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Scaramouche & Scaramouche the King-Maker. Rafael Sabatini
Читать онлайн.Название Scaramouche & Scaramouche the King-Maker
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4064066400217
Автор произведения Rafael Sabatini
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
Andre–Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre–Louis. And then, at last, Andre–Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider Climene.
“I trust,” said he, “that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle.”
“Most pleasant, monsieur.” Impudently she strove to emulate his coolness, but did not completely succeed.
“And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance. It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d’Azyr. Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?”
M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and contempt.
“I have given nothing,” said Climene, indignantly.
“Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance.”
“My God, man, you’re not decent!” M. Binet protested.
“Decent?” Andre–Louis’ smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M. Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!” Slowly his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and defiance. “Mademoiselle,” he said, slowly, “I desire you purely in your own interests to consider whither you are going.”
“I am well able to consider it for myself, and to decide without advice from you, monsieur.”
“And now you’ve got your answer,” chuckled Binet. “I hope you like it.”
Andre–Louis had paled a little; there was incredulity in his great sombre eyes as they continued steadily to regard her. Of M. Binet he took no notice.
“Surely, mademoiselle, you cannot mean that willingly, with open eyes and a full understanding of what you do, you would exchange an honourable wifehood for . . . for the thing that such men as M. de La Tour d’Azyr may have in store for you?”
M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter. “You hear him, the mealy-mouthed prude! Perhaps you’ll believe at last that marriage with him would be the ruin of you. He would always be there the inconvenient husband — to mar your every chance, my girl.”
She tossed her lovely head in agreement with her father. “I begin to find him tiresome with his silly jealousies,” she confessed. “As a husband I am afraid he would be impossible.”
Andre–Louis felt a constriction of the heart. But — always the actor — he showed nothing of it. He laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and rose.
“I bow to your choice, mademoiselle. I pray that you may not regret it.”
“Regret it?” cried M. Binet. He was laughing, relieved to see his daughter at last rid of this suitor of whom he had never approved, if we except those few hours when he really believed him to be an eccentric of distinction. “And what shall she regret? That she accepted the protection of a nobleman so powerful and wealthy that as a mere trinket he gives her a jewel worth as much as an actress earns in a year at the Comedie Francaise?” He got up, and advanced towards Andre–Louis. His mood became conciliatory. “Come, come, my friend, no rancour now. What the devil! You wouldn’t stand in the girl’s way? You can’t really blame her for making this choice? Have you thought what it means to her? Have you thought that under the protection of such a gentleman there are no heights which she may not reach? Don’t you see the wonderful luck of it? Surely, if you’re fond of her, particularly being of a jealous temperament, you wouldn’t wish it otherwise?”
Andre–Louis looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he laughed again. “Oh, you are fantastic,” he said. “You are not real.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.
The action, and more the contempt of his look, laugh, and words stung M. Binet to passion, drove out the conciliatoriness of his mood.
“Fantastic, are we?” he cried, turning to follow the departing Scaramouche with his little eyes that now were inexpressibly evil. “Fantastic that we should prefer the powerful protection of this great nobleman to marriage with a beggarly, nameless bastard. Oh, we are fantastic!”
Andre–Louis turned, his hand upon the door-handle. “No,” he said, “I was mistaken. You are not fantastic. You are just vile — both of you.” And he went out.
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