CHAPTER IV
When I returned to Vascoeuil a letter lay waiting for me. It bore the Paris postmark, and the address was written in a handwriting unknown to me. On opening it I found a line from my uncle who had written a hurried scrawl from the Tyrol.
The Tyrol! People do not go to the Tyrol for business purposes.
What was his object in wandering about the Tyrol with Cordélia while I was kept waiting for them in this wretched house? He did not attempt to explain. He gave me an address to which I was to write to him.
“Write as often as you can; write every day. In the meantime I will suggest something which will occupy your time until we return. I want you to redecorate Vascoeuil with ‘every modern comfort.’ I leave the matter entirely to you. Furnish it to your own taste. It belongs to you and Cordélia. I intend to give it to you as a wedding present. You will be married at Vascoeuil. I am well aware that the property has never greatly appealed to you. Have it renovated in such a way that you will like it. But don’t have any alterations made in the grounds. That will be Cordélia’s affair. She has ideas on the subject. We both send you our love.”
Not a word came from Cordélia. Why did she not write to me? Did she no longer love me? Ever since my return from Hennequeville I asked myself the terrible question.
I wrote to my uncle and gave full expression to my misgivings.
I told him that it was impossible for me to apply myself to any task whatsoever unless I knew how I stood with regard to Cordélia, and she alone would be able to restore my peace of mind.
A fortnight elapsed without any reply. I spent those two weeks like an idiot waiting for the postman. Surdon and his wife took pity on me and endeavored to “argue” with me, but I refused to listen to them. At last I received a letter. Again it bore the Paris postmark. How I leaped upon it!
A letter from Cordélia! That is to say a line or two:
“Of course I still love you my dear Hector. I have never ceased to love you. What an idea! And what nonsense! We shall meet soon, my husband to be!”
Well, it was a letter which by no means satisfied me. “I still love you my dear Hector,” seemed to me a sort of plaster to cure my pain. It was not what I wanted; and even “We shall meet soon, my husband to be” was cold comfort to me.
I wrote to Cordélia and poured out all my woes. I wept like a child over the letter as I reminded her of our vows, and I assured her that I would rather die in despair than lead to the altar a Cordélia who no longer loved me as of yore.
Then, oh then, a few days later, I received eight pages from Cordélia—eight long pages which made me weep for joy. I recognized in them my little playmate of the long ago, her vivacity, her impulsiveness, her delight in being with me, her adorable love of mischief. She seemed to have plunged anew into the past with an abandon which she wished me to share. She would have no difficulty in that!
And then suddenly after indulging in these memories she spoke of the present with an assurance which at once restored my mental and physical health. She was looking forward to the simple duties of marriage. She spoke of our taking up our abode at Vascoeuil and entered into particulars which caused me straightway to fall in love with the place. She went on:
“You will see how delightful Vascoeuil will look when, between us, we have had it refurbished to our tastes. You must take a trip to Paris and buy various things,”—here was a list of suggested purchases.—“I want you to have everything ready by the time we return, because father wishes us to be married at once. I shan’t be the one to stand in the way! Oh, while I think of it: Don’t have anything done to the grounds. You have never understood them. They have a beauty all their own, which I am longing to develop to the utmost. I shall transform them into a garden fit for Pelléas and Melisande. We will take our walks in them in days of depression, for however happy one may be, life has its days of depression which, however, are not without a charm of their own. In the meantime, how delightful it would be to go for our honeymoon on horseback as though we were both crazy. You will remember that when we were quite young we used to dream of making such a trip, and we laughed at those respectable people who went off by the ordinary train. But you will see that we shall take the train like everybody else. What does it matter so long as there is a gondola at the end of the journey? We will go to Venice. That was always understood. The Tyrol is horrible. Nothing but mountains. And I loathe mountains, particularly when they keep me apart from you!”
The eight pages continued in this strain. Dear, dear, dear Cordélia! How could I ever have doubted you and your dear little heart, your dear little heart!... Quick, to work! Come on bricklayers and painters and “the whole blooming lot of you” as my uncle would say.
I stirred the men on to greater exertions by my good spirits and generosity. I myself looked like a bricklayer’s laborer, and Surdon gave way to silent laughter when he handed me a jug of cider which I emptied at a gulp in order to show the others that I could do full justice to the amber liquor.
I did well to hurry on with the work. My uncle and Cordélia arrived home a week earlier than they had foretold. I expected them about the eighth of October, whereas they reached Vascoeuil on the last day of September. The work was not nearly finished.
Cordélia found me on the top of a ladder busily engaged in papering her boudoir. I fell into her arms. She bore the shock quite well, exclaiming: “Heavens, how ugly!” I made a gesture which caused her to burst out laughing. I thought that she was speaking of me while she was referring to the wallpaper. That was enough to throw us into a state of merriment which brought my uncle on the scene.
He gave us his blessing and kissed us; kissed us and gave us his blessing a second time; and recounted that he himself was married in that house, that Cordélia was born in it, that our children and our grand-children would be born in it. Whereupon Cordélia, who turned a deaf ear to him, exclaimed:
“My goodness, how nice the paint smells here. I say, look here, father, I don’t want to be anything but a house-painter now. How does that strike you?”
“I approve my dear. Oh, I quite approve. That’s a very healthy idea!”
I was rather surprised to hear him speak like that. I was always under the impression that the health of a house-painter was subject to considerable risk, owing, I think, to the white lead in his materials, and I raised the objection to my uncle, whose only answer was to give me a friendly pat on the back.
A few minutes later he said with his usual kindly smile:
“You are still the best of all Hectors. I hope you’ll never be any different.”
I don’t know why he should have given utterance to such a sentiment, because I have no intention of being any different. Nevertheless on thinking it over, I have since concluded that he found a simplicity in me which appealed to him, the unemotional and well-balanced temperament of a man who is not in the habit of creating difficulties where there are none, and he counselled me to remain as I was if I wished to insure our happiness.
The three following weeks passed so quickly and pleasantly that they stand out in my memory as among the happiest weeks of my life. I dismissed from my mind every preoccupation having no connection with the diversions of the day, and these consisted, for Cordélia and me, of upsetting the entire household, hiding behind doors, chasing one another like school children and kissing until Cordélia, all flushed, gently pushed me away exclaiming: “Hector that will do ... leave some for to-morrow!”
Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!
When she first came home I thought that she was looking rather pale, overcome doubtless by the fatigues of the journey. Now she had regained her beautiful color. She was still as slender as before, but I discerned that none of the natural beauties of a woman were lacking in her. I hardly know how to express my meaning, but to my mind women were never more beautiful than they are nowadays; and I still adhere to my opinion. Mentally and physically she was perfect. I cannot say more.
At last the great day arrived. It was a wonderful function and one that will long be remembered and talked about at Vascoeuil. Cordélia’s father, who was a great landed proprietor, had issued invitations to the entire district after the fashion of his own day. I mean that representatives of the families round about, the possessors of great names and great fortunes, were present and entertained with princely magnificence.
My uncle would have liked the festivities to be kept up for three days, but he yielded to Cordélia’s entreaties, for she declared that if the guests remained after six o’clock we should take our departure. The wedding breakfast, in accordance with Cordélia’s wishes, was called lunch. And it was indeed a lunch!
But all this was nothing in comparison with the feast which was given about a mile away at the farm of my uncle’s principal tenant. Tents had been erected in a large field, and the country people who were assembled therein let themselves go for all they were worth, like the guests at the gargantuan wedding feast of Gamache.
Cordélia gracefully went the round of the tables without evincing the least repugnance for all this excessive gorging and I was very glad. I accompanied her like a little dog.
“They’re not at all stuck up. We hope they’ll be happy,” we heard our guests exclaim on every hand.