“M. de Bret,” said he, “I am sorely disappointed in you. What have you to say?”
“That your eminence has been misinformed,” I answered stoutly.
He perked his head on one side, and studied me attentively through eyes that wore a sleepy look — an infallible sign that he was wide awake.
“Do you mean that you did not kill M. de Navéry?” he inquired slowly.
“I did not, monseigneur.”
Richelieu turned to Molina, and the words he spoke made my heart bound within me.
“I know M. de Bret for a man of honor,” he said quietly. “In the face of your accusation, I looked for an excuse from him for having broken the edict, but never for a denial such as you have heard.”
A deprecatory smile, full of significance and venom, swept over the foreigner’s swart countenance.
“However,” continued the cardinal, “let us hear what M. de Bret may have to say. Perchance it would puzzle him to explain satisfactorily how he came to be found in so compromising a position by the guard.”
Briefly I told him what I have set down here concerning it, suppressing, however, the facts that a dagger had been employed, and that in the man who returned with the guard I had recognized the perpetrator of the deed. I also omitted, for reasons of my own, Navéry’s dying message.
When I had done, the cardinal, whose eyes had been riveted on my face while I spoke, turned again to Molina.
“Are you certain that it was M. de Bret whom you saw?” he inquired with marked coldness.
“Por Dios y la Virgen!” cried the Spaniard, forgetting in whose presence he stood. “Have I not said so? Think you I should accuse a man unless I were positive? Moreover, since my word appears to be insufficient, was not his sword found drawn?”
“True,” mused the cardinal, looking at me again. “Still, M. de Bret has explained that he drew it to rush to the assistance of M. de Navéry.”
“Has your eminence forgotten that there is blood upon his sword?” exclaimed Molina with a sneer.
The cardinal frowned, perchance at the Spaniard’s tone, perchance at the fresh piece of evidence.
“There is more upon my sword than you will relish, monsieur l’étranger!” I cried hotly, whereat his eminence looked pleased, and the foreigner changed color slightly, for he could not tell how much I knew of the encounter. “I dropped my sword,” I continued, “when I raised Navéry from the ground, and the blood that flowed from his wound must have stained it where it lay; but we are wasting words. Since my sword has been mentioned as evidence, let it be produced. At my request Captain Quéniart has brought it with him. He waits now in the antechamber. If your eminence will order it to be brought in, I imagine it will tell us something that will surprise M. de Molina.”
The cardinal raised his eyebrows, and glanced from one to the other of us. Then, without a word, he touched a small hand bell.
“Call Captain Quéniart,” he said to the lackey who answered the summons.
A moment later the burly soldier appeared.
“Now, monseigneur,” I said, taking the weapon, which, at a sign from the cardinal, Quéniart surrendered to me. “Your eminence has wielded a rapier yourself, if fame speaks truly, and you are well acquainted with the points and the virtues of the weapon.”
He smiled, evidently pleased by the memories I had aroused in his priestly heart.
“It was my good fortune,” I went on, “to take this sword to an armorer’s a week ago, so that a new blade might be fitted to it. Will your eminence be good enough to look closely at the edge, and see what it has to say concerning last night’s doings?”
I drew the sword as I spoke, and I now presented the hilt to Richelieu. He took it from me with a puzzled air, while Molina and Quéniart, actuated by different feelings, went nearer than deference ordained.
Richelieu looked at the blade. Then, with a slight exclamation, he rose and walked over to the window.
The sun shone through the leaded panes and fell upon the steel, which glittered brightly save here and there where a shiny patch of reddish brown had deadened its lustre. For some moments he examined it attentively; then, turning, he bent his dark, penetrating eye upon the Spaniard.
“You have been overzealous in the cause of justice, M. de Molina,” he said coldly. “This sword has not been used since the new blade was fitted to it.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet Molina could not have been more taken aback. He turned pale to the lips and darted a furious glance at the cardinal. There was a moment’s silence; then Richelieu spoke.
“M. de Bret, you are released,” he said. “Quéniart, we must look elsewhere for the culprit; you may go. M. de Molina, you also may retire.”
“Might I suggest that M. de Molina should submit his rapier to a like examination?” I ventured to inquire.
The Spaniard drew himself up stiffly.
“We do not carry swords for ornament in Spain,” he answered proudly, “as I shall be happy to prove to you if you have reason to doubt the fact.” Then, before I had time to reply: “There may be dents upon the edge. Does your eminence desire to see them?”
“It would be useless,” the cardinal answered carelessly. “You may go.”
IV
WHEN we were alone, I gave the cardinal the fullest details of what I knew.
“I half suspected it was thus,” he said, when I had finished. “And he used a dagger, you say? The dastard! But what am I to do? He has killed Navéry — that I am assured. He may be plotting against my life-that also I do not doubt; but what proofs can I offer the court of Spain? He is a spy of the queen’s, and that makes it more dangerous still. I would consign him to the wheel if I dared, but?”
He paused, frowned, and lapsed into thought.
“If, peradventure, M. de Molina were to involve himself one of these evenings in a brawl, and receive a thrust in the windpipe or in low quarte, methinks your eminence’s riddle would be well solved, and Raoul de Navéry most fitly avenged.”
“True,” he mused. “’Twould be a great blessing.”
“But an unlikely one, while the edict is so strictly observed.”
His glittering eye rested upon me for a moment. Then he laughed.
“I understand,” he said. “Well, if you know of any one inclined to avenge Navéry, and to save me from poisoning, the edict shall be forgotten for once.”
I thanked him, and told him I thought I knew of such a man; whereupon he dismissed me with his blessing.
“You are a tolerable swordsman, I know,” he said, as I took up my hat, “and I have every confidence in your skill; but what if he should use a dagger again?”
“I trust he will, monseigneur,” I answered. “I am reckoning upon it.”
From the Hôtel Richelieu I wended my way toward the house of my late friend, Raoul de Navéry. Renée welcomed me with a glad cry, and with a smile that lighted up the sorrowful darkness of her countenance. I did but remain until I had told her what had taken place, and what was likely to follow. Then, leaving her, I went to dine, grim memories haunting me of my last repast.
To take Molina at his word, and ask him to prove to me that they did not carry swords for ornament in Spain, would have meant a duel — a duel with seconds, wherein he would have been compelled to follow the rules of honorable play. That I could have killed him under such circumstances I did not for a moment doubt; but it would be too easy an end for him. To let him feel himself mastered, to compel him to have recourse to that assassin’s trick of his, and then, when he imagined himself triumphant, to beat him with his own cards — that would be something like revenge; and for that a brawl was needed.
Toward nightfall, therefore, I repaired to the Green Pillar, in the Rue St. Honoré, which I knew he frequented. The gods were with me, for I found him there at play with half a dozen others.
I seated myself apart, unnoticed, and awaited an opportunity.
Presently it came.
“Come, host, another bottle
of Armagnac! Let it be of the best, rascal, for we will drink to Don Rafael de Molina’s safe journey home!”
This was news that caused me no great astonishment.
“Does M. de Molina contemplate leaving Paris?” I inquired, turning toward the party. “I am not surprised, for such an interview as he had this morning with the cardinal is apt to make one’s liver pale. I am glad to learn it in time, however. I should have been deeply grieved had he left us without learning the opinion which I have had an opportunity of forming of this worthy gentleman, and which I imagine will be shared by all honorable men when the truth is known.”
I had risen and stood facing the Spaniard, giving him back scowl for scowl.
“You mean — ?” he inquired in a voice of suppressed wrath.
“That you are a liar and a murderer, monsieur l’Éspagnol.” I answered coolly, “and that Raoul de Navéry met his death at your hands.”
A charming scene of confusion followed, as with a vigorous “Madre de Dios!” the Spaniard kicked aside his chair.
“Outside, monsieur!” I shouted, pointing to the door, and making myself heard above the din. “Sortons!”
Then, with many an oath and angry word, we burst through the door >pêle-mêle into the courtyard beyond. We fought as we stood, in hats and cloaks. There were no formalities. Molina was in too great a hurry, and I guessed his reason.
For a good five minutes I played the fellow in the uncertain light of a couple of lanterns, and showed him that I was his master, yet forebore to press him too hard; but waited, with my eyes keeping good watch over his left hand.
At last it came. The onlookers stood ranged against the wall to the right. Away from these Molina led me, retreating under my attack, and I following as if his designs were unknown to me. At last the other side of the quadrangle was reached, and in the shadow that enveloped us he thought himself safe from detection.
His left hand dropped as on the previous night. I saw not the glitter I looked for, and yet I knew that he had drawn his dagger; but there were many eyes upon him, and even in the darkness a lack of caution might betray his foul play. He must be wary, lest they should interrupt the fight in the very moment of his victory. Possibly he did not care whether he was discovered or not, if only he had time to kill me before the interruption came.
I pressed him hard, and while I did so I loosened the fastenings of my cloak with my other hand, as if I desired to cast the garment from me. Then I feinted, and lunged under his guard. My sword was within an inch of his breast when his poniard met it and sent it past him. Simultaneously he offered me his point, a triumphant leer upon his face.
But he had reckoned without my knowledge of his ways. I had dragged the loosened cloak from my back, and held it on my arm. With a sweep of it I dashed his blade aside.
I saw the look of terror come into his upturned face. I heard the cry of horror that burst from the onlookers. Before they could interfere, however, Don Rafael de Molina lay writhing in the throes of death.
So cautious had he been that not one of those who stood there so much as suspected his foul play. When they saw him fall beneath my murderous stroke, a dozen swords leaped from their scabbards, and with angry cries of “Shame!” and “Murder!” they flung themselves upon me.
When I shouted to them to look at his left hand, however, they paused to do my bidding; and when they saw the dagger which was grasped by the nerveless fingers of the dead, they sheathed their swords and hushed their angry cries. When I told them that ’twas thus that Molina had killed Raoul de Navéry, there were some among them who spat upon the corpse.
Half an hour later I stood sword-less, and under arrest, in Quéniart’s guardroom, awaiting the custodian. When the captain entered and beheld me, he rubbed his eyes and spluttered out an oath.
“What, again?” he ejaculated. “>Ventre St. Gris, M. de Bret, but you are like to hang this time, whether the edge of your sword be battered or not!”
Nevertheless, it came not to pass as he predicted, for the next day I was liberated, and I knelt at the requiem mass for Raoul de Navéry.
I did not deem it a propitious time for the advancement of my suit, so I determined to accompany the court to Blois next day, and leave my wooing until I should return, when, perchance, Renée’s grief might have abated.
I paid her a visit that evening. She received me kindly, and overwhelmed me with words of praise and gratitude, until I felt myself as great a historical personage as Bayard or Bertrand du Guesclin; but when I came to say farewell she looked surprised.
“You are going to Blois?” she said.
“Yes, mademoiselle. I accompany the court.”
“You craved my permission three days ago,” she murmured, studying the pattern of the carpet with great intentness, “and I cannot remember granting it.”
My heart beat fast and furiously.
“Will you grant it now?” I inquired.
“No, monsieur,” she said, lifting her eyes to mine, “I will not. I cannot spare you.”
THE END
THE PRETENDER
I WAS glad enough, in all faith, to call a halt at the inn at Rosthwaite in obedience to the importunities of my men. Peter and Andrew, who had borne with me the burden of the day at the horse-fair at Keswick.
It was approaching sunset when we gained the little hamlet, and there was, still a good hour’s ride home before us, so it behooved us not to tarry overlong. Just time to wash the dust from our throats and give our legs an easing-space, from the saddle-stiffness that was besetting us.
Half-reclining on the cushioned window-seat of the empty inn parlor, I called to Blossom for a draught of October. A garrulous old soul was this vintner; who suspected me — as for that matter did the whole countryside — of an imprudent attachment to the cause of Prince Charlie, and it was of that lost cause and the prince’s alleged wanderings in the heather that he was discoursing to me when the advent of a stranger set a sudden bridle on his foolish tongue.
The newcomer was a tall, fair young man, wrapped about in a cloak and wearing a three-cornered hat so far forward upon his brow that it masked the upper portion of his face. He bore himself with an easy, graceful carriage rarely seen in our country parts, and through the dust that overlaid him one perceived his garments to be of a quiet elegance suggesting the South as his origin.
He paused at sight of me, and for a moment seemed to hesitate. Then, having paid me the honor of a close scrutiny, to my surprise he suddenly advanced upon me with a glad eagerness. He thrust back the hat from his brow, and the youthful face which he now disclosed — a pale, oval countenance, with full lips, prominent eyes and a flaxen tie-wig — was elusively familiar. He halted before me, leaning slightly toward me across the deal table, whilst I looked up and waited for him to speak. A moment or two he stood as if expecting some movement from me. Seeing that none came, his level brows were slightly knit, and a look of hesitation that amounted almost to alarm flitted across his face.
“Surely, surely, sir,” said he, at length, and his voice was fresh and pleasant and softened by a slightly foreign enunciation, “surely I have the advantage to address Sir Jasper Morford?”
I smiled agreeably — his air and manner all compelled the friendliness — as I corrected his impression. “My name, sir, is Dayne — Richard Dayne of Coldbarrow.” And again moved by the gallantry of his air, I added courteously, “your servant, sir.”
He continued to stare at me, between astonishment and unbelief. “Why, surely—” began; then halted, and—”’Tis very odd,” he muttered. “I see I am mistook. Your pardon, sir.” And he dropped me a congé, all very brave and courtly.
“What is no less odd,” I said, “is that not only should you have mistook me for one of your acquaintances, but that there is about yourself a something with which I seem acquainted.”
He drew back sharply, and again alarm peeped at me from his eyes. Then, recovering: “’Tis very odd, as ye say,” he answered, and now there was a note of
coldness in his voice, an imperious note, that seemed to forbid the pursuance of my curiosity. “Again I crave your pardon, sir.” He turned away, and crossing the room to the table remotest from me, called the landlord to supply his needs.
I sipped my ale and mused, my eyes upon his graceful back, until presently my attention was caught by a shadow that fell athwart my table. Idly I turned to seek the cause. For just one instant I had a glimpse of a face — blotched, villainous and unclean — pressed against the leaded window-pane, and of two red-rimmed eyes, evil and intent. The next moment, in a flash, even as I turned, the apparition vanished.
* * *
THAT a man should peer into an inn parlor was no great matter for astonishment; but that the man should be at such pains himself to avoid being seen was a circumstance sufficiently suspicious. Instantly the thought occurred to me that the ruffian’s business might be with my young gallant across the room.
I resolved to watch, in the hope of learning more, of making sure; and to this end I set my pewter a little to the left, where the whole of the window was reflected on its polished surface. And now I sat on and smoked, my eye upon that reflection. Nor had I long to wait. Presently the face reappeared slowly and cautiously, and for all that it was too diminished and distorted by the pewter’s surface to enable me to gather anything of its detail or expression, yet it was enough to inform me that the watcher had returned. I rose with leisurely nonchalance, and without turning, took up my measure and sauntered across the room to the young stranger.
“Ye’ll forgive the liberty,” said I, “but are ye like to be worth watching? Have ye cause to fear being watched, I mean?”
From the start and the expression of his eyes, ’twas very clear he had.
“I beg that ye’ll not move. There is at this moment the most rascally face in Cumberland pressed against the window-pane.”
His uneasiness grew so that my every suspicion was confirmed. Not a doubt but that here was some poor fugitive Jacobite with, as like as not, a price upon his handsome head.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 558