Cadets of Gascony: Two stories of old France

We sat for some time in silence, she looking with childish delight at the brilliant and ever-changing scene before her, I pondering over the perplexities of the situation. I saw that I should need all my wit to straighten out the snarl, and though I was proud of my wit, as every Gascon must be, I doubted somewhat if it would prove equal to this task. But this misgiving did not vex me long,—we of the south take trouble as it comes. Besides, was I not here, in one of the loveliest spots of the most beautiful city in the world, with an enchanting girl at my side, who permitted me to hold her hand and gaze into her eyes? Mordieu! in such a situation, how could a man, with warm, red blood in him, doubt his power for bringing things to pass?

Indeed, the scene itself was one to make a man forget his troubles, as I saw it had made my companion forget hers, and I had not looked upon it so often that I could contemplate it with indifferent eyes. The moon was just rising behind the long line of the Tuileries and showed us in the walks and about the fountains the crowds which had gathered to get a breath of air and exchange a word of gossip. A row of lanterns had been swung from end to end of the Allée des Orangers—by order, perhaps, of some wealthy bourgeois, who wished to hold a fête there—and two or three men, in a uniform I did not know, were busy keeping loiterers away. It was public ground, of course, but then money will work miracles, especially in Paris. Away to our right gleamed the quays and the river; the former even more crowded than the gardens, the latter sparkling with the lanterns of grain-barges and fishing-boats, drifting with the current, or slowly making head against it. And everywhere was the murmur of voices, like the wind stirring the leaves of a great forest.

I saw how the girl’s eyes sparkled and her lips opened with delight as she gazed at all this.

“Beautiful, is it not, Mademoiselle?” I asked, at last, merely to make her look at me, that I might see again into her eyes.

“Oh, beautiful! I had never imagined the like!”

“Not even when you were building your castles of the future in the convent?”

She made a little grimace of disgust.

“This is life,” she said. “That was not life—it was only the gray shadow of it.”

Then suddenly I saw that she shivered.

“You are cold!” I cried. “And you have no cloak—only this thin dress. Come, we must go!”

“Go?” she questioned, looking at me, all her worry back upon her in an instant. “Yes—but whither, Monsieur? Not to my uncle’s!”

She was quite white with the horror of the thought, and I felt that her hand was trembling. I pressed it in both of mine—a child’s hand, I repeated to myself.

“No, not back to your uncle’s,” I assured her. “But you must go somewhere for the night. Could you not return to the convent?”

She breathed a deep sigh of relief and the color swept back into her cheeks again. But she shook her head in answer to my question.

“I had thought of that,” she said; “but they would deliver me again to my uncle in the morning, Monsieur.”

“True,” I murmured, and I pondered over the problem deeply. Clearly, there was only one thing to be done, but it could hardly fail to compromise her, and I paused. I had need to be very sure of myself.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, “you believe me to be a man of honor, do you not?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, and she looked at me and smiled again.

“I pray you to believe me so, Mademoiselle,” I continued earnestly. “I am going to assume a brother’s right to protect you. To-morrow, I shall call upon your uncle, and will say a few things to him which I trust will bring him to his senses. But to-night, since you cannot remain in the gardens here, you must pass in my room.”

She glanced at me with frightened eyes, but my face reassured her.

“Very well, M. le Moyne,” she answered quietly. “As I said before, I believe you to be a man of honor.”

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it.

“I appreciate your trust, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and shall do everything in my power to deserve it.”

She glanced at me again and I saw that her eyes were shining.

“Come, let us go,” she said, and we arose.

“The house I occupy, Mademoiselle,” I explained, as we started away, “is in the Rue du Chantre, and the room is but a poor affair, yet I trust you will find it comfortable. I have been in Paris only a week, and have not yet found better lodgings. In fact,” I added, judging it best to tell her the whole truth at a breath, “my fortune is not a large one, and not knowing how soon I should be able to increase it, I judged it best to husband it as much as possible.”

“There, there, Monsieur,” she cried, “do not apologize, I beg of you! You forget that I have no claim upon you and that what you are doing is out of charity, without hope of reward.”

A reply leaped to my lips as I looked into her eyes, but I choked it back and we passed through the streets in silence. In my heart I felt a great tenderness for this innocent and confiding creature, who leaned so naturally upon my arm, and who evidently had heretofore gazed upon the world only from a distance, comprehending nothing of what she saw; but I reflected that I, who knew not how to support myself, certainly could not hope to support a wife also, and put the thought behind me.

The Rue St. Honoré was crowded as we left the garden and turned into it, and the front of the Palais Royal brilliantly lighted, but every one was occupied with his own affairs and we seemed to be unobserved. Pushing our way through the crowd, we soon reached the Rue du Chantre. The street grew more and more deserted as we left the Rue St. Honoré behind.

“This is the place, Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, and as we entered the house together I saw the old woman who acted as concierge, and whom I had come to detest even in a week’s time, leering at us horribly. My blood was boiling as I caught the meaning of her grimace, but I said nothing, fearing to alarm my companion, and we slowly mounted the dark staircase.

“’Tis on the third floor,” I said, and we kept on, awakening a thousand echoes. “This is the door, Mademoiselle. I will open it. There is a candle on the table. Good-night.”

I took her hand, which I felt was trembling.

“And you?” she asked in a whisper.

“I will remain here,” I said. “I will sleep upon the threshold. No one can enter without arousing me, so that you may sleep calmly without fear. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” she answered, and there were tears in her voice. She lingered yet a moment, as though there were something she still wished to say, then entered the room and closed the door behind her. I heard her moving about for a few moments, and then all was still.

I sat down upon the top step of the staircase and considered the situation. I confess it appeared to me an awkward one, for, though I had spoken so confidently to her, I had small hope that whatever I might say would have any weight with her ogre of an uncle. He doubtless detested me as heartily as I did him, and it was not to be denied that he had the law behind him, though in this instance, as in many others, quite divorced from justice. I trembled at thought of the blow her reputation must sustain if it were known that for a night she had been my guest—the face of the concierge, as I had seen it leer at us, gave earnest of what the whole gay, evil world of Paris would believe. I tore my kerchief from my throat, for the thought suffocated me. No one should ever know—how could they, in this great, seething, clamorous city? And if they did—if any dared to hint—thank God, I could answer with my sword!

He had thought me her lover—curse his shifty, treacherous eyes! Perhaps she had a lover—and I winced at the thought. But no, I would not believe it! She would have told me. She would have asked me to take her to him. And besides, I reflected, with a sigh of relief, she had said that she had left the convent a week before only to find her uncle’s house another prison. She could not have made such progress in knowledge of the world in so short a time—indeed the frankness of her look was proof enough.

With this thought, which somehow soothed and pleased me, I wrapped my cloak about me, and sword at side, lay down athwart the threshold. A vision of her sweet face danced before me—her eyes looked into mine, pure and limpid as twin stars. Marvelling at their guilelessness, I bent to kiss their rosy lids. Still they gazed at me, serene, untroubled, and I stopped, shamed in my inmost consciousness, as one who had thought to desecrate a flower.