Despite the dejection to which I had become a prey, I slept no less
soundly that night than was my wont, and indeed it was not until late
next morning when someone knocked at my door that I awakened.
I sat up in bed, and my first thought as I looked round the handsome
room--which I had rented a week ago upon receiving the lieutenancy in
the Cardinal's guards--was for the position that I had lost and of the
need that there would be ere long to seek a lodging more humble and
better suited to my straitened circumstances. It was not without regret
that such a thought came to me, for my tastes had never been modest, and
the house was a fine one, situated in the Rue St. Antoine at a hundred
paces or so from the Jesuit convent.
I had no time, however, to indulge the sorry mood that threatened to
beset me, for the knocking at my chamber door continued, until at length
I answered it with a command to enter.
It was my servant Michelot, a grizzled veteran of huge frame and
strength, who had fought beside me at Rocroi, and who had thereafter
become so enamoured of my person--for some trivial service he swore I
had rendered him--that he had attached himself to me and my luckless
fortunes.
He came to inform me that M. de Mancini was below and craved immediate
speech with me. He had scarce done speaking, however, when Andrea
himself, having doubtless grown tired of waiting, appeared in the
doorway. He wore a sickly look, the result of his last night's debauch;
but, more than that, there was stamped upon his face a look of latent
passion which made me think at first that he was come to upbraid me.
“Ah, still abed, Luynes?” was his greeting as he came forward.
His cloak was wet and his boots splashed, which told me both that he had
come afoot and that it rained.
“There are no duties that bid me rise,” I answered sourly.
He frowned at that, then, divesting himself of his cloak, he gave it
to Michelot, who, at a sign from me, withdrew. No sooner was the door
closed than the boy's whole manner changed. The simmering passion of
which I had detected signs welled up and seemed to choke him as he
poured forth the story that he had come to tell.
“I have been insulted,” he gasped. “Grossly insulted by a vile creature
of Monsieur d'Orleans's household. An hour ago in the ante-chamber at
the Palais Royal I was spoken of in my hearing as the besotted nephew of
the Italian adventurer.”
I sat up in bed tingling with excitement at the developments which
already I saw arising from his last night's imprudence.
“Calmly, Andrea,” I begged of him, “tell me calmly.”
“Mortdieu! How can I be calm? Ough! The thought of it chokes me. I was
a fool last night--a sot. For that, perchance, men have some right to
censure me. But, Sangdieu! that a ruffler of the stamp of Eugène de
Canaples should speak of it--should call me the nephew of an Italian
adventurer, should draw down upon me the cynical smile of a crowd of
courtly apes--pah! I am sick at the memory of it!”
“Did you answer him?”
“Pardieu! I should be worthy of the title he bestowed upon me had I not
done so. Oh, I answered him--not in words. I threw my hat in his face.”
“That was a passing eloquent reply!”
“So eloquent that it left him speechless with amazement. He thought to
bully with impunity, and see me slink into hiding like a whipped dog,
terrified by his blustering tongue and dangerous reputation. But there!”
he broke off, “a meeting has been arranged for four o'clock at St.
Germain.”
“A meeting!” I exclaimed.
“What else? Do you think the affront left any alternative?”
“But--”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he interrupted, tossing his head. “I am going to be
killed. Verville has sworn that there shall be one less of the Italian
brood. That is why I have come to you, Luynes--to ask you to be my
second. I don't deserve it, perhaps. In my folly last night I did you
an ill turn. I unwittingly caused you to be stripped of your commission.
But if I were on my death-bed now, and begged a favour of you, you would
not refuse it. And what difference is there 'twixt me and one who is on
his death-bed? Am I not about to die?”
“Peste! I hope not,” I made answer with more lightness than I felt. “But
I'll stand by you with all my heart, Andrea.”
“And you'll avenge me?” he cried savagely, his Southern blood a-boiling.
“You'll not let him leave the ground alive?”
“Not unless my opponent commits the indiscretion of killing me first.
Who seconds M. de Canaples?”
“The Marquis de St. Auban and M. de Montmédy.”
“And who is the third in our party?”
“I have none. I thought that perhaps you had a friend.”
“I! A friend?” I laughed bitterly. “Pshaw, Andrea! beggars have no
friends. But stay; find Stanislas de Gouville. There is no better
blade in Paris. If he will join us in this frolic, and you can hold off
Canaples until either St. Auban or Montmédy is disposed of, we may yet
leave the three of them on the field of battle. Courage, Andrea! Dum
spiramus, speramus.”
My words seemed to cheer him, and when presently he left me to seek out
the redoubtable Gouville, the poor lad's face was brighter by far than
when he had entered my room.
Down in my heart, however, I was less hopeful than I had led him to
believe, and as I dressed after he had gone, 't was not without some
uneasiness that I turned the matter over in my mind. I had, during the
short period of our association, grown fond of Andrea de Mancini. Indeed
the wonted sweetness of the lad's temper, and the gentleness of his
disposition, were such as to breed affection in all who came in contact
with him. In a way, too, methought he had grown fond of me, and I had
known so few friends in life,--truth to tell I fear me that I had few of
the qualities that engender friendship,--that I was naturally prone to
appreciate a gift that from its rareness became doubly valuable.
Hence was it that I trembled for the boy. He had shown aptitude with the
foils, and derived great profit from my tuition, yet he was too raw by
far to be pitted against so cunning a swordsman as Canaples.
I had but finished dressing when a coach rumbled down the street and
halted by my door. Naturally I supposed that someone came to visit
Coupri, the apothecary,--to whom belonged this house in which I had my
lodging,--and did not give the matter a second thought until Michelot
rushed in, with eyes wide open, to announce that his Eminence, Cardinal
Mazarin, commanded my presence in the adjoining room.
Amazed and deeply marvelling what so extraordinary a visit might
portend, I hastened to wait upon his Eminence.
I found him standing by the window, and received from him a greeting
that was passing curt and cavalier.
“Has M. de Mancini been here?” he inquired peremptorily, disregarding
the chair I offered him.
“He has but left me, Monseigneur.”
“Then you know, sir, of the harvest which he has already reaped from the
indiscretion into which you led him last night?”
“If Monseigneur alludes to the affront put upon M. de Mancini touching
his last night's indiscretion, by a bully of the Court, I am informed of
it.”
“Pish, Monsieur! I do not follow your fine distinctions--possibly this
is due to my imperfect knowledge of the language of France, possibly to
your own imperfect acquaintance with the language of truth.”
“Monseigneur!”
“Faugh!” he cried, half scornfully, half peevishly. “I came not here to
talk of you, but of my nephew. Why did he visit you?”
“To do me the honour of asking me to second him at St. Germain this
evening.”
“And so you think that this duel is to be fought?--that my nephew is to
be murdered?”
“We will endeavour to prevent his being--as your Eminence daintily puts
it--murdered. But for the rest, the duel, methinks, cannot be avoided.”
“Cannot!” he blazed. “Do you say cannot, M. de Luynes? Mark me well,
sir: I will use no dissimulation with you. My position in France is
already a sufficiently difficult one. Already we are threatened with a
second Fronde. It needs but such events as these to bring my family into
prominence and make it the butt for the ridicule that malcontents but
wait an opportunity to slur it with. This affair of Andrea's will lend
itself to a score or so of lampoons and pasquinades, all of which
will cast an injurious reflection upon my person and position. That,
Monsieur, is, methinks, sufficient evil to suffer at your hands. The
late Cardinal would have had you broken on the wheel for less. I have
gone no farther than to dismiss you from my service--a clemency for
which you should be grateful. But I shall not suffer that, in addition
to the harm already done, Andrea shall be murdered by Canaples.”
“I shall do my best to render him assistance.”
“You still misapprehend me. This duel, sir, must not take place.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“How does your Eminence propose to frustrate it? Will you arrest
Canaples?”
“Upon what plea, Monsieur? Think you I am anxious to have the whole of
Paris howling in my ears?”
“Then possibly it is your good purpose to enforce the late king's edict
against duelling, and send your guards to St. Germain to arrest the men
before they engage?”
“Benone!” he sneered. “And what will Paris say if I now enforce a law
that for ten years has been disregarded? That I feared for my nephew's
skin and took this means of saving him. A pretty story to have on
Paris's lips, would it not be?”
“Indeed, Monseigneur, you are right, but I doubt me the duel will needs
be fought.”
“Have I not already said that it shall not be fought?”
Again I shrugged my shoulders. Mazarin grew tiresome with his
repetitions.
“How can it be avoided, your Eminence?”
“Ah, Monsieur, that is your affair.”
“My affair?”
“Assuredly. 'T was through your evil agency he was dragged into this
business, and through your agency he must be extricated from it.”
“Your Eminence jests!”
“Undoubtedly,--'t is a jesting matter,” he answered with terrible irony.
“Oh, I jest! Per Dio! yes. But I'll carry my jest so far as to have you
hanged if this duel be fought--aye, whether my nephew suffers hurt or
not. Now, sir, you know what fate awaits you; fight it--turn it aside--I
have shown you the way. The door, M. de Luynes.”