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   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





                          THE MAID OF HONOUR






                          THE MAID OF HONOUR


                  A Tale of the Dark Days of France


                                  BY

                       THE HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD

                              AUTHOR OF

         "LADY GRIZEL," "THE LORDS OF STROGUE," "ABIGEL ROWE"

                                 ETC.





                          _IN THREE VOLUMES_
                               VOL. I.




                                LONDON
                       RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
           Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.

                                 1891

                       [_All Rights Reserved_]






                                  TO

                        WILLIAM HENRY WELDON.

                              A TRIBUTE

                          OF OLD FRIENDSHIP.






                               CONTENTS


                              CHAPTER I.

       On The Volcano, 1789


                             CHAPTER II.

       Husband And Wife.


                             CHAPTER III.

       Investigation.


                             CHAPTER IV.

       The Chateau Of Lorge.


                              CHAPTER V.

       The Half-brothers.


                             CHAPTER VI.

       Temptation.


                             CHAPTER VII.

       A Terrible Discovery.


                            CHAPTER VIII.

       A New Arrival.


                             CHAPTER IX.

       Thunder Clouds.


                              CHAPTER X.

       The Magic Tub.






                         THE MAID OF HONOUR.




                              CHAPTER I.

                        ON THE VOLCANO, 1789.


Although there was no cash in silken fob or broidered pocket, the
Elect denied themselves no luxury. Bejewelled Fashion was sumptuously
clad: my ladies quarrelled and intrigued, danced and gambled--my lords
slept off the fumes of wine, and mopped the wounds begot of midnight
brawl; then drank and fought again.

Money? No credit even. Trade was at a standstill, yet the court was
uproariously gay.

Money and credit--sinews of pleasure as well as business--having
flitted from lively Paris, you might suppose that the wheels of
Society would cease to turn--that the flower-decked car of gilded
Juggernaut would come creeping to a standstill. Not yet. Impelled by
the impulse of its own velocity, it continued to crush on awhile.
Those who knew were numbed by the chill shadow of the inevitable, or
rendered callous by the knowledge of their helplessness. Those who
were deaf and blind groped blissfully on in their lighthearted
ignorance. Selfish all, depraved most, the blue-blooded sang in merry
chorus, "Let us eat and drink that the worms may grow fat on us." Not
so the gaunt crowds whose blood was but mud and water. As their
long-suffering ancestors had monotonously done, they groaned in
unison, crying to God for death, as the only release from misery.

What if whole villages were decimated by famine? What if plague and
starvation stalked through the towns? My lords and my ladies cared
not, for they were poised too high to see. Were the grovelling
creatures slaves or insects? Slaves, for they delved patiently, with
moans that were vain bleatings as of sheep; whereas outraged insects
for the most part sting.

We all know that the first duty of serfs is to labour for their
betters: their second, when the worn machinery is out of gear, to
retire underground with promptitude. How unseemly--nay, revolting,
therefore, is their conduct when, weary of groaning and of
teeth-gnashing, they belabour with fists instead!

The scene we look upon is a tranquil and a pretty one, despite certain
vague and ominous rumours which, intangible, permeate the air. The
favourite saloon of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of
the Tuileries, is a small, square chamber decorated with raised
garlands, flutes, and tambourines in carved wood, painted a dead
white, mellowed now by the glimmer of many candles, shaded. Curtains
and furniture are yellow, embroidered with gold; the bare floor is
waxed and polished, reflecting the costly and varied rainbow garb of
some forty assembled guests. Through open casements--it is a warm
evening in July--we mark the majestic outline of the venerable Louvre
cut black against the blue--a calm unclouded blue, loftily oblivious
of angry curls of darkling smoke which two days since uprose from the
ruins of the stormed Bastile. Doors as well as windows are spread wide
to woo the air; a bevy of ladies, glittering with gems, are fanning
themselves languidly. Through the portals on the right you obtain a
glimpse of the remains of supper: a dainty repast, fit for fastidious
fairies; such an ideal cosy feast as the queen loved to conjure for
her familiars. Through the left door we may perceive an array of green
tables with gilt legs, at which gentlemen clad in satins of delicate
hue are squabbling over the devil's books. Their voices from time to
time grow angry, their talk unduly loud. But for the adjacent presence
of the queen, swords might be drawn and blood spilt. Young Monsieur de
Castellane, officer in the Swiss Guard, has just lost his paternal
acres to the Marquis de Gange, a fact which, in the latter, seems to
evoke no sign of interest. With the usual luck of players who are
quite indifferent, Fortune had befriended the marquis, and yet, as
things were, the prize was an empty bauble--a mere meaningless array
of lands with high-sounding names which looked vastly well--on paper.

The Marquis de Gange was an absentminded person, given to reverie and
the contemplation of the infinite, and it is somewhat annoying to lose
even paper property to one so utterly unappreciative.

Roused by the congratulations of the surrounding group of butterflies,
the marquis descended for a moment to earth, and laughed lightly.

"A profitable stake to win, in sooth," he observed, with a yawn.
"Castellane! I hereby resign your empty title-deeds, having quite
enough such foolish lumber of my own. Your part of the country is a
caldron, mine is a furnace. Thank heaven, my wife's estates are in a
land of peace, or, like many more, we should be beggars."

"It is not given to everyone to mate with a great heiress," remarked
rueful Castellane, feeling in his empty pocket.

"You should look out for one," said the marquis, serenely smiling,
"for you know that since the Third Estate has raised its ugly head,
you don't dare to show your nose at Castellane. The tenants would
growl of rights of man, and <DW8> your silk stockings with their
pitchforks."

"That's true enough," sighed the young scapegrace, with a puzzled air.
"Though they deserve the galleys for their temerity, they are patted
on the back by our too lenient sovereign--a mob of insolent
ragamuffins! Last time I travelled south, I was worried to
fiddle-strings by deputations whom I declined to see--a parcel of
unpractical idiots, who, when I demanded rents, babbled of redress of
grievances. Really, de Gauge, you may keep the title-deeds, for, since
no one will lend a louis on them, they are no better than a musty
mockery."

The butterflies enjoyed the jest and laughed in chorus. There was
something delightfully whimsical about the fact that the acres for
which heroes had bled, and which had been enjoyed in majestic fashion
by a long line of noble ancestors, should--as in the fairy tale--be
transmuted into heaps of dead and mouldy leaves.

After the laugh came silence, for were they not all in the same
battered boat? No matter. Whate'er betide, they must sink or swim
together.

"Awkward customers, the Third Estate," some one remarked presently.
"That untoward matter of the Bastile may prove an evil precedent."

"Pooh!" yawned a stout old gentleman, whose weatherbeaten visage was
round and of a bluish red. "A flash in the pan--a paltry riot--a piece
of low impertinence which ministers, if they were not hopelessly
idiotic, should have foreseen and smothered. Stick to the title-deeds,
son-in-law. If you live long enough, they will be useful some day."

"No," replied de Gange, carelessly. "Thanks to you, marechal, my
nest's well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both."

The wealthy old Marechal de Breze looked pleased. When you have hit on
a suitable match for your heiress during an epidemic of impecuniosity,
it is well to be assured that the fortunate spouse is not a greedy
gold-seeker. "Clovis!" he cried heartily, "give me your hand. You are
queer and dreamy, beyond my poor comprehension; but I believe--yes, I
do!--that you are an upright and honest man!"

"Treason, marechal! High treason! How dare you say rude things of
ministers? Come and join the ladies. We affect learning, remember,
nowadays, and can bandy wisdom with the best of you!"

It was the magical voice of Marie herself, whose silver tones had
fluttered so many hearts to their undoing; whose radiant beauty and
light spirits had given rise to such dark intrigues. The gentlemen,
obeying the merry summons, streamed into the saloon, and were soon
bowing, with bent spines and squared elbows, over the tiny cups of
coffee, which, as her wont was, she distributed with her own hands.
The king was not present, for he abhorred gambling and late hours, and
on the _soirees intimes_ of his consort invariably sought refuge in
his study.

"Louise de Savoye," commanded the queen in mock tragic tones, "hand
round the cakes. Perform your office of mistress of the household.
From your fair fingers they will taste all the sweeter."

"Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid _tiers etat_," replied the
lady addressed, with a little shudder. "Those who saw the dreadful
women dancing and shouting like fiends as they marched in triumph from
the Bastile, will not forget the spectacle."

"Madame la Princesse de Lamballe was always nervous," laughed M. de
Castellane.

"Yes," replied the princess, simply. "I don't know why, but I am
desperately afraid of a mob."

"We were all a little frightened at first," observed the queen; "for
when we heard the booming of artillery which sounded so terribly
close, and beheld the infatuated madcaps carrying away their dead, we
could not comprehend the freak. 'Tis a pity it was crowned with
success, for it will put foolish ideas into ignorant minds. But it
will lead to nothing, I am assured, and all's well that ends well.
When the king announced this morning that he was going to the
Assembly, without guards or escort, I thought he must have lost his
wits; but events showed that he was wise, as he always is. His
confidence in the loyalty of the deputies combined with his simple and
touching address, excited the keenest enthusiasm. The shouting throng
escorted him on foot all the way hither to the palace. I am not
ashamed to say that as from a balcony Lamballe and I contemplated the
affecting scene of warm devotion, we clasped each other and wept."

"For every precious tear," murmured de Castellane, "we'll have the
life-drops of the canaille!"

"God forbid!" ejaculated the queen, with sudden pallor. "I wish them
no ill if they would spare his majesty their vagaries. Love them I
cannot, for I am not Christian enough to love my enemies. I wonder--I
wonder----"

"What, dear mistress?" inquired a tall young lady plainly dressed in
white, who was the most beautiful member even of that favoured circle.
"What causes our queen to wonder?"

"I wonder what will be the end--that's all, dear Gabrielle," laughed
the volatile Marie, recovering her spirits. "What will happen to me;
to our precious Lamballe; to you; to your shocking pedant of a husband
there, who as usual is in cloudland?"

The beautiful lady whom she called Gabrielle, glanced at the
abstracted Marquis de Gange, who was her husband, and shivered. There
was an odd look upon his face sometimes which she had not the wit to
decipher. What was he doing in cloudland so far removed from her?
Then, when he dropped down to earth again, he would smile vaguely but
pleasantly enough, and the strange impression would fade from her
mind. Her wistful eyes were more often fixed on him than his on hers,
which is curious, considering her beauty.

"The veil which hides the future is a precious boon," reflected the
queen, "and yet we all burn to pierce it."

"That is because we should not," observed Madame de Lamballe, with
conviction, "on the principle of Eve and the apple, you know. A
fortune-teller once took my hand to read my fortune, and what she read
on my palm was so appalling that she fainted. I have had the
discretion never to inquire further."

"Pooh, I am not so prudent," mused her majesty. "Three times have I
sought to pierce the veil, with the same result--repentance."

"I pray you in pity--hush!" implored the Marquise de Gange. "My
husband dragged me once to see a horrible old hag who lived like a
savage in a den somewhere--I know not where. She performed
incantations and drew my horoscope. It makes my flesh creep to think
of it!"

"Was it so ghastly?" inquired Marie Antoinette in a low tone of awe.
"So was mine. Horoscopes are nightmares. And so it seems was that of
our beloved Louise. I wonder--how I wonder what will be the end of
it?"

She glanced around at the company, and all looked sympathetically
glum. If the gipsies had with one accord been so audaciously rude to
the three beauties as to hint at unpleasant things in the future, what
was to be done? Was a crusade to be preached, for the annihilation of
the peccant race? Fat old de Breze might pay expenses, and, like Peter
the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Breze was a soldier who
had won his spurs, yet instead of sounding a clarion and calling
squires to arm him _cap-a-pie_, he only shuffled in his chair and
snuffled uneasily while de Castellane snorted with ardour. Clearly the
crusade was not likely to answer; it was a trifle out of date; and yet
the fact remained that the fiat of the Fates had gone forth against
the lovely trio. The Marquis de Gange was a mystic, well acquainted
with the tortuous ways and spiteful tricks of the fatal three. Perhaps
he would kindly elucidate the situation? No. His wife gazed wistfully
at him. He looked furtively at her, then, smiling, lowered his eyes,
and again sank into his accustomed reverie. The marquise sighed
deeply, and concealed her face behind her fan.

The April visage of the queen was sombre; then the cloud cleared.

"Are we not silly," she exclaimed, "to sit trembling before a bogey? A
fig for the gipsies! Despite their lugubrious hints here am I, after
over fifteen years of prosperous wedded life, queen of the land most
favoured by nature in the world, adored by my husband and my children.
What can woman desire more than complete domestic bliss? What say you,
Gabrielle?"

The Marquise de Gange, target for a circle of inquiring eyes, blushed
crimson and turned away.

"This is too good!" cried the queen in glee, drawing her friend
towards her to imprint a kiss upon her brow. "You naughty, wayward
girl! You are wicked and tempt Providence. A blush and something like
a tear--ay, and a sigh, from the bosom of Gabrielle, Marquise de
Gange--the only woman in the country who has any money--the most
beautiful girl in France, whose wonderful complexion has gained for
her the sobriquet of 'the Lily.' Yes, you are, and I admit it without
envy. Blessed with a passable husband and two lovely babes, and an
admirable mother and a doting father! Fie! You are ungrateful, but we
must not see you punished."

Marie Antoinette's enjoyment increased as she poured forth her
raillery, and marked the confusion of the marquise.

"Monsieur de Gange. Descend to earth and come into court!" she cried.
"Confess! What have you done to Gabrielle? Have you lost heavily at
cards? No? You are jealous that her name should be the toast on every
lip? No? You are put out because she understands nothing of the
philosopher's stone? Not even that? I give it up. Fortune has spoiled
you, child. As Figaro says, '_Qu'avez vous fait pour tants de biens?
Vous vous etes donnee la peine de naitre--rien de plus!_'"

The marquis made a low bow and contemplated his fair wife with a
moonlit kind of satisfaction, but answered nothing.

"He disdains to plead!" laughed Madame de Lamballe.

"Guilty or not guilty--say!" cried Marie Antoinette. "Dumb? Marechal
de Breze! we surrender to you the prisoner that you may investigate
and do your duty. We have respectful confidence in that strange
phenomenon, a rich man, at a time when all others are paupers. Look
after Gabrielle, Mr. Money-bag! Shield her from a designing husband
who, I begin to believe, conceals the raffish vices of a rake under
the mask of recondite erudition."

The Marquise de Gange was unnecessarily perturbed by the lively sally,
and tapped her wooden heel upon the floor.

"Alack, madam!" declared the marquis, compelled to speak, "I regret to
be so unmodish as to have few of the fashionable vices. Instead of
pleading in my own behalf, I would, if I dared, take up the cudgels
for another. Doctor Mesmer----"

"The arch charlatan!" exclaimed the queen, raising both hands in
protest.

"Not so. Others have aped his ways; have draped themselves in tawdry
frippery which bore some semblance to his robes. In spite of calumny,
and persecution, and fraudulent imitation and roguish arts, the master
remains the master still, although he be unjustly banished by those
whom he has benefited."

"The statue has come to life!" tittered Madame de Lamballe.
"Cagliostro was unmasked as a cheat, so the one who went before wisely
shook off his dust at him. Let us all agree to be convinced that
Mesmer is a persecuted saint. We have the marquis's word for it. Let
us have Mesmer back at once from banishment. Perchance he will employ
his occult essences to calm the Parisian mob!"

"The king will not permit him to return to France," the queen said
doubtfully; "yet as an empiric he was fascinating."

"When your majesty deigns to say I am in cloudland," remarked the
marquis, with a high-bred courtesy, in which was a tinge of scorn,
"you will understand that my spirit is on earth--at Spa--the refuge in
exile of the master."

"I see it all!" said Madame de Lamballe, flourishing her fan. "It is
Gabrielle who is jealous--and of Mesmer! What singular complications
are produced by mystical alliances. A husband has a lovely wife, for
whom everyone else is sighing, and is no whit jealous of _her_ because
he is an absorbed neophyte at the fount of wisdom. The prophet usurps
his soul and his will. Where is the poor wife then?"

"What cruel things are said in jest!" Gabrielle cried hotly, breaking
her silence at last. "I am not unhappy; and if I were, it would be no
one's concern but mine. I care no sou for Mesmer or Cagliostro, or any
of the conjuring rout. Jealous of such creatures--faugh!"

A shrunken dame who had been slumbering in a corner awoke with a
start, and guiltily conscious of a nap, became garrulous in a weak
piping treble like the irresponsible murmur of a rivulet.

"Your majesty is misinformed," she babbled plaintively. "People will
say such things, and go to mass o' Sundays. Our daughter Gabrielle is
happy as the day is long--why not? Clovis isn't jealous one bit, and
quite right too. He lets her do as she likes, go where she likes,
doesn't care where she goes. Perfect trust is a fine thing, but I
often tell him that it is rash to throw so fair a creature into
temptation, for who knows what they'll do until they are tempted?
Gabrielle, I must admit, though quite a saint, can be as provoking as
saints often were. And they, the saints, were so dreadfully frail
sometimes, and so easily forgiven, and then held up to us as patterns.
I can't quite make it out. If I had ever dreamed of doing half the
shocking things that the canonized saints did, I should---- Eh?--oh!"

With that the rivulet ceased to flow as abruptly as it had begun, and
the queen, who had with difficulty curbed her merriment, looked round
for the cause of interruption. She beheld a little stout gentleman,
with a round, blue-red face, in a state of imminent explosion. He whom
she had declared to command the respect due to wealth, showed signs of
choking from exasperation. His features had swelled till his bead-like
eyes were scarcely visible; his finger nails were clenched into his
palms. It was some seconds ere he could splutter out his spleen. Then
with a deprecating look at her majesty, he gasped out--

"Majeste, pardon her. A fool! Always and for ever a fool--and my wife
too."

Then, forgetting the presence in which he sat, he continued in white
heat--

"I'll dash your stupid head against the wall when we get home. To dare
to make your own daughter ridiculous before this company! To make your
own flesh and blood absurd, through your incorrigible idiocy! Not that
you can do it, for she's an angel straight from heaven. Provoking,
forsooth! My darling--the idol of my heart! The Marquis de Gange knows
better than to ill-treat his wife. If he did--well; old battered
soldier though I am, I'd be even with him in a way he'd not forget."

"Oh--so harsh--always so harsh!" whimpered the rivulet in choking
gasps. "Quite like dear M. Montgolfier's fire-balloon! I did not
mean----"

"Hold your tongue!" snorted the marechal in a menacing whisper--"and
wait till we get home."

The situation, like many born of jesting, grew embarrassing. Old
soldiers, especially when rich, may be allowed a certain freedom. But
the ways of the barrack-yard may not be introduced into palaces. Marie
Antoinette was not averse to a certain licence, which should banish
for the time being the buckramed etiquette that she so loathed. But a
family skeleton suddenly popping out of ambush to shake all its joints
and grin with all its teeth! How uncomely a spectacle at the
Tuileries! The assembled company, too, evidently enjoyed the fun, and
would surely spread the story all over Paris on the morrow as the
style of repartee that obtained at the queen's gatherings. If the
episode, harmless in itself, were to reach the king's ears, he would
be annoyed, and justly in such times as these, when everybody's hand
was beginning to clutch his neighbour's throat. How many an innocent
jest of Marie Antoinette's had already been built by malice into the
proportions of a mountain? Unwittingly, she had, as it appeared, set
fire to a mine. Gabrielle looked sorely distressed; her husband
sullen, in that his pleading had failed, and that he could do nothing
on behalf of the _savant_ whom he worshipped. Her mother hazily
perceived that it would be well to cork down the ebullient
effervescence of her prattle, while the beady eyes of the marechal,
moving from the husband to the wife and back again, seemed to have
detected the trace of something that was new, the discovery of which
was disconcerting.




                             CHAPTER II.

                           HUSBAND AND WIFE.


When it is so plain to lookers-on that people ought to be happy, how
perverse it is of them to be miserable! As the queen had declared,
Gabrielle Marquise de Gange had no ostensible excuse for wretchedness.
The specks on the sun of her good fortune were so tiny as to be
well-nigh invisible. Upon the background of her portrait by Madame le
Brun, that ingenious artist had inscribed in a hand so clear that all
who ran might read, "The fairest woman of her time."

Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Breze, when she appeared at court in the
capacity of maid of honour, took the town by storm. Veteran
lady-killers withdrew gold toothpicks from their gums to vow that so
brilliant a complexion, such melting eyes that changed like the moody
sea, from blue to deepest violet, such a bewitching little nose, and
such deliciously fresh lips, had never been seen before; "and her
figure! and her ankle!! and her arm and shoulder!!!" chimed in the
younger swains whose hearts were already in their hands to be flung
down as a palpitating carpet for her dainty little shoes.

The queen was enchanted with the success of her _protegee_, who was
speedily surrounded by an increasing circle of danglers who minced
with toes turned out, shook back their costly ruffles, and lisped the
most honeyed compliments from morn to dewy eve. She enjoyed her new
position vastly, was blithe as a young bird, and gazed fearlessly on
into a future, which seemed an interminable vista paved with roses.
Nor was she the least spoilt by adulation. She liked flattery, as
every pretty woman does, but looked forward at no very distant period
to the sober, substantial enjoyment of calm domestic happiness. When
it pleased her parents to provide a spouse, she was prepared to take
him to her heart as a dutiful daughter should, and lavish on him all
the treasures of a young and guileless affection.

The king was glad of her success, because she was the child of the
Marechal de Breze, a veteran of the good old school, whose body had
been improved and beautified by honourable scars won in his country's
battles. As for Madame de Breze, people endured her existence. She was
a fool and a chatterbox, and wrinkled to boot, with an extraordinary
capacity for seeing things awry, and sagely commenting on them after
the fashion of a Greek chorus. No one took heed of her, but all liked
and respected the red-visaged old soldier whose rough rind covered a
generous nature, and whose purse-strings were always slack.

For the Marechal de Breze was no mere soldier of fortune with naught
in his valise except a baton. He was rich in moneys safely banked with
Necker at Geneva; possessed estates in smiling Touraine; and,
moreover, was afflicted with the possession of an ancient and dismal
chateau on the Loire, whose waters mirrored a labyrinth of
high-pitched roofs, gaunt turrets, and grim gargoyles.

Of noble birth, entrancingly lovely, and an heiress. Heavens! what a
combination; and at a time, too, as the queen had remarked, when
everyone was out at elbows. It was evident that such a phenomenon must
be snapped up at once; and straightway--helter-skelter up the wide
stairs of the Hotel de Breze rushed a mob of needy suitors--a hungry
pack, yelling in full cry, whose ravenous ardour so scared madame that
she forgot to improve the occasion. They had never loved till now,
they cried in unison. Their quarterings were legion, their rent-rolls
were miles long. The tenants never paid, and the ermine was somewhat
mud-stained, but these were trifling details. They all adored the
divine Gabrielle for herself--her angel form alone; that she should
happen to be an heiress was another detail, and of course rather a
drawback than otherwise.

The marechal laughed till his round red face was blue, for these
disinterested persons oozed with ravening greed. The queen looked
grave. To save her favourite from the maw of vultures was a
responsibility she would not shirk. A spouse must be found for
Gabrielle who might be trusted not to be outrageously bad to her. In
these days a good husband of fitting rank was an extinct animal.
Warily scanning the horizon, Marie Antoinette fixed, as the fitting
swain, on Clovis, Marquis de Gange, and de Breze agreed with her
majesty that Clovis was just the man.

So far as family went, the De Ganges could compete with the noblest.
Acres had dwindled; tenants were recalcitrant; Clovis's income was
little more than nominal, but nowadays poverty was modish in the
highest circles; and, besides, it is well that the husband of a great
heiress should be kept under due control. The cunning old soldier had
settled long ago that the spouse of his daughter should not make ducks
and drakes of her broad pieces, at least without her full consent. He
had arranged in his own mind that he would bind up the money tight,
and place it in her hands, hedged about with safeguards when called to
another world. Till then he would himself dispense his fortune as his
darling should wish and dictate. To this arrangement de Gange was
quite agreeable, knowing that the marechal was no skin-flint who would
need abject suing. The old gentleman, who flattered himself that he
was a judge of character, scanned the young man's features with keen
scrutiny, and on the smooth surface could detect nothing of the
ravenous wolf. The marquis was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow,
dreamy and absent in manner, pedantic in his ways, a trifle too much
enamoured of the crotchets of his day.

In the waning eighteenth century, while ladies were hopelessly
frivolous or else weighed down with pedantry, the gentlemen came for
the most part under three categories. There was the debauched
voluptuary, ruined alike in health, purse, and reputation, whose
honour was perforce upon his sleeve, since there was no room in his
body for aught but selfishness. Then there was a feeble imitator who
was as artistically unsatisfactory as nondescripts always are, for his
fragment of conscience pulled him one way, and his envious admiration
of stupendous wickedness another. He was always on the see-saw between
vice and virtue, barely within touch of either. The third class was
the most interesting, for it was clothed in mystery and draped in
paradox. The dark and uncanny and incomprehensible engrossed the minds
of this set. Revealed religion having been voted out of date by the
encyclopaedists and others, it was necessary to replace the broken idol
with another. It was affirmed that Nature was moved by secret springs,
governed by a world of spirits whom it was possible to coerce and
bring under man's dominion. It was discovered that talismans,
astrology, magic sciences, were not the vulgar impostures denounced by
a jealous priestcraft; that the _genus homo_ was composed of two
distinct organisms, one visible and one invisible, the latter of which
was privileged to roam freely about the universe, paying morning calls
in remote planets, communing with angelic hosts. This was a
fascinating theory for many reasons. The spirits who pulled our
world-strings were good and bad, and alike vulnerable. Clearly, then,
it was the distinct duty of philanthropists to fight and conquer those
who were responsible for human ills. How delightful a sensation to
seize a naughty spirit by the hair and administer a sound drubbing! To
wrestle with the one, for instance, who is responsible for gout, and
return him tweak for tweak! The yoke of the evil ones must be thrown
off, that humanity, comfortably free from pain and sorrow, might sit
down and enjoy millennium.

Hence, the dreamy people who vaguely wished well to their fellows,
joined the train of mystics, laid claim to superior virtue, and
titillated their petty vanity by posing cheaply as philanthropists.

Then think of the refreshing variety which might be introduced into
one's amours! A weariful succession of mundane mistresses is so
palling to a jaded palate. But according to the new creed, as your
earthly tenement was occupied, _faute de mieux_, by commonplace
lovemaking and intrigue, your more fortunate other self was blessed by
an ethereal Affinity. While, in the flesh, you dallied, for want of
something more amusing to do, at the feet of Phryne, your soul was
flirting with a seraph somewhere in rarified space. It is gravely and
seriously related of the visionary Swedenborg that while he resided in
London, his fleshly frame was continually being refreshed. And how?
His ethereal essence was in constant communion with that of a noble
lady in Gutemburg. Their entwined spirits sat on a satin sofa in a
boudoir illumined by wax candles--which candles were punctually
lighted by respectful footmen at the accustomed hour of the
rendezvous.

The high priest of the new creed was Mesmer, a Swabian doctor, who was
conspicuously successful in waging war against the envious elves who
undermine the health. As to his career of victory there was no doubt
whatever, for by hocus-pocus and laying on of hands, he succeeded in
curing a variety of nervous complaints which the enemy said were due
to diseased imagination. It was idle to deny that somehow or other he
did work miracles. Even St. Thomas, arch-doubter, could believe what
he saw and felt. Under Mesmer's influence the sick took up their beds
and walked, the halt flung away their crutches. The streets about his
dwelling were choked with blazoned coaches. The frivolous and the
earnest alike lost their heads. Considering the peculiarities of his
temperament--too timid and too lazy to act, and therefore easily
satisfied with theory--it was in the nature of things that Clovis,
Marquis de Gange, should be Mesmer's most fervent pupil.

At a period when the peccadilloes of high-born aspirants to eligible
maidens were apt to be somewhat deep-dyed, it would have been absurd
to object to a suitor on the frivolous score of mysticism. The most
exacting of wives could hardly be jealous of a passing flirtation with
the crystal ball of Doctor Dee. Nor could she fairly take umbrage at
delicate attentions to a crucible. Clovis and Gabrielle were married
in the royal chapel, the bride being given away by the most amiable
and unsinning of hard-used monarchs, and the world (who ought to know)
said that the future of the happy pair could not be otherwise than
rosy. They were a model couple, for Clovis was serious and reflective
beyond his years, with a graceful turn for music, while the lovely
face of Gabrielle beamed with affectionate pride. She was quiet,
steady, and domestic, quite smothered under a heap of virtues.

Unfortunately, there were spirits at work who should have been
detected at once in their mischievous game if Mesmer had not been
napping, and duly routed by that prophet for the behoof of his dear
pupil. They should have been carefully exorcised by the Master for his
benefit, and sent packing into space to worry some one else; but as
ill-luck would have it, the prophet was no longer present. All the
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 _menage_. 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'[oe]uvre_ 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 Glueck 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
marechal) 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 marechal--had she not been very near
fleeing from the tinsel grandeur of a squalid globe to take refuge at
the altar-foot?

The castles insisted on being built, however. Patience and
long-suffering would reap their reward some day. The cherubs would
grow up and weave an indissoluble link with their young fingers which
should draw the estranged parents together and bind them tight at
last. Their mother would fondly teach them to adore their father, to
see none but his best side. They would learn to respect his crotchets.
And at this point she would herself be lost in dreamy reverie. Could
his tenets with regard to the prophet be aught but midsummer madness?
There was no doubt that he cured the sick. What if it were really
possible to rout the wicked demons and produce millennium? To her
practical but limited intelligence the creed was a farrago of folly.
But then, Clovis, who was so clever, believed in it. Was she more
stupid and ignorant even than humility confessed? Then she would rise
suddenly and go about some household business, with the head-shake of
the antlered stag that scatters dewdrops. The new creed was blasphemy,
and she would have naught to do with it. The holy angels would guard
herself and the dear innocents, if angelic suffrages could be secured
by never-ceasing fervent prayer.

Sages do not care for babies, though mothers generally do. Clovis,
when exhorted to that effect, contemplated his offspring once a day as
some curious product from a distant land, gave each cherub a finger to
suck, then retired with unseemly alacrity to his 'cello and his books.

The ramifications of secret societies in the metropolis were spreading
in all directions--societies which deliberated with closed doors to
escape vulgar ribaldry--bands of philanthropists urged by pure
benevolence, in search now of a universal panacea. Humanity was a vast
brotherhood to be united for mutual defence against the machinations
of the devils. Exhorted by Mesmer from a distance, the faithful toiled
quietly on, that the name of their master might be exalted.

So matters progressed in humdrum fashion for several years, and Clovis
was placidly content; but as the procession of the months went by, a
gradual change came over the societies, which, when he became aware of
it, filled the unmilitant soul of the marquis with dread. Bold
philanthropists, at midnight meetings, would sometimes give vent to
new and startling views, affecting not health, but politics. A few
presumed openly to declare that the evil spirits had got into the
ministers, from whom they must be quickly expelled. Considering that
ministries fell and rose just now at brief intervals, it was shocking
to think how many bad spirits must be at work. M. Necker and Turgot,
and brilliantly fertile Calonne, were all occupied by fiends who
entered in and made themselves comfortable, as the hermit-crab invades
the shell of the creature he has devoured. This theorem being
established, it became the duty of the philanthropists to busy
themselves on behalf of their country, which needed special as well as
prompt doctoring. Then uprose speakers whose discourse smacked little
of philanthropy, but savoured rather of iconoclasm. The Marquis de
Gange, noble and wealthy, would make a splendid figure-head for the
budding movement. Ere he could recover breath, or gather the scattered
strands of his scared wits, Clovis found himself on the point of
becoming an important political personage, and at a moment when
prominence and personal peril marched hand in hand abreast. He
prudently took to shunning the places of meeting, which but the other
day had been his favourite resorts, for he had a horror of politics,
and objected to being made a hero; but the agitators declined to let
him escape so easily. They pursued him to his home, strove to convince
him that he was a patriot; by turns threatened and cajoled, till the
dreamer in an agony beheld no safety but in flight. A pretty state of
things! Was not his wife the favourite of the queen; his father-in-law
esteemed by the king? What would the verdict of his class be, were he
to turn round and bite the hands that had caressed him? He would be
ostracised, undone, held up to merited obloquy. He had no ambition to
become another Lafayette, and declined to be convinced by argument. To
avoid being mixed in complications fraught with danger, it would be
prudent to vanish for a time, but whither to retire was the rub. He
wished to stay and yet to go, and bit his nails in indecision.
Concealed anxiety made calm Clovis querulous and snappish, and
Gabrielle was not slow to perceive that he was suffering, though the
cause she could not guess. He had got himself into some mess. Was it
money? If only he would let her share his worries! Her timid overtures
were promptly nipped; terror made him absolutely harsh. Sighing, she
fell back upon herself, as usual, and kissed the cherubs in their bed.

At the time when this story opens, July, 1789, the marquis and his
wife had been married six years. The latter, though easily led by
kindness, could fitfully display sometimes symptoms of independence.
As a loving and self-respecting woman, she had kept with infinite care
her catalogue of troubles from her parents. They, content with
constant assurances that all was well, desired no further information.
Madame de Breze had settled, to her complete satisfaction, that her
son-in-law was a harmless lunatic. When she obliged him with her
views, he looked through her at something beyond. But then, who had
ever appreciated her sagacity? Well, well. Have not some of our
brightest lights been misunderstood while alive, to be tardily
canonized afterwards? As for M. de Breze, he was perfectly satisfied
with Clovis, who, if eccentric and somewhat fish-like, was
delightfully free from vices. If a man is perfect in manners and
deportment, always civil and obliging, surely you may forgive the
small drawbacks which go with the visionary and the bookworm. The
bluff soldier would have had him drink and gamble more, just to show
that he was human and a man, and be less fond of mysterious societies.
But as Clovis had himself remarked, we must take people as we find
them, and be content with mercies vouchsafed. Why! The marquis might
have turned out an incorrigible rake; have squandered large sums
coaxed from his wife on low theatrical hussies. Thank goodness, he
showed no signs of breaking out in that direction; and it was not
until the _soiree intime_ at the palace that it came home to the
doting father that there might be something amiss in the _menage_.

Gabrielle had looked so unaccountably distressed and confused. She was
concealing something--what? Was the placid marquis an ogre in private?
Of course not. As he strolled home the marechal made up his mind to
pump Toinon on the morrow, and, from hints ingeniously extracted from
that astute damsel, severely catechise his daughter.




                             CHAPTER III.

                            INVESTIGATION.


Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister and
confidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as united
as if they had indeed been sisters.

Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages,
nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flame
for her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping the
swelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she would
declare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organ
which they professed to covet was no longer there, having been
surrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. She
had left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprising
kitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, one
gibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure?

Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on the
Loire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. He
who would venture thither in search of that missing organ of hers
would have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honest
gamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an _oubliette_ without
compunction, to vanish for evermore.

When the worthy marechal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was his
daily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter's boudoir,
turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, that
damsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle,
she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as for
the marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; have
cheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingled
guiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture.

Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Breze that when last the
family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth
together. The marechal would, of course, rate her soundly for her
folly, since with her advantages she might have done much better than
throw herself away upon a peasant.

Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given to
thinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper,
half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad to
place pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; but
worse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by the
king, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flaunting
its arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands from
every country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill with
threatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter in
village market-places, to discuss matters which concerned their
betters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking in
respect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence caused
proper-minded and cultured persons to shiver in dismay. If we turn
swine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. The
old marechal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when he
found that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and was
not slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill.
"Life is a game of give and take," he said, "in which the unscrupulous
always take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should have
no individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters."

Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to have
meekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should be
insolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper class under the
shadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the marechal that his
paid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and had
used pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He received
prompt warning that on a repetition of the offence he would lose his
place, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, that
soon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister and
confidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret to
this abandoned wretch!

It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recover
the gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mind
before confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply on
the escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he should
share the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. To
this he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, which
foreshadowed a thorny future. "My darling," he had the assurance to
write, "never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead of
being selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but,
alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit to
suffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking.
National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned and
stretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions of
Liberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it will
have to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. God gives
justice to men only at the price of battles!"

A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Breze to
receive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed the
tell-tale scrap which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. These
high-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he had
copied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting one
of those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, be
consorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrands
about who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jean
would never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it be
wise as well as loyal to send this lover packing--to disclaim at once
both him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in love
matters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and if
he adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was her
place to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On the
very next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him by
force out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumph
the errant sheep clean and quite respectable.

But if the marechal knew all about it, and was here now to administer
a jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guilt
and a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon's
cheek.

It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was a
democrat that the marechal strode into her room, and hearkening to his
discourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of his
suspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazing
idly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in the
direction of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes and
no. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, of
contradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained,
complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was a
weak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was a
riddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the passions of which
he seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in which
he was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst his
cerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was he
deceitful--playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thought
not; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of was
this. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by some
other hand than Gabrielle's that he would eventually be aroused. He
was an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had not
the faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followed
month they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. The
estrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. In
her pain she lowered herself to "scenes"--exhaled herself in wearisome
complaints.

The Marechal de Breze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes,
complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur on
the mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task;
pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him to
his knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not the
finger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "The
paled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings.
She is an angel--the best of women--but too apt sometimes to figure
as a _femme incomprise_. All may come right in time, for he is a
well-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled off
on the sea of conjecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word,"
she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell what
he is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are people
with whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom we
believe we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! They
suddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew them
at all!"

"But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the marechal, chafing.
"Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the man
marble? What more could mortal require?"

Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas,
dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by this
time that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not often
impelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for their
defects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook their
virtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, who
have adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast over
the details of her ugliness."

The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon the
damsel continued.

"Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest.
Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideous
wretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of
_mesalliances?_ Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics;
leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Because
to some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is in
itself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis."

The marechal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel's
discourse. In his own time he had had a wide experience, grave and
gay, and was not unaware that a jaded or unhealthy appetite craves for
abnormal food. None knew better than he that the insipidity of
doll-like prettiness may grow exasperating. We gaze at portraits of
the celebrated fair ones of the past, and scanning their queer mouths
and noses, conclude that fashions change in beauty as well as costume.
We fail to detect the charms of Anne Bullen or Mary Stuart, and we are
wrong. Intellect and wit can illumine irregular features as the sun
lights up a landscape. Thick lips and a snub nose may be transfigured
under the divine rays till they seem a miracle of loveliness.

Then the anxious old gentleman waxed cross. A froward girl was Toinon
with her sham sagacity. She had ridden away on a false premise. The
most plausible theories are delusive. Gabrielle was no doll, but a
quiet, well-conducted, sensible woman enough, if not of brilliant
parts. _Femme incomprise_, indeed! Modest but fragrant violets lurk
under leaves, and we take the trouble to look for them. How dared this
presumptuous marquis to misunderstand the treasure he had won? It was
not the comely mask of flesh alone that drew the buzzing crowd of
moths. Married, they could not be aiming at her wealth. The marquise
was constantly surrounded by the attentive bevy of youths. Butterflies
attended her daily levee, drank chocolate while her hair was being
powdered, spent hours over her trivial errands, and she accorded to
none the preference. A virtuous wife in an unvirtuous throng might be
of momentary interest as an anomaly, but sparks would soon weary of
the wonder. No. She was lively enough to hold her own in the swift
patter of petty small-talk. It did the heart good to hear her jocund
laugh. It must be admitted that the expression of her face changed
little, but then it was so fair that to change would be to mar it. Who
would have the sculptured Psyche grin, or ask the Venus of Milo to
grimace?

The more carefully he reviewed this knotty question, the more
bewildered became the excellent de Breze. Laudably resolved to delve
to the bottom, he left the waiting-maid for the mistress, and observed
for the first time that his daughter's welcoming smile was less bright
than of yore. On being cross-questioned, she grew grave and reticent,
refusing to complain of her husband, and entrenched herself within a
proud reserve. "He might be odd, but she preferred him as he was," she
declared shortly; would not have him altered by one tittle. Vainly her
father pressed her, assured her that he would do nothing that she
would not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn from
Gabrielle.

"Well," said the marechal at last, wistfully sighing, "if I am not to
interfere, I won't; but you know that I live only for my child."

"I know you do, dear," she softly answered. "Your anxiety wrings my
heart!"

Then rising from her seat, trembling from head to foot, she clasped
him in a fond embrace, and seemed about to make a confession. Words
trembled on her lips, but whatever they were, she choked them back
again, and indulged in delicious tears.

"You have spoilt me so, that I am naughty and capricious," she
remarked gaily. "Do you really sufficiently love your little Gabrielle
to submit to a wayward whim?"

"When did I deny you anything?" reproachfully replied de Breze.

"Never; nor will you now, though it is a great slice of property that
I require. Will the best of men humour my new fancy? Yes? Well, then,
know that I am tired of Paris and its tinsel, and would fain retire to
the country."

"You--leave the gaieties of Paris?"

"Yes. The good air and quiet will brace my nerves, untuned by racket,
and that explosion of presumptuous wickedness that sacrificed so many
lives."

"The storming of the Bastile?" returned the marechal. "Pshaw! By and
bye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. What
on earth will you do in the country? In a week you'll be petrified
with ennui."

"Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are less
strong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back the
roses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. My
children, oh! my children! What should I have become without them."

The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedily
suppressed, clove the bosom of the marechal.

"She will not tell me or have confidence," he groaned inwardly, "and
yet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in other
things, and God be with her in her travail."

With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed,
and simply said, "What do you wish, my dearest?"

"Lorge," she replied, "no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must be
to rob you of the home of your ancestors!"

"It shall be yours," the marechal replied, delighted to be able to do
something. "I understand that for some reason you desire to take
possession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At my
death, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to do
with as you will."

It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presently
he enquired, "What will your husband do?"

"It was his idea," was the eager rejoinder. "He wishes it, and I
am--oh--so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evil
influences. Do you know, father?" Gabrielle continued in a grave
whisper, "that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home at
dawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him,
whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. I
don't know what it all is, but it has something to do with that
mystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and can
only end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption is
horrible!"

"Then I hold the clue?" cried the old man, much relieved. "It is the
prophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turn
him from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?"

The idea was so comically innocent, that de Breze wheezed with
delight. "Sweet pet!" he said, tapping his daughter's cheek archly,
"you are earnest if not clever."

And then he went off into a shout of laughter, as he beheld in
imagination the daily scene at Lorge. _Tete-a-tete_ in the dreary
chateau among the bats and owls, she would drone out Bossuet's sermons
to put animal magnetism to flight; perhaps call in the village cure to
assist. What a delightful prospect for the husband! How ghastly
tiresome is the wife who preaches at her other half; drones out to him
scraps out of good books. Well, well. We must not place our finger
twixt bark and tree; but if any form of desperation was likely to
awake the entranced Clovis (as Toinon had it), a system of moral
lecturing on the part of a well-meaning but narrow-minded spouse was
about the thing to perform the miracle.

The marechal trotted home quite pleased, and straightway informed by
letter those whom it concerned that henceforth, the Marquise de Gange
was to be considered the proprietress of Lorge. Both M. and Madame de
Breze equally loathed the place. If Gabrielle was possessed by the
strange fancy of playing chatelaine, in its cobwebbed corridors, let
her do so by all means, and convert her husband if she might.

The good marechal was mistaken. Gabrielle knew better than to worry
her husband with importunate readings, but trusted rather for the
working of a change to the renewed intimacy which retirement must
produce. She never would have dared to propose a hermitage to Clovis,
but when he himself suggested a temporary flitting, she thanked heaven
as if a prayer had been answered. She could not guess that he was
afraid to stop in Paris, and that he was revolving an embryo scheme of
closer union with Mesmer. The prophet having been ejected from the
land with Maranatha, could not unfortunately bestow his presence or
personal assistance. But why should he not send to his pupil some
learned adept, well versed in mystic lore who, in sylvan solitude
would further instruct the neophyte? Removed from the frivolous court,
and secure against being mixed in the treasonable doings of political
philanthropists, his mind would be in a condition of receptivity, and
his studies would make giant strides.

Poor Gabrielle! She had said to herself with a choking heart-leap
that, removed from pernicious influences, she and the cherubs would
wind fond webs about him, and win him from indifference to love. Alas!
Poor simple yearning wife!




                             CHAPTER IV.

                       THE CHATEAU OF "LORGE."


In Touraine, midway between Tours and Blois, the venerable chateau of
Lorge stands out from a wooded background, bathing its feet in the
swiftly flowing Loire, morosely contemplating the details of its grim
reflection. Profoundly interesting from an archaeological point of
view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder
that the jolly old marechal should have ungrudgingly passed it to his
daughter. Privileged to occupy a place in one of the most smiling
provinces of France, it is within a drive of Amboise on one side and
Chinon on the other, dignified castles both; and not very far away is
Diane de Poictier's Chenonceaux, whimsically spanning a river, a
specimen of elfin architecture straight from fairyland. Lorge dates
from the iron period; not the time of prehistoric man, who had
recently blossomed out of monkeydom, but of the early mediaeval barons,
who slept in their armour--as they still do on their tombs--whose pet
pastimes were the cleaving of pates and the quaffing of usquebaugh.

With the march of centuries Amboise, Chinon, and the rest found it
advisable to polish themselves up, and modify their native harshness
to be in touch with less rugged epochs; but no coaxing ingenuity of
architect or landscape gardener could ever smooth the frown from the
frowning face of Lorge. It seemed to say with pride, "The darkest and
most cruel deeds have been perpetrated within my walls. Down below I
have smothered the cries for mercy of weak women outraged, and
children brutally maltreated. My favourite music is the clank of
steel. I was baptised with blood, whose reek may never fade, whose
stain may never be effaced."

You cannot make a junketting house out of a fortress, and Lorge,
despite changes, is a fortress still. On the facade, defended by the
river, are the stately reception rooms, opening one into the other in
a string; a long suite which occupies the first floor, whose heavily
mullioned casements are large enough to permit the sun to gild the
antique hangings. Each of these windows is adorned by a ponderous
stone balcony, which can be used for purposes of defence. The other
sides of the edifice seem blank and blind, the high enclosing walls
being unbroken, save by a dentilated series of merlons and crenels,
with cruciform embrasures below, The chambers on these sides are
particularly depressing to the spirits, since they afford no prospect,
save a bare paved court with the enclosing wall beyond.

Courageous chatelaines, striving after cheerfulness, have made efforts
from time to time to brighten Lorge. The drawbridge and portcullis,
which jealously barred the entrance, have been removed from the double
archway and replaced by wooden doors. The moat which guarded the three
sides landward, with a defensive wall along the outer bank, has become
a garden with trim green <DW72>s, and a wealth of glorious roses. The
ends that used to join the river have been walled up, and adorned with
flights of steps which lead to decaying boat-houses. Private posterns,
drilled in the masonry, afford easy access from the courtyard to the
moat-pleasaunce for such as may possess the keys; but in spite of
every effort, the flowering hedges and rose-bushes only serve by
contrast to make Lorge more dreary--a skull bedecked with flowers. One
specially brave lady had the hardihood once to plan great gardens in
the Dutch style beyond the moat, on the other side of the road. There
were long alleys of clipped yew and beech; _tonelles_ or arched bowers
to give grateful shade; a procession of weird animals, fashioned of
holly, that cast fantastic shadows on the sward; oblong tanks where
swans serenely sailed, steering among isles of water-lily. But no
subsequent chatelaine was sturdy enough to carry on the hopeless war.
The alleys were soon choked, the _tonelles_ grew into thickets, the
mimic menagerie degenerated into ragged rows of bushes. By the time
the marechal inherited, there was no place devoted to flowers except
the moat-pleasaunce, and even that was sadly neglected.

Though you see them not, dank dungeons honeycomb the foundations.
There are noisome cells on the level of the water-line that may at
will be flooded. You know that they are there, although some lord with
tender nerves fastened them up long since. There they are, under your
feet, audibly crooning their low song of woe unmerited, of dumb
despair, of remorseless cruelty. The ancient implements of torture
that still ornament the wainscot of the banquet-hall take up their
parable, and sing. Time does not still that wailing chaunt which tells
of robbery, and tyranny, and persecution. No skill may exorcise the
train of shades, undone for greed or lust, or victims for conscience'
sake, who parade the corridors of Lorge.

Not but what it has charms of its own: a plaintive sweetness set in a
minor key. The view across the Loire in summer time of emerald
woodland is superb. The long drawing-rooms overlooking the stream are
of stately proportions. Their immense overhanging chimney-pieces are
blazoned with coats of arms sculptured in the stone. Carved crests are
repeated again and again in the fretted ceilings. The tapestries, with
their shadowy story of mad King Charles the Sixth and his treacherous
wife, and the faithful girl, Odette, with their warm background of
dimmed gold, have been pronounced by experts to be priceless. The
little boudoir at the end which closes the suite is a dainty and cosy
nest. Than the country round nothing can be more delightful; you may
ride for hours unchecked amid the leafy woods over a velvet carpet; or
you may boat and explore the erratic sinuosities of the river,
dreaming out epics as you go anent the lordly, but for the most part
empty, dwellings that look down on you from either bank. As an
irreverent Parisian visitor once observed to a horror-stricken
neighbour, "Lorge would be a charming _sejour_ if one might pull down
the castle and erect instead a villa."

At the time which occupies us there was but one near neighbour
resident. The Chateau de Montbazon was not much more than a mile away,
having been built on a little bit of Lorge property beyond the Loire,
which had changed hands one night at cards. The spot commanded an
exceptionally fine prospect, so the owner placed a house on it. It was
bought a generation later by the Baron de Vaux, who dwelt there with
his wife and daughter, Angelique, and great was the joy of those
ladies upon hearing that Lorge, which was so little occupied, was
again to be inhabited.

Country life at this period was, from a fashionable point of view, a
singular anomaly. Marie Antoinette's dairymaid proclivities at Trianon
had rendered it _de rigueur_ to find pleasure in bucolic occupations.
Old customs were giving way to new-fangled habits borrowed from other
nations. You were offered tea as in England instead of coffee, and
were invited to join in the game of "boston," brought from the infant
republic beyond seas by the followers of Lafayette. Dress, except at
the Parisian court, grew simpler. Ladies, instead of brocaded damasks,
wore muslins and flimsy materials. Men donned garments of plain cloth
instead of satin or velvet. Noble dames grown tired of expensive
jewellery affected a badge made of some hero's head executed in
miniature. Franklin's or Rousseau's profile was modish, though the
more sentimental preferred a pet cat's portrait set on a ribbon in
place of a diadem and feathers. Emancipated from trains and furbelows,
you could now really move about in the country without much
discomfort.

The court circle was perforce a narrow one. Those who had not the
entree to Versailles withdrew to their estates when the queen retired
to Trianon, and there drank milk and made believe to hunt, or acted
tragedies and spouted epic poesy, pretending to be vastly entertained;
not but what they were ready to rush back to the capital with all
despatch when Fashion declared it possible.

But then, of late years, the decrees of Fashion had been sorely
interfered with by that aggressive Third Estate. Refusal to pay rents
was annoying, but an evil to which all were accustomed. In some parts
evil-disposed persons declared landlords to be the natural foes of the
sovereign people, and discussed how the vermin was to be got rid of. A
deep-rooted, bitter hate, sprung from long and systematic oppression,
divided class from class by an intangible but impenetrable barrier; a
hate that grew all the stronger, in that it had long been veiled by
fear and lashed by supercilious scorn. Republicanism was in execrable
taste--a subject for contemptuous laughter on the part of the
provincial seigneurie. Its exponents bore on a pole a turnip with a
candle in it, which could frighten none but children. The country
nobility attached no special meaning to the unseemly snarling. Until
the great crash came, and the rural palaces were sacked and burned,
the seigneurie never fully realized the thinness of the crust they had
been dancing on. In certain provinces it had been unsafe for some time
past for landlords to show their noses at all, much less prate of
paying rent. These not unwillingly left their chateaux to fate,
whereby the condition of small shopkeepers and such local fry was not
ameliorated. In more favoured districts dislike and discontent lay
smouldering, and my lords were still free to amuse themselves with
their guests from town, indifferent to the feelings of the masses.

The de Vaux family were not of the court circle; indeed, they rarely
travelled to the metropolis, but were content to ape its manners from
a distance. The trio were dull enough, as narrow in their views and as
obstinately fixed in the tenets of their grandsires as most country
gentlefolk are, but they were well intentioned, and availed themselves
of the earliest opportunity to pay their respects at Lorge. Gabrielle
received them with open arms. Was she not bent on inaugurating a new
era for herself and Clovis, and had she not been informed by her
father's unseemly merriment, that it is not well to bore a husband?
Not that the newcomers, who had driven over in the craziest of
shanderydans, showed signs of being an acquisition. On the contrary.
Long before the sun went down, Gabrielle felt that she could see too
much of Madame de Vaux, while Clovis listened, marvelling, to the old
gentleman's platitudes which were at least a century old.

The baroness was not slow to tumble out upon the floor her peck of
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 Breze 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 _tete-a-tete_? 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 the hands. 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 marechal 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 Abbe 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 abbe, 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 _tete-a-tete_ would be the brilliant
abbe, 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 abbe 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 _regime_. 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 to flight.

The Abbe 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 abbe's influence
was great, and would grow greater. Out of Gabrielle's wealth, after de
Breze'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
abbe. 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 abbe'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 abbe 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 abbe 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, abbe," 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 abbe'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 abbe 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 abbe, 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 abbe 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 abbe 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 Abbe 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 abbe, airily kissing
his fingertips. "I compliment you, dear brother."

When the abbe 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 me?"

"Because I do not wish to marry at all," replied Phebus.

"And why--and why--and why?" laughed Pharamond, in elfish mood. "Nay,
do not tell me. Cannot I read into your erring soul as through a sheet
of dirty glass? Because you are hopelessly enamoured of your brother's
handsome wife!"

Phebus started and turned scarlet.

"Don't look so exasperatingly sheepish! you quivering mass of jelly,"
sneered Pharamond.

An explosion of laughter resounded through the wood and ceased, and
the glitter shone forth again.

"Do you know that it is extremely wrong to nourish a flame for one's
brother's wife?" he inquired dryly. "Most reprehensible in itself and
not unlikely to lead to complications. Will Clovis approve, think
you?"

Perceiving that Phebus was too confused and upset by the sudden attack
to answer, the abbe frisked on, urging forward both horses with his
whip.

"See!" he observed, addressing nature generally. "How lenient Mother
Church can be to the shortcomings of the weak! Do I blame this culprit
for adoring the lovely Gabrielle? Not a bit! If he did not his heart
would be of stone instead of pulp. Stout Phebus is consumed with
hopeless adoration. But is it hopeless? Ah! There's the rub. Don't
babble like an idiot, but confess. Have we openly given vent to our
boiling passion? Yes, or no?"

The chevalier bent his head and sobbed out, "I'm a miserable wicked
wretch!"

"Of course you are," affably agreed the abbe. "Make a clean breast of
it to Mother Church, who will straightway absolve the sinner. Do we
adore her to the ends of our fat fingers? Eh?"

"How can I help adoring her?" replied harassed Phebus.

"Certainly not--how could you?" echoed his tormentor. "Ho! ho! ho!
ho!" The abbe's mocking laugh reverberated among the trees. "I've half
a mind to tell Clovis--shall I? How he'd enjoy the jest!" And at
contemplation of the maze of mischief that might result from such a
proceeding, he laughed again, "Ho! ho!"

"Does she return your love? Have you really made the trial?" he
inquired suddenly, with a sneer upon his lips. "No? Then, my poor
fellow, I am genuinely sorry for your plight. Presto! The Church has
run away! Behold a doctor; hearken to words of wisdom. Your ailment's
very bad, but curable. This is a queer world, I'd have you know, in
which there is one unpardonable crime, failure. We hunt down and
exterminate the exposed bungler, who, if he bungles, and would yet
save his skin, must take precautions not to be found out. Now I found
you out at once, you simple oaf, so you deserve to be delivered to
Clovis. I ought to sacrifice so paltry a specimen of intrigue, but
then--are you not, too, my brother?"

The chevalier knitted his brows in a vain effort to comprehend what
underlay the abbe's banter.

"Oh! what a tender brother!" the latter continued; "for I will even
assist you in your quest. Yes, I, the virtuous Abbe Pharamond. The
doctor prescribes a fervent wooing--a scaling of the ramparts--a
storming of the citadel. You have gone too timidly to work. Between
this husband and wife there can be no bond of union. That much we
know. _Ergo_, the heart of the beauty is yet to win, since she is
fancy free. You shall try your luck in earnest, and I will give you
all my help--on one condition."

"You will!" murmured Phebus, melted to tears by admiring gratitude,
"How shall I repay such kindness?"

"Thus. You try your hand and do your best, but if you fail you retire
for ever from the field. If she likes you, well and good. Win and wear
her and be happy. If not, promise to worry her no more with annoying
importunities."

The suggested arrangement was so singular, that the chevalier,
recovering himself a little, knew not what to think. What could his
astute brother be driving at? Why should he desire to throw the
hitherto unstained wife into a lover's arms? Had he a spite against
the marquis? No. Against Gabrielle? Hardly. Perhaps he was sorry, as
Phebus had been, to observe Clovis's neglect, and anxious to see
Ariadne consoled? How kind of the abbe to select him, the chevalier,
as the proposed comforter! A new vista of possibilities unrolled
itself. Unaided he would have gone on sympathetically sighing, but
with the abbe's encouragement and active assistance, wonders might be
accomplished.

The latter was beaming on him now with bonhomie. Clearly he wished,
fraternally, to see sister-in-law and brother happy, and imbued with
the spirit of the times in which they lived, was doing his best to
make them so. Warmly the chevalier blurted out his thanks. His brother
was good and kind, as he always meant to be, though now and then so
puzzling and strange. He would follow his instructions dutifully to
the letter, and Gabrielle won, would be till death her slave.

"That is well," assented the abbe with a friendly clap on the
shoulder. "You have beaten about the bush too long, instead of making
straight for the goal. Women have sharp instincts, and since they
require wooing, despise too bashful swains. This very night the coast
shall be kept clear for you. The balmy autumn breeze is to love vows
the softest of accompaniments. I will retain Clovis in his study with
arguments about the prophet he reveres."

The two jogged on in amicable silence, both equally satisfied, to all
appearances, with the result of the conference, until the peaked
turrets of Lorge frowned black against a primrose sunset. Then, before
entering the courtyard, the abbe turned and whispered sternly, "A
compact, mind, which you will break at your peril. Win or withdraw. Do
not attempt to deceive me, for I never forgive deceit."




                             CHAPTER VI.

                             TEMPTATION.


The eccentric schemer was true to his word, as grateful Phebus
acknowledged with eyes more watery than usual. What a blessed thing it
was to have so accommodating a brother as Pharamond! The chevalier
grew hot and cold as he considered the chance that was about to be
thrown in his way, a golden chance--and between whimsical little
prayers for success, he gazed furtively now and then at the other
brother, whose honour he was so ready to smirch.

The prodigies having been sent to bed, and the evening meal being
leisurely discussed, the abbe became inquisitive anent the latest
intelligence from Spa. Was it true that the genius of the prophet had
achieved yet greater marvels? What were these rumours as to a further
magnetic development, accompanied by fresh triumphs? Clovis snapped
eagerly at the bait, and proceeded to explain that something amazing
had indeed been discovered such as should transform the world of
science. Persons afflicted with ailments were in future to be ranged
around a series of large buckets or tubs containing a mixture of
broken glass, iron shavings, and cold water. How simple a treatment,
and yet how efficacious! Talk of ancient miracles! No wonder that all
the doctors were mad with spite, as well as all the apothecaries, and
that they should thirst for the blood of him who had exposed their
disgraceful cheating!

"Most amazing! Most wonderful!" echoed the abbe, leaning back in his
chair. "The wicked spirits conquered, and those who were afflicted
through their malice being cured by means of the tub, what was there
left of the curse bequeathed by Adam? If somebody would only go a step
or two further and discover the elixir of life, and a method of making
gold, the world would be quite a pleasant place to live in, and he for
one would positively decline to leave it."

Gabrielle listened, mystified, glancing from one to another of the
trio. Clovis was quite animated. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were
flushed, and his tongue loosened. What power was this of the abbe's,
which could melt an icicle, bring a corpse to life? She was awed and
uneasy.

Was Pharamond making fun of Clovis--fooling him to the top of his
bent--in mischief? Surely not, for did he not owe to his brother's
kindness a secure asylum, a refuge in an awkward strait, and pocket
money also? For Gabrielle, in her kindness of heart, had guessed that
the fugitives were out at elbows, and had quietly handed two neatly
enveloped packets to her husband, with a request that he would pass
them on. Clovis took the packets without surprise or even thanks, and
his wife smiled to herself at his carelessness in money matters. Since
his marriage he had always been well provided without the asking, and
had come--how like a dreamer--to look on coin as convenient manna,
which somehow dropped from heaven just at the auspicious moment.

What could so sensible a man as the abbe mean by encouraging him in
his nonsense? He was sitting there now with head thrown back, and the
placid air of one who knows how to enjoy digestion, rapping out now
and then a leading question, such as would put Clovis on his mettle.
Was she, Gabrielle, in the wrong to despise these things? It seemed
so. Her husband dabbled in philanthropy; the abbe was an excellent
man, bent on doing good to his fellows; and this was the reason for
the interest of both in Mesmer.

"Just think!" the marquis was observing with regret, "what good work
might be done in the district if we could inaugurate a magic tub! The
mists rising from the Loire generate rheumatism and paralysis, to say
nothing of fevers, all of which, by means of a blessed bucket, might
cease to exist except in fable. Why! this gloomy old prison-house
might become a central office from which benefits would be scattered
broadcast; its primaeval bloodstains might come in time to be washed
away with Mesmer's tincture of iron!"

"Why not?" murmured the abbe, with increasing interest.

"Alas!" sighed Clovis. "The arrangement of the tub, it seems, is a
matter of the most delicate nicety, which cannot be described by
letter. If Mesmer would only visit us? But he is afraid now, he says,
to venture into France."

"Why not go to him--Mahomet and the mountain, you know," suggested
Pharamond. "Or get him to lend you for a time one of his cultured
adepts."

"Ah! if he would do that!" echoed Clovis, eagerly. "If he would lend
me somebody who knows."

"Our dear Gabrielle would not stand an adept!" cried the abbe, with
laughter. "See how distressed she looks at my poor suggestion! Nay,
sweet sister; I was only jesting. In sooth, this new-fangled bucket is
too large a bolus to swallow. The idea of sensible people squatting
round a tub with glass wands pressed against their temples!"

Pharamond's access of facetiousness nettled the marquis, who remarked
peevishly, "What a puzzle you are! Too gifted and too learned, I
should have thought, to mock as the ignorant do at all that they
cannot fathom."

"Nay! I did not mean to anger you!" cried Pharamond, still laughing.
"But I was bound to reassure our hostess as to an irruption of adepts.
Come, come. Let her enjoy the evening air. Show me the plans and
instructions, and while I endeavour to decipher them, play me a tune
on the 'cello."

Oh! clever abbe, who knew so well how to twitch his puppet-strings! It
certainly was a delightful evening, and Gabrielle, with the pursy
chevalier trotting by her side, flung open a casement and stepped
forth upon a balcony. As she gazed across the shadowy river, she was
too absorbed with the consideration of a riddle to remark the
condition of her companion, who panted nervously. Was Clovis
mad--victim of a monomania--or did she wrong him? Why should he lie to
her, and to Pharamond? He had declared, and the abbe accepted the
statement without cavil, that the magic tub had already produced
miraculous cures. No doubt it is both ignorant and stupid to contemn
what you cannot understand. Clovis was always saying so, and he was
right. If the discovery was genuine, then, as he had said, how
wonderful a boon wherewith to endow the province! It was quite true
that the peasantry were a prey to rheumatic pains and aches. In her
rides she often went among the poor distributing simple remedies, and
had been dubbed by them the "White Chatelaine," in contradistinction
to some of dark and unsavoury memory who had gone before. But then, an
irruption of adepts. What sort of a creature was an adept? The idea
had revolted her, she scarce knew why; and yet, was she not
unreasonable? If the prophet or a selection from his following were to
take up their quarters at Lorge, what then? There was room enough in
the great building, and the abbe would doubtless make himself useful
in seeing that they kept to themselves. Ah! But the cherished hope
which had been the means of bringing the chatelaine to Lorge; the hope
to which she clung with the tenacity of love. Surrounded by an army of
dreamers more dreamy than himself, the half-recovered Clovis would
drift away again, be farther than ever from her yearning arms,
engrossed in his magical operations. How unsteady a seat is that
between the horns of a dilemma. If she refused to countenance the tub
and its attendant sprites, she might be withholding from the sick a
saving and certain cure. If she encouraged the new theory and its
satellites, instinct told her that she would be raising a wall between
herself and her husband which she would never be able to scale. She
was wicked and selfish to hesitate. The marquise felt with humble
conviction the extent of her badness; but human nature at the best is
rickety, and she was unlucky enough to adore her husband. At this
point, as she stood on the balcony reflecting, with the red hot
chevalier by her side, she shivered, for plaintive sounds were
floating on the breeze.

"This is intolerable!" she murmured. "If Clovis would only oblige me
by sacrificing that dreadful 'cello!"

"It does set one's teeth on edge," agreed the chevalier.

"Because it contains a soul in torment," returned the marquise,
pressing her fingers in her ears. "I can manage to endure other
implements of music, but I cannot bear a 'cello."

"We have a remedy at hand," wheezed the amorous chevalier. "It is as
balmy as a summer's night, and winter will soon be upon us. Put on a
hood and scarf, and let me row you for an hour on the river."




                             CHAPTER VII.

                        A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.


The family did not meet again till the next day at the hour of second
_dejeuner_, and an intangible cloud appeared to have fallen on the
party. There was something like suspicion in the manner of those who
yesterday were so trustingly united.

The chevalier, sulky and silent, would not raise his eyes from his
plate. The liveliest sallies of the abbe fell dismally flat, for even
Gabrielle was so pre-occupied that she could not summon a smile. Her
beautiful face was grave and sad, and bore trace of recent tears,
while the brow of the marquis wore a frown, as if he had heard bad
news. Indeed, a proposition had been placed before him yesternight,
or, rather, dropped carelessly, which startled and annoyed him. In
course of their _tete-a-tete_ over the plans, Pharamond had said, "If
I were you I would be careful not to offend madame, for she, not you,
is master." It had never occurred to him before to see things in this
light, and yet it was undoubtedly true. She had never stood between
him and his desires, but it was not pleasant to be reminded that she
might be led to do so some day. And from the conversation--as it
chanced--a wavering idea had become in his mind a fixed resolve. The
introduction of an adept into the household had been the happiest
thought on the part of Pharamond, but--provoking fellow that he
was--no sooner had he made the suggestion than he proceeded to nip it
in the bud. For when Clovis would fain have enlarged upon the topic,
the abbe had retorted with a demure headshake: "I made a mistake, and
I am sorry. Your wife believes no more in Mesmer than I do--less--and,
taking offence, might complain to old de Breze of the introduction
into _his_ house of a pack of needy jugglers."

If she did it would be awkward and insulting to her husband. Would she
be capable of so unwifely a proceeding? Surely not. The abbe, who was
a compendium of wise maxims, remarked that it would be better not to
try her--to let sleeping dogs lie. Perhaps he was right, but the pill
presented to the lips of Clovis was bitter, with a new and acrid
taste.

Glancing round the breakfast-table, the spirits of Pharamond went up,
and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. No need to ask simple
Phebus how he had fared last night? Failure was written on his face!

In the minds of all three who sat around him a tiny germ was working.
So far all was well; but the _menage_ must not be permitted to fall
back into the doldrums.

"Come, come!" cried the abbe, cheerily; "what ails us all? Is the
angel of death passing overhead? The weather is divine. Were we not to
hunt to-day, starting from Montbazon, and is not the attractive
Angelique anxiously awaiting Phebus? Air and exercise will brace our
nerves. Clovis's wits want sharpening, and then, maybe, he will guess
all about the bucket without further aid from Mesmer."

Cloud or no cloud, there was no resisting Pharamond for long. His tact
was infinite. Pretending to perceive that there was a tiff of some
sort between the chevalier and the chatelaine, he ostentatiously
interposed himself between them. No one was in the humour for the
chase? Very well. No more was he. Phebus, whose one accomplishment was
a knowledge of horseflesh, had business in the stables, which he would
be good enough to see to. The other brothers would flutter around
Gabrielle, who, established on her favourite seat in the moat-garden,
would issue orders to her slaves.

What? The hobby again? Really the prophet should be proud of a pupil
so serious and earnest! Well, well. Would dear Gabrielle mind being
left alone for a little? No? Then the brothers would take a stroll
together, and perhaps the abbe would be converted.

"If I am," the latter cried merrily, as linking his arm within that of
the marquis, he led him away, "I shall turn myself to the conversion
of Gabrielle. After that we will set our wits to work, arrange a magic
tub, and all preside over it together."

The magic tub! When the brothers returned from their walk, heated with
discussion, the one was airy and serene, the other wofully cross.
Gabrielle was sorely troubled by the change which she indistinctly
felt. Why should Clovis be cross? The reason of the chevalier's
sullenness, alas, she knew too well! The abbe was apparently much
struck by the arguments of the neophyte, and wavered. Why, then,
should Clovis be in a bad humour? And if Pharamond, the clever one,
was well nigh convinced, who was she that she should doubt? There was
nothing for it but to submit to the guidance of the abbe.

Clovis shambled off to his study in a self-conscious and sheepish way,
whereupon a sly smile spread over the face of Pharamond.

"Do you know why our dear Clovis is in so villanous a humour?" he
asked, glancing archly down at the marquise. "No, of course not. You
would never guess. He wants something of you, and is afraid to ask,
lest you refuse."

"Afraid of me!" ejaculated Gabrielle, amazed.

"Not quite that--but husbands do not like to ask favours and be
refused."

The marquise held her peace, for she was bitterly hurt. Refuse a
favour to him, the husband whose good graces she was here to
cultivate? Never. Oh, why was he so very blind! How could she ever
hope to win his entire love and confidence if he read her character so
ill! Then, overcome by emotion, she wept and confided in the abbe, who
skilfully soothed her pain. He did not deserve such a treasure--this
purblind, blundering husband, of course he did not; but since the
Church had bound the two together, there was nothing for it but to
make the best of the bad bargain. It was most fortunate that he,
Pharamond, should have joined the circle, for it should be his
privilege, as son of the Church, if permitted so great a favour, to
act as go-between on delicate subjects, and prevent friction. Now here
was a silly thing which, but for him, might have led to estrangement.
Clovis had concluded that his scientific investigations demanded a
trained assistant, and dreaded to admit as much. Was he not a foolish
fellow?

Gabrielle's heart sank low within her. Oh, Clovis! Clovis! An
assistant! an army of assistants, if he so wished it. But it was
soul-harrowing that his desires should require an interpreter. And now
the good churchman changed his note from comfort to gentle chiding.
She was ungrateful, the dear Gabrielle, to be so impatient. The
ambassador would run on the instant and tell Clovis how he wronged his
wife. She was ready to do all he wished, as he might have known she
would be. Rome was not built in a day, and the firm trusting
confidence which should unite wife and husband requires to be put
together brick by brick, with plodding patience for a trowel. It
should not be the abbe's fault if his watchful care did not produce,
with time, the desired end. He would try, but Clovis was of a
suspicious and untrusting nature, and if failure were to result after
all--why he, the abbe, could not help what, of course, he would
bitterly deplore.

It is a curious fact that this was not quite the communication which
he made to Clovis when, presently, he joined him in his study.

"She has given way," he said; "I thought I could persuade her. I led
her to feel that though she may hold the purse-strings, she must learn
to know that you are master. We shall arrive at that, and make good
our independence with constant quiet pressure. How wise of you to
trust in me! Leave the whole matter in my hands. Say nothing on the
subject yourself, for the plant of marital right is a fragile one
which requires most careful handling."

Gabrielle spent much of her time in reflection, wondering how it was
that she should be so lamentably misunderstood. The only one who could
read her aright was Abbe Pharamond, and yet there were points in his
behaviour which perplexed the simple lady. He was kind and sympathetic
now as he invariably was; but a change might be detected in his
manner, which was a difference, though so slight a one that a man
would scarce have noticed it. He loved to recline at her feet reciting
poetry or reading classic prose--a course of improving literature, he
called it, for the storing of a magazine that was somewhat empty; and
in intervals of rest she would find his steely eyes fixed steadily on
her with a peculiar expression that was half pity. Warming under his
ever-ready sympathy she confided to him one day the shocking details
of a certain evening on the river, and was unaccountably pained and
disappointed at the way he treated the disclosure. In the butterfly
clergy of Paris--steeped to the lips in vice--such a view would be
natural and consistent; but that Pharamond, self-elected friend and
Mentor, should display so little indignation and proper principle was
distressing.

Instead of being shocked at the escapade of Phebus, he laughed
outright, and remarked lightly, "Of course, the poor donkey fell in
love with you. He must, indeed, be a figure-head of wood who could
resist such charms, and I should be sorry to find a brother of mine to
be made of timber. Command me. Am I not your champion? Shall I rush
forth and spit the simpleton for his temerity?"

Clearly this was not the spirit in which a son of Mother Church should
receive the news of a brother-in-law's declaration, and Gabrielle
declared as much to her trusted counsellor.

"Half-brother-in-law," interrupted the latter, admiring his oval
nails.

"It is all the same--equally wrong."

"Oh, dear no! Excuse me, but it takes two halves to make a whole!"
This light method of dealing with so grave a subject savoured of
flippant levity; added to which distressful fact, the abbe, taking
advantage of Gabrielle's troubled silence, had sidled closer, and was
peering up through half-closed lids with an admiring scrutiny which
made her vaguely uncomfortable.

"The heart is independent of the will," he whispered, absently, "and
we should not be blamed for its vagaries! You could not like the
fellow? Of course, you could not: he is fat and foolish; and I a dolt
to ask so vain a question. Before we are aware of it our hearts are
given, and the gift may not be cancelled. A platitude, is it not? Does
not that same platitude show that Love is Fate--that where he wills he
lights, always a conqueror? Who shall punish us for bending before the
tyrant?"

"What can you mean?" inquired the marquise, startled.

"Say," inquired the abbe. "Despite trivial drawbacks, we are all happy
here together, are we not? As to Phebus, what is your decree? Because
a man loved you, you would not chase him hence? That were unduly
harsh."

No. The marquise had no intention of endeavouring to banish Phebus.
Was he not of the same blood as Clovis and Pharamond, husband and
friend? To the latter she owed much, and, being grateful, would strain
many a point to avoid offending him. It was thanks to his intervention
that the wheels had run of late more smoothly. Indeed, she might have
come in time to accept the situation as it was, ceasing to wish for
something better, but for the chevalier's inconvenient flame. Even as
it was, there was no reason why the stream, disturbed for a moment,
should not flow as smoothly as before, since Phebus, convinced of his
mistake, ceased to be importunate. Enwrapt in a veil of reserve he
studiously avoided a _tete-a-tete_ with her whom he had honoured with
elephantine love-making.

Impelled by these various considerations, Gabrielle replied, quietly,
"No. I would not chase a man away because he loved me," and a look of
exultation flashed over the abbe's features, which as quickly faded.

Lorge in winter could scarcely be called a cheerful spot; yet,
accustomed by gradual degrees to the still life of unbroken monotony,
none of the party suggested a return to Paris. The chevalier wandered
aimlessly, a solitary figure, the phantom of regret--and his energies
seemed bent on equal avoidance of Gabrielle and Angelique. Clovis
became more and more engrossed in his pursuits, and though he
frequently discussed the proposed assistant, took no steps--lymphatic
unpractical creature--to unearth an adept learned in mystic lore. It
became his habit to join the family circle once a day, and on these
occasions he grew almost genial under the skilled banter of his
brother. Pharamond, a miracle of resource and ready usefulness,
ferreted out curtains of thick silk from mouldering trunks, and made
of the boudoir at the end of the suite quite a tempting and delightful
nest. With heaps of cushions he arranged a species of divan about the
fire, and stretched out at full length on it declaimed by the hour
with nice emphasis the sparkling lines of Beaumarchais. Gabrielle did
not quite take in the sense of all he read, but the voice was
singularly sweet and soothing--so different from the groaning
'cello--and she grew accustomed as time went on to the singular
expression in the eyes.

Those were peaceful, placid days. When the snow swirled without in
blustering eddies, the curtains were drawn close, and logs were piled
upon the fire till they hissed and sparkled, and Gabrielle, as she
listened to the rhythm of the verse, broken pleasantly from time to
time by the distant mirth of the children as they romped now and then
with the attentive chevalier, was fain to confess herself content. How
smoothly the water runs as it approaches the edge of the precipice,
and with what angry foam crests it hurries away after the fall. If the
chatelaine had been asked at this juncture whether she pined for
aught, she would have said _No_. Clovis, the shadowy one, was nearer
to her than he had ever been, condescending sometimes to discuss
affairs with her and even play with the darling prodigies. We can't
fashion our spouses to our liking. Those who are undemonstrative must
not be expected to coruscate. Clovis was not wilfully unkind. The
chevalier had forgotten his folly. What a mercy that was! The abbe,
with all his lightly scintillating oddities, was a pearl of price. All
things considered, existence was not unpleasant.

The dream was interrupted in this wise. On a certain stormy evening
the abbe had laid down his book. The chevalier reclined in his chair,
gulping in stentorous slumber, while Gabrielle sat listening to the
saddest sound in the world--the soughing of the winter wind. At her
feet lay Pharamond with flushed face, excited by the story he had been
reading--that of Francesca da Rimini.

"That pig will die in a fit," he remarked presently, with a glance of
scorn at his brother, who lay with his back to them in gurgling
unconsciousness; "and the sooner the better, for then we shall be
alone."

"_That day they read no more!_" Ah me, what a tale it is, old as the
hills but ever new!

A silence. Gabrielle too was reflecting on the story of Francesca.

"An all-devouring consuming love. Tell me, Gabrielle, is it a curse or
a blessing?"

"That depends," replied the other, slowly, "whether it be pure or not.
The condition of real love implies abnegation of self in favour of the
one who is loved."

"Too cold a view of it for me," returned the abbe. "I belong to the
south, where it burns and scorches. I believe that illicit love is
best. Poor Gabrielle! Ignorant sleeping princess, yet awaiting the
awakening kiss! How strange, that one so beautiful should never have
felt the divine breath! Clovis could not love. He is too selfish. With
that brute snoring there, the god-like sentiment rises no higher than
the lust of the uncultured savage."

Tears welled into the eyes of Gabrielle. "I take it," she murmured,
"that the reason love is so often a curse lies in its inequality,
since it is given to no couple to love with equal fervour."

Under influence of the reading and of the abbe's words, old yearnings
had sprung newly into life again which she had deemed dead. Alas! If
the affection of Clovis had been as true and staunch as hers, how
unclouded a career would have been theirs. Illicit love, he had dared
to say--this insidious Pharamond! No; never--never that! She sighed,
and with chin on hand, gazed into the fire. It was mere idle prate.
Men of a poetic turn run into such extremes.

How beautiful she looked in the warm fitful glow in a plain sacque of
palest rose, her hair loosely gathered to display to advantage the
poise of the graceful head. What a perfect neck and shoulder, and how
exquisitely modelled an arm. One hand lay carelessly upon her lap. It
was as though he saw that shapely arm for the first time. The blood
surging to his brain, the abbe bent down and impressed a burning kiss
on it.

Goaded by circumstances--an irresistible temptation--he had betrayed
himself. Well! Why not now as well as later? On the whole, he was
rather glad to have been drawn out of his usual caution.

Rising from the cushions to his knees, he pressed another kiss upon
her shoulder, and whispered with hot and labouring breath, which
seemed to burn the skin--"Gabrielle--my Gabrielle--my own, spite all;
it is I who am to teach you the love that maddens and entrances."

Bewildered by the suddenness of the act, crimson to the roots of her
fair hair, Gabrielle sank panting, speechless, against the carven
oak-panel--till, feeling a hand gliding round her waist, she writhed
out of the embrace, and, revolted, half-choked, with swimming head,
staggered to her feet.

"You too!" she faltered faintly, glancing from one brother to the
other in fear. "Oh, Pharamond! You must be insane! You did not know
what you were doing!"

"Did I not? Hush. Why wake that idiot?" whispered the abbe, striving,
as he clung, to wreathe again about her arm his trembling sinuous
fingers. "I know right well what I have done, and glory in it since I
have made you my own. On the first evening that I set eyes on your
lustrous beauty, I swore that some day you should be mine. That day is
come; you are hemmed round. Others want you, but not so much as I; and
when I say _I will_, all must give way to that! I hold you in my hand
as I might a fluttering bird just caught. Aha! How the poor heart
beats. Be calm; oh, heart of mine! I can be patient and wait until the
bird shall cease to struggle, and will like you all the better for the
fluttering!"

Gabrielle's blood chilled in growing horror, and she endeavoured to
recoil, as he approached. Now she understood the strange expression
that he wore sometimes. Her chosen counsellor had been slowly winding
a limed thread about her limbs which should hold her fast--a helpless
victim to his unhallowed passions--ere she knew that she was bound.
Fool! Vain, wicked fool! Could one so astute have so completely missed
the key to the situation? She adored the husband who, in her ignorance
and inexperience, she deemed a demigod. To her he was a genius of whom
she was unworthy. Here was her shield of unsullied steel, and
brilliant, cynical Pharamond, who saw through and despised Clovis,
guessed nothing of its existence.

Then, as thought swiftly followed thought in tumultuous wave, it fell
on her with a numb dead weight of misgiving, how much this discovery
might mean to her. What would she do without the abbe's help? With
terror, she realized now as she looked steadily at him, that this was
no wild impulse borne of chance, to be condoned and forgotten like
that of the chevalier, but the result of a deep-laid scheme. She could
see before her an obstinate man whose will was iron and scruples nil,
who had resolved some day to snatch what she had not to give. To whom
in so strange an extremity could she turn for help? Wringing her hands
together, she moaned out, "I am alone, without a friend!"

"Not so!" the abbe whispered, edging nearer. "Trust to me in this as
in other matters, for I know best, and you will thank me--oh, how
much. Are not you to learn and I to teach? I hold the clue of the
mystery, which is still veiled to you. Learn love from me--burning,
devouring love; and for the first time you will know happiness."

"Another step and I will wake the chevalier!" Gabrielle faltered,
wrapping round her a poor tattered shred of shivering dignity.

Pharamond laughed his long sweet laugh of rippling music, which now
caused Gabrielle to shudder.

"Awake him? Do!" gibed he, "or shall I? Look at his bull neck and
broad fat back! He is not yours, for he is mine, though he would have
been yours if you had wished it. Why not admit the truth in order that
you may know me? It will save useless trouble. I loyally allowed him
as my elder the first chance, on condition that if he failed the prize
should be left to me. Ha, ha! Awake him by all means, that I may bid
him remove his carcase. It cumbers the ground! Pah! What a pig-like
snore!"

Again, though she had retreated, with feet faltering among the
draperies, to an extreme corner behind the cushions, Gabrielle felt
the wreathing arm stealing round her waist.

"Pharamond!" she pleaded huskily, exhausted. "To yourself and me be
merciful, and you will have my earnest prayers----"

"Would you usurp my functions?" whispered the abbe in mischief.

The marquise pushed him from her with a strength wrung from
indignation. "For the sake of all of us, go for a time," she murmured.
"In the name of honest womanhood and vain regret--go! that this folly
may be forgotten. I will try to forget. Go! and I swear to you that no
word of it shall pass my lips."

"How little you know me," scoffed the abbe, disdaining for the time to
press her further. "Have you not learnt yet, that what I will is done?
Awake the pig there, and ask if it is not so. What I have resolved
upon, I do. You are mine--all mine--whether you like it or not; now or
a little later!"

"Then I must seek refuge with my husband."

"If you accuse me, he will not believe you. The influence over him
that you awkwardly threw away, I gained. How ill you've played your
cards, most charming woman! He is a weak man who must be led by some
one--it might have been by _you_. Come, say the word, and you shall
lead him yet; or, rather, we will together."

Gabrielle looked again into the abbe's face (which was so terribly
close to hers), then at that of his sleeping brother, who had turned
in uneasy slumber. How could she have been deceived so long?
Sensuality on both masks--the one, gross and altogether earthy; the
other, marked by flashes of sly eyes and twists of thin lips that were
not well to look upon, for that second mask was transparent, and the
devil was peering through.

"I will give you time to think," proceeded the abbe, "since, though
the moment is propitious, you are not in the mood for wooing. Here is
a rebus. Your fate is in my hand, yet in your own. According as you
decide, you will find in me the most devoted servant or the most
implacable enemy. The love of us southerners is not far removed from
hate. According as you act, you may bask in its beams or be scorched
into a cinder; hence it is to be feared and respected."

Pressing so close to her that she could feel the pulsations of his
breast, he added in low accents that cut into her heart like steel,
"Be well advised, and comprehend the truth. Your life hangs in the
balance for happiness or misery. Consider, and choose wisely, for this
is the critical time on which your fate depends."

Then, opening the door with a bow whose distinction would have done
honour to Trianon, he stood aside to let the lady pass into her
bedchamber. Closing the door again, he knit his brows and bit his
nails while contemplating the sleeping chevalier. "A trifle premature,
that's all," he muttered; "no harm done, for all her sweeping pride.
Well-meaning, vacillating women are like satin-skinned horses in the
arena--all the better for a touch of the lash. It is written, my
mission is to teach her _love_, and I will do it thoroughly from my
own point of view--of course. She is inexperienced, and proud, and
empty. If the fruit's not ripe, I've time to wait for it to mellow.
Perhaps, who knows? I may, should she be restive, be forced to crush
her pride. A pity! for it would be a charm removed. Perchance I shall
only squeeze firmly, without crushing it. The snaring of a bird that
is shy, whose plumage must not be injured! Shall it be tamed by
kindness, or the reverse? A problem, this, that Time's slow fingers
must unravel. The key to it is patience--most valuable of virtues!" He
stood long, pondering as he surveyed his sleeping brother. It was as
if he sought some luminous answer in those puffed and stolid features.

Next morning, Gabrielle appeared at dejeuner with pallid cheeks and
red eyes, under whose lids there glinted a ray of apprehension. That
Clovis's two half-brothers should both have developed, without
encouragement, so ill-omened a passion! What had the future in store
for a helpless woman as the upshot of so perilous a dilemma? Was it
not, after all, an ugly dream--a hideous nightmare born of Erebus,
that had been routed by healthful morning? Having eaten his fill,
Clovis was placidly sipping claret, and forming a mimic tub out of
bread-crusts. The round visage of the chevalier was as expressionless
as usual.

Upon the entrance of the chatelaine, the abbe had risen to close the
door with nimblest alacrity and deftest grace, and had led her to the
table with ceremoniously respectful finger-tips. The evil expression
was gone. Glancing nervously at him, she saw nothing but a polished
bonhomie veneered with distant and deferential kindliness. He deplored
her looks with ready grief, but added, for consolation, that a washed
rose revives in sunshine, and becomes more fragrant for the shower.

"She mopes for lack of proper exercise," he exclaimed, with a gentle
headshake of reproach. "Let us make a little party, and make a raid on
Montbazon."

Clovis, busy with the bread-crusts, remarked somewhat tartly that he
was much occupied, as they ought all to know; that the others had
better go without him; whereupon Gabrielle turned pale. Ride with the
two brothers, whose overweening and importunate affection she had so
recently repulsed!

"I vow," cried facetious Pharamond, "that our Gabrielle is growing
delicate. She who was wont to be active objects to exercise.
Decidedly, my Clovis, we must set the miraculous tub agoing for the
benefit of your delightful wife."




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                            A NEW ARRIVAL.


Our dear marquise--as you have realised ere this--satisfied the desire
of the eye in all ways, for, combined with beauty of feature and of
colour, was the suave sweetness of expression that is bred of the
domestic virtues. Had she been an abbess the odour of her sanctity
would have penetrated down to us in many a miraculous legend, and her
carved simulacrum would have stood in many a niche and sculptured
frieze along with those of other privileged young ladies. But she
could not guide a husband who needed a bridle rein, neither could she
decipher rebuses. The eccentric conduct of the versatile and too
inflammable abbe completely mystified her. Why had he in the firelight
resembled a satyr, to become in the morning so meek, and mild, and
saint-like? Perhaps her prayers had been answered and, seeing the
error of his ways, he had repented ere it was too late. It is
disconcerting when an amorous and fervid swain inflicts burning kisses
on your skin, and next day forgets the transgression. In the case of
Pharamond a marvel must have been worked, for never by wink of eyelid
did he attempt to recall his untoward proceedings during the storm.
The episode was washed clean away by the snowdrift. He was alert, and
lively, and amiable, as heretofore; always active in performing little
services, inventing some new comfort or pleasure, rallying the dull,
sympathizing with the weary. He knew better than to sit glum and
mumchance like the chevalier. Betrayed into error, he had accepted
rebuff like a gentleman, and by a marked increase of respect was
trying to win forgiveness. This was quite as it should be, and there
was no more to be said. And so, the clouds that threatened being
dissipated, the months of winter rolled away in so uniform a sequence
that their glassy flow seemed as if it must run for ever.

The marquis, influenced probably by his repentant brother, was amiable
enough. The two talked Mesmer all day long; formed plans for mutual
assistance: held lengthy conferences in the study, which always had,
now the satisfying result of improving Clovis's temper. The first
primrose had just emerged from its bed when the abbe announced one day
the portentous fact that the marquis was packing his valise.

"Packing his valise! Tired of the dulness of Lorge?" Gabrielle felt a
tinge of sadness at the thought. Why not have let things be? If there
was to be a change, would it be for better or worse?

"How silly you are!" observed Clovis, cheerfully, remarking her
wistful look. "Are we limpets glued to a rock? I am about to make a
little journey, quite a short one--the effect of which in the future
may transfigure the countenance of earth."

"You will not be absent long?" inquired the marquise, in a reproachful
tone.

"A couple of weeks at most. The fact is, that I am going to Spa, and
hope to bring back with me the assistant, without whom I can advance
no further."

"You said you did not object," murmured Pharamond, softly.

"Object? Certainly not. I said so long ago."

Clovis frowned. He did not like to be reminded of dependence just as
he was about to use his liberty.

"I have a hundred questions to ask, which must be answered by word of
mouth, and shall bring back such a budget of testimony as shall
surprise even you into belief. The country is distressingly quiet and
monotonous. You are not afraid, I suppose, to await my return under
the joint protection of my brothers?"

The abbe was innocently contemplating the tapestry opposite with rapt
interest; the chevalier was examining the floor. If the husband had
only known--how whimsical a question! Gabrielle glanced at one, then
at the other, with a tiny twinge of misgiving, which speedily gave way
to confidence, and replied simply--

"Oh, no; I am afraid of neither. Even if they attempted to do me harm,
and why should they? have I not Toinon at hand, and her no less
devoted lover?"

"Harm! From us!" echoed Pharamond, vastly tickled. "Phebus is an ogre
with great teeth and one blear eye, whilst I am the original
Croquemitaine, devourer of white-fleshed maidens."

"I have said I am not afraid of you," remarked the marquise, demurely.

"Jean Boulot, the devoted lover!" continued the playful abbe. "More
danger in his little finger, I warrant, than in both our bodies. While
you are absent, Clovis, I've half a mind to divert myself with pretty
Toinon; but, alas! I am in terror of her big surly bear. A brawny
malcontent! Only the other day I heard him deliver an address under
the village tree--such a compound of fire and brimstone--and I suppose
my smile was not respectful; for, catching my eye, he directed his
abuse at me, and poured forth such a scurrilous diatribe against our
class that I was glad enough to escape. Like everyone else, however,
he respects Gabrielle, and when he becomes aggressive, she shall
shield us from his wrath!"

The marquise was relieved, for this was a delicate way of hinting that
there was to be no recurrence of that scene. Why should she mind being
left with the brothers? Clovis, who did not shine as a protector,
might depart on his mission with a light heart, to return as soon as
possible wreathed with the laurels of success.

He went, and the household, after the small excitement of the
unimportant incident, returned to its monotony of peace. The brothers
treated their chatelaine with such an increase of punctilio and
ceremony as should perforce stop the idle gossip of provincial
busybodies. Even shrewd Toinon, who was of an unbelieving turn, and
never quite satisfied with regard to the honeyed churchman, looked on
the situation with approval.

The marquis had been absent three weeks when a messenger arrived with
a missive directed to the abbe. Gabrielle was in the moat garden
superintending the chevalier, who was occupied in the watering of
plants. Toinon was there, too, looking after Jean Boulot, as was her
duty, while he clipped and trimmed the hedges, with the prodigies
hanging to his coat-tails. The group made a charming picture of rural
bliss, such as it makes good the heart to look upon. Through the
postern-door leisurely emerged the abbe, gazing at a paper as he
descended the grassy <DW72> with a scowl of genuine annoyance.

"What is it?" cried Gabrielle, turning pale. "Nothing wrong with
Clovis?"

"Everything wrong with Clovis," retorted Pharamond, testily. "He must
have lost his wits to be capable of such a proceeding."

"He is well?"

"Oh, yes; he is well."

"Then all is well."

"Is it? That remains to be shown. He will be home to-morrow at supper
time."

"Then all is well, indeed. The best of news!"

Delighted as she was, a pang shot through the heart of the marquise,
in that the absent one had elected to communicate with his brother
rather than his wife.

"Do you know?" she remarked with a smile, "that I am quite jealous. He
ought to have written to me."

"I suppose he had the decency to be ashamed, and so left it to me to
smooth the way for him. There is something here which I doubt your
liking. It was wrong--very, very wrong--not to have first consulted
_you_."

"What is it? Let me know, without all this parley. You torture me!"

"Well, the prodigal returns to-morrow--but not alone."

"I know that. He had full permission to hire an assistant. Are there
more? He is welcome to bring his friends."

"A female friend?"

"A woman!" ejaculated Gabrielle, dropping her garden scissors, while
Toinon stared, round-eyed.

"A woman!" echoed Pharamond, moved to real anger. "Was there ever
anything so ridiculous! a woman picked up at Spa!"

"What can she want here?' inquired Toinon.

"A protegee, it appears, of that infernal prophet," grumbled the abbe.
"Listen to what he says: 'Gabrielle will be charmed,' he writes
(double distilled blockhead), 'when she understands it all, for by a
most lucky chance, the presence of Mademoiselle Brunelle will serve a
double purpose. She is an adept of the first class, educated under the
eye of Mesmer himself, instructed in all the intricacies of animal
magnetism, and has, moreover, successfully followed the avocation of
governess. The dear children have outgrown the reach of my wife's
teaching, and Mademoiselle Brunelle can henceforth superintend their
studies.'"

Pharamond looked dubiously at his sister-in-law, who flushed red, then
paled. His annoyance was more than justified, for it was outrageous to
engage a resident governess without consulting the wife and mother.
And yet it might be for the best. The dear prodigies knew all that
poor Gabrielle could teach them, and in this remote spot it was
difficult without great expense to procure masters from Blois or
Tours. Clovis had been enabled to see and interview a lady, which was
better than taking her on trust by letter. The mother should have been
consulted, though, before entering on a definite engagement.

Toinon's indignation broke forth.

"Well, I'm sure," she sniffed, "what next. Stray women are to be
brought into the house without madame's sanction. If I were she, I'd
dispatch our Jean to bar the way, and forbid the baggage to approach.
Such impudence!"

In curbing the maid's zeal, Gabrielle convinced herself. The marquis
was master, and his will was law. He had been most wise and far-seeing
in thinking of the dear children's welfare. He had thought more of
them than she, who had twitted him with indifference. He had done
well, as always, and Toinon would perhaps be kind enough to stifle her
impertinence.

Toinon screwed up her lips, and muttered between her teeth, "Madame is
a saint too good for earth. She may endure the insult patiently, but I
shall hate the horrid woman from the very instant she arrives!"

It was evening when the wheels of the marquis's coach were heard
grinding on the gravel, and amid the din of servants moving trunks and
bundles, Gabrielle, who waited in the salon, was aware of a deep,
strong voice rapping out sharp orders like a rattle of artillery. "You
awkward loons!" it shouted, "be careful of that tub and its contents.
Are there not some other rascals somewhere who are less clumsy?"

Ere long, the voice was heard approaching up the stairs, along the
corridor, still grumbling noisily anent bucolic yokeldom, and, by and
by, a much cloaked figure loomed on the threshold, and straightway
went through the complicated evolutions of an elaborate and respectful
curtsey.

"Madame la Marquise, no doubt," said the deep, strong voice. "Madame's
humble and obedient servant. My name is Aglae Brunelle. Where are the
darling infants?"

The abruptness of the salutation amused Gabrielle.

The woman rejoiced in a fine figure, of somewhat large proportions, as
was evident when she unwound her wraps. Her complexion was dusky, her
hair and eyes coal black. Her mouth large, with full, red lips, which
contrasted well with the square white teeth behind. The thick,
straight eyebrows were endowed with a strange mobility which hinted at
habits of command curiously at variance with the position of the
new-comer. Her manner, however, towards the marquise was a miracle of
deportment. Submissive respect was deftly mingled with a tinge of
independent nonchalance, glossed over with an unconcealed admiration,
flattering to the beauty of the chatelaine.

"An oddity," thought Gabrielle, unconsciously relieved to perceive
that the large lady was uncomely.

"An ugly, insolent monster," was the uncompromising verdict of fierce
Toinon, who had scanned her from the top of the stairs.

Her noisy delight over the prodigies who had been kept up to make
acquaintance with their governess quite won the mother's heart. The
tall figure went down on its knees with a prodigious thump, and twined
them in its bare dark arms with a shower of kisses.

"The darlings--the cherubs--the pets," growled the strong voice, like
a muffled drum. "They will soon love their Aglae, will they not? I
knew that the offspring of a father like the good marquis and of so
divinely lovely a mother, must be angels--and they are--they are;"
another shower of kisses. "Madame la Marquise must forgive my
brusquerie, for I do so dote on children."

Here was an excellent beginning. The mother was gratified--the
father looked on the picturesque group with a broad smile of
self-complacency. It was evident for once that he had been extremely
clever. Mademoiselle's manners being peculiar, he had had misgivings
as to this first interview, but nothing could have gone better. The
lady was a marvel of intelligence! Of course she was--a favourite
pupil of Mesmer's, who knew his secrets, was mistress of his system.
From this day a new era was to dawn on gloomy Lorge. The new-comer was
an undoubted acquisition--just what was required to crown the family
edifice. All would go merrily now as marriage bells.

The astute abbe was puzzled by the governess. Her arrival upset all
his calculations. Clovis had never consulted him any more than
Gabrielle, and under a preoccupied manner, he had, on receipt of the
letter, been consumed by a white heat of rage. To dare to introduce a
foreign element without his consent! Had he been scheming all this
while to be baffled by a stranger? For surely in so small and retired
a household she would take a prominent part. Would the woman turn out
friend or foe? He had deemed the dreamy Clovis well under his thumb
for life. The chevalier was a mere pawn upon the board. Since playing
that false move on the night of the storm, he had employed all his
arts to lull Gabrielle's suspicions, and had succeeded beyond
expectation. That a head so cool as his should for once so betray its
owner! A little patience. So delicious a prize was worth working and
waiting for, and trying for again and again. Of different grit to the
chevalier, he was not one to submit to defeat on a first repulse. No:
his appetite was whetted. The morsel should be his and only his, as he
had openly sworn; and would be all the more enjoyable for a little
vexatious waiting.

Thus had he arranged the future in his mind. But now, what of the
governess? This unexpected move must be met somehow. Would it be well
to form an alliance with her, or must she be promptly ousted? Her
character must be studied with care. Evidently by nature domineering,
what would be her attitude to him? Could she be frightened and
brow-beaten? Not likely. Would she endeavour to undermine the
influence he had already gained in order to reign alone? Probably.

At the thought the abbe's eyes gleamed cat-like, and his thin lips
tightened over grinding teeth. Turned out by a scheming stranger, and
when all promised so well. To be turned out meant ruin, for things in
the south had been going so wrong during the last six months, had
become so much worse since the period of their hurried flight from
Toulouse, that both brothers were quite dependent on the marquis. To
be ejected now, or later, by the large dark hand of the unwelcome
Aglae would mean pecuniary undoing, and the loss of the sweet morsel
as well. Resign Gabrielle? Never! How to manage, then? The marquise
was inclined to be friendly with the interloper, which showed a too
Christian frame of mind to cope with mundane buffeting. This must be
combated at once, lest it should become necessary before long to make
a combined effort for the annihilation of the intruder.

What had the baleful woman come for to this dismal and remote retreat?
Why had Mesmer thrust his protegee upon the neophyte? With curses the
abbe admitted inwardly that he was himself at the bottom of the
imbroglio. With the idea of dividing the husband from the wife for
ever, he had conceived the plan of burying Clovis so deep in mysticism
that he might never be pulled out of the slough, and to that end had
suggested an assistant who should be taught to play upon his foibles.
But who could be expected to foresee that the adept would take the
form of a woman?

Of course, the woman was a greedy adventuress in search of flesh-pots,
and had gauged aright the feeble and vacillating character of the
young Marquis de Gange. She was evidently extremely gifted and he the
dullest of good-looking dogs. Already he was dazzled by the jewels of
a varied experience which she threw about so freely, and began to
babble exasperating nonsense of having met his "Affinity" at last!

That she had some deep design on hand was evident, for she laid
herself out to dazzle the besotted Clovis, and succeeded but too well.
If it were not so, what could the motive of so brilliant a person be
for deliberately banishing herself to this hermitage? She had
certainly not jogged along those rugged roads for the edification of
two strange children, however abnormally cherubic.

In the struggle which must come, simple Gabrielle would be worsted.
Beauty and honest innocence alone are never a match for intellect,
even when combined with outward homeliness. Aglae Brunelle was not
absolutely ugly, and yet by no means pretty; but when a superior mind
shines through a face, however plain, does it not light the features
with a beauty all its own? Toinon had learnt that long since, and used
it, as we have seen, for a text.

The more he thought the matter over, the more puzzled grew the abbe;
the more angry with himself and dissatisfied. A very few days after
the arrival of Mademoiselle, her pervading presence began to be felt
by the entire household in a way that maddened Pharamond. It was like
the mysterious action of yeast on dough. As outwardly respectful and
submissive as a dependent should be, everybody came to feel that
orders emanated from her. Was the fascination due to an occult power
inoculated by the prophet? Even the scoffing abbe began to wonder
whether there was something serious underlying the antics of the
charlatan, after all. Certain it was that she did possess a power, but
whether due to magnetism or strong will, it was hard to determine. The
abbe's will was as tough as hers, he was proud to think, but instinct
told him that a struggle between the two would be exhausting to both,
and that none might prophesy the result. Better an alliance, if she,
like him, was working on a web. But would she brook a divided sway?
Was _he_ prepared to accept so unsatisfactory an arrangement? How
exasperating, that just as the horizon seemed so clear, the sky so
cloudless, a thunderbolt should come out of the blue to play havoc
with all his combinations.

What of Gabrielle? His schemes revolved around her. Thanks to his
cleverness he and she had tranquilly resumed their old relations. He
did not propose to be content to read poetry for ever. A time was to
come when she was to return the burning kisses he had impressed upon
her shoulder, and twine her arms about his neck; and that longed-for
moment was no nearer now than months ago. To tame the fluttering bird
to his will he must do a little squeezing, after all, and make up by
the ardour of the future for the painful proceedings of the present.
Yes, Gabrielle must be gently racked, be made familiar with tweaks and
pains. A little twist or two and a tug of ropes just to hint of such a
tearing as was possible. Perhaps the governess, if an alliance could
be brought about, might become a useful agent instead of a kill-joy.
Isolated on all sides, the Marquise de Gange must be thrown on her
dear friend the abbe for protection; then the rest would quite
naturally follow.

Among other things the accomplished Aglae was a skilled musician, and
this became a new and unexpected bond between her and the enchanted
marquis. She could rattle off by heart on the spinet all Lulli and
Glueck, could even improvise entrancing accompaniments to airs hitherto
unknown to her. She loved music, and considered the violoncello to be
the most soul-stirring if sad of instruments. Sometimes her hands
would slide from the keys while a great sigh burst from her capacious
bosom, and the marquis looking up would perceive tears rolling down
her cheeks. "It is nothing, but I do love it so," she would snuffle
incoherently, and then resume the improvising with eyes and nose
unbecomingly roseate and swollen.

What with the music (Gabrielle of course, retired into space at the
first scratching of the 'cello) and experiments with the bucket, and
abstruse instructions as to laying on of hands, and the careful study
of Mesmer's now frequent letters, the marquis and the governess were
constantly thrown together. To flirt with your affinity--two souls
denuded of their earthy envelope, side by side on a sofa--may have its
delights; but surely to commune together in the flesh at all hours has
conspicuous advantages.

On the day after her arrival Gabrielle had courteously volunteered to
show mademoiselle over the castle, and that lady had overawed her
hostess by the variety and minuteness of her knowledge, and bewildered
her with searching questions. The abbe, looking on, had pointed out to
the chevalier (who, gooseberry-eyed, saw nothing) the amusing contrast
presented by the two ladies.

Gabrielle was a _Greuze_, without that painter's namby-pamby softness;
so fair a thing that the hours almost turned laggard on their plodding
way to gaze at her. Tall, slim, erect, with a carriage which is a gift
at birth and can never be mimicked by a parvenue; a perfect figure; a
colour borrowed from an unopened moss-rose; an expression of calm, as
of an unrippled sea in a land-locked bay. By her side moved Aglae
Brunelle--taller still, broad-shouldered; with a waist of smaller
dimensions than might be expected from the massive moulding of the
limbs; an expression changing each moment according to the object
brought under the beady eyes; a heavy swinging gait, and a trick of
tossing the head. There was something that pleased by its oddity, and
was as effective in its way as the sweeping erectness of her
companion.

Aglae insisted upon going everywhere, and delivered a running lecture
as she went, impressing points with a straight dark finger,
square-tipped. From the turret window she delivered herself of a
lesson in geography, showing that she knew more about the vicinity of
the Loire than those who dwelt there. She vowed it was a shame to have
walled up the dungeons, for in one (unless she was misinformed) was a
crucifix carved with reverent care out of the stone, by the broken
knife blade of a despairing prisoner. Then, the survey over, she
declared she had not seen the most interesting object of all. What was
that? Why! the school-room of the prodigies; what else? Was she not
here to teach their minds to shoot, and was it not most important that
the scene of the operation should be selected with consummate care?
There was no school-room--only a nursery! Then and there so crying a
defect should be remedied. Madame would forgive her energy,
recognizing the importance of the subject? Madame was so beautiful and
indulgent to a poor stranger that there was no doubt of it. The
darlings must have every advantage. Did not madame think so? Of course
she did. Then off stumped Mademoiselle Brunelle, shaking the floor as
though a colossal statue had been endowed with movement, and the big
voice was heard in thunder presently, shouting out peremptory commands
about curtains and chairs and tables.

Who was to resist this interloper? Gabrielle, though she felt nettled
at being taken despotically in hand, and thrust aside, was not
prepared to interfere, for manifestly the arrangements were for the
good of the darlings. The new broom was sweeping so very clean, that
compunction invaded the maternal bosom, in that she had been remiss in
not sufficiently considering the extent of the cherubic wants.

Established in the best room on the ground floor to her satisfaction,
surrounded with pictures and statuettes and ornamental nicknacks
ravished from other chambers, Mademoiselle Brunelle let all and sundry
know that here was her especial stronghold which none would invade
with impunity.

Nevertheless, the Marquise de Gange, who did not understand that such
an _ukase_ could possibly refer to her, prepared herself to assist at
the lessons of the dear ones and to watch the process of shooting,
and she was no little taken aback at the arbitrary proceedings
of the governess. At first she took no notice of sour smiles and
head-tossings, whereupon mademoiselle thought fit to dot her _i_'s,
and bluntly inform madame with that queer mixture of respect and
independence, in which the latter was beginning to preponderate, that
it was a troublesome matter to instruct youth in complicated subjects
in the presence of an ignorant mother.

"Do consider, madame," she observed, saucily, "how humiliating for you
it will be, if they discover how little you know!"

Gabrielle bowed her head and blushingly admitted her shortcomings. "I
too can learn," she murmured with meekness, "and you will find me an
anxious pupil;" but somehow whenever the rustle of her dress was heard
in the corridor, the cherubs unaccountably began their music lesson;
and when, remarking the fact, she requested that in future the
scraping of Victor's violin might be exchanged for more delectable
study, mademoiselle raised her mobile thatch of brow, and curtly
declared that she took orders only from the marquis.

Gabrielle left the school-room humbled and bewildered, for a novel
idea had been thrust on her which her loyal nature refused to
entertain. Clovis could not have introduced this new factor into the
household for the purpose of annoying his wife! Everyone admitted that
he was a good man, if selfish and somewhat unpractical.

He did not wish this creature to stand betwixt a mother and her babes?
Surely not. The suspicion was unworthy of a true wife, and banished as
soon as formed. There was a mistake somewhere. The woman meant well,
but was officious. Clovis occupy himself about such domestic details!
Why, he rarely took notice of the children at all, unless worried into
doing so. Why should he show interest now--since the arrival of this
person? Pondering over this problem in confused pain between the
alleys of the moated garden, the marquise endeavoured to reassure
herself. Could she be so foolish as to be growing jealous of a
stranger who, it could not be denied, was acting for the best? It was
perfectly true that the marquise knew nothing of the subjects that
were being taught by Aglae, and it was genuinely kind of her not to
let the cherubs see that their erudition overtopped their mother's.

And yet--the hireling had been sadly rude to the mother in the
presence of the darlings.

"You are agitated, sweet sister?" whispered the abbe, coming softly up
behind across the grass--his soft hands in a dainty muff, for it was
chilly--and beaming down on her. "Do you know that I've been following
these five minutes without obtaining a hearing?"

He looked so kind, had behaved with such discretion since his mistake,
that her chilled heart warmed to him. Her lips trembled, and she burst
into a flood of tears. His fingers clutched within the muff (oh! how
like the vulture's talons!) as though he would have clasped her to his
breast and held her there; but with a supreme effort he restrained the
impulse. "Not yet; not yet," he murmured to himself, as hearkening to
her artless tale with anxious mien he gazed in silence across the
swiftly-flowing Loire.


"I fear your suspicion is well founded, and that Clovis wishes it," he
murmured shortly, when she had finished; then, taking her cold hand in
his, he led her through the postern to a spot which overlooked the
cherubic sanctuary.

Clovis sat by the spinet, beating time with a roll of music--the
divine afflatus heavy on him--while the pair of angels played.

"She got rid of you on purpose; drove you out, to be untrammelled in
her intercourse with him!" whispered the abbe with compassion.

"My children!" moaned the chatelaine, aghast. "Why can it be his wish
that she should take them from me, their mother?"




                             CHAPTER IX.

                           THUNDER CLOUDS.


Gabrielle was stung to the quick. When _she_ taught the infants her
husband could never be lured into the nursery, and now--in so brief a
space of time--a stranger had succeeded in rousing his dormant
interest. In her jealousy she took to secretly watching the movements
of the governess, and discovered, to her dismay, that the steps of
Clovis were constantly wending towards the school-room. And this state
of things had been brought about by the non-performance of duties. It
was her own fault--of course it was her own fault for neglecting the
abbe's warning. Had he not said that Clovis required leading; had he
not even offered to assist her in leading him, and had she not replied
by inference that so long as he was guided judiciously, it might be by
another hand? But never, in wildest nightmare, had she conjured the
possibility of that hand being another woman's! She was a bad wife,
for she had neglected her duty, since, surely, it is a wife's first
duty to make herself pleasant to her husband. Oh! woe on sins of
omission! Instead of pampering her spouse's hobbies she had scoffed at
them, and punishment had swooped swiftly down on her.

But it was not too late to set the matter right. He was not a bad man,
though difficult to live with. A word of remonstrance at this juncture
was worth a homily later, and he would hearken to her words of
pleading, for since the arrival of the brothers at Lorge he had shown,
in a glimmering glow-worm way, that he admired and liked his wife. She
was satisfied that his sluggish nature was not capable of a warmer
feeling, and had brought herself meekly to accept that microscopic
meed of affection. She must take her courage in her hands, and open
her heart to him; declare that his new arrangement, which at the start
promised well enough, was making his wife wretched. When he came to
understand that she was miserable, he would apologise at once and send
the interloper packing.

Rising from the sofa on which she had fallen after pacing the room in
a fever, she moved rapidly along the corridor which led to the
marquis' study. Her fingers were on the door-knob, and her head was
whirling with persuasive arguments, when of a sudden her hand dropped
powerless. There were low voices murmuring within. The parquet all
around the closed door was strewn with straw and bottles, while on an
open packing-case was scrawled in large letters the name of Aglae
Brunelle. A cold shiver passed over her frame. She was with him now,
that woman. On familiar terms, indeed, since her boxes were unpacked
by Clovis! They were never weary of communing together, with heads
close and hair mingling, discussing subjects which absorbed them both,
but in which she would never have a part! The pride of the young
chatelaine rebelled. She could not complain before the domineering
adventuress. Would it not be humiliating enough to confess to _him_
that his beautiful and high-born wife was jealous of a stranger,
sprung from nowhere in particular, who was rather plain than
otherwise?

Reluctantly returning to the boudoir, she took a pen and, after a
pause of meditation, flung it down. Write to her fond father, begging
him to intervene? No. He believed that she was happy, and should
believe it to the end, however much she might be made to suffer. He
should share her joys, but not her sorrows, the good father who adored
her so. She must endeavour to remedy her own mistakes, fight this
rival single-handed, win back the errant husband by the female arts
which hitherto she had affected to despise, and understood so little.
Was she strong enough for the difficult task? Perchance the abbe would
assist; but was it not another bitter thing to summon one to the
rescue who, though repentant, had once so grievously forgotten
himself?

Meanwhile, though he kept up a show of airy levity, the cunning
Pharamond was, in a different way, almost as perturbed as she. The
strides of the affinity were prodigious, whereas his own siege of
Gabrielle made no advance at all. Unless he grappled with the
situation without delay, he would assuredly be worsted. But how to
grapple with it, by cajolery or threats? Or would it be advisable to
practise the arts of the bravo? Was the hand of cordial friendship to
be extended to the interloper, or was she forthwith to be stabbed in
the back? Pharamond considered himself a genius, and knew that one
attribute of genius is to know when to seize an opportunity. Consider
the knotty problem as he would, he could not come to a decision.
Perhaps, for the present, a waiting game would be the best to play.
The hand of friendship first, as an experiment; a stab with the
poignard by and by.

The abbe in his uncertainty took to dividing his valuable society
between the ladies. While the marquis and his affinity were fidgeting
over experiments, he read impassioned strophes to the marquise. When
the party went forth for a walk or drive he attached himself to the
skirt of Aglae. Her behaviour was irreproachable. She laughed slily at
his delicate hints, and seemed mightily amused by his compliments.
Once, when he thought he was really making progress in this direction,
she placed her two large hands upon her haunches, and wagging her
head, remarked, "Does monsieur think me blind?"

"Certainly not," replied the gallant abbe. "Those sparkling orbs shine
like fireflies."

"Then why arrange a trap--and such a clumsy one--for my poor big
simple feet to fall into?"

It is disconcerting to the astute to be twitted with lack of
skill. The tactics that served for Gabrielle would not do with this
shrewder lady. Since she guessed his hand, why not show the cards?
Dangerous--but a hazardous game not unfrequently coerces Fortune.

"Why can't you trust me, mademoiselle," he murmured. "Cannot one so
sharp perceive that I'm her friend?"

"A thousand thanks. I am indeed blessed," simpered the lady, raising
her bushy brows. "A fortunate wanderer on life's rugged road. The
marquis is all goodness. Have I also found favour with his brother?"

"I have helped you already," pursued the abbe, fibbing. "I have
explained to the marquise that she must no longer interfere with the
children; that Mademoiselle Brunelle is to have absolute and complete
control."

Aglae shot at the speaker a suspicious glance. An ally and not an
enemy? To what end? If it were really so, a friend in the camp would
be extremely useful. A snare--surely a snare--for this man had every
reason to dislike the intruder.

"What motive have you for befriending a poor insignificant creature
such as I?" bluntly demanded the governess. "People do nothing for
nothing in this world, and I know that I am not a beauty."

"I have my reasons."

"What are they?"

"Eve was too prying. Accept the lesson and trust."

Aglae looked straight at Pharamond; then laughing her great rolling
laugh playfully shook her head.

"No. Trust You? Thank you," she said. "You overreach yourself, for you
are a dreadfully sharp-witted gentleman who can see through a wall and
round a corner. You think I have grand plans, when I have none; for I
am only a guileless wandering waif who enjoys the good things of this
world."

There was a sly look of covert malice in her sparkling eyes which
belied her words, "You do not believe me?" she continued. "I am not
quite young, so I have learned to know the world and its funny little
snares. Flies are only eaten by spiders because their lives are so
short, that they've no time to learn experience."

"You take me for a spider?" inquired Pharamond, uncertain what to make
of the lady.

"You are certainly a wee bit like, for you want to gobble up poor me!"

"I assure you that both I and the chevalier are friends, whom you
would do well to trust."

"You take me for a cuckoo, and all the while I am a dove," cried
lively Aglae. Then seeing that the abbe was nonplussed, she spoke
musingly, as though discussing a grave matter with herself. "What a
pity," she observed regretfully to the landscape, "that the dear man
cannot be explicit. He is afraid that the lowly governess may supplant
him with his brother, and would like to tumble me neck and crop into
his yawning gaping trap! In so shrewd a gentleman stupidity is sad."
She pretended not to see the gleam of menace in the abbe's eyes, or
the sharp clenching of his hands, and turned with an ingenuous look of
artless innocence when he blurted out in anger,--

"Afraid! I am afraid of no one. I can speak more plainly, if you
will."

"No need," replied the governess, carelessly, "for I can see round
corners quite as well as you. I can read your character up to a point,
and beyond that I confess I am baffled. I have changed my mind--women
have the right, haven't they?--and will give you a lesson in candour.
There is no witness to our cosy chat, for the birds are gone
a-picnicing, so why should we beat about the bush? Stick to the truth,
abbe. You say you are afraid of none, the while you are afraid of me.
You look with fear on my growing influence over the marquis, and in
that you are right, for I intend that he shall be my slave, unable to
live out of my company. See how plain spoken I am, whilst you are full
of artifice! When I came here I had no projects, being content to
drift like a cork, leaving events to sort themselves, and my plans
even now are of the vaguest. The marquis is rich. Do not suppose for a
moment that I propose to become his mistress. Never, never, never! _ce
serait trop bete!_ If his puling wife were to die I might condescend
to succeed her, but that is not just now within the limits of the
probable. I like the marquis, and I like the grey old chateau, and I
enjoy the sweets of wealth. Why trouble about the morrow, then?
Whatever I may choose to do I shall succeed in it, for patience is one
of my pet virtues--not but what I love them all--and success is made
of patience as the sea of drops."

"You are a singular woman!" remarked the abbe.

"Am I not? Frankness is so nice when no one's by. My long speech is
not finished yet, for I would like to add that I like you too, and
should regret to have you for an enemy. Here is my point of doubt. I
saw before I had been here a day that you were enamoured of the pretty
doll. I do not blame you, for most men are idiots. They cannot learn
that good looks are provokingly transient, while intellect bears wear
and tear."

"Your candour is half confidence disguised," laughed Pharamond. "What
can you be aiming at if you disdain to become his mistress?"

"Have I not said I do not know? I have not thought. I am open to be
led by circumstances. Candour for candour. I burn to discover what you
are aiming at with regard to the pretty doll? Why are you so anxious
to make a friend of me? Am I to be the scourge to lash her to
obedience? Yes? A crooked compliment, but let that pass. I have no
pity for that sort of woman, and if you promise not to stand in my way
when I discover what it is, I will accept the role to serve you. If I
help you now I may claim your assistance later, A bargain! We
understand each other quite, I think? We will make the fool so
wretched that in despair she'll seek refuge on your breast."

It was evident that tortuous ways did not find favour with
mademoiselle, who preferred making for a goal with straight
uncompromising march, kicking down barriers with her big broad feet.
It was to be an alliance, then? Well and good; but it was somewhat
nettling that the proposal should come from her, as if her own idea.
When the caprice seized her, she could take things with so high a hand
as to be bewildering. The abbe resolved to accept her terms, but would
have the last word on the subject.

Bending over Aglae's dusky fingers, he lightly touched them with his
lips. "You are a monstrous clever lady," he said, "and my admiring
respect increases hourly. Trust us as we trust you, and each party
will be the stronger for the union. We are both skilful players, you
and I, who, antagonistic, might spoil each other. Loyalty and trust.
It's understood." With that he made a low obeisance and left the lady
to her thoughts.

Mademoiselle Brunelle revolved the course of the conference, and was
satisfied. When first engaged, knowing the marquise to be a beauty,
she had, as she explained, formed no definite design. That which was
working in her brain had grown out of a survey of the situation. On
the whole, there was nothing to find fault with. For a wage, the abbe
was to throw all his weight into her scale--a wage which cost her
nothing. He had correctly pointed out that as foes they would hurt
each other; but she was far from admitting that in a contest it would
be she who would succumb. Her contempt for the culpable helplessness
of the marquise was so intense that it cost her much to be civil. What
a pleasure, then, to stick pins into her quivering flesh! To have a
woman always at one's elbow who sighs like the east wind, and weeps
like a cataract, as Gabrielle had taken to do of late, was vastly
irritating. There is naught more trying to strong nerves than the
fecklessness of one that can do nothing to help itself but scream--not
that Gabrielle screamed, or made any uproar. She was far too haughty
for that, and veiled her pain as closely as weakness permitted; but
Aglae knew as well as faithful and indignant Toinon, that the hapless
lady's grief found vent in midnight vigil, and earnest prayer and
bitter tears, which in the morning left their mark. Entangled
in an intrigue with Pharamond, such claws as she possessed for
self-protection, would be cut. If by skilful handling the ripened
cherry could be dropped into his mouth, it would be the better for
everyone. Though Aglae, for some eccentric reason, declined to be
herself a mistress, she saw no reason why another should not. If
Gabrielle and Pharamond could be brought together, all would be
satisfied. The wind would change; the cataract dry up; a serious
source of annoyance would be removed; and the lovers sufficient unto
themselves, would not trouble about the subsequent proceedings of the
marquis and his affinity.

But supposing that weeping Niobe proved obdurate--weak people are
pigheaded--and was inconvenient enough to be inconsolable? There is no
use in erecting castles till we know the ground they are to be built
on. The abbe was a spiteful little wretch, and, baulked, there was no
guessing how he would act, or of what he would be capable. Sufficient
unto the day is the evil. To oblige him, Gabrielle should receive the
lash, and it would be amusing to watch the result.

As week followed week, life seemed to run so oilily at Lorge, that
onlookers would have envied the unruffled lot of the tranquil lotus
eaters. And yet what fierce currents were beginning to battle under
the smooth surface--currents of hate and sorrow, and envy and
despair--some ensanguined, some black as winter night. The only member
of the party who was not pining for something different--whose
aspirations and desires were satisfied--was Clovis, Marquis de Gange.
He had found his affinity, had caught his adept, and had succeeded,
without remonstrance, in making her one of the family. His brother,
instead of objecting in any way to the presence of an interloper, was
constantly congratulating him on his good luck in having unearthed so
desirable a specimen. "Just think," he cried, beaming with
satisfaction; "you might have saddled us with a tatterdemalion who
would have stolen the family plate and have cut our throats while we
were asleep, instead of which you have produced a bundle of charms,
big enough for two!" Clovis was grateful to his brother for chiming in
so promptly with his whim. "She is indeed a charmer," he purred, "so
good-natured and obliging; never cross or malevolent, with no touch
of venom on her tongue. There's nothing more dreadful than a spiteful
or scheming woman. The very thought of such an anomaly makes me
shudder." And then he sighed a little. If Gabrielle could only be as
good-humoured as Aglae, and as accommodating as Pharamond. Despite his
efforts, he could not help remarking that piteously sad face every
morning at _dejeuner_. She was pale and thin, and her beauty was on
the wane. Her eyes loomed unnaturally large. Never a talker, she
rarely opened her lips now, but sat drumming her fingers on the
table-cloth in the most uninteresting way, staring across the Loire as
if she did not know each detail of that landscape. How different from
Aglae, who could prattle on for ever on any subject.

On the grand principle that we hate persons whom we have injured
almost as much as those from whom we have received benefits, the sight
of melancholy Gabrielle began to tell upon the nerves of Clovis. She
was guilty of the great crime of boring him and of pinching
conscience, and was unfortunate enough not to show advantageously by
the side of the new foil. A moist statue of Endurance established at
one's breakfast-table is an overpoweringly cumbersome piece of
furniture, however immaculate its contours. Poor Gabrielle was no
actress. If her heart was bursting, she had not the art to grin, and
smirk, and caper to conceal the unpleasant fact. If her dimmed eyes
were surrounded by _bistre_ circles like a rainy moon, if her lip
quivered and her cheek was wan, she could not help it, for the modicum
of courage she possessed was oozing, and she cared not if she lived or
died. Her heart was slowly withering. When looking on the man upon
whom she had bestowed her love, for better or worse for life, his
image was blurred by distance. She saw him across a wide gulf that was
ever widening. Our unlucky heroine's mind, as we have learned, was not
well stocked. The sometimes skittish Brunelle's square head was so
stocked with lore that doubtless in moments of woe she could
unpigeonhole an array of valuable statistics and build with them a
bulwark against trouble. Gabrielle was incapable of any such
proceeding. She loved her husband with the loyalty of the simple woman
who loves once. She worshipped the prodigies, who under the new
_regime_ were becoming even more prodigious. Her husband turned away
from her; the darlings were estranged from their own mother. Seeing
her so little, and pampered and flattered by the brilliant governess,
they learned to dote on the funny tall brown woman with the voice like
a deep-toned bell, who was ever ready, when they danced into the room,
to cast aside her occupation and teach them a new game, or invent for
them a new story. Her resources were endless, for her spirits were
inexhaustible, and, like Richelieu and his kittens, she found the
gambols of childhood entertaining.

Gabrielle rarely saw the darlings now. They were isolated in a remote
wing, to which she dared not penetrate for fear of some covert insult.
Wearied by the ever-present reproach of her sad face, Clovis changed
his habits. For the future, he would breakfast in his study, he
declared, so as not to interrupt his experiments.

How fortunately affairs were turning, to be sure! Clovis was
enchanted. His neighbour, the Comte de Vaux, usually such an old
nuisance with his prate of the _grande noblesse_, was opportunely
attacked with acutest sciatica. What a chance to try the _bucket!_
Thanks to that admirable Aglae, it was complete. The exact placing of
the various bottles; the quantity of iron filing in each; the modicum
of liquid; the length of the glass wands: all was known and arranged
to a fraction. The rheumatism of the respectable De Vaux would be sent
packing. Glory would cover Mesmer and his two disciples.

Gabrielle had sought refuge from despair in good works, as most
stricken women do. She was indefatigable amongst the poor, and the
advent of the "White Chatelaine" produced always a chorus of blessing.
When departing on her rounds, Aglae, gazing down upon her from her
window, had often been heard to give vent to growls and ribald
thunderclaps.

"Just look at mawkish pale-face," she cried one day to the chevalier,
who nodded and smiled, pretending to be intelligent. "There's not a
thing she can do right. Fool! making friends with the weak instead of
with the strong! I know better than that."

Toinon, who chanced to overhear, smiled maliciously. "Indeed?" she
chuckled to herself. "If Jean Boulot speaks truth, it is the strong
who have been slumbering, while the weak danced and sang. Wait a bit,
and you will get your deserts, milady. And, oh! won't I help you on
your road!"

This matter of the completed bucket was one in which the chatelaine
might assist with propriety in an endeavour to please her husband. She
had heard so much of it as almost to be convinced of its efficacy.
True, the abbe had told her that it was a delusion, that the bottom of
the whole scheme was imagination; that the mechanical effect of
friction in disorders of a convulsive nature will produce startling
results; that there is a well-known law which impels one excited
animal to imitate another in a similar situation to himself, and that
this would satisfactorily account for the phenomena of Mesmer's cures.
But this was some time ago, and since then Pharamond had affected to
come round, and when he beheld the completed tub he gave way to spasms
of rapture.

When the newly-wedded wife in pique had worried her spouse with
scenes, they were only the ebullitions of a much-admired woman
irritated by the loved one's coolness. Now she had trod the path of
trouble so far that those days were out of ken. In her efforts to win
back her husband she would even conciliate the mischief-maker. Some
women seem specially created for martyrdom. Otherwise insignificant,
we should not see them but for the dazzling whiteness of their robes.
I dare say that many of the canonized young ladies whose legends
thrill us would, had they not been called to march over the
ploughshare of trial, have remained as much in obscurity as any other
ordinary young persons, who are too stupid to make a pudding or darn a
stocking. They would have passed utterly unnoticed in the crowd but
for the martyr's nimbus.

"The woman does not like me, and is rude," argued too guileless
Gabrielle, as she considered her resolve, "but she is such a general
favourite that surely she can't be a bad woman; she is only vulgar,
and given to self-assertion. Perhaps the fault lies in myself."
Bravely, then, the meek saint uprose and went straight to Aglae's
apartment, bearing with her a peace-offering, bent on the making up of
differences.

But the sublime and the angelic were beyond the comprehension of
mundane Aglae, who since infancy had known nothing but the sordid;
whose childhood had been passed in a beast-like tussle, a constant
struggle for food. To her thinking, the maxim anent the turning of the
cheek is an insult to common sense, considering the world whereon we
were placed without consent of ours. In Saturn or Jupiter, perhaps,
such inflated theories may be appropriate. Those worlds may be
pleasant places to dwell in. There, no doubt, a police force is not
required, while the wily but necessary detective is pictured as a
curiosity, an extinct monster, like the Dodo and the Mammoth on this
globe.

Mademoiselle Brunelle, an unromantic lady of middle age, too
commonplace to enjoy the fantastic, looked on eccentricities with a
jaundiced eye, and the contemplation made her peevish.

When the wan marquise knocked and gently entered the sanctum, where
she should have known there was no place for her, the ire of Aglae was
kindled, and sulkily regarding the invader, she assumed her most
offensive attitude. What could the abject, grovelling, brow-beaten
creature want, coming here to bother? How dared she take such a
liberty? She deserved a setting down--a drubbing. Here was a chance
for the lash! The mere sight of the wide opened violet eyes of the
marquise, with their eloquent depth of ineffable sadness, acted on her
nerves as the flag of the toreador does upon the bull. We must not
blame her, for those who have struggled up somehow without educated
help, must judge for themselves according to their lights, and they
are beset with insoluble riddles, as ill-cultured fields are choked
with weeds. To women such as Aglae, true pride is an unknown quantity.
Instead of considering it as an organ of extremest delicacy, with
ramifications as minute and various as that most amazing of creations,
the nerve system--she, like others of her kidney, understood nothing
more than an aggressive haughtiness, with an accompaniment of sledge
hammers. To her, the refined pride which can afford to pass slights
unnoticed and ignored impertinence, was a mystery which might not be
deciphered.

Gabrielle--so misread by Aglae--had bestirred herself to achieve an
object, and was prepared to forgive and obliterate the ugly past. The
pugnacious and low-souled Aglae could only perceive a lady of high
rank, who, out of cowardice, abdicated her position to grovel like a
beggar in the dirt. Such an one obviously merited castigation;
deserved to be rudely shown that being so mean-spirited she should
cower into a corner and hide away her shame.

This was the occasion for judicious pin-sticking. The alliance
demanded an operation. What would the abbe say, who had prated so
seraphically about loyalty, if he came to know that his ally and his
recalcitrant lady love had made a compact under the rose? Oh, dear no!
A reconciliation between the marquise and her governess would never do
at all! A consummation injudicious and undesirable. The purveyor of
impossible theories must be well-rapped on the knuckles. The cheek
that was turned to the smiter must be soundly thwacked to prevent a
recurrence in the future of ill-judged and degrading mawkishness.

Aglae, therefore, on the advent of the conciliatory marquise, made a
pettish movement of studied impertinence, and yawned slowly in her
face like a dyspeptic hippopotamus.

"What's that you are bringing me?" she grunted. "You know that I don't
want to be worried with you? A present? From you? Oh dear! How you
annoy me! As if I wished for your present!"

Nothing daunted, Gabrielle held out the olive-branch. "It is a
bracelet my father gave me," she said, calmly, "and I would like you
to wear it, that you may be assured each time you look on it, that I
bear no malice for your roughness."

"Nice enough. Your father had good taste," the governess remarked,
with another portentous yawn. "But what do I want with your trinkets?
Eh? I have only to say the word to be bedecked with the family
jewels."

First pin, plunged well into the flesh. Gabrielle turned white, but
did not abandon her purpose.

"What harm have I ever done you?" she asked, quietly.

"Harm!" echoed Aglae. "The harm of coming into the world, and making
of yourself a perpetual nuisance. Nobody here wants you. Why can't you
go out of it?"

"I wish to be taught about Mesmer and his theories," pursued
Gabrielle, with a courage which should have compelled respect. "Give
me lessons and I will pay you."

"_You_ pay me?" laughed Aglae amused. "My price might be too high for
your purse."

The marquise looked at the governess in mild surprise. Could it be
that she did not know how the case stood with regard to money? It was
not for her to enlighten the interloper. The fact was, that as the
marquis received what he wanted, the subject of filthy lucre was never
mentioned in the household.

"The carriage has been ordered, and I will go with you to-day." She
decided quietly.

"What!" shrieked Aglae, tired of the interview. "You want to go to
Montbazon? Do you know that we are going to operate upon old de Vaux?
My poor soul! You would only be most desperately in the way, seeing
how ignorant and in experienced you are. Come. Saints prefer the
truth, I'm told, though I don't find it always pleasant; but then I'm
not a saint, you see. I would have you realise that your method is
deplorable. You have managed so ill as to drive the marquis from his
own breakfast-table with your ridiculous woful airs. The luckless
master of the house has been hunted from the dining-hall. For a saint,
I call that ungenerous." Pin No. 2.

"I may be incompetent to amuse--that is my misfortune," sighed the
marquise; "but it is strange that one with so good a heart as he,
should treat her so harshly who loves him with all her soul."

"Love!" laughed the governess with insolence, much tickled. "You don't
know what it means. How just it is that one so fair should be so
brainless! All you could give him was the clammy affection of a fish.
No wonder that anything so chilly should be returned with thanks."

Gabrielle's cheeks began to burn, her eyes to sparkle. "It is not for
you who eat my bread to shower insults on me! Till you came," she
said, "we got on well enough. I took what he had to give with
gratitude. I have endured too much from you, and know now that you are
wicked. Beware lest you push me to extremity."

"Till I came?" echoed the governess. "Till then it was the worthy
abbe's tact that kept things going, no thanks to you. One of the few
just rules of this bad world is that as we make our bed we lie on it.
Your bed is full of creases? Too late, my dear, to smooth them. So I
am the kill-joy, am I? Ask your husband whether he was ever so happy
as since my coming? You poor, puling, whining bat!" pursued Aglae,
surveying her victim with withering scorn. "You could not perceive
that natures such as his require a master--a strong hand to lead, an
iron will to guide, a whip to drive, if need be. Here is the hand to
which he has learnt to cling and shall cling to--to the end."

Mademoiselle flourished the large square-fingered hand so close to the
marquise's face that she recoiled.

"Why, even your children care more for me than you," she scoffed. Pin
No. 3. "No doubt I have bewitched them? You should get me burned as a
sorceress, and start your life afresh. I freely give you this advice,
so never say I am ill-natured. Puling and whining adds loathing to
indifference. Cheerfully accept the fate you've carved, and make the
best of it. Now you must really excuse me; I must dress, for I never
keep the marquis waiting;" and with that she firmly pushed the
marquise from the room and slammed the door in her face.

It was cruelly put, but true--all of it. With sinking heart the pale
chatelaine admitted it was true. Too late now for remedy. The woman
had taken Clovis in that powerful hand of hers, and twisted him round
her little finger. Would it be of any use to make the appeal to him
from which she had shrunk so long? No. The woman had laid stress on
the fact that he had come actually to avoid her presence, would not
even sit at table with her. Nothing short of absolute aversion could
deprive her thus of every privilege of wife and mother. What had she
done to deserve it?

Painfully the chatelaine reviewed her empty life. If she had gone too
far with one of the Paris swains she could not have been more
completely ostracised. He was indifferent even then, heeding not her
incomings or outgoings, and yet he must once have cared a little for
his young wife, for then his eyes were sometimes fixed on her with
genuine satisfaction. Never now. By what intangible, invisible degrees
had things come to this grievous pass? Must she take the woman's
advice, and strive to look with cheerfulness on the inevitable? A
wife, yet no wife! What was to be the end of it? Only twenty-five
years old. How wide a waste of barren dreariness in front ere she
might hope for rest.

A sound of wheels on the gravel--the carriage was gone. On the box was
a wondrous array of parcels. Clovis and Aglae were engaged in so
animated a discussion that the children on the front seat crowed and
clapped hands with glee, marking the gesticulations of papa and the
dear, funny, brown woman. Their elfin laughter reverberated among the
grim pinnacles and turrets, and as the carriage turned into a woody
glade, Gabrielle saw from her seat in the moat-garden little Camille
climb upon the woman's knee and press her rosy face against the brown
one. The action smote the marquise as with a knife-stab, and she
moaned as if in bodily pain. "She usurps my place completely,"
murmured the hapless lady, deadly pale. "I am as little a mother as a
wife. Oh, God grant me strength to endure! Though I be without the
gate, teach me to be thankful that they are happy."

She was aware of a long shadow on the grass, and a gentle voice by her
side echoed her own thought.

"Alone--always alone," the suave abbe said, scrutinizing with lazy
satisfaction the delicacy and whiteness of his hands. "How is it, dear
marquise, that you only of our coterie are heavy-hearted? You need
rousing. What will you gain by moping except a loss of beauty and a
bad digestion? They've gone off to Montbazon, Clovis and his affinity
and the babes--twittering like so many sparrows. I should like to
survey the scene there, it will be most entertainingly ridiculous, but
they won't let us miserable scoffers assist at the incantation. Our
presence would annul the charm. What a divine day!" he continued,
flinging himself on the grass in a graceful attitude at the feet of
the chatelaine. "How swiftly the seasons pass! These glorious summer
days! How we enjoy the sun although we seek the shade, apparently
ungrateful. We forget that the leaves will turn sallow and swirl down
and die, and that we shall pine for warmth in vain. Why not? Why
trouble about the future when the present is brimming with delight?"

The abbe, his hands clasped behind his head, was peering straight up
into the blue, and what he saw there must have been pleasing, for he
seemed as satisfied with everything in general as the cat that purrs
before the fire.

"Why so dismal, my dear Gabrielle, on so perfect a morning as this; it
savours of ingratitude to heaven?"

Gabrielle glanced down at him. Was he playing with her in malice, as
the cat does with the mouse? Dismal, forsooth, when your heart
overflows with misery!

Pharamond was in a retrospective mood, and dreamily surveyed the past
as he might some moving panorama.

"Let me see," he said. "How long have we dwelt here a model family? A
year and a half--rather more than a year and a half."

"Only that?" sighed Gabrielle. "It seems a lifetime."

"You are discontented? Yearn for the frippery of court life? I am not
surprised. It is horribly selfish of us all to lock up such peerless
beauty as yours to gloat over among ourselves."

"A worse than useless gift," remarked Gabrielle, with conviction,
"bestowed on us by nature in her most malicious mood. Happiness is
given to the ugly ones."

"At least they are saved the pang that accompanies the first wrinkle,"
asserted Pharamond. "You refer to Mademoiselle Brunelle, I suppose;
our charming Aglae. She appears to be happy enough indeed. Those large
women of stoutish build possess a power of assimilation--of selecting
what is best, and chewing the cud of its enjoyment. Ages ago, before I
appeared on the scene, you were discontented. Yes, you were, dear
Gabrielle. It was my privilege then to bring back sunshine to this
gloomy spot. You might have rewarded me but you were unkind. I did not
complain, but endured your cruelty without a murmur. It was my
solicitude that unwrinkled your rose-leaves. You might have rewarded
me, I say, and you would not, and yet I bore no malice."

A foreboding of new evil darkened around Gabrielle's heart. "Why refer
to that episode that was condoned, and dead, and buried?"

Without changing his attitude, the abbe pursued purringly--

"For those halcyon days you had me to thank--me only, remember that,
and you could not be grateful. Ingratitude must be gently chidden, for
it goes ill with beauty--as a mother gently chides a well-beloved one.
I crumpled the leaves again, deliberately squeezed them into tiny
roughnesses, that you might learn how much you owed me. I confess it
was my doing. It was for your own good I did it."

The marquise sat like stone. What was this new gulf slowly
yawning--and she who looked to him for help!

"Did you never guess that it was I? No? How singular. Your intellect
works slowly. I never say what I don't mean, and I warned you, unless
I mistake sadly, that it depended on yourself whether I was to be
friend or foe. Does you memory serve you? Yes? So glad."

"I had learned to trust you as a friend," murmured Gabrielle, huskily.
"A dear friend on whom to lean in trouble. Alas--alas! my only one!"

"Why, alas? You are, excuse me, so very foolish. As our sensible Aglae
is so fond of saying, 'We do nothing for nothing in this world.' To
sit at these dainty feet is in itself a privilege, but ardent men,
made of hot flesh and blood, crave more. It's human nature to be
grasping."

"If you have mercy, peace!" implored the pale lady in growing terror.

The abbe raised himself on his elbow and surveyed Gabrielle--as lovely
as a startled fawn in her distress--with a smile that was quite
paternal, and belied the green glitter from beneath the lids. "What a
naughty girl," he chuckled, "to tempt a weak mortal with such charms.
I swear to you that with that marble skin, and those widely-opened
eyes of violet, like eyes that see a phantom, and ruby lips just
slightly parted, and that fluttering heaving bosom, you are ten times
more beautiful than I have ever seen you yet! Tut, tut! Calm yourself.
Do not take me for that uncomfortable thing, a basilisk. I am not
going to touch you, so don't look horrified. I am going away. That is
why I spoke. I wished you to know how matters stand, and to reflect
during my absence. It is desirable that you should quite comprehend
that for weal or woe your future depends on me."

"Going away," echoed Gabrielle, relieved, and yet dismayed.

"It is necessary. Was it not delicately imagined to speak, as I had to
speak, just on the eve of departure? Am I not considerate? We have
lately had letters of strange purport from Paris. Outrageous rumours
are abroad, which, if a whit of them is true, may mean serious peril
to our class. Over the affair of the Bastile the king was lamentably
misguided. He and his ministers know now and bitterly regret their
lack of purpose, for the scum, as was to be expected, has taken heart
of grace and waxes impudent with impunity. So I am going to make a
little trip to the capital, just to reconnoitre. Do not be alarmed. I
think that the agitation is all moonshine. Reflect on what I have
said, and remember that there's a limit to man's patience. Your
future, whether for comfort or the reverse, depends entirely on me. I
repeat it for the sake of emphasis. I gave you peace, then at my whim
withdrew it. Have I made it clear that what I have done I can undo?"

"There are limits to a woman's patience as well as a man's," Gabrielle
observed, grimly.

"Quite so," acquiesced the other. "Mademoiselle Brunelle has been a
thorn in your flesh, which I regret. You have endured its irritation
with fortitude, for which you deserve all praise. It depends upon
yourself whether or no the thorn be pruned away. For that you need my
aid, which shall be freely tendered--on conditions that you wot of.
During my absence I have instructed the chevalier to watch, that you
may be shielded from assaults of the enemy. A useful watchdog is the
chevalier, faithful and obedient, who will report to me everything
that passes. It is a sad pity that he takes to drink. I have observed
lately that he takes more and more to the bottle. Of that by and by he
must be cured. Meanwhile, I would have you consider the case from
every point of view, and yourself deliver the verdict."

The Abbe Pharamond rose to his feet, and kissing his finger tips,
departed.

Pressure from all quarters to the same end. You have made your
bed--make the best of it; accept the inevitable cheerfully. What the
fates decree we fight against in vain. Unfortunate Gabrielle.
Patience? Good heavens--how long-suffering was hers! And what had she
gained by it? Rebuff. Persecution. Torture. Out of the labyrinth they
had planted about her there were two exits. She might appeal to the
marechal for protection, return to the shelter of his roof. But to let
him learn that her life was shattered, that the marriage he had
himself arranged had turned out so disastrously; it would break the
old man's heart.

The other passage? Through the gates of Death. No. That method of
escape might not be employed either. What would the old man's feelings
be if he discovered that she had been driven to suicide? And yet--to
fall into the maw of the abbe. Never--never--never. Why not? Why
should she care what happened? To her it mattered little now what
chanced, bereft of all. Her father need never know. Perhaps, if she
gave way they would in pity grant her peace? Sure she was going crazy.
Peace? The peace of guilt? Peace where there was no peace? No--no. It
should never come to that.




                              CHAPTER X.

                            THE MAGIC TUB.


The abbe was a chameleon--bewildering in the abruptness of his
changes. The carriage that returned from Montbazon was a chariot of
triumph, and the abbe joined with vigour in the paeans of victory. He
wished to leave a good impression, that his absence might be
regretted. He was going on a tour of business and of pleasure; was
determined to enjoy himself immensely--he, who as a provincial had
rarely visited Paris. How delicious before he went, he declared with
rapture, to have his mind relieved, to be assured that the magic tub
was no fraud--Mesmer, a genius, not a charlatan! They must toast the
prophet in bumpers of champagne. He insisted on it, and accordingly
dragged the delighted Clovis from his study to join the circle at
dinner. Clovis was quite another man. A gladness was in his eyes that
transformed his glum visage, and Gabrielle sitting opposite wondered.
In this mood, sure if she spoke, he would hearken. Was the case really
hopeless? Was it, indeed, too late? Alack. It was evident that the
abbe was playing a part, for now and again he glanced at Gabrielle
with an expression that was full of meaning. The situation was
bewildering. Like one who dreams she sat listening to the victorious
duet, wherein the marquis and the governess took up their tale by
turns.

Under the sun of success Clovis opened like a flower. He was radiant
with content. His wife yearned to lead him from the room to her
secluded boudoir, and there, twining her arms about his neck, point
out the facets of the situation of which he seemed so singularly
ignorant. She would have fallen at his feet and clasped his knees;
have hugged him to her breast and warmed him with a spark of her own
fire. But then, that insidious talk of mademoiselle's under which her
memory tingled. The clammy affection of a fish! A man who required a
master. The venom instilled was inoculating her system. Pride laid a
finger on her lips.

Oh! What a scene it had been at Montbazon! To perform a successful
seance, Aglae explained, many accessories were _de rigueur_, since the
vital fluid could not work with effect unless the mind were brought
into a condition of fixed and unruffled calm. Now it is no easy matter
to bring about this state in one who is a prey to aches and pains. The
case is somewhat akin to that in the dentist's room when the patient
is informed on the honour of a gentleman that the twinge will be a
mere nothing, and that agitation is to be deprecated and calm
desirable. Then he suddenly finds an object as large as a coach-house
half down his throat, and the top of his head flies off. Unruffled
calm, indeed, with a twang of the sciatic nerve and a twitter down the
calf, and a great nail being hammered into the big toe! The crusty old
Baron de Vaux growled out that as he could not be calm they had better
remove their apparatus.

Calm being a _sine qua non_, Mesmer had pointed out long since that
music was a necessary feature in an operation while the patient was
being manipulated. He was in the habit of placing his devotees in a
delicious garden carpeted with grass, refreshed by play of fountains,
variegated by beds of perfumed flowers and clumps of bushes, from
amongst which came dulcet strains. In the intervals of crises a
complete orchestra hidden somewhere burst forth into harmonious
symphonies, at one time grave at another gay, quieting the patient
into beatitude due to gratification of his senses. Sight, smell,
hearing, all were considered. So minutely did the prophet delve into
the matter that he issued an order against wind instruments. The
symphonies were to be in D minor, interpreted by stringed instruments
only; and at critical moments their effect was increased by the
strains of an harmonica, touched by his own skilled fingers. Lest
nerves should be excited by all this instead of quieted, a silent
attendant stood behind each patient with a jug, from which, according
to his discretion, he dribbled cold water upon the pate below him.
This item was particularly soothing.

Now it was obvious that all these perfections were not easily to be
obtained in the provinces. The mind of Clovis had been much exercised
in the matter, and he dreaded failure for himself and obloquy for the
prophet. But Aglae was a treasure of resource. While her deft hands
were rubbing the count's withered leg, the marquis was in an outer
chamber to grumble _ad libitum_ on his beloved 'cello. The village
band was to await the crisis, and then break forth into the baron's
favourite air of Vive Henri Quatre. The effect was sure to be
splendid, for country magnates--even of the _grande noblesse_--were of
rougher grit than pampered city ones; and, in sober fact, the baron
did not know a bassoon from a violin.

But then there were unexpected difficulties, under which Clovis
unaided would have succumbed. The bucket was there, and the marquis
delivered a learned lecture on it to somewhat apprehensive lieges.
They would be kind enough to remark that at the bottom of the tub was
a substratum of rusty nails, covered with a layer of iron filings,
over which was laid a set of bottles with necks radiating outward.
Above them was another set of bottles with necks radiating inward.
This was most important, for radiation was one of the secrets of the
system. Cords of silk were attached all round with nooses, each for a
patient's neck, and by these cords the vital fluid was to circulate to
the patient and back again.

Madame de Vaux was much scandalized. "On no account will I allow a
rope around my husband's neck," she vowed emphatically. "The Baron de
Vaux treated like a common felon! Never, while she could prevent it!
Had not the low mob of the capital been stringing people to lamp-posts
with ropes of late? Why the king allowed it she could not think; but
he, no doubt, knew better than his subjects. The marquis ought to be
ashamed of himself for proposing anything so improper and suggestive."

Angelique considered the whole affair undignified, and was sorry that
the village band should assist at such a spectacle. The rope was
abandoned, and in its stead a long tube of glass was passed from the
side of the tub to the right temple of the patient--a much more
decorous proceeding where a live baron was concerned. Then the 'cello
began to drone and the governess to rub, and by and by the old man's
face began to twitch and his toothless gums to move. The baroness,
much shocked at this derogation from accustomed dignity, vowed that it
was impious, that the devil was at work, and that she ought to have
provided a curt and a brush with holy water. The patient began to
laugh, then cry; then shout, then mumble. All down his leg were
prickings--such curious prickings. "Oh, Mother of Heaven! The <DW8>s of
the arch-fiend," faintly gurgled the old lady. "Stuff and nonsense!
Angelic punctures!"

"All is going well!" announced the authoritative voice of Aglae.
"Band! Strike up--here is the crisis!" she shouted joyfully, but the
musicians stood aghast. Sure the poor gentleman had the dance of St.
Vitus as well as lesser ailments. A savour of brimstone pervaded the
apartment. Some swore, with shrieks, that they could see his Satanic
majesty--could count the hairs in his tail; and then all rushed forth
pell-mell like panic-stricken sheep. Madame de Vaux screamed and
fainted, while Angelique, who was no coward, retired into a corner.

Clovis had his misgivings, and as he scraped on, louder now to mask
the retreat of defaulters, wondered inwardly whether it was all a
devil's trick? He cast uneasy glances at the stooping Aglae, who
rubbed on unmoved. What a stupendous woman. Not a tremor at suggestion
of the Evil One. He felt sure that face to face with the whole Satanic
court that strong-minded female's colour would not have changed a
shade. It was not possible to feel fear in so sturdily self-reliant a
presence. Clovis's misgivings waned, and he groaned on at his
instrument with lightened heart. His ever-increasing admiration for
mademoiselle became tinctured with an awe in which respect was mingled
with apprehension. Who could resist such a woman whatever she might
decree? She had indeed twisted her admirer round her finger, and could
do with him as she listed.

The seance over, the baron was wrapped in blankets and exhorted to
sleep while the adept and her neophyte refreshed the inner person.
When they returned later to the operating room the old lady, recovered
from her swoon, was weeping silently, while Angelique stood by amazed.
The tears were those of relief and joy. The twang of the sciatic nerve
was stilled. The pain was gone. The baron, wringing the hand of
Mademoiselle Brunelle, vowed he was younger by ten years.

This was the tale told in duet, with the accompanying chorus of the
abbe. Amazing, marvellous, wonderful! Aglae beamed on all around like
the dimmed sun through golden mist. At every moment Clovis appealed to
her with the devoted submissiveness of willing slavery. His chains
were of roses, and he hugged them. Pharamond glanced slyly from time
to time at the two ladies, so contrasted in appearance and demeanour,
and then frowned at the chevalier, who was absorbed by attentions to
the bottle. It was inconvenient that the oaf should take to drink. Had
he not been charged with the important mission of watching over the
marquise? He had better take good care not to transgress. If aught
went wrong in the abbe's absence the chevalier should repent it
bitterly.



                           END OF VOLUME I.



                          *   *   *   *   *
         SIMMONS & BOTTEN, PRINTERS, LONDON.   _G. C. & Co_.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Maid of Honour, Vol. 1 (of 3), by
Lewis Wingfield

*** 