LUCIENNE LAUGHS AND CRIES
“Je t’ai vue au temps des lilas,
Ton jeune cœur venait d’éclore,
Et tu disais, ‘Je ne veux pas,
Je ne veux pas qu’on m’aime encore !’
Qu’as-tu fait depuis mon départ?
Qui part trop tôt revient top tard. . . .”
—ALFRED DE MUSSET.
The high roofs of the three pavilions of the Tuileries once more
peered at Gilbert as for the second time that day he made his way
towards the Cour du Carrousel. A huddle of buildings—hotels, barracks,
livery-stables, dependencies of all kinds—screened the great court
from the passers-by; and having threaded his way through these the
Marquis, whose goal was not now the royal apartments, directed his
steps to the extreme left-hand wing of the palace, the Pavillon de
Flore. Here, on the ground floor, were the rooms of Madame de
Lamballe, and above her dwelt the King’s sister, to whose apartments
Château-Foix, presenting his card of entry to the sentinel, was
presently admitted by the Escalier de la Reine.
The room in which he waited for Lucienne was the same in which his
cousin had brought her violets on a winter’s day six months ago. Now a
pleasant sunlight filtered into it through the striped blinds, and it
was full of the scent of roses. Among the pictures on the walls hung
two portraits, both of women, and the Marquis guessed them to be those
of Madame de Raigecourt and Madame de Bombelles, the Princess’
friends. This fact, and the presence of a little bronze crucifix
standing on a table which bore a few books of devotion stamped with
the arms of France, led him to suppose the room to belong to Madame
Elisabeth herself. A half-finished piece of needlework lying on a
chair somehow recalled Lucienne. All the shelter and refinement of the
place, this very piece of embroidery, the roses and the sunlight,
affected Gilbert with an odd sense of the contrast with his own
uneasiness. They spelt security; yet its occupants must know—who
better?—that the room had no such claim. It was but eleven days since
the 20th of June.
On that thought the Marquis found himself at the window. The great
garden which it overlooked was deserted, as usual; yet, away on the
other side, at right angles to the palace, he could see the terrace
of the Feuillants swarming with people. Nothing, he knew, but a
trivial bit of ribbon stretched between two chairs kept the crowd from
overflowing into the garden of the Tuileries. But the ribbon was
symbolic; moreover, it proclaimed those green alleys accursed—the
“country of Coblentz,” the “black forest.” Nobody but the Royal
Family, accursed too, and for whose sake they were banned, walked in
them now.
Gilbert sighed and turned away. What would be the end of it all? Not
indeed that he had much thought to spare at the moment for the fate of
France; his present preoccupations were Louis, with his reckless
loyalty, and Lucienne, with her clinging to her royal mistress. . . .
And that step in the corridor must be hers.
When Madame Vigée-Lebrun, about three years before, was painting
Lucienne’s portrait, she had remarked to the Comtesse d’Aucourt that
the girl was like a wood-nymph, and that she wished she had painted
her as Daphne or Procris. And if a wood-nymph be a creature set apart
from human passions—which is doubtful—then the term well represents
the aspect under which his affianced bride appeared to the Marquis de
Château-Foix also. For the last few years Lucienne had seemed to him a
sort of elemental creature, a being fresh from the hands of nature,
to be reverenced because she was so extraordinarily untouched and
innocent. In those dark hours which he had known, and still knew, when
the problem of existence weighed heavily upon him, Lucienne with her
goodness and her beauty was always the one glimmer which never failed
him, the one little star, free from all taint of passion and raised
above the possibility of pollution, which swung clear of the mists in
which he sometimes walked.
But, in truth, Lucienne was no elemental being of the sort. Her
training had rendered it impossible. On the very lovable characteristics
which were hers by nature Madame d’Aucourt, no mean architect, had
superimposed a structure designed indeed to show them to the best
advantage, but not intrinsically meritorious. She had a little
exploited her daughter’s charm. And the result of the Comtesse’s
example and training was that to some people the girl seemed to live
in a series of pictures. Lucienne was herself quite innocent of any
artistic intentions, but she constantly caused other people to see
her, in memory or in imagination, in pictures too. Gilbert had a whole
gallery of such compositions.
He had occasion at once to add a fresh canvas to his collection as the
door opened now, and she came in. The whiteness of the soft dress she
wore, the pallor of the rose drooping in the folds of her kerchief—a
rose no whiter than her own long throat with its narrow band of black
ribbon—the lovely freshness of her cheek, the poise of her head with
its shining burden, the smile on her beautiful mouth—all these Gilbert
suddenly saw anew, as for the first time, and was aware of a strange
and dizzying sensation.
In another moment he was bending over her hand.
“I know why you have come,” said the girl’s delicious voice above him,
alive with the very spirit of youth. “You all seem very anxious to get
rid of me!” And she laughed—a trickle of clear merriment.
“Let me look at you!” he exclaimed. He held her wrists prisoner for a
moment, and then drew her down to a sofa. “What you must have gone
through—what you must have gone through!” he repeated. “I can’t think
how I ever let you remain here! No, I ought never to have done it!” He
had a sudden flashing vision of this exquisite creature, so nearly
his, at bay in a window in the palace, insulted, frightened,
helpless. . .
The momentary mirth died out of Lucienne’s eyes, and her mouth took on
the shadow of a pout.
“But, Gilbert, I always asked you to leave me here. It was what I
wanted. I don’t want to go even now. The Princess——”
“Yes, I know, my darling,” interrupted Château-Foix. “It is just like
you. But I ought never to have done it. However, it is no good talking
about it. The Princess had more sense than I have had, in making
arrangements for you to go to England. I shall not know a moment’s
peace till you are out of this horrible place.”
The smile came back to Lucienne’s mouth, “Oh, it wasn’t so bad as
that!” she said, not very truthfully. “I—we—were quite safe, really.
And we have got used to seeing the _sans-culottes_ about by this
time.”
But his betrothed’s treatment of the crisis seemed very far from
reassuring the Marquis. His face grew still graver, his clasp of her
hands closer, his voice more charged with feeling. “Lucienne, you must
never go through such things again. You don’t know what you are to me.
Do you realise in the least, I wonder, how I think of you—how I see
you down at Chantemerle, in the morning, perhaps, when I go round the
home-farm, or when I ride alone along the lanes. And all the time——”
His voice changed. “If I had seen you in reality, here, in this, I
could not have respected your mother’s wish, and waited. . . . And now
we have waited too long, and I have got to send you away.”
He broke off abruptly, loosed her hands, sprang up and went to the
window. A fire which he had never guessed at ran along his nerves,
strung as they were by anxiety and excitement. She was no longer the
creature removed above the sphere of emotion; she was a woman,
beautiful, adorable—and his! He swung round from the window, stood in
front of her, and holding out his arms said in a shaken but imperious
voice: “Come here, Lucienne!”
And when Lucienne had got up from the sofa—blindly, almost as if she
did not know what she was doing, he folded her passionately in his
arms, and kissed her again and again, till she hid her face on his
breast, and he discovered that she was crying.
At that he kissed her hair. “Why are you crying, darling?” he asked
tenderly. “You are quite safe now.”
She pushed with her little hands against his breast, trying to free
herself. “Don’t, don’t—you frighten me!”
He loosed her instantly, thinking what a selfish brute he was, and
she—how untouched a lily! “I didn’t mean to frighten you, dear. But
there’s nothing to be frightened of. See—let us sit down again and
talk quietly. You must never be afraid of me, Lucienne.” And he got
her gently back to the sofa, where she sat leaning against his
shoulder, with her handkerchief to her eyes and her sobs growing
gradually fainter, while, reproaching himself for his want of
consideration, he talked of he knew not what. “The Princess was
telling me yesterday how brave you have been.”
“I haven’t been brave.” She choked down a sob. “But I wish I could
stay. If you knew how Madame Elisabeth——”
“Yes, dearest; but surely you would not wish to add to the burdens she
carries already. Besides, you belong to me a thousand times more than
to her. If only I could take you back with me!”
“Couldn’t you?” came in a very small, low voice.
“My darling, it’s impossible. Affairs are much too critical just now,
in Vendée. And that is why I cannot even go with you to England. But I
shall send Louis in my place, to escort you and Madame Gaumont.”
At that she started away from her support as if galvanised. “Louis!”
she exclaimed. “Oh no, he must not come!”
Gilbert turned his head and looked at her in surprise. “Why not?
Surely you would be glad to have him if it can be managed?”
“Oh, but I am sure he could not leave the King. Do not ask him; I am
sure he ought not to come!” All traces of tears had vanished.
He was still surprised, but rather pleased at her independence, and
said, smiling: “You seem to rate Louis’ protection of his Majesty
rather highly, dearest. As a matter of fact, Louis appears to have
been doing the same thing himself, and I should therefore be only too
glad to find a reason cogent enough to get him out of Paris at once.”
Gilbert was partly conscious indeed of the somewhat startled gaze
which Lucienne turned on him at these words, but he was wholly
ignorant of the sick horror which mounted to the girl’s heart as he
went on. “I suppose you have not seen much of him recently? I am
rather anxious about him; he has been dabbling a little too freely in
politics of late.”
For an instant the room went round—but not to Gilbert. Then she asked
breathlessly: “Politics? What sort of politics?”
The sharp anxiety in her voice warned the Marquis that he was alarming
her. “Oh, just one of the usual Royalist schemes, rather more
hare-brained than usual—but I hope—— It is all right, darling, there
is no need to be alarmed; Louis is always lucky. And now I must go.”
Lucienne rose too, and hearing some one say in indifferent tones, “I
hope he is in no real danger,” supposed that it was she herself who
spoke.
“No; I think it has been stopped in time,” answered Château-Foix not
very reassuringly. There was a talk after that in Lucienne’s ears
about final arrangements, and of seeing her at Madame Gaumont’s house,
whither she was to go to-morrow. Then came good-bye, and a kiss which
now she hardly felt. At last the door shut, and she was left alone.
* * * * * *
She sat there without moving, her hands locked together in her lap,
suffering horribly. The flame which Louis de Saint-Ermay had lighted
still burnt for him alone; wanting in depth as she might be, the girl
was not of those who, after the first awakening of love, care not very
greatly to whom they dedicate the flame. The emergence of the lover in
Gilbert only terrified her; she did not take it for a tribute. Six
months ago, in this very room, she had known another embrace; had
sat on this very sofa, with her head on Louis’ shoulder, trying to
reconcile herself to the bitter sacrifice which they must make for the
sake of honour, and of the man who had a right to hold her in his
arms. And almost impossible though the sacrifice had seemed at times,
Lucienne had never lifted a finger to bring Saint-Ermay back. She was
capable of renunciation—if only she had some one to help her. Her
mistress, whom she adored, had been her support; it was the Princess’s
strength that had upheld her all these six months. Lucienne had
confided to Madame Elisabeth the whole episode, and the Princess,
seeing that Lucienne was anxious to do right, had comforted and
counselled her, and kept her on those heights which are more easy of
first attainment than of permanent occupation. It never occurred to
either of them—so binding did they consider a betrothal—that, putting
aside the suffering caused to Lucienne and to her lover, the girl
would be doing the Marquis a wrong to marry him when her heart could
never be his. Meanwhile Lucienne was faithful to the course that she
had laid down for herself, and she had never seen Louis alone again;
indeed, as there was now no properly constituted court, they met
seldom under any circumstances. The last encounter had been on the
memorable day of the invasion of the mob, when he had made a rampart
of his body for her safety. And to be so close to him for so long had
transformed that day of terror—at least in memory—from an ordeal to a
regretted joy.
Lucienne did not move even when the door was quietly opened, and a
voice said gently, “My child, has Monsieur le Marquis gone?” and when,
receiving no answer, the speaker came into the room—a clear-complexioned
lady of twenty-eight or thereabouts, with a carriage at once dignified
and graceful—Madame Philippine-Marie-Hélène-Elisabeth de France, the
King’s sister. Lucienne rose mechanically as she came towards her, and
turned on her mistress a pale, strained face. The Princess, with a
long look at her, took the girl by the hands, and Lucienne without a
word of explanation broke out: “Madame, give me some of your strength!
Oh, I promise you, I promise you I will be brave——”
“I know you will,” said Madame Elisabeth gently, sitting down on the
sofa and drawing Lucienne down with her. “And you do not need my
strength. You have plenty of your own, and you will know better how to
use it by and by. Dear little one,” she went on, kissing her on the
forehead, “you have made me very happy to-day, and M. de Château-Foix,
he is happy too. England is not far away, and we shall know that you
are in safe keeping until . . . until happier days come for France.”
Lucienne hardly seemed to heed her words. She was staring straight in
front of her as she leant forward with her hands clasped. “I will tell
you what happened,” she said in slow, dry tones. “He was very kind to
me, and he was very strong, so that it was rest to be with him.” She
closed her eyes for a moment. “Somehow or other I knew that it was
different from anything before, and I knew that he loved me, and
I was afraid. But I was almost glad to be afraid, too; for I thought
that perhaps one day he might make me forget, and make me love
him. And then he is so good; he spoke of Louis—of the Vicomte de
Saint-Ermay—taking me to England, and I told him that the Vicomte
could not leave the King, and that he must not ask him, for again I
was afraid, but that was a different kind of fear. And then—and
then——” She turned to the Princess. “How can I tell you? He said that
M. de Saint-Ermay was involved in some political scheme, and I thought
my heart would have stopped beating, for from the way he spoke I saw
that it means danger—perhaps worse—to Louis. In that moment I knew
that I should never be able to tell myself that all which passed in
the winter had been but a girl’s fancy, for I knew—God forgive me—I
knew that I loved Louis, so that I could die for him, and that
whatever happened I was his altogether . . . always!” She stopped, and
turned a frightened look on her companion, and then with a cry, “What
have I said! what have I said!” she burst into a passion of weeping.
At Lucienne’s last words Madame Elisabeth had raised her hand in
silent protest, for she could not find words before what seemed to her
one of pain’s mysteries—unhappy love, ashamed at its own articulate
confession. Every trace of self, of private sorrow or of remembrance
of personal danger had left the Princess, for hers was one of those
rare natures which can really identify themselves with another’s
grief. To all who suffered her love and her pity went out unasked, but
for those of her own family, and for those who for special reasons
claimed her affection, she was more than ready to be spent and
offered. On Lucienne in particular she had lavished all the affection
of her tender and generous heart. But at this moment the Princess felt
instinctively that she was going to fail Lucienne, and the knowledge
was very bitter to her. Lucienne was looking to her for understanding,
and she could not give it. The suffering, as suffering, called out her
sympathy, but its nature was incomprehensible. The saints see with
clearness that what the world calls suffering is not always misery,
and that what the world calls happiness is not always joy, and are
separated by this knowledge from the society in which they live far
more effectually than by convent walls. And since Madame Elisabeth de
France was a saint, it was her ideals, and not the fact that she had
never known the force of human passion, which made her feel that she
could hardly stop to be sorry for the girl whom she loved as her own
daughter. She saw Lucienne’s way so plainly.
Yet because she was very human, she dared not take the girl again into
her arms, lest the words which she must speak should die upon her
lips. It was possibly the last time that she should see Lucienne—for
she never had any illusion as to the extremity of the danger which
threatened the Royal Family, although for her brother’s sake she kept
up the appearance of a brave heart. Immeasurable love and pity shone
in her face as she looked at the bowed head. At last she put out her
hands and took Lucienne’s into her own. Lucienne remembered to her
last day what the woman who was her best friend found to say to her in
the crisis of her life. There was no word of blame, no word of duty,
no hint that she feared for the future.
“My child,” said the Princess very gently, “the pain will not always
be as it is now, and in the future there will be things to comfort
you—perhaps the love of children. And remember always that it is only
to the highly favoured that there comes the possibility of so great a
sacrifice as yours.”