Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “I have,” she answered. “That they love each other is no news to me. That they intend to wed does not surprise me. But that they should contemplate a secret marriage passes my comprehension.”

  I cleared my throat as men will when about to embark upon a perilous subject with no starting-point determined.

  “It is time, Mademoiselle,” I began, “that you should learn the true cause of M. de Mancini’s presence at Canaples. It will enlighten you touching his motives for a secret wedding. Had things fallen out as was intended by those who planned his visit — Monsieur your father and my Lord Cardinal — it is improbable that you would ever have heard that which it now becomes necessary that I should tell you. I trust, Mademoiselle,” I continued, “that you will hear me in a neutral spirit, without permitting your personal feelings to enter into your consideration of that which I shall unfold.”

  “So long a preface augurs anything but well,” she interposed, looking monstrous serious.

  “Not ill, at least, I hope. Hear me then. Your father and his Eminence are friends; the one has a daughter who is said to be very wealthy and whom he, with fond ambition, desires to see wedded to a man who can give her an illustrious name; the other possesses a nephew whom he can ennoble by the highest title that a man may bear who is not a prince of the blood, — and borne indeed by few who are not, — and whom he desires to see contract an alliance that will bring him enough of riches to enable him to bear his title with becoming dignity.” I glanced at Mademoiselle, whose cheeks were growing an ominous red.

  “Well, Mademoiselle,” I continued, “your father and Monseigneur de Mazarin appear to have bared their heart’s desire to each other, and M. de Mancini was sent to Canaples to woo and win your father’s elder daughter.”

  A long pause followed, during which she stood with face aflame, averted eyes, and heaving bosom, betraying the feelings that stormed within her at the disclosure of the bargain whereof she had been a part. At length— “Oh, Monsieur!” she exclaimed in a choking voice, and clenching her shapely hands, “to think—”

  “I beseech you not to think, Mademoiselle,” I interrupted calmly, for, having taken the first plunge, I was now master of myself. “The ironical little god, whom the ancients painted with bandaged eyes, has led M. de Mancini by the nose in this matter, and things have gone awry for the plotters. There, Mademoiselle, you have the reason for a clandestine union. Did Monsieur your father guess how Andrea’s affections have” — I caught the word “miscarried” betimes, and substituted— “gone against his wishes, his opposition is not a thing to be doubted.”

  “Are you sure there is no mistake?” she inquired after a pause. “Is all this really true, Monsieur?”

  “It is, indeed.”

  “But how comes it that my father has seen naught of what has been so plain to me — that M. de Mancini was ever at my sister’s side?”

  “Your father, Mademoiselle, is much engrossed in his vineyard. Moreover, when the Chevalier has been at hand he has been careful to show no greater regard for the one than for the other of you. I instructed him in this duplicity many weeks ago.”

  She looked at me for a moment.

  “Oh, Monsieur,” she cried passionately, “how deep is my humiliation! To think that I was made a part of so vile a bargain! Oh, I am glad that M. de Mancini has proved above the sordid task to which they set him — glad that he will dupe the Cardinal and my father.”

  “So am not I, Mademoiselle,” I exclaimed. She vouchsafed me a stare of ineffable surprise.

  “How?

  “Diable!” I answered. “I am M. de Mancini’s friend. It was to shield him that I fought your brother; again, because of my attitude towards him was it that I went perilously near assassination at Reaux. Enemies sprang up about him when the Cardinal’s matrimonial projects became known. Your brother picked a quarrel with him, and when I had dealt with your brother, St. Auban appeared, and after St. Auban there were others. When it is known that he has played this trick upon ‘Uncle Giulio’ his enemies will disappear; but, on the other hand, his prospects will all be blighted, and for that I am sorry.”

  “So that was the motive of your duel with Eugène!”

  “At last you learn it.”

  “And,” she added in a curious voice, “you would have been better pleased had M. de Mancini carried out his uncle’s wishes?”

  “It matters little what I would think, Mademoiselle,” I answered guardedly, for I could not read that curious tone of hers.

  “Nevertheless, I am curious to hear your answer.”

  What answer could I make? The truth — that for all my fine talk, I was at heart and in a sense right glad that she was not to become Andrea’s wife — would have seemed ungallant. Moreover, I must have added the explanation that I desired to see her no man’s wife, so that I might not seem to contradict myself. Therefore —

  “In truth, Mademoiselle,” I answered, lying glibly, “it would have given me more pleasure had Andrea chosen to obey his Eminence.”

  Her manner froze upon the instant.

  “In the consideration of your friend’s advancement,” she replied, half contemptuously, “you forget, M. de Luynes, to consider me. Am I, then, a thing to be bartered into the hands of the first fortune-hunter who woos me because he has been bidden so to do, and who is to marry me for political purposes? Pshaw, M. de Luynes!” she added, with a scornful laugh, “after all, I was a fool to expect aught else from—”

  She checked herself abruptly, and a sudden access of mercy left the stinging “you” unuttered. I stood by, dumb and sheepish, not understanding how the words that I had deemed gallant could have brought this tempest down upon my head. Before I could say aught that might have righted matters, or perchance made them worse— “Since you leave Canaples to-morrow,” quoth she, “I will say ‘Adieu,’ Monsieur, for it is unlikely that we shall meet again.”

  With a slight inclination of her head, and withholding her hand intentionally, she moved away, whilst I stood, as only a fool or a statue would stand, and watched her go.

  Once she paused, and, indeed, half turned, whereupon hope knocked at my heart again; but before I had admitted it, she had resumed her walk towards the house. Hungrily I followed her graceful, lissom figure with my eyes until she had crossed the threshold. Then, with a dull ache in my breast, I flung myself upon a stone seat, and, addressing myself to the setting sun for want of a better audience, I roundly cursed her sex for the knottiest puzzle that had ever plagued the mind of man in the unravelling.

  CHAPTER XVII. FATHER AND SON

  “Gaston,” quoth Andrea next morning, “you will remain at Canaples until to-morrow? You must, for to-morrow I am to be wed, and I would fain have your good wishes ere you go.”

  “Nice hands, mine, to seek a benediction at,” I grumbled.

  “But you will remain? Come, Gaston, we have been good friends, you and I, and who knows when next we shall meet? Believe me, I shall value your ‘God speed’ above all others.”

  “Likely enough, since it will be the only one you’ll hear.”

  But for all my sneers he was not to be put off. He talked and coaxed so winningly that in the end — albeit I am a man not easily turned from the course he has set himself — the affectionate pleading in his fresh young voice and the affectionate look in his dark eyes won me to his way.

  Forthwith I went in quest of the Chevalier, whom, at the indication of a lackey, I discovered in the room it pleased him to call his study — that same room into which we had been ushered on the day of our arrival at Canaples. I told him that on the morrow I must set out for Paris, and albeit he at first expressed a polite regret, yet when I had shown him how my honour was involved in my speedy return thither, he did not urge me to put off my departure.

  “It grieves me, sir, that you must go, and I deeply regret the motive that is taking you. Yet I hope that his Eminence, in recognition of the services you have rendered his nephew, will see fit to forget what cause for resen
tment he may have against you, and render you your liberty. If you will give me leave, Monsieur, I will write to his Eminence in this strain, and you shall be the bearer of my letter.”

  I thanked him, with a smile of deprecation, as I thought of the true cause of Mazarin’s resentment, which was precisely that of the plea upon which M. de Canaples sought to obtain for me my liberation.

  “And now, Monsieur,” he pursued nervously, “touching Andrea and his visit here, I would say a word to you who are his friend, and may haply know something of his mind. It is over two months since he came here, and yet the — er — affair which we had hoped to bring about seems no nearer its conclusion than when first he came. Of late I have watched him and I have watched Yvonne; they are certainly good friends, yet not even the frail barrier of formality appears overcome betwixt them, and I am beginning to fear that Andrea is not only lukewarm in this matter, but is forgetful of his uncle’s wishes and selfishly indifferent to Monseigneur’s projects and mine, which, as he well knows, are the reason of his sojourn at my château. What think you of this, M. de Luynes?”

  He shot a furtive glance at me as he spoke, and with his long, lean forefinger he combed his beard in a nervous fashion.

  I gave a short laugh to cover my embarrassment at the question.

  “What do I think, Monsieur?” I echoed to gain time. Then, thinking that a sententious answer would be the most fitting,— “Ma foi! Love is as the spark that lies latent in flint and steel: for days and weeks these two may be as close together as you please, and naught will come of it; but one fine day, a hand — the hand of chance — will strike the one against the other, and lo! — the spark is born!”

  “You speak in parables, Monsieur,” was his caustic comment.

  “‘T is in parables that all religions are preached,” I returned, “and love, methinks, is a great religion in this world.”

  “Love, sir, love!” he cried petulantly. “The word makes me sick! What has love to do with this union? Love, sir, is a pretty theme for poets, romancers, and fools. The imagination of such a sentiment — for it is a sentiment that does not live save in the imagination — may serve to draw peasants and other lowbred clods into wedlock. With such as we — with gentlemen — it has naught to do. So let that be, Monsieur. Andrea de Mancini came hither to wed my daughter.”

  “And I am certain, Monsieur,” I answered stoutly, “that Andrea will wed your daughter.”

  “You speak with confidence.”

  “I know Andrea well. Signs that may be hidden to you are clear to me, and I have faith in my prophecy.”

  He looked at me, and fell a victim to my confidence of manner. The petulancy died out of his face.

  “Well, well! We will hope. My Lord Cardinal is to create him Duke, and he will assume as title his wife’s estate, becoming known to history as Andrea de Mancini, Duke of Canaples. Thus shall a great house be founded that will bear our name. You see the importance of it?”

  “Clearly.”

  “And how reasonable is my anxiety?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “And you are in sympathy with me?”

  “Pardieu! Why else did I go so near to killing your son?”

  “True,” he mused. Then suddenly he added, “Apropos, have you heard that Eugène has become one of the leaders of these frondeur madmen?”

  “Ah! Then he is quite recovered?”

  “Unfortunately,” he assented with a grimace, and thus our interview ended.

  That day wore slowly to its close. I wandered hither and thither in the château and the grounds, hungering throughout the long hours for a word with Mademoiselle — a glimpse of her, at least.

  But all day long she kept her chamber, the pretext being that she was beset by a migraine. By accident I came upon her that evening, at last, in the salon; yet my advent was the signal for her departure, and all the words she had for me were:

  “Still at Canaples, Monsieur? I thought you were to have left this morning.” She looked paler than her wont, and her eyes were somewhat red.

  “I am remaining until to-morrow,” said I awkwardly.

  “Vraiement!” was all she answered, and she was gone.

  Next morning the Chevalier and I breakfasted alone. Mademoiselle’s migraine was worse. Geneviève was nursing, so her maid brought word — whilst Andrea had gone out an hour before and had not returned.

  The Chevalier shot me an apologetic glance across the board.

  “‘T is a poor ‘God speed’ to you, M. de Luynes.”

  I made light of it and turned the conversation into an indifferent channel, wherein it abided until, filling himself a bumper of Anjou, the Chevalier solemnly drank to my safe journey and good fortune in Paris.

  At that moment Andrea entered by the door abutting on the terrace balcony. He was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with a joyous fever. Profuse was he in his apologies, which, howbeit, were passing vague in character, and which he brought to a close by pledging me as the Chevalier had done already.

  As we rose, Geneviève appeared with the news that Yvonne was somewhat better, adding that she had come to take leave of me. Her composure surprised me gladly, for albeit in her eyes there was also a telltale light, the lids, demurely downcast as was her wont, amply screened it from the vulgar gaze.

  Andrea would tell his father-in-law of the marriage later in the day; and for all I am not a chicken-hearted man, still I had no stomach to be at hand when the storm broke.

  The moment having come for my departure, and Michelot awaiting me already with the horses in the courtyard, M. de Canaples left us to seek the letter which I was to carry to his Eminence. So soon as the door had closed upon him, Andrea came forward, leading his bride by the hand, and asked me to wish them happiness.

  “With all my heart,” I answered; “and if happiness be accorded you in a measure with the fervency of my wishes then shall you, indeed, be happy. Each of you I congratulate upon the companion in life you have chosen. Cherish him, Mademoi — Madame, for he is loyal and true — and such are rare in this world.”

  It is possible that I might have said more in this benign and fatherly strain — for it seemed to me that this new role I had assumed suited me wondrous well — but a shadow that drew our eyes towards the nearest window interrupted me. And what we saw there drew a cry from Andrea, a shudder from Geneviève, and from me a gasp that was half amazement, half dismay. For, leaning upon the sill, surveying us with a sardonic, evil grin, we beheld Eugène de Canaples, the man whom I had left with a sword-thrust through his middle behind the Hôtel Vendôme two months ago. Whence was he sprung, and why came he thus to his father’s house?

  He started as I faced him, for doubtless St. Auban had boasted to him that he had killed me in a duel. For a moment he remained at the window, then he disappeared, and we could hear the ring of his spurred heel as he walked along the balcony towards the door.

  And simultaneously came the quick, hurrying steps of the Chevalier de Canaples, as he crossed the hall, returning with the letter he had gone to fetch.

  Geneviève shuddered again, and looked fearfully from one door to the other; Andrea drew a sharp breath like a man in pain, whilst I rapped out an oath to brace my nerves for the scene which we all three foresaw. Then in silence we waited, some subtle instinct warning us of the disaster that impended.

  The steps on the balcony halted, and a second later those in the hall; and then, as though the thing had been rehearsed and timed so that the spectators might derive the utmost effect from it, the doors opened together, and on the opposing thresholds, with the width of the room betwixt them, stood father and son confronted.

  CHAPTER XVIII. OF HOW I LEFT CANAPLES

  Whilst a man might tell a dozen did those two remain motionless, the one eyeing the other. But their bearing was as widely different as their figures; Eugène’s stalwart frame stood firm and erect, insolence in every line of it, reflected perchance from the smile that lurked about the corners of his thinlipped mouth.
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  The hat, which he had not had the grace to doff, set jauntily upon his straight black hair, the jerkin of leather which he wore, and the stout sword which hung from the plainest of belts, all served to give him the air of a ruffler, or tavern knight.

  The Chevalier, on the other hand, stood as if turned to stone. From his enervated fingers the letter fluttered to the ground, and on his pale, thin face was to be read a displeasure mixed with fear.

  At length, with an oath, the old man broke the silence.

  “What seek you at Canaples?” he asked in a quivering voice, as he advanced into the room. “Are you so dead to shame that you dare present yourself with such effrontery? Off with your hat, sir!” he blazed, stamping his foot, and going from pale to crimson. “Off with your hat, or Mortdieu, I’ll have you flung out of doors by my grooms.”

  This show of vehemence, as sudden as it was unexpected, drew from Eugène a meek obedience that I had not looked for. Nevertheless, the young man’s lip curled as he uncovered.

  “How fatherly is your greeting!” he sneered. The Chevalier’s eyes flashed a glance that lacked no venom at his son.

  “What manner of greeting did you look for?” he returned hotly. “Did you expect me to set a ring upon your finger, and have the fattened calf killed in honour of your return? Sangdieu, sir! Have you come hither to show me how a father should welcome the profligate son who has dishonoured his name? Why are you here, unbidden? Answer me, sir!”

  A deep flush overspread Eugène’s cheeks.

  “I had thought when I crossed the threshold that this was the Château de Canaples, or else that my name was Canaples — I know not which. Clearly I was mistaken, for here is a lady who has no word either of greeting or intercession for me, and who, therefore, cannot be my sister, and yonder a man whom I should never look to find in my father’s house.”

  I took a step forward, a hot answer on my lips, when from the doorway at my back came Yvonne’s sweet voice.