The Maid of Honour Volume I Part 2

Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth--in s.p.a.ce! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner.

It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love--ay--and never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy, half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. "It depends on yourself," he remarked, coldly, "whether we dwell together in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them, for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not possess."

It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have wors.h.i.+pped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable.

As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively pa.s.sive. He was kind according to his lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise.

A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the _summum bonum_; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that _mariages de convenance_ are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world "things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello.

Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Gluck from Lulli; the droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better s.e.x gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman's mission self-effacement--the daily swallowing of a large dose of boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower, with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort?

Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to fling herself p.r.o.ne in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the marquise grew nervous in her husband's presence; was fatally impelled somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower.

And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his wife's society less and less; grew daily more indifferent.

The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls, and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her, and thanking G.o.d for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again.

Gabrielle's nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not, softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up.

The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted marechal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to dwell in. They were to be s.h.i.+elded by triple walls from care and sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces like piles of cards. Had she not herself been s.h.i.+elded? Had not gold been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be crumpled? Yet--but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the watchful affection of the doting marechal--had she not been very near fleeing from the tinsel grandeur of a squalid globe to take refuge at the altar-foot?

The castles insisted on being built, however. Patience and long-suffering would reap their reward some day. The cherubs would grow up and weave an indissoluble link with their young fingers which should draw the estranged parents together and bind them tight at last. Their mother would fondly teach them to adore their father, to see none but his best side. They would learn to respect his crotchets.

And at this point she would herself be lost in dreamy reverie. Could his tenets with regard to the prophet be aught but midsummer madness?

There was no doubt that he cured the sick. What if it were really possible to rout the wicked demons and produce millennium? To her practical but limited intelligence the creed was a farrago of folly.

But then, Clovis, who was so clever, believed in it. Was she more stupid and ignorant even than humility confessed? Then she would rise suddenly and go about some household business, with the head-shake of the antlered stag that scatters dewdrops. The new creed was blasphemy, and she would have naught to do with it. The holy angels would guard herself and the dear innocents, if angelic suffrages could be secured by never-ceasing fervent prayer.

Sages do not care for babies, though mothers generally do. Clovis, when exhorted to that effect, contemplated his offspring once a day as some curious product from a distant land, gave each cherub a finger to suck, then retired with unseemly alacrity to his 'cello and his books.

The ramifications of secret societies in the metropolis were spreading in all directions--societies which deliberated with closed doors to escape vulgar ribaldry--bands of philanthropists urged by pure benevolence, in search now of a universal panacea. Humanity was a vast brotherhood to be united for mutual defence against the machinations of the devils. Exhorted by Mesmer from a distance, the faithful toiled quietly on, that the name of their master might be exalted.

So matters progressed in humdrum fas.h.i.+on for several years, and Clovis was placidly content; but as the procession of the months went by, a gradual change came over the societies, which, when he became aware of it, filled the unmilitant soul of the marquis with dread. Bold philanthropists, at midnight meetings, would sometimes give vent to new and startling views, affecting not health, but politics. A few presumed openly to declare that the evil spirits had got into the ministers, from whom they must be quickly expelled. Considering that ministries fell and rose just now at brief intervals, it was shocking to think how many bad spirits must be at work. M. Necker and Turgot, and brilliantly fertile Calonne, were all occupied by fiends who entered in and made themselves comfortable, as the hermit-crab invades the sh.e.l.l of the creature he has devoured. This theorem being established, it became the duty of the philanthropists to busy themselves on behalf of their country, which needed special as well as prompt doctoring. Then uprose speakers whose discourse smacked little of philanthropy, but savoured rather of iconoclasm. The Marquis de Gange, n.o.ble and wealthy, would make a splendid figure-head for the budding movement. Ere he could recover breath, or gather the scattered strands of his scared wits, Clovis found himself on the point of becoming an important political personage, and at a moment when prominence and personal peril marched hand in hand abreast. He prudently took to shunning the places of meeting, which but the other day had been his favourite resorts, for he had a horror of politics, and objected to being made a hero; but the agitators declined to let him escape so easily. They pursued him to his home, strove to convince him that he was a patriot; by turns threatened and cajoled, till the dreamer in an agony beheld no safety but in flight. A pretty state of things! Was not his wife the favourite of the queen; his father-in-law esteemed by the king? What would the verdict of his cla.s.s be, were he to turn round and bite the hands that had caressed him? He would be ostracised, undone, held up to merited obloquy. He had no ambition to become another Lafayette, and declined to be convinced by argument. To avoid being mixed in complications fraught with danger, it would be prudent to vanish for a time, but whither to retire was the rub. He wished to stay and yet to go, and bit his nails in indecision.

Concealed anxiety made calm Clovis querulous and snappish, and Gabrielle was not slow to perceive that he was suffering, though the cause she could not guess. He had got himself into some mess. Was it money? If only he would let her share his worries! Her timid overtures were promptly nipped; terror made him absolutely harsh. Sighing, she fell back upon herself, as usual, and kissed the cherubs in their bed.

At the time when this story opens, July, 1789, the marquis and his wife had been married six years. The latter, though easily led by kindness, could fitfully display sometimes symptoms of independence.

As a loving and self-respecting woman, she had kept with infinite care her catalogue of troubles from her parents. They, content with constant a.s.surances that all was well, desired no further information.

Madame de Breze had settled, to her complete satisfaction, that her son-in-law was a harmless lunatic. When she obliged him with her views, he looked through her at something beyond. But then, who had ever appreciated her sagacity? Well, well. Have not some of our brightest lights been misunderstood while alive, to be tardily canonized afterwards? As for M. de Breze, he was perfectly satisfied with Clovis, who, if eccentric and somewhat fish-like, was delightfully free from vices. If a man is perfect in manners and deportment, always civil and obliging, surely you may forgive the small drawbacks which go with the visionary and the bookworm. The bluff soldier would have had him drink and gamble more, just to show that he was human and a man, and be less fond of mysterious societies.

But as Clovis had himself remarked, we must take people as we find them, and be content with mercies vouchsafed. Why! The marquis might have turned out an incorrigible rake; have squandered large sums coaxed from his wife on low theatrical hussies. Thank goodness, he showed no signs of breaking out in that direction; and it was not until the _soiree intime_ at the palace that it came home to the doting father that there might be something amiss in the _menage_.

Gabrielle had looked so unaccountably distressed and confused. She was concealing something--what? Was the placid marquis an ogre in private?

Of course not. As he strolled home the marechal made up his mind to pump Toinon on the morrow, and, from hints ingeniously extracted from that astute damsel, severely catechise his daughter.

CHAPTER III.

INVESTIGATION.

Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister and confidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as united as if they had indeed been sisters.

Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages, nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flame for her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping the swelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she would declare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organ which they professed to covet was no longer there, having been surrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. She had left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprising kitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, one gibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure?

Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on the Loire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. He who would venture thither in search of that missing organ of hers would have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honest gamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an _oubliette_ without compunction, to vanish for evermore.

When the worthy marechal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was his daily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter's boudoir, turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, that damsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle, she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as for the marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; have cheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingled guiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture.

Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Breze that when last the family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth together. The marechal would, of course, rate her soundly for her folly, since with her advantages she might have done much better than throw herself away upon a peasant.

Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given to thinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper, half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad to place pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; but worse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by the king, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flaunting its arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands from every country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill with threatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter in village market-places, to discuss matters which concerned their betters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking in respect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence caused proper-minded and cultured persons to s.h.i.+ver in dismay. If we turn swine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. The old marechal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when he found that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and was not slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill.

"Life is a game of give and take," he said, "in which the unscrupulous always take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should have no individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters."

Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to have meekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should be insolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper cla.s.s under the shadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the marechal that his paid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and had used pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He received prompt warning that on a repet.i.tion of the offence he would lose his place, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, that soon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister and confidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret to this abandoned wretch!

It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recover the gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mind before confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply on the escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he should share the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. To this he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, which foreshadowed a th.o.r.n.y future. "My darling," he had the a.s.surance to write, "never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead of being selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but, alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit to suffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking.

National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned and stretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions of Liberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it will have to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. G.o.d gives justice to men only at the price of battles!"

A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Breze to receive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed the tell-tale sc.r.a.p which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. These high-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he had copied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting one of those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, be consorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrands about who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jean would never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it be wise as well as loyal to send this lover packing--to disclaim at once both him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in love matters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and if he adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was her place to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On the very next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him by force out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumph the errant sheep clean and quite respectable.

But if the marechal knew all about it, and was here now to administer a jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guilt and a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon's cheek.

It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was a democrat that the marechal strode into her room, and hearkening to his discourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of his suspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazing idly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in the direction of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes and no. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, of contradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained, complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was a weak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was a riddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the pa.s.sions of which he seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in which he was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst his cerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was he deceitful--playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thought not; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of was this. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by some other hand than Gabrielle's that he would eventually be aroused. He was an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had not the faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followed month they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. The estrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. In her pain she lowered herself to "scenes"--exhaled herself in wearisome complaints.

The Marechal de Breze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes, complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur on the mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task; pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him to his knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not the finger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "The paled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings.

She is an angel--the 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 nonent.i.ty? 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 marechal, 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 _mesalliances?_ 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 marechal 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 appet.i.te 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 fas.h.i.+ons 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. b.u.t.terflies attended her daily levee, 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 Breze. 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 t.i.ttle. Vainly her father pressed her, a.s.sured her that he would do nothing that she would not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn from Gabrielle.

"Well," said the marechal 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?"