The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis
medicos of the French capital uprose with one accord, like one large man, and sent the great Mesmer flying. If the new creed was to be accepted, where would all the doctors be? It was altogether a pestilent affair. Bread must not be snatched out of the mouths of doctors by designing quacks. Deputations of furious physicians rushed to the Tuileries, charging the luckless Swabian with egregious misdemeanours, and the king, as was his wont, gave way on the wrong occasion. Mesmer fell a victim to professional jealousy and ignorance, and was banished from France. He paid clandestine visits to Paris between 1785 and 1793, and to the end his following was great, but for all that, like many another illustrious pioneer, he was kicked and buffeted by ignorance.
The spirits, whom he was too busy in his absence and his anxieties to exorcise, played havoc in the new ménage. Clovis, who took very kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife's beauty and success, and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to him than the chef-d'œuvre of a great painter, which we admire as our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with the eye of the connoisseur, then--since it is always with us--cease to contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that. Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a respectful distance.
Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it were, "You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and true, and full of love, and you shall have it all?" It was not within her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven (which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She was--alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed--quite ignorant of female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her mother's gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who, from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly accused him of indifference. What had she done to deserve it? As she complained, she cried a little, which was tiresome. Men abhor feminine whimpering, which always reddens the nose.
She insisted on knowing in what she had offended. Her listening lord came down from an excursion in some upper sphere, somewhat irritably disposed by the interruption, and abruptly assured the weeping lady that she was mistaken. He admired and liked her very much, and would like her still better if she would abstain from making scenes. He had never been in love, he tranquilly confessed, and never would be; had never been in the meshes of any siren. Perhaps his invisible twin-self was so devoted somewhere to an "Affinity" as to have engrossed the love-capacity of both.
Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth--in space! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner. It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love--ay--and never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy, half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. "It depends on yourself," he remarked, coldly, "whether we dwell together in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them, for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not possess."
It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable.
As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise. A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the summum bonum; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that mariages de convenance are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world "things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello. Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Glück from Lulli; the droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman's mission self-effacement--the daily swallowing of a large dose of boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower, with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort?
Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to fling herself prone in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the marquise grew nervous in her husband's presence; was fatally impelled somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower.
And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his wife's society less and less; grew daily more indifferent.
The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls, and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her, and thanking God for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again.
Gabrielle's nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not, softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up. The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted maréchal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to dwell in. They were to be shielded by triple walls from care and sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces like piles of cards. Had she not herself been shielded? Had not gold been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be crumpled? Yet--but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the watchful affection of the doting maréchal--had she not been very near fleeing