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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.

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 prod 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, maréchal, my nest's well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both."

The wealthy old Maréchal de Brèze 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, maréchal! 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 soirées 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 état," 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 Brèze might pay expenses, and, like Peter the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Brèze 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 êtes donnée la peine de naître--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? Maréchal de Brèze! 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--

"Majesté, 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 maréchal 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 repartée 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 maréchal, 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 Brèze, 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 protégée, 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 Maréchal de Brèze, 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 Brèze, 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 Maréchal de Brèze was no mere soldier of fortune with naught in his valise except a bâton. 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 Brèze 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 maréchal 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 Brèze 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 maréchal 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 encyclopædists 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 ménage. Clovis, who took very kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife's beauty and success, and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to him than the chef-d'œuvre of a great painter, which we admire as our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with the eye of the connoisseur, then--since it is always with us--cease to contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that. Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a respectful distance.

Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it were, "You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and true, and full of love, and you shall have it all?" It was not within her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven (which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She was--alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed--quite ignorant of female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her mother's gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who, from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly accused him of indifference. What had she done to deserve it? As she complained, she cried a little, which was tiresome. Men abhor feminine whimpering, which always reddens the nose.

She insisted on knowing in what she had offended. Her listening lord came down from an excursion in some upper sphere, somewhat irritably disposed by the interruption, and abruptly assured the weeping lady that she was mistaken. He admired and liked her very much, and would like her still better if she would abstain from making scenes. He had never been in love, he tranquilly confessed, and never would be; had never been in the meshes of any siren. Perhaps his invisible twin-self was so devoted somewhere to an "Affinity" as to have engrossed the love-capacity of both.

Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth--in space! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner. It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love--ay--and never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy, half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. "It depends on yourself," he remarked, coldly, "whether we dwell together in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them, for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not possess."

It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable.

As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise. A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the summum bonum; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that mariages de convenance are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world "things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello. Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Glück from Lulli; the droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman's mission self-effacement--the daily swallowing of a large dose of boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower, with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort?

Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to fling herself prone in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the marquise grew nervous in her husband's presence; was fatally impelled somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower.

And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his wife's society less and less; grew daily more indifferent.

The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls, and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her, and thanking God for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again.

Gabrielle's nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not, softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up. The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted maréchal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to dwell in. They were to be shielded by triple walls from care and sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces like piles of cards. Had she not herself been shielded? Had not gold been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be crumpled? Yet--but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the watchful affection of the doting maréchal--had she not been very near fleeing 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 Brèze 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 Brèze, 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 soirée intime at the palace that it came home to the doting father that there might be something amiss in the ménage.

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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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 Brèze that when last the family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth together. The maréchal 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 maréchal, 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 maréchal 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 Brèze 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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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 Maréchal de Brèze 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 maréchal, 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 mésalliances? 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 maréchal 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 lévée, 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 Brèze. 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 maréchal 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 Brèze.

"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 maréchal. "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 maréchal.

"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 maréchal 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 Brèze 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. Tête-à-tête 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 curé 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 maréchal 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 Brèze 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 maréchal 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 archæological point of view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder that the jolly old maréchal 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 mediæval 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 façade, 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 slopes, 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 maréchal 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 séjour 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 entrée 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 Brèze family, which does him honour!"

"And in the same breath he derides the aristocracy!" retorted the old lady, with a giggle.

"Which can well look after itself!" replied her husband.

"Take my advice, dear, and get rid of him, or you'll regret it," urged the baroness.

"He's a confidential servant, who was born and bred here!" objected Gabrielle. "He and those who went before have always served us well, and Jean would not hurt a hair of any of our heads, I warrant. He did something silly the other day in the way of talking nonsense, and my father rated him for it. That episode is over and forgotten."

"He's a democrat, or worse, if possible," asserted the baroness with many nods. "Capable of anything, my dear; get rid of him; a scorpion!" she continued, wagging her head; and content with this first impression, the old lady gathered up her wraps, and with an elaborate curtsey, swept away the family, delighted with the effect she had produced.

Neither Gabrielle nor Clovis were equally charmed. These tiresome people were their only neighbours! Then it must be solitude indeed. Angelique seemed a nice girl enough; but the baroness was overwise in her own conceit; and the baron ridiculously puffed with the overweening vanity of class. If the pair were to live absolutely alone, Gabrielle, doubting her own strength of will and power of fascination, already trembled for her experiment. Where could society be found which should rub off the jagged edges of a tête-à-tête? The chateaux round about were unoccupied. Nobody dwelt at Blois except bourgeoisie and common persons. Perhaps this move into the desert had been imprudent. Well, if it proved disastrous, they could return to Paris and no harm done, considering how far apart they had drifted already. A little society--just two or three congenial persons--would make all the difference; but where might such fowls be caught?

What of this communication about Jean Boulot? surely it was idle tittle-tattle, born in the murky brain of a stupid old woman. He a scorpion on the hearth, to be got rid of before he could sting? The charge was ridiculous, and yet demanded attention, considering the Bastile episode such a brief while ago. And he was engaged to Toinon too. Under the seal of strictest secrecy that damsel had shared her delicious secret with her foster-sister, and the latter with a hearty kiss had wished her joy. It was only fair to both the lovers that the matter should be cleared up, and to that end the damsel must be cross-examined.

When charged with the lamentable leanings of her affianced, Toinon made no attempt to laugh the matter off. She was fain to confess herself disappointed in Jean Boulot. He was too straightforward to stoop to knavery. You only had to look into his fearless, clear grey eyes to be assured of it; but his sentiments were distressing. He told his love when she remonstrated that reason and justice could only be departed from by paths watered with tears; and when she retorted that he would certainly be hanged if he were heard to indulge in such talk, he only shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the gallows were made for the unlucky. In the middle of an impressive lecture he snatched a kiss and laughed, and actually confessed with something that looked like pride that he had just been selected from among his fellows to be chief of some new society. He was constantly moving about among the rustics discoursing about the improvement of their condition at the expense of a superior class. All Toinon could be sure of was that Jean was beyond her control. Perhaps madame might succeed in managing the young man and bring him to a sense of his enormities.

The experiment was not crowned with success, for instead of confessing his sins with a mea culpa, Jean smiled and delivered himself of various mysterious hints. "Never you fear," he asserted, cheerfully, "whatever may happen by and by, you and yours shall be defended with my best blood; not but what a glimpse of your sweet face will be enough to calm the boys, however spitefully inclined. As to the others--H'm!"

Enigmatical and unsatisfactory.

It was certainly very dull in the desert; and before many weeks were over, the marquise was prepared secretly to admit that her father had judged rightly. She was no nearer to her husband here than in Paris; and caught herself longing more and more for those two or three congenial persons who were unattainable. It is all very well to wrap yourself in your children, to watch the young intelligence unfolding tender leaves, to mark and record with little thrills of joy each new sally of infant wit; but carefully nurtured babes retire early to the nest, and long evening hours have to be got through which are apt to hang heavy on 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 maréchal and his wife to break the bonds of dulness by a visit, but then again she hesitated. How was she to parry her father's anxious questions, how avoid his sympathetic eyes? No. Come what might, she would bear what she must bear, and veil her wounds from her beloved ones.

Now and again the de Vaux family drove over to spend the afternoon, and the visit was in due course returned; but though all parties were punctiliously civil and vowed they enjoyed themselves immensely, it was clear to both families that no intimacy could arise between them.

Gabrielle was almost driven to lower her flag and retire from the field; was indeed debating how she should set about it with dignity, when that for which she craved was suddenly tossed into her lap.

One morning, the marquis actually so far broke through his secluded habits, as without a formal message sent in advance, to invade his wife's boudoir. Her heart gave a great bound, and looking up from the children's hornbook in glad surprise, she smiled gratefully on him. Was this a first advance? She was determined that the visit should be a pleasant one, and to that end proceeded forthwith to trot out the prodigies. He had no idea, she prattled, how vast were their acquirements. They knew ever so many wondrous things which would no doubt delight their parent. Straightway, like little clockwork parrots, well-wound up, the infants chirped forth their lore, while the marquis's face increased in length, the while with well-bred courtesy he made believe to listen. His dreamy eyes wandered over a map of varied stains on their dirty little pinafores. They diffused an aroma of bread and butter; their angel fingers shone with grease. Their acquirements, he coldly agreed when they had run down, were remarkable for tender years, and the weather being fine they had better run out and play.

Gabrielle sighed. Mere politeness--such politeness as a wearied but courteous stranger might bestow--in which was no scintilla of affection. Unnatural parent! After all, the darlings were perchance a trifle juvenile to interest a man. Men, as a rule, can see no beauty in babes and sucklings; vote them revolting lumps of adipose tissue; but then, sweet Victor and Camille were not babies, for one was five and the other four--were enjoying that most fascinating period of existence when we are never clean, and are always falling down and crying.

The unappreciated angels having shrieked off down the long drawing-rooms, there to tumble, hurt themselves, and howl, Clovis sat down and explained the cause of his irruption.

"A letter! Good news or bad?" inquired Gabrielle, with a presentiment of evil.

"That depends how you read it," returned her husband, quietly. "As you are aware, I never inflicted my uncongenial presence overmuch on you; never sought to know why you were so ready to abdicate your brilliant position in Paris to suit a passing whim of mine, but I was none the less obliged by your compliance. I now wish you to please yourself, and make arrangements for the future, such as may suit your views."

Gabrielle stared at the automaton. Good heavens! His uncongenial presence. Was he so blind as not to perceive how she hungered for it? A burning reproach was on her lips, but found no voice; for somehow, seeing him sit there so straight and cold and self-complacent, her courage oozed away.

"Do what you choose." He continued with bland indifference. "I was never jealous of your entourage, because I liked you to enjoy the meed of admiration that is your due, and know that you are to be trusted even in so perilous a vortex as Versailles. For reasons with which I need not trouble you, I prefer myself to remain here for a while, with your permission; but seem to see that you are weary of playing the chatelaine. Is it so? Would you like to return to Paris. Please yourself. You will admit that I give you the completest liberty."

The heart of the poor wife sank low. For what crime was she condemned to love an icicle? If he would only find fault, or discover a grievance, or even wax wroth without a cause, and smite her! Each calm and measured sentence as he sat, with the finger-tips of one hand poised accurately on those of the other, was like the prick of a steel stiletto. His gaze was fixed on a tree a long way off. He could not even trouble to look at her.

Sighing wearily, she murmured, "Completest liberty, no doubt. I and the children are to go away and leave you here alone?"

Clovis moved his gaze to another tree and cleared his throat. "Not unless you wish it," he said, "but something has happened that is a little embarrassing."

"Any trouble? Am I not here to share it."

"Scarcely a trouble--an inconvenience only, which you may object to share," her husband answered, smiling. "Could you brook other inmates?"

"Other inmates! What can you mean?'

"As you know, though you have never seen them, I have two half-brothers. They are inseparable--quite pattern brothers--the one brilliantly clever, the other his admiring shadow. The Abbé Pharamond, the younger one, would be welcomed in any society on account of his sparkling talent; but he has preferred to shine alone at Toulouse, rather than consent to be a unit in the system of stars at Paris. He has got into trouble, and writes to ask for an asylum for himself and Phebus."

"What trouble?"

"A too pungent epigram followed by a fatal duel, makes it convenient to seek eclipse. In six months the affair will have blown over. You would be sure to like the abbé, if you met him; while as for poor dear Phebus, the chevalier, as he is called in the south, he is fat and somnolent, and would not hurt a fly."

Gabrielle reflected, Why did a voice deep down within whisper words of warning? Here were the congenial persons for whose advent she had longed. What a relief to the tête-à-tête would be the brilliant abbé, and fat Phebus who would not hurt a fly! Thanks to them, Lorge might become endurable. On the suggestion of a return to Paris, the difficulty had occurred to her as to the excuse to be made for her husband's lengthened absence. Clearly she must remain at Lorge, so long as he thought fit to do so. Perhaps the abbé disliked music and hated violoncellos? Together in the dead of night they would capture the marquis's treasure and send it floating down the Loire.

"My dear Clovis!" she exclaimed presently, with genuine pleasure; "you singular being! What objection could I have? On the contrary, I am charmed with the opportunity of making the acquaintance of your brothers."

CHAPTER V.

[THE HALF-BROTHERS.]

Never was there a greater bit of luck for the Lorge hermits than the epigram that was too pungent, and its consequences. With the arrival of the fugitives there was inaugurated a new régime. Cobwebs seemed to vanish at a stroke. The dismal old chateau stirred and rubbed its eyes, for, as by magic, the spirit of ennui who had his dwelling there was routed and put to flight.

The Abbé Pharamond was made of quicksilver. Such a mass of ubiquitous ever-moving energy would have awakened the seven sleepers. Everyone felt his influence; and no one had a word to say against him, except Toinon and Jean Boulot. Even the objections of these, as might be expected in low-born persons, were of the vaguest. The one found fault with his effeminate manners and mincing ways, the other vowed that he was so sweet as to be mawkish. Balanced one on either knee, the prodigies (with clean pinafores and polished visages) were taught to warble the amorous ditties of the south, an absurd performance which frequently brought over Madame de Vaux in the shanderydan, and caused her to explode with laughter. His presence acted like a magnet. There was always a stock of the neatest compliments on hand for Angelique; the most respectfully rapt attention for the baron's platitudes. He was constantly riding to Montbazon on his way to somewhere else, bent on organizing a picnic or a hunt, and even discovered and dragged from their retreats into the light a variety of country gentlemen who seldom left their burrows. "If the dear man were a layman!" grieved the baroness. "The very thing for Angelique." But since he was a churchman, she must do her best with the other.

"Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!" objected the baron. "They were of good family--could boast, indeed, of most superior blood--but were as poor as church mice, both."

Whereupon his spouse remarked from out her nightcap folds that she did dislike a mole. Was not the marquis a good-natured gentleman, if stupid, and was he not plainly devoted to his brothers--proud at least of one? It could be seen with half an eye that the abbé's influence was great, and would grow greater. Out of Gabrielle's wealth, after de Brèze's death, he would, of course, provide for his brothers in a fitting and lavish manner.

Gabrielle fell at once, and without resistance, under the spell of the abbé. She had never known so charming and accomplished a person. Faugh! the tawdry butterflies of Versailles! The gaudy numskulls! Mere contemptible machines, that mopped and mowed to order. In Pharamond she beheld for the first time a man whose masterful nature somehow compelled obedience. Among other fascinating ways, he had a trick (aware of a trim and graceful figure) of tossing himself down in a picturesque attitude at Gabrielle's feet, burningly eager for advice; and on considering the interview afterwards, she was pleasantly surprised to find how she had shone--how undoubtedly, yet unaccountably, sage had been her counsel. "He exerts a good influence over me," she murmured. "Like flowers under the sun's first rays I expand. Till he arrived, I knew not how dense had been our darkness. Alas! if Clovis were a little like him how different had been my fate!"

Even Clovis was the better for the abbé's advent. His brother would walk straight into his sanctum and drag him from his books to join some party of pleasure; but, lest he should turn restive, would argue in his nimble fashion, as they rode along, upon abstruse points of philosophy. Though not fully believing in the tremendous powers claimed by the prophet, he declared himself open to conviction with regard to Mesmer; and Gabrielle was amazed to perceive how animated her husband could become in his efforts to convince the doubter. When hounded from the capital, Mesmer had travelled south before settling at Spa, and the abbé had seen him perform his marvels. Hunted out of Paris by the Academy of Medicine, persecution had produced the usual result--attacked, defended, abused, glorified, Fame shook all her bauble bells, and rescued his name from neglect. At Montpelier, his following was so great that he and his small staff could not supply the necessary treatment. There was no denying that under his magnetic passes certain patients did recover. However much argument might meander, it always came back to that point. In what the mysterious healing fluid consisted, was the difficult question. Did an invisible current actually flow from the manipulator to the patient, or was it but the effect of ascendency of will--of the strong nature bearing down the weak?

During the discussions on the subject, the abbé would jokingly wave his whip at the chevalier, whose sleek figure jogged behind. "There is a case in point," he laughed. "Phebus's will is completely subservient to mine, and he knows it. Tell them, chevalier, is there anything I could not make you do?"

Then the broad visage of Phebus would beam with respectful pride as he surveyed his clever brother. "No, abbé," he would quietly rejoin. "You are wiser and better than I, and I am content that you should think for both."

Then in his turn would Clovis laugh as he glanced at the attentive Gabrielle. "We must be careful, lest," he observed, slyly, "we forfeit our independence. While pretending to disbelieve, he is deceiving us, for he is himself gifted with magnetic powers of a high order. I vow I am half influenced already, and must take precautions lest I become a slave."

Those were pleasant rides under the yellowing foliage in the late autumn of '89. Clovis was galvanised into a semblance of activity, and appeared under the process to have half realized how charming was his wife. Instead of provokingly staring without seeing her, he observed how fresh was her complexion, how silken and golden and heavy were the loose plaits of her unpowdered hair. To her astonishment, following the abbé's lead, he became almost attentive, guiding her horse over difficult ground, even marking the fact when she was tired.

And so it came about, as by touch of fairy wand, that Gabrielle, alone in the desert, had found a following. The husband whom she adored was displaying a ghostly kindness, with which for the present she was content. If he only would appreciate the prodigies--but that, under beneficent influence, would follow, doubtless. The newly-arrived swains vied with each other in endeavouring to forestall her wishes. The abbé ordered everyone about for the general good and her particular behoof, like some hovering farseeing deity; while the less pretentious chevalier plodded at her heel like a wheezy spaniel, as active as his redundancy permitted.

In their way, good looking fellows both. The chevalier was short and very fair, with pale blue eyes and a weak mouth, producing a somewhat washed-out effect. His nose was aquiline and delicately moulded. In many respects he bore a curious resemblance to his majesty the reigning monarch. The abbé, his junior by several years, looked a decade younger at least. He was slim and wiry, built on a small scale, with well-turned limbs and white hands remarkable for their fragility. Indeed, in considering his appearance people always remembered the soft, twining fingers which looked as weak as a woman's, and which, in a hand-shake, could give so firm a grip. His face was round and pale, his lips thin and tightly pressed together, his eyes steel-grey with a strongly accentuated pupil. There was something about his usual expression that suggested a particularly high-bred white cat--due possibly to a purring manner and an air of sensual complacency. But there were moments--not unknown to the chevalier--when the eyes could gleam with tawny lightning, darken with thunder-clouds, while the small even teeth were ground in passion, and the pale face turned livid. Like all seemingly light and effeminate beings, who are really of wrought steel, the gay and frolicsome abbé could become a sweeping whirlwind; but since he usually managed to have his way unchallenged, serious atmospheric disturbances were of rare occurrence. As the eyes of an angry cat seem to be illumined from behind, so on rare occasions of excessive wrath those of the abbé assumed a malevolent glitter, in face of which the chevalier cowered, despite his breadth of beam. His plump uncertain hands grew moist, his words were few and husky; he whimpered and breathed hard; and the privileged observer could have little doubt that there was absolutely nothing he could not be goaded to essay under pressure from Abbé Pharamond.

On a certain mild evening in October, master and serf were riding home from Montbazon, and the latter unconsciously shrank and stopped his horse, conscious of the glitter that he feared. Wistfully and humbly he looked up, anxious to ascertain wherein he had offended.

"The de Vaux are a charming family," remarked the abbé, airily kissing his fingertips. "I compliment you, dear brother."

When the abbé chose to gibe, the chevalier sniffed something disagreeable.

"Ha, ha! How lugubrious a countenance for a favoured lover! As doleful as a bee who's lost his sting! When do we propose to marry? Never keep a lady waiting!"

"What do you mean?" stammered Phebus, mopping his brow.

"Madame de Vaux expects you to propose for Angelique."

"But I don't want to marry Angelique."

"What! Not the delightful shoot from the family tree of which we hear so much? Like the Indian banyan its proportions darken the sky. Why not--tell 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 abbé 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 abbé. "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 abbé'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 abbé's banter.

"Oh! what a tender brother!" the latter continued; "for I will even assist you in your quest. Yes, I, the virtuous Abbé 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 abbé 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 abbé'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 abbé 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 abbé 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 abbé 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 abbé, 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 abbé'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 abbé 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 abbé 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 primæval bloodstains might come in time to be washed away with Mesmer's tincture of iron!"

"Why not?" murmured the abbé, 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 abbé, 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!"

The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 1 (of 3)