Rafael Sabatini - The Greatest Works of Rafael Sabatini

“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he cried.

“Diable!” I muttered, “we are becoming women! Be off, you knave! Adieu!”

The peremptoriness of my tone ended our leave-taking and caused him to grip his reins and bring down his whip. The coach moved on. A white face, on which the moonlight fell, glanced at me from the window, then to my staring eyes naught was left but the back of the retreating vehicle, with one of the two saddle-horses that had been tethered to it still ambling in its wake.

“M. de Montrésor,” I said, thrusting my bullet-pierced hat upon my head, “I am at your service.”

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At my captor's bidding I mounted the horse which they had untethered from the carriage, and we started off along the road which the coach itself had disappeared upon a moment before. But we travelled at a gentle trot, which, after that evening's furious riding, was welcome to me.

With bitterness I reflected as I rode that the very moment at which Mademoiselle de Canaples had brought herself to think better of me was like to prove the last we should spend together. Yet not altogether bitter was that reflection; for with it came also the consolation—whereof I had told her—that I had not been taken before she had had cause to change her mind concerning me.

That she should care for me was too preposterous an idea to be nourished, and, indeed, it was better—much better—that M. de Montrésor had come before I, grown sanguine as lovers will, had again earned her scorn by showing her what my heart contained. Much better was it that I should pass for ever out of her life—as, indeed, methought I was like to pass out of all life—whilst I could leave in her mind a kind remembrance and a grateful regret, free from the stain that a subsequent possible presumption of mine might have cast o'er it.

Then my thoughts shifted to Andrea. St. Auban would hear of my removal, and I cared not to think of what profit he might derive from it. To Yvonne also his presence must hereafter be a menace, and in that wherein tonight he had failed, he might, again, succeed. It was at this juncture of my reverie that M. de Montrésor's pleasant young voice aroused me.

“You appear downcast, M. de Luynes.”

“I, downcast!” I echoed, throwing back my head and laughing. “Nay. I was but thinking.

“Believe me, M. de Luynes,” he said kindly, “when I tell you that it grieves me to be charged with this matter. I have done my best to capture you. That was my duty. But I should have rejoiced had I failed with the consciousness of having done all in my power.”

“Thanks, Montrésor,” I murmured, and silence followed.

“I have been thinking, Monsieur,” he went on presently, “that possibly the absence of your sword causes you discomfort.”

“Eh? Discomfort? It does, most damnably!”

“Give me your parole d'honneur that you will attempt no escape, and not only shall your sword be returned to you, but you shall travel to Paris with all comfort and dignity.”

Now, so amazed was I that I paused to stare at the officer who was young enough to make such a proposal to a man of my reputation. He turned his face towards me, and in the moonlight I could make out his questioning glance.

“Eh, bien, Monsieur?”

“I am more than grateful to you, M. de Montrésor,” I replied, “and I freely give you my word of honour to seek no means of eluding you, nor to avail myself of any that may be presented to me.”

I said this loud enough for those behind to hear, so that no surprise was evinced when the lieutenant bade the man who bore my sword return it to me.

If he who may chance to read these simple pages shall have gathered aught of my character from their perusal, he will marvel, perchance, that I should give the lieutenant my parole, instead rather of watching for an opportunity to—at least—attempt an escape. Preeminent in my thoughts, however, stood at that moment the necessity to remove St. Auban, and methought that by acting as I did I saw a way by which, haply, I might accomplish this. What might thereafter befall me seemed of little moment.

“M. de Montrésor,” I said presently, “your kindness impels me to set a further tax upon your generosity.”

“That is, Monsieur?”

“Bid your men fall back a little, and I will tell you.”

He made a sign to his troopers, and when the distance between us had been sufficiently widened, I began:

“There is a man at present across the river, yonder, who has done me no little injury, and with whom I have a rendezvous at nine o'clock to-night at St. Sulpice des Reaux, where our swords are to determine the difference between us. I crave, Monsieur, your permission to keep that appointment.”

“Impossible!” he answered curtly.

I took a deep breath like a man who is about to jump an obstacle in his path.

“Why impossible, Monsieur?”

“Because you are a prisoner, and therefore no longer under obligation to keep appointments.”

“How would you feel, Montrésor, if, burning to be avenged upon a man who had done you irreparable wrong, you were arrested an hour before the time at which you were to meet this man, sword in hand, and your captor—whose leave you craved to keep the assignation—answered you with the word 'impossible'?”

“Yes, yes, Monsieur,” he replied impatiently. “But you forget my position. Let us suppose that I allow you to go to St. Sulpice des Reaux. What if you do not return?”

“You mistrust me?” I exclaimed, my hopes melting.

“You misapprehend me. I mean, what if you are killed?”

“I do not think that I shall be.”

“Ah! But what if you are? What shall I say to my Lord Cardinal?”

“Dame! That I am dead, and that he is saved the trouble of hanging me. The most he can want of me is my life. Let us suppose that you had come an hour later. You would have been forced to wait until after the encounter, and, did I fall, matters would be no different.”

The young man fell to thinking, but I, knowing that it is not well to let the young ponder overlong if you would bend them to your wishes, broke in upon his reflections—“See, Montrésor, yonder are the lights of Blois; by eight o'clock we shall be in the town. Come; grant me leave to cross the Loire, and by ten o'clock, or half-past at the latest, I shall return to sup with you or I shall be dead. I swear it.”

“Were I in your position,” he answered musingly, “I know how I would be treated, and, pardieu! come what may I shall deal with you accordingly. You may go to your assignation, M. de Luynes, and may God prosper you.”

And thus it came to pass that shortly after eight o'clock, albeit a prisoner, I rode into the courtyard of the Lys de France, and, alighting, I stepped across the threshold of the inn, and strode up to a table at which I had espied Michelot. He sat nursing a huge measure of wine, into the depths of which he was gazing pensively, with an expression so glum upon his weather-beaten countenance that it defies depicting. So deep was he in his meditations, that albeit I stood by the table surveying him for a full minute, he took no heed of me.

“Allons, Michelot!” I said at length. “Wake up.”

He started up with a cry of amazement; surprise chased away the grief that had been on his face, and a moment later joy unfeigned, and good to see, took the place of surprise.

“You have escaped, Monsieur!” he cried, and albeit caution made him utter the words beneath his breath, a shout seemed to lurk somewhere in the whisper.

Pressing his hand I sat down and briefly told him how matters stood, and how I came to be for the moment free. And when I had done I bade him, since his wound had not proved serious, to get his hat and cloak and go with me to find a boat.