“Then you are not ill?” my friend was saying, as I dismounted and drew near. “You are not dying? Thank God for that!”
“Ill?” echoed the lady. “Dying? Nonsense! Look at me!”
“You are adorable!” he cried, and kissed the hands he held in his.
“Sad I have been,” she went on, blushing but still gazing fondly up at him. “That was because you were away from me, in danger yonder. Yet I tried to be brave, for I knew that you were serving your country and that you would not forget me.”
“Forget you!” he repeated; and my own heart warmed in sympathy as he gazed down at her, his eyes alight. Ah, here was no match prearranged no marriage of convenience, but a true mating. So true that there could be about it no false pride, no dissimulation or pretense of indifference; so true that it was still the lover talking to his mistress, as well as the husband talking to his wife.
I know it is the custom in certain circles in the great cities to sneer at all this—to seek love anywhere but in the family circle; but we of the provinces are not like that. Do not think it. We live closer to the heart of things—closer to nature, closer to each other, closer to the good God—and I think we are sounder at core.
“But I had a message saying you were ill,” he continued. “You did not send it, then?”
“No; but I bless the sender since it has brought you back to me.”
“And not alone,” he added, remembering my presence. “Permit me to present to you, madame, M. de Tavernay. I began by stealing his horse and ended by gaining his friendship. Be kind to him. Monsieur, this is my wife, Madame la Comtesse de Favras.”
She held out her hand to me with a charming smile, but her eyes and thoughts were only for her husband, nor could I find it in my heart to blame her, for, beside him, I was so crude, so ordinary, worth scarcely a passing glance. Indeed, I was myself somewhat confused at the revelation of my friend’s distinguished title and bowed over her hand awkwardly enough.
“You are welcome, monsieur,” she said. “At dinner we must hear the story of these adventures. You have no doubt been all day in the saddle—you need rest, refreshment. Come—but first you must meet my guest;” and she led the way toward the terrace where her companion awaited us.
“What fortune!” cried M. le Comte, as he sprang up the steps, and in another moment he was kissing the cheek of a lady, young, divinely fair, as I saw in the single glance I dared take at her, who blushed most becomingly as she received his salute.
“My dear,” he added, “this is M. de Tavernay. I have already asked Madame la Comtesse to be kind to him. With you, I can only beg that you will not be cruel. M. de Tavernay, this is Mlle. de Chambray, who permits you to kiss her hand.”
As I bowed before her and touched her fingers with lips not wholly steady, I was suddenly conscious of the dust and travel-stains which covered me, head to foot. She would think me ridiculous, no doubt; but when I summoned courage to glance up at her, I was astonished to see that her face was scarlet, and that she was staring at me with startled eyes. Then she withdrew her hand and turned hastily away, her shoulders shaking convulsively, and I felt my own cheeks grow red.
Luckily our friends were too engrossed in each other to perceive this bit of comedy—or perhaps tragedy would, from my standpoint, be the better word. A moment later, my ears still burning, I stalked stiffly away after the man to whom I had been entrusted, through a vestibule, up a wide flight of stairs, and into a spacious room overlooking the gardens at the back of the house.
“Dinner is at eight,” said the man. “If there is anything monsieur requires he will ring the bell yonder;” and after unstrapping my portmanteau and glancing around to assure himself that everything was right, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
The instant I was alone, dignity and self-control fell from me like a mantle, and flinging myself into a chair, I stared blindly out through the open window. The garden was a formal one in the Italian style, not large, but elegantly planned, and sloping gently to the margin of the river, which seemed here both broad and deep. Beyond it was a tangle of trees and shrubbery, and farther away, upon the side of a little hill, were the white houses of a village, their windows bright with the rays of the setting sun.
But it was at none of these things I looked—though I see them now as plainly as if they were here before me—for my eyes were turned inward at the tumult in my own bosom, and my brain was wondering numbly why it was that my life, heretofore so bright, had turned suddenly so gray; that the green valleys of the future had changed to sandy, barren wastes; that the very savor of living was as dust in my throat. I had glanced for an instant into a pair of startled eyes, and that instant had struck the boyish carelessness from my heart as with a blow.
But at last I shook the feeling off—or perhaps it was only the warm blood of youth asserting itself—and when the man came with the candles I could proceed with my toilet with almost, if not quite, my old calmness. When it was finished I turned to the glass and contemplated the reflection there. Fresh the face undoubtedly was, and if not handsome, at least not grotesque; but with the memory of my host before me I thought it absurdly boyish. The figure, while erect enough, had not that easy poise I had marked in him, nor did the garments in which I had arrayed myself fall into those natural and graceful lines which somehow stamp the finished gentleman. As I stared gloomily at myself I recalled the careless words of Sergeant Dubosq. Yes, he was right; he had hit the mark—I was too young, too pink and white, too much of the country.
Comforting myself as well as I could with the thought that time would remedy these defects, I turned away, opened the door and went down the stair. Beyond the vestibule was the saloon, a circular marble room, extremely elegant and well-furnished, and still beyond this the drawing-room, with four large paintings of the French victories of 1744 upon the walls. There was no one in either room, and I was examining the paintings, which no doubt pictured events in which the father of my host had taken part, and which appeared to me of splendid execution, when I heard the rustling of skirts behind me. I turned to perceive Mlle. de Chambray upon the threshold, and the fear of her ridicule was swept away in the burst of happiness at seeing her again.
“Oh, is it you, M. de Tavernay?” she said, hesitating and coloring divinely.
“Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,” I answered, trembling at this first time that she had ever addressed me.
“And alone?” she added, with a quick glance about the room. “It is strange that madame is not down.”
“She and M. le Comte doubtless have much to say to each other,” I hastened to explain, for I too thought it strange—though the rack itself could not have wrung the admission from me.
“Yes—no doubt,” she agreed, but she was plainly not convinced, and still hesitated on the threshold.
“It would be cruel to interrupt them,” I added. “Besides, I assure you that I am quite harmless.”
This time she permitted her glance to dwell upon me for an instant, and I caught the perfect contour of her face.
“I am not so sure of that,” she retorted, “unless your appearance is most deceptive. I think I would better join madame;” and she made a motion toward the door.
“If there is any oath I can swear, mademoiselle,” I protested, “prescribe it—I will take it gladly. I will agree to sit here in this corner, if you wish it.”
“Oh, you will?” she said; and looked at me doubtfully, but with a glimmer of mischief in her eye.
“Yes, mademoiselle; I am capable even of that heroism.”
“I hear that you surrendered rather easily this morning,” she taunted.
“There was a pistol at my ear,” I explained, “and the face of M. le Comte behind it. I saw no reason to throw away my life for nothing more important than a horse. I am doubly glad now that I was so sensible.”
She looked at me, her brows uplifted.
“Life means more to me now than it did this morning,” I hastened to explain. “Oh, vastly more! So I rejoice that I am not lying back there on the road with a bullet through me. Even had M. le Comte missed me, I should not be here.”
“He would not have missed. A pistol in the hands of M. le Comte is a dangerous thing.”
“I have never encountered but one thing more dangerous, mademoiselle.”
“And that?”
“A pair of brown eyes, levelled at me by a person who knows their power,” I answered, and trembled at my temerity.
But instead of being offended she burst into a peal of laughter and advanced into the room.
“Really, M. de Tavernay,” she said, her eyes dancing, “I fear that you are not so harmless as you pretend.”
“But nevertheless you will remain, mademoiselle; you owe me that reparation.”
“Reparation?” she repeated, with raised brows.
“For laughing at me. True you turned away your face, but you could not conceal the quivering of your shoulders.”
She colored deeply and this time retreated in earnest toward the door.
“Oh, do not go,” I pleaded. “I pardon you—it was nothing. Laugh at me again if you wish, only do not go.”
She hesitated, stopped, came back.
“I do beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said. “Believe me, it was not in the least at you I was laughing, but at a sudden thought—at the strange chance——”
She stopped, evidently confused.
“Very well,” I hastened to assure her. “I forgive and forget. Or rather, I shall not forget, because you laugh adorably.”
“In truth,” she said, with just a touch of malice, “one would imagine you were straight from Versailles instead of——”
“Beaufort,” I said, flushing a little.
“And how does it happen you are so far from home?” she queried, bending upon me a look of raillery.
Then I remembered; my heart turned to lead in my bosom, and despite myself a groan burst from me in the first sharp agony of recollection.
“What is it, monsieur?” she questioned, instantly serious, and coming toward me quickly. “You are not ill?”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely, dropping upon a seat. “I am very ill, mademoiselle—so ill that I fear I shall never make a recovery.”
“Oh, horrible!” she cried; and sat down beside me, and passed her handkerchief across my forehead—her handkerchief, fragrant with I know not what intoxicating scent. “But a moment ago you were quite well, or seemed so. Is it the heart?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” I answered, rallying sufficiently to perceive that the situation was not without its advantages, and determining to maintain it as long as possible. “It is the heart.”
“And you are subject to such seizures?” she continued, still gazing at me anxiously, so near that I could see the dew upon her lips, could catch the child-like fragrance of her breath. Here was a woman different from any that I had ever known or dreamed of—genuine, unaffected, of a sincerity almost boyish.
“This is the first, mademoiselle,” I said, gripping my hands tight in the effort to maintain my self-control, to resist the temptation to seize her and crush her to me.
“Oh, how you suffer!” she cried, seeing the gesture and misinterpreting it. Yet now that I have written the word, I am wondering if she did misinterpret it. Looking back upon the scene, I am inclined to think that she saw much more than I suspected, and that I was really merely a mouse she played with. Mouse—that was Sergeant Dubosq’s word. But certainly no eyes could have been more guileless than those she turned upon me. “Here,” she added, “perhaps this will help you;” and she held a little inlaid bottle beneath my nostrils.
I was not expecting it and just at that instant drew a full breath, with the consequence that for some moments after I could draw no other. Tears poured from my eyes and I must have been altogether an absurd object; but strange to say my companion did not laugh—or if she did I was too disordered to perceive it.
“Heavens!” cried a voice from the door. “What are you doing to M. de Tavernay, Charlotte?”
“Charlotte!” echoed my heart. “Charlotte! Charlotte!” Then I caught my breath again for fear that I had cried the name aloud.
“M. de Tavernay has just had a very severe seizure of the heart, madame,” answered my companion. “I was letting him smell of my salts and he took a full breath.”
“I am better,” I said, struggling to my feet and bowing to madame. “A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. But for your thoughtfulness I might not have rallied. I needed heroic treatment.”
Madame glanced from one to the other of us, her face alight with amusement and her eyes with a meaning I did not wholly understand.
“I shall have to command Charlotte to remain near you then this evening, monsieur,” she said. “In seizures of that kind it is always well to have prompt aid at hand.”
I bowed my thanks. I was not yet quite sure of my voice.
“And when one is subject to them,” went on madame, “one cannot be too careful.”
“I have already assured mademoiselle,” I said, “that this is absolutely the first.”
“Then she is very fortunate,” murmured madame, pensively.
“She?” I repeated, staring at her. “I do not understand.”
“Pardon me—then you are very fortunate, monsieur;” and she smiled broadly.
I confess I did not yet quite catch her meaning. I was therefore the more surprised to see my companion redden deeply, then rise abruptly and walk to the other side of the room, where she paused with her back to us to contemplate the fall of Fribourg.
Madame smiled again and cast me a glance full of meaning.
“Yes, you have offended her,” she said.
“Offended her?” I repeated in dismay. “I?”
“It is always an error,” she explained, “to compel a lady to correct herself.”
“I beg your pardon, madame,” I said humbly.
“No; beg hers,” she corrected.
“I do,” I said; “though I am utterly in the dark as to the nature of my offense.”
“Come, Charlotte,” called madame. “Forgive him.”
“What!” cried M. le Comte, appearing upon the threshold. “Do you already stand in need of forgiveness, Tavernay?”
“It seems so,” I answered, somewhat miserably. “Certainly for my thick head and dull wits.”
At the words, Mlle. de Chambray ventured a glance at me, and I saw a smile scatter the clouds. She struggled to hold it back, to suppress it, but quite in vain.
“Come, you are forgiven,” cried our host; and it seemed to me that in his glance also there was a hidden meaning. “I knew she was not hard of heart. And now for dinner.”
“M. de Tavernay,” said madame, “to you I shall confide Charlotte—or should I put it the other way?”
“Either way pleases me immensely, madame,” I said, bowing.
“You must know,” madame continued, “M. de Tavernay is subject to sudden seizures of the heart, and that Charlotte is the only one present who can work a cure.”
“Our friend is not the first to be so afflicted,” laughed M. le Comte, crossing to his wife’s side. “Luckily I also found the one person who could work a cure.”
“Nonsense!” protested Mlle. de Chambray, very red. “M. de Tavernay was really suffering acutely.”
“Well, so have I suffered acutely,” retorted her tormentor. “Did I not, madame?”
“Or pretended to,” rejoined madame. “With that disease it is often impossible to tell where reality leaves off and pretense begins; you men have made so close a study of the symptoms. But come, monsieur; the dinner waits.”
I confess that the arm I gave my partner was not so steady as I could have wished it; for my heart was torn between delight and despair—delight that she should be there beside me, despair at my own stupidity in understanding so little of all this; but I managed by some miracle to enter the dining-room without accident, to get her safely seated and to seat myself beside her.
I drew a deep breath of relief when I found myself in port.
“You have never been to Paris, M. de Tavernay?” asked a low voice at my elbow, and I looked up to find her eyes on mine.
“No, mademoiselle,” I stammered.
“Perhaps not even to Orléans?” and I saw again in their depths that glimmer of mischief.
“No,” I answered, not heeding it as a wise man would. “I have passed all my life upon our estate at Beaufort.”
“Something told me so!” she murmured, and turned to her plate as innocently as though she were quite unconscious of having planted a poniard in my bosom.