the Chevalier, then his eye fastened upon me, and his anger boiled up.
“You knew of this?” he asked, coming towards me.
“I knew of it.”
“Then you lied to me yesterday.”
I drew myself up, stiff as a broomstick.
“I do not understand,” I answered coldly.
“Did you not give me your assurance that M. de Mancini would marry Yvonne?”
“I did not, Monsieur. I did but tell you that he would wed your daughter. And, ma foi! your daughter he has wed.”
“You have fooled me, scélérat!” he blazed out. “You, who have been sheltered by—”
“Father!” Yvonne interrupted, taking his arm. “M. de Luynes has behaved no worse than have I, or any one of us, in this matter.”
“No!” he cried, and pointed to Andrea. “'T is you who have wrought this infamy. Eugène,” he exclaimed, turning of a sudden to his son, “you have a sword; wipe out this shame.”
“Shame!” echoed Geneviève. “Oh, father, where is the shame? If it were no shame for Andrea to marry Yvonne, surely—”
“Silence!” he thundered. “Eugène—”
But Eugène answered him with a contemptuous laugh.
“You are quick enough to call upon my sword, now that things have not fallen out as you would have them. Where are your grooms now, Monsieur?”
“Insolent hound!” cried his father indignantly. Then, letting fall his arms with something that was near akin to a sob—“Is there no one left to do aught but mock me?” he groaned.
But this weakness was no more than momentary.
“Out of my house, sir!” he blazed, turning upon Andrea, and for a moment methought he would have struck him. “Out of my house—you and this wife of yours!”
“Father!” sobbed Geneviève, with hands outstretched in entreaty.
“Out of my house,” he repeated, “and you also, M. de Luynes. Away with you! Go with the master you have served so well.” And, turning on his heel, he strode towards the door.
“Father—dear father!” cried Geneviève, following him: he slammed the door in her face for answer.
With a moan she sank down upon her knees, her frail body shaken by convulsive sobs—Dieu! what a bridal morn was hers!
Andrea and Yvonne raised her and led her to a chair. Eugène watched them with a cynical eye, then laughed brutally, and, gathering up his hat and cloak, he moved towards the balcony door and vanished.
“Is M. de Luynes still there?” quoth Geneviève presently.
“I am here, Madame.”
“You had best set out, Monsieur,” she said. “We shall follow soon—very soon.”
I took Andrea aside and asked him whither it was his intention to take his wife. He replied that they would go to Chambord, where they would remain for some weeks in the hope that the Chevalier might relent sufficiently to forgive them. Thereafter it was his purpose to take his bride home to his Sicilian demesne.
Our farewells were soon spoken; yet none the less warm, for all its brevity, was my leave-taking of Andrea, and our wishes for each other's happiness were as fervent as the human heart can shape. We little thought that we were not destined to meet again for years.
Yvonne's adieu was cold and formal—so cold and formal that it seemed to rob the sunshine of its glory for me as I stepped out into the open air.
After all, what mattered it? I was a fool to have entertained a single tender thought concerning her.
CHAPTER XIX.
OF MY RETURN TO PARIS
Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.
Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to be led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the rope—possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself a fool for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when so grim a reward awaited me. What mood was on me—me, Gaston de Luynes, whose honour had been long since besmirched and tattered until no outward semblance of honour was left?
But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the answer—Yvonne. Ay, truly enough, it was because in my heart I had dared to hold a sentiment of love for her, the purest—nay, the only pure—thing my heart had held for many a year, that I would set nothing vile to keep company with that sentiment; that until my sun should set—and already it dropped swiftly towards life's horizon—my actions should be the actions of such a man as might win Yvonne's affections.
But let that be. This idle restrospective mood can interest you but little; nor can you profit from it, unless, indeed, it be by noting how holy and cleansing to the heart of man is the love—albeit unrequited—that he bears a good woman.
As we drew near Meung—where we lay on that first night of our journey—a light travelling chaise, going in the same direction, passed us at a gallop. As it flashed by, I caught a glimpse of Eugène de Canaples's swart face through the window. Whether the recognition was mutual I cannot say—nor does it signify.
When we reached the Hôtel de la Couronne, half an hour later, we saw that same chaise disappearing round a corner of the street, whilst through the porte-cochère the hostler was leading a pair of horses, foam-flecked and steaming with sweat.
Whither went Master Canaples at such a rate, and in a haste that caused him to travel day and night? To a goal he little looked for—or rather, which, in the madness of his headlong rush, he could not see. So I was to learn ere long.
Next day I awoke betimes, and setting my window wide to let in the fresh, clean-smelling air of that May morning I made shift to dress. Save for the cackle of the poultry which had strayed into the courtyard, and the noisy yawns and sleep-laden ejaculations of the stable-boy, who was drawing water for the horses, all was still, for it had not yet gone five o'clock.
But of a sudden a door opened somewhere, and a step rang out, accompanied by the jangle of spurs, and with it came a sharp, unpleasant voice calling for its owner's horse. There was a familiar sound in those shrill accents that caused me to thrust my head through the casement. But I was quick to withdraw it, as I recognised in the gaily dressed little fellow below my old friend Malpertuis.
I know not what impulse made me draw back so suddenly. The action was as much the child of instinct as of the lately acquired habit of concealing my face from the gaze of all who were likely to spread abroad the news that I still lived.
From behind my curtains I watched Malpertuis ride out of the yard, saying, in answer to a parting question of the landlord, who had come upon the scene, that he would breakfast at Beaugency.
Then, as he rode down the street, he of a sudden raised his discordant voice and sang to the accompaniment of his horse's hoofs. And the burden of his song ran thus:
A frondeur wind
Got up to-day,
'Gainst Mazarin
It blows, they say.
I listened in amazement to his raven's voice.
Whither was he bound, I asked myself, and whence a haste that made him set out fasting, with an anti-cardinalist ditty on his lips, and ride two leagues to seek a breakfast in a