Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

In her eyes also I saw the light of recognition which swiftly changed to one of scorn. Then they passed from me to the vanishing Jeanneton, and methought that she was about to call her back. She paused, however, and, turning to the lackey who followed at her heels.

“Guilbert,” she said, “be good enough to call the landlord, and bid him provide me with an apartment for the time that we may be forced to spend here.”

But at this juncture the host himself came hurrying forward with many bows and endless rubbing of hands, which argued untold deference. He regretted that the hostelry of the Connétable, being but a poor inn, seldom honoured as it was at that moment, possessed but one suite of private apartments, and that was now occupied by a most noble gentleman. The lady tapped her foot, and as at that moment her companion (who was none other than the fair-haired doll I had seen with her on the previous day) entered the room, she turned to speak with her, whilst I moved away towards the window.

“Will this gentleman,” she inquired, “lend me one of his rooms, think you?”

“Hélas, Mademoiselle, he has but two, a bedroom and an ante-chamber, and he is still abed.”

“Oh!” she cried in pretty anger, “this is insufferable! 'T is your fault, Guilbert, you fool. Am I, then, to spend the day here in the common-room?”

“No, no, Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the host in his most soothing accents. “Only for an hour, or less, perhaps, until this very noble lord is risen, when assuredly—for he is young and very gallant—he will resign one or both of his rooms to you.”

More was said between them, but my attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. Michelot burst into the room, disaster written on his face.

“Monsieur,” he cried, in great alarm, “the Marquis de St. Auban is riding down the street with the Vicomte de Vilmorin and another gentleman.”

I rapped out an oath at the news; they had got scent of Andrea's whereabouts, and were after him like sleuth-hounds on a trail.

“Remain here, Michelot,” I answered in a low voice. “Tell them that M. de Mancini is not here, that the only occupant of the inn is your master, a gentleman from Normandy, or Picardy, or where you will. See that they do not guess our presence—the landlord fortunately is ignorant of M. de Mancini's name.”

There was a clatter of horses' hoofs without, and I was barely in time to escape by the door leading to the staircase, when St. Auban's heavy voice rang out, calling the landlord.

“I am in search of a gentleman named Andrea de Mancini,” he said. “I am told that he has journeyed hither, and that he is here at present. Am I rightly informed?”

I determined to remain where I was, and hear that conversation to the end.

“There is a gentleman here,” answered the host, “but I am ignorant of his name. I will inquire.”

“You may spare yourself the trouble,” Michelot interposed. “That is not the gentleman's name. I am his servant.”

There was a moment's pause, then came Vilmorin's shrill voice.

“You lie, knave! M. de Mancini is here. You are M. de Luynes's lackey, and where the one is, there shall we find the other.”

“M. de Luynes?” came a voice unknown to me. “That is Mancini's sword-blade of a friend, is it not? Well, why does he hide himself? Where is he? Where is your master, rascal?”

“I am here, Messieurs,” I answered, throwing wide the door, and appearing, grim and arrogant, upon the threshold.

Mort de ma vie! Had they beheld the Devil, St. Auban and Vilmorin could not have looked less pleased than they did when their eyes lighted upon me, standing there surveying them with a sardonic grin.

St. Auban muttered an oath, Vilmorin stifled a cry, whilst he who had so loudly called to know where I hid myself—a frail little fellow, in the uniform of the gardes du corps—now stood silent and abashed.

The two women, who had withdrawn into a dark and retired corner of the apartment, stood gazing with interest upon this pretty scene.

“Well, gentlemen?” I asked in a tone of persiflage, as I took a step towards them. “Have you naught to say to me, now that I have answered your imperious summons? What! All dumb?”

“Our affair is not with you,” said St. Auban, curtly.

“Pardon! Why, then, did you inquire where I was?”

“Messieurs,” exclaimed Vilmorin, whose face assumed the pallor usual to it in moments of peril, “meseems we have been misinformed, and that M. de Mancini is not here. Let us seek elsewhere.”

“Most excellent advice, gentlemen,” I commented—“seek elsewhere.”

“Monsieur,” cried the little officer, turning purple, “it occurs to me that you are mocking us.”

“Mocking you! Mocking you? Mocking a gentleman who has been tied to so huge a sword as yours. Surely—surely, sir, you do not think—”

“I'll not endure it,” he broke in. “You shall answer to me for this.”

“Have a care, sir,” I cried in alarm as he rushed forward. “Have a care, sir, lest you trip over your sword.”

He halted, drew himself up, and, with a magnificent gesture: “I am Armand de Malpertuis, lieutenant of his Majesty's guards,” he announced, “and I shall be grateful if you will do me the honour of taking a turn with me, outside.”

“I am flattered beyond measure, M. Malappris—”

“Mal-per-tuis,” he corrected furiously.

“Malpertuis,” I echoed. “I am honoured beyond words, but I do not wish to take a turn.”

“Mille diables, sir! Don't you understand? We must fight.”

“Must we, indeed? Again I am honoured; but, Monsieur, I don't fight sparrows.”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried St. Auban, thrusting himself between us. “Malpertuis, have the goodness to wait until one affair is concluded before you create a second one. Now, M. de Luynes, will you tell me whether M. de Mancini is here or not?”

“What if he should be?”

“You will be wise to withdraw—we shall be three to two.”

“Three to two! Surely, Marquis, your reckoning is at fault. You cannot count the Vicomte there as one; his knees are knocking together; at best he is but a woman in man's clothes. As for your other friend, unless his height misleads me, he is but a boy. Therefore, Monsieur, you see that the advantage is with us. We are two men opposed to a man, a woman, and a child, so that—”

“In Heaven's name, sir,” cried St. Auban, again interposing himself betwixt me and the bellicose Malpertuis, “will you cease this foolishness? A word with you in private, M. de Luynes.”

I permitted him to take me by the sleeve, and lead me aside, wondering the while what curb it was that he was setting upon his temper, and what wily motives he might have for adopting so conciliatory a tone.

With many generations to come, the name of César de St. Auban must perforce be familiar as that of one of the greatest roysterers and most courtly libertines of the early days of Louis XIV., as well as that of a rabid anti-cardinalist and frondeur, and one of the earliest of that new cabal of nobility known as the petits-maîtres, whose leader the Prince de Condé was destined to become a few years later. He was a man of about my own age, that is to say, between thirty-two and thirty-three, and of my own frame, tall, spare, and active. On his florid, débonnair countenance was stamped his character of bon-viveur. In dress he was courtly in the extreme. His doublet and haut-de-chausses were of wine-coloured velvet, richly laced, and he still affected the hanging sleeves of a fast-disappearing fashion. Valuable lace filled the tops of his black boots, a valuable jewel glistened here and there upon his person, and one must needs have pronounced him a fop but for the strength and resoluteness of his bearing, and the long rapier that hung from his gold-embroidered baldrick. Such in brief is a portrait of the man who now confronted me, his fine blue eyes fixed upon my face, wherein methinks he read but little, search though he might.