The Indiscretion of the Duchess. Anthony Hope
sudden turn in the road had brought us in sight of it. It was a rather small modern Gothic château. It nestled comfortably below the hill, which rose very steeply immediately behind it. The road along which we were approaching appeared to afford the only access, and no other house was visible. But, desolate as the spot certainly was, the house itself presented a gay appearance, for there were lights in every window from ground to roof.
“She seems to have company,” I observed.
“It is that she expects us,” answered Gustave. “This illumination is in our honor.”
“Come on,” said I, quickening my pace; and Gustave burst out laughing.
“I knew you would catch fire when once I got you started!” he cried.
Suddenly a voice struck on my ear—a clear, pleasant voice:
“Was he slow to catch fire, my dear Gustave?”
I started. Gustave looked round.
“It is she,” he said. “Where is she?”
“Was he slow to catch fire?” asked the voice again. “Well, he has but just come near the flame”—and a laugh followed the words.
“Slow to light is long to burn,” said I, turning to the bank on the left side of the road, for it was thence that the voice came.
A moment later a little figure in white darted down into the road, laughing and panting. She seized Gustave’s hand.
“I ran so hard to meet you!” she cried.
“And have you brought Claire with you?” he asked.
“Present your friend to me,” commanded the duchess, as though she had not heard his question.
Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued. She moved with extraordinary grace and agility, and seemed never at rest. The one term of praise (if it be one, which I sometimes incline to doubt) that I have never heard applied to her is—dignified.
“It is most charming of you to come, Mr. Aycon,” said she. “I’ve heard so much of you, and you’ll be so terribly dull!”
“With yourself, madame, and Mlle. de Berensac—”
“Oh, of course you must say that!” she interrupted. “But come along, supper is ready. How delightful to have supper again! I’m never in good enough spirits to have supper when I’m alone. You’ll be terribly uncomfortable, gentlemen. The whole household consists of an old man and five women—counting myself.”
“And are they all—?” began Gustave.
“Discreet?” she asked, interrupting again. “Oh, they will not tell the truth! Never fear, my dear Gustave!”
“What news of the duke?” asked he, as we began to walk, the duchess stepping a little ahead of us.
“Oh, the best,” said she, with a nod over her shoulder. “None, you know. That’s one of your proverbs, Mr. Aycon?”
“Even a proverb is true sometimes,” I ventured to remark.
We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open. Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished with rose-colored hangings. Here supper was spread. Gustave walked up to the table. The duchess flung herself into an armchair. She had taken her handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and seemed to be biting it. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a comical mixture of amusement and apprehension. A glance of her eyes at me invited me to share the perilous jest, in which Gustave’s demeanor appeared to bear the chief part.
Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.
“One—two—three!” he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.
The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till they almost reached her clustering hair.
“One—two—three?” repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. “Does Claire remain upstairs?”
Appeal—amusement—fright—shame—triumph—chased one another across the eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn’t help it; I began to laugh; the duchess’ face disappeared altogether behind the handkerchief.
“Do you mean to say Claire’s not here?” cried Gustave, turning on her swiftly and accusingly.
The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:
“She left three days ago.”
Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew a chair back from the table, and said:
“If madame is ready—”
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look at Gustave’s grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me by the arm, crying:
“Isn’t it fun, Mr. Aycon? There’s nobody but me! Isn’t it fun?”
Chapter III.
The Unexpected that Always Happened.
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Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a woman’s full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which has escaped me.
When the duchess said that “it”—by which she meant the whole position of affairs—was “fun,” I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de Berensac, after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.
“Where is my carriage?” we heard him ask.
“It has started on the way back three, minutes ago, sir.”
“Fetch it back.”
“Sir! The driver will gallop down the hill; he could not be overtaken.”
“How fortunate!” said I.
“I do not see,” observed Mme. de Saint-Maclou, “that it makes all that difference.”
She seemed hurt at the serious way in which Gustave took her joke.
“If I had told the truth, you wouldn’t have come,” she said in justification.
“Not another word is necessary,” said I, with a bow.
“Then let us sup,” said the duchess, and she took the armchair at the head of the table.
We began to eat and drink, serving ourselves. Presently Gustave entered, stood regarding us for a moment, and then flung himself into the third chair and poured out a glass of wine. The duchess took no notice of him.
“Mlle, de Berensac was called away?” I suggested.
“She was called away,” answered the duchess.
“Suddenly?”