Like a vast number of people who have passed years in retirement, Lady
Dorothea was marvellously disappointed with “the world” when she went
back to it. It was not at all the kind of thing she remembered, or
at least fancied it to be. There were not the old gradations of class
strictly defined; there was not the old veneration for rank and station;
“society” was invaded by hosts of unknown people, “names one had never
heard of.” The great stars of fashion of her own day had long since set,
and the new celebrities had never as much as heard of her. The great
houses of the Faubourg were there, it is true; but with reduced
households and dimly lighted salons, they were but sorry representatives
of the splendor her memory had invested them with.
Now the Martins were installed in one of the finest apartments of the
finest quarter in Paris. They were people of unquestionable station,
they had ample means, lacked for none of the advantages which the world
demands from those who seek its favors; and yet there they were, just as
unknown, unvisited, and unsought after, as if they were the Joneses or
the Smiths, “out” for a month's pleasuring on the Continent.
A solitary invitation to the Embassy to dinner was not followed by any
other attention; and so they drove along the Boulevards and through the
Bois de Boulogne, and saw some thousands of gay, bright-costumed people,
all eager for pleasure, all hurrying on to some scheme of amusement or
enjoyment, while they returned moodily to their handsome quarter, as
much excluded from all participation in what went on around them as
though they were natives of Hayti.
Martin sauntered down to the reading-room, hoping vainly to fall in with
some one he knew. He lounged listlessly along the bright streets, till
their very glare addled him; he stared at the thousand new inventions of
luxury and ease the world had discovered since he had last seen it, and
then he plodded gloomily homeward, to dine and listen to her Ladyship's
discontented criticism upon the tiresome place and the odious people who
filled it. Paris was, indeed, a deception and a snare to them! So
far from finding it cheap, the expense of living--as they lived--was
considerably greater than at London. It was a city abounding in
luxuries, but all costly. The details which are in England reserved for
days of parade and display, were here daily habits, and these were now
to be indulged in with all the gloom of solitude and isolation.
What wonder, then, if her Ladyship's temper was ruffled, and her
equanimity unbalanced by such disappointments? In vain she perused the
list of arrivals to find out some distinguished acquaintance; in vain
she interrogated her son as to what was going on, and who were there.
The Captain only frequented the club, and could best chronicle the names
that were great at whist or illustrious at billiards.
“It surely cannot be the season here,” cried she, one morning,
peevishly, “for really there isn't a single person one has ever heard of
at Paris.”
“And yet this is a strong catalogue,” cried the Captain, with a
malicious twinkle in his eye. “Here are two columns of somebodies,
who were present at Madame de Luygnes' last night.”
“You can always fill salons, if that be all,” said she, angrily.
“Yes, but not with Tour du Pins, Tavannes, Rochefoucaulds, Howards
of Maiden, and Greys of Allington, besides such folk as Pahlen,
Lichtenstein, Colonna, and so forth.”
“How is it then, that one never sees them?” cried she, more eagerly.
“Say, rather, how is it one doesn't know them,” cried Martin, “for here
we are seven weeks, and, except to that gorgeous fellow in the cocked
hat at the porter's lodge, I have never exchanged a salute with a human
being.”
“There are just three houses, they say, in all Paris, to one or other of
which one must be presented,” said the Captain--“Madame de Luygnes, the
Duchesse de Cour-celles, and Madame de Mirecourt.”
“That Madame de Luygnes was your old mistress, was she not, Miss
Henderson?” asked Lady Dorothea, haughtily.
“Yes, my Lady,” was the calm reply.
“And who are these other people?”
“The Duc de Mirecourt was married to 'Mademoiselle,' the daughter of the
Duchesse de Luygnes.”
“Have you heard or seen anything of them since you came here?” asked her
Ladyship.
“No, my Lady, except a hurried salute yesterday from a carriage as we
drove in. I just caught sight of the Duchesse as she waved her hand to
me.”
“Oh, I saw it. I returned the salutation, never suspecting it was meant
for _you_. And she was your companion--your dear friend--long ago?”
“Yes, my Lady,” said Kate, bending down over her work, but showing in
the crimson flush that spread over her neck how the speech had touched
her.
“And you used to correspond, I think?” continued her Ladyship.
“We did so, my Lady.”
“And she dropped it, of course, when she married,--she had other things
to think of?”
“I 'm afraid, my Lady, the lapse was on _my_ side,” said Kate, scarcely
repressing a smile at her own hardihood.
“_Your_ side! Do you mean to say that you so far forgot what was due
to the station of the Duchesse de Mirecourt, that you left her letter
unreplied to?”
“Not exactly, my Lady.”
“Then, pray, what do you mean?”
Kate paused for a second or two, and then, in a very calm and collected
voice, replied,--“I told the Duchesse, in my last letter, that I should
write no more,--that my life was thrown in a wild, unfrequented region,
where no incident broke the monotony, and that were I to continue our
correspondence, my letters must degenerate into a mere selfish record of
my own sentiments, as unprofitable to read as ungraceful to write; and
so I said good-bye--or _au revoir_, at least--till other scenes might
suggest other thoughts.”
“A most complimentary character of our Land of the West, certainly!
I really was not aware before that Cro' Martin was regarded as an
'oubliette.'”
Kate made no answer,--a silence which seemed rather to irritate than
appease her Ladyship.
“I hope you included the family in your dreary picture. I trust it was
not a mere piece of what artists call still life, Miss Henderson?”
“No, my Lady,” said she, with a deep sigh; but the tone and manner of
the rejoinder were anything but apologetic.
“Now I call that as well done as anything one sees in Hyde Park,” cried
the Captain, directing attention as he spoke to a very handsome chariot
which had just driven up to the door. “They're inquiring for somebody
here,” continued he, as he watched the Chasseur as he came and went from
the carriage to the house.
“There's a Grandee of Spain, or something of that kind, lives on the
fourth floor, I think,” said Martin, dryly.
“The Duchesse de Mirecourt, my Lady,” said a servant, entering, “begs to
know if your Ladyship will receive her?”
Kate started at the words, and her color rose till her cheeks were
crimsoned.
“A visit, I suspect, rather for you than me, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea, in a half-whisper; and then turning to her servant, nodded her
acquiescence.
“I 'm off,” said Martin, rising suddenly to make his escape.
“And I too,” said the Captain, as he made his exit by an opposite door.
The folding-doors of the apartment were at the same moment thrown wide,
and the Duchess entered. Very young,--almost girlish, indeed,--she
combined in her appearance the charming freshness of youth with that
perfection of gracefulness which attaches to the higher classes
of French society, and although handsome, more striking from the
fascination of manner than for any traits of beauty. Courtesying
slightly, but deferentially, to Lady Dorothea, she apologized for her
intrusion by the circumstance of having, the day before, caught sight of
her “dear governess and dear friend--” And as she reached thus far, the
deep-drawn breathing of another attracted her. She turned and saw Kate,
who, pale as a statue, stood leaning on a chair. In an instant she
was in her arms, exclaiming, in a rapture of delight, “My dear, dear
Kate,--my more than sister! You would forgive me, madam,” said she,
addressing Lady Dorothea, “if you but knew what we were to each other.
Is it not so, Kate?”
A faint tremulous motion of the lips--all colorless as they were--was
the only reply to the speech; but the young Frenchwoman needed none, but
turning to her Ladyship, poured forth with native volubility a story of
their friendship, the graceful language in which she uttered it lending
those choice phrases which never seem exaggerations of sentiment till
they be translated into other tongues. Mingling her praises with half
reproaches, she drew a picture of Kate so flattering that Lady Dorothea
could not help a sense of shrinking terror that one should speak in such
terms of the governess.
“And now, dearest,” added she, turning to Kate, “are we to see a great
deal of each other? When can you come to me? Pardon me, madam, this
question should be addressed to you.”
“Miss Henderson is my secretary, Madame la Duchesse; she is also my
companion,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily; “but I can acknowledge claims
which take date before my own. She shall be always at liberty when you
wish for her.”
“How kind, how good of you!” cried the Duchess. “I could have been
certain of that. I knew that my dear Kate must be loved by all around
her. We have a little _fête_ on Wednesday at St. Germain. May I bespeak
her for that day?”
“Her Ladyship suffers her generosity to trench upon her too far,” said
Kate, in a low voice. “I am in a manner necessary to her,--that is, my
absence would be inconvenient.”
“But her Ladyship will doubtless be in the world herself that evening.
There is a ball at the Duchesse de Sargance, and the Austrian Minister
has something,” rattled on the lively Duchess. “Paris is so gay just
now, so full of pleasant people, and all so eager for enjoyment. Don't
you find it so, my Lady?”
“I go but little into society!” said Lady Dorothea, stiffly.
“How strange! and I--I cannot live without it. Even when we go to our
Château at Roche-Mire I carry away with me all my friends who will
consent to come. We try to imitate that delightful life of your country
houses, and make up that great family party which is the _beau idéal_ of
social enjoyment.”
“And you like a country life, then?” asked her Ladyship.
“To be sure. I love the excursions on horseback, the forest drives, the
evening walks in the trellised vines, the parties one makes to see a
thousand things one never looks at afterwards; the little dinners on the
grass, with all their disasters, and the moonlight drive homewards, half
joyous, half romantic,--not to speak of that charming frankness by which
every one makes confession of his besetting weakness, and each has some
little secret episode of his own life to tell the others. All but Kate
here,” cried she, laughingly, “who never revealed anything.”
“Madame la Duchesse will, I 'm sure, excuse my absence; she has
doubtless many things she would like to say to her friend alone,” said
Lady Dorothea, rising and courtesying formally; and the young Duchess
returned the salutation with equal courtesy and respect.
“My dear, dear Kate,” cried she, throwing her arms around her as the
door closed after her Ladyship, “how I have longed for this moment,
to tell you ten thousand things about myself and hear from you as many
more! And first, dearest, are you happy? for you look more serious, more
thoughtful than you used,--and paler, too.”
“Am I so?” asked Kate, faintly.
“Yes. When you're not speaking, your brows grow stern and your lips
compressed. Your features have not that dear repose, as Giorgevo used to
call it. Poor fellow! how much in love he was, and you 've never asked
for him!”
“I never thought of him!” said she, with a smile.
“Nor of Florian, Kate!”
“Nor even of him.”
[Illustration: 044]
“And yet that poor fellow was really in love,--nay, don't laugh, Kate,
I know it. He gave up his career, everything he had in life,--he was
a Secretary of Legation, with good prospects,--all to win your favor,
becoming a 'Carbonaro,' or a 'Montagnard,' or something or other that
swears to annihilate all kings and extirpate monarchy.”
“And after that?” asked Kate, with more of interest.
“After that, ma chère, they sent him to the galleys; I forget exactly
where, but I think it was in Sicily. And then there was that Hungarian
Count Nemescz, that wanted to kill somebody who picked up your bouquet
out of the Grand Canal at Venice.”
“And whom, strangely enough, I met and made acquaintance with in
Ireland. His name is Massingbred.”
“Not the celebrity, surely,--the young politician who made such a
sensation by a first speech in Parliament t'other day? He's all the rage
here. Could it be him?”
“Possibly enough,” said she, carelessly. “He had very good abilities,
and knew it.”
“He comes to us occasionally, but I scarcely have any acquaintance with
him. But this is not telling me of yourself, child. Who and what are
these people you are living with? Do they value my dear Kate as they
ought? Are they worthy of having her amongst them?”
“I 'm afraid not,” said Kate, with a smile. “They do not seem at all
impressed with the blessing they enjoy, and only treat me as one of
themselves.”
“But, seriously, child, are they as kind as they should be? That old
lady is, to my thinking, as austere as an Archduchess.”
“I like her,” said Kate; “that is, I like her cold, reserved manner,
unbending as it is, which only demands the quiet duties of servitude,
and neither asks nor wishes for affection. She admits me to no
friendship, but she exacts no attachment.”
“And you like this?”
“I did not say I should like it from _you!_ said Kate, pressing the hand
she held fervently to her lips, while her pale cheek grew faintly red.
“And you go into the world with her,--at least _her_ world?”
“She has none here. Too haughty for second-rate society, and unknown to
those who form the first class at Paris, she never goes out.”
“But she would--she would like to do so?”
“I 'm sure she would.”
“Then mamma shall visit her. You know she is everything here; her house
is the rendezvous of all the distinguished people, and, once seen in her
salons, my Lady--how do you call her?”
“Lady Dorothea Martin.”
“I can't repeat it--but no matter--her Ladyship shall not want for
attentions. Perhaps she would condescend to come to me on Wednesday?
Dare I venture to ask her?”
Kate hesitated, and the Duchess quickly rejoined,--“No, dearest, you are
quite right; it would be hazardous, too abrupt, too unceremonious. You
will, however, be with us; and I long to present you to all my friends,
and show them one to whom I owe so much, and ought to be indebted to
for far more. I 'll send for you early, that we may have a long morning
together.” And so saying, she arose to take leave.
“I feel as though I 'll scarcely believe I had seen you when you have
gone,” said Kate, earnestly. “I'll fancy it all a dream--or rather, that
my life since we met has been one, and that we had never parted.”
“Were we not very happy then, Kate?” said the Duchess, with a half-sigh;
“happier, perhaps, than we may ever be again.”
“_You_ must not say so, at all events,” said Kate, once more embracing
her. And they parted.
Kate arose and watched the splendid equipage as it drove away, and then
slowly returned to her place at the work-table. She did not, however,
resume her embroidery, but sat deep in reflection, with her hands
clasped before her.
“Poor fellow!” said she, at length, “a galley-slave, and Massingbred a
celebrity! So much for honesty and truth in this good world of ours! Can
it always go on thus? That is the question I'm curious to hear solved.
A little time may, perhaps, reveal it!” So saying to herself, she leaned
her head upon her hand, deep lost in thought.