St. Martin's Summer - Rafael Sabatini

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the end that I may receive from you the charge of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. I shall count upon your having her here, in readiness to set out with me, by noon to-morrow.”

      He bowed, with a flourish of his plumed hat, and would with that have taken his departure but that the Seneschal stayed him.

      “Monsieur, monsieur,” he cried, in piteous affright, “you do not know the Dowager of Condillac.”

      “Why, no. What of it?”

      “What of it? Did you know her, you would understand that she is not the woman to be driven. I may order her in the Queen’s name to deliver up Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. But she will withstand me.”

      “Withstand you?” echoed Garnache, frowning into the face of this fat man, who had risen also, brought to his feet by excitement. “Withstand you—you, the Lord Seneschal of Dauphiny? You are amusing yourself at my expense.”

      “But I tell you that she will,” the other insisted in a passion. “You may look for the girl in vain tomorrow unless you go to Condillac yourself and take her.”

      Garnache drew himself up and delivered his answer in a tone that was final.

      “You are the governor of the province, monsieur, and in this matter you have in addition the Queen’s particular authority—nay, her commands are imposed upon you. Those commands, as interpreted by me, you will execute in the manner I have indicated.”

      The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and chewed a second at his beard.

      “It is an easy thing for you to tell me what to do. Tell me, rather, how to do it, how to overcome her opposition.”

      “You are very sure of opposition—strangely sure, monsieur,” said Garnache, looking him between the eyes. “In any case, you have soldiers.”

      “And so has she, and the strongest castle in southern France—to say nothing of the most cursed obstinacy in the world. What she says, she does.”

      “And what the Queen says her loyal servants do,” was Garnache’s rejoinder, in a withering tone. “I think there is nothing more to be said, monsieur,” he added. “By this time to-morrow I shall expect to receive from you, here, the charge of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. A demain, donc, Monsieur le Seneschal.”

      And with another bow the man from Paris drew himself erect, turned on his heel, and went jingling and creaking from the room.

      The Lord Seneschal sank back in his chair, and wondered to himself whether to die might not prove an easy way out of the horrid situation into which chance and his ill-starred tenderness for the Dowager of Condillac had thrust him.

      At his desk sat his secretary, who had been a witness of the interview, lost in wonder almost as great as the Seneschal’s own.

      For an hour Tressan remained where he was, deep in thought and gnawing at his beard. Then with a sudden burst of passion, expressed in a round oath or two, he rose, and called for his horse that he might ride to Condillac.

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      Promptly at noon on the morrow Monsieur de Garnache presented himself once more at the Seneschal’s palace, and with him went Rabecque, his body-servant, a lean, swarthy, sharp-faced man, a trifle younger than his master.

      Anselme, the obese master of the household, received them with profound respect, and at once conducted Garnache to Monsieur de Tressan’s presence.

      On the stairs they met Captain d’Aubran, who was descending. The captain was not in the best of humours. For four-and-twenty hours he had kept two hundred of his men under arms, ready to march as soon as he should receive his orders from the Lord Seneschal, yet those instructions were not forthcoming. He had been to seek them again that morning, only to be again put off.

      Monsieur de Garnache had considerable doubt, born of his yesterday’s interview with the Seneschal, that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye would be delivered into his charge as he had stipulated. His relief was, therefore, considerable, upon being ushered into Tressan’s presence, to find a lady in cloak and hat, dressed as for a journey, seated in a chair by the great fireplace.

      Tressan advanced to meet him, a smile of cordial welcome on his lips, and they bowed to each other in formal greeting.

      “You see, monsieur,” said the Seneschal, waving a plump hand in the direction of the lady, “that you have been obeyed. Here is your charge.”

      Then to the lady: “This is Monsieur de Garnache,” he announced, “of whom I have already told you, who is to conduct you to Paris by order of Her Majesty.

      “And now, my good friends, however great the pleasure I derive from your company, I care not how soon you set out, for I have some prodigious arrears of work upon my hands.”

      Garnache bowed to the lady, who returned his greeting by an inclination of the head, and his keen eyes played briskly over her. She was a plump-faced, insipid child, with fair hair and pale blue eyes, stolid and bovine in their expressionlessness.

      “I am quite ready, monsieur,” said she, rising as she spoke, and gathering her cloak about her; and Garnache remarked that her voice had the southern drawl, her words the faintest suggestion of a patois. It was amazing how a lady born and bred could degenerate in the rusticity of Dauphiny. Pigs and cows, he made no doubt, had been her chief objectives. Yet, even so, he thought he might have expected that she would have had more to say to him than just those five words expressing her readiness to depart. He had looked for some acknowledgment of satisfaction at his presence, some utterances of gratitude either to himself or to the Queen-Regent for the promptness with which she had been succoured. He was disappointed, but he showed nothing of it, as with a simple inclination of the head—

      “Good!” said he. “Since you are ready and Monsieur le Seneschal is anxious to be rid of us, let us by all means be moving. You have a long and tedious journey before you, mademoiselle.”

      “I—I am prepared for that,” she faltered.

      He stood aside, and bending from the waist he made a sweeping gesture towards the door with the hand that held his hat. To the invitation to precede him she readily responded, and, with a bow to the Seneschal, she began to walk across the apartment.

      Garnache’s eyes, narrowing slightly, followed her, like points of steel. Suddenly he shot a disturbing glance at Tressan’s face, and the corner of his wild-cat mustachios twitched. He stood erect, and called her very sharply.

      “Mademoiselle!”

      She stopped, and turned to face him, an incredible shyness seeming to cause her to avoid his gaze.

      “You have, no doubt, Monsieur le Seneschal’s word for my identity. But I think it is as well that you should satisfy yourself. Before placing yourself entirely in my care, as you are about to do, you would be well advised to assure yourself, that I am indeed Her Majesty’s emissary. Will you be good enough to glance at this?”

      He drew forth as he spoke the letter in the queen’s own hand, turned it upside down, and so presented it to her. The Seneschal looked on stolidly, a few paces distant.

      “But certainly, mademoiselle, assure yourself that this gentleman is no other than I have told you.”

      Thus enjoined, she took the letter; for a second her eyes met Garnache’s glittering gaze, and she shivered. Then she bent her glance to the writing, and studied it a moment, what time the man from Paris watched her closely.

      Presently she handed it back to him.

      “Thank you, monsieur,” was all she said.

      “You are satisfied that it is in order, mademoiselle?”

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