A FAMILY PARTY
The next morning found the young Duke of Vallombreuse still living,
though his life hung by so slender a thread, that the surgeon, who
anxiously watched his every breath, feared from moment to moment that
it might break. He was a learned and skilful man, this same Maître
Laurent, who only needed some favourable opportunity to bring him into
notice and make him as celebrated as he deserved to be. His remarkable
talents and skill had only been exercised thus far “in anima vili,”
among the lower orders of society—whose living or dying was a matter of
no moment whatever. But now had come at last the chance so long sighed
for in secret, and he felt that the recovery of his illustrious patient
was of paramount importance to himself. The worthy doctor’s
_amour-propre_ and ambition were both actively engaged in this
desperate duel he was fighting with Death, and he set his teeth and
determined that the victory must rest with him. In order to keep the
whole glory of the triumph for himself, he had persuaded the prince—not
without difficulty—to renounce his intention of sending for the most
celebrated surgeons in Paris, assuring him that he himself was
perfectly capable to do all that could be done, and pleading that
nothing was more dangerous than a change of treatment in such a case as
this. Maître Laurent conquered, and feeling that there was now no
danger of his being pushed into the background, threw his whole heart
and strength into the struggle; yet many times during that anxious
night he feared that his patient’s life was slipping away from his
detaining grasp, and almost repented him of having assumed the entire
responsibility. But with the morning came encouragement, and as the
watchful surgeon stood at the bedside, intently gazing upon the ghastly
face on the pillow, he murmured to himself:
“No, he will not die—his countenance has lost that terrible,
hippocratic look that had settled upon it last evening when I first saw
him—his pulse is stronger, his breathing free and natural. Besides, he
_must_ live—his recovery will make my fortune. I must and will tear him
out of the grim clutches of Death—fine, handsome, young fellow that he
is, and the heir and hope of his noble family—it will be long ere his
tomb need be made ready to receive him. He will help me to get away
from this wretched little village, where I vegetate ignobly, and eat my
heart out day by day. Now for a bold stroke!—at the risk of producing
fever—at all risks—I shall venture to give him a dose of that
wonder-working potion of mine.” Opening his case of medicines, he took
out several small vials, containing different preparations—some red as
a ruby, others green as an emerald—this one yellow as virgin gold, that
bright and colourless as a diamond—and on each one a small label
bearing a Latin inscription. Maître Laurent, though he was perfectly
sure of himself, carefully read the inscriptions upon those he had
selected several times over, held up the tiny vials one after another,
where a ray of sunshine struck upon them, and looked admiringly through
the bright transparent liquids they contained—then, measuring with the
utmost care a few drops from each, compounded a potion after a secret
recipe of his own; which he made a mystery of, and refused to impart to
his fellow practitioners. Rousing his sleeping assistant, he ordered
him to raise the patient’s head a little, while, with a small spatula,
he pried the firmly set teeth apart sufficiently to allow the liquid he
had prepared to trickle slowly into the mouth. As it reached the throat
there was a spasmodic contraction that gave Maître Laurent an instant
of intense anxiety—but it was only momentary, and the remainder of the
dose was swallowed easily and with almost instantaneous effect. A
slight tinge of colour showed itself in the pallid cheeks, the eyelids
trembled and half unclosed, and the hand that had lain inert and
motionless upon the counterpane stirred a little. Then the young duke
heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes looked vacantly in about him,
like one awakening from a dream, or returning from those mysterious
regions whither the soul takes flight when unconsciousness holds this
mortal frame enthralled. Only a glance, and the long eyelashes fell
again upon the pale cheeks—but a wonderful change had passed over the
countenance.
“I staked everything on that move,” said Maître Laurent to himself,
with a long breath of relief, “and I have won. It was either kill or
cure—and it has not killed him. All glory be to Æsculapius, Hygeia, and
Hippocrates!”
At this moment a hand noiselessly put aside the hangings over the door,
and the venerable head of the prince appeared—looking ten years older
for the agony and dread of the terrible night just passed.
“How is he, Maître Laurent?” he breathed, in broken, scarcely audible
tones.
The surgeon put his finger to his lips, and with the other hand pointed
to the young duke’s face-still raised a little on the pillows, and no
longer wearing its death-like look; then, with the light step habitual
with those who are much about the sick, he went over to the prince,
still standing on the threshold, and drawing him gently outside and
away from the door, said in a low voice, “Your highness can see that
the patient’s condition, so far from growing worse, has decidedly
improved. Certainly he is not out of danger yet—his state is very
critical—but unless some new and totally unforeseen complication should
arise, which I shall use every effort to prevent, I think that we can
pull him through, and that he will be able to enjoy life again as if he
had never been hurt.”
The prince’s care-worn face brightened and his fine eyes flashed at
these hopeful words; he stepped forward to enter the sick-room, but
Maître Laurent respectfully opposed his doing so.
“Permit me, my lord, to prevent your approaching your son’s bedside
just now—doctors are often very disagreeable, you know, and have to
impose trying conditions upon those to whom their patients are dear. I
beseech you not to go near the Duke of Vallombreuse at present. Your
beloved presence might, in the excessively weak and exhausted condition
of my patient, cause dangerous agitation. Any strong emotion would be
instantly fatal to him, his hold upon life is still so slight. Perfect
tranquility is his only safety. If all goes well—as I trust and believe
that it will—in a few days he will have regained his strength in a
measure, his wound will be healing, and you can probably be with him as
much as you like, without any fear of doing him harm. I know that this
is very trying to your highness, but, believe me, it is necessary to
your son’s well-being.”
The prince, very much relieved, and yielding readily to the doctor’s
wishes, returned to his own apartment; where he occupied himself with
some religious reading until noon, when the major-domo came to announce
that dinner was on the table.
“Go and tell my daughter, the Comtesse Isabelle de Lineuil—such is the
title by which she is to be addressed henceforth—that I request her to
join me at dinner,” said the prince to the major-domo, who hastened off
to obey this order.
Isabelle went quickly down the grand staircase with a light step, and
smiled to herself as she passed through the noble hall where she had
been so frightened by the two figures in armour, on the occasion of her
bold exploring expedition the first night after her arrival at the
château. Everything looked very different now—the bright sunshine was
pouring in at the windows, and large fires of juniper, and other
sweet-smelling woods, had completely done away with the damp, chilly,
heavy atmosphere that pervaded the long disused rooms when she was in
them before.
In the splendid dining-room she found a table sumptuously spread, and
her father already seated at it, in his large, high-backed, richly
carved chair, behind which stood two lackeys, in superb liveries. As
she approached him she made a most graceful curtsey, which had nothing
in the least theatrical about it, and would have met with approbation
even in courtly circles. A servant was holding the chair destined for
her, and with some timidity, but no apparent embarrassment, she took
her seat opposite to the prince. She was served with soup and wine, and
then with course after course of delicate, tempting viands; but she
could not eat her heart was too full—her nerves were still quivering,
from the terror and excitement of the preceding day and night.
She was dazzled and agitated by this sudden change of fortune, anxious
about her brother, now lying at the point of death, and, above all,
troubled and grieved at her separation from her lover—so she could only
make a pretence of dining, and played languidly with the food on her
plate.
“You are eating nothing, my dear _comtesse_,” said the prince, who had
been furtively watching her; “I pray you try to do better with this bit
of partridge I am sending you.”
At this title of _comtesse_, spoken as a matter of course, and in such
a kind, tender tone, Isabelle looked up at the prince with astonishment
written in her beautiful, deep blue eyes, which seemed to plead timidly
for an explanation.
“Yes, Comtesse de Lineuil; it is the title which goes with an estate I
have settled on you, my dear child, and which has long been destined
for you. The name of Isabelle alone, charming though it be, is not
suitable for _my_ daughter.”
Isabelle, yielding to the impulse of the moment—as the servants had
retired and she was alone with her father—rose, and going to his side,
knelt down and kissed his hand, in token of gratitude for his delicacy
and generosity.
“Rise, my child,” said he, very tenderly, and much moved, “and return
to your place. What I have done is only just. It calls for no thanks. I
should have done it long ago if it had been in my power. In the
terrible circumstances that have reunited us, my dear daughter, I can
see the finger of Providence, and through them I have learned your
worth. To your virtue alone it is due that a horrible crime was not
committed, and I love and honour you for it; even though it may cost me
the loss of my only son. But God will be merciful and preserve his
life, so that he may repent of having so persecuted and outraged the
purest innocence. Maître Laurent, in whom I have every confidence,
gives me some hope this morning; and when I looked at Vallombreuse—from
the threshold of his room only—I could see that the seal of death was
no longer upon his face.”
They were interrupted by the servants, bringing in water to wash their
fingers, in a magnificent golden bowl, and this ceremony having been
duly gone through with, the prince threw down his napkin and led the
way into the adjoining _salon_, signing to Isabelle to follow him. He
seated himself in a large arm-chair in front of the blazing wood fire,
and bidding Isabelle place herself close beside him, took her hand
tenderly between both of his, and looked long and searchingly at this
lovely young daughter, so strangely restored to him. There was much of
sadness mingled with the joy that shone in his eyes, for he was still
very anxious about his son, whose life was in such jeopardy; but as he
gazed upon Isabelle’s sweet face the joy predominated, and he smiled
very lovingly upon the new _comtesse_, as he began to talk to her of
long past days.
“Doubtless, my beloved child, in the midst of the strange events that
have brought us together, in such an odd, romantic, almost supernatural
manner, the thought has suggested itself to your mind, that during all
the years that have passed since your infancy I have not sought you
out, and that chance alone has at last restored the long-lost child to
her neglectful father. But you are so good and noble that I know you
would not dwell upon such an idea, and I hope that you do not so
misjudge me as to think me capable of such culpable neglect, now that
you are getting a little better acquainted with me. As you must know,
your mother, Cornelia, was excessively proud and high-spirited. She
resented every affront, whether intended as such or not, with
extraordinary violence, and when I was obliged, in spite of my most
heartfelt wishes, to separate myself from her, and reluctantly submit
to a marriage that I could not avoid, she obstinately refused to allow
me to provide for her maintenance in comfort and luxury, as well as for
you and your education. All that I gave her, and settled on her, she
sent back to me with the most exaggerated disdain, and inexorably
refused to receive again. I could not but admire, though I so deplored,
her lofty spirit, and proud rejection of every benefit which I desired
to confer upon her, and I left in the hands of a trusty agent, for her,
the deeds of all the landed property and houses I had destined for her,
as well as the money and jewels—so that she could at any time reclaim
them, if she would—hoping that she might see fit to change her mind
when the first flush of anger was over. But, to my great chagrin, she
persisted in her refusal of everything, and changing her name, fled
from Paris into the provinces; where she was said to have joined a
roving band of comedians. Soon after that I was sent by my sovereign on
several foreign missions that kept me long away from France, and I lost
all trace of her and you. In vain were all my efforts to find you both,
until at last I heard that she was dead. Then I redoubled my diligence
in the search for my little motherless daughter, whom I had so tenderly
loved; but all in vain. No trace of her could I find. I heard, indeed,
of many children among these strolling companies, and carefully
investigated each case that came to my knowledge; but it always ended
in disappointment. Several women, indeed, tried to palm off their
little girls upon me as my child, and I had to be on my guard against
fraud; but I never failed to sift the matter thoroughly, even though I
knew that deceit was intended, lest I should unawares reject the dear
little one I was so anxiously seeking. At last I was almost forced to
conclude that you too had perished; yet a secret intuition always told
me that you were still in the land of the living. I used to sit for
hours and think of how sweet and lovely you were in infancy; how your
little rosy fingers used to play with and pull my long mustache—which
was black then, my dear—when I leaned over to kiss you in your
cradle—recalling all your pretty, engaging little baby tricks,
remembering how fond and proud I was of you, and grieving over the loss
that I seemed to feel more and more acutely as the years went on. The
birth of my son only made me long still more intensely for you, instead
of consoling me for your loss, or banishing you from my memory, and
when I saw him decked with rich laces and ribbons, like a royal babe,
and playing with his jewelled rattle, I would think with an aching
heart that perhaps at that very moment my dear little daughter was
suffering from cold and hunger, or the unkind treatment of those who
had her in charge. Then I regretted deeply that I had not taken you
away from your mother in the very beginning, and had you brought up as
my daughter should be—but when you were born I did not dream of our
parting. As years rolled on new anxieties tortured me. I knew that you
would be beautiful, and how much you would have to suffer from the
dissolute men who hover about all young and pretty actresses—my blood
would boil as I thought of the insults and affronts to which you might
be subjected, and from which I was powerless to shield you—no words can
tell what I suffered. Affecting a taste for the theatre that I did not
possess, I never let an opportunity pass to see every company of
players that I could hear of—hoping to find you at last among them. But
although I saw numberless young actresses, about your age, not one of
them could have been you, my dear child—of that I was sure. So at last
I abandoned the hope of finding my long-lost daughter, though it was a
bitter trial to feel that I must do so. The princess, my wife, had died
three years after our marriage, leaving me only one
child—Vallombreuse—whose ungovernable disposition has always given me
much trouble and anxiety. A few days ago, at Saint Germain, I heard
some of the courtiers speak in terms of high praise of Hérode’s troupe,
and what they said made me determine to go and see one of their
representations without delay, while my heart beat high with a new
hope—for they especially lauded a young actress, called Isabelle; whose
graceful, modest, high-bred air they declared to be irresistible, and
her acting everything that could be desired—adding that she was as
virtuous as she was beautiful, and that the boldest libertines
respected her immaculate purity. Deeply agitated by a secret
presentiment, I hastened back to Paris, and went to the theatre that
very night. There I saw you, my darling, and though it would seem to be
impossible for even a father’s eye to recognise, in the beautiful young
woman of twenty, the babe that he had kissed in its cradle, and had
never beheld since, still I knew you instantly—the very moment you came
in sight—and I perceived, with a heart swelling with happiness and
thankfulness, that you were all that I could wish. Moreover, I
recognised the face of an old actor, who had been I knew in the troupe
that Cornelia joined when she fled from Paris, and I resolved to
address myself first to him; so as not to startle you by too abrupt a
disclosure of my claims upon you. But when I sent the next morning to
the hotel in the Rue Dauphine, I learned that Hérode’s troupe had just
gone to give a representation at a château in the environs of Paris,
and would be absent three days. I should have endeavoured to wait
patiently for their return, had not a brave fellow, who used to be in
my service, and has my interest at heart, come to inform me that the
Duke of Vallombreuse, being madly in love with a young actress named
Isabelle, who resisted his suit with the utmost firmness and
determination, had arranged to gain forcible possession of her in the
course of the day’s journey—the expedition into the country being
gotten up for that express purpose—that he had a band of hired ruffians
engaged to carry out his nefarious purpose and bring his unhappy victim
to this château—and that he had come to warn me, fearing lest serious
consequences should ensue to my son, as the young actress would be
accompanied by brave and faithful friends, who were armed, and would
defend her to the death. This terrible news threw me into a frightful
state of anxiety and excitement. Feeling sure, as I did, that you were
my own daughter, I shuddered at the thought of the horrible crime that
I might not be in time to prevent, and without one moment’s delay set
out for this place—suffering such agony by the way as I do not like
even to think of. You were already delivered from danger when I
arrived, as you know, and without having suffered anything beyond the
alarm and dread—which must have been terrible indeed, my poor child!
And then, the amethyst ring on your finger confirmed, past any
possibility of doubt, what my heart had told me, when first my eyes
beheld you in the theatre.”
“I pray you to believe, dear lord and father,” answered Isabelle, “that
I have never accused you of anything, nor considered myself neglected.
Accustomed from my infancy to the roving life of the troupe I was with,
I neither knew nor dreamed of any other. The little knowledge that I
had of the world made me realize that I should be wrong in wishing to
force myself upon an illustrious family, obliged doubtless by powerful
reasons, of which I knew nothing, to leave me in obscurity. The
confused remembrance I had of my origin sometimes inspired me—when I
was very young—with a certain pride, and I would say to myself, when I
noticed the disdainful air with which great ladies looked down upon us
poor actresses, I also am of noble birth. But I outgrew those fancies,
and only preserved an invincible self-respect, which I have always
cherished. Nothing in the world would have induced me to dishonour the
illustrious blood that flows in my veins. The disgraceful license of
the _coulisses_, and the loathsome gallantries lavished upon all
actresses, even those who are not comely, disgusted me from the first,
and I have lived in the theatre almost as if in a convent. The good old
pedant has been like a watchful father to me, and as for Hérode, he
would have severely chastised any one who dared to touch me with the
tip of his finger, or even to pronounce a vulgar word in my presence.
Although they are only obscure actors, they are very honourable, worthy
men, and I trust you will be good enough to help them if they ever find
themselves in need of assistance. I owe it partly to them that I can
lift my forehead for your kiss without a blush of shame, and proudly
declare myself worthy, so far as purity is concerned, to be your
daughter. My only regret is to have been the innocent cause of the
misfortune that has overtaken the duke, your son. I could have wished
to enter your family, my dear father, under more favourable auspices.”
“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my sweet child, for you
could not divine these mysteries, which have been suddenly disclosed by
a combination of circumstances that would be considered romantic and
improbable, even in a novel; and my joy at finding you as worthy in
every way to be my beloved and honoured daughter, as if you had not
lived amid all the dangers of such a career, makes up for the pain and
anxiety caused by the illness and danger of my son. Whether he lives or
dies, I shall never for one moment blame you for anything in connection
with his misfortune. In any event, it was your virtue and courage that
saved him from being guilty of a crime that I shudder to contemplate.
And now, tell me, who was the handsome young man among your liberators
who seemed to direct the attack, and who wounded Vallombreuse? An actor
doubtless, though it appeared to me that he had a very noble bearing,
and magnificent courage.”
“Yes, my dear father,” Isabelle replied, with a most lovely and
becoming blush, “he is an actor, a member of our troupe; but if I may
venture to betray his secret, which is already known to the Duke of
Vallombreuse, I will tell you that the so-called Captain Fracasse
conceals under his mask a noble countenance, as indeed you already
know, and under his theatrical pseudonym, the name of an illustrious
family.”
“True!” rejoined the prince, “I have heard something about that
already. It would certainly have been astonishing if an ordinary,
low-born actor had ventured upon so bold and rash a course as running
counter to a Duke of Vallombreuse, and actually entering into a combat
with him; it needs noble blood for such daring acts. Only a gentleman
can conquer a gentleman, just as a diamond can only be cut by a
diamond.”
The lofty pride of the aged prince found much consolation in the
knowledge that his son had not been attacked and wounded by an
adversary of low origin; there was nothing compromising in a duel
between equals, and he drew a deep breath of relief at thought of it.
“And pray, what is the real name of this valiant champion?” smilingly
asked the prince, with a roguish twinkle in his dark eyes—“this
dauntless knight, and brave defender of innocence and purity!”
“He is the Baron de Sigognac,” Isabelle replied blushingly, with a
slight trembling perceptible in her sweet, low voice. “I reveal his
name fearlessly to you, my dear father, for you are both too just and
too generous to visit upon his head the disastrous consequences of a
victory that he deplores.”
“De Sigognac?” said the prince. “I thought that ancient and illustrious
family was extinct. Is he not from Gascony?”
“Yes; his home is in the neighbourhood of Dax.”
“Exactly—and the de Sigognacs have an appropriate coat of arms—three
golden storks on an azure field. Yes, it is as I said, an ancient and
illustrious family—one of the oldest and most honourable in France.
Paramede de Sigognac figured gloriously in the first crusade. A
Raimbaud de Sigognac, the father of this young man without doubt, was
the devoted friend and companion of Henri IV, in his youth, but was not
often seen at court in later years. It was said that he was embarrassed
financially, I remember.”
“So much so, that when our troupe sought refuge of a stormy night under
his roof, we found his son living in a half ruined château, haunted by
bats and owls, where his youth was passing in sadness and misery. We
persuaded him to come away with us, fearing that he would die there of
starvation and melancholy—but I never saw misfortune so bravely borne.”
“Poverty is no disgrace,” said the prince, “and any noble house that
has preserved its honour unstained may rise again from its ruins to its
ancient height of glory and renown. But why did not the young baron
apply to some of his father’s old friends in his distress? or lay his
case before the king, who is the natural refuge of all loyal gentlemen
under such circumstances?”
“Misfortunes such as his are apt to breed timidity, even with the
bravest,” Isabelle replied, “and pride deters many a man from betraying
his misery to the world. When the Baron de Sigognac consented to
accompany us to Paris, he hoped to find some opportunity there to
retrieve his fallen fortunes; but it has not presented itself. In order
not to be an expense to the troupe, he generously and nobly insisted
upon taking the place of one of the actors, who died on the way, and
who was a great loss to us. As he could appear upon the stage always
masked, he surely did not compromise his dignity by it.”
“Under this theatrical disguise, I think that, without being a
sorcerer, I can detect a little bit of romance, eh?” said the prince,
with a mischievous smile. “But I will not inquire too closely; I know
how good and true you are well enough not to take alarm at any
respectful tribute paid to your charms. I have not been with you long
enough yet as a father, my sweet child, to venture upon sermonizing.”
As he paused, Isabelle raised her lovely eyes, in which shone the
purest innocence and the most perfect loyalty, to his, and met his
questioning gaze unflinchingly. The rosy flush which the first mention
of de Sigognac’s name had called up was gone, and her countenance
showed no faintest sign of embarrassment or shame. In her pure heart
the most searching looks of a father, of God himself, could have found
nothing to condemn. Just at this point the doctor’s assistant was
announced, who brought a most favourable report from the sick-room. He
was charged to tell the prince that his son’s condition was eminently
satisfactory—a marked change for the better having taken place; and
that Maître Laurent considered the danger past—believing that his
recovery was now only a question of time.
A few days later, Vallombreuse, propped up on his pillows, received a
visit from his faithful and devoted friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc,
whom he had not been permitted to see earlier. The prince was sitting
by the bedside, affectionately watching every flitting expression on
his son’s face, which was pathetically thin and pale, but handsomer
than ever; because the old haughty, fierce look had vanished, and a
soft light, that had never been in them before, shone in his beautiful
eyes, whereat his father’s heart rejoiced exceedingly. Isabelle stood
at the other side of the bed, and the young duke had clasped his thin,
startlingly white fingers round her hand. As he was forbidden to speak,
save in monosyllables—because of his injured lung—he took this means of
testifying his sympathy with her, who had been the involuntary cause of
his being wounded and in danger of losing his life, and thus made her
understand that he cherished no resentments. The affectionate brother
had replaced the fiery lover, and his illness, in calming his ardent
passion, had contributed not a little to make the transition a less
difficult one than it could possibly have been otherwise. Isabelle was
now for him really and only the Comtesse de Lineuil, his dear sister.
He nodded in a friendly way to Vidalinc, and disengaged his hand for a
moment from Isabelle’s to give it to him—it was all that the doctor
would allow—but his eyes were eloquent enough to make up for his
enforced silence.
In the course of a few weeks, Vallombreuse, who had gained strength
rapidly, was able to leave his bed and recline upon a lounge near the
open window; so as to enjoy the mild, delightful air of spring, that
brought colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes. Isabelle was often
with him, and read aloud for hours together to entertain him; as Maître
Laurent’s orders were strict that he should not talk, even yet, any
more than was actually necessary. One day, when Isabelle had finished a
chapter in the volume from which she was reading to him, and was about
to begin another, he interrupted her, and said, “My dear sister, that
book is certainly very amusing, and the author a man of remarkable wit
and talent; but I must confess that I prefer your charming conversation
to your delightful reading. Do you know, I would not have believed it
possible to gain so much, in losing all hope of what I desired more
ardently than I had ever done anything in my whole life before. The
brother is very much more kindly treated than the suitor—are you aware
of that? You are as sweet and amiable to the one as you were severe and
unapproachable to the other. I find in this calm, peaceful affection,
charms that I had never dreamed of, and you reveal to me a new side of
the feminine character, hitherto utterly unknown to me. Carried away by
fiery passions, and irritated to madness by any opposition, I was like
the wild huntsman of the ancient legend, who stopped for no obstacle,
but rode recklessly over everything in his path. I looked upon whatever
beautiful woman I was in pursuit of as my legitimate prey. I scouted
the very idea of failure, and deemed myself irresistible. At the
mention of virtue, I only shrugged my shoulders, and I think I may say,
without too much conceit, to the only woman I ever pursued who did not
yield to me, that I had reason not to put much faith in it. My mother
died when I was a mere baby; you, my sweet sister, were not near me,
and I have never known, until now, all the purity, tenderness, and
sublime courage of which your sex is capable. I chanced to see you. An
irresistible attraction, in which, perhaps, the unknown tie of blood
had its influence, drew me to you, and for the first time in my life a
feeling of respect and esteem mingled with my passion. Your character
delighted me, even when you drove me to despair. I could not but
secretly approve and admire the modest and courteous firmness with
which you rejected my homage. The more decidedly you repulsed me, the
more I felt that you were worthy of my adoration. Anger and admiration
succeeded each other in my heart, and even in my most violent paroxysms
of rage I always respected you. I descried the angel in the woman, and
bowed to the ascendency of a celestial purity. Now I am happy and
blessed indeed; for I have in you precisely what I needed, without
knowing it—this pure affection, free from all earthly
taint—unalterable—eternal. I possess at last the love of a soul.”
“Yes, my dear brother, it is yours,” Isabelle replied; “and it is a
great source of happiness to me that I am able to assure you of it. You
have in me a devoted sister and friend, who will love you doubly to
make up for the years we have lost—above all, now that you have
promised me to correct the faults that have so grieved and alarmed our
dear father, and to exhibit only the good qualities of which _you_ have
plenty.”
“Oh! you little preacher,” cried Vallombreuse, with a bright, admiring
smile; “how you take advantage of my weakness. However, it is perfectly
true that I have been a dreadful monster, but I really do mean to do
better in future—if not for love of virtue itself, at least to avoid
seeing my charming sister put on a severe, disapproving air, at some
atrocious escapade of mine. Still, I fear that I shall always be Folly,
as you will be Reason.”
“If you will persist in paying me such high-flown compliments,” said
Isabelle, with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders, “I shall
certainly resume the reading, and you will have to listen to a long
story that the corsair is just about to relate to the beautiful
princess, his captive, in the cabin of his galley.”
“Oh, no! surely I do not deserve such a severe punishment as that. Even
at the risk of appearing garrulous, I do so want to talk a little. That
confounded doctor has kept me mute long enough in all conscience, and I
am tired to death of having the seal of silence upon my lips, like a
statue of Hippocrates.”
“But I am afraid you may do yourself harm; remember that your wound is
scarcely healed yet, and the injured lung is still very irritable.
Maître Laurent laid such stress upon my reading to you, so that you
should keep quiet, and give your chest a good chance to get strong and
well again.”
“Maître Laurent doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and only wants to
prolong his own importance to me. My lungs work as well as ever they
did. I feel perfectly myself again, and I’ve a great mind to order my
horse and go for a canter in the forest.”
“You had better talk than do such a wildly imprudent thing as that; it
is certainly less dangerous.”
“I shall very soon be about again, my sweet little sister, and then I
shall have the pleasure of introducing you into the society suitable to
your rank—where your incomparable grace and beauty will create a
sensation, and bring crowds of adorers to your feet. From among them
you will be able to select a husband, eh?” “I can have no desire to do
anything of that kind, Vallombreuse, and pray do not think this the
foolish declaration of a girl who would be very sorry to be taken at
her word. I am entirely in earnest, I do assure you. I have bestowed my
hand so often in the last act of the pieces I have played that I am in
no hurry to do it in reality. I do not wish for anything better than to
remain quietly here with the prince and yourself.”
“But, my dear girl, a father and brother will not always content you—do
not think it! Such affection cannot satisfy the demands of the heart
forever.”
“It will be enough for me, however, and if some day they fail me, I can
take refuge in a convent.”
“Heaven forbid! that would be carrying austerity too far indeed. I pray
you never to mention it again, if you have any regard for my peace of
mind. And now tell me, my sweet little sister, what do you think of my
dear friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc? does not he seem to be
possessed of every qualification necessary to make a good husband?”
“Doubtless, and the woman that he marries will have a right to consider
herself fortunate but however charming and desirable your friend may
be, my dear Vallombreuse, _I_ shall never be that woman.”
“Well, let him pass, then—but tell me what you think of the Marquis de
l’Estang, who came to see me the other day, and gazed spell-bound at my
lovely sister all the time he was here. He was so overwhelmed by your
surpassing grace, so dazzled by your exquisite beauty, that he was
struck dumb, and when he tried to pay you pretty compliments, did
nothing but stammer and blush. Aside from this timidity, which made him
appear to great disadvantage, and which your ladyship should readily
excuse, since you yourself were the cause of it, the marquis is an
accomplished and estimable gentleman. He is handsome, young, of high
birth and great wealth. He would do capitally for my fair sister, and
is sure to address himself to the prince—if indeed he has not already
done so—as an aspirant to the honour of an alliance with her.”
“As I have the honour of belonging to this illustrious family,” said
Isabelle a little impatiently, for she was exceedingly annoyed by this
banter, “too much humility would not become me, therefore I will not
say that I consider myself unworthy of such an alliance; but if the
Marquis de l’Estang should ask my hand of my father, I would refuse
him. I have told you, my dear brother, more than once, that I do not
wish to marry—and you know it too—so pray don’t tease me any more about
it.”
“Oh! what a fierce, determined little woman is this fair sister of
mine. Diana herself was not more inaccessible, in the forests and
valleys of Haemus—yet, if the naughty mythological stories may be
believed, she did at last smile upon a certain Endymion. You are vexed,
because I casually propose some suitable candidates for the honour of
your hand; but you need not be, for, if _they_ do not please you, we
will hunt up one who will.”
“I am not vexed, my dear brother, but you are certainly talking far too
much for an invalid, and I shall tell Maître Laurent to reprimand you,
or not permit you to have the promised bit of fowl for your supper.”
“Oh! if that’s the case I will desist at once,” said Vallombreuse, with
a droll air of submission, “for I’m as hungry as an ogre—but rest
assured of one thing, my charming sister: No one shall select your
husband but myself.”
To put an end to this teasing, Isabelle began to read the corsair’s
long story, without paying any attention to the indignant protests that
were made, and Vallombreuse, to revenge himself, finally closed his
eyes and pretended to be asleep; which feigned slumber soon became
real, and Isabelle, perceiving that it was so, put aside her book and
quietly stole away.
This conversation, in which, under all his mischievous banter, the duke
seemed to have a definite and serious purpose in view, worried Isabelle
very much, in spite of her efforts to banish it from her mind. Could it
be that Vallombreuse was nursing a secret resentment against de
Sigognac? He had never once spoken his name, or referred to him in any
way, since he was wounded by him; and was he trying to place an
insurmountable barrier between his sister and the baron, by bringing
about her marriage with another? or was he simply trying to find out
whether the actress transformed to a countess, had changed in
sentiments as well as in rank? Isabelle could not answer these
questions satisfactorily to herself. As she was the duke’s sister, of
course the rivalry between him and de Sigognac could no longer exist;
but, on the other hand, it was difficult to imagine that such a
haughty, vindictive character as the young duke’s could have forgotten,
or forgiven, the ignominy of his first defeat at the baron’s hands, and
still less of the second more disastrous encounter. Although their
relative positions were changed, Vallombreuse, in his heart, would
doubtless always hate de Sigognac—even if he had magnanimity enough to
forgive him, it could scarcely be expected that he should also love
him, and be willing to welcome him as a member of his family. No, all
hope of such a reconciliation must be abandoned. Besides, she feared
that the prince, her father, would never be able to regard with favour
the man who had imperilled the life of his only son. These sad thoughts
threw poor Isabelle into a profound melancholy, which she in vain
endeavoured to shake off. As long as she considered that her position
as an actress would be an obstacle to de Sigognac, she had resolutely
repelled the idea of a marriage with him, but now that an unhoped-for,
undreamed-of stroke of destiny had heaped upon her all the good things
that heart could desire, she would have loved to reward, with the gift
of her hand and fortune, the faithful lover who had addressed her when
she was poor and lowly—it seemed an actual meanness, to her generous
spirit, not to share her prosperity with the devoted companion of her
misery. But all that she could do was to be faithful to him—for she
dared not say a word in his favour, either to the prince or to
Vallombreuse.
Very soon the young duke was well enough to join his father and sister
at meals, and he manifested such respectful and affectionate deference
to the prince, and such an ingenuous and delicate tenderness towards
Isabelle, that it was evident he had, in spite of his apparent
frivolity, a mind and character very superior to what one would have
expected to find in such a licentious, ungovernable youth as he had
been, and which gave promise of an honourable and useful manhood.
Isabelle took her part modestly—but with a very sweet dignity, that sat
well upon her—in the conversation at the table, and in the _salon_, and
her remarks were so to the point, so witty, and so apropos, that the
prince was astonished as well as charmed, and grew daily more proud of
and devoted to his new treasure; finding a happiness and satisfaction
he had longed for all his life in the affection and devotion of his
children.
At last Vallombreuse was pronounced well enough to mount his horse, and
go for a ride in the forest—which he had long been sighing for—and
Isabelle gladly consented to bear him company. They looked a
wonderfully handsome pair, as they rode leisurely through the leafy
arcades. But there was one very marked difference between them.
The young man’s countenance was radiant with happiness and smiles, but
the girl’s face was clouded over with an abiding melancholy.
Occasionally her brother’s lively sallies would bring a faint smile to
her sweet lips, but they fell back immediately into the mournful droop
that had become habitual with them. Vallombreuse apparently did not
perceive it—though in reality he was well aware of it, and of its
cause—and was full of fun and frolic.
“Oh! what a delicious thing it is to live,” he cried, “yet how seldom
we think of the exquisite enjoyment there is in the simple act of
breathing,” and he drew a long, deep breath, as if he never could get
enough of the soft, balmy air. “The trees surely were never so green
before, the sky so blue, or the flowers so fragrant. I feel as if I had
been born into the world only yesterday, and was looking upon nature
for the first time to-day. I never appreciated it before. When I
remember that I might even now be lying, stiff and stark, under a fine
marble monument, and that instead of that I am riding through an
elysium, beside my darling sister, who has really learned to love me, I
am too divinely happy. I do not even feel my wound any more. I don’t
believe that I ever was wounded. And now for a gallop, for I’m sure
that our good father is wearying for us at home.”
In spite of Isabelle’s remonstrances he put spurs to his horse, and she
could not restrain hers when its companion bounded forward, so off they
went at a swift pace, and never drew rein until they reached the
château. As he lifted his sister down from her saddle, Vallombreuse
said, “Now, after to-day’s achievement, I can surely be treated like a
big boy, and get permission to go out by myself.”
“What! you want to go away and leave us already? and scarcely well yet,
you bad boy!”
“Even so, my sweet sister; I want to make a little journey that will
take several days,” said Vallombreuse negligently.
Accordingly, the very next morning he departed, after having taken an
affectionate leave of the prince, his father; who did not oppose his
going, as Isabelle had confidently expected, but seemed, on the
contrary, to approve of it heartily. After receiving many charges to be
careful and prudent, from his sister, which he dutifully promised to
remember and obey, the young duke bade her good-bye also, and said, in
a mysterious, yet most significant way,
“Au revoir, my sweet little sister, you will be pleased with what I am
about to do.” And Isabelle sought in vain for the key to the enigma.