Scaramouche, Rafael Sabatini [inspirational books txt] 📗

“You know, of course, of some good reason why it should not?” said he.

“You may be killed,” she answered him, and her eyes dilated as she spoke.

It was so far from anything that he had expected that for a moment he could only stare at her. Then he thought he had understood. He laughed as he removed her hands from his shoulders, and stepped back. This was a shallow device, childish and unworthy in her.

“Can you really think to prevail by attempting to frighten me?” he asked, and almost sneered.

“Oh, you are surely mad! M. de La Tour d’Azyr is reputed the most dangerous sword in France.”

“Have you never noticed that most reputations are undeserved? Chabrillane was a dangerous swordsman, and Chabrillane is underground. La Motte-Royau was an even more dangerous swordsman, and he is in a surgeon’s hands. So are the other spadassinicides who dreamt of skewering a poor sheep of a provincial lawyer. And here today comes the chief, the fine flower of these bully-swordsmen. He comes, for wages long overdue. Be sure of that. So if you have no other reason to urge⁠ ⁠…”

It was the sarcasm of him that mystified her. Could he possibly be sincere in his assurance that he must prevail against M. de La Tour d’Azyr? To her in her limited knowledge, her mind filled with her uncle’s contrary conviction, it seemed that André-Louis was only acting; he would act a part to the very end.

Be that as it might, she shifted her ground to answer him.

“You had my uncle’s letter?”

“And I answered it.”

“I know. But what he said, he will fulfil. Do not dream that he will relent if you carry out this horrible purpose.”

“Come, now, that is a better reason than the other,” said he. “If there is a reason in the world that could move me it would be that. But there is too much between La Tour d’Azyr and me. There is an oath I swore on the dead hand of Philippe de Vilmorin. I could never have hoped that God would afford me so great an opportunity of keeping it.”

“You have not kept it yet,” she warned him.

He smiled at her. “True!” he said. “But nine o’clock will soon be here. Tell me,” he asked her suddenly, “why did you not carry this request of yours to M. de La Tour d’Azyr?”

“I did,” she answered him, and flushed as she remembered her yesterday’s rejection. He interpreted the flush quite otherwise.

“And he?” he asked.

“M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s obligations⁠ ⁠…” she was beginning: then she broke off to answer shortly: “Oh, he refused.”

“So, so. He must, of course, whatever it may have cost him. Yet in his place I should have counted the cost as nothing. But men are different, you see.” He sighed. “Also in your place, had that been so, I think I should have left the matter there. But then⁠ ⁠…”

“I don’t understand you, André.”

“I am not so very obscure. Not nearly so obscure as I can be. Turn it over in your mind. It may help to comfort you presently.” He consulted his watch again. “Pray use this house as your own. I must be going.”

Le Chapelier put his head in at the door.

“Forgive the intrusion. But we shall be late, André, unless you⁠ ⁠…”

“Coming,” André answered him. “If you will await my return, Aline, you will oblige me deeply. Particularly in view of your uncle’s resolve.”

She did not answer him. She was numbed. He took her silence for assent, and, bowing, left her. Standing there she heard his steps going down the stairs together with Le Chapelier’s. He was speaking to his friend, and his voice was calm and normal.

Oh, he was mad⁠—blinded by self-confidence and vanity. As his carriage rattled away, she sat down limply, with a sense of exhaustion and nausea. She was sick and faint with horror. André-Louis was going to his death. Conviction of it⁠—an unreasoning conviction, the result, perhaps, of all M. de Kercadiou’s rantings⁠—entered her soul. Awhile she sat thus, paralyzed by hopelessness. Then she sprang up again, wringing her hands. She must do something to avert this horror. But what could she do? To follow him to the Bois and intervene there would be to make a scandal for no purpose. The conventions of conduct were all against her, offering a barrier that was not to be overstepped. Was there no one could help her?

Standing there, half-frenzied by her helplessness, she caught again a sound of vehicles and hooves on the cobbles of the street below. A carriage was approaching. It drew up with a clatter before the fencing-academy. Could it be André-Louis returning? Passionately she snatched at that straw of hope. Knocking, loud and urgent, fell upon the door. She heard André-Louis’ housekeeper, her wooden shoes clanking upon the stairs, hurrying down to open.

She sped to the door of the anteroom, and pulling it wide, stood breathlessly to listen. But the voice that floated up to her was not the voice she so desperately hoped to hear. It was a woman’s voice asking in urgent tones for M. André-Louis⁠—a voice at first vaguely familiar, then clearly recognized, the voice of Mme. de Plougastel.

Excited, she ran to the head of the narrow staircase in time to hear Mme. de Plougastel exclaim in agitation:

“He has gone already! Oh, but how long since? Which way did he take?”

It was enough to inform Aline that Mme. de Plougastel’s errand must be akin to her own. At the moment, in the general distress and confusion of her mind, her mental vision focused entirely on the one vital point, she found in this no matter for astonishment. The singular regard conceived by Mme. de Plougastel for André-Louis seemed to her then a sufficient explanation.

Without pausing to consider, she ran down that steep staircase, calling:

“Madame! Madame!”

The portly, comely housekeeper drew aside, and the two ladies faced each other on that threshold. Mme. de Plougastel looked white and haggard, a nameless dread staring from her eyes.

“Aline! You here!” she