“I! A friend?” I laughed bitterly. “Pshaw, Andrea! beggars have no friends. But stay; find Stanislas de Gouville. There is no better blade in Paris. If he will join us in this frolic, and you can hold off Canaples until either St. Auban or Montmédy is disposed of, we may yet leave the three of them on the field of battle. Courage, Andrea! Dum spiramus, speramus.”
My words seemed to cheer him, and when presently he left me to seek out the redoubtable Gouville, the poor lad's face was brighter by far than when he had entered my room.
Down in my heart, however, I was less hopeful than I had led him to believe, and as I dressed after he had gone, 't was not without some uneasiness that I turned the matter over in my mind. I had, during the short period of our association, grown fond of Andrea de Mancini. Indeed the wonted sweetness of the lad's temper, and the gentleness of his disposition, were such as to breed affection in all who came in contact with him. In a way, too, methought he had grown fond of me, and I had known so few friends in life—truth to tell I fear me that I had few of the qualities that engender friendship—that I was naturally prone to appreciate a gift that from its rareness became doubly valuable.
Hence was it that I trembled for the boy. He had shown aptitude with the foils, and derived great profit from my tuition, yet he was too raw by far to be pitted against so cunning a swordsman as Canaples.
I had but finished dressing when a coach rumbled down the street and halted by my door. Naturally I supposed that someone came to visit Coupri, the apothecary—to whom belonged this house in which I had my lodging—and did not give the matter a second thought until Michelot rushed in, with eyes wide open, to announce that his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, commanded my presence in the adjoining room.
Amazed and deeply marvelling what so extraordinary a visit might portend, I hastened to wait upon his Eminence.
I found him standing by the window, and received from him a greeting that was passing curt and cavalier.
“Has M. de Mancini been here?” he inquired peremptorily, disregarding the chair I offered him.
“He has but left me, Monseigneur.”
“Then you know, sir, of the harvest which he has already reaped from the indiscretion into which you led him last night?”
“If Monseigneur alludes to the affront put upon M. de Mancini touching his last night's indiscretion, by a bully of the Court, I am informed of it.”
“Pish, Monsieur! I do not follow your fine distinctions—possibly this is due to my imperfect knowledge of the language of France, possibly to your own imperfect acquaintance with the language of truth.”
“Monseigneur!”
“Faugh!” he cried, half scornfully, half peevishly. “I came not here to talk of you, but of my nephew. Why did he visit you?”
“To do me the honour of asking me to second him at St. Germain this evening.”
“And so you think that this duel is to be fought?—that my nephew is to be murdered?”
“We will endeavour to prevent his being—as your Eminence daintily puts it—murdered. But for the rest, the duel, methinks, cannot be avoided.”
“Cannot!” he blazed. “Do you say cannot, M. de Luynes? Mark me well, sir: I will use no dissimulation with you. My position in France is already a sufficiently difficult one. Already we are threatened with a second Fronde. It needs but such events as these to bring my family into prominence and make it the butt for the ridicule that malcontents but wait an opportunity to slur it with. This affair of Andrea's will lend itself to a score or so of lampoons and pasquinades, all of which will cast an injurious reflection upon my person and position. That, Monsieur, is, methinks, sufficient evil to suffer at your hands. The late Cardinal would have had you broken on the wheel for less. I have gone no farther than to dismiss you from my service—a clemency for which you should be grateful. But I shall not suffer that, in addition to the harm already done, Andrea shall be murdered by Canaples.”
“I shall do my best to render him assistance.”
“You still misapprehend me. This duel, sir, must not take place.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“How does your Eminence propose to frustrate it? Will you arrest Canaples?”
“Upon what plea, Monsieur? Think you I am anxious to have the whole of Paris howling in my ears?”
“Then possibly it is your good purpose to enforce the late king's edict against duelling, and send your guards to St. Germain to arrest the men before they engage?”
“Benone!” he sneered. “And what will Paris say if I now enforce a law that for ten years has been disregarded? That I feared for my nephew's skin and took this means of saving him. A pretty story to have on Paris's lips, would it not be?”
“Indeed, Monseigneur, you are right, but I doubt me the duel will needs be fought.”
“Have I not already said that it shall not be fought?”
Again I shrugged my shoulders. Mazarin grew tiresome with his repetitions.
“How can it be avoided, your Eminence?”
“Ah, Monsieur, that is your affair.”
“My affair?”
“Assuredly. 'T was through your evil agency he was dragged into this business, and through your agency he must be extricated from it.”
“Your Eminence jests!”
“Undoubtedly—'t is a jesting matter,” he answered with terrible irony. “Oh, I jest! Per Dio! yes. But I'll carry my jest so far as to have you hanged if this duel be fought—aye, whether my nephew suffers hurt or not. Now, sir, you know what fate awaits you; fight it—turn it aside—I have shown you the way. The door, M. de Luynes.”
CHAPTER III.
THE FIGHT IN THE HORSE-MARKET
I let him go without a word. There was that in his voice, in his eye, and in the gesture wherewith he bade me hold the door for him, that cleared my mind of any doubts touching the irrevocable character of his determination. To plead was never an accomplishment of mine; to argue, I saw, would be to waste the Cardinal's time to no purpose.
And so I let him go—and my curse with him—and from my window I watched his coach drive away in the drizzling rain, scattering the crowd of awe-stricken loiterers who had collected at the rumour of his presence.
With a fervent prayer that his patron saint, the devil, might see fit to overset his coach and break his neck before he reached the Palace, I turned from the window, and called Michelot.
He was quick to answer my summons, bringing me the frugal measure of bread and wine wherewith it was my custom to break my fast. Then, whilst I munched my crust, I strode to and fro in the little chamber and exercised my wits to their utmost for a solution to the puzzle his Eminence had set me.
One solution there was, and an easy one—flight. But I had promised Andrea de Mancini that I would stand beside him at St. Germain; there was a slender chance of saving him if I went, whilst, if I stayed away, there would be nothing left for his Eminence to do but to offer up prayers for the rest of his nephew's soul.
Another idea I had, but it was desperate—and yet, so persistently did my thoughts revert to it that in the end I determined to accept it.
I drank a cup of Armagnac, cheered myself with an oath or two, and again I called Michelot. When he came, I asked him if he were acquainted with M. de Canaples, to which he replied that he was, having seen the gentleman in my company.
“Then,” I said, “you will