Bardelys the Magnificent - Rafael Sabatini (affordable ebook reader .txt) 📗
- Author: Rafael Sabatini
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“Rise, mademoiselle, I beseech you,” I said, with a quiet I was far
from feeling. “There is no need for this. Let us be calm. The
danger to your father is not so imminent. We may have some days yet
—three or four, perhaps.”
I lifted her gently and led her to a chair. I was hard put to it
not to hold her supported in my arms. But I might not cull that
advantage from her distress. A singular niceness, you will say,
perhaps, as in your scorn you laugh at me. Perhaps you are right
to laugh - yet are you not altogether right.
“You will go to Toulouse, monsieur?” she begged.
I took a turn in the room, then halting before her “Yes,” I answered,
“I will go.”
The gratitude that leapt to her eyes smote me hard, for my sentence
was unfinished.
“I will go,” I continued quickly, “when you shall have promised to
become my wife.”
The joy passed from her face. She glanced at me a moment as if
without understanding.
“I came to Lavedan to win you, Roxalanne, and from Lavedan I shall
not stir until I have accomplished my design,” I said very quietly.
“You will therefore see that it rests with you how soon I may set
out.”
She fell to weeping softly, but answered nothing. At last I turned
from her and moved towards the door.
“Where are you going?” she cried.
“To take the air, mademoiselle. If upon deliberation you can bring
yourself to marry me, send me word by Anatole or one of the others,
and I shall set out at once for Toulouse.”
“Stop!” she cried. Obediently I stopped, my hand already upon the
doorknob. “You are cruel, monsieur!” she complained.
“I love you,” said I, by way of explaining it. “To be cruel seems
to be the way of love. You have been cruel to me.”
“Would you - would you take what is not freely given?”
“I have the hope that when you see that you must give, you will
give freely.”
“If - if I make you this promise—”
“Yes?” I was growing white with eagerness.
“You will fulfil your part of the bargain?”
“It is a habit of mine, mademoiselle - as witnesses the case of
Chatellerault.” She shivered at the mention of his name. It
reminded her of precisely such another bargain that three nights
ago she had made. Precisely, did I say? Well, not quite precisely.
“I - I promise to marry you, then,” said she in a choking voice,
“whenever you choose, after my father shall have been set at liberty.”
I bowed. “I shall start at once,” said I.
And perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of - who shall say what
sentiments? - I turned without another word and left her.
THE “BRAVI” AT BLAGNAC
I was glad to be in the open once more - glad of the movement, as I
rode at the head of my brave company along the bank of the Garonne
and in the shade of the golden, autumn-tinted trees.
I was in a measure angry with myself that I had driven such a bargain
with Roxalanne, in a measure angry with her that she had forced me
to it by her obstinacy. A fine gentleman I, on my soul, to have
dubbed Chatellerault a cheat for having done no worse than I had now
brought myself to do! Yet, was it so? No, I assured myself, it was
not. A thousand times no! What I had done I had done as much to
win Roxalanne to me as to win her from her own unreasonableness. In
the days to come she should thank me for my harshness, for that which
now she perhaps accounted my unfairness.
Then, again, would I ask myself, was I very sure of this? And so the
two questions were flung the one against the other; my conscience
divided itself into two parties, and they waged a war that filled me
with a depressing uncertainty.
In the end shame was overthrown, and I flung back my head with a
snort of assurance. I was doing no wrong. On the contrary, I was
doing right - both by myself and by Roxalanne. What matter that I
was really cheating her? What matter that I had said I would not
leave Lavedan until I had her promise, whilst in reality I had
hurled my threat at Saint-Eustache that I would meet him at Toulouse,
and passed my word to the Vicomtesse that I would succour her
husband?
I gave no thought to the hidden threat with which Saint-Eustache
had retorted that from Lavedan to Toulouse was a distance of some
twenty leagues. Had he been a man of sterner purposes I might have
been uneasy and on my guard. But Saint-Eustache pshaw!
It is ill to underestimate an enemy, be he never so contemptible,
and for my disdain of the Chevalier I might have paid dearly had
not Fortune - which of late had been practising singular jests upon
me after seemingly abandoning me, returned to my aid at the last
moment.
It was Saint-Eustache’s purpose that I should never reach Toulouse
alive, for in all the world I was the one man he feared, the one
man who would encompass his undoing and destruction by a word. And
so he had resolved and disposed that I should be removed, and to
accomplish this he had left a line of bravi along the road I was to
pass.
He had counted upon my lying the night in one of the intervening
towns, for the journey was over-long to be accomplished at a
stretch, and wherever I might chance to lie, there I should have to
reckon with his assassins. The nearer Toulouse - although I knew
not this - the thicker grew my danger. Into the very thick of it
I rode; in the very thick of it I lay, and all that came of it was
that I obtained possession of one more and overwhelming piece of
evidence against my murderous Chevalier. But I outrun my story.
It had been my purpose to change horses at Grenade, and so push on
and reach Toulouse that very night or in the early hours of the
following morning. At Grenade, however, there were no horses to be
obtained, at least not more than three, and so, leaving the greater
portion of my company behind, I set out, escorted only by Gilles
and Antoine. Night had fallen long before we reached Lespinasse,
and with it came foul weather. The wind rose from the west, grew
to the violence of a hurricane, and brought with it such a deluge
of cold, cutting rain as never had it been my ill-chance to ride
through. From Lespinasse to Fenouillet the road dips frequently,
and wherever this occurred it seemed to us that we were riding in
a torrent, our horses fetlock-deep in mud.
Antoine complained in groans; Gilles growled openly, and went the
length of begging me, as we rode through the ill-paved, flooded
streets of Fenouillet, to go no farther. But I was adamant in my
resolve. Soaked to the skin, my clothes hanging sodden about me,
and chilled to the marrow though I was, I set my chattering teeth,
and swore that we should not sleep until we reached Toulouse.
“My God,” he groaned, “and we but halfway!”
“Forward!” was all I answered; and so as midnight chimed we left
Fenouillet behind us, and dashed on into the open country and the
full fury of the tempest.
My servants came after me upon their stumbling horses, whining and
cursing by turns, and forgetting in their misery the respect that
they were accustomed to pay me. I think now that it was a providence
that guided me. Had I halted at Fenouillet, as they would have had
me do, it is odds that this chronicle would never have been penned,
for likely enough I had had my throat cut as I slept. A providence
was it also that brought my horse down within a half-mile of Blagnac,
and so badly did it founder that it might not be ridden farther.
The beasts my men bestrode were in little better condition, and so,
with infinite chagrin, I was forced to acknowledge defeat and to
determine that at Blagnac we should lie for the remainder of the
night. After all, it mattered little. A couple of hours’ riding
in the morning would bring us to Toulouse, and we would start
betimes.
I bade Gilles dismount - he had been the louder in his complainings
—and follow us afoot, bringing my horse to the Auberge de l’Etoile
at Blagnac, where he would await him. Then I mounted his jaded
beast, and, accompanied by Antoine - the last of my retainers - I
rode into Blagnac, and pulled up at the sign of the “Star.”
With my whip I smote the door, and I had need to smite hard if I
would be heard above the wind that shrieked and howled under the
eaves of that narrow street. Yet it almost seemed as if some one
were expected, for scarce had my knocking ceased when the door
was opened, and the landlord stood there, shading a taper with
his hand. For a moment I saw the glow of its light on his rosy,
white-bearded face, then a gust of wind extinguished it.
“Diable!” he swore, “an ugly night for travelling”; adding as an
afterthought, “You ride late, monsieur.”
“You are a man of supreme discernment, Monsieur l’Hote,” said I
testily, as I pushed him aside and stepped into the passage. “Will
you keep me in the rain till daylight whilst you perpend how late
I ride? Is your ostler abed? See to those beasts yourself, then.
Afterwards get me food - for me and for my man and beds for both
of us.”
“I have but one room, monsieur,” he answered respectfully. “You
shall have that, and your servant shall sleep in the hayloft.”
“My servant sleeps in my room, if you have but one. Set a mattress
on the floor for him. Is this a night to leave a dog to sleep in
a hayloft? I have another servant following. He will be here in a
few minutes. You must find room for him also - in the passage
outside my door, if no other accommodation be possible.”
“But, monsieur -” he began in a tone of protest, which I set down
to the way a landlord has of making difficulties that he shall be
the better paid for such lodging as he finds us.
“See to it,” I ordered peremptorily. “You shall be well paid. Now
go tend those horses.”
On the wall of the passage fell a warm, reddish glow from the common
room, which argued a fire, and this was too alluring to admit of my
remaining longer in discussion with him. I strode forward, therefore.
The Auberge de l’Etoile was not an imposing hostelry, nor one at
which from choice I had made a halt. This common room stank most
vilely of oil, of burning tallow - from the smoky tapers - and of I
know not what other noisome unsavourinesses.
As I entered, I was greeted by a resonant snore from a man seated
in a corner by the fire. His head had fallen back, displaying the
brown, sinewy neck, and he slept - or seemed to sleep - with mouth
wide open. Full length on the hearth and in the red
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