Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

“Are you sure there is no mistake?” she inquired after a pause. “Is all this really true, Monsieur?”

“It is, indeed.”

“But how comes it that my father has seen naught of what has been so plain to me—that M. de Mancini was ever at my sister's side?”

“Your father, Mademoiselle, is much engrossed in his vineyard. Moreover, when the Chevalier has been at hand he has been careful to show no greater regard for the one than for the other of you. I instructed him in this duplicity many weeks ago.”

She looked at me for a moment.

“Oh, Monsieur,” she cried passionately, “how deep is my humiliation! To think that I was made a part of so vile a bargain! Oh, I am glad that M. de Mancini has proved above the sordid task to which they set him—glad that he will dupe the Cardinal and my father.”

“So am not I, Mademoiselle,” I exclaimed. She vouchsafed me a stare of ineffable surprise.

“How?

“Diable!” I answered. “I am M. de Mancini's friend. It was to shield him that I fought your brother; again, because of my attitude towards him was it that I went perilously near assassination at Reaux. Enemies sprang up about him when the Cardinal's matrimonial projects became known. Your brother picked a quarrel with him, and when I had dealt with your brother, St. Auban appeared, and after St. Auban there were others. When it is known that he has played this trick upon 'Uncle Giulio' his enemies will disappear; but, on the other hand, his prospects will all be blighted, and for that I am sorry.”

“So that was the motive of your duel with Eugène!”

“At last you learn it.”

“And,” she added in a curious voice, “you would have been better pleased had M. de Mancini carried out his uncle's wishes?”

“It matters little what I would think, Mademoiselle,” I answered guardedly, for I could not read that curious tone of hers.

“Nevertheless, I am curious to hear your answer.”

What answer could I make? The truth—that for all my fine talk, I was at heart and in a sense right glad that she was not to become Andrea's wife—would have seemed ungallant. Moreover, I must have added the explanation that I desired to see her no man's wife, so that I might not seem to contradict myself. Therefore—

“In truth, Mademoiselle,” I answered, lying glibly, “it would have given me more pleasure had Andrea chosen to obey his Eminence.”

Her manner froze upon the instant.

“In the consideration of your friend's advancement,” she replied, half contemptuously, “you forget, M. de Luynes, to consider me. Am I, then, a thing to be bartered into the hands of the first fortune-hunter who woos me because he has been bidden so to do, and who is to marry me for political purposes? Pshaw, M. de Luynes!” she added, with a scornful laugh, “after all, I was a fool to expect aught else from—”

She checked herself abruptly, and a sudden access of mercy left the stinging “you” unuttered. I stood by, dumb and sheepish, not understanding how the words that I had deemed gallant could have brought this tempest down upon my head. Before I could say aught that might have righted matters, or perchance made them worse—“Since you leave Canaples to-morrow,” quoth she, “I will say 'Adieu,' Monsieur, for it is unlikely that we shall meet again.”

With a slight inclination of her head, and withholding her hand intentionally, she moved away, whilst I stood, as only a fool or a statue would stand, and watched her go.

Once she paused, and, indeed, half turned, whereupon hope knocked at my heart again; but before I had admitted it, she had resumed her walk towards the house. Hungrily I followed her graceful, lissom figure with my eyes until she had crossed the threshold. Then, with a dull ache in my breast, I flung myself upon a stone seat, and, addressing myself to the setting sun for want of a better audience, I roundly cursed her sex for the knottiest puzzle that had ever plagued the mind of man in the unravelling.

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“Gaston,” quoth Andrea next morning, “you will remain at Canaples until to-morrow? You must, for to-morrow I am to be wed, and I would fain have your good wishes ere you go.”

“Nice hands, mine, to seek a benediction at,” I grumbled.

“But you will remain? Come, Gaston, we have been good friends, you and I, and who knows when next we shall meet? Believe me, I shall value your 'God speed' above all others.”

“Likely enough, since it will be the only one you'll hear.”

But for all my sneers he was not to be put off. He talked and coaxed so winningly that in the end—albeit I am a man not easily turned from the course he has set himself—the affectionate pleading in his fresh young voice and the affectionate look in his dark eyes won me to his way.

Forthwith I went in quest of the Chevalier, whom, at the indication of a lackey, I discovered in the room it pleased him to call his study—that same room into which we had been ushered on the day of our arrival at Canaples. I told him that on the morrow I must set out for Paris, and albeit he at first expressed a polite regret, yet when I had shown him how my honour was involved in my speedy return thither, he did not urge me to put off my departure.

“It grieves me, sir, that you must go, and I deeply regret the motive that is taking you. Yet I hope that his Eminence, in recognition of the services you have rendered his nephew, will see fit to forget what cause for resentment he may have against you, and render you your liberty. If you will give me leave, Monsieur, I will write to his Eminence in this strain, and you shall be the bearer of my letter.”

I thanked him, with a smile of deprecation, as I thought of the true cause of Mazarin's resentment, which was precisely that of the plea upon which M. de Canaples sought to obtain for me my liberation.

“And now, Monsieur,” he pursued nervously, “touching Andrea and his visit here, I would say a word to you who are his friend, and may haply know something of his mind. It is over two months since he came here, and yet the—er—affair which we had hoped to bring about seems no nearer its conclusion than when first he came. Of late I have watched him and I have watched Yvonne; they are certainly good friends, yet not even the frail barrier of formality appears overcome betwixt them, and I am beginning to fear that Andrea is not only lukewarm in this matter, but is forgetful of his uncle's wishes and selfishly indifferent to Monseigneur's projects and mine, which, as he well knows, are the reason of his sojourn at my château. What think you of this, M. de Luynes?”

He shot a furtive glance at me as he spoke, and with his long, lean forefinger he combed his beard in a nervous fashion.

I gave a short laugh to cover my embarrassment at the question.

“What do I think, Monsieur?” I echoed to gain time. Then, thinking that a sententious answer would be the most fitting—“Ma foi! Love is as the spark that lies latent in flint and steel: for days and weeks these two may be as close together as you please, and naught will come of it; but one fine day, a hand—the hand of chance—will strike the one against the other, and lo!—the spark is born!”

“You speak in parables, Monsieur,” was his caustic comment.

“'T is in parables that all religions are preached,” I returned, “and love, methinks, is a great religion in this world.”

“Love, sir, love!” he cried petulantly. “The word makes me sick! What has love to do with this union? Love, sir, is a pretty theme for poets, romancers, and fools. The imagination of such a sentiment—for it is a sentiment that does not live save in the imagination—may serve to draw peasants and other low­bred clods into wedlock. With such as we—with gentlemen—it has naught to do. So let that be, Monsieur. Andrea de Mancini came hither to wed my daughter.”