Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

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e-artnow presents to you this unique Rafael Sabatini collection, formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents:
Novels:
Scaramouche
Captain Blood
The Lovers of Yvonne
The Tavern Knight
Bardelys the Magnificent
The Trampling of the Lilies
Love-at-Arms
The Shame of Motley
St. Martin's Summer
Mistress Wilding
The Lion's Skin
The Strolling Saint
The Gates of Doom
The Sea Hawk
The Snare
Fortune's Fool
The Carolinian
Short Stories:
The Justice of the Duke:
The Honour of Varano
The Test
Ferrante's jest
Gismondi's wage
The Snare
The Lust of Conquest
The pasquinade
The Banner of the Bull:
The Urbinian
The Perugian
The Venetian
Other Stories:
The Red Mask
The Curate and the Actress
The Fool's Love Story
The Sacrifice
The Spiritualist
Mr. Dewbury's Consent
The Baker of Rousillon
Wirgman's Theory
The Abduction
Monsieur Delamort
The Foster Lover
The Blackmailer
The Justice of the Duke
The Ordeal
The Tapestried Room
The Wedding Gift
The Camisade
In Destiny's Clutch
The Vicomte's Wager
Sword and Mitre
The Dupes
The Malediction
The Red Owl
Out of the Dice Box
The Marquis' Coach
Tommy
The Lottery Ticket
The Duellist's Wife
The Ducal Rival
The Siege of Savigny
The Locket
The Devourer of Hearts
The Matamorphasis of Colin
Annabel's Wager
The Act of The Captain of the Guard
The Copy Hunter
Sequestration
Gismondi's Wage
Playing with Fire
The Scourge
Intelligence
The Night of Doom
The Driver of the Hearse
The Plague of Ghosts
The Risen Dead
The Bargain
Kynaston's Reckoning
Duroc
The Poachers
The Opportunist
The Sentimentalist
Casanova's Alibi
The Augmentation of Mercury
The Priest of Mars
The Oracle
Under the Leads
The Rooks and the Hawk
The Polish Duel
Casanova in Madrid
The Outlaw of Falkensteig
D'Aubeville's Enterprise
The Nuptials of Lindenstein
The Outlaw and the Lady
The Jealousy of Delventhal
The Shriving of Felsheim
Loaded Dice
Of What Befel at Bailienochy
After Worcester Field
The Chancellor's Daughter…
Historical Works:
The Life of Cesare Borgia
Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition
The Historical Nights' Entertainment – 1st and 2nd Series

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At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards. Andre–Louis went on eating unconcernedly.

“What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.

She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias. On its middle finger a diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all.

Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal tenderness. “At last, my child!”

He conducted her to the table. She sank into a chair, a little wearily, a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even when she glanced across at Scaramouche. It was only Leandre, observing her closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of fear in the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her lids.

Andre–Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre–Louis. And then, at last, Andre–Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider Climene.

“I trust,” said he, “that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle.”

“Most pleasant, monsieur.” Impudently she strove to emulate his coolness, but did not completely succeed.

“And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance. It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d’Azyr. Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?”

M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and contempt.

“I have given nothing,” said Climene, indignantly.

“Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance.”

“My God, man, you’re not decent!” M. Binet protested.

“Decent?” Andre–Louis’ smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M. Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!” Slowly his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and defiance. “Mademoiselle,” he said, slowly, “I desire you purely in your own interests to consider whither you are going.”

“I am well able to consider it for myself, and to decide without advice from you, monsieur.”

“And now you’ve got your answer,” chuckled Binet. “I hope you like it.”

Andre–Louis had paled a little; there was incredulity in his great sombre eyes as they continued steadily to regard her. Of M. Binet he took no notice.

“Surely, mademoiselle, you cannot mean that willingly, with open eyes and a full understanding of what you do, you would exchange an honourable wifehood for . . . for the thing that such men as M. de La Tour d’Azyr may have in store for you?”

M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter. “You hear him, the mealy-mouthed prude! Perhaps you’ll believe at last that marriage with him would be the ruin of you. He would always be there the inconvenient husband — to mar your every chance, my girl.”

She tossed her lovely head in agreement with her father. “I begin to find him tiresome with his silly jealousies,” she confessed. “As a husband I am afraid he would be impossible.”

Andre–Louis felt a constriction of the heart. But — always the actor — he showed nothing of it. He laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and rose.

“I bow to your choice, mademoiselle. I pray that you may not regret it.”

“Regret it?” cried M. Binet. He was laughing, relieved to see his daughter at last rid of this suitor of whom he had never approved, if we except those few hours when he really believed him to be an eccentric of distinction. “And what shall she regret? That she accepted the protection of a nobleman so powerful and wealthy that as a mere trinket he gives her a jewel worth as much as an actress earns in a year at the Comedie Francaise?” He got up, and advanced towards Andre–Louis. His mood became conciliatory. “Come, come, my friend, no rancour now. What the devil! You wouldn’t stand in the girl’s way? You can’t really blame her for making this choice? Have you thought what it means to her? Have you thought that under the protection of such a gentleman there are no heights which she may not reach? Don’t you see the wonderful luck of it? Surely, if you’re fond of her, particularly being of a jealous temperament, you wouldn’t wish it otherwise?”

Andre–Louis looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he laughed again. “Oh, you are fantastic,” he said. “You are not real.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

The action, and more the contempt of his look, laugh, and words stung M. Binet to passion, drove out the conciliatoriness of his mood.

“Fantastic, are we?” he cried, turning to follow the departing Scaramouche with his little eyes that now were inexpressibly evil. “Fantastic that we should prefer the powerful protection of this great nobleman to marriage with a beggarly, nameless bastard. Oh, we are fantastic!”

Andre–Louis turned, his hand upon the door-handle. “No,” he said, “I was mistaken. You are not fantastic. You are just vile — both of you.” And he went out.

CHAPTER 10

CONTRITION

Table of Contents

Mlle. de Kercadiou walked with her aunt in the bright morning sunshine of a Sunday in March on the broad terrace of the Chateau de Sautron.

For one of her natural sweetness of disposition she had been oddly irritable of late, manifesting signs of a cynical worldliness, which convinced Mme. de Sautron more than ever that her brother Quintin had scandalously conducted the child’s education. She appeared to be instructed in all the things of which a girl is better ignorant, and ignorant of all the things that a girl should know. That at least was the point of view of Mme. de Sautron.

“Tell me, madame,” quoth Aline, “are all men beasts?” Unlike her brother, Madame la Comtesse was tall and majestically built. In the days before her marriage with M. de Sautron, ill-natured folk described her as the only man in the family. She looked down now from her noble height upon her little niece with startled eyes.

“Really, Aline, you have a trick of asking the most disconcerting and improper questions.”

“Perhaps it is because I find life disconcerting and improper.”

“Life? A young girl should not discuss life.”

“Why not, since I am alive? You do not suggest that it is an impropriety to be alive?”

“It is an impropriety for a young unmarried girl to seek to know too much about life. As for your absurd question about men, when I remind you that man is the noblest work of God, perhaps you will consider yourself answered.”

Mme. de Sautron did not invite a pursuance of the subject. But Mlle. de Kercadiou’s outrageous rearing had made her headstrong.

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