The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis
troubles. She always had a waggon-load about her. Angelique examined the gown of the marquise with absorbed interest. The baron lectured on affairs, with an occasional raid into his wife's country, to rout her army of Jeremiads.
"Figure to yourself, my dear," groaned Madame de Vaux, after a refreshing pinch of snuff, "that though we have had little disturbance here so far, we are surrounded by snakes in the grass. Our Angelique is always doing something for the ungrateful monsters who, when her back's turned, gnash their teeth. All last winter, in spite of the hard times, we distributed broken victuals to the destitute, and they said that the refuse from our table had already been refused by the dogs. Did you ever hear the like? Horrid, spiteful, ungrateful creatures!"
"They know no better," replied Angelique, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "We can afford to laugh at them and their threats when we are conscious of having done our duty."
"My brave child!" ejaculated madame with fervour; "what a comfort to be mother of a child who would rise equal to any emergency!"
"Noblesse oblige!" snorted the baron, proudly. "We may be poor and compelled to fill ourselves with over much bouilli, but our blood is of the ancestral colour. A daughter of yours and mine, madame, would, of course, be equal to an emergency."
The sentiment was mighty fine--one that might not be disputed. Clovis languidly bowed and murmured something polite, while Gabrielle yawned behind her fan. Good gracious! Was the intercourse of the new neighbours to consist in mutual admiration of pedigrees?
The marquis turned the conversation to his favourite subject. Had the baron, who doubtless was acquainted with matters of current interest, by means of the Gazette, at all occupied himself with animal magnetism?
With what? A pretty subject for gentlefolk! Rumour had already whispered that the young marquis's pursuits were uncanny. The baron glanced at the baroness, who looked unutterable things, while Angelique detected a shade of sadness flitting over the face of the marquise.
"God forbid!" cried the old lady, leaping into the breach, "that we should know aught of devil's sabbats."
Clovis laughed, amused. "It is so easy to denounce what we do not comprehend," he observed, demurely. "Some day, when you are howling with pain, we will drive over to Montbazon, and cure you by laying on of hands."
Gabrielle frowned. Such an ill-chosen expression, a parody on Holy Writ, or something like it! She began to perceive that it might not be so easy to vanquish Mesmer, and, seeing them as shocked as she was, felt rather anxious to be rid of her guests.
"I won't be cured by devils!" stoutly declared the baroness. "I'd rather grin and bear it."
"For my part, I care little to inquire into the means, provided that I am cured," civilly remarked Angelique.
Here was one ready for conversion! Clovis woke up, and drawing his chair closer, detailed with eager admiration the triumphs of the prophet, to which the baron listened with the polite sceptical smile that becomes one who is a noble--a superior person--and knows it. Gabrielle looked grave and apologetic. The ground was slippery, and the baroness, agile, despite her figure, again jumped into the breach.
"Yes. Just one more dish of tea, my sweetest marquise," she cried, "and then we must go home to Montbazon. When you come to see us, if you like to walk, you have only to cross the river in a boat, you know, and the distance by the bridle-path is nothing. But I would not wander alone if I were you, there are such sinister men about. Do you know--of course you don't--that you've a nice thorn in your own side that will soon prick you--he! he! That Jean Boulot of yours is a shocking character, one of the odious, deceitful, crawling kind, which is the worst of all!"
"Nothing of the sort, my dear!" interrupted the baron. "His opinions are regretable, but he is a rough, honest fellow who professes a humble fondness for the de Brèze family, which does him honour!"
"And in the same breath he derides the aristocracy!" retorted the old lady, with a giggle.
"Which can well look after itself!" replied her husband.
"Take my advice, dear, and get rid of him, or you'll regret it," urged the baroness.
"He's a confidential servant, who was born and bred here!" objected Gabrielle. "He and those who went before have always served us well, and Jean would not hurt a hair of any of our heads, I warrant. He did something silly the other day in the way of talking nonsense, and my father rated him for it. That episode is over and forgotten."
"He's a democrat, or worse, if possible," asserted the baroness with many nods. "Capable of anything, my dear; get rid of him; a scorpion!" she continued, wagging her head; and content with this first impression, the old lady gathered up her wraps, and with an elaborate curtsey, swept away the family, delighted with the effect she had produced.
Neither Gabrielle nor Clovis were equally charmed. These tiresome people were their only neighbours! Then it must be solitude indeed. Angelique seemed a nice girl enough; but the baroness was overwise in her own conceit; and the baron ridiculously puffed with the overweening vanity of class. If the pair were to live absolutely alone, Gabrielle, doubting her own strength of will and power of fascination, already trembled for her experiment. Where could society be found which should rub off the jagged edges of a tête-à-tête? The chateaux round about were unoccupied. Nobody dwelt at Blois except bourgeoisie and common persons. Perhaps this move into the desert had been imprudent. Well, if it proved disastrous, they could return to Paris and no harm done, considering how far apart they had drifted already. A little society--just two or three congenial persons--would make all the difference; but where might such fowls be caught?
What of this communication about Jean Boulot? surely it was idle tittle-tattle, born in the murky brain of a stupid old woman. He a scorpion on the hearth, to be got rid of before he could sting? The charge was ridiculous, and yet demanded attention, considering the Bastile episode such a brief while ago. And he was engaged to Toinon too. Under the seal of strictest secrecy that damsel had shared her delicious secret with her foster-sister, and the latter with a hearty kiss had wished her joy. It was only fair to both the lovers that the matter should be cleared up, and to that end the damsel must be cross-examined.
When charged with the lamentable leanings of her affianced, Toinon made no attempt to laugh the matter off. She was fain to confess herself disappointed in Jean Boulot. He was too straightforward to stoop to knavery. You only had to look into his fearless, clear grey eyes to be assured of it; but his sentiments were distressing. He told his love when she remonstrated that reason and justice could only be departed from by paths watered with tears; and when she retorted that he would certainly be hanged if he were heard to indulge in such talk, he only shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the gallows were made for the unlucky. In the middle of an impressive lecture he snatched a kiss and laughed, and actually confessed with something that looked like pride that he had just been selected from among his fellows to be chief of some new society. He was constantly moving about among the rustics discoursing about the improvement of their condition at the expense of a superior class. All Toinon could be sure of was that Jean was beyond her control. Perhaps madame might succeed in managing the young man and bring him to a sense of his enormities.
The experiment was not crowned with success, for instead of confessing his sins with a mea culpa, Jean smiled and delivered himself of various mysterious hints. "Never you fear," he asserted, cheerfully, "whatever may happen by and by, you and yours shall be defended with my best blood; not but what a glimpse of your sweet face will be enough to calm the boys, however spitefully inclined. As to the others--H'm!"
Enigmatical and unsatisfactory.
It was certainly very dull in the desert; and before many weeks were over, the marquise was prepared secretly to admit that her father had judged rightly. She was no nearer to her husband here than in Paris; and caught herself longing more and more for those two or three congenial persons who were unattainable. It is all very well to wrap yourself in your children, to watch the young intelligence unfolding tender leaves, to mark and record with little thrills of joy each new sally of infant wit; but carefully nurtured babes retire early to the nest, and long evening hours have to be got through which are apt to hang heavy on