He had all but forgotten the task which La Fosse had set him, and seeing that La Fosse had not the entrée to the Louvre, where — as I have said — the best part of Gouville’s time was spent, there was not his presence to remind Stanislas of what lay between them.
They met in the Place Royale one day, about a fortnight after the compact had been made, and La Fosse chided his friend for his inertness in the matter. Gouville was out of humour at the time, fresh from the torture of Mademoiselle’s indifference, and ready to shed blood — no matter whose. It needed only La Fosse’s information that he had seen Belcourt enter the auberge of L’Epée de Bayard a few minutes before to send Stanislas hurrying to the inn in quest of the Marquis.
He found him in the common room, at table with half-a-dozen friends, and as he hurried through, he contrived to tread upon the Marquis’ foot.
“You clumsy, ill-bred clown.” bellowed the Marquis, “Have you no eyes?”
Stanislas turned sharply and faced the bully.
“Surely, Monsieur,” he said with a calm, sinister smile, “those words were not addressed to me?”
Now a bully is wont to become a coward in the presence of a better man. Belcourt recognised Stanislas, and his manner changed with the rapidity of lightning.
“You hurt my foot, Monsieur,” he made answer, “and for the moment I forgot my manners. I have no quarrel with you Monsieur de Gouville.”
“Ah! Since you apologise the affair is ended,” quoth Gouville with marked impertinence; and shrugging his shoulders he turned away and seated himself at some little distance. He had expected thus to have exasperated Belcourt and provoked him into further forgetfulness, but he was disappointed. The bully reddened slightly, and followed Gouville’s graceful, foppish figure with his dark, scowling eyes, but was silent.
The evident timidity which the Marquis displayed upon this occasion, proved, however, an incentive to Stanislas, who contrived thereafter to find himself as often as possible in the company of Belcourt. Three days later a fresh chance presented itself.
It was at one of St. Auban’s famous supper parties; M. de Belcourt was entertaining the company with the details of a duel which had been fought the day before at St. Germain between two celebrated dandies of the court. He was describing the manner in which M. des Cazeaux had tricked his opponent so as to obtain the opening for the lunge in tierce which had brought the combat to an end, when Stanislas, who now heard the particulars for the first time, interrupted him.
“M. de Belcourt is mistaken,” he said leaning across the table, “the lunge was not in tierce.”
The Marquis raised his eyebrows in astonishment, and stared for a moment at the young man.
“Will M. de Gouville be pleased to tell us what the lunge was?” he enquired with a scowl.
“Certainly. It was in quinte.”
“I will confess that the stroke was delivered rather high, nevertheless—”
“It was in quinte,” Gouville insisted rudely.
“It was not,” thundered Belcourt, determined not to be outdone in politeness.
There followed a dead silence whilst the two men eyed each other across the lavishly appointed table — Belcourt flushed and threatening; Gouville calm and disdainful. Then Stanislas pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet.
“You have heard me state, Messieurs, that the lunge we are discussing was delivered in quinte; you have heard M. de Belcourt say flatly that it was not. In other words, Messieurs, you have heard de Belcourt say that I lie.”
“Sangdieu!” cried Belcourt. “You misapprehend me.”
“Ah?”
“Did you witness the encounter?”
“That question should have preceded your contradiction, M. le Marquis,” was Gouville’s diplomatic answer. “It is now beside the matter. I have said that the lunge was in quinte, and if you still entertain a doubt, I shall be happy to convince you by showing you the identical disengage at any time convenient to yourself.”
Those present looked askance into each other’s faces; was ever an affaire d’honneur hung upon a weaker peg? But Belcourt’s answer struck the flimsy weapon of pretext from Gouville’s hand.
“Bah!” he cried with a laugh of affected bonhomie. “There is no quarrel between us, M. de Gouville, and, by my faith, I do not see that a difference of opinion concerning the stroke which sent M. de Cazeaux to the devil, should occasion one. Hence I see no reason for troubling you to illustrate the lunge.”
To persist after that would be to betray his purpose, to provoke M. de Belcourt into a duel.
Bitterly did Stanislas complain to La Fosse next day of his lack of success. Belcourt was eager enough to fight as a rule, but he unquestionably stood in awe of Gouville, and was determined at any cost to avoid a rupture with him.
Fortune appeared to have churlishly turned her back upon Stanislas, and he fared as ill in love as at play and in war.
His Grace the Duc de Sauveterre gave a great ball during the following week to celebrate the fiançailles of his eldest son. The court was graciously pleased to attend the fête, which accounted for the presence at the Palais Sauveterre of both Mademoiselle de Grandcourt and M. de Gouville. M. le Marquis de Belcourt was also there, resplendent in a suit of white satin, and intent upon avoiding Stanislas — a precaution which he might have spared himself, for Gouville was too eager upon a quest of his own to even remark his presence.
When Mademoiselle whispered to him that the heat was stifling and that a breath of cool air would be a boon, Stanislas realised that for once the gods were kind. He offered her his arm, and led her from the gaily thronged ball-room out on to the terrace.
The moon was up and the tepid breath of that summer night was sweetened by the scent of the rose garden beyond. As he sank down beside her on the stone seat, Stanislas felt himself overcome by the seductions of the hour, the scene, the perfume, the music floating out to them from the windows behind, and — to crown all — by her beloved presence.
And she — she too appeared to be under the magnetic spell of her surroundings, and when he spoke, softly at first, then passionately and convincingly, she did not interrupt him with her wonted raillery. Yet when he had done, and stood bending over her — so close that for a moment his long black locks were mingled with her auburn hair — and craved, with suppliance in his tone, an answer, she drew away with a merry laugh.
“You are a pretty fellow, M. de Gouville,” she said airily, “truly the prettiest I know, and you have a vastly seductive tongue. But what you ask is impossible.”
Gouville was crushed. His ready wit found no reply, and he stood with bowed head and clenched hands cursing the presumption that had bidden him hope to win where so many better men had failed. Was it for this that he bartered the honour of his sword?
“You are a courtier. M. de Gouville,” Mademoiselle pursued, “and I do not want a courtier for a husband.”
He found his tongue at last, stung to anger by her heartlessness.
“Had I foreseen, Mademoiselle, that your ambition is to wed a churl, I should have spared you this interview.”
“So! We are angry now? Nay, nay, not a churl, Monsieur,” she answered sweetly, “but a brave man; a bold, daring, manly man; not a man with two yards of lace and a score of ribbons to his doublet, and with the perfume of a dozen bouquets in his dainty clothes.”
“Duguesclin has been dead some centuries, Mademoiselle,” he said in a hard voice, “did he still live you might hope some day to marry. We had best go within.”
There was a commanding note in his voice which was new to Madeleine, and which made her will subservient to his. Meekly she rose, and taking his arm without another word, allowed herself to be led into the ante-chamber, where he bowed with averted eyes, and left her.
With fire in his bosom. Stanislas went forthwith in quest of Belcourt. Whilst the mood endured that was then upon him he felt little doubt but that he should be able to force a quarrel upon the Marquis and thus fulfil the comp
act upon which he had entered with La Fosse. With bitterness he thought of the motives that had urged him to undertake the task and of the disappointment he had suffered, but, albeit a motive there no longer was, there was still his plighted word, and — even had that been lacking — there was the angry mood that beset him and drove him with ferocious joy to meditate bloodshed.
But again fortune showed him scant favour. Belcourt was nowhere to be found. From room to room he went seeking that conspicuous figure in white that he had remarked earlier in the evening, yet ever without success.
He made enquiries, and learnt at length that M. le Marquis had left the Palais Sauveterre an hour ago. Whither he had gone his informer could not tell him, so that Gouville was forced to set a curb upon his impatience and abandon, for the while, his quest.
The light and mirth about him being ill-attuned to his mood, he wandered out into the garden again, and there flung himself upon the very seat where but awhile ago his suit had been derided.
Hardly was he seated when the gravel behind him crunched ‘neath an approaching step, and —
“Do you seek M. de Belcourt?” said a man’s voice at his elbow.
“I do, indeed,” he answered, turning sharply and beholding to his surprise a lacquey, “can you tell me where I may find him?”
“I escorted him to his carriage half an hour ago Monsieur; he was met by two men to whom I heard him give as a rendezvous the Rue du Guet at midnight.”
In an instant Gouville was upon his feet, and, having rewarded the fellow for his information, he went within to get his cloak and sword. It wanted a quarter of an hour to midnight, so that there was just time for him to reach the Rue du Guet afoot.
He dismissed his carriage at the door of the Palais Sauveterre, feeling himself beset by that restlessness which impels a man to physical action. Thinking of many things, and cursing most, he stalked moodily along until he had reached the corner of the Rue du Guet, when suddenly his attention was arrested by a woman’s cry for help. As he paused to listen, the cry was repeated, and so piteously that it drove all thoughts of Belcourt from Gouville’s mind, and without another moment’s delay, he set off at a run in the direction of the sound, drawing his sword as he went.
Not two hundred yards down the street he came upon a coach, from which three men were endeavouring to drag a resisting woman. The body of a man lay inert upon the ground, and Stanislas was quick to surmise him to be the luckless coachman.
He was upon the ruffians before they suspected his approach, and had run his sword through the nearest of them ere the fellow could draw.
Alarmed by this sudden and unlooked-for interference, the other two sprang back from the coach, and one of them plucking a pistol from his belt fired upon the intruder. But in his haste he aimed too high, and before he could repair his error the point of Gouville’s sword was protruding from his back.
So quickly had it all taken place that Stanislas had disengaged his blade and stood ready for the third, before the fellow had got out his sword. He might have fallen upon him and slain him before he could guard himself, but his chivalrous spirit withheld him from taking so mean an advantage from a single man. He lowered his point and surveyed the tall, lithe figure before him, vainly endeavouring to pierce the shadows which the man’s hat cast upon his face.
“Draw, sir,” he cried, “I await you.”
The man was quick to comply with so gallant an invitation, and the next moment their blades clashed. It was a short combat, though the tall man fought well and fiercely. Stanislas was his master and presently his sword glided in under the fellow’s guard, and the deadly point caught him in the throat. He fell without a groan, and, as Stanislas knelt to see if he were dead, a cry of surprise escaped him, as there in the moonlight he beheld the livid, distorted face, and staring eyes of the Marquis de Belcourt. The rendezvous which the lacquey told him Belcourt had appointed was suddenly remembered, and, in a flash, he understood the situation.
Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
“Bravely fought, my gallant knight! You were wrong, Duguesclin still lives, but his name to-day is Stanislas de Gouville.”
In an instant he was upon his feet.
“You!” he gasped, at the sight of the girl who stood before him with hands held forth in a mute appeal for comfort and forgiveness. For a moment the memory of their last words rose up before him, and he stood aloof and half disdainful. Then her glorious beauty and the look in her eyes defeated his ungentle purpose. He opened his arms and took her, half laughing, half sobbing, into their shelter.
“My note of hand, La Fosse,” cried Stanislas gaily next morning as he burst in upon his friend. “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. St. Gris, I was in luck last night! The same blow that killed Belcourt won me the heart of the loveliest woman in France.”
And briefly he related what had taken place.
“’Tis passing strange,” murmured La Fosse with a clouded brow. “Who is the lady?”
“Fool! Did I not say the loveliest woman in France? Mademoiselle de Grandcourt.”
With ashen face La Fosse turned hastily towards a small sécretaire, from which he took a paper.
“There is your note of hand for the Normandy estates, Gouville. I thank you for ridding me of Belcourt,” he continued, mastering his agitation, “and with all my heart I wish you joy of your conquest.”
Gouville crumpled the scrap of paper into his pocket with a smile.
“Au revoir, mon ami,” he cried, putting forth his hand, “and may your suit prosper as well as mine, now that the obstacle is removed from your path.”
La Fosse took the proffered hand, and answered his unsuspecting friend with a brave smile.
But when Stanislas was gone, and La Fosse was alone with his feelings, he gave vent to a bitter laugh at the irony of it all. He had restored a fortune to the bankrupt Stanislas as the price at which he was to remove the man who opposed his wooing of Madeleine de Grandcourt, and whilst Stanislas had accomplished this, he had wooed and won the lady for himself.
Sinking into a chair André de La Fosse buried his face in his hands, and cursed the fates that had played him so scurvy a trick.
PLAYING WITH FIRE
The London Magazine, February 1913
Spencer Baynes was widely known as “The Anachronism,” and there can be little doubt — as this story is intended to show — that he thoroughly deserved the by-name.
He was, in a dilettante way, something of a historian, a writer of monographs, who specialised in eighteenth century subjects. And he loved his eighteenth century. He was so profoundly steeped in the lore of it that some of its atmosphere actually clung to him, tempering his point of view, his actions, and, at times, his very speech. By nature — deep down — Spencer Baynes was prone to emotionalism and sensationalism; there was a neurotic seam in his temperament, which, however, he was able to conceal under an iron self-control very rare in men of his type. But, though he succeeded in concealing the real visage of his nature, he by no means succeeded in dissembling the mask itself.
It had been apparent throughout his rather painful interview with his wife on the subject of Frank Montford’s excessive attentions to her; it was more marked than ever in the words of finality with which he brought the discussion to a close.
“You are getting yourself talked about,” he said, calmly severe, and holding her cloak for her as he spoke. “So now you understand why it must cease. Come; here is your wrap.”
But Emily Baynes did not move in response to the invitation. She remained by the overmantel, her left hand, delicately gloved, grasping the edge of it as if to steady her; and she attempted to stifle her indignation at this jealousy of her husband’s which she accounted as stupid and humiliating as it was unfounded.
“I — I am getting myself talked about!” she echoed; and then she laughed to express her scorn. “Oh, but that’s absurd! It isn’t true — it can’t be!”
“It only remains,” he said stiffly, “that you should not believe me.”
His tall, symmetrical figure, the faultless set of his garments, his shaven, young-old face under the dark hair, so very symmetrically grey at the sides, all heightened his histrionic air.
His wife looked at him with increasing dismay. She was small, fair and agreeably plump; pretty, too, with a fading prettiness that even in its freshness had reflected for the discerning something of the trivial, though kindly, little soul within.
“Come,” he said again, insistently urging the cloak upon her; “we shall be late.”
In the carriage she would have reopened the discussion, but he resisted it.
“My dear child,” he said, as largely tolerant in manner as he believed himself to be at heart, “there is really no more to be said. If I am jealous, it is of your good name, which is my name. That, and my certain knowledge that you are giving occasion for talk, have led me to speak as I have spoken. I do not choose to believe that there is the least ground for this talk...but you have been indiscreet, and it is my duty to point out your indiscretion, and desire you to put an end to it. Your good sense, I am sure, must show you that I am right, and so there is no more to be said. That rose in your hair is most becoming.”
She did not answer him. She sat back in her corner of the comfortable carriage and sulked.
And that night she danced with Frank Montford, and when the waltz was over she permitted him to lead her into a secluded nook of the conservatory.
It is true that she had sought, at first, to excuse herself. But under Montford’s insistence she had consented — partly because she thought the opportunity would be a good one to tell him that his attentions to her must cease.
Montford announced that he had confidences to make. His confidences usually concerned his career and his ambitions, for he was your egotist who has no subject but himself. Failing to appreciate this latter fact, she had conceived herself most delicately and subtly flattered by confidences which she imagined were a tribute to her understanding.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 481
