INVESTIGATION.
Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister and
confidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as united
as if they had indeed been sisters.
Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages,
nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flame
for her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping the
swelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she would
declare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organ
which they professed to covet was no longer there, having been
surrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. She
had left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprising
kitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, one
gibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure?
Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on the
Loire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. He
who would venture thither in search of that missing organ of hers
would have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honest
gamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an _oubliette_ without
compunction, to vanish for evermore.
When the worthy marechal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was his
daily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter's boudoir,
turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, that
damsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle,
she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as for
the marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; have
cheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingled
guiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture.
Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Breze that when last the
family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth
together. The marechal would, of course, rate her soundly for her
folly, since with her advantages she might have done much better than
throw herself away upon a peasant.
Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given to
thinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper,
half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad to
place pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; but
worse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by the
king, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flaunting
its arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands from
every country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill with
threatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter in
village market-places, to discuss matters which concerned their
betters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking in
respect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence caused
proper-minded and cultured persons to shiver in dismay. If we turn
swine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. The
old marechal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when he
found that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and was
not slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill.
"Life is a game of give and take," he said, "in which the unscrupulous
always take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should have
no individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters."
Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to have
meekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should be
insolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper class under the
shadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the marechal that his
paid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and had
used pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He received
prompt warning that on a repetition of the offence he would lose his
place, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, that
soon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister and
confidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret to
this abandoned wretch!
It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recover
the gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mind
before confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply on
the escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he should
share the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. To
this he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, which
foreshadowed a thorny future. "My darling," he had the assurance to
write, "never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead of
being selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but,
alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit to
suffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking.
National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned and
stretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions of
Liberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it will
have to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. God gives
justice to men only at the price of battles!"
A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Breze to
receive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed the
tell-tale scrap which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. These
high-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he had
copied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting one
of those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, be
consorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrands
about who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jean
would never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it be
wise as well as loyal to send this lover packing--to disclaim at once
both him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in love
matters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and if
he adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was her
place to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On the
very next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him by
force out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumph
the errant sheep clean and quite respectable.
But if the marechal knew all about it, and was here now to administer
a jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guilt
and a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon's
cheek.
It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was a
democrat that the marechal strode into her room, and hearkening to his
discourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of his
suspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazing
idly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in the
direction of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes and
no. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, of
contradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained,
complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was a
weak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was a
riddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the passions of which
he seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in which
he was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst his
cerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was he
deceitful--playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thought
not; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of was
this. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by some
other hand than Gabrielle's that he would eventually be aroused. He
was an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had not
the faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followed
month they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. The
estrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. In
her pain she lowered herself to "scenes"--exhaled herself in wearisome
complaints.
The Marechal de Breze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes,
complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur on
the mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task;
pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him to
his knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not the
finger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "The
paled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings.
She is an angel--the best of women--but too apt sometimes to figure
as a _femme incomprise_. All may come right in time, for he is a
well-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled off
on the sea of conjecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word,"
she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell what
he is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are people
with whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom we
believe we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! They
suddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew them
at all!"
"But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the marechal, chafing.
"Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the man
marble? What more could mortal require?"
Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas,
dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by this
time that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not often
impelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for their
defects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook their
virtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, who
have adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast over
the details of her ugliness."
The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon the
damsel continued.
"Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest.
Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideous
wretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of
_mesalliances?_ Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics;
leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Because
to some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is in
itself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis."
The marechal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel's
discourse. In his own time he had had a wide experience, grave and
gay, and was not unaware that a jaded or unhealthy appetite craves for
abnormal food. None knew better than he that the insipidity of
doll-like prettiness may grow exasperating. We gaze at portraits of
the celebrated fair ones of the past, and scanning their queer mouths
and noses, conclude that fashions change in beauty as well as costume.
We fail to detect the charms of Anne Bullen or Mary Stuart, and we are
wrong. Intellect and wit can illumine irregular features as the sun
lights up a landscape. Thick lips and a snub nose may be transfigured
under the divine rays till they seem a miracle of loveliness.
Then the anxious old gentleman waxed cross. A froward girl was Toinon
with her sham sagacity. She had ridden away on a false premise. The
most plausible theories are delusive. Gabrielle was no doll, but a
quiet, well-conducted, sensible woman enough, if not of brilliant
parts. _Femme incomprise_, indeed! Modest but fragrant violets lurk
under leaves, and we take the trouble to look for them. How dared this
presumptuous marquis to misunderstand the treasure he had won? It was
not the comely mask of flesh alone that drew the buzzing crowd of
moths. Married, they could not be aiming at her wealth. The marquise
was constantly surrounded by the attentive bevy of youths. Butterflies
attended her daily levee, drank chocolate while her hair was being
powdered, spent hours over her trivial errands, and she accorded to
none the preference. A virtuous wife in an unvirtuous throng might be
of momentary interest as an anomaly, but sparks would soon weary of
the wonder. No. She was lively enough to hold her own in the swift
patter of petty small-talk. It did the heart good to hear her jocund
laugh. It must be admitted that the expression of her face changed
little, but then it was so fair that to change would be to mar it. Who
would have the sculptured Psyche grin, or ask the Venus of Milo to
grimace?
The more carefully he reviewed this knotty question, the more
bewildered became the excellent de Breze. Laudably resolved to delve
to the bottom, he left the waiting-maid for the mistress, and observed
for the first time that his daughter's welcoming smile was less bright
than of yore. On being cross-questioned, she grew grave and reticent,
refusing to complain of her husband, and entrenched herself within a
proud reserve. "He might be odd, but she preferred him as he was," she
declared shortly; would not have him altered by one tittle. Vainly her
father pressed her, assured her that he would do nothing that she
would not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn from
Gabrielle.
"Well," said the marechal at last, wistfully sighing, "if I am not to
interfere, I won't; but you know that I live only for my child."
"I know you do, dear," she softly answered. "Your anxiety wrings my
heart!"
Then rising from her seat, trembling from head to foot, she clasped
him in a fond embrace, and seemed about to make a confession. Words
trembled on her lips, but whatever they were, she choked them back
again, and indulged in delicious tears.
"You have spoilt me so, that I am naughty and capricious," she
remarked gaily. "Do you really sufficiently love your little Gabrielle
to submit to a wayward whim?"
"When did I deny you anything?" reproachfully replied de Breze.
"Never; nor will you now, though it is a great slice of property that
I require. Will the best of men humour my new fancy? Yes? Well, then,
know that I am tired of Paris and its tinsel, and would fain retire to
the country."
"You--leave the gaieties of Paris?"
"Yes. The good air and quiet will brace my nerves, untuned by racket,
and that explosion of presumptuous wickedness that sacrificed so many
lives."
"The storming of the Bastile?" returned the marechal. "Pshaw! By and
bye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. What
on earth will you do in the country? In a week you'll be petrified
with ennui."
"Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are less
strong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back the
roses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. My
children, oh! my children! What should I have become without them."
The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedily
suppressed, clove the bosom of the marechal.
"She will not tell me or have confidence," he groaned inwardly, "and
yet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in other
things, and God be with her in her travail."
With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed,
and simply said, "What do you wish, my dearest?"
"Lorge," she replied, "no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must be
to rob you of the home of your ancestors!"
"It shall be yours," the marechal replied, delighted to be able to do
something. "I understand that for some reason you desire to take
possession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At my
death, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to do
with as you will."
It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presently
he enquired, "What will your husband do?"
"It was his idea," was the eager rejoinder. "He wishes it, and I
am--oh--so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evil
influences. Do you know, father?" Gabrielle continued in a grave
whisper, "that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home at
dawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him,
whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. I
don't know what it all is, but it has something to do with that
mystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and can
only end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption is
horrible!"
"Then I hold the clue?" cried the old man, much relieved. "It is the
prophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turn
him from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?"
The idea was so comically innocent, that de Breze wheezed with
delight. "Sweet pet!" he said, tapping his daughter's cheek archly,
"you are earnest if not clever."
And then he went off into a shout of laughter, as he beheld in
imagination the daily scene at Lorge. _Tete-a-tete_ in the dreary
chateau among the bats and owls, she would drone out Bossuet's sermons
to put animal magnetism to flight; perhaps call in the village cure to
assist. What a delightful prospect for the husband! How ghastly
tiresome is the wife who preaches at her other half; drones out to him
scraps out of good books. Well, well. We must not place our finger
twixt bark and tree; but if any form of desperation was likely to
awake the entranced Clovis (as Toinon had it), a system of moral
lecturing on the part of a well-meaning but narrow-minded spouse was
about the thing to perform the miracle.
The marechal trotted home quite pleased, and straightway informed by
letter those whom it concerned that henceforth, the Marquise de Gange
was to be considered the proprietress of Lorge. Both M. and Madame de
Breze equally loathed the place. If Gabrielle was possessed by the
strange fancy of playing chatelaine, in its cobwebbed corridors, let
her do so by all means, and convert her husband if she might.
The good marechal was mistaken. Gabrielle knew better than to worry
her husband with importunate readings, but trusted rather for the
working of a change to the renewed intimacy which retirement must
produce. She never would have dared to propose a hermitage to Clovis,
but when he himself suggested a temporary flitting, she thanked heaven
as if a prayer had been answered. She could not guess that he was
afraid to stop in Paris, and that he was revolving an embryo scheme of
closer union with Mesmer. The prophet having been ejected from the
land with Maranatha, could not unfortunately bestow his presence or
personal assistance. But why should he not send to his pupil some
learned adept, well versed in mystic lore who, in sylvan solitude
would further instruct the neophyte? Removed from the frivolous court,
and secure against being mixed in the treasonable doings of political
philanthropists, his mind would be in a condition of receptivity, and
his studies would make giant strides.
Poor Gabrielle! She had said to herself with a choking heart-leap
that, removed from pernicious influences, she and the cherubs would
wind fond webs about him, and win him from indifference to love. Alas!
Poor simple yearning wife!