Rafael Sabatini - The Greatest Works of Rafael Sabatini

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.

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“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.”