Scaramouche & Scaramouche the King-Maker. Rafael Sabatini

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      “I thank you for the tribute. You imagined, of course, that I was a scene-shifter. And now that you know all about me, what of Gavrillac? What of my godfather?”

      He was well, she told him, and still profoundly indignant with Andre–Louis for his defection, whilst secretly concerned on his behalf.

      “I shall write to him to-day that I have seen you.”

      “Do so. Tell him that I am well and prospering. But say no more. Do not tell him what I am doing. He has his prejudices too. Besides, it might not be prudent. And now the question I have been burning to ask ever since I entered your carriage. Why are you in Nantes, Aline?”

      “I am on a visit to my aunt, Mme. de Sautron. It was with her that I came to the play yesterday. We have been dull at the chateau; but it will be different now. Madame my aunt is receiving several guests to-day. M. de La Tour d’Azyr is to be one of them.”

      Andre–Louis frowned and sighed. “Did you ever hear, Aline, how poor Philippe de Vilmorin came by his end?”

      “Yes; I was told, first by my uncle; then by M. de La Tour d’Azyr, himself.”

      “Did not that help you to decide this marriage question?”

      “How could it? You forget that I am but a woman. You don’t expect me to judge between men in matters such as these?”

      “Why not? You are well able to do so. The more since you have heard two sides. For my godfather would tell you the truth. If you cannot judge, it is that you do not wish to judge.” His tone became harsh. “Wilfully you close your eyes to justice that might check the course of your unhealthy, unnatural ambition.”

      “Excellent!” she exclaimed, and considered him with amusement and something else. “Do you know that you are almost droll? You rise unblushing from the dregs of life in which I find you, and shake off the arm of that theatre girl, to come and preach to me.”

      “If these were the dregs of life I might still speak from them to counsel you out of my respect and devotion, Aline.” He was very, stiff and stern. “But they are not the dregs of life. Honour and virtue are possible to a theatre girl; they are impossible to a lady who sells herself to gratify ambition; who for position, riches, and a great title barters herself in marriage.”

      She looked at him breathlessly. Anger turned her pale. She reached for the cord.

      “I think I had better let you alight so that you may go back to practise virtue and honour with your theatre wench.”

      “You shall not speak so of her, Aline.”

      “Faith, now we are to have heat on her behalf. You think I am too delicate? You think I should speak of her as a . . . ”

      “If you must speak of her at all,” he interrupted, hotly, “you’ll speak of her as my wife.”

      Amazement smothered her anger. Her pallor deepened. “My God!” she said, and looked at him in horror. And in horror she asked him presently: “You are married — married to that —?”

      “Not yet. But I shall be, soon. And let me tell you that this girl whom you visit with your ignorant contempt is as good and pure as you are, Aline. She has wit and talent which have placed her where she is and shall carry her a deal farther. And she has the womanliness to be guided by natural instincts in the selection of her mate.”

      She was trembling with passion. She tugged the cord.

      “You will descend this instant!” she told him fiercely. “That you should dare to make a comparison between me and that . . . ”

      “And my wife-to-be,” he interrupted, before she could speak the infamous word. He opened the door for himself without waiting for the footman, and leapt down. “My compliments,” said he, furiously, “to the assassin you are to marry.” He slammed the door. “Drive on,” he bade the coachman.

      The carriage rolled away up the Faubourg Gigan, leaving him standing where he had alighted, quivering with rage. Gradually, as he walked back to the inn, his anger cooled. Gradually, as he cooled, he perceived her point of view, and in the end forgave her. It was not her fault that she thought as she thought. Her rearing had been such as to make her look upon every actress as a trull, just as it had qualified her calmly to consider the monstrous marriage of convenience into which she was invited.

      He got back to the inn to find the company at table. Silence fell when he entered, so suddenly that of necessity it must be supposed he was himself the subject of the conversation. Harlequin and Columbine had spread the tale of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariot of a princess and carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lost nothing in the telling.

      Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine had called this romance of hers. Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastly other than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and he would never have used such familiarity with each other. Imagining him no better than he was, Climene had made him her own. And now she was to receive the reward of disinterested affection.

      Even old Binet’s secret hostility towards Andre–Louis melted before this astounding revelation. He had pinched his daughter’s ear quite playfully. “Ah, ah, trust you to have penetrated his disguise, my child!”

      She shrank resentfully from that implication.

      “But I did not. I took him for what he seemed.”

      Her father winked at her very solemnly and laughed. “To be sure, you did. But like your father, who was once a gentleman, and knows the ways of gentlemen, you detected in him a subtle something different from those with whom misfortune has compelled you hitherto to herd. You knew as well as I did that he never caught that trick of haughtiness, that grand air of command, in a lawyer’s musty office, and that his speech had hardly the ring or his thoughts the complexion of the bourgeois that he pretended to be. And it was shrewd of you to have made him yours. Do you know that I shall be very proud of you yet, Climene?”

      She moved away without answering. Her father’s oiliness offended her. Scaramouche was clearly a great gentleman, an eccentric if you please, but a man born. And she was to be his lady. Her father must learn to treat her differently.

      She looked shyly — with a new shyness — at her lover when he came into the room where they were dining. She observed for the first time that proud carriage of the head, with the chin thrust forward, that was a trick of his, and she noticed with what a grace he moved — the grace of one who in youth has had his dancing-masters and fencing-masters.

      It almost hurt her when he flung himself into a chair and exchanged a quip with Harlequin in the usual manner as with an equal, and it offended her still more that Harlequin, knowing what he now knew, should use him with the same unbecoming familiarity.

      CHAPTER 9

       THE AWAKENING

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      “Do you know,” said Climene, “that I am waiting for the explanation which I think you owe me?”

      They were alone together, lingering still at the СКАЧАТЬ