CHAPTER IX. OF HOW A WHIP PROVED A BETTER ARGUMENT THAN A TONGUE
“I crave Monsieur's pardon, but there is a gentleman below who desires to speak with you immediately.”
“How does this gentleman call himself, M. l'Hote?”
“M. le Marquis de St. Auban,” answered the landlord, still standing in the doorway.
It wanted an hour or so to noon on the day following that of St. Auban's arrival at Blois, and I was on the point of setting out for the château on an errand of warning.
It occurred to me to refuse to see the Marquis, but remembering betimes that from your enemy's speech you may sometimes learn where to look for his next attack, I thought better of it and bade my host admit him.
I strode over to the fire, and stirring the burning logs, I put my back to the blaze, and waited.
Steps sounded on the stairs; there was the shuffling of the landlord's slippered feet and the firm tread of my visitor, accompanied by the jingle of spurs and the clank of his scabbard as it struck the balustrade. Then my door was again opened, and St. Auban, as superbly dressed as ever, was admitted.
We bowed formally, as men bow who are about to cross swords, and whilst I waited for him to speak, I noted that his face was pale and bore the impress of suppressed anger.
“So, M. de Luynes, again we meet.”
“By your seeking, M. le Marquis.”
“You are not polite.”
“You are not opportune.”
He smiled dangerously.
“I learn, Monsieur, that you are a daily visitor at the Château de Canaples.”
“Well, sir, what of it?”
“This. I have been to Canaples this morning and, knowing that you will learn anon, from that old dotard, what passed between us, I prefer that you shall hear it first from me.”
I bowed to conceal a smile.
“Thanks to you, M. de Luynes, I was ordered from the house. I—César de St. Auban—have been ordered from the house of a provincial upstart! Thanks to the calumnies which you poured into his ears.”
“Calumnies! Was that the word?”
“I choose the word that suits me best,” he answered, and the rage that was in him at the affront he had suffered at the hands of the Chevalier de Canaples was fast rising to the surface. “I warned you at Choisy of what would befall. Your opposition and your alliance with M. de Mancini are futile. You think to have gained a victory by winning over to your side an old fool who will sacrifice his honour to see his daughter a duchess, but I tell you, sir—”
“That you hope to see her a marchioness,” I put in calmly. “You see, M. de St. Auban, I have learned something since I came to Blois.”
He grew livid with passion.
“You shall learn more ere you quit it, you meddler! You shall be taught to keep that long nose of yours out of matters that concern you not.”
I laughed.
“Loud threats!” I answered jeeringly.
“Never fear,” he cried, “there is more to follow. To your cost shall you learn it. By God, sir! do you think that I am to suffer a Sicilian adventurer and a broken tavern ruffler to interfere with my designs?”
Still I kept my temper.
“So!” I said in a bantering tone. “You confess that you have designs. Good! But what says the lady, eh? I am told that she is not yet outrageously enamoured of you, for all your beauty!”
Beside himself with passion, his hand sought his sword. But the gesture was spasmodic.
“Knave!” he snarled.
“Knave to me? Have a care, St. Auban, or I'll find you a shroud for a wedding garment.”
“Knave!” he repeated with a snarl. “What price are you paid by that boy?”
“Pardieu, St. Auban! You shall answer to me for this.”
“Answer for it? To you!” And he laughed harshly. “You are mad, my master. When did a St. Auban cross swords with a man of your stamp?”
“M. le Marquis,” I said, with a calmness that came of a stupendous effort, “at Choisy you sought my friendship with high-sounding talk of principles that opposed you to the proposed alliance, twixt the houses of Mancini and Canaples. Since then I have learned that your motives were purely personal. From my discovery I hold you to be a liar.”
“Monsieur!”
“I have not yet done. You refuse to cross swords with me on the pretext that you do not fight men of my stamp. I am no saint, sir, I confess. But my sins cannot wash out my name—the name of a family accounted as good as that of St. Auban, and one from which a Constable of France has sprung, whereas yours has never yet bred aught but profligates and debauchees. You are little better than I am, Marquis; indeed, you do many things that I would not do, that I have never done. For instance, whilst refusing to cross blades with me, who am a soldier and a man of the sword, you seek to pick a fight with a beardless boy who hardly knows the use of a rapier, and who—wittingly at least—has done you no wrong. Now, my master, you may call me profligate, ruffler, gamester, duellist—what you will; but there are two viler things you cannot dub me, and which, methinks, I have proven you to be—liar and craven.”
And as I spoke the burning words, I stood close up to him and tapped his breast as if to drive the epithets into his very heart.
Rage he felt, indeed, and his distorted countenance was a sight fearful to behold.
“Now, my master,” I added, setting my arms akimbo and laughing brutally in his face, “will you fight?”
For a moment he wavered, and surely meseemed that I had drawn him. Then:
“No,” he cried passionately. “I will not do dishonour to my sword.” And turning he made for the door, leaving me baffled.
“Go, sir,” I shouted, “but fame shall stalk fast behind you. Liar and craven will I dub you throughout the whole of France.”
He stopped 'neath the lintel, and faced me again.
“Fool,” he sneered. “You'll need dispatch to spread my fame so far. By this time to-morrow you'll be arrested. In three days you will be in the Bastille, and there shall you lie until you rot to carrion.”
“Loud threats again!” I laughed, hoping by the taunt to learn more.
“Loud perchance, but not empty. Learn that the Cardinal has knowledge of your association with Mancini, and means to separate you. An officer of the guards is on his way to Blois. He is at Meung by now. He bears a warrant for your arrest and delivery to the governor of the Bastille. Thereafter, none may say what will betide.” And with a coarse burst of laughter he left me, banging the door as he passed out.
For a moment I stood there stricken by his parting words. He had sought to wound me, and in this he had succeeded. But at what cost to himself? In his blind rage, the fool had shown me that which he should have zealously concealed, and what to him was but a stinging threat was to me a timely warning. I saw the necessity for immediate action. Two things must I do; kill St. Auban first, then fly the Cardinal's warrant as best I could. I cast about me for means to carry out the first of these intentions. My eye fell upon my riding-whip, lying on a chair close to my hand, and the sight of it brought me the idea I sought. Seizing it, I bounded out of the room and down the stairs, three steps at a stride.
Along the corridor I sped and into the common-room, which at the moment was tolerably full. As I entered by one door, the Marquis was within three paces of the other, leading to the courtyard.
My whip in the air, I sprang after him; and he, hearing the rush of my onslaught, turned, then uttered a cry of pain as I brought the lash caressingly about his shoulders.
“Now, master craven,” I shouted, “will that change your mind?”
With an almost inarticulate cry, he sought to draw there and then, but those about flung themselves upon us, and held us apart—I, passive and unresisting; the Marquis, bellowing, struggling, and foaming at the mouth.
“To meet you now would be to murder you, Marquis,” I said coolly. “Send your friends to me to appoint the time.”
“Soit!” he cried, his eyes blazing with a hate unspeakable. “At eight to-morrow morning I shall await you on the green behind the castle of Blois.”
“At eight o'clock I shall be there,” I answered. “And now, gentlemen, if you will unhand me, I will return to my apartments.”
They let me go, but with many a growl and angry look, for in their eyes I was no more than a coarse aggressor, whilst their sympathy was all for St. Auban.
CHAPTER X. THE CONSCIENCE OF MALPERTUIS
And so back to my room I went, my task accomplished, and so pleased was I with what had passed that as I drew on my boots—preparing to set out to Canaples—I laughed softly to myself.
St. Auban I would dispose of in the morning. As for the other members of the cabal, I deemed neither Vilmorin nor Malpertuis sufficiently formidable to inspire uneasiness. St. Auban gone, they too would vanish. There remained then Eugène de Canaples. Him, however, methought no great evil was to be feared from. In Paris he might be as loud-voiced as he pleased, but in his father's château—from what I had learned—'t was unlikely he would so much as show himself. Moreover, he was wounded, and before he had sufficiently recovered to offer interference it was more than probable that Andrea would have married one or the other of Mesdemoiselles de Canaples—though I had a shrewd suspicion that it would be the wrong one, and there again I feared trouble.
As I stood up, booted and ready to descend, there came a gentle tap at my door, and, in answer to my “Enter,” there stood before me a very dainty and foppish figure. I stared hard at the effeminate face and the long fair locks of my visitor, thinking that I had become the dupe of my eyes.
“M. de Vilmorin!” I murmured in astonishment, as he came forward, having closed the door. “You here?”
In answer, he bowed and greeted me with cold ceremoniousness.
“I have been in Blois since yesterday, Monsieur.”
“In truth I might have guessed it, Vicomte. Your visit flatters me, for, of course, I take it, you are come to pay me your respects,” I said ironically. “A glass of wine, Vicomte?”
“A thousand thanks, Monsieur—no,” he answered coldly in his mincing tones. “It is concerning your affair with M. le Marquis de St. Auban that I am come.” And drawing forth a dainty kerchief, which filled the room with the scent of ambregris, he tapped his lips with it affectedly.
“Do you come as friend or—in some other capacity?”
“I come as mediator.”
“Mediator!” I echoed, and my brow grew dark. “Sdeath! Has St. Auban's courage lasted just so long as the sting of my whip?”
He raised his eyebrows after a supercilious fashion that made me thirst to strike the chair from under him.
“You misapprehend me; M. de St. Auban has no desire to avert the duel. On the contrary, he will not rest until the affront you have put upon him be washed out—”
“It will be, I'll answer for it.”
“Your answer, sir, is characteristic of a fanfarron. He who promises most does not always fulfil most.”
I stared at him in amazement.
“Shall I promise you something, Vicomte? Mortdieu! If you seek to pick a quarrel with me—”
“God forbid!” he ejaculated, turning colour. And his suddenly awakened apprehensions swept aside the affectation that hitherto had marked his speech and manner.
“Then, Monsieur, be brief and state the sum of this mediation.”
“It is this, Monsieur. In the heat of the moment, M. le Marquis gave you, in the hearing of half a score of people, an assignation for to-morrow morning. News of the affair will spread rapidly through Blois, and it is likely there will be no lack of spectators on the green to witness the encounter. Therefore, as my friend thinks this will be as unpalatable to you as it is to him, he has sent me to suggest a fresh rendezvous.”
“Pooh, sir,” I answered lightly. “I care not, for myself, who comes. I am accustomed to a crowd. Still, since M. de St. Auban finds it discomposing, let us arrange otherwise.”
“There is yet another point. M. de St. Auban spoke to you, I believe, of an officer who is coming hither charged with your arrest. It is probable that he may reach Blois before morning, so that the Marquis thinks that to make certain you might consent to meet him to-night.”
“Ma foi. St. Auban is indeed in earnest then! Convey to him my expressions of admiration at this suddenly awakened courage. Be good enough, Vicomte, to name the rendezvous.”
“Do you know the chapel of St. Sulpice des Reaux?”
“What! Beyond the Loire?”
“Precisely, Monsieur. About a league from Chambord by the river side.”
“I can find the place.”
“Will you meet us there at nine o'clock tonight?”
I looked askance at him.
“But why cross the river? This side affords many likely spots!”
“Very true, Monsieur. But the Marquis has business at Chambord this evening, after which there will be no reason—indeed, it will inconvenience him exceedingly—to return to Blois.”
“What!” I cried, more and more astonished. “St. Auban is leaving Blois?”
“This evening, sir.”
“But, voyons, Vicomte, why make an assignation in such a place and at night, when at any hour of the day I can meet the Marquis on this side, without suffering the inconvenience of crossing the river?”
“There will be a bright moon, well up by nine o'clock. Moreover, remember that you cannot, as you say, meet St. Auban on this side at any time he may appoint, since to-night or to-morrow the officer who is in search of you will arrive.”
I pondered for a moment. Then:
“M. le Vicomte,” I said, “in this matter of ground 't is I who have the first voice.”
“How so?”
“Because the Marquis is the affronted one.”
“Therefore he has a right to choose.”
“A right, yes. But that is not enough. The necessity to fight is on his side. His honour is hurt, not mine; I have whipped him; I am content. Now let him come to me.”
“Assuredly you will not be so ungenerous.”
“I do not care about journeying to Reaux to afford him satisfaction.”
“Does Monsieur fear anything?”
“Vicomte, you go too far!” I cried, my pride gaining the mastery. “Since it is asked of me,—I will go.”
“M. le Marquis will be grateful to you.”
“A fig for his gratitude,” I answered, whereupon the Vicomte shrugged his narrow shoulders, and, his errand done, took his leave of me.
When he was gone I called Michelot, to tell him of the journey I must go that night, so that he might hold himself in readiness.
“Why—if Monsieur will pardon me,” quoth he, “do you go to meet the Marquis de St. Auban at St. Sulpice des Reaux by night?”
“Precisely what I asked Vilmorin. The Marquis desires it, and—what will you?—since I am going to kill the man, I can scarce do less than kill him on a spot of his own choosing.”
Michelot screwed up his face and scratched at his grey beard with his huge hand.
“Does no suspicion of foul play cross your mind, Monsieur?” he inquired timidly.
“Shame on you, Michelot,” I returned with some heat. “You do not yet understand the ways of gentlemen. Think you that M. de St. Auban would stoop to such a deed as that? He would be shamed for ever! Pooh, I would as soon suspect my Lord Cardinal of stealing the chalices from Nôtre Dame. Go, see to my horse. I am riding to Canaples.”
As I rode out towards the château I fell to thinking, and my thoughts turning to Vilmorin, I marvelled at the part he was playing in this little comedy of a cabal against Andrea de Mancini. His tastes and instincts were of the boudoir, the ante-chamber, and the table. He wore a sword because it was so ordained by fashion, and because the hilt was convenient for the display of a jewel or two. Certainly 't was not for utility that it hung beside him, and no man had ever seen it drawn. Nature had made him the most pitiable coward begotten. Why then should he involve himself in an affair which promised bloodshed, and which must be attended by many a risk for him? There was in all this some mystery that I could not fathom.
From the course into which they had slipped, my thoughts were diverted, when I was within half a mile of the château, by the sight of a horseman stationed, motionless, among the trees that bordered the road. It occurred to me that men take not such a position without purpose—usually an evil one. I slackened speed somewhat and rode on, watching him sharply. As I came up, he walked his horse forward to meet me, and I beheld a man in the uniform of the gardes du corps, in whom presently I recognised the little sparrow Malpertuis, with whom I had exchanged witticisms at Choisy. He was the one man wanting to complete the trinity that had come upon us at the inn of the Connétable.
It flashed across my mind that he might be the officer charged with my arrest, and that he had arrived sooner than had been expected. If so, it was likely to go ill with him, for I was not minded to be taken until St. Auban's soul sped hellwards.
He hailed me as I advanced, and indeed rode forward to meet me.
“You are come at last, M. de Luynes,” was his greeting. “I have waited for you this hour past.”
“How knew you I should ride this way?”
“I learnt that you would visit Canaples before noon. Be good enough to quit the road, and pass under those trees with me. I have something to say to you, but it were not well that we should be seen together.”
“For the sake of your character or mine, M. Malappris?”
“Malpertuis!” he snapped.
“Malpertuis,” I corrected. “You were saying that we should not be seen together.”
“St. Auban might hear of it.”
“Ah! And therefore?”
“You shall learn.” We were now under the trees, which albeit leafless yet screened us partly from the road. He drew rein, and I followed his example.
“M. de Luynes,” he began, “I am or was a member of the cabal formed against Mazarin's aims in the matter of the marriage of Mademoiselle de Canaples to his nephew. I joined hands with St. Auban, lured by his protestations that it is not meet that such an heiress as Yvonne de Canaples should be forced to marry a foreigner of no birth and less distinction, whilst France holds so many noble suitors to her hand. This motive, by which I know that even Eugène de Canaples was actuated, was, St. Auban gave me to understand, his only one for embarking upon this business, as it was also Vilmorin's. Now, M. de Luynes, I have today discovered that I had been duped by St. Auban and his dupe, Vilmorin. St. Auban lied to me; another motive brings him into the affair. He seeks himself, by any means that may present themselves, to marry Yvonne—and her estates; whilst the girl, I am told, loathes him beyond expression. Vilmorin again is actuated by no less a purpose. And so, what think you these two knaves—this master knave and his dupe—have determined? To carry off Mademoiselle by force!”
“Sangdieu!” I burst out, and would have added more, but his gesture silenced me, and he continued:
“Vilmorin believes that St. Auban is helping him in this, whereas St. Auban is but fooling him with ambiguous speeches until they have the lady safe. Then might will assert itself, and St. Auban need but show his fangs to drive the sneaking coward away from the prize he fondly dreams is to be his.”
“When do these gentlemen propose to carry out their plan? Have they determined that?” I inquired breathlessly.
“Aye, they have. They hope to accomplish it this very day. Mademoiselle de Canaples has received a letter wherein she is asked to meet her anonymous writer in the coppice yonder, at the Angelus this evening, if she would learn news of great importance to her touching a conspiracy against her father.”
“Faugh!” I sneered. “'T is too poor a bait to lure her with.”
“Say you so? Believe me that unless she be dissuaded she will comply with the invitation, so cunningly was the letter couched. A closed carriage will be waiting at this very spot. Into this St. Auban, Vilmorin, and their bravos will thrust the girl, then away through Blois and beyond it, for a mile or so, in the direction of Meung, thereby misleading any chance pursuers. There they will quit the coach and take a boat that is to be in waiting for them and which will bear them back with the stream to Chambord. Thereafter, God pity the poor lady if they get thus far without mishap.”
“Mort de ma vie!” I cried, slapping my thigh, “I understand!” And to myself I thought of the assignation at St. Sulpice des Reaux, and the reason for this, as also St. Auban's resolution to so suddenly quit Blois, grew of a sudden clear to me. Also did I recall the riddle touching Vilmorin's conduct which a few moments ago I had puzzled over, and of which methought that I now held the solution.
“What do you understand?” asked Malpertuis.
“Something that was told me this morning,” I made answer, then spoke of gratitude, wherein he cut me short.
“I ask no thanks,” he said curtly. “You owe me none. What I have done is not for love of you or Mancini—for I love neither of you. It is done because noblesse m'oblige. I told St. Auban that I would have no part in this outrage. But that is not enough; I owe it to my honour to attempt the frustration of so dastardly a plan. You, M. de Luynes, appear to be the most likely person to encompass this, in the interests of your friend Mancini; I leave the matter, therefore, in your hands. Goodday!”
And with this abrupt leave-taking, the little fellow doffed his hat to me, and wheeling his horse he set spurs in its flanks, and was gone before a word of mine could have stayed him.
CHAPTER XI. OF A WOMAN'S OBSTINACY
“M. de Luynes is a wizard,” quoth Andrea, laughing, in answer to something that had been said.
It was afternoon. We had dined, and the bright sunshine and spring-like mildness of the weather had lured us out upon the terrace. Yvonne and Geneviève occupied the stone seat. Andrea had perched himself upon the granite balustrade, and facing them he sat, swinging his shapely legs to and fro as he chatted merrily, whilst on either side of him stood the Chevalier de Canaples and I.
“If M. de Luynes be as great a wizard in other things as with the sword, then, pardieu, he is a fearful magician,” said Canaples.
I bowed, yet not so low but that I detected a sneer on Yvonne's lips.
“So, pretty lady,” said I to myself, “we shall see if presently your lip will curl when I show you something of my wizard's art.”
And presently my chance came. M. de Canaples found reason to leave us, and no sooner was he gone than Geneviève remembered that she had that day discovered a budding leaf upon one of the rose bushes in the garden below. Andrea naturally caused an argument by asserting that she was the victim of her fancy, as it was by far too early in the year. By that means these two found the plea they sought for quitting us, since neither could rest until the other was convinced.
So down they went into that rose garden which methought was like to prove their fool's paradise, and Yvonne and I were left alone. Then she also rose, but as she was on the point of quitting me:
“Mademoiselle,” I ventured, “will you honour me by remaining for a moment? There is something that I would say to you.”
With raised eyebrows she gave me a glance mingled with that superciliousness which she was for ever bestowing upon me, and which, from the monotony of it alone, grew irksome.
“What can you have to say to me, M. de Luynes?”
“Will you not be seated? I shall not long detain you, nevertheless—”
“If I stand, perchance you will be more brief. I am waiting, Monsieur.”
I shrugged my shoulders rudely. Why, indeed, be courteous where so little courtesy was met with?
“A little while ago, Mademoiselle, when M. de Mancini dubbed me a wizard you were good enough to sneer. Now, a sneer, Mademoiselle, implies unbelief, and I would convince you that you were wrong to disbelieve.”
“If you have no other motive for detaining me, suffer me to depart,” she interrupted with some warmth. “Whether you be a wizard or not is of no moment to me.”
“And yet I dare swear that you will be of a different mind within five minutes. A wizard is one who discloses things unknown to his fellow-men. I am about to convince you that I can do this, and by convincing you I am about to serve you.”
“I seek neither conviction nor service at your hands,” she answered.
“Your courtesy dumfounds me, Mademoiselle!”
“No less than does your insolence dumfound me,” she retorted, with crimson cheeks. “Do you forget, sir, that I know you for what you are—a gamester, a libertine, a duellist, the murderer of my brother?”
“That your brother lives, Mademoiselle, is, methinks, sufficient proof that I have not murdered him.”
“You willed his death if you did not encompass it; so 't is all one. Do you not understand that it is because my father receives you here, thanks to M. de Mancini, your friend—a friendship easily understood from the advantages you must derive from it—that I consent to endure your presence and the insult of your glance? Is it not enough that I should do this, and have you not wit enough to discern it, without adding to my shame by your insolent call upon my courtesy?”
Her words cut me as no words that I ever heard, and, more than her words, her tone of loathing and disgust unspeakable. For half that speech I should have killed a man—indeed, I had killed men for less than half. And yet, for all the passion that raged in my soul, I preserved upon my countenance a smiling mask. That smile exhausted her patience and increased her loathing, for with a contemptuous exclamation she turned away.
“Tarry but a moment, Mademoiselle,” I cried, with a sudden note of command. “Or, if you will go, go then; but take with you my assurance that before nightfall you will weep bitterly for it.”
My words arrested her. The mystery of them awakened her curiosity.
“You speak in riddles, Monsieur.”
“Like a true wizard, Mademoiselle. You received a letter this morning in a handwriting unknown, and bearing no signature.”
She wheeled round and faced me again with a little gasp of astonishment.
“How know you that? Ah! I understand; you wrote it!”
“What shrewdness, Mademoiselle!” I laughed, ironically. “Come; think again. What need have I to bid you meet me in the coppice yonder? May I not speak freely with you here?”
“You know the purport of that letter?”
“I do, Mademoiselle, and I know more. I know that this hinted conspiracy against your father is a trumped-up lie to lure you to the coppice.”
“And for what purpose, pray?”
“An evil one,—your abduction. Shall I tell you who penned that note, and who awaits you? The Marquis César de St. Auban.”
She shuddered as I pronounced the name, then, looking me straight between the eyes—“How come you to know these things?” she inquired.
“What does it signify, since I know them?”
“This, Monsieur, that unless I learn how, I can attach no credit to your preposterous story.”
“Not credit it!” I cried. “Let me assure you that I have spoken the truth; let me swear it. Go to the coppice at the appointed time, and things will fall out as I have predicted.”
“Again, Monsieur, how know you this?” she persisted, as women will.
“I may not tell you.”
We stood close together, and her clear grey eyes met mine, her lip curling in disdain.
“You may not tell me? You need not. I can guess.” And she tossed her shapely head and laughed. “Seek some likelier story, Monsieur. Had you not spoken of it, 't is likely I should have left the letter unheeded. But your disinterested warning has determined me to go to this rendezvous. Shall I tell you what I have guessed? That this conspiracy against my father, the details of which you would not have me learn, is some evil of your own devising. Ah! You change colour!” she cried, pointing to my face. Then with a laugh of disdain she left me before I had sufficiently recovered from my amazement to bid her stay.
“Ciel!” I cried, as I watched the tall, lissom figure vanish through the portals of the château. “Did ever God create so crass and obstinate a thing as woman?”
It occurred to me to tell Andrea, and bid him warn her. But then she would guess that I had prompted him. Naught remained but to lay the matter before the Chevalier de Canaples. Already I had informed him of my fracas with St. Auban, and of the duel that was to be fought that night, and he, in his turn, had given me the details of his stormy interview with the Marquis, which had culminated in St. Auban's dismissal from Canaples. I had not hitherto deemed it necessary to alarm him with the news imparted to me by Malpertuis, imagining that did I inform Mademoiselle that would suffice.
Now, however, as I have said, no other course was left me but to tell him of it. Accordingly, I went within and inquired of Guilbert, whom I met in the hall, where I might find the Chevalier. He answered me that M. de Canaples was not in the château. It was believed that he had gone with M. Louis, the intendant of the estates, to visit the vineyards at Montcroix.
The news made me choke with impatience. Already it was close upon five o'clock, and in another hour the sun would set and the Angelus would toll the knell of Mademoiselle's preposterous suspicions, unless in the meantime I had speech with Canaples, and led him to employ a father's authority to keep his daughter indoors.
Fuming at the contretemps I called for my horse and set out at a brisk trot for Montcroix. But my ride was fruitless. The vineyard peasants had not seen the Chevalier for over a week.
Now, 'twixt Montcroix and the château there lies a good league, and to make matters worse, as I galloped furiously back to Canaples, an evil chance led me to mistake the way and pursue a track that brought me out on the very banks of the river, with a strong belt of trees screening the château from sight, and defying me to repair my error by going straight ahead.
I was forced to retrace my steps, and before I had regained the point where I had gone astray a precious quarter of an hour was wasted, and the sun already hung, a dull red globe, on the brink of the horizon.
Clenching my teeth, I tore at my horse's flanks, and with a bloody heel I drove the maddened brute along at a pace that might have cost us both dearly. I dashed, at last, into the quadrangle, and, throwing the reins to a gaping groom, I sprang up the steps.
“Has the Chevalier returned?” I gasped breathlessly.
“Not yet, Monsieur,” answered Guilbert with a tranquillity that made me desire to strangle him. “Is Mademoiselle in the château?” was my next question, mechanically asked.
“I saw her on the terrace some moments ago. She has not since come within.”
Like one possessed I flew across the intervening room and out on to the terrace. Geneviève and Andrea were walking there, deep in conversation. At another time I might have cursed their lack of prudence. At the moment I did not so much as remark it.
“Where is Mademoiselle de Canaples?” I burst out.
They gazed at me, as much astounded by my question and the abruptness of it as by my apparent agitation.
“Has anything happened?” inquired Geneviève, her blue eyes wide open.
“Yes—no; naught has happened. Tell me where she is. I must speak to her.”
“She was here a while ago,” said Andrea, “but she left us to stroll along the river bank.”
“How long is it since she left you?”
“A quarter of an hour, perhaps.”
“Something has happened!” cried Geneviève, and added more, maybe, but I waited not to hear.
Muttering curses as I ran—for 't was my way to curse where pious souls might pray—I sped back to the quadrangle and my horse.
“Follow me,” I shouted to the groom, “you and as many of your fellows as you can find. Follow me at once—at once, mark you—to the coppice by the river.” And without waiting for his answer, I sent my horse thundering down the avenue. The sun was gone, leaving naught but a roseate streak to tell of its passage, and at that moment a distant bell tinkled forth the Angelus.
With whip, spur, and imprecations I plied my steed, a prey to such excitement as I had never known until that moment—not even in the carnage of battle.
I had no plan. My mind was a chaos of thought without a single clear idea to light it, and I never so much as bethought me that single-handled I was about to attempt to wrest Yvonne from the hands of perchance half a dozen men. To save time I did not far pursue the road, but, clearing a hedge, I galloped ventre-à-terre across the meadow towards the little coppice by the waterside. As I rode I saw no sign of any moving thing. No sound disturbed the evening stillness save the dull thump of my horse's hoofs upon the turf, and a great fear arose in my heart that I might come too late.
At last I reached the belt of trees, and my fears grew into certainty. The place was deserted.
Then a fresh hope sprang up. Perchance, thinking of my warning, she had seen the emptiness of her suspicions towards me, and had pursued that walk of hers in another direction.
But when I had penetrated to the little open space within that cluster of naked trees, I had proof overwhelming that the worst had befallen. Not only on the moist ground was stamped the impress of struggling feet, but on a branch I found a strip of torn green velvet, and, remembering the dress she had worn that day, I understood to the full the significance of that rag, and, understanding it, I groaned aloud.
CHAPTER XII. THE RESCUE
Some precious moments did I waste standing with that green rag betwixt my fingers, and I grew sick and numb in body and in mind. She was gone! Carried off by a man I had reason to believe she hated, and whom God send she might have no motive to hate more deeply hereafter!
The ugly thought swelled until it blotted out all others, and in its train there came a fury upon me that drove me to do by instinct that which earlier I should have done by reason. I climbed back into the saddle, and away across the meadow I went, journeying at an angle with the road, my horse's head turned in the direction of Blois. That road at last was gained, and on I thundered at a stretched gallop, praying that my hard-used beast might last until the town was reached.
Now, as I have already said, I am not a man who easily falls a prey to excitement. It may have beset me in the heat of battle, when the fearsome lust of blood and death makes of every man a raving maniac, thrilled with mad joy at every stab he deals, and laughing with fierce passion at every blow he takes, though in the taking of it his course be run. But, saving at such wild times, never until then could I recall having been so little master of myself. There was a fever in me; all hell was in my blood, and, stranger still, and hitherto unknown at any season, there was a sickly fear that mastered me, and drew out great beads of sweat upon my brow. Fear for myself I have never known, for at no time has life so pampered me that the thought of parting company with it concerned me greatly. Fear for another I had not known till then—saving perchance the uneasiness that at times I had felt touching Andrea—because never yet had I sufficiently cared.
Thus far my thoughts took me, as I rode, and where I have halted did they halt, and stupidly I went over their ground again, like one who gropes for something in the dark,—because never yet had I sufficiently cared—I had never cared.
And then, ah Dieu! As I turned the thought over I understood, and, understanding, I pursued the sentence where I had left off.
But, caring at last, I was sick with fear of what might befall the one I cared for! There lay the reason of the frenzied excitement whereof I had become the slave. That it was that had brought the moisture to my brow and curses to my lips; that it was that had caused me instinctively to thrust the rag of green velvet within my doublet.
Ciel! It was strange—aye, monstrous strange, and a right good jest for fate to laugh at—that I, Gaston de Luynes, vile ruffler and worthless spadassin, should have come to such a pass; I, whose forefinger had for the past ten years uptilted the chin of every tavern wench I had chanced upon; I, whose lips had never known the touch of other than the lips of these; I, who had thought my heart long dead to tenderness and devotion, or to any fondness save the animal one for my ignoble self. Yet there I rode as if the Devil had me for a quarry,—panting, sweating, cursing, and well-nigh sobbing with rage at a fear that I might come too late,—all because of a proud lady who knew me for what I was and held me in contempt because of her knowledge; all for a lady who had not the kindness for me that one might spare a dog—who looked on me as something not good to see.
Since there was no one to whom I might tell my story that he might mock me, I mocked myself—with a laugh that startled passers-by and which, coupled with the crazy pace at which I dashed into Blois, caused them, I doubt not, to think me mad. Nor were they wrong, for mad indeed I deemed myself.
That I trampled no one underfoot in my furious progress through the streets is a miracle that passes my understanding.
In the courtyard of the Lys de France I drew rein at last with a tug that brought my shuddering brute on to his haunches and sent those who stood about flying into the shelter of the doorways.
“Another horse!” I shouted as I sprang to the ground. “Another horse at once!”
Then as I turned to inquire for Michelot, I espied him leaning stolidly against the portecochère.
“How long have you been there, Michelot?” I asked.
“Half an hour, mayhap.”
“Saw you a closed carriage pass?”
“Ten minutes ago I saw one go by, followed by M. de St. Auban and a gentleman who greatly resembled M. de Vilmorin, besides an escort of four of the most villainous knaves—”
“That is the one,” I broke in. “Quick, Michelot! Arm yourself and get your horse; I have need of you. Come, knave, move yourself!”
At the end of a few minutes we set out at a sharp trot, leaving the curious ones whom my loud-voiced commands had assembled, to speculate upon the meaning of so much bustle. Once clear of the township we gave the reins to our horses, and our trot became a gallop as we travelled along the road to Meung, with the Loire on our right. And as we went I briefly told Michelot what was afoot, interlarding my explanations with prayers that we might come upon the kidnappers before they crossed the river, and curses at the flying pace of our mounts, which to my anxious mind seemed slow.
At about a mile from Blois the road runs over an undulation of the ground that is almost a hill. From the moment that I had left Canaples as the Angelus was ringing, until the moment when our panting horses gained the brow of that little eminence, only half an hour had sped. Still in that half-hour the tints had all but faded from the sky, and the twilight shadows grew thicker around us with every moment. Yet not so thick had they become but that I could see a coach at a standstill in the hollow, some three hundred yards beneath us, and, by it, half a dozen horses, of which four were riderless and held by the two men who were still mounted. Then, breathlessly scanning the field between the road and the river, I espied five persons, half way across, and at the same distance from the water that we were from the coach. Two men, whom I supposed to be St. Auban and Vilmorin, were forcing along a woman, whose struggles, feeble though they appeared—yet retarded their progress in some measure. Behind them walked two others, musket on shoulder.
I pointed them out to Michelot with a soft cry of joy. We were in time!
Following with my eyes the course they appeared to be pursuing I saw by the bank a boat, in which two men were waiting. Again I pointed, this time to the boat.
“Over the hedge, Michelot!” I cried. “We must ride in a straight line for the water and so intercept them. Follow me.”
Over the hedge we went, and down the gentle slope at as round a pace as the soft ground would with safety allow. I had reckoned upon being opposed to six or even eight men, whereas there were but four, one of whom I knew was hardly to be reckoned. Doubtless St. Auban had imagined himself safe from pursuit when he left two of his bravos with the horses, probably to take them on to Meung, and there cross with them and rejoin him. Two more, I doubted not, were those seated at the oars.
I laughed to myself as I took in all this, but, even as I laughed, those in the field stood still, and sent up a shout that told me we had been perceived.
“On, Michelot, on!” I shouted, spurring my horse forward. Then, in answer to their master's call, the two ruffians who had been doing duty as grooms came pounding into the field.
“Ride to meet them, Michelot!” I cried. Obediently he wheeled to the left, and I caught the swish of his sword as it left the scabbard.
St. Auban was now hurrying towards the river with his party. Already they were but fifty yards from the boat, and a hundred still lay between him and me. Furiously I pressed onward, and presently but half the distance separated us, whilst they were still some thirty yards from their goal.
Then his two bravos faced round to meet me, and one, standing some fifty paces in advance of the other, levelled his musket and fired. But in his haste he aimed too high; the bullet carried away my hat, and before the smoke had cleared I was upon him. I had drawn a pistol from my holster, but it was not needed; my horse passed over him before he could save himself from my fearful charge.
In the fast-fading light a second musket barrel shone, and I saw the second ruffian taking aim at me with not a dozen yards between us. With the old soldier's instinct I wrenched at the reins till I brought my horse on to his haunches. It was high time, for simultaneously with my action the fellow blazed at me, and the scream of pain that broke from my steed told me that the poor brute had taken the bullet. With a bound that carried me forward some six paces, the animal sank, quivering, to the ground. I disengaged my feet from the stirrups as he fell, but the shock of it sent me rolling on the ground, and the ruffian, seeing me fallen, sprang forward, swinging his musket up above his head. I dodged the murderous downward stroke, and as the stock buried itself close beside me in the soft earth I rose on one knee and with a grim laugh I raised my pistol. I brought the muzzle within a hand's breadth of his face, then fired and shot him through the head. Perchance you'll say it was a murderous, cruel stroke: mayhap it was, but at such seasons men stay not to unravel niceties, but strike ere they themselves be stricken.
Leaping over the twitching corpse, I got out my sword and sprang after St. Auban, who, with Vilmorin and Yvonne, careless of what might betide his followers, was now within ten paces of the boat.
Pistol shots cracked behind me, and I wondered how Michelot was faring, but dared not pause to look.
The twain in the boat stood up, wielding their great oars, and methought them on the point of coming to their master's aid, in which case my battle had truly been a lost one. But that craven Vilmorin did me good service then, for with a cry of fear at my approach, he abandoned his hold of Yvonne, whose struggles were keeping both the men back; thus freed, he fled towards the boat, and jumping in, he shouted to the men in his shrill, quavering voice, to put off. Albeit they disobeyed him contemptuously and waited for the Marquis; still they did not leave the boat, fearing, no doubt, that if they did so the coward would put off alone.
As for St. Auban, Vilmorin's flight left him unequal to the task of dragging the girl along. She dug her heels into the ground, and, tug as he might, for all that he set both hands to work, he could not move her. In this plight I came upon him, and challenged him to stand and face me.
With a bunch of oaths he got out his sword, but in doing so he was forced to remove one of his hands from the girl's arm. Seizing the opportunity with a ready wit and courage seldom found in women of her quality, she twisted herself from the grip of his left hand, and came staggering towards me for protection, holding up her pinioned wrists. With my blade I severed the cord, whereupon she plucked the gag from her mouth, and sank against my side, her struggles having left her weak indeed.
As I set my arm about her waist to support her, my heart seemed to swell within me, and strange melodies shaped themselves within my soul.
St. Auban bore down upon me with a raucous oath, but the glittering point of my rapier danced before his eyes and drove him back again.
“To me, Vilmorin, you cowardly cur!” he shouted. “To me, you dogs!”
He let fly at them a volley of blood-curdling oaths, then, without waiting to see if they obeyed him, he came at me again, and our swords met.
“Courage, Mademoiselle,” I whispered, as a sigh that was almost a groan escaped her. “Have no fear.”
But that fight was not destined to be fought, for, as again we engaged, there came the fall of running feet behind me. It flashed across my mind that Michelot had been worsted, and that my back was about to be assailed. But in St. Auban's face I saw, as in a mirror, that he who came was Michelot.
“Mort de Christ!” snarled the Marquis, springing back beyond my reach. “What can a man do with naught but fools and poltroons to serve him? Faugh! We will continue our sword-play at St. Sulpice des Reaux to-night. Au revoir, M. de Luynes!”
Turning, he sheathed his sword, and, running down to the river, bounded into the boat, where I heard him reviling Vilmorin with every foul name he could call to mind.
My blood was aflame, and I was not minded to wait for our meeting at Reaux. Consigning Mademoiselle to the care of Michelot, who stood panting and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, I turned back to my dead horse, and plucking the remaining pistol from the holster I ran down to the very edge of the water. The boat was not ten yards from shore, and my action had been unheeded by St. Auban, who was standing in the stern.
Kneeling I took careful aim at him, and as God lives, I would have saved much trouble that was to follow had I been allowed to fire. But at that moment a hand was laid upon my arm, and Yvonne's sweet voice murmured in my ear:
“You have fought a brave and gallant fight, M. de Luynes, and you have done a deed of which the knights of old might have been proud. Do not mar it by an act of murder.”
“Murder, Mademoiselle!” I gasped, letting my hand fall. “Surely there is no murder in this!”
“A suspicion of it, I think, and so brave a man should have clean hands.”