Bijou

VI.

"Oh!" exclaimed Bijou, scared, "you nearly frightened me." And then, going up to the count, and daintily patting her light, gauzy dress, she continued: "That pretty dress did not come from Paris; it was made at Bracieux, near Pont-sur-Loire."

Thoroughly astonished, the count asked:

"Oh, no! by whom, then?"

"By Denyse, here present, and by an old sewing-woman, who is a dresser at the theatre."

He had risen, and was now walking round the young girl in almost timid admiration. She was so pretty, emerging from the pinky-looking cloud, which seemed to scarcely touch her dainty little figure, and out of which peeped her shoulders, tinted, too, with that singular pinky gleam which made her delicate skin look so velvety and soft.

M. de Clagny could not help thinking that Bijou was not only beautiful to look at, but fascinating in the extreme, with her tempting mouth, and her innocent, frank eyes. The charm of her person was rendered all the more complex by this same child-like expression.

Whilst he was examining her curiously, Bijou was saying to herself that "this old friend of grandmamma's" was much younger-looking than she had imagined him to be. He certainly did make a good appearance, tall and slender, with his hair quite white on his temples, whilst his fair moustache had scarcely a touch of grey. His brown eyes had a gentle expression, and his mouth, sometimes mocking, and at times even almost cruel, showed, when he smiled, the sharp, white teeth, which lighted up his whole face in a singular way.

The silence was getting embarrassing, until Bijou at last broke it:

"Grandmamma has not come down then yet? I expected to find her here."

"She went away to dress just as you came in."

"She will never be ready."

M. de Clagny looked at his watch.

"But dinner is to be at eight—she has plenty of time; it is not half-past seven."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bijou regretfully. "If only I had known, I should not have hurried so much. I was so afraid of being late."

"I'm the one to be glad that you hurried so much. I shall have you to talk to for a minute"—

"For a good half-hour at least," she said, laughing; "no one is ever in advance here—oh, never, not even the guests any more than the people of the house."

"Ah, about the guests, tell me with whom I am going to dine. Your grandmamma said, 'You will dine with some friends of yours.' Now, as to friends, I cannot have many here now, considering that for the last twelve years I have not been in this part of the world. There have probably been many changes since then."

"Not so many as all that; let's see, now! you will dine with the Tourvilles."

"The Tourvilles? they are not dead yet?"

"Those with whom you are going to dine are living. They had some parents who are dead."

"Ah! that's it, is it! then young Tourville is married?"

"Yes, two years ago!"

"He was a disagreeable fellow! Has he made a good marriage?"

"That depends! he married a young lady on the Stock Exchange."

"What do you mean? a young lady on the Stock Exchange?"

"Yes, her father is something there, I believe; he is very, very rich."

"Is it Chaillot, the banker?"

"Perhaps so, I never asked about them—they have restored Tourville, it is superb now; and they are always entertaining."

"Is Madame de Tourville pretty?"

"You will see her; she is very pleasant, and they say she is very intelligent; for my part, I have not discovered that." And then, as M. de Clagny smiled, she added quickly: "Because I only know her very slightly."

"Well, and after the Tourvilles, who next?"

"M. de Bernès."

"Young Hubert, the dragoon?"

"He himself."

"He is the son of good friends of mine; a downright nice fellow, don't you think so?"

"Don't I think what?"

"That Hubert de Bernès is nice?"

"Oh! I know him so slightly; he has always seemed to me—how shall I express it?—insipid, yes, insipid."

"Because you intimidate him, probably? I can quite understand that, too!"

"I intimidate you, perhaps?" she said, laughing.

"Very much so!" he answered, very seriously.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, in astonishment, "how is that possible?"

"It is very possible, and it is true! There's nothing astonishing about it then, that if you intimidate an old man like me, you should intimidate poor little Hubert."

"Little Hubert? he is six feet!"

"Yes, and he is twenty-six years old, but to me he is always little Hubert. Well, anyhow, admit at least that he is handsome?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you going to tell me that you have not looked at him?"

"I have looked at him; but as regards M. de Bernès I am a very bad judge."

"Why so?"

"Because I detest young men!"

"At the age of twenty-six they are not so young as all that!"

"That may be so! but, all the same, at that age they do not exist as far as I am concerned."

"Well, well! and at what age do they begin to exist as far as you are concerned?"

She laughed.

"Very late in life!" she said, and then suddenly changing her tone, she continued: "I am glad you know M. de Bernès, because, at any rate, you will not be bored to death now this evening."

"Ah! it appears, then, that I am not to count on the other guests for entertainment?"

"Oh, no! the others—well, first of all there are the La Balues."

"Good heavens, they are alarming! Why, their children must be beginning to grow up?"

"They have even finished growing up! Louis is twenty-three, and Gisèle twenty-two."

"What are they like?"

"The one sets up for being blasé—-he is never either hungry, thirsty, or sleepy; he does not care for anything; everything bores him. And it is not true, you know! he never misses a dance, and his sister says that he gets up in the night to eat on the sly. Then, too, he writes ridiculous poetry, paints pictures as absurd as his poetry, and goes in for music—such music!"

"And the daughter?"

"She is as masculine as her brother is effeminate; she goes shooting and hunting, and her dream is to go in for deer-stalking, and to marry an officer."

"She is probably thinking of Hubert?"

"What Hubert?"

"Young Bernès!"

"Ah! But I don't fancy so! At all events, he is not thinking about her—"

"Because he is too much taken up with you, like all the others; is not that so?"

"Not at all!"

M. de Clagny shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, nonsense!" he said, "I can see it all quite plainly."

"There are only three guests left now for me to introduce to you," continued Bijou, evidently wishing to change the subject of the conversation. "There are the Juzencourts—people who are very much up-to-date, and who have bought 'The Pines'—and one of their friends who is staying for a month with them, a delightful young widow, the Viscountess de Nézel."

"What!" exclaimed the count, with an abrupt movement; "Madame de Nézel—Jean de Blaye is here then?"

Denyse opened her beautiful, bright eyes wide, as she replied in astonishment:

"Yes, Jean is here; but what has that to do with——?"

"Oh, nothing at all! nothing at all!" said M. de Clagny hastily, and then after a moment's silence, he asked: "Is Madame de Nézel as pretty as ever?"

"She is very pretty."

"As pretty as you?"

Bijou smiled. "Why do you make fun of me? I know very well that I am not pretty," she said.

"It's my turn now, my dear little Bijou, to ask why you make fun of an old friend who admires you as much as it is possible to admire anyone, and who, alas! is not the only one."

"Why do you say alas?"

"Well, because when one admires or loves, one would like to be the only one to admire or love; one's affection makes one selfish and jealous."

"And after—let me see—how long—three hours—yes, after three hours' acquaintance, you already have some affection for me?" asked Bijou, looking quite joyful.

"Yes, a great deal!" answered M. de Clagny very seriously.

"So much the better, because, you see, I too, I like you very much!" And, as though she were just talking to herself, she added: "I had imagined you very different, I expected to see you not at all like you are."

"Younger?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, no, just the opposite; they had always spoken of you as a friend of grandpapa's, and grandmamma always said, 'my old friend Clagny,' so that you can understand when I saw you, I was quite surprised."

"But why?"

"Because you looked to me to be—I don't know exactly—about forty-five perhaps?—well, say like Paul de Rueille; and then, you are very handsome, and, for my part, I like people who are handsome."

"Your cousin De Blaye is handsome!"

"Jean?" she said, as though she were turning it over in her mind, "is he as handsome as all that? He does not strike me in that way, you see. When people are always together they end by not noticing each other!"

"I am quite sure that he notices you!"

"Oh, no! people don't notice me as much as you think! They care for me because I was left alone in the world at the age of seventeen; and then, when grandmamma took possession of me, like some poor little stray dog, and carried me off to her home, why, they all felt interested in me, and made me very welcome, and I was their Bijou whom they all tried to bring up and to spoil, whose faults are always looked over, and who always has her own way."

"And Bijou is quite right; that's the only good thing there is in life—having one's own way, when one can."

"One always can," she said, speaking as though she were not aware that she was saying anything, and then suddenly advancing towards the bay-window, she exclaimed: "Ah! there, now! the Tourvilles! and grandmamma is not down stairs again yet!"

Bijou went forward to greet the new-comers—a lady dressed very handsomely, followed by a common-looking sort of man, with very stiff manners, who, on the whole, was decidedly snobbish.

Bijou introduced them, "Count de Clagny, Count de Tourville," and then, as the marchioness entered the room, looking very handsome still in her cloudy lace draperies, the young girl turned to M. de Clagny again.

"Well," she said, "and what do you think of the Tourvilles?"

"I don't admire them. But how much Henry de Bracieux has improved in appearance; he is not as good-looking as his cousin yet; but that may come, perhaps."

"As good-looking as which cousin?"

"As Blaye."

"Again. Oh, well! you will insist on this beauty of Jean's."

"Well, beauty is perhaps not just the word; but he is charming; if you will allow me to say that?"

"I will allow it."

"By the bye, do tell me who that very nice-looking young man is whom I met just now at the end of the avenue?"

"I do not know, unless it were Pierrot's tutor; but he is not so very nice-looking——"

"Look, there he is," said M. de Clagny, indicating M. Giraud.

"Ah!" exclaimed Bijou, in astonishment; "yes, that is he!"

She was amazed both at the count's admiration, and at the transformation which Jean's dress-coat had made.

Arrayed in this garment of a perfect cut, and which fitted him wonderfully well, the young tutor looked quite at his ease.

"Well," said Henry, coming up to Denyse, "wasn't my idea a bright one? Do you see the difference?"—and then, as she did not answer quickly enough for his liking, he added: "I'll bet anything you don't see it; women never can see those things when it's a question of men."

The guests were all arriving. First the La Balues, imperturbable, absurd in the extreme, but so blissfully happy, so full of admiration, and so perfectly satisfied with themselves that one would have been sorry to have undeceived them. Then came Hubert de Bernès, arrayed, as Bijou had prophesied, in his uniform, and looking all round the drawing-room carefully afraid of meeting what he was in the habit of calling 'any big pots.' The Juzencourts arrived last of all, bringing with them Madame de Nézel, a very pretty and exquisitely-dressed woman. She was extremely refined-looking and supple, with that suppleness peculiar to Creoles; she had a jessamine-like complexion, and heavy, silky hair of jet black.

Bijou, who was looking at her with an expression of curiosity, as though she had never seen her before, remarked to M. de Clagny:

"Madame de Nézel is really very pretty—isn't she?"

He replied, in an absent sort of way, devouring Bijou all the time with his eyes:

"There is no mistaking that she comes of good family, and then, too, she's very womanly, and would respond——"

The young girl knitted her eyebrows as though she were making an effort to understand.

"And would what?"

"Oh, nothing," answered the count, annoyed with himself. "I don't know what I was going to say."

"Bijou!" called out the marchioness suddenly, "Madame de Juzencourt wants to see the children; go and fetch them. You will allow them to come down, Bertrade? and you, too, monsieur?" she added, turning to the abbé.

M. de Clagny looked vexed at being separated from Denyse. It seemed to him already as though he could not do without her.

She soon came back, followed by Marcel and Robert, leading by the hand a superb baby-child of four years old, who was smiling amiably and confidingly as he trotted along.

"This is my godson," she said, introducing him with evident pride. "Isn't he a pet, and so beautiful and good. He's a love!"

"Bijou is so good to that child," said Madame de Rueille, "she is always looking after him and is teaching him now to read."

"So early!" exclaimed M. de Clagny, in a reproachful tone, "is he being taught to read already?"

"Bijou teaches him plenty of other things, too, don't you, Bijou?" asked the marchioness; "you are teaching him Bible history, are you not? Two days ago he told me about Moses, and he knew it all very well."

"Oh!" exclaimed the count jeeringly, "I should like to hear that. Poor unfortunate little mite!"

In a graceful, winsome way, Bijou knelt down by the child. On hearing "his story" mentioned, the poor little fellow looked at her beseechingly.

"Now, Fred, tell it," she said.

Docile, but with a discontented expression on his face, the little fellow looked up at his god-mother.

"Tell about Moses, you know it very well."

"Well then," began Fred resolutely, "they put him in a 'ittle basket, 'ittle Moses, and they put the basket on the Nile——"

He stopped abruptly, his face bathed in perspiration.

"And then, what happened?" asked Bijou.

"Don't know," replied the little fellow briefly; "don't know any more—don't know, I tell you. Say it yourself—what happened."

"Nonsense! come now, have you made up your mind not to answer?"

The child replied coaxingly:

"P'ease don't make me say it!"

Denyse insisted, however.

"Oh, yes! now something happened when Moses was going down the Nile. What was it—what happened?"

He thought for a minute, his face puckered up, his eyes shut, and then, just when everyone had given up hoping for anything more, he cried out, delighted at having remembered:

"Puss in boots came! and called out: 'Help! help! it's the Marquis of Carabas—he's drowning.'"

"There, you see," said Bertrade, laughing, "this is what comes of teaching him so many fine things at the same time."

M. de Rueille added:

"Yes, a day or two ago Denyse gave him a stunning 'Puss in Boots' that we brought with us from Pont-sur-Loire, and this has evidently done Moses a great deal of harm."

Bijou turned towards her cousin, and exclaimed in astonishment:

"Denyse! how long have you taken to calling me Denyse?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Rueille, "sometimes I do."

"Why, you never do! I thought you were vexed," and then, bending towards her godchild, and taking him up in her arms, she said, laughing: "My poor little Fred, we have not had much success this time, have we?"

Giraud, who was standing just behind her, gazed at her admiringly. She clasped the child, who was smiling at her, closer still, and murmured in a caressing tone:

"Fred! my dear Fred! I do so love you, if you only knew."

On hearing his own name pronounced so tenderly, the young tutor had started involuntarily, and he had had the greatest difficulty in keeping himself from advancing towards Denyse. He had turned so pale, too, and such a strange, drawn look had come over his face, that Pierrot, who, as a rule, was not endowed with much power of observation except in matters relating to Bijou, noticed it, and asked:

"What's the matter with you, Monsieur Giraud? you look so queer! are you ill?"

Denyse turned round abruptly, and asked with interest:

"You are not well, Monsieur Giraud?"

"I? oh, yes! perfectly well, thank you, mademoiselle. I don't know what made Pierrot fancy that."

"Oh, well!" said the youth, with conviction, "look at yourself; you look awfully queer! Besides, for the last three or four days you have not been yourself; you must have something the matter that you don't know of."

"I assure you," stuttered the poor fellow, in a perfect torture, "I assure you that there is nothing the matter with me."

M. de Clagny had approached them. He was looking enviously at little Fred nestling against Bijou's pretty shoulder.

"Your godson is perfectly superb!" he said.

"Yes, isn't he? and he adores me!"

Dinner was announced just at this moment, and Bijou gave the child, who was getting sleepy, to the English nurse who had come for him.

With a disagreeable expression on his face, young La Balue, who was standing just by Denyse, offered her the sharp angle of his arm. With some difficulty she managed to slip her hand through, and, with a resigned look on her face, went in with him to dinner.

At table M. Giraud was at the other side of her, and half wild with delight at finding himself placed next her, he felt that he was more shy and awkward than ever. His timidity, which had hitherto been extreme, seemed to increase. He dared not say a word, and he was in despair, because he felt that he was making himself ridiculous.

He was not only in love with Denyse for her beauty, her grace, and her wonderful charm, but he venerated her for her goodness, which seemed to him to be infinite.

When he had been an usher in a certain college, he had one day murmured some foolish words of affection to the daughter of the headmaster, and he remembered still with awe the contemptuous anger with which the young lady had reproached him for having, in his position, dared to lift his eyes to her.

He had now frankly and bluntly told this beautiful, wealthy, and nobly-born girl that he adored her, and, in reply, she had spoken to him sweetly and affectionately, discouraging him, but taking care not to wound him.

He began now to pity himself and his own fate, firmly believing that his life, having been crossed by this hopeless love, would be wretched for ever-more.

How could he expect that, having once known and loved a woman like Mademoiselle de Courtaix, he would ever be able to love any woman whom he would be in a position to marry.

And the poor young man, who, only three short weeks before, used to dream at times of a little home presided over by a young wife, who should be sweet and modest, though, perhaps, not remarkable in any way, saw himself now condemned for life to a bachelor's dreary rooms, where, in the end, he would die, surrounded by photographs of Bijou, which he would get with great difficulty from Pierrot.

At the beginning of dinner Denyse did not talk much. She looked round in an absent sort of way at the whole table, noticing all those little nothings which are so amusing to persons capable of seeing them.

Madame de Bracieux had M. de la Balue to her right, but she was neglecting him for the sake of her old friend, Clagny, who was on her other side, and to whom she never ceased talking.

M. de Jonzac, who was opposite his sister, between Madame de la Balue and Madame de Tourville, only appeared to be enjoying himself in a moderate degree. Madame de Nézel also looked rather sad, and talked in a half-hearted way to her neighbours, Henry de Bracieux and M. de Rueille. She glanced often in the direction of Jean de Blaye, who was seated at the other end of the table, between Madame de Juzencourt and Mademoiselle de la Balue. Jean did not seem to be taking any notice of Madame de Nézel, and several times Bijou saw that his eyes were fixed on her. She found this embarrassing; so turning towards young Balue, started an animated conversation with him, and thereupon Jean, with a somewhat troubled expression in his eyes, watched her all the time.

VII.

"I will come to you directly. I am going to see if the children are in bed just now."

"Mademoiselle," proposed the abbé, "I can spare you the trouble."

"Oh, no; thank you very much, monsieur, but you know I never feel quite happy if I have not kissed Fred."

She went out by the door opposite the terrace.

"Your grand-daughter is decidedly the most charming girl I have ever come across," remarked M. de Clagny to the marchioness, and then he added sadly; "It is when an old man meets women like that, that he regrets his age."

"I must say," answered Madame de Bracieux, laughing, "that even if you were young, you would not be just the husband I dream of for Bijou."

"And why not, if you please?"

"Well, because you are, or at least you were, rather—how shall I put it?—rather large-hearted."

"Large-hearted! good heavens, yes, I was! but that was the fault of those who did not know how to keep my affection. I assure you, though, that with a wife like Bijou, I should never have been what you call large-hearted."

"Oh, as to that," said Madame de Bracieux incredulously, "one never knows."

On leaving the drawing-room, Bijou crossed the hall, and instead of going up the wide staircase which led to the children's rooms, she lifted the old green tapestry curtain which covered the door of the butler's pantry. Just as she was going to open this door she turned back into the hall to get a long, dark cloak, which was hanging there. It was a Berck fisherwoman's cloak, which she always put on when it rained. She wrapped herself up in it hastily, and then went into the pantry, where it was now quite dark. From the kitchen she could hear the loud voices of the servants, who were at dinner. Denyse went across to the open window, got up on to a chair, and then gathering her skirts closely round her, stepped out on to the window-sill, and jumped lightly down into the garden.

Once there, she hesitated an instant. The terrace seemed to stand out distinctly, lighted up by the drawing-room windows. In the chestnut avenue she could distinguish in the shade the red gleam of cigars.

Suddenly she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, and evidently making up her mind, started off quickly along the dark pathway which led to the other avenue.

During this time her faithful admirers were waiting on the terrace for her to come and join them as she had promised, and the ponderous Gisèle was endeavouring vainly to organise a game at hide-and-seek. The men seemed to have no energy; Madame de Tourville was afraid of spoiling her dress; and Madame de Juzencourt was strolling about with Jean de Blaye and Madame de Nézel. Presently, however, she went back to the others alone, and Mademoiselle de la Balue wanted to persuade her to have a game, but she refused emphatically. She certainly was not going to run about, she said, considering that she was too warm already with only walking; she had just had to leave Thérèse de Nézel and Jean de Blaye, for she could not walk another step.

Left to themselves, Jean and Madame de Nézel continued strolling along, she in a natural, unaffected way, going on with the conversation they had commenced, and he absent-minded and ill-at-ease.

"Why do you not reproach me?" he said at last, abruptly, not able to contain himself any longer; "why do you not say all the bad things you think about me?"

"Because I have nothing to reproach you for," she answered, very gently; "and I do not think any bad things about you."

"Well, then, you do not care about me any longer."

"I do not care about you any longer?" she said, and there was an accent of such intense grief in her voice that he was quite overcome by it.

He knew so well how deeply she loved him, that he dreaded the thought of the awful suffering she would have to endure if he were to be quite straightforward with her now, and so, out of affection for her, he endeavoured to conceal from her the real truth.

"Yes," he began, improvising with difficulty an excuse of which he had not thought until that moment, "you must have fancied that I was not thinking of you, for you have been here at The Pines a fortnight, and I have not sent you a line. The fact is, it is very difficult to arrange to meet here at Pont-sur-Loire; everyone knows me here, and, you see, for your sake, I scarcely liked to ask you to meet me in the town."

She did not make any reply, and he could not understand her silence.

"Why do you not answer me?" he asked at length.

"Why? well, because you are telling me now exactly the opposite to what you said when you asked me to accept the Juzencourts' invitation."

"What did I say?" he asked, slightly embarrassed.

"You said that at Pont-sur-Loire it would be so easy to meet. You said that between the hours of luncheon and dinner there were two trains up and two down from The Pines to Pont-sur-Loire, and that I could get away so easily, as the Juzencourts never went out except to pay calls at the various country-houses in the neighbourhood, or to follow the paper chases. On my arrival here I found that all these details were perfectly exact."

"Yes, but it really is not so easy as I had imagined."

"Ah, Jean! instead of trying to deceive me in this way, it would be much better to tell me the truth."

"And the truth, according to you, is that I no longer care for you?"

"Yes, that is a part of the truth."

"And," he asked, somewhat uneasily, "the rest?"—

"Is, that you are in love with Mademoiselle de Courtaix. Ah, do not deny it! it is so evident!" And then, after a moment's silence, she added: "And so natural!"

"Do you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. I have never demanded anything from you, and you have never, never promised me anything. When I first began to care for you, I was not a widow; you must therefore have judged me severely, as a man nearly always does judge the woman who is weak enough to care for him when she ought not to."

"I swear to you—"

"No, do not swear anything; you had all the more reason to judge me in that way, because I did not think it my duty to tell you what my life had been like until then. You doubtless believed that my husband was kind and affectionate, and that I endured no remorse, when I allowed myself to love you—"

"I did not think about it at all, I simply adored you," he said. And then hesitating, and with evident anxiety, he continued: "And now you will never care for me any more?"

"What!" she exclaimed, perfectly amazed at the unconscious selfishness of the man, "you wish me to go on caring for you?"

"You ask if I wish it? why, what would become of me without you? you who are my very life!" And then, as she moved back a step or two in sheer bewilderment, he went on: "Well, but whatever have you been imagining?—that I am going to marry Bijou, perhaps?"

"Why, yes."

He was about to explain to her why he could not marry his cousin, but it occurred to him that the very prosaic reason for the impossibility of such a match, would make his return to Madame de Nézel, of whom he was really very fond, appear as a slight to her.

"It has only been a passing fancy that I have had for Bijou," he said. "How could I help it? it is simply impossible to be always with her and to escape being intoxicated by her beauty, and by her unconscious and innocent coquetry. For the last fortnight I have been a fool—I am still, in fact; but on seeing you again I knew at once that it is you only whom I love, and belong to—heart and soul."

As he said this, he drew Madame de Nézel's pale face against his shoulder, and, bending down, pressed his lips to hers, and then, as the young widow nestled closer still in his arms, he said, with passionate tenderness:

"How do you think that I could ever care for that child—with whom I am always so reserved—in the way I care for you?" He could feel her slender form trembling in his embrace, and, drawing her closer still, he murmured: "Forgive me, darling, you are always so good, and if I have sinned, it has only been in thought."

"You know I love you," she answered. "But we must go back to the house at once; they will think our walk is lasting a long time."

Madame de Juzencourt, who was seated on the terrace, called out as soon as she caught sight of them:

"Well, have you been walking all this time?"

And at the same moment M. de Rueille called out to Bijou, who had just appeared at one of the windows:

"So that's the way you come out to us! It's very kind of you."

"I could not come before," she answered, stepping out, and then approaching her cousin, she added, in a low voice: "I had to see to the tea and the ices, etc., etc.; you must not be vexed with me."

"Vexed with you!" exclaimed Pierrot warmly. "Could anyone be vexed with you, now?"

Bijou did not answer. She was watching Hubert de Bernès in an absent-minded way, as he stood talking to Bertrade, and she was wondering how it was that he was so cool in his manner towards herself. He was polite, certainly, and even pleasant, but only polite and pleasant, and she was not accustomed to such moderation. M. de Clagny appeared presently at one of the windows and called out:

"Mademoiselle Bijou, your grandmamma wants you."

Denyse ran into the house, her silk skirts rustling as she went. She did not even stay to answer young La Balue, who, pointing to Henry de Bracieux as he stood with the light showing up his profile, had just remarked:

"What a handsome man Henry is."

"Bijou," said the marchioness, "I want you to sing something for us."

"Oh! grandmamma, please"—she began, in a beseeching tone, and looking annoyed.

"M. de Clagny wants to hear you," said Madame de Bracieux, insisting.

"Oh, very well, then, I will, certainly," replied Bijou pleasantly, without taking into account that her way of consenting was not very flattering for the rest of her grandmother's guests.

She went to the piano, and, taking up a guitar, put the pink ribbon which was attached to it round her neck, and then came back and took up her position in the midst of the semi-circle formed by the arm-chairs.

"I am going to accompany myself with the guitar," she said; "it is simpler." And then turning to M. de Clagny, she asked: "What do you want me to sing? Do you like the old-fashioned songs?" and without waiting for a reply, she began the ballad of the "Petit Soldat":

She had a good ear and a pretty voice, which she used skilfully, and it was with plaintive sweetness that she sang the touching story of the young soldier who "veut qu'on mette son cœur dans une serviette blanche."

The drawing-room soon filled when Bijou began to sing, and the various expressions on the different faces were most amusing to see.

Jean was listening in a nervous, excited way, pulling his fair moustache irritably through his fingers.

M. de Rueille, affected in spite of himself by the doleful air, and annoyed that all these people should be admiring Bijou, was pacing up and down at the other end of the drawing-room, pretending not to be listening to the music.

Pierrot, with his mouth open, was all attention. Young La Balue, with his elbow resting on a side-table in an awkward and ridiculous pose, kept his colourless eyes fixed on the young girl in a gaze which he tried to make magnetic, and with such bold persistency that Henry de Bracieux felt the most extraordinary desire to walk up to him and box his ears. Even Abbé Courteil was carried away by the plaintive ballad; he was deeply moved, and sat there with his eyes stretched wide open, breathing heavily. Hubert de Bernès only was listening with polite attention, but comparative indifference. As to the ladies, all, except, perhaps, Gisèle de la Balue, admired Bijou sincerely.

Madame de Nézel was listening with a mournful expression in her eyes, and a kind-hearted smile, whilst as for M. de Clagny, it was as though all the sensitiveness and affection of his nature had gone out towards this pretty, fragile-looking, young creature. His eyes, beaming with tenderness, seemed to take in at the same time, the beautiful face, the little rosy fingers as they touched the strings of the guitar, and the slender, supple figure.

When Bijou had come to the end of her song, she went up to him, without paying any attention to the compliments that were being showered on her, and, in a pretty, coaxing way, she asked:

"It did not bore you too much, I hope?"

M. de Clagny could not answer for a moment. He felt choked with emotion.

"I shall often ask you for that song again," he said at last. "Yes, I shall come often, and you will sing me the 'Petit Soldat,' won't you?"

He had a great desire to hear Bijou sing for him—for him alone; he did not want to share her voice and her charm with all these people whom he now detested.

"You shall come as often as you please," she answered, looking delighted, "and I will sing you everything you like," and then gliding away she went across to Jean de Blaye, who was standing alone at the other end of the drawing-room. "It annoys you when I sing, doesn't it?" she asked him.

"Why, no!" he answered, surprised at the question, and surprised that Bijou should trouble about him. "Why should you think so?"

"Because I saw you just now—you were pulling your moustache in the most furious way, and you looked bored to death. Yes, you certainly did look bored!"

"It was just your own imagination."

"Oh, no! it was not just my imagination. When I care about anyone I am always very clear-sighted! so, you see, it is quite the contrary. Why are you frowning now?"

"I am not frowning."

"Oh, yes, you were, and it looks as though what I said just now had vexed you, too."

"What did you just say?"

"That I am very clear-sighted. And you are vexed, because you are afraid that I shall see that something is the matter."

"Something the matter?" he asked uneasily. "What is it?"

"What is it? Ah! I don't know! But most certainly something is the matter with you—you are not at all like yourself ever since—why, ever since we have been at Bracieux."

"Really?" he said, putting on a joking tone. "I am different, am I—and the most extraordinary thing is, that I did not know myself about this difference."

Bijou shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Don't try to take me in like that, Jean, my dear; I know you too well, you see. You are different, I tell you! You have gradually got very abrupt, restless, and absent-minded. Listen, now,—would you like me to tell you what it is?"

Seated at some distance away from them, Madame de Nézel was watching them, with an expression of melancholy resignation.

Bijou glanced across at her, and the young girl's violet eyes gleamed between her long, thick lashes, as she said:

"You are in love with someone who does not return your love."

Jean de Blaye coloured up furiously.

"You don't know what you are talking about," he answered.

"Well, then, why have you gone so red? Oh, how proud you are. You are vexed because I have found this out." And then, after a short silence, she began again: "Have you told her?"

"Have I told what? and whom? My dear Bijou, how foolish you are."

"Have you told Mad—" She stopped abruptly, and then, with her face turned towards Madame de Nézel, she continued: "The person with whom you are in love, have you told her that you love her?"

"No!" he murmured, in a stifled sort of voice.

"You are afraid to? but why? I constantly hear grandmamma, Bertrade, Paul, and Uncle Alexis, saying over and over again that you are the kind of man women like; she would be sure to like you, too, and she would marry you, I am certain." She leaned towards him, nearly touching his ear as she whispered to him, and not caring what effect her familiarity might have. "Listen, now, if you like I will tell her for you, and I am quite sure what her answer will be."

Jean rose abruptly, and seizing Bijou's hand, he asked excitedly:

"What are you saying?"

"I am just saying that she will love you, if she does not already."

"But of whom are you speaking—of whom?" he stammered out, aghast.

She answered him in a hesitating way, with a frank look on her pretty face, but she spoke in such a low voice that he could scarcely catch her first words.

"I am speaking of——"

"Bijou!" called out Pierrot, separating them unceremoniously, "grandmamma says you are forgetting about the tea." And then, looking at their faces, he went on: "Well, I never! you are both as red as cherries; there's no mistake about it, it's baking hot in here."

Denyse hurried away, and Pierrot continued:

"We thought over there that you were quarrelling."

"Ah! you thought that, did you?" answered Jean, by way of saying something.

"Yes, especially grandmamma; that's why she sent me to tell Bijou about the tea. I say, Bijou isn't worried about anything, is she?"

"Well, now, what kind of worry do you fancy she could have, my dear fellow?" And then, with a smile, he added: "Who do you imagine would undertake to cause her any worry? It seems to me that anyone who did venture to would have a bad time of it in this house."

"She's so sweet, and so nice always," answered the boy, with great warmth. "As for me, why, I just adore her; and Paul does, too, and so does Henry, and M. Giraud, and Bertrade's kids, and the abbé, and everyone, in fact; even little La Balue is gone on her, and he's never gone on anyone. Yes, he was telling her I don't know what up in a corner of the room after dinner, and then, when she was singing—did you ever see such eyes as he was making at her?—oh, no! if you had only just seen him——"

"Do shut up!" exclaimed Jean irritably, "you wear everyone out, if you only knew it, my dear Pierrot."

When Bijou came back to the drawing-room, Henry de Bracieux waylaid her.

"I say," he began, in a cross-grained tone, "what was La Balue telling you just now that appeared to be so interesting?"

"Where?"

"Here, after dinner."

"Here?" repeated Bijou, apparently trying to recall something to her memory, "after dinner? Ah, I remember; why, he was talking about you!'

"About me?"

"Yes, about you! He thinks you are very handsome, but he also thinks that you do not know how to make the most of your good looks."

"Have you finished making game of me?"

"I assure you that I am not making game of you—not the least bit in the world. He even advised me to tell you that instead of your frightful stand-up collars—these are his words, you know, and not mine—you ought to wear—what did he call them now?—oh, Van Dyck collars, which would not cover your neck up, for it appears that your throat is superb, and your head so well set on your shoulders; and then you have lovely teeth! I only wish you could hear him sing the praises of your personal appearance."

"Of my personal appearance! Mine?"

"Why, yes; you thought, perhaps, that he was talking to me of mine? Not at all! He informed me, too, that he was going to tell you all that in poetry; not the Van Dyck collars, but the rest."

"That young man is an idiot!"

"Oh, dear me, he is very harmless."

"You are so good-hearted always, you never dig into anyone. Ah, attention! they are packing up, the La Balue crew!" And Henry, in a low voice, and apparently delighted, finished up with a "Hip! hip! hurrah!"

M. de la Balue, who was just coming out of the hall with a heap of cloaks, looked at him in astonishment, while at the doorway a little family quarrel took place. The good man wanted to make his wife and daughter wrap their heads up in some very ordinary-looking knitted shawls, so that they should not get a chill. He was obliged, however, to give in at last.

Bijou, on saying good-bye to Madame de Nézel, held out her little hand, and looked straight into her eyes with such an expression of innocent curiosity that the young widow turned away, quite confused by the persistency of the young girl's gaze. It seemed to her as though this child had discovered the secret of her life, and the bare idea of this caused her intense misery.

Bijou's charm, however, was so great, and her power of attraction so strong, that Madame de Nézel, at the bottom of her heart, felt nothing but affection for the lovely little creature who had so unconsciously stolen her happiness from her.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Denyse gaily, when she went back into the drawing-room, where only M. de Clagny and the family now remained, "it is half-past twelve, you know; they all seemed like fixtures, and I thought they were never going to leave us!"

"The La Balue family are not very handsome," remarked the abbé.

"Oh, they are not so bad," protested the young girl; "it is only a question of getting used to them, that's all!"

"Young Balue is horrible!" said Madame de Bracieux. "And then, too, there is something snaky about him. When you shake hands with him, it is like touching an eel."

"And the daughter, too!" put in Pierrot. "Ugh, she has such little pig's eyes! and Louis, too, has little eyes!"

"They are very nice, though, all the same," said Bijou, in a conciliatory tone.

"And they come of very good family," added Madame de Bracieux; "they are descended from La Balue, from the Cardinal, the real—"

"Oh, well," put in Bijou gently, "it would, perhaps, be better for Gisèle not to have descended from the iron cage, but to have larger eyes; however, as it cannot be helped—"

M. de Clagny laughed, as he turned round to look about for his hat, which he had put down somewhere in the room.

"One needs to have a certain amount of assurance," he said, "in making one's exit from here, for one feels how one will be pulled to pieces."

"You need not be afraid," said Bijou, "we shall not pull you to pieces, although you could stand it very well. I promise you, though, that you shall not be pulled to pieces. Will you take my word for it?"

"Yes, I will take your word," answered the count, as he took the little hands, which were held out to him, and pressed them affectionately in his.

VIII.

Patatras was waiting in the shade. The old coachman, who always accompanied Bijou, helped her into her saddle, and then, mounting in his turn, prepared to follow her. When Pierrot saw this, he called out again:

"How is it that none of the cousins are riding with you?"

"I did not tell them that I was going out."

"Ah!" he exclaimed regretfully, "if I were only free, wouldn't I come with you!"

She turned round in her saddle, with an easy movement which showed that she was not laced in at all, and answered Pierrot, with a merry laugh:

"I should not have told you though, either!"

As soon as Bijou had passed through the gateway, she put Patatras to a gallop, for the flies were teasing him dreadfully.

She went along through the hot air, meeting the sun, the burning rays of which fell full on her pretty face without making it red. She did not slacken her pace until she arrived at the narrow lane leading to The Borderettes. It was almost perpendicular, and covered with loose stones, and at the bottom of the little valley, which was very green, in spite of the dry season, the farm, with its white walls and red roof, looked like a perfectly new toy-house. When she was at the bottom of the hill, Bijou pulled out of her pocket a little looking-glass, and then arranged her veil and the loose curly locks of hair, which had blown over her ears and the back of her neck. She then gathered from the hedge a spray of mulberry blossom, which she fastened in the bodice of her habit, arranged the little handkerchief, trimmed with Valenciennes, daintily in her side-pocket, and then, after another short gallop, pulled up at the entrance to the farm.

A rough voice called out: "Are you there, master?" and then a young farm labourer came out of the house, saying: "Master ain't heard me call; I'll go and find him."

A minute or two later, a tall young man, of some thirty-five years of age, appeared. He was a true type of the Norman peasant, somewhat meagre-looking, with fair hair, and a slight stoop. He looked very warm and was out of breath. His face was so red that it seemed to be turning purple.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, trying to get his breath again, "it's you, Mad'moiselle Denyse, it's you, is it?"

"Yes, Monsieur Lavenue," she answered, smiling, "it is."

"Won't you get down?" he asked, holding out his hand to help her.

"No, thanks! I have only come to bring you a message from grandmamma. It is about the Confirmation dinner next Monday; but you know all about that, as you are the mayor?"

"Yes, I know about it!"

"Well, grandmamma would like to have some very nice peaches for Monday, and some very nice pears; in fact, all kinds of nice things, such as grow in your orchard."

"They shall bring you them, Mad'moiselle Denyse! You can be quite easy about that. I'll see they are well chosen." And then, as the young girl turned her horse round, he said, as he watched her, almost dazed with admiration: "Are you going to start back already, mad'moiselle? Won't you stop and have some refreshment—a bowl of milk now? I know you like a drop o' good milk!" And then, in a persuasive tone, he added, as he took hold of Patatras' bridle, "That 'ud give the horse a rest, too; he's very warm after the run."

Farmer Lavenue's way of talking always amused Bijou. It had been more than ten years now since the sturdy Norman had emigrated to Touraine, and yet he had not lost his strong Norman accent in the slightest degree.

It was Madame de Bracieux, who, thoroughly dissatisfied with the Touraine farmers, had taken up this man. Charlemagne Lavenue had never fraternised with the regular inhabitants of the place. He was looked up to and admired by the simple-minded and unskilful villagers, who saw him making money in the very place where others had been ruined. He had, by "sending for people from his part of the world," gradually transformed The Borderettes into a small Normandy, and he had so much influence now in the place that he, an interloper, had been elected mayor of Bracieux, to the exclusion of the former notables of the place.

As Denyse did not reply, he lifted her down from her horse, saying as he did so: "You will, mad'moiselle, won't you?" And then, after giving the reins to the old groom, he led the way to the door of the farm, and stood aside for Bijou to enter.

"How nice it is here, Monsieur Lavenue," she exclaimed, in a pleasant way. "Have I ever seen this room before? No, I don't think I have!"

"Yes, you've seen it, mad'moiselle, only, you know, it's been fresh white-washed, and, you see, that makes it different-like."

"When you are married, now," she said, smiling, "it will be very nice, indeed."

Farmer Lavenue, who was looking at Bijou with hungry eyes, held his head up erect, and then, shaking it slowly, he answered, with some hesitation:

"I can't decide to give the farm a mistress, because I don't come across one as suits me." And after a moment's silence, he added: "That is to say, amongst them as I could have."

"Why, how's that? any of the girls from Bracieux, or Combes, or from the villages round The Borderettes, would marry you, Monsieur Lavenue, and there are some very pretty girls among them."

"I can't see as they are," he answered, blushing, and twisting about in his fingers the huge, broad-brimmed hat which he always wore the whole year round.

"You are difficult to please, then; do you mean that you don't think Catherine Lebour pretty?"

"No, Mad'moiselle Denyse."

"Nor Josephine Lacaille?"

"No, Mad'moiselle Denyse."

"And Louise Pature?"

"No, mad'moiselle."

Bijou laughed merrily. "Oh, well, do you mean to say that you don't admire any woman?"

"Yes, I do—there's one—"

"Who is it?" she asked, looking full at the peasant, with her frank, innocent expression.

Lavenue turned redder still, and stooped down with an awkward movement to pick up his hat, which had fallen to the ground.

"I can't say," he stuttered out; "she isn't for such as me."

Bijou did not hear his reply. With her pretty figure slightly bent, and her head thrown back, she was slowly drinking a second cup of milk, whilst the farmer, who had recovered himself, stood still, with his eyes wide open, gazing at this fragile-looking young creature in timid, half-fearful admiration.

When Bijou had finished her milk, she looked at him critically, with a smile on her lips.

"My goodness! how warm it is to-day," he said, wiping with the back of his hand the great drops of perspiration, which stood out on his forehead.

"Thank you, so much, Monsieur Lavenue," said Denyse, getting up; "your milk is delicious."

"Oh! but you aren't surely going to start off again already?" he said, with a downcast look.

"Already! why, I have been here at least a quarter of an hour."

"Oh, well! it's been precious quick to me that quarter of an hour!" he stammered; and then, in a lower voice, he added: "Thank you, very much, Mad'moiselle Denyse, for the honour as you've done me. I sha'n't forget it, that's certain!"

On getting up, Bijou had let the flowers, which she was wearing in her bodice, fall to the ground.

As she turned towards the door, to see whether the horses were there, the peasant, with a stealthy movement, stretched his long, sinewy body out along the floor, and, snatching up the flowers, hid them away under his blouse.

The groom was about to descend from his horse in order to help Denyse to mount; but she made a sign to stop him.

"Monsieur Lavenue will help me on to my horse," she said; "he is very strong."

She put her foot out in order to place it in the farmer's hand; but, without any warning, he put his hands round her waist, and then, steadying her a second against himself, he lifted her straight into the saddle.

"Oh, well!" she exclaimed, in amazement, "I said you were strong, but however could you hold me at arm's length like that, and put me on to my horse, which is so tall?" and then, as he did not speak, but just stood there, looking down and breathing heavily, she added: "There, you see, I was too heavy! You are quite out of breath."

She started off before he had time to answer, calling out to him as she rode away:

"Good morning, and thank you again, very much!"

Just as she was turning out of the farmyard, she looked round again at the farmer, who was standing motionless, as though rooted to the spot, with his arms hanging down at his sides.

"Don't forget grandmamma's peaches and pears, Monsieur Lavenue!" she called out.

She then looked at her watch, and found that it was five minutes past eleven. She had plenty of time to return home without hurrying, and then, too, M. Giraud and Pierrot were to meet her, and they were never free until eleven o'clock.

As she passed through a village, she gathered a spray of clematis from the cemetery wall to replace the flowers which she had dropped, and then, when she found herself quite alone, she took out her little looking-glass again, and fluffed her hair up, as it was not curly enough now that the heat had made it limp. At half-past eleven, as she saw no signs of those whom she was expecting, she began to get impatient, and put her horse to a gallop, for Patatras was getting tired, and would keep stopping, and doing his utmost to browse the leaves along the hedges.

Suddenly a serious, almost melancholy, expression came over the girl's pretty, happy-looking face. She was just crossing a meadow, which was skirted by a wood.

"Hallo, Bijou! that's how you cut us, is it?" exclaimed a voice.

She stopped short, looking surprised, and turned back a few steps.

Pierrot and M. Giraud, who had been lying down in the shade, rose from the ground, leaving the long grass marked with their impress.

"Why, you are here already!" she said; "I did not expect to meet you so far away from home; at what time did you start, then?"

"A little before the hour," answered Pierrot; and then he added slily, winking at his tutor: "M'sieu' Giraud was a brick; he let me off a bit earlier—without me begging much, either—and now, if we want to be at Bracieux at twelve o'clock, we shall have to put our best feet first!"

They were walking along by the side of Bijou.

"Have you recovered from yesterday evening?" she asked, addressing M. Giraud.

"Recovered?" said the young tutor. "How recovered?"

"Because you could not have enjoyed yourself very much! M. de Tourville and M. de Juzencourt blocked you up, one after the other, in a corner, to explain to you: the one that Charles de Tourville embarked with William the Conqueror in 1066; and the other, that a Juzencourt fought against Charles the Bold in 1477 under the walls of Nancy. Am I not right?"

"Quite right! and M. de Juzencourt added that there was only blue blood in his family. I did not quite understand why he should tell me that."

"In order to prove to you that, traced clearly only since 1477, but without the slightest mésalliance, the Juzencourts are more respectable than the Tourvilles."

"Oh, indeed!"

"Yes, M. de Tourville married a young lady who was all very well, but her name was Chaillot, and her father is on the Stock Exchange; you see, therefore, that, as regards the Tourvilles, the family is older than the Juzencourt family, but it is not so pure. You managed to put such a good face on as you listened to all that. Oh, dear! I could have laughed if you had not looked so wretched."

"It wasn't just the nuisance of having to listen to the Tourville and Juzencourt yarns that made him look like that," observed Pierrot. "For some time past he is always like that, even with me, and I can promise you that I don't overpower him with yarns, either about Charles the Bold or William the Conqueror."

"I am quite convinced on that score!" said Bijou, laughing.

"Dear me! it isn't that there'd be any difficulty about it," protested Pierrot. "I could very well if I wanted to, but—confound it!"

"Confound it! again?" said the young tutor, annoyed, and looking reproachfully at his pupil. "You know that M. de Jonzac objects to your speaking in that way. He particularly wishes you to be more careful, and more correct, in your choice of words."

"Oh, well! if he were to talk to my friends, he'd hear a few things, and he'd soon get used to it, too. It's always like that; just a matter of getting used to things."

"I cannot imagine that very well, though," said Bijou; "Uncle Alexis letting himself get used to the style of conversation of your friends."

She drew up whilst she was speaking, and pointed to something in the wood.

"Oh! look at that beautiful mountain ash, isn't it red? How pretty those bunches are!"

"Do you want some of those berries?" proposed Pierrot.

"Yes, I should like some, they are so beautiful."

The youth entered the coppice, and they heard the branches snapping as he broke them in order to make himself a passage, and presently the top of the red tree shook and swayed, now bending down, and now springing up again, as Pierrot shook it roughly.

Bijou, with her head bent, and a far-away look in her eyes, seemed to be in a dream, quite oblivious of what was going on around her. She started on hearing Pierrot's voice as he called out to her to know whether he was to gather a large bunch.