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 of Paris unanimously accuses the Imperial Government of allowing Prim and Bismarck to intrigue against the interests of France. The French ambassador, Count Benedetti, interviewed the King of Prussia at Ems and requested him to prevent Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern’s acceptance. It is rumoured that the King of Prussia declined to interfere.’”
Madame de Morteyn tossed the journal on to the terrace and opened another.
“‘On the 12th of July the Spanish ambassador to Paris informed the Duc de Gramont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, that the Prince von Hohenzollern renounces his candidacy to the Spanish throne.’”
“À la bonheur!” said the vicomte, with a sigh of relief; “that settles the Hohenzollern matter. My dear, can you imagine France permitting a German prince to mount the throne of Spain? It was more than a menace — it was almost an insult. Do you remember Count Bismarck when he was ambassador to France? He is a man who fascinates me. How he used to watch the Emperor! I can see him yet — those puffy, pale eyes! You saw him also, dear — you remember, at Saint-Cloud?”
“Yes; I thought him brusque and malicious.”
“I know he is at the bottom of this. I’m glad it is over. Did you finish the telegraphic news?”
“Almost all. It says — dear me, Georges! — it says that the Duc de Gramont refuses to accept any pledge from the Spanish ambassador unless that old Von Werther — the German ambassador, you know — guarantees that Prince Leopold von Hohenzollern will never again attempt to mount the Spanish throne!”
There was a silence. The old vicomte stirred restlessly and knocked over some more chessmen.
“Sufficient unto the day—” he said, at last; “the Duc de Gramont is making a mistake to press the matter. The word of the Spanish ambassador is enough — until he breaks it. General Lebœuf might occupy himself in the interim — profitably, I think.”
“General Lebœuf is minister of war. What do you mean, Georges?”
“Yes, dear, Lebœuf is minister of war.”
“And you think this German prince may some time again—”
“I think France should be ready if he does. Is she ready? Not if Chanzy and I know a Turco from a Kabyle. Perhaps Count Bismarck wants us to press his king for guarantees. I don’t trust him. If he does, we should not oblige him. Gramont is making a grave mistake. Suppose the King of Prussia should refuse and say it is not his affair? Then we would be obliged to accept that answer, or—”
“Or what, Georges?”
“Or — well, my dear — or fight. But Gramont is not wicked enough, nor is France crazy enough, to wish to go to war over a contingency — a possibility that might never happen. I foresee a snub for our ambassador at Ems, but that is all. Do you care to play any more? I tipped over my king and his castles.”
“Perhaps it is an omen — the King of Prussia, you know, and his fortresses. I feel superstitious, Georges!”
The vicomte smiled and set the pieces up on their proper squares.
“It is settled; the Spanish ambassador pledges his word that Prince Hohenzollern will not be King of Spain. France should be satisfied. It is my move, I believe, and I move so — check to you, my dear!”
“I resign, dearest. Listen! Here come the children up the terrace steps.”
“But — but — Helen, you must not resign so soon. Why should you?”
“Because you are already beaten,” she laughed, gently— “your king and his castles and all his men! How headstrong you Chasseurs d’Afrique are!”
“I’m not beaten!” said the old man, stoutly, and leaned closer over the board. Then he also laughed, and said, “Tiens! tiens! tiens!” and his wife rose and gave him her arm. Two pretty girls came running up the terrace, and the old vicomte stood up, crying: “Children! Naughty ones! I see you coming! Madame de Morteyn has beaten me at chess. Laugh if you dare! Betty Castlemaine, I see you smiling!”
“I?” laugh
ed that young lady, turning her flushed face from her aunt to her uncle.
“Yes, you did,” repeated the vicomte, “and you are not the niece that I love any more. Where have you been? And you, Dorothy Marche? — your hair is very much tangled.”
“We have been lunching by the Lisse,” said Dorothy, “and Jack caught a gudgeon; here it is.”
“Pooh!” said the old vicomte; “I must show them how to fish. Helen, I shall go fishing—”
“Some time,” said his wife, gently. “Betty, where are the men?”
“Jack and Barbara Lisle are fishing; Sir Thorald and Lady Hesketh are in the green boat, and Ricky is rowing them. The others are somewhere. Ricky got a telegram, and must go to Berlin.”
“Tell Rickerl von Elster that his king is making mischief,” laughed the vicomte, “and he may go back to Berlin when he chooses.” Then, smiling at the young, flushed faces, he leaned on his wife’s arm and passed slowly along the terrace towards the house.
“I wonder why Lorraine has not come?” he said to his wife. “Won’t she come to-night for the dance?”
“Lorraine is a very sweet but a very uncertain girl,” replied Madame de Morteyn. She led him through the great bay-window opening on the terrace, drew his easy-chair before his desk, placed the journals before him, and, stooping, kissed him.
“If you want me, send Charles. I really ought to be with the young people a moment. I wonder why Ricky must leave?”
“How far away are you going, Helen?”
“Only to the Lisse.”
“Then I shall read about Monsieur Bismarck and his Spanish friends until you come. The day is long without you.”
They smiled at each other, and she sat down by the window.
“Read,” she said; “I can see my children from here. I wonder why Ricky is leaving?”
Suddenly, in the silence of the summer noon, far in the east, a dull sound shook the stillness. Again they heard it — again, and again — a deep boom, muttering, reverberating like summer thunder.
“Why should they fire cannon to-day, Helen?” asked the old man, querulously. “Why should they fire cannon beyond the Rhine?”
“It is thunder,” she said, gently; “it will storm before long.”
“I am tired,” said the vicomte. “Helen, I shall sleep. Sit by me — so — no — nearer yet! Are the children happy?”
“Yes, dear.”
“When the cannon cease, I shall fall asleep. Listen! what is that?”
“A blackbird singing in the pear-tree.”
“And what is that — that sound of galloping? Look out and see, Helen.”
“It is a gendarme riding fast towards the Rhine.”
CHAPTER IV
THE FARANDOLE
That evening Dorothy Marche stood on the terrace in the moonlight waving her plumed fan and listening to the orchestra from the hamlet of Saint-Lys. The orchestra — two violins, a reed-pipe, a biniou, and a harp — were playing away with might and main. Through the bay-window she could see the crystal chandeliers glittering with prismatic light, the slender gilded chairs, the cabinets and canapés, golden, backed with tapestry; and everywhere massed banks of ferns and lilies. They were dancing in there; she saw Lady Hesketh floating in the determined grip of Cecil Page, she saw Sir Thorald proudly prancing to the air of the farandole; Betty Castlemaine, Jack, Alixe, Barbara Lisle passed the window only to re-pass and pass again in a whirl of gauze and filmy colour; and the swish! swish! swish! of silken petticoats, and the rub of little feet on the polished floor grew into a rhythmic, monotonous cadence, beating, beating the measure of the farandole.
Dorothy waved her fan and looked at Rickerl, standing in the moonlight beside her.
“Why won’t you dance, Ricky?” she asked; “it is your last evening, if you are determined to leave to-morrow.” He turned to her with an abrupt gesture; she thought he was going to speak, but he did not, and after a moment she said: “Do you know what that despatch from the New York Herald to my brother means?”
“Yes,” he said. His voice was dull, almost indifferent.
“Will you tell me?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“Is — is it anything dangerous that they want him to do?”
“Yes.”
“Ricky — tell me, then! You frighten me.”
“To-morrow — perhaps to-night.”
“Perhaps to-night?”
“If I receive another telegram. I expect to.”
“Then, if you receive another despatch, we shall all know?”
Rickerl von Elster bent his head and laid a gloved hand lightly on her own.
“I am very unhappy,” he said, simply. “May we not speak of other things?”
“Yes, Ricky,” she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.
“We are thinking of the same thing,” said Dorothy; “I was trying to recall that last time we met — do you remember? In Paris?”
He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.
“At the Diplomatic Ball?”
“Yes.”
“And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful, but — do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble stairway, and how the other attachés teased you until you tucked it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young girls are! Ne c’est pas, Ricky?”
“I have never forgotten that evening,” he said, in a voice so low that she leaned involuntarily nearer.
“We were very young then,” she said, waving her fan.
“It was not a year ago.”
“We were young,” she repeated, coldly.
“Yet I shall never forget, Dorothy.”
She closed her fan and began to examine the fluffy plumes. Her cheeks were red, and she bit her lips continually.
“Do you particularly admire Molly Hesketh’s hand?” she asked, indifferently.
He turned crimson. How could she know of the episode in the orangery? Know? There was no mystery in that; Molly Hesketh had told her. But Rickerl von Elster, loyal in little things, saw but one explanation — Dorothy must have seen him.
“Yes — I kissed her hand,” he said. He did not add that Molly had dared him.
Dorothy raised her head with an icy smile.
“Is it honourable to confess such a thing?” she asked, in steady tones.
“But — but you knew it, for you saw me—” he stammered.
“I did not!” she flashed out, and walked straight into the house.
“Dorrie!” cried her brother as she swept by him, “what do you think? Lorraine de Nesville is coming this evening!”
“Lorraine?” said his sister— “dear me, I am dying to see her.”
“Then turn around,” whispered Betty Castlemaine, leaning across from Cecil’s arm. “Oh, Dorrie! what a beauty!”
At the same moment the old vicomte rose from his gilded chair and stepped forward to the threshold, saying, “Lorraine! Lorraine! Then you have come at last, little bad one?” And he kissed her white hands and led her to his wife, murmuring, “Helen, what shall we do with the little bad one who never comes to bid two old people good-day?”
“Ah, Lorraine!” said Madame de Morteyn; “kiss me, my child.”
There she stood, her cheeks faintly touched with colour, her splendid eyes shining like azure stars, the candle-light setting her heavy hair aglow till it glistened and burned as molten ore flashes in a crucible. They pressed around her; she saw, through the flare of yellow light, a sea of rosy faces; a vague mist of lace set with jewels; and she smiled at them w
hile the colour deepened in her cheeks. There was music in her ears and music in her heart, and she was dancing now — dancing with a tall, bronzed young fellow who held her strong and safe, and whose eyes continually sought her own.
“You see,” she said, demurely, “that my gowns came to-day from Paris.”
“It is a dream — this one,” he said, smiling back into her eyes, “but I shall never forget the scarlet skirt and little bodice of velvet, and the silver chains, and your hair—”
“My hair? It is still on my head.”
“It was tangled across your face — then.”
“Taisez-vous, Monsieur Marche!”
“And you seem to have grown taller—”
“It is my ball-gown.”
“And you do not cast down your eyes and say, ‘Oui, monsieur,’ ‘Non, monsieur’—”
“Non, monsieur.”
Again they laughed, looking into each other’s eyes, and there was music in the room and music in their hearts.
Presently the candle-light gave place to moonlight, and they found themselves on the terrace, seated, listening to the voice of the wind in the forest; and they heard the little river Lisse among the rushes and the murmur of leaves on the eaves.
When they became aware of their own silence they turned to each other with the gentle haste born of confusion, for each feared that the other might not understand. Then, smiling, half fearful, they reassured each other with their silence.
She was the first to break the stillness, hesitating as one who breaks the seal of a letter long expected, half dreaded: “I came late because my father was restless, and I thought he might need me. Did you hear cannon along the Rhine?”
“Yes. Some German fête. I thought at first it might be thunder. Give me your fan.”
“You do not hold it right — there—”
“Do you feel the breeze? Your fan is perfumed — or is it the lilies on the terrace? They are dancing again; must we go back?”
She looked out into the dazzling moonlight of Lorraine; a nightingale began singing far away in the distant swamp; a bat darted by, turned, rose, dipped, and vanished.
“They are dancing,” she repeated.
“Must we go?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 56