Bijou

XI.

"No, and as I had finished all the literature I had upstairs, I came down to get a book to finish my night with."

Bijou pointed to the sun, which was streaming in by the open window.

"Your night!"

"Oh, as far as I am concerned, you know, unless I am going out shooting, or off by train somewhere, it is night up to ten o'clock, at least!"

"And you are now going to bed again?"

"This very instant."

"But it is ridiculous."

"On the contrary, it is very wise, and all the more so, as, when one is in a bad temper, the best thing to do is to keep one's self out of the way."

"You are in a bad temper?"

"Yes."

"And why?"

Paul de Rueille hesitated slightly before answering.

"I don't know why."

"It's quite true," said Bijou, laughing, "that you were not very amiable yesterday during our journey to Pont-sur-Loire."

"It was your fault!"

"My fault—mine?"

"Yours."

"And pray why?"

"I will tell you if you like."

"Yes, I should like; but not now, because I am keeping some one waiting in the dairy."

"Who is waiting for you?" he asked anxiously.

"The dairy-maid," answered Bijou, without noticing his anxiety.

"Oh! go at once, then, if that is the case," said M. de Rueille sarcastically. "I should not like the dairy-maid to be kept waiting on my account."

"You should come and see the cheeses," proposed Denyse.

"That must certainly be very festive; no, really, are you not afraid that I should find that too exciting, Bijou, my dear?"

"You would find it as exciting, anyhow, as going to bed, and reading over again some old book that you must know by heart. Oh, you know it by heart, I am sure! There is nothing in the library but the classics, or a lot of old-fashioned things; ever since I have come no new books are put in the library, either in the Paris house or here at Bracieux. Grandmamma is so afraid that I should get hold of them; but she is quite mistaken, for I should never open a book that I had been told not to open—never!"

"Grandmamma is afraid of your doing what any other girl would do; you are such an astonishing exception, Bijou!"

"Yes, I am an exception—an angel, anything you like; but either come with me, or let me go, if you please! I don't like to keep people waiting."

"Oh, well, I'll come with you if you like," said M. de Rueille, putting his book down on a side-table.

He followed Bijou without speaking, as she trotted along in front of him. She looked so sweet, going backwards and forwards amongst the great pails of milk; her straw hat, covered with lace, tossed carelessly on her fair hair; her morning dress, of pink batiste, fastened up rather high with a safety-pin.

She inspected everything, gave her orders, and settled all kinds of details, without troubling about her cousin any more than if he did not exist; and then, when she had quite finished, she turned towards him, smiling.

"Now, then," she said, "if you would like a stroll, I am at your service." She turned into one of the garden paths that led to the avenues, and then added, as she looked up at Paul, "I'm listening!"

"You are listening? What do you want me to say?"

"I thought you were going to tell me why you were so bad-tempered yesterday; you said it was my fault."

"Well, it was; you were—" he began, in an embarrassed way; and then he continued, in desperation, "the way you went on, it was not at all like you generally are, nor like you ought to be!"

"Ah! what did I do then?"

"Well, in the first place, you insisted, in the most extraordinary way, that Bernès should come on to the coach when we met him. Why did you insist like that?"

"Well, it is natural enough when you meet anyone walking a mile away from where you are driving yourself, that you should offer to pick him up; it seems to me that it would be odd, on the contrary, not to offer to pick him up!"

"Yes, agreed; but then it was M. de Clagny who should have offered a seat in his own carriage."

"He never thought of it—"

"Or else he did not care to? And you obliged him to do it whether he would or not?"

"Rubbish! he adores M. de Bernès. The other day he spent half an hour singing his praises to me in every key."

"Ah! that is probably what made you so pleasant to him?"

"Was I so pleasant?"

"Certainly! As a rule you don't pay the slightest attention to him, but yesterday you had no eyes for anyone but him."

"I did not notice that myself."

"Really? Well, you were the only one who did not, then! You went on to such a degree that I wondered if it were not simply for the sake of tormenting me that you were acting in that way!"

Bijou gazed straight at M. de Rueille with her beautiful, luminous eyes.

"To torment you? and how could it torment you if I chose to be agreeable to M. de Bernès?"

"How?" stuttered M. de Rueille, very much confused; "why, I have just told you I am not—we are not accustomed to seeing you make a fuss like that, especially of a young man! No, I assure you, I was amazed. I am still, in fact."

"And I am ever so sorry to have vexed you," she said sweetly. "Yes, I am really; you see, I had never noticed M. de Bernès particularly, and I wanted to see whether all the nice things M. de Clagny had told me about him were quite true, and so I was studying him. Will you forgive me?"

M. de Rueille did not reply to this, as he had another grievance on his mind.

"With Clagny, too, you have a way of carrying on, which is not at all the thing. He is an old man; that's all well and good; but, you know, he is not so ancient yet for you to be able to take such liberties with him!"

"What do you call liberties?"

"Well, sometimes you appear to admire him, to be in ecstasies about him; and then sometimes you coax and wheedle him in the most absurd way, as you did yesterday."

"Yesterday! I coaxed and wheedled M. de Clagny? I?"

"You!"

"But about what?"

"When you would insist, in spite of everything, in driving through Rue Rabelais; and I'll be hanged if I can see why you wanted to; it's about as dirty a street as there is, without taking into account that you might have caused us all to break our necks. Yes, certainly, it was the most dangerous experiment—your fad! Young Bernès, who is one of the most out-and-out daring fellows himself, tried to persuade you out of wanting to go along that street!"

The strange little gleam, which sometimes lighted up Bijou's eyes, came into them now.

"Yes, that's true!" she said, smiling. "He was wild to prevent our going down the Rue Rabelais—M. de Bernès! It was as though he was afraid of something!"

"He was afraid of coming to smash, by Jove, just as I was, and the abbé, and even Pierrot. I cannot understand how old Clagny could have let you have your fad out, for he was responsible for the little Dubuisson girl, and for Pierrot, and you, without reckoning all of us!"

"Have you finished blowing me up?"

"I am not blowing you up."

"Oh, well, that's cool. Let's make it up now, shall we?" and, standing on tip-toes, Bijou held her pretty face up, saying, "Kiss me?"

He stepped back abruptly.

"Oh!" exclaimed Bijou, in surprise, and looking hurt, "you won't kiss me?"

Paul de Rueille had been so taken aback, that he could scarcely find any words.

"It isn't that I won't, but—well, not here like that, it is so absurd! I cannot understand your not seeing how ridiculous it is."

Bijou shook her rough head, and the loose curls over her forehead danced about.

"No, I do not see that it is at all ridiculous," and then, instead of going any farther, she turned round, and they went back to the house without another word.

On going up into his room, M. de Rueille found his wife reading a letter.

"I have just heard from Dr. Brice," she said, handing him the letter. "It seemed to me that Marcel had not been well just lately."

"Not well—Marcel? Why the child eats and drinks more than I do. He sleeps like a top, too, and grows like a mushroom. Oh, that's good, that is! And what disease has he discovered in the boy—our excellent Brice?"

"No disease at all!"

"Oh, well, that's lucky!

"But he orders him to have sea-air."

"Sea-air for a lad who is in such downright good health that it positively makes him unbearable, he is so riotous?"

"Read what he says."

"Let me see what he says," murmured M. de Rueille, putting on a look of resignation, as he began to read the long letter, in which the doctor advised sea-air as the best remedy for the child in his present nervous state.

"And so he is in a nervous state?" said M. de Rueille jeeringly; "and on account of this, which no one, by the bye, except you, has noticed, we are to leave Bracieux, where the lad is flourishing in this delightful fresh air—it is his native air, in fact—and we are to go and take up our abode at some stupid seaside place? Oh, no! You really do get hold of some ridiculous ideas sometimes."

He was still irritated after his discussion with Bijou, and the idea of going away from her now caused him to speak in a harsh, dry way. He tried to laugh, too, but his laugh sounded forced and hollow.

Bertrade looked at him as she said gently:

"I did not want to tell you the truth straight out; I hoped that you would guess it. Do you not guess?"

"No, not at all," he answered, with a vague feeling of uneasiness.

"Well, then, you were right just now; not only Marcel, and his brothers too, for that matter, are better at Bracieux than anywhere else, but he has nothing the matter with him."

As M. de Rueille looked surprised, she continued, in a tranquil way:

"It is Marcel's father who is not quite himself, who needs a change of air, and who will, I am sure, decide on having a change."

"Well, really," he stammered out, "I do not know what you mean."

"I mean that you must leave Bracieux for a time," she answered, speaking very distinctly.

"Do you particularly wish me to tell you why?"

"I do."

"You are unwise to insist. You know that in a general way I never interfere in anything that you choose to do, or leave undone."

"Yes, you have always been very sweet and very sensible about everything," said M. de Rueille, "and I thoroughly appreciate—"

"Oh, there is no need to say anything about all that. I have always left you quite free to act in every way as you preferred, and now, in this matter, I do not bear you any ill-feeling whatever, and I should never have spoken to you of it if I had not seen that you are going too far. I have confidence in you, so that I know you will be on your guard; but I know how fascinating Bijou is, and I can see perfectly well that, next to poor young Giraud, you are the one who is the most infatuated."

"Yes, you are quite right, I am infatuated; but, as you say yourself, there is no danger whatever, and whether I go away, or whether I stay here, it is all the same; that will make no difference whatever."

"Yes! if you stay you will certainly make yourself ridiculous, and probably wretched, too. I am speaking to you now just as a friend might. Let us go away; believe me, it would be better."

"Well, but when we came back again—for we should come back, shouldn't we? in two months at the latest—things would, be exactly as they were before."

"No, it would be quite different," she answered carelessly. "In two months' time she will be married, or nearly so."

"Married!" exclaimed M. de Rueille, astounded. "Married! Jean is going to marry her, then?"

"Why, no! Jean is not going to marry her. He's another one who would do well to make himself scarce."

"Well, if it is not Jean, I do not see—it is not Henry, I presume?"

"No, not Henry either. He understands perfectly well that, with what he has, he cannot marry Bijou."

"Well, who is it, then? Who is it?"

"Why, no one at all—that is, no one in particular."

"You spoke, on the contrary, as though you were affirming something that was quite settled. You said: In two months' time she will be married, or nearly so. What did you mean by that? Why don't you want to tell me? You have been told not to? It is a secret?"

"No, it is merely a supposition, I assure you, that is all."

"And this supposition you will not tell me?"

"No."

After a short silence Madame de Rueille began again:

"I showed grandmamma the doctor's letter; she is very sorry about our going away. She adores the children, and then, too, she likes to have the house full at Bracieux."

"And she let herself be gulled with this story about Marcel's nervous condition? I am surprised at that; she is so sharp!"

"If she was not gulled, as you call it, she allowed me to think that she was. I shall see you again presently: I must get ready for breakfast."

M. de Rueille went up to his wife, and asked, in a half-timid way:

"You are angry with me about it?"

"I? why should I be angry about what you cannot help? You are in the same situation as Jean, M. Giraud, Henry, the accompaniment professor, Pierrot, and others that we don't know of, not to speak of the abbé, who, at present, is always to be found somewhere round about where Bijou is."

"Oh!"

"It's perfectly true; the only thing is that, as far as he is concerned, he is unconscious of it. Without understanding the why and wherefore, he, too, is captivated by Bijou's charms just the same as all the others who come near her. I am quite sure that he, too, will be unhappy about going away from here; but he will not be able to explain to himself even the cause of his unhappiness. Ah! there's the bell; I shall never be ready; you had better go on down."

"Pierrot," said the marchioness, after breakfast, when everyone had assembled in the morning-room, "you did not give me my book yesterday?"

Pierrot, who was talking to Bijou, turned round, somewhat taken aback.

"What book, aunt?"

"Dumas' novel for the curé."

"Ah, yes; I could not think what book you meant!"

"You forgot to do my errand?"

"Not at all! but Pellerin hadn't it."

"Oh, why—he always has everything one wants!"

"Well, he hadn't got that; and, what was better still, he didn't seem to know the book at all!"

"Nonsense!"

"No, it's quite true! and he's an obstinate sort of beggar, too, he would have it that it wasn't by the father—what's his name? ah! I've forgotten already."

"Dumas!"

"Dumas! yes, that's it; and he kept on saying all the time, 'I know my Dumas well enough, and that book was never written by him.' Well, anyhow, he promised to try to get it, and to send it to you if it is to be had."

M. de Rueille was sorting out the letters, which had arrived during breakfast-time.

"Here's a letter from your bookseller, grandmamma," he said; "he evidently has not been able to get it."

"Open it, Paul, will you?"

Rueille tore open the envelope, and, taking out the letter, read as follows:

"Madam,—It is quite impossible to get the book which your nephew asked for. As we were anxious to execute your order, we sent to several of the principal booksellers, and even wired to Paris, but we were informed that there is not, and there never has been, a book entitled, 'Le Bâton de M. Molard.'"

"Le Bâton de M. Molard?" repeated the marchioness, not understanding in the least. "What is he talking about?" and then, all at once, the explanation of the mystery dawned upon her, and she exclaimed, in consternation: "Ah, I see! 'Le Bâton de M. Molard' is 'Le Bâtard de Mauléon,' translated by Pierrot into his own language. I was quite right in wanting to write the title for him, but he would not hear of it."

M. de Jonzac turned his eyes up towards the ceiling with a tragic gesture of despair.

"He is incorrigible—absolutely hopeless," he said, half laughing and half vexed.

"I can't help it, I am as I was made," said Pierrot, blushing furiously and very much annoyed. "And then, too, I didn't know what I was doing yesterday; we were almost upset going into Pont-sur-Loire."

"Almost upset?" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, "upset! why, how?"

"Because Bijou had the insane idea of wanting to go down the Rue Rabelais with the coach; and so M. de Clagny went—the old fool."

"Stop! that's enough!" interrupted the marchioness; "will you kindly speak more respectfully when you have anything to say about my old friend Clagny?"

"Well, all the same, your old friend hasn't got his head screwed on very well, considering his age. He might have killed us; and, besides that, I can tell you we did kick up a shindy in the Rue Rabelais. The coach scraped against the curb-stones; all the kids were running along nearly under the horses' heels; then the sound of the horn brought all the women to the windows, and didn't they exclaim when they saw what it was. That part wasn't so bad, either, for there were some jolly pretty ones, I can tell you; weren't there, Paul?"

As M. de Rueille appeared to be preoccupied, and did not answer, Pierrot turned to the abbé.

"Weren't there, M. Courteil?"

"I don't know," answered the abbé, with evident sincerity; "I was not noticing."

Pierrot did not intend to give in.

"Oh, well, Bijou noticed them anyhow, for I can tell you she did look at them, and with eyes as sharp as needles, too; they shone like anything."

"I?" she exclaimed, her pretty face turning suddenly red. "It was your fancy, Pierrot; I never saw anything. I was much too frightened."

"Frightened of what?" asked the marchioness.

"Why, of being upset, grandmamma. Pierrot is right about that; we were nearly upset."

"He is right, too, in saying that it was an insane idea to want to go with a carriage and four horses down a wretched little street like that; however could you have had such an idea?"

Bijou glanced at Jeanne Dubuisson, who, with her eyes fixed on the carpet, had turned very red, too, and was listening to the discussion without taking any part in it.

"Oh, really, I don't know. I think it was M. de Clagny telling me that his horses were so well in hand that he could make them turn round on a plate. And so, as the Rue Rabelais is rather narrow and winding, I said: 'I am sure you could not go along Rue Rabelais.'"

"No!" protested Pierrot, "it was not quite like that. You said, 'Let us go down Rue Rabelais, I should like to see it.' And, then, as he hesitated—for we may as well give him credit for having hesitated—you stuck to it as hard as you could."

"But," put in M. de Jonzac, seeing that Denyse looked annoyed, "what interest could your cousin possibly have in wanting to go down that street?"

"That's what I wondered," said Pierrot, looking puzzled; and then, suddenly taken with another idea, he added: "I can tell you there was somebody who didn't like it, and that was M. de Bernès. I don't know what took him, but he did pull a long face. Oh, my! I can tell you he did look blue."

Henry de Bracieux laughed.

"I know why he was pulling such a long face, poor old Bernès; he was afraid of being blown up—"

"Blown up?" asked Bijou, innocently opening her limpid eyes wide in surprise, whilst Jeanne's face, usually so impassive, turned almost purple. "Blown up? by whom?"

And then, as there was a dead silence, which became more and more embarrassing, Bijou turned to her friend.

"Let's go out for a stroll in the garden, Jeanne, shall we?" she said.

"I'll come with you," remarked Pierrot promptly; but Bijou pushed him gently back.

"No! we shall do very well by ourselves, thank you; you would worry us."

As the two girls were descending the hall-door steps, Bijou said to Jeanne, who was just behind her, and who had not quite recovered from her embarrassment:

"I know why you looked so conscious just now; you were thinking of the gossip about that actress—I've forgotten her name—whom M. de Bernès knows. I had not thought of it at the time, and so it did not trouble me. You see I was right when I told you that it was a mistake to listen to Mère Rafut's tales."

"Yes, you always are right!" answered Jeanne pensively; "I said then that you are always right!"

After Bijou's departure, the men one after another left the drawing-room.

"What's the matter, Bertrade?" asked the marchioness, as soon as she found herself alone with Madame de Rueille. "Paul looked very queer during breakfast!"

"Did you think so?" said the young wife, not wishing either to acknowledge it or to tell an untruth about the matter.

"I did think so, and you looked queer too; and as I watched you both, an idea dawned upon me."

"And what is this idea?"

"It is that my dear little Marcel is no more ill than I am, and that the letter you showed me this morning is nothing but a pretext for getting your husband away from here; is that so?"

Madame de Rueille was too straightforward to be able to deny the fact.

"It is so!"

"And so you are jealous, and jealous of Bijou?"

"Not jealous, oh, dear no! not in the least; but anxious."

"About Bijou?"

Madame de Rueille looked serious as she shook her pretty head.

"No, about Paul."

"You are not afraid of your husband going too far, I suppose?"

"No!"

"Well, what then?"

"I am anxious about his peace of mind, and then, too, I do not care for him to make himself completely ridiculous."

"You must know, my dear Bertrade, that I have seen for some time past that Paul was gone on Bijou, just as all the others are—for there is no mistake about it, they all are; and the last few days I have noticed that your abbé even has begun to lose his indifference; don't you think so?"

"It is very possible!"

"Yes, and I am sure that he isn't going along quite so peacefully in his worship of God as formerly?"

"And that does not displease you either, grandmamma, does it? Come, now, own it!"

"Oh, well; as long as it is just a little beneficial upset for him, I don't mind; but I should not like it to develop into anything serious—you understand where I draw the line?"

"No, because I always pity all those who are suffering from such little upsets—as you call them—even when they are mild, I think they are calculated to make people suffer greatly."

"You always see a darker side of things than I do; at all events, I think that the idea of carrying Paul off is a very excessive and unwise kind of remedy. He keeps a strict guard over himself, and no one suspects the true state of things except you—"

"And all the others!"

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Well, even if it be so, that is of no importance, provided that Bijou does not suspect it herself. Why do you not answer?"

"Because I am not of the same opinion as you, grandmamma, and you do not like that as a rule, particularly when it is a question of Bijou."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said, nothing else."

"Then, according to you, Bijou has noticed it from—"

"From the very first day."

"And even if that should be so, she cannot help it! Besides, what danger does she run?"

"None at all."

"Paul is honourable."

"Undoubtedly, and even if he were not, Bijou would have nothing to fear for several reasons."

"What are they?"

"Well, in the first place—her own indifference. Paul makes about as much impression on her, I believe, as a table."

"Next?"

"Next? Why, that's all!"

"You said 'several reasons,'—you have given me one; let us hear what the others are."

"Oh, no!" said Madame de Rueille, "it was just my way of speaking."

"Nonsense! you are not clever at telling untruths, my dear Bertrade; I am pretty sure I know what you thought!"

"I don't think you do."

"Well, you'll see! You were thinking that one of the reasons why Bijou will never take any notice of Paul is—"

"Because he is married."

"Yes, of course; but you fancy, too, I am sure of it, that Bijou is thinking of someone else? Ah, you see! you don't answer now! Yes, you believe, as your husband does—he told me so two or three days ago—that she is madly in love with young Giraud!"

"Oh, grandmamma, what an unlikely supposition! In the first place, Bijou is not, and never will be, madly in love with anyone."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that when she marries, it will be in a reasonable, calm sort of way, just as she does everything else."

"But when will it be?"

"When will it be? Well, I do not know exactly—soon, I think."

"Then you are saying that just at random? You are speaking of the future in just a vague sort of way?"

"The future always is vague, grandmamma," answered Madame de Rueille, smiling.

XII.

"Old Dubuisson" and M. Spiegel had been to dinner several times, and Denyse, under the pretext of letting him be more with his fiancée, had persuaded the young professor to take a minor rôle, in which he was execrable. Perhaps Jeanne had noticed this, as the last few days she seemed to be low-spirited, and she was not as even-tempered as usual. Her father was astonished to see her frequently with tears in her eyes, and for no apparent motive, so that at last he declared that "she must be sickening for some illness or another."

The Rueilles had not left Bracieux. Bertrade felt that everyone was against her, as it were, and had resigned herself to the inevitable; she had quite given up the plan she had proposed, and was now letting herself drift along, carried forward by the society whirl in which she was living.

Young Bernès arrived one evening to invite the marchioness and her guests to a paper-chase which was being organised by his regiment. He, himself, was to be hare, and all kinds of obstacles were being put up; there had never been so fine a paper-chase run in the forest.

Bijou at once persuaded her grandmother to allow her to follow on horseback, M. de Rueille and Jean de Blaye both answering for it that nothing should happen to her. She was, besides, very prudent, like most people who are accustomed to riding, and who ride well, and she always managed to avoid accidents, and not to run useless risks.

Madame de Bracieux kept Hubert to dinner, and in the evening, as she watched Denyse talking to him, she said to Bertrade:

"It's very odd. It seems to me that Bijou is not at all the same now with that young man. She used to just give him an indifferent sort of bow, and then leave him alone, and now it seems almost as though she were 'gone' on him, to use your elegant language. She has quite changed her attitude towards him," continued the marchioness, puzzled.

"And he, too, has quite changed his attitude towards her," said Madame de Rueille.

"Yes, hasn't he? The first few times he came to Bracieux, I was struck with his coolness towards our sweet girl, whom everyone adores. He was just simply polite to her, and that was all."

"At present, he is not very far gone, but there is considerable progress; he is preparing to follow in the pathway which has been beaten out by others."

"Just lately, when you were talking to me about Bijou getting married, had you any idea in the background?" asked the marchioness, looking at Madame de Rueille.

Bertrade repeated the question without replying to it.

"An idea in the background?"

"Yes. Were you, for instance, thinking that Bijou was in love with this young Bernès?"

"I told you that same day, grandmamma, that it is my belief Bijou is not in love, never has been in love, and never will be in love with anyone."

"If you had said that, as you say it now, I should most certainly have protested. It would be impossible, in my opinion, to be more absolutely and completely mistaken than you are. Never to love anyone?—Bijou!—when there never was anyone who needed to be loved and petted as she does."

"She needs to be loved and petted—yes, I grant that; but she always requires people to love and pet her, and she does not feel the need of loving and petting others in her turn."

"In other words, she is selfish and cold-hearted?" questioned the marchioness, her voice suddenly taking a harsh tone. "The fact is, Bertrade, you have a grudge against Bijou, because of the charm there is about her: you are angry with her, because no one can resist being fascinated by her, and instead of blaming Paul, who is the real culprit, you accuse the poor child in this cruel way."

"I do not accuse Bijou any more than I do Paul, grandmamma: and I should be all the less likely to accuse them, because I do not think that we are exactly free agents in such matters; yes, I know that you will be scandalised at my saying such a thing—I can see that very well. You think it is blasphemy, don't you? And yet, Heaven knows that the thoughts which come to me sometimes on this subject make me much more tolerant and indulgent towards others—"

M. de Clagny approached the two ladies just at this moment.

"What are you two plotting in this little corner?"

"Nothing," said Madame de Bracieux; "we were watching Bijou, who seems to be taming your young friend Bernès."

"Taming him? Whatever do you mean by that?" asked the count, turning round with a disturbed look on his face.

"Well, I mean just what everyone means when they make that remark! A week ago, when the young man dined here with us, he was like an icicle; well, I fancy that the thaw has set in."

"Oh!" exclaimed M. de Clagny, suddenly looking serene again; "I forgot that he has a love affair, and is so far gone that he fully intends to marry this lady-love; and, as you can imagine, his father is not delighted about it, by any means." And then, in an absent-minded way, he added, "I feel perfectly easy, as far as he is concerned!"

"Easy!" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux in astonishment "Why, easy! you would not like Bijou to marry M. de Bernès, then? Why not?"

"Well—she is so young," he stammered out, in a confused sort of way.

"How do you mean, so young? She is quite old enough to marry; she will be twenty-two in November, Bijou!"

"Well, then, Hubert is too young for her; he is only a lad!"

"I should certainly prefer seeing her married to a man rather more settled down; but, if she should care for him, he is of good family, and is wealthy, why should she not marry him as well as any other?"

"Do you really think that Bijou cares for him?" asked M. de Clagny anxiously.

"I don't know anything about it at all," answered the marchioness, laughing; "but anyhow, what can that matter to you? I can understand that Jean or Henry should be disturbed in their minds—but you?" As he did not reply, she went on: "It's a case of the dog in the manger: he does not want the bone himself, but he does not want the others to have it either. That is just your case, my poor friend, for, I presume, you have no idea of marrying Bijou yourself?"

He answered in a joking way, but there was a troubled look on his face.

"Oh, as to me, it is an idea that I should like very much; but she would not; therefore it amounts to the same thing!"

Bijou came up to them just at that moment, gliding along with her light step. She was followed by young Bernès, who looked vexed about something.

"I cannot, really, mademoiselle," he was saying, "I assure you that I cannot get away from my friends that day."

"Oh, yes, you can; mustn't he, grandmamma?" asked Denyse merrily, "mustn't M. de Bernès come to dinner here on the day of the paper-chase? He is to be the hare, and the start is to be from the 'Cinq-Tranchées'—it is only a mile from Bracieux at the farthest."

Madame de Bracieux was examining the young officer with interest, and there was a kindly look in her eyes.

"Why, certainly," she said, "he must come here to dinner; we shall all be so pleased."

"You are very kind, madame, to invite me, but I was explaining to Mademoiselle de Courtaix that on that day, after the paper-chase, which the regiment is getting up for the benefit of the residents, I have promised faithfully to dine with several of my friends." And glancing, in spite of himself, at Bijou, he added, "And I regret it now, more than I can tell you!"

Turning round on her high heels, Denyse glided off again to the other end of the long room, where she was greeted by Pierrot with reproachful words.

"It was very mean of you to slope away from us like that, you know!" exclaimed the boy.

M. de Jonzac, who was playing billiards with the abbé, was also keeping one ear open to catch what was going on round him. He now protested against the way in which Pierrot expressed himself, even supposing that the reproach itself were just.

"Well, yes," answered his son, "it's quite true that I'm not over-particular about what words I use, but that doesn't prevent what I said being true; and the others said it too, just now; I wasn't the only one."

"Mademoiselle," said Giraud, who was standing near the large bay-window, looking out at the sky, "you said yesterday that you liked shooting stars—I have never seen so many as there are to-night."

"Really?" replied Denyse, going to the window, and leaning her arms on the ledge, side by side with the tutor, "are there as many as all that? What's that to the left?" she asked, bending forward. "I can see something white on the terrace."

"It is Mademoiselle Dubuisson, who is strolling about with her father and M. Spiegel."

"Ah! supposing we went out to them—shall we?"

Giraud led the way at once, only too happy to go out for a stroll on this beautiful starry night. When they were near the terrace, she stopped suddenly.

"Perhaps we shall be de trop," she said; "they may be talking of private affairs. Let us go to the chestnut avenue, and they'll come to us if they want to."

She descended the marble steps, and they were soon in the dark avenue, under the thick chestnut trees. The young man had followed her, his heart beating with excitement, almost beside himself with joy. They walked along for some little time without speaking, and then at last Bijou looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky between the branches of the trees.

"We shall not see much of the shooting stars here," she said.

"Oh, yes," answered Giraud, who did not want to leave this shady walk, where he had Bijou all to himself, "we can see them all the same. Look, there's one, did you see it?"

"Not distinctly, and not long enough to be able to wish anything."

"To wish anything? but what?"

"Oh! anything. Why! do you mean to say you did not know that when you see a shooting star you ought to wish something?"

"No, I did not know. And does your wish get fulfilled?"

"They say so."

"Well, then, mademoiselle, have you a wish quite ready this time, so that you will not be taken unawares?"

"Yes, certainly, I have one; but it can never be realised."

"Ah! I dare not ask you what."

"I should like to be quite different from what I am," she replied, very gently. "Yes, I should like to be a very pretty girl, in quite humble circumstances, so that I need not be obliged to go into society, and so that I could marry just whom I liked. I should like to be, in fact, happy according to my own idea of things, without troubling anything about social prejudices and conventionalities."

"Why should you wish that?" he asked, in a voice that trembled slightly.

"So that I should have the right to love anyone who loved me. I mean, openly; without having to keep it to myself." And then she added, in a very low voice, "And without reproaching myself for it."

She was walking quite close to him, so close, that their shoulders touched at every step.

Giraud was quite agitated with conflicting emotions.

"You say that—as if—as if—you did care for someone?" he stammered out.

He knew that she had turned her face towards him, but she did not speak.

Just at this moment a screech-owl, which was perched quite near them amongst the thick, dark looking foliage of the trees, gave a sudden, wailing, cry, which startled Bijou. She knocked against Giraud as she jumped aside in her fright, and he instinctively put his arms round her. Her soft, perfumed hair brushed against his lips, making him lose his head completely. He forgot everything, and, utterly oblivious of all that separated him from the young girl, he drew her closer to him in a passionate embrace, and murmured tenderly:

"Denyse!"

She let him do as he liked, without offering any resistance, but when, at last, he set her free, she said, in a tender, plaintive tone:

"Oh! how wrong it was of you to have done that, how wrong of you!" And then she hid her face in her hands, and he could hear that she was crying.

He tried to console her, but she would not allow him to stay.

"No, go away, please," she said: "they will be wondering where you are. I shall come in directly, when I am myself again."

As he was starting off in the direction of the terrace, she called him back.

"Not that way," she said. "Go round by the pool. Don't let them think you have come from here."

"Let me stay another minute, just to ask you to forgive me. Let me kiss those little hands that I love—"

"Please go! Please go!" she said, in a tone that sounded as though she mistrusted herself.

Before turning into the walk that led round by the pool, Giraud stopped a minute to get another glimpse of Denyse, who, in her light dress, looked like a white spot against the dark background of the trees. He could hear that she was still crying.

"Is that you, Bijou?" asked Jean de Blaye, coming forward in the thick darkness.

"Who is it?" asked the young girl, drawing herself up.

"It is I—Jean! Why, do you mean to say that you won't even do me the honour of recognising my voice. What are you doing out here in this pitch darkness?"

"I am taking a stroll."

"All alone?"

"I came out to join the Dubuissons, but I thought afterwards that it was better not to disturb them, and so I came here all alone."

"It must be quite a change for you to be alone, isn't it? And what in the world do you do when you are all by yourself?"

"I think."

"Oh! what a big word!"

"Well, I dream dreams, if you like that better?"

"Well I never! That's what I never should have thought you would do. They are surely not in the least like ordinary dreams—yours?"

"Because—?"

"Because dreams are usually incoherent, strange and quite improbable."

"Well?"

"Well, your dreams must be admirably sensible and reasonable; they must resemble you."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Well, for the pleasant things you are saying."

"Oh! they are not exactly pleasant things; they are true, though. Besides, I have not come here just to say pleasant things to you, but to talk to you seriously."

"Seriously?"

"Yes! I have undertaken a mission for some one else. I have promised to speak to you to the best of my ability in the name of some one who did not care to speak for himself."

"Who is this some one else?"

"Henry! He begged me to ask you whether you would authorise him to ask grandmamma for your hand?"

"My hand! Henry?" she exclaimed, and her accent expressed her bewilderment.

"Is that so very astonishing?"

"Why, yes!—it is as though he were my brother—Henry!"

"Well, but he is not your brother, nevertheless; therefore do not let us trouble about him as a brother, but as a lover. What is your answer?"

"My answer! why does Henry apply to me first? Instead of asking my permission to speak to grandmamma, he ought to have asked grandmamma's permission to speak to me."

"There; didn't I say that you were a most excellent little person, always knowing the correct thing, and all the rest of it!"

"Is it wrong of me to be like that?"

"Oh, no! it is not wrong—on the contrary! only it is a trifle embarrassing. Tell me, now that I have made this mistake in speaking to you first, will you give me an answer? or must I set to work to put matters right again, by applying now to grandmamma, who in her turn will apply to you, etc., etc."

"No, I will give you my answer."

"Well, then, let me finish my rigmarole. Count Henry de Bracieux was born on the 22nd of January, 1870. His entire fortune, until after the death of his grandmother, consists of twenty-four thousand pounds, which amount brings in—"

"Oh! you needn't trouble to tell me about money matters; in the first place, they don't interest me, and then, as I do not wish to marry Henry, it is useless to tell me all that!"

"Ah! you do not wish to marry him! Why?"

"For several reasons, the best of which is that I know him too well."

"It certainly is not very flattering, this reason of yours!"

"I mean what I said just now, that, living with Henry as I have done for the last four years, I consider him as a brother."

"Then that applies to me, too; do you look upon me, too, as a brother?" asked Jean de Blaye, trying to speak in an indifferent tone.

"You, oh, no! not at all; you are thirty-five at least!"

"No, thirty-three."

"Only that?—ah, well, it's all the same! you don't seem to me like a brother!"

She was silent a moment, thinking, whilst he stood waiting, with a sort of vague hope.

"You seem to me more like an uncle," she said at last.

"Oh!" remarked Jean, with an accent that betrayed his vexation, "that is very nice."

"You are annoyed with me for saying that?" she asked, in her pretty, coaxing way.

"Oh, not at all! I am delighted, on the contrary; it is very satisfactory, for, with you, one knows exactly what to count on; and then, if one has any delusions, well, they don't have to hang fire."

"You had delusions—what were they?"

"No, I hadn't one of any kind."

"Oh, yes, I can tell by your voice; you speak in a sharp, bitter, irritated way. Tell me why you are so bad-tempered all in a minute?" she asked, in a coaxing tone, leaning against him, and looking up into his face.

He stepped back from her as he answered:

"When one is not very good to start with, and one has trouble, it makes one go to the bad; it is inevitable!"

"And you have trouble?"

"Yes."

"Is it very bad?"

"Well, quite bad enough, thank you!"

"Poor Jean; things don't go as you want them to, then?"

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Why, about—oh, you know very well! I told you the other evening!"

"That again!" he said, getting more and more worked up; "how foolish you are!"

"What, do you mean that you do not care for Madame de Nézel?" exclaimed Bijou.

"Madame de Nézel is a charming woman," he stammered out, in an embarrassed way. "She is an excellent friend whom I like very much, very much indeed, but not in the way you imagine."

"Ah! so much the worse for you; she is a widow, and she is rich; she would just have suited you. Well, then, you like someone else?"

"Yes."

"Someone you cannot marry?"

"Exactly."

"Why? isn't she rich enough?"

"Oh, no, it is not that; if she had not a farthing it would be all the same to me; it is the other way round, I am not rich enough for her, and then—she would not have me."

"You do not know; you ought to tell her that you love her."

"Do you think so?"

"Why, of course—try that, at any rate."

"Very well, then, Bijou, I love you with all my heart—but I know that there is no hope, and, unfortunate wretch that I am, I dare not even ask for any."

"You love me!" she exclaimed, in deep distress, and then, stopping short, she repeated: "you—Jean?"

"Yes, and what about you? you detest me, do you not?"

"Oh, Jean, how can you say such things? You know very well that I love you, though not in the way you want me to, or as I should like to be able to, but very much, all the same; indeed I do."

She put her hand on his shoulder, obliging him to stand still, and then passed her hand over his eyes.

"Oh, Jean," she exclaimed, in great grief, "tears, and all because of me! Oh, please, don't—no, indeed you must not; do you hear me, Jean?"

He took the little hand, which was stroking his face, and kissed it passionately. Then putting Bijou, who was clinging to him, gently aside, he left her abruptly, and strode off alone.

XIII.

"Oh, well, you might; and yet, you see your fiancé almost as much as when you were at Pont-sur-Loire."

"Oh, no—"

"Oh, yes; let us reckon, shall we? M. Spiegel went to Paris for Saturday, Sunday, and Monday; Tuesday he came here to dinner with M. Dubuisson; Wednesday he came alone; Thursday he managed to swallow the confirmation luncheon, poor man; Friday he was here to dinner; and every day we have been rehearsing our play either before or after dinner, so that he has never been away from you."

"Yes, that's true," answered Jeanne reluctantly; "but if he has not been away from me, he has scarcely troubled about me at all."

"How do you mean?"

"How? Oh! it is simple enough! He has only troubled about you; he has talked to no one but you."

"To me?"

"Yes, to you—there! I may as well own it, Bijou; I am jealous—frightfully jealous."

"Jealous of whom? Of me?" asked Denyse, with a startled look.

Mademoiselle Dubuisson nodded, and then she proceeded to explain, whilst the tears rose to her eyes:

"You must forgive me for telling you this. I can see that I am causing you pain, but it is better, is it not, to tell the truth, than to let you suspect all kinds of wrong reasons? You are not angry with me?"

"No; not at all!" And then Bijou added sorrowfully: "It is you who ought rather to be angry with me. But you are mistaken, I assure you! M. Spiegel, who is very polite, has taken notice of me simply because I am the grandchild of his hostess, and not for any other reason."

"He has taken notice of you for the same reason which makes everyone take notice of you—just because you are adorable, and you know that very well!"

"Oh, no! I—"

"It was quite certain that he would be fascinated by you, just as all the others are, and I was very silly not to have foreseen what would happen. I counted too much on his affection—I thought that he loved me just as I love him—I was mistaken, that's all!"

"Then I shall not see anything more of you? You will avoid all opportunities of meeting me?"

"No; we shall spend the whole of the day together at the paper-chase."

"As you will be driving, and I shall be riding, I shall not be much in your way."

Bijou was silent for a minute, and then she began again in an anxious tone:

"You don't think, at any rate, that it is my fault—what has happened?"

"No," answered Jeanne; "I don't think anything, except that you are a charming girl, and I am merely common-place. Bijou, dear, don't make yourself wretched about it, please!"

"I should be so unhappy if I were not to see anything more of you!"

"But you will see me! The day after to-morrow I am coming back to Bracieux for your play. I must, you know, considering that we are both acting, M. Spiegel and I."

"Why do you say, 'M. Spiegel'? Why do you not say Franz like you always do? Are you angry with him?"

"On Saturday," continued Jeanne, without answering Bijou's question, "we shall see each other at the races, and then again at the Tourvilles' dance; you see we shall scarcely be separated at all."

"All the same it won't be as though you were staying here," answered Bijou, with a sorrowful look, "and, then, too, I know very well that you are going away feeling different towards me."

Just at this moment the maid entered the room.

"Madame wishes to speak to mademoiselle in the drawing-room."

"In the drawing-room at this time of day!" exclaimed Bijou, in surprise.

"M. de Clagny is there."

"Oh! very well! Say that I am coming at once."

"Will you go down with me?" asked Bijou, turning to Mademoiselle Dubuisson.

"No, I want to finish packing my trunk, as it is to be sent to Pont-sur-Loire after luncheon."

A quarter of an hour later, Bijou returned in great glee.

"Ah! you don't know something. We are going to spend the evening together to-day!"

"Where?"

"Guess!"

"Oh! I don't know. At the theatre?"

"Right! How did you guess that?"

"Because you said over and over again before M. de Clagny how much you wanted to go to that performance organised by the Dames de France. I suppose he has offered you a box?"

"Two boxes! yes, just imagine it; two beautiful big boxes, each one for six persons! And so we have at once arranged with your father that you are to come—M. Spiegel as well, of course—I forgot to tell you that they are there—your father and M. Spiegel. M. de Clagny brought them with him."

"But three of us will be too many for you," began Jeanne.

"When I have just told you that there are twelve places! Come, now—Grandmamma and I, that makes two, and you three, that makes five; there are seven places over, and no one wants to come."

"The Rueilles?"

"Paul, but not Bertrade; that makes six. Neither Jean nor Henry are coming, nor Uncle Alexis either, and Pierrot has got into a scrape. Then there is M. de Clagny, and I thought of offering a place to M. Giraud, so that makes us eight altogether."

Mademoiselle Dubuisson did not speak, and Bijou went on:

"You do not care about spending this evening with us, or, rather, with me, and so you are trying to find a pretext?"

"Oh, no, I am not trying to find anything: besides, since it is all arranged with papa—"

"Yes, it is quite settled. I had invited M. de Bernès, too; but he makes out that he cannot come, because he is going with his friends."

"Where did you see M. de Bernès?"

"In the drawing-room just a minute ago. Ah, of course you did not know. He has come to bring the invitation for M. Giraud. Jean wrote to him for it, because M. Giraud wanted to go to the paper-chase, and as there are refreshments offered by the officers to their guests, grandmamma is so scrupulous that she would not take him without an invitation."

"Then M. de Bernès is staying to luncheon, too?"

"No, he has gone again; he is the hare, you know, and the meeting-place is at the cross-roads at three o'clock; it is quite near for us, but for those who come from Pont-sur-Loire, it's a good step."

"What time do we start?"

"At half-past two the carriages, and a quarter past two those who are riding—Do you know—I feel inclined to dress before luncheon, so that I should not have to think any more about it."

"You have half an hour."

"Well, you are ready. Come with me while I dress, will you?"

Jeanne followed Bijou in a docile way, as the latter hurried along the corridors, singing as she went.

"You are always gay," remarked Jeanne, "but this morning it seems to me that you are particularly joyful. What is it that makes you so?"

"Why, nothing! I am delighted about the paper-chase, and the theatre; then, too, it is beautiful weather, the sky is so blue, the flowers so fresh and beautiful, it seems to me delicious to be alive—but that's all!"

"Oh, well, that's something at any rate."

"Sit down," said Bijou, pushing Mademoiselle Dubuisson into a cosy arm-chair.

Jeanne sat down, and looked round at the pretty room. The walls were hung with pale pink cretonne, with a design of large white poppies. The ceiling, too, was pink, and the Louis Seize furniture was lacquered pink. There were flowers everywhere, in strange-shaped glass vases, and the air was laden with a delicious, penetrating perfume, a mixture of chypre, iris, and a scent like new-mown hay.

Jeanne inhaled this perfume with delight.

"What do you put in your room to make it smell like this?" she asked.

"Does it smell of something? I do not smell anything—anyhow, I don't use scent for it," answered Bijou, sniffing the air around her with all her might.

"Oh! why, that's incredible!" exclaimed Jeanne astounded. "But do you mean truly that you do not put anything at all to scent your room?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Denyse was moving about, getting everything she required before changing her dress. She was not long in putting on her habit, and as she stood before the long glass, putting a few finishing touches to her toilette, Jeanne could not help admiring her.

"How well it fits you!" she said. "It looks as though it had been moulded on you—it really is perfection! And then, too, you have such a pretty figure!"

Denyse was just putting a pearl pin into her white cravat. The point broke with a little sharp click.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jeanne, "what a pity!"

"It doesn't matter," answered Bijou, "for it was not up to much. If I win my bet with M. de Bernès, I will let him give me a strong pin," and then, with a laugh, she added: "and not an expensive one, so that it will not seem like a present."

"You have made a bet with M. de Bernès?"

"Yes."

"And you have to choose your present?"

"Yes. Is there any harm in it?"

"Harm? No! but it is odd."

"Well! you are like grandmamma. She was scandalised, grandmamma was."

"Well, it is odd, you know! And what have you been betting—you and M. de Bernès?"

"I, that there would be, at least, one accident at the paper-chase; and he, that there would not be one at all."

"Well, but that's very possible."

"Oh, no! it is not very possible! There always are accidents; it would be the first paper-chase without one. Take notice that it is merely a question of a fall—just a simple fall—the person falls down, and is picked up again. I do not predict that anyone will be killed, you understand?"

"Well, don't you go and have a fall, at any rate."

"Oh, as to me!" said Bijou, her eyes shining with merriment, "there is no danger. Patatras has never been stronger on his legs. Pass me the scissors, will you, please, they are just by the side of you?"