Scaramouche & Scaramouche the King-Maker - Rafael Sabatini

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of the conversation. Harlequin and Columbine had spread the tale of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariot of a princess and carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lost nothing in the telling.

      Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine had called this romance of hers. Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastly other than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and he would never have used such familiarity with each other. Imagining him no better than he was, Climene had made him her own. And now she was to receive the reward of disinterested affection.

      Even old Binet’s secret hostility towards Andre–Louis melted before this astounding revelation. He had pinched his daughter’s ear quite playfully. “Ah, ah, trust you to have penetrated his disguise, my child!”

      She shrank resentfully from that implication.

      “But I did not. I took him for what he seemed.”

      Her father winked at her very solemnly and laughed. “To be sure, you did. But like your father, who was once a gentleman, and knows the ways of gentlemen, you detected in him a subtle something different from those with whom misfortune has compelled you hitherto to herd. You knew as well as I did that he never caught that trick of haughtiness, that grand air of command, in a lawyer’s musty office, and that his speech had hardly the ring or his thoughts the complexion of the bourgeois that he pretended to be. And it was shrewd of you to have made him yours. Do you know that I shall be very proud of you yet, Climene?”

      She moved away without answering. Her father’s oiliness offended her. Scaramouche was clearly a great gentleman, an eccentric if you please, but a man born. And she was to be his lady. Her father must learn to treat her differently.

      She looked shyly — with a new shyness — at her lover when he came into the room where they were dining. She observed for the first time that proud carriage of the head, with the chin thrust forward, that was a trick of his, and she noticed with what a grace he moved — the grace of one who in youth has had his dancing-masters and fencing-masters.

      It almost hurt her when he flung himself into a chair and exchanged a quip with Harlequin in the usual manner as with an equal, and it offended her still more that Harlequin, knowing what he now knew, should use him with the same unbecoming familiarity.

      CHAPTER 9

       THE AWAKENING

       Table of Contents

      “Do you know,” said Climene, “that I am waiting for the explanation which I think you owe me?”

      They were alone together, lingering still at the table to which Andre–Louis had come belatedly, and Andre–Louis was loading himself a pipe. Of late — since joining the Binet Troupe — he had acquired the habit of smoking. The others had gone, some to take the air and others, like Binet and Madame, because they felt that it were discreet to leave those two to the explanations that must pass. It was a feeling that Andre–Louis did not share. He kindled a light and leisurely applied it to his pipe. A frown came to settle on his brow.

      “Explanation?” he questioned presently, and looked at her. “But on what score?”

      “On the score of the deception you have practised on us — on me.”

      “I have practised none,” he assured her.

      “You mean that you have simply kept your own counsel, and that in silence there is no deception. But it is deceitful to withhold facts concerning yourself and your true station from your future wife. You should not have pretended to be a simple country lawyer, which, of course, any one could see that you are not. It may have been very romantic, but . . . Enfin, will you explain?”

      “I see,” he said, and pulled at his pipe. “But you are wrong, Climene. I have practised no deception. If there are things about me that I have not told you, it is that I did not account them of much importance. But I have never deceived you by pretending to be other than I am. I am neither more nor less than I have represented myself.”

      This persistence began to annoy her, and the annoyance showed on her winsome face, coloured her voice.

      “Ha! And that fine lady of the nobility with whom you are so intimate, who carried you off in her cabriolet with so little ceremony towards myself? What is she to you?”

      “A sort of sister,” said he.

      “A sort of sister!” She was indignant. “Harlequin foretold that you would say so; but he was amusing himself. It was not very funny. It is less funny still from you. She has a name, I suppose, this sort of sister?”

      “Certainly she has a name. She is Mlle. Aline de Kercadiou, the niece of Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac.”

      “Oho! That’s a sufficiently fine name for your sort of sister. What sort of sister, my friend?”

      For the first time in their relationship he observed and deplored the taint of vulgarity, of shrewishness, in her manner.

      “It would have been more accurate in me to have said a sort of reputed left-handed cousin.”

      “A reputed left-handed cousin! And what sort of relationship may that be? Faith, you dazzle me with your lucidity.”

      “It requires to be explained.”

      “That is what I have been telling you. But you seem very reluctant with your explanations.”

      “Oh, no. It is only that they are so unimportant. But be you the judge. Her uncle, M. de Kercadiou, is my godfather, and she and I have been playmates from infancy as a consequence. It is popularly believed in Gavrillac that M. de Kercadiou is my father. He has certainly cared for my rearing from my tenderest years, and it is entirely owing to him that I was educated at Louis le Grand. I owe to him everything that I have — or, rather, everything that I had; for of my own free will I have cut myself adrift, and to-day I possess nothing save what I can earn for myself in the theatre or elsewhere.”

      She sat stunned and pale under that cruel blow to her swelling pride. Had he told her this but yesterday, it would have made no impression upon her, it would have mattered not at all; the event of to-day coming as a sequel would but have enhanced him in her eyes. But coming now, after her imagination had woven for him so magnificent a background, after the rashly assumed discovery of his splendid identity had made her the envied of all the company, after having been in her own eyes and theirs enshrined by marriage with him as a great lady, this disclosure crushed and humiliated her. Her prince in disguise was merely the outcast bastard of a country gentleman! She would be the laughing-stock of every member of her father’s troupe, of all those who had so lately envied her this romantic good fortune.

      “You should have told me this before,” she said, in a dull voice that she strove to render steady.

      “Perhaps I should. But does it really matter?”

      “Matter?” She suppressed her fury to ask another question. “You say that this M. de Kercadiou is popularly believed to be your father. What precisely do you mean?”

      “Just that. It is a belief that I do not share. It is a matter of instinct, perhaps, with me. Moreover, once I asked M. de Kercadiou point-blank, and I received from him a denial. It is not, perhaps, a denial to which one would attach too much importance in all the circumstances. Yet I have never known M de Kercadiou for other than a man of strictest honour, and I should hesitate to disbelieve him — particularly when his statement leaps with my own instincts. He assured me that he did not know who my father was.”

      “And your mother, was she equally ignorant?” She was sneering, but he did not remark it. Her back was to the light.

      “He would not disclose her name to me. He confessed her to be a dear friend of his.”

      She startled him by laughing, and her laugh was not pleasant.

      “A very dear friend, you may be

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