A DANCE WITH GENERAL RATONEAU
All this time, and lately with her son's energetic help, Madame de
Sainfoy had been arranging her rooms in the most approved fashion of the
day. The new furniture was far less beautiful than the old, and far less
suited to the character of the house; still, like everything belonging
to the Empire, it had a severe magnificence. The materials were mahogany
and gilded bronze; the forms were classical, lyres, urns, winged
sphinxes everywhere. In the large salon the walls were hung with yellow
silk instead of the old, despised, but precious tapestries, the long
curtains that swept the floor were yellow silk, with broad bands of red
and yellow and a heavy fringe of red and yellow balls. These fashions
were repeated in each room in different colours, green, blue, red; a
smaller salon, Madame de Sainfoy's favourite, was hung with a peculiar
green flecked with gold; and for the chairs in this room she, Hélène,
Mademoiselle Moineau, and the young girls were working a special
tapestry with wreaths of grapes or asters, lyres, Roman heads which
suggested Napoleon. Certain unaccountable stains on this fine work
brought a smile long years afterwards into the lovely eyes of Hélène.
Paper and paint, innovations at Lancilly, had much to do in beautifying
the old place. Dark rooms were well lit up by a white paper with a broad
border of red and yellow twisted ribbons. Old stone chimneypieces,
window-sills, great solid shutters, were covered thick with yellow
paint.
The ideas of Captain Georges were still more modern than those of
Urbain, and suited his mother better. She was angry with Urbain for
forsaking her business and hurrying off to Paris in search of his
worthless son; she was especially angry that he went without giving her
notice, or offering to do any of the thousand commissions she could
gladly have given him. However, these faults in Urbain only made Georges
more valuable; and it was with something not far short of fury that she
refused to listen to her husband when he suggested that the ball might
be put off because of the trouble and sorrow that hung over his cousins
at La Marinière.
The ball was stately and splendid. At the dinner-party a few weeks
before, only a certain number of notables had been present, and chiefly
old friends of the family. To the ball came everybody of any pretension
whatever, within a radius of many miles. Lancilly stood in Anjou, but
near the borders of Touraine and Maine; all these old provinces were
well represented. Many of the guests were returned emigrants: old
sentiment connected with the names of Sainfoy and Lancilly brought them.
Many more were new people of the Empire; mushroom families, on whom the
older ones looked curiously and scornfully. There was a brilliant and
dashing body of officers from Sonnay-le-Loir, with General Ratoneau at
their head. There were a number of civil officials of the Empire, though
the Prefect himself was not there.
Ratoneau was in a strange state of mind. In his full-dress uniform, his
gold lace and plumes, he looked his best, a manly and handsome soldier.
Every one turned to look at him, struck by the likeness to Napoleon,
stronger than ever that night, for he was graver, quieter, more
dignified than usual. He was not at his ease, and oddly enough, the
false position suited him. There could not be anything but extreme
coolness and stiffness in the greeting between him and his host. Hervé
de Sainfoy had refused the man his daughter, and heartily despised him
for accepting the formal invitation to this ball. Ratoneau knew that he
was going to be forced as a son-in-law on this coldly courteous
gentleman, but let no sign of his coming triumph escape him. Not, at
least, to Hélène's father; her mother was a different story. As the
General drew himself upright again, after bending stiffly to kiss her
hand, he met his hostess's eyes with such a bold look of confident
understanding that she flushed a little and almost felt displeased. He
was not discreet, she thought. He had no business so to take her
sympathy for granted. Other people might have caught that glance and
misunderstood it.
She stood for a moment, frowning a little, the graceful lines of her
satin and lace, her head crowned with curls, making a perfect picture of
what she meant to be, a great lady of the Empire. Then her look softened
suddenly, as Georges came up to her.
"Listen to me a moment, mamma. General Ratoneau wishes to dance with
Hélène. She told me this afternoon that she would not dance with him. I
say she must. What do you say?"
Madame de Sainfoy twirled her fan impatiently.
"Where is she?"
"There."
A quadrille was just beginning; the dancers were arranging themselves.
The Vicomte des Barres, one of the most strongly declared Royalists
present, was leading Mademoiselle de Sainfoy forward.
He was familiar with the details of the mission to England, on which the
Baron d'Ombré was to start that very night; but not even to him had been
confided Angelot's escape and Monsieur Joseph's further plans. He was
one of the many guests who had been struck by the heartlessness of the
Sainfoys in giving a ball at this moment, but who came to it for reasons
of their own. He came with the object of hoodwinking the local police,
who were watching him and his friends, of scattering the Chouan party
and giving César d'Ombré more chance of a safe and quiet start.
The manners, the looks, the talk of Des Barres were all of the old
régime. He had its charm, its sympathetic grace; and it was with a
feeling of relief and safety that Hélène gave her hand to him for the
dance, rather than to one of the young Empire heroes whose eyes were
eagerly following her.
"Your sister is a fool," said Madame de Sainfoy, very low.
"That is my impression," said Georges; and they both gazed for an
instant at the couple as they advanced.
Hélène's loveliness that night was extraordinary. The music, the lights,
the wonderful beauty of the scene in those gorgeous rooms, the
light-hearted talk and laughter all about her, had lifted the heavy
sadness that lay on her brow and eyes. When every one seemed so gay,
could life be quite hopeless, after all? The tender pink in her cheeks
that night was not due to her mother's rouge-box, with which she had
often been threatened. She was smiling at some pretty old-world
compliment from Monsieur des Barres. He, for his part, asked himself
what the grief could be which lay behind that smile of hers, and found
it easy enough to have his question answered. In a few minutes, in the
intervals of the dance, they were talking of her cousin Angelot, his
mysterious arrest, the possible reasons for it. Hélène's story was
plainly to be read in the passion of her low voice, her darkening eyes,
the quick changes of her colour. Monsieur des Barres was startled, yet
hardly surprised; it seemed as natural that two such young creatures
should be attracted to each other, as that their love should be a
hopeless fancy; for no reasonable person could dream that Monsieur de
Sainfoy would give his daughter to a cousin neither rich nor fortunate.
He did his best to cheer the girl, without showing that he guessed her
secret. It must be some mistake, he assured her; the government could
have no good reason for detaining her cousin, who--"unfortunately," said
Monsieur des Barres, with a smile--"was not a Royalist conspirator at
all." He had the satisfaction of gaining a look and a smile from Hélène
which must have brought a young man to her feet, and which even made his
well-trained heart beat a little quicker.
Georges de Sainfoy was resolved that his sister should not insult her
family again by dancing with a known Chouan. For the next dance, Hélène
found herself in the possession of General Ratoneau, clattering sword,
creaking boots, and all. Monsieur des Barres, looking back as he
withdrew, saw a cold statue, with white eyelids lowered, making a deep
curtsey to the General under her brother's stern eyes.
"Poor little thing!" the Vicomte said to himself. "Poor children! The
pretty boy is impossible, of course. These cousins are the devil. But it
is a pity!"
General Ratoneau danced very badly, and did not care to dance much. He
had no intention of making himself agreeable in this way to any lady but
the daughter of the house, whom in his own mind he already regarded as
betrothed to him. He had satisfactory letters from his friends in Paris,
assuring him that the imperial order to the Comte de Sainfoy would be
sent off immediately. It was difficult for him not to boast among his
comrades of his coming marriage, but he had just decency enough to hold
his tongue. According to his calculations, the order might have arrived
at Lancilly to-day; it could scarcely be delayed beyond to-morrow.
Hélène endured him as a partner, and was a little proud of herself for
it. She found him repulsive; disliked meeting the bold admiration of his
eyes. But as no one had mentioned him to her during the last few weeks,
Madame de Sainfoy and Georges prudently restraining themselves, and as
he had not appeared at Lancilly since the dinner-party, she had ceased
to have any immediate fear of him. And all the brilliancy of that
evening, the triumphant swing of the music, the consciousness of her own
beauty, delicately heightened by her first partner's looks and words,
and last, not least, the comfort he had given her about Angelot, had
raised her drooping spirits so that she found it not impossible to
smile and speak graciously, even with General Ratoneau.
After dancing, he led her round the newly decorated rooms, and all the
new fashions in furniture, in dress, in manners, made a subject for talk
which helped her wonderfully. Ratoneau listened with a smiling stare,
asked questions, and laughed now and then.
On the surface, his manner was not offensive; he was behaving
beautifully, according to his standard; probably no young woman had ever
been so politely treated by him before. In truth, Hélène's fair beauty
and stateliness, the white dignity of a creature so far above his
experience, awed him a little. But with a man of his kind, no such
feeling was likely to last long. Any strange touch of shyness which
protected the lovely girl by his side was passing off as he swore to
himself: "I have risked something, God knows, but she's worth it all. I
am a lucky man--I shall be proud of my wife."
They were in the farther salon, not many people near. He turned upon her
suddenly, with a look which brought the colour to her face, "Do you
know, mademoiselle, you are the most beautiful woman in the world!"
Hélène shook her head, a faint smile struggling with instant disgust and
alarm. She looked round, but saw no one who could release her from this
rough admirer. She was obliged to turn to him again, and listened to him
with lowered eyes, a recollection of her mother's words weighing now
upon her brain.
"The first time I saw you, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, "was in this
room. You were handing coffee with that cousin of yours--young La
Marinière."
He saw the girl's face quiver and grow pale. His own changed, and his
smile became unpleasant. He had not meant to mention that fellow, now
shut up safely somewhere--it was strange, by the bye, that Simon had
never come back to report himself and take his money! However, as he had
let Angelot's name fall, there might be some advantage to be had out of
it.
"I see his father is not here to-night," he said. "Sensible man, his
father."
"How should he be here!" said Hélène, turning her head away. "He is gone
to Paris to find him. How could he be here, dancing and laughing--I ask
myself, how can anybody--"
She spoke half aside, breaking off suddenly.
"Yourself, for instance?" said Ratoneau, staring at her. "And why should
you shut yourself up and make the whole world miserable, because your
cousin is a fool? But you have not done so."
"Because it is impossible, I am not free."
"What would you be doing now, if you were free?"
Hélène shrugged her shoulders. Ratoneau laughed.
"Does Monsieur de la Marinière expect to bring his son back with him?"
he asked.
His tone was sneering, but Hélène did not notice it.
"I do not know, monsieur," she said. "But my cousin will come back. He
has done nothing. He has been in no plots. The Emperor cannot punish an
innocent man."
She looked up suddenly, cheered by repeating what Monsieur des Barres
had told her. Her pathetic eyes met Ratoneau's for a moment; surely no
one could be cruel enough to deny such facts as these. In the General's
full gaze there was plenty of what was odious to her, but no real
kindness or pity. She blushed as she thought: "How dares this man look
at me so? He is nothing but the merest acquaintance. He is
insupportable."
"If we were to go back into the ball-room, monsieur," she said gravely,
beginning to move away. "My mother will be looking for me."
"No, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, coolly, "I think not. Madame la
Comtesse saw me take you this way."
He sat down on a sofa, spreading his broad left hand over the gilded
sphinx of its arm. With his right hand he pointed to the place beside
him.
"Sit down there," he said.
Hélène frowned with astonishment, caught her breath and looked round.
There were two or three people at the other end of the room, but all
strangers to her, and all passing out gradually; no one coming towards
her, no one to rescue her from the extraordinary manners of this man.
The glance she gave him was as withering as her gentle eyes could make
it; then she turned her back upon him and began to glide away, alone,
down the room.
"Mademoiselle--" said Ratoneau; his voice grated on her ears.
Was he laughing? was he angry? in any case she was resolved not to speak
to the insolent creature again.
"Listen, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, more loudly, and without rising.
"Listen! I will bring your cousin back."
She wavered, paused, then turned and looked at him. He gazed at her
gravely, intently; his look and manner were a little less offensive now.
"Yes--I am not an ogre," he said. "I don't eat boys and girls. But I
assure you there are people in the Empire who do. And you are quite
wrong if you think that an innocent man is never punished. The police
may have their reasons--bang--there go the big gates of Vincennes, and
the stronger reason that opens them again is hard to find. Innocent or
guilty--after all, that pretty cousin of yours has touched a good deal
of pitch in the way of _chouannerie_, mademoiselle."
"You said--" Hélène waited and stammered.
"I said I would bring him back. You want to understand me? Sit down
beside me here."
The girl hesitated. "Courage! for Angelot!" she said to herself.
She did not believe in the man; she dreaded him; shrank from him; but
the name she loved was even more powerful than Ratoneau had expected.
"Ah, but we will send that little cousin to the wars, or to America," he
thought, as she came slowly back and let herself sink down, pale and
cold, in the opposite corner of the sofa.
"Where is my cousin, monsieur?" she said under her breath.
"I suppose, as the police arrested him, that he is in their hands," said
Ratoneau. "Where he is at this moment I know no more than you do."
"But you said--"
"Yes--I will do it. You can believe, can you not, that I have more
influence at headquarters than poor Monsieur de la Marinière--a little
country squire who has saved himself by licking the dust before each man
in power?"
"It is not right for you to speak so of my father's cousin, who has been
so excellent for us all," Hélène said quickly; then she blushed at her
own boldness. "But if you can really do this--I shall be grateful,
monsieur."
The words were coldly, impatiently said; she might have been throwing a
bone to a begging dog. Ratoneau bent forward, devouring her with his
eyes. The delicate line of her profile was partly turned away from him;
the eyelids drooped so low that the long lashes almost rested on the
cheek. All about her brow and ears, creeping down to her white neck, the
fair curls clustered. Soft and narrow folds of white muslin, lace, and
fine embroidery, clothed her slender figure with an exaggerated
simplicity. Her foot, just advanced beyond the frills of the gown, her
white long fingers clasping her fan; every feature, every touch, every
detail, was as finely beautiful as art and nature could make it; Hélène
was the perfection of dainty aristocracy in the exquisite freshness of
its youth.
"I will do it--I will do it--for love of you," Ratoneau said, and his
voice became suddenly hoarse. "You are beautiful--and you are
mine--mine."
The girl shuddered from head to foot.
"No!" she said violently.
She did not look at Ratoneau. As to him, he did not speak, but laughed
and bent nearer. She rose to her feet suddenly.
"You forget yourself--you are mad, Monsieur le Général," she said
haughtily. "If that is the condition--no! Pray do not concern yourself
about my cousin's affairs, you have nothing to do with them."
Ratoneau rose too, a little unsteadily.
"Listen one moment, mademoiselle," he said. "If I am mad, you are
foolish, let me tell you. I said nothing about conditions, I stated
facts. You will be my wife--therefore you are mine, you belong to me,
and therefore there is nothing I will not do for love of you. My wife is
the most beautiful woman in France, and she stands here."
"Never, never!" murmured Hélène. "It has come!" she said to herself.
Her mother had threatened her with this; and now, apparently, all had
been settled without a word to her. Even her father, once on her side,
must be against her now. He had been angry with her; not without reason,
she knew. Yes, this horrible thing had been arranged by her father, her
mother, Georges, while she was kept a prisoner upstairs. If they had
been kinder to her in the last few days, it was only that they wished to
bring their victim smiling to the sacrifice. No wonder Georges had
insisted on her dancing with General Ratoneau. No wonder her mother had
taken pains to dress her beautifully for this ball, which she hated and
dreaded so much.
These thoughts, with a wild desire to escape, rushed through Hélène's
mind as she stood breathless before this man who laid such a daring
claim to her. He was smiling, though his lips were white. It is not
pleasant to be treated as horrible scum of the earth by the woman you
have arranged to marry; to see scorn, disgust, hatred in a girl's face,
answering to your finest compliments.
"This young lady has a character--she has a temper--" he muttered
between his teeth. "But you will be tamed, ma belle. Who would have
thought with those pale cheeks of yours--well, the Emperor's command
will bring you to reason. Pity I spoke, perhaps--but a man cannot keep
cool always. That command--Ah, thousand thunders! what do I see?"
The last words were spoken aloud. As Hélène stood before him, silent,
rooted with horror to the ground, he watching her with folded arms in a
favourite imperial attitude, several sets of people strolled across the
lower end of the room, for this was one of a suite of salons. Suddenly
came the master of the house alone, walking slowly, his eyes fixed on a
letter in his hand, his face deathly white in the glimmer of the many
wax candles. Hélène did not see her father at first, for her back was
turned to him, but at the General's words she turned quickly, and was
just aware of him as he passed into the next room. Without another word
or look she left her partner standing there, and fled away in pursuit of
him. Ratoneau watched the white figure vanishing, laughed aloud, and
swore heartily.
"This is dramatic," he said. "Fortunate that I have a friend at Court in
Madame la Comtesse! Suppose I go and join her."
Hélène searched for her father in vain. By the time she reached the
other room, he had quite unaccountably vanished. As she flew on rather
distractedly among the guests, hurrying back to the ball-room, her
brother's peremptory hand was laid upon her arm.
"What is the matter, Hélène? Where are you running? Are you dancing with
no one, and why do you look so wild?"
Hélène answered none of these questions.
"Find me a partner, if you please," she said, with a sudden effort at
collecting herself. "But, Georges--no more of your officers."
Georges looked at her with a queer smile, but only said--
"And no more of your Chouans!"