Bardelys the Magnificent, Rafael Sabatini [best free e book reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Rafael Sabatini
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that but thinly veiled the dislike he was held in and the
satisfaction that was culled from his late discomfiture.
For a while I hung back and took no share in the banter that was
toward. But in the end - lured perhaps by the spirit in which I
have shown that Chatellerault accepted it, and lulled by the wine
which in common with my guests I may have abused - I came to utter
words but for which this story never had been written.
“Chatellerault,” I laughed, “abandon these defensive subterfuges;
confess that you are but uttering excuses, and acknowledge that you
have conducted this affair with a clumsiness unpardonable in one
equipped with your advantages of courtly rearing.”
A flush overspread his face, the first sign of anger since he had
spilled his wine.
“Your successes, Bardelys, render you vain, and of vanity is
presumption born,” he replied contemptuously.
“See!” I cried, appealing to the company. “Observe how he seeks to
evade replying! Nay, but you shall confess your clumsiness.”
“A clumsiness,” murmured La Fosse drowsily, “as signal as that
which attended Pan’s wooing of the Queen of Lydia.”
“I have no clumsiness to confess,” he answered hotly, raising his
voice. “It is a fine thing to sit here in Paris, among the languid,
dull, and nerveless beauties of the Court, whose favours are easily
won because they look on dalliance as the best pastime offered
them, and are eager for such opportunities of it as you fleering
coxcombs will afford them. But this Mademoiselle de Lavedan is
of a vastly different mettle. She is a woman; not a doll. She is
flesh and blood; not sawdust, powder, and vermilion. She has a
heart and a will; not a spirit corrupted by vanity and licence.”
La Fosse burst into a laugh.
“Hark! O, hark!” he cried, “to the apostle of the chaste!”
“Saint Gris!” exclaimed another. “This good Chatellerault has
lost both heart and head to her.”
Chatellerault glanced at the speaker with an eye in which anger
smouldered.
“You have said it,” I agreed. “He has fallen her victim, and so
his vanity translates her into a compound of perfections. Does
such a woman as you have described exist, Comte? Bah! In a
lover’s mind, perhaps, or in the pages of some crack-brained
poet’s fancies; but nowhere else in this dull world of ours.”
He made a gesture of impatience.
“You have been clumsy, Chatellerault,” I insisted.
“You have lacked address. The woman does not live that is not to
be won by any man who sets his mind to do it, if only he be of her
station and have the means to maintain her in it or raise her to
a better. A woman’s love, sir, is a tree whose root is vanity.
Your attentions flatter her, and predispose her to capitulate.
Then, if you but wisely choose your time to deliver the attack, and
do so with the necessary adroitness - nor is overmuch demanded -
the battle is won with ease, and she surrenders. Believe me,
Chatellerault, I am a younger man than you by full five years, yet
in experience I am a generation older, and I talk of what I know.”
He sneered heavily. “If to have begun your career of dalliance at
the age of eighteen with an amour that resulted in a scandal be
your title to experience, I agree,” said he. “But for the rest,
Bardelys, for all your fine talk of conquering women, believe me
when I tell you that in all your life you have never met a woman,
for I deny the claim of these Court creatures to that title. If
you would know a woman, go to Lavedan, Monsieur le Marquis. If you
would have your army of amorous wiles suffer a defeat at last, go
employ it against the citadel of Roxalanne de Lavedan’s heart. If
you would be humbled in your pride, betake yourself to Lavedan.”
“A challenge!” roared a dozen voices. “A challenge, Bardelys!”
“Mais voyons,” I deprecated, with a laugh, “would you have me
journey into Languedoc and play at wooing this embodiment of all
the marvels of womanhood for the sake of making good my argument?
Of your charity, gentlemen, insist no further.”
“The never-failing excuse of the boaster,” sneered Chatellerault,
“when desired to make good his boast.”
“Monsieur conceives that I have made a boast?” quoth I, keeping
my temper.
“Your words suggested one - else I do not know the meaning of words.
They suggested that where I have failed you could succeed, if you
had a mind to try. I have challenged you, Bardelys. I challenge
you again. Go about this wooing as you will; dazzle the lady with
your wealth and your magnificence, with your servants, your horses,
your equipages; and all the splendours you can command; yet I make
bold to say that not a year of your scented attentions and most
insidious wiles will bear you fruit. Are you sufficiently
challenged?”
“But this is rank frenzy!” I protested. “Why should I undertake
this thing?”
“To prove me wrong,” he taunted me. “To prove me clumsy. Come,
Bardelys, what of your spirit?”
“I confess I would do much to afford you the proof you ask. But to
take a wife! Pardi! That is much indeed!”
“Bah!” he sneered. “You do well to draw back You are wise to
avoid discomfiture. This lady is not for you. When she is won,
it will be by some bold and gallant gentleman, and by no mincing
squire of dames, no courtly coxcomb, no fop of the Luxembourg, be
his experiences of dalliance never so vast.”
“Po’ Cap de Dieu!” growled Cazalet, who was a Gascon captain in
the Guards, and who swore strange, southern oaths. “Up, Bardelys!
Afoot! Prove your boldness and your gallantry, or be forever
shamed; a squire of dames, a courtly coxcomb, a fop of the
Luxembourg! Mordemondieu! I have given a man a bellyful of steel
for the half of those titles!”
“I heeded him little, and as little the other noisy babblers, who
now on their feet - those that could stand - were spurring me
excitedly to accept the challenge, until from being one of the
baiters it seemed that of a sudden the tables were turned and I
was become the baited. I sat in thought, revolving the business
in my mind, and frankly liking it but little. Doubts of the issue,
were I to undertake it, I had none.
My views of the other sex were neither more nor less than my words
to the Count had been calculated to convey. It may be - I know now
that it was that the women I had known fitted Chatellerault’s
description, and were not over-difficult to win. Hence, such
successes as I had had with them in such comedies of love as I had
been engaged upon had given me a false impression. But such at
least was not my opinion that night. I was satisfied that
Chatellerault talked wildly, and that no such woman lived as he
depicted. Cynical and soured you may account me. Such I know I
was accounted in Paris; a man satiated with all that wealth and
youth and the King’s favour could give him; stripped of illusions,
of faith and of zest, the very magnificence - so envied - of my
existence affording me more disgust than satisfaction. Since
already I had gauged its shallows.
Is it strange, therefore, that in this challenge flung at me with
such insistence, a business that at first I disliked grew presently
to beckon me with its novelty and its promise of new sensations?
“Is your spirit dead, Monsieur de Bardelys?” Chatellerault was
gibing, when my silence had endured some moments. “Is the cock that
lately crowed so lustily now dumb? Look you, Monsieur le Marquis,
you are accounted here a reckless gamester. Will a wager induce
you to this undertaking?”
I leapt to my feet at that. His derision cut me like a whip. If
what I did was the act of a braggart, yet it almost seems I could
do no less to bolster up my former boasting - or what into boasting
they had translated.
“You’ll lay a wager, will you, Chatellerault?” I cried, giving him
back defiance for defiance. A breathless silence fell. “Then have
it so. Listen, gentlemen, that you may be witnesses. I do here
pledge my castle of Bardelys, and my estates in Picardy, with every
stick and stone and blade of grass that stands upon them, that I
shall woo and win Roxalanne de Lavedan to be the Marquise of
Bardelys. Does the stake satisfy you, Monsieur le Comte? You may
set all you have against it,” I added coarsely, “and yet, I swear,
the odds will be heavily in your favour.”
I remember it was Mironsac who first found his tongue, and sought
even at that late hour to set restraint upon us and to bring
judgment to our aid.
“Messieurs, messieurs!” he besought us. “In Heaven’s name, bethink
you what you do. Bardelys, your wager is a madness. Monsieur de
Chatellerault, you’ll not accept it. You’ll—”
“Be silent,” I rebuked him, with some asperity. “What has Monsieur
de Chatellerault to say?”
He was staring at the tablecloth and the stain of the wine that he
had spilled when first Mademoiselle de Lavedan’s name was mentioned.
His head had been bent so that his long black hair had tumbled
forward and partly veiled his face. At my question he suddenly
looked up. The ghost of a smile hung on his sensuous lips, for all
that excitement had paled his countenance beyond its habit.
“Monsieur le Marquis.” said he rising, “I take your wager, and I
pledge my lands in Normandy against yours of Bardelys. Should you
lose, they will no longer call you the Magnificent; should I lose
—I shall be a beggar. It is a momentous wager, Bardelys, and
spells ruin for one of us.”
“A madness!” groaned Mironsac.
“Mordieux!” swore Cazalet. Whilst La Fosse, who had been the
original cause of all this trouble, vented his excitement in a
gibber of imbecile laughter.
“How long do you give me, Chatellerault?” I asked, as quietly as
I might.
“What time shall you require?”
“I should prefer that you name the limit,” I answered.
He pondered a moment. Then “Will three months suffice you?” he
asked.
“If it is not done in three months, I will pay,” said I.
And then Chatellerault did what after all was, I suppose, the only
thing that a gentleman might do under the circumstances. He rose
to his feet, and, bidding the company charge their glasses, he gave
them a parting toast.
“Messieurs, drink with me to Monsieur le Marquis de Bardelys’s safe
journey into Languedoc, and to the prospering of his undertaking.”
In answer, a great shout went up from throats that suspense had
lately held in leash. Men leapt on to their chairs, and, holding
their glasses on high, they acclaimed me as thunderously as though
I had been the hero of some noble exploit, instead of the main
figure in a somewhat questionable wager.
“Bardelys!” was the shout with which the house reechoed. “Bardelys!
Bardelys the Magnificent! Vive Bardelys!”
THE KING’S WISHES
It was daybreak ere the last of them had left me, for a dozen or so
had lingered to play lansquenet after the others had departed. With
those that remained my wager had soon faded into insignificance, as
their minds became engrossed in the fluctuations of
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