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“M. de Luynes is a wizard,” quoth Andrea, laughing, in answer to something that had been said.

It was afternoon. We had dined, and the bright sunshine and spring-like mildness of the weather had lured us out upon the terrace. Yvonne and Geneviève occupied the stone seat. Andrea had perched himself upon the granite balustrade, and facing them he sat, swinging his shapely legs to and fro as he chatted merrily, whilst on either side of him stood the Chevalier de Canaples and I.

“If M. de Luynes be as great a wizard in other things as with the sword, then, pardieu, he is a fearful magician,” said Canaples.

I bowed, yet not so low but that I detected a sneer on Yvonne's lips.

“So, pretty lady,” said I to myself, “we shall see if presently your lip will curl when I show you something of my wizard's art.”

And presently my chance came. M. de Canaples found reason to leave us, and no sooner was he gone than Geneviève remembered that she had that day discovered a budding leaf upon one of the rose bushes in the garden below. Andrea naturally caused an argument by asserting that she was the victim of her fancy, as it was by far too early in the year. By that means these two found the plea they sought for quitting us, since neither could rest until the other was convinced.

So down they went into that rose garden which methought was like to prove their fool's paradise, and Yvonne and I were left alone. Then she also rose, but as she was on the point of quitting me:

“Mademoiselle,” I ventured, “will you honour me by remaining for a moment? There is something that I would say to you.”

With raised eyebrows she gave me a glance mingled with that superciliousness which she was for ever bestowing upon me, and which, from the monotony of it alone, grew irksome.

“What can you have to say to me, M. de Luynes?”

“Will you not be seated? I shall not long detain you, nevertheless—”

“If I stand, perchance you will be more brief. I am waiting, Monsieur.”

I shrugged my shoulders rudely. Why, indeed, be courteous where so little courtesy was met with?

“A little while ago, Mademoiselle, when M. de Mancini dubbed me a wizard you were good enough to sneer. Now, a sneer, Mademoiselle, implies unbelief, and I would convince you that you were wrong to disbelieve.”

“If you have no other motive for detaining me, suffer me to depart,” she interrupted with some warmth. “Whether you be a wizard or not is of no moment to me.”

“And yet I dare swear that you will be of a different mind within five minutes. A wizard is one who discloses things unknown to his fellow-men. I am about to convince you that I can do this, and by convincing you I am about to serve you.”

“I seek neither conviction nor service at your hands,” she answered.

“Your courtesy dumfounds me, Mademoiselle!”

“No less than does your insolence dumfound me,” she retorted, with crimson cheeks. “Do you forget, sir, that I know you for what you are—a gamester, a libertine, a duellist, the murderer of my brother?”

“That your brother lives, Mademoiselle, is, methinks, sufficient proof that I have not murdered him.”

“You willed his death if you did not encompass it; so 't is all one. Do you not understand that it is because my father receives you here, thanks to M. de Mancini, your friend—a friendship easily understood from the advantages you must derive from it—that I consent to endure your presence and the insult of your glance? Is it not enough that I should do this, and have you not wit enough to discern it, without adding to my shame by your insolent call upon my courtesy?”

Her words cut me as no words that I ever heard, and, more than her words, her tone of loathing and disgust unspeakable. For half that speech I should have killed a man—indeed, I had killed men for less than half. And yet, for all the passion that raged in my soul, I preserved upon my countenance a smiling mask. That smile exhausted her patience and increased her loathing, for with a contemptuous exclamation she turned away.

“Tarry but a moment, Mademoiselle,” I cried, with a sudden note of command. “Or, if you will go, go then; but take with you my assurance that before nightfall you will weep bitterly for it.”

My words arrested her. The mystery of them awakened her curiosity.

“You speak in riddles, Monsieur.”

“Like a true wizard, Mademoiselle. You received a letter this morning in a handwriting unknown, and bearing no signature.”

She wheeled round and faced me again with a little gasp of astonishment.

“How know you that? Ah! I understand; you wrote it!”

“What shrewdness, Mademoiselle!” I laughed, ironically. “Come; think again. What need have I to bid you meet me in the coppice yonder? May I not speak freely with you here?”

“You know the purport of that letter?”

“I do, Mademoiselle, and I know more. I know that this hinted conspiracy against your father is a trumped-up lie to lure you to the coppice.”

“And for what purpose, pray?”

“An evil one—your abduction. Shall I tell you who penned that note, and who awaits you? The Marquis César de St. Auban.”

She shuddered as I pronounced the name, then, looking me straight between the eyes—“How come you to know these things?” she inquired.

“What does it signify, since I know them?”

“This, Monsieur, that unless I learn how, I can attach no credit to your preposterous story.”

“Not credit it!” I cried. “Let me assure you that I have spoken the truth; let me swear it. Go to the coppice at the appointed time, and things will fall out as I have predicted.”

“Again, Monsieur, how know you this?” she persisted, as women will.

“I may not tell you.”

We stood close together, and her clear grey eyes met mine, her lip curling in disdain.

“You may not tell me? You need not. I can guess.” And she tossed her shapely head and laughed. “Seek some likelier story, Monsieur. Had you not spoken of it, 't is likely I should have left the letter unheeded. But your disinterested warning has determined me to go to this rendezvous. Shall I tell you what I have guessed? That this conspiracy against my father, the details of which you would not have me learn, is some evil of your own devising. Ah! You change colour!” she cried, pointing to my face. Then with a laugh of disdain she left me before I had sufficiently recovered from my amazement to bid her stay.

“Ciel!” I cried, as I watched the tall, lissom figure vanish through the portals of the château. “Did ever God create so crass and obstinate a thing as woman?”

It occurred to me to tell Andrea, and bid him warn her. But then she would guess that I had prompted him. Naught remained but to lay the matter before the Chevalier de Canaples. Already I had informed him of my fracas with St. Auban, and of the duel that was to be fought that night, and he, in his turn, had given me the details of his stormy interview with the Marquis, which had culminated in St. Auban's dismissal from Canaples. I had not hitherto deemed it necessary to alarm him with the news imparted to me by Malpertuis, imagining that did I inform Mademoiselle that would suffice.

Now, however, as I have said, no other course was left me but to tell him of it. Accordingly, I went within and inquired of Guilbert, whom I met in the hall, where I might find the Chevalier. He answered me that M. de Canaples was not in the château. It was believed that he had gone with M. Louis, the intendant of the estates, to visit the vineyards at Montcroix.

The news made me choke with impatience. Already it was close upon five o'clock, and in another hour the sun would set and the Angelus would toll the knell of Mademoiselle's preposterous suspicions, unless in the meantime I had speech with Canaples, and led him to employ a father's authority to keep his daughter indoors.

Fuming at the contretemps I called for my horse and set out at a brisk trot for Montcroix. But my ride was fruitless. The vineyard peasants had not seen the Chevalier for over a week.

Now, 'twixt Montcroix and the château there lies a good league, and to make matters worse, as I galloped furiously back to Canaples, an evil chance led me to mistake the way and pursue a track that brought me out on the very banks of the river, with a strong belt of trees screening the château from sight, and defying me to repair my error by going straight ahead.

I was forced to retrace my steps, and before I had regained the point where I had gone astray a precious quarter of an hour was wasted, and the sun already hung, a dull red globe, on the brink of the horizon.

Clenching my teeth, I tore at my horse's flanks, and with a bloody heel I drove the maddened brute along at a pace that might have cost us both dearly. I dashed, at last, into the quadrangle, and, throwing the reins to a gaping groom, I sprang up the steps.

“Has the Chevalier returned?” I gasped breathlessly.

“Not yet, Monsieur,” answered Guilbert with a tranquillity that made me desire to strangle him. “Is Mademoiselle in the château?” was my next question, mechanically asked.

“I saw her on the terrace some moments ago. She has not since come within.”

Like one possessed I flew across the intervening room and out on to the terrace. Geneviève and Andrea were walking there, deep in conversation. At another time I might have cursed their lack of prudence. At the moment I did not so much as remark it.

“Where is Mademoiselle de Canaples?” I burst out.

They gazed at me, as much astounded by my question and the abruptness of it as by my apparent agitation.

“Has anything happened?” inquired Geneviève, her blue eyes wide open.

“Yes—no; naught has happened. Tell me where she is. I must speak to her.”

“She was here a while ago,” said Andrea, “but she left us to stroll along the river bank.”

“How long is it since she left you?”

“A quarter of an hour, perhaps.”

“Something has happened!” cried Geneviève, and added more, maybe, but I waited not to hear.

Muttering curses as I ran—for 't was my way to curse where pious souls might pray—I sped back to the quadrangle and my horse.

“Follow me,” I shouted to the groom, “you and as many of your fellows as you can find. Follow me at once—at once, mark you—to the coppice by the river.” And without waiting for his answer, I sent my horse thundering down the avenue. The sun was gone, leaving naught but a roseate streak to tell of its passage, and at that moment a distant bell tinkled forth the Angelus.

With whip, spur, and imprecations I plied my steed, a prey to such excitement as I had never known until that moment—not even in the carnage of battle.

I had no plan. My mind was a chaos of thought without a single clear idea to light it, and I never so much as bethought me that single-handled I was about to attempt to wrest Yvonne from the hands of perchance half a dozen men. To save time I did not far pursue the road, but, clearing a hedge, I galloped ventre-à-terre across the meadow towards the little coppice by the waterside. As I rode I saw no sign of any moving thing. No sound disturbed the evening stillness save the dull thump of my horse's hoofs upon the turf, and a great fear arose in my heart that I might come too late.

At last I reached the belt of trees, and my fears grew into certainty. The place was deserted.

Then a fresh hope sprang up. Perchance, thinking of my warning, she had seen the emptiness of her suspicions towards me, and had pursued that walk of hers in another direction.

But when I had penetrated to the little open space within that cluster of naked trees, I had proof overwhelming that the worst had befallen. Not only on the moist ground was stamped the impress of struggling feet, but on a branch I found a strip of torn green velvet, and, remembering the dress she had worn that day, I understood to the full the significance of that rag, and, understanding it, I groaned aloud.