Rafael Sabatini - The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

Very solemnly Andre–Louis shook his head.

“That is impossible,” he said.

M. de Kercadiou’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Impossible!” he repeated. “But why?”

“Monsieur, I can do what I am doing for Aline without offending my conscience. Besides, for Aline I would offend my conscience and do it. But Mme. de Plougastel is in very different case. Neither Aline nor any of hers have been concerned in counter-revolutionary work, which is the true source of the calamity that now threatens to overtake us. I can procure her removal from Paris without self-reproach, convinced that I am doing nothing that any one could censure, or that might become the subject of enquiries. But Mme. de Plougastel is the wife of M. le Comte de Plougastel, whom all the world knows to be an agent between the Court and the emigres.”

“That is no fault of hers,” cried M. de Kercadiou through his consternation.

“Agreed. But she may be called upon at any moment to establish the fact that she is not a party to these manoeuvres. It is known that she was in Paris to-day. Should she be sought to-morrow and should it be found that she has gone, enquiries will certainly be made, from which it must result that I have betrayed my trust, and abused my powers to serve personal ends. I hope, monsieur, that you will understand that the risk is too great to be run for the sake of a stranger.”

“A stranger?” said the Seigneur reproachfully.

“Practically a stranger to me,” said Andre–Louis.

“But she is not a stranger to me, Andre. She is my cousin and very dear and valued friend. And, mon Dieu, what you say but increases the urgency of getting her out of Paris. She must be rescued, Andre, at all costs — she must be rescued! Why, her case is infinitely more urgent than Aline’s!”

He stood a suppliant before his godson, very different now from the stern man who had greeted him on his arrival. His face was pale, his hands shook, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow.

“Monsieur my godfather, I would do anything in reason. But I cannot do this. To rescue her might mean ruin for Aline and yourself as well as for me.”

“We must take the risk.”

“You have a right to speak for yourself, of course.”

“Oh, and for you, believe me, Andre, for you!” He came close to the young man. “Andre, I implore you to take my word for that, and to obtain this permit for Mme. de Plougastel.”

Andre looked at him mystified. “This is fantastic,” he said. “I have grateful memories of the lady’s interest in me for a few days once when I was a child, and again more recently in Paris when she sought to convert me to what she accounts the true political religion. But I do not risk my neck for her — no, nor yours, nor Aline’s.”

“Ah! But, Andre . . . ”

“That is my last word, monsieur. It is growing late, and I desire to sleep in Paris.”

“No, no! Wait!” The Lord of Gavrillac was displaying signs of unspeakable distress. “Andre, you must!”

There was in this insistence and, still more, in the frenzied manner of it, something so unreasonable that Andre could not fail to assume that some dark and mysterious motive lay behind it.

“I must?” he echoed. “Why must I? Your reasons, monsieur?”

“Andre, my reasons are overwhelming.”

“Pray allow me to be the judge of that.” Andre–Louis’ manner was almost peremptory.

The demand seemed to reduce M. de Kercadiou to despair. He paced the room, his hands tight-clasped behind him, his brow wrinkled. At last he came to stand before his godson.

“Can’t you take my word for it that these reasons exist?” he cried in anguish.

“In such a matter as this — a matter that may involve my neck? Oh, monsieur, is that reasonable?”

“I violate my word of honour, my oath, if I tell you.” M. de Kercadiou turned away, wringing his hands, his condition visibly piteous; then turned again to Andre. “But in this extremity, in this desperate extremity, and since you so ungenerously insist, I shall have to tell you. God help me, I have no choice. She will realize that when she knows. Andre, my boy . . . ” He paused again, a man afraid. He set a hand on his godson’s shoulder, and to his increasing amazement Andre–Louis perceived that over those pale, short-sighted eyes there was a film of tears. “Mme. de Plougastel is your mother.”

Followed, for a long moment, utter silence. This thing that he was told was not immediately understood. When understanding came at last Andre–Louis’ first impulse was to cry out. But he possessed himself, and played the Stoic. He must ever be playing something. That was in his nature. And he was true to his nature even in this supreme moment. He continued silent until, obeying that queer histrionic instinct, he could trust himself to speak without emotion. “I see,” he said, at last, quite coolly.

His mind was sweeping back over the past. Swiftly he reviewed his memories of Mme. de Plougastel, her singular if sporadic interest in him, the curious blend of affection and wistfulness which her manner towards him had always presented, and at last he understood so much that hitherto had intrigued him.

“I see,” he said again; and added now, “Of course, any but a fool would have guessed it long ago.”

It was M. de Kercadiou who cried out, M. de Kercadiou who recoiled as from a blow.

“My God, Andre, of what are you made? You can take such an announcement in this fashion?”

“And how would you have me take it? Should it surprise me to discover that I had a mother? After all, a mother is an indispensable necessity to getting one’s self born.”

He sat down abruptly, to conceal the too-revealing fact that his limbs were shaking. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow, which had grown damp. And then, quite suddenly, he found himself weeping.

At the sight of those tears streaming silently down that face that had turned so pale, M. de Kercadiou came quickly across to him. He sat down beside him and threw an arm affectionately over his shoulder.

“Andre, my poor lad,” he murmured. “I . . . I was fool enough to think you had no heart. You deceived me with your infernal pretence, and now I see . . . I see . . . ” He was not sure what it was that he saw, or else he hesitated to express it.

“It is nothing, monsieur. I am tired out, and . . . and I have a cold in the head.” And then, finding the part beyond his power, he abruptly threw it up, utterly abandoned all pretence. “Why . . . why has there been all this mystery?” he asked. “Was it intended that I should never know?”

“It was, Andre. It . . . it had to be, for prudence’ sake.”

“But why? Complete your confidence, sir. Surely you cannot leave it there. Having told me so much, you must tell me all.”

“The reason, my boy, is that you were born some three years after your mother’s marriage with M. de Plougastel, some eighteen months after M. de Plougastel had been away with the army, and some four months before his return to his wife. It is a matter that M. de Plougastel has never suspected, and for gravest family reasons must never suspect. That is why the utmost secrecy has been preserved. That is why none was ever allowed to know. Your mother came betimes into Brittany, and under an assumed name spent some months in the village of Moreau. It was while she was there that you were born.”

Andre–Louis turned it over in his mind. He had dried his tears. And sat now rigid and collected.

“When you say that none was ever allowed to know, you are telling me, of course, that you, monsieur . . . ”

“Oh, mon Dieu, no!” The denial came in a violent outburst. M. de Kercadiou sprang to his feet propelled from Andre’s side by the violence of his emotions. It was as if the very suggestion filled him with horror. “I was the only other one who knew. But it is not as you think, Andre. You cannot imagine that I should lie to you, that I should deny you if you were my son?”