There was a murmur of approval from several members of the company, who, having heard the arrogant tone assumed by the Marquis, were filled with resentment against the slur cast upon them all.
“And I say further,” Andre-Louis went on, “that a man who respects himself, on quite other grounds, would have been only too glad to have seized this pretext to show M. de La Tour d’Azyr the door.”
“What do you mean by that?” There was a rumble of thunder in the question.
Andre-Louis’ eyes swept round the company assembled at the supper-table. “Where is Climene?” he asked, sharply.
Leandre leapt up to answer him, white in the face, tense and quivering with excitement.
“She left the theatre in the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr’s carriage immediately after the performance. We heard him offer to drive her to this inn.”
Andre-Louis glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. He seemed unnaturally calm.
“That would be an hour ago — rather more. And she has not yet arrived?”
His eyes sought M. Binet’s. M. Binet’s eyes eluded his glance. Again it was Leandre who answered him.
“Not yet.”
“Ah!” Andre-Louis sat down, and poured himself wine. There was an oppressive silence in the room. Leandre watched him expectantly, Columbine commiseratingly. Even M. Binet appeared to be waiting for a cue from Scaramouche. But Scaramouche disappointed him. “Have you left me anything to eat?” he asked.
Platters were pushed towards him. He helped himself calmly to food, and ate in silence, apparently with a good appetite. M. Binet sat down, poured himself wine, and drank. Presently he attempted to make conversation with one and another. He was answered curtly, in monosyllables. M. Binet did not appear to be in favour with his troupe that night.
At long length came a rumble of wheels below and a rattle of halting hooves. Then voices, the high, trilling laugh of Climene floating upwards. Andre-Louis went on eating unconcernedly.
“What an actor!” said Harlequin under his breath to Polichinelle, and Polichinelle nodded gloomily.
She came in, a leading lady taking the stage, head high, chin thrust forward, eyes dancing with laughter; she expressed triumph and arrogance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was some disorder in the mass of nut-brown hair that crowned her head. In her left hand she carried an enormous bouquet of white camellias. On its middle finger a diamond of great price drew almost at once by its effulgence the eyes of all.
Her father sprang to meet her with an unusual display of paternal tenderness. “At last, my child!”
He conducted her to the table. She sank into a chair, a little wearily, a little nervelessly, but the smile did not leave her face, not even when she glanced across at Scaramouche. It was only Leandre, observing her closely, with hungry, scowling stare, who detected something as of fear in the hazel eyes momentarily seen between the fluttering of her lids.
Andre-Louis, however, still went on eating stolidly, without so much as a look in her direction. Gradually the company came to realize that just as surely as a scene was brooding, just so surely would there be no scene as long as they remained. It was Polichinelle, at last, who gave the signal by rising and withdrawing, and within two minutes none remained in the room but M. Binet, his daughter, and Andre-Louis. And then, at last, Andre-Louis set down knife and fork, washed his throat with a draught of Burgundy, and sat back in his chair to consider Climene.
“I trust,” said he, “that you had a pleasant ride, mademoiselle.”
“Most pleasant, monsieur.” Impudently she strove to emulate his coolness, but did not completely succeed.
“And not unprofitable, if I may judge that jewel at this distance. It should be worth at least a couple of hundred louis, and that is a formidable sum even to so wealthy a nobleman as M. de La Tour d’Azyr. Would it be impertinent in one who has had some notion of becoming your husband, to ask you, mademoiselle, what you have given him in return?”
M. Binet uttered a gross laugh, a queer mixture of cynicism and contempt.
“I have given nothing,” said Climene, indignantly.
“Ah! Then the jewel is in the nature of a payment in advance.”
“My God, man, you’re not decent!” M. Binet protested.
“Decent?” Andre-Louis’ smouldering eyes turned to discharge upon M. Binet such a fulmination of contempt that the old scoundrel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Did you mention decency, Binet? Almost you make me lose my temper, which is a thing that I detest above all others!” Slowly his glance returned to Climene, who sat with elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her palms, regarding him with something between scorn and defiance. “Mademoiselle,” he said, slowly, “I desire you purely in your own interests to consider whither you are going.”
“I am well able to consider it for myself, and to decide without advice from you, monsieur.”
“And now you’ve got your answer,” chuckled Binet. “I hope you like it.”
Andre-Louis had paled a little; there was incredulity in his great sombre eyes as they continued steadily to regard her. Of M. Binet he took no notice.
“Surely, mademoiselle, you cannot mean that willingly, with open eyes and a full understanding of what you do, you would exchange an honourable wifehood for... for the thing that such men as M. de La Tour d’Azyr may have in store for you?”
M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter. “You hear him, the mealy-mouthed prude! Perhaps you’ll believe at last that marriage with him would be the ruin of you. He would always be there the inconvenient husband — to mar your every chance, my girl.”
She tossed her lovely head in agreement with her father. “I begin to find him tiresome with his silly jealousies,” she confessed. “As a husband I am afraid he would be impossible.”
Andre-Louis felt a constriction of the heart. But — always the actor — he showed nothing of it. He laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and rose.
“I bow to your choice, mademoiselle. I pray that you may not regret it.”
“Regret it?” cried M. Binet. He was laughing, relieved to see his daughter at last rid of this suitor of whom he had never approved, if we except those few hours when he really believed him to be an eccentric of distinction. “And what shall she regret? That she accepted the protection of a nobleman so powerful and wealthy that as a mere trinket he gives her a jewel worth as much as an actress earns in a year at the Comedie Francaise?” He got up, and advanced towards Andre-Louis. His mood became conciliatory. “Come, come, my friend, no rancour now. What the devil! You wouldn’t stand in the girl’s way? You can’t really blame her for making this choice? Have you thought what it means to her? Have you thought that under the protection of such a gentleman there are no heights which she may not reach? Don’t you see the wonderful luck of it? Surely, if you’re fond of her, particularly being of a jealous temperament, you wouldn’t wish it otherwise?”
Andre-Louis looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he laughed again. “Oh, you are fantastic,” he said. “You are not real.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.
The action, and more the contempt of his look, laugh, and words stung M. Binet to passion, drove out the conciliatoriness of his mood.
“Fantastic, are we?” he cried, turning to follow the departing Scaramouche with his little eyes that now were inexpressibly evil. “Fantastic that we should prefer the powerful protection of this great nobleman to marriage with a beggarly, nameless bastard. Oh, we are fantastic!”
Andre-Louis turned, his hand upon the door-handle. “No,” he said, “I was mistaken. You are not fantastic. You are just vile — both of you.” And he went out.
CHAPTER X. CONTRITION
Mlle. de Kercadiou walked with her aunt in the bright morning sunshine of a Sunday in March on the broad terrace of the Chateau de Sautron.
For one of her natural sweetness of disposition she had been oddly irritable of late, manifesting signs of a cynical worldliness
, which convinced Mme. de Sautron more than ever that her brother Quintin had scandalously conducted the child’s education. She appeared to be instructed in all the things of which a girl is better ignorant, and ignorant of all the things that a girl should know. That at least was the point of view of Mme. de Sautron.
“Tell me, madame,” quoth Aline, “are all men beasts?” Unlike her brother, Madame la Comtesse was tall and majestically built. In the days before her marriage with M. de Sautron, ill-natured folk described her as the only man in the family. She looked down now from her noble height upon her little niece with startled eyes.
“Really, Aline, you have a trick of asking the most disconcerting and improper questions.”
“Perhaps it is because I find life disconcerting and improper.”
“Life? A young girl should not discuss life.”
“Why not, since I am alive? You do not suggest that it is an impropriety to be alive?”
“It is an impropriety for a young unmarried girl to seek to know too much about life. As for your absurd question about men, when I remind you that man is the noblest work of God, perhaps you will consider yourself answered.”
Mme. de Sautron did not invite a pursuance of the subject. But Mlle. de Kercadiou’s outrageous rearing had made her headstrong.
“That being so,” said she, “will you tell me why they find such an overwhelming attraction in the immodest of our sex?”
Madame stood still and raised shocked hands. Then she looked down her handsome, high-bridged nose.
“Sometimes — often, in fact, my dear Aline — you pass all understanding. I shall write to Quintin that the sooner you are married the better it will be for all.”
“Uncle Quintin has left that matter to my own deciding,” Aline reminded her.
“That,” said madame with complete conviction, “is the last and most outrageous of his errors. Who ever heard of a girl being left to decide the matter of her own marriage? It is... indelicate almost to expose her to thoughts of such things.” Mme. de Sautron shuddered. “Quintin is a boor. His conduct is unheard of. That M. de La Tour d’Azyr should parade himself before you so that you may make up your mind whether he is the proper man for you!” Again she shuddered. “It is of a grossness, of... of a prurience almost... Mon Dieu! When I married your uncle, all this was arranged between our parents. I first saw him when he came to sign the contract. I should have died of shame had it been otherwise. And that is how these affairs should be conducted.”
“You are no doubt right, madame. But since that is not how my own case is being conducted, you will forgive me if I deal with it apart from others. M. de La Tour d’Azyr desires to marry me. He has been permitted to pay his court. I should be glad to have him informed that he may cease to do so.”
Mme. de Sautron stood still, petrified by amazement. Her long face turned white; she seemed to breathe with difficulty.
“But... but... what are you saying?” she gasped.
Quietly Aline repeated her statement.
“But this is outrageous! You cannot be permitted to play fast-and-loose with a gentleman of M. le Marquis’ quality! Why, it is little more than a week since you permitted him to be informed that you would become his wife!”
“I did so in a moment of... rashness. Since then M. le Marquis’ own conduct has convinced me of my error.”
“But — mon Dieu!” cried the Countess. “Are you blind to the great honour that is being paid you? M. le Marquis will make you the first lady in Brittany. Yet, little fool that you are, and greater fool that Quintin is, you trifle with this extraordinary good fortune! Let me warn you.” She raised an admonitory forefinger. “If you continue in this stupid humour M. de La Tour d’Azyr may definitely withdraw his offer and depart in justified mortification.”
“That, madame, as I am endeavouring to convey to you, is what I most desire.”
“Oh, you are mad.”
“It may be, madame, that I am sane in preferring to be guided by my instincts. It may be even that I am justified in resenting that the man who aspires to become my husband should at the same time be paying such assiduous homage to a wretched theatre girl at the Feydau.”
“Aline!”
“Is it not true? Or perhaps you do not find it strange that M. de La Tour d’Azyr should so conduct himself at such a time?”
“Aline, you are so extraordinary a mixture. At moments you shock me by the indecency of your expressions; at others you amaze me by the excess of your prudery. You have been brought up like a little bourgeoise, I think. Yes, that is it — a little bourgeoise. Quintin was always something of a shopkeeper at heart.”
“I was asking your opinion on the conduct of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, madame. Not on my own.”
“But it is an indelicacy in you to observe such things. You should be ignorant of them, and I can’t think who is so... so unfeeling as to inform you. But since you are informed, at least you should be modestly blind to things that take place outside the... orbit of a properly conducted demoiselle.”
“Will they still be outside my orbit when I am married?”
“If you are wise. You should remain without knowledge of them. It... it deflowers your innocence. I would not for the world that M. de La Tour d’Azyr should know you so extraordinarily instructed. Had you been properly reared in a convent this would never have happened to you.”
“But you do not answer me, madame!” cried Aline in despair. “It is not my chastity that is in question; but that of M. de La Tour d’Azyr.”
“Chastity!” Madame’s lips trembled with horror. Horror overspread her face. “Wherever did you learn that dreadful, that so improper word?”
And then Mme. de Sautron did violence to her feelings. She realized that here great calm and prudence were required. “My child, since you know so much that you ought not to know, there can be no harm in my adding that a gentleman must have these little distractions.”
“But why, madame? Why is it so?”
“Ah, mon Dieu, you are asking me riddles of nature. It is so because it is so. Because men are like that.”
“Because men are beasts, you mean — which is what I began by asking you.”
“You are incorrigibly stupid, Aline.”
“You mean that I do not see things as you do, madame. I am not over-expectant as you appear to think; yet surely I have the right to expect that whilst M. de La Tour d’Azyr is wooing me, he shall not be wooing at the same time a drab of the theatre. I feel that in this there is a subtle association of myself with that unspeakable creature which soils and insults me. The Marquis is a dullard whose wooing takes the form at best of stilted compliments, stupid and unoriginal. They gain nothing when they fall from lips still warm from the contamination of that woman’s kisses.”
So utterly scandalized was madame that for a moment she remained speechless. Then —
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “I should never have suspected you of so indelicate an imagination.”
“I cannot help it, madame. Each time his lips touch my fingers I find myself thinking of the last object that they touched. I at once retire to wash my hands. Next time, madame, unless you are good enough to convey my message to him, I shall call for water and wash them in his presence.”
“But what am I to tell him? How... in what words can I convey such a message?” Madame was aghast.
“Be frank with him, madame. It is easiest in the end. Tell him that however impure may have been his life in the past, however impure he intend that it shall be in the future, he must at least study purity whilst approaching with a view to marriage a virgin who is herself pure and without stain.”
Madame recoiled, and put her hands to her ears, horror stamped on her handsome face. Her massive bosom heaved.
“Oh, how can you?” she panted. “How can you make use of such terrible expressions? Wherever have you learnt them?”
“In church,” said Aline.
“Ah, but in church many things are said that... that o
ne would not dream of saying in the world. My dear child, how could I possibly say such a thing to M. le Marquis? How could I possibly?”
“Shall I say it?”
“Aline!”
“Well, there it is,” said Aline. “Something must be done to shelter me from insult. I am utterly disgusted with M. le Marquis — a disgusting man. And however fine a thing it may be to become Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr, why, frankly, I’d sooner marry a cobbler who practised decency.”
Such was her vehemence and obvious determination that Mme. de Sautron fetched herself out of her despair to attempt persuasion. Aline was her niece, and such a marriage in the family would be to the credit of the whole of it. At all costs nothing must frustrate it.
“Listen, my dear,” she said. “Let us reason. M. le Marquis is away and will not be back until to-morrow.”
“True. And I know where he has gone — or at least whom he has gone with. Mon Dieu, and the drab has a father and a lout of a fellow who intends to make her his wife, and neither of them chooses to do anything. I suppose they agree with you, madame, that a great gentleman must have his little distractions.” Her contempt was as scorching as a thing of fire. “However, madame, you were about to say?”
“That on the day after to-morrow you are returning to Gavrillac. M. de La Tour d’Azyr will most likely follow at his leisure.”
“You mean when this dirty candle is burnt out?”
“Call it what you will.” Madame, you see, despaired by now of controlling the impropriety of her niece’s expressions. “At Gavrillac there will be no Mlle. Binet. This thing will be in the past. It is unfortunate that he should have met her at such a moment. The chit is very attractive, after all. You cannot deny that. And you must make allowances.”
“M. le Marquis formally proposed to me a week ago. Partly to satisfy the wishes of the family, and partly...” She broke off, hesitating a moment, to resume on a note of dull pain, “Partly because it does not seem greatly to matter whom I marry, I gave him my consent. That consent, for the reasons I have given you, madame, I desire now definitely to withdraw.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 355