CHAPTER III.
INVESTIGATION.
Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister andconfidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as unitedas if they had indeed been sisters.
Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages,nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flamefor her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping theswelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she woulddeclare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organwhich they professed to covet was no longer there, having beensurrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. Shehad left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprisingkitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, onegibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure?
Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on theLoire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. Hewho would venture thither in search of that missing organ of herswould have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honestgamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an _oubliette_ withoutcompunction, to vanish for evermore.
When the worthy marechal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was hisdaily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter's boudoir,turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, thatdamsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle,she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as forthe marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; havecheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingledguiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture.
Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Breze that when last thefamily was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted trothtogether. The marechal would, of course, rate her soundly for herfolly, since with her advantages she might have done much better thanthrow herself away upon a peasant.
Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given tothinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper,half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad toplace pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; butworse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by theking, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flauntingits arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands fromevery country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill withthreatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter invillage market-places, to discuss matters which concerned theirbetters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking inrespect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence causedproper-minded and cultured persons to shiver in dismay. If we turnswine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. Theold marechal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when hefound that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and wasnot slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill."Life is a game of give and take," he said, "in which the unscrupulousalways take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should haveno individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters."
Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to havemeekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should beinsolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper class under theshadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the marechal that hispaid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and hadused pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He receivedprompt warning that on a repetition of the offence he would lose hisplace, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, thatsoon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister andconfidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret tothis abandoned wretch!
It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recoverthe gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mindbefore confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply onthe escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he shouldshare the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. Tothis he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, whichforeshadowed a thorny future. "My darling," he had the assurance towrite, "never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead ofbeing selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but,alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit tosuffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking.National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned andstretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions ofLiberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it willhave to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. God givesjustice to men only at the price of battles!"
A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Breze toreceive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed thetell-tale scrap which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. Thesehigh-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he hadcopied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting oneof those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, beconsorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrandsabout who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jeanwould never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it bewise as well as loyal to send this lover packing--to disclaim at onceboth him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in lovematters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and ifhe adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was herplace to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On thevery next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him byforce out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumphthe errant sheep clean and quite respectable.
But if the marechal knew all about it, and was here now to administera jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guiltand a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon'scheek.
It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was ademocrat that the marechal strode into her room, and hearkening to hisdiscourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of hissuspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazingidly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in thedirection of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes andno. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, ofcontradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained,complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was aweak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was ariddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the passions of whichhe seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in whichhe was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst hiscerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was hedeceitful--playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thoughtnot; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of wasthis. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by someother hand than Gabrielle's that he would eventually be aroused. Hewas an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had notthe faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followedmonth they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. Theestrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. Inher pain she lowered herself to "scenes"--exhaled herself in wearisomecomplaints.
The Marechal de Breze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes,complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur onthe mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task;pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him tohis knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not thefinger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "Thepaled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings.She is an angel--the best of women--but too apt sometimes to figureas a _femme incomprise_. All may come right in time, for he is awell-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled offon the sea of co
njecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word,"she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell whathe is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are peoplewith whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom webelieve we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! Theysuddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew themat all!"
"But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the marechal, chafing."Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the manmarble? What more could mortal require?"
Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas,dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by thistime that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not oftenimpelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for theirdefects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook theirvirtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, whohave adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast overthe details of her ugliness."
The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon thedamsel continued.
"Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest.Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideouswretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of_mesalliances?_ Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics;leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Becauseto some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is initself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis."
The marechal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel'sdiscourse. In his own time he had had a wide experience, grave andgay, and was not unaware that a jaded or unhealthy appetite craves forabnormal food. None knew better than he that the insipidity ofdoll-like prettiness may grow exasperating. We gaze at portraits ofthe celebrated fair ones of the past, and scanning their queer mouthsand noses, conclude that fashions change in beauty as well as costume.We fail to detect the charms of Anne Bullen or Mary Stuart, and we arewrong. Intellect and wit can illumine irregular features as the sunlights up a landscape. Thick lips and a snub nose may be transfiguredunder the divine rays till they seem a miracle of loveliness.
Then the anxious old gentleman waxed cross. A froward girl was Toinonwith her sham sagacity. She had ridden away on a false premise. Themost plausible theories are delusive. Gabrielle was no doll, but aquiet, well-conducted, sensible woman enough, if not of brilliantparts. _Femme incomprise_, indeed! Modest but fragrant violets lurkunder leaves, and we take the trouble to look for them. How dared thispresumptuous marquis to misunderstand the treasure he had won? It wasnot the comely mask of flesh alone that drew the buzzing crowd ofmoths. Married, they could not be aiming at her wealth. The marquisewas constantly surrounded by the attentive bevy of youths. Butterfliesattended her daily levee, drank chocolate while her hair was beingpowdered, spent hours over her trivial errands, and she accorded tonone the preference. A virtuous wife in an unvirtuous throng might beof momentary interest as an anomaly, but sparks would soon weary ofthe wonder. No. She was lively enough to hold her own in the swiftpatter of petty small-talk. It did the heart good to hear her jocundlaugh. It must be admitted that the expression of her face changedlittle, but then it was so fair that to change would be to mar it. Whowould have the sculptured Psyche grin, or ask the Venus of Milo togrimace?
The more carefully he reviewed this knotty question, the morebewildered became the excellent de Breze. Laudably resolved to delveto the bottom, he left the waiting-maid for the mistress, and observedfor the first time that his daughter's welcoming smile was less brightthan of yore. On being cross-questioned, she grew grave and reticent,refusing to complain of her husband, and entrenched herself within aproud reserve. "He might be odd, but she preferred him as he was," shedeclared shortly; would not have him altered by one tittle. Vainly herfather pressed her, assured her that he would do nothing that shewould not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn fromGabrielle.
"Well," said the marechal at last, wistfully sighing, "if I am not tointerfere, I won't; but you know that I live only for my child."
"I know you do, dear," she softly answered. "Your anxiety wrings myheart!"
Then rising from her seat, trembling from head to foot, she claspedhim in a fond embrace, and seemed about to make a confession. Wordstrembled on her lips, but whatever they were, she choked them backagain, and indulged in delicious tears.
"You have spoilt me so, that I am naughty and capricious," sheremarked gaily. "Do you really sufficiently love your little Gabrielleto submit to a wayward whim?"
"When did I deny you anything?" reproachfully replied de Breze.
"Never; nor will you now, though it is a great slice of property thatI 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 tothe 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 manylives."
"The storming of the Bastile?" returned the marechal. "Pshaw! By andbye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. Whaton earth will you do in the country? In a week you'll be petrifiedwith ennui."
"Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are lessstrong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back theroses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. Mychildren, oh! my children! What should I have become without them."
The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedilysuppressed, clove the bosom of the marechal.
"She will not tell me or have confidence," he groaned inwardly, "andyet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in otherthings, and God be with her in her travail."
With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed,and simply said, "What do you wish, my dearest?"
"Lorge," she replied, "no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must beto rob you of the home of your ancestors!"
"It shall be yours," the marechal replied, delighted to be able to dosomething. "I understand that for some reason you desire to takepossession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At mydeath, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to dowith as you will."
It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presentlyhe enquired, "What will your husband do?"
"It was his idea," was the eager rejoinder. "He wishes it, and Iam--oh--so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evilinfluences. Do you know, father?" Gabrielle continued in a gravewhisper, "that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home atdawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him,whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. Idon't know what it all is, but it has something to do with thatmystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and canonly end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption ishorrible!"
"Then I hold the clue?" cried the old man, much relieved. "It is theprophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turnhim from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?"
The idea was so comically innocent, that de Breze wheezed withdelight. "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 inimagination the daily scene at Lorge. _Tete-a-tete_ in the drearychateau among the bats and owls, she would drone out Bossuet's sermonsto put animal magnetism to flight; perhaps call in the village cure toassist. What a delightful prospect for the husband! How ghastlytiresome is the wife who preaches at her other half; drones out to himscraps out of good books. Well, well. We must not place our fingertwixt bark and tree; but if any form of desperation was likely toawake the entranced Clovis (as Toinon had it), a system of morallecturing on the part of a well-meaning but narrow-minded spouse wasabout the thing to perform the miracle.
The marechal trotted home quite pleased, and straightway informed byletter those whom it concerned that henceforth, the Marquise de Gangewas to be considered the proprietress of Lorge. Both M. and Madame deBreze equally loathed the place. If Gabrielle was possessed by thestrange fancy of playing chatelaine, in its cobwebbed corridors, lether do so by all means, and convert her husband if she might.
The good marechal was mistaken. Gabrielle knew better than to worryher husband with importunate readings, but trusted rather for theworking of a change to the renewed intimacy which retirement mustproduce. She never would have dared to propose a hermitage to Clovis,but when he himself suggested a temporary flitting, she thanked heavenas if a prayer had been answered. She could not guess that he wasafraid to stop in Paris, and that he was revolving an embryo scheme ofcloser union with Mesmer. The prophet having been ejected from theland with Maranatha, could not unfortunately bestow his presence orpersonal assistance. But why should he not send to his pupil somelearned adept, well versed in mystic lore who, in sylvan solitudewould further instruct the neophyte? Removed from the frivolous court,and secure against being mixed in the treasonable doings of politicalphilanthropists, his mind would be in a condition of receptivity, andhis studies would make giant strides.
Poor Gabrielle! She had said to herself with a choking heart-leapthat, removed from pernicious influences, she and the cherubs wouldwind fond webs about him, and win him from indifference to love. Alas!Poor simple yearning wife!
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 1 (of 3) Page 3