“Eugène! You here?”
“As you see, Sister. Though had you delayed your coming ‘t is probable you would no longer have found me, for your father welcomes me with oaths and threatens me with his grooms.”
She cast a reproachful glance upon the Chevalier, ‘neath which the anger seemed to die out of him; then she went forward with hands outstretched and a sad smile upon her lips.
“Yvonne!” The Chevalier’s voice rang out sharp and sudden.
She stopped.
“I forbid you to approach that man!”
For a moment she appeared to hesitate; then, leisurely pursuing her way, she set her hands upon her brother’s shoulders and embraced him.
The Chevalier swore through set teeth; Geneviève trembled, Andrea looked askance, and I laughed softly at the Chevalier’s discomfiture. Eugène flung his hat and cloak into a corner and strode across the room to where his father stood.
“And now, Monsieur, since I have travelled all the way from Paris to save my house from a step that will bring it into the contempt of all France, I shall not go until you have heard me.”
The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and made as if to turn away. Yvonne’s greeting of her brother appeared to have quenched the spark of spirit that for a moment had glimmered in the little man’s breast.
“Monsieur,” cried Eugène, “believe me that what I have to say is of the utmost consequence, and say it I will — whether before these strangers or in your private ear shall be as you elect.”
The old man glanced about him like one who seeks a way of escape. At last— “If say it you must,” he growled, “say it here and now. And when you have said it, go.”
Eugène scowled at me, and from me to Andrea. To pay him for that scowl, I had it in my mind to stay; but, overcoming the clownish thought, I took Andrea by the arm.
“Come, Andrea,” I said, “we will take a turn outside while these family matters are in discussion.”
I had a shrewd idea what was the substance of Eugène’s mission to Canaples — to expostulate with his father touching the proposed marriage of Yvonne to the Cardinal’s nephew.
Nor was I wrong, for when, some moments later, the Chevalier recalled us from the terrace, where we were strolling— “What think you he has come hither to tell me?” he inquired as we entered. He pointed to his son as he spoke, and passion shook his slender frame as the breeze shakes a leaf. Mademoiselle and Geneviève sat hand in hand — Yvonne deadly pale, Geneviève weeping.
“What think you he has the effrontery to say? Têtedieu! it seems that he has profited little by the lesson you read him in the horse-market about meddling in matters which concern him not. He has come hither to tell me that he will not permit his sister to wed the Cardinal’s nephew; that he will not have the estates of Canaples pass into the hands of a foreign upstart. He, forsooth — he! he! he!” And at each utterance of the pronoun he lunged with his forefinger in the direction of his son. “This he is not ashamed to utter before Yvonne herself!”
“You compelled me to do so,” cried Eugène angrily.
“I?” ejaculated the Chevalier. “Did I compel you to come hither with your ‘I will’ and ‘I will not’? Who are you, that you should give laws at Canaples? And he adds, sir,” quoth the old knight excitedly, “that sooner than allow this marriage to take place he will kill M. de Mancini.”
“I shall be happy to afford him the opportunity!” shouted Andrea, bounding forward.
Eugène looked up quickly and gave a short laugh. Thereupon followed a wild hubbub; everyone rushed forward and everyone talked; even little Geneviève — louder than all the rest.
“You shall not fight! You shall not fight!” she cried, and her voice was so laden with command that all others grew silent and all eyes were turned upon her.
“What affair is this of yours, little one?” quoth Eugène.
“‘T is this,” she answered, panting, “that you need fear no marriage ‘twixt my sister and Andrea.”
In her eagerness she had cast caution to the winds of heaven. Her father and brother stared askance at her; I gave an inward groan.
“Andrea!” echoed Eugène at last. “What is this man to you that you speak thus of him?”
The girl flung herself upon her father’s breast.
“Father,” she sobbed, “dear father, forgive!”
The Chevalier’s brow grew dark; roughly he seized her by the arms and, holding her at arm’s length, scanned her face.
“What must I forgive?” he inquired in a thick voice. “What is M. de Mancini to you?”
Some sinister note in her father’s voice caused the girl to grow of a sudden calm and to assume a rigidity that reminded me of her sister.
“He is my husband!” she answered. And there was a note of pride — almost of triumph — in her voice.
An awful silence followed the launching of that thunderbolt. Eugène stood with open mouth, staring now at Geneviève, now at his father. Andrea set his arm about his bride’s waist, and her fair head was laid trustingly upon his shoulder. The Chevalier’s eyes rolled ominously. At length he spoke in a dangerously calm voice.
“How long is it — how long have you been wed?”
“We were wed in Blois an hour ago,” answered Geneviève.
Something that was like a grunt escaped the Chevalier, then his eye fastened upon me, and his anger boiled up.
“You knew of this?” he asked, coming towards me.
“I knew of it.”
“Then you lied to me yesterday.”
I drew myself up, stiff as a broomstick.
“I do not understand,” I answered coldly.
“Did you not give me your assurance that M. de Mancini would marry Yvonne?”
“I did not, Monsieur. I did but tell you that he would wed your daughter. And, ma foi! your daughter he has wed.”
“You have fooled me, scélérat!” he blazed out. “You, who have been sheltered by—”
“Father!” Yvonne interrupted, taking his arm. “M. de Luynes has behaved no worse than have I, or any one of us, in this matter.”
“No!” he cried, and pointed to Andrea. “‘T is you who have wrought this infamy. Eugène,” he exclaimed, turning of a sudden to his son, “you have a sword; wipe out this shame.”
“Shame!” echoed Geneviève. “Oh, father, where is the shame? If it were no shame for Andrea to marry Yvonne, surely—”
“Silence!” he thundered. “Eugène—”
But Eugène answered him with a contemptuous laugh.
“You are quick enough to call upon my sword, now that things have not fallen out as you would have them. Where are your grooms now, Monsieur?”
“Insolent hound!” cried his father indignantly. Then, letting fall his arms with something that was near akin to a sob— “Is there no one left to do aught but mock me?” he groaned.
But this weakness was no more than momentary.
“Out of my house, sir!” he blazed, turning upon Andrea, and for a moment methought he would have struck him. “Out of my house — you and this wife of yours!”
“Father!” sobbed Geneviève, with hands outstretched in entreaty.
“Out of my house,” he repeated, “and you also, M. de Luynes. Away with you! Go with the master you have served so well.” And, turning on his heel, he strode towards the door.
“Father — dear father!” cried Geneviève, following him: he slammed the door in her face for answer.
With a moan she sank down upon her knees, her frail body shaken by convulsive sobs — Dieu! what a bridal morn was hers!
Andrea and Yvonne raised her and led her to a chair. Eugène watched them with a cynical eye, then laughed brutally, and, gathering up his hat and cloak, he moved towards the balcony door and vanished.
“Is M. de Luynes still there?” quoth Geneviève presently.
“I am here, Madame.”
“You had best set out, Monsieur,” she said. “We shall follow soon — very soon.
”
I took Andrea aside and asked him whither it was his intention to take his wife. He replied that they would go to Chambord, where they would remain for some weeks in the hope that the Chevalier might relent sufficiently to forgive them. Thereafter it was his purpose to take his bride home to his Sicilian demesne.
Our farewells were soon spoken; yet none the less warm, for all its brevity, was my leave-taking of Andrea, and our wishes for each other’s happiness were as fervent as the human heart can shape. We little thought that we were not destined to meet again for years.
Yvonne’s adieu was cold and formal — so cold and formal that it seemed to rob the sunshine of its glory for me as I stepped out into the open air.
After all, what mattered it? I was a fool to have entertained a single tender thought concerning her.
CHAPTER XIX. OF MY RETURN TO PARIS
Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.
Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to be led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the rope — possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself a fool for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when so grim a reward awaited me. What mood was on me — me, Gaston de Luynes, whose honour had been long since besmirched and tattered until no outward semblance of honour was left?
But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the answer — Yvonne. Ay, truly enough, it was because in my heart I had dared to hold a sentiment of love for her, the purest — nay, the only pure — thing my heart had held for many a year, that I would set nothing vile to keep company with that sentiment; that until my sun should set — and already it dropped swiftly towards life’s horizon — my actions should be the actions of such a man as might win Yvonne’s affections.
But let that be. This idle restrospective mood can interest you but little; nor can you profit from it, unless, indeed, it be by noting how holy and cleansing to the heart of man is the love — albeit unrequited — that he bears a good woman.
As we drew near Meung — where we lay on that first night of our journey — a light travelling chaise, going in the same direction, passed us at a gallop. As it flashed by, I caught a glimpse of Eugène de Canaples’s swart face through the window. Whether the recognition was mutual I cannot say — nor does it signify.
When we reached the Hôtel de la Couronne, half an hour later, we saw that same chaise disappearing round a corner of the street, whilst through the porte-cochère the hostler was leading a pair of horses, foam-flecked and steaming with sweat.
Whither went Master Canaples at such a rate, and in a haste that caused him to travel day and night? To a goal he little looked for — or rather, which, in the madness of his headlong rush, he could not see. So I was to learn ere long.
Next day I awoke betimes, and setting my window wide to let in the fresh, clean-smelling air of that May morning I made shift to dress. Save for the cackle of the poultry which had strayed into the courtyard, and the noisy yawns and sleep-laden ejaculations of the stable-boy, who was drawing water for the horses, all was still, for it had not yet gone five o’clock.
But of a sudden a door opened somewhere, and a step rang out, accompanied by the jangle of spurs, and with it came a sharp, unpleasant voice calling for its owner’s horse. There was a familiar sound in those shrill accents that caused me to thrust my head through the casement. But I was quick to withdraw it, as I recognised in the gaily dressed little fellow below my old friend Malpertuis.
I know not what impulse made me draw back so suddenly. The action was as much the child of instinct as of the lately acquired habit of concealing my face from the gaze of all who were likely to spread abroad the news that I still lived.
From behind my curtains I watched Malpertuis ride out of the yard, saying, in answer to a parting question of the landlord, who had come upon the scene, that he would breakfast at Beaugency.
Then, as he rode down the street, he of a sudden raised his discordant voice and sang to the accompaniment of his horse’s hoofs. And the burden of his song ran thus:
A frondeur wind
Got up to-day,
‘Gainst Mazarin
It blows, they say.
I listened in amazement to his raven’s voice.
Whither was he bound, I asked myself, and whence a haste that made him set out fasting, with an anti-cardinalist ditty on his lips, and ride two leagues to seek a breakfast in a village that did not hold an inn where a dog might be housed in comfort?
Like Eugène de Canaples, he also travelled towards a goal that he little dreamt of. And so albeit the one went south and the other north, these two men were, between them, drawing together the thread of this narrative of mine, as anon you shall learn.
We reached Paris at dusk three days later, and we went straight to my old lodging in the Rue St. Antoine.
Coupri started and gasped upon beholding me, and not until I had cursed him for a fool in a voice that was passing human would he believe that I was no ghost. He too had heard the rumour of my death.
I dispatched Michelot to the Palais Royal, where — without permitting his motive to transpire — he was to ascertain for me whether M. de Montrésor was in Paris, whether he still dwelt at the Hôtel des Cloches, and at what hour he could be found there.
Whilst he was away I went up to my room, and there I found a letter which Coupri informed me had been left by a lackey a month ago — before the report that I had been killed had reached Paris — and since lain forgotten. It was a delicate note, to which still hung the ghost of a perfume; there were no arms on the seal, but the writing I took to be that of my aunt, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and vaguely marvelling what motive she could have had for communicating with me, I cut the silk.
It was, indeed, from the Duchesse, but it contained no more than a request that I should visit her at her hôtel on the day following upon that on which she had written, adding that she had pleasing news for me.
I thrust the note into my pocket with a sigh. Of what could it avail me now to present myself at her hôtel? Her invitation was for a month ago. Since then she would likely enough have heard the rumour that had been current, and would have ceased to expect me.
I caught myself wondering whether the news might have caused her a pang of regret, and somehow methought this possible. For of all my relatives, Madame de Chevreuse was the only one — and she was but my aunt by marriage — who of late years had shown me any kindness, or even recognition. I marvelled what her pleasing news could be, and I concluded that probably she had heard of my difficulties, and wished once again to help me out of them. Well, my purse was hollow, indeed, at the moment, but I need not trouble her, since I was going somewhere where purses are not needed — on a journey to which no expenses are attached.
In my heart, nevertheless, I blessed the gracious lady, who, for all the lies that the world may have told of her, was the kindest woman I had known, and the best — save one other.
I was still musing when Michelot returned with the information that M. de Montrésor was to be found at the Hôtel des Cloches, whither he had gone to sup a few minutes before. Straightway I set out, bidding him attend me, and, muffled in my cloak, I proceeded at a brisk pace to the Rue des Fosses St. Germain, where the lieutenant’s auberge was situated.
I left Michelot in the common-room, and, preceded by the plump little woman who owned the house, I ascended to Montrésor’s chamber. I found the young soldier at table, and, fortunately, alone. He rose as I entered, and as the hostess, retreating, closed the door, I doffed my hat, and letting fall my cloak revealed myself. His lips parted, and I heard the hiss of an indrawn breath as his astonished eyes fell upon my countenance. My laugh dispelled his doubts that I might be other than flesh and blood — yet
not his doubts touching my identity. He caught up a taper and, coming forward, he cast the light on my face for a moment, then setting the candle back upon the table, he vented his surprise in an oath or two, which was natural enough in one of his calling.
“‘T is clear, Lieutenant,” quoth I, as I detached my sword from the baldrick, “that you believed me dead. Fate willed, however, that I should be restored to life, and so soon as I had recovered sufficient strength to undertake the journey to Paris, I set out. I arrived an hour ago, and here I am, to redeem my word of honour, and surrender the sword and liberty which you but lent me.”
I placed my rapier on the table and waited for him to speak. Instead, however, he continued to stare at me for some moments, and when at last he did break the silence, it was to burst into a laugh that poured from his throat in rich, mellow peals, as he lay back in his chair.
My wrath arose. Had I travelled from Blois, and done what I deemed the most honourable deed of my life, to be laughed at for my pains by a foppish young jackanapes of his Eminence’s guards? Something of my displeasure must he have seen reflected on my face, for of a sudden he checked his mirth.
“Forgive me, M. de Luynes,” he gasped. “Pardieu, ‘t is no matter for laughter, and albeit I laughed with more zest than courtesy, I give you my word that my admiration for you vastly exceeds my amusement. M. de Luynes,” he added, rising and holding out his hand to me, “there are liars in Paris who give you an evil name — men who laughed at me when they heard that I had given you leave to go on parole to St. Sulpice des Reaux that night, trusting to your word of honour that you would return if you lived. His Eminence dubbed me a fool and went near to dismissing me from his service, and yet I have now the proof that my confidence was not misplaced, since even though you were believed to be dead, you did not hesitate to bring me your sword.”
“Monsieur, spare me!” I exclaimed, for in truth his compliments waxed as irksome as had been his whilom merriment.
He continued, however, his laudatory address, and when it was at last ended, and he paused exhausted alike in breath and brain, it was to take up my sword and return it to me with my parole, pronouncing me a free man, and advising me to let men continue to think me dead, and to withdraw from France. He cut short my half-protesting thanks, and calling the hostess bade her set another cover, whilst me he invited to share his supper. And as we ate he again urged upon me the advice that I should go abroad.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 14