_The_ CHATEAU _of_ MONTPLAISIR
[Illustration: “She turned on him two sweet, dark eyes.”]
_The_ CHATEAU _of_
MONTPLAISIR
BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
_Author of_
“The Sprightly Romance of Marsac,”
“Papa Bouchard”
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published April, 1906_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--UNCLE AND NEPHEW 1
II.--AUNT AND NIECE 29
III.--GAY DINARD 39
IV.--THE PLOT THICKENS 63
V.--A DUKE, A COMTESSE, A SOAP-BOILER, AND AN AUTO-CAR 102
VI.--JULIE’S LITTLE MISTAKE 139
VII.--A MERRY WEEK IN PARIS 178
VIII.--MARS AND CUPID 207
IX.--THE ROGUISH LITTLE BLIND BOY LAUGHS LAST 229
[Illustration]
I
UNCLE AND NEPHEW
Louis Victor de Latour, recently become lord of the Chateau of
Montplaisir, sat, the picture of misery, at a window of the grand
saloon of the chateau looking out upon the gray sea. To the right
of him, and visible through the misty veil of falling rain, lay the
usually merry watering place of Dinard, now--like everything else in
sight--dripping wet and forlorn. The sky was gloomier than the sea, and
the chateau the gloomiest of all. It was an immense pile, with a great
court-yard in the middle, where the flagstones, like everything else
about the place, were cracked and broken. Half the windows were out
and the other half boarded up. There were a few wrecks and remnants
of furniture in the saloon where the new owner sat, but these wrecks
and remnants were huddled in one corner, the only spot secure from the
rain, which dripped ceaselessly from the glass dome in the centre.
As for Louis de Latour, he had been counted the merriest and
lightest-hearted fellow alive as long as he had scarcely a franc in his
pocket; but now that he had come into his inheritance he appeared to
be as melancholy as an owl. He was good-looking and well made and had
been reckoned to be of dauntless courage; however, it must be admitted
that the Chateau of Montplaisir was enough to take the courage out of a
Julius Cæsar.
Louis sat at a rickety little table, taking what he called by courtesy
his mid-day breakfast, which consisted of weak coffee, stale bread,
and something which old Suzette, who in herself constituted the whole
domestic staff of the Chateau of Montplaisir, represented as a salad.
But Louis, after tasting it, had determined that it was a collection of
weeds grown between the broken flagstones of the court-yard.
“Yes,” he said sadly, holding up a piece of the green stuff on his
fork and looking out into the dreary court-yard, “it is the same.
Suzette thinks to impose upon my innocence, but I do know chicory from
milkweed. However, she is quite justified. Any man who would accept
this old rattletrap as a gift could be imposed upon by anybody in
anything. And how delighted I was to get it, and how I used to mention
casually, in the days when I was an engineer looking for work, that
the seat of my family was the Chateau of Montplaisir, near Dinard! If
anybody would ask me now about the seat of my family, I should deny
that I ever saw or heard of such a place as Montplaisir. I am convinced
that my cousin who left it to me had a secret grudge against me. That
man was my enemy during life, and determined to punish me at his death.
I can neither sell the place, nor lease it, nor live in it, nor give it
away. But one thing remains----”
Here Louis paused, and, getting up from his chair, walked about the
room, surveyed it critically, and then leaned out of a window opening
upon the court-yard.
“Ah, well,” he said to himself, coming back to the table, “I now know
what to do with this old rookery! It is perfectly practicable. I can
burn it up, if only I had the money to buy the combustibles. But at
least I can try. No harm can come of it, because the wretched old barn
is not insured--no company would insure the place for five hundred
francs. I shall at least have the biggest bonfire of the year. Sympathy
will be excited for me by my having lost my ancestral chateau. I shall
represent it to have been filled with priceless treasures of art.
This room I shall say was equipped with real Louis Quatorze furniture
and pictures by Greuze and Horace Vernet. The dining-saloon, which
is the barest hole I ever saw in my life and must always have been,
I shall say was hung with tapestries of the same period as that of
Bayeux. There is a mouldy old picture in there which answers exactly
the description of a Salvator Rosa. It is very black, very dirty, and
looks as if it were done with ink instead of paint. I shall, of course,
represent that as one of Salvator Rosa’s masterpieces--after it is
burned up. Then I shall also decorate that room with Paul Veroneses and
Titians, and perhaps I shall throw in a Raphael or two--I can afford to
lose them in the fire because I never had them. I shall spend the rest
of to-day making out a list of the valuables which I intend to lose. It
will get in the newspapers, and then it may reach the eyes of Julie de
Brésac.”
As the thought of this charming girl occurred to him, Louis threw
himself back in his chair with an increase of his despair. He had met
her in Algiers, that place of sunshine and merriment, and Julie herself
was a creature of sunshine and merriment. She was young, lovely, and
heiress to a great fortune. Louis was young, handsome, clever, and at
that time heir to nothing at all. But he and Julie were of the same
class and caste, the best in France.
And Julie had an old aunt, the Comtesse de Beauregard, who, for pure
gaiety of heart, prankishness, and an ineradicable passion for sowing
wild oats, was quite incomparable. She was a very gay old person,
indeed, and Louis would have preferred that Julie should have had some
other guardian than this scapegrace old lady. But at least, as Madame
de Beauregard was the most unconventional person who ever lived, she
allowed Julie a degree of liberty quite unknown to any other young
lady of Louis de Latour’s acquaintance. This he had utilised in the
most artful manner in Algiers, and had contrived to see Julie often
enough and intimately enough to reveal the secret of his heart to her
and to draw from her a sweet, unspoken acknowledgment. For Julie was
very sweet, with all her wildness, one-half of which she was incited
to by the irrepressible Madame de Beauregard. Louis’s first thought,
on hearing of his inheritance, had been that he could make Julie the
mistress of the Chateau of Montplaisir, but the notion of it now
staggered him.
“She would be eaten up by the rats,” he groaned aloud. “The idea of
showing Julie this place, of letting her know that I was so cruelly
imposed upon, is harrowing to my feelings. O Julie, Julie!”
Then old Suzette poked her nose in at the door. She had a face as brown
and hard as a hickory nut, but there was a twinkle in her eyes which
sometimes reminded Louis of the wicked gleam in the merry old eyes of
Madame de Beauregard. These two were, in truth, sisters under their
skins. Just as she entered a raindrop splashed upon Louis’s nose. There
was an umbrella standing in the corner, and Louis seized it and was
about to open it over his head when Suzette, rushing forward, wrenched
it out of his hand.
“O monsieur!” she cried, “don’t you know it is bad luck to put up an
umbrella in the house?”
“Do you call this a house?” replied Louis. “I don’t. And which is the
worse luck--to put up an umbrella or to die of pneumonia? Last night I
slept under that umbrella--I fastened it to the head of my bed.”
“O Heavens!” cried Suzette in a frantic voice, “how could you so tempt
ill fortune?”
“I tempted ill fortune enough when I accepted this old barrack, but my
excuse is that I didn’t know how to get out of it.”
“It would be a fine place, monsieur,” said Suzette, clearing off the
table, “if you had a million of francs to put it in order.”
“And five million more to live upon. Do you know anywhere that I could
pick up six million francs? At present I have exactly six francs, fifty
centimes in my pocket.”
“At least,” continued old Suzette, clattering the dishes, “it is a
good place from which to date your letters. It will look well on your
writing paper.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Louis sarcastically, “and I might give an account of
my domestic staff as follows: Housekeeper, Madame Suzette Didier; cook,
Suzette Didier; butler, Didier; valet de chambre, Suzette. Some day I
shall get lost in this infernal place, and you will find me eaten up by
the rats, as I am afraid my sweet Julie would be.”
“And who is Mademoiselle Julie, monsieur?”
“An angel, a ray of sunshine, a star, an exquisite flower, a gem of
dazzling beauty.”
“Oh, the young lady you are in love with! That’s the way my Pierre used
to talk about me fifty years ago. Lovers are all alike, monsieur, in
every rank of life.”
“But when she sees that I consented to accept this dismal old rookery I
shall earn her everlasting contempt,” groaned Louis.
“Come, now, monsieur,” said Suzette, “don’t be so downhearted. You are
not at all bad looking.”
“Thank you a thousand times.”
“And I have seen stupider men.”
“Oh, no, never! The possession of this chateau has forever ruined the
reputation for any good sense I ever had.”
“Now, don’t say that. When things are at their worst they always begin
to mend.”
“Do they? Then just look around and see if there is a fire smouldering
anywhere, and don’t put it out. But it would be just my luck, as soon
as the fire was started, to have a pouring rain come down exactly like
this. However, that hope of a fire remains. Go, and if you smell smoke
come and tell me; and remember, whatever you do, don’t try to put the
fire out.”
As Suzette opened the door to go out she almost walked over an elderly
gentleman just entering. He was one of those persons who bear the
stamp of prosperity writ large all over them. His clothes were of the
handsomest make, his umbrella, his watch chain, everything about him
betokened the man who goes into a great shop and asks for the best.
He was clean-shaven and had a very intelligent nose, pompous ears,
and a smiling and liberal mouth. But his ruddy countenance was more
marked than is usually found among the merely rich, and he had a pair
of gray-blue eyes which indicated a strange mixture of artlessness and
shrewdness. Suzette took his dripping umbrella, and then, advancing,
he made a very polite bow to Louis, who rose courteously. The newcomer
said, handing a card:
“May I introduce myself? I am Monsieur Victor Louis de Latour, and
I hope it is not presumptuous in me to claim descent from the great
family of De Latour, of which this chateau has been the seat for two
centuries.”
“As a descendant of the great house of De Latour, may I ask you to take
the best of the only two chairs in the chateau which my ancestors have
imposed upon me?” replied Louis gravely, offering the only other chair
in the room besides the one on which he himself had sat.
Monsieur de Latour seated himself and smiled benignly.
“I am exceedingly grateful,” he said, “that you should receive me as a
relative and as a humble member of a distinguished family.”
“My dear sir,” answered Louis, “I am glad you take it as a compliment.
For my part, I hate every ancestor I ever had. They appear to have had
no sort of consideration for me whatever. They left me this old ruin,
which I don’t believe has had ten francs’ worth of repairs on it in the
last hundred years. But they took pretty good care to build substantial
monuments to themselves in the church yonder”--pointing from the
window--“comfortable tombs without a crack in them and not a leak in a
single place. That is the way of the world--every man for himself.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Monsieur de Latour, glancing around
him, “that you have no means to repair this chateau?”
“I have at present six francs, fifty centimes,” replied Louis. “That is
hardly worth applying to such a purpose.”
Monsieur de Latour looked about him as if he doubted whether his host
were a lunatic or not, but Louis’s calm and graceful manner and smiling
eyes were reassuring.
“Oh, I see!” cried Monsieur de Latour, “you inherited the chateau and
nothing with it.”
“Oh, yes, I inherited an army of rats and the most beautiful views in
France from every window in the chateau; but, unluckily, I am afraid
of the rats, who are much more comfortable here than I am, and I can
neither eat the view nor sell it, nor raise money on it--so it is
practically of no use to me at all.”
“Then what do you propose to do with the property?”
“I have considered the matter seriously, and I propose to burn it up.”
“Oh, come, now!” said Monsieur de Latour encouragingly, and drawing
his chair closer to that of Louis, “don’t be so desperate as all that.
Since you have been so confidential with me, and as we are members of
the same family, I will be equally confidential with you. Although I
have always yearned to be recognised as a member of the distinguished
family of De Latour, I admit that I have no proof, and my calling might
be considered against me. I am a soap-boiler.”
“I assure you,” said Louis, “I have no prejudice whatever against soap.”
“That’s because you don’t know what goes into it,” returned Monsieur de
Latour. “For my part, I have not used a piece of soap for twenty years.
I use this instead.”
He took out of his pocket a little box of fine white sand, showed it to
Louis and then put it back.
“But I have always had a soul above soap-boiling. I began at it when
I was a mere lad in the soap-boiling factory of Cheri, and a better
man than old Cheri never lived. Twenty years ago I started in business
on my own account, and to-day I can retire at any moment that I like
with a fortune twice as large as I have hoped to accumulate. Now,
as you see, I am not an old man, and I have determined to stop work
and enjoy my fortune while I can. Two things are necessary to my
enjoyment of it--the first that I shall be recognised as a member of
the distinguished family of De Latour, and the second is that I shall
marry.”
“Pray proceed,” said Louis; “I am most interested in all you tell me.
So far as I am concerned, I can only say that I should, at present,
gladly recognise a ragpicker who had a fortune as a member of my
family.”
Old De Latour laughed at this.
“At least, I am not as bad as that. All I want is a good batch of
ancestors.”
“And all I want,” groaned Louis, “is to get rid of my ancestors, for
they have brought nothing but misfortune upon me.”
“Very well, why couldn’t we come to an agreement? Money for ancestors,
eh?”
“I should be perfectly delighted. I will take one hundred francs for
the whole lot.”
“Oh, you are trifling! What I mean is this--that you should recognise
me as a relative. This would enable me to use the De Latour crest, and
it would make those idiots in my native town of Brionville, who have
laughed at my pretensions, laugh on the other side of their faces.
Couldn’t you perch me somewhere on the family tree?”
“On the very highest branch, if you like.”
“Young man,” said Monsieur de Latour, drawing still closer to Louis
until their noses almost touched, and tapping him on the shoulder, “you
don’t take this business seriously enough. You see, to recognise me as
a member of a noble family would very much assist me in that other plan
of marriage. How would it suit you if I were to adopt you legally as my
nephew, according to the custom so common in our country, and settle
upon you, say, three hundred thousand francs?”
Scarcely were the words out of Monsieur de Latour’s mouth than Louis
rushed upon him, squeezed him so hard that his ribs seemed likely to
break, and covered the top of his bald head with kisses.
“Come, come,” cried Monsieur de Latour, struggling breathlessly against
this overwhelming demonstration, “this is too much! You will strangle
me!”
Louis, at this, released his hold, and seizing the old gentleman’s
umbrella and hat, covered them with kisses, murmuring:
“Three hundred thousand francs--dear, dear uncle!”
Then, suddenly dropping them, he said:
“No, it cannot be true. My dear sir, you must be either drunk or crazy.”
“No, I am not,” answered Monsieur de Latour, laughing. “It is worth
three hundred thousand francs to me to have the notice put in the
Brionville newspaper that I am visiting my relative at the Chateau of
Montplaisir, and to put the De Latour crest on my carriage without
being arrested for it.”
“You may have it tattooed on your body if you like,” replied Louis
joyfully. “Three hundred thousand francs! If I did not think it a
base return for your splendid offer, I should insist that you take
possession of this old rat-trap of a chateau.”
“Well,” said Monsieur de Latour, “I am a man of business as well as
a descendant of a great feudal family, so I will wish to settle this
matter of adoption upon a proper basis. You know, of course, that
under our laws it is a very serious thing. It implies a degree of
legal responsibility which, I am afraid, my young friend, you scarcely
appreciate. You see, I have had to do with large affairs, and I know
what the legal obligation means. If I adopt you as my nephew I should
acquire over you all the authority of a parent. You could not marry
without first asking my consent, for example.”
“Yes, I know, I know. Three hundred thousand francs! Dear, dear
uncle!”--and Louis again made demonstrations toward embracing Monsieur
de Latour, which the old gentleman cleverly warded off with his
umbrella.
“So now you understand fully the legal obligations of adoption under
the French law?”
“Oh, yes, I believe you own me, body and soul! I shall not only have
to ask your consent before I can get married, but before I get shaved,
or even sneeze. But I am willing to risk it for three hundred thousand
francs.”
“Don’t be afraid. I sha’n’t attempt to coerce you in any way whatever.
By the way, what is your full name?”
“Louis Victor de Latour.”
“And mine,” said Monsieur de Latour delightedly, “is Victor Louis de
Latour.”
“Why, I believe you are my uncle, after all!”
“Isn’t it a lucky coincidence? Now, I will tell you what my ideas are
with regard to marriage. I have a good many ideas on the subject.”
“And I have only one, and that is to marry the girl I love, and through
you, dear uncle----”
Here Louis made another dive at Monsieur de Latour, hugged him
violently in spite of his struggles, and again covered the umbrella and
hat with kisses, whispering to himself:
“Dear, dear Julie!”
Monsieur de Latour, like most persons, when talking of himself was
eloquent and expansive. He squared himself off, putting his thumbs in
his armholes, and said solemnly:
“The catastrophe will begin.”
But the rickety chair, giving way under his weight, suddenly collapsed,
and in another second he was sprawling upon the floor. Louis helped him
up, dusted his coat, and giving him the only remaining chair, himself
took a seat upon the table.
“Rather awkward, that,” said Monsieur de Latour, rubbing his shins.
“You must get some better chairs out of your three hundred thousand
francs. Well, when I was in the house of Cheri I fell very much in
love with Mademoiselle Séline Cheri, but she was then far above me,
and remained so for twenty years. She is still unmarried, and a pretty
woman yet, although no longer young, and a good one, too, and until
I got this noble family bee in my bonnet I strongly desired to marry
Mademoiselle Séline. But it seems to me now that we have had quite
enough of soap-boiling in the De Latour family, and I might look
higher. There is a Comtesse de Beauregard, for example.”
At that Louis’s heart jumped into his throat and remained there,
thumping, while Monsieur de Latour continued:
“You may be surprised that a man of my position should have any
connection with a lady of Madame de Beauregard’s rank, but it happened
in this way. Her brother, the Vicomte de Brésac, honoured me with his
friendship, and when he died he left me as guardian of the property of
his only child Julie.”
Then the room began to whirl around before Louis’s misty eyes, and he
heard, as in a dream, old De Latour’s voice continuing:
“Madame de Beauregard has charge of the young lady herself, and, in
fact, I have never seen my ward, but I have seen the old aunt. Great
Heavens, what a creature! She is a woman of sixty who thinks she is
twenty, and acts accordingly. When that old lady is awake the devil
sleeps because he knows that all of his business is being well attended
to. I don’t know what sort of pranks she may lead my ward into, but
I am not responsible for anything except for Julie’s money, which is
considerable. Madame de Beauregard has one of those chateaux which
carry a title with it, and if I marry her I should become a comte.
That’s a great temptation, you know; that is, if I could murder the
old lady immediately after the ceremony. But, seriously, it would
be an immense triumph at Brionville if I should marry the sister of
the Vicomte de Brésac, and it would serve Séline Cheri right for not
having married me in all these years. Still, I am not yet determined.
Sometimes I think I should like to marry a pretty young girl, but then
people would call me an old fool. The subject of marriage is always
full of doubts.”
“Quite so,” answered Louis mechanically.
His mind had wandered to Julie and those sunny days in Algiers when,
with his heart full of love and his pockets quite empty of money, he
adored her and received those secret sweet assurances which a woman can
always give the man she loves.
“Well,” said Monsieur de Latour, continuing to talk upon the subject
most agreeable to him in the world--that is, himself--“a curious thing
has just happened to me with regard to Mademoiselle Cheri. I have a
young niece, Mélanie Dupont, who has lived with me for several years.
We were starting for Dinard to spend a month, when her companion, a
worthy, respectable person, was taken ill and could not come with us.
Mélanie found out that Mademoiselle Cheri had a notion for Dinard, and
as the two are great friends she persuaded me to let her come with
Mademoiselle Cheri. Mélanie, you must know, is always begging me to
marry Mademoiselle Cheri and begging Mademoiselle Cheri to marry me.
At all events, I agreed that the two should come to Dinard together,
and they are now at a villa in the town and very happy with each other.
But, of course, this is a merely temporary arrangement, and I have
put an advertisement in the newspapers for a chaperon for my niece.
It would seem a good scheme for you and Mélanie to make a match, but,
unfortunately, the girl has become attached to Eugène de Contiac, the
nephew of the Comtesse de Beauregard.”
Louis, feeling himself called upon to make some remark, although his
wits were still woolgathering, said absently:
“Such a match as that for your niece I should think would satisfy your
ambition.”
Monsieur de Latour shook his head dolefully.
“The only trouble is that Eugène has not a sou of his own. He is
naturally pious, reserved, and strictly correct in his conduct, and my
niece is of the same character. But Madame de Beauregard is determined
to convert him into the wildest rake in France and drives him into
dissipations to make a man of him, as she says. As soon as he engages
in an escapade the old lady makes a will leaving him half a million
francs, and my niece, who is quite disinterested, and, as I said, very
religious, promptly jilts him. Then Eugène is conscience-stricken at
his behaviour, turns pious again, is received back into my niece’s
affections, and is at once disinherited in another will by Madame de
Beauregard. It is a regular seesaw. That old woman actually carries an
advocate in her suite for the purpose of making and destroying wills.
It is a very difficult problem for me, because at one time Eugene is a
very desirable _parti_, and then my niece won’t look at him, and next
he hasn’t a sou in the world and my niece insists she will marry him.
Love and life are great puzzles.”
“You will never get up a character for originality on that
observation,” answered Louis, his mind still full of Julie. “And so you
have never seen your ward?” he added presently.
“Never. Luckily I have no responsibility for her, only for her fortune.
But I have seen Madame de Beauregard, and I have been balancing in my
mind for the last year whether I shall marry her or Mademoiselle Cheri.
You see”--here Monsieur de Latour assumed a coquettish air--“I can
marry whom I please.”
“I suppose you mean by that,” remarked Louis, “that you could marry
fifty or sixty ladies at once, but that would hardly seem to me to be
desirable, if possible.”
Monsieur de Latour let this sarcasm pass unnoticed, and then said:
“By the way, the old lady is at Dinard now, I see by the newspapers.”
“Is Mademoiselle de Brésac with her?” asked Louis, his heart beginning
to pound again.
“I don’t know. Her name is not mentioned,” replied Monsieur de Latour.
“Well, now that we have come to terms, we had better arrange to have
the matter of adoption put in legal form as soon as possible. I think
it can all be settled in a few days. Don’t let anybody frighten you
about the liberty you will surrender in becoming legally my nephew.”
“Nobody in the world can frighten me from accepting three hundred
thousand francs,” answered Louis determinedly, the vision of Julie
before his eyes--Julie, with her pretty head upon his shoulder, his arm
around her waist, and all those sweet fantasies which haunt lovers.
“And of course you were not in earnest about burning the chateau
down. We shall have to come to some arrangement on this point, too,
because it will add very much to my consequence to have this place in
existence. True, it would require a fortune to rehabilitate it, but
we might have a new roof and all the windows put in and rebuild one
wing. Then, if you should marry an heiress, you might repair the whole
building, or I might. Soap-boiling is exceedingly profitable, if you
know what to put in the soap.”
“You or anybody else are at liberty to repair this old barrack,”
answered Louis with the greatest cordiality.
The elder De Latour rose to take his departure, saying affectionately:
“Adieu, my dear nephew.”
Louis’s reply to this was to seize Monsieur de Latour in his arms.
“Good Heavens!” cried the old gentleman, fighting off Louis’s frantic
demonstrations to kiss him, “I can’t stand this sort of thing.”
“But you must!” exclaimed Louis rapturously. “How can I restrain my
transports in the presence of a man who has promised to give me
three hundred thousand francs, to repair this old barn, and to make
me his nephew? It must be a part of the agreement that I am entitled
to embrace and kiss you at least three times a day--nothing less will
content me.”
“And I,” panted Monsieur de Latour, retreating toward the door, “must
protect myself from these vigorous demonstrations. Once a day ought to
suffice you.”
“No, no!” cried Louis, pursuing him to the door, which Monsieur de
Latour opened precipitately, nearly knocking down old Suzette, who was
listening at the keyhole. Monsieur de Latour, taking advantage of this
diversion, waddled rapidly down the corridor, calling out:
“Another such hug as that will cost you at least one hundred thousand
francs! I shall be here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning for our
business interview.”
And he disappeared, while Louis, seizing old Suzette in his arms, much
to that worthy woman’s astonishment, began to waltz up and down the
saloon, shouting at the top of his voice:
“Julie, I love you! Julie, I adore you! Julie, I shall marry you!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II
AUNT AND NIECE
Louis, having waltzed rapturously with old Suzette in the corridor
for fully ten minutes, returned to the saloon--ironically called the
grand saloon--and began to pace up and down, showing his joy in every
motion of his graceful figure and every expression of his handsome and
vivacious countenance. His heart and mind were full of Julie, and as
he murmured her name to himself, the rain stopped, the clouds parted
softly and swiftly, and a flood of sunlight burst into the room.
“Julie, perhaps, is at Dinard,” Louis kept repeating to himself until
he actually persuaded himself that she must be there.
Then looking at his watch and seeing that it was after twelve o’clock,
he determined to hunt up Madame de Beauregard. He rushed to the
barrack which he occupied as a bedroom, and made a toilet suitable for
calling upon ladies in the morning--his one white flannel suit, his
one pair of black silk stockings, his one pair of white shoes, and a
new straw hat with a black ribbon around it. He surveyed himself in
the glass with the earnestness of a man desirous to please, but in
truth he need have given himself small concern on that score, because
he had that combination of good looks, good manners, good temper, and
ineffable impudence which is always irresistible to women.
He did not know where the Comtesse de Beauregard was staying in the
town, but that was easily to be ascertained. Wherever Madame de
Beauregard went she always made a commotion. She carried with her
a retinue, not of dogs, cats, and birds, such as ladies of her age
usually affect, but of human beings, mostly men.
Louis, walking rapidly through the sunny streets of the town, gay with
the morning gaiety of Dinard, bought a newspaper at the first kiosk
he found, and in the list of arrivals at one of the most fashionable
hotels he saw the name of Madame de Beauregard, with three maids and
two valets, Monsieur Eugène de Contiac, and Monsieur Bertoux, advocate.
Louis’s joy was slightly dashed at the absence of Julie’s name, and
he was walking disconsolately enough along the shady street when he
suddenly ran almost into the arms of Madame de Beauregard. And there,
standing a little way off, smiling, blushing, and dimpling, was Julie.
She was radiant, all in white except a splendid red rose which bloomed
upon her breast.
The Comtesse de Beauregard, who would never see sixty again, small,
elegant, with a laughing devil in her eye, but with a countenance not
devoid of good-nature, was dressed in a costume which matched Julie’s
exactly, red rose and all. A sailor hat was tipped back upon her
elaborately frizzed white hair, for the old lady scorned disguise in
any form, and wore frankly, without any make-up, the costumes which
would have suited a chit of sixteen. Her short white skirt showed
her little feet encased in the most daring of embroidered red silk
stockings, which she evidently wore to be seen. She carried a dainty
white parasol in her hand, and playfully prodding Louis in the ribs,
cried:
“Here is our young cavalier from Algiers. Naughty boy! Why didn’t you
let me know that you were here? Men are so scarce nowadays, and hard to
catch.” And she tweaked Louis’s left ear playfully.
Louis, his eyes still on Julie and his hat in his hand, murmured:
“I only found out an hour ago that you, madame, were here, and I was on
my way to your hotel to call upon you.”
“I dare say you are telling the truth,” answered the old lady, twirling
her parasol around her head gaily. “The men of the present day haven’t
spirit enough to tell a good, robust lie. In my day it was the fashion
for gentlemen to tell great big lies to ladies, but the whole sex has
reformed now almost past endurance. By the way, I understand you have
inherited a fine, large chateau close by.”
[Illustration: “‘Here is our young cavalier from Algiers.’”]
Julie, meanwhile, had opened her mouth several times to speak, but in
vain. It was always difficult for other women to be heard when Madame
de Beauregard was present.
“Fine! No, madame. I am thinking of changing the name from the Chateau
of Montplaisir to the Chateau of Monmisère, or calling it the chateau
of rats and mice, or something of the sort. But it is large!”
“And have you seen or heard anything of a grotesque old party of your
name, a soap-boiler by trade, who is extremely anxious to be considered
a member of your family?” asked the old lady.
Julie’s mouth was opened for the fourth time to speak, but, as usual,
Madame de Beauregard gave her not the ghost of a chance to be heard.
“He came to see me this morning,” replied Louis.
“You are indebted to me for that,” cried Madame de Beauregard. “You
know he is as rich as Aladdin, and quite respectable. If he were not
so tediously correct in his conduct, and of such tiresome propriety, I
think I should marry him for his money. You know he was a friend of
Julie’s father, my brother, who made him trustee of her fortune, and
as I have charge of Julie I have met Monsieur de Latour several times.
I told him about you, and put the notion into his head of establishing
some sort of relationship with you. When we were in Algiers you made
a very favourable impression upon me. I really believe you capable
of mischief, unlike that poor rag of a man, my nephew, Eugène de
Contiac. He is in love, you know, with old De Latour’s niece Mélanie,
who is twice as pious as Eugène. To think that I should not only have
a pious man in my family, but should run the risk of the type being
perpetuated! However, my family were all born to ill luck.”
“I am a thousand times obliged to you,” answered Louis, his eyes glued
on Julie, who made a last desperate effort to speak, but was cut short
promptly by Madame de Beauregard.
“Now we have the finest joke in the world afoot to play off on old De
Latour. He is advertising in the newspapers for a companion for that
niece of his, and I put it into Julie’s head to try to get the place.
Old De Latour has never seen her, you know. What larks we shall have
when we get Julie established as Mélanie’s companion. She will have
strict orders from me to get some of the piety and propriety out of
that girl, because I don’t want any piety or propriety in my family. I
have too much already.”
Louis felt like disputing this proposition, and Julie again opened her
lips to speak, but, as usual, it was in vain.
“So now,” cried the old lady, “you may look out for some amusement!
I intend to have a gay time at Dinard. General Granier is here, you
know, and a few men. I don’t call every biped wearing trousers a man,
if you please. It is only those with life and spirit in them who, I
think, deserve the name. Come, Julie, it is time for our lesson in
skirt-dancing.”
As the old lady, seizing Julie, skipped off, Julie turned her head and
managed to articulate one sentence only, and this was:
“Good morning, monsieur.”
Louis stood still and swore silently at Madame de Beauregard, but he
was happy, after all, for Julie was there. And then, what delicious
possibilities of seeing her were involved in that practical joke which
Madame de Beauregard proposed to play on Monsieur de Latour.
With these thoughts animating him Louis determined to carry out his
original intention and leave cards on the ladies at their hotel. This
he did, feeling as if he were walking on air. Then he strolled about
the town for an hour or two, and presently, led by his good genius,
he went down to the beach, where the sea was like molten gold under
the summer sky. The first object that met his eye among the crowd
of bathers was Madame de Beauregard, in a bright red bathing suit,
disporting herself like a mermaid in the waves. And oh, joy and
rapture, a little way off stood Julie, looking like a tall lily flower
in her pretty white gown! Louis flew toward her and received a welcome
from her eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” he whispered, “do you know what my first thought was
when I inherited the Chateau of Montplaisir?”
It was one of those questions which require no answer. Julie, whose
eyes were usually dancing with merriment and as fearless as a child’s,
lowered her long lashes, but in a moment she raised her glance and said:
“Was it of me you were thinking, monsieur?”
“Yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle! And Monsieur de Latour has offered to
adopt me as his nephew and give me three hundred thousand francs if I
will recognise him as the head of the younger branch of the family. O
Julie, dearest!”
At that moment Madame de Beauregard, in her red bathing suit, came
rushing out of the water and dashing up to Louis, shrieked gaily:
“Come, now, go and get a bathing suit and come into the water with me,
and I will show you how to turn a somersault.”
Louis fled, hotly pursued for a short distance by the old lady; but
years and wind told, and Madame de Beauregard had to return to the
sea, keeping her eyes open for a young man more complaisant than
Louis. But Julie walked up and down the sand in the blazing sunlight,
listening to the quick beating of her own heart which was flooded with
the sunshine of life and love.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III
GAY DINARD
The fine weather continued during the afternoon, and the August sun,
shining out brilliantly, drove the silvery mists oceanward, turned the
sea and shore into a splendour of blue and gold, and made a glory of
the fields and woods about the merry little town.
All the world was out of doors, including Monsieur de Latour,
Mademoiselle Cheri, and Mélanie, who were having tea in the garden of
the Villa Rose--a gardenlike paradise. Mademoiselle Cheri was a comely
woman, although past middle age, but in her somewhat plain face was the
charm and repose of a sweet nature. Mademoiselle Cheri had remarkably
good sense mixed with her sweetness, and by no means shared all of her
ex-lover’s projects and ambitions. Mélanie, on the contrary, pretty,
pious, and trustful, thought her uncle the wisest of men.
Monsieur de Latour, much elated at the result of his visit to the
Chateau of Montplaisir and his recognition as a member of the noble
house of De Latour, being unable to keep the cat in the bag, let
it escape before he had finished his first cup of tea. He began by
announcing with a lofty air to Mademoiselle Cheri that he had spent
the morning making the acquaintance of his relative, the head of the
house of De Latour, at his Chateau of Montplaisir, and described
with perfect truth the rapturous greeting he had received from his
new-found relative. He did not, however, mention the three hundred
thousand francs which he had offered for the privilege of making Louis
his nephew and of putting the De Latour crest upon every one of his
personal belongings on which he could stick it. He, however, announced
that he had arranged to meet Louis the next morning, in order to trace
up their exact relationship. “I,” he said pompously, “being the head
of the younger branch of the family.”
At this Mademoiselle Cheri sniffed, if so pleasant a creature could be
said to sniff.
“How much, monsieur,” she asked sweetly, “did you pay for your place on
the family tree?”
Monsieur de Latour scowled. Mademoiselle Cheri was treating him exactly
as if he were still a clerk in the soap-boiling factory of Cheri and
Company, and he suspected that she already considered him her own
matrimonial prize and hence took liberties beforehand.
“Nothing whatever, mademoiselle,” he answered stiffly, “but I may say
that it is extremely likely I may become the owner of the Chateau of
Montplaisir and the head of the family.”
And then, determined to impress Mademoiselle Cheri with a sense of his
own dignity, he added:
“My connection with my new relative is likely to become closer, because
we were so mutually pleased with each other that we have agreed to
assume legally the status of uncle and nephew--a common enough
arrangement in France, which could be well imitated in other countries.”
“That must have cost you a good many francs,” said Mademoiselle Cheri
coolly.
“Only three hundred thousand,” tartly responded Monsieur de Latour,
determined to let Mademoiselle Cheri know that three hundred thousand
francs was a mere bagatelle with him.
Even Mélanie started at this, and cried:
“O uncle!”
But Mademoiselle Cheri showed not the least surprise, merely saying:
“I thought that, in your craze for family consequence and a crest on
your carriage, you would do something of the kind.”
“A great many people would if they could,” said Monsieur de Latour
darkly. “Give me another cup of tea, Mélanie.”
“A great many more would not,” replied Mademoiselle Cheri; “I, for
example. My father was an honest, respectable soap-boiler, well thought
of by all who knew him--a good father, a good friend, a good citizen.
That is enough for me. I would not pay three hundred francs to be
recognised as sixty-fourth cousin by the greatest family in France.”
Here Mélanie, seeing that her uncle and her friend were fast
approaching a quarrel, interposed by taking a letter out of her pocket.
“This letter,” she said hurriedly, “is, I think, an answer to our
advertisement.”
Monsieur de Latour opened the letter. It bore, in the fine stationery
and elegant, if somewhat illegible, handwriting, all the evidences of
refinement. The advertisement, which read as follows, was pinned to it:
WANTED--A companion for a young lady of good family. Must be well
educated, a musician and linguist, and of unexceptionable family.
Apply by letter to MONSIEUR VICTOR LOUIS DE LATOUR, POSTE RESTANTE.
Monsieur de Latour, with some difficulty, made out the letter, which
was as follows:
Mademoiselle de Courcey offers her services as companion in answer
to the above advertisement. Mademoiselle de Courcey can furnish
unexceptionable references as to her acquirements and associations,
and will be pleased to meet any appointment for a personal interview.
The name De Courcey made a great impression on Monsieur de Latour, to
whom names and titles were important things.
“Now, I like that letter,” he said. “It’s very businesslike. It is
evidently written by a mature and experienced woman. That is clearly
shown in the letter--nothing superfluous, a plain statement of fact
and desires an interview. Mélanie, my love, you may write in my name
and suggest an appointment at this villa at five o’clock to-morrow
afternoon. Of course, mademoiselle,” he added, turning to Mademoiselle
Cheri, “I appreciate more than I can express your kindness to Mélanie,
and as long as you will allow her to remain with you she will, I know,
be very happy to do so. I shall feel most grateful to you, but I do not
wish to impose upon you. If this lady is all that she appears to be, I
could engage her on trial and establish her in this villa, so that I
could have the benefit of your judgment upon her qualifications.”
Monsieur de Latour said this much, for after all he had a soft spot in
his heart for Mademoiselle Cheri. He could not forget when he had been
a clerk in her father’s factory and sweet Séline Cheri had been the
star of his existence; but that was before he became the prospective
uncle of the head of the house of De Latour.
“Certainly. I think the arrangement an admirable one,” replied
Mademoiselle Cheri; “and, by the way, monsieur, do you know that your
friend the Comtesse de Beauregard is at Dinard? I saw her going into
her hotel this morning. She had her whole retinue with her. There was
our poor, dear Eugène”--for Mademoiselle Cheri was in the confidence of
the lovers--“her advocate and man of business, Monsieur Bertoux, two
valets, and three maids.”
There was not a suspicion of jealousy in Mademoiselle Cheri’s voice as
she said this, which very much annoyed Monsieur de Latour. He therefore
smiled significantly.
“Oh,” he said, “I fancied Madame de Beauregard would turn up at Dinard
about this time! In my last communication to her concerning her niece I
mentioned that I would be at Dinard for the month of August.”
“And you think she came here to see you?” asked Mademoiselle Cheri,
with a suspicious innocence.
“Oh, no, no, no, I never said that! But she is a very fascinating
woman, and the man who marries her will get an ancestral seat which
carries with it a title.”
“I think,” responded Mademoiselle Cheri calmly, “that you are likely to
have one ancestral seat too many now.”
Meanwhile Mélanie, at the mention of Eugène, leaned her head pensively
on her hand. Two tears gathered in her pretty blue eyes and dropped
down upon her cheeks. She had not seen Eugène de Contiac for months,
nor had she heard from him, and by his appearing at Dinard with his
aunt, Mélanie knew well enough that he was leading a gay life, and a
gay life modelled upon Madame de Beauregard’s pattern was terrifying to
the pious and innocent Mélanie.
“I think,” said Monsieur de Latour, after finishing his second cup of
tea, “that I shall call to see Madame de Beauregard this afternoon,”
and then, answering the unspoken wish in Mélanie’s face, he added:
“I shall also inquire about our friend, Eugène de Contiac.”
“I wonder,” remarked Mademoiselle Cheri, “why that dreadful old
scapegrace, Madame de Beauregard----”
Here Monsieur de Latour gave such a start that he almost upset the
tea-table. The idea of speaking of so great a personage as Madame de
Beauregard as “that dreadful old scapegrace” electrified him. But
Mademoiselle Cheri coolly repeated the words.
“--dreadful old scapegrace, I say, should wish to make so correct
and prudent a young man as Eugène de Contiac into a rake as wild as
herself. It is more than I can understand.”
Monsieur de Latour fell back into his garden-chair. A comtesse of
one of the greatest families in France being called a rake! But, he
reflected, jealousy was at the bottom of all of Mademoiselle Cheri’s
remarks, and the notion so tickled him that he grew quite gay under it
and beamed on Mademoiselle Cheri, whom he supposed to be cherishing an
ardent passion for himself. By way of punishing her, however, for her
disrespectful attitude toward Madame de Beauregard, he rose and said:
“I think I may as well go and make my call now upon Madame de
Beauregard. It is a very good visiting hour.”
“Do,” replied Mademoiselle Cheri, helping herself to bread and butter,
“and say to Eugène de Contiac that I shall be happy if he will call
to see me. _There_ is a man who is as well born as any in France, but
quite democratic, and has always paid me as many kind attentions as
if I were the youngest and prettiest girl of his acquaintance and the
daughter of a duke instead of a respectable soap-boiler.”
Monsieur de Latour in a huff flung out of the garden. He decided that
Mademoiselle Cheri was getting old--there was no doubt about that--and
when people grew old they grew cranky. He regarded himself, however, as
steadily growing younger, and began to be disturbed, in the event that
Madame de Beauregard should marry him, whether the fact that they were
exactly the same age, sixty years, might not be against him.
Monsieur de Latour, in the August afternoon, walked along the grand
promenade, gay with elegant-looking women and well-dressed men sitting
at tables, chatting, drinking tea, and eating ices, the blue air
vibrant with music from the band, and over all that atmosphere of
pleasurable excitement which seems to belong to Dinard. It occurred
to him that he might find Madame de Beauregard among the crowd of
pleasure-seekers.
He did not, however, see her until a well-directed chocolate bonbon
hit him in the back. He turned around, and there at a table sat Madame
de Beauregard, Eugène de Contiac, and a small, sunburned military man,
whom Monsieur de Latour recognised at once as General Granier, who had
been a lady-killer fifty years before at the republican court of Louis
Napoleon. He was beautifully dyed and made up, elaborately and very
youthfully dressed, and wore an orchid in his buttonhole. It occurred
to Monsieur de Latour that the old general and Madame de Beauregard
matched each other as well as the Dresden figures of Daphnis, the
shepherd, and Chloe, the shepherdess. But there was nothing rural
about either of them, especially Madame de Beauregard. She was much
nearer Chloe’s age than Monsieur de Latour; that is, if she could be
said to be of any age, for the brightness of her eye, the quickness of
her hand, the overflowing vitality which bubbled forth, were more like
sixteen than sixty.
She was evidently in the midst of a roaring flirtation with the
general, and their remarks were so free that poor Eugène de Contiac,
by nature as pious and modest as a girl, sat and hung his head in
embarrassment. Eugène was neat, precise, clean-shaven, and not
ill-looking, but persons not so gay even as Madame de Beauregard might
have seen in him a slight superfluity of goodness and correctness.
Monsieur de Latour, considering the chocolate bonbon thrown at him
as an invitation, advanced, and Madame de Beauregard greeted him
rapturously. Eugène de Contiac, thinking this a good moment to escape
from bad company, promptly offered Monsieur de Latour his chair and
was sneaking off, but was caught by Madame de Beauregard and dragged
back by his coat-tails.