THE CHATEAU OF "LORGE."
In Touraine, midway between Tours and Blois, the venerable chateau of
Lorge stands out from a wooded background, bathing its feet in the
swiftly flowing Loire, morosely contemplating the details of its grim
reflection. Profoundly interesting from an archaeological point of
view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder
that the jolly old marechal should have ungrudgingly passed it to his
daughter. Privileged to occupy a place in one of the most smiling
provinces of France, it is within a drive of Amboise on one side and
Chinon on the other, dignified castles both; and not very far away is
Diane de Poictier's Chenonceaux, whimsically spanning a river, a
specimen of elfin architecture straight from fairyland. Lorge dates
from the iron period; not the time of prehistoric man, who had
recently blossomed out of monkeydom, but of the early mediaeval barons,
who slept in their armour--as they still do on their tombs--whose pet
pastimes were the cleaving of pates and the quaffing of usquebaugh.
With the march of centuries Amboise, Chinon, and the rest found it
advisable to polish themselves up, and modify their native harshness
to be in touch with less rugged epochs; but no coaxing ingenuity of
architect or landscape gardener could ever smooth the frown from the
frowning face of Lorge. It seemed to say with pride, "The darkest and
most cruel deeds have been perpetrated within my walls. Down below I
have smothered the cries for mercy of weak women outraged, and
children brutally maltreated. My favourite music is the clank of
steel. I was baptised with blood, whose reek may never fade, whose
stain may never be effaced."
You cannot make a junketting house out of a fortress, and Lorge,
despite changes, is a fortress still. On the facade, defended by the
river, are the stately reception rooms, opening one into the other in
a string; a long suite which occupies the first floor, whose heavily
mullioned casements are large enough to permit the sun to gild the
antique hangings. Each of these windows is adorned by a ponderous
stone balcony, which can be used for purposes of defence. The other
sides of the edifice seem blank and blind, the high enclosing walls
being unbroken, save by a dentilated series of merlons and crenels,
with cruciform embrasures below, The chambers on these sides are
particularly depressing to the spirits, since they afford no prospect,
save a bare paved court with the enclosing wall beyond.
Courageous chatelaines, striving after cheerfulness, have made efforts
from time to time to brighten Lorge. The drawbridge and portcullis,
which jealously barred the entrance, have been removed from the double
archway and replaced by wooden doors. The moat which guarded the three
sides landward, with a defensive wall along the outer bank, has become
a garden with trim green slopes, and a wealth of glorious roses. The
ends that used to join the river have been walled up, and adorned with
flights of steps which lead to decaying boat-houses. Private posterns,
drilled in the masonry, afford easy access from the courtyard to the
moat-pleasaunce for such as may possess the keys; but in spite of
every effort, the flowering hedges and rose-bushes only serve by
contrast to make Lorge more dreary--a skull bedecked with flowers. One
specially brave lady had the hardihood once to plan great gardens in
the Dutch style beyond the moat, on the other side of the road. There
were long alleys of clipped yew and beech; _tonelles_ or arched bowers
to give grateful shade; a procession of weird animals, fashioned of
holly, that cast fantastic shadows on the sward; oblong tanks where
swans serenely sailed, steering among isles of water-lily. But no
subsequent chatelaine was sturdy enough to carry on the hopeless war.
The alleys were soon choked, the _tonelles_ grew into thickets, the
mimic menagerie degenerated into ragged rows of bushes. By the time
the marechal inherited, there was no place devoted to flowers except
the moat-pleasaunce, and even that was sadly neglected.
Though you see them not, dank dungeons honeycomb the foundations.
There are noisome cells on the level of the water-line that may at
will be flooded. You know that they are there, although some lord with
tender nerves fastened them up long since. There they are, under your
feet, audibly crooning their low song of woe unmerited, of dumb
despair, of remorseless cruelty. The ancient implements of torture
that still ornament the wainscot of the banquet-hall take up their
parable, and sing. Time does not still that wailing chaunt which tells
of robbery, and tyranny, and persecution. No skill may exorcise the
train of shades, undone for greed or lust, or victims for conscience'
sake, who parade the corridors of Lorge.
Not but what it has charms of its own: a plaintive sweetness set in a
minor key. The view across the Loire in summer time of emerald
woodland is superb. The long drawing-rooms overlooking the stream are
of stately proportions. Their immense overhanging chimney-pieces are
blazoned with coats of arms sculptured in the stone. Carved crests are
repeated again and again in the fretted ceilings. The tapestries, with
their shadowy story of mad King Charles the Sixth and his treacherous
wife, and the faithful girl, Odette, with their warm background of
dimmed gold, have been pronounced by experts to be priceless. The
little boudoir at the end which closes the suite is a dainty and cosy
nest. Than the country round nothing can be more delightful; you may
ride for hours unchecked amid the leafy woods over a velvet carpet; or
you may boat and explore the erratic sinuosities of the river,
dreaming out epics as you go anent the lordly, but for the most part
empty, dwellings that look down on you from either bank. As an
irreverent Parisian visitor once observed to a horror-stricken
neighbour, "Lorge would be a charming _sejour_ if one might pull down
the castle and erect instead a villa."
At the time which occupies us there was but one near neighbour
resident. The Chateau de Montbazon was not much more than a mile away,
having been built on a little bit of Lorge property beyond the Loire,
which had changed hands one night at cards. The spot commanded an
exceptionally fine prospect, so the owner placed a house on it. It was
bought a generation later by the Baron de Vaux, who dwelt there with
his wife and daughter, Angelique, and great was the joy of those
ladies upon hearing that Lorge, which was so little occupied, was
again to be inhabited.
Country life at this period was, from a fashionable point of view, a
singular anomaly. Marie Antoinette's dairymaid proclivities at Trianon
had rendered it _de rigueur_ to find pleasure in bucolic occupations.
Old customs were giving way to new-fangled habits borrowed from other
nations. You were offered tea as in England instead of coffee, and
were invited to join in the game of "boston," brought from the infant
republic beyond seas by the followers of Lafayette. Dress, except at
the Parisian court, grew simpler. Ladies, instead of brocaded damasks,
wore muslins and flimsy materials. Men donned garments of plain cloth
instead of satin or velvet. Noble dames grown tired of expensive
jewellery affected a badge made of some hero's head executed in
miniature. Franklin's or Rousseau's profile was modish, though the
more sentimental preferred a pet cat's portrait set on a ribbon in
place of a diadem and feathers. Emancipated from trains and furbelows,
you could now really move about in the country without much
discomfort.
The court circle was perforce a narrow one. Those who had not the
entree to Versailles withdrew to their estates when the queen retired
to Trianon, and there drank milk and made believe to hunt, or acted
tragedies and spouted epic poesy, pretending to be vastly entertained;
not but what they were ready to rush back to the capital with all
despatch when Fashion declared it possible.
But then, of late years, the decrees of Fashion had been sorely
interfered with by that aggressive Third Estate. Refusal to pay rents
was annoying, but an evil to which all were accustomed. In some parts
evil-disposed persons declared landlords to be the natural foes of the
sovereign people, and discussed how the vermin was to be got rid of. A
deep-rooted, bitter hate, sprung from long and systematic oppression,
divided class from class by an intangible but impenetrable barrier; a
hate that grew all the stronger, in that it had long been veiled by
fear and lashed by supercilious scorn. Republicanism was in execrable
taste--a subject for contemptuous laughter on the part of the
provincial seigneurie. Its exponents bore on a pole a turnip with a
candle in it, which could frighten none but children. The country
nobility attached no special meaning to the unseemly snarling. Until
the great crash came, and the rural palaces were sacked and burned,
the seigneurie never fully realized the thinness of the crust they had
been dancing on. In certain provinces it had been unsafe for some time
past for landlords to show their noses at all, much less prate of
paying rent. These not unwillingly left their chateaux to fate,
whereby the condition of small shopkeepers and such local fry was not
ameliorated. In more favoured districts dislike and discontent lay
smouldering, and my lords were still free to amuse themselves with
their guests from town, indifferent to the feelings of the masses.
The de Vaux family were not of the court circle; indeed, they rarely
travelled to the metropolis, but were content to ape its manners from
a distance. The trio were dull enough, as narrow in their views and as
obstinately fixed in the tenets of their grandsires as most country
gentlefolk are, but they were well intentioned, and availed themselves
of the earliest opportunity to pay their respects at Lorge. Gabrielle
received them with open arms. Was she not bent on inaugurating a new
era for herself and Clovis, and had she not been informed by her
father's unseemly merriment, that it is not well to bore a husband?
Not that the newcomers, who had driven over in the craziest of
shanderydans, showed signs of being an acquisition. On the contrary.
Long before the sun went down, Gabrielle felt that she could see too
much of Madame de Vaux, while Clovis listened, marvelling, to the old
gentleman's platitudes which were at least a century old.
The baroness was not slow to tumble out upon the floor her peck of
troubles. She always had a waggon-load about her. Angelique examined
the gown of the marquise with absorbed interest. The baron lectured on
affairs, with an occasional raid into his wife's country, to rout her
army of Jeremiads.
"Figure to yourself, my dear," groaned Madame de Vaux, after a
refreshing pinch of snuff, "that though we have had little disturbance
here so far, we are surrounded by snakes in the grass. Our Angelique
is always doing something for the ungrateful monsters who, when her
back's turned, gnash their teeth. All last winter, in spite of the
hard times, we distributed broken victuals to the destitute, and they
said that the refuse from our table had already been refused by the
dogs. Did you ever hear the like? Horrid, spiteful, ungrateful
creatures!"
"They know no better," replied Angelique, with a contemptuous curl of
the lip. "We can afford to laugh at them and their threats when we are
conscious of having done our duty."
"My brave child!" ejaculated madame with fervour; "what a comfort to
be mother of a child who would rise equal to any emergency!"
"Noblesse oblige!" snorted the baron, proudly. "We may be poor and
compelled to fill ourselves with over much _bouilli_, but our blood is
of the ancestral colour. A daughter of yours and mine, madame, would,
of course, be equal to an emergency."
The sentiment was mighty fine--one that might not be disputed. Clovis
languidly bowed and murmured something polite, while Gabrielle yawned
behind her fan. Good gracious! Was the intercourse of the new
neighbours to consist in mutual admiration of pedigrees?
The marquis turned the conversation to his favourite subject. Had the
baron, who doubtless was acquainted with matters of current interest,
by means of the _Gazette_, at all occupied himself with animal
magnetism?
With what? A pretty subject for gentlefolk! Rumour had already
whispered that the young marquis's pursuits were uncanny. The baron
glanced at the baroness, who looked unutterable things, while
Angelique detected a shade of sadness flitting over the face of the
marquise.
"God forbid!" cried the old lady, leaping into the breach, "that we
should know aught of devil's sabbats."
Clovis laughed, amused. "It is so easy to denounce what we do not
comprehend," he observed, demurely. "Some day, when you are howling
with pain, we will drive over to Montbazon, and cure you by laying on
of hands."
Gabrielle frowned. Such an ill-chosen expression, a parody on Holy
Writ, or something like it! She began to perceive that it might not be
so easy to vanquish Mesmer, and, seeing them as shocked as she was,
felt rather anxious to be rid of her guests.
"I won't be cured by devils!" stoutly declared the baroness. "I'd
rather grin and bear it."
"For my part, I care little to inquire into the means, provided that I
am cured," civilly remarked Angelique.
Here was one ready for conversion! Clovis woke up, and drawing his
chair closer, detailed with eager admiration the triumphs of the
prophet, to which the baron listened with the polite sceptical smile
that becomes one who is a noble--a superior person--and knows it.
Gabrielle looked grave and apologetic. The ground was slippery, and
the baroness, agile, despite her figure, again jumped into the breach.
"Yes. Just one more dish of tea, my sweetest marquise," she cried,
"and then we must go home to Montbazon. When you come to see us, if
you like to walk, you have only to cross the river in a boat, you
know, and the distance by the bridle-path is nothing. But I would not
wander alone if I were you, there are such sinister men about. Do you
know--of course you don't--that you've a nice thorn in your own side
that will soon prick you--he! he! That Jean Boulot of yours is a
shocking character, one of the odious, deceitful, crawling kind, which
is the worst of all!"
"Nothing of the sort, my dear!" interrupted the baron. "His opinions
are regretable, but he is a rough, honest fellow who professes a
humble fondness for the de Breze family, which does him honour!"
"And in the same breath he derides the aristocracy!" retorted the old
lady, with a giggle.
"Which can well look after itself!" replied her husband.
"Take my advice, dear, and get rid of him, or you'll regret it," urged
the baroness.
"He's a confidential servant, who was born and bred here!" objected
Gabrielle. "He and those who went before have always served us well,
and Jean would not hurt a hair of any of our heads, I warrant. He did
something silly the other day in the way of talking nonsense, and my
father rated him for it. That episode is over and forgotten."
"He's a democrat, or worse, if possible," asserted the baroness with
many nods. "Capable of anything, my dear; get rid of him; a scorpion!"
she continued, wagging her head; and content with this first
impression, the old lady gathered up her wraps, and with an elaborate
curtsey, swept away the family, delighted with the effect she had
produced.
Neither Gabrielle nor Clovis were equally charmed. These tiresome
people were their only neighbours! Then it must be solitude indeed.
Angelique seemed a nice girl enough; but the baroness was overwise in
her own conceit; and the baron ridiculously puffed with the
overweening vanity of class. If the pair were to live absolutely
alone, Gabrielle, doubting her own strength of will and power of
fascination, already trembled for her experiment. Where could society
be found which should rub off the jagged edges of a _tete-a-tete_? The
chateaux round about were unoccupied. Nobody dwelt at Blois except
bourgeoisie and common persons. Perhaps this move into the desert had
been imprudent. Well, if it proved disastrous, they could return to
Paris and no harm done, considering how far apart they had drifted
already. A little society--just two or three congenial persons--would
make all the difference; but where might such fowls be caught?
What of this communication about Jean Boulot? surely it was idle
tittle-tattle, born in the murky brain of a stupid old woman. He a
scorpion on the hearth, to be got rid of before he could sting? The
charge was ridiculous, and yet demanded attention, considering the
Bastile episode such a brief while ago. And he was engaged to Toinon
too. Under the seal of strictest secrecy that damsel had shared her
delicious secret with her foster-sister, and the latter with a hearty
kiss had wished her joy. It was only fair to both the lovers that the
matter should be cleared up, and to that end the damsel must be
cross-examined.
When charged with the lamentable leanings of her affianced, Toinon
made no attempt to laugh the matter off. She was fain to confess
herself disappointed in Jean Boulot. He was too straightforward to
stoop to knavery. You only had to look into his fearless, clear grey
eyes to be assured of it; but his sentiments were distressing. He told
his love when she remonstrated that reason and justice could only be
departed from by paths watered with tears; and when she retorted that
he would certainly be hanged if he were heard to indulge in such talk,
he only shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the gallows were made
for the unlucky. In the middle of an impressive lecture he snatched a
kiss and laughed, and actually confessed with something that looked
like pride that he had just been selected from among his fellows to be
chief of some new society. He was constantly moving about among the
rustics discoursing about the improvement of their condition at the
expense of a superior class. All Toinon could be sure of was that Jean
was beyond her control. Perhaps madame might succeed in managing the
young man and bring him to a sense of his enormities.
The experiment was not crowned with success, for instead of confessing
his sins with a _mea culpa_, Jean smiled and delivered himself of
various mysterious hints. "Never you fear," he asserted, cheerfully,
"whatever may happen by and by, you and yours shall be defended with
my best blood; not but what a glimpse of your sweet face will be
enough to calm the boys, however spitefully inclined. As to the
others--H'm!"
Enigmatical and unsatisfactory.
It was certainly very dull in the desert; and before many weeks were
over, the marquise was prepared secretly to admit that her father had
judged rightly. She was no nearer to her husband here than in Paris;
and caught herself longing more and more for those two or three
congenial persons who were unattainable. It is all very well to wrap
yourself in your children, to watch the young intelligence unfolding
tender leaves, to mark and record with little thrills of joy each new
sally of infant wit; but carefully nurtured babes retire early to the
nest, and long evening hours have to be got through which are apt to
hang heavy on the hands. There was absolutely no one to talk to,
Gabrielle was not of a studious turn, avoiding the library as a close
and musty place, had no _penchant_ for embroidery, cared not to tinkle
on a spinette. Clovis, on the other hand, professed himself delighted
with the unbroken solitude where there was nobody to plague him with
politics; employed his time in writing reams to Mesmer, and counting
the days which must elapse before he could receive replies. When weary
of considering the pros and cons of the prophet's theories, he locked
himself in his study, and could be heard far into the night groaning
sonatas on his 'cello. Oh, that 'cello! Its moans were extremely
wearing to Gabrielle's nerves, for it always suggested to her a coffin
with some one in agony inside. Weave new bands of affection, forsooth,
far from the madding crowd! How doleful a deception was hers.
The marquis seemed to have forgotten that he was father of two
cherubs, was certainly oblivious of the fact that his better half was
a reigning beauty, who, in her prime was self-deposed. Sometimes he
would sally forth on solitary rides, and return, depressed and dumb,
to fall asleep in his chair. It was certain that the pair were
drifting more fatally distant from each other in the country even than
in town. This was not life, but vegetation; sure any change would be a
godsend.
At one moment the hapless marquise thought of summoning a bevy of the
danglers whom she had loftily pretended to despise; but, if they were
to come--unable to get on with Clovis--how were they to be amused? At
another time she was on the point of imploring the marechal and his
wife to break the bonds of dulness by a visit, but then again she
hesitated. How was she to parry her father's anxious questions, how
avoid his sympathetic eyes? No. Come what might, she would bear what
she must bear, and veil her wounds from her beloved ones.
Now and again the de Vaux family drove over to spend the afternoon,
and the visit was in due course returned; but though all parties were
punctiliously civil and vowed they enjoyed themselves immensely, it
was clear to both families that no intimacy could arise between them.
Gabrielle was almost driven to lower her flag and retire from the
field; was indeed debating how she should set about it with dignity,
when that for which she craved was suddenly tossed into her lap.
One morning, the marquis actually so far broke through his secluded
habits, as without a formal message sent in advance, to invade his
wife's boudoir. Her heart gave a great bound, and looking up from the
children's hornbook in glad surprise, she smiled gratefully on him.
Was this a first advance? She was determined that the visit should be
a pleasant one, and to that end proceeded forthwith to trot out the
prodigies. He had no idea, she prattled, how vast were their
acquirements. They knew ever so many wondrous things which would no
doubt delight their parent. Straightway, like little clockwork
parrots, well-wound up, the infants chirped forth their lore, while
the marquis's face increased in length, the while with well-bred
courtesy he made believe to listen. His dreamy eyes wandered over a
map of varied stains on their dirty little pinafores. They diffused an
aroma of bread and butter; their angel fingers shone with grease.
Their acquirements, he coldly agreed when they had run down, were
remarkable for tender years, and the weather being fine they had
better run out and play.
Gabrielle sighed. Mere politeness--such politeness as a wearied but
courteous stranger might bestow--in which was no scintilla of
affection. Unnatural parent! After all, the darlings were perchance a
trifle juvenile to interest a man. Men, as a rule, can see no beauty
in babes and sucklings; vote them revolting lumps of adipose tissue;
but then, sweet Victor and Camille were not babies, for one was five
and the other four--were enjoying that most fascinating period of
existence when we are never clean, and are always falling down and
crying.
The unappreciated angels having shrieked off down the long
drawing-rooms, there to tumble, hurt themselves, and howl, Clovis sat
down and explained the cause of his irruption.
"A letter! Good news or bad?" inquired Gabrielle, with a presentiment
of evil.
"That depends how you read it," returned her husband, quietly. "As you
are aware, I never inflicted my uncongenial presence overmuch on you;
never sought to know why you were so ready to abdicate your brilliant
position in Paris to suit a passing whim of mine, but I was none the
less obliged by your compliance. I now wish you to please yourself,
and make arrangements for the future, such as may suit your views."
Gabrielle stared at the automaton. Good heavens! His uncongenial
presence. Was he so blind as not to perceive how she hungered for it?
A burning reproach was on her lips, but found no voice; for somehow,
seeing him sit there so straight and cold and self-complacent, her
courage oozed away.
"Do what you choose." He continued with bland indifference. "I was
never jealous of your entourage, because I liked you to enjoy the meed
of admiration that is your due, and know that you are to be trusted
even in so perilous a vortex as Versailles. For reasons with which I
need not trouble you, I prefer myself to remain here for a while, with
your permission; but seem to see that you are weary of playing the
chatelaine. Is it so? Would you like to return to Paris. Please
yourself. You will admit that I give you the completest liberty."
The heart of the poor wife sank low. For what crime was she condemned
to love an icicle? If he would only find fault, or discover a
grievance, or even wax wroth without a cause, and smite her! Each calm
and measured sentence as he sat, with the finger-tips of one hand
poised accurately on those of the other, was like the prick of a steel
stiletto. His gaze was fixed on a tree a long way off. He could not
even trouble to look at her.
Sighing wearily, she murmured, "Completest liberty, no doubt. I and
the children are to go away and leave you here alone?"
Clovis moved his gaze to another tree and cleared his throat. "Not
unless you wish it," he said, "but something has happened that is a
little embarrassing."
"Any trouble? Am I not here to share it."
"Scarcely a trouble--an inconvenience only, which you may object to
share," her husband answered, smiling. "Could you brook other
inmates?"
"Other inmates! What can you mean?'
"As you know, though you have never seen them, I have two
half-brothers. They are inseparable--quite pattern brothers--the one
brilliantly clever, the other his admiring shadow. The Abbe Pharamond,
the younger one, would be welcomed in any society on account of his
sparkling talent; but he has preferred to shine alone at Toulouse,
rather than consent to be a unit in the system of stars at Paris. He
has got into trouble, and writes to ask for an asylum for himself and
Phebus."
"What trouble?"
"A too pungent epigram followed by a fatal duel, makes it convenient
to seek eclipse. In six months the affair will have blown over. You
would be sure to like the abbe, if you met him; while as for poor dear
Phebus, the chevalier, as he is called in the south, he is fat and
somnolent, and would not hurt a fly."
Gabrielle reflected, Why did a voice deep down within whisper words of
warning? Here were the congenial persons for whose advent she had
longed. What a relief to the _tete-a-tete_ would be the brilliant
abbe, and fat Phebus who would not hurt a fly! Thanks to them, Lorge
might become endurable. On the suggestion of a return to Paris, the
difficulty had occurred to her as to the excuse to be made for her
husband's lengthened absence. Clearly she must remain at Lorge, so
long as he thought fit to do so. Perhaps the abbe disliked music and
hated violoncellos? Together in the dead of night they would capture
the marquis's treasure and send it floating down the Loire.
"My dear Clovis!" she exclaimed presently, with genuine pleasure; "you
singular being! What objection could I have? On the contrary, I am
charmed with the opportunity of making the acquaintance of your
brothers."