Lorraine. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ flower-crowned parapets; the old vicomte sat opposite his wife, one hand touching the black knight, one foot propped up on a pile of cushions. He pushed the knight slowly from square to square and twisted his white imperial with stiff fingers.

      "Helen," he asked, mildly, "are you bored?"

      "No, dear."

      Madame de Morteyn smiled at her husband and lifted a pawn in her thin, blue-veined hand; but the vicomte had not finished, and she replaced the pawn and leaned back in her chair, moving the two little coffee-cups aside so that she could see what her husband was doing with the knight.

      From the lawn below came the chatter and laughter of girls. On the edge of the lawn the little river Lisse glided noiselessly towards the beech woods, whose depths, saturated with sunshine, rang with the mellow notes of nesting thrushes.

      The middle of July had found the leaves as fresh and tender as when they opened in May, the willow's silver green cooled the richer verdure of beach and sycamore; the round poplar leaves, pale yellow and orange in the sunlight, hung brilliant as lighted lanterns where the sun burned through.

      "Helen?"

      "Dear?"

      "I am not at all certain what to do with my queen's knight. May I have another cup of coffee?"

      Madame de Morteyn poured the coffee from the little silver coffee-pot.

      "It is hot; be careful, dear."

      The vicomte sipped his coffee, looking at her with faded eyes. She knew what he was going to say; it was always the same, and her answer was always the same. And always, as at that first breakfast—their wedding-breakfast—her pale cheeks bloomed again with a subtle colour, the ghost of roses long dead.

      "Helen, are you thinking of that morning?"

      "Yes, Georges."

      "Of our wedding-breakfast—here—at this same table?"

      "Yes, Georges."

      The vicomte set his cup back in the saucer and, trembling, poured a pale, golden liquid from a decanter into two tiny glasses.

      "A glass of wine?—I have the honour, my dear—"

      The colour touched her cheeks as their glasses met; the still air tinkled with the melody of crystal touching crystal; a golden drop fell from the brimming glasses. The young people on the lawn below were very noisy.

      She placed her empty glass on the table; the delicate glow in her cheeks faded as skies fade at twilight. He, with grave head leaning on his hand, looked vaguely at the chess-board, and saw, mirrored on every onyx square, the eyes of his wife.

      "Will you have the journals, dear?" she asked presently. She handed him the Gaulois, and he thanked her and opened it, peering closely at the black print.

      After a moment he read: "M. Ollivier declared, in the Corps Législatif, that 'at no time in the history of France has the maintenance of peace been more assured than to-day.' Oh, that journal is two weeks' old, Helen.

      "The treaty of Paris in 1856 assured peace in the Orient, and the treaty of Prague in 1866 assures peace in Germany," continued the vicomte; "I don't see why it should be necessary for Monsieur Ollivier to insist."

      He dropped the paper on the stones and touched his white mustache.

      "You are thinking of General Chanzy," said his wife, laughing—"you always twist your mustache like that when you're thinking of Chanzy."

      He smiled, for he was thinking of Chanzy, his sword-brother; and the hot plains of Oran and the dusty columns of cavalry passed before his eyes—moving, moving across a world of desert into the flaming disk of the setting sun.

      "Is to-day the 16th of July, Helen?"

      "Yes, dear."

      "Then Chanzy is coming back from Oran. I know you dread it. We shall talk of nothing but Abd-el-Kader and Spahis and Turcos, and how we lost our Kabyle tobacco at Bou-Youb."

      She had heard all about it, too; she knew every étape of the 48th of the Line—from the camp at Sathonay to Sidi-Bel-Abbès, and from Daya to Djebel-Mikaidon. Not that she cared for sabres and red trousers, but nothing that concerned her husband was indifferent to her.

      "I hope General Chanzy will come," she said, "and tell you all about those poor Kabyles and the Legion and that horrid 2d Zouaves that you and he laugh over. Are you tired, dear?"

      "No. Shall we play? I believe it was my move. How warm it is in the sun—no, don't stir, dear—I like it, and my gout is better for it. What do you suppose all those young people are doing? Hear Betty Castlemaine laugh! It is very fortunate for them, Helen, that I married an American with an American's disregard of French conventionalities."

      "I am very strict," said his wife, smiling; "I can survey them en chaperone."

      "If you turn around. But you don't."

      "I do when it is necessary," said Madame de Morteyn, indignantly; "Molly Hesketh is there."

      The vicomte laughed and picked up the knight again.

      "You see," he said, waving it in the air, "that I also have become a very good American. I think no evil until it comes, and when it comes I say, 'Shocking!'"

      "Georges!"

      "That's what I say, my dear—"

      "Georges!"

      "There, dear, I won't tease. Hark! What is that?"

      Madame de Morteyn leaned over the parapet.

      "It is Jean Bosquet. Shall I speak to him?"

      "Perhaps he has the Paris papers."

      "Jean!" she called; and presently the little postman came trotting up the long stone steps from the drive. Had he anything? Nothing for Monsieur le Vicomte except a bundle of the week's journals from Paris. So Madame de Morteyn took the papers, and the little postman doffed his cap again and trotted away, blue blouse fluttering and sabots echoing along the terrace pavement.

      "I am tired of chess," said the old vicomte; "would you mind reading the Gaulois?"

      "The politics, dear?"

      "Yes, the weekly summary—if it won't bore you."

      "Tais toi! Écoute. This is dated July 3d. Shall I begin?"

      "Yes, Helen."

      She held the paper nearer and read: "'A Paris journal publishes a despatch through l'agence Havas which declares that a deputation from the Spanish Government has left Madrid for Berlin to offer the crown of Spain to Leopold von Hohenzollern.'"

      "What!" cried the vicomte, angrily. Two chessmen tipped over and rolled among the others.

      "It's what it says, mon ami; look—see—it is exactly as I read it."

      "Are those Spaniards crazy?" muttered the vicomte, tugging at his imperial. "Look, Helen, read what the next day's journal says."

      His wife unfolded the paper dated the 4th of July and found the column and read: "'The press СКАЧАТЬ