Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Madame fell into agitation of the wildest. “Aline, I should never forgive you! Your uncle Quintin would be in despair. You do not know what you are saying, what a wonderful thing you are refusing. Have you no sense of your position, of the station into which you were born?”

  “If I had not, madame, I should have made an end long since. If I have tolerated this suit for a single moment, it is because I realize the importance of a suitable marriage in the worldly sense. But I ask of marriage something more; and Uncle Quintin has placed the decision in my hands.”

  “God forgive him!” said madame. And then she hurried on: “Leave this to me now, Aline. Be guided by me — oh, be guided by me!” Her tone was beseeching. “I will take counsel with your uncle Charles. But do not definitely decide until this unfortunate affair has blown over. Charles will know how to arrange it. M. le Marquis shall do penance, child, since your tyranny demands it; but not in sackcloth and ashes. You’ll not ask so much?”

  Aline shrugged. “I ask nothing at all,” she said, which was neither assent nor dissent.

  So Mme. de Sautron interviewed her husband, a slight, middle-aged man, very aristocratic in appearance and gifted with a certain shrewd sense. She took with him precisely the tone that Aline had taken with herself and which in Aline she had found so disconcertingly indelicate. She even borrowed several of Aline’s phrases.

  The result was that on the Monday afternoon when at last M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s returning berline drove up to the chateau, he was met by M. le Comte de Sautron who desired a word with him even before he changed.

  “Gervais, you’re a fool,” was the excellent opening made by M. le Comte.

  “Charles, you give me no news,” answered M. le Marquis. “Of what particular folly do you take the trouble to complain?”

  He flung himself wearily upon a sofa, and his long graceful body sprawling there he looked up at his friend with a tired smile on that nobly handsome pale face that seemed to defy the onslaught of age.

  “Of your last. This Binet girl.”

  “That! Pooh! An incident; hardly a folly.”

  “A folly — at such a time,” Sautron insisted. The Marquis looked a question. The Count answered it. “Aline,” said he, pregnantly. “She knows. How she knows I can’t tell you, but she knows, and she is deeply offended.”

  The smile perished on the Marquis’ face. He gathered himself up.

  “Offended?” said he, and his voice was anxious.

  “But yes. You know what she is. You know the ideals she has formed. It wounds her that at such a time — whilst you are here for the purpose of wooing her — you should at the same time be pursuing this affair with that chit of a Binet girl.”

  “How do you know?” asked La Tour d’Azyr.

  “She has confided in her aunt. And the poor child seems to have some reason. She says she will not tolerate that you should come to kiss her hand with lips that are still contaminated from... Oh, you understand. You appreciate the impression of such a thing upon a pure, sensitive girl such as Aline. She said — I had better tell you — that the next time you kiss her hand, she will call for water and wash it in your presence.”

  The Marquis’ face flamed scarlet. He rose. Knowing his violent, intolerant spirit, M. de Sautron was prepared for an outburst. But no outburst came. The Marquis turned away from him, and paced slowly to the window, his head bowed, his hands behind his back. Halted there he spoke, without turning, his voice was at once scornful and wistful.

  “You are right, Charles, I am a fool — a wicked fool! I have just enough sense left to perceive it. It is the way I have lived, I suppose. I have never known the need to deny myself anything I wanted.” Then suddenly he swung round, and the outburst came. “But, my God, I want Aline as I have never wanted anything yet! I think I should kill myself in rage if through my folly I should have lost her.” He struck his brow with his hand. “I am a beast!” he said. “I should have known that if that sweet saint got word of these petty devilries of mine she would despise me; and I tell you, Charles, I’d go through fire to regain her respect.”

  “I hope it is to be regained on easier terms,” said Charles; and then to ease the situation which began to irk him by its solemnity, he made a feeble joke. “It is merely asked of you that you refrain from going through certain fires that are not accounted by mademoiselle of too purifying a nature.”

  “As to that Binet girl, it is finished — finished,” said the Marquis.

  “I congratulate you. When did you make that decision?”

  “This moment. I would to God I had made it twenty-four hours ago. As it is—” he shrugged— “why, twenty-four hours of her have been enough for me as they would have been for any man — a mercenary, self-seeking little baggage with the soul of a trull. Bah!” He shuddered in disgust of himself and her.

  “Ah! That makes it easier for you,” said M. de Sautron, cynically.

  “Don’t say it, Charles. It is not so. Had you been less of a fool, you would have warned me sooner.”

  “I may prove to have warned you soon enough if you’ll profit by the warning.”

  “There is no penance I will not do. I will prostrate myself at her feet. I will abase myself before her. I will make confession in the proper spirit of contrition, and Heaven helping me, I’ll keep to my purpose of amendment for her sweet sake.” He was tragically in earnest.

  To M. de Sautron, who had never seen him other than self-contained, supercilious, and mocking, this was an amazing revelation. He shrank from it almost; it gave him the feeling of prying, of peeping through a keyhole. He slapped his friend’s shoulder.

  “My dear Gervais, here is a magnificently romantic mood. Enough said. Keep to it, and I promise you that all will presently be well. I will be your ambassador, and you shall have no cause to complain.”

  “But may I not go to her myself?”

  “If you are wise you will at once efface yourself. Write to her if you will — make your act of contrition by letter. I will explain why you have gone without seeing her. I will tell her that you did so upon my advice, and I will do it tactfully. I am a good diplomat, Gervais. Trust me.”

  M. le Marquis raised his head, and showed a face that pain was searing. He held out his hand. “Very well, Charles. Serve me in this, and count me your friend in all things.”

  CHAPTER XI. THE FRACAS AT THE THEATRE FEYDAU

  Leaving his host to act as his plenipotentiary with Mademoiselle de Kercadiou, and to explain to her that it was his profound contrition that compelled him to depart without taking formal leave of her, the Marquis rolled away from Sautron in a cloud of gloom. Twenty-four hours with La Binet had been more than enough for a man of his fastidious and discerning taste. He looked back upon the episode with nausea — the inevitable psychological reaction — marvelling at himself that until yesterday he should have found her so desirable, and cursing himself that for the sake of that ephemeral and worthless gratification he should seriously have imperilled his chances of winning Mademoiselle de Kercadiou to wife. There is, after all, nothing very extraordinary in his frame of mind, so that I need not elaborate it further. It resulted from the conflict between the beast and the angel that go to make up the composition of every man.

  The Chevalier de Chabrillane — who in reality occupied towards the Marquis a position akin to that of gentleman-in-waiting — sat opposite to him in the enormous travelling berline. A small folding table had been erected between them, and the Chevalier suggested piquet. But M. le Marquis was in no humour for cards. His thoughts absorbed him. As they were rattling over the cobbles of Nantes’ streets, he remembered a promise to La Binet to witness her performance that night in “The Faithless Lover.” And now he was running away from her. The thought was repugnant to him on two scores. He was breaking his pledged word, and he was acting like a coward. And there was more than that. He had led the mercenary little strumpet — it was thus he thought of her at present, and with some justice — to expect favours from him in
addition to the lavish awards which already he had made her. The baggage had almost sought to drive a bargain with him as to her future. He was to take her to Paris, put her into her own furniture — as the expression ran, and still runs — and under the shadow of his powerful protection see that the doors of the great theatres of the capital should be opened to her talents. He had not — he was thankful to reflect — exactly committed himself. But neither had he definitely refused her. It became necessary now to come to an understanding, since he was compelled to choose between his trivial passion for her — a passion quenched already — and his deep, almost spiritual devotion to Mademoiselle de Kercadiou.

  His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he should at once deliver himself from a false position. La Binet would make a scene, of course; but he knew the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that nature. Money, after all, has its uses.

  He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a standstill; a footman appeared at the door.

  “To the Theatre Feydau,” said he.

  The footman vanished and the berline rolled on. M. de Chabrillane laughed cynically.

  “I’ll trouble you not to be amused,” snapped the Marquis. “You don’t understand.” Thereafter he explained himself. It was a rare condescension in him. But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood in such a matter. Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis’ extreme seriousness.

  “Why not write?” he suggested. “Myself, I confess that I should find it easier.”

  Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis’ state of mind than his answer.

  “Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction. Two risks I will not run. If she did not answer, I should never know which had been incurred. And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I have set a term to this affair. The berline can wait while we are at the theatre. We will go on afterwards. We will travel all night if necessary.”

  “Peste!” said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace. But that was all.

  The great travelling carriage drew up at the lighted portals of the Feydau, and M. le Marquis stepped out. He entered the theatre with Chabrillane, all unconsciously to deliver himself into the hands of Andre-Louis.

  Andre-Louis was in a state of exasperation produced by Climene’s long absence from Nantes in the company of M. le Marquis, and fed by the unspeakable complacency with which M. Binet regarded that event of quite unmistakable import.

  However much he might affect the frame of mind of the stoics, and seek to judge with a complete detachment, in the heart and soul of him Andre-Louis was tormented and revolted. It was not Climene he blamed. He had been mistaken in her. She was just a poor weak vessel driven helplessly by the first breath, however foul, that promised her advancement. She suffered from the plague of greed; and he congratulated himself upon having discovered it before making her his wife. He felt for her now nothing but a deal of pity and some contempt. The pity was begotten of the love she had lately inspired in him. It might be likened to the dregs of love, all that remained after the potent wine of it had been drained off. His anger he reserved for her father and her seducer.

  The thoughts that were stirring in him on that Monday morning, when it was discovered that Climene had not yet returned from her excursion of the previous day in the coach of M. le Marquis, were already wicked enough without the spurring they received from the distraught Leandre.

  Hitherto the attitude of each of these men towards the other had been one of mutual contempt. The phenomenon has frequently been observed in like cases. Now, what appeared to be a common misfortune brought them into a sort of alliance. So, at least, it seemed to Leandre when he went in quest of Andre-Louis, who with apparent unconcern was smoking a pipe upon the quay immediately facing the inn.

  “Name of a pig!” said Leandre. “How can you take your ease and smoke at such a time?”

  Scaramouche surveyed the sky. “I do not find it too cold,” said he. “The sun is shining. I am very well here.”

  “Do I talk of the weather?” Leandre was very excited.

  “Of what, then?”

  “Of Climene, of course.”

  “Oh! The lady has ceased to interest me,” he lied.

  Leandre stood squarely in front of him, a handsome figure handsomely dressed in these days, his hair well powdered, his stockings of silk. His face was pale, his large eyes looked larger than usual.

  “Ceased to interest you? Are you not to marry her?”

  Andre-Louis expelled a cloud of smoke. “You cannot wish to be offensive. Yet you almost suggest that I live on other men’s leavings.”

  “My God!” said Leandre, overcome, and he stared awhile. Then he burst out afresh. “Are you quite heartless? Are you always Scaramouche?”

  “What do you expect me to do?” asked Andre-Louis, evincing surprise in his own turn, but faintly.

  “I do not expect you to let her go without a struggle.”

  “But she has gone already.” Andre-Louis pulled at his pipe a moment, what time Leandre clenched and unclenched his hands in impotent rage. “And to what purpose struggle against the inevitable? Did you struggle when I took her from you?”

  “She was not mine to be taken from me. I but aspired, and you won the race. But even had it been otherwise where is the comparison? That was a thing in honour; this — this is hell.”

  His emotion moved Andre-Louis. He took Leandre’s arm. “You’re a good fellow, Leandre. I am glad I intervened to save you from your fate.”

  “Oh, you don’t love her!” cried the other, passionately. “You never did. You don’t know what it means to love, or you’d not talk like this. My God! if she had been my affianced wife and this had happened, I should have killed the man — killed him! Do you hear me? But you... Oh, you, you come out here and smoke, and take the air, and talk of her as another man’s leavings. I wonder I didn’t strike you for the word.”

  He tore his arm from the other’s grip, and looked almost as if he would strike him now.

  “You should have done it,” said Andre-Louis. “It’s in your part.”

  With an imprecation Leandre turned on his heel to go. Andre-Louis arrested his departure.

  “A moment, my friend. Test me by yourself. Would you marry her now?”

  “Would I?” The young man’s eyes blazed with passion. “Would I? Let her say that she will marry me, and I am her slave.”

  “Slave is the right word — a slave in hell.”

  “It would never be hell to me where she was, whatever she had done. I love her, man, I am not like you. I love her, do you hear me?”

  “I have known it for some time,” said Andre-Louis. “Though I didn’t suspect your attack of the disease to be quite so violent. Well, God knows I loved her, too, quite enough to share your thirst for killing. For myself, the blue blood of La Tour d’Azyr would hardly quench this thirst. I should like to add to it the dirty fluid that flows in the veins of the unspeakable Binet.”

  For a second his emotion had been out of hand, and he revealed to Leandre in the mordant tone of those last words something of the fires that burned under his icy exterior. The young man caught him by the hand.

  “I knew you were acting,” said he. “You feel — you feel as I do.”

  “Behold us, fellows in viciousness. I have betrayed myself, it seems. Well, and what now? Do you want to see this pretty Marquis torn limb from limb? I might afford you the spectacle.”

  “What?” Leandre stared, wondering was this another of Scaramouche’s cynicisms.

  “It isn’t really difficult provided I have aid. I require only a little. Will you lend it me?”

  “Anything you ask,” Leandre exploded. “My life if you require it.”

  Andre-Louis took his arm again. “Let us walk,” he said. “I will instruct you.”

  When they came back the company was already at dinner. Mademoiselle had not yet returned. Sullenness presided at the table. Columbine and Madame wore anxious expressions. Th
e fact was that relations between Binet and his troupe were daily growing more strained.

  Andre-Louis and Leandre went each to his accustomed place. Binet’s little eyes followed them with a malicious gleam, his thick lips pouted into a crooked smile.

  “You two are grown very friendly of a sudden,” he mocked.

  “You are a man of discernment, Binet,” said Scaramouche, the cold loathing of his voice itself an insult. “Perhaps you discern the reason?”

  “It is readily discerned.”

  “Regale the company with it!” he begged; and waited. “What? You hesitate? Is it possible that there are limits to your shamelessness?”

  Binet reared his great head. “Do you want to quarrel with me, Scaramouche?” Thunder was rumbling in his deep voice.

  “Quarrel? You want to laugh. A man doesn’t quarrel with creatures like you. We all know the place held in the public esteem by complacent husbands. But, in God’s name, what place is there at all for complacent fathers?”

  Binet heaved himself up, a great towering mass of manhood. Violently he shook off the restraining hand of Pierrot who sat on his left.

  “A thousand devils!” he roared; “if you take that tone with me, I’ll break every bone in your filthy body.”

  “If you were to lay a finger on me, Binet, you would give me the only provocation I still need to kill you.” Andre-Louis was as calm as ever, and therefore the more menacing. Alarm stirred the company. He protruded from his pocket the butt of a pistol — newly purchased. “I go armed, Binet. It is only fair to give you warning. Provoke me as you have suggested, and I’ll kill you with no more compunction than I should kill a slug, which after all is the thing you most resemble — a slug, Binet; a fat, slimy body; foulness without soul and without intelligence. When I come to think of it I can’t suffer to sit at table with you. It turns my stomach.”

  He pushed away his platter and got up. “I’ll go and eat at the ordinary below stairs.”