The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini. Rafael SabatiniЧитать онлайн книгу.
acted quickly. As with his right hand he pulled it from his pocket, with his left he caught the ferryman by the shoulder, and swung him round.
“What do you want now?” Fresnel demanded angrily. “Haven’t I told you that I . . . ”
He broke off short. The muzzle of the pistol was within a foot of his eyes.
“I want the key of the boat. That is all, Fresnel. And you can either give it me at once, or I’ll take it after I have burnt your brains. I should regret to kill you, but I shall not hesitate. It is your life against mine, Fresnel; and you’ll not find it strange that if one of us must die I prefer that it shall be you.”
Fresnel dipped a hand into his pocket, and fetched thence a key. He held it out to Andre–Louis in fingers that shook — more in anger than in fear.
“I yield to violence,” he said, showing his teeth like a snarling dog. “But don’t imagine that it will greatly profit you.”
Andre–Louis took the key. His pistol remained levelled.
“You threaten me, I think,” he said. “It is not difficult to read your threat. The moment I am gone, you will run to inform against me. You will set the marechaussee on my heels to overtake me.”
“No, no!” cried the other. He perceived his peril. He read his doom in the cold, sinister note on which Andre–Louis addressed him, and grew afraid. “I swear to you, monsieur, that I have no such intention.”
“I think I had better make quite sure of you.”
“O my God! Have mercy, monsieur!” The knave was in a palsy of terror. “I mean you no harm — I swear to Heaven I mean you no harm. I will not say a word. I will not . . . ”
“I would rather depend upon your silence than your assurances. Still, you shall have your chance. I am a fool, perhaps, but I have a reluctance to shed blood. Go into the house, Fresnel. Go, man. I follow you.”
In the shabby main room of that dwelling, Andre–Louis halted him again. “Get me a length of rope,” he commanded, and was readily obeyed.
Five minutes later Fresnel was securely bound to a chair, and effectively silenced by a very uncomfortable gag improvised out of a block of wood and a muffler.
On the threshold the departing Andre–Louis turned.
“Good-night, Fresnel,” he said. Fierce eyes glared mute hatred at him. “It is unlikely that your ferry will be required again to-night. But some one is sure to come to your relief quite early in the morning. Until then bear your discomfort with what fortitude you can, remembering that you have brought it entirely upon yourself by your uncharitableness. If you spend the night considering that, the lesson should not be lost upon you. By morning you may even have grown so charitable as not to know who it was that tied you up. Good-night.”
He stepped out and closed the door.
To unlock the ferry, and pull himself across the swift-running waters, on which the faint moonlight was making a silver ripple, were matters that engaged not more than six or seven minutes. He drove the nose of the boat through the decaying sedges that fringed the southern bank of the stream, sprang ashore, and made the little craft secure. Then, missing the footpath in the dark, he struck out across a sodden meadow in quest of the road.
BOOK II
THE BUSKIN
Chapter 2 The Service of Thespis
Chapter 4 Exit Monsieur Parvissimus
Chapter 7 The Conquest of Nantes
Chapter 11 The Fracas at the Theatre Feydau
CHAPTER 1
THE TRESPASSERS
Coming presently upon the Redon road, Andre–Louis, obeying instinct rather than reason, turned his face to the south, and plodded wearily and mechanically forward. He had no clear idea of whither he was going, or of whither he should go. All that imported at the moment was to put as great a distance as possible between Gavrillac and himself.
He had a vague, half-formed notion of returning to Nantes; and there, by employing the newly found weapon of his oratory, excite the people into sheltering him as the first victim of the persecution he had foreseen, and against which he had sworn them to take up arms. But the idea was one which he entertained merely as an indefinite possibility upon which he felt no real impulse to act.
Meanwhile he chuckled at the thought of Fresnel as he had last seen him, with his muffled face and glaring eyeballs. “For one who was anything but a man of action,” he writes, “I felt that I had acquitted myself none so badly.” It is a phrase that recurs at intervals in his sketchy “Confessions.” Constantly is he reminding you that he is a man of mental and not physical activities, and apologizing when dire necessity drives him into acts of violence. I suspect this insistence upon his philosophic detachment — for which I confess he had justification enough — to betray his besetting vanity.
With increasing fatigue came depression and self-criticism. He had stupidly overshot his mark in insultingly denouncing M. de Lesdiguieres. “It is much better,” he says somewhere, “to be wicked than to be stupid. Most of this world’s misery is the fruit not as priests tell us of wickedness, but of stupidity.” And we know that of all stupidities he considered anger the most deplorable. Yet he had permitted himself to be angry with a creature like M. de Lesdiguieres — a lackey, a fribble, a nothing, despite his potentialities for evil. He could perfectly have discharged his self-imposed mission without arousing the vindictive resentment of the King’s Lieutenant.
He beheld himself vaguely launched upon life with the riding-suit in which he stood, a single louis d’or and a few pieces of silver for all capital, and a knowledge of law which had been inadequate to preserve him from the consequences of infringing it.
He had, in addition — but these things that were to be the real salvation of him he did not reckon — his gift of laughter, sadly repressed of late, and the philosophic outlook and mercurial temperament which are the stock-in-trade of your adventurer in all ages.
Meanwhile he tramped mechanically on through the night, until he felt that he could tramp no more. He had skirted the little township of Guichen, and now within a half-mile of Guignen, and with Gavrillac a good seven miles behind him, his legs refused to carry him any farther.
He