“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he cried.
“Diable!” I muttered, “we are becoming women! Be off, you knave! Adieu!”
The peremptoriness of my tone ended our leave-taking and caused him to grip his reins and bring down his whip. The coach moved on. A white face, on which the moonlight fell, glanced at me from the window, then to my staring eyes naught was left but the back of the retreating vehicle, with one of the two saddle-horses that had been tethered to it still ambling in its wake.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said, thrusting my bullet-pierced hat upon my head, “I am at your service.”
CHAPTER XIV. OF WHAT BEFELL AT REAUX.
At my captor’s bidding I mounted the horse which they had untethered from the carriage, and we started off along the road which the coach itself had disappeared upon a moment before. But we travelled at a gentle trot, which, after that evening’s furious riding, was welcome to me.
With bitterness I reflected as I rode that the very moment at which Mademoiselle de Canaples had brought herself to think better of me was like to prove the last we should spend together. Yet not altogether bitter was that reflection; for with it came also the consolation — whereof I had told her — that I had not been taken before she had had cause to change her mind concerning me.
That she should care for me was too preposterous an idea to be nourished, and, indeed, it was better — much better — that M. de Montrésor had come before I, grown sanguine as lovers will, had again earned her scorn by showing her what my heart contained. Much better was it that I should pass for ever out of her life — as, indeed, methought I was like to pass out of all life — whilst I could leave in her mind a kind remembrance and a grateful regret, free from the stain that a subsequent possible presumption of mine might have cast o’er it.
Then my thoughts shifted to Andrea. St. Auban would hear of my removal, and I cared not to think of what profit he might derive from it. To Yvonne also his presence must hereafter be a menace, and in that wherein tonight he had failed, he might, again, succeed. It was at this juncture of my reverie that M. de Montrésor’s pleasant young voice aroused me.
“You appear downcast, M. de Luynes.”
“I, downcast!” I echoed, throwing back my head and laughing. “Nay. I was but thinking.
“Believe me, M. de Luynes,” he said kindly, “when I tell you that it grieves me to be charged with this matter. I have done my best to capture you. That was my duty. But I should have rejoiced had I failed with the consciousness of having done all in my power.”
“Thanks, Montrésor,” I murmured, and silence followed.
“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” he went on presently, “that possibly the absence of your sword causes you discomfort.”
“Eh? Discomfort? It does, most damnably!”
“Give me your parole d’honneur that you will attempt no escape, and not only shall your sword be returned to you, but you shall travel to Paris with all comfort and dignity.”
Now, so amazed was I that I paused to stare at the officer who was young enough to make such a proposal to a man of my reputation. He turned his face towards me, and in the moonlight I could make out his questioning glance.
“Eh, bien, Monsieur?”
“I am more than grateful to you, M. de Montrésor,” I replied, “and I freely give you my word of honour to seek no means of eluding you, nor to avail myself of any that may be presented to me.”
I said this loud enough for those behind to hear, so that no surprise was evinced when the lieutenant bade the man who bore my sword return it to me.
If he who may chance to read these simple pages shall have gathered aught of my character from their perusal, he will marvel, perchance, that I should give the lieutenant my parole, instead rather of watching for an opportunity to — at least — attempt an escape. Preeminent in my thoughts, however, stood at that moment the necessity to remove St. Auban, and methought that by acting as I did I saw a way by which, haply, I might accomplish this. What might thereafter befall me seemed of little moment.
“M. de Montrésor,” I said presently, “your kindness impels me to set a further tax upon your generosity.”
“That is, Monsieur?”
“Bid your men fall back a little, and I will tell you.”
He made a sign to his troopers, and when the distance between us had been sufficiently widened, I began:
“There is a man at present across the river, yonder, who has done me no little injury, and with whom I have a rendezvous at nine o’clock to-night at St. Sulpice des Reaux, where our swords are to determine the difference between us. I crave, Monsieur, your permission to keep that appointment.”
“Impossible!” he answered curtly.
I took a deep breath like a man who is about to jump an obstacle in his path.
“Why impossible, Monsieur?”
“Because you are a prisoner, and therefore no longer under obligation to keep appointments.”
“How would you feel, Montrésor, if, burning to be avenged upon a man who had done you irreparable wrong, you were arrested an hour before the time at which you were to meet this man, sword in hand, and your captor — whose leave you craved to keep the assignation — answered you with the word ‘impossible’?”
“Yes, yes, Monsieur,” he replied impatiently. “But you forget my position. Let us suppose that I allow you to go to St. Sulpice des Reaux. What if you do not return?”
“You mistrust me?” I exclaimed, my hopes melting.
“You misapprehend me. I mean, what if you are killed?”
“I do not think that I shall be.”
“Ah! But what if you are? What shall I say to my Lord Cardinal?”
“Dame! That I am dead, and that he is saved the trouble of hanging me. The most he can want of me is my life. Let us suppose that you had come an hour later. You would have been forced to wait until after the encounter, and, did I fall, matters would be no different.”
The young man fell to thinking, but I, knowing that it is not well to let the young ponder overlong if you would bend them to your wishes, broke in upon his reflections— “See, Montrésor, yonder are the lights of Blois; by eight o’clock we shall be in the town. Come; grant me leave to cross the Loire, and by ten o’clock, or half-past at the latest, I shall return to sup with you or I shall be dead. I swear it.”
“Were I in your position,” he answered musingly, “I know how I would be treated, and, pardieu! come what may I shall deal with you accordingly. You may go to your assignation, M. de Luynes, and may God prosper you.”
And thus it came to pass that shortly after eight o’clock, albeit a prisoner, I rode into the courtyard of the Lys de France, and, alighting, I stepped across the threshold of the inn, and strode up to a table at which I had espied Michelot. He sat nursing a huge measure of wine, into the depths of which he was gazing pensively, with an expression so glum upon his weather-beaten countenance that it defies depicting. So deep was he in his meditations, that albeit I stood by the table surveying him for a full minute, he took no heed of me.
“Allons, Michelot!” I said at length. “Wake up.”
He started up with a cry of amazement; surprise chased away the grief that had been on his face, and a moment later joy unfeigned, and good to see, took the place of surprise.
“You have escaped, Monsieur!” he cried, and albeit caution made him utter the words beneath his breath, a shout seemed to lurk somewhere in the whisper.
Pressing his hand I sat down and briefly told him how matters stood, and how I came to be for the moment free. And when I had done I bade him, since his wound had not proved serious, to get his hat and cloak and go with me to find a boat.
He obeyed me, and a quarter of an hour after we had quitted the hostelry he was rowing me across the stream, whilst, wrapped in my cloak, I sat in the stern, thinking of Yvonne.
“Monsieur,” said Michelot, “observe how swift is the stream. If I were to let the boat drift we should be at Tours to-morr
ow, and from there it would be easy to defy pursuit. We have enough money to reach Spain. What say you, Monsieur?”
“Say, you rascal? Why, bend your back to the work and set me ashore by St. Sulpice in a quarter of an hour, or I’ll forget that you have been my friend. Would you see me dishonoured?”
“Sooner than see you dead,” he grumbled as he resumed his task. Thereafter, whilst he rowed, Michelot entertained me with some quaint ideas touching that which fine gentlemen call honour, and to what sorry passes it was wont to bring them, concluding by thanking God that he was no gentleman and had no honour to lead him into mischief.
At last, however, our journey came to an end, and I sprang ashore some five hundred paces from the little chapel, and almost exactly opposite the Château de Canaples. I stood for a moment gazing across the water at the lighted windows of the château, wondering which of those eyes that looked out upon the night might be that of Yvonne’s chamber.
Then, bidding Michelot await me, or follow did I not return in half an hour, I turned and moved away towards the chapel.
There is a clearing in front of the little white edifice — which rather than a temple is but a monument to the martyr who is said to have perished on that spot in the days before Clovis.
As I advanced into the centre of this open patch of ground, and stood clear of the black silhouettes of the trees, cast about me by the moon, two men appeared to detach themselves from the side wall of the chapel, and advanced to meet me.
Albeit they were wrapped in their cloaks — uptilted behind by their protruding scabbards — it was not difficult to tell the tall figure and stately bearing of St. Auban and the mincing gait of Vilmorin.
I doffed my hat in a grave salutation, which was courteously returned.
“I trust, Messieurs, that I have not kept you waiting?”
“I was on the point of expressing that very hope, Monsieur,” returned St. Auban. “We have but arrived. Do you come alone?”
“As you perceive.”
“Hum! M. le Vicomte, then, will act for both of us.”
I bowed in token of my satisfaction, and without more ado cast aside my cloak, pleased to see that the affair was to be conducted with decency and politeness, as such matters should ever be conducted, albeit impoliteness may have marked their origin.
The Marquis, having followed my example and divested himself of his cloak and hat, unsheathed his rapier and delivered it to Vilmorin, who came across with it to where I stood. When he was close to me I saw that he was deadly pale; his teeth chattered, and the hand that held the weapon shook as with a palsy.
“Mu — Monsieur,” he stammered, “will it please you to lend me your sword that I may mu-measure it?”
“What formalities!” I exclaimed with an amused smile, as I complied with his request. “I am afraid you have caught a chill, Vicomte. The night air is little suited to health so delicate.”
He answered me with a baleful glance, as silently he took my sword and set it — point to hilt — with St. Auban’s. He appeared to have found some slight difference in the length, for he took two steps away from me, holding the weapons well in the light, where for a moment he surveyed them attentively. His hands shook so that the blades clattered one against the other the while. But, of a sudden, taking both rapiers by the hilt, he struck the blades together with a ringing clash, then flung them both behind him as far as he could contrive, leaving me thunderstruck with amazement, and marvelling whether fear had robbed him of his wits.
Not until I perceived that the trees around me appeared to spring into life did it occur to me that that clashing of blades was a signal, and that I was trapped. With the realisation of it I was upon Vilmorin in a bound, and with both hands I had caught the dog by the throat before he thought of flight. The violence of my onslaught bore him to the ground, and I, not to release my choking grip, went with him.
For a moment we lay together where we had fallen, his slender body twisting and writhing under me, his swelling face upturned and his protruding, horror-stricken eyes gazing into mine that were fierce and pitiless. Voices rang above me; someone stooped and strove to pluck me from my victim; then below the left shoulder I felt a sting of pain, first cold then hot, and I knew that I had been stabbed.
Again I felt the blade thrust in, lower down and driven deeper; then, as the knife was for the second time withdrawn, and my flesh sucked at the steel, — the pain of it sending a shudder through me, — the instinct of preservation overcame the sweet lust to strangle Vilmorin. I let him go and, staggering to my feet, I turned to face those murderers who struck a defenceless man behind.
Swords gleamed around me: one, two, three, four, five, six, I counted, and stood weak and dazed from loss of blood, gazing stupidly at the white blades. Had I but had my sword I should have laid about me, and gone down beneath their blows as befits a soldier. But the absence of that trusty friend left me limp and helpless — cowed for the first time since I had borne arms.
Of a sudden I became aware that St. Auban stood opposite to me, hand on hip, surveying me with a malicious leer. As our eyes met— “So, master meddler,” quoth he mockingly, “you crow less lustily than is your wont.”
“Hound!” I gasped, choking with rage, “if you are a man, if there be a spark of pride or honour left in your lying, cowardly soul, order your assassins to give me my sword, and, wounded though I be, I’ll fight with you this duel that you lured me here to fight.”
He laughed harshly.
“I told you but this morning, Master de Luynes, that a St. Auban does not fight men of your stamp. You forced a rendezvous upon me; you shall reap the consequences.”
Despite the weakness arising from loss of blood, I sprang towards him, beside myself with fury. But ere I had covered half the distance that lay between us my arms were gripped from behind, and in my spent condition I was held there, powerless, at the Marquis’s mercy. He came slowly forward until we were but some two feet apart. For a second he stood leering at me, then, raising his hand, he struck me — struck a man whose arms another held! — full upon the face. Passion for the moment lent me strength, and in that moment I had wrenched my right arm free and returned his blow with interest.
With an oath he got out a dagger that hung from his baldrick.
“Sang du Christ! Take that, you dog!” he snarled, burying the blade in my breast as he spoke.
“My God! You are murdering me!” I gasped.
“Have you discovered it? What penetration!” he retorted, and those about him laughed at his indecent jest!
He made a sign, and the man who had held me withdrew his hands. I staggered forward, deprived of his support, then a crashing blow took me across the head.
I swayed for an instant, and with arms upheld I clutched at the air, as if I sought, by hanging to it, to save myself from falling; then the moon appeared to go dark, a noise as of the sea beating upon its shore filled my ears, and I seemed to be falling — falling — falling.
A voice that buzzed and vibrated oddly, growing more distant at each word, reached me as I sank.
“Come,” it said. “Fling that carrion into the river.”
Then nothingness engulfed me.
CHAPTER XV. OF MY RESURRECTION
Even as the blow which had plunged me into senselessness had imparted to me the sinking sensation which I have feebly endeavoured to depict, so did the first dim ray of returning consciousness bring with it the feeling that I was again being buoyed upwards through the thick waters that had enveloped me, to their surface, where intelligence and wakefulness awaited.
And as I felt myself borne up and up in that effortless ascension, my senses awake and my reason still half-dormant, an exquisite sense of languor pervaded my whole being. Presently meseemed that the surface was gained at last, and an instinct impelled me to open my eyes upon the light, of which, through closed lids, I had become conscious.
I beheld a fair-sized room superbly furnished, and flooded with amber sunlight suggestive in
itself of warmth and luxury, the vision of which heightened the delicious torpor that held me in thrall. The bed I lay upon was such, I told myself, as would not have disgraced a royal sleeper. It was upheld by great pillars of black oak, carved with a score of fantastic figures, and all around it, descending from the dome above, hung curtains of rich damask, drawn back at the side that looked upon the window. Near at hand stood a table laden with phials and such utensils as one sees by the bedside of the wealthy sick. All this I beheld in a languid, unreasoning fashion through my half-open lids, and albeit the luxury of the room and the fine linen of my bed told me that this was neither my Paris lodging in the Rue St. Antoine, nor yet my chamber at the hostelry of the Lys de France, still I taxed not my brain with any questions touching my whereabouts.
I closed my eyes, and I must have slept again: when next I opened them a burly figure stood in the deep bay of the latticed window, looking out through the leaded panes.
I recognised the stalwart frame of Michelot, and at last I asked myself where I might be. It did not seem to occur to me that I had but to call him to receive an answer to that question. Instead, I closed my eyes again, and essayed to think. But just then there came a gentle scratching at the door, and I could hear Michelot tiptoeing across the room; next he and the one he had admitted tiptoed back towards my bedside, and as they came I caught a whisper in a voice that seemed to drag me to full consciousness.
“How fares the poor invalid this morning?”
“The fever is gone, Mademoiselle, and he may wake at any moment; indeed, it is strange that he should sleep so long.”
“He will be the better for it when he does awaken. I will remain here while you rest, Michelot. My poor fellow, you are almost as worn with your vigils as he is with the fever.”
“Pooh! I am strong enough, Mademoiselle,” he answered. “I will get a mouthful of food and return, for I would be by when he wakes.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 11