Bardelys the Magnificent

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER VIII. THE PORTRAIT

  Into the mind of every thoughtful man must come at times with bitternessthe reflection of how utterly we are at the mercy of Fate, the victimsof her every whim and caprice. We may set out with the loftiest, thesternest resolutions to steer our lives along a well-considered course,yet the slightest of fortuitous circumstances will suffice to force usinto a direction that we had no thought of taking.

  Now, had it pleased Monsieur de Marsac to have come to Lavedan at anyreasonable hour of the day, I should have been already upon the roadto Paris, intent to own defeat and pay my wager. A night of thought,besides strengthening my determination to follow such a course, hadbrought the reflection that I might thereafter return to Roxalanne, apoor man, it is true, but one at least whose intentions might not bemisconstrued.

  And so, when at last I sank into sleep, my mind was happier than it hadbeen for many days. Of Roxalanne's love I was assured, and it seemedthat I might win her, after all, once I removed the barrier of shamethat now deterred me. It may be that those thoughts kept me awakeuntil a late hour, and that to this I owe it that when on the morrow Iawakened the morning was well advanced. The sun was flooding my chamber,and at my bedside stood Anatole.

  "What's o'clock?" I inquired, sitting bolt upright.

  "Past ten," said he, with stern disapproval.

  "And you have let me sleep?" I cried.

  "We do little else at Lavedan even when we are awake," he grumbled."There was no reason why monsieur should rise." Then, holding out apaper, "Monsieur Stanislas de Marsac was here betimes this morning withMademoiselle his sister. He left this letter for you, monsieur."

  Amaze and apprehension were quickly followed by relief, since Anatole'swords suggested that Marsac had not remained. I took the letter,nevertheless, with some misgivings, and whilst I turned it over in myhands I questioned the old servant.

  "He stayed an hour at the chateau, monsieur," Anatole informed me."Monsieur le Vicomte would have had you roused, but he would not hear ofit. 'If what Monsieur de Saint-Eustache has told me touching your guestshould prove to be true,' said he, 'I would prefer not to meet him underyour roof, monsieur.' 'Monsieur de Saint-Eustache,' my master replied,'is not a person whose word should have weight with any man of honour.'But in spite of that, Monsieur de Marsac held to his resolve, andalthough he would offer no explanation in answer to my master's manyquestions, you were not aroused.

  "At the end of a half-hour his sister entered with Mademoiselle. Theyhad been walking together on the terrace, and Mademoiselle de Marsacappeared very angry. 'Affairs are exactly as Monsieur de Saint-Eustachehas represented them,' said she to her brother. At that he swore a mostvillainous oath, and called for writing materials. At the moment of hisdeparture he desired me to deliver this letter to you, and then rodeaway in a fury, and, seemingly, not on the best of terms with Monsieurle Vicomte."

  "And his sister?" I asked quickly.

  "She went with him. A fine pair, as I live!" he added, casting his eyesto the ceiling.

  At least I could breathe freely. They were gone, and whatever damagethey may have done to the character of poor Rene de Lesperon ere theydeparted, they were not there, at all events, to denounce me for animpostor. With a mental apology to the shade of the departed Lesperonfor all the discredit I was bringing down upon his name, I brokethe seal of that momentous epistle, which enclosed a length of somethirty-two inches of string.

  Monsieur [I read], wherever I may chance to meet you it shall be my dutyto kill you.

  A rich beginning, in all faith! If he could but maintain thatuncompromising dramatic flavour to the end, his epistle should be worththe trouble of deciphering, for he penned a vile scrawl of pothooks.

  It is because of this [the letter proceeded] that I have refrained fromcoming face to face with you this morning. The times are too troublousand the province is in too dangerous a condition to admit of an actthat might draw the eyes of the Keeper of the Seals upon Lavedan. Tomy respect, then, to Monsieur le Vicomte and to my own devotion to theCause we mutually serve do you owe it that you still live. I am on myway to Spain to seek shelter there from the King's vengeance.

  To save myself is a duty that I owe as much to myself as to the Cause.But there is another duty, one that I owe my sister, whom you have sooutrageously slighted, and this duty, by God's grace, I will performbefore I leave. Of your honour, monsieur, we will not speak, for reasonsinto which I need not enter, and I make no appeal to it. But if you havea spark of manhood left, if you are not an utter craven as well as aknave, I shall expect you on the day after tomorrow, at any hour beforenoon, at the Auberge de la Couronne at Grenade. There, monsieur, if youplease, we will adjust our differences. That you may come prepared, andso that no time need be wasted when we meet, I send you the length of mysword.

  Thus ended that angry, fire-breathing epistle. I refolded itthoughtfully, then, having taken my resolve, I leapt from the bed anddesired Anatole to assist me to dress.

  I found the Vicomte much exercised in mind as to the meaning of Marsac'sextraordinary behaviour, and I was relieved to see that he, at least,could conjecture no cause for it. In reply to the questions with whichhe very naturally assailed me, I assured him that it was no more thana matter of a misunderstanding; that Monsieur de Marsac had asked me tomeet him at Grenade in two days' time, and that I should then, no doubt,be able to make all clear.

  Meanwhile, I regretted the incident, since it necessitated my remainingand encroaching for two days longer upon the Vicomte's hospitality. Toall this, however, he made the reply that I expected, concludingwith the remark that for the present at least it would seem as ifthe Chevalier de Saint-Eustache had been satisfied with creating thistrouble betwixt myself and Marsac.

  From what Anatole had said, I had already concluded that Marsac hadexercised the greatest reticence. But the interview between his sisterand Roxalanne filled me with the gravest anxiety. Women are not wont topractise the restraint of men under such circumstances, and for all thatMademoiselle de Marsac may not have expressed it in so many words that Iwas her faithless lover, yet women are quick to detect and interpret thesigns of disorders springing from such causes, and I had every fear thatRoxalanne was come to the conclusion that I had lied to her yesternight.With an uneasy spirit, then, I went in quest of her, and I found herwalking in the old rose garden behind the chateau.

  She did not at first remark my approach, and I had leisure for somemoments to observe her and to note the sadness that dwelt in her profileand the listlessness of her movements. This, then, was my work--mine,and that of Monsieur de Chatellerault, and those other merry gentlemenwho had sat at my table in Paris nigh upon a month ago.

  I moved, and the gravel crunched under my foot, whereupon she turned,and, at sight of me advancing towards her, she started. The bloodmounted to her face, to ebb again upon the instant, leaving it palerthan it had been. She made as if to depart; then she appeared to checkherself, and stood immovable and outwardly calm, awaiting my approach.

  But her eyes were averted, and her bosom rose and fell too swiftly tolend colour to that mask of indifference she hurriedly put on. Yet, asI drew nigh, she was the first to speak, and the triviality of her wordscame as a shock to me, and for all my knowledge of woman's way caused meto doubt for a moment whether perhaps her calm were not real, after all.

  "You are a laggard this morning, Monsieur de Lesperon." And, with a halflaugh, she turned aside to break a rose from its stem.

  "True," I answered stupidly; "I slept over-late."

  "A thousand pities, since thus you missed seeing Mademoiselle de Marsac.Have they told you that she was here?"

  "Yes, mademoiselle. Stanislas de Marsac left a letter for me."

  "You will regret not having seen them, no doubt?" quoth she.

  I evaded the interrogative note in her voice. "That is their fault. Theyappear to have preferred to avoid me."

  "Is it matter for wonder?" she flashed, with a sudden gleam of furywhich she as suddenly contr
olled. With the old indifference, she added,"You do not seem perturbed, monsieur?"

  "On the contrary, mademoiselle; I am very deeply perturbed."

  "At not having seen your betrothed?" she asked, and now for the firsttime her eyes were raised, and they met mine with a look that was astab.

  "Mademoiselle, I had the honour of telling you yesterday that I hadplighted my troth to no living woman."

  At that reminder of yesterday she winced, and I was sorry that I haduttered it, for it must have set the wound in her pride a-bleedingagain. Yesterday I had as much as told her that I loved her, andyesterday she had as much as answered me that she loved me, foryesterday I had sworn that Saint-Eustache's story of my betrothal wasa lie. To-day she had had assurance of the truth from the very woman towhom Lesperon's faith was plighted, and I could imagine something of hershame.

  "Yesterday, monsieur," she answered contemptuously, "you lied in manythings."

  "Nay, I spoke the truth in all. Oh, God in heaven, mademoiselle," Iexclaimed in sudden passion, "will you not believe me? Will you notaccept my word for what I say, and have a little patience until I shallhave discharged such obligations as will permit me to explain?"

  "Explain?" quoth she, with withering disdain.

  "There is a hideous misunderstanding in all this. I am the victim of amiserable chain of circumstances. Oh, I can say no more! These MarsacsI shall easily pacify. I am to meet Monsieur de Marsac at Grenade onthe day after to-morrow. In my pocket I have a letter from this livingsword-blade, in which he tells me that he will give himself the pleasureof killing me then. Yet--"

  "I hope he does, monsieur!" she cut in, with a fierceness before whichI fell dumb and left my sentence unfinished. "I shall pray God that hemay!" she added. "You deserve it as no man deserved it yet!"

  For a moment I stood stricken, indeed, by her words. Then, my reasongrasping the motive of that fierceness, a sudden joy pervaded me. It wasa fierceness breathing that hatred that is a part of love, than which,it is true, no hatred can be more deadly. And yet so eloquently did ittell me of those very feelings which she sought jealously to conceal,that, moved by a sudden impulse, I stepped close up to her.

  "Roxalanne," I said fervently, "you do not hope for it. What would yourlife be if I were dead? Child, child, you love me even as I love you."I caught her suddenly to me with infinite tenderness, with reverencealmost. "Can you lend no ear to the voice of this love? Can you not havefaith in me a little? Can you not think that if I were quite as unworthyas you make-believe to your very self, this love could have no place?"

  "It has no place!" she cried. "You lie--as in all things else. I do notlove you. I hate you. Dieu! How I hate you!"

  She had lain in my arms until then, with upturned face and piteous,frightened eyes--like a bird that feels itself within the toils of asnake, yet whose horror is blent with a certain fascination. Now, as shespoke, her will seemed to reassert itself, and she struggled to breakfrom me. But as her fierceness of hatred grew, so did my fierceness ofresolve gain strength, and I held her tightly.

  "Why do you hate me?" I asked steadily. "Ask yourself, Roxalanne, andtell me what answer your heart makes. Does it not answer that indeed youdo not hate me--that you love me?"

  "Oh, God, to be so insulted!" she cried out. "Will you not release me,miserable? Must I call for help? Oh, you shall suffer for this! As thereis a Heaven, you shall be punished!"

  But in my passion I held her, despite entreaties, threats, andstruggles. I was brutal, if you will. Yet think of what was in my soulat being so misjudged, at finding myself in this position, and dealnot over harshly with me. The courage to confess which I had lacked fordays, came to me then. I must tell her. Let the result be what it might,it could not be worse than this, and this I could endure no longer.

  "Listen, Roxalanne!"

  "I will not listen! Enough of insults have I heard already. Let me go!"

  "Nay, but you shall hear me. I am not Rene de Lesperon. Had theseMarsacs been less impetuous and foolish, had they waited to have seen methis morning, they would have told you so."

  She paused for a second in her struggles to regard me. Then, with asudden contemptuous laugh, she renewed her efforts more vigorously thanbefore.

  "What fresh lies do you offer me? Release me, I will hear no more!"

  "As Heaven is my witness, I have told you the truth. I know how wilda sound it has, and that is partly why I did not tell you earlier.But your disdain I cannot suffer. That you should deem me a liar inprofessing to love you--"

  Her struggles were grown so frantic that I was forced to relax my grip.But this I did with a suddenness that threw her out of balance, and shewas in danger of falling backwards. To save herself, she caught at mydoublet, which was torn open under the strain.

  We stood some few feet apart, and, white and palpitating in her anger,she confronted me. Her eyes lashed me with their scorn, but under mysteady, unflinching gaze they fell at last. When next she raised themthere was a smile of quiet but unutterable contempt upon her lips.

  "Will you swear," said she, "that you are not Rene de Lesperon? ThatMademoiselle de Marsac is not your betrothed?"

  "Yes--by my every hope of Heaven!" I cried passionately.

  She continued to survey me with that quiet smile of mocking scorn.

  "I have heard it said," quoth she, "that the greatest liars are everthose that are readiest to take oath." Then, with a sudden gasp ofloathing, "I think you have dropped something, monsieur," said she,pointing to the ground. And without waiting for more, she swung roundand left me.

  Face upwards at my feet lay the miniature that poor Lesperon hadentrusted to me in his dying moments. It had dropped from my doublet inthe struggle, and I never doubted now but that the picture it containedwas that of Mademoiselle de Marsac.