Rafael Sabatini - The Greatest Works of Rafael Sabatini

“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.

Table of Contents

“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.”