Странник по звездам / The Star-Rover

And when Pons had said the name, I knew it at once for the priest, Martinelli, who had been waiting in the room.

When Martinelli was permitted to enter and as he saluted me by title and name, I knew at once my name. I was Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure[38].

The priest was Italian, dark and small, and his hands were as small and slender as a woman’s. But his eyes! They were cu

“There has been much delay, Count de Sainte-Maure,” he began promptly, when Pons had left the room. “He whom I serve grows impatient.”

“Change your tune, priest,” I broke in angrily. “Remember, you are not now in Rome.”

“My august master—” he began.

“Rules augustly in Rome,” I again interrupted. “This is France.”

Martinelli shrugged his shoulders meekly and patiently.

“My august master has some concern with the doings of France,” he said quietly. “The lady is not for you. My master has other plans…” He moistened his thin lips with his tongue. “Other plans for the lady… and for you.”

Of course, he spoke about the great Duchess Philippa, widow of Geoffrey, last Duke of Aquitaine[39]. But great duchess, widow, and all, Philippa was a woman, and young, and gay, and beautiful, and, by my faith, fashioned for me.

“What are his plans?” I demanded bluntly.

“They are deep and wide, Count Sainte-Maure—too deep and wide to know or discuss with you or any man.”

Martinelli arose to leave, and I arose with him.

“The time for thinking is past,” he said. “It is decision I came for.”

“I will think the matter over,” I repeated, then added: “If the lady’s plans do not accord with mine, then the plans of your master may fruit as he desires. Remember, priest, he is no master of mine.”

“You do not know my master,” he said solemnly.

“Nor do I wish to know him,” I retorted.

The little intriguing priest went down the creaking stairs.

When I rode out in Paris that day it was the Paris of the past. The narrow streets were an unsanitary scandal of filth and slime. But I must skip. Only of the end of my adventure will I write, which begins with where I stood jesting with Philippa herself—ah, dear God, she was wondrous beautiful! Philippa was small, slender, in brief, she was the one woman in the world for me.

And the Italian, Fortini[40], leaned to my shoulder and whispered:

“One who desires to speak.”

“One who must wait my pleasure,” I answered shortly.

“I wait no man’s pleasure,” was his equally short reply.

And, while my blood boiled, I remembered the priest, Martinelli. The thing was clear. Fortini smiled lazily.

This was the work of the priest. This was the Fortini, the best sword[41] from Italy.

“I am busy,” I said. “Begone.”

“No,” was his reply.

Our voices had slightly risen, so that Philippa heard.

“Begone, you Italian hound,” I said. “Take your howling from my door. I shall attend to you presently

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