"M. Odiot, the new bailiff, grandfather."
"Ah--good-day, sir," murmured the old man.
An interval of most painful silence followed. Captain Laroque, his body
bent in two and his head hanging down, fixed a bewildered look on me.
At last, having apparently found a highly interesting subject of
conversation, he said in a dull, deep voice:
"M. de Beauchene is dead!"
I was not provided with a reply to this unexpected communication. I had
not the slightest idea who M. de Beauchene might be; Mlle. Marguerite
did not take the trouble to tell me; so I limited the expression of my
regret at this unhappy event to a slight exclamation of condolence. But
the old captain apparently thought this was not adequate, for the next
moment he repeated, in the same mournful voice:
"M. de Beauchene is dead!"
This persistence increased my embarrassment. I saw Mlle. Marguerite
impatiently tapping her foot on the floor. Despair seized me, and,
catching at the first phrase that came into my head, I said:
"Yes; and what did he die of?"
I had scarcely asked the question, when an angry look from Mlle.
Marguerite told me that I was suspected of irreverent mockery. Though I
was not conscious of anything worse than a foolish _gaucherie_, I did
all I could to give the conversation a more pleasant character. I spoke
of the pictures in the gallery, of the great emotions they must recall,
of the respectful interest I felt in contemplating the hero of these
glorious scenes. I even went into detail, and instanced with no certain
warmth of feeling two or three battles in which I thought the brig
Aimable had actually accomplished miracles. While I thus expressed the
courteous interest of good breeding, Mlle. Marguerite still, to my
surprise, regarded me with manifest dissatisfaction and annoyance.
Her grandfather, however, listened attentively, and I saw that his head
was rising little by little. A strange smile lighted up his haggard face
and swept away his wrinkles. All at once he rose, and, seizing the arms
of his chair, drew himself up to his full height; the glare of battle
flashed from the hollow sockets of his eyes, and he shouted in a
sonorous voice that made me start:
"Helm to windward! Hard to windward! Larboard fire! Lay to; lay to!
Grapple, smart now, we have them! Fire, there above! Sweep them well,
sweep the bridge! Now follow me--together--down with the English, down
with the cursed Saxon! Hurrah!"
With this last cry, which rattled hoarsely in his throat, he sank
exhausted into his chair; in vain his grand-daughter sought to aid him.
Mlle. Laroque, with a quick imperious gesture, urged me to depart, and I
left the room immediately. I found my way as best I could through the
labyrinth of corridors and staircases, congratulating myself very much
on the talent for _apropos_ which I had displayed in my interview with
the old captain of the Aimable.
Alain, the gray-haired servant who had received me when I arrived, was
waiting for me in the hall to tell me from Mme. Laroque that I should
not have time to go to my quarters before dinner, and that it would not
be necessary for me to change my dress. As I entered the _salon_, a
company of about twenty people were leaving it in order of precedence on
their way to the dining-room. This was the first time I had taken part
in any social function since the change in my condition. Accustomed to
the small distinctions which the etiquette of the drawing-room grants to
birth and fortune, I felt keenly the first symptoms of that indifference
and contempt to which my new situation must necessarily expose me.
Repressing as well as I could this ebullition of false pride, I gave my
arm to a young lady, well made and pretty, though rather small. She had
kept in the background as the guests passed out, and, as I had guessed,
she proved to be the governess, Mlle. Helouin. The place at table
marked as mine was next to hers. While we were taking our seats, Mlle.
Marguerite appeared guiding like Antigone the slow and dragging steps of
her grandfather. With the air of tranquil majesty peculiar to her, she
came and sat down on my right, and the big Newfoundland, who seemed to
be the official guardian of this princess, took up his place as sentinel
behind her chair. I thought it my duty to express at once my regret at
having so maladroitly aroused memories which seemed to have such an
unfortunate effect on her grandfather.
"It is for me to apologize," she answered. "I should have warned you
never to speak of the English in my grandfather's presence.... Do you
know Brittany well?"
I said that I had not seen it till to-day, but that I was perfectly
delighted to know it, and to show, moreover, that I was worthy so to do,
I enlarged in lyric style on the picturesque beauties that had struck me
during the journey. Just as I was hoping that this clever flattery
would secure me the good graces of the young Bretonne, I was surprised
to see her show symptoms of impatience and boredom. Decidedly I was not
fortunate with this young lady.
"Good! I see," she said with a singular expression of irony, "that you
love all that is beautiful, all that appeals to the soul and the
imagination--nature, bloom, heather, rocks, and the fine arts. You will
get on wonderfully well with Mlle. Helouin, who adores all those things.
For my part I care nothing about them."
"Then in Heaven's name, mademoiselle, what are the things you love?"
I asked the question in a playful tone. Mlle. Marguerite turned sharply
on me, flashed a haughty look at me, and replied curtly:
"I love my dog. Here, Mervyn!"
She thrust her hand fondly into the Newfoundland's thick coat. Standing
on his hind legs, he had already stretched his huge head between my
plate and Mlle. Marguerite's.
I began to observe this young lady with more interest, and to search for
the outward signs of the unimpressionable soul on which she appeared to
pride herself.
I had at first supposed that Mlle. Laroque was very tall, but this
impression was due to the noble and harmonious character of her beauty.
She is really of medium height. The rounded oval of her face and her
haughty and well-poised neck are lightly tinged with sombre gold. Her
hair, which lies in strong relief upon her forehead, ripples at every
movement of her head with bluish reflections. The fine and delicate
nostrils seem to have been copied from the divine model of a Roman
Madonna, and cut in living pearl. Under the large, deep, and pensive
eyes, the golden sun-burn of the cheeks deepens into an aureole of
deeper brown, which looks like the shadow of the eyelashes, or may be a
circle seared by the burning glances of her eyes.
It is hard to describe the sovereign sweetness of the smile which
animates this lovely face at intervals, and tempers the splendour of the
great eyes. Of a surety, the goddess of poetry, of reverie, and of fairy
realms might boldly claim the homage of mortals under the form of this
child, who loves nothing but her dog. In her rarest creations nature
often reserves her most cruel deceptions for us.
After all, it matters little to me. I see plainly that I am to play in
the imagination of Mlle. Marguerite a part something like that of a
negro, which, as we know, is not an object particularly attractive to
Creoles. For my part, I flatter myself that I am quite as proud as
Mlle. Marguerite. The most impossible kind of love for me is one which
might lay me open to the charge of scheming or self-seeking. But I
fancy that I shall not require much moral courage to meet so remote a
danger, for Mlle. Marguerite's beauty is of the kind which attracts the
contemplation of the artist, rather than any warmer and more human
sentiment.
However, at the name of Mervyn, which Mlle. Marguerite had given to her
body-guard, Mlle. Helouin, my left-hand neighbour, plunged boldly into
the Arthurian cycle, and was so good as to inform me that Mervyn was the
correct name of the celebrated enchanter, whom the vulgar call Merlin.
From the Knights of the Round Table she worked back to the days of
Caesar and all the hierarchy of druids, bards, and ovates defiled in
tedious procession before me. After them we fell, as a matter of
course, from _dolmen_ to _menhir_ and from _galgal_ to _cromlech_.
While I wandered in Celtic forests with Mlle. Helouin, who wanted only a
little more flesh to make quite a respectable druidess, the widow of the
stock-broker made the echoes resound with complaints as ceaseless and
monotonous as those of a blind beggar: They had forgotten to give her a
foot-warmer! They gave her cold soup! They gave her bones without meat!
That was how she was treated! Still, she was used to it. Ah, it is sad
to be poor, very sad! She wished she were dead.
"Yes, doctor"--she was speaking to her neighbour, who listened to her
wailings with slightly ironical interest--"yes, doctor, I am not joking;
I do wish I were dead. I am sure it would be a great relief to
everybody. Think what it must be--to have been in the position I've
been in, to have eaten off silver plate with one's own coat of arms, and
now to be reduced to charity, to be the sport of servants! No one knows
what I suffer in this house; no one ever will know. The proud suffer
without complaining, so I say nothing, doctor, but I think all the
more."
"Of course, dear lady," said the doctor, whose name was Desmarets.
"Don't say any more. Take a good drink. That will calm you."
"Nothing but death will calm me, doctor."
"Very well, madame, I am ready when you are," said the doctor
resolutely.
Towards the centre of the table the attention of the company was
monopolized by the careless, caustic, and animated braggadocio of a M.
de Bevallan, who seemed to be allowed the latitude of a very intimate
friend. He is a very tall man, no longer young, of a type closely akin
to that of Francis I.
They listened to him as if he were an oracle, and Mlle. Laroque herself
showed as much interest and admiration as she seemed capable of feeling
for anything in this world. But, as most of his popular witticisms
referred to local anecdotes and parish gossip, I could not adequately
appreciate the merits of this Armorican lion.
I had reason, however, to appreciate his courtesy; after dinner he
offered me a cigar, and showed me the way to the smoking-room, where he
did the honours to three or four extremely young men, who evidently
thought him a model of good manners and refined wickedness.
"Well, Bevallan," said one of these young fellows, "you've not given up
hopes of the priestess of the sun-god?"
"Never!" replied M. de Bevallan. "I would wait ten months--ten years,
if necessary--but I will marry her or no one shall!"
"You're a lucky chap! The governess will help you to be patient."
"Must I cut out your tongue, or cut off your ears, young Arthur?" said
M. de Bevallan, going towards him and indicating my presence with a
hasty gesture.
A delightful conversational pell-mell then followed, which introduced me
to all the horses, all the dogs, and all the ladies of the
neighbourhood. It would not be a bad thing for ladies if, for once in
their lives, they could hear the kind of conversation which goes on
between men in the effusive mood that follows a copious repast. It
would show them exactly the delicacy of our manners, and the amount of
confidence they are calculated to inspire. I am not in the least
prudish, but in my opinion this conversation outran the limits of the
freest jesting; it touched on everything, gaily outraged everything,
took on a gratuitous tone of universal profanation. My education is,
perhaps, incomplete, for it has left me with a certain reserve of
reverence, that I think should be maintained even in the wildest
extravagances of high spirits.
But we have in the France of to-day our young America, which is not
happy unless it can blaspheme a little after drinking; we have the
future hopes of the nation, those amiable little ruffians, without
father or mother, without God or country, who seem to be the raw
products of some heartless and soulless machine, which has accidentally
deposited them on this planet not at all to its beautification.
In short, M. de Bevallan, who had appointed himself professor of
cynicism to these beardless _roues_, did not please me, nor do I think
that I pleased him. I retired very early on the ground of fatigue.
At my request old Alain procured a lantern and guided me across the park
to my future quarters. After a few minutes' walk, we crossed a wooden
bridge over a stream and found ourselves in front of a massive arched
doorway, flanked by two small towers. It was the entrance to the
ancient chateau. A ring of aged oak and pine shut in this feudal
fragment, and gave it an air of profound seclusion. It is in this ruin
that I am to live. My apartments run above the door from one of the
towers to the other, and consist of three rooms very neatly hung with
chintz. I am not displeased with this gloomy abode; it suits my
fortunes. As soon as I had got rid of Alain I began to write the
account of this eventful day, breaking off occasionally to listen to the
gentle murmur of the stream under my window, and to the call of the
legendary owl celebrating his doleful loves in the neighbouring woods.
_July 1st_.
I must now try to pick up the thread of my personal and private life,
which for the past two months has been somewhat lost among the daily
duties of my post.
The day after my arrival I stayed at home for some hours, studying the
ledgers and papers of my predecessor, _le pere Hivart_, as they call him
here. I lunched at the chateau, where only a few of last night's guests
remained. Mme. Laroque had lived a great deal in Paris before her
father-in-law's health condemned her to perpetual rusticity. In her
retirement she had kept her taste for the culture, elegance, or
frivolity which had centred in the Rue du Bac when Mme. de Stael and her
turban held sway. She had also visited most of the large cities of
Europe, and had brought away from them an interest in literature far
exceeding the ordinary Parisian curiosity and erudition. She read a
great many newspapers and reviews, and endeavoured to follow, as far as
it was possible at such a distance, the movement of that refined
civilization of which museums and new books are the more or less
ephemeral fruit and flowers. We were talking at lunch about a new
opera, and Mme. Laroque asked M. de Bevallan a question about it which
he could not answer, although he professes to be well informed of all
that takes place on the Boulevard des Italiens. Mme. Laroque then turned
to me with an air that showed how little she expected her man of
business to be acquainted with such matters; but it happened,
unfortunately, that these were the only "affairs" with which I was
familiar. I had heard in Italy this very opera which had just been
played in France for the first time. The very reserve of my answers
excited Mme. Laroque's curiosity; she questioned me closely, and before
long put me in possession of all the enthusiasms, souvenirs, and
impressions she had got in her travels. Soon we were discussing the
most celebrated theatres and galleries of the Continent like old
friends, and when we left the table our conversation was so animated
that, to avoid breaking the thread of it, Mme. Laroque almost
unconsciously took my arm. We continued our exchange of sympathies in
the drawing-room, Mme. Laroque gradually dropping the kindly,
patronizing tone which had rather grated on me hitherto.
She confessed that she was possessed by a mania for the theatre, and
that she thought of having some theatricals at the chateau. She asked
my advice on the management of this amusement, and I gave her some
details of particular plays that I had seen in Paris and St. Petersburg.
Then, as I had no intention of abusing her good-nature, I rose quickly,
saying that I meant to inaugurate my work at once by examining a large
farm about two leagues from the chateau. This announcement seemed to
fill Mme. Laroque with consternation; she looked at me, fidgeted among
her cushions, held her hands to the brazier, and at last said in a low
voice:
"Oh, what does it matter? You can put it off."
And as I insisted, she replied with comical embarrassment:
"But you cannot; the roads are horrible.... You must wait for the fine
weather."
"No, madame," I said, smiling, "I will not wait a minute; if I am to be
your bailiff I must look after your affairs."
"Madame," said old Alain, who had come in, "M. Odiot could have _le pere
Hivart's_ old gig; it is not on springs, but it's all the more solid for
that."
Mme. Laroque darted a withering glance at the miserable Alain for daring
to suggest _le pere Hivart's_ gig to an agent who had been to the Grand
Duchess Helene's theatricals.
"Wouldn't the buggy be able to do it, Alain?" she asked.
"The buggy, madame? Oh, no! I don't believe it could get into the
lane, and if it did, it would certainly not come out whole."