"Ma foi. St. Auban is indeed in earnest then! Convey to him my expressions of admiration at this suddenly awakened courage. Be good enough, Vicomte, to name the rendezvous."
"Do you know the chapel of St. Sulpice des Reaux?"
"What! Beyond the Loire?"
"Precisely, Monsieur. About a league from Chambord by the river side."
"I can find the place."
"Will you meet us there at nine o'clock tonight?"
I looked askance at him.
"But why cross the river? This side affords many likely spots!"
"Very true, Monsieur. But the Marquis has business at Chambord this evening, after which there will be no reason—indeed, it will inconvenience him exceedingly—to return to Blois."
"What!" I cried, more and more astonished. "St. Auban is leaving Blois?"
"This evening, sir."
"But, voyons, Vicomte, why make an assignation in such a place and at night, when at any hour of the day I can meet the Marquis on this side, without suffering the inconvenience of crossing the river?"
"There will be a bright moon, well up by nine o'clock. Moreover, remember that you cannot, as you say, meet St. Auban on this side at any time he may appoint, since to-night or to-morrow the officer who is in search of you will arrive."
I pondered for a moment. Then:
"M. le Vicomte," I said, "in this matter of ground 't is I who have the first voice."
"How so?"
"Because the Marquis is the affronted one."
"Therefore he has a right to choose."
"A right, yes. But that is not enough. The necessity to fight is on his side. His honour is hurt, not mine; I have whipped him; I am content. Now let him come to me."
"Assuredly you will not be so ungenerous."
"I do not care about journeying to Reaux to afford him satisfaction."
"Does Monsieur fear anything?"
"Vicomte, you go too far!" I cried, my pride gaining the mastery. "Since it is asked of me,—I will go."
"M. le Marquis will be grateful to you."
"A fig for his gratitude," I answered, whereupon the Vicomte shrugged his narrow shoulders, and, his errand done, took his leave of me.
When he was gone I called Michelot, to tell him of the journey I must go that night, so that he might hold himself in readiness.
"Why—if Monsieur will pardon me," quoth he, "do you go to meet the Marquis de St. Auban at St. Sulpice des Reaux by night?"
"Precisely what I asked Vilmorin. The Marquis desires it, and—what will you?—since I am going to kill the man, I can scarce do less than kill him on a spot of his own choosing."
Michelot screwed up his face and scratched at his grey beard with his huge hand.
"Does no suspicion of foul play cross your mind, Monsieur?" he inquired timidly.
"Shame on you, Michelot," I returned with some heat. "You do not yet understand the ways of gentlemen. Think you that M. de St. Auban would stoop to such a deed as that? He would be shamed for ever! Pooh, I would as soon suspect my Lord Cardinal of stealing the chalices from Nôtre Dame. Go, see to my horse. I am riding to Canaples."
As I rode out towards the château I fell to thinking, and my thoughts turning to Vilmorin, I marvelled at the part he was playing in this little comedy of a cabal against Andrea de Mancini. His tastes and instincts were of the boudoir, the ante-chamber, and the table. He wore a sword because it was so ordained by fashion, and because the hilt was convenient for the display of a jewel or two. Certainly 't was not for utility that it hung beside him, and no man had ever seen it drawn. Nature had made him the most pitiable coward begotten. Why then should he involve himself in an affair which promised bloodshed, and which must be attended by many a risk for him? There was in all this some mystery that I could not fathom.
From the course into which they had slipped, my thoughts were diverted, when I was within half a mile of the château, by the sight of a horseman stationed, motionless, among the trees that bordered the road. It occurred to me that men take not such a position without purpose—usually an evil one. I slackened speed somewhat and rode on, watching him sharply. As I came up, he walked his horse forward to meet me, and I beheld a man in the uniform of the gardes du corps, in whom presently I recognised the little sparrow Malpertuis, with whom I had exchanged witticisms at Choisy. He was the one man wanting to complete the trinity that had come upon us at the inn of the Connétable.
It flashed across my mind that he might be the officer charged with my arrest, and that he had arrived sooner than had been expected. If so, it was likely to go ill with him, for I was not minded to be taken until St. Auban's soul sped hellwards.
He hailed me as I advanced, and indeed rode forward to meet me.
"You are come at last, M. de Luynes," was his greeting. "I have waited for you this hour past."
"How knew you I should ride this way?"
"I learnt that you would visit Canaples before noon. Be good enough to quit the road, and pass under those trees with me. I have something to say to you, but it were not well that we should be seen together."
"For the sake of your character or mine, M. Malappris?"
"Malpertuis!" he snapped.
"Malpertuis," I corrected. "You were saying that we should not be seen together."
"St. Auban might hear of it."
"Ah! And therefore?"
"You shall learn." We were now under the trees, which albeit leafless yet screened us partly from the road. He drew rein, and I followed his example.
"M. de Luynes," he began, "I am or was a member of the cabal formed against Mazarin's aims in the matter of the marriage of Mademoiselle de Canaples to his nephew. I joined hands with St. Auban, lured by his protestations that it is not meet that such an heiress as Yvonne de Canaples should be forced to marry a foreigner of no birth and less distinction, whilst France holds so many noble suitors to her hand. This motive, by which I know that even Eugène de Canaples was actuated, was, St. Auban gave me to understand, his only one for embarking upon this business, as it was also Vilmorin's. Now, M. de Luynes, I have today discovered that I had been duped by St. Auban and his dupe, Vilmorin. St. Auban lied to me; another motive brings him into the affair. He seeks himself, by any means that may present themselves, to marry Yvonne—and her estates; whilst the girl, I am told, loathes him beyond expression. Vilmorin again is actuated by no less a purpose. And so, what think you these two knaves—this master knave and his dupe—have determined? To carry off Mademoiselle by force!"
"Sangdieu!" I burst out, and would have added more, but his gesture silenced me, and he continued:
"Vilmorin believes that St. Auban is helping him in this, whereas St. Auban is but fooling him with ambiguous speeches until they have the lady safe. Then might will assert itself, and St. Auban need but show his fangs to drive the sneaking coward away from the prize he fondly dreams is to be his."
"When do these gentlemen propose to carry out their plan? Have they determined that?" I inquired breathlessly.
"Aye, they have. They hope to accomplish it this very day. Mademoiselle de Canaples has received a letter wherein she is asked to meet her anonymous writer in the coppice yonder, at the Angelus this evening, if she would learn news of great importance to her touching a conspiracy against her father."
"Faugh!" I sneered. "'T is too poor a bait to lure her with."
"Say you so? Believe me that unless she be dissuaded she will comply with the invitation, so cunningly was the letter couched. A closed carriage will be waiting at this very spot. Into this St. Auban, Vilmorin, and their bravos will thrust the girl, then away through Blois and beyond it, for a mile or so, in the direction of Meung, thereby misleading any chance pursuers. There they will quit the coach and take a boat that is to be in waiting for them and which will bear them back with the stream to Chambord. Thereafter, God pity the poor lady if they get thus far without mishap."
"Mort de ma vie!" I cried, slapping my thigh, "I understand!" And to myse
lf I thought of the assignation at St. Sulpice des Reaux, and the reason for this, as also St. Auban's resolution to so suddenly quit Blois, grew of a sudden clear to me. Also did I recall the riddle touching Vilmorin's conduct which a few moments ago I had puzzled over, and of which methought that I now held the solution.
"What do you understand?" asked Malpertuis.
"Something that was told me this morning," I made answer, then spoke of gratitude, wherein he cut me short.
"I ask no thanks," he said curtly. "You owe me none. What I have done is not for love of you or Mancini—for I love neither of you. It is done because noblesse m'oblige. I told St. Auban that I would have no part in this outrage. But that is not enough; I owe it to my honour to attempt the frustration of so dastardly a plan. You, M. de Luynes, appear to be the most likely person to encompass this, in the interests of your friend Mancini; I leave the matter, therefore, in your hands. Goodday!"
And with this abrupt leave-taking, the little fellow doffed his hat to me, and wheeling his horse he set spurs in its flanks, and was gone before a word of mine could have stayed him.
CHAPTER XI. OF A WOMAN'S OBSTINACY
"M. de Luynes is a wizard," quoth Andrea, laughing, in answer to something that had been said.
It was afternoon. We had dined, and the bright sunshine and spring-like mildness of the weather had lured us out upon the terrace. Yvonne and Geneviève occupied the stone seat. Andrea had perched himself upon the granite balustrade, and facing them he sat, swinging his shapely legs to and fro as he chatted merrily, whilst on either side of him stood the Chevalier de Canaples and I.
"If M. de Luynes be as great a wizard in other things as with the sword, then, pardieu, he is a fearful magician," said Canaples.
I bowed, yet not so low but that I detected a sneer on Yvonne's lips.
"So, pretty lady," said I to myself, "we shall see if presently your lip will curl when I show you something of my wizard's art."
And presently my chance came. M. de Canaples found reason to leave us, and no sooner was he gone than Geneviève remembered that she had that day discovered a budding leaf upon one of the rose bushes in the garden below. Andrea naturally caused an argument by asserting that she was the victim of her fancy, as it was by far too early in the year. By that means these two found the plea they sought for quitting us, since neither could rest until the other was convinced.
So down they went into that rose garden which methought was like to prove their fool's paradise, and Yvonne and I were left alone. Then she also rose, but as she was on the point of quitting me:
"Mademoiselle," I ventured, "will you honour me by remaining for a moment? There is something that I would say to you."
With raised eyebrows she gave me a glance mingled with that superciliousness which she was for ever bestowing upon me, and which, from the monotony of it alone, grew irksome.
"What can you have to say to me, M. de Luynes?"
"Will you not be seated? I shall not long detain you, nevertheless—"
"If I stand, perchance you will be more brief. I am waiting, Monsieur."
I shrugged my shoulders rudely. Why, indeed, be courteous where so little courtesy was met with?
"A little while ago, Mademoiselle, when M. de Mancini dubbed me a wizard you were good enough to sneer. Now, a sneer, Mademoiselle, implies unbelief, and I would convince you that you were wrong to disbelieve."
"If you have no other motive for detaining me, suffer me to depart," she interrupted with some warmth. "Whether you be a wizard or not is of no moment to me."
"And yet I dare swear that you will be of a different mind within five minutes. A wizard is one who discloses things unknown to his fellow-men. I am about to convince you that I can do this, and by convincing you I am about to serve you."
"I seek neither conviction nor service at your hands," she answered.
"Your courtesy dumfounds me, Mademoiselle!"
"No less than does your insolence dumfound me," she retorted, with crimson cheeks. "Do you forget, sir, that I know you for what you are—a gamester, a libertine, a duellist, the murderer of my brother?"
"That your brother lives, Mademoiselle, is, methinks, sufficient proof that I have not murdered him."
"You willed his death if you did not encompass it; so 't is all one. Do you not understand that it is because my father receives you here, thanks to M. de Mancini, your friend—a friendship easily understood from the advantages you must derive from it—that I consent to endure your presence and the insult of your glance? Is it not enough that I should do this, and have you not wit enough to discern it, without adding to my shame by your insolent call upon my courtesy?"
Her words cut me as no words that I ever heard, and, more than her words, her tone of loathing and disgust unspeakable. For half that speech I should have killed a man—indeed, I had killed men for less than half. And yet, for all the passion that raged in my soul, I preserved upon my countenance a smiling mask. That smile exhausted her patience and increased her loathing, for with a contemptuous exclamation she turned away.
"Tarry but a moment, Mademoiselle," I cried, with a sudden note of command. "Or, if you will go, go then; but take with you my assurance that before nightfall you will weep bitterly for it."
My words arrested her. The mystery of them awakened her curiosity.
"You speak in riddles, Monsieur."
"Like a true wizard, Mademoiselle. You received a letter this morning in a handwriting unknown, and bearing no signature."
She wheeled round and faced me again with a little gasp of astonishment.
"How know you that? Ah! I understand; you wrote it!"
"What shrewdness, Mademoiselle!" I laughed, ironically. "Come; think again. What need have I to bid you meet me in the coppice yonder? May I not speak freely with you here?"
"You know the purport of that letter?"
"I do, Mademoiselle, and I know more. I know that this hinted conspiracy against your father is a trumped-up lie to lure you to the coppice."
"And for what purpose, pray?"
"An evil one,—your abduction. Shall I tell you who penned that note, and who awaits you? The Marquis César de St. Auban."
She shuddered as I pronounced the name, then, looking me straight between the eyes—"How come you to know these things?" she inquired.
"What does it signify, since I know them?"
"This, Monsieur, that unless I learn how, I can attach no credit to your preposterous story."
"Not credit it!" I cried. "Let me assure you that I have spoken the truth; let me swear it. Go to the coppice at the appointed time, and things will fall out as I have predicted."
"Again, Monsieur, how know you this?" she persisted, as women will.
"I may not tell you."
We stood close together, and her clear grey eyes met mine, her lip curling in disdain.
"You may not tell me? You need not. I can guess." And she tossed her shapely head and laughed. "Seek some likelier story, Monsieur. Had you not spoken of it, 't is likely I should have left the letter unheeded. But your disinterested warning has determined me to go to this rendezvous. Shall I tell you what I have guessed? That this conspiracy against my father, the details of which you would not have me learn, is some evil of your own devising. Ah! You change colour!" she cried, pointing to my face. Then with a laugh of disdain she left me before I had sufficiently recovered from my amazement to bid her stay.
"Ciel!" I cried, as I watched the tall, lissom figure vanish through the portals of the château. "Did ever God create so crass and obstinate a thing as woman?"
It occurred to me to tell Andrea, and bid him warn her. But then she would guess that I had prompted him. Naught remained but to lay the matter before the Chevalier de Canaples. Already I had informed him of my fracas with St. Auban, and of the duel that was to be fought that night, and he, in his turn, had given me the details of his stormy interview with the Marquis, which had culminated in St. Auban's dismissal from Canaples. I h
ad not hitherto deemed it necessary to alarm him with the news imparted to me by Malpertuis, imagining that did I inform Mademoiselle that would suffice.
Now, however, as I have said, no other course was left me but to tell him of it. Accordingly, I went within and inquired of Guilbert, whom I met in the hall, where I might find the Chevalier. He answered me that M. de Canaples was not in the château. It was believed that he had gone with M. Louis, the intendant of the estates, to visit the vineyards at Montcroix.
The news made me choke with impatience. Already it was close upon five o'clock, and in another hour the sun would set and the Angelus would toll the knell of Mademoiselle's preposterous suspicions, unless in the meantime I had speech with Canaples, and led him to employ a father's authority to keep his daughter indoors.
Fuming at the contretemps I called for my horse and set out at a brisk trot for Montcroix. But my ride was fruitless. The vineyard peasants had not seen the Chevalier for over a week.
Now, 'twixt Montcroix and the château there lies a good league, and to make matters worse, as I galloped furiously back to Canaples, an evil chance led me to mistake the way and pursue a track that brought me out on the very banks of the river, with a strong belt of trees screening the château from sight, and defying me to repair my error by going straight ahead.
I was forced to retrace my steps, and before I had regained the point where I had gone astray a precious quarter of an hour was wasted, and the sun already hung, a dull red globe, on the brink of the horizon.
Clenching my teeth, I tore at my horse's flanks, and with a bloody heel I drove the maddened brute along at a pace that might have cost us both dearly. I dashed, at last, into the quadrangle, and, throwing the reins to a gaping groom, I sprang up the steps.
"Has the Chevalier returned?" I gasped breathlessly.
"Not yet, Monsieur," answered Guilbert with a tranquillity that made me desire to strangle him. "Is Mademoiselle in the château?" was my next question, mechanically asked.
"I saw her on the terrace some moments ago. She has not since come within."
The Suitors of Yvonne Page 8
