The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

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      “Certainly she has a name. She is Mlle. Aline de Kercadiou, the niece of Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac.”

      “Oho! That’s a sufficiently fine name for your sort of sister. What sort of sister, my friend?”

      For the first time in their relationship he observed and deplored the taint of vulgarity, of shrewishness, in her manner.

      “It would have been more accurate in me to have said a sort of reputed left-handed cousin.”

      “A reputed left-handed cousin! And what sort of relationship may that be? Faith, you dazzle me with your lucidity.”

      “It requires to be explained.”

      “That is what I have been telling you. But you seem very reluctant with your explanations.”

      “Oh, no. It is only that they are so unimportant. But be you the judge. Her uncle, M. de Kercadiou, is my godfather, and she and I have been playmates from infancy as a consequence. It is popularly believed in Gavrillac that M. de Kercadiou is my father. He has certainly cared for my rearing from my tenderest years, and it is entirely owing to him that I was educated at Louis le Grand. I owe to him everything that I have — or, rather, everything that I had; for of my own free will I have cut myself adrift, and to-day I possess nothing save what I can earn for myself in the theatre or elsewhere.”

      She sat stunned and pale under that cruel blow to her swelling pride. Had he told her this but yesterday, it would have made no impression upon her, it would have mattered not at all; the event of to-day coming as a sequel would but have enhanced him in her eyes. But coming now, after her imagination had woven for him so magnificent a background, after the rashly assumed discovery of his splendid identity had made her the envied of all the company, after having been in her own eyes and theirs enshrined by marriage with him as a great lady, this disclosure crushed and humiliated her. Her prince in disguise was merely the outcast bastard of a country gentleman! She would be the laughing-stock of every member of her father’s troupe, of all those who had so lately envied her this romantic good fortune.

      “You should have told me this before,” she said, in a dull voice that she strove to render steady.

      “Perhaps I should. But does it really matter?”

      “Matter?” She suppressed her fury to ask another question. “You say that this M. de Kercadiou is popularly believed to be your father. What precisely do you mean?”

      “Just that. It is a belief that I do not share. It is a matter of instinct, perhaps, with me. Moreover, once I asked M. de Kercadiou point-blank, and I received from him a denial. It is not, perhaps, a denial to which one would attach too much importance in all the circumstances. Yet I have never known M de Kercadiou for other than a man of strictest honour, and I should hesitate to disbelieve him — particularly when his statement leaps with my own instincts. He assured me that he did not know who my father was.”

      “And your mother, was she equally ignorant?” She was sneering, but he did not remark it. Her back was to the light.

      “He would not disclose her name to me. He confessed her to be a dear friend of his.”

      She startled him by laughing, and her laugh was not pleasant.

      “A very dear friend, you may be sure, you simpleton. What name do you bear?”

      He restrained his own rising indignation to answer her question calmly: “Moreau. It was given me, so I am told, from the Brittany village in which I was born. But I have no claim to it. In fact I have no name, unless it be Scaramouche, to which I have earned a title. So that you see, my dear,” he ended with a smile, “I have practised no deception whatever.”

      “No, no. I see that now.” She laughed without mirth, then drew a deep breath and rose. “I am very tired,” she said.

      He was on his feet in an instant, all solicitude. But she waved him wearily back.

      “I think I will rest until it is time to go to the theatre.” She moved towards the door, dragging her feet a little. He sprang to open it, and she passed out without looking at him.

      Her so brief romantic dream was ended. The glorious world of fancy which in the last hour she had built with such elaborate detail, over which it should be her exalted destiny to rule, lay shattered about her feet, its debris so many stumbling-blocks that prevented her from winning back to her erstwhile content in Scaramouche as he really was.

      Andre–Louis sat in the window embrasure, smoking and looking idly out across the river. He was intrigued and meditative. He had shocked her. The fact was clear; not so the reason. That he should confess himself nameless should not particularly injure him in the eyes of a girl reared amid the surroundings that had been Climene’s. And yet that his confession had so injured him was fully apparent.

      There, still at his brooding, the returning Columbine discovered him a half-hour later.

      “All alone, my prince!” was her laughing greeting, which suddenly threw light upon his mental darkness. Climene had been disappointed of hopes that the wild imagination of these players had suddenly erected upon the incident of his meeting with Aline. Poor child! He smiled whimsically at Columbine.

      “I am likely to be so for some little time,” said he, “until it becomes a commonplace that I am not, after all, a prince.

      “Not a prince? Oh, but a duke, then — at least a marquis.”

      “Not even a chevalier, unless it be of the order of fortune. I am just Scaramouche. My castles are all in Spain.”

      Disappointment clouded the lively, good-natured face.

      “And I had imagined you . . . ”

      “I know,” he interrupted. “That is the mischief.” He might have gauged the extent of that mischief by Climene’s conduct that evening towards the gentlemen of fashion who clustered now in the green-room between the acts to pay their homage to the incomparable amoureuse. Hitherto she had received them with a circumspection compelling respect. To-night she was recklessly gay, impudent, almost wanton.

      He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together, counselling more prudence in the future.

      “We are not married yet,” she told him, tartly. “Wait until then before you criticize my conduct.”

      “I trust that there will be no occasion then,” said he.

      “You trust? Ah, yes. You are very trusting.”

      “Climene, I have offended you. I am sorry.”

      “It is nothing,” said she. “You are what you are.” Still was he not concerned. He perceived the source of her ill-humour; understood, whilst deploring it; and, because he understood, forgave. He perceived also that her ill-humour was shared by her father, and by this he was frankly amused. Towards M. Binet a tolerant contempt was the only feeling that complete acquaintance could beget. As for the rest of the company, they were disposed to be very kindly towards Scaramouche. It was almost as if in reality he had fallen from the high estate to which their own imaginations had raised him; or possibly it was because they saw the effect which that fall from his temporary and fictitious elevation had produced upon Climene.

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