The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis

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СКАЧАТЬ best of women--but too apt sometimes to figure as a femme incomprise. All may come right in time, for he is a well-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled off on the sea of conjecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word," she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell what he is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are people with whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom we believe we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! They suddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew them at all!"

      "But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the maréchal, chafing. "Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the man marble? What more could mortal require?"

      Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas, dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by this time that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not often impelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for their defects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook their virtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, who have adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast over the details of her ugliness."

      The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon the damsel continued.

      "Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest. Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideous wretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of mésalliances? Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics; leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Because to some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is in itself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis."

      The maréchal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel's discourse. In his own time he had had a wide experience, grave and gay, and was not unaware that a jaded or unhealthy appetite craves for abnormal food. None knew better than he that the insipidity of doll-like prettiness may grow exasperating. We gaze at portraits of the celebrated fair ones of the past, and scanning their queer mouths and noses, conclude that fashions change in beauty as well as costume. We fail to detect the charms of Anne Bullen or Mary Stuart, and we are wrong. Intellect and wit can illumine irregular features as the sun lights up a landscape. Thick lips and a snub nose may be transfigured under the divine rays till they seem a miracle of loveliness.

      Then the anxious old gentleman waxed cross. A froward girl was Toinon with her sham sagacity. She had ridden away on a false premise. The most plausible theories are delusive. Gabrielle was no doll, but a quiet, well-conducted, sensible woman enough, if not of brilliant parts. Femme incomprise, indeed! Modest but fragrant violets lurk under leaves, and we take the trouble to look for them. How dared this presumptuous marquis to misunderstand the treasure he had won? It was not the comely mask of flesh alone that drew the buzzing crowd of moths. Married, they could not be aiming at her wealth. The marquise was constantly surrounded by the attentive bevy of youths. Butterflies attended her daily lévée, drank chocolate while her hair was being powdered, spent hours over her trivial errands, and she accorded to none the preference. A virtuous wife in an unvirtuous throng might be of momentary interest as an anomaly, but sparks would soon weary of the wonder. No. She was lively enough to hold her own in the swift patter of petty small-talk. It did the heart good to hear her jocund laugh. It must be admitted that the expression of her face changed little, but then it was so fair that to change would be to mar it. Who would have the sculptured Psyche grin, or ask the Venus of Milo to grimace?

      The more carefully he reviewed this knotty question, the more bewildered became the excellent de Brèze. Laudably resolved to delve to the bottom, he left the waiting-maid for the mistress, and observed for the first time that his daughter's welcoming smile was less bright than of yore. On being cross-questioned, she grew grave and reticent, refusing to complain of her husband, and entrenched herself within a proud reserve. "He might be odd, but she preferred him as he was," she declared shortly; would not have him altered by one tittle. Vainly her father pressed her, assured her that he would do nothing that she would not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn from Gabrielle.

      "Well," said the maréchal at last, wistfully sighing, "if I am not to interfere, I won't; but you know that I live only for my child."

      "I know you do, dear," she softly answered. "Your anxiety wrings my heart!"

      Then rising from her seat, trembling from head to foot, she clasped him in a fond embrace, and seemed about to make a confession. Words trembled on her lips, but whatever they were, she choked them back again, and indulged in delicious tears.

      "You have spoilt me so, that I am naughty and capricious," she remarked gaily. "Do you really sufficiently love your little Gabrielle to submit to a wayward whim?"

      "When did I deny you anything?" reproachfully replied de Brèze.

      "Never; nor will you now, though it is a great slice of property that I require. Will the best of men humour my new fancy? Yes? Well, then, know that I am tired of Paris and its tinsel, and would fain retire to the country."

      "You--leave the gaieties of Paris?"

      "Yes. The good air and quiet will brace my nerves, untuned by racket, and that explosion of presumptuous wickedness that sacrificed so many lives."

      "The storming of the Bastile?" returned the maréchal. "Pshaw! By and bye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. What on earth will you do in the country? In a week you'll be petrified with ennui."

      "Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are less strong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back the roses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. My children, oh! my children! What should I have become without them."

      The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedily suppressed, clove the bosom of the maréchal.

      "She will not tell me or have confidence," he groaned inwardly, "and yet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in other things, and God be with her in her travail."

      With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed, and simply said, "What do you wish, my dearest?"

      "Lorge," she replied, "no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must be to rob you of the home of your ancestors!"

      "It shall be yours," the maréchal replied, delighted to be able to do something. "I understand that for some reason you desire to take possession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At my death, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to do with as you will."

      It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presently he enquired, "What will your husband do?"

      "It was his idea," was the eager rejoinder. "He wishes it, and I am--oh--so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evil influences. Do you know, father?" Gabrielle continued in a grave whisper, "that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home at dawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him, whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. I don't know what it all is, but it has something to do with that mystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and can only end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption is horrible!"

      "Then I hold the clue?" cried the old man, much relieved. "It is the prophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turn him from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?"

      The idea was so comically innocent, that de Brèze wheezed with delight. "Sweet pet!" he said, tapping his daughter's cheek archly, "you are earnest if not clever."

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