“At first, as I have told you, because the Cardinal gave me no choice in the matter touching your son. Since then my motive has lain in my friendship for the boy. He has been kind and affectionate to one who has known little kindness or affection in life. I seek to repay him by advancing his interests and his happiness. That, Monsieur, is why I am here to-day—to shield him from St. Auban and his fellows should they appear again, as I believe they will.”
The old man stood up and eyed me for a moment as steadily as his vacillating glance would permit him, then he held out his hand.
“I trust, Monsieur,” he said, “that you will do me the honour to dine with us, and that whilst you are at Blois we shall see you at Canaples as often as it may please you to cross its threshold.”
I took his hand, but without enthusiasm, for I understood that his words sprang from no warmth of heart for me, but merely from the fact that he beheld in me a likely ally to his designs of raising his daughter to the rank of Duchess.
Eugène de Canaples may have been a good-for-nothing knave; still, methought his character scarce justified the callous indifference manifested by this selfish, weak-minded old man towards his own son.
There was a knock at the door, and a lackey—the same Guilbert whom I had seen at Choisy in Mademoiselle's company—appeared with the announcement that the Chevalier was served.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FORESHADOW OF DISASTER
In the spacious dining salon of the Château de Canaples I found the two daughters of my host awaiting us—those same two ladies of the coach in Place Vendôme and of the hostelry at Choisy, the dark and stately icicle, Yvonne, and the fair, playful doll, Geneviève.
I bowed my best bow as the Chevalier presented me, and from the corner of my eye, with inward malice, I watched them as I did so. Geneviève curtsied with a puzzled air and a sidelong glance at her sister. Yvonne accorded me the faintest, the coldest, inclination of her head, whilst her cheeks assumed a colour that was unwonted.
“We have met before, I think, Monsieur,” she said disdainfully.
“True, Mademoiselle—once,” I answered, thinking only of the coach.
“Twice, Monsieur,” she corrected, whereupon I recalled how she had surprised me with my arm about the waist of the inn-keeper's daughter, and had Heaven given me shame I might have blushed. But if sweet Yvonne thought to bring Gaston de Luynes to task for profiting by the good things which God's providence sent his way, she was led by vanity into a prodigious error.
“Twice, indeed, Mademoiselle. But the service which you rendered me upon the first occasion was so present to my mind just now that it eclipsed the memory of our second meeting. I have ever since desired, Mademoiselle, that an opportunity might be mine wherein to thank you for the preservation of my life. I do so now, and at your service do I lay that life which you preserved, and which is therefore as much yours as mine.”
Strive as I might I could not rid my tone of an ironical inflection. I was goaded to it by her attitude, by the scornful turn of her lip and the disdainful glance of her grey eyes—she had her father's eyes, saving that her gaze was as steadfast as his was furtive.
“What is this?” quoth Canaples. “You owe your life to my daughter? Pray tell me of it.”
“With all my heart,” I made haste to answer before Mademoiselle could speak. “A week ago, I disagreed upon a question of great delicacy with a certain gentleman who shall be nameless. The obvious result attended our disagreement, and we fought 'neath the eyes of a vast company of spectators. Right was on my side, and the gentleman hurt himself upon my sword. Well, sir, the crowd snarled at me as though it were my fault that this had so befallen, and I flouted the crowd in answer. They were a hundred opposed to one, and so confident did this circumstance render them of their superiority, that for once those whelps displayed sufficient valour to attack me. I fled, and as a coach chanced to come that way, I clutched at the window and hung there. Within the coach there were two ladies, and one of them, taking compassion upon me, invited me to enter and thus rescued me. That lady, sir,” I ended with a bow, “was Mademoiselle your daughter.”
In his eyes I read it that he had guessed the name of my nameless gentleman.
The ladies were struck dumb by my apparent effrontery. Yvonne at last recovered sufficiently to ask if my presence at the château arose from my being attached to M. de Mancini. Now, “attached” is an unpleasant word. A courtier is attached to the King; a soldier to the army; there is humiliation in neither of these. But to a private gentleman, a man may be only attached as his secretary, his valet, or, possibly, as his bravo. Therein lay the sting of her carefully chosen word.
“I am M. de Mancini's friend,” I answered with simple dignity.
For all reply she raised her eyebrows in token of surprise; Canaples looked askance; I bit my lip, and an awkward silence followed, which, luckily, was quickly ended by the appearance of Andrea.
The ladies received him graciously, and a faint blush might, to searching eyes, have been perceived upon Geneviève's cheek.
There came a delicate exchange of compliments, after which we got to table, and for my part I did ample justice to the viands.
I sat beside Geneviève, and vis-à-vis with Andrea, who occupied the place of the honoured guest, at the host's right hand, with Yvonne beside him. Me it concerned little where I sat, since the repast was all that I could look for; not so the others. Andrea scowled at me because I was nearer to Geneviève than he, and Yvonne frowned at me for other reasons. By Geneviève I was utterly disregarded, and my endeavours to converse were sorely unsuccessful—for one may not converse alone.
I clearly saw that Yvonne only awaited an opportunity to unmask me, and denounce me to her father as the man who had sought his son's life.
This opportunity, however, came not until the moment of my departure from the château, that evening. I was crossing the hail with the Chevalier de Canaples, and we had stopped for a moment to admire a piece of old chain armour of the days of the Crusaders. Andrea and Geneviève had preceded us, and passed out through the open doorway, whilst Yvonne lingered upon the threshold looking back.
“I trust, M. de Luynes,” said Canaples, as we moved towards her, “that you will remember my invitation, and that whilst you remain at Biois we shall see you here as often as you may be pleased to come; indeed, I trust that you will be a daily visitor.”
Before I could utter a reply—“Father,” exclaimed Mademoiselle, coming forward, “do you know to whom you are offering the hospitality of Canaples?”
“Why that question, child? To M. de Luynes, M. de Mancini's friend.”
“And the would-be murderer of Eugène,” she added fiercely.
Canaples started.
“Surely such affairs are not for women to meddle with,” he cried. “Moreover, M. de Luynes has already given me all details of the affair.”
Her eyes grew very wide at that.
“He has told you? Yet you invite him hither?” she exclaimed.
“M. de Luynes has naught wherewith to reproach himself, nor have I. Those details which he has given me I may not impart to you; suffice it, however, that I am satisfied that his conduct could not have been other than it was, whereas that of my son reflects but little credit upon his name.”
She stamped her foot, and her eyes, blazing with anger, passed from one to the other of us.
“And you—you believe this man's story?”
“Yvonne!”
“Possibly,”