In Provence
"Autant d'amoureux, autant d'amours; chacun aime comme il
est."
The chateau of La Pauline stands at the head of the valley of the
Nartubie in the department of Var, and looks down upon Draguignan, the
capital of that division of France. La Pauline, and its surrounding
lands formed the _dot_ of the Vicomtesse de Clericy, and the products
of its rich terraces were of no small account in the family revenues.
It was to this spot that Lucille and her mother repaired in the month
of December. Not far away the Baron Giraud had his estate--the modern
castle of "Mon Plaisir," with its little white turret, its porcelain
bas-reliefs in brilliant colours let into the walls, its artificial
gardens ornamented with gold and silver balls, and summer-houses of
which the windows were glazed with playful fancy that outdid nature in
clothing the prospect in the respective hues of spring, summer, autumn
and winter.
Very different from this was the ancient chateau of La Pauline,
perched half-way up the mountain on a table-land--its grey stone face
showing grimly against a sombre background of cypress trees. The house
was built, as the antiquarians of Draguignan avow, of stone that was
hewn by the Romans for less peaceful purposes. That an ancient
building must have stood here would, indeed, be to some extent
credible, from the fact that in front of the house lies a lawn of that
weedless turf which is only found in this country in such places as
the Arena at Fréjus. In the center of the lawn stands a sun
dial--grey, green and ancient--a relic of those days when men lived by
hours, and not by minutes, as we do to-day. It is all of the old
world--of that old, old world of France beside which our British
antiquities are, with a few exceptions, youthful. This was the
birthplace of Madame de Clericy and of Lucille herself. Hither the
ladies always returned with a quiet joy. There is no more peaceful
spot on earth than La Pauline, chiefly, perhaps, because there is
nothing in nature so still and lifeless as an olive grove. Why, by the
way, do the birds of the air never build their nests in these
trees--why do they rarely rest and never ring there? Behind La
Pauline--so close, indeed, that the little chapel stands in the grey
hush of the trees, guarded, of course, by a sentinel circle of
cypresses--rise the olive terraces and stretch up, tier above tier,
till the pines are reached. Below the grey house the valley opens out
like a fan, and far away to the south the rugged crags of Roquebrune
stand out against a faint blue haze, which is the Mediterranean.
No better example of Peace on Earth is to be found than La Pauline
after sunset, at which time the olive groves are a silver
fairyland--when the chapel bell tinkles in vain for the faithful to
come to vespers--when the stout old placid curé sits down
philosophically in the porch to read the office to himself, knowing
well that a hot day in the vineyards turns all footsteps homewards.
When the ladies are in residence at the chateau, it is a different
matter. Then, indeed, the curé lays aside his old soutane and dons
that fine new clerical habit presented to him by Mademoiselle Lucille
at the time of her first communion, when the Bishop of Fréjus came to
Draguignan, and the whole valley assembled to do him honour there.
The ladies came, as we have said, in December, and at the gate the
curé met them as usual--making there, as was his custom, a great
hesitation as to kissing Lucille, now that she was a demoiselle of the
great world, having--the rogue!--shaved with extraordinary care for
that very purpose, a few hours earlier. Indeed, it is to be feared
that the good curé did not always present so cleanly an appearance as
he did on the arrival of the ladies. Here the family lived a quiet
life among the peasants, who loved them, and Lucille visited them in
their cottages, taking what simple hospitality they could offer her
with a charm and appetite unrivalled, as the parishioners themselves
have often told the writer. In these humble homes she found children
with skins as white, with hair as fair and bright, as her own, and if
the traveller wander so far from the beaten track, he can verify my
statement. For in Var, by some racial freak--which, like all such
matters, is in point of fact inexplicable--a large proportion of the
people are of fair or ruddy complexions.
Had the Vicomtesse desired it, the neighbourhood offered society of a
loftier, and, as some consider, more interesting, nature, but that
lady did not hold much by social gatherings, and it was only from a
sense of duty that she invited a few friends, about the time of
Lucille's birthday--her twenty-first birthday, indeed--to pass some
days at La Pauline.
These friends were bidden for the 26th December, and among them were
the Baron Giraud and his son Alphonse.
Alphonse arrived on horseback in a costume which would have done
credit to the head-groom of a racing stable. The right-hand twist of
his mustache was eminently successful, but the left-hand extremity
drooped with a lamentable effect, which he was not able to verify
until after he had greeted the ladies, whom he met in the garden, as
he rode toward the chateau.
"My father," he cried, as he descended from the saddle, "that dear old
man, arrives on the instant. He is in a carriage--a close carriage,
and he smokes. Picture it to yourselves--when there is this air to
breathe--when there are horses to ride. Madame la Vicomtesse"--he took
that lady's hand--"what a pleasure! Mademoiselle Lucille--as beautiful
as ever."
"Even more so," replied Lucille with her gay laugh. "What exquisite
riding-boots! But are they not a little tight, Alphonse?"
For Lucille could not perceive why playmates should suddenly begin to
monsieur and mademoiselle each other after years of intimacy. This was
the rock in that path which Alphonse, like the rest of us, found
anything but smooth. Lucille was so gay. It is difficult to make
serious love to a person who is not even impressed by English
riding-boots.
[Illustration: "WHAT EXQUISITE RIDING-BOOTS! BUT ARE THEY NOT A LITTLE
TIGHT, ALPHONSE?"]
At this moment the Baron's carriage appeared on the zig-zag road below
the chateau, and Madame de Clericy's face assumed an expression of
placid resignation. In due time the vehicle, with its gorgeous
yellow wheels, reached the level space upon which the party stood. The
Baron Giraud emerged from the satin-lined recesses of the dainty
carriage like a stout caterpillar from a rose, a stumpy little man
with no neck and a red face. A straggling dyed mustache failed to hide
an unpleasant mouth, with lips too red and loose. Cunning little dark
eyes relieved the countenance of the Baron Giraud from mere animalism.
They were intelligent little eyes, that looked to no high things and
made no mistake in low places. But the Baron Giraud did not make one
proud of the human race. This was a man who handled millions with
consummate skill and daring, and by a certain class of persons he was
almost worshipped. Personally, a 'longshore loafer who can handle a
boat with the same intrepidity is to me a pleasanter object, though
skill of any description must command a certain respect.
There were other guests to whom the Baron was presently introduced,
and towards these he carried himself with the pomposity and hauteur
which are only permissible to the very highest rank of new wealth.
Lucille, as I learnt from Monsieur Alphonse later--indeed, our
friendship was based on the patience with which I listened to his talk
of that young lady--was dressed on this particular afternoon in white,
but such matters as these bungled between two men will interest no
one. Her hair she wore half in curls, according to the hideous custom
of that day. Is it not always safe to abuse the old fashion? And at no
time safer than the present, when the whole world gapes with its
great, foolish mouth after every novelty. I remember that Lucille
looked pretty enough; but you, mesdames, who laugh at me, are no doubt
quite right, and a thousand times more beautiful in your mannish
attire.
The guests presently dispersed in the shady garden, and the Baron
accepted Madame's offer of refreshment on the terrace, whither a
servant brought a tray of liqueurs. The pleasant habit of afternoon
tea had not yet been introduced across the channel, and French ladies
had still something to learn.
"Ah, Madame!" said the Baron Giraud in a voice that may be described
as metallic, inasmuch as it was tinny, "these young people!"
With a wave of his thick white hand he indicated Alphonse and Lucille,
who had wandered down an alley entirely composed of orange trees,
where, indeed, a yellow glow seemed to hover, so thickly hung the
fruit on the branches. Madame followed the direction of his glance
with a non-committing bow of the head.
"I shall have to ask Monsieur le Vicomte what he proposes doing in the
way of a 'dot,'" pursued the financier with a cackling laugh, which
was not silvery, though it savoured of bullion. The Vicomtesse smiled
gravely, and offered the Baron one of those little square biscuits
peculiar to Fréjus.
"Madame knows nothing of such matters?"
"Nothing," answered she, meeting the twinkling eyes.
"Ah!" murmured the Baron, addressing, it would seem, the distant
mountains. "Such details are not, of course, for the ladies. It is the
other side of the question"--he laid his hand upon his waistcoat--"the
side of the affections--the heart, my dear Vicomtesse, the heart."
"Yes," answered Madame, looking at him with that disquieting straight
glance of hers--"the heart."
In the mean time--in the orange alley--Alphonse was attempting to get
a serious hearing from Lucille, and curiously enough was making use of
the same word as that passing between their elders on the terrace
above them.
"Have you no heart?" he cried, stamping his foot on the mossy turf,
"that you always laugh when I am serious--have you no heart, Lucille?"
"I do not know what you mean by heart," answered the girl with a
little frown, as if the subject did not please her. And wiser men than
Alphonse Giraud could not have enlightened her.
"Then you are incapable of feeling," he cried, spreading out his hands
as if in invocation to the trees to hear him.
"That may be, but I do not see that it is proved by the fact that I am
not always grave. You, yourself, are gay enough when others are by,
and it is then that I like you best. It is only when we are alone that
you are--tragic. Is that--heart, Alphonse? And are those who laugh
heartless? I doubt it."
"You know I love you," he muttered gloomily, and the expression on his
round face did not seem at home there.
"Well," she answered, with a severity gathered heaven knows whence--I
cannot think they taught it to her in the convent--"you have told me
so twice since you became aware of my continued existence at the ball
last month. But you are hopelessly serious to-day. Let us go back to
the terrace."
She stooped and picked up an orange that had fallen, throwing it
subsequently along the smooth turf for her dog to chase.
"See," she said gaily, "Talleyrand will scarcely trouble to run now.
He is so stout and dignified. He is afraid that the country dogs
should see him. It is Paris. Paris spoils--so much."
"You know my father's plans concerning us," said Alphonse, after a
pause, which served to set aside Talleyrand and the orange.
"The Baron's plans are, I am told, wonderful, but"--she paused and
gave a little laugh--"I do not understand finance."
They walked up the steps together, between the trim borders, where
spring flowers were already breaking into bud. On the terrace they
found the Vicomtesse and the Baron Giraud. A servant was going towards
the house carrying carelessly a small silver salver. The Baron was
standing with an unopened envelope in his hand.
"You will permit me, Madame," they heard him say with his strident
little self-satisfied laugh. "A man of affairs is the slave of the
moment. And the affairs of state are never still. A great country
moves even in its sleep."
Having the permission of Madame, he tore open the envelope, enjoying
the importance of the moment. But his face changed as soon as his
glance fell on the paper.
"The government has fallen," he gasped, with white lips and a face
wherefrom the colour faded in blotches. He seemed to forget the
ladies, and looked only at his son. "It may mean--much. I must go to
Paris at once. The place is in an uproar. Mon Dieu--where will it
end!"
He excused himself hurriedly, and in a few minutes his carriage
rattled through the grey stone gateway.
"An uproar in Paris," repeated Lucille, anxiously, when she was alone
with her mother. "What does he mean? Is there any danger? Will papa be
safe?"
"Yes," answered the Vicomtesse quietly; "he will be safe, I think."