CHAPTER XXII.
DOMESTIC COOKERY.
That Clovis should have thought proper to leave Lorge without notice,or any hint of his intentions, was not a subject for vexation now toGabrielle. She saw the carriage disappear round the corner with avalet and a valise in the rumble, and the eyes of the occupant fixedsteadily upon the postilion. No smile, or nod, or wave of a hand forher to whom he owed so much. She could contemplate him now without awince or heartache, as calmly as we examine uncanny specimens ofbeetledom in a glass case. She prayed Heaven that her son, the dearVictor, should not grow up too like his father. One good point aboutthe marquis's going was that he was separated from that woman. Thenshe began to wonder a little that he should have prematurely tornhimself away before the moment of her flitting. That was good. Perhapshe had acted thus on purpose to keep up the show of appearances whichall agreed was to be maintained. Be that as it might, it was notprobable that the woman would linger on in a false position--_pour lesbeaux yeux de l'abbe_--and so the chatelaine, sitting with the dearones in the moat garden, was prepared at any moment to witness thedeparture of another carriage. And after that? Would Clovis returnwhen the coast was clear, or remain at a distance in dudgeon, leavingher to the tender mercies of his brothers? What then? She had givenway, or seemed to do so, for peace' sake. They could require no moreof her, and would doubtless respect her seclusion. It was curious tothink though of the whimsicality of the situation. She, Gabrielle deGange, erstwhile the reigning belle, with all at her feet that theworld had to give, was living now with unruffled equanimity under thesame roof as sheltered the man whom she had learned to look on as adevil.
It was October, and the leaves were circling over the grass inwhispering eddies. The mournful days of late autumn have a charm oftheir own, as nature still peeps forth half-chilled from under theclosing slab of the tomb. The monotony of mundane existence is in tunewith the scene, and as all that is pleasant of the year slowlyvanishes, we dream and moralize in a regretful way, which is notdiscontent.
Nature is dying, but will live again anon. Ah! what of us who gazeahead striving to peer into the unknown? Have we not learned to knowtoo well that the Future is the grave in which all our poor punyambitions are to lie, never to arise any more, and yet we would fainexamine the resting-place where Hope is to play chief mourner! Most ofus who have reached middle age have had ambition crushed out of uslong since, and we can smile with quiet amusement at the vaultingaspirations of our youth.
Gabrielle, while tranquilly embroidering, was not averse to recallingthe past, summoning on the disc of memory the pageants of Versailles,the innocent bucolics of Trianon, the magnificent fetes at theTuileries. Where were all the gaily gilded puppets now? The Tuilerieswas a Golgotha, Trianon a nest for owls. The lovely Lamballe had beenhacked to pieces by demons; their majesties were doing gruesomepenance for the sins of others; even the saintly and immaculateElizabeth, one of the purest and noblest women who ever trod theearth, was also enduring long-drawn and excruciating pangs ofmartyrdom.
Laying down her embroidery as she reviewed these things, Gabriellewould clasp her hands behind her head, and marvel, as others insimilarly incongruous situations have done, whether Providence is nota myth. Every fibre of the human soul revolts against the monstrousdoctrine that the innocent shall suffer for the guilty, and yet everyday we see that it obtains, and always has obtained from the time ofAdam downwards. Such gloomy reflections should not perplex young andpretty heads, and yet the marquise was unable to conquer melancholy.Perhaps it was induced by the season, perhaps by the germs of illness.She must have dreamed too long in the moat garden without beingprovided with sufficient wraps. Certainly she had caught a chill, forwhen Toinon brought her as usual her morning chocolate, a few daysafter the marquis's departure, she found her shivering and feverish,with chattering teeth and laboured breath. Drawing aside the heavycurtains of the ancestral bed, Toinon gazed long and anxiously at hermistress, who said, turning impatiently, "You stare as if I were aghost!"
"Madame thinks she has caught cold?" Toinon agreed quietly. "Madamewas always too fond of sitting in the open air."
"I knew I was going to be unwell," her mistress observed drowsily,"for last night I could scarce touch my supper. When the palate isaffected, things taste quite differently. The good Bertrand sent upsome of my favourite cakes, as light as if made by fairies, andsomehow they seemed quite coppery. Do something, Toinon; give them toyour dog, for the dish is scarcely touched, and I would not haveBertrand think I am ungrateful."
"And you were always so partial to those cakes!" drily remarkedToinon, with a peculiar smile. "Yes, I will give them to the dog."
"First make me some tisane," entreated Gabrielle. "I am languid andfeverish, and my throat is parched and burning."
Toinon slowly shook her head and went straight into the adjoiningboudoir, where the light refection described as supper was always laidout on a low table. Her movement was so abrupt that had she not beenmuch preoccupied, she could not have failed to perceive the whisk of ablack coat-tail, as it disappeared into the long saloon. Had sheopened the door four minutes earlier, she would have seen a dapperfigure clad in black leaning over the plate that held theconfectionery, and have heard a soft voice mutter, "Only half a cake.It must have had a peculiar taste."
As it was, Toinon saw nothing of this, but finding the room empty,moved swiftly to the tray, took up a cake and smelt it. A thin, paleface was watching her through a door-chink with gleaming eyes.
She again shook her head, and murmuring, "Can they be so wicked?"carried the plate away.
Along the corridor she sped, and down the stairs, unconscious of adark shadow moving noiselessly, till she reached her own apartment. Atsound of the well-known footstep, an animal within, hithertoquiescent, began to whine and yelp, and beat itself against the door.
"Patience, patience--poor hound," Toinon said aloud. "Is it wise to bein so great a hurry? Even now, I cannot believe it!"
She turned the handle and the boisterous dog dashed the plate from herhand with its great paws. She picked up two of the cakes which hadremained whole, and with the same peculiar smile of meaning she hadworn above, watched the hound as he ravenously devoured the fragments.There was still a piece left--a large one--and she pushed it towardshim with her foot.
"Poor dog! Forgive me, Jean," she said, "if what I think is true."
The shadow without gazed in on the scene with craning neck. "Shesuspects," the abbe muttered. "What will she do with the others?"
As though in direct answer to the question, Toinon turned rapidly fromthe animal which she had been eyeing with a suspicious frown, andcarefully taking up the remaining pieces of confectionery wrapped themin paper. Then she stood stroking her chin irresolute. The dogapproached and wagged his tail, rubbing his muzzle in her hand, as hisway was when he wanted something. "What is it, poor fellow?" sheenquired, stroking his head. "Water! I thought as much!" Filling abasin, she placed it on the floor, and the dog drank eagerly till thelast drop was drained, then curled himself up to sleep.
Starting, the abigail took up the parcel, went to a cupboard, selecteda bottle from a row and mixed some of its contents with water.
"Mustard," murmured the abbe, slinking into the shade. "That stupidwoman said there was no especial taste. See what it is to have to dealwith bunglers."
Wearing his most unpleasant scowl, and grinding his sharp teeth, hestole along the corridor, and moving up a step or two turned and camedown again humming a blythesome stave, just as Toinon appeared at thebottom, holding the parcel and a glass.
"Our pretty Toinon is vastly occupied," he laughed, merrily. "But forfear of the stalwart arm of burly Jean, I would steal a kiss fromthose sweet lips."
"Maybe you will feel that arm sooner than you expect," she said,scarce able to steady her voice; "make way, and if you dare to touchme, I will spit in your villain's face."
This was clearly not the moment for persiflage
, so with a carelessshrug of indulgence for the coarse manners of the lower classes, theabbe stood aside. "What a dear darling little vixen," he shouted upthe stairs. "I pity poor Jean Boulot, despite his thews and sinews."
The first attempt was a failure, an egregiously contemptible andinartistic failure, and all due to that inveterate bungler. Had notmademoiselle's coadjutor suggested that liquid is preferable to solid,for the purpose they both had at heart, since you only munch abiscuit, whereas you take a preliminary sip at a liquid and then, yourmouth feeling a trifle dry, take a longer gulp before remarking thatthe taste is peculiar? And the execrable Algae had insisted on thecakes, declaring that if you are fond of a particular cake, you willindulge in several before any little peculiarity can manifest itself.And the fool--the hopelessly obstinate and self-sufficient idiot--hadperpetrated another bungle, a worse one than before, since Gabriellehad only bitten into one of her favourites, while the others had beengobbled by the dog. The dog would die; no doubt of it, and Toinon'ssuspicions would be justified. What would she do with that tell-taleparcel? An extremely awkward mistake of mademoiselle's. There was oneway out of the dilemma. The abbe must be taken ill as well as the ladyof the house; complain of a taste of copper, make an outcry in thekitchen, and discover that the careless cook had spread his materialsupon a copper-plate that had not been cleared of verdigris.
Toinon was busy all day with her mistress, whom she found in a halflethargy, with burning palms and widely distended pupils. She had someado to force the mustard down her throat; but, this done, she soon hadthe pleasure of seeing the patient revive. By evening, Gabrielle wascalm, but exhausted, and when Toinon descended to the kitchen to fetchsome bouillon (which Bertrand would have first to taste) she wasastonished to hear that the abbe was screaming with agony, kicking infrightful convulsions.
Toinon smiled her peculiar smile again, and uttered a few common-placewords of sympathy.
"Badly played," she said to herself, "he might as well have bethoughthim that the symptoms should be lethargy and coma."
M. Bertrand, the cook, was in high dudgeon. How dared anybody hintthat he had poisoned madame's biscuits? It was all owing to that oafof a scullion, who had laid the large square copper-plate on theconfectionery table, without remembering that it had been unused for aweek. Was he, a _cordon bleu_, a chef _de premier caliber_, to beblamed for the stupidity of a scullion? He would be expected to cleanhis own saucepans next. When the marquis returned--who alwaysappreciated efforts to please--he would give warning and leave this_sale maison_, which was only fit for cockroaches and rats.
"Go back to Paris!" gibed Toinon. "Safer where you are, believe me. Achef with so splendid a reputation for pampering the palates of thegangrened aristocracy, would surely be strung up to a lantern! Thisbouillon looks excellent," she added saucily; "but M. Bertrand will begood enough to sip two spoonfuls, lest the scullion should have dippedhis fingers in it."
Next day, thanks to Toinon's vigilant solicitude, the marquise wassufficiently recovered to sit at her embroidery as usual. Holding outa hand to the abigail while tears rose to the eyes of both, "Mysister," she said, "it is worth while to be a little ill just to learnhow much we are beloved."
Alas! beloved! Poor lady. Hated by four persons without consciences,who were panting and thirsting for her death! A target for poisonedarrows!
After sagely considering the matter, Toinon made up her mind that ifshe did not interfere, she might become in some sort an accessary to atragedy. In whom was faith to be placed? Honest Jean? What could hedo, if he were to come, in the face of such diabolical ingenuity? Hewould learn that his favourite dog--companion of many trudgingsthrough the woods at all times and seasons--had died of poisonedcakes. But then was it not admitted in the household, that the abbe aswell as the marquise had accidentally partaken, and that the abbe ofthe two had been the most sick? Had not varlets and kitchen wenchescowered and clung together at sound of his piercing screams? He waswell again, for he had had the presence of mind to swallow mustard.The marquise had recovered, thanks to a like precaution. Toinon hadbeen cunning enough to keep two cakes which, when the time came shouldbe examined, and if the abbe were foolish enough to declare that hehad been poisoned by similar articles, it would be easy to prove thathis agonies were sham, as they were not the natural results of such apoison as had been administered to Gabrielle.
Meanwhile, something must be done, and the question that troubledToinon was what that something was to be. At last she made up her mindand broke the ice.
"Will madame pardon me for what may appear an act of presumption," sheinquired, gently rearranging the wraps about the invalid. "I havetaken something on myself which may anger madame, who will, I know,believe that if I was guilty of an error it was made through excess ofzeal."
There was a pause, unbroken by Gabrielle, who glanced at herfoster-sister with a wan and wearied look that was full of pathos.
Presently she raised the fingers of the waiting maid to her face, andstroked her cheek with them.
"What is this grand effort of the intellect?" she asked, cheerily. "Iknow it is something well intentioned."
"I have written a letter in madame's name and sent it off by specialcourier."
"Not to the marquis?" cried Gabrielle, the colour flushing over herface and neck.
Poor soul! The marquis! Much good would it be to write to him, unlessto request him to order a coffin.
"No," Toinon said, quietly. "It cuts me to the heart to see madame sosolitary, and during a convalescence too, a time when we always broodand consider the least pleasant subjects. I have written to theMarechale de Breze, stating that you have been ill, but are out ofdanger, and would be glad of a visit from your mother."
Gabrielle remained thoughtful, still stroking Toinon's fingers. Whynot? The marechale owed a visit, and the absence of her husband onbusiness would account for the seclusion of his wife. Moreover, itwould be a splendid thing to lure the old dame from dangerous Paris,where Mother Guillotine was commencing to display a Catholic taste inthe way of food. Yes; from all points of view it was an admirable ideato induce Madame de Breze to visit Lorge. Why! it was a thousand yearsat least since she had set eyes upon the darlings! Her own and onlygrandchildren! How shockingly reprehensible. How she would joy inmarking each trait of genius, and how proud their mother would be toshow how cultured were their minds! The marechale's mind wasconsiderably less stored than her daughter's, but she would appreciatewith greater awe the progress of their climb up Parnassus. Did theynot write each other poems and moral essays, after the manner of theScuderi, and of the encyclopaedist ladies!--such prodigiously cleververses, and such heavenly prose sermons! The more she considered itthe more enchanted was she that Toinon should have taken this moveupon herself. Had it been left to her, she would have doubted, havewritten a dozen letters only to tear them up, weighing in that tenderand over-scrupulous conscience of hers whether it was right or wrongto drag an old lady to the wilds of Touraine at such a troublousmoment. She would have considered whether it was not her duty to haveunselfishly exhorted the ancient dame never to stir out of her modestabode; never even to open her window, lest by the act she should bedrawn into the maw of Mother Guillotine.
The more she thought over it the more delighted was she with the idea,and, opening her arms, clasped Toinon to her breast.
"My dear, my dear," she murmured, fondly, "what should I do withoutyou? Let the dear mother come. Together we will make her welcome."
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 3 (of 3) Page 3