The Maid of Honour Volume I Part 3

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

"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 marechal. "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 marechal.

"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 G.o.d be with her in her travail."

With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pa.s.s 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 marechal 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 coa.r.s.e 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 Ma.s.s on Sundays?"

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

And then he went off into a shout of laughter, as he beheld in imagination the daily scene at Lorge. _Tete-a-tete_ in the dreary chateau among the bats and owls, she would drone out Bossuet's sermons to put animal magnetism to flight; perhaps call in the village cure to a.s.sist. What a delightful prospect for the husband! How ghastly tiresome is the wife who preaches at her other half; drones out to him sc.r.a.ps out of good books. Well, well. We must not place our finger twixt bark and tree; but if any form of desperation was likely to awake the entranced Clovis (as Toinon had it), a system of moral lecturing on the part of a well-meaning but narrow-minded spouse was about the thing to perform the miracle.

The marechal trotted home quite pleased, and straightway informed by letter those whom it concerned that henceforth, the Marquise de Gange was to be considered the proprietress of Lorge. Both M. and Madame de Breze equally loathed the place. If Gabrielle was possessed by the strange fancy of playing chatelaine, in its cobwebbed corridors, let her do so by all means, and convert her husband if she might.

The good marechal was mistaken. Gabrielle knew better than to worry her husband with importunate readings, but trusted rather for the working of a change to the renewed intimacy which retirement must produce. She never would have dared to propose a hermitage to Clovis, but when he himself suggested a temporary flitting, she thanked heaven as if a prayer had been answered. She could not guess that he was afraid to stop in Paris, and that he was revolving an embryo scheme of closer union with Mesmer. The prophet having been ejected from the land with Maranatha, could not unfortunately bestow his presence or personal a.s.sistance. But why should he not send to his pupil some learned adept, well versed in mystic lore who, in sylvan solitude would further instruct the neophyte? Removed from the frivolous court, and secure against being mixed in the treasonable doings of political philanthropists, his mind would be in a condition of receptivity, and his studies would make giant strides.

Poor Gabrielle! She had said to herself with a choking heart-leap that, removed from pernicious influences, she and the cherubs would wind fond webs about him, and win him from indifference to love. Alas!

Poor simple yearning wife!

CHAPTER IV.

THE CHATEAU OF "LORGE."

In Touraine, midway between Tours and Blois, the venerable chateau of Lorge stands out from a wooded background, bathing its feet in the swiftly flowing Loire, morosely contemplating the details of its grim reflection. Profoundly interesting from an archaeological point of view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder that the jolly old marechal should have ungrudgingly pa.s.sed it to his daughter. Privileged to occupy a place in one of the most smiling provinces of France, it is within a drive of Amboise on one side and Chinon on the other, dignified castles both; and not very far away is Diane de Poictier's Chenonceaux, whimsically spanning a river, a specimen of elfin architecture straight from fairyland. Lorge dates from the iron period; not the time of prehistoric man, who had recently blossomed out of monkeydom, but of the early mediaeval barons, who slept in their armour--as they still do on their tombs--whose pet pastimes were the cleaving of pates and the quaffing of usquebaugh.

With the march of centuries Amboise, Chinon, and the rest found it advisable to polish themselves up, and modify their native harshness to be in touch with less rugged epochs; but no coaxing ingenuity of architect or landscape gardener could ever smooth the frown from the frowning face of Lorge. It seemed to say with pride, "The darkest and most cruel deeds have been perpetrated within my walls. Down below I have smothered the cries for mercy of weak women outraged, and children brutally maltreated. My favourite music is the clank of steel. I was baptised with blood, whose reek may never fade, whose stain may never be effaced."

You cannot make a junketting house out of a fortress, and Lorge, despite changes, is a fortress still. On the facade, defended by the river, are the stately reception rooms, opening one into the other in a string; a long suite which occupies the first floor, whose heavily mullioned cas.e.m.e.nts are large enough to permit the sun to gild the antique hangings. Each of these windows is adorned by a ponderous stone balcony, which can be used for purposes of defence. The other sides of the edifice seem blank and blind, the high enclosing walls being unbroken, save by a dentilated series of merlons and crenels, with cruciform embrasures below, The chambers on these sides are particularly depressing to the spirits, since they afford no prospect, save a bare paved court with the enclosing wall beyond.

Courageous chatelaines, striving after cheerfulness, have made efforts from time to time to brighten Lorge. The drawbridge and portcullis, which jealously barred the entrance, have been removed from the double archway and replaced by wooden doors. The moat which guarded the three sides landward, with a defensive wall along the outer bank, has become a garden with trim green slopes, and a wealth of glorious roses. The ends that used to join the river have been walled up, and adorned with flights of steps which lead to decaying boat-houses. Private posterns, drilled in the masonry, afford easy access from the courtyard to the moat-pleasaunce for such as may possess the keys; but in spite of every effort, the flowering hedges and rose-bushes only serve by contrast to make Lorge more dreary--a skull bedecked with flowers. One specially brave lady had the hardihood once to plan great gardens in the Dutch style beyond the moat, on the other side of the road. There were long alleys of clipped yew and beech; _tonelles_ or arched bowers to give grateful shade; a procession of weird animals, fas.h.i.+oned of holly, that cast fantastic shadows on the sward; oblong tanks where swans serenely sailed, steering among isles of water-lily. But no subsequent chatelaine was st.u.r.dy enough to carry on the hopeless war.

The alleys were soon choked, the _tonelles_ grew into thickets, the mimic menagerie degenerated into ragged rows of bushes. By the time the marechal inherited, there was no place devoted to flowers except the moat-pleasaunce, and even that was sadly neglected.

Though you see them not, dank dungeons honeycomb the foundations.

There are noisome cells on the level of the water-line that may at will be flooded. You know that they are there, although some lord with tender nerves fastened them up long since. There they are, under your feet, audibly crooning their low song of woe unmerited, of dumb despair, of remorseless cruelty. The ancient implements of torture that still ornament the wainscot of the banquet-hall take up their parable, and sing. Time does not still that wailing chaunt which tells of robbery, and tyranny, and persecution. No skill may exorcise the train of shades, undone for greed or l.u.s.t, or victims for conscience'

sake, who parade the corridors of Lorge.

Not but what it has charms of its own: a plaintive sweetness set in a minor key. The view across the Loire in summer time of emerald woodland is superb. The long drawing-rooms overlooking the stream are of stately proportions. Their immense overhanging chimney-pieces are blazoned with coats of arms sculptured in the stone. Carved crests are repeated again and again in the fretted ceilings. The tapestries, with their shadowy story of mad King Charles the Sixth and his treacherous wife, and the faithful girl, Odette, with their warm background of dimmed gold, have been p.r.o.nounced by experts to be priceless. The little boudoir at the end which closes the suite is a dainty and cosy nest. Than the country round nothing can be more delightful; you may ride for hours unchecked amid the leafy woods over a velvet carpet; or you may boat and explore the erratic sinuosities of the river, dreaming out epics as you go anent the lordly, but for the most part empty, dwellings that look down on you from either bank. As an irreverent Parisian visitor once observed to a horror-stricken neighbour, "Lorge would be a charming _sejour_ if one might pull down the castle and erect instead a villa."

At the time which occupies us there was but one near neighbour resident. The Chateau de Montbazon was not much more than a mile away, having been built on a little bit of Lorge property beyond the Loire, which had changed hands one night at cards. The spot commanded an exceptionally fine prospect, so the owner placed a house on it. It was bought a generation later by the Baron de Vaux, who dwelt there with his wife and daughter, Angelique, and great was the joy of those ladies upon hearing that Lorge, which was so little occupied, was again to be inhabited.

Country life at this period was, from a fas.h.i.+onable point of view, a singular anomaly. Marie Antoinette's dairymaid proclivities at Trianon had rendered it _de rigueur_ to find pleasure in bucolic occupations.

Old customs were giving way to new-fangled habits borrowed from other nations. You were offered tea as in England instead of coffee, and were invited to join in the game of "boston," brought from the infant republic beyond seas by the followers of Lafayette. Dress, except at the Parisian court, grew simpler. Ladies, instead of brocaded damasks, wore muslins and flimsy materials. Men donned garments of plain cloth instead of satin or velvet. n.o.ble dames grown tired of expensive jewellery affected a badge made of some hero's head executed in miniature. Franklin's or Rousseau's profile was modish, though the more sentimental preferred a pet cat's portrait set on a ribbon in place of a diadem and feathers. Emanc.i.p.ated from trains and furbelows, you could now really move about in the country without much discomfort.

The court circle was perforce a narrow one. Those who had not the entree to Versailles withdrew to their estates when the queen retired to Trianon, and there drank milk and made believe to hunt, or acted tragedies and spouted epic poesy, pretending to be vastly entertained; not but what they were ready to rush back to the capital with all despatch when Fas.h.i.+on declared it possible.

But then, of late years, the decrees of Fas.h.i.+on had been sorely interfered with by that aggressive Third Estate. Refusal to pay rents was annoying, but an evil to which all were accustomed. In some parts evil-disposed persons declared landlords to be the natural foes of the sovereign people, and discussed how the vermin was to be got rid of. A deep-rooted, bitter hate, sprung from long and systematic oppression, divided cla.s.s from cla.s.s by an intangible but impenetrable barrier; a hate that grew all the stronger, in that it had long been veiled by fear and lashed by supercilious scorn. Republicanism was in execrable taste--a subject for contemptuous laughter on the part of the provincial seigneurie. Its exponents bore on a pole a turnip with a candle in it, which could frighten none but children. The country n.o.bility attached no special meaning to the unseemly snarling. Until the great crash came, and the rural palaces were sacked and burned, the seigneurie never fully realized the thinness of the crust they had been dancing on. In certain provinces it had been unsafe for some time past for landlords to show their noses at all, much less prate of paying rent. These not unwillingly left their chateaux to fate, whereby the condition of small shopkeepers and such local fry was not ameliorated. In more favoured districts dislike and discontent lay smouldering, and my lords were still free to amuse themselves with their guests from town, indifferent to the feelings of the ma.s.ses.

The de Vaux family were not of the court circle; indeed, they rarely travelled to the metropolis, but were content to ape its manners from a distance. The trio were dull enough, as narrow in their views and as obstinately fixed in the tenets of their grandsires as most country gentlefolk are, but they were well intentioned, and availed themselves of the earliest opportunity to pay their respects at Lorge. Gabrielle received them with open arms. Was she not bent on inaugurating a new era for herself and Clovis, and had she not been informed by her father's unseemly merriment, that it is not well to bore a husband?

Not that the newcomers, who had driven over in the craziest of shanderydans, showed signs of being an acquisition. On the contrary.

Long before the sun went down, Gabrielle felt that she could see too much of Madame de Vaux, while Clovis listened, marvelling, to the old gentleman's plat.i.tudes which were at least a century old.

The baroness was not slow to tumble out upon the floor her peck of troubles. She always had a waggon-load about her. Angelique examined the gown of the marquise with absorbed interest. The baron lectured on affairs, with an occasional raid into his wife's country, to rout her army of Jeremiads.

"Figure to yourself, my dear," groaned Madame de Vaux, after a refres.h.i.+ng pinch of snuff, "that though we have had little disturbance here so far, we are surrounded by snakes in the gra.s.s. Our Angelique is always doing something for the ungrateful monsters who, when her back's turned, gnash their teeth. All last winter, in spite of the hard times, we distributed broken victuals to the dest.i.tute, and they said that the refuse from our table had already been refused by the dogs. Did you ever hear the like? Horrid, spiteful, ungrateful creatures!"

"They know no better," replied Angelique, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "We can afford to laugh at them and their threats when we are conscious of having done our duty."

"My brave child!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed madame with fervour; "what a comfort to be mother of a child who would rise equal to any emergency!"

"n.o.blesse oblige!" snorted the baron, proudly. "We may be poor and compelled to fill ourselves with over much _bouilli_, but our blood is of the ancestral colour. A daughter of yours and mine, madame, would, of course, be equal to an emergency."

The sentiment was mighty fine--one that might not be disputed. Clovis languidly bowed and murmured something polite, while Gabrielle yawned behind her fan. Good gracious! Was the intercourse of the new neighbours to consist in mutual admiration of pedigrees?

The marquis turned the conversation to his favourite subject. Had the baron, who doubtless was acquainted with matters of current interest, by means of the _Gazette_, at all occupied himself with animal magnetism?

With what? A pretty subject for gentlefolk! Rumour had already whispered that the young marquis's pursuits were uncanny. The baron glanced at the baroness, who looked unutterable things, while Angelique detected a shade of sadness flitting over the face of the marquise.

"G.o.d forbid!" cried the old lady, leaping into the breach, "that we should know aught of devil's sabbats."

Clovis laughed, amused. "It is so easy to denounce what we do not comprehend," he observed, demurely. "Some day, when you are howling with pain, we will drive over to Montbazon, and cure you by laying on of hands."

Gabrielle frowned. Such an ill-chosen expression, a parody on Holy Writ, or something like it! She began to perceive that it might not be so easy to vanquish Mesmer, and, seeing them as shocked as she was, felt rather anxious to be rid of her guests.

"I won't be cured by devils!" stoutly declared the baroness. "I'd rather grin and bear it."

"For my part, I care little to inquire into the means, provided that I am cured," civilly remarked Angelique.