The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis
There was absolutely no one to talk to, Gabrielle was not of a studious turn, avoiding the library as a close and musty place, had no penchant for embroidery, cared not to tinkle on a spinette. Clovis, on the other hand, professed himself delighted with the unbroken solitude where there was nobody to plague him with politics; employed his time in writing reams to Mesmer, and counting the days which must elapse before he could receive replies. When weary of considering the pros and cons of the prophet's theories, he locked himself in his study, and could be heard far into the night groaning sonatas on his 'cello. Oh, that 'cello! Its moans were extremely wearing to Gabrielle's nerves, for it always suggested to her a coffin with some one in agony inside. Weave new bands of affection, forsooth, far from the madding crowd! How doleful a deception was hers.
The marquis seemed to have forgotten that he was father of two cherubs, was certainly oblivious of the fact that his better half was a reigning beauty, who, in her prime was self-deposed. Sometimes he would sally forth on solitary rides, and return, depressed and dumb, to fall asleep in his chair. It was certain that the pair were drifting more fatally distant from each other in the country even than in town. This was not life, but vegetation; sure any change would be a godsend.
At one moment the hapless marquise thought of summoning a bevy of the danglers whom she had loftily pretended to despise; but, if they were to come--unable to get on with Clovis--how were they to be amused? At another time she was on the point of imploring the maréchal and his wife to break the bonds of dulness by a visit, but then again she hesitated. How was she to parry her father's anxious questions, how avoid his sympathetic eyes? No. Come what might, she would bear what she must bear, and veil her wounds from her beloved ones.
Now and again the de Vaux family drove over to spend the afternoon, and the visit was in due course returned; but though all parties were punctiliously civil and vowed they enjoyed themselves immensely, it was clear to both families that no intimacy could arise between them.
Gabrielle was almost driven to lower her flag and retire from the field; was indeed debating how she should set about it with dignity, when that for which she craved was suddenly tossed into her lap.
One morning, the marquis actually so far broke through his secluded habits, as without a formal message sent in advance, to invade his wife's boudoir. Her heart gave a great bound, and looking up from the children's hornbook in glad surprise, she smiled gratefully on him. Was this a first advance? She was determined that the visit should be a pleasant one, and to that end proceeded forthwith to trot out the prodigies. He had no idea, she prattled, how vast were their acquirements. They knew ever so many wondrous things which would no doubt delight their parent. Straightway, like little clockwork parrots, well-wound up, the infants chirped forth their lore, while the marquis's face increased in length, the while with well-bred courtesy he made believe to listen. His dreamy eyes wandered over a map of varied stains on their dirty little pinafores. They diffused an aroma of bread and butter; their angel fingers shone with grease. Their acquirements, he coldly agreed when they had run down, were remarkable for tender years, and the weather being fine they had better run out and play.
Gabrielle sighed. Mere politeness--such politeness as a wearied but courteous stranger might bestow--in which was no scintilla of affection. Unnatural parent! After all, the darlings were perchance a trifle juvenile to interest a man. Men, as a rule, can see no beauty in babes and sucklings; vote them revolting lumps of adipose tissue; but then, sweet Victor and Camille were not babies, for one was five and the other four--were enjoying that most fascinating period of existence when we are never clean, and are always falling down and crying.
The unappreciated angels having shrieked off down the long drawing-rooms, there to tumble, hurt themselves, and howl, Clovis sat down and explained the cause of his irruption.
"A letter! Good news or bad?" inquired Gabrielle, with a presentiment of evil.
"That depends how you read it," returned her husband, quietly. "As you are aware, I never inflicted my uncongenial presence overmuch on you; never sought to know why you were so ready to abdicate your brilliant position in Paris to suit a passing whim of mine, but I was none the less obliged by your compliance. I now wish you to please yourself, and make arrangements for the future, such as may suit your views."
Gabrielle stared at the automaton. Good heavens! His uncongenial presence. Was he so blind as not to perceive how she hungered for it? A burning reproach was on her lips, but found no voice; for somehow, seeing him sit there so straight and cold and self-complacent, her courage oozed away.
"Do what you choose." He continued with bland indifference. "I was never jealous of your entourage, because I liked you to enjoy the meed of admiration that is your due, and know that you are to be trusted even in so perilous a vortex as Versailles. For reasons with which I need not trouble you, I prefer myself to remain here for a while, with your permission; but seem to see that you are weary of playing the chatelaine. Is it so? Would you like to return to Paris. Please yourself. You will admit that I give you the completest liberty."
The heart of the poor wife sank low. For what crime was she condemned to love an icicle? If he would only find fault, or discover a grievance, or even wax wroth without a cause, and smite her! Each calm and measured sentence as he sat, with the finger-tips of one hand poised accurately on those of the other, was like the prick of a steel stiletto. His gaze was fixed on a tree a long way off. He could not even trouble to look at her.
Sighing wearily, she murmured, "Completest liberty, no doubt. I and the children are to go away and leave you here alone?"
Clovis moved his gaze to another tree and cleared his throat. "Not unless you wish it," he said, "but something has happened that is a little embarrassing."
"Any trouble? Am I not here to share it."
"Scarcely a trouble--an inconvenience only, which you may object to share," her husband answered, smiling. "Could you brook other inmates?"
"Other inmates! What can you mean?'
"As you know, though you have never seen them, I have two half-brothers. They are inseparable--quite pattern brothers--the one brilliantly clever, the other his admiring shadow. The Abbé Pharamond, the younger one, would be welcomed in any society on account of his sparkling talent; but he has preferred to shine alone at Toulouse, rather than consent to be a unit in the system of stars at Paris. He has got into trouble, and writes to ask for an asylum for himself and Phebus."
"What trouble?"
"A too pungent epigram followed by a fatal duel, makes it convenient to seek eclipse. In six months the affair will have blown over. You would be sure to like the abbé, if you met him; while as for poor dear Phebus, the chevalier, as he is called in the south, he is fat and somnolent, and would not hurt a fly."
Gabrielle reflected, Why did a voice deep down within whisper words of warning? Here were the congenial persons for whose advent she had longed. What a relief to the tête-à-tête would be the brilliant abbé, and fat Phebus who would not hurt a fly! Thanks to them, Lorge might become endurable. On the suggestion of a return to Paris, the difficulty had occurred to her as to the excuse to be made for her husband's lengthened absence. Clearly she must remain at Lorge, so long as he thought fit to do so. Perhaps the abbé disliked music and hated violoncellos? Together in the dead of night they would capture the marquis's treasure and send it floating down the Loire.
"My dear Clovis!" she exclaimed presently, with genuine pleasure; "you singular being! What objection could I have? On the contrary, I am charmed with the opportunity of making the acquaintance of your brothers."
CHAPTER V.
THE HALF-BROTHERS.
Never was there a greater bit of luck for the Lorge hermits than the epigram that was too pungent, and its consequences. With the arrival of the fugitives there was inaugurated a new régime. Cobwebs seemed to vanish at a stroke. The dismal old chateau stirred and rubbed its eyes, for, as by magic, the spirit of ennui who had his dwelling there was routed and put