Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Since obviously you are all eagerness to tell, why should I ask?” quoth he.

  “If you are caustic I shall not tell you even if you ask. Oh, yes, I will. It will teach you to treat me with the respect that is my due.”

  “I hope I shall never fail in that.”

  “Less than ever when you learn that I am very closely concerned in the visit of M. de La Tour d’Azyr. I am the object of this visit.” And she looked at him with sparkling eyes and lips parted in laughter.

  “The rest, you would seem to imply, is obvious. But I am a dolt, if you please; for it is not obvious to me.”

  “Why, stupid, he comes to ask my hand in marriage.”

  “Good God!” said Andre-Louis, and stared at her, chapfallen.

  She drew back from him a little with a frown and an upward tilt of her chin. “It surprises you?”

  “It disgusts me,” said he, bluntly. “In fact, I don’t believe it. You are amusing yourself with me.”

  For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts. “I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle this morning from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, announcing the visit and its object. I will not say that it did not surprise us a little...”

  “Oh, I see,” cried Andre-Louis, in relief. “I understand. For a moment I had almost feared...” He broke off, looked at her, and shrugged.

  “Why do you stop? You had almost feared that Versailles had been wasted upon me. That I should permit the court-ship of me to be conducted like that of any village wench. It was stupid of you. I am being sought in proper form, at my uncle’s hands.”

  “Is his consent, then, all that matters, according to Versailles?”

  “What else?”

  “There is your own.”

  She laughed. “I am a dutiful niece... when it suits me.”

  “And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this monstrous proposal?”

  “Monstrous!” She bridled. “And why monstrous, if you please?”

  “For a score of reasons,” he answered irritably.

  “Give me one,” she challenged him.

  “He is twice your age.”

  “Hardly so much,” said she.

  “He is forty-five, at least.”

  “But he looks no more than thirty. He is very handsome — so much you will admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the greatest nobleman in Brittany. He will make me a great lady.”

  “God made you that, Aline.”

  “Come, that’s better. Sometimes you can almost be polite.” And she moved along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her.

  “I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made.”

  She frowned, and her lips tightened. “You are speaking of my future husband,” she reproved him.

  His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler.

  “And is it so? It is settled, then? Your uncle is to agree? You are to be sold thus, lovelessly, into bondage to a man you do not know. I had dreamed of better things for you, Aline.”

  “Better than to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr?”

  He made a gesture of exasperation. “Are men and women nothing more than names? Do the souls of them count for nothing? Is there no joy in life, no happiness, that wealth and pleasure and empty, high-sounding titles are to be its only aims? I had set you high — so high, Aline — a thing scarce earthly. There is joy in your heart, intelligence in your mind; and, as I thought, the vision that pierces husks and shams to claim the core of reality for its own. Yet you will surrender all for a parcel of make-believe. You will sell your soul and your body to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr.”

  “You are indelicate,” said she, and though she frowned her eyes laughed. “And you go headlong to conclusions. My uncle will not consent to more than to allow my consent to be sought. We understand each other, my uncle and I. I am not to be bartered like a turnip.”

  He stood still to face her, his eyes glowing, a flush creeping into his pale cheeks.

  “You have been torturing me to amuse yourself!” he cried. “Ah, well, I forgive you out of my relief.”

  “Again you go too fast, Cousin Andre I have permitted my uncle to consent that M. le Marquis shall make his court to me. I like the look of the gentleman. I am flattered by his preference when I consider his eminence. It is an eminence that I may find it desirable to share. M. le Marquis does not look as if he were a dullard. It should be interesting to be wooed by him. It may be more interesting still to marry him, and I think, when all is considered, that I shall probably — very probably — decide to do so.”

  He looked at her, looked at the sweet, challenging loveliness of that childlike face so tightly framed in the oval of white fur, and all the life seemed to go out of his own countenance.

  “God help you, Aline!” he groaned.

  She stamped her foot. He was really very exasperating, and something presumptuous too, she thought.

  “You are insolent, monsieur.”

  “It is never insolent to pray, Aline. And I did no more than pray, as I shall continue to do. You’ll need my prayers, I think.”

  “You are insufferable!” She was growing angry, as he saw by the deepening frown, the heightened colour.

  “That is because I suffer. Oh, Aline, little cousin, think well of what you do; think well of the realities you will be bartering for these shams — the realities that you will never know, because these cursed shams will block your way to them. When M. de La Tour d’Azyr comes to make his court, study him well; consult your fine instincts; leave your own noble nature free to judge this animal by its intuitions. Consider that...”

  “I consider, monsieur, that you presume upon the kindness I have always shown you. You abuse the position of toleration in which you stand. Who are you? What are you, that you should have the insolence to take this tone with me?”

  He bowed, instantly his cold, detached self again, and resumed the mockery that was his natural habit.

  “My congratulations, mademoiselle, upon the readiness with which you begin to adapt yourself to the great role you are to play.”

  “Do you adapt yourself also, monsieur,” she retorted angrily, and turned her shoulder to him.

  “To be as the dust beneath the haughty feet of Madame la Marquise. I hope I shall know my place in future.”

  The phrase arrested her. She turned to him again, and he perceived that her eyes were shining now suspiciously. In an instant the mockery in him was quenched in contrition.

  “Lord, what a beast I am, Aline!” he cried, as he advanced. “Forgive me if you can.”

  Almost had she turned to sue forgiveness from him. But his contrition removed the need.

  “I’ll try,” said she, “provided that you undertake not to offend again.”

  “But I shall,” said he. “I am like that. I will fight to save you, from yourself if need be, whether you forgive me or not.”

  They were standing so, confronting each other a little breathlessly, a little defiantly, when the others issued from the porch.

  First came the Marquis of La Tour d’Azyr, Count of Solz, Knight of the Orders of the Holy Ghost and Saint Louis, and Brigadier in the armies of the King. He was a tall, graceful man, upright and soldierly of carriage, with his head disdainfully set upon his shoulders. He was magnificently dressed in a full-skirted coat of mulberry velvet that was laced with gold. His waistcoat, of velvet too, was of a golden apricot colour; his breeches and stockings were of black silk, and his lacquered, red-heeled shoes were buckled in diamonds. His powdered hair was tied behind in a broad ribbon of watered silk; he carried a little three-cornered hat under his arm, and a gold-hilted slender dress-sword hung at his side.

  Considering him now in complete detachment, observing the magnificence of him, the elegance of his movements, the great air, blending in so extraordinary a manner disdain and graciousness, Andre-
Louis trembled for Aline. Here was a practised, irresistible wooer, whose bonnes fortunes were become a by-word, a man who had hitherto been the despair of dowagers with marriageable daughters, and the desolation of husbands with attractive wives.

  He was immediately followed by M. de Kercadiou, in completest contrast. On legs of the shortest, the Lord of Gavrillac carried a body that at forty-five was beginning to incline to corpulence and an enormous head containing an indifferent allotment of intelligence. His countenance was pink and blotchy, liberally branded by the smallpox which had almost extinguished him in youth. In dress he was careless to the point of untidiness, and to this and to the fact that he had never married — disregarding the first duty of a gentleman to provide himself with an heir — he owed the character of misogynist attributed to him by the countryside.

  After M. de Kercadiou came M. de Vilmorin, very pale and self-contained, with tight lips and an overcast brow.

  To meet them, there stepped from the carriage a very elegant young gentleman, the Chevalier de Chabrillane, M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s cousin, who whilst awaiting his return had watched with considerable interest — his own presence unsuspected — the perambulations of Andre-Louis and mademoiselle.

  Perceiving Aline, M. de La Tour d’Azyr detached himself from the others, and lengthening his stride came straight across the terrace to her.

  To Andre-Louis the Marquis inclined his head with that mixture of courtliness and condescension which he used. Socially, the young lawyer stood in a curious position. By virtue of the theory of his birth, he ranked neither as noble nor as simple, but stood somewhere between the two classes, and whilst claimed by neither he was used familiarly by both. Coldly now he returned M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s greeting, and discreetly removed himself to go and join his friend.

  The Marquis took the hand that mademoiselle extended to him, and bowing over it, bore it to his lips.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, looking into the blue depths of her eyes, that met his gaze smiling and untroubled, “monsieur your uncle does me the honour to permit that I pay my homage to you. Will you, mademoiselle, do me the honour to receive me when I come to-morrow? I shall have something of great importance for your ear.”

  “Of importance, M. le Marquis? You almost frighten me.” But there was no fear on the serene little face in its furred hood. It was not for nothing that she had graduated in the Versailles school of artificialities.

  “That,” said he, “is very far from my design.”

  “But of importance to yourself, monsieur, or to me?”

  “To us both, I hope,” he answered her, a world of meaning in his fine, ardent eyes.

  “You whet my curiosity, monsieur; and, of course, I am a dutiful niece. It follows that I shall be honoured to receive you.”

  “Not honoured, mademoiselle; you will confer the honour. To-morrow at this hour, then, I shall have the felicity to wait upon you.”

  He bowed again; and again he bore her fingers to his lips, what time she curtsied. Thereupon, with no more than this formal breaking of the ice, they parted.

  She was a little breathless now, a little dazzled by the beauty of the man, his princely air, and the confidence of power he seemed to radiate. Involuntarily almost, she contrasted him with his critic — the lean and impudent Andre-Louis in his plain brown coat and steel-buckled shoes — and she felt guilty of an unpardonable offence in having permitted even one word of that presumptuous criticism. To-morrow M. le Marquis would come to offer her a great position, a great rank. And already she had derogated from the increase of dignity accruing to her from his very intention to translate her to so great an eminence. Not again would she suffer it; not again would she be so weak and childish as to permit Andre-Louis to utter his ribald comments upon a man by comparison with whom he was no better than a lackey.

  Thus argued vanity and ambition with her better self and to her vast annoyance her better self would not admit entire conviction.

  Meanwhile, M. de La Tour d’Azyr was climbing into his carriage. He had spoken a word of farewell to M. de Kercadiou, and he had also had a word for M. de Vilmorin in reply to which M. de Vilmorin had bowed in assenting silence. The carriage rolled away, the powdered footman in blue-and-gold very stiff behind it, M. de La Tour d’Azyr bowing to mademoiselle, who waved to him in answer.

  Then M. de Vilmorin put his arm through that of Andre Louis, and said to him, “Come, Andre.”

  “But you’ll stay to dine, both of you!” cried the hospitable Lord of Gavrillac. “We’ll drink a certain toast,” he added, winking an eye that strayed towards mademoiselle, who was approaching. He had no subtleties, good soul that he was.

  M. de Vilmorin deplored an appointment that prevented him doing himself the honour. He was very stiff and formal.

  “And you, Andre?”

  “I? Oh, I share the appointment, godfather,” he lied, “and I have a superstition against toasts.” He had no wish to remain. He was angry with Aline for her smiling reception of M. de La Tour d’Azyr and the sordid bargain he saw her set on making. He was suffering from the loss of an illusion.

  CHAPTER III. THE ELOQUENCE OF M. DE VILMORIN

  As they walked down the hill together, it was now M. de Vilmorin who was silent and preoccupied, Andre-Louis who was talkative. He had chosen Woman as a subject for his present discourse. He claimed — quite unjustifiably — to have discovered Woman that morning; and the things he had to say of the sex were unflattering, and occasionally almost gross. M. de Vilmorin, having ascertained the subject, did not listen. Singular though it may seem in a young French abbe of his day, M. de Vilmorin was not interested in Woman. Poor Philippe was in several ways exceptional. Opposite the Breton arme — the inn and posting-house at the entrance of the village of Gavrillac — M. de Vilmorin interrupted his companion just as he was soaring to the dizziest heights of caustic invective, and Andre-Louis, restored thereby to actualities, observed the carriage of M. de La Tour d’Azyr standing before the door of the hostelry.

  “I don’t believe you’ve been listening to me,” said he.

  “Had you been less interested in what you were saying, you might have observed it sooner and spared your breath. The fact is, you disappoint me, Andre. You seem to have forgotten what we went for. I have an appointment here with M. le Marquis. He desires to hear me further in the matter. Up there at Gavrillac I could accomplish nothing. The time was ill-chosen as it happened. But I have hopes of M. le Marquis.”

  “Hopes of what?”

  “That he will make what reparation lies in his power. Provide for the widow and the orphans. Why else should he desire to hear me further?”

  “Unusual condescension,” said Andre-Louis, and quoted “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”

  “Why?” asked Philippe.

  “Let us go and discover — unless you consider that I shall be in the way.”

  Into a room on the right, rendered private to M. le Marquis for so long as he should elect to honour it, the young men were ushered by the host. A fire of logs was burning brightly at the room’s far end, and by this sat now M. de La Tour d’Azyr and his cousin, the Chevalier de Chabrillane. Both rose as M. de Vilmorin came in. Andre-Louis following, paused to close the door.

  “You oblige me by your prompt courtesy, M. de Vilmorin,” said the Marquis, but in a tone so cold as to belie the politeness of his words. “A chair, I beg. Ah, Moreau?” The note was frigidly interrogative. “He accompanies you, monsieur?” he asked.

  “If you please, M. le Marquis.”

  “Why not? Find yourself a seat, Moreau.” He spoke over his shoulder as to a lackey.

  “It is good of you, monsieur,” said Philippe, “to have offered me this opportunity of continuing the subject that took me so fruitlessly, as it happens, to Gavrillac.”

  The Marquis crossed his legs, and held one of his fine hands to the blaze. He replied, without troubling to turn to the young man, who was slightly behind him.

  “The goodness of my request
we will leave out of question for the moment,” said he, darkly, and M. de Chabrillane laughed. Andre-Louis thought him easily moved to mirth, and almost envied him the faculty.

  “But I am grateful,” Philippe insisted, “that you should condescend to hear me plead their cause.”

  The Marquis stared at him over his shoulder. “Whose cause?” quoth he.

  “Why, the cause of the widow and orphans of this unfortunate Mabey.”

  The Marquis looked from Vilmorin to the Chevalier, and again the Chevalier laughed, slapping his leg this time.

  “I think,” said M. de La Tour d’Azyr, slowly, “that we are at cross-purposes. I asked you to come here because the Chateau de Gavrillac was hardly a suitable place in which to carry our discussion further, and because I hesitated to incommode you by suggesting that you should come all the way to Azyr. But my object is connected with certain expressions that you let fall up there. It is on the subject of those expressions, monsieur, that I would hear you further — if you will honour me.”

  Andre-Louis began to apprehend that there was something sinister in the air. He was a man of quick intuitions, quicker far than those of M. de Vilmorin, who evinced no more than a mild surprise.

  “I am at a loss, monsieur,” said he. “To what expressions does monsieur allude?”

  “It seems, monsieur, that I must refresh your memory.” The Marquis crossed his legs, and swung sideways on his chair, so that at last he directly faced M. de Vilmorin. “You spoke, monsieur — and however mistaken you may have been, you spoke very eloquently, too eloquently almost, it seemed to me — of the infamy of such a deed as the act of summary justice upon this thieving fellow Mabey, or whatever his name may be. Infamy was the precise word you used. You did not retract that word when I had the honour to inform you that it was by my orders that my gamekeeper Benet proceeded as he did.”