The Laughing Cavalier by Baroness Orczy (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📕

absolutely away from him. This dream⁠—for it was after all only a dream, it was just too beautiful to be reality⁠—the continuance of this dream seemed to him to be all that mattered, this girl⁠—proud and pleading⁠—a Madonna, a saint, a child of innocence, was the only perfect, desirable entity in this universe.

“St. Bavon, you rogue! you are playing me false!” he murmured, as the last vestige of self-control and of prudence threatened to fall away from him.

“Madonna,” he said as with a quick movement he came forward and bent the knee before her, “I entreat you to believe that whatever lies in my power to do in your service, that will I gladly do. How can I refuse,” he added whilst that immutable smile, gentle, humorous, faintly ironical, once more lit up his face as he looked straight into hers, “how can I refuse to obey since you deign to plead to me with those lips? how can I withstand your appeal when it speaks to me through your eyes?”

“You will let me do what I ask?” she exclaimed with a little cry of joy, for his attitude was very humble and his voice yielding and kind; he was kneeling at some little distance from her, which was quite becoming in a mercenary knave.

“If it be in my power, Madonna!” he said simply.

“Then will I pay you well,” she continued eagerly. “I have thought it all out. I am rich you know, and my bond is as good as that of any man. Do you but bring me inkhorn and paper, I will give you a bond for 4,000 guilders on Mynheer Ben Isaje himself, he hath monies of mine own in trust and at interest. But if 4,000 guilders are not enough, I pray you name your price; it shall be what you ask.”

“What do you desire me to do, Madonna?”

“I desire you to escort me to Delft so that I may speak with the Prince of Orange.”

“The Prince of Orange is well guarded. No stranger is allowed to enter his presence.”

“I am not a stranger to him. My father is his friend; a word from me to him, a ring of mine sent in with a request for an audience and he will not refuse.”

“And having entered the presence of the Stadtholder, mejuffrouw, what do you propose to say to him?”

“That, sir, is naught to you,” she retorted coldly.

“I pray you forgive me,” he said, still humbly kneeling, “but you have deigned to ask my help, and I’ll not give it unless you will tell me what your purpose is.”

“You would not dare.⁠ ⁠…”

“To make conditions for my services?” he said speaking always with utmost deference, “this do I dare, mejuffrouw, and my condition is for your acceptance or refusal⁠—as you command.”

“I did not ask for your help, sir,” she said curtly. “I offered to pay you for certain services which I desire you to render me.”

Already her look of pleading had gone. She had straightened herself up, prouder and more disdainful than before. He dared to make conditions! he! the mercenary creature whom anyone could buy body and soul for money, who took payment for doing such work as would soil an honest man’s hands! It was monstrous! impossible, unthinkable. She thought that her ears had deceived her or that mayhap he had misunderstood.

In a moment at her words, at the scornful glance which accompanied them, he had risen to his feet. The subtle moment had gone by; the air was no longer oppressive, and the ground felt quite steady under him. Calm, smiling, good-tempered, he straightened out his massive figure as if to prepare himself for those shafts which her cruel little tongue knew so well how to deal.

And inwardly he offered up a thanksgiving to St. Bavon for this cold douche upon his flaming temper.

“I did not misunderstand you, mejuffrouw,” he said lightly, “and I am ready to do you service⁠—under a certain condition.”

She bit her lip with vexation. The miserable wretch was obviously not satisfied with the amount which she had named as payment for his services, and he played some weak part of chivalry and of honour in order to make his work appear more difficult, and to extract a more substantial reward from her. She tried to put into the glance which she now threw on him all the contempt which she felt and which truly nauseated her at this moment. Unfortunately she had need of him, she could not start for Delft alone, marauders and footpads would stop her ever reaching that city. Could she have gone alone she were not here now craving the help of a man whom she despised.

“Meseems,” she said coldly after a slight pause, “that you do wilfully misunderstand our mutual positions. I am not asking you to do anything which could offend your strangely susceptible honour, whose vagaries, I own, I am unable to follow. Will 10,000 guilders satisfy your erratic conscience? or did you receive more than that for laying hands on two helpless women and dragging one⁠—who has never done you any wrong⁠—to a depth of shame and sorrow which you cannot possibly fathom?”

“My conscience, mejuffrouw,” he replied, seemingly quite unperturbed at her contemptuous glance and insulting speech, “is, as you say, somewhat erratic. For the moment it refuses to consider the possibility of escorting you to Delft unless I know what it is that you desire to say to the Prince of Orange.”

“If it is a question of price.⁠ ⁠…”

“It is not a question of price, mejuffrouw,” he broke in firmly, “let us, an you will allow it, call it a question of mine erratic conscience.”

“I am rich, sir⁠ ⁠… my private fortune.⁠ ⁠…”

“Do not name it, mejuffrouw,” he said jovially, “the sound of it would stagger a poor man who has to scrape up a living as best he can.”

“Forty thousand guilders, sir,” she said pleading once more eagerly, “an you will take me