The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini. Rafael Sabatini

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      “Have you forgotten, then, what you did for me? Our trivial service to you is but unseemly recompense. What other man would have come to my rescue as you came, with such odds against you—and forgetting the affronting words wherewith that very day I had met your warning? Tell me, Monsieur, who would have done that?”

      “Why, any man who deemed himself a gentleman, and who possessed such knowledge as I had.”

      She laughed a laugh of unbelief.

      “You are mistaken, sir,” she answered. “The deed was worthy of one of those preux chevaliers we read of, and I have never known but one man capable of accomplishing it.”

      Those words and the tone wherein they were uttered set my brain on fire. I turned towards her; our glances met, and her eyes—those eyes that but a while ago had never looked on me without avowing the disdain wherein she had held me—were now filled with a light of kindliness, of sympathy, of tenderness that seemed more than I could endure.

      Already my hand was thrust into the bosom of my doublet, and my fingers were about to drag forth that little shred of green velvet that I had found in the coppice on the day of her abduction, and that I had kept ever since as one keeps the relic of a departed saint. Another moment and I should have poured out the story of the mad, hopeless passion that filled my heart to bursting, when of a sudden—“Yvonne, Yvonne!” came Geneviève's fresh voice from the other end of the terrace. The spell of that moment was broken.

      Methought Mademoiselle made a little gesture of impatience as she answered her sister's call; then, with a word of apology, she left me.

      Half dazed by the emotions that had made sport of me, I leaned over the balustrade, and with my elbows on the stone and my chin on my palms, I stared stupidly before me, thanking God for having sent Geneviève in time to save me from again earning Mademoiselle's scorn. For as I grew sober I did not doubt that with scorn she would have met the wild words that already trembled on my lips.

      I laughed harshly and aloud, such a laugh as those in Hell may vent. “Gaston, Gaston!” I muttered, “at thirty-two you are more a fool than ever you were at twenty.”

      I told myself then that my fancy had vested her tone and look with a kindliness far beyond that which they contained, and as I thought of how I had deemed impatient the little gesture wherewith she had greeted Geneviève's interruption I laughed again.

      From the reverie into which, naturally enough, I lapsed, it was Mademoiselle who aroused me. She stood beside me with an unrest of manner so unusual in her, that straightway I guessed the substance of her talk with Geneviève.

      “So, Mademoiselle,” I said, without waiting for her to speak, “you have learned what is afoot?”

      “I have,” she answered. “That they love each other is no news to me. That they intend to wed does not surprise me. But that they should contemplate a secret marriage passes my comprehension.”

      I cleared my throat as men will when about to embark upon a perilous subject with no starting-point determined.

      “It is time, Mademoiselle,” I began, “that you should learn the true cause of M. de Mancini's presence at Canaples. It will enlighten you touching his motives for a secret wedding. Had things fallen out as was intended by those who planned his visit—Monsieur your father and my Lord Cardinal—it is improbable that you would ever have heard that which it now becomes necessary that I should tell you. I trust, Mademoiselle,” I continued, “that you will hear me in a neutral spirit, without permitting your personal feelings to enter into your consideration of that which I shall unfold.”

      “So long a preface augurs anything but well,” she interposed, looking monstrous serious.

      “Not ill, at least, I hope. Hear me then. Your father and his Eminence are friends; the one has a daughter who is said to be very wealthy and whom he, with fond ambition, desires to see wedded to a man who can give her an illustrious name; the other possesses a nephew whom he can ennoble by the highest title that a man may bear who is not a prince of the blood—and borne indeed by few who are not—and whom he desires to see contract an alliance that will bring him enough of riches to enable him to bear his title with becoming dignity.” I glanced at Mademoiselle, whose cheeks were growing an ominous red.

      “Well, Mademoiselle,” I continued, “your father and Monseigneur de Mazarin appear to have bared their heart's desire to each other, and M. de Mancini was sent to Canaples to woo and win your father's elder daughter.”

      A long pause followed, during which she stood with face aflame, averted eyes, and heaving bosom, betraying the feelings that stormed within her at the disclosure of the bargain whereof she had been a part. At length—“Oh, Monsieur!” she exclaimed in a choking voice, and clenching her shapely hands, “to think—”

      “I beseech you not to think, Mademoiselle,” I interrupted calmly, for, having taken the first plunge, I was now master of myself. “The ironical little god, whom the ancients painted with bandaged eyes, has led M. de Mancini by the nose in this matter, and things have gone awry for the plotters. There, Mademoiselle, you have the reason for a clandestine union. Did Monsieur your father guess how Andrea's affections have”—I caught the word “miscarried” betimes, and substituted—“gone against his wishes, his opposition is not a thing to be doubted.”

      “Are you sure there is no mistake?” she inquired after a pause. “Is all this really true, Monsieur?”

      “It is, indeed.”

      “But how comes it that my father has seen naught of what has been so plain to me—that M. de Mancini was ever at my sister's side?”

      “Your father, Mademoiselle, is much engrossed in his vineyard. Moreover, when the Chevalier has been at hand he has been careful to show no greater regard for the one than for the other of you. I instructed him in this duplicity many weeks ago.”

      She looked at me for a moment.

      “Oh, Monsieur,” she cried passionately, “how deep is my humiliation! To think that I was made a part of so vile a bargain! Oh, I am glad that M. de Mancini has proved above the sordid task to which they set him—glad that he will dupe the Cardinal and my father.”

      “So am not I, Mademoiselle,” I exclaimed. She vouchsafed me a stare of ineffable surprise.

      “How?

      “Diable!” I answered. “I am M. de Mancini's friend. It was to shield him that I fought your brother; again, because of my attitude towards him was it that I went perilously near assassination at Reaux. Enemies sprang up about him when the Cardinal's matrimonial projects became known. Your brother picked a quarrel with him, and when I had dealt with your brother, St. Auban appeared, and after St. Auban there were others. When it is known that he has played this trick upon 'Uncle Giulio' his enemies will disappear; but, on the other hand, his prospects will all be blighted, and for that I am sorry.”

      “So that was the motive of your duel with Eugène!”

      “At last you learn it.”

      “And,” she added in a curious voice, “you would have been better pleased had M. de Mancini carried out his uncle's wishes?”

      “It matters little what I would think, Mademoiselle,” I answered guardedly, for I could not read that curious tone of hers.

      “Nevertheless, СКАЧАТЬ