Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “You will say that one his prisoners requests his immediate presence. And you will do that, or I give you my word of honour you shall be flogged out of your worthless senses in the morning.”

  The tone was one that impressed Charolles no less than it did the soldier. Whilst this latter went upon his errand, the former turned to Bernouin with eager inquiries, which the Cardinal’s valet quietly nipped.

  “I am about to leave you, Monsieur des Charolles,” he answered coolly, “but I may be able to assist you. I promise that you shall hear from me before very long, and I beg that you will do nothing until you do. Here comes the officer. Monsieur, good-night!”

  In answer to the lieutenant’s surprised and supercilious inquiries Bernouin handed him a small sheet of parchment, on which he read:

  Be it known by these presents that the bearer is in my service, and that whatsoever he shall do I shall account well done. I charge all loyal subjects of His Majesty to aid and further him in whatsoever purpose he may require their aid, and I warn those that would hinder him that they doso at their peril. — JULES MAZARIN

  Beside the Cardinal’s signature was his seal, and he had been a bold man that did not bow low, as did now the lieutenant before the plenipotentiary who was the bearer of such credentials.

  “You will kindly inform Monsieur the Mayor that I escaped,” said Bernouin. “No more than that, as you value your position, nor will you any way allow it to transpire that I am His Eminence’s agent.”

  The officer bowed again, and, within five minutes, to the entire mystification of Charolles, Bernouin was on his way back to the Three Pigeons to finish his interrupted supper.

  Next morning, arrayed in a coat gayer than usual, and with a brown wig to cover his sleek head, lest the Mayor should otherwise have recognised one of his last night’s assailants, Bernouin waited upon Prèviteau. Very obsequiously was Mazarin’s emissary received by the Mayor, and very soon was he hearing once more the story of the feud betwixt Prèviteau and the Sieur des Charolles.

  Bernouin was all affability and graciousness. He evinced the keenest desire to assist the Mayor against this brutality on the part of Charolles, but he deprecated his failure to see a way by which it might be accomplished.

  “I fear, monsieur,” he ended, “that there is no ground upon which His Eminence would be justified in taking action.”

  “But consider, monsieur,” cried the Mayor, who was very pale as a result of the fright Bernouin’s scratch had occasioned him last night— “consider that I go in danger of my life. Charolles has threatened to kill me.”

  “Unfortunately the law of France does not allow a man to be punished for his intentions. We must wait, monsieur.”

  “In God’s name, what must we wait for?” gasped the Mayor.

  “For Monsieur des Charolles to kill you. Then there will be a clear case of murder against him.”

  The Mayor bounded from his chair, his eyes protruding from their puffy sockets.

  “You make a mock of me, monsieur,” he cried.

  “Ah, but no! I state facts. If you knew of any other crime on this man’s part — if, for instance, he had ever been implicated in any treasonable dealings — we should be able to rid you of him.”

  The Mayor’s eyes suddenly narrowed. Guile entered his rascally soul. It was misfortune that he should know of no treason, but it was by no means a misfortune that might not be remedied. He had heard some rumours once. He had disbelieved them then, Why should he not believe them now — now that it would fall in so well with his own interests? Why not, indeed? To that temptation he succumbed, being the grossly unscrupulous self-seeker that he was.

  “I know him for a traitor of the very blackest!” he burst out.

  Bernouin turned, his air suddenly alert. He smelt the lie as though it had been a concrete thing. Here was a noose by which this fat rascal of a Mayor might hang himself most speedily.

  “Tell me of it,” he begged. And the Mayor told him. Such a tale was that! It would have hanged a dozen men if it had held together a little better, But, being impromptu and unconsidered, it implicated nobody but the Mayor — and him with a monstrous falsehood.

  “Set it in writing,” said Bernouin quickly. “Affirm the truth of it upon oath, and this Charolles is a broken man.”

  “You promise me that?” cried the Mayor, scarce believing so much good fortune. And Bernouin grinly promised it him, asking where this Charolles might be. Upon hearing from Prèviteau that he was in prison, Bernouin advised his immediate enlargement.

  “Such a state of things might give this document of yours a savour of vindictiveness,” was his explanation. And the Mayor, rubbing his fat hands, chuckled at Bernouin’s shrewdness, and promised to follow his advice.

  Bernouin left Argentan bearing with him the Mayor’s signed accusation of Charolles. He returned within a week, and he waited upon the Mayor with a bundle of papers and parchments of a very legal aspect tucked under his arm.

  “Monsieur,” said he, “I have the pleasure to announce to you that you have won. It but remains for me to set the law in motion.”

  “What have you accomplished, my friend?” asked the Mayor. “What have you there?”

  “I have here an act of sequestration, by virtue of which the entire Charolles estates, comprising the Château des Charolles and the demesnes of Bar-le-Roi and Antonville, are confiscate to the Crown. It is thus that His Eminence deals with traitors.”

  Prèviteau stared at the valet from out of a face that had grown pale and seemed of a sudden aged by years.

  “But, monsieur,” he gasped, “you cannot be aware that the demesnes of Bar-le-Roi and Antonville are the property, by deed of gift from Monsieur des Charolles, of Mademoiselle des Charolles, his sister.”

  Bernouin affected a pitying concern. “Hèlas!” he sighed, “it is the way in this world that the innocent shall be involved in the punishment of the guilty. Of such a transaction as you mention the Crown could take no cognisance, for where there is seqestration for treason the whole family must suffer.”

  He paused a moment. Then:

  “Monsieur, I observe your concern,” said he, “and I honour you for the nobility of heart which it displays. But since I understand that you are about to wed Mademoiselle des Charolles, it is fortunate that her future is assured her.”

  “You understand amiss, monsieur,” cried the Mayor, his colour returning with a rush. “Such was, indeed, the state of things, but I have concluded that with the brother opposed to me, as is the Sieur des Charolles, there could be no hope of happiness in such a union, and so I had already determined to release the lady from her promise to me. I was on the point of so writing to her when you arrived.” He paused a moment. “I have a favour to ask,” said he presently. “That you delay the execution of that act for tweny-four hours lest she should do me the injustice to suppose that — that her altered fortunes have induced this change in me.”

  This promise Bernouin gave him. Then, having made his adieux, he withdrew.

  On the stairs his gravity deserted him utterly, and he burst into a laugh, which he suddenly suppressed lest the echo of it should reach the ears of Prèviteau.

  On the morrow he repaired to the Château des Charolles, and greeted its master with a question as to whether he had received any communication from Prèviteau.

  “My sister has had a letter,” answered Charolles. “Can it be that you have had a hand in this mystery? I beg that you will come with me.”

  Bernouin was ushered into the library, where he beheld a tall, elderly lady, whose eyes were red from weeping, yet whose bearing was haughty and frigid. He bowed. She ignored him.

  “Eugènie,” said Charolles, “here is a gentleman who may be able to explain your letter from Prèviteau.”

  “The only possible explanation is a further revelation of brutalities on your part, which Monsieur Prèviteau here assigns as the reason for his withdrawal. You may have the satisfaction of knowing, Henri, that you have ruined my l
ife.”

  Henri made a gesture of impatience, and turned to Bernouin.

  “You have a communication to make me, monsieur?” he inquired.

  “A week ago,” said the valet, “Monsieur Prèviteau, in casting about him for means to encompass your destruction, hit upon the expedient of sending His Eminence, by my hand, a document signed and sworn to, testifying to certain treasons in which you had been implicated.”

  “I?” roared Charolles. “But it is an infamous falsehood! What—”

  “Hear me through, I beg,” Bernouin interrupted. “As a consequence of this, I returned yesterday, and I was able to inform the Mayor of Argentan that I had here” — and he raised the formidable mass of tape-bound documents— “an act of sequestration, by virtue of which your entire estates of Charolles, Bar-le-Roi and Antonville became the property of the Crown.”

  “My God,” cried Charolles, whilst his sister looked up with an air of one thunderstruck. “Does His Eminence proceed to these extremes on the unsupported word of such a knave as this? But—” And then his rage passed from this to another aspect of the subject. He wheeled sharply round, and faced his sister. “Are you convinced now, Eugènie, of why you were wooed? Do you realise what manner of knave was that who deserted you so soon as he learnt our destitution?”

  The poor woman bent her head. Two tears trickled down her withered cheeks.

  “I am punished,” she muttered brokenly. “God has punished my vanity, and I have wrought the ruin of my house.”

  “Had you not better look at the matters contained in the act of sequestration?” suggested Bernouin quietly, as he set the mass of parchments on the table.

  With trembling fingers Charolles untied the fastenings of the package. Its bulk swelled up, and it fell open. He turned some sheets over, then he looked at Bernouin. Then he continued his search. At last —

  “Is this a jest, monsieur?” he roared. “The papers are all blank.”

  Bernouin shrugged his shoulders, and his thin lips smiled.

  “You behold,” said he, “the act of sequestration. Are you not content? It sufficed the Mayor, who saw no more than the outside of the package. Should it not suffice you, who have seen the inside?”

  Then Charolles understood, and his burst of relieved laughter brought his sister to his side. She looked at the papers and at Bernouin’s face, and the matter grew clear to her. She turned to her brother.

  “Henri,” she said, in a concentrated voice. “You will kill this base-born Prèviteau?”

  “Pish!” said he. “Think of the edict. We are well rid of him, little sister.” And he affectionately slipped his arm round the waist of the old maid whose first lover was likely to be her last.

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD

  London Magazine, May 1905

  Sleek, black-haired Bernouin, with his bright, observant eyes and his thin-lipped, circumspect mouth, stood at his window, gazing idly across the courtyard of the Palais Cardinal.

  The afternoon sun, falling athwart the quadrangle, whilst leaving his window in the shade, illumined the interior of Captain d’Attignac’s room opposite, and revealed to the eyes of Bernouin that worthy gentleman writing busily. Now, for all that the Cardinal’s valet was no spy, yet it had long been his habit — and who am I that I should cast a stone at it? — to observe all things that were to be observed. And so, since chance and the afternoon sun revealed to him the Captain of the Guard at a time when the Captain did not dream himself observed, Bernouin concluded that to neglect the opportunity would be unworthy of a man of sense. That Captain d’Attignac should write at all was in itself a fact to be remarked, but that when he had written he should take up his hat, and carefully conceal the letter he had penned in the lining, was a matter that struck Bernouin as curious. Then d’Attignac went to the door, opened it, and appeared to call; which done, he went back to his table and sat down again. A few seconds later his door was opened, and into his room stepped a soldier of the Guard, who saluted and stood hat in hand, awaiting. In this new-comer, Bernouin recognised a dull-witted clod from Béarn named Barseau.

  And now the Captain’s behaviour grew singular to a degree. He was not famed for affability, yet he waved the Guardsman to a chair; and when the fellow was seated he pointed with his pen to the table, saying something as he did so; and Barseau placed his hat there. Beside it stood a little bowl of goldfish. For some moments Attignac wrote assiduously, and Bernouin asked himself what little comedy he might be about. At last he stopped, and, without looking up, put out his hand for the sandbox; and so clumsy was he that in taking it up his elbow caught the glass bowl, and shot its contents into Barseau’s hat. In the hat, on the table, and on the floor itself Bernouin could see the flashing of the leaping, wriggling fish. Barseau was on his feet grabbing at and catching them, only to find himself empty-handed, again and again to grab and catch. In this manner one by one they were got back into the bowl, which Attignac had righted, and in which there was still some water left.

  The Captain appeared to be uttering endless regrets. Barseau was ruefully shaking his sodden castor, its beautiful red feather turned limp. Then Attignac rose to the occasion, and, snatching the dripping thing from from the fellow’s hand, he pressed upon him his own hat, which lay close by, and which Bernouin remembered had a letter in the lining. Barseau protested, but the Captain was inexorable in his generosity; and so, with Attignac’s hat on his head, and Attignac’s second letter in his pocket, Barseau presently quitted the Captain’s room.

  “Odd!” muttered Bernouin. “I wonder now — I wonder—” He paused, turned abruptly from the window, and as abruptly left his room; for Bernouin had a passion for unravelling mysteries; and here was one that gave fair promise of being interesting.

  He overtook Barseau almost at the Palace gates.

  “Hi, Barseau! Monsieur Barseau! A word with you.”

  The Guardsman turned, a sharp answer that he was in haste trembling on his lips. But when he saw who it was that called, he left the words unspoken, for in common with many another stout fellow he stood in awe of this lean, quiet man with the pale face and the keen eyes.

  “I was on my way to the Guardroom to inquire for you,” said the valet, who had learnt, in the Cardinal’s service, to lie with easy dignity. “Will you step into my room? I have something to say to you.”

  The tone, though free from menace, was of a vagueness that filled the poor Béarnais soldier with uneasiness. He muttered something touching his errand for Captain d’Attignac, but Bernouin peremptorily swept the objection aside; the message could wait a few moments. Indeed, he hinted that it might be necessary to find another messenger, whereat with tremblings of spirit, but never another word of protest, Barseau went with him. As they moved down the long, gloomy gallery, Bernouin made a sign to a couple of idling Guardsmen, who at once started to follow them. This Barseau observed, and his uneasiness grew apace. The valet ushered him into his room, and, closing the door, he left the two attendant Guardsmen without. Barseau uncovered his head, for Bernouin was not a person to be lightly treated, and stood waiting in an attitude of exceeding humility.

  “I am desolated to say, Monsieur Barseau,” the valet began, “that there is a very grave charge proferred against one of His Eminence’s Guards, whilst the evidence we have gathered points strongly to you.” The Guardsman started. “It is so grave a matter that I hardly dare disclose it to you yet; since, should I find you not to be the culprit, it will be as well that you should remain in ignorance of the affair.”

  “But, Monsieur Bernouin, unless I know with what I am charged, how can I defend myself? My conscience, I assure you, is clear, and makes me no reproaches.”

  “I am glad, sir. His Eminence has left me to sift the matter; and there is one simple method by which I can deal with you, and ascertain your innocence. Will you do me the favour to tell me where you were to be found at ten o’clock last night?”

  “At ten o’clock? I was at the Green Pillar Inn in the Rue St. Honoré.
”

  “Ah!” And Bernouin’s face took on a smile of encouragement. “Come, monsieur, that is good news! There were, no doubt, others with you who can prove this?”

  “But certainly, Monsieur Bernouin.”

  “Do me the favour to sit down at that table and write out the statement you have just made to me, and the names of those who were present — the names of, say, four or five of them.”

  Deeply puzzled, Barseau put his hat on a chair, and sat down to do Bernouin’s bidding. Whilst he wrote, the valet opened the door and bade the two Guardsmen enter. When Barseau had written, and before he had time to rise, “Messieurs,” said Bernouin to the two soldiers, “take Monsieur Barseau into that alcove, and wait there until I call you.” Then, turning to Barseau, “I shall lay this before His Eminence, and I hope within a few moments to inform you that you are cleared of all suspicion. Take him away, messieurs.”

  When the door of the alcove had closed upon them, Bernouin took up the hat from the chair, where it had been left, and, pulling down the lining, he set himself to seek the letter he had seen concealed there. He had need to look closely, for the paper which he ultimately found was so thin and small that it would certainly have escaped the notice of any man not acquainted with its existence.

  On this scrap of paper, which bore no superscription, Bernouin read:

  “Mazarin has been warned that at the masque at the Hôtel de Liancourt to-night the plotters will meet. He knows the password that will gain admittance to the chamber set aside for them, and it is his intention to attend. He will wear a green domino and a black mask. The occasion should be propitious.”

  Bernouin took a deep breath and sat still a moment. Mazarin had suspected that the Frondeur supporters of the Duke of Beaufort were meditating something to gain their champion’s enlargement from Vincennes; and it had not surprised him when he learned that the conspirators had arranged a meeting. In resolving to himself attend it, he had for object to ascertain who were the ringleaders, that he might draw their fangs. He had been far, however, from suspecting that his being made acquainted with that meeting was but the part of a deep-laid scheme for his own undoing, as this letter now made clear to Bernouin.