The Maid of Honour. Wingfield Lewis

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      CHAPTER VII.

      A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

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      The family did not meet again till the next day at the hour of second déjeuner, and an intangible cloud appeared to have fallen on the party. There was something like suspicion in the manner of those who yesterday were so trustingly united.

      The chevalier, sulky and silent, would not raise his eyes from his plate. The liveliest sallies of the abbé fell dismally flat, for even Gabrielle was so pre-occupied that she could not summon a smile. Her beautiful face was grave and sad, and bore trace of recent tears, while the brow of the marquis wore a frown, as if he had heard bad news. Indeed, a proposition had been placed before him yesternight, or, rather, dropped carelessly, which startled and annoyed him. In course of their tête-à-tête over the plans, Pharamond had said, "If I were you I would be careful not to offend madame, for she, not you, is master." It had never occurred to him before to see things in this light, and yet it was undoubtedly true. She had never stood between him and his desires, but it was not pleasant to be reminded that she might be led to do so some day. And from the conversation--as it chanced--a wavering idea had become in his mind a fixed resolve. The introduction of an adept into the household had been the happiest thought on the part of Pharamond, but--provoking fellow that he was--no sooner had he made the suggestion than he proceeded to nip it in the bud. For when Clovis would fain have enlarged upon the topic, the abbé had retorted with a demure headshake: "I made a mistake, and I am sorry. Your wife believes no more in Mesmer than I do--less--and, taking offence, might complain to old de Brèze of the introduction into his house of a pack of needy jugglers."

      If she did it would be awkward and insulting to her husband. Would she be capable of so unwifely a proceeding? Surely not. The abbé, who was a compendium of wise maxims, remarked that it would be better not to try her--to let sleeping dogs lie. Perhaps he was right, but the pill presented to the lips of Clovis was bitter, with a new and acrid taste.

      Glancing round the breakfast-table, the spirits of Pharamond went up, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. No need to ask simple Phebus how he had fared last night? Failure was written on his face!

      In the minds of all three who sat around him a tiny germ was working. So far all was well; but the ménage must not be permitted to fall back into the doldrums.

      "Come, come!" cried the abbé, cheerily; "what ails us all? Is the angel of death passing overhead? The weather is divine. Were we not to hunt to-day, starting from Montbazon, and is not the attractive Angelique anxiously awaiting Phebus? Air and exercise will brace our nerves. Clovis's wits want sharpening, and then, maybe, he will guess all about the bucket without further aid from Mesmer."

      Cloud or no cloud, there was no resisting Pharamond for long. His tact was infinite. Pretending to perceive that there was a tiff of some sort between the chevalier and the chatelaine, he ostentatiously interposed himself between them. No one was in the humour for the chase? Very well. No more was he. Phebus, whose one accomplishment was a knowledge of horseflesh, had business in the stables, which he would be good enough to see to. The other brothers would flutter around Gabrielle, who, established on her favourite seat in the moat-garden, would issue orders to her slaves.

      What? The hobby again? Really the prophet should be proud of a pupil so serious and earnest! Well, well. Would dear Gabrielle mind being left alone for a little? No? Then the brothers would take a stroll together, and perhaps the abbé would be converted.

      "If I am," the latter cried merrily, as linking his arm within that of the marquis, he led him away, "I shall turn myself to the conversion of Gabrielle. After that we will set our wits to work, arrange a magic tub, and all preside over it together."

      The magic tub! When the brothers returned from their walk, heated with discussion, the one was airy and serene, the other wofully cross. Gabrielle was sorely troubled by the change which she indistinctly felt. Why should Clovis be cross? The reason of the chevalier's sullenness, alas, she knew too well! The abbé was apparently much struck by the arguments of the neophyte, and wavered. Why, then, should Clovis be in a bad humour? And if Pharamond, the clever one, was well nigh convinced, who was she that she should doubt? There was nothing for it but to submit to the guidance of the abbé.

      Clovis shambled off to his study in a self-conscious and sheepish way, whereupon a sly smile spread over the face of Pharamond.

      "Do you know why our dear Clovis is in so villanous a humour?" he asked, glancing archly down at the marquise. "No, of course not. You would never guess. He wants something of you, and is afraid to ask, lest you refuse."

      "Afraid of me!" ejaculated Gabrielle, amazed.

      "Not quite that--but husbands do not like to ask favours and be refused."

      The marquise held her peace, for she was bitterly hurt. Refuse a favour to him, the husband whose good graces she was here to cultivate? Never. Oh, why was he so very blind! How could she ever hope to win his entire love and confidence if he read her character so ill! Then, overcome by emotion, she wept and confided in the abbé, who skilfully soothed her pain. He did not deserve such a treasure--this purblind, blundering husband, of course he did not; but since the Church had bound the СКАЧАТЬ