With what fictions I could call to mind I put off Andrea's questions touching the peculiar fashion of St. Auban's leave-taking. Tell him the truth and expose to him the situation whereof he was himself the unconscious centre I dared not, lest his high-spirited impetuosity should cause him to take into his own hands the reins of the affair, and thus drive himself into irreparable disaster.
Andrea himself showed scant concern, however, and was luckily content with my hurriedly invented explanations; his thoughts had suddenly found occupation in another and a gentler theme than the ill-humour of men, and presently his tongue betrayed them when he drew the conversation to the ladies to whom he had resigned his apartments.
“Pardieu! Gaston,” he burst out, “she is a lovely maid—saw you ever a bonnier?”
“Indeed she is very beautiful,” I answered, laughing to myself at the thought of how little he dreamt that it was of Yvonne St. Albaret de Canaples that he spoke, and not minded for the while to enlighten him.
“If she be as kind and gentle as she is beautiful, Gaston, well—Uncle Giulio's plans are likely to suffer shipwreck. I shall not leave Choisy until I have spoken to her; in fact, I shall not leave until she leaves.”
“Nevertheless, we shall still be able to set out, as we had projected, after dining, for in an hour, or two at most, they will proceed on their journey.”
He was silent for some moments, then:
“To the devil with the Cardinal's plans!” quoth he, banging his fist on the table. “I shall not go to Blois.”
“Pooh! Why not?”
“Why not?” He halted for a moment, then in a meandering tone—“You have read perchance in story-books,” he said, “of love being born from the first meeting of two pairs of eyes, as a spark is born of flint and steel, and you may have laughed at the conceit, as I have laughed at it. But laugh no more, Gaston; for I who stand before you am one who has experienced this thing which poets tell of, and which hitherto I have held in ridicule. I will not go to Blois because—because—enfin, because I intend to go where she goes.”
“Then, mon cher, you will go to Blois. You will go to Blois, if not as a dutiful nephew, resigned to obey his reverend uncle's wishes, at least because fate forces you to follow a pair of eyes that have—hum, what was it you said they did?”
“Do you say that she is going to Blois? How do you know?”
“Eh? How do I know? Oh, I heard her servant speaking with the hostler.”
“So much the better, then; for thus if his Eminence gets news of my whereabouts, the news will not awaken his ever-ready suspicions. Ciel! How beautiful she is! Noted you her eyes, her skin, and what hair, mon Dieu! Like threads of gold!”
“Like threads of gold?” I echoed. “You are dreaming, boy. Oh, St. Gris! I understand; you are speaking of the fair-haired chit that was with her.”
He eyed me in amazement.
“'T is you whose thoughts are wandering to that lanky, nose-in-the-air Madame who accompanied her.”
I began a laugh that I broke off suddenly as I realised that it was not Yvonne after all who had imprisoned his wits. The Cardinal's plans were, indeed, likely to miscarry if he persisted thus.
“But 't was the nose-in-the-air Madame, as you call her, with whom you spoke!”
“Aye, but it was the golden-haired lady that held my gaze. Pshaw! Who would mention them in a breath?”
“Who, indeed?” said I, but with a different meaning.
Thereafter, seeing him listless, I suggested a turn in the village to stretch our limbs before dining. But he would have none of it, and when I pressed the point with sound reasoning touching the benefits which health may cull from exercise, he grew petulant as a wayward child. She might descend whilst he was absent. Indeed, she might require some slight service that lay, perchance, in his power to render her. What an opportunity would he not lose were he abroad? She might even depart before we returned; and than that no greater calamity could just then befall him. No, he would not stir a foot from the inn. A fig for exercise! to the devil with health! who sought an appetite? Not he. He wished for no appetite—could contrive no base and vulgar appetite for food, whilst his soul, he swore, was being consumed by the overwhelming, all-effacing appetite to behold her.
Such meandering fools are most of us at nineteen, when the heart is young—a flawless mirror ready to hold the image of the first fair maid that looks into it through our eyes, and as ready—Heaven knows!—to relinquish it when the substance is withdrawn.
But I, who was not nineteen, and the mirror of whose heart—to pursue my metaphor—was dulled, warped, and cracked with much illusage, grew sick of the boy's enthusiasm and the monotony of a conversation which I could divert into no other channel from that upon which it had been started by a little slip of a girl with hair of gold and sapphire eyes—I use Andrea's words. And so I rose, and bidding him take root in the tavern, if so it pleased his fancy, I left him there.
Wrapped in my cloak, for the air was raw and damp, I strode aimlessly along, revolving in my mind what had befallen at the Connétable that morning, and speculating upon the issue that this quaint affair might have. In matters of love, or rather, of matrimony—which is not quite the same thing—opposition is common enough. But the opposers are usually members of either of the interested families. Now the families—that is to say, the heads of the families—being agreed and even anxious to bring about the union of Yvonne de Canaples and Andrea de Mancini, it was something new to have a cabal of persons who, from motives of principle—as St. Auban had it—should oppose the alliance so relentlessly as to even resort to violence if no other means occurred to them. It seemed vastly probable that Andrea would be disposed of by a knife in the back, and more than probable that a like fate would be reserved for me, since I had constituted myself his guardian angel. For my own part, however, I had a pronounced distaste to ending my days in so unostentatious a fashion. I had also a notion that I should prove an exceedingly difficult person to assassinate, and that those who sought to slip a knife into me would find my hide peculiarly tough, and my hand peculiarly ready to return the compliment.
So deeply did I sink into ponderings of this character that it was not until two hours afterwards that I again found myself drawing near the Connétable.
I reached the inn to find by the door a coach, and by that coach Andrea; he stood bareheaded, despite the cold, conversing, with all outward semblances of profound respect, with those within it.
So engrossed was he and so ecstatic, that my approach was unheeded, and when presently I noted that the coach was Mademoiselle de Canaples's, I ceased to wonder at the boy's unconsciousness of what took place around him.
Clearly the farrier had been found at last, and the horse shod afresh during my absence. Loath to interrupt so pretty a scene, I waited, aloof, until these adieux should be concluded, and whilst I waited there came to me from the carriage a sweet, musical voice that was not Yvonne's.
“May we not learn at least, Monsieur, the name of the gentleman to whose courtesy we are indebted for having spent the past two hours without discomfort?”
“My name, Mademoiselle, is Andrea de Mancini, that of the humblest of your servants, and one to whom your thanks are a more than lavish payment for the trivial service he may have been fortunate enough to render you.”
Dame! What glibness doth a tongue acquire at Court!
“M. Andrea de Mancini?” came Yvonne's voice in answer. “Surely a relative of the Lord Cardinal?”
“His nephew, Mademoiselle.”
“Ah! My father, sir, is a great admirer of your uncle.”
From the half-caressing tone, as much as from the very words she uttered, I inferred that she was in ignorance of the compact into which his Eminence had entered with her father—a bargain whereof she was herself a part.
“I am rejoiced, indeed, Mademoiselle,” replied Andrea with a bow, as though the compliment had been paid to him. “Am I indiscreet in asking the name of Monsieur your father?”
“Indiscreet! Nay, Monsieur. You have a right to learn the name of those who are under an obligation to you. My father is the Chevalier de Canaples, of whom it is possible that you may have heard. I am Yvonne de Canaples, of whom it is unlikely that you should have heard, and this is my sister Geneviève, whom a like obscurity envelops.”
The boy's lips moved, but no sound came from them, whilst his cheeks went white and red by turns. His courtliness of a moment ago had vanished, and he stood sheepish and gauche as a clown. At length he so far mastered himself as to bow and make a sign to the coachman, who thereupon gathered up his reins.
“You are going presumably to Blois?” he stammered with a nervous laugh, as if the journey were a humorous proceeding.
“Yes, Monsieur,” answered Geneviève, “we are going home.”
“Why, then, it is possible that we shall meet again. I, too, am travelling in that direction. A bientôt, Mesdemoiselles!”
The whip cracked, the coach began to move, and the creaking of its wheels drowned, so far as I was concerned, the female voices that answered his farewell. The coachman roused his horses into an amble; the amble became a trot, and the vehicle vanished round a corner. Some few idlers stopped to gaze stupidly after it, but not half so stupidly as did my poor Andrea, standing bareheaded where the coach had left him.
I drew near, and laid my hand on his shoulder; at the touch he started like one awakened suddenly, and looked up.
“Ah—you are returned, Gaston.”
“To find that you have made a discovery, and are overwhelmed by your error.”
“My error?”
“Yes—that of falling in love with the wrong one. Hélas, it is but one of those ironical jests wherewith Fate amuses herself at every step of our lives. Had you fallen in love with Yvonne—and it passes my understanding why you did not—everything would have gone smoothly with your wooing. Unfortunately, you have a preference for fair hair—”
“Have done,” he interrupted peevishly. “What does it signify? To the devil with Mazarin's plans!”
“So you said this morning.”
“Yes, when I did not even dream her name was Canaples.”
“Nevertheless, she is the wrong Canaples.”
“For my uncle—but, mille diables! sir, 't is I who am to wed, and I shall wed as my heart bids me.”
“Hum! And Mazarin?”
“Faugh!” he answered, with an expressive shrug.
“Well, since you are resolved, let us dine.”
“I have no appetite.”
“Let us dine notwithstanding. Eat you must if you would live; and unless you live—think of it!—you'll never reach Blois.”
“Gaston, you are laughing at me! I do not wish to eat.”
I surveyed him gravely, with my arms akimbo.
“Can love so expand the heart of man that it fills even his stomach? Well, well, if you will not eat, at least have the grace to bear me company at table. Come, Andrea,” and I took his arm, “let us ascend to that chamber which she has but just quitted. Who can tell but that we shall find there some token of her recent presence? If nothing more, at least the air will be pervaded by the perfume she affected, and since you scorn the humble food of man, you can dine on that.”
He smiled despite himself as I drew him towards the staircase.
“Scoffer!” quoth he. “Your callous soul knows naught of love.”
“Whereas you have had three hours' experience. Pardieu! You shall instruct me in the gentle art.”
Alas, for those perfumes upon which I had proposed that he should feast himself. If any the beautiful Geneviève had left behind her, they had been smothered in the vulgar yet appetising odour of the steaming ragoût that occupied the table.
I prevailed at length upon the love-lorn boy to take some food, but I could lead him to talk of naught save Geneviève de Canaples. Presently he took to chiding me for the deliberateness wherewith I ate, and betrayed thereby his impatience to be in the saddle and after her. I argued that whilst she saw him not she might think of him. But the argument, though sound, availed me little, and in the end I was forced—for all that I am a man accustomed to please myself—to hurriedly end my repast, and pronounce myself ready to start.
As Andrea had with him some store of baggage—since his sojourn at Blois was likely to be of some duration—he travelled in a coach. Into this coach, then, we climbed—he and I. His valet, Silvio, occupied the seat beside the coachman, whilst my stalwart Michelot rode behind leading my horse by the bridle. In this fashion we set out, and ere long the silence of my thoughtful companion, the monotonous rumbling of the vehicle, and, most important of all factors, the good dinner that I had consumed, bred in me a torpor that soon became a sleep.
From a dream that, bound hand and foot, I was being dragged by St. Auban and Malpertuis before the Cardinal, I awakened with a start to find that we were clattering already through the streets of Etrechy; so that whilst I had slept we had covered some six leagues. Twilight had already set in, and Andrea lay back idly in the carriage, holding a book which it was growing too dark to read, and between the leaves of which he had slipped his forefinger to mark the place where he had paused.
His eyes met mine as I looked round, and he smiled. “I should not have thought, Gaston,” he said, “that a man with so seared a conscience could have slept thus soundly.”
“I have not slept soundly,” I grumbled, recalling my dream.
“Pardieu! you have slept long, at least.”
“Out of self-protection; so that I might not hear the name of Geneviève de Canaples. 'T is a sweet name, but you render it monotonous.”
He laughed good-humouredly.
“Have you never loved, Gaston?”
“Often.”
“Ah—but I mean did you never conceive a great passion?”
“Hundreds, boy.”
“But never such a one as mine!”
“Assuredly not; for the world has never seen its fellow. Be good enough to pull the cord, you Cupid incarnate. I wish to alight.”
“You wish to alight! Why?”
“Because I am sick of love. I am going to ride awhile with Michelot whilst you dream of her coral lips, her sapphire eyes, and what other gems constitute her wondrous personality.”
Two minutes later I was in the saddle riding with Michelot in the wake of the carriage. As I have already sought to indicate in these pages, Michelot was as much my friend as my servant. It was therefore no more than natural that I should communicate to him my fears touching what might come of the machinations of St. Auban, Vilmorin, and even, perchance, of that little firebrand, Malpertuis.
Night fell while we talked, and at last the lights of Étampes, where we proposed to lie, peeped at us from a distance, and food and warmth.
It was eight o'clock when we reached the town, and a few moments later we rattled into the courtyard of the Hôtel de l'Épée.
Andrea was out of temper to learn that Mesdemoiselles de Canaples had reached the place two hours earlier, taken fresh horses, and proceeded on their journey, intending to reach Monnerville that night. He was even mad enough to propose that we should follow their example, but my sober arguments prevailed, and at Étampes we stayed till morning.
Andrea withdrew early. But I, having chanced upon a certain M. de la Vrillière, a courtier of Vilmorin's stamp, with whom I had some slight acquaintance, and his purse being heavier than his wits, I spent a passing profitable evening in his company. This pretty gentleman hailed my advent with a delight that amazed me, and suggested that we should throw a main together to kill time. The dice were found, and so clumsily did he use them that in half an hour, playing for beggarly crowns, he had lost twenty pistoles. Next he lost his temper, and with an oath pitched the cubes into the fire, swearing that they were toys for children and that I must grant him his révanche with cards. The cards were furnished us, and with a fortune that varied little we played lansquenet until long past midnight. The fire died out in the grate, and the air grew chill, until at last, with a violent sneeze, La Vrillière protested that he would play no more.
Cursing himself for the unluckiest being alive, the fool bade me good-night, and left me seventy pistoles richer than when I had met him.
Despite the strenuous efforts which Andrea compelled us to put forth, we did not again come up with Mesdemoiselles de Canaples, who in truth must have travelled with greater speed than ladies are wont to.
This circumstance bred much discomfort in Andrea's bosom; for in it he read that his Geneviève thought not of him as he of her, else, knowing that he followed the same road, she would have retarded their progress so that he might overtake them. Thus argued he when on the following night, which was that of Friday, we lay at Orleans. But when towards noon on Saturday our journey ended with our arrival at Blois, he went so far as to conclude that she had hastened on expressly to avoid him. Now, from what I had seen of Mademoiselle Yvonne, methought I might hazard a guess that she it was who commanded in these—and haply, too, in other—matters, and that the manner of their journey had been such as was best to her wishes.
With such an argument did I strive to appease Andrea's doubts; but all in vain—which is indeed no matter for astonishment, for to reason with a man in love is to reason with one who knows no reason.
After a brief halt at the Lys de France—at which hostelry I hired myself a room—we set out for the Château de Canaples, which is situated on the left bank of the Loire, at a distance of about half a league from Blois in the direction of Tours.
We cut a brave enough figure as we rode down the Rue Vieille attended by our servants, and many a rustic Blaisois stopped to gape at us, to nudge his companion, and point us out, whispering the word “Paris.”
I had donned my grey velvet doublet—deeming the occasion worthy of it—whilst Andrea wore a handsome suit of black, with gold lace, which for elegance it would have been difficult to surpass. An air of pensiveness added interest to his handsome face and courtly figure, and methought that Geneviève must be hard to please if she fell not a victim to his wooing.
We proceeded along the road bordering the Loire, a road of rare beauty at any other season of the year, but now bare of foliage, grey, bleak, and sullen as the clouds overhead, and as cold to the eye as was the sharp wind to the flesh. As we rode I fell to thinking of what my reception at the Château de Canaples was likely to be, and almost to regret that I had permitted Andrea to persuade me to accompany him. Long ago I had known the Chevalier de Canaples, and for all the disparity in our ages—for he counted twice my years—we had been friends and comrades. That, however, was ten years ago, in the old days when I owned something more than the name of Luynes. To-day I appeared before him as a ruined adventurer, a soldier of fortune, a ruffler, a duellist who had almost slain his son in a brawl, whose details might be known to him, but not its origin. Seeing me in the company of Andrea de Mancini he might—who could say?—even deem me one of those parasites who cling to young men of fortune so that they may live at their expense. That the daughter would have formed such a conceit of me I was assured; it but remained to see with what countenance the father would greet me.
From such speculations I was at length aroused by our arrival at the gates of the Canaples park. Seeing them wide open, we rode between the two massive columns of granite (each surmounted by a couchant lion holding the escutcheon of the Canaples) and proceeded at an ambling pace up the avenue. Through the naked trees the château became discernible—a brave old castle that once had been the stronghold of a feudal race long dead. Grey it was, and attuned, that day, to the rest of the grey landscape. But at its base the ivy grew thick and green, and here and there long streaks of it crept up almost to the battlements, whilst in one place it had gone higher yet and clothed one of the quaint old turrets. A moat there had once been, but this was now filled up and arranged into little mounds that became flower-beds in summer.
Resigning our horses to the keeping of our servants, we followed the grave maître d'hôtel who had received us. He led us across the spacious hall, which had all the appearance of an armoury, and up the regal staircase of polished oak on to a landing wide and lofty. Here, turning to the left, he opened a door and desired us to give ourselves the trouble of awaiting the Chevalier. We entered a handsome room, hung in costly Dutch tapestry, and richly furnished, yet with a sobriety of colour almost puritanical. The long windows overlooked a broad terrace, enclosed in a grey stone balustrade, from which some half-dozen steps led to a garden below. Beyond that ran the swift waters of the Loire, and beyond that again, in the distance, we beheld the famous Château de Chambord, built in the days of the first Francis.
I had but remarked these details when the door again opened, to admit a short, slender man in whose black hair and beard the hand of time had scattered but little of that white dust that marks its passage. His face was pale, thin, and wrinkled, and his grey eyes had a nervous, restless look that dwelt not long on anything. He was dressed in black, with simple elegance, and his deep collar and ruffles were of the finest point.
“Welcome to Canaples, M. de Mancini!” he exclaimed, as he hurried forward, with a smile so winning that his countenance appeared transfigured by it. “Welcome most cordially! We had not hoped that you would arrive so soon, but fortunately my daughters, to whom you appear to have been of service at Choisy, warned me that you were journeying hither. Your apartments, therefore, are prepared for you, and we hope that you will honour Canaples by long remaining its guest.”
Andrea thanked him becomingly.
“In truth,” he added, “my departure from Paris was somewhat sudden, but I have a letter here from Monseigneur my uncle, which explains the matter.”
“No explanation is needed, my dear Andrea,” replied the old nobleman, abandoning the formalities that had marked his welcoming speech. “How left you my Lord Cardinal?” he asked, as he took the letter.
“In excellent health, but somewhat harassed, I fear, by the affairs of State.”
“Ah, yes, yes. But stay. You are not alone.” And Canaples's grey eyes shot an almost furtive glance of inquiry in my direction. A second glance followed the first and the Chevalier's brows were knit. Then he came a step nearer, scanning my face.
“Surely, surely, Monsieur,” he exclaimed before Andrea had time to answer him. “Were you not at Rocroi?”
“Your memory flatters me, Monsieur,” I replied with a laugh. “I was indeed at Rocroi—captain in the regiment of chévaux-légers whereof you were Mestre de Champ.”
“His name,” said Andrea, “is Gaston de Luynes, my very dear friend, counsellor, and, I might almost say, protector.”
“Pardieu, yes! Gaston de Luynes!” he ejaculated, seizing my hand in an affectionate grip. “But how have you fared since Rocroi was fought? For a soldier of such promise, one might have predicted great things in ten years.”
“Hélas, Monsieur! I was dismissed the service after Senlac.”
“Dismissed the service!”
“Pah!” I laughed, not without bitterness, “'t is a long story and an ugly one, divided 'twixt the dice-box, the bottle, and the scabbard. Ten years ago I was a promising young captain, ardent and ambitious; to-day I am a broken ruffler, unrecognised by my family—a man without hope, without ambition, almost without honour.”
I know not what it was that impelled me to speak thus. Haply the wish that since he must soon learn to what depths Gaston de Luynes had sunk, he should at least learn it from my own lips at the outset.
He shuddered at my concluding words, and had not Andrea at that moment put his arm affectionately upon my shoulder, and declared me the bravest fellow and truest friend in all the world, it is possible that the Chevalier de Canaples would have sought an excuse to be rid of me. Such men as he seek not the acquaintance of such men as I.
To please Andrea was, however, of chief importance in his plans, and to that motive I owe it that he pressed me to remain a guest at the château. I declined the honour with the best grace I could command, determined that whilst Andrea remained at Canaples I would lodge at the Lys de France in Blois, independent and free to come or go as my fancy bade me. His invitation that I should at least dine at Canaples I accepted; but with the condition that he should repeat his invitation after he had heard something that I wished to tell him. He assented with a puzzled look, and when presently Andrea repaired to his apartments, and we were alone, I began.
“You have doubtlessly received news, Monsieur, of a certain affair in which your son had recently the misfortune to be dangerously wounded?”
We were standing by the great marble fireplace, and Canaples was resting one of his feet upon the huge brass andirons. He made a gesture of impatience as I spoke.
“My son, sir, is a fool! A good-for-nothing fool! Oh, I have heard of this affair, a vulgar tavern brawl, the fifth in which his name has been involved and besmirched. I had news this morning by a courier dispatched me by my friend St. Simon, who imagines that I am deeply concerned in that young profligate. I learn that he is out of danger, and that in a month or so, he will be about again and ready to disgrace the name of Canaples afresh. But there, sir; I crave your pardon for the interruption.”
I bowed, and when in answer to my questions he told me that he was in ignorance of the details of the affair of which I spoke, I set about laying those details before him. Beginning with the original provocation in the Palais Royal and ending with the fight in the horse-market, I related the whole story to him, but in an impersonal manner, and keeping my own name out of my narrative. When I had done, Canaples muttered an oath of the days of the fourth Henry.
“Ventre St. Gris! Does the dog carry his audacity so far as to dare come betwixt me and my wishes, and to strive against them? He sought to kill Mancini, eh? Would to Heaven he had died by the hand of this fellow who shielded the lad!”
“Monsieur!” I cried, aghast at so unnatural an expression.
“Pah!” he cried harshly. “He is my son in name alone, filial he never was.”
“Nevertheless, Monsieur, he is still your son, your heir.”
“My heir? And what, pray, does he inherit? A title—a barren, landless title! By his shameful conduct he alienated the affection of his uncle, and his uncle has disinherited him in favour of Yvonne. 'T is she who will be mistress of this château with its acres of land reaching from here to Blois, and three times as far on the other side. My brother, sir, was the rich Canaples, the owner of all this, and by his testament I am his heir during my lifetime, the estates going to Yvonne at my death. So that you see I have naught to leave; but if I had, not a dénier should go to my worthless son!”
He spread his thin hands before the blaze, and for a moment there was silence. Then I proceeded to tell him of the cabal which had been formed against Mancini, and of the part played by St. Auban. At the mention of that name he started as if I had stung him.
“What!” he thundered. “Is that ruffian also in the affair? Sangdieu! His motives are not far to seek. He is a suitor—an unfavoured suitor—for the hand of Yvonne, that seemingly still hopes. But you have not told me, Monsieur, the name of this man who has stood betwixt Andrea and his assassins.”
“Can you not guess, Monsieur?” quoth I, looking him squarely in the face. “Did you not hear Andrea call me, even now, his protector.”
“You? And with what motive, pray?”
“At first, as I have told you, because the Cardinal gave me no choice in the matter touching your son. Since then my motive has lain in my friendship for the boy. He has been kind and affectionate to one who has known little kindness or affection in life. I seek to repay him by advancing his interests and his happiness. That, Monsieur, is why I am here to-day—to shield him from St. Auban and his fellows should they appear again, as I believe they will.”
The old man stood up and eyed me for a moment as steadily as his vacillating glance would permit him, then he held out his hand.
“I trust, Monsieur,” he said, “that you will do me the honour to dine with us, and that whilst you are at Blois we shall see you at Canaples as often as it may please you to cross its threshold.”
I took his hand, but without enthusiasm, for I understood that his words sprang from no warmth of heart for me, but merely from the fact that he beheld in me a likely ally to his designs of raising his daughter to the rank of Duchess.
Eugène de Canaples may have been a good-for-nothing knave; still, methought his character scarce justified the callous indifference manifested by this selfish, weak-minded old man towards his own son.
There was a knock at the door, and a lackey—the same Guilbert whom I had seen at Choisy in Mademoiselle's company—appeared with the announcement that the Chevalier was served.
In the spacious dining salon of the Château de Canaples I found the two daughters of my host awaiting us—those same two ladies of the coach in Place Vendôme and of the hostelry at Choisy, the dark and stately icicle, Yvonne, and the fair, playful doll, Geneviève.
I bowed my best bow as the Chevalier presented me, and from the corner of my eye, with inward malice, I watched them as I did so. Geneviève curtsied with a puzzled air and a sidelong glance at her sister. Yvonne accorded me the faintest, the coldest, inclination of her head, whilst her cheeks assumed a colour that was unwonted.
“We have met before, I think, Monsieur,” she said disdainfully.
“True, Mademoiselle—once,” I answered, thinking only of the coach.
“Twice, Monsieur,” she corrected, whereupon I recalled how she had surprised me with my arm about the waist of the inn-keeper's daughter, and had Heaven given me shame I might have blushed. But if sweet Yvonne thought to bring Gaston de Luynes to task for profiting by the good things which God's providence sent his way, she was led by vanity into a prodigious error.
“Twice, indeed, Mademoiselle. But the service which you rendered me upon the first occasion was so present to my mind just now that it eclipsed the memory of our second meeting. I have ever since desired, Mademoiselle, that an opportunity might be mine wherein to thank you for the preservation of my life. I do so now, and at your service do I lay that life which you preserved, and which is therefore as much yours as mine.”
Strive as I might I could not rid my tone of an ironical inflection. I was goaded to it by her attitude, by the scornful turn of her lip and the disdainful glance of her grey eyes—she had her father's eyes, saving that her gaze was as steadfast as his was furtive.
“What is this?” quoth Canaples. “You owe your life to my daughter? Pray tell me of it.”
“With all my heart,” I made haste to answer before Mademoiselle could speak. “A week ago, I disagreed upon a question of great delicacy with a certain gentleman who shall be nameless. The obvious result attended our disagreement, and we fought 'neath the eyes of a vast company of spectators. Right was on my side, and the gentleman hurt himself upon my sword. Well, sir, the crowd snarled at me as though it were my fault that this had so befallen, and I flouted the crowd in answer. They were a hundred opposed to one, and so confident did this circumstance render them of their superiority, that for once those whelps displayed sufficient valour to attack me. I fled, and as a coach chanced to come that way, I clutched at the window and hung there. Within the coach there were two ladies, and one of them, taking compassion upon me, invited me to enter and thus rescued me. That lady, sir,” I ended with a bow, “was Mademoiselle your daughter.”
In his eyes I read it that he had guessed the name of my nameless gentleman.
The ladies were struck dumb by my apparent effrontery. Yvonne at last recovered sufficiently to ask if my presence at the château arose from my being attached to M. de Mancini. Now, “attached” is an unpleasant word. A courtier is attached to the King; a soldier to the army; there is humiliation in neither of these. But to a private gentleman, a man may be only attached as his secretary, his valet, or, possibly, as his bravo. Therein lay the sting of her carefully chosen word.
“I am M. de Mancini's friend,” I answered with simple dignity.
For all reply she raised her eyebrows in token of surprise; Canaples looked askance; I bit my lip, and an awkward silence followed, which, luckily, was quickly ended by the appearance of Andrea.
The ladies received him graciously, and a faint blush might, to searching eyes, have been perceived upon Geneviève's cheek.
There came a delicate exchange of compliments, after which we got to table, and for my part I did ample justice to the viands.
I sat beside Geneviève, and vis-à-vis with Andrea, who occupied the place of the honoured guest, at the host's right hand, with Yvonne beside him. Me it concerned little where I sat, since the repast was all that I could look for; not so the others. Andrea scowled at me because I was nearer to Geneviève than he, and Yvonne frowned at me for other reasons. By Geneviève I was utterly disregarded, and my endeavours to converse were sorely unsuccessful—for one may not converse alone.
I clearly saw that Yvonne only awaited an opportunity to unmask me, and denounce me to her father as the man who had sought his son's life.
This opportunity, however, came not until the moment of my departure from the château, that evening. I was crossing the hail with the Chevalier de Canaples, and we had stopped for a moment to admire a piece of old chain armour of the days of the Crusaders. Andrea and Geneviève had preceded us, and passed out through the open doorway, whilst Yvonne lingered upon the threshold looking back.
“I trust, M. de Luynes,” said Canaples, as we moved towards her, “that you will remember my invitation, and that whilst you remain at Biois we shall see you here as often as you may be pleased to come; indeed, I trust that you will be a daily visitor.”
Before I could utter a reply—“Father,” exclaimed Mademoiselle, coming forward, “do you know to whom you are offering the hospitality of Canaples?”
“Why that question, child? To M. de Luynes, M. de Mancini's friend.”
“And the would-be murderer of Eugène,” she added fiercely.
Canaples started.
“Surely such affairs are not for women to meddle with,” he cried. “Moreover, M. de Luynes has already given me all details of the affair.”
Her eyes grew very wide at that.
“He has told you? Yet you invite him hither?” she exclaimed.
“M. de Luynes has naught wherewith to reproach himself, nor have I. Those details which he has given me I may not impart to you; suffice it, however, that I am satisfied that his conduct could not have been other than it was, whereas that of my son reflects but little credit upon his name.”
She stamped her foot, and her eyes, blazing with anger, passed from one to the other of us.
“And you—you believe this man's story?”
“Yvonne!”
“Possibly,” I interposed, coolly, “Mademoiselle may have received some false account of it that justifies her evident unbelief in what I may have told you.”
It is not easy to give a lie unless you can prove it a lie. I made her realise this, and she bit her lip in vexation. Dame! What a pretty viper I thought her at that moment!
“Let me add, Yvonne,” said her father, “that M. de Luynes and I are old comrades in arms.” Then turning to me—“My daughter, sir, is but a child, and therefore hasty to pass judgment upon matters beyond her understanding. Forget this foolish outburst, and remember only my assurance of an ever cordial welcome.”
“With all my heart,” I answered, after a moment's deliberation, during which I had argued that for once I must stifle pride if I would serve Andrea.
“Ough!” was all Mademoiselle's comment as she turned her back upon me. Nevertheless, I bowed and flourished my beaver to her retreating figure.
Clearly Mademoiselle entertained for me exactly that degree of fondness which a pious hermit feels for the devil, and if I might draw conclusions from what evidences I had had of the strength of her character and the weakness of her father's, our sojourn at Blois promised to afford me little delectation. In fact, I foresaw many difficulties that might lead to disaster should our Paris friends appear upon the scene—a contingency this that seemed over-imminent.
It was not my wont, howbeit, to brood over the evils that the future might hold, and to this I owe it that I slept soundly that night in my room at the Lys de France.
It was a pleasant enough chamber on the first floor, overlooking the street, and having an alcove attached to it which served for Michelot.
Next day I visited the Château de Canaples early in the afternoon. The weather was milder, and the glow of the sun heralded at last the near approach of spring and brightened wondrously a landscape that had yesterday worn so forbidding a look.
This change it must have been that drew the ladies, and Andrea with them, to walk in the park, where I came upon them as I rode up. Their laughter rippled merrily and they appeared upon the best of terms until they espied me. My advent was like a cloud that foretells a storm, and drove Mesdemoiselles away, when they had accorded me a greeting that contained scant graciousness.
All unruffled by this act, from which I gathered that Yvonne the strong had tutored Geneviève the frail concerning me, I consigned my horse to a groom of the château, and linked arms with Andrea.
“Well, boy,” quoth I, “what progress?”
He smiled radiantly.
“My hopes are all surpassed. It exceeds belief that so poor a thing as I should find favour in her eyes—what eyes, Gaston!” He broke off with a sigh of rapture.
“Peste, you have lost no time. And so, already you know that you find favour, eh! How know you that?”
“How? Need a man be told such things? There is an inexpressible—”
“My good Andrea, seek not to express it, therefore,” I interrupted hastily. “Let it suffice that the inexpressible exists, and makes you happy. His Eminence will doubtless share your joy! Have you written to him?”
The mirth faded from the lad's face at the words, as the blossom fades 'neath the blighting touch of frost. What he said was so undutiful from a nephew touching his uncle—particularly when that uncle is a prelate—that I refrain from penning it.
We were joined just then by the Chevalier, and together we strolled round to the rose-garden—now, alas! naught but black and naked bushes—and down to the edge of the Loire, yellow and swollen by the recent rains.
“How lovely must be this place in summer,” I mused, looking across the water towards Chambord. “And, Dame,” I cried, suddenly changing my meditations, “what an ideal fencing ground is this even turf!”
“The swordsman's instinct,” laughed Canaples.
And with that our talk shifted to swords, swordsmen, and sword-play, until I suggested to Andrea that he should resume his practice, whereupon the Chevalier offered to set a room at our disposal.
“Nay, if you will pardon me, Monsieur, 't is not a room we want,” I answered. “A room is well enough at the outset, but it is the common error of fencing-masters to continue their tutoring on a wooden floor. It results from this that when the neophyte handles a real sword, and defends his life upon the turf, the ground has a new feeling; its elasticity or even its slipperiness discomposes him, and sets him at a disadvantage.”
He agreed with me, whilst Andrea expressed a wish to try the turf. Foils were brought, and we whiled away best part of an half-hour. In the end, the Chevalier, who had watched my play intently, offered to try a bout with me. And so amazed was he with the result, that he had not done talking of it when I left Canaples a few hours later—a homage this that earned me some more than ordinarily unfriendly glances from Yvonne. No doubt since the accomplishment was mine it became in her eyes characteristic of a bully and a ruffler.
During the week that followed I visited the château with regularity, and with equal regularity did Andrea receive his fencing lessons. The object of his presence at Canaples, however, was being frustrated more and more each day, so far as the Cardinal and the Chevalier were concerned.
He raved to me of Geneviève, the one perfect woman in all the world and brought into it by a kind Providence for his own particular delectation. In truth, love is like a rabid dog—whom it bites it renders mad; so open grew his wooing, and so ardent, that one evening I thought well to take him aside and caution him.
“My dear Andrea,” said I, “if you will love Geneviève, you will, and there's an end of it. But if you would not have the Chevalier pack you back to Paris and the anger of my Lord Cardinal, be circumspect, and at least when M. de Canaples is by divide your homage equally betwixt the two. 'T were well if you dissembled even a slight preference for Yvonne—she will not be misled by it, seeing how unmistakable at all other seasons must be your wooing of Geneviève.”
He was forced to avow the wisdom of my counsel, and to be guided by it.
Nevertheless, I rode back to my hostelry in no pleasant frame of mind. It was more than likely that a short shrift and a length of hemp would be the acknowledgment I should anon receive from Mazarin for my participation in the miscarriage of his desires.
I felt that disaster was on the wing. Call it a premonition; call it what you will. I know but this; that as I rode into the courtyard of the Lys de France, at dusk, the first man my eyes alighted on was the Marquis César de St. Auban, and, in conversation with him, six of the most arrant-looking ruffians that ever came out of Paris.