Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Emily, dear,” he murmured caressingly; and there was a suspicion almost of tears in the voice of this odd man who was in danger of losing his iron mask of self-control.

  “Spencer! You didn’t really believe that I — that it was other than I have said! You know, Spencer, that there is no one, that there never could be anyone but you — you, my husband!”

  He groaned miserably, oppressed now by the full sense of the awful thing he had done — the worse that he stood pledged to do.

  If she had only remained in bed, how easy — comparatively — might it not have been for him! If he could only have gone out of life sustained by his resentment and the belief that he was no longer wanted by her! But now! And yet the thing to which he stood committed must be done. His pledge was irrevocable. His honour demanded it. That was no anachronistic notion; it was a notion of all time. He had played a man with a certain stake upon the board. He had lost, and that stake was forfeit. He must pay, however terrible the price, for if he did not he could never respect himself again.

  He realised now that he had fooled and blundered the whole thing. He was ending where he should have begun — by hearing his wife’s explanation of the incident.

  His wife stirred in his arms. Her eyes sought the litter of papers on his desk, half idle, half inquiringly. A little pile of long envelopes was ranged in an orderly manner along one side; the topmost, she saw, was addressed to his solicitors. A vague dread filled her — a dread that would have turned to positive horror had she known that amongst those envelopes was one addressed to herself. She was about to express her dread, to ask a question, when suddenly the doorbell pealed long and insistently, followed by a vigorous knocking.

  They were on their feet, looking at each other, startled.

  “Who ever can that be — at this time?” he wondered. He turned to his desk, swept the envelopes into a drawer, turned the key, and withdrew it. Then he went out.

  She heard him open the front door, heard him utter an exclamation, heard steps in the hall, and a vigorous “Thank God!” in a voice that she recognised as Montford’s.

  Then the door closed again.

  “What is it?” came her husband’s level tones.

  “I was afraid I might be too late — horribly afraid,” said Montford, who was still in his dress clothes, and prey to an overwhelming agitation. “Look here, Baynes; you mustn’t do this thing. I’ve come to tell you that you can take the other course, if you like. I’ll stand the racket.”

  Only by the greatest effort did Baynes preserve his self-control. Temptation had him by the throat. Then he flung the thing off with loathing. He spoke, dropping his words one by one.

  “Really, Montford! Really! Do you come here, disturbing the house at such an hour, to tell me this? I wonder that you dare! The matter is out of your hands. And you have no right to assume that I could or would go back upon what has been done.”

  Montford made a gesture of exasperation.

  “The whole thing was so — so mad, don’t you know! We don’t live in times when that sort of thing can be done.”

  “I shall hope to convince you that we do,” said Baynes coldly, betraying no slightest sign of the battle in his soul between his old-fangled notions and the almost overwhelming temptation that Montford offered him. “I am afraid I am detaining you,” he added in dismissal, “and I don’t think there is anything more to be said.”

  Montford hesitated a moment.

  “But there is one other thing,” he said slowly, looking Baynes straight in the face, “and I think it makes a difference — I cheated.”

  Baynes started; his eye quickened; a flush crept slowly into his cheek.

  “You cheated!” he echoed, his voice trembling.

  “Yes,” said Montford brazenly. “You remember how I upset the cards, and had to grope for them on the floor? That was my opportunity — and I took it.”

  In the immensity of his relief — the relief of a man reprieved in sight of the gallows — Baynes could have taken Montford to his arms. But he repressed the impulse, as he had repressed his other feelings.

  “Ah!” said he, “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. You are not to suppose that I am going home to blow my brains out. I am not. You can take what course you like — though Heaven knows you’ve no real cause to take any.”

  Baynes reopened the front door for his visitor.

  “Be under no apprehension,” he said, coldly sarcastic. “After all, it would be a pity to deprive your profession of one who promises to become so great an ornament to it. Good-morning!”

  Montford hesitated still a moment; Then, with a shrug, he passed out in silence. Baynes closed the door.

  His puzzled wife, standing on the threshold of the study, saw his face transfigured. The haggard look was gone, the eyes were bright, and there was a faint tinge of colour in his cheeks as he came quickly to her, and took her, in deepest thankfulness, to his heart.

  She never quite understood the reason of the welcome change that came over him from that day. But, for that matter, neither did he. For he never learned that this Montford, whom he despised for a cheat, was no cheat at all — at least, not in the sense in which he had represented. Montford’s only fraud had been his statement that he had cheated. And, after all, there was something heroic in that falsehood, of which he had availed himself as a last resource to save Baynes from the consequences of his anachronistic folly.

  SWORD AND MITRE

  Royal Magazine, December 1899. Munseys, July 1929, as “Rendezvous”

  I

  The Marquis de Castelroc stood smiling before me, and in his outstretched hand he held the appointment which, unsolicited, and even against my wishes, he had obtained for me in Lorraine.

  For some moments I remained dumfounded by what I accounted a liberty which he had no right to take, and yet, imagining that feelings of kindly interest had dictated it, I had not the heart to appear resentful.

  At length I broke the painful silence.

  “Monsieur is extremely kind,” I murmured, bowing; “but as I told you a week ago, when first you suggested this appointment to me, I cannot and will not accept it; nor can I fathom your motives for thus pressing it upon me.”

  The smile faded from his handsome, roué face, and the hard lines which characterized his mouth when in repose reappeared.

  “You refuse it?” he inquired, and his voice had lost all that persuasive gentleness of a moment ago.

  “I regret that I cannot accept it,” I replied.

  He dropped the parchment on to the table, and going over to the fireplace, leaned his elbow on the overmantel. With his gaze fixed on the ormolu clock, he appeared lost in thoughts of no pleasant character, to judge by the expression of his face.

  I endured the ensuing silence for some moments; then, growing weary, and remembering a pair of bright eyes that were watching for my arrival in the Rue du Bac, I coughed to remind him of my presence.

  He started at the sound; then turning, came slowly across to where I stood. Leaning lightly against the secretaire of carved oak, and laying a shapely hand, all ablaze with jewels, upon my shoulder, he gazed intently at me for a moment with those uncanny eyes of his.

  “You are still a very young man, M. de Bleville,” he began.

  “Pardon me,” I interrupted, impatiently; “but I was twenty-four last birthday.”

  “A great age,” he sneered lightly; then quickly changing his tone as if he feared to offend me, “I speak comparatively,” he continued. “You are young when compared with me, who am old enough to be your father. Youth, mon cher Vicomte, is rash, and often does not recognize those things which would revert to its own advantage. Now, I mean you well.”

  “I doubt it not, monsieur.”

  “I mean you well and take more interest in you than you think. I have noticed that you are growing pale of late; the air of Paris does not agree with you, and a change would benefit you vastly.”

  “I th
ank you, but I am feeling passing well,” I answered with some warmth.

  “Still,” he persisted, puckering his brows, “not so well as a young man of your years should do. Lorraine is a particularly healthy country. You will take the appointment.”

  “A plague on the appointment!” I exclaimed, unable longer to restrain the anger which his impertinence excited. “I do not want it! Do you not understand me, sir? Notre Dame! But your persistence grows wearisome. Permit me to bid you good night; I have a pressing matter to attend.”

  So saying, I reached out for my hat which lay on the table beside the lighted tapers. But he caught my arm in his hand with a grip that made me wince.

  “Not yet, vicomte!” he cried huskily. “I take too great an interest in you to let you go thus. We must understand each other first.”

  His pale face had an evil scowl, and his voice a ring of mockery little to my taste.

  “Your life is in danger, monsieur,” he said presently; “and if you persist in your determination to remain in Paris, evil will befall you.”

  “And from whom, pray?” I inquired haughtily.

  “My Lord Cardinal.”

  “Richelieu!” I gasped, and I know that I paled, although I strove not to do so.

  He bent over until his lips were on a level with my ear. “Who killed Beausire?” he whispered suddenly.

  I recoiled as if he had struck me. Then, in an access of fury, I sprang upon him, and seizing him by the costly lace about his throat, I shook him viciously in my grasp.

  “What do you know?” I cried. “Answer me, sir, or I will strangle you. What do you know? Confess!”

  With an effort he wrenched himself free, and flung me back against the wall.

  “Enough to hang you,” he snarled, panting for breath. “Keep your distance, you young dog, and listen to me, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Limp and mute, I remained where I was.

  “You may not know me well, Bleville”...he spoke now in calm and deliberate accents...”but those who do will tell you that I am a dangerous man to thwart. Your presence in Paris is distasteful to me. I have determined that you shall quit it, and go you shall...either to Lorraine or the Bastille, as you choose.”

  “I choose neither, sir,” I answered defiantly.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “There is no third course open for you, unless, indeed, it be Montfauçon and the hangman. Come, be reasonable; take this appointment and go to Lorraine to recruit your health. Remember, vicomte, the cardinal has not forgotten his nephew’s death, and it will go hard with you if I but whisper your name in his ear.”

  “You cannot substantiate your calumny!” I exclaimed.

  “Ho, ho! Calumny, eh?” he jeered.

  “Yes, calumny,” I repeated, thinking to have found a loophole.

  But my hopes were soon dashed.

  “Pish!” he said; “but I have proofs, boy; written proofs. I have a letter which Beausire wrote to his wife on the morning of his death, wherein he told her he was going to St. Germain to a rendezvous with de Bleville.”

  “And why,” I inquired suspiciously, “if such be the case, why was this letter not shown to Monseigneur de Richelieu by the widow?”

  “Because it contained a request that if he fell, no disclosure should be made. The widow was forced to respect his last wishes. But she died last week, as you may possibly be aware. She was my sister, as you may also know, and after her death I found this letter among other treasured papers.

  “What do you say now? Will you accept the appointment?”

  “It was an honorable duel,” I murmured sullenly.

  He laughed.

  “You can explain that to His Eminence,” he answered derisively, “if you think it will weigh with him.”

  I knew full well that it would not; for, besides the royal edicts which forbade duelling...and in virtue of which we had gone to St. Germain to fight without seconds, trusting to each other’s honor, so that there might be no witnesses, and so that the survivor might not be pestered with the law...Beausire was the cardinal’s nephew.

  Again Castelroc repeated that monotonous question, “Will you accept the appointment?”

  For an instant I wavered, and had it not been for the memory of Mlle. de la Haudraye, who, at that very moment, would, I knew, be waiting for me in the Rue de Bac, I believe I should have ended by assenting. As it was, I could not leave Paris then. It was but the night before that I had tasted of the cup of life’s happiness, when she had promised to become the Vicomtesse de Bleville, and I would make a desperate stand before the cup was dragged from my lips.

  “Would you vouchsafe to tell me why you desire my absence?” I inquired at length.

  “Because your presence annoys me,” he answered surlily.

  “That is no explanation, monsieur. I must have a reason.”

  “And, by Heaven, you shall!” he retorted furiously. “Listen, sir. There is a certain lady in Paris whom I love and whom I desire to wed; but I may not do so while you are by.”

  The absurdity of his explanation was such that I could not withhold a laugh.

  “I do not understand how my presence can affect your affaires du coeur.”

  “No more do I! Mort de ma vie, I do not!” he answered vehemently. “But women are strange things, and this one has the bad taste to prefer you to me.”

  “And you think,” I answered banteringly, not because I believed his preposterous tale, but because I desired to humour his mendacity, “that if I were absent; if this amorous maid’s heart were no longer set aflame by the sight of my beauty, she might turn kindly to you?”

  “You have said it,” he cried bitterly. “For you are young and rich, and she would marry you for your money alone, whereas I am not so young, and far from wealthy.”

  I looked at the richness of his apparel, and of the room wherein we stood and smiled.

  “But, M. de Castelroc,” I exclaimed, “how can I be guilty of all this? I do not seek to wed the maid.”

  He looked at me in blank astonishment.

  “You do not seek to wed Mlle. de la Haudraye?”

  “Who?” I thundered, starting forward.

  “Mlle. de la Haudraye.”

  For a moment I stared at him; then, stimulated by anger and scorn, I burst into a long, loud laugh.

  “It amuses you?” he said icily.

  “Par Dieu! In truth it does! Imagine the presumption of a man of your years and reputation, aspiring to the hand of such a woman as Mlle. de la Haudraye! Mon Dieu, ’tis passing droll!”

  And with my hands on my sides I gave unrestrained vent to my hilarity, forgetful for the moment of the cardinal and the dungeon yawning at my feet.

  But Castelroc sobered me suddenly by picking up that plaguey parchment.

  “When you have had your laugh, you young fool, perhaps you will reconsider the advisability of accepting this document,” he snarled, white with passion.

  “May the devil take you and your document,” I answered, picking up my hat. “Do what you please. I remain in Paris.”

  “I will give you twenty-four hours to deliberate,” he cried.

  “My mind will be unaltered in twenty-four years.”

  “Then, mon Dieu, I will go at once.”

  He touched a bell that stood upon the table.

  “My hat and cloak, Guitant,” he said to the servant who answered his summons, “and order my carriage. I am going to the Palais Cardinal.”

  “And I to the Rue du Bac,” I cried, as the door closed upon the lackey. “To the Rue du Bac, to tell Mlle. de la Haudraye what manner of man you are, and what you are about to do. Now, master mouchard!” I exclaimed triumphantly, “if you imagine that your suit will prosper after that; if you imagine that the Comte de la Haudraye will permit his daughter to wed one of the cardinal’s spies, you are a greater fool than I hold you for.”

  It was a rash speech, but for the life of me I could not have withheld it.

  “You sh
all not go!” he roared, turning livid. “You shall not leave here but to go to the Bastille.” Then raising his voice: “Ho, there, some one! À moi!”

  My sword was out in a trice, and I rushed wildly at him, for his threat had frightened me, and I saw that my rashness was like to cost me dear.

  He drew as I sprang forward, and was barely in time to parry a stroke that threatened to end his intriguing for all time. Before I could disengage, my arms were seized from behind, and, struggling madly, I was held there at his mercy.

  But he only laughed and, sheathing his sword, said the cardinal would deal with me.

  I was flung rudely down, and while one servant pinned me to the ground, another fetched a rope wherewith they bound me firmly, hand and foot. Then Castelroc rolled me over and struck me on the face.

  I opened my mouth to tell him in fitting terms what I thought of his act, when, quick as lightning, he gagged me with a poire d’angoisse; then, with a parting gibe, he strode away and, locking the door after him, left me there, stretched upon the ground, powerless, inert, and mute.

  II

  For perhaps ten minutes I lay where I had been thrown, too stunned by the rude manner in which I had been handled to indulge in active thought. I did not think...at least not coherently; I was content to lie, like the human log they had made me, with a dull sense of anger at my defeat and powerlessness, and with a dismal feeling of despair.

  Presently, however, I revived somewhat. The ticking of the ormolu clock was irritating to me, and I felt a burning desire to dash it from its shelf and silence it. But as I gazed upon the ornament I turned my thoughts to the time it measured, and in spirit I followed the Marquis de Castelroc to the Palais Cardinal.

  “Even now,” I thought, “he will be there; say he is kept waiting five minutes, it will be half past eight before he has speech of the cardinal, another five minutes to relate his story, and ten minutes for his return, accompanied by an officer of Richelieu’s guards or of the Mousquetaires.