CLAIRE'S EMBARRASSMENT OF CHOICE
There could be no longer any doubt about it. Raphael Llorient, Lord of
Collioure, was in love with his cousin. At least he made love to her,
which, of course, is an entirely different thing. The Professor pointed
this out. The grave Alcalde of Collioure showed the meal-dust in a new
wrinkle, and said that, for a Doctor of a learned college which excluded
women as unholy things, Anatole was strangely learned in matters which
concerned them. Whereupon the Professor asked his brother who had placed
a handful of early roses beside Claire's platter, in a tall green Venice
glass, at the mid-day meal. He further remarked that these roses came
from the castle gardens, and wished to be informed whether the miller of
Collioure was grinding his own corn or another man's.
Don Jordy openly laughed at them both. One he declared to be bald and
the other musty. He alone, owing to his handsome face and
figure--considering also his semi-ecclesiastical prestige, a great thing
with women in all ages--had a right to hope!
The Professor broke in more sharply than became his learned dignity.
"Tush--what is the use?" he said, not without a certain bitterness;
"she is not for any of us. I have seen another. I have stood silently
by, while she was thinking about him. I do as much every day. If we all
died for her sake----"
Don Jordy clapped his elder brother on the shoulder with a more anxious
face, crying, "What, man, surely this is not serious? Why, Anatole, I
thought you had never looked on women--since--but that is better not
spoken of. I was only jesting, lad. You know me better than that!"
But Jean-Marie, the Alcalde of Collioure, gravely shook his head. He
knew Raphael Llorient was not a man to stick at trifles, and that the
fact that his young cousin loved an unseen captain warring for the
Bearnais would only whet his desires. So it happened that once in a way
the service of defence broke down. The Senora, a brave worker about her
house, could not pass the bounds of her garden without laying herself up
for days. The Alcalde was down at his mills, the Notary Ecclesiastical
had ridden over to Elne on his white mule, by the path that zigzagged
along the sea cliff, up among the rock-cystus and the romarin, twining
and twisting like a dust-coloured snake striking from coil.
The Professor, called by a sudden summons to the castle to see a most
learned man who had just arrived from Madrid, and was high in the favour
of Philip of Spain, had betaken himself most unwillingly down to the
town. It was a still day, and the sea without hardly moved on its fringe
of pebbles, sucking a little with languid lip and sighing like an infant
fallen asleep at the mother's breast. Claire Agnew wearied of the
stillness of the house-place. In the base-court she could hear Madame
Amelie calling "_Vienn-ne, vienn-ne!_" to her goats. For there was no
milk like Madame Amelie's of the Mas of La Masane above Collioure, and
no goats so well treated. Why, each day they had a great _pot-au-feu_ of
nettles, and carrots, and wild mustard leaves, just like Christians. So
careless and wasteful are some people. As if goats were not made to find
their own living among rocks and stone walls!
Such, at least, was the collated opinion of Collioure, jealous more than
a little of the good hill-farm in free life-rent, the three well-doing
sons, and smarting, too, after fifty years' experience of the Senora's
tongue, which, when the mood was upon her, could crack like a
wine-waggoner's whip about the ears of the forward or froward.
The house silence, broken only by the solemn pacing of the great
seven-foot Provencal clock, ventrose, aldermanic, profusely gilded as to
its body and floreated as to its face, presently grew too much for
Claire. She was nervous to-day, at any rate.
She regarded the dial of the big clock. Half-past three! In a little
while the goats would be coming home to be milked. That would be
something. They generally kicked her when they did not butt. Still, that
also was interesting. "Patience," said Claire to herself, though it is
hard to be patient with an active goat in an unfriendly mood.
Then, round the corner of the sea-road Notary Don Jorge would be
arriving presently, the westering sun shining on the white mule which
the bishop had given him for his easier transport. They believed greatly
in Don Jordy over at Elne. He it was who had pled their case as against
big, grasping, brand-new Perpignan, which wanted to take away their
bishopric, their relics, their prestige, and its ancient glory from
their hill-set cathedral. Yes, Don Jordy would be coming. He always had
a new jest each evening--a merry man and a loyal, Don Jordy. Claire
liked him, his rosy monk's face, and twinkling light-blue eyes.
Then, presently, the Alcalde Jean-Marie would come climbing up, the
abundantly-vowelled Provencal speech, sweet and slow, dropping like
honey from his lips. It was fun to tease Jean-Marie. He took such a long
time to get ready his retorts. He was like the big, blundering,
good-natured humble-bees aforesaid--you could always be far away before
he got ready to be angry. Then, like them, he would go muttering and
grumbling away, large and dusty, and--not too clever.
The Professor also; he would not stay long, she knew, down at the castle
with that very learned man from Madrid. Nor yet with the great ladies.
He would rather be listening to his friend, little Claire Agnew, reading
the Genevan Testament, while he compared Calvin's rendering with the
original Greek, or perhaps merely sitting silent on their favourite
knoll above the blue Mediterranean, watching the white town, the grey
and gold castle walls, and the whirling sails of Jean-Marie's windmills.
Yes, they would all be coming back, some one of them at least; or, if
not, there would at least be the Senora and the kicking goats. It was
better to be kicked than to be bored, and _ennuyee_, and sickened with
the measured immeasurable "tick-tack" of time, as it was doled emptily
out by the big-bellied Provencal clock in the kitchen-corner.
At La Masane above Collioure, Claire suffered from the weariness of
riches, the embarrassment of choice. In a little forsaken village, with
her father busied about his affairs, she would have been well content
all day with no more than her needlework and her Genevan Bible. There
were maps in that, and a beautiful plan of the ark, so that she could
discuss with herself where to put each of the animals. But at La Masane,
with four people eager to do her pleasure, the maiden picked and chose
as if culling flowers among the clover meadows.
So Claire went out, and stood a long minute. Her hand went up to her
brow, and she looked abroad on her new world. She could hear where to
find the Senora. She loved the Senora. But then the Senora and the goats
she had always with her. On the whole, she preferred the men--any of the
men--to amuse her, and, yes, of course, to instruct her also. Claire
felt her need of instruction.
She looked down the steep zigzags of the path over the cliff to the
towers of the Castle of Collioure. She saw no Professor, staff in hand,
walking a little stiffly, his hat tilted on the back of his head, or
carried in his hand, that he might the more easily look up at La Masane
when he came in sight of his birthplace.
The Alcalde-miller's towers stood out dazzlingly white, the sails
turning merrily as if at play. They made her giddy to look at long. But
no sturdy Jean-Marie was to be seen, his bust thrown out, the stiff fuzz
of his beard half a foot before him as he walked, every way a solid man,
and worthy to be chief magistrate of a greater town than Collioure.
Only, just at that moment, Claire could not see him.
The whip-lash path, running perilously along the cliff-edge towards
Elne, was broken by no slowly-crawling white speck, the mule bestridden
by Don Jordy, Notary Episcopal of the ancient See of the Bishops of
Elne.
Remained for Claire--the Senora, the goats.
Now it chanced that the night before, the Alcalde Jean-Marie, grappling
for small-talk in the dense medium of his brain, had thought to point
out to Claire a little ravine far away to the left, beyond the pasture
limits of La Masane. The Alcalde was strong on local topography. That,
he said, was the famous sweet-water fountain and Chapel of the
Consolation. You found your fate there. Young girls saw their husband
that was to be, upon dropping a pin into its depths in the twilight.
Good young women (imaginatively given) sometimes saw the Virgin, or
thought they did. While bad men, stooping to drink, certainly saw the
devil looking up at them--in the plain clear mirror of that sweet-water
spring.
A most various spring--useful, too! She might see--but Claire did not
anticipate even to herself what or whom she hoped to see. At any rate,
pending the arrival of her three male servitors, she would go--there
could be no harm in just going--to the Spring of the Consolation, hid
deep in that bosky dell over which the willow and oleander cast so
pleasant a shade.
Claire snatched a broad Navarrese bonnet and went.
* * * * *
"My sweet cousin, I bid you welcome," a voice spoke, mocking a little,
but quiet and penetrating.
Hastily Claire let the laurel branch slip back, stood upright like a
startled fawn, and--found herself in face of Raphael Llorient, who at
the other side of the little brook which flowed from the Spring of Our
Lady of the Consolation, leaned against a tree, tapping his knee with a
switch and smiling triumphantly across at her.
"Ah, cousin," he said, "you did not give me any very pressing invitation
to come again to see you at the Mas on the hillside yonder. All the more
gracious of you, therefore, to have come so far to meet me at my
favourite retreat!"
"But I--I did not know--I had no idea----" Claire stammered.
The Lord of Collioure waved his hand easily, as one who passed lightly
from a childish indiscretion.
"Of course not--of course not," he agreed, as if humouring her mood,
"how should you know? You had never even heard of the Spring of Our Lady
of the Consolation, or of its magic properties. Well, we have time--I
will explain them to you, sweet cousin Claire!"
"Oh, pray do not," cried Claire breathlessly; "I know--what they
say--what Jean-Marie says, that is. He pointed out the nest of bushes on
the hillside last night--I should not have come!"
"And he told you, I doubt not--he would not be a Collioure man if he did
not, and a good Catholic of Roussillon (which is to say a good
pagan)--that you had but to look in the well at the gloaming to see the
Predestined. Well, look!"
In spite of herself Claire glanced downwards. She stood on the opposite
side of it from her cousin Raphael, and it was with a thrill of anger
and fear that she saw his slender figure mirrored in the black pool.
"It looks like a betrothal--eh, cousin?" said Raphael, "even by your
friend Jean-Marie's telling?"
"No, no!" cried Claire desperately, "I do not believe it. It is only
because I found you standing there. Of course, you can also see me from
where you stand! It is nothing!"
"It is everything--a double proof of our fate, yours and mine, my
cousin," said Raphael softly. "The Well of the Consolation has betrothed
us. Sweet cousin Claire, there remains for me only to leap the slight
obstacle and take possession! So fair a bride goes not long a-begging!"
"No, no!" cried Claire, more emphatically, and making sure of her
retreat in case of need, "I do not want to marry. I could not marry
you, at any rate--you are my cousin!"
Inwardly she was saying to herself, "I must speak him fair to get away.
When once I am back at La Masane I shall never wander away again from
the Senora. I shall milk goats all my life--even if they butt me. I wish
it were now." Her cousin Llorient smiled with subtlety. There was a
flash in his eyes in the dusk of the wood like that of a wild animal
seen in a cave.
"Because I am your cousin--is it that I must not marry you? Pshaw!" he
said, "what of that? Am I not a servant of King Philip, and of some
favour with him? Also he with the Pope, who, though he hates him, dares
not refuse all his asking to the Right Hand of Holy Church."
Claire glanced behind her. The little path among the bushes was narrow,
but beyond the primrose sky of evening peeped through. Two steps, one
wild rush, and she would be out on the open brae-face, the heath and
juniper under foot, springy and close-matted--perfect running right to
the door of La Masane.
She launched her ultimatum.
"I will not wed you, whether you speak in jest or earnest. I would
rather marry Don Jordy, or his white mule, or one of Jean-Marie's
windmills. No, not if you got fifty dispensations from as many popes. I
am of the religion oppressed and persecuted--Huguenot, Calvinist,
Protestant. As my father was--as he lived and died, so will I live and
die!"
With a backward step she was gone, the bushes swishing about her. In a
moment she was out on the open slope, flying towards La Masane. There
was the Professor laboriously climbing up from the castle, his hat on
the back of his head, his staff in his hand, just as she had foreseen.
Good kind Professor, how she loved him!
There, at the door of the Fanal Mill, making signs to her with his arms,
signals as clumsy as the whirling of the great sails, now disconnected
and anchored for the night, was the Miller-Alcalde Jean-Marie, the
flour-dust doubtless in his beard and mapping the wrinkles of his honest
face. She loved him, too--she loved the flour-dust also, so glad was she
to get away from the Well of the Consolation.
But nearer even than Don Jordy, whose white mule disengaged itself from
the rocky wimples of the road to Elne (Claire loved Don Jordy and the
mule also, even more than she had said to Raphael, her cousin), there
appeared a lonely sentinel, motionless on a rock. A mere black figure it
was, wrapped in a great cloak, on his head the slouched hat of the
Roussillon shepherds, looped up at the side, and a huge dog couchant at
his feet.
"Jean-aux-Choux! Jean--Jean--Jean!" cried Claire. And she never could
explain how it came to pass that her arms were about Jean's neck, or why
there was a tear on her cheek. She did not know she had been weeping.
By the Fountain of the Consolation, Raphael Llorient remained alone. He
did not even trouble to follow Claire in her wild flight. He had the
girl, as he thought, under his hand, whenever he chose to lift her. Her
anger did not displease him--on the contrary.
He laughed a little, and the lifting of the lip gave a momentary glimpse
of white teeth, which, taken together with the greenish sub-glitter
(like shot silk) of his eyes, was distinctly unpleasant in the twilight
of the wood.
"The little vixen," he said to himself, changing his pose against the
great olive for one yet more graceful, "the small fury! A little more
and she would have bitten her lip through. I saw the tremble of the
under one where the teeth were biting into it, when she was holding
herself in. But I like her none the worse for that. Women are the
poorest sort of wild cattle--unless you have to tame them!"
The night darkened down. The primrose of the sky changed to the saffron
red of a mountain-gipsy's handkerchief, crimsoned to a deep welter of
incarnadine, the "flurry" of the dying day. Still Raphael stood there,
by the black pool. A little bluish glimmer, which might have been
Will-o'-the-wisp, danced across the marisma. The trees sighed. The water
muttered to itself.
In that place and time, simple shepherd-folk who had often seen Raphael,
Lord of Collioure, pass into the haunted coppice, were entirely sure of
the explanation. The devil spoke with him--else, why was he not afraid?
They were right.
For Raphael Llorient took counsel there with his own heart. And as that
was evil, it amounted to the same thing.
The Kingdom of God is within you, saith the Word. The other kingdom
also, according to your choice.