HOW HENRIETTE READ HISTORY TO SOME PURPOSE
The inside of the Château de Lancilly was a curious labyrinth of arched
stone passages paved with brick, cold on the hottest day, with short
flights of steps making unexpected changes of level; every wall so thick
as to hold deep cupboards, even small rooms, or private staircases
climbing steeply up or down. The old ghosts of the château, who slipped
in and out of these walls and flitted about the hidden steps, had lost a
good deal of their credit in the last twenty years. No self-respecting
ghost could show itself to Urbain de la Marinière, and few mortals
besides him haunted the remote passages while the great house stood
empty.
And now one may be sure that the ghosts were careful to hide themselves
from Madame de Sainfoy. No half-lights, no chilly shadows wavering on
the wall, no quick passing of a wind from nowhere, such hints and
vanishings as might send a shiver through ordinary bones, had any effect
on Adélaïde's cool dignity. The light of reason shone in her clear-cut
face; her voice, penetrating and decided, was enough to frighten any
foolish spirit who chose to sweep rushingly beside her through the wall
as she walked along the passages.
"Do you hear the rats?" she would say. "How can we catch them? These old
houses are infested with them."
She spoke so firmly that even the ghost itself believed it was a rat,
and scuttled away out of hearing.
To reach the north wing, where her three girls and their governess
lived, Madame de Sainfoy had to mount a short flight of steps from the
hall, then to go along a vaulted corridor lighted only by a small
lucarne window here and there, then down a staircase which brought her
to the level of the great salons and the dining-room at the opposite
end, which formerly, like this north wing, had hung over the moat, but
were now being brought nearer the ground by Monsieur de Sainfoy's
earthworks.
This old north wing had been less restored than any other part of the
château. The passage which ran through it, only lighted by a window at
the foot of the staircase, ended at the arched door of a silent,
deserted chapel with an altar on its east side, a quaint figure of Our
Lady in a carved niche, and a window half-darkened with ivy leaves,
overhanging the green and damp depths of the moat, now empty of water.
Before reaching the chapel--lonely and neglected, but not desecrated,
for by the care of Madame de la Marinière mass had been said in it once
a year--there were four doors, two on each side of the corridor. The
first on the left was that of the room where Sophie and Lucie both slept
and did their lessons, a large room looking out west to the gardens and
woods behind Lancilly; and opening from this, with a separate door into
the passage, was Mademoiselle Moineau's room. On the right the rooms
were smaller, the chapel cutting them off to the north, with a secret
staircase in the thickness of the wall by the altar. A maid slept in the
first; and the second, nearest the chapel, but with a wide, cheerful
view of its own across the valley to the east, was Hélène's room.
Madame de Sainfoy, after disposing of Hervé and hearing all that Urbain
had to tell her, with digressions to the almost equally interesting
subject of silk hangings, set off across the château to inspect the
young people at their lessons. She was an excellent mother. She did not,
like so many women, leave her children entirely to the consciences of
their teachers.
Her firm step, the sharp touch which lifted the heavy old latch,
straightened the backs of Sophie and Lucie as if by magic. Lucie looked
at her mother in terror. Too often her round shoulders caught that
unsparing eye, and the dreaded backboard was firmly strapped on before
Madame de Sainfoy left the room; for Lucie, growing tall and inclined
to stoop, was going through the period of torture which Hélène, for the
same reason, had endured before her.
They all got up, including Mademoiselle Moineau. The two girls went to
kiss their mother's hand; Henriette, more slowly, followed their
example.
"I hope your new pupil is obedient, mademoiselle," said Madame de
Sainfoy, as her cold glance met the child's fearless eyes.
Mademoiselle Moineau cocked her little arched nose--she was very like a
fluffy old bird--and smiled rather mischievously.
"We shall do very well, when Mademoiselle de la Marinière understands
us," she said. "I have no wish to complain, but at present she is a
little sure of herself, a little distrustful of me, and so--"
"Ignorance and ill-breeding," said the Comtesse, coolly. "Excuse
her--she will know better in time."
Riette's eyes fell, and she became crimson. The good-natured Sophie
caught her hand and squeezed it, thinking she was going to cry; but such
weakness was far from Riette; the red of her cheeks was a flame of pure
indignation. Ignorant! Ill-bred! She had been very much pleased when the
little papa decided suddenly on sending her to join Sophie and Lucie in
their lessons; she had been seized with a romantic admiration for
Hélène, independent of the interest she took in her for Angelot's sake,
and in other ways the Château de Lancilly was to her enchanted ground.
And now this fair, tall lady, whom she had disliked from the first,
talked of her ignorance and ill-breeding! She drew herself up, her lips
trembled; another such word and she would have walked out of the room,
fled down the corridor, escaped alone across the fields to Les
Chouettes. She knew every turn, every step in the château, every path in
the country, far better than these people did; they would not easily
overtake her.
But Madame de Sainfoy was not thinking of Henriette.
"What are you doing? Reading history?" she said to the others.
"Mademoiselle, I thought it was my wish that Hélène should read history
with her sisters. The other day, if you remember, she could not tell
Monsieur de Sainfoy the date of the marriage of Philippe Duc d'Orléans
with the Princess Henriette of England. It is necessary to know these
things. The Emperor expects a correct knowledge of the old Royal Family.
Where is Hélène?"
"She is in her own room, madame. Allow me an instant--"
The three children were left alone. Madame de Sainfoy walked quickly
into Mademoiselle Moineau's room, the little governess waddling after
her, and the door was shut.
Riette made a skip in the air and pirouetted on one foot. Then while
Sophie and Lucie stared open-mouthed, she was on a chair; then with a
wild spring, she was hanging by her hands to the top cornice of a great
walnut-wood press; then she was on her feet again, light as an
india-rubber ball.
"Ah, mon Dieu! sit down, Riette, or we shall all be beaten!" sighed the
trembling Lucie.
"Don't be frightened, children!" murmured Riette. "Where is our book?
Now, my angels, think, think of Henri Quatre and all his glory!"
In the meanwhile, Mademoiselle Moineau laid her complaint of Hélène
before the Comtesse. Something was certainly the matter with the girl;
she would not read, she would not talk, her tasks of needlework were
neglected, she did not care to go out, or to do anything but sit in her
window and gaze across the valley.
"Of course there has been no opportunity--they have never met, except in
public--but if it were not entirely out of the question--" Mademoiselle
Moineau stammered, blushing, conscious, though she would never confess
it, of having nodded one day for a few minutes under a certain mulberry
tree. "The other night, madame, at the dinner party, did it strike you
that a certain gentleman was a little forward, a little intimate--"
Madame de Sainfoy lifted her brows and shrugged her shoulders.
"You mean young La Marinière? Bah! nonsense, mademoiselle. Only a
little cousin, and a quite impossible one. We cannot keep him quite at
arm's length, because of his father, who has been so excellent. But if
you really think that Hélène has any such absurdity in her head--"
"Oh, madame, I do not say so. I have no positive reason for saying so.
She has told me nothing--"
"I should think not," said Madame de Sainfoy, shortly.
Mademoiselle Moineau was dismissed back to her pupils, whom she found,
under Henriette's surveillance, deep in the romance of French history.
Madame de Sainfoy crossed the passage and tried Hélène's door. It was
not fastened, as she had half expected. Opening it quickly and gently,
she found her daughter sitting in the window, as the governess had
described her, with both arms stretched out upon its broad sill, and
eyes fixed in a long wistful gaze on the small spire of the church at La
Marinière, and the screen of trees which partly hid the old manor
buildings from view.
"What are you doing, Hélène?" said Madame de Sainfoy.
Her voice, though low, was peremptory. The girl started up, turning her
white face and tired eyes from the window. Her mother walked across the
room and sat down in a high-backed chair close by.
"What a waste of time," she said, "to sit staring into vacancy! Why are
you not reading history with your sisters, as I wished?"
"Mamma--my head aches," said Hélène.
"Then bathe it with cold water. What is the matter with you, child? You
irritate me with your pale looks. Do you dislike Lancilly? Do you wish
yourself back in Paris?"
"No, mamma."
"I could excuse you if you did," said Madame de Sainfoy, with a smile.
"I find the country insupportable myself, but you see, as the fates have
preserved to us this rat-infested ruin, we must make the best of it. I
set you an example, Hélène. I interest myself in restoring and
decorating. If you were to help me, time would not seem so long."
She did not speak at all unkindly.
"I like the country. I like Lancilly much better than Paris," said
Hélène.
There was a moment's gleam of pity in Madame de Sainfoy's bright blue
eyes. Languid, sad, yet not rebellious or sulky, her beautiful girl
stood drooping like a white lily in the stern old frame of the window.
The mother believed in discipline, and Hélène's childhood and youth had
been spent in an atmosphere of cold severity. Punishments would have
been very frequent, if her father's rather spasmodic and inconsequent
kindness had not stepped in to save her. She owed a good deal to her
father, but these debts only hardened her mother against both of them.
Yet Madame de Sainfoy was not without a certain pride in the perfect
form and features, the delicate, exquisite grace and distinction, which
was one of these days to dazzle the Tuileries. On that, her resolution
was firm and unchanging. _Tout va bien!_ One of these days the Emperor's
command might be expected. With that confident certainty in the
background, she felt she need not trouble herself much about her
husband's objections or her daughter's fancies.
"You are a very difficult young woman, Hélène," she said, still not
unkindly, and her eyes travelled with slow consideration over every
detail as the girl stood there. "I do not like that gown of yours," she
said. "Don't wear it again. Give it to Jeanne--do you hear?"
"Must I? But it is not worn out, mamma. I would rather keep it," the
girl said quickly, stroking her soft blue folds, which were in truth a
little faded.
Then she flushed suddenly, for what reason could she give for loving the
old gown! Not, certainly, that she had worn it one day in the
garden--one day when Mademoiselle Moineau went to sleep!
"You will do as I tell you," said Madame de Sainfoy. Then she added with
a slight laugh--"You are so fond of your own way, that I wonder you
should object to being married. Do you think, perhaps, you would find a
husband still more tyrannical?"
The girl shook her head. "No," she murmured.
"Then what is your reason? for you evidently intend not to be married at
all."
"I do not say that," said Hélène; and Madame de Sainfoy was conscious,
with sudden anger, that once more the dreamy grey eyes travelled out of
the open window, far away to those lines of poplars and clipped elms
opposite.
"How different things were when I was young!" she said. "My marriage
with your father was arranged by our relations, without our meeting at
all. I never saw him till everything was concluded. If I had disliked
him, I could neither have said nor done anything."
"That was before the Revolution," said Hélène, with a faint smile.
"Indeed you are very much mistaken," her mother said quickly, "if you
think the Revolution has altered the manners of society. It may have
done good in some ways--I believe it did--but in teaching young people
that they could disobey their parents, it did nothing but harm. And it
deceived them, too. As long as our nation lasts, marriages will be
arranged by those who know best. In your case, but for your father's
absurd indulgence, you would have been married months ago. However,
these delays cannot last for ever. I think you will not refuse the next
marriage that is offered you."
The girl looked wonderingly at her mother, half in terror, half in
hope. She spoke meaningly, positively. What marriage could this be?
"What would you say to a distinguished soldier?" said Madame de Sainfoy,
watching her keenly. "Then, with some post about the Court and your
husband always away at the wars, you could lead a life as independent as
you chose. Now, pray do not think it necessary to throw yourself out of
the window. I make a suggestion, that is all. I am quite aware that
commands are thrown away on a young lady of your character."
"What do you mean, mamma?" the girl panted, with a quick drawing-in of
her breath. "Who is it? Not that man who dined here--that man who was
talking to you?"
Madame de Sainfoy flamed suddenly into one of those cold rages which had
an effectiveness all their own.
"Idiot!" she said between her teeth. "Contemptible little fool! And if
General Ratoneau, a handsome and distinguished man, did you the honour
of asking for your hand, would you expect me to tell him that you had
not taken a fancy to him?"
"Mon Dieu!" Hélène murmured. She turned away to the window for a moment,
clasping her hands upon her breast; then, white as death, came back and
stood before her mother.
"It is what I feared," she said. "It is what you were talking about; I
knew it at the time. That was why you sent me out of the room--you
wanted to talk it over. Have you settled it, then? What did papa say?"
Madame de Sainfoy hesitated. She had not at all intended to mention any
name, or to make Hélène aware to any extent of the true facts of the
case. Her sudden anger had carried her further than she meant to go. She
neither wished to frighten the girl into flying to her father, nor to
tell her that he had refused his consent.
"Really, Hélène, you are my despair," she said, and laughed, her eyes
fixed on the girl's lovely, changing face. "You leap to conclusions in
an utterly absurd way. If such a thing were already settled, or even
under serious consideration, would you not have been formally told of it
before now? Would your father have kept silence for two days, and would
you not have heard of another visit from General Ratoneau? You would not
be surprised, I suppose, to hear that he admires you--and by the bye, I
think your taste is bad if you do not return his admiration--but that is
absolutely all I have to tell you."
"Is it?" the girl sighed. "Ah, mamma, how you terrified me!"
Madame de Sainfoy shrugged her shoulders.
"I wonder," she said, "how I have deserved such a daughter as you! No
courage, no ambition for your family, no feeling of duty to them.
Nothing but--I am ashamed to say it, Hélène, and you can deny it if it
is not true--some silly sentimental fancy which carries your eyes and
thoughts to that old farm over there. Ah, I see I am right. When did
this preposterous nonsense begin? Why, the question is not worth asking,
for you have hardly even spoken to that cousin of yours, and I will do
him the justice to say that he, on his side, has no such ridiculous
idea. He does not sit staring at Lancilly as you do at La Marinière!
Yes, Hélène, I am ashamed of you."
Hélène stood crimson and like a culprit before her mother. She hardly
understood her words; she only knew that her mother had read her heart,
had known how to follow her thoughts as they escaped from this stony
prison away to sunshine and free air and waving trees and a happy,
homely life; away to Angelot. What was there to be ashamed of, after
all? She expected no one to be on her side; she dreaded their anger and
realised keenly what it might be; but as for shame!
Even as Madame de Sainfoy spoke, the thought of her young lover seemed
to surround Hélène with an atmosphere of joyful sweetness. Yes, he was
wonderful, her Angelot. Would he ever be afraid or ashamed to confess
his love for her? Why could she not find courage then to tell of hers
for him?
With a new and astonishing courage Hélène lifted her long lashes and
looked up into her mother's face. It was a timid glance at the best; the
furtive shadow lingered still in her eyes, result of a life of cold
repression.
"Why should I deny it, mamma?" she said. Her voice was distinct, though
it trembled. "It is true, and I am not ashamed of it. Angelot has been
kinder to me than any one in the world. Yes--I love him."
"Ah!" Madame de Sainfoy drew a long breath. "Ah! Voyons! And what next,
pray?"
"If you care at all to make me happy," the girl said, and she gained a
little hope, heaven knows why, as she went on, "you and papa will--will
give me to him. Yes, that is what I want. Mamma, see, I have no
ambition. I don't care to live in Paris or to go to Court--I hate it! I
want to live in the country--over there--at La Marinière."
A smile curled Madame de Sainfoy's pretty mouth. It was not an agreeable
one; but it frightened Hélène much less than an angry word would have
done. She came forward a step or two, knelt on her mother's footstool,
timidly rested a hand on her knee. Madame de Sainfoy sat immovable,
looking down and smiling.
"Speak, mamma," murmured the girl.
"Hélène, are you deaf?" said Madame de Sainfoy. "Did you hear what I
said just now?"
"You told me I had no courage or ambition. I suppose it is true."
"I told you something else, which you did not choose to hear. I told you
that this fancy of yours was not only foolish and low, but one-sided.
Trust me, Hélène. I know more of your precious cousin than you do, my
dear."
"Pardon! Ah no, mamma, impossible."
"It is true. The other night, as you guessed, I sent you away that I
might discuss your future with your father and his family. That very
absurd person, Cousin Joseph de la Marinière, chose to give his opinion
without being asked for it, and took upon himself to suggest a marriage
between you and that little nephew of his. Take your hand away. I
dislike being touched, as you know."
The girl's pale face was full of life and colour now, her melancholy
eyes of light. She snatched away her hand and rose quickly to her feet,
stepping back to her old place near the window.
"Dear Uncle Joseph!" she murmured under her breath.
"The young man was not grateful. He said in plain words that he did not
wish to marry you. Yes, look as bewildered as you please. Ask your
father, ask either of his cousins. I will say for young Ange that he has
more wits than you have; he does not waste his time craving for the
impossible. If it were not so, I should send you away to a convent. As
it is, I shall stop this little flirtation by taking care that you do
not meet him, except under supervision."
The girl looked stricken. She leaned against the wall, once more white
as a statue, once more terrified.
"Angelot said--but it is not possible!" she whispered very low.
"Angelot very sensibly said that he did not care for you. Under those
circumstances I think you are punished enough; and I will not insist on
knowing how you came to deceive yourself so far. But I advise you not to
spend any more time staring at that line of poplars," said Madame de
Sainfoy. "Learn not to take in earnest what other people mean in play;
your country cousin admires you, no doubt, but he knows more of the
world than you do, most idiotic and ill-behaved girl!"
As she said the last words she rose and crossed the room to the door,
throwing them scornfully over her shoulder. Then she passed out, and
Hélène, planted there, heard the key grind in the lock.
She was a prisoner in her room; but this did not greatly trouble her.
She went back to the window, leaned her arms on the sill, gazed once
more at La Marinière, its trees motionless in the afternoon sunlight,
thought of the old room as she had first seen it that moonlit evening
with its sweet air of peace and home, thought of the noble, delicate
face of Angelot's mother, thought of Angelot himself as the candle-light
fell upon him, of the first wonderful look, the electric current which
changed the world for herself and him. And then all that had happened
since, all that her mother did not and never must know. Was it really
possible, could it be believed that he meant nothing, that he did not
love her after all? No, it could not be believed. And yet how to be
sure, without seeing him again?
Ah, well, for some people life must be all sadness, and Héléne had long
believed herself one of these. Angelot's love seemed to have proved her
wrong, but now the leaf in her book was turned back again, and she found
herself at the old place. Not quite that either, for the old deadness
had been waked into an agony of pain. Angelot false! Hell must certainly
be worse to bear after a taste of Paradise.
She laid her fair head down on her arms at the open window, high in the
bare wall. An hour passed by, and still she sat there in a kind of
hopeless lethargy. She did not hear a gentle tapping at the door, nor
the trying of the latch by some one who could not get in. But a minute
later she started and exclaimed when a dark head was suddenly nestled
against hers, her cheek kissed by rosy lips, her name whispered
lovingly.
"Oh, little Riette!" she cried. "Where did you come from, child? Was the
key in the door?"
"No, there was no key," Riette whispered. "You are locked in, ma belle;
but never mind. I know my way about Lancilly. I am going home now, and I
wanted to see you. They will ask me how you are looking."
Hélène blushed and almost laughed. She looked eagerly into the child's
face.
"Who will ask you?"
"Papa, of course."
"Ah, yes, he is very kind. What will you say to him?"
Riette looked hard at her and shrugged her slight shoulders.
"I must go," she said. "Kiss me again, ma belle."
"Stop!" Hélène held her tight, with her hands on her shoulders. "Do you
often see--your cousin--Angelot?"
Riette's face rippled with laughter. "Every day--nearly every hour."
"Why do you laugh?"
"How can I tell? It is my fault, my own wickedness," said Riette,
penitently. "Why indeed should I laugh, when you look sad and ill? Can I
say any little word to Angelot, ma cousine?"
"Tell him I must see him--I must speak to him. Tell him to fix the place
and the hour."
"And you a prisoner?"
"Yes--but how did you get in? That way I can get out--Riette--Riette!"
"Precisely. Adieu! they are calling me."
The child was gone. Hélène, standing in the deep recess in the window,
now came forward and looked round wonderingly. The old tapestried walls
surrounded her; ancient scenes of hunting and dancing which at first
had troubled her sleep. There was no visible exit from the room, except
the locked door. But Riette was gone, and the message with her. Was she
a real child, or only a comforting dream?