Transcriber's Notes:
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2. Errata listed at the end of the printed edition have been inserted at the appropriate place in all volumes.

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. III.

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 XX.

[DIPLOMACY.]

It was a matter of imperative necessity to beat down at once the protecting barriers within which the victim had ensconced herself, and here was the first difficulty to be conquered. It was evident that Gabrielle's written ultimatum called for a reply. At the suggestion, Clovis fairly winced. Was he to grovel in the mud, and accept her humiliating terms? Never! And in writing, too! He would rather cut off his hand. What did Providence mean by creating marquises unfurnished with necessary adjuncts? Are not fowls provided with plumes and polar bears with fur? Why for years had the purse yawned for him, and then suddenly shut itself up? Not the purse exactly, for there existed that hateful allowance, which he would never, never soil his fingers with; but the marital authority and position which go with unstinted means! They had both shrivelled away, and the Marquis de Gange smarted as if he had been tarred and feathered. What would people say when the last whimsey of the chatelaine leaked out? She posed as a martyr, but took good care to protect herself against martyrdom. And what was the awful grievance? That the exigencies of his scientific studies (of which she was too ignorant and stupid to know aught) required the professional assistance of a diplomaed disciple of the prophet, and that the adept selected by the prophet chanced to be a woman! Was ever anything so low and paltry as this ridiculous assumption of jealousy? Had he, Clovis, ever made love to Mademoiselle Brunelle? Never. Delighting in like pursuits, they were dear and trusted friends after the manner of male friendship, and none but a base nature could take umbrage at such an alliance.

Judging from her absurd precautions of changed locks and newly-opened doors, the martyr seemed to consider herself in peril--evidently meant the country to suppose so. Her husband was an ogre--a roaring Fee-fo-fum--would by and by serve up her tender limbs on toast, with rich and luscious gravy. The abbé might argue till he was black in the face, but if Mistress Gabrielle could be haughty, so could he. He declined to answer the letter.

"Dear me! a scandal!" objected the abbé in distress, "an inevitable scandal! Might his attached and ever-devoted brother go forth and play the ambassador?"

Pharamond might do what he deemed right, on the clear understanding that the head of the house would not consent to anything that should hold him up to ridicule.

Armed thus with maimed powers, Pharamond went on his mission. He had almost traversed the length of the long saloon, ere Gabrielle, looking up from her embroidery, beheld the intruder. The blood rushed to her face, then slowly ebbed. They would not accept her terms, then, but would force their presence on her?

Bidding the girl and boy who were romping on the floor, to retire to their school-room, she laid her work upon the table, and with crossed hands waited.

"Madame must try and pardon this intrusion," began the abbé, meekly, "because it could not be avoided. I am here to speak, for my brother would not write, and it is rude not to answer a letter. Will madame be so courteous as to hear me out?"

Gabrielle, after a moment's reflection, pointed to a seat, but Pharamond shook his head.

"Madame does not accept me as a friend," he observed, drily, "so I have no desire to stay a moment more than I'm obliged."

"A friend? Who has never done me anything but harm!"

"Are we to discuss all that again?" he replied. "You have yourself admitted, more than once, that you owed much to me, and yet you compelled me by your own conduct reluctantly to withdraw what I had given."

"You do well to remind me!" returned Gabrielle, swelling with contempt. "Your terms of peace were that your brother's wife was to become your mistress! You are right to stand. Say what you have to say, and quickly."

"I have, in the first place, to point out to Madame la Marquise the result of her present course of action. Does a wife, think you, gain in the world's esteem by constantly insulting her husband?"

"I have never insulted my husband."

"Not by making a fool of him before all his class--by treating him like an ill-bred child, that may not be trusted? By driving him from beneath the roof which should be his?"

"What?" ejaculated Gabrielle, amazed.

"That is what you have done, and, believe me, the world will be against you, however plausible a tale you may invent."

"Is he going away?" faltered the marquise, beginning to see the position in another light.

"Is it probable that so proud a man would stay to be made the laughing-stock of all Touraine? Of course not. Beggary were better than such deep disgrace as that. His name is yours, and yet to your own shame you wilfully drag it in the mire. We are all going away, so you will have your chateau to yourself, and when we arrive in Paris it is you who will be the laughing-stock."

"Going away! How will you all live?" asked the marquise, pondering.

"Expelled from the home that should have been our brother's, the chevalier and I will return to Montpelier. The marquis will retreat to Spa, and take service with the mesmerists. He will be happy there in congenial society, for though very poor, he will be freed from dread of insult."

Gabrielle was bewildered. She was being held up to herself in the most natural manner possible, as a tyrant, an insulter of the poor, in whom dwelt neither justice nor compassion. It was not true, she knew that right well; but perhaps without intent, she had been harsh. Yet no--with a remembrance of the crowning outrage of that woman's return, came renewed courage.

The abbé concluded he had gained a point and followed it swiftly with another thrust.

"Madame will excuse me, if I remark that she is given to hallucinations, such as are common in hysterical subjects. She suffers from delusions, invents charges against her sorely-stricken husband, which at expense of his private feelings must be rebutted. His position having been rendered untenable by his wealthy wife, he is compelled to leave her house, and in doing so refrains from the one punishment which lies within easy reach. If he chose, he could remove his children, but he will not, for he has learned with pain that one of madame's chief delusions is that she has herself been divided from her offspring. That he may not be placed in the wrong, by any more such idle fancies, he consents to sacrifice himself, and will leave them with madame for the present. I think I have followed all my instructions, and with madame's permission will retire."

The abbé who had spoken with dispassionate calm, made a low reverence, and without looking at the lady moved slowly down the saloon. Would she call him back? No. Better to leave her to chew the cud of bitter and perplexing thought. The arrow was planted, and now would fester. Toinon would surely appear with another letter in the evening. His fingers were on the door handle when a low, sad voice called, "Abbé!"

Did he hear aright? He turned with manifest reluctance. "Madame deigned to speak?"

"Yes. Come back, I pray you."

With a slight but eloquent shoulder shrug of deprecation, the cunning churchman moved up the saloon again, very slowly, as if under protest.

"Madame would wish to know," he asked, "how soon she will be quit of us? Alas! we must crave indulgence, for my brother's scientific instruments will take long to pack. They are brittle and expensive articles which, under the new conditions, he could never afford to replace."

The marquise was visibly troubled, and the abbé had some ado to keep his countenance. The man was a human chameleon, and poor Gabrielle had not the weapons wherewith to smite such animals. His manner was so staid and stern, yet meek withal, that she could scarce believe that it was over this same passionless face that she had seen pass and fade dissolving views of such deep-dyed iniquity. Was this the satyr who had inflicted scorching kisses; who had by turns cajoled and brutally threatened her--the man of whom she had grown to be mortally afraid? He had just held up for contemplation a portrait of herself, which, though hideously distorted, was like. But was it? It was, and yet it was not. He had made her out a monster.

So they were going away and would leave her in peace with the children? How unexpected a dénouement. It never entered the simple head of Gabrielle to suspect that the man was lying. Proud as she was herself, she could understand and appreciate, and even applaud the feeling which preferred independent poverty to gilded bondage. And she had meant so well in what she had done! But put as it had just been, it did seem wrong to make a husband--even a bad one--so dependent. A man dependent on a woman is always a subject for ridicule. Woman governed by her feelings is so easily misled!

Ah me! Permit me to moralize for just a minute. Why is it that the more angelic we are--the more ready to moult our earthy plumage--we should be the less fit to combat those of earth? The more guileless and innocent a woman is--quite fit to soar aloft with newly-sprouted wings--the more abjectly pitiable a victim. Perhaps it means that earth should be left to the earthy, and that angels have no business here at all.

The marquise, while arranging bolts and barriers was quite under the impression that she was a martyr, that a menacing sword was dangling overhead which would fall and pierce her skull, and now she was told--and there seemed some truth in it--that she had been carried away by imagination. According to the abbé she stood convicted of hysteria! If their method of showing displeasure took the form of retreat with bag and baggage, leaving her the solitary mistress of the field, how could she be in danger? They would leave presently, declaring that the heiress had flung her money in their faces in so vulgar a fashion that self-respect compelled departure. Draped in the picturesque dignity of rags, they, not she, would wear the auriole of martyrdom--a consideration as new as disconcerting. It was satisfactory to find that Clovis, bad as she knew him to be, could be so proud. There must be much latent good in a selfish man who, to shield his manhood from smirching, will cheerfully abandon flesh-pots. His wife had calculated (and justly, too) that though he might whine and grumble, he would accept any conditions which did not withdraw the comforts which made life worth living. His wife fully intended that he should have ample means to play ducks and drakes with, but, surrounded as he was by a bad entourage, he must not be permitted to be master. And, lo and behold, he snapped his fingers at the money, and elected to wear the rags!

Rapidly reviewing the situation, Gabrielle's heart warmed in a tepid manner to the man whom she had wrongly read. She approved the attitude he had assumed, but could not allow him to retain it.

The abbé had rightly appraised the exceeding generosity of her nature and had played on it. When she called him back he was pleased to mark how clouded was her brow, how shaken was her fixed resolve.

"Clovis has judged me harshly," she observed. "I never wished to drive him from his home."

Things were going well. The outraged one was apologizing for her conduct.

"Que voulez-vous!" replied the abbé with a shrug. "He has my full approval. It is not well to place an honourable man in a false position."

"Nor an honourable woman either," aptly retorted the marquise.

"That brings us to the burning question," said the abbé, drawing a step nearer, in his earnestness. "The fault, if fault it was, was mine, not Clovis's, and I am prepared to bear the blame of my own actions. A little more blame or less," he added, lightly, "cannot make much difference, since I know you consider me a demon. That is all dead and buried--blown away and done with." By a graceful gesture the churchman blew away the past. "It was I who brought back Mademoiselle Brunelle for prudential reasons, which I admit humbly now were unjustifiable. I thought your objection to the lady was founded on her interference in the nursery and nothing more, and, as you know, she quite understands that in future she has no place there. If your memory serves you, you will remember my pointing out once that a man like Clovis requires to be led by a woman. You could not or would not lead him--that is your affair; and I felt convinced that we were fortunate in his having a leader whose relations with him were platonic. What if, deprived of her, he had pitched on an affinity of exactly the opposite stamp?"

This was true also. Gabrielle felt that it was.

"As it is by your line of action you lead the world to suppose that you deem them guilty, and you know as well as I do that although she once talked nonsense in bravado, they are innocent. You drive us from the house and we go. Need I remark that mademoiselle goes with us? Thus you accentuate the suggestion of impropriety which you are aware does not exist, instead of showing by your behaviour that you are satisfied of the innocence of both."

"Do you think to persuade me," asked the marquise, with sad wonder, in which was a tinge of bitterness, "to accept the woman's presence? The son of the Church calls for too lavish a display of Christian charity."

"I call on you for nothing," returned the abbé, meekly, "since in a week we shall be gone. The scandal of disruption will lie with you; we are not responsible."

So the man persisted in proving her to be in the wrong!

"I do not desire that you should go away, and I will admit that I have been precipitate. What does Clovis want? I am ready to do all I can to meet his views, but he must not suppose that I will accept that woman."

The marquise's barriers were tottering. Even the abbé had not expected that she would show such feebleness of purpose. His point of refraining to strike at her through her offspring, by removing them, was cleverly imagined, and had told. Would it be prudent to administer another stroke now, to attempt by a vigorous charge to carry the citadel at once, or would it be wiser to wait? It would not do to present the appearance of taking too much upon himself. Clovis must be forced to come forward and play his part. The ground was well prepared. The wife felt compunctious visitings, and so the husband might say his say without loss of dignity. The abbé resolved, therefore, that it was time for him to retire into shadow. So he echoed quietly, "What does he want? Nothing, since as you yourself wrote, 'all is over.' When you first propounded the notion to me, I knew he would not forgive that testament."

So that was at the bottom of it all. Who could have guessed that a dreamy man, wrapped in scientific mists, should so hotly resent an infringement of marital authority? She appeared to have wandered unwittingly so far into the thicket of error, that it seemed vain to grope after the right; and yet, as she repeated to herself again and again, she had meant so extremely well!

The presentiment was proved to be idle wind, since they were all ready to go without a struggle. Had not M. Galland declared it to be due to morbid fancy? The scandal of an open separation must be avoided for the children's sake. What answer could she make to Victor when, grown to manhood, he asked why his father was a beggar? The proposed exodus must be stopped at all hazards. What if the white-robed marquise were to dabble the hem of her skirt in the mire of deception for a little, or, to put it more nicely, make use of diplomatic arts? Supposing that she were to allow herself to be persuaded into cancelling the will, had she not arranged for the contingency? The unlucky will had somehow produced the worst of effects upon the marquis, and there could be no possibility of peace till that question was set at rest. The idea of so deceiving her husband, brought a guilty tingle to her cheek, but there seemed no other way to cut the knot. Infatuated as he was with the woman who had behaved so abominably, and had made her life so wretched, she would never really consent to leave the future of the darlings in his hands; but might she not pretend to do so? A signature with a cross appended would speak for itself. For the sake of future harmony, it might be judicious to appear to give way. Though it is naughty to do wrong, we all know that the naughtiness becomes a virtue when it is clear that it will result in good. Raising her deep blue eyes to meet the abbé's, she remarked that she would consider all that he had said, and let him know her decision later.

Pharamond bowed. "Decision--on what point?" he inquired.

"Oblige me," replied the marquise, "by requesting M. le Marquis to leave things as they are until he hears again from me."

The interview had been most satisfactory, and Pharamond's face beamed as he went down the staircase. What an admirable inspiration that had been about their enforced departure, with bag and baggage--and with Aglaé! And how easily the poor soul had tumbled into the specious snare. And then he laughed aloud at the fancied picture of Clovis in his poverty. That he of all men should sacrifice his comforts! Before his marriage with the heiress, he had been used to a measure of it, but since he had lain on roses, their perfume had become a necessity. Moreover, his own heavily-cumbered estates were in one of the most turbulent provinces, where landlords might whistle for their rents. Were he in sober earnest to resign his position of prince consort, black bread and a garret would be his fate. To think that Gabrielle should be so hoodwinked! What was she going to consider? and how long would she be about it?

As Clovis listened to his brother's report, he rubbed his nose in perplexity, glancing askance at Algaé, who nodded her head in approval.

"She will come to her senses, and all will be well," declared that lady. "She will know that the vulgar intriguante is a poor, harmless, humble friend of milord's, who only asks for the opportunity to forgive. Va! I bear no malice to jealous mad women. She hunted me away with ignominy, yet did I not clasp her to me afterwards? It was for monsieur's sake, for whom he knows I would spill my blood, I forced myself to do so. What is she to me? Except for your sake, nothing!"

Clovis bit his nails to the quick as he walked about the room. That she had changed her mind was well, but would she not insist upon some conditions which he could not, as a man, accept? He was not going to kneel in the dust. They must all make up their minds to that. He was ready to meet her half-way if she would promise to behave better in the future, but as to any more school-boy treatment, he would submit to nothing of the kind.

It was pitiable to see the weak, unstable man fluttering in borrowed plumes, blown out with a proud conviction in his heroic strength of character.

"Monsieur!" cried Algaé, in her rolling tones of thunder, "oblige me by sitting down. Since I was so disgraced here, my nerves are not what they were. Clovis, I was going to say--" she added, with a great roar, clapping her large hands together in guileless glee--"Monsieur le Marquis and I," she went on needlessly to explain to the abbé, "are such bons camarades that if I was not conscious of lowly descent, and in terror of the jealous mad woman, I should almost think I was his sister! But, oh! mon Dieu, what rashness! If the servants were to hear me call him Clovis, and report the awful delinquency to the pale nun upstairs, what shrieks and screams! When saints condescend to human frailties, they are very much like other mortals."

"Always call me Clovis. I insist on it," observed, with benign authority, the bird in borrowed plumes.

Algaé, with one of those impulsive movements, which in so massive a woman were charming, because unexpected, jumped up and kissed the marquis's hand, and pressed it to her bosom. "Clovis. To me always Clovis--when we are alone with the abbé," she murmured, gratefully, "but not in public--for your sake. Since you are so kind--so kind--cannot I put up with annoyance from the nun? So far as I am concerned, accept all, and any of her conditions. If she drives me forth again, I can take up my residence at Blois, which is not so very far, and you will sometimes come and see me."

Algaé was vastly improved. With delighted admiration Clovis had, since her return, become assured of it. Her spirits were more airy, her humour more refined; and she fairly bubbled over with good nature, and she never made remarks now that were unpleasantly pithy. What an advantage large women have over small ones! It is given to the small to be querulous and vixenish. The large and stout ones are conspicuous for indulgent charity, You rarely find them speaking ill of their neighbours. Clovis was quite convinced that Algaé was a dusky pearl, and blamed himself severely for mistrusting her at the time of the attempted suicide.

Gabrielle was not long in coming to a decision. Having been admittedly precipitate, and having looked at things from their worst point of view, it was her place to show generosity. What could she lose by falling in with the wishes of the men, and making a new will to please them, which, in the event of her death, would be no better than waste-paper? Since Clovis could show a proper pride, such as became his rank, it would not be well to torment him. It had been a noble trait that in the same breath, he should have proposed to retire from the scene, and yet not distress her about the children. Supposing he had gone, along with Algaé, and had taken the dear ones with him? Legally, she would have had no remedy. It never should be said that he could be more generous than she. The baleful woman whose evil spells had wrecked her content must go, of course; but she should be allowed to take her time, and not be expelled violently, as before. Ostensibly, she had come on a visit. Let her remain for a week or two longer, and quietly withdraw. No harm would be done. No scandal would arise. The acute incident would be closed, giving way to a prospect of tranquillity.

His wife sent a short note to the marquis, begging his attendance in the boudoir. He made a wry face, for it was terribly like a schoolboy's summons to receive a flogging.

But Algaé, the large-hearted, placed her brown hands upon his shoulders and shook him amicably. "You are indeed a child, my Clovis, and deserve the flogging!" she said, cheerily. "Fi donc! A gentleman obeys a lady's bidding. Would you have her come down here and sing peccavi before me, whom she detests? Infant! go to her and make it up, and if she proposes stipulations about me, be sure to accede to them all."

Clovis obeyed with a bad grace, and entered his wife's boudoir with the sorry air of a malefactor who pleads guilty--a condition that was not improved by the dignified courtesy of his reception. With a serene smile, Gabrielle bade him sit by her side.

"We seem doomed to have misunderstandings," she sighed; "and I am fain to confess that the blame is equally divided. I unwittingly offended you on a money question. I often wish that there was no such thing as money."

The exordium was promising, and Clovis plucked up his spirits. With a polite bow he remained silent.

"What would you have me do?" she asked.

"Release me from the possible prospect of being held up to ridicule by my children."

"It shall be done--upon conditions."

Ah! There were to be conditions then? The anger of the marquis rose. His face assumed so sullen an expression that Gabrielle felt less compunction as to her pious fraud. Such men as her husband and his brother were not fit to have the custody of children; as to that she had no doubt. When she proceeded to explain that he might send for a notary, and she would sign another will on condition that a certain person undertook to withdraw from the circle, Clovis could scarce contain his passion.

When the maréchal's solicitors had forced him to obedience it was bad enough--but now--to receive peremptory orders from his wife! He was not such a ninny as to be taken in by the little sop. That Algaé was to be allowed to stay on for a week or two just to keep up appearances made no difference. He had chosen to engage a female secretary and helper concerning whose relations with himself there could be no suspicion in any healthy mind, and he was to be deprived of her assistance in his work through a morbid and unworthy suspicion.

"What if I refuse?" he said, sulkily. "You will play the martyr, I suppose?"

"I will place the matter before the Seigneurie and magistrates of Blois," Gabrielle quietly replied. "The line they counsel I will take."

The wrath of the marquis boiled over. His hands shook, and his fingers twitched as though he would like to strike her.

"You will do that?" he muttered, harshly. "You will wash our linen in public to make me a fool before the province? You will deliberately create a public esclandre at so dangerous a moment?"

"Alas!" returned his wife, mournfully, "the scandal is made by you. All I ask is to be treated with respect. Rid me for ever of her who has been the shadow across our path, and I will carry out your wishes. Refuse, and I will seek the protection of the Seigneurie, who shall arbitrate between us."

"I will return you a written answer," Clovis said, abruptly rising and making for the door. He could not and would not be ordered thus to part with Algaé; and yet he was sorely anxious for the cancelling of the hateful document. He was not capable of steering his bark alone among rocks and shallows, but must seek counsel from the others. They were awaiting him, and in a white heat of vexation he poured out to them his woes.

Mademoiselle Brunelle laughed merrily, directing sly looks of intelligence at the abbé, who frowned over his brother's shoulder, and pursed his lips.

Appeal to the Seigneurie, indeed! It was well to know of such a project in order to circumvent it. Clovis had been awkward and unskilful; and he, the abbé, must assume henceforth more openly the command of operations. Inopportune stiff necks are productive of no end of worry. Why could not the silly zany have done as he was bid, have accepted every suggestion, leaving further action to the others? The all-important object was to secure a proper will, and that point gained, both Pharamond and Algaé were well aware of what the next step would have to be. Clovis, the shilly-shally, must henceforth be excluded from a hand in the management of affairs. The lucky fellow should reap his share of profit by and by without the sweat of labour. His abortive interview with his wife had produced one good result. He was more than ever exasperated against her, and swore, with needless oaths, that he would never look on her or speak to her again.

"In that he must please himself," Pharamond remarked with indifference; "but he must take up his pen and write. If he would cease fretting and fidgeting, and sit down, his obliging brother would dictate, and the epistle should be of the shortest. Would mademoiselle kindly listen and suggest, since for her there were no secrets?"

The letter placed an hour later in the hand of Gabrielle ran thus:--

"Madame,--Your instructions shall be obeyed. I have sent to Blois for a notary.

"Your affectionate husband,

"Clovis."

CHAPTER XXI.

[THE SPIDERS SPIN.]

How provoking and how unfair to be called upon to drag out the years of our earthly pilgrimage during so stormy a period as this one! With unexpected bombshells exploding at one's feet, what was the use of sketching elaborate schemes which accident would most likely shiver? The abbé had already been obliged to change his tactics several times in consequence of untoward circumstances, and now from a clearing heaven there rained down missiles whose unexpected proximity sharpened his ire. "Why was I born so late?" he asked himself with muttered curses. "Under Louis XV., le Bien-Aimé, everybody did what they liked, provided that his majesty smiled. And if his own fancy was not thwarted, that monarch must have been much addicted to smiling, for he found the world a pleasant place. And now, just a few years later, there seemed to be not such a thing as a smile left anywhere. They had been so lavishly showered by the bien-aimé and his lotus-eating coterie that the stock was completely exhausted, and humanity had to put up with execrations as a substitute."

Each time that a courier arrived with intelligence of what was passing in the capital, the male occupants of Lorge shuddered, guessing that the news was bad. Bad, forsooth! The ball set a rolling was tearing down the hillside with such velocity that the sight thereof took away the breath.

Old de Vaux, grateful ever to the marquis and his affinity for their treatment of his sciatic nerve, came riding over with crumpled gazettes in his pocket, his eyes goggling in his head. If the whitened locks upon his pate had not been artificial, they would have stood up on end. "What are we all coming to?" was the burthen of his wail. If the world was coming to an abrupt conclusion, why did it not perform a dignified smash and vanish into vacuum in smoke, instead of first permitting that over-rated creation, man, to show what a base thing he was?

Smash! Paris, beautiful Paris, had come to smash. From a paradise it was become a pandemonium where all that was best and noblest was torn by devils' pincers.

Sciatica? Oh, yes. It was charming well, thanks to the delightful and indefatigable pupil of Mesmer and the enlightened marquis. A pair so good as they would certainly be canonized--so would the prophet. Madame and Angelique were as disgusted as the baron, but sent kindest messages to all. Would they allow their patient to unfold the latest budget?

Then the old gentleman would drone out before a long-suffering but apparently appreciative audience the result of his private lucubrations, and pour forth as well those of his lady and of Angelique. The seigneurs, he declared, must select the strongest fortress in the province, arm and victual it, and thus secure from the scum, look out for better times.

Of course, the crescendo of Parisian sinfulness found its echo, of fluctuating intensity, in the provinces. The timorous old baroness and her daughter preferred their garden to possible insult on the roads. Moreover, there was little to be gained by visiting at Lorge now. The marquise since her return from the capital, had been vastly frigid and stand-off--a stuck-up piece of goods. It was certain, now that she had her fabulous possessions in her hands, that a mere country noble's family were too contemptible to touch. It was equally clear that the oaf who was called chevalier had no honourable intentions, and that it would be more than imprudent to place so chaste a specimen as Angelique within reach of his brandy-laden breath. And so it came about that the only neighbours of the fair sex in the vicinity visited less and less at Lorge, and that the old baron when he trotted over on his prad, looked as a matter of course for the society of the mesmerists to whom he owed so much, and ceased to ask to see the chatelaine.

Not understanding her, the baron had always been frightened of Gabrielle--one shade less than of the abbé. Strange! When that gentleman first came among them, the baron and all the booby squires voted him the most charming of acquisitions. Now, somehow, he was to be avoided as much as might be, for his tongue was sharp and his wit scathing, and he was no respecter of persons. The abbé would sometimes take up the old gentleman in his claws, as it were, toy with him as cat does with a mouse, till he was bewildered and breathless; then turn him inside out with a gesture of contempt, and fling him aside. This was terribly disrespectful to a Vaux of Vaux, but it certainly was a fact, whose enormity was only revealed by slow degrees, that the abbé was not averse to treating a Vaux de Vaux (with a thousand quarterings) as if he were no more than a puppet. Having arrived at and digested this stupendous fact, it stood to reason that the baron disliked the abbé as much as he dared; but, at the same time, the counsel of that ghostly man was so worldly-wise; he was so respected by the mesmerists, appealed to by them on every occasion as an oracle, that in moments of startling difficulty such as were now of frequent occurrence, it was only natural that the baron should amble over from Montbazon to crave the oracle's advice.

A budget, indeed! Almost every day was stamped by some inconceivable event. History was making up for casual napping by a spell of feverish haste. A catalogue of years was crowded into weeks. The poor old globe was spinning round so rapidly that it would certainly be shot out of its orbit, to the annihilation of the insects on its surface.

When, six weeks after their arrival in the country, the incidents of the tenth of August reached far Touraine, the cunning abbé had the gazette wherein they were chronicled laid on the table of the marquise, whom he justly calculated would be frozen with horror. That her innocent benefactress should be summoned by destiny in fulfilment of prophecy, to drain so full a cup of bitterness was appalling, and naturally set her friend reflecting upon the darkness of her own horoscope.

The sensitive and haughty queen was indeed humbled; her defenders massacred, her home converted into a shambles.

After the storming of the Tuileries, the populace, blood-drunk, wreaked their insensate fury upon all alike, irrespective of age or sex. The gentlemen-ushers, pages, doorkeepers, even the lowly scullions of the kitchen were, without distinction, butchered. It was impossible to move a yard over the polished floors without treading on a corpse, stripped and horribly mutilated. Every corner of the palace was plundered, its furniture flung out of the window. When there were no more Royalists to kill, the rioters turned upon each other, making the fatal day the fête of carnage and devastation. The mangled bodies of the seven hundred murdered Swiss were covered with those of sans-culottes. It was a carnival of slaughter. On the Place Louis XV., groups of men and women amused themselves by severing the heads of the slain and tearing their flesh like tigers. It was a relief to know that the royal family were safe within the Temple; and yet, for what further suffering had they been rescued? The situation was so alarming that foreign ambassadors left Paris in a body, the last to go milady Sutherland, who stood by Marie Antoinette in her travail till the prison gates were closed on her.

Then came the incident, so often repeated in history, of a hopeless combat with a spirit which, easily raised, it is found impossible to lay. General Lafayette, perceiving, with distress, the results of his own teaching, implored his army to rise in defence of king and constitution, and being met with laughter, fled.

On the second of September--a Sunday, whereon time hung heavy on the hands--the brilliant idea occurred to certain zealous citizens, headed by one Maillard, that it would be fine fun to make hay in the prisons. Were there not the Abbaye, the Carmelites, the Chatelet, La Force, Salpétrière, Bicêtre, all crammed with wicked people who did not approve of sans-culottes? What a delicious amusement would it be for the dull Sunday to teach them how bad they were. With yells, a throng, increasing in volume at each street corner, swept towards the Abbaye--men naked to the waist, with foaming lips and rolling eyes, and arms clotted with gore. Knives and sharp pikes made short but merry work. Recalcitrant maidens who refused to shout "Vive la Nation!" were compelled to drink the blood of their relations. The massacre continued all day and through the night. But why go into the full details of the hideous story? France was become a dangerous lunatic who had beaten and trampled on her keepers.

It was a desperate shock to Gabrielle when she read of the fate of her friend, Louise, Princesse de Lamballe. That ill-starred lady had, as she knew, been imprisoned in La Force; and it was with a thrill that chilled her blood that she perused the details of her murder. Sure so horrible and ferocious a deed had never been done before! The marquise read, in the gazettes cunningly placed by the abbé, with blanched cheek, of how the beautiful favourite of the stricken queen had been dragged to the prison threshold, there to be slain by inches; of how her body was stripped and mutilated and flung in derision on a dung-heap, while her head was borne on a pike with auburn tresses flying, and flourished at the Temple under the window of the royal prisoners. Unhappy Louise! Unfortunate Marie Antoinette! Concerning one the sinister prophecy was accomplished; concerning the other it would be soon. What of the third, which concerned the Marquise de Gange? Morbid fancy, forsooth! No, indeed. Her fate was sealed, like theirs. What must be, must. She had lulled herself in false security.

Since Fate had decreed that the present occupants of Lorge were to live in so unsavoury an era, it behoved the ruling spirit of the group, Monsieur l'Abbé, to extract what advantage he could out of the disadvantages. In the first place, outside events were so terribly engrossing that local gossip and tittle-tattle for the time had lost their charm. The general feeling of insecurity, too, was such that the marquise could be taught without difficulty that this was not the moment for aristocrats to appeal to the Seigneurie. What was a petty bit of jealousy, or even a family misunderstanding, by the side of a massacre of thousands? A protest at such a crisis on so paltry a subject would be justly met with contempt.

Then as History kept plying her shuttle with lightning speed, the abbé shook his head and marvelled, congratulating himself that the great obstacle to his plan had been removed, since time was becoming precious.

For the new will was now an accomplished fact, and lay safe in yonder desk which bore the cypher of the marquis.

Mademoiselle Brunelle had intimated to the chatelaine, with a heavenly resignation worthy of all praise, that for appearance' sake she would accept the permission to linger on a week or two and then disappear for ever. Her note, penned in a small and irreproachable caligraphy, both relieved and troubled the marquise. That she had consented to depart without a struggle was a relief, but her mild and simple expressions of gratitude for past favours caused Gabrielle a twinge of conscience. Of course it was inevitable that the woman should be made to go, but the marquise would have felt more satisfied with herself if the creature had been vulgar and played the termagant instead of assuming the seraph. It was a million pities that she could not have gone on behaving as at first, when her mistress, finding her useful, had welcomed and tried to make a friend of her. The social earthquake had so far shaken the city of Blois that professors began to find it dangerous to cultivate aristocratic blossoms, preferring, with an eye to a whole skin, the discharging of declamatory fireworks at clubs and political assemblies. Of course there could be no question ever again of bringing mademoiselle and her late charges together; and yet it was a pity that it must be so, since the minds of the dear ones were lying fallow.

News arrived of changes, legislative and warlike, such as would transform the map of France. The jewels appertaining to the crown were annexed. The National Convention, just sprung into being, decreed the abolition of Royalty; proclaimed a Republic. The republican armies were, contrary to expectation, crowned with victory. They conquered Savoy, occupied Nice; swept from French territory the forces of the Allies. The small remaining scraps of the property of emigrants, long threatened and plucked at now and again, were actually seized en bloc. A list of pains and penalties of the severest kind was launched at such bad citizens as were gangrened with royalism.

At the present rate of progress the country would soon be no safer than the towns. Aristocrats would be dragged from their retreats, consigned to local jails, finished off in batches by a noyade or a fusillade--be drowned or shot in droves. Clearly, there was no time for palaver or parleying, or the days would pass away when it would be possible to emigrate. What a mercy--the abbé never wearied of repeating the refrain--that the Maréchal de Brèze should have transferred his wealth to Geneva, and that his obstinate and stiff-necked daughter should have been induced to change her will!

Mademoiselle Brunelle was equally convinced with the abbé that there was no time to squander. If she were to remain too long, the marquise would become suspicious and insist on her departure Of course she need not travel further than Blois, but it is well to be on the spot when something important is to take place, especially when your coadjutor is so double-faced as was the abbé. The susceptibilities of Clovis must be respected. What the schemers had to do must be done speedily, silently, and neatly. When she thought of it all the low laughter of Algaé rumbled. How surprised and mortified would the abbé be when in the end he found himself circumvented! She was to put out her paw for the chestnuts and keep half the booty for her trouble? So Pharamond had picturesquely put it. Not so. Unwittingly it was his own paw that was to be protruded, and in his case the fable would be realized. The excellent lady had graduated in his own school, and it is given to clever pupils ofttimes to outstrip the master.

Sure, now that they held the necessary document, their task was of the most infantine simplicity. It had been ascertained by cautious probing that Clovis could be counted on not to defend his wife. He would be politely invited to bury his head in the sand until that which must be was accomplished. By skilful manipulation his loathing for his better half was increasing as steadily in volume as a rolling snowball, and was assuming the proportions of a fixed idea. Gabrielle had decreed the banishment of the dear affinity. With many a groan he had acquiesced, being assured by two whisperers as he wrote to their dictation, that it was but a matter of form. "If she conquers, after all," he had said as he flung down the pen, "I will never forgive either of you. You have some project in your minds for the arrangement of the situation. What it may be I cannot guess, but I would have you know that if you fail I shall hate you both quite as much as her."

Algaé and the abbé had exchanged a glance of scorn over his shoulder, in that they were forced to work with such a sorry tool. No matter. If we paddle in thick mud, a little elbow-grease and water will make us clean again. Both began from opposite points of view to understand that the removal of Clovis might perchance have to follow his wife's. After her removal they would journey to Geneva, divide the fortune--hush the remorseful groans which so pusillanimous an object as Clovis was certain to indulge in--possibly drive him to drink, the natural corollary of remorse--and so into his grave. This was the abbé's view. Algaé went further. Arrived at Geneva, she would speedily become the marquise, and certain of dominion over her spouse--so long as his life was allowed to last--would secure to herself the reversion of her predecessors' fortune, and politely dismiss the brothers.

All that, however, was as yet in the clouds, and there was no time to lose. To a certain extent, the marquis must now be admitted to the council, but the cautious finger of the governess must be kept upon his pulse, to ascertain how far he could be trusted not to scream and make an uproar. Such a task was exactly suited to a lady of such tact and discretion as mademoiselle, and she gladly undertook the office.

Toinon, mightily displeased at the way things were going, was racked by apprehension. It seemed to her as if she and her mistress were being gradually enwrapped in the glutinous film of spiders, which uncomely creatures by and by would quietly devour them. Such a ménage as that of Lorge, despite its outward calm, was abnormal. Her dear mistress dwelt in strict retirement in her own house. A band of harpies (among which, I regret to say, she reckoned her master) were secretly conspiring, and the result of their machinations could not but be harmful. They whispered in corners, deliberated with closed doors, discussed and argued something earnestly at all times and seasons, and if somebody approached them, they suddenly grew silent. What could they be conspiring? For two pins, popping her insulted vanity into her pocket, she would write to the truant Jean, of whom she vaguely heard sometimes as being quite of importance at Blois. If he had grown out of his love for Toinon, his blindness was to be deplored; but righteously indignant as that damsel felt at his neglect, she never for a moment doubted his honesty, however deplorable his opinions. Jean respected both the marquise and her foster-sister, and if carried away from his allegiance by politics, she felt none the less certain that, were she to summon him, he would come. But how could she summon him? He would laugh at her fears, and, on the principle of "Wolf, wolf," would not obey a second summons. All she could report was that madame was unhappy and neglected, that the objectionable ex-governess had come and was on the point of going, and that, meanwhile, she and the brothers were given to whispering in corners. It was absurd, and Jean would be justified in laughing at her. He had left his dog behind him in her care, as an unfit companion for a deputy at Blois, and as the faithful beast followed her about, gazing into her eyes with canine sympathy, she would suddenly sometimes sink upon the floor, and clasping his woolly head in her comely arms, whisper to him, "Oh, my dear! I am so sorely troubled. How I wish you could tell me what to do!"

As to her master, he was quite different from what he used to be. In old days, who so spick and span, so punctiliously prim in his attire? His face used then to wear a dreamy expression of philanthropical beatitude, which, if somewhat trying, was free of blame. Now he neglected his dress, his shoulders were rounded. He muttered between his teeth, as he wandered with bent head, and when he raised it, his eyes were bloodshot, his features convulsed by passion--torn by some secret dread. He was always brooding, and on some subject which stirred the lees, erstwhile so undisturbed, of evil thoughts. The marquis was changing a vue d'œil, and the change was not for the better.

Toinon, with her dog behind her, was slowly mounting the stair one day, revolving for the thousandth time the pros and cons of her perplexity, when she perceived that the outer door of the abbé's sanctum was open--an unusual circumstance, for had he not taken to himself this tiny chamber by reason of its double doors? The abigail hesitated. Should she descend to prying? If she did it would be for the best motives, and if she heard anything that concerned her not it might as well be consigned to a tomb. She could detect the mellifluous accents of the abbé, apparently in remonstrance, then the voice of mademoiselle, very low and earnest, broken by something smothered from the marquis, who spoke in tones of pain. What could they be discussing so earnestly? Raising her finger to caution the dog to silence, she stole down a-tiptoe, and holding her breath, listened.

Not for long, however, for the marquis of a sudden cried out, "I will never consent to such strong measures--never--never--never. They are too full of risk;" and was evidently moving towards the door when his progress was arrested by the abbé.

"Leave it to us, dear brother; leave it to us," the latter was repeating, soothingly. "If not your poor brother and your devoted friend, who else in the wide world are you to trust? It is as plain as daylight that we must leave France ere long, and your obstinate wife will never consent to go with us. Well, well; she doubtless will be safe here if we are not, and if we get into trouble, she will be rather pleased than otherwise. Do as you are advised. Take yonder document and raise on it at Blois or Tours a little money for present expenses. We are out of cash, as you know, since you so properly stood out against the allowance. You can easily raise money on that paper. Is not everybody scraping together all they can in order to be off while there is time? Go, dear lad, perform your portion of the task, and leave the rest to us."

"What of her, then?" Clovis inquired in doubt.

"Meddle, meddle, meddle--why will you meddle?" retorted Pharamond, laughing. "I daresay she will live on here for many years, or perhaps not--who knows? Suffice it for the moment that we men must fly across the border."

Then came something more from mademoiselle, which the eavesdropper could not catch, and Toinon had but time to flee with all her speed to the upper storey, ere the marquis opened the door. He was sighing and moaning and muttering in most extraordinary fashion.

Peeping from the landing above she could see that he trembled like a leaf, and did not fail to mark the abbé's sneer of triumph as he looked after his departing brother.

"He has been sent away from Lorge," she murmured, with wrinkles on her brow. "He is to go, and to take madame's testament along with him. Those two demons are victorious, and we are at their mercy. What do they intend to do? Nothing that bodes good to us."

CHAPTER XXII.

[DOMESTIC COOKERY.]

That Clovis should have thought proper to leave Lorge without notice, or any hint of his intentions, was not a subject for vexation now to Gabrielle. She saw the carriage disappear round the corner with a valet and a valise in the rumble, and the eyes of the occupant fixed steadily upon the postilion. No smile, or nod, or wave of a hand for her to whom he owed so much. She could contemplate him now without a wince or heartache, as calmly as we examine uncanny specimens of beetledom in a glass case. She prayed Heaven that her son, the dear Victor, should not grow up too like his father. One good point about the marquis's going was that he was separated from that woman. Then she began to wonder a little that he should have prematurely torn himself away before the moment of her flitting. That was good. Perhaps he had acted thus on purpose to keep up the show of appearances which all agreed was to be maintained. Be that as it might, it was not probable that the woman would linger on in a false position--pour les beaux yeux de l'abbé--and so the chatelaine, sitting with the dear ones in the moat garden, was prepared at any moment to witness the departure of another carriage. And after that? Would Clovis return when the coast was clear, or remain at a distance in dudgeon, leaving her to the tender mercies of his brothers? What then? She had given way, or seemed to do so, for peace' sake. They could require no more of her, and would doubtless respect her seclusion. It was curious to think though of the whimsicality of the situation. She, Gabrielle de Gange, erstwhile the reigning belle, with all at her feet that the world had to give, was living now with unruffled equanimity under the same roof as sheltered the man whom she had learned to look on as a devil.

It was October, and the leaves were circling over the grass in whispering eddies. The mournful days of late autumn have a charm of their own, as nature still peeps forth half-chilled from under the closing slab of the tomb. The monotony of mundane existence is in tune with the scene, and as all that is pleasant of the year slowly vanishes, we dream and moralize in a regretful way, which is not discontent.

Nature is dying, but will live again anon. Ah! what of us who gaze ahead striving to peer into the unknown? Have we not learned to know too well that the Future is the grave in which all our poor puny ambitions are to lie, never to arise any more, and yet we would fain examine the resting-place where Hope is to play chief mourner! Most of us who have reached middle age have had ambition crushed out of us long since, and we can smile with quiet amusement at the vaulting aspirations of our youth.

Gabrielle, while tranquilly embroidering, was not averse to recalling the past, summoning on the disc of memory the pageants of Versailles, the innocent bucolics of Trianon, the magnificent fêtes at the Tuileries. Where were all the gaily gilded puppets now? The Tuileries was a Golgotha, Trianon a nest for owls. The lovely Lamballe had been hacked to pieces by demons; their majesties were doing gruesome penance for the sins of others; even the saintly and immaculate Elizabeth, one of the purest and noblest women who ever trod the earth, was also enduring long-drawn and excruciating pangs of martyrdom.

Laying down her embroidery as she reviewed these things, Gabrielle would clasp her hands behind her head, and marvel, as others in similarly incongruous situations have done, whether Providence is not a myth. Every fibre of the human soul revolts against the monstrous doctrine that the innocent shall suffer for the guilty, and yet every day we see that it obtains, and always has obtained from the time of Adam downwards. Such gloomy reflections should not perplex young and pretty heads, and yet the marquise was unable to conquer melancholy. Perhaps it was induced by the season, perhaps by the germs of illness. She must have dreamed too long in the moat garden without being provided with sufficient wraps. Certainly she had caught a chill, for when Toinon brought her as usual her morning chocolate, a few days after the marquis's departure, she found her shivering and feverish, with chattering teeth and laboured breath. Drawing aside the heavy curtains of the ancestral bed, Toinon gazed long and anxiously at her mistress, who said, turning impatiently, "You stare as if I were a ghost!"

"Madame thinks she has caught cold?" Toinon agreed quietly. "Madame was always too fond of sitting in the open air."

"I knew I was going to be unwell," her mistress observed drowsily, "for last night I could scarce touch my supper. When the palate is affected, things taste quite differently. The good Bertrand sent up some of my favourite cakes, as light as if made by fairies, and somehow they seemed quite coppery. Do something, Toinon; give them to your dog, for the dish is scarcely touched, and I would not have Bertrand think I am ungrateful."

"And you were always so partial to those cakes!" drily remarked Toinon, with a peculiar smile. "Yes, I will give them to the dog."

"First make me some tisane," entreated Gabrielle. "I am languid and feverish, and my throat is parched and burning."

Toinon slowly shook her head and went straight into the adjoining boudoir, where the light refection described as supper was always laid out on a low table. Her movement was so abrupt that had she not been much preoccupied, she could not have failed to perceive the whisk of a black coat-tail, as it disappeared into the long saloon. Had she opened the door four minutes earlier, she would have seen a dapper figure clad in black leaning over the plate that held the confectionery, and have heard a soft voice mutter, "Only half a cake. It must have had a peculiar taste."

As it was, Toinon saw nothing of this, but finding the room empty, moved swiftly to the tray, took up a cake and smelt it. A thin, pale face was watching her through a door-chink with gleaming eyes.

She again shook her head, and murmuring, "Can they be so wicked?" carried the plate away.

Along the corridor she sped, and down the stairs, unconscious of a dark shadow moving noiselessly, till she reached her own apartment. At sound of the well-known footstep, an animal within, hitherto quiescent, began to whine and yelp, and beat itself against the door.

"Patience, patience--poor hound," Toinon said aloud. "Is it wise to be in so great a hurry? Even now, I cannot believe it!"

She turned the handle and the boisterous dog dashed the plate from her hand with its great paws. She picked up two of the cakes which had remained whole, and with the same peculiar smile of meaning she had worn above, watched the hound as he ravenously devoured the fragments. There was still a piece left--a large one--and she pushed it towards him with her foot.

"Poor dog! Forgive me, Jean," she said, "if what I think is true."

The shadow without gazed in on the scene with craning neck. "She suspects," the abbé muttered. "What will she do with the others?"

As though in direct answer to the question, Toinon turned rapidly from the animal which she had been eyeing with a suspicious frown, and carefully taking up the remaining pieces of confectionery wrapped them in paper. Then she stood stroking her chin irresolute. The dog approached and wagged his tail, rubbing his muzzle in her hand, as his way was when he wanted something. "What is it, poor fellow?" she enquired, stroking his head. "Water! I thought as much!" Filling a basin, she placed it on the floor, and the dog drank eagerly till the last drop was drained, then curled himself up to sleep.

Starting, the abigail took up the parcel, went to a cupboard, selected a bottle from a row and mixed some of its contents with water.

"Mustard," murmured the abbé, slinking into the shade. "That stupid woman said there was no especial taste. See what it is to have to deal with bunglers."

Wearing his most unpleasant scowl, and grinding his sharp teeth, he stole along the corridor, and moving up a step or two turned and came down again humming a blythesome stave, just as Toinon appeared at the bottom, holding the parcel and a glass.

"Our pretty Toinon is vastly occupied," he laughed, merrily. "But for fear of the stalwart arm of burly Jean, I would steal a kiss from those sweet lips."

"Maybe you will feel that arm sooner than you expect," she said, scarce able to steady her voice; "make way, and if you dare to touch me, I will spit in your villain's face."

This was clearly not the moment for persiflage, so with a careless shrug of indulgence for the coarse manners of the lower classes, the abbé stood aside. "What a dear darling little vixen," he shouted up the stairs. "I pity poor Jean Boulot, despite his thews and sinews."

The first attempt was a failure, an egregiously contemptible and inartistic failure, and all due to that inveterate bungler. Had not mademoiselle's coadjutor suggested that liquid is preferable to solid, for the purpose they both had at heart, since you only munch a biscuit, whereas you take a preliminary sip at a liquid and then, your mouth feeling a trifle dry, take a longer gulp before remarking that the taste is peculiar? And the execrable Algaé had insisted on the cakes, declaring that if you are fond of a particular cake, you will indulge in several before any little peculiarity can manifest itself. And the fool--the hopelessly obstinate and self-sufficient idiot--had perpetrated another bungle, a worse one than before, since Gabrielle had only bitten into one of her favourites, while the others had been gobbled by the dog. The dog would die; no doubt of it, and Toinon's suspicions would be justified. What would she do with that tell-tale parcel? An extremely awkward mistake of mademoiselle's. There was one way out of the dilemma. The abbé must be taken ill as well as the lady of the house; complain of a taste of copper, make an outcry in the kitchen, and discover that the careless cook had spread his materials upon a copper-plate that had not been cleared of verdigris.

Toinon was busy all day with her mistress, whom she found in a half lethargy, with burning palms and widely distended pupils. She had some ado to force the mustard down her throat; but, this done, she soon had the pleasure of seeing the patient revive. By evening, Gabrielle was calm, but exhausted, and when Toinon descended to the kitchen to fetch some bouillon (which Bertrand would have first to taste) she was astonished to hear that the abbé was screaming with agony, kicking in frightful convulsions.

Toinon smiled her peculiar smile again, and uttered a few common-place words of sympathy.

"Badly played," she said to herself, "he might as well have bethought him that the symptoms should be lethargy and coma."

M. Bertrand, the cook, was in high dudgeon. How dared anybody hint that he had poisoned madame's biscuits? It was all owing to that oaf of a scullion, who had laid the large square copper-plate on the confectionery table, without remembering that it had been unused for a week. Was he, a cordon bleu, a chef de premier caliber, to be blamed for the stupidity of a scullion? He would be expected to clean his own saucepans next. When the marquis returned--who always appreciated efforts to please--he would give warning and leave this sale maison, which was only fit for cockroaches and rats.

"Go back to Paris!" gibed Toinon. "Safer where you are, believe me. A chef with so splendid a reputation for pampering the palates of the gangrened aristocracy, would surely be strung up to a lantern! This bouillon looks excellent," she added saucily; "but M. Bertrand will be good enough to sip two spoonfuls, lest the scullion should have dipped his fingers in it."

Next day, thanks to Toinon's vigilant solicitude, the marquise was sufficiently recovered to sit at her embroidery as usual. Holding out a hand to the abigail while tears rose to the eyes of both, "My sister," she said, "it is worth while to be a little ill just to learn how much we are beloved."

Alas! beloved! Poor lady. Hated by four persons without consciences, who were panting and thirsting for her death! A target for poisoned arrows!

After sagely considering the matter, Toinon made up her mind that if she did not interfere, she might become in some sort an accessary to a tragedy. In whom was faith to be placed? Honest Jean? What could he do, if he were to come, in the face of such diabolical ingenuity? He would learn that his favourite dog--companion of many trudgings through the woods at all times and seasons--had died of poisoned cakes. But then was it not admitted in the household, that the abbé as well as the marquise had accidentally partaken, and that the abbé of the two had been the most sick? Had not varlets and kitchen wenches cowered and clung together at sound of his piercing screams? He was well again, for he had had the presence of mind to swallow mustard. The marquise had recovered, thanks to a like precaution. Toinon had been cunning enough to keep two cakes which, when the time came should be examined, and if the abbé were foolish enough to declare that he had been poisoned by similar articles, it would be easy to prove that his agonies were sham, as they were not the natural results of such a poison as had been administered to Gabrielle.

Meanwhile, something must be done, and the question that troubled Toinon was what that something was to be. At last she made up her mind and broke the ice.

"Will madame pardon me for what may appear an act of presumption," she inquired, gently rearranging the wraps about the invalid. "I have taken something on myself which may anger madame, who will, I know, believe that if I was guilty of an error it was made through excess of zeal."

There was a pause, unbroken by Gabrielle, who glanced at her foster-sister with a wan and wearied look that was full of pathos.

Presently she raised the fingers of the waiting maid to her face, and stroked her cheek with them.

"What is this grand effort of the intellect?" she asked, cheerily. "I know it is something well intentioned."

"I have written a letter in madame's name and sent it off by special courier."

"Not to the marquis?" cried Gabrielle, the colour flushing over her face and neck.

Poor soul! The marquis! Much good would it be to write to him, unless to request him to order a coffin.

"No," Toinon said, quietly. "It cuts me to the heart to see madame so solitary, and during a convalescence too, a time when we always brood and consider the least pleasant subjects. I have written to the Maréchale de Brèze, stating that you have been ill, but are out of danger, and would be glad of a visit from your mother."

Gabrielle remained thoughtful, still stroking Toinon's fingers. Why not? The maréchale owed a visit, and the absence of her husband on business would account for the seclusion of his wife. Moreover, it would be a splendid thing to lure the old dame from dangerous Paris, where Mother Guillotine was commencing to display a Catholic taste in the way of food. Yes; from all points of view it was an admirable idea to induce Madame de Brèze to visit Lorge. Why! it was a thousand years at least since she had set eyes upon the darlings! Her own and only grandchildren! How shockingly reprehensible. How she would joy in marking each trait of genius, and how proud their mother would be to show how cultured were their minds! The maréchale's mind was considerably less stored than her daughter's, but she would appreciate with greater awe the progress of their climb up Parnassus. Did they not write each other poems and moral essays, after the manner of the Scuderi, and of the encyclopædist ladies!--such prodigiously clever verses, and such heavenly prose sermons! The more she considered it the more enchanted was she that Toinon should have taken this move upon herself. Had it been left to her, she would have doubted, have written a dozen letters only to tear them up, weighing in that tender and over-scrupulous conscience of hers whether it was right or wrong to drag an old lady to the wilds of Touraine at such a troublous moment. She would have considered whether it was not her duty to have unselfishly exhorted the ancient dame never to stir out of her modest abode; never even to open her window, lest by the act she should be drawn into the maw of Mother Guillotine.

The more she thought over it the more delighted was she with the idea, and, opening her arms, clasped Toinon to her breast.

"My dear, my dear," she murmured, fondly, "what should I do without you? Let the dear mother come. Together we will make her welcome."

CHAPTER XXIII.

[A PASSAGE OF ARMS.]

Mademoiselle Algaé Brunelle was not on a bed of roses, and her growing impatience took the form of tartness. If Clovis could have looked on his affinity in his absence her prospects of becoming some day Marquise de Gange might have been less promising. In truth, she was very cross, and took no trouble to conceal her mood from Pharamond or Phebus. It was not her fault, but that of the silly Bertrand, that the cakes should have had a metallic flavour. She therefore soundly rated that worthy for his clumsiness, and threatened him with pains and penalties. The chef glanced at her with two pig's-eyes set close together, and replied, "I was engaged in Paris by Monsieur l'Abbé, not by mademoiselle, who should undertake her dirty work herself." He had no personal feeling against the recluse upstairs, but man must live, and with the present he was to receive he intended to escape from the French caldron, and make up for a trifling lapsus in another land by a future of exemplary virtue.

Energetic mademoiselle was all for taking the bull by the horns and acting with decision. Why beat about the bush in this provoking way, she argued, since the chatelaine was completely in their power? The domestics were the abbé's creatures, drafted one by one, and dropped each into his place. Madame de Vaux and Angelique were too much alarmed to leave their own precincts; and now that the marquis was gone, the old gentleman had no motive for ambling over from Montbazon, since he had never understood Gabrielle, and instinctively disliked the brothers. He was grateful to Algaé in that matter of the sciatic nerve, but it was not his place as a seigneur to make morning calls on a dependant. To prevent prying from without, it was easy to spread a report that Madame la Marquise de Gange had been attacked by typhus fever. The rustics of Touraine had a wholesome dread of the disease. Madame had none on whom she could rely except her faithful abigail. Would it not be the most natural thing in the world if the devoted foster-sister were likewise to succumb to the malady? There was nothing whatever to stop the prosecution of their plans, and it has long been an axiom that what has to be done is best done quickly. There was nothing to cause the delay but the abbé's tortuous method. It is said that each of us has been an animal in a previous phase, and that a shade of likeness, physical or moral, or both, yet clings to us in this. Mademoiselle was convinced that in his last existence the abbé had been a serpent. It was his nature to wriggle and twist, and he could not for the life of him move straight. If he beheld a dove upon a branch he must needs coil himself elaborately to fascinate it, instead of protruding a tongue and gobbling it up at once.

These and other views, did she propound to Pharamond, marching up and down the room as her wont was, when much in earnest, with elephantine tread, while the chevalier blinked at her in fear. A wonderful woman, an awful and terrible woman! It was not surprising that Clovis should have sunk under her thrall. She dared to beard, and even flout the still more awful Pharamond, and the two crossed swords sometimes with such a clash of arms that Phebus shivered in alarm. What two such strong ones willed, would certainly take place. No doubt about it. The poor thing upstairs was doomed. No effort that he, Phebus, could make, might stay her doom. Why, then, make any effort? He could only shed maudlin tears and wish her well through her misery. He quite agreed with Algaé, that the inevitable should take place at once.

Now lecturing and advice that looked too like command, was by no means palatable to Pharamond, and he had much ado to maintain the suavity of his temper. The idea of typhus was not bad, but it would entail certain consequences. Nearly everybody at this time, both in France and England, was seamed with smallpox, and dreadful as the scourge was, familiarity had paled its terrors. The report of a spread of typhus, on the other hand, was enough to depopulate a district. Happily, since the period which occupies us, advancing science has done much to mitigate its horrors, but in the eighteenth century, the sickening details of its course were enough to appal the bravest. The Marquise de Gange and her abigail having succumbed to the scourge, the inmates of the chateau must flee, or endure ostracism--they would be banned like lepers.

Though by the terms of the new will, the marquis would quietly inherit, it would not do for him and his brothers, after assisting at a typhus deathbed, to stay at Blois to transact necessary business. Unluckily the unstable legatee could not be trusted to do much unaided. As had been decided he was to raise money on his expectations, sufficient to waft the party to Geneva, and keep them in proper style during tedious but necessary negociations. It was obvious, therefore, that mademoiselle's impatience was vexatious and ill-advised. When Clovis wrote to say that the sum was raised, then they would perform their one act drama, and, bowing, retire behind the scenes.

"Surely there ought to be no difficulty about raising the necessary sum," grumbled Algaé, with arms crossed, and moody brow. "Clovis is so reprehensibly tardy. What can he be doing all this while! I would have settled the matter myself in half-an-hour, if the mission could have been confided to me."

Phebus blinked more than usual. Oh! A wonderful woman, who appeared to him as a vision of fate in a violent hurry. Could she who had been sprightly and kittenish, be so athirst for another woman's blood?

"You deem yourself vastly clever," sneered Pharamond, waxing wroth. "Can you not remember that every mistake has been due to your stupidity? Half-an-hour, forsooth! Do you not know that bullion is as rare a commodity as diamonds? that to refuse payment in assignats is to risk the guillotine, and that beyond the border, such things are but dirty paper? A pretty figure we should cut if we rattled into the courtyard of the Etoile d'Or, and attempted to pay the Swiss postilions with dead leaves! One cannot, of course, expect common sense from a woman, any more than grapes from thistles. Your querulous importunity is wearying. You must keep your promise and be content to be led by me."

Even Pharamond was disconcerted, and Phebus cowered, when Algaé dashed into the breakfast-room one day like a whirlwind, her eyes aflame, her dusky visage black with fury. She moved swiftly up and down, unable to articulate, upsetting the chairs in her career. What could have happened to enrage her thus? Verily, she was becoming a deplorable, insufferable nuisance, and it would be well to make an end of it.

"Patience," she blurted out at last, thumping into her accustomed seat, and scattering the glasses. "You never weary of exhorting me to patience. Perhaps you will yourself remember the elementary fact that events will not stand still while you are parleying."

"What now?" Pharamond asked calmly.

"This now," retorted mademoiselle. "The Maréchale de Brèze has just arrived with an army of domestics, and is closeted upstairs with her daughter."

This was news; unwelcome and unexpected news. Had the old lady arrived on an errand similar to that of the family solicitor? Hardly. If Gabrielle had again secretly sought protection, M. Galland would have come himself. And an army of servants, too! Servants are argus-eyed and uncharitable in their conclusions. These people could not be wheedled or cajoled like those selected by the abbé. Algaé's wrath, though coarsely expressed, was justified. The irruption of a foreign element, just at this juncture, was unfortunate.

"We must frighten them away," Pharamond observed, quietly peeling a pear.

Mademoiselle snorted in scorn, while the abbé sat wrapped in thought. Why was the maréchale here now? Had anything fresh occurred in Paris, which had impelled flight? If that had been so, she would not have travelled with a retinue. She was timid and nervous, and fearful of bandits on the road. She could scarcely have been summoned by Gabrielle, since the latter had no suspicion of the cakes. Pharamond had satisfied himself of that, by knocking humbly and inserting a head, while ostentatiously remaining on the threshold. "Pardon my intrusion," he had meekly purred, "but anxiety compels me to ask after your health. In Clovis's absence I feel responsible. Tell me that you have recovered, as I have, from the untoward incident due to a stupid cook?"

Gabrielle politely declared herself to be well, deplored the abbé's illness, and intimated with a slight inclination that the interview was over. Chilly, not to say icy. But there was no symptom of suspicion in her clear blue eyes. She declined to say more than was necessary to a man whom she detested, that was all. But Toinon, the abbé was convinced, knew all about it. Why had she kept her knowledge from her mistress? What had she done with the parcel? She had allowed him clearly to understand, that she was not taken in by his comedy. Did she not always make a parade, to the scandal of the household, of having every article tasted that was to be consumed by her mistress or herself?

He had seen her wrap up the cakes which the dog had not devoured--to what end? It would be well to have those cakes and to destroy them; was it worth the trouble of finding and purloining them? It had been generally admitted that through carelessness there had been an accident which was not followed by a fatal result. In every household such accidents occur since the culinary genius is not infallible. Were the things to be analysed, it might transpire that the quantity of verdigris or subacetate on the copper plate had been excessive, so great as to look like deliberate purpose. Did Toinon propose to open a judicial inquiry under the presidency of Madame La Maréchale; produce her pieces de conviction; accuse a respectable ghostly man of attempted murder? The idea was so ludicrous that Pharamond laughed aloud. Let her do as she liked. Bother the cakes! The inquiry would be very funny. He quite hoped that she would ventilate her suspicions for the amusement of the assembled household, and give him the chance of victory.

It behoved a son of the Church, brought up in a good school, to pay due and ceremonious respect to the mother of their chatelaine. He accordingly indited a sweet note expressive of joyous surprise, and requesting the honour of an interview.

Gabrielle was about to seize the note and tear it into fragments, but the hand impulsively raised fell by her side, and the words she would have spoken died upon her lips. Why worry the venerable dame with her own peck of troubles? She had gone through such paroxysms of terror on the journey that she was still all of a twitter. "You've not the smallest idea! My pet--" she began in her high treble, "what the villages and towns were like. Where such crowds of forbidding tatterdemalions could have sprung from I cannot understand. And when they saw my coach and armed servants, they pursued us with yells and stones, actually flints! A sharp one nearly struck me in the face. I was so indignant that I felt inclined to stop and say, 'You curs! Do you know I am the widow of one who spilt his best blood for his country and his king?' but now I am rather glad I did not."

"Dearest mother!" the marquise murmured, clasping the old lady to her bosom, "I am so glad you did not! Alas! even to name our martyr king is to rouse a volley of curses."

And then the old lady, enchanted to have found a listener who would not interrupt her flow, gabbled on interminably about the condition of the capital. Before daring to decide on a journey she had called in good M. Galland who, contrary to her own views, had considered it an admirable suggestion that the mother should visit the daughter. "If I had known all, wild horses would not have moved me. The threatening attitude of your rustics is more menacing than our mob at home." She failed to add that as she rarely stepped outside the door, she knew but little of the Paris rabble.

"The abbé--how nice it must be to have him," she went off at a tangent. "A most engaging man. I remember that when he visited us in Paris I said to your dear father--ah, deary me--he's with the blessed--that it was a miracle to find such breeding in a provincial. You must excuse me, pet, if I seem rude to your husband's brother, but he was brought up in the south somewhere, he told me, where they cannot be expected to assume the polish of the capital. Well, well--he must be a very clever and cultivated man as well as a most delightful one!"

How could the marquise divulge what she knew of the abbé to this garrulous and purblind old woman? Toinon, who hung about the room and knew more than did her mistress could scarce contain herself. Had it been worth while to summon such a silly harridan? Her contingent of domestics, however, was a safeguard, during whose stay a taster could be dispensed with. Suffice it, she was here, and must be detained as long as possible, though she always detested Lorge. Toinon had made up her mind what steps she intended to take--the very steps which the abbé had guessed. She intended formally to impeach the abbé and Mademoiselle Brunelle; to unveil the past and the present for the shocked old lady's benefit, and solemnly adjure her on her return to the capital, to take steps for her daughter's safety, or make up her mind till her dying day to be persecuted by vengeful ghosts. In face of such an impeachment, and on the production of the cakes, the guilty abbé would quail. At any rate, his claws would be cut, so far as extreme measures were concerned.

The reception of the brothers by the maréchale was most cordial. The chevalier quite won her heart, for his watery gaze would remain fixed on her for hours, while, knitting in hand, she furbished up for him the legends of the chateau. He was like a wistful eyed, cosy, lapdog--with an ever-wagging tail. If he spoke little, he was an excellent listener, and when she grew weary of chattering, the abbé could talk enough for both. On the whole, much as she disliked the place, she was quite glad to have come, for the house in the suburbs of Paris was deadly dull; there was no society at present, since her old friends were in prison or had emigrated.

It was charming, too, with Gabrielle and the cherubs, to forget the hurly-burly of the Revolution. The perfect peace and majestic repose of the chateau were soothing to the nerves, while there was sufficient liveliness to prevent boredom. There never was so attentive a cavalier as that delightful abbé who seemed to guess everything by intuition. Was she chilly, the devoted soul was sure to come round the corner in answer to a wish, armed with a wrap and an umbrella. For her he selected the choicest pears and apples at breakfast, indited complimentary sonnets--as though she were not silver-haired and wrinkled. As the evenings were drawing in he would improvise games and pastimes to pass the hours in which the children could join, and made himself so agreeable to all that the guest was enchanted. "Really, pet, it is quite arcadian," the worthy dame would remark to her daughter. "I'd no notion this horrid place could be made so nice. I can imagine myself at Trianon again in the good old days. Ah, well, well, well!" And then with a big sigh she would burst into tears, remembering what had been and what was.

The individual who did not at all appreciate the sudden volte-face was, as may be imagined, Mademoiselle Brunelle. Fortune was in an elfish mood. For her mother's sake the marquise had tacitly permitted the brothers to resume the place they had once occupied, promising herself--when the visit was over--to hold them at arms' length again; but with Algaé it was different. On no pretence could she be permitted to join the circle. Indeed, it was hinted to her in a politely worded note that she was delaying her departure over long.

The abbé had declared that the marplot must be frightened away, and yet he was sparing no pains to make the visit pleasant. It was evident that he and his brother avoided their ally lest she should fall on them with just upbraiding. If she beheld them in the distance, it was but to see them whisking round a corner. Oblivious of feelings she was left alone to brood and mope; her meals were served apart as though she were infectious; and now she had received the curtest of summonses to make herself scarce forthwith. Oh! how she hated the lot of them!

In truth she was in a dilemma, and did not know what to do. Clovis had been got rid of while something was being done which might revolt his squeamish nature; and though he said nothing, she was certain that he had more than a vague suspicion of what was going forward. But supposing that nothing were to take place after all? Supposing that when he had raised the necessary sum, and called on the others to join him, they were to do so, and cross the frontier, leaving Gabrielle behind? What he was able to raise could not be very much, and one cannot live in luxury at Geneva or elsewhere on expectations. They would have to report that the marquise was charming well, instead of dead, and that, unmolested, she might live on for years. Why should she not, in their absence, make another will, or a dozen others, whereby even the shadowy expectations would be reduced to thinnest air?

Was the abbé scheming to gain time? It struck Algaé with a gush of impotent wrath that perchance the coming of the maréchale had been his own device, arranged so as to tide over the days until mademoiselle should have no excuse for lingering, that he might then have the heiress to himself! Perhaps his recently developed hatred of her was a snare to deceive the governess? If it turned out that this was so, what course would it behove her to pursue? Should she seem to accept her fate, drive quietly away, and joining Clovis, unfold the machinations of his brother? Would Clovis believe, and if he did, how would he act--he who had fullest confidence in his brother? Were the suspicions that racked her justified or not? Meanwhile, she was treated like a social Pariah, and the precious hours waned.

The abbé guessed her thoughts, and laughed. Women are so nimble witted that when they enter the labyrinth of scheming they frequently wander too far and lose themselves. Pharamond was quite as anxious to be rid of the old lady as the younger one could be, but he was far-seeing and cautious, while his coadjutor was culpably impatient.

It was one night when the family sat at supper in the boudoir that Toinon struck her blow. There had been a splendid bout of blind man's buff in the grand saloon. The cherubs had been seized by Toinon and carried off to bed, flushed, out of breath, and happy. The pursy chevalier, who had been very active, puffed and blew, and looked like to have a fit. Madame la Maréchale had been frisking after a fashion that surprised herself. The abbé mopped his face with a dainty kerchief, and flung himself at Gabrielle's feet, as in the departed days.

"You are our prisoner, maréchale," he cried gaily--"a prisoner for life in this ancient fortress, and shall never go hence alive. You add such a charm to our circle that we positively can't do without you. Is it not so, dear Gabrielle? Tell our mother that she is here for good."

Pharamond glanced up, with a yellow light glinting through half-closed lids, and lips drawn tightly over teeth: attitude and expression recalled vividly scenes she would gladly have forgotten, and Gabrielle, she knew not why, was frightened.

Toinon, re-entering, marked his familiar gesture and her lady's fear, and her gorge rose till she felt choking. A venomous, slimy snake was coiling itself about the feet of the marquise, fouling her with its tainted breath. The abnormal, loathsome reptile! Was he slowly to enwrap her in his glittering coils and crush her bones, while Toinon stood by, unaiding? Her brain in a whirl of indignation, the abigail blurted out, "For good or evil, which? You dare not poison her--that is a comfort--lest her domestics should report the fact."

The suddenness of the attack startled even Pharamond, while the maréchale stared bewildered, and Gabrielle turned a shade more pale. With anxious and surprised inquiry the marquise gazed at her foster-sister. What was this? Full well she knew of what the abbé was capable, and that her maid would not bring false charges.

The ice broken, Toinon felt better, refreshed as by a douche of water. Leaning against the door, hands firmly planted upon hips, she turned to the amazed maréchale and plainly told her tale. She told of the marquise's symptoms, of her own suspicion but too soon verified; of how she had found Jean's dog stretched dead upon the floor, with a green liquor running from its mouth; how by prompt action she had saved her mistress, who had luckily taken but a mouthful; how she had found the abbé in perfect health some hours after (if his tale were true), he had swallowed a strong dose of poison; how she, Toinon, had then sent for Madame de Brèze, that in the future she might shield her daughter.

Never in her whole life before had the poor old woman been placed in a position of responsibility, and she could only murmur in angry fear--"Why me--why send for me?" Indeed she was a ludicrous example of the broken reed, and the abbé waved airy thanks to Toinon with white fingers, in that she was so kindly playing into his hands.

"Why, indeed," he echoed, "if half were true of what that naughty minx accuses me. I poison our darling Gabrielle! The idea would be intensely comic if it were not offensive. It is a fact, madame, of which Gabrielle is well aware, that an accident occurred, owing to a scullion's carelessness. I myself nearly succumbed, for I had a desperate battle for life, and when I recovered, sent up a hymn of thanks to Heaven in that Gabrielle should have but suffered slightly."

"You knew so little of your poison that you assumed wrong symptoms!" remarked Toinon, in disdain.

"Not so. It is you who know not the poison," retorted Pharamond, with a malignant flash that was instantly suppressed. "Spite and fatuous ignorance misled you. The symptoms vary according to quantity imbibed. I unluckily ate a cake and half before I was aware of anything peculiar, and any doctor will tell you that whereas a small dose of subacetate of copper will produce coma, a large one will bring about griping pains and tetanic convulsions, which, without aid from above, lead to paralysis and death."

"A large dose acts on the system quickly--within an hour," scoffed the abigail. "When I told you that the cakes were poisoned you were in perfect health."

"I had but just partaken----"

"A clumsy liar! I asked Bertrand if he had more of his confectionery, and he answered with a searching look of suspicious inquiry that all he had made were served to the marquise."

"Upon my word, the wench is very erudite," laughed the abbé, lightly. "How come you to know so much?"

"There was an ancient book on poisons in the library. I turned up the article 'Copper,' and studied it."

"Was?"

"Yes, was. The book is hidden now where you will never find it."

There was a pause, during which the combatants studied each other warily. Then the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, in disgust drawled out, "Have we not had enough of this low comedy?"

"I ascertained," pursued the undaunted maiden, "that the necessary quantity of verdigris so to affect one little cake out of many as almost to produce coma in one who had taken a single bite must be so large that a copper cooking-plate would have to be thickly buttered with it. Now Bertrand excused himself on the plea that the plate in use was found to be 'not quite clean.' If he had buttered it then was your 'accident' not due to inadvertence."

"What proof have you that the cakes were so heavily loaded?"

"The fact that the dog died within half-an-hour; that I retained two which I intend presenting to madame that she may have them analysed in Paris."

"A pretty story, ingenious as wicked. No one saw the dog perish but yourself. What evidence is there, except your own, that the cakes in your possession are in the same condition as when placed on the table? Are you sure you have any cakes at all?"

There was such an air of mischievous satisfaction underlying the tone of banter that Toinon's heart stood still. "How are you sure--" she began, then sped swiftly from the room, to return in a few moments white as a sheet and breathless.

"They are gone," she panted, "gone! You discovered where they were concealed, you wicked man, and have destroyed them!"

The abbé rose leisurely from the floor and broke into a shout of laughter. "Dear ladies," he apologised, "you must forgive so vulgar a display of merriment, but the jest is too, too good. What subtle forms, nowadays, will not the malice of the enemy assume! Unfortunate noblesse! Unjust and cruel age! The inscrutable powers permit us to be hauled to prison, conducted to the shambles, but allow us to leave the world with characters unstained. The mob would trump up charges against us now to justify their deeds; but the charges are so shallow and so foolish that they defeat their ends. Poisoned cakes! Pah! Unhappy girl, you who have received a superior education should have soared above such folly. It was the rumour that spread from Paris about the king and queen and the poisoned food at the Tuileries that put this absurd notion in your head. Madame de Brèze, I grieve that so untoward an incident as this should have occurred during your stay among us, which we have all striven to make a pleasant one. We have kept it from you, but it is true, to our misfortune, that the spirit of the province is menacing. There is nothing that the peasants will not believe against an aristo. If you sallied forth and announced that I, the Abbé Pharamond, am specially partial to boiled baby, served aux choux, there is not one who would not believe you. This girl is betrothed to Jean Boulot, the gamekeeper, who deliberately left a respectable service to make himself notorious at Blois as the most rabid of all the Jacobins, and it is obvious that she acts now under his influence, regardless of long service under the marquise and of the many benefits received. Alack! the ingratitude of those who rend the hand that caresses them is very hard to bear."

"Madame, you do not believe him?" cried Toinon, throwing herself at Gabrielle's feet and anxiously searching her face. "You know that the man is lying!"

"Yes, I know," Gabrielle whispered as she bent to kiss her brow. "I know you have spoken truth, but we are powerless."

She leaned back, supporting her head wearily upon her arm, perfectly composed in demeanour, while Toinon, her face buried in her lap, sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

The aged Madame de Brèze turned from one to the other of the group, utterly mystified, with a growing grudge against some one, at present she could not tell whom. A gulf had suddenly yawned in front, and from its depths arose a faint sickening fume of death. Although she had a foot in the grave she mightily objected to the smell of death. Which of these two spoke truth? The dear delightful abbé could not have--oh, no, that was absurd and ridiculous, and yet why should Gabrielle sit so stonily with that woful look of pain? It was plainly her place to rise up and take his part, exonerate him at once from even the slightest shadow of this dreadful thing; at least to declare her conviction that the abigail was mad, was suffering from some unhealthy fancy. It was not the poor girl's fault. Were not current events a more than sufficient excuse for any amount of hysteria? And yet, Gabrielle was plainly not of her opinion. There was the accuser nestling her head upon her lap, and the gentle hand was stroking it in caress and not in chiding. Did Gabrielle--could Gabrielle be keeping secrets from her parent? Was it the old story of the unappreciated mentor?

The blessed maréchal, who was to be congratulated as out of the turmoil, had established a deplorable precedent in the matter of Madame de Brèze as an oracle. One of the pleasantest points of the present séjour was the consideration in which her words were held. Her views and opinions were treasured up, as they should be, like flies in amber. Could it--oh, no, horrid thought, it could not be--that Virginie, Maréchale de Brèze, aged, never mind how much, was deliberately being made a fool of? Much as she was disinclined to believe anything so preposterous, it did look extremely like it. The husband away, the brother-in-law was openly accused of attempting to murder his brother's wife, and that lady being present, made no sign except by affectionately caressing the accuser. Madame de Brèze did not like this new complexion of things at all. How she did and always had hated mysteries! Why will people be mysterious? Unless conscious of guilt, there is no cause for crawling in shadow. There could not be anything between Gabrielle and the abbé? Shocking idea! And yet in Paris such things often were. Could there also be something between the abbé and Toinon which rendered the latter jealous? Just like a woman, Madame de Brèze ambled off into the labyrinth of conjecture. growing each moment more involved in prickly briars, plunging about and tumbling down in pursuit of Will-o'-the-wisp.

When--Toinon's agitation calmed--everybody went to bed, and Gabrielle impressed on her mother's brow the chilly kiss of a statue, the maréchale shivered, and there and then resolved that Lorge was a hateful place fit only for owls and ghouls.

CHAPTER XXIV.

[MADAME DE BRÈZE IS NERVOUS.]

That night Gabrielle and her foster-sister slept together, or rather lay in the same bed, for Toinon had much to tell and Gabrielle to hear. In the morning, the chatelaine looked much the same as usual, but for the circle of bistre round her eyes, which had grown deeper, giving an air of lassitude.

Virginie, Maréchale de Brèze, never slept a wink; but groaned and tossed in a fever, mumbling Ave Marias, and when she appeared at déjeuner, the abbé shook a reproachful finger at her. "Yellow!" he declared, mournfully, "absolutely and undeniably yellow! How dare you, after all our care, look so jaded, when yesterday you were as blooming as a rose? I know what it is. Try this pear--it absolutely melts in the mouth. No. I won't offer it, for I am afraid it smells of copper. Or is it brimstone? How provoking! I have tucked my hoofs and tail under my chair, but I cannot conceal the brimstone! Look at your lovely daughter. She knows better than to believe cancans, and has slept the sleep of the angels. Alas--dearest mother--you have permitted me to call you mother--I shall have to administer a severe and terrible lecture. I told you last night you were our prisoner, but I won't have birds that injure their delightful plumage. If you beat your wings against the bars I shall open the cage-door, I warn you, and dismiss you into space!"

Turned out into space among the ravening wolves without, or kept in the gilded cage to be slowly done to death? What an alternative! Why could not somebody tell her what to do, instead of leaving her all night stretched upon the rack of her uncertainty? Evidently, unless candidates for an asylum, they must all have some motive for acting in the odd way they did, but what was it? It was so rude and inconsiderate to be plotting, and scheming, and lying, and charging each other with all kinds of horrible offences, under the nose of an innocent stranger, of whom they were making a butt. Madame made up her mind to upbraid Gabrielle severely for her inhuman and unfilial conduct. If there was any nasty skeleton about, she had no business to summon an aged parent to contemplate it.

Toinon, plunged into a slough of anguish, could only wring her hands and moan. It is not every David who can get the better of Goliath; and is it not wiser to flee before the great towering monster, instead of hurling our puny stone at him--only to be trodden in a trice under his ponderous splay foot?

The abigail had got the worst of the encounter, her proofs as well as her accusation were rendered ridiculous, even in her own eyes, although she knew the accusation to be true. She was held up to obloquy as a Jacobin, one of the anarchists steeped to the lips in crime, ready to destroy by false witness the family to which she owed everything. Next, she would develop into a tricoteuse, sitting under shadow of the guillotine. It was intolerable. Toinon was not meek and lowly as some of her betters were. On the contrary, there ran through her veins a current of pugnacity of which honest Jean had tasted. She was not prepared to sit down like Gabrielle, wearing a crown of thorns and bearing a cross, the while pretending to enjoy them. Certainly not. She was one of those who have no respect for crowns of thorns, and consider crosses irksome wear. But what could she do to unwind her mistress and herself from the present tangle? The maréchale was an imbecile old doll. The abject terror of her mien last night had something about it that was full of pathos. It is pitiful to see so battered and helpless a thing as that in the bubbling whirlpool of our world. Jean--Jean Boulot was the one rock to which the two women might cling in their danger. Jean must leave his Jacobin clubs and come to them. Would it be well for Toinon herself to proceed to Blois, seek him out, and explain? He would not think her forward and unmaidenly, for she would find words to convince him as she had her mistress. No. The maréchale having proved herself to be a broken reed, it would not do to go to Blois, for her mistress would be left with no rampart, however unsatisfactory and weak, between herself and the insidious foe. What if, on her return, she were to find that the deed was accomplished? Jean must be written to, and implored by the past to come to the rescue of two women in grievous peril. And they were in extreme danger; he would see that for himself when he arrived. Toinon knew it full well. She had read the abbé's eyes last night, and was as much aware as Gabrielle, that for those who stood athwart his path, there was no more mercy within his breast than conscience or religion.

Poor Madame de Brèze! Yellow, forsooth! The more she pondered the more troubled she became. Her wrinkled old face was turning green. Was the abbé a monster or an angel? If only somebody would clear up this point. He made her blood run cold with his facetiousness, for is it not creepy to be openly informed by a person, that he wears a tail and hoofs, and to be more than half assured that it is true? He danced round her fears with elfin gambols, till she felt her frail wits tottering; and then, grown of a sudden serious, he would relate what he called facts, which only increased her terrors. Why had no one informed her before that Madame de Vaux hardly, and her daughter Angelique, were practically in a state of siege; that various chateaux in the neighbourhood had been demolished, their inhabitants drowned or strangled; that she had not been wrong on her way thither, as to the threatening attitude of the peasantry? Of course, she had been right--was she not always right though people would not believe her? She had been lured hither to this dismal fortalice to perish like a rat in a trap. Danger from without and from within. Goodness gracious! What if that story of the cakes were true? Gabrielle, strangely enough, seemed to consider that it was neither new nor surprising that her life should be in peril. What should they want to kill her for? Was it something connected with money? All evil springs from that. Then a thrill of horror surged over the selfish heart of the unlucky dame, when she remembered her daughter's will. To her, the old mother, the money was bequeathed--in trust, it is true; but to her. If they wished to compass Gabrielle's death, of course, her own would follow. What a silly will it was. She protested at the time, but had been overruled by M. Galland. It was an absurd thing for a young woman to bequeath a fortune to an old one--worse--it was a cruel and dastardly thing to do, if unscrupulous schemers were after it. Why must they mix up a harmless and venerable and justly respected lady in their plots and squabbles? Madame de Brèze worked herself up into a white heat of indignation, and set herself to see how she could get out of the trap with promptitude, and such decency as might be.

She propounded her views to Gabrielle, who gravely and calmly aquiesced. "Nothing detains you here, dear mother," she kept repeating, with monotonous persistency, "except your own fancy. I hoped you had taken to our quiet life; but if not, it is better you should go."

"I have so few years left to live, you know," apologetically whimpered the maréchale, "that I grudge the time away from entrancing Paris."

When her daughter elected courteously to consider that this was natural, her conscience pricked, and she was annoyed at feeling ashamed. Indeed, the excuse was of the lamest, since the beloved capital was, at this juncture, a prey to devils whose goddess was Mother Guillotine. In the retirement of her secluded dwelling, however, she could feel comparatively safe. She quite longed for the little house, which she was always complaining of as dismal. At all events, she could nibble a cake there without dread of poison.

"I will stay, of course, if you say you really wish it," she went on, plaintively, as salve to the inner monitor, "but the air of Touraine never did agree with me any more than with your blessed father; and if I were to be taken ill, I should only be an extra worry."

A smile flitted over the sad face of the marquise, as she took her mother's hands and kissed them. "My dear," she said, "I would not have you stay for worlds a moment longer than you fancy. Go back to Paris, and I will pray Heaven that your journey may be prosperous. I would like you to go at once, because I am sure it is for the best, since you are nervous, and at the same time I would beg of you a favour. Take the children with you, for I should feel happier if they were safe under your care. I will give orders now," she added, rising briskly, "in order that they may be ready by to-morrow."

The old lady ruefully rubbed her nose with her spectacles, being ashamed to speak her thoughts. It occurred to her that if the abbé really was nourishing designs of a nefarious nature, he might endeavour to prevent her from departing. If she proposed to remove the children, there would be extra inducement to interfere, considering the uncomfortable prominence given to all three by that deplorably ill-advised testament. Gabrielle had kept her lips sealed with regard to the second document. Indeed, she was unaccountably and provokingly reticent on most points in her dealings with the maréchale, who resented her silence hotly. She never could be got to talk of her affairs--to give an opinion as to the characters of Pharamond or of Phebus; declined to discuss the absence of her husband, or to explain the presence of the quondam governess, who, from time to time, was meteorically visible, hovering. Under the circumstances, what object would be gained by lingering at Lorge, since all seemed alike agreed to withhold from the sage their confidence? If she were allowed, she would gladly turn her back on the ill-omened place, and thank her stars when quit of it.

The marquise saved her from the trouble of displaying her own diplomacy by boldly announcing to the abbé that Madame la Maréchale de Brèze would return on the morrow to the capital, and, being lonely there, would borrow, for a period, the society of her grandchildren. The abbé glanced keenly in her face, but could read nothing there. What curious fancy was this? She who so adored the cherubs, had decided on a separation! Why? What motive could underly so unexpected a project? The more the abbé reflected, the less could he fathom it, but after looking at it from every point, he made up his mind that it was some feminine whim which concerned him not. And yet it did in this much. From the moment that the second will was executed, the children were safe from any machinations of the conspirators. What happened to them was of no importance. If Algaé chose to be burthened with them, she was welcome so to do, as far as her fellow-schemer was concerned. It would be a convenience, though, to have them out of the way just now. When it was over, and the family was comfortably established at Geneva, there would be plenty of time to consider what was to be done with the infants. Perhaps it would be a harmless sop to Clovis to have them with him there, in order that he might make up for the shadiness of his marital past by systematic parental indulgence. There certainly was no possible reason why they should not journey with their grandmother to Paris on a visit, and the heart of the latter, on finding there was no opposition to the plan, was relieved of a weight as ponderous as a nether millstone.

Long before the hasty preparations were complete, Madame la Maréchale had satisfactorily convinced herself that the abbé's place was among the angelic host. It must be mischievous fudge about those cakes; a silly tittle-tattle of ignorant servants, to which Gabrielle, mopish and morbid, had given too willing an ear. Far from throwing barriers in the way of an exodus, both brothers were almost too obliging. The chevalier, who was a past master in farriery, examined the horses' shoes with minute care, while his brother superintended the inner economy of the berline. In the boot were books, and a few bottles of the choicest wines and samples of comforting cordials, wherewith an elderly traveller might be sustained under fatigue. There were pillows and cushions galore, and cunning wraps deftly-stowed in corners.

"Our dear mother," he explained, laughingly, "shall carry away with her a favourable impression of Lorge, though she is so ungrateful as to leave us with too evident alacrity. Never mind. It becomes the Church to be forgiving, and, returned to the capital, she will reward us with remembrance in her prayers."

As at last she drove away, with a darling wedged in on either side, like panniers on a donkey, the maréchale blamed herself bitterly for her unjust suspicions. How could the man have evil intentions, since he was so ready to speed upon their road those whom, if suspicions were true, it was his direct interest to keep under control? And if--as was clearly proven--he had evolved no base scheme with regard to the children and their guardian--why should he be scheming to injure Gabrielle? What could he possibly gain by injuring Gabrielle, since, after her death, her possessions would pass at once far out of his reach? It was all preposterous--impossible rather than improbable--and it behoved a wise and experienced lady of mature years to scold an hysterical daughter for nourishing injurious fancies. The nearer she was to Paris, the more jubilant did the old dame become, the more rosy grew her cogitations. It was certainly nice to have the cherubs' society in a shut-up house in the suburbs, whose safety lay in its blankness; but it was improper to be selfish. If there was a vice against which the maréchale was fond of tilting, it was selfishness. She loathed and abhorred the disfiguring leprosy. No one should ever say that she was selfish. She would keep the little ones for a few months, then pack them home again. In her odd state, it was not quite wise to leave the marquise moping. By and by she would receive them in her arms, delighted with the good that change of scene had done them, grateful for the grandmother's care. As for M. Galland--the estimable and upright, but somewhat square-toed, solicitor, to whose acumen the late maréchal had been misguided enough to trust, rather than to the wisdom of his singularly clear-brained wife, she would be able to report most favourably. He had urged, almost compelled, the journey to Touraine, being oppressed by some indefinite apprehension. Madame la Marquise, he had explained, wrote so seldom and so little, that he began to think there must be some reason for her reticence. Regardless of self, or plaguey pains and aches, the devoted mother had travelled that weary distance, and in late autumn, too, when east winds are so unpleasantly familiar. Martyr to duty and an irrepressibly conscientious solicitor, she had been, and she had come back. The tiresomely apprehensive Galland would be delighted with the assurance that the Marquise de Gange was well; that the marquis, temporarily absent on business, was likewise well; that two of the most charming and devotedly attentive men on earth were his half-brothers, on whose backs the wings were already sprouting, that they might join the hierarchy of heaven. As for the cherubs, she had brought them as specimens of the results of Touraine air. The arms of the darlings were healthily brown, and prematurely developed by boating exercise on the Loire. They were quite bursting with health and spirits, and would very likely be insulted in the streets as aggressive and reproachful examples of country versus town. M. Galland's apprehensions, clearly demonstrated to be of the most idle description, would vanish; he would sleep on his two ears, as the saying hath it; and worry the grandmother no more.

On the evening of her arrival, the solicitor dined with her, anxious for a report as to the doings in Touraine. He hearkened to her wisdom, nor strove to stem the ocean of her prate, which babbled on unceasingly. She was provoked to observe that he was absent, and that his moody brow remained clouded despite the rosiness of her report. Of course, he did not believe her. Nobody ever had, worse luck for the world in general; but it was really just a shade too insolent to have sent her all that distance in a ram-shackle old shanderydan, and, the pilgrimage completed, to treat the result of her observations as mere draught whistling through a keyhole. The old lady was so hurt that she was unable to control her vexation. "Of course, I'm a fool," she gurgled. "If I'm so incurably imbecile, why did you not go yourself? These children, I suppose, are no evidence, with their gladsome eyes and ruddy faces!"

M. Galland did not reply at once, for he was thinking.

"It might have been as well, perhaps, madame, if I had accompanied you," he slowly said at last. "The children, thank goodness! are in perfect health. The marquis, you admit, was absent; his brothers practically in possession. One lady and two gentlemen--a cosy party of three."

"Wrong!" cried the maréchale in triumph. "Always the same. You interrupt and jump at conclusions without having the decent civility to hear me out. Some men are insufferably rude."

"How wrong?" enquired the solicitor, anxiously.

"There were two ladies in the house; but the second held so much aloof that I was hardly aware of her presence. That struck me as a little odd, for she was an invited guest--a Mademoiselle Brunelle, at one time governess to the little ones."

M. Galland started, and the cloud on his brow deepened.

That woman again! She whom he had himself expelled by the express orders of De Brèze. How had she wormed herself into the house a second time. And she held aloof, too--was not one of the family circle--sure sign that her presence there was contrary to the wish of the marquise.

"Of a certainty," reflected the solicitor, "I should have done well to go down myself. Strange as it may seem, it looks very much as if the forebodings of madame were to be realized."

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