Bardelys the Magnificent by Rafael Sabatini (mini ebook reader .txt) 📕

- some said with

twenty and some with thirty wounds - and little like to live.

Sorrow and discontent stalked abroad in Languedoc that day, for

they believed that it was against the Cardinal, who sought to strip

them of so many privileges, that Gaston d’Orleans had set up his

standard.

 

That those rumours of battle and defeat were true we had ample

proof some few hours later, when a company of dragoons in buff and

steel rode into the courtyard of the Auberge de Navarre, headed by

a young spark of an officer, who confirmed the rumour and set the

number of Montmorency’s wounds at seventeen. He was lying, the

officer told us, at Castelnaudary, and his duchess was hastening

to him from Beziers. Poor woman! She was destined to nurse him

back to life and vigour only that he might take his trial at

Toulouse and pay with his head the price of his rebellion.

 

Ganymede who, through the luxurious habits of his more recent years

had - for all his fine swagger - developed a marked distaste for

warfare and excitement, besought me to take thought for my safety

and to lie quietly at Montauban until the province should be more

settled.

 

“The place is a hotbed of rebellion,” he urged. “If these Chouans

but learn that we are from Paris and of the King’s party, we shall

have our throats slit, as I live. There is not a peasant in all

this countryside indeed, scarce a man of any sort but is a red-hot

Orleanist, anti-Cardinalist, and friend of the Devil. Bethink you,

monseigneur, to push on at the present is to court murder.”

 

“Why, then, we will court murder,” said I coldly. “Give the word

to saddle.”

 

I asked him at the moment of setting out did he know the road to

Lavedan, to which the lying poltroon made answer that he did. In

his youth he may have known it, and the countryside may have

undergone since then such changes as bewildered him. Or it may be

that fear dulled his wits, and lured him into taking what may have

seemed the safer rather than the likelier road. But this I know,

that as night was falling my carriage halted with a lurch, and as

I put forth my head I was confronted by my trembling intendant, his

great fat face gleaming whitely in the gloom above the lawn collar

on his doublet.

 

“Why do we halt, Ganymede?” quoth I.

 

“Monseigneur,” he faltered, his trembling increasing as he spoke,

and his eyes meeting mine in a look of pitiful contrition, “I fear

we are lost.”

 

“Lost?” I echoed. “Of what do you talk? Am I to sleep in the coach?”

 

“Alas, monseigneur, I have done my best—”

 

“Why, then, God keep us from your worst,” I snapped. “Open me this

door.”

 

I stepped down and looked about me, and, by my faith, a more desolate

spot to lose us in my henchman could not have contrived had he been

at pains to do so. A bleak, barren landscape - such as I could

hardly have credited was to be found in all that fair province -

unfolded itself, looking now more bleak, perhaps, by virtue of the

dim evening mist that hovered over it. Yonder, to the right, a dull

russet patch of sky marked the west, and then in front of us I made

out the hazy outline of the Pyrenees. At sight of them, I swung

round and gripped my henchman by the shoulder.

 

“A fine trusty servant thou!” I cried. “Boaster! Had you told us

that age and fat living had so stunted your wits as to have

extinguished memory, I had taken a guide at Montauban to show us

the way. Yet, here, with the sun and the Pyrenees to guide you,

even had you no other knowledge, you lose yourself!”

 

“Monseigneur,” he whimpered, “I was choosing my way by the sun and

the mountains, and it was thus that I came to this impasse. For

you may see, yourself, that the road ends here abruptly.”

 

“Ganymede,” said I slowly, “when we return to Paris - if you do

not die of fright ‘twixt this and then - I’ll find a place for you

in the kitchens. God send you may make a better scullion than a

follower!” Then, vaulting over the wall, “Attend me, some

half-dozen of you,” I commanded, and stepped out briskly towards

the barn.

 

As the weather-beaten old door creaked upon its rusty hinges, we

were greeted by a groan from within, and with it the soft rustle

of straw that is being moved. Surprised, I halted, and waited

whilst one of my men kindled a light in the lanthorn that he

carried.

 

By its rays we beheld a pitiable sight in a corner of that building.

A man, quite young and of a tall and vigorous frame, lay stretched

upon the straw. He was fully dressed even to his great riding-boots,

and from the loose manner in which his back-and-breast hung now upon

him, it would seem as if he had been making shift to divest himself

of his armour, but had lacked the strength to complete the task.

Beside him lay a feathered headpiece and a sword attached to a

richly broidered baldrick. All about him the straw was clotted with

brown, viscous patches of blood. The doublet which had been of

sky-blue velvet was all sodden and stained, and inspection showed

us that he had been wounded in the right side, between the straps

of his breastplate.

 

As we stood about him now, a silent, pitying group, appearing

fantastic, perhaps, by the dim light of that single lanthorn, he

attempted to raise his head, and then with a groan he dropped it

back upon the straw that pillowed it. From out of a face white, as

in death, and drawn with haggard lines of pain, a pair of great

lustrous blue eyes were turned upon us, abject and pitiful as the

gaze of a dumb beast that is stricken mortally.

 

It needed no acuteness to apprehend that we had before us one of

yesterday’s defeated warriors; one who had spent his last strength

in creeping hither to get his dying done in peace. Lest our

presence should add fear to the agony already upon him, I knelt

beside him in the blood-smeared straw, and, raising his head, I

pillowed it upon my arm.

 

“Have no fear,” said I reassuringly. “We are friends. Do you

understand?”

 

The faint smile that played for a second on his lips and lighted

his countenance would have told me that he understood, even had I

not caught his words, faint as a sigh “Merci, monsieur.” He

nestled his head into the crook of my arm. “Water - for the love of

God!” he gasped, to add in a groan, “Je me meurs, monsieur.”

 

Assisted by a couple of knaves, Ganymede went about attending to

the rebel at once. Handling him as carefully as might be, to avoid

giving him unnecessary pain they removed his back-and-breast, which

was flung with a clatter into one of the corners of the barn. Then,

whilst one of them gently drew off his boots, Rodenard, with the

lanthorn close beside him, cut away the fellow’s doublet, and laid

bare the oozing sword-wound that gaped in his mangled side. He

whispered an order to Gilles, who went swiftly off to the coach in

quest of something that he had asked for; then he sat on his heels

and waited, his hand upon the man’s pulse, his eyes on his face.

 

I stooped until my lips were on a level with my intendant’s ear.

 

“How is it with him?” I inquired.

 

“Dying,” whispered Rodenard in answer. “He has lost too much blood,

and he is probably bleeding inwardly as well. There is no hope of

his life, but he may linger thus some little while, sinking gradually,

and we can at least mitigate the suffering of his last moments.”

 

When presently the men returned with the things that Ganymede had

asked for, he mixed some pungent liquid with water, and, whilst a

servant held the bowl, he carefully sponged the rebel’s wound. This

and a cordial that he had given him to drink seemed to revive him

and to afford him ease. His breathing was no longer marked by any

rasping sound, and his eyes seemed to burn more intelligently.

 

“I am dying - is it not so?” he asked, and Ganymede bowed his head

in silence. The poor fellow sighed. “Raise me,” he begged, and

when this service had been done him, his eyes wandered round until

they found me. Then “Monsieur,” he said, “will you do me a last

favour?”

 

“Assuredly, my poor friend,” I answered, going down on my knees

beside him.

 

“You - you were not for the Duke?” he inquired, eyeing me more

keenly.

 

“No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest

in this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a

journey of - of pleasure. My name is Bardelys - Marcel de Bardelys.”

 

“Bardelys the Magnificent?” he questioned, and I could not repress

a smile.

 

“I am that overrated man.”

 

“But then you are for the King!” And a note of disappointment crept

into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed.

“No matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies

little when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in

Gascony,” he pursued. “Will you send word to my sister afterwards?”

 

I bowed my head without speaking.

 

“She is the only relative I have, monsieur. But - and his tone grew

wistful - “there is one other to whom I would have you bear a

message.” He raised his hand by a painful effort to the level of

his breast. Strength failed him, and he sank back. “I cannot,

monsieur,” he said in a tone of pathetic apology. “See; there is

a chain about my neck with a locket. Take it from me. Take it now,

monsieur. There are some papers also, monsieur. Take all. I want

to see them safely in your keeping.”

 

I did his bidding, and from the breast of his doublet I drew some

loose letters and a locket which held the miniature of a woman’s

face.

 

“I want you to deliver all to her, monsieur.”

 

“It shall be done,” I answered, deeply moved.

 

“Hold it - hold it up,” he begged, his voice weakening. “Let me

behold the face.”

 

Long his eyes rested on the likeness I held before him. At last,

as one in a dream—

 

“Well-beloved,” he sighed. “Bien aimee!” And down his grey,

haggard cheeks the tears came slowly. “Forgive this weakness,

monsieur,” he whispered brokenly. “We were to have been wed in

a month, had I lived.” He ended with a sob, and when next he

spoke it was more labouredly, as though that sob had robbed him of

the half of what vitality remained. “Tell her, monsieur, that my

dying thoughts were of her. Tell - tell her - I—”

 

“Her name?” I cried, fearing he would sink before I learned it.

“Tell me her name.”

 

He looked at me with eyes that were growing glassy and vacant. Then

he seemed to brace himself and to rally for a second.

 

“Her name?” he mused, in a far-off manner. “She is - Ma-de-moiselle

de -”

 

His head rolled on the suddenly relaxed neck. He collapsed into

Rodenard’s arms.

 

“Is he dead?” I asked.

 

Rodenard nodded in silence.