Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

And with a flourish of my sodden beaver, I turned and left them before they had recovered from the vehemence of my words.

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Like the calm of the heavens when pregnant with thunder was the calm of that crowd. And as brief it was; for scarce had I taken a dozen steps when my ears were assailed by a rumble of angry voices and a rush of feet. One glance over my shoulder, one second's hesitation whether I should stay and beard them, then the thought of Andrea de Mancini and of what would befall him did this canaille vent its wrath upon me decided my course and sent me hotfoot down the Rue Monarque. Howling and bellowing that rabble followed in my wake, stumbling over one another in their indecent haste to reach me.

But I was fleet of foot, and behind me there was that that would lend wings to the most deliberate, so that when I turned into the open space before the Hôtel Vendôme I had set a good fifty yards betwixt myself and the foremost of my hunters.

A coach was passing at that moment. I shouted, and the knave who drove glanced at me, then up the Rue Monarque at my pursuers, whereupon, shaking his head, he would have left me to my fate. But I was of another mind. I dashed towards the vehicle, and as it passed me I caught at the window, which luckily was open, and drawing up my legs I hung there despite the shower of mud which the revolving wheels deposited upon me.

From the bowels of the coach I was greeted by a woman's scream; a pale face, and a profusion of fair hair flashed before my eyes.

“Fear not, Madame,” I shouted. “I am no assassin, but rather one who stands in imminent peril of assassination, and who craves your protection.”

More I would have said, but at that juncture the lash of the coachman's whip curled itself about my shoulders, and stung me vilely.

“Get down, you rascal,” he bellowed; “get down or I'll draw rein!”

To obey him would have been madness. The crowd surged behind with hoots and yells, and had I let go I must perforce have fallen into their hands. So, instead of getting down as he inconsiderately counselled, I drew myself farther up by a mighty effort, and thrust half my body into the coach, whereupon the fair lady screamed again, and the whip caressed my legs. But within the coach sat another woman, dark of hair and exquisite of face, who eyed my advent with a disdainful glance. Her proud countenance bore the stamp of courage, and to her it was that I directed my appeal.

“Madame, permit me, I pray, to seek shelter in your carriage, and suffer me to journey a little way with you. Quick, Madame! Your coachman is drawing rein, and I shall of a certainty be murdered under your very nose unless you bid him change his mind. To be murdered in itself is a trifling matter, I avow, but it is not nice to behold, and I would not, for all the world, offend your eyes with the spectacle of it.”

I had judged her rightly, and my tone of flippant recklessness won me her sympathy and aid. Quickly thrusting her head through the other window:

“Drive on, Louis,” she commanded. “Faster!” Then turning to me, “You may bring your legs into the coach if you choose, sir,” she said.

“Your words, Madame, are the sweetest music I have heard for months,” I answered drily, as I obeyed her. Then leaning out of the carriage again I waved my hat gallantly to the mob which—now realising the futility of further pursuit—had suddenly come to a halt.

“Au plaisir de vous revoir, Messieurs,” I shouted. “Come to me one by one, and I'll keep the devil busy finding lodgings for you.”

They answered me with a yell, and I sat down content, and laughed.

“You are not a coward, Monsieur,” said the dark lady.

“I have been accounted many unsavoury things, Madame, but my bitterest enemies never dubbed me that.”

“Why, then, did you run away?”

“Why? Ma foi! because in the excessive humility of my soul I recognised myself unfit to die.”

She bit her lip and her tiny foot beat impatiently upon the floor.

“You are trifling with me, Monsieur. Where do you wish to alight?”

“Pray let that give you no concern; I can assure you that I am in no haste.”

“You become impertinent, sir,” she cried angrily. “Answer me, where are you going?”

“Where am I going? Oh, ah—to the Palais Royal.”

Her eyes opened very wide at that, and wandered over me with a look that was passing eloquent. Indeed, I was a sorry spectacle for any woman's eyes—particularly a pretty one's. Splashed from head to foot with mud, my doublet saturated and my beaver dripping, with the feather hanging limp and broken, whilst there was a rent in my breeches that had been made by Canaples's sword, I take it that I had not the air of a courtier, and that when I said that I went to the Palais Royal she might have justly held me to be the adventurous lover of some kitchen wench. But unto the Palais Royal go others besides courtiers and lovers—spies of the Cardinal, for instance, and in her sudden coldness and the next question that fell from her beauteous lips I read that she had guessed me one of these.

“Why did the mob pursue you, Monsieur?”

There was in her voice and gesture when she asked a question the imperiousness of one accustomed to command replies. This pretty queenliness it was that drove me to answer—as I had done before—in a bantering strain.

“Why did the mob pursue me? Hum! Why does the mob pursue great men? Because it loves their company.”

Her matchless eyes flashed an angry glance, and the faint smile on my lips must have tried her temper sorely.

“What did you do to deserve this affection?”

“A mere nothing—I killed a man,” I answered coolly. “Or, at least, I left him started on the road to—Paradise.”

The little flaxen-haired doll uttered a cry of horror, and covered her face with her small white hands. My inquisitor, however, sat rigid and unaffected. My answer had confirmed her suspicions.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Ma foi!” I replied, encouraging her thoughts, “because he sought to kill me.”

“Ah! And why did he seek to kill you?”

“Because I disturbed him at dinner.”

“Have a care how you trifle, sir!” she retorted, her eyes kindling again.

“Upon my honour, 't was no more than that. I pulled the cloth from the table whilst he ate. He was a quick-tempered gentleman, and my playfulness offended him. That is all.”

Doubt appeared in her eyes, and it may have entered her mind that perchance her judgment had been over-hasty.

“Do you mean, sir, that you provoked a duel?”

“Alas, Madame! It had become necessary. You see, M. de Canaples—”

“Who?” Her voice rang sharp as the crack of a pistol.

“Eh? M. de Canaples.”

“Was it he whom you killed?”

From her tone, and the eager, strained expression of her face, it was not difficult to read that some mighty interest of hers was involved in my reply. It needed not the low moan that burst from her companion to tell me so.

“As I have said, Madame, it is possible that he is not dead—nay, even that he will not die. For the rest, since you ask the question, my opponent was, indeed, M. de Canaples—Eugène de Canaples.”

Her face went deadly white, and she sank back in her seat as if every nerve in her body had of a sudden been bereft of power, whilst she of the fair hair burst into tears.

A pretty position was this for me!—luckily it endured not. The girl roused herself from her momentary weakness, and, seizing the cord, she tugged it violently. The coach drew up.

“Alight, sir,” she hissed—“go! I wish to Heaven that I had left you to the vengeance of the people.”