Rafael Sabatini - The Greatest Works of Rafael Sabatini

“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.

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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.”