CHAPTER XIX.
DIDO.
The armed neutrality between man and wife continued, and the domestic skyat Fareham House was dark and depressing. Lady Fareham, who had hithertobeen remarkable for a girlish amiability of speech which went well with hergirlish beauty, became now the height of the mode for acidity and slander.The worst of the evil speakers on her ladyship's visiting-day flavoured theChina tea with no bitterer allusions than those that fell from the rosylips of the hostess. And, for the colouring of those lips, which once owedtheir vermeil tint only to nature, Lady Fareham was now dependent upon Mrs.Lewin, as well as for the carnation of cheeks that looked pallid and sunkenin the glass which reflected the sad mourning face.
Mrs. Lewin brought roses and lilies in her queer little china pots andpowder boxes, pencils and brushes, perfumes and washes without number. Itcost as much to keep a complexion as to keep a horse. And Mrs. Lewin wasinfinitely useful at this juncture, since she called every day at St.James's Street, to carry a lace cravat, or a ribbon, or a flask of essenceto the invalid languishing in lodgings there, and visited by all the town,except Fareham and his wife. De Malfort had lain for a fortnight at LadyCastlemaine's house, alternately petted and neglected by his fair hostess,as the fit took her, since she showed herself ever of the chameleon breed,and hovered betwixt angel and devil. His surgeon told him in confidencethat when once his wound was healed enough to allow his removal, the soonerhe quitted that feverish company the better it would be for his chance of aspeedy convalescence. So, at the end of the second week, he was moved ina covered litter to his own lodgings, where his faithful valet, who hadfollowed his fortunes since he came to man's estate, was quite capable ofnursing him.
The town soon discovered the breach between Lord Fareham and his friend--abreach commented upon with many shoulder-shrugs, and not a few coarseinnuendoes. Lady Lucretia Topham insisted upon making her way to the sickman's room, in the teeth of messages delivered by his valet, which, even toa less intelligent mind than Lady Lucretia's, might have conveyed the factthat she was not wanted. She flung herself on her knees by De Malfort'sbed, and wept and raved at the brutality which had deprived the world ofhis charming company--and herself of the only man she had ever loved. DeMalfort, fevered and vexed at her intrusion, and at this renewal of fireslong burnt out, had yet discretion enough to threaten her with his diredispleasure if she betrayed the secret of his illness.
"I have sworn Dangerfield and Masaroon to silence," he said. "Exceptservants, who have been paid to keep mute, you are the only other witnessof our quarrel; and if the story becomes town talk, I shall know whose busytongue set it going--and then--well, there are things I might tell thatyour ladyship would hardly like the world to know."
"Traitor! If your purse has accommodated me once in a way when luck hasbeen adverse----"
"Oh, madam, you cannot think me base enough to blab of a money transactionwith a lady. There are secrets more tender--more romantic."
"Those secrets can be easily denied, wretch. However, I know you would notinjure me with a husband so odious and tyrannical that I stood excused inadvance for inconstancy when I stooped to wed country manners and stubbornignorance. Indeed, mon ami, if you will but take pains to recover, I willnever breathe a word about the duel; but if--if--" a sob indicated thetragic possibility which Lady Lucretia dared not put into words--"I will doall that a weak woman can do to get Fareham hanged for murder. There hasnever been a peer hanged in England, I believe. He should be the first."
"Dear soul, there need be no hanging! I have been on the mending hand for aweek, or my doctors would not have let you upstairs. There, go, my prettyLucrece; but if your milliner or your shoemaker is pressing, there are afew jacobuses in the right-hand drawer of yonder escritoire, and you mayas well take them as leave them for my valet to steal. He is one of thoseexcellent old servants who make no distinctions, and he robs me as freelyas he robbed my father before me."
"Mrs. Lewin is always pressing," sighed Lady Lucretia. "She made me a gownlike that of Lady Fareham's, for which you were all eyes. I orderedthe brocade to please you; and now I am wearing it when you are not atWhitehall. Well, as you are so kind, I will be your debtor for anothertrifling loan. It is wicked to leave money where it tempts a good servantto dishonesty. Ah, Henri"--she was pocketing the gold as she talked--"iften years of my life could save you ten days of pain and fever, how gladlywould I give them to you!"
"Ah, douce, if there were a market for the exchange of such commodities,what a roaring trade would be done there! I never loved a woman yet but sheoffered me her life, or an instalment of it."
"I have emptied your drawer," laughing coyly. "There is just enough to keepLewin in good humour till you are well again, and we can be partners atbasset."
"It will be very long before I play basset in London."
"Oh, but indeed you will soon be well."
"Well enough to change the scene, I hope. It needs change of places andpersons to make life bearable. I long to be at the Louvre again, to see aplay by Moliere's company, as only they can act, instead of the loathsometranslations we get here, in which all that there is of wit and charm inthe original is transmuted to coarseness and vulgarity. When I leave thisbed, Lucrece, it will be for Paris."
"Why, it will be ages before you are strong enough for such a journey."
"Oh, I will risk that. I hate London so badly, that to escape from it willwork a miraculous cure for me."
* * * * *
An armed neutrality! Even the children felt the change in the atmosphere ofhome, and nestled closer to their aunt, who never changed to them.
"Father mostly looks angry," Henriette complained, "and mother is alwaysunhappy, if she is not laughing and talking in the midst of company; andneither of them ever seems to want me. I wish I was grown up, so that Icould be maid of honour to the Queen or the Duchess, and live at Whitehall.Mademoiselle told me that there is always life and pleasure at Court."
"Your father does not love the Court, dearest, and mademoiselle should bewiser than to talk to you of such things, when she is here to teach youdancing and French literature."
"Mademoiselle" was a governess lately imported from Paris, recommended byMademoiselle Scudery, and full of high-flown ideas expressed in high-flownlanguage. All Paris had laughed at Moliere's _Precieuses Ridicules_; butthe Precieuses themselves, and their friends, protested that the popularfarce was aimed only at the low-born imitators of those great ladies whohad originated the school of superfine culture and romantic aspirations.
"Sapho" herself, in tracing her own portrait with a careful and elaboratepencil, told the world how shamefully she had been imitated by the spuriousmiddle-class Saphos, who set up their salons, and vied with the sacredhouse of Rambouillet, and the privileged coterie of the Rue de Temple.
Lady Fareham had not ceased to believe in her dear, plain, witty Scudery,and was delighted to secure a governess of her choosing, whereby Papillon,who loved freedom and idleness, and hated lessons of all kinds, was setdown to write themes upon chivalry, politeness, benevolence, pride, war,and other abstractions; or to fill in bouts-rimes, by way of enlarging heracquaintance with the French language, which she had chattered freely allher life. Mademoiselle insisted upon all the niceties of phraseology asdiscussed in the Rue Saint Thomas du Louvre.
There had been a change of late in Fareham's manner to his sister-in-law,a change refreshing to her troubled spirit as mercy, that gentle dew fromheaven, to the criminal. He had been kinder; and though he spent very fewof his hours with the women of his household, he had talked to Angelasomewhat in the friendly tone of those fondly remembered days at Chilton,when he had taught her to row and ride, to manage a spirited palfrey andfly a falcon, and had been in all things her mentor and friend. He seemedless oppressed with gloom as time went on, but had his sullen fits still,and, after being kind and courteous to wife and sister, and playful withhis children, would leave them suddenly, and return no more to the saloono
r drawing-room that evening. Yet on the whole the sky was lightening. Heignored Hyacinth's resentment, endured her pettishness, and was studiouslypolite to her.
* * * * *
It was on Lady Fareham's visiting-day, deep in that very severe winter,that some news was told her which came like a thunder-clap, and which itneeded all the weak soul's power of self-repression to suffer withoutswooning or hysterics.
Lady Sarah Tewkesbury, gorgeous in velvet and fur, her thickly paintedcountenance framed in a furred hood, entered fussily upon a little coteriein which Masaroon, vapouring about the last performance at the King'stheatre, was the principal figure.
"There was a little woman spoke the epilogue," he said, "a little creaturein a monstrous big hat, as large and as round as a cart-wheel, which vastlyamused his Majesty."
"The hat?"
"Nay, it was woman and hat. The thing is so small it might have beenscarce noticed without the hat, but it has a pretty little, insignificant,crumpled face, and laughs all over its face till it has no eyes, and thenstops laughing suddenly, and the eyes shine out, twinkling and dancing likestars reflected in running water, and it stamps its little foot upon thestage in a comic passion--and--_nous verrons_. It sold oranges in the pit,folks tell me, a year ago. It may be selling sinecures and captaincies in ayear or two, and putting another shilling in the pound upon land."
"Is it that brazen little comedy actress you are talking of, Masaroon?"Lady Sarah asked, when she had exchanged curtsies with the ladies of thecompany, and established herself on the most comfortable tabouret, nearLady Fareham's tea-table; "Mrs. Glyn--Wynn--Gwyn? I wonder a man of wit cannotice such a vulgar creature, a she-jack-pudden, fit only to please therabble in the gallery."
"Ay, but there is a finer sort of rabble--a rabble of quality--beginningwith his Majesty, that are always pleased with anything new. And thislittle creature is as fresh as a spring morning. To see her laugh, to hearthe ring of it, clear and sweet as a skylark's song! On my life, madam, thetown has a new toy; and Mrs. Gwyn will be the rage in high quarters. Youshould have seen Castlemaine's scowl when Rowley laughed, and ducked underthe box almost, in an ecstasy of amusement at the huge hat."
"Lady Castlemaine's brow would thunder-cloud if his Majesty looked at a flyon a window-pane. But she has something else to provoke her frowns to-day."
"What is that, chere dame?" asked Hyacinth, snatching a favourite fan fromSir Ralph, who was teasing one of the Blenheims with African feathers thatwere almost priceless.
"The desertion of an old friend. The Comte de Malfort has left England."
Lady Fareham turned livid under her rouge. Angela ran to her and leantover her, upon a pretence of rescuing the fan and chiding the dogs; and socontrived to screen her sister's change of complexion from the malignity ofher dearest friends.
"Left England! Why, he is confined to his bed with a fever!" Hyacinth saidfaintly, when she had somewhat recovered from the shock.
"Nay, it seems that he began to go abroad last week, but would see nocompany, except a confidential friend or so. He left London this morningfor Dover."
"No doubt he has business in Burgundy, where his estate is, and at Paris,where he is of importance at the Court," said Hyacinth, as lightly as shecould; "but I'll wager anything anybody likes that he will be in Londonagain in a month."
"I'll take you for those black pearls in your ears, ma mie," said LadySarah. "His furniture is to be sold by auction next week. I saw a bill onthe house this afternoon. It is sudden! Perhaps the Castlemaine had becometoo exacting!"
"Castlemaine!" faltered Hyacinth, agitated beyond her power ofself-control. "Why, what is she to him more than she is to other men?"
"Very little, perhaps," said Sir Ralph, and then everybody laughed, andHyacinth felt herself sitting among them like a child, understandingnothing of their smiles and shrugs, the malice in their sly interchange ofglances.
She sat among them feeling as if her heart were turned to stone. He hadleft the country without even bidding her farewell--her faithful slave,upon whose devotion she counted as surely as upon the rising of the sun.Whatever her husband might do to separate her from this friend of hergirlhood, she had feared no defection upon De Malfort's part. He wouldalways be near at hand, waiting and watching for the happier days that wereto smile upon their innocent loves. She had written to him every day duringhis illness. Good Mrs. Lewin had taken the letters to him, and had broughther his replies. He had not written so often, or at such length, as she,and had pleaded the languor of convalescence as his excuse; but all hisbillets-doux had been in the same delicious hyperbole, the language ofthe Pays du Tendre. She sat silent while her visitors talked about him,plucking a reputation as mercilessly as a kitchen wench plucks a fowl. Hewas gone. He had left the country deep in debt. It was his landlord whohad stuck up that notice of a sale by auction. Tailors and shoemakers,perruquiers and perfumers were bewailing his flight.
So much for the sordid side of things. But what of those numerous affairsof the heart--those entanglements which had made his life one longintrigue?
Lady Sarah sat simpering and nodding as Masaroon whispered close in herear.
Barbara? Oh, that was almost as old as the story of Antony and Cleopatra.She had paid his debts--and he had paid hers. Their purse had been incommon. And the handsome maid of honour? Ah, poor silly soul! That was ahorrid, ugly business, and his Majesty's part in it the horridest. And Mrs.Levington, the rich silk mercer's wife? That was a serious attachment. Itwas said that the husband attempted poison, when De Malfort refused him thesatisfaction of a gentleman. And the poor woman was sent to die of _ennui_and rheumatism in a castle among the Irish bogs, where her citizen husbandhad set up as a landed squire.
The fine company discussed all these foul stories with gusto, insinuatingmuch more than they expressed in words. Never until to-day had they spokenso freely of De Malfort in Lady Fareham's presence; but the story had gotabout of a breach between Hyacinth and her admirer, and it was supposedthat any abuse of the defaulter would be pleasant in her ears. And then,he was ruined and gone; and there is no vulture's feast sweeter than tobanquet upon a departed rival's character.
Hyacinth listened in dull silence, as if her sensations were suddenlybenumbed. She felt nothing but a horrible surprise. Her lover--her platoniclover--that other half of her mind and heart--with whom she had been insuch tender sympathy, in unison of spirit, so subtle that the same thoughtssprang up simultaneously in the minds of each, the same language leapt totheir lips, and they laughed to find their words alike. It had been only ashallow woman's shallow love--but trivial woes are tragedies for trivialminds; and when her guests had gradually melted away, dispersing themselveswith reciprocal curtsies and airy compliments, elegant in their modishiniquity as a troop of vicious fairies--Hyacinth stood on the hearth wherethey had left her, a statue of despair.
Angela went to her, when the stately double doors had closed on the lastof the gossips and lackeys, and they two were alone amidst the spacioussplendour. The younger sister hugged the elder to her breast, and kissedher, and cried over her, like a mother comforting her disappointed child.
"Don't heed that shameful talk, dearest. No character is safe with them. Besure Monsieur de Malfort is not the reprobate they would make him. You haveknown him nearly all your life. You know him too well to judge him by theidle talk of the town."
"No, no; I have never known him. He has always worn a mask. He is as falseas Satan. Don't talk to me--don't kiss me, child. You have smeared my facehorribly with your kisses and tears. Your pity drives me mad. How can youunderstand these things--you who have never loved any one? What can youknow of what women feel? There, silly fool! you are trembling as if I hadhit you," as Angela withdrew her arms suddenly, and stood aloof. "I havebeen a virtuous wife, sister, in a town where scarce one woman in ten istrue to her marriage vows. I have never sinned against my husband; but Ihave never loved him. Henri had my heart before I knew what the word, lovemeant; and in
all these years we have loved each other with the purest,noblest affection--at least he made me believe my love was reciprocated.We have enjoyed a most exquisite communion of thought and feeling. Hisletters--you shall read his letters some day--so noble, so brilliant--allpoetry, and chivalry, and wit. I lived upon his letters when fate partedus. And when he followed us to England, I thought it was for my sake thathe came--only for me. And to hear that he was her lover--hers--that woman!To know that he came to me--with sweetest words upon his lips--knelt tokiss the tips of my fingers--as if it were a privilege to die for--fromher arms, from her caresses--the wickedest woman in England--and theloveliest!"
"Dear Hyacinth, it was a childish dream--and you have awakened! You willlive to be glad of being recalled from falsehood to truth. Your husband isworth fifty De Malforts, did you but know it. Oh, dearest, give him yourheart who ought to be its only master. Indeed he is worthy. He standsapart--an honourable, nobly thinking man in a world that is full oflibertines. Be sure he deserves your love."
"Don't preach to me, child! If you could give me a sleeping-draughtthat would blot out memory for ever--make me forget my childhood in theMarais--my youth at St. Germain--the dances at the Louvre--all the dayswhen I was happiest: why, then, perhaps, you might make me in love withLord Fareham."
"You will begin a new life, sister, now De Malfort is gone."
"I will never forgive him for going!" cried Hyacinth, passionately."Never--never! To give me no note of warning! To sneak away like a thiefwho had stolen my diamonds! To fly for debt, too, and not come to me formoney! Why have I a fortune, if not to help those I love? But--if he wasthat woman's lover--I will never see his face again--never speak hisname--never--from the moment I am convinced of that hellish treason--never!Her lover! Lady Castlemaine's! We have laughed at her, together! Her lover!And there were other women those spiteful wretches talked about just now--atradesman's wife! Oh, how hateful, how hateful it all is! Angela, if it istrue, I shall go mad!"
"Dearest, to you he was but a friend--and though you may be sorry he was sogreat a sinner, his sins cannot concern your happiness----"
"What! not to know him a profligate? The man to whom I gave a chastewoman's love! Angela, that night, in the ruined abbey, I let him kiss me.Yes, for one moment I was in his arms--and his lips were on mine. And hehad kissed her--the same night perhaps. Her tainted kisses were on hislips. And it was you who saved me! Dear sister, I owe you more than life--Imight have given myself to everlasting shame that night. God knows! I wasin his power--her lover--judging all women, perhaps, by his knowledge ofthat----"
The epithet which closed the sentence was not a word for a woman's lips;but it was wrung from the soreness of a woman's wounded heart.
Hyacinth flung herself distractedly into her sister's arms.
"You saved me!" she cried, hysterically. "He wanted me to go to Dover withhim--back to France--where we were so happy. He knelt to me, and I refusedhim; but he prayed me again and again; and if you had not come to rescueme, should I have gone on saying no? God knows if my courage would haveheld out. There were tears in his eyes. He swore that he had never lovedany one upon this earth as he loved me. Hypocrite! Deceiver--liar! He lovedthat woman! Twenty times handsomer than ever I was--a hundred times morewicked. It is the wicked women that are best loved, Angela, remember that.Oh, bless you for coming to save me! You saved Fareham's life in the plagueyear. You saved me from everlasting misery. You are our guardian angel!"
"Ah, dearest, if love could guard you, I might deserve that name----"
* * * * *
It was late in the same evening that Lady Fareham's maid came to herbed-chamber to inquire if she would be pleased to see Mrs. Lewin, who hadbrought a pattern of a new French bodice, with her humble apologies forwaiting on her ladyship so late.
Her ladyship would see Mrs. Lewin. She started up from the sofa where shehad been lying, her forehead bound with a handkerchief steeped in Hungarywater. She was all excitement.
"Bring her here instantly!" she said, and the interval necessary to conductthe milliner up the grand staircase and along the gallery seemed an age toHyacinth's impatience.
"Well? Have you a letter for me?" she asked, when her woman had retired,and Mrs. Lewin had bustled and curtsied across the room.
"In truly, my lady; and I have to ask your ladyship's pardon for notbringing it early this morning, when his honour gave it to me with his ownhand out of 'his travelling carriage. And very white and wasted he looked,dear gentleman, not fit for a voyage to France in this severe weather. AndI was to carry you his letter immediately; but, eh, gud! your ladyship,there was never such a business as mine for surprises. I was putting on mycloak to step out with your ladyship's letter, when a coach, with a footmanin the royal undress livery, sets down at my door, and one of the Duchess'swomen had come to fetch me to her Highness; and there I was kept in herHighness's chamber half the morning, disputing over a paduasoy for theShrove Tuesday masquerade--for her Highness gets somewhat bulky, and isnot easy to dress to her advantage or to my credit--though she is a beautycompared with the Queen, who still hankers after her hideous Portuguesefashions----"
"And employs your rival, Madame Marifleur----"
"Marifleur! If your ladyship knew the creature as well as I do, you'd callher Sally Cramp."
"I never can remember a low English name. Marifleur seems to promise allthat there is of the most graceful and airy in a ruffled sleeve and aribbon shoulder-knot."
"I am glad to see your ladyship is in such good spirits," said themilliner, wondering at Lady Fareham's flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes.
They were brilliant with a somewhat glassy brightness, and there was atouch of hysteria in her manner. Mrs. Lewin thought she had been drinking.Many of her customers ended that way--took to cognac and ratafia, whenchoicer pleasures were exhausted and wrinkles began to show through theirpaint.
Hyacinth was reading De Malfort's letter as she talked, moving about theroom a little, and then stopping in front of the fireplace, where the lightfrom two clusters of wax candles shone down upon the finely written page.
Mrs. Lewin watched her for a few minutes, and then produced some pieces ofsilk out of her muff.
"I made so bold as to bring your ladyship some patterns of Italian silkswhich only came to hand this morning," she said. "There is a cherry-redthat would become your ladyship to the T."
"Make me a gown of it, my excellent Lewin--and good night to you."
"But sure your ladyship will look at the colour? There is a pattern ofamber with gold thread might please you better. Lady Castlemaine hasordered a Court mantua----"
Lady Fareham rang her hand-bell with a vehemence that suggested anger.
"Show Mrs. Lewin to her coach," she said shortly, when her woman appeared."When you have done that you may go to bed; I want nothing more to-night."
"Mrs. Kirkland has been asking to see your ladyship."
"I will see no one to-night. Tell Mrs. Kirkland so, with my love."
She ran to the door when the maid and milliner were gone, and locked it,and then ran back to the fireplace, and flung herself down upon the rug toread her letter.
"Cherie, when this is handed to you, I shall be sitting in my coach on thedull Dover road, with frost-clouded windows and a heart heavier than yourleaden skies. Loveliest of women, all things must end; and, despite yourchildlike trust in man's virtue, you could scarce hope for eternity to abond that was too strong for friendship and too weak for love. Dearest, hadyou given yourself that claim upon love and honour which we have talked of,and which you have ever refused, no lesser power than death should haveparted us. I would have dared all, conquered all, for my dear mistress.But you would not. It was not for lack of fervid prayers that the statueremained a statue; but a man cannot go on worshipping a statue for ever. Ifthe Holy Mother did not sometimes vouchsafe a sign of human feeling, evengood Catholics would have left off kneeling to her image.
"Or, shall I say, rather, that
the child remains a child--fresh, and pure,and innocent, and candid, as in the days when we played our _jeu de volant_in your grandmother's garden--fit emblem of the light love of our futureyears. You remained a child, Hyacinth, and asked childish love-making froma man. Dearest, accept a cruel truth from a man of the world--it is onlythe love you call guilty that lasts. There is a stimulus in sin and mysterythat will fan the flame of passion and keep love alive even for an inferiorobject. The ugly women know this, and make lax morals a substitute forbeauty. An innocent intrigue, a butterfly affection like ours, will seldomoutlive the butterfly's brief day. Indeed, I sometimes admire at myself asa marvel of constancy for having kept faith so long with a mistress who hasrewarded me so sparingly.
"So, my angel, I am leaving your foggy island, my cramped London lodgings,and extortionate London tradesmen, on whom I have squandered so much of myfortune that they ought to forgive me for leaving a margin of debt, which Ihope to pay the extortioners hereafter for the honour of my name. I doubtif I shall ever revisit England. I have tasted all London pleasures, tillfamiliarity has taken the taste out of them; and though Paris may be onlyLondon with a difference, that difference includes bluer skies, brighterstreets and gardens, and all the originals of which you have here thecopies. There, at least, I shall have the fashion of my peruke and myspeech at first hand. Here you only adopt a mode when Paris begins to tireof it.
"Farewell, then, dearest lady, but let it be no tragical or eternalparting, since your fine house in the Rue de Touraine will doubtless behonoured with your presence some day. You have only to open a salon therein order to be the top of the mode. Some really patrician milieu is neededto replace the antique court of the dear old Marquise, and to extinguishthe Scudery, whose Saturdays grow more vulgar every week. Yes, you willcome to Paris, bringing that human lily, Mrs. Angela, in your train; and Ipromise to make you the fashion before your house has been open a month.The wits and Court favourites will go where I bid them. And though yourdearest friend, Madame de Longueville, has retired from the world inwhich she was more queenly than the Queen, you will find Mademoiselle deMontpensier as faithful as ever to mundane pleasures, and, after havingrefused kings and princes, slavishly devoted to a colonel of dragoons whodoes not care a straw for her.
"Louise de Bourbon, a woman who can head a revolt and fire a cannon, wouldthink no sacrifice too great for a cold-hearted schemer like Lauzun--yetyou who swore you loved me, when the coach was waiting that would havecarried me to paradise, and made us one for all this life, could suffer afoolish girl to separate us in the very moment of triumphant union. Youwere mine, Hyacinth; heart and mind were consenting, when your convent-bredsister surprised us, and all my hopes of bliss expired in a sermon. And nowI can but say, with that witty rhymester, whom everybody in London quotes--
'Love in your heart as idly burns, As fire in antique Roman urns.'
"Good-bye, which means 'God be with you.' I know not if the fear of Him wasin your mind when you sacrificed your lover to that icy abstraction womencall virtue. The Romans had but one virtue, which meant the courage thatdares; and to me the highest type of woman would be one whose bold spiritdared and defied the world for love's sake. These are the women historyremembers, and whom the men who live after them worship. Cleopatra,Mary Stuart, Diana of Poictiers, Marguerite de Valois, la Chevreuse, laMontbazon! Think you that these became famous by keeping their lovers at adistance?
"'Go, lovely rose!'
"How often I have sung those lines, and you have listened, and nothinghas come of it; except time wasted, smiles, sighs, and tears, that everpromised, and ever denied. Beauty, too choice to be kind, adieu!
"DE MALFORT."
When she had read these last words, she crushed the letter in her palm,clenching her fingers over it till the nails wounded the delicate flesh;and then she opened her hand, and employed herself in smoothing out thecrumpled paper, as if her life depended on making the letter readableagain. But her pains could not undo what her passion had done; and findingthis, she tossed the ragged paper into the flames, and began to walk aboutthe room in a distracted fashion, giving a little hysterical cry every nowand then, and clasping her hands upon her forehead.
Anger, humiliation, wounded love, wounded vanity, disappointment,disillusion, were all in that cry, and in the passionate beating of herheart, her stifled breath, her clenched hands.
"He was laughing when he wrote that letter--I am sure he was laughing.There was not one serious moment, not one pang at leaving me! He has beenlaughing at me ever since he came to London. I have been his fool, hisamusement. Other women have had his love, the guilty love that he praises!He has come to me straight from their wicked houses, their feasting, andriot, and drunkenness--has come and pretended to love poetry, and Scudery'sromances, and music, and innocent conversation--come to rest himself afterdissolute pleasures, bringing me the leavings of that hellish company! AndI have reviled such women, and he has pretended an equal horror of them;and he was their slave all the time, and went from me to them, and made ajest of me for their amusement I know his biting raillery. And he was atthe play-house day after day, where I could not go, sitting side byside with his Jezebels, laughing at filthy comedies, and at me that wasforbidden to appear there. He had pleasures of which I knew nothing; andwhen I fancied our inmost souls moved in harmony, his thoughts were full ofwanton women and their wanton jests, and he smiled at my childishness, andfooled me as children are fooled."
The thought was distraction. She plucked out handfuls of her pale goldhair, the pretty blonde hair which had been almost as famous in Paris asBeaufort's or Madame de Longueville's yellow locks. The thought of DeMalfort's ridicule cut her like a whalebone whip. She had fancied herselfhis Beatrice, his Laura, his Stella--a being to be worshipped as reverentlyas the stars, to make her lover happy with smiles and kindly words, tostand for ever a little way off, like a goddess in her temple, yet nearenough to be adored.
And fondly believing this to be her mission, having posed for thecharacter, and filled it to her own fancy, she found that she had onlybeen a dissolute man's dupe all the time; and no doubt had been thelaughing-stock of her acquaintance, who looked at the game.
"And I was so proud of his devotion--I carried my slave everywhere with me.Oh, fool, fool, fool!"
And then--the poor little brains being disordered by passionateregrets--wickedest ideas ran riot in the confusion of a mind not wideenough to hold life's large passions. She began to be sorry that she wasnot like those other women--to hate the modesty that had lost her a lover.
To be like Barbara Castlemaine! That was woman's only royalty. To rule withsovereign power over the hearts and senses of men. A King for her lover,constant in inconstancy, always going back to her from every transientfancy--her property, her chattel; and the foremost wits and dandies of theage for her servants, her Court of adorers, whom she ruled with frownsor smiles, as her humour prompted. To be daring, profuse, reckless,tyrannical; to suffer no control of heaven or men--yes, that was, indeed,to be a Queen! And compared with such empire, the poor authority of thePrecieuse, dictating the choice of adjectives, condemning pronouns,theorising upon feelings and passions of which in practice she knowsnothing, was a thing for scornfullest laughter.
London Pride, Or, When the World Was Younger Page 19