Scaramouche & Scaramouche the King-Maker. Rafael Sabatini

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СКАЧАТЬ of balustraded terrace, it looked, what indeed it was, and always had been, the residence of unpretentious folk who found more interest in husbandry than in adventure.

      Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac — Seigneur de Gavrillac was all the vague title that he bore, as his forefathers had borne before him, derived no man knew whence or how — confirmed the impression that his house conveyed. Rude as the granite itself, he had never sought the experience of courts, had not even taken service in the armies of his King. He left it to his younger brother, Etienne, to represent the family in those exalted spheres. His own interests from earliest years had been centred in his woods and pastures. He hunted, and he cultivated his acres, and superficially he appeared to be little better than any of his rustic metayers. He kept no state, or at least no state commensurate with his position or with the tastes of his niece Aline de Kercadiou. Aline, having spent some two years in the court atmosphere of Versailles under the aegis of her uncle Etienne, had ideas very different from those of her uncle Quintin of what was befitting seigneurial dignity. But though this only child of a third Kercadiou had exercised, ever since she was left an orphan at the early age of four, a tyrannical rule over the Lord of Gavrillac, who had been father and mother to her, she had never yet succeeded in beating down his stubbornness on that score. She did not yet despair — persistence being a dominant note in her character — although she had been assiduously and fruitlessly at work since her return from the great world of Versailles some three months ago.

      She was walking on the terrace when Andre–Louis and M. de Vilmorin arrived. Her slight body was wrapped against the chill air in a white pelisse; her head was encased in a close-fitting bonnet, edged with white fur. It was caught tight in a knot of pale-blue ribbon on the right of her chin; on the left a long ringlet of corn-coloured hair had been permitted to escape. The keen air had whipped so much of her cheeks as was presented to it, and seemed to have added sparkle to eyes that were of darkest blue.

      Andre–Louis and M. de Vilmorin had been known to her from childhood. The three had been playmates once, and Andre–Louis — in view of his spiritual relationship with her uncle — she called her cousin. The cousinly relations had persisted between these two long after Philippe de Vilmorin had outgrown the earlier intimacy, and had become to her Monsieur de Vilmorin.

      She waved her hand to them in greeting as they advanced, and stood — an entrancing picture, and fully conscious of it — to await them at the end of the terrace nearest the short avenue by which they approached.

      “If you come to see monsieur my uncle, you come inopportunely, messieurs,” she told them, a certain feverishness in her air. “He is closely — oh, so very closely — engaged.”

      “We will wait, mademoiselle,” said M. de Vilmorin, bowing gallantly over the hand she extended to him. “Indeed, who would haste to the uncle that may tarry a moment with the niece?”

      “M. l’abbe,” she teased him, “when you are in orders I shall take you for my confessor. You have so ready and sympathetic an understanding.”

      “But no curiosity,” said Andre–Louis. “You haven’t thought of that.”

      “I wonder what you mean, Cousin Andre.”

      “Well you may,” laughed Philippe. “For no one ever knows.” And then, his glance straying across the terrace settled upon a carriage that was drawn up before the door of the chateau. It was a vehicle such as was often to be seen in the streets of a great city, but rarely in the country. It was a beautifully sprung two-horse cabriolet of walnut, with a varnish upon it like a sheet of glass and little pastoral scenes exquisitely painted on the panels of the door. It was built to carry two persons, with a box in front for the coachman, and a stand behind for the footman. This stand was empty, but the footman paced before the door, and as he emerged now from behind the vehicle into the range of M. de Vilmorin’s vision, he displayed the resplendent blue-and-gold livery of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.

      “Why!” he exclaimed. “Is it M. de La Tour d’Azyr who is with your uncle?”

      “It is, monsieur,” said she, a world of mystery in voice and eyes, of which M. de Vilmorin observed nothing.

      “Ah, pardon!” he bowed low, hat in hand. “Serviteur, mademoiselle,” and he turned to depart towards the house.

      “Shall I come with you, Philippe?” Andre–Louis called after him.

      “It would be ungallant to assume that you would prefer it,” said M. de Vilmorin, with a glance at mademoiselle. “Nor do I think it would serve. If you will wait . . . ”

      M. de Vilmorin strode off. Mademoiselle, after a moment’s blank pause, laughed ripplingly. “Now where is he going in such a hurry?”

      “To see M. de La Tour d’Azyr as well as your uncle, I should say.”

      “But he cannot. They cannot see him. Did I not say that they are very closely engaged? You don’t ask me why, Andre.” There was an arch mysteriousness about her, a latent something that may have been elation or amusement, or perhaps both. Andre–Louis could not determine it.

      “Since obviously you are all eagerness to tell, why should I ask?” quoth he.

      “If you are caustic I shall not tell you even if you ask. Oh, yes, I will. It will teach you to treat me with the respect that is my due.”

      “I hope I shall never fail in that.”

      “Less than ever when you learn that I am very closely concerned in the visit of M. de La Tour d’Azyr. I am the object of this visit.” And she looked at him with sparkling eyes and lips parted in laughter.

      “The rest, you would seem to imply, is obvious. But I am a dolt, if you please; for it is not obvious to me.”

      “Why, stupid, he comes to ask my hand in marriage.”

      “Good God!” said Andre–Louis, and stared at her, chapfallen.

      She drew back from him a little with a frown and an upward tilt of her chin. “It surprises you?”

      “It disgusts me,” said he, bluntly. “In fact, I don’t believe it. You are amusing yourself with me.”

      For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts. “I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle this morning from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, announcing the visit and its object. I will not say that it did not surprise us a little . . . ”

      “Oh, I see,” cried Andre–Louis, in relief. “I understand. For a moment I had almost feared . . . ” He broke off, looked at her, and shrugged.

      “Why do you stop? You had almost feared that Versailles had been wasted upon me. That I should permit the court-ship of me to be conducted like that of any village wench. It was stupid of you. I am being sought in proper form, at my uncle’s hands.”

      “Is his consent, then, all that matters, according to Versailles?”

      “What else?”

      “There is your own.”

      She laughed. “I am a dutiful niece . . . when it suits me.”

      “And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this monstrous proposal?”

      “Monstrous!” She bridled. “And why СКАЧАТЬ