“M. le Marquis,” I said, with a calmness that came of a stupendous effort, “at Choisy you sought my friendship with high-sounding talk of principles that opposed you to the proposed alliance, twixt the houses of Mancini and Canaples. Since then I have learned that your motives were purely personal. From my discovery I hold you to be a liar.”
“Monsieur!”
“I have not yet done. You refuse to cross swords with me on the pretext that you do not fight men of my stamp. I am no saint, sir, I confess. But my sins cannot wash out my name — the name of a family accounted as good as that of St. Auban, and one from which a Constable of France has sprung, whereas yours has never yet bred aught but profligates and debauchees. You are little better than I am, Marquis; indeed, you do many things that I would not do, that I have never done. For instance, whilst refusing to cross blades with me, who am a soldier and a man of the sword, you seek to pick a fight with a beardless boy who hardly knows the use of a rapier, and who — wittingly at least — has done you no wrong. Now, my master, you may call me profligate, ruffler, gamester, duellist — what you will; but there are two viler things you cannot dub me, and which, methinks, I have proven you to be — liar and craven.”
And as I spoke the burning words, I stood close up to him and tapped his breast as if to drive the epithets into his very heart.
Rage he felt, indeed, and his distorted countenance was a sight fearful to behold.
“Now, my master,” I added, setting my arms akimbo and laughing brutally in his face, “will you fight?”
For a moment he wavered, and surely meseemed that I had drawn him. Then:
“No,” he cried passionately. “I will not do dishonour to my sword.” And turning he made for the door, leaving me baffled.
“Go, sir,” I shouted, “but fame shall stalk fast behind you. Liar and craven will I dub you throughout the whole of France.”
He stopped ‘neath the lintel, and faced me again.
“Fool,” he sneered. “You’ll need dispatch to spread my fame so far. By this time to-morrow you’ll be arrested. In three days you will be in the Bastille, and there shall you lie until you rot to carrion.”
“Loud threats again!” I laughed, hoping by the taunt to learn more.
“Loud perchance, but not empty. Learn that the Cardinal has knowledge of your association with Mancini, and means to separate you. An officer of the guards is on his way to Blois. He is at Meung by now. He bears a warrant for your arrest and delivery to the governor of the Bastille. Thereafter, none may say what will betide.” And with a coarse burst of laughter he left me, banging the door as he passed out.
For a moment I stood there stricken by his parting words. He had sought to wound me, and in this he had succeeded. But at what cost to himself? In his blind rage, the fool had shown me that which he should have zealously concealed, and what to him was but a stinging threat was to me a timely warning. I saw the necessity for immediate action. Two things must I do; kill St. Auban first, then fly the Cardinal’s warrant as best I could. I cast about me for means to carry out the first of these intentions. My eye fell upon my riding-whip, lying on a chair close to my hand, and the sight of it brought me the idea I sought. Seizing it, I bounded out of the room and down the stairs, three steps at a stride.
Along the corridor I sped and into the common-room, which at the moment was tolerably full. As I entered by one door, the Marquis was within three paces of the other, leading to the courtyard.
My whip in the air, I sprang after him; and he, hearing the rush of my onslaught, turned, then uttered a cry of pain as I brought the lash caressingly about his shoulders.
“Now, master craven,” I shouted, “will that change your mind?”
With an almost inarticulate cry, he sought to draw there and then, but those about flung themselves upon us, and held us apart — I, passive and unresisting; the Marquis, bellowing, struggling, and foaming at the mouth.
“To meet you now would be to murder you, Marquis,” I said coolly. “Send your friends to me to appoint the time.”
“Soit!” he cried, his eyes blazing with a hate unspeakable. “At eight to-morrow morning I shall await you on the green behind the castle of Blois.”
“At eight o’clock I shall be there,” I answered. “And now, gentlemen, if you will unhand me, I will return to my apartments.”
They let me go, but with many a growl and angry look, for in their eyes I was no more than a coarse aggressor, whilst their sympathy was all for St. Auban.
CHAPTER X. THE CONSCIENCE OF MALPERTUIS
And so back to my room I went, my task accomplished, and so pleased was I with what had passed that as I drew on my boots — preparing to set out to Canaples — I laughed softly to myself.
St. Auban I would dispose of in the morning. As for the other members of the cabal, I deemed neither Vilmorin nor Malpertuis sufficiently formidable to inspire uneasiness. St. Auban gone, they too would vanish. There remained then Eugène de Canaples. Him, however, methought no great evil was to be feared from. In Paris he might be as loud-voiced as he pleased, but in his father’s château — from what I had learned— ‘t was unlikely he would so much as show himself. Moreover, he was wounded, and before he had sufficiently recovered to offer interference it was more than probable that Andrea would have married one or the other of Mesdemoiselles de Canaples — though I had a shrewd suspicion that it would be the wrong one, and there again I feared trouble.
As I stood up, booted and ready to descend, there came a gentle tap at my door, and, in answer to my “Enter,” there stood before me a very dainty and foppish figure. I stared hard at the effeminate face and the long fair locks of my visitor, thinking that I had become the dupe of my eyes.
“M. de Vilmorin!” I murmured in astonishment, as he came forward, having closed the door. “You here?”
In answer, he bowed and greeted me with cold ceremoniousness.
“I have been in Blois since yesterday, Monsieur.”
“In truth I might have guessed it, Vicomte. Your visit flatters me, for, of course, I take it, you are come to pay me your respects,” I said ironically. “A glass of wine, Vicomte?”
“A thousand thanks, Monsieur — no,” he answered coldly in his mincing tones. “It is concerning your affair with M. le Marquis de St. Auban that I am come.” And drawing forth a dainty kerchief, which filled the room with the scent of ambregris, he tapped his lips with it affectedly.
“Do you come as friend or — in some other capacity?”
“I come as mediator.”
“Mediator!” I echoed, and my brow grew dark. “Sdeath! Has St. Auban’s courage lasted just so long as the sting of my whip?”
He raised his eyebrows after a supercilious fashion that made me thirst to strike the chair from under him.
“You misapprehend me; M. de St. Auban has no desire to avert the duel. On the contrary, he will not rest until the affront you have put upon him be washed out—”
“It will be, I’ll answer for it.”
“Your answer, sir, is characteristic of a fanfarron. He who promises most does not always fulfil most.”
I stared at him in amazement.
“Shall I promise you something, Vicomte? Mortdieu! If you seek to pick a quarrel with me—”
“God forbid!” he ejaculated, turning colour. And his suddenly awakened apprehensions swept aside the affectation that hitherto had marked his speech and manner.
“Then, Monsieur, be brief and state the sum of this mediation.”
“It is this, Monsieur. In the heat of the moment, M. le Marquis gave you, in the hearing of half a score of people, an assignation for to-morrow morning. News of the affair will spread rapidly through Blois, and it is likely there will be no lack of spectators on the green to witness the encounter. Therefore, as my friend thinks this will be as unpalatable to you as it is to him, he has sent me to suggest a fresh rendezvous.”
“Pooh, sir,” I answered lightly. “I care not, for myself, who co
mes. I am accustomed to a crowd. Still, since M. de St. Auban finds it discomposing, let us arrange otherwise.”
“There is yet another point. M. de St. Auban spoke to you, I believe, of an officer who is coming hither charged with your arrest. It is probable that he may reach Blois before morning, so that the Marquis thinks that to make certain you might consent to meet him to-night.”
“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 u
nless 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 myself 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.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 8