THE LUCK OF JACQUES.
Belle-bouche was busily at work upon a piece of embroidery when
Jacques entered; and this embroidery was designed for a fire-screen.
It represented a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background
uniformly emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover dwelt
wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different colors from a
tortoise-shell work-box filled with spools of silk.
Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer with a frank smile,
and held out her hand, which poor Jacques pressed to his lips with
melancholy pleasure.
"I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some graceful occupation,"
he said mournfully; "she is either reading the poets, or writing
poetry herself in all the colors of the rainbow."
The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a smile.
"Oh, no," she said; "I am only working a screen."
"It is very pretty."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes."
And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual dried up like a
fountain at midsummer. He made a desperate effort.
"I thought I heard you singing as I entered," he said.
"Yes, I believe I was," smiled Belle-bouche.
"What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed.
Belle-bouche laughed.
"A child's song," she said.
"Pray what!"
"'Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.'"
"A most exquisite air," sighed Jacques; "please commence again."
"But I have finished."
"Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche; see how
unfortunate I am--pray pardon me."
"Willingly," said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate blush.
"I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near you," he said
tenderly.
"Why? because you find me very idle?"
"Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens--dryads
and oreads and naiads," said the classic Jacques; "and you are like
them."
"Like a dryad?"
"They were very beautiful."
Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the
screen. Jacques sighed.
"Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is
still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate."
And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques
was silent.
"Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very
pretty."
"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor
Corydon.
Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down
and played the prelude.
Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.
"Please hand me the music," said Belle-bouche; "there in the scarlet
binding."
Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the young girl's hand
touched his own, and he uttered a sigh which might have melted rocks.
The reason was, that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though
it has probably appeared before.
Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and melodious flowers.
Its melting involutions and expiring cadences unwound themselves and
floated from her lips like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.
As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have supposed that his
nerves were steeped in the liquid melody--or at times, when he
started, that the music came over him like a shower bath of perfume.
His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when she turned and
smiled on him, he almost staggered.
"Now," said Belle-bouche smiling softly, "suppose I sing something a
little merrier. You know the minuet always gives place to the reel."
Jacques uttered an expiring assent, and Belle-bouche commenced singing
with her laughing voice the then popular ditty, "Pretty Betty Martin,
tip-toe fine."
If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now. The joyous and
exhilarating music sparkled, glittered, fell in rosy showers--rattled
like liquid diamonds and dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and
ran--and stumbling over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in
shattered cadences and fiery foam.
When she ended, Jacques remained silent, and was only waked, so to
speak, by hearing his name pronounced.
"Yes," he said at random.
Belle-Bouche laughed.
"You agree with me, then, that my voice is wretchedly out of tune?"
she said mischievously.
Poor Jacques only sighed and blushed.
"Betty Martin was a foolish girl," said Belle-bouche, laughing to hide
her embarrassment.
"How?" murmured Jacques.
Belle-bouche found that she was involved in a delicate explanation;
but thinking boldness the best, she replied:
"Because she could not find just the husband she wanted. You know the
song says so--'some were too coarse and some too fine.'"
"Yes," murmured Jacques; "and 'tis often the case with us poor
fellows. We seldom find the Chloe we want--she flies us ever spite of
our attempts to clasp her to our hearts."
"That is not because Chloe is fickle, but because Corydon is so
difficult to please," Belle-bouche replied, with a sly little smile.
"Ah! I am not!" he sighed.
"Indeed, you are mistaken; I'm sure you are a very fastidious
shepherd."
"No, no. True, I may never find my Chloe; but when I do, then I shall
no longer be my own master."
Belle-bouche hesitated, blushed, and said quickly:
"Perhaps you long to meet with an angel."
"Oh, no--only a woman," said Jacques; "and if you will listen, I will
describe my ideal in a moment."
"Yes," said Belle-bouche, looking away; for his eyes were fixed upon
her with such meaning that she could not return his gaze.
"First," said Corydon, sighing, "she should be young--that is to say,
she should unite the grace and innocence of childhood with the
splendor and fascination of the fully-developed woman. This is most
often found at seventeen--therefore she should be just seventeen."
Belle-bouche was scarcely more than seventeen, as we know. The
cunning Jacques went on.
"She should be a blonde, with light golden hair, eyes as azure as the
heavens, and, as one great poet said of another, 'with a charming
archness' in them."
"Yes," murmured Belle-bouche, whom this description suited perfectly.
"Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner careless," Jacques
went on; "but a delicious gentleness, and even at times a languor,
should be diffused through it--diffused through voice and manner, as a
perfume is diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible
almost, filling us with quiet pleasure."
"Quite a poetical description," said Belle-bouche, trying to laugh.
"She should be soft and tender--full of wondrous thoughts, and ever
standing like a gracious angel," sighed the rapturous Jacques, "to
bless, console, and comfort me."
"Still prettier," said Belle-bouche, blushing.
"Now let me sum up," said Jacques. "Golden hair, blue eyes, a rosy
face full of childlike innocence, at times steeped in dewy languor,
and those melting smiles which sway us poor men so powerfully; and
lastly, with a heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and
emotions. There is what I look for--ah, to find her! Better still to
dream she could love me."
"Well, can you not find your Chloe?" Belle-bouche murmured, almost
inaudibly.
"Never, I fear," said Jacques; "or else," he continued with a sigh,
"when we do find her, we always find that some other discoverer claims
possession."
Belle-bouche blushed.
"Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said,
attempting to laugh.
Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.
"'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers."
"Oh no, it is not!" said Belle-bouche.
"What then?"
"The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere."
Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which leaned upon one
of her fair hands--the other hand meanwhile being an object of deep
interest to her eyes, cast down toward it.
"And should such a heart be wounded?" he said.
"Oh, no!" murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.
"Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearest Belle-bouche! light
of my heart--that was your portrait! Listen to your faithful----"
Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at the very moment when
he was about to fall upon his knees--just when his fate was to be
decided--just when he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in
its brilliant hues, all love and sunshine--that excellent old lady
Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with rustling silk and
rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams.
Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery; Aunt Wimple
sat down comfortably, and commenced a flood of talk about the weather;
and Jacques fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.
In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town--his arms
hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his dreamy eyes fixed
intently upon vacancy.
Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone was in his
vision--Belle-bouche, who by another chance was snatched from him.
The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort of odor, and the
lark sang harshly.
As he passed through a meadow, he heard himself saluted by name--by
whom he knew not. He bowed without looking at the speaker; he only
murmured, "One more chance gone." As he passed the residence of Sir
Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him; he only sighed,
"Belle-bouche!"