Despite the strenuous efforts which Andrea compelled us to put forth, we
did not again come up with Mesdemoiselles de Canaples, who in truth must
have travelled with greater speed than ladies are wont to.
This circumstance bred much discomfort in Andrea's bosom; for in it he
read that his Geneviève thought not of him as he of her, else, knowing
that he followed the same road, she would have retarded their progress
so that he might overtake them. Thus argued he when on the following
night, which was that of Friday, we lay at Orleans. But when towards
noon on Saturday our journey ended with our arrival at Blois, he went so
far as to conclude that she had hastened on expressly to avoid him. Now,
from what I had seen of Mademoiselle Yvonne, methought I might hazard
a guess that she it was who commanded in these--and haply, too, in
other--matters, and that the manner of their journey had been such as
was best to her wishes.
With such an argument did I strive to appease Andrea's doubts; but all
in vain--which is indeed no matter for astonishment, for to reason with
a man in love is to reason with one who knows no reason.
After a brief halt at the Lys de France--at which hostelry I hired
myself a room--we set out for the Château de Canaples, which is situated
on the left bank of the Loire, at a distance of about half a league from
Blois in the direction of Tours.
We cut a brave enough figure as we rode down the Rue Vieille attended by
our servants, and many a rustic Blaisois stopped to gape at us, to nudge
his companion, and point us out, whispering the word “Paris.”
I had donned my grey velvet doublet--deeming the occasion worthy of
it--whilst Andrea wore a handsome suit of black, with gold lace,
which for elegance it would have been difficult to surpass. An air of
pensiveness added interest to his handsome face and courtly figure, and
methought that Geneviève must be hard to please if she fell not a victim
to his wooing.
We proceeded along the road bordering the Loire, a road of rare beauty
at any other season of the year, but now bare of foliage, grey, bleak,
and sullen as the clouds overhead, and as cold to the eye as was the
sharp wind to the flesh. As we rode I fell to thinking of what my
reception at the Château de Canaples was likely to be, and almost to
regret that I had permitted Andrea to persuade me to accompany him. Long
ago I had known the Chevalier de Canaples, and for all the disparity
in our ages--for he counted twice my years--we had been friends and
comrades. That, however, was ten years ago, in the old days when I owned
something more than the name of Luynes. To-day I appeared before him as
a ruined adventurer, a soldier of fortune, a ruffler, a duellist who had
almost slain his son in a brawl, whose details might be known to him,
but not its origin. Seeing me in the company of Andrea de Mancini he
might--who could say?--even deem me one of those parasites who cling to
young men of fortune so that they may live at their expense. That the
daughter would have formed such a conceit of me I was assured; it but
remained to see with what countenance the father would greet me.
From such speculations I was at length aroused by our arrival at the
gates of the Canaples park. Seeing them wide open, we rode between
the two massive columns of granite (each surmounted by a couchant lion
holding the escutcheon of the Canaples) and proceeded at an ambling pace
up the avenue. Through the naked trees the château became discernible--a
brave old castle that once had been the stronghold of a feudal race
long dead. Grey it was, and attuned, that day, to the rest of the grey
landscape. But at its base the ivy grew thick and green, and here and
there long streaks of it crept up almost to the battlements, whilst
in one place it had gone higher yet and clothed one of the quaint old
turrets. A moat there had once been, but this was now filled up and
arranged into little mounds that became flower-beds in summer.
Resigning our horses to the keeping of our servants, we followed the
grave maître d'hôtel who had received us. He led us across the spacious
hall, which had all the appearance of an armoury, and up the regal
staircase of polished oak on to a landing wide and lofty. Here, turning
to the left, he opened a door and desired us to give ourselves the
trouble of awaiting the Chevalier. We entered a handsome room, hung
in costly Dutch tapestry, and richly furnished, yet with a sobriety of
colour almost puritanical. The long windows overlooked a broad terrace,
enclosed in a grey stone balustrade, from which some half-dozen steps
led to a garden below. Beyond that ran the swift waters of the Loire,
and beyond that again, in the distance, we beheld the famous Château de
Chambord, built in the days of the first Francis.
I had but remarked these details when the door again opened, to admit
a short, slender man in whose black hair and beard the hand of time had
scattered but little of that white dust that marks its passage. His face
was pale, thin, and wrinkled, and his grey eyes had a nervous, restless
look that dwelt not long on anything. He was dressed in black, with
simple elegance, and his deep collar and ruffles were of the finest
point.
“Welcome to Canaples, M. de Mancini!” he exclaimed, as he hurried
forward, with a smile so winning that his countenance appeared
transfigured by it. “Welcome most cordially! We had not hoped that you
would arrive so soon, but fortunately my daughters, to whom you appear
to have been of service at Choisy, warned me that you were journeying
hither. Your apartments, therefore, are prepared for you, and we hope
that you will honour Canaples by long remaining its guest.”
Andrea thanked him becomingly.
“In truth,” he added, “my departure from Paris was somewhat sudden,
but I have a letter here from Monseigneur my uncle, which explains the
matter.”
“No explanation is needed, my dear Andrea,” replied the old nobleman,
abandoning the formalities that had marked his welcoming speech. “How
left you my Lord Cardinal?” he asked, as he took the letter.
“In excellent health, but somewhat harassed, I fear, by the affairs of
State.”
“Ah, yes, yes. But stay. You are not alone.” And Canaples's grey eyes
shot an almost furtive glance of inquiry in my direction. A second
glance followed the first and the Chevalier's brows were knit. Then he
came a step nearer, scanning my face.
“Surely, surely, Monsieur,” he exclaimed before Andrea had time to
answer him. “Were you not at Rocroi?”
“Your memory flatters me, Monsieur,” I replied with a laugh. “I was
indeed at Rocroi--captain in the regiment of chévaux-légers whereof you
were Mestre de Champ.”
“His name,” said Andrea, “is Gaston de Luynes, my very dear friend,
counsellor, and, I might almost say, protector.”
“Pardieu, yes! Gaston de Luynes!” he ejaculated, seizing my hand in an
affectionate grip. “But how have you fared since Rocroi was fought? For
a soldier of such promise, one might have predicted great things in ten
years.”
“Hélas, Monsieur! I was dismissed the service after Senlac.”
“Dismissed the service!”
“Pah!” I laughed, not without bitterness, “'t is a long story and an
ugly one, divided 'twixt the dice-box, the bottle, and the scabbard. Ten
years ago I was a promising young captain, ardent and ambitious; to-day
I am a broken ruffler, unrecognised by my family--a man without hope,
without ambition, almost without honour.”
I know not what it was that impelled me to speak thus. Haply the wish
that since he must soon learn to what depths Gaston de Luynes had sunk,
he should at least learn it from my own lips at the outset.
He shuddered at my concluding words, and had not Andrea at that moment
put his arm affectionately upon my shoulder, and declared me the bravest
fellow and truest friend in all the world, it is possible that the
Chevalier de Canaples would have sought an excuse to be rid of me. Such
men as he seek not the acquaintance of such men as I.
To please Andrea was, however, of chief importance in his plans, and
to that motive I owe it that he pressed me to remain a guest at the
château. I declined the honour with the best grace I could command,
determined that whilst Andrea remained at Canaples I would lodge at the
Lys de France in Blois, independent and free to come or go as my fancy
bade me. His invitation that I should at least dine at Canaples I
accepted; but with the condition that he should repeat his invitation
after he had heard something that I wished to tell him. He assented with
a puzzled look, and when presently Andrea repaired to his apartments,
and we were alone, I began.
“You have doubtlessly received news, Monsieur, of a certain affair in
which your son had recently the misfortune to be dangerously wounded?”
We were standing by the great marble fireplace, and Canaples was resting
one of his feet upon the huge brass andirons. He made a gesture of
impatience as I spoke.
“My son, sir, is a fool! A good-for-nothing fool! Oh, I have heard of
this affair, a vulgar tavern brawl, the fifth in which his name has been
involved and besmirched. I had news this morning by a courier dispatched
me by my friend St. Simon, who imagines that I am deeply concerned in
that young profligate. I learn that he is out of danger, and that in a
month or so, he will be about again and ready to disgrace the name
of Canaples afresh. But there, sir; I crave your pardon for the
interruption.”
I bowed, and when in answer to my questions he told me that he was in
ignorance of the details of the affair of which I spoke, I set about
laying those details before him. Beginning with the original provocation
in the Palais Royal and ending with the fight in the horse-market, I
related the whole story to him, but in an impersonal manner, and keeping
my own name out of my narrative. When I had done, Canaples muttered an
oath of the days of the fourth Henry.
“Ventre St. Gris! Does the dog carry his audacity so far as to dare come
betwixt me and my wishes, and to strive against them? He sought to kill
Mancini, eh? Would to Heaven he had died by the hand of this fellow who
shielded the lad!”
“Monsieur!” I cried, aghast at so unnatural an expression.
“Pah!” he cried harshly. “He is my son in name alone, filial he never
was.”
“Nevertheless, Monsieur, he is still your son, your heir.”
“My heir? And what, pray, does he inherit? A title--a barren, landless
title! By his shameful conduct he alienated the affection of his uncle,
and his uncle has disinherited him in favour of Yvonne. 'T is she who
will be mistress of this château with its acres of land reaching from
here to Blois, and three times as far on the other side. My brother,
sir, was the rich Canaples, the owner of all this, and by his testament
I am his heir during my lifetime, the estates going to Yvonne at my
death. So that you see I have naught to leave; but if I had, not a
dénier should go to my worthless son!”
He spread his thin hands before the blaze, and for a moment there was
silence. Then I proceeded to tell him of the cabal which had been formed
against Mancini, and of the part played by St. Auban. At the mention of
that name he started as if I had stung him.
“What!” he thundered. “Is that ruffian also in the affair? Sangdieu! His
motives are not far to seek. He is a suitor--an unfavoured suitor--for
the hand of Yvonne, that seemingly still hopes. But you have not told
me, Monsieur, the name of this man who has stood betwixt Andrea and his
assassins.”
“Can you not guess, Monsieur?” quoth I, looking him squarely in the
face. “Did you not hear Andrea call me, even now, his protector.”
“You? And with what motive, pray?”
“At first, as I have told you, because the Cardinal gave me no choice
in the matter touching your son. Since then my motive has lain in my
friendship for the boy. He has been kind and affectionate to one who
has known little kindness or affection in life. I seek to repay him by
advancing his interests and his happiness. That, Monsieur, is why I am
here to-day--to shield him from St. Auban and his fellows should they
appear again, as I believe they will.”
The old man stood up and eyed me for a moment as steadily as his
vacillating glance would permit him, then he held out his hand.
“I trust, Monsieur,” he said, “that you will do me the honour to dine
with us, and that whilst you are at Blois we shall see you at Canaples
as often as it may please you to cross its threshold.”
I took his hand, but without enthusiasm, for I understood that his words
sprang from no warmth of heart for me, but merely from the fact that he
beheld in me a likely ally to his designs of raising his daughter to the
rank of Duchess.
Eugène de Canaples may have been a good-for-nothing knave; still,
methought his character scarce justified the callous indifference
manifested by this selfish, weak-minded old man towards his own son.
There was a knock at the door, and a lackey--the same Guilbert whom
I had seen at Choisy in Mademoiselle's company--appeared with the
announcement that the Chevalier was served.