Bardelys the Magnificent

by Rafael Sabatini

  CHAPTER XXI. LOUIS THE JUST

  "For me," said the King, "these depositions were not necessary. Yourword, my dear Marcel, would have sufficed. For the courts, however,perhaps it is well that you have had them taken; moreover, they forma valuable corroboration of the treason which you lay to the charge ofMonsieur de Saint-Eustache."

  We were standing--at least, La Fosse and I were standing, Louis XIIIsat--in a room, of the Palace of Toulouse, where I had had the honour ofbeing brought before His Majesty. La Fosse was there, because it wouldseem that the King had grown fond of him, and could not be without himsince his coming to Toulouse.

  His Majesty was, as usual, so dull and weary--not even roused by theapproaching trial of Montmorency, which was the main business that hadbrought him South that even the company of this vapid, shallow, butirrepressibly good-humoured La Fosse, with his everlasting mythology,proved a thing desirable.

  "I will see," said Louis, "that your friend the Chevalier is placedunder arrest at once, and as much for his attempt upon your life as forthe unstable quality of his political opinions, the law shall dealwith him--conclusively." He sighed. "It always pains me to proceed toextremes against a man of his stamp. To deprive a fool of his head seemsa work of supererogation."

  I inclined my head, and smiled at his pleasantry. Louis the just rarelypermitted himself to jest, and when he did his humour was as like untohumour as water is like unto wine. Still, when a monarch jests, if youare wise, if you have a favour to sue, or a position at Court to seek orto maintain, you smile, for all that the ineptitude of his witless witbe rather provocative of sorrow.

  "Nature needs meddling with at times," hazarded La Fosse, from behindHis Majesty's chair. "This Saint-Eustache is a sort of Pandora's box,which it is well to close ere--"

  "Go to the devil," said the King shortly. "We are not jesting. We haveto do justice."

  "Ah! Justice," murmured La Fosse; "I have seen pictures of the lady.She covers her eyes with a bandage, but is less discreet where the otherbeauties of her figure are in question."

  His Majesty blushed. He was above all things a chaste-minded man, modestas a nun. To the immodesty rampant about him he was in the habit ofclosing his eyes and his ears, until the flagrancy or the noise of itgrew to proportions to which he might remain neither blind nor deaf.

  "Monsieur de la Fosse," said he in an austere voice, "you weary me, andwhen people weary me I send them away--which is one of the reasons whyI am usually so much alone. I beg that you will glance at thathunting-book, so that when I have done with Monsieur de Bardelys you maygive me your impressions of it."

  La Fosse fell back, obedient but unabashed, and, moving to a table bythe window, he opened the book Louis had pointed out.

  "Now, Marcel, while that buffoon prepares to inform me that the book hasbeen inspired by Diana herself, tell me what else you have to tell."

  "Naught else, Sire."

  "How naught? What of this Vicomte de Lavedan."

  "Surely Your Majesty is satisfied that there is no charge--no heedfulcharge against him?"

  "Aye, but there is a charge--a very heedful one. And so far you haveafforded me no proofs of his innocence to warrant my sanctioning hisenlargement."

  "I had thought, Sire, that it would be unnecessary to advance proofs ofhis innocence until there were proofs of his guilt to be refuted. Itis unusual, Your Majesty, to apprehend a gentleman so that he may showcause why he did not deserve such apprehension. The more usual courseis to arrest him because there are proofs of his guilt to be preferredagainst him."

  Louis combed his beard pensively, and his melancholy eyes grewthoughtful.

  "A nice point, Marcel," said he, and he yawned. "A nice point. Youshould have been a lawyer." Then, with an abrupt change of manner, "Doyou give me your word of honour that he is innocent?" he asked sharply.

  "If Your Majesty's judges offer proof of his guilt, I give you my wordthat I will tear that proof to pieces."

  "That is not an answer. Do you swear his innocence?"

  "Do I know what he carries in his conscience?" quoth I still fencingwith the question. "How can I give my word in such a matter? Ah, Sire,it is not for nothing that they call you Louis the Just," I pursued,adopting cajolery and presenting him with his own favourite phrase. "Youwill never allow a man against whom there is no shred of evidence to beconfined in prison."

  "Is there not?" he questioned. Yet his tone grew gentler. History, hehad promised himself, should know him as Louis the Just, and he woulddo naught that might jeopardize his claim to that proud title. "There isthe evidence of this Saint-Eustache!"

  "Would Your Majesty hang a dog upon the word of that double traitor?"

  "Hum! You are a great advocate, Marcel. You avoid answering questions;you turn questions aside by counter-questions." He seemed to be talkingmore to himself than tome. "You are a much better advocate thanthe Vicomte's wife, for instance. She answers questions and has atemper--Ciel! what a temper!"

  "You have seen the Vicomtesse?" I exclaimed, and I grew cold withapprehension, knowing as I did the licence of that woman's tongue.

  "Seen her?" he echoed whimsically. "I have seen her, heard her,well-nigh felt her. The air of this room is still disturbed as aconsequence of her presence. She was here an hour ago."

  "And it seemed," lisped La Fosse, turning from his hunting-book, "as ifthe three daughters of Acheron had quitted the domain of Pluto to takeembodiment in a single woman."

  "I would not have seen her," the King resumed as though La Fosse had notspoken, "but she would not be denied. I heard her voice blaspheming inthe antechamber when I refused to receive her; there was a commotion atmy door; it was dashed open, and the Swiss who held it was hurledinto my room here as though he had been a mannikin. Dieu! Since I havereigned in France I have not been the centre of so much commotion. Sheis a strong woman, Marcel the saints defend you hereafter, when sheshall come to be your mother-in-law. In all France, I'll swear, hertongue is the only stouter thing than her arm. But she's a fool."

  "What did she say, Sire?" I asked in my anxiety.

  "Say? She swore--Ciel! how she did swear! Not a saint in the calendarwould she let rest in peace; she dragged them all by turns from theirchapter-rolls to bear witness to the truth of what she said."

  "That was--"

  "That her husband was the foulest traitor out of hell. But that he was afool with no wit of his own to make him accountable for what he did, andthat out of folly he had gone astray. Upon those grounds she besoughtme to forgive him and let him go. When I told her that he must stand histrial, and that I could offer her but little hope of his acquittal,she told me things about myself, which in my conceit, and thanks to youflatterers who have surrounded me, I had never dreamed.

  "She told me I was ugly, sour-faced, and malformed; that I waspriest-ridden and a fool; unlike my brother, who, she assured me, is amirror of chivalry and manly perfections. She promised me that Heavenshould never receive my soul, though I told my beads from now tillDoomsday, and she prophesied for me a welcome among the damned when mytime comes. What more she might have foretold I cannot say. She weariedme at last, for all her novelty, and I dismissed her--that is to say,"he amended, "I ordered four musketeers to carry her out. God pity you,Marcel, when you become her daughter's husband!"

  But I had no heart to enter into his jocularity. This woman with herungovernable passion and her rash tongue had destroyed everything.

  "I see no likelihood of being her daughter's husband," I answeredmournfully.

  The King looked up, and laughed. "Down on your knees, then," said he,"and render thanks to Heaven."

  But I shook my head very soberly. "To Your Majesty it is a pleasingcomedy," said I, "but to me, helas! it is nearer far to tragedy."

  "Come, Marcel," said he, "may I not laugh a little? One grows so sadwith being King of France! Tell me what vexes you."

  "Mademoiselle de Lavedan has promised that she will marry me only whenI have saved her father from the scaffold. I came to do
it, very full ofhope, Sire. But his wife has forestalled me and, seemingly, doomed himirrevocably."

  His glance fell; his countenance resumed its habitual gloom. Then helooked up again, and in the melancholy depths of his eyes I saw a gleamof something that was very like affection.

  "You know that I love you, Marcel," he said gently. "Were you my own sonI could not love you more. You are a profligate, dissolute knave, andyour scandals have rung in my ears more than once; yet you are differentfrom these other fools, and at least you have never wearied me. To havedone that is to have done something. I would not lose you, Marcel; aslose you I shall if you marry this rose of Languedoc, for I take itthat she is too sweet a flower to let wither in the stale atmosphereof Courts. This man, this Vicomte de Lavedan, has earned his death. Whyshould I not let him die, since if he dies you will not wed?"

  "Do you ask me why, Sire?" said I. "Because they call you Louis theJust, and because no king was ever more deserving of the title."

  He winced; he pursed his lips, and shot a glance at La Fosse, who wasdeep in the mysteries of his volume. Then he drew towards him a sheet ofpaper, and, taking a quill, he sat toying with it.

  "Because they call me the Just, I must let justice take its course," heanswered presently.

  "But," I objected, with a sudden hope, "the course of justice cannotlead to the headsman in the case of the Vicomte de Lavedan."

  "Why not?" And his solemn eyes met mine across the table.

  "Because he took no active part in the revolt. If he was a traitor, hewas no more than a traitor at heart, and until a man commits a crimein deed he is not amenable to the law's rigour. His wife has made hisdefection clear; but it were unfair to punish him in the same measure asyou punish those who bore arms against you, Sire."

  "Ah!" he pondered. "Well? What more?"

  "Is that not enough, Sire?" I cried. My heart beat quickly, and mypulses throbbed with the suspense of that portentous moment.

  He bent his head, dipped his pen and began to write.

  "What punishment would you have me mete out to him?" he asked as hewrote. "Come, Marcel, deal fairly with me, and deal fairly with him--foras you deal with him, so shall I deal with you through him."

  I felt myself paling in my excitement. "There is banishment, Sire--itis usual in cases of treason that are not sufficiently flagrant to bepunished by death."

  "Yes!" He wrote busily. "Banishment for how long, Marcel? For hislifetime?"

  "Nay, Sire. That were too long."

  "For my lifetime, then?"

  "Again that were too long."

  He raised his eyes and smiled. "Ah! You turn prophet? Well, for howlong, then? Come, man."

  "I should think five years--"

  "Five years be it. Say no more."

  He wrote on for a few moments; then he raised the sandbox and sprinkledthe document.

  "Tiens!" he cried, as he dusted it and held it out to me. "There is mywarrant for the disposal of Monsieur le Vicomte Leon de Lavedan. He isto go into banishment for five years, but his estates shall suffer nosequestration, and at the end of that period he may return and enjoythem--we hope with better loyalty than in the past. Get them to executethat warrant at once, and see that the Vicomte starts to-day underescort for Spain. It will also be your warrant to Mademoiselle deLavedan, and will afford proof to her that your mission has beensuccessful."

  "Sire!" I cried. And in my gratitude I could say no more, but I sank onmy knee before him and raised his hand to my lips.

  "There," said he in a fatherly voice. "Go now, and be happy."

  As I rose, he suddenly put up his hand.

  "Ma foi, I had all but forgotten, so much has Monsieur de Lavedan's fatepreoccupied us." He picked up another paper from his table, and tossedit to me. It was my note of hand to Chatellerault for my Picardyestates.

  "Chatellerault died this morning," the King pursued. "He had been askingto see you, but when he was told that you had left Toulouse, he dictateda long confession of his misdeeds, which he sent to me together withthis note of yours. He could not, he wrote, permit his heirs to enjoyyour estates; he had not won them; he had really forfeited his ownstakes, since he had broken the rules of play. He has left me to deliverjudgment in the matter of his own lands passing into your possession.What do you say to it, Marcel?"

  It was almost with reluctance that I took up that scrap of paper. It hadbeen so fine and heroic a thing to have cast my wealth to the winds ofheaven for love's sake, that on my soul I was loath to see myself masterof more than Beaugency. Then a compromise suggested itself.

  "The wager, Sire," said I, "is one that I take shame in having enteredupon; that shame made me eager to pay it, although fully conscious thatI had not lost. But even now, I cannot, in any case, accept the forfeitChatellerault was willing to suffer. Shall we--shall we forget that thewager was ever laid?"

  "The decision does you honour. It was what I had hoped from you. Go now,Marcel. I doubt me you are eager. When your love-sickness wanes a littlewe shall hope to see you at Court again."

  I sighed. "Helas, Sire, that would be never."

  "So you said once before, monsieur. It is a foolish spirit upon whichto enter into matrimony; yet--like many follies--a fine one. Adieu,Marcel!"

  "Adieu, Sire!"

  I had kissed his hands; I had poured forth my thanks; I had reached thedoor already, and he was in the act of turning to La Fosse, when it cameinto my head to glance at the warrant he had given me. He noticed thisand my sudden halt.

  "Is aught amiss?" he asked.

  "You-you have omitted something, Sire," I ventured, and I returnedto the table. "I am already so grateful that I hesitate to ask anadditional favour. Yet it is but troubling you to add a few strokes ofthe pen, and it will not materially affect the sentence itself."

  He glanced at me, and his brows drew together as he sought to guess mymeaning.

  "Well, man, what is it?" he demanded impatiently.

  "It has occurred to me that this poor Vicomte, in a strange land, alone,among strange faces, missing the loved ones that for so many years hehas seen daily by his side, will be pitiably lonely."

  The King's glance was lifted suddenly to my face. "Must I then banishhis family as well?"

  "All of it will not be necessary, Your Majesty."

  For once his eyes lost their melancholy, and as hearty a burst oflaughter as ever I heard from that poor, weary gentleman he vented then.

  "Ciel! what a jester you are! Ah, but I shall miss you!" he cried, as,seizing the pen, he added the word I craved of him.

  "Are you content at last?" he asked, returning the paper to me.

  I glanced at it. The warrant now stipulated that Madame la Vicomtesse deLavedan should bear her husband company in his exile.

  "Sire, you are too good!" I murmured.

  "Tell the officer to whom you entrust the execution of this warrantthat he will find the lady in the guardroom below, where she is beingdetained, pending my pleasure. Did she but know that it was yourpleasure she has been waiting upon, I should tremble for your futurewhen the five years expire."

  CHAPTER XXII. WE UNSADDLE

  Mademoiselle held the royal warrant of her father's banishment in herhand. She was pale, and her greeting of me had been timid. I stoodbefore her, and by the door stood Rodenard, whom I had bidden attend me.

  As I had approached Lavedan that day, I had been taken with a great, anoverwhelming shame at the bargain I had driven. I had pondered, and ithad come to me that she had been right to suggest that in matters oflove what is not freely given it is not worth while to take. And out ofmy shame and that conclusion had sprung a new resolve. So that nothingmight weaken it, and lest, after all, the sight of Roxalanne shouldbring me so to desire her that I might be tempted to override mypurpose, I had deemed it well to have the restraint of a witness at ourlast interview. To this end had I bidden Ganymede follow me into thevery salon.

  She read the document to the very end, then her glance was raisedtimidly again to mine, and
from me it shifted to Ganymede, stiff at hispost by the door.

  "This was the best that you could do, monsieur?" she asked at last.

  "The very best, mademoiselle," I answered calmly. "I do not wish tomagnify my service, but it was that or the scaffold. Madame your motherhad, unfortunately, seen the King before me, and she had prejudiced yourfather's case by admitting him to be a traitor. There was a momentwhen in view of that I was almost led to despair. I am glad, however,mademoiselle, that I was so fortunate as to persuade the King to just somuch clemency."

  "And for five years, then, I shall not see my parents." She sighed, andher distress was very touching.

  "That need not be. Though they may not come to France, it still remainspossible for you to visit them in Spain."

  "True," she mused; "that will be something--will it not?"

  "Assuredly something; under the circumstances, much."

  She sighed again, and for a moment there was silence.

  "Will you not sit, monsieur?" said she at last. She was very quietto-day, this little maid--very quiet and very wondrously subdued.

  "There is scarce the need," I answered softly; whereupon her eyes wereraised to ask a hundred questions. "You are satisfied with my efforts,mademoiselle?" I inquired.

  "Yes, I am satisfied, monsieur."

  That was the end, I told myself, and involuntarily I also sighed. Still,I made no shift to go.

  "You are satisfied that I--that I have fulfilled what I promised?"

  Her eyes were again cast down, and she took a step in the direction ofthe window.

  "But yes. Your promise was to save my father from the scaffold. You havedone so, and I make no doubt you have done as much to reduce the term ofhis banishment as lay within your power. Yes, monsieur, I am satisfiedthat your promise has been well fulfilled."

  Heigho! The resolve that I had formed in coming whispered it in my earthat nothing remained but to withdraw and go my way. Yet not for allthat resolve--not for a hundred such resolves--could I have gone thus.One kindly word, one kindly glance at least would I take to comfort me.I would tell her in plain words of my purpose, and she should see thatthere was still some good, some sense of honour in me, and thus shouldesteem me after I was gone.

  "Ganymede." said I.

  "Monseigneur?"

  "Bid the men mount."

  At that she turned, wonder opening her eyes very wide, and her glancetravelled from me to Rodenard with its unspoken question. But even asshe looked at him he bowed and, turning to do my bidding, left the room.We heard his steps pass with a jingle of spurs across the hall and outinto the courtyard. We heard his raucous voice utter a word of command,and there was a stamping of hoofs, a cramping of harness, and all thebustle of preparation.

  "Why have you ordered your men to mount?" she asked at last.

  "Because my business here is ended, and we are going."

  "Going?" said she. Her eyes were lowered now, but a frown suggestedtheir expression to me. "Going whither?"

  "Hence," I answered. "That for the moment is all that signifies." Ipaused to swallow something that hindered a clear utterance. Then,"Adieu!" said I, and I abruptly put forth my hand.

  Her glance met mine fearlessly, if puzzled.

  "Do you mean, monsieur, that you are leaving Lavedan--thus?"

  "So that I leave, what signifies the manner of my going?"

  "But"--the trouble grew in her eyes; her cheeks seemed to wax paler thanthey had been--"but I thought that--that we made a bargain."

  "'Sh! mademoiselle, I implore you," I cried. "I take shame at thememory of it. Almost as much shame as I take at the memory of that otherbargain which first brought me to Lavedan. The shame of the former oneI have wiped out--although, perchance, you think it not. I am wiping outthe shame of the latter one. It was unworthy in me, mademoiselle, butI loved you so dearly that it seemed to me that no matter how I came byyou, I should rest content if I but won you. I have since seen the errorif it, the injustice of it. I will not take what is not freely given.And so, farewell."

  "I see, I see," she murmured, and ignored the hand that I held out. "Iam very glad of it, monsieur."

  I withdrew my hand sharply. I took up my hat from the chair on which Ihad cast it. She might have spared me that, I thought. She need nothave professed joy. At least she might have taken my hand and parted inkindness.

  "Adieu, mademoiselle!" I said again, as stiffly as might be, and Iturned towards the door.

  "Monsieur!" she called after me. I halted.

  "Mademoiselle?"

  She stood demurely, with eyes downcast and hands folded. "I shall be solonely here."

  I stood still. I seemed to stiffen. My heart gave a mad throb of hope,then seemed to stop. What did she mean? I faced her fully once more,and, I doubt not, I was very pale. Yet lest vanity should befool me, Idared not act upon suspicions. And so "True, mademoiselle," said I. "Youwill be lonely. I regret it."

  As silence followed, I turned again to the door, and my hopes sank witheach step in that direction.

  "Monsieur!"

  Her voice arrested me upon the very threshold.

  "What shall a poor girl do with this great estate upon her hands? Itwill go to ruin without a man to govern it."

  "You must not attempt the task. You must employ an intendant."

  I caught something that sounded oddly like a sob. Could it be? Dieu!could it be, after all? Yet I would not presume. I half turned again,but her voice detained me. It came petulantly now.

  "Monsieur de Bardelys, you have kept your promise nobly. Will you ask nopayment?"

  "No, mademoiselle," I answered very softly; "I can take no payment."

  Her eyes were lifted for a second. Their blue depths seemed dim. Thenthey fell again.

  "Oh, why will you not help me?" she burst out, to add more softly: "Ishall never be happy without you!"

  "You mean?" I gasped, retracing a step, and flinging my hat in a corner.

  "That I love you, Marcel--that I want you!"

  "And you can forgive--you can forgive?" I cried, as I caught her.

  Her answer was a laugh that bespoke her scorn of everything--ofeverything save us two, of everything save our love. That and the poutof her red lips was her answer. And if the temptation of those lips--Butthere! I grow indiscreet.

  Still holding her, I raised my voice.

  "Ganymede!" I called.

  "Monseigneur?" came his answer through the open window.

  "Bid those knaves dismount and unsaddle."