THE SUITORS OF YVONNE Being a Portion of the Memoirs of the Sieur Gaston de Luynes By Rafael Sabatini CONTENTS CHAPTER I. OF HOW A BOY DRANK TOO MUCH WINE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT II. THE FRUIT OF INDISCRETION III. THE FIGHT IN THE HORSE-MARKET IV. FAIR RESCUERS V. MAZARIN, THE MATCH-MAKER VI. OF HOW ANDREA BECAME LOVE­SICK VII. THE CHÂTEAU DR CANAPLES VIII. THE FORESHADOW OF DISASTER IX. OF HOW A WHIP PROVED A BETTER ARGUMENT THAN A TONGUE X. THE CONSCIENCE OF MALPERTUIS XI. OF A WOMAN'S OBSTINACY XII. THE RESCUE XIII. THE HAND OF YVONNE XIV. OF WHAT BEFELL AT REAUX XV. OF MY RESURRECTION XVI. THE WAY OF WOMAN XVII. FATHER AND SON XVIII. OF HOW I LEFT CANAPLES XIX. OF MY RETURN TO PARIS XX. OF HOW THE CHEVALIER DE CANAPLES BECAME A FRONDEUR XXI. OF THE BARGAIN THAT ST. AUBAN DROVE WITH MY LORD CARDINAL XXII. OF MY SECOND JOURNEY TO CANAPLES XXIII. OF HOW ST. AUBAN CAME TO BLOIS XXIV. OF THE PASSING OF ST. AUBAN XXV. PLAY-ACTING XXVI. REPARATION CHAPTER I. OF HOW A BOY DRANK TOO MUCH WINE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT Andrea de Mancini sprawled, ingloriously drunk, upon the floor. His legs were thrust under the table, and his head rested against the chair from which he had slipped; his long black hair was tossed and dishevelled; his handsome, boyish face flushed and garbed in the vacant expression of idiocy. “I beg a thousand pardons, M. de Luynes,” quoth he in the thick, monotonous voice of a man whose brain but ill controls his tongue,--“I beg a thousand pardons for the unseemly poverty of our repast. 'T is no fault of mine. My Lord Cardinal keeps a most unworthy table for me. Faugh! Uncle Giulio is a Hebrew--if not by birth, by instinct. He carries his purse-strings in a knot which it would break his heart to unfasten. But there! some day my Lord Cardinal will go to heaven--to the lap of Abraham. I shall be rich then, vastly rich, and I shall bid you to a banquet worthy of your most noble blood. The Cardinal's health--perdition have him for the niggardliest rogue unhung!” I pushed back my chair and rose. The conversation was taking a turn that was too unhealthy to be pursued within the walls of the Palais Mazarin, where there existed, albeit the law books made no reference to it, the heinous crime of lèse-Eminence--a crime for which more men had been broken than it pleases me to dwell on. “Your table, Master Andrea, needs no apology,” I answered carelessly. “Your wine, for instance, is beyond praise.”