“Gaston,” quoth Andrea next morning, “you will remain at Canaples until
to-morrow? You must, for to-morrow I am to be wed, and I would fain have
your good wishes ere you go.”
“Nice hands, mine, to seek a benediction at,” I grumbled.
“But you will remain? Come, Gaston, we have been good friends, you and
I, and who knows when next we shall meet? Believe me, I shall value your
'God speed' above all others.”
“Likely enough, since it will be the only one you'll hear.”
But for all my sneers he was not to be put off. He talked and coaxed so
winningly that in the end--albeit I am a man not easily turned from the
course he has set himself--the affectionate pleading in his fresh young
voice and the affectionate look in his dark eyes won me to his way.
Forthwith I went in quest of the Chevalier, whom, at the indication of a
lackey, I discovered in the room it pleased him to call his study--that
same room into which we had been ushered on the day of our arrival at
Canaples. I told him that on the morrow I must set out for Paris, and
albeit he at first expressed a polite regret, yet when I had shown him
how my honour was involved in my speedy return thither, he did not urge
me to put off my departure.
“It grieves me, sir, that you must go, and I deeply regret the motive
that is taking you. Yet I hope that his Eminence, in recognition of the
services you have rendered his nephew, will see fit to forget what cause
for resentment he may have against you, and render you your liberty. If
you will give me leave, Monsieur, I will write to his Eminence in this
strain, and you shall be the bearer of my letter.”
I thanked him, with a smile of deprecation, as I thought of the true
cause of Mazarin's resentment, which was precisely that of the plea upon
which M. de Canaples sought to obtain for me my liberation.
“And now, Monsieur,” he pursued nervously, “touching Andrea and his
visit here, I would say a word to you who are his friend, and may haply
know something of his mind. It is over two months since he came here,
and yet the--er--affair which we had hoped to bring about seems no
nearer its conclusion than when first he came. Of late I have watched
him and I have watched Yvonne; they are certainly good friends, yet not
even the frail barrier of formality appears overcome betwixt them, and
I am beginning to fear that Andrea is not only lukewarm in this matter,
but is forgetful of his uncle's wishes and selfishly indifferent to
Monseigneur's projects and mine, which, as he well knows, are the reason
of his sojourn at my château. What think you of this, M. de Luynes?”
He shot a furtive glance at me as he spoke, and with his long, lean
forefinger he combed his beard in a nervous fashion.
I gave a short laugh to cover my embarrassment at the question.
“What do I think, Monsieur?” I echoed to gain time. Then, thinking that
a sententious answer would be the most fitting,--“Ma foi! Love is as the
spark that lies latent in flint and steel: for days and weeks these two
may be as close together as you please, and naught will come of it; but
one fine day, a hand--the hand of chance--will strike the one against
the other, and lo!--the spark is born!”
“You speak in parables, Monsieur,” was his caustic comment.
“'T is in parables that all religions are preached,” I returned, “and
love, methinks, is a great religion in this world.”
“Love, sir, love!” he cried petulantly. “The word makes me sick! What
has love to do with this union? Love, sir, is a pretty theme for poets,
romancers, and fools. The imagination of such a sentiment--for it is a
sentiment that does not live save in the imagination--may serve to draw
peasants and other lowbred clods into wedlock. With such as we--with
gentlemen--it has naught to do. So let that be, Monsieur. Andrea de
Mancini came hither to wed my daughter.”
“And I am certain, Monsieur,” I answered stoutly, “that Andrea will wed
your daughter.”
“You speak with confidence.”
“I know Andrea well. Signs that may be hidden to you are clear to me,
and I have faith in my prophecy.”
He looked at me, and fell a victim to my confidence of manner. The
petulancy died out of his face.
“Well, well! We will hope. My Lord Cardinal is to create him Duke, and
he will assume as title his wife's estate, becoming known to history as
Andrea de Mancini, Duke of Canaples. Thus shall a great house be founded
that will bear our name. You see the importance of it?”
“Clearly.”
“And how reasonable is my anxiety?”
“Assuredly.”
“And you are in sympathy with me?”
“Pardieu! Why else did I go so near to killing your son?”
“True,” he mused. Then suddenly he added, “Apropos, have you heard that
Eugène has become one of the leaders of these frondeur madmen?”
“Ah! Then he is quite recovered?”
“Unfortunately,” he assented with a grimace, and thus our interview
ended.
That day wore slowly to its close. I wandered hither and thither in the
château and the grounds, hungering throughout the long hours for a word
with Mademoiselle--a glimpse of her, at least.
But all day long she kept her chamber, the pretext being that she was
beset by a migraine. By accident I came upon her that evening, at last,
in the salon; yet my advent was the signal for her departure, and all
the words she had for me were:
“Still at Canaples, Monsieur? I thought you were to have left this
morning.” She looked paler than her wont, and her eyes were somewhat
red.
“I am remaining until to-morrow,” said I awkwardly.
“Vraiement!” was all she answered, and she was gone.
Next morning the Chevalier and I breakfasted alone. Mademoiselle's
migraine was worse. Geneviève was nursing, so her maid brought
word--whilst Andrea had gone out an hour before and had not returned.
The Chevalier shot me an apologetic glance across the board.
“'T is a poor 'God speed' to you, M. de Luynes.”
I made light of it and turned the conversation into an indifferent
channel, wherein it abided until, filling himself a bumper of Anjou, the
Chevalier solemnly drank to my safe journey and good fortune in Paris.
At that moment Andrea entered by the door abutting on the terrace
balcony. He was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with a joyous fever.
Profuse was he in his apologies, which, howbeit, were passing vague
in character, and which he brought to a close by pledging me as the
Chevalier had done already.
As we rose, Geneviève appeared with the news that Yvonne was somewhat
better, adding that she had come to take leave of me. Her composure
surprised me gladly, for albeit in her eyes there was also a telltale
light, the lids, demurely downcast as was her wont, amply screened it
from the vulgar gaze.
Andrea would tell his father-in-law of the marriage later in the day;
and for all I am not a chicken-hearted man, still I had no stomach to be
at hand when the storm broke.
The moment having come for my departure, and Michelot awaiting me
already with the horses in the courtyard, M. de Canaples left us to seek
the letter which I was to carry to his Eminence. So soon as the door had
closed upon him, Andrea came forward, leading his bride by the hand, and
asked me to wish them happiness.
“With all my heart,” I answered; “and if happiness be accorded you in a
measure with the fervency of my wishes then shall you, indeed, be happy.
Each of you I congratulate upon the companion in life you have chosen.
Cherish him, Mademoi--Madame, for he is loyal and true--and such are
rare in this world.”
It is possible that I might have said more in this benign and fatherly
strain--for it seemed to me that this new role I had assumed suited
me wondrous well--but a shadow that drew our eyes towards the nearest
window interrupted me. And what we saw there drew a cry from Andrea, a
shudder from Geneviève, and from me a gasp that was half amazement, half
dismay. For, leaning upon the sill, surveying us with a sardonic, evil
grin, we beheld Eugène de Canaples, the man whom I had left with a
sword-thrust through his middle behind the Hôtel Vendôme two months ago.
Whence was he sprung, and why came he thus to his father's house?
He started as I faced him, for doubtless St. Auban had boasted to him
that he had killed me in a duel. For a moment he remained at the window,
then he disappeared, and we could hear the ring of his spurred heel as
he walked along the balcony towards the door.
And simultaneously came the quick, hurrying steps of the Chevalier de
Canaples, as he crossed the hall, returning with the letter he had gone
to fetch.
Geneviève shuddered again, and looked fearfully from one door to the
other; Andrea drew a sharp breath like a man in pain, whilst I rapped
out an oath to brace my nerves for the scene which we all three foresaw.
Then in silence we waited, some subtle instinct warning us of the
disaster that impended.
The steps on the balcony halted, and a second later those in the hall;
and then, as though the thing had been rehearsed and timed so that the
spectators might derive the utmost effect from it, the doors opened
together, and on the opposing thresholds, with the width of the room
betwixt them, stood father and son confronted.