The Chaplet of Pearls. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The stately measure was trod in silence as usual, but he felt the dark eyes studying him all the time. However, he could bear it better now that the deed was done, and she had voluntarily made him less to her than any gallant parading or mincing about the room.

      ‘So you bear the pearls, sir?’ she said, as the dance finished.

      ‘The only heirloom I shall take with me,’ he said.

      ‘Is a look at them too great a favour to ask from their jealous guardian?’ she asked.

      He smiled, half ashamed of his own annoyance at being obliged to place them in her hands. He was sure she would try to cajole him out of them, and by way of asserting his property in them he did not detach them from the band of his black velvet cap, but gave it with them into her hand. She looked at each one, and counted them wistfully.

      ‘Seventeen!’ she said;’ and how beautiful! I never saw them so near before. They are so becoming to that fair cheek that I suppose no offer from my—my uncle, on our behalf, would induce you to part with them?’

      An impulse of open-handed gallantry would have made him answer, ‘No offer from your uncle, but a simple request from you;’ but he thought in time of the absurdity of returning without them, and merely answered, ‘I have no right to yield them, fair lady. They are the witness to my forefather’s fame and prowess.’

      ‘Yes, sir, and to those of mine also,’ she replied. ‘And you would take them over to the enemy from whom that prowess extorted them?’

      ‘The country which honoured and rewarded that prowess!’ replied Berenger.

      She looked at him with an interrogative glance of surprise at the readiness of his answer; then, with half a sigh, said, ‘There are your pearls, sir; I cannot establish our right, though I verily believe it was the cause of our last quarrel;’ and she smiled archly.

      ‘I believe it was,’ he said, gravely; but added, in the moment of relief at recovering the precious heirloom, ‘though it was Diane who inspired you to seize upon them.’

      ‘Ah! poor Diane! you sometimes recollect her then? If I remember right, you used to agree with her better than with your little spouse, cousin!’

      ‘If I quarrelled with her less, I liked her less,’ answered Berenger—who, since the act of separation, had not been so guarded in his demeanour, and began to give way to his natural frankness.

      ‘Indeed! Diane would be less gratified than I ought to be. And why, may I ask?’

      ‘Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth.’

      ‘Truth! that was what feu M. le Baron ever talked of; what Huguenots weary one with.’

      ‘And the only thing worth seeking, the real pearl,’ said Berenger, ‘without which all else is worthless.’

      ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘who would have thought that soft, youthful face could be so severe! You would never forgive a deceit?’

      ‘Never,’ he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; ‘or rather I might forgive; I could never esteem.’

      ‘What a bare, rude world yours must be,’ she said, shivering. ‘And no weak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true.’

      ‘Truth is strength!’ said Berenger. ‘For example: I see yonder a face without bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour.’

      ‘Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine’s, no doubt—from the depths of Languedoc, and dressed like a fright.’

      ‘No, no; the young girl behind the pale, yellow-haired lady.’

      ‘Comment, Monsieur. Do you not yet know the young Queen?’

      ‘But who is the young demoiselle!—she with the superb black eyes, and the ruby rose in her black hair?’

      ‘Take care, sir, do you not know I have still a right to be jealous?’ she said, blushing, bridling, and laughing.

      But this pull on the cords made him the more resolved; he would not be turned from his purpose. ‘Who is she?’ he repeated; ‘have I ever seen her before? I am sure I remember that innocent look of espieglerie.’

      ‘You may see it on any child’s face fresh out of the convent; it does not last a month!’ was the still displeased, rather jealous answer. ‘That little thing—I believe they call her Nid-de-Merle—she has only just been brought from her nunnery to wait on the young Queen. Ah! your gaze was perilous, it is bringing on you one of the jests of Madame Marguerite.’

      With laughter and gaiety, a troop of gentlemen descended on M. de Ribaumont, and told him that Madame Marguerite desired that he should be presented to her. The princess was standing by her pale sister-in-law, Elizabeth of Austria, who looked grave and annoyed at the mischievous mirth flashing in Marguerite’s dark eyes.

      ‘M. de Ribaumont,’ said the latter, her very neck heaving with suppressed fun, ‘I see I cannot do you a greater favour than by giving you Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle for your partner.’

      Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had been guilty of such a fixed stare as to bring all this upon the poor girl. He feared that his vague sense of recognition had made his gaze more open than he knew, and he was really and deeply ashamed of this as his worst act of provincial ill-breeding.

      Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing eyes, panting bosom, and a neck evidently aching with proud dignity and passion, she received his low bow with a sweeping curtsey, as lofty as her little person would permit.

      His cheeks burnt like fire, and he would have found words to apologize, but she cut him short by saying, hastily and low, ‘Not a word, Monsieur! Let us go through it at once. No one shall make game of us.’

      He hardly durst look at her again; but as he went through his own elaborate paces he knew that the little creature opposite was swimming, bending, turning, bounding with the fluttering fierceness of an angry little bird, and that the superb eyes were casting flashes on him that seemed to carry him back to days of early boyhood.

      Once he caught a mortified, pleading, wistful glance that made him feel as if he had inflicted a cruel injury by his thoughtless gaze, and he resolved to plead the sense of recognition in excuse; but no sooner was the performance over than she prevented all conversation by saying, ‘Lead me back at once to the Queen, sir; she is about to retire.’ They were already so near that there was no time to say anything; he could only hold as lightly as possible the tiny fingers that he felt burning and quivering in his hand, and then, after bringing her to the side of the chair of state, he was forced to release her with the mere whisper of ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle;’ and the request was not replied to, save by the additional stateliness of her curtsey.

      It was already late, and the party was breaking up; but his head and heart were still in a whirl when he found himself seated in the ambassadorial coach, hearing Lady Walsingham’s well-pleased rehearsal of all the compliments she had received on the distinguished appearance of both her young guests. Sidney, as the betrothed of her daughter, was property of her own; but she also exulted in the praises of the young Lord de Ribaumont, as proving the excellence of the masters whom she had recommended to remove the rustic clownishness of which he had been accused.

      ‘Nay,’ said Sir Francis; ‘whoever called him too clownish for court spake with design.’

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