
her time for the crossing to England."

So long as he believed himself to be in the right, he was, as to his
actions and opinions, one of the most obstinate men I ever met with.
But once let him be convinced that he was wrong, and he rushed into the
other extreme--became needlessly distrustful of himself, and needlessly
eager in seizing his opportunity of making atonement. In this latter
mood he was capable (with the best intentions) of committing acts of
the most childish imprudence. With some misgivings, I asked how he had
amused himself in my absence.

"I waited for you," he said, "till I lost all patience, and went out
for a walk. First, I thought of going to the beach, but the smell of the
harbor drove me back into the town; and there, oddly enough, I met with
a man, a certain Captain Peterkin, who had been a friend of mine at
college."

"A visitor to Boulogne?" I inquired.

"Not exactly."

"A resident?"

"Yes. The fact is, I lost sight of Peterkin when I left Oxford--and
since that time he seems to have drifted into difficulties. We had
a long talk. He is living here, he tells me, until his affairs are
settled."

I needed no further enlightenment--Captain Peterkin stood as plainly
revealed to me as if I had known him for years. "Isn't it a little
imprudent," I said, "to renew your acquaintance with a man of that sort?
Couldn't you have passed him, with a bow?"

Romayne smiled uneasily. "I daresay you're right," he answered. "But,
remember, I had left my aunt, feeling ashamed of the unjust way in
which I had thought and spoken of her. How did I know that I mightn't
be wronging an old friend next, if I kept Peterkin at a distance? His
present position may be as much his misfortune, poor fellow, as his
fault. I was half inclined to pass him, as you say--but I distrusted
my own judgment. He held out his hand, and he was so glad to see me. It
can't be helped now. I shall be anxious to hear your opinion of him."

"Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?"

"Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our hotel.
He said, 'Come to my boarding-house. Out of Paris, there isn't such a
table d'hote in France.' I tried to get off it--not caring, as you know,
to go among strangers--I said I had a friend with me.