Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Do they, by God?” he roared, unable longer to restrain himself, and leaping to his feet. “You have done, have you not? You have said all that you can call to mind? You have flung insults and epithets at me enough to earn the cutting of a dozen throats. You have dubbed me cheat and thief” — he choked in his passion— “until you have had your fill — is it not so? Now, listen to me, Master Bardelys, master spy, master buffoon, master masquerader! What manner of proceeding was yours to go to Lavedan under a false name? How call you that? Was that, perhaps, not cheating?”

  “No, monsieur, it was not,” I answered quietly. “It was in the terms of your challenge that I was free to go to Lavedan in what guise I listed, employing what wiles I pleased. But let that be,” I ended, and, creasing the paper, I poured the sand back into the box, and dusted the document. “The point is hardly worth discussing at this time of day. If not one way, why, then, in another, your wager is lost.”

  “Is it?” He set his arms akimbo and eyed me derisively, his thick-set frame planted squarely before me. “You are satisfied that it is so? Quite satisfied, eh?” He leered in my face. “Why, then, Monsieur le Marquis, we will see whether a few inches of steel will win it back for me.” And once more his hand flew to his hilt.

  Rising, I flung the document I had accomplished upon the table. “Glance first at that,” said I.

  He stopped to look at me in inquiry, my manner sowing so great a curiosity in him that his passion was all scattered before it. Then he stepped up to the table and lifted the paper. As he read, his hand shook, amazement dilated his eyes and furrowed his brow.

  “What — what does it signify?” he gasped.

  “It signifies that, although fully conscious of having won, I prefer to acknowledge that I have lost. I make over to you thus my estates of Bardelys, because, monsieur, I have come to realize that that wager was an infamous one — one in which a gentleman should have had no part — and the only atonement I can make to myself, my honour, and the lady whom we insulted — is that.”

  “I do not understand,” he complained.

  “I apprehend your difficulty, Comte. The point is a nice one. But understand at least that my Picardy estates are yours. Only, monsieur, you will be well advised to make your will forthwith, for you are not destined, yourself, to enjoy them.”

  He looked at me, his glance charged with inquiry.

  “His Majesty,” I continued, in answer to his glance, “is ordering your arrest for betraying the trust he had reposed in you and for perverting the ends of justice to do your own private murdering.”

  “Mon Dieu!” he cried, falling of a sudden unto a most pitiful affright. “The King knows?”

  “Knows?” I laughed. “In the excitement of these other matters you have forgotten to ask how I come to be at liberty. I have been to the King, monsieur, and I have told him what has taken place here at Toulouse, and how I was to have gone to the block tomorrow!”

  “Scelerat!” he cried. “You have ruined me!” Rage and grief were blent in his accents. He stood before me, livid of face and with hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  “Did you expect me to keep such a matter silent? Even had I been so inclined it had not been easy, for His Majesty had questions to ask me. From what the King said, monsieur, you may count upon mounting the scaffold in my stead. So be advised, and make your will without delay, if you would have your heirs enjoy my Picardy chateau.”

  I have seen terror and anger distort men’s countenances, but never have I seen aught to compare with the disorder of Chatellerault at that moment. He stamped and raved and fumed. He poured forth a thousand ordures of speech in his frenzy; he heaped insults upon me and imprecations upon the King, whose lapdog he pronounced me. His short, stout frame was quivering with passion and fear, his broad face distorted by his hideous grimaces of rage. And then, while yet his ravings were in full flow, the door opened, and in stepped the airy Chevalier de Saint-Eustache.

  He stood still, amazed, beneath the lintel — marvelling to see all this anger, and abashed at beholding me. His sudden appearance reminded me that I had last seen him at Grenade in the Count’s company, on the day of my arrest. The surprise it had occasioned me now returned upon seeing him so obviously and intimately seeking Chatellerault.

  The Count turned on him in his anger.

  “Well, popinjay?” he roared. “What do you want with me?”

  “Monsieur le Comte!” cried the other, in blent indignation and reproach.

  “You will perceive that you are come inopportunely,” I put in. “Monsieur de Chatellerault is not quite himself.”

  But my speech again drew his attention to my presence; and the wonder grew in his eyes at finding me there, for to him I was still Lesperon the rebel, and he marvelled naturally that I should be at large.

  Then in the corridor there was a sound of steps and voices, and as I turned I beheld in the doorway, behind Saint-Eustache, the faces of Castelroux, Mironsac, and my old acquaintance, the babbling, irresponsible buffoon, La Fosse. From Mironsac he had heard of my presence in Toulouse, and, piloted by Castelroux, they were both come to seek me out. I’ll swear it was not thus they had looked to find me.

  They pushed their way into the room, impelling Saint-Eustache forward, and there were greetings exchanged and felicitations, whilst Chatellerault, curbing his disorder, drew the Chevalier into a corner of the room, and stood there listening to him.

  At length I heard the Count exclaim —

  “Do as you please, Chevalier. If you have interests of your own to serve, serve them. As for myself — I am past being interested.”

  “But why, monsieur?” the chevalier inquired.

  “Why?” echoed Chatellerault, his ferocity welling up again. Then, swinging round, he came straight at me, as a bull makes a charge.

  “Monsieur de Bardelys!” he blazed.

  “Bardelys!” gasped Saint-Eustache in the background.

  “What now?” I inquired coldly, turning from my friends.

  “All that you said may be true, and I may be doomed, but I swear before God that you shall not go unpunished.”

  “I think, monsieur, that you run a grave risk of perjuring yourself!” I laughed.

  “You shall render me satisfaction ere we part!” he cried.

  “If you do not deem that paper satisfaction enough, then, monsieur, forgive me, but your greed transcends all possibility of being ever satisfied.”

  “The devil take your paper and your estates! What shall they profit me when I am dead?”

  “They may profit your heirs,” I suggested.

  “How shall that profit me?”

  “That is a riddle that I cannot pretend to elucidate.”

  “You laugh, you knave!” he snorted. Then, with an abrupt change of manner, “You do not lack for friends,” said he. “Beg one of these gentlemen to act for you, and if you are a man of honour let us step out into the yard and settle the matter.”

  I shook my head.

  “I am so much a man of honour as to be careful with whom I cross steel. I prefer to leave you to His Majesty’s vengeance; his headsman may be less particular than am I. No, monsieur, on the whole, I do not think that I can fight you.”

  His face grew a shade paler. It became grey; the jaw was set, and the

  eyes were more out of symmetry than I had ever seen them. Their glance

  approached what is known in Italy as the mal’occhio, and to protect

  themselves against the baneful influences of which men carry charms. A

  moment he stood so, eyeing me. Then, coming a step nearer —

  “You do not think that you can fight me, eh? You do not think it?

  Pardieu! How shall I make you change your mind? To the insult of words

  you appear impervious. You imagine your courage above dispute because by

  a lucky accident you killed La Vertoile some years ago and the fame of

  it has attached to you.” In the intensity of his a
nger he was breathing

  heavily, like a man overburdened. “You have been living ever since by

  the reputation which that accident gave you. Let us see if you can die

  by it, Monsieur de Bardelys.” And, leaning forward, he struck me on

  the breast, so suddenly and so powerfully — for he was a man of abnormal

  strength — that I must have fallen but that La Fosse caught me in his

  arms.

  “Kill him!” lisped the classic-minded fool. “Play Theseus to this bull of Marathon.”

  Chatellerault stood back, his hands on his hips, his head inclined towards his right shoulder, and an insolent leer of expectancy upon his face.

  “Will that resolve you?” he sneered.

  “I will meet you,” I answered, when I had recovered breath. “But I swear that I shall not help you to escape the headsman.”

  He laughed harshly.

  “Do I not know it?” he mocked. “How shall killing you help me to escape? Come, messieurs, sortons. At once!”

  “Sor,” I answered shortly; and thereupon we crowded from the room, and went pele-mele down the passage to the courtyard at the back.

  CHAPTER XVI. SWORDS!

  La Fosse led the way with me, his arm through mine, swearing that he would be my second. He had such a stomach for a fight, had this irresponsible, irrepressible rhymester, that it mounted to the heights of passion with him, and when I mentioned, in answer to a hint dropped in connection with the edict, that I had the King’s sanction for this combat, he was nearly mad with joy.

  “Blood of La Fosse!” was his oath. “The honour to stand by you shall be mine, my Bardelys! You owe it me, for am I not in part to blame for all this ado? Nay, you’ll not deny me. That gentleman yonder, with the wild-cat moustaches and a name like a Gascon oath — that cousin of Mironsac’s, I mean — has the flair of a fight in his nostrils, and a craving to be in it. But you’ll grant me the honour, will you not? Pardieu! It will earn me a place in history.”

  “Or the graveyard,” quoth I, by way of cooling his ardour.

  “Peste! What an augury!” Then, with a laugh: “But,” he added, indicating Saint-Eustache, “that long, lean saint — I forget of what he is patron — hardly wears a murderous air.”

  To win peace from him, I promised that he should stand by me. But the favour lost much of its value in his eyes when presently I added that I did not wish the seconds to engage, since the matter was of so very personal a character.

  Mironsac and Castelroux, assisted by Saint-Eustache, closed the heavy portecochere, and so shut us in from the observation of passers-by. The clanging of those gates brought the landlord and a couple of his knaves, and we were subjected to the prayers and intercessions, to the stormings and ravings that are ever the prelude of a stable-yard fight, but which invariably end, as these ended, in the landlord’s withdrawal to run for help to the nearest corps-de-garde.

  “Now, my myrmillones,” cried La Fosse in bloodthirsty jubilation, “to work before the host returns.”

  “Po’ Cap de Dieu!” growled Castelroux, “is this a time for jests, master joker?”

  “Jests?” I heard him retorting, as he assisted me to doff my doublet. “Do I jest? Diable! you Gascons are a slow-witted folk! I have a taste for allegory, my friend, but that never yet was accounted so low a thing as jesting.”

  At last we were ready, and I shifted the whole of my attention to the short, powerful figure of Chatellerault as he advanced upon me, stripped to the waist, his face set and his eyes full of stern resolve. Despite his low stature, and the breadth of frame which argue sluggish motion, there was something very formidable about the Count. His bared arms were great masses of muscular flesh, and if his wrist were but half as supple as it looked powerful, that alone should render him a dangerous antagonist.

  Yet I had no qualm of fear, no doubt, even, touching the issue. Not that I was an habitual ferrailleur. As I have indicated, I had fought but one man in all my life. Nor yet am I of those who are said to know no fear under any circumstances. Such men are not truly brave; they are stupid and unimaginative, in proof of which I will advance the fact that you may incite a timid man to deeds of reckless valour by drugging him with wine. But this is by the way. It may be that the very regular fencing practice that in Paris I was wont to take may so have ordered my mind that the fact of meeting unbaited steel had little power to move me.

  Be that as it may, I engaged the Count without a tremor either of the flesh or of the spirit. I was resolved to wait and let him open the play, that I might have an opportunity of measuring his power and seeing how best I might dispose of him. I was determined to do him no hurt, and to leave him, as I had sworn, to the headsman; and so, either by pressure or by seizure, it was my aim to disarm him.

  But on his side also he entered upon the duel with all caution and wariness. From his rage I had hoped for a wild, angry rush that should afford me an easy opportunity of gaining my ends with him. Not so, however. Now that he came with steel to defend his life and to seek mine, he appeared to have realized the importance of having keen wits to guide his hand; and so he put his anger from him, and emerged calm and determined from his whilom disorder.

  Some preliminary passes we made from the first engagement in the lines of tierce, each playing warily for an opening, yet neither of us giving ground or betraying haste or excitement. Now his blade slithered on mine with a ceaseless tremor; his eyes watched mine from under lowering brows, and with knees bent he crouched like a cat making ready for a spring. Then it came. Sudden as lightning was his disengage; he darted under my guard, then over it, then back and under it again, and stretching out in the lunge — his double-feint completed — he straightened his arm to drive home the botte.

  But with a flying point I cleared his blade out of the line of my body. There had been two sharp tinkles of our meeting swords, and now Chatellerault stood at his fullest stretch, the half of his steel past and behind me, for just a fraction of time completely at my mercy. Yet I was content to stand, and never move my blade from his until he had recovered and we were back in our first position once again.

  I heard the deep bass of Castelroux’s “Mordieux!” the sharp gasp of fear from Saint-Eustache, who already in imagination beheld his friend stretched lifeless on the ground, and the cry of mortification from La Fosse as the Count recovered. But I heeded these things little. As I have said, to kill the Count was not my object. It had been wise, perhaps, in Chatellerault to have appreciated that fact; but he did not. From the manner in which he now proceeded to press me, I was assured that he set his having recovered guard to slowness on my part, never thinking of the speed that had been necessary to win myself such an opening as I had obtained.

  My failure to run him through in that moment of jeopardy inspired him with a contempt of my swordplay. This he now made plain by the recklessness with which he fenced, in his haste to have done ere we might chance to be interrupted. Of this recklessness I suddenly availed myself to make an attempt at disarming him. I turned aside a vicious thrust by a close — a dangerously close — parry, and whilst in the act of encircling his blade I sought by pressure to carry it out of his hand. I was within an ace of succeeding, yet he avoided me, and doubled back.

  He realized then, perhaps, that I was not quite so contemptible an antagonist as he had been imagining, and he went back to his earlier and more cautious tactics. Then I changed my plans. I simulated an attack, and drove him hard for some moments. Strong he was, but there were advantages of reach and suppleness with me, and even these advantages apart, had I aimed at his life, I could have made short work of him. But the game I played was fraught with perils to myself, and once I was in deadly danger, and as near death from the sword as a man may go and live. My attack had lured him, as I desired that it should, into making a riposte. He did so, and as his blade twisted round mine and came slithering at me, I again carried it off by encircling it, and again I exerted pressure to deprive him of it. But t
his time I was farther from success than before. He laughed at the attempt, as with a suddenness that I had been far from expecting he disengaged again, and his point darted like a snake upwards at my throat.

  I parried that thrust, but I only parried it when it was within some three inches of my neck, and even as I turned it aside it missed me as narrowly as it might without tearing my skin. The imminence of the peril had been such that, as we mutually recovered, I found a cold sweat bathing me.

  After that, I resolved to abandon the attempt to disarm him by pressure, and I turned my attention to drawing him into a position that might lend itself to seizure. But even as I was making up my mind to this — we were engaged in sixte at the time — I saw a sudden chance. His point was held low while he watched me; so low that his arm was uncovered and my point was in line with it. To see the opening, to estimate it, and to take my resolve was all the work of a fraction of a second. The next instant I had straightened my elbow, my blade shot out in a lightning stroke and transfixed his sword-arm.

  There was a yell of pain, followed by a deep growl of fury, as, wounded but not vanquished, the enraged Count caught his falling sword in his left hand, and whilst my own blade was held tight in the bone of his right arm, he sought to run me through. I leapt quickly aside, and then, before he could renew the attempt, my friends had fallen upon him and wrenched his sword from his hand and mine from his arm.

  It would ill have become me to taunt a man in his sorry condition, else might I now have explained to him what I had meant when I had promised to leave him for the headsman even though I did consent to fight him.

  Mironsac, Castelroux, and La Fosse stood babbling around me, but I paid no heed either to Castelroux’s patois or to La Fosse’s misquotations of classic authors. The combat had been protracted, and the methods I had pursued had been of a very exhausting nature. I leaned now against the porte-cochere, and mopped myself vigorously. Then Saint-Eustache, who was engaged in binding up his principal’s arm, called to La Fosse.