JEANNETTE AND WULFHERE, OR LOVE'S COMEDIES.
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
And feats of cunning...."
Wordsworth.
Lest it should be imagined that our coquettish little Frenchwoman,
Jeannette, had been perfectly quiescent all this time, we proceed to
give particulars of some little exploits in which she acted an important
part. Hers was not the disposition to act the _role_ of a lay figure, it
will be easily imagined. No. To be engaged in some little romance on her
own account was as essential to her existence as the breath of her
nostrils; and the more romantic and unconventional the part she played,
the keener the zest with which she entered into it. She had managed to
subsist on a little flirtation with Paul Lazaire when nothing better
presented itself; but now, the tall and handsome Saxon, Wulfhere, had
fired her inflammable little heart with such a passion as she had never
experienced before. Her scanty knowledge of Saxon heraldry and Saxon
customs, coupled with Wulfhere's constant comradeship with the great
Saxon earl, had caused her to think highly of this doughty Saxon lover
of hers. It must be confessed, too, that Wulfhere's fine presence, his
undoubted valour, and the unflagging goodnature and ready wit with which
he alternately bantered, flattered, or caressed her, quite carried her
by storm; and over head and ears in love, at a stroke almost, went this
born coquette.
Right skilfully had she woven many a Cupid's net for others, and, with
tantalising inconsistency, frowned to-day and smiled to-morrow upon her
hapless victims. The truth was, none hitherto had fired her imperious
imagination sufficiently. But at last Cupid had transfixed her
unmistakably; and Jeannette was not the one to stand on ceremony, or be
a slave to petty prudencies. Not she, indeed!
To have a brush with the chapter of accidents, to set wise
heads and slanderous tongues a-wagging; added piquancy to the
romance, and was quite to her liking. Hate has its plots and
counterplots, its subterfuges and scheming, its dogged persistence in
malevolence; but love also has its expedients, its inventions, its
circumlocutions, which, for ingenuity, and for that final grace of all
plotters--_audacity_, will circumvent its hateful opposite any day. Love
also has this final advantage; it dares to be found out, and is never a
whit abashed when its devices are discovered.
Upon Wulfhere, too, the advent of this pretty and coquettish little dame
had burst like a revelation. The saucy pertness, the mischief and
merriment which glanced in her sparkling eye, the feminine gracefulness
of form and figure, the pretty devices with which she was wont to adorn
herself, and set off her charms, and the sheer _abandon_ with which she
rushed into this love affair with him, completely carried him away, and
he was speedily as helpless as a slave in her hands. The contrast
between this dainty Frenchwoman, and the Saxon women of the lower orders
was simply inexpressible, and Wulfhere, in his Saxon simplicity, was
charmed beyond measure.
Upon poor Paul Lazaire the altered demeanour of Jeannette towards
himself operated somewhat hardly. Being quite in the dark as to the
existence of a new disturbing factor, he was wont to obtrude his
presence as heretofore upon Jeannette. But alas! Jeannette had now lost
the little interest which aforetime she had manifested in Paul. She had,
in past time, deigned occasionally to bestow a smile, amid her many
frowns, on his pretensions; and this occasional smile and ray of
sunshine had refreshed him, and given him hope. Now, alas! the smiles
had all vanished, whilst the frowns deepened in intensity, and were
frequently accompanied by a perky toss of the head, and little scornful
speeches. 'Tis just like poor human nature, though, the world over; when
once enmeshed in Cupid's net, the shaking-off process makes one cling
the tighter, and it made poor Paul more and more desperate in his
endeavours to win a smile from his lady-love. It had become, however,
not only unpleasant to Jeannette, but vastly inconvenient, too, to have
her footsteps dogged as she sauntered through the woods, or by the
river's side, as any one who has had experience of these things will
easily understand. No matter, if Paul caught a glimpse of Jeannette's
golden hair as she slid away at still eventide for a quiet walk in the
woods, why, poor short-sighted mortal, he was sure to consider his
presence and protection indispensable; and though he had had latterly
some very unpleasant experiences of the fact that Jeannette neither
considered his presence indispensable nor agreeable, yet he persevered
most desperately.
Seeing this infatuation on Paul's part, it had occurred to another
participator in these sylvan _tete-a-tetes_ that more drastic expedients
would have to be resorted to in order to disillusionise him. So a slight
rebuff was administered to poor Paul, which had the happy effect of
somewhat disenchanting him.
It was at the still eventide. Jeannette had laid aside the duties of the
day, and had ascended to the tower. Why? Well, perhaps to see the
sunset. It was somewhat strange, but somehow, like her mistress, she had
acquired the habit of reconnoitring at odd hours from the tower of the
castle. Probably she and Alice had confidences in these matters. But, be
that as it may, a very hasty survey of the beauties of nature on this
occasion made her hurry off for a closer scrutiny. Paul's vigilant eye
espied the fair form making for the path by the river's side, and, on
the assumption that "faint heart never won fair lady," he would venture
again. So he started off in pursuit. It must be confessed he did not
approach this imperious fair one without many tremblings and
forebodings. The keen edge of her saucy tongue had greatly dismayed him
in many a wordy tussle lately, and it had begun dimly to dawn upon him
that this waspish habit had something of dislike for him. Poor fellow!
These very quakings of heart presaged coming trouble and defeat. 'Twas
in his case pretty much as the old saw has it:--
"Tender-handed touch a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains.
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains."
Never, my dear Paul, should you have approached a saucy, perky dame like
this, in the character and with the attitude of a milksop. "Buxom dames
will have a buxom wooing." "He who goes trembling will come back
shambling."
"My dear Jeannette," began Paul, most humbly, as he caught up to her, "I
wonder how you dare venture in these woods alone."
"Humph! I dare do anything I like to. And pray what have you got to do
with it, Master Lazaire? I didn't invite you, I know!"
"Well, I thought you ought to have some protection, and I would
accompany you if you didn't mind."
"But I do mind; so get off with you to that Saxon hussy I caught you
kissing. You may tell her to wash her face, and comb her hair; and if
she could tighten the bands about her skirts to make herself a waist, it
would greatly improve her appearance. But she is good enough for you,
anyway. So be off with you!"
"I never speak to those Saxon wenches. I love you alone, Jeannette; you
know that well enough. But you seem now as though you hated to see me."
"I know I caught you kissing a Saxon wench, and a precious dirty one
too. I know that well enough, Paul Lazaire. And I'll not have you
following me at all. So be off, you softhead, and don't be told again!"
This style of rebuff was more than poor Paul had calculated upon,
dubious though he had been, and his temper was considerably ruffled in
consequence. His eye assumed an unnatural fierceness as he took in the
lonely surroundings of the forest, and desperate resolves were quickly
forming in his breast. Jeannette all the while kept her eye steadily
fixed on a certain trysting-place, a little ahead, and her nimble feet
were on the lilt ready for flight if necessary.
Paul laid his hand on her shoulder somewhat roughly, and said,--
"Stop a bit, _ma grande dame_. You give yourself too many airs for me
altogether."
Jeannette shook him off and at the same time dealt him a stinging slap
in the face; then she took to her heels like a deer, with Paul in hot
pursuit, in an ungovernable rage.
"_Voulez vous_ slap me in the face, _vous renarde_? _Vous serez_ taught
different when I catch you!"
Just as he was about to lay hands on the fugitive, out sprang Wulfhere
from the thicket, and seizing Paul by the throat, he well nigh shook the
life out of him.
"You villain!" said Wulfhere. "You assault defenceless women, do you,
you undersized little imp? I'll screw your neck round before I've done
with you! It is well I was near, you wretch, you!"--the sentences and
the shakings alternating with equal vigour, until poor Paul scarcely
knew whether he was on his head or his heels. During this operation,
Wulfhere was steadily backing him to the river's brink, which, having
reached, he gathered him up and pitched him in, head foremost. Paul came
floundering out again, like a half-drowned rat.
"There!" said Wulfhere, catching him again by the scruff of the neck;
"you may thank your stars I haven't drowned you altogether. Now be off
with you;" administering at the same time a hearty kick to the baser
parts of Paul's anatomy, which considerably accelerated his retreat.
Paul was not slow to take advantage of this privilege, and he quickly
put a safe distance between himself and the Saxon. Suddenly, however, it
occurred to him that he was possessed of a sword. Whipping it out
savagely he turned to make a tremendous lunge at the foe, when, oh
horrors! he was just in time to see in the distance the long arm of the
Saxon fondly entwining the slender waist of Jeannette, and the perky
little face, all smiles and blushes, upturned to receive a spanking kiss
from the "beast of _a Saxon_!"
"_Le diable!!_" he screamed with rage, whilst the veins of his face and
neck were distended almost to bursting. Off he started in pursuit, sword
in hand, and bent on executing summary vengeance on the perfidious pair.
Just at that moment, however, the Saxon gave a backward glance over his
shoulder, and this had the effect of bringing Paul to a stand instantly.
No; he decided, upon second thoughts, that he would not slay them
himself, but bring a troop down upon them promptly. So he turned again
and rushed off towards the castle for reinforcements. But having time on
the way to become fully sensible of the pickle he was in, and of the
very inglorious part he had played in this encounter, he decided
otherwise. Discretion would be the better part of valour; for if his
comrades but set eyes on him in his present state, or heard the story of
this exploit, his peace was gone for ever. So he decided, upon mature
reflection, to say nothing about it for the present, but nurse his wrath
for some more favourable opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon them
both.