The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis
The Abbé Pharamond was made of quicksilver. Such a mass of ubiquitous ever-moving energy would have awakened the seven sleepers. Everyone felt his influence; and no one had a word to say against him, except Toinon and Jean Boulot. Even the objections of these, as might be expected in low-born persons, were of the vaguest. The one found fault with his effeminate manners and mincing ways, the other vowed that he was so sweet as to be mawkish. Balanced one on either knee, the prodigies (with clean pinafores and polished visages) were taught to warble the amorous ditties of the south, an absurd performance which frequently brought over Madame de Vaux in the shanderydan, and caused her to explode with laughter. His presence acted like a magnet. There was always a stock of the neatest compliments on hand for Angelique; the most respectfully rapt attention for the baron's platitudes. He was constantly riding to Montbazon on his way to somewhere else, bent on organizing a picnic or a hunt, and even discovered and dragged from their retreats into the light a variety of country gentlemen who seldom left their burrows. "If the dear man were a layman!" grieved the baroness. "The very thing for Angelique." But since he was a churchman, she must do her best with the other.
"Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!" objected the baron. "They were of good family--could boast, indeed, of most superior blood--but were as poor as church mice, both."
Whereupon his spouse remarked from out her nightcap folds that she did dislike a mole. Was not the marquis a good-natured gentleman, if stupid, and was he not plainly devoted to his brothers--proud at least of one? It could be seen with half an eye that the abbé's influence was great, and would grow greater. Out of Gabrielle's wealth, after de Brèze's death, he would, of course, provide for his brothers in a fitting and lavish manner.
Gabrielle fell at once, and without resistance, under the spell of the abbé. She had never known so charming and accomplished a person. Faugh! the tawdry butterflies of Versailles! The gaudy numskulls! Mere contemptible machines, that mopped and mowed to order. In Pharamond she beheld for the first time a man whose masterful nature somehow compelled obedience. Among other fascinating ways, he had a trick (aware of a trim and graceful figure) of tossing himself down in a picturesque attitude at Gabrielle's feet, burningly eager for advice; and on considering the interview afterwards, she was pleasantly surprised to find how she had shone--how undoubtedly, yet unaccountably, sage had been her counsel. "He exerts a good influence over me," she murmured. "Like flowers under the sun's first rays I expand. Till he arrived, I knew not how dense had been our darkness. Alas! if Clovis were a little like him how different had been my fate!"
Even Clovis was the better for the abbé's advent. His brother would walk straight into his sanctum and drag him from his books to join some party of pleasure; but, lest he should turn restive, would argue in his nimble fashion, as they rode along, upon abstruse points of philosophy. Though not fully believing in the tremendous powers claimed by the prophet, he declared himself open to conviction with regard to Mesmer; and Gabrielle was amazed to perceive how animated her husband could become in his efforts to convince the doubter. When hounded from the capital, Mesmer had travelled south before settling at Spa, and the abbé had seen him perform his marvels. Hunted out of Paris by the Academy of Medicine, persecution had produced the usual result--attacked, defended, abused, glorified, Fame shook all her bauble bells, and rescued his name from neglect. At Montpelier, his following was so great that he and his small staff could not supply the necessary treatment. There was no denying that under his magnetic passes certain patients did recover. However much argument might meander, it always came back to that point. In what the mysterious healing fluid consisted, was the difficult question. Did an invisible current actually flow from the manipulator to the patient, or was it but the effect of ascendency of will--of the strong nature bearing down the weak?
During the discussions on the subject, the abbé would jokingly wave his whip at the chevalier, whose sleek figure jogged behind. "There is a case in point," he laughed. "Phebus's will is completely subservient to mine, and he knows it. Tell them, chevalier, is there anything I could not make you do?"
Then the broad visage of Phebus would beam with respectful pride as he surveyed his clever brother. "No, abbé," he would quietly rejoin. "You are wiser and better than I, and I am content that you should think for both."
Then in his turn would Clovis laugh as he glanced at the attentive Gabrielle. "We must be careful, lest," he observed, slyly, "we forfeit our independence. While pretending to disbelieve, he is deceiving us, for he is himself gifted with magnetic powers of a high order. I vow I am half influenced already, and must take precautions lest I become a slave."
Those were pleasant rides under the yellowing foliage in the late autumn of '89. Clovis was galvanised into a semblance of activity, and appeared under the process to have half realized how charming was his wife. Instead of provokingly staring without seeing her, he observed how fresh was her complexion, how silken and golden and heavy were the loose plaits of her unpowdered hair. To her astonishment, following the abbé's lead, he became almost attentive, guiding her horse over difficult ground, even marking the fact when she was tired.
And so it came about, as by touch of fairy wand, that Gabrielle, alone in the desert, had found a following. The husband whom she adored was displaying a ghostly kindness, with which for the present she was content. If he only would appreciate the prodigies--but that, under beneficent influence, would follow, doubtless. The newly-arrived swains vied with each other in endeavouring to forestall her wishes. The abbé ordered everyone about for the general good and her particular behoof, like some hovering farseeing deity; while the less pretentious chevalier plodded at her heel like a wheezy spaniel, as active as his redundancy permitted.
In their way, good looking fellows both. The chevalier was short and very fair, with pale blue eyes and a weak mouth, producing a somewhat washed-out effect. His nose was aquiline and delicately moulded. In many respects he bore a curious resemblance to his majesty the reigning monarch. The abbé, his junior by several years, looked a decade younger at least. He was slim and wiry, built on a small scale, with well-turned limbs and white hands remarkable for their fragility. Indeed, in considering his appearance people always remembered the soft, twining fingers which looked as weak as a woman's, and which, in a hand-shake, could give so firm a grip. His face was round and pale, his lips thin and tightly pressed together, his eyes steel-grey with a strongly accentuated pupil. There was something about his usual expression that suggested a particularly high-bred white cat--due possibly to a purring manner and an air of sensual complacency. But there were moments--not unknown to the chevalier--when the eyes could gleam with tawny lightning, darken with thunder-clouds, while the small even teeth were ground in passion, and the pale face turned livid. Like all seemingly light and effeminate beings, who are really of wrought steel, the gay and frolicsome abbé could become a sweeping whirlwind; but since he usually managed to have his way unchallenged, serious atmospheric disturbances were of rare occurrence. As the eyes of an angry cat seem to be illumined from behind, so on rare occasions of excessive wrath those of the abbé assumed a malevolent glitter, in face of which the chevalier cowered, despite his breadth of beam. His plump uncertain hands grew moist, his words were few and husky; he whimpered and breathed hard; and the privileged observer could have little doubt that there was absolutely nothing he could not be goaded to essay under pressure from Abbé Pharamond.
On a certain mild evening in October, master and serf were riding home from Montbazon, and the latter unconsciously shrank and stopped his horse, conscious of the glitter that he feared. Wistfully and humbly he looked up, anxious to ascertain wherein he had offended.
"The de Vaux are a charming family," remarked the abbé, airily kissing his fingertips. "I compliment you, dear brother."
When the abbé chose to gibe, the chevalier sniffed something disagreeable.
"Ha, ha! How lugubrious a countenance for a favoured lover! As doleful as a bee who's lost his sting! When do we propose to marry? Never keep a lady waiting!"
"What do you mean?" stammered Phebus, mopping his brow.
"Madame de Vaux expects you to propose for Angelique."
"But I don't want to marry Angelique."
"What! Not the delightful shoot from the family tree of which we hear so much? Like the Indian banyan its proportions darken the sky. Why not--tell