The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

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СКАЧАТЬ lover as dearly as does the greater world. So they acclaimed the happy pair, with the exception of poor Leandre, whose eyes were more melancholy than ever.

      They were a happy family that night in the upstairs room of their inn on the Quai La Fosse — the same inn from which Andre–Louis had set out some weeks ago to play a vastly different role before an audience of Nantes. Yet was it so different, he wondered? Had he not then been a sort of Scaramouche — an intriguer, glib and specious, deceiving folk, cynically misleading them with opinions that were not really his own? Was it at all surprising that he should have made so rapid and signal a success as a mime? Was not this really all that he had ever been, the thing for which Nature had designed him?

      On the following night they played “The Shy Lover” to a full house, the fame of their debut having gone abroad, and the success of Monday was confirmed. On Wednesday they gave “Figaro–Scaramouche,” and on Thursday morning the “Courrier Nantais” came out with an article of more than a column of praise of these brilliant improvisers, for whom it claimed that they utterly put to shame the mere reciters of memorized parts.

      Andre–Louis, reading the sheet at breakfast, and having no delusions on the score of the falseness of that statement, laughed inwardly. The novelty of the thing, and the pretentiousness in which he had swaddled it, had deceived them finely. He turned to greet Binet and Climene, who entered at that moment. He waved the sheet above his head.

      “It is settled,” he announced, “we stay in Nantes until Easter.”

      “Do we?” said Binet, sourly. “You settle everything, my friend.”

      “Read for yourself.” And he handed him the paper.

      Moodily M. Binet read. He set the sheet down in silence, and turned his attention to his breakfast.

      “Was I justified or not?” quoth Andre–Louis, who found M. Binet’s behaviour a thought intriguing.

      “In what?”

      “In coming to Nantes?”

      “If I had not thought so, we should not have come,” said Binet, and he began to eat.

      Andre–Louis dropped the subject, wondering.

      After breakfast he and Climene sallied forth to take the air upon the quays. It was a day of brilliant sunshine and less cold than it had lately been. Columbine tactlessly joined them as they were setting out, though in this respect matters were improved a little when Harlequin came running after them, and attached himself to Columbine.

      Andre–Louis, stepping out ahead with Climene, spoke of the thing that was uppermost in his mind at the moment.

      “Your father is behaving very oddly towards me,” said he. “It is almost as if he had suddenly become hostile.”

      “You imagine it,” said she. “My father is very grateful to you, as we all are.”

      “He is anything but grateful. He is infuriated against me; and I think I know the reason. Don’t you? Can’t you guess?”

      “I can’t, indeed.”

      “If you were my daughter, Climene, which God be thanked you are not, I should feel aggrieved against the man who carried you away from me. Poor old Pantaloon! He called me a corsair when I told him that I intend to marry you.”

      “He was right. You are a bold robber, Scaramouche.”

      “It is in the character,” said he. “Your father believes in having his mimes play upon the stage the parts that suit their natural temperaments.”

      “Yes, you take everything you want, don’t you?” She looked up at him, half adoringly, half shyly.

      “If it is possible,” said he. “I took his consent to our marriage by main force from him. I never waited for him to give it. When, in fact, he refused it, I just snatched it from him, and I’ll defy him now to win it back from me. I think that is what he most resents.”

      She laughed, and launched upon an animated answer. But he did not hear a word of it. Through the bustle of traffic on the quay a cabriolet, the upper half of which was almost entirely made of glass, had approached them. It was drawn by two magnificent bay horses and driven by a superbly livened coachman.

      In the cabriolet alone sat a slight young girl wrapped in a lynx-fur pelisse, her face of a delicate loveliness. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, her eyes devouring Scaramouche until they drew his gaze. When that happened, the shock of it brought him abruptly to a dumfounded halt.

      Climene, checking in the middle of a sentence, arrested by his own sudden stopping, plucked at his sleeve.

      “What is it, Scaramouche?”

      But he made no attempt to answer her, and at that moment the coachman, to whom the little lady had already signalled, brought the carriage to a standstill beside them. Seen in the gorgeous setting of that coach with its escutcheoned panels, its portly coachman and its white-stockinged footman — who swung instantly to earth as the vehicle stopped — its dainty occupant seemed to Climene a princess out of a fairy-tale. And this princess leaned forward, with eyes aglow and cheeks aflush, stretching out a choicely gloved hand to Scaramouche.

      “Andre–Louis!” she called him.

      And Scaramouche took the hand of that exalted being, just as he might have taken the hand of Climene herself, and with eyes that reflected the gladness of her own, in a voice that echoed the joyous surprise of hers, he addressed her familiarly by name, just as she had addressed him.

      “Aline!”

      CHAPTER 8

       THE DREAM

       Table of Contents

      “The door,” Aline commanded her footman, and “Mount here beside me,” she commanded Andre–Louis, in the same breath.

      “A moment, Aline.”

      He turned to his companion, who was all amazement, and to Harlequin and Columbine, who had that moment come up to share it. “You permit me, Climene?” said he, breathlessly. But it was more a statement than a question. “Fortunately you are not alone. Harlequin will take care of you. Au revoir, at dinner.”

      With that he sprang into the cabriolet without waiting for a reply. The footman closed the door, the coachman cracked his whip, and the regal equipage rolled away along the quay, leaving the three comedians staring after it, open-mouthed . . . Then Harlequin laughed.

      “A prince in disguise, our Scaramouche!” said he.

      Columbine clapped her hands and flashed her strong teeth. “But what a romance for you, Climene! How wonderful!”

      The frown melted from Climene’s brow. Resentment changed to bewilderment.

      “But who is she?”

      “His sister, of course,” said Harlequin, quite definitely.

      “His sister? How do you СКАЧАТЬ