The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini. Rafael Sabatini

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      CHAPTER XIX.

       OF MY RETURN TO PARIS

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      Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.

      Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to be led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the rope—possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself a fool for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when so grim a reward awaited me. What mood was on me—me, Gaston de Luynes, whose honour had been long since besmirched and tattered until no outward semblance of honour was left?

      But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the answer—Yvonne. Ay, truly enough, it was because in my heart I had dared to hold a sentiment of love for her, the purest—nay, the only pure—thing my heart had held for many a year, that I would set nothing vile to keep company with that sentiment; that until my sun should set—and already it dropped swiftly towards life's horizon—my actions should be the actions of such a man as might win Yvonne's affections.

      But let that be. This idle restrospective mood can interest you but little; nor can you profit from it, unless, indeed, it be by noting how holy and cleansing to the heart of man is the love—albeit unrequited—that he bears a good woman.

      As we drew near Meung—where we lay on that first night of our journey—a light travelling chaise, going in the same direction, passed us at a gallop. As it flashed by, I caught a glimpse of Eugène de Canaples's swart face through the window. Whether the recognition was mutual I cannot say—nor does it signify.

      When we reached the Hôtel de la Couronne, half an hour later, we saw that same chaise disappearing round a corner of the street, whilst through the porte-cochère the hostler was leading a pair of horses, foam-flecked and steaming with sweat.

      Whither went Master Canaples at such a rate, and in a haste that caused him to travel day and night? To a goal he little looked for—or rather, which, in the madness of his headlong rush, he could not see. So I was to learn ere long.

      Next day I awoke betimes, and setting my window wide to let in the fresh, clean-smelling air of that May morning I made shift to dress. Save for the cackle of the poultry which had strayed into the courtyard, and the noisy yawns and sleep-laden ejaculations of the stable-boy, who was drawing water for the horses, all was still, for it had not yet gone five o'clock.

      But of a sudden a door opened somewhere, and a step rang out, accompanied by the jangle of spurs, and with it came a sharp, unpleasant voice calling for its owner's horse. There was a familiar sound in those shrill accents that caused me to thrust my head through the casement. But I was quick to withdraw it, as I recognised in the gaily dressed little fellow below my old friend Malpertuis.

      I know not what impulse made me draw back so suddenly. The action was as much the child of instinct as of the lately acquired habit of concealing my face from the gaze of all who were likely to spread abroad the news that I still lived.

      From behind my curtains I watched Malpertuis ride out of the yard, saying, in answer to a parting question of the landlord, who had come upon the scene, that he would breakfast at Beaugency.

      Then, as he rode down the street, he of a sudden raised his discordant voice and sang to the accompaniment of his horse's hoofs. And the burden of his song ran thus:

      A frondeur wind

       Got up to-day,

       'Gainst Mazarin

       It blows, they say.

      I listened in amazement to his raven's voice.

      Whither was he bound, I asked myself, and whence a haste that made him set out fasting, with an anti-cardinalist ditty on his lips, and ride two leagues to seek a breakfast in a village that did not hold an inn where a dog might be housed in comfort?

      Like Eugène de Canaples, he also travelled towards a goal that he little dreamt of. And so albeit the one went south and the other north, these two men were, between them, drawing together the thread of this narrative of mine, as anon you shall learn.

      We reached Paris at dusk three days later, and we went straight to my old lodging in the Rue St. Antoine.

      Coupri started and gasped upon beholding me, and not until I had cursed him for a fool in a voice that was passing human would he believe that I was no ghost. He too had heard the rumour of my death.

      I dispatched Michelot to the Palais Royal, where—without permitting his motive to transpire—he was to ascertain for me whether M. de Montrésor was in Paris, whether he still dwelt at the Hôtel des Cloches, and at what hour he could be found there.

      Whilst he was away I went up to my room, and there I found a letter which Coupri informed me had been left by a lackey a month ago—before the report that I had been killed had reached Paris—and since lain forgotten. It was a delicate note, to which still hung the ghost of a perfume; there were no arms on the seal, but the writing I took to be that of my aunt, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and vaguely marvelling what motive she could have had for communicating with me, I cut the silk.

      It was, indeed, from the Duchesse, but it contained no more than a request that I should visit her at her hôtel on the СКАЧАТЬ