Let conscience die. The hours wheeled timeless past as they so often do
when there is a change in outer circumstance so sharp that landmarks
vanish. Let conscience die; was it true? Rodvard thought of the high
ideals of service with which he had joined the Sons of the New Day—was
any purpose as good as another? Lalette; his mind shot off on a sudden
tangent of tenderness toward her, who fairly desired to be a good
partner, it might be for her own interest, but still making two instead
of one against a world; and Mathurin came in.
When he was told that Baron Brunivar was likely to be condemned only for
being the best man in the state and its appointed future regent, his
eyes burned like coal-fires; he said; “It is the thing we need; the
people will not bear to hear it; they will rise. First gain for your
Blue Star, friend.” He ran out with his nose sharpened by excitement,
his eyes glowing like those of a rat.
9
SPRING FESTIVAL: INTRIGUE OF COUNT CLEUDI
“Now the mask, Mathurin,” said Count Cleudi. One corner of his lip
twitched (the black eyes glinting with malice). He seemed as light and
strong as one of those bronze statues of the winged man, knuckles
resting on the table. His own costume was a rich purple, as he glanced
from the mirror to Rodvard’s face, masked down to the lower cheeks, but
with the lips bare.
“The chin is much alike. Turn around, Bergelin, slowly, pivoting on the
ball of the right foot. So.” He lifted his own right arm, slightly bent,
dropped his left hand to dagger-hilt, and illustrated. Rodvard tried to
follow him.
“Not quite right with the dagger; you are jerky. But you will hardly be
dancing a corabando. Have the goodness to walk across the room. Stand.
Mathurin, where does he lack the resemblance?”
The servant’s fingers came up to his lip. “The voice is almost perfect,
my lord, but there is something in the movement of the hands not
quite . . .”
“It is only birth that does it,” said Cleudi. “The wrist laces; he is
not very used to handling them. But for the rest, Bergelin, you were
born a most accomplished mimic and swindler. Remind me to dismiss you
before your natural talent is turned in my direction. Now the
instruction; repeat.”
“I am to be at the ball when the opera is over, at least a glass before
midnight. The fourth box on the left-hand side is yours. I am to look at
the doorbase of the second box, where a handkerchief will be caught. If
it is white, edged with lace, perfumed with honeymusk, I am to go below
and make myself seen at the gaming tables. But if the handkerchief is
blue and rose-perfumed, I am to take it away and leave in its place
another; then without being seen on the dancing floor or at the games,
go at once to my lord’s box, but leave the panels up and the curtains
closed. Someone will presently tap twice, a lady. I am to greet her with
my lord’s sonnet, eat with her; declare my passion for her . . . My
lord?”
“Yes?”
“What if—that is—I would—”
Cleudi shot him a gleam (containing amusement mingled with a little dark
shade of cruelty and the thought of shaming him with the full statement
of his quaver). “You want money, apprentice swindler? You should—”
“No, my lord, it is not that, but—.” The Count’s toe tapped, his
expression became a rictus, and Rodvard rushed on with heat at the back
of his neck. “What if the intrigue does not succeed, that is if you do
not appear in time—”
The rictus became a bark. “Ha—why, then you must suffer the horrid fate
of being alone in a secluded apartment with the shapeliest and most
willing woman in Dossola. Are you impotent?”
Rodvard half opened his mouth to protest in stumbling words that he was
a promised man, who thought it less than honest to violate his given
word, but Mathurin tittered and (the stream of hate and fury that flowed
from those black eyes!) he only made a small sound. Cleudi barked again:
“Ha! Will you be a theologian, then? It is she who should make
confession, not you—by the wise decision of the Church, as I was
discussing but lately with the Episcopal of Zenss. The minor priests
will say otherwise; but it is a reflection from the old days, before the
present congress of episcopals. Listen, peasant; is it not manifestly to
the glory of God that men should seek women for their first and highest
pleasure, as it is that daughters should have all monetary inheritance?
Is it not also manifest that all would be under the rule of women, who
have the Art as well as their arts, unless some disability lay upon
them. . . . Ah, chutte! Why do I talk like a deacon to a be-damned
clerk? Enough that I have given you an order. Greater things than you
think hang on this intrigue, and you’ll execute it well, or by the
Service, I’ll reduce you to a state where no woman will tempt you again.
Now take off that finery; be prompt here at two glasses before midnight
for Mathurin to dress you.”