THE ABBÉ'S DISASTER
The force of circumstances had proved too great. What strength had his
training or his age to resist them? The old master, Love, the compeller
of so many heroisms and so many crimes, from Eve and Helen to Manon
Lescaut, had grasped him with his wizard power. Poor Germain, thitherto
so worthy and so well-intentioned, rose in the morning an adventurer--an
adventurer, it is true, driven by desperation and anguish into his
dangerous part, and grasping the hope of nevertheless yet winning by
some forlorn good deed the forgiveness of her who was otherwise lost to
him.
As Dominique, the Auvergnat valet who had been assigned to him by de
Bailleul--because he had been foster father to the Chevalier's son--tied
his hair, put on his morning coat and sword, buckled the sparkling
buckles on his shoes, and handed him his jewelled snuff-box, each
process seemed to Germain a preparation for some unknown accident that
might happen, and in which he must be ready to conquer. When he stepped
down to meet his companions, it was distinctly and consciously to
henceforth play a _rôle_.
He saw Cyrène sitting on a seat in the garden, putting together, with
the critical fingers of a girl, a large bouquet. There was a statue of
Fame close by, and beside it a laurel. She had plucked some of the
leaves to tie with her blossoms.
He went out to her and proffered a word of greeting. She was about to
reply, but the meeting was interrupted by a voice, and the Abbé appeared
from behind the pedestal.
"What! a laurel twig among your flowers, Baroness?" said he. "Excellent!
for Fame herself is not a goddess more suited to distribute favours. Do
I not in you Madame, see again Daphne, the friend of Apollo, who turned
into that tree?" and, smiling atrociously over his classical sweet
speech, he looked at Lecour.
"The insolence!" thought Germain, who also took it as a good opportunity
to begin his _rôle_. "Well, sir," he exclaimed sharply, "talking of
Apollo, did you ever hear that this god flayed one Marsyas for
presumption?"
Cyrène flashed him a surprised and grateful glance.
"I have heard, sir," replied Jude, "that the Princess de Poix desires me
to find and conduct to her Madame the Baroness de la Roche Vernay."
So saying, he carried off Cyrène again, like some black piratical
cruiser, and she reluctantly accompanied him, looking back regretfully
over her shoulder.
Lecour could not understand the eternal use of the formal orders of the
Princess. He watched the two in a vexed stupor until they disappeared.
Then he recalled the inanity and exacting requests of the great lady,
and guessed how her reader was able to so boldly play his annoying
trick.
Just then Grancey laid his hand on Germain's shoulder. There was so much
friendship in the face of the golden-haired Life Guard that Lecour at
once raised the question uppermost in his mind.
"Baron," said he, "tell me, who is Madame de la Roche Vernay?"
Grancey's eyes twinkled intelligently.
"It is an affair, then? I can keep secrets."
"An affair only on my unfortunate side," Germain admitted gloomily.
"As on that of many another. Your Cyrène is the bearer of a very great
name: she is a Montmorency."
"A Montmorency!"
"Yes; she is a widow, you see."
"Never."
"While an orphan. Her father, the Vicomte Luc de Montmorency, who was a
madman of a spendthrift, ended up in two bankruptcies, and was banished
from Court. Cyrène was brought up in a mouldy old château near St. Ouen.
When only thirteen her hand was sought by an ambitious financier,
Trochu, for his son, Baron la Roche Vernay, who was then with his
regiment in Dominica. Money was necessary to the Vicomte, and, in short,
Mademoiselle was sold for two million livres, and the marriage
celebrated by proxy, as both the fathers were impatient to finish the
bargain. It appeared by the mails that the young man died of fever two
days after.
"She wears no mourning," said Germain.
"Her father forbade it, and he brought her back with her dowry at once
to his own roof, away from the Trochus."
"But why is such a beautiful woman not married again?"
"Do you not know that at the Court nobody except the bald and toothless
marries, except for fortune. There are plenty of lovers, but no
husbands. Because she is poor she is passed about in the family,
sometimes as lady of honour to the Princess, sometimes to the Maréchale
de Noailles, her grand-aunt."
Germain's feelings were trebly disturbed by the history of the
child-widow. He made an effort to speak to her once more by inviting her
to the tennis-court, but the Abbé informed them just then that she was
requested to read correspondence to the Princess.
When he was in his bedchamber having his hunting-boots pulled off after
a badger hunt with the male guests, the valet, Dominique, began to talk.
"That is a queer priest--that Messire Jude, the Abbé."
"Yes, Dominique."
"Yes, Monsieur Germain. He talks very freely with us servants. This
morning he inquired a great deal of me about your affairs. He said you
were a close friend of his. Was _he_ a Canadian?"
"Not at all. What more, Dominique?"
"He asked how long you had been here; and what relationship you bore to
our master; and what were your intentions about staying; and your
fortune and your rank; and how many were your clothes and jewels. Then
he proposed to see into your chamber here."
"Did you let him?"
"I told him it was against my duty, sir; but he told me I must
never dispute the Church, so he walked in and examined
everything--_everything_; he even opened the cupboards."
"The thief! If you allow that man in my apartment again I will spit you
both. Remember!"
Grancey and d'Amoreau came in.
"Curses on that black beetle," exclaimed the latter.
"Amen," profoundly echoed the former. "If it were not for the Princess I
would feed my rapier with him."
"He has no right to such an honour; I would have him whipped by the
lackeys. Répentigny, he has got her to take us back to the Palace
to-morrow morning, and spoilt all our pleasure."
"That seems to be his vocation," Germain answered with warmth. "I would
undertake to punish him myself."
"On a wager of ten to two half-louis?"
"Accepted."
The two officers laughed uproariously at the prospect.
"Répentigny, if you do this," cried Grancey, "we will speak for you to
the King for something good."
After dinner Madame proposed a promenade in the park. Strolling in
procession, they came to some marble steps by the lakeside, where the
host proposed that the young men should take boats and row the ladies
about, and he assigned Germain to Cyrène.
They were entering one of the shallops, when Jude suggested that the
Princess should be taken too. She objected; she detested water.
"Well, I will enjoy it myself," he said, and with the utmost assurance
stepped into the stern; while d'Amoreau and Grancey chuckled and looked
at each other and Germain. The latter smiled and rowed down the lake.
On the other side was a clearing in the grove, where a stone seat was
placed near the bank. Here Lecour drew to shore, and handed out Cyrène.
The two Guardsmen were watching him closely. When Jude rose from the
stem seat he felt a sudden strong turn given to the boat. He clutched
the air, it did not save him; one black silk leg kicked up, and he
disappeared under the water.
The face of Cyrène, who had seated herself on the stone bench, was for a
moment one of alarm.
The depth was not, however, above the Abbé's waist, and when he rose his
look of furious misery was too comical for any pity. The water streamed
in a cataract from his wig over his elongated countenance and ruined
clothes. He had screwed his face into the black slime of the bottom; it
was now besides distorted with his efforts to breathe, and he
unconsciously held up his blackened hands in the attitude of blessing.
The whole party could not contain their laughter. D'Amoreau, Grancey,
and the other Guardsmen sent up continuous roars on roars from their
boats. The Prince smiled; de Bailleul's efforts to control himself were
ineffectual; the ladies all tittered, except Madame, who stood on shore,
and even the considerate Cyrène could restrain herself no longer, but
turned her head from the moving appeal of the unfortunate figure before
her, and gave way to a silvery chime of undiluted enjoyment.
"Hush, cousin," cried the Princess de Poix, stilted as ever; "such a sad
accident."
"Répentigny, by Castor and Pollux," swore d'Amoreau at the first moment
of their meeting in private, "here are not five louis, but twenty. You
were made for a Marshal of France."
"Dominique," Germain called out, "spend this with your fellows" (by
instinct he knew it was part of his _rôle_ to be lavish), "and tell them
to drink to that meddlesome blackleg."
"In cold water," d'Amoreau added.