For all that I realised that this love of mine for Yvonne was as a child
still-born--a thing that had no existence save in the heart that had
begotten it--I rejoiced meanly at the thought that she was not destined
to become Andrea's wife. For since I understood that this woman--who to
me was like no other of her sex--was not for so poor a thing as Gaston
de Luynes, like the dog in the fable I wished that no other might
possess her. Inevitable it seemed that sooner or later one must come who
would woo and win her. But ere that befell, my Lord Cardinal would have
meted out justice to me--the justice of the rope meseemed--and I should
not be by to gnash my teeth in jealousy.
That evening, when the Chevalier de Canaples had gone to pay a visit to
his vineyard,--the thing that, next to himself, he loved most in this
world,--and whilst Geneviève and Andrea were vowing a deathless love to
each other in the rose garden, their favourite haunt when the Chevalier
was absent, I seized the opportunity for making my adieux to Yvonne.
We were leaning together upon the balustrade of the terrace, and our
faces were turned towards the river and the wooded shores beyond--a
landscape this that was as alive and beautiful now as it had been dead
and grey when first I came to Canaples two months ago.
Scarce were my first words spoken when she turned towards me, and
methought--but I was mad, I told myself--that there was a catch in her
voice as she exclaimed, “You are leaving us, Monsieur?”
“To-morrow morning I shall crave Monsieur your father's permission to
quit Canaples.”
“But why, Monsieur? Have we not made you happy here?”
“So happy, Mademoiselle,” I answered with fervour, “that at times it
passes my belief that I am indeed Gaston de Luynes. But go I must. My
honour demands of me this sacrifice.”
And in answer to the look of astonishment that filled her wondrous eyes,
I told her what I had told Andrea touching my parole to Montrésor, and
the necessity of its redemption. As Andrea had done, she also dubbed it
madness, but her glance was, nevertheless, so full of admiration, that
methought to have earned it was worth the immolation of liberty--of life
perchance; who could say?
“Before I go, Mademoiselle,” I pursued, looking straight before me as
I spoke, and dimly conscious that her glance was bent upon my
face--“before I go, I fain would thank you for all that you have done
for me here. Your care has saved my life, Mademoiselle; your kindness,
methinks, has saved my soul. For it seems to me that I am no longer the
same man whom Michelot fished out of the Loire that night two months
ago. I would thank you, Mademoiselle, for the happiness that has been
mine during the past few days--a happiness such as for years has not
fallen to my lot. To another and worthier man, the task of thanking you
might be an easy one; but to me, who know myself to be so far beneath
you, the obligation is so overwhelming that I know of no words to fitly
express it.”
“Monsieur, Monsieur, I beseech you! Already you have said overmuch.”
“Nay, Mademoiselle; not half enough.”
“Have you forgotten, then, what you did for me? Our trivial service to
you is but unseemly recompense. What other man would have come to my
rescue as you came, with such odds against you--and forgetting the
affronting words wherewith that very day I had met your warning? Tell
me, Monsieur, who would have done that?”
“Why, any man who deemed himself a gentleman, and who possessed such
knowledge as I had.”
She laughed a laugh of unbelief.
“You are mistaken, sir,” she answered. “The deed was worthy of one of
those preux chevaliers we read of, and I have never known but one man
capable of accomplishing it.”
Those words and the tone wherein they were uttered set my brain on fire.
I turned towards her; our glances met, and her eyes--those eyes that but
a while ago had never looked on me without avowing the disdain wherein
she had held me--were now filled with a light of kindliness, of
sympathy, of tenderness that seemed more than I could endure.
Already my hand was thrust into the bosom of my doublet, and my fingers
were about to drag forth that little shred of green velvet that I had
found in the coppice on the day of her abduction, and that I had kept
ever since as one keeps the relic of a departed saint. Another moment
and I should have poured out the story of the mad, hopeless passion that
filled my heart to bursting, when of a sudden--“Yvonne, Yvonne!” came
Geneviève's fresh voice from the other end of the terrace. The spell of
that moment was broken.
Methought Mademoiselle made a little gesture of impatience as she
answered her sister's call; then, with a word of apology, she left me.
Half dazed by the emotions that had made sport of me, I leaned over the
balustrade, and with my elbows on the stone and my chin on my palms,
I stared stupidly before me, thanking God for having sent Geneviève in
time to save me from again earning Mademoiselle's scorn. For as I grew
sober I did not doubt that with scorn she would have met the wild words
that already trembled on my lips.
I laughed harshly and aloud, such a laugh as those in Hell may vent.
“Gaston, Gaston!” I muttered, “at thirty-two you are more a fool than
ever you were at twenty.”
I told myself then that my fancy had vested her tone and look with a
kindliness far beyond that which they contained, and as I thought of
how I had deemed impatient the little gesture wherewith she had greeted
Geneviève's interruption I laughed again.
From the reverie into which, naturally enough, I lapsed, it was
Mademoiselle who aroused me. She stood beside me with an unrest of
manner so unusual in her, that straightway I guessed the substance of
her talk with Geneviève.
“So, Mademoiselle,” I said, without waiting for her to speak, “you have
learned what is afoot?”
“I have,” she answered. “That they love each other is no news to me.
That they intend to wed does not surprise me. But that they should
contemplate a secret marriage passes my comprehension.”
I cleared my throat as men will when about to embark upon a perilous
subject with no starting-point determined.
“It is time, Mademoiselle,” I began, “that you should learn the true
cause of M. de Mancini's presence at Canaples. It will enlighten you
touching his motives for a secret wedding. Had things fallen out as was
intended by those who planned his visit--Monsieur your father and my
Lord Cardinal--it is improbable that you would ever have heard that
which it now becomes necessary that I should tell you. I trust,
Mademoiselle,” I continued, “that you will hear me in a neutral
spirit, without permitting your personal feelings to enter into your
consideration of that which I shall unfold.”
“So long a preface augurs anything but well,” she interposed, looking
monstrous serious.
“Not ill, at least, I hope. Hear me then. Your father and his Eminence
are friends; the one has a daughter who is said to be very wealthy and
whom he, with fond ambition, desires to see wedded to a man who can
give her an illustrious name; the other possesses a nephew whom he can
ennoble by the highest title that a man may bear who is not a prince of
the blood,--and borne indeed by few who are not,--and whom he desires to
see contract an alliance that will bring him enough of riches to enable
him to bear his title with becoming dignity.” I glanced at Mademoiselle,
whose cheeks were growing an ominous red.
“Well, Mademoiselle,” I continued, “your father and Monseigneur de
Mazarin appear to have bared their heart's desire to each other, and
M. de Mancini was sent to Canaples to woo and win your father's elder
daughter.”
A long pause followed, during which she stood with face aflame, averted
eyes, and heaving bosom, betraying the feelings that stormed within
her at the disclosure of the bargain whereof she had been a part. At
length--“Oh, Monsieur!” she exclaimed in a choking voice, and clenching
her shapely hands, “to think--”
“I beseech you not to think, Mademoiselle,” I interrupted calmly, for,
having taken the first plunge, I was now master of myself. “The ironical
little god, whom the ancients painted with bandaged eyes, has led M. de
Mancini by the nose in this matter, and things have gone awry for the
plotters. There, Mademoiselle, you have the reason for a clandestine
union. Did Monsieur your father guess how Andrea's affections have”--I
caught the word “miscarried” betimes, and substituted--“gone against his
wishes, his opposition is not a thing to be doubted.”
“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.