The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini. Rafael Sabatini

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      CHAPTER XVII.

       FATHER AND SON

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      “Gaston,” quoth Andrea next morning, “you will remain at Canaples until to-morrow? You must, for to-morrow I am to be wed, and I would fain have your good wishes ere you go.”

      “Nice hands, mine, to seek a benediction at,” I grumbled.

      “But you will remain? Come, Gaston, we have been good friends, you and I, and who knows when next we shall meet? Believe me, I shall value your 'God speed' above all others.”

      “Likely enough, since it will be the only one you'll hear.”

      But for all my sneers he was not to be put off. He talked and coaxed so winningly that in the end—albeit I am a man not easily turned from the course he has set himself—the affectionate pleading in his fresh young voice and the affectionate look in his dark eyes won me to his way.

      Forthwith I went in quest of the Chevalier, whom, at the indication of a lackey, I discovered in the room it pleased him to call his study—that same room into which we had been ushered on the day of our arrival at Canaples. I told him that on the morrow I must set out for Paris, and albeit he at first expressed a polite regret, yet when I had shown him how my honour was involved in my speedy return thither, he did not urge me to put off my departure.

      “It grieves me, sir, that you must go, and I deeply regret the motive that is taking you. Yet I hope that his Eminence, in recognition of the services you have rendered his nephew, will see fit to forget what cause for resentment he may have against you, and render you your liberty. If you will give me leave, Monsieur, I will write to his Eminence in this strain, and you shall be the bearer of my letter.”

      I thanked him, with a smile of deprecation, as I thought of the true cause of Mazarin's resentment, which was precisely that of the plea upon which M. de Canaples sought to obtain for me my liberation.

      “And now, Monsieur,” he pursued nervously, “touching Andrea and his visit here, I would say a word to you who are his friend, and may haply know something of his mind. It is over two months since he came here, and yet the—er—affair which we had hoped to bring about seems no nearer its conclusion than when first he came. Of late I have watched him and I have watched Yvonne; they are certainly good friends, yet not even the frail barrier of formality appears overcome betwixt them, and I am beginning to fear that Andrea is not only lukewarm in this matter, but is forgetful of his uncle's wishes and selfishly indifferent to Monseigneur's projects and mine, which, as he well knows, are the reason of his sojourn at my château. What think you of this, M. de Luynes?”

      He shot a furtive glance at me as he spoke, and with his long, lean forefinger he combed his beard in a nervous fashion.

      I gave a short laugh to cover my embarrassment at the question.

      “What do I think, Monsieur?” I echoed to gain time. Then, thinking that a sententious answer would be the most fitting—“Ma foi! Love is as the spark that lies latent in flint and steel: for days and weeks these two may be as close together as you please, and naught will come of it; but one fine day, a hand—the hand of chance—will strike the one against the other, and lo!—the spark is born!”

      “You speak in parables, Monsieur,” was his caustic comment.

      “'T is in parables that all religions are preached,” I returned, “and love, methinks, is a great religion in this world.”

      “Love, sir, love!” he cried petulantly. “The word makes me sick! What has love to do with this union? Love, sir, is a pretty theme for poets, romancers, and fools. The imagination of such a sentiment—for it is a sentiment that does not live save in the imagination—may serve to draw peasants and other low­bred clods into wedlock. With such as we—with gentlemen—it has naught to do. So let that be, Monsieur. Andrea de Mancini came hither to wed my daughter.”

      “And I am certain, Monsieur,” I answered stoutly, “that Andrea will wed your daughter.”

      “You speak with confidence.”

      “I know Andrea well. Signs that may be hidden to you are clear to me, and I have faith in my prophecy.”

      He looked at me, and fell a victim to my confidence of manner. The petulancy died out of his face.

      “Well, well! We will hope. My Lord Cardinal is to create him Duke, and he will assume as title his wife's estate, becoming known to history as Andrea de Mancini, Duke of Canaples. Thus shall a great house be founded that will bear our name. You see the importance of it?”

      “Clearly.”

      “And how reasonable is my anxiety?”

      “Assuredly.”

      “And you are in sympathy with me?”

      “Pardieu! Why else did I go so near to killing your son?”

      “True,” he mused. Then suddenly he added, “Apropos, have you heard that Eugène has become one of the leaders of these frondeur madmen?”

      “Ah! Then he is quite recovered?”

      “Unfortunately,” he assented with a grimace, and СКАЧАТЬ