Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 9

  “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 w
asted, 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 h
orses, 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.