The Laughing Cavalier, Baroness Orczy [the beginning after the end read novel TXT] 📗

of you to calm yourselves.⁠ ⁠… I humbly beseech you to pay no heed to these men.⁠ ⁠…”

“Plepshurk! Insolent rabble!” quoth a corpulent gentleman who was crimson with wrath.

“Yes, mynheer, yes, yes,” stammered Beek meekly, “but they are foreigners⁠ ⁠… they⁠ ⁠… they do not understand our Dutch ways⁠ ⁠… but they mean no harm⁠ ⁠… they.⁠ ⁠…”

Some of the younger men were not easily pacified.

“Throw them out, Beek,” said one of them curtly.

“They make the place insufferable with their bragging and their insolence,” muttered another.

Diogenes and his friends could not help but see these signs of latent storm, and Mynheer Beek’s feeble efforts at pacifying his wrathful guests. Diogenes had laughed long and loudly, now he had to stop in order to wipe his eyes which were streaming; then quite casually he drew Bucephalus from its scabbard and thoughtfully examined its blade.

Almost simultaneously the fraternity of merrymakers at his table also showed a sudden desire to examine the blade of their swords and immediately half a dozen glints of steel caught the reflection of tallow candles.

I would not assert that order was restored because of these unconscious gestures on the part of the insolent rabble aforesaid, but certain it is that within the next few seconds decorum once more prevailed as if magic had called it forth.

Mynheer Beek heaved a sigh of relief.

“All that you said just now was well spoken, sir,” broke in a firm voice which proceeded from a group of gentlemen who sat at a table next to the one occupied by the philosophers and their friends, “but ’twere interesting to hear what you propose doing on the second day of this New Year.”

Diogenes was in no hurry to reply. The man who had just spoken sat directly behind him, and Bucephalus⁠—so it seemed⁠—still required his close attention. When he had once more replaced his faithful friend into its delicately wrought scabbard he turned leisurely round and from the elevated position which he still occupied on the corner of the table he faced his interlocutor.

“What I propose doing?” he quoth politely.

“Why yes. You said just now that for four and twenty hours you were free to dream and to act as you will, but how will it be tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, sir,” rejoined Diogenes lightly, “I shall be as poor in pocket as the burghers of Haarlem are in wits, and then.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes? and then?”

“Why then, sir, I shall once more become an integral portion of that rabble to which you and your friends think no doubt that I rightly belong. I shall not have one silver coin in my wallet and in order to obtain a handful I shall be ready to sell my soul to the devil, my skin to the Stadtholder.⁠ ⁠…”

“And your honour, sir?” queried the other with a sneer, “to whom will you sell that precious guerdon tomorrow?”

“To you, sir,” retorted Diogenes promptly, “an you are short of the commodity.”

An angry word rose to the other man’s lips, but his eyes encountered those of his antagonist and something in the latter’s look, something in the mocking eyes, the merry face, seemed to disarm him and to quench his wrath. He even laughed good-humouredly and said:

“Well spoken, sir. You had me fairly there with the point of your tongue. No doubt you are equally skilful with the point of your rapier.⁠ ⁠…”

“It shall be at your service after tomorrow, sir,” rejoined Diogenes lightly.

“You live by the profession of arms, sir? No offence, ’tis a noble calling, though none too lucrative I understand.”

“My wits supply, sir, what my sword cannot always command.”

“You are ambitious?”

“I told my friends just now wherein lay my ambition.”

“Money⁠—an independent competence⁠ ⁠… so I understand. But surely at your age, and⁠—if you will pardon mine outspokenness⁠—with your looks, sir, women or mayhap one woman must play some part in your dreams of the future.”

“Women, sir,” retorted Diogenes dryly, “should never play a leading role in the comedy of a philosopher’s life. As a means to an end⁠—perhaps⁠ ⁠… the final dénouement.⁠ ⁠…”

“Always that one aim I see⁠—a desire for complete independence which the possession of wealth alone can give.”

“Always,” replied the other curtly.

“And beyond that desire, what is your chief ambition, sir?”

“To be left alone when I have no mind to talk,” said Diogenes with a smile which was so pleasant, so merry, so full of self-deprecating irony that it tempered the incivility of his reply.

Again the other bit his lip, checking an angry word; for some unexplained reason he appeared determined not to quarrel with this insolent young knave. The others stared at their friend in utter astonishment.

“What fly hath bitten Beresteyn’s ear?” whispered one of them under his breath. “I have never known him so civil to a stranger or so unwilling to take offence.”

Certainly the other man’s good humour did not seem to have abated one jot; after an imperceptible moment’s pause, he rejoined with perfect suavity:

“You do not belie your name, sir, I heard your friends calling you Diogenes, and I feel proud that you should look on me as Alexander and call on me to stand out of your sunshine.”

“I crave your pardon, sir,” said Diogenes somewhat more seriously, “my incivility is unwarrantable in the face of your courtesy. No doubt it had its origin in the fact that like my namesake I happened to want nothing at the moment. Tomorrow, sir, an you are minded to pay for my services, to ask for my sword, my soul or my wits, and in exchange will offer me the chance of winning a fortune or of marrying a wife who is both rich and comely, why sir, I shall be your man, and will e’en endeavour to satisfy you with the politeness of my speech and the promptness and efficiency of my deeds. Tomorrow, sir, you and the devil will have an equal chance of purchasing my soul for a few thousand guilders, my wits for a paltry hundred, my skin for a good supper and a downy bed⁠—tomorrow the desire will seize me once again