The Significance of a Supper-Table.
The Aycons of Aycon Knoll have always been a hard-headed, levelheaded
race. We have had no enthusiasms, few ambitions, no illusions, and not
many scandals. We keep our heads on our shoulders and our purses in our
pockets. We do not rise very high, but we have never sunk. We abide at the
Knoll from generation to generation, deeming our continued existence in
itself a service to the state and an honor to the house. We think more
highly of ourselves than we admit, and allow ourselves to smile when we
walk in to dinner behind the new nobility. We grow just a little richer
with every decade, and add a field or two to our domains once in five
years. The gaps made by falling rents we have filled by judicious
purchases of land near rising towns; and we have no doubt that there lies
before us a future as long and prosperous as our past has been. We are not
universally popular, and we see in the fact a tribute to our valuable
qualities.
I venture to mention these family virtues and characteristics because it
has been thought in some quarters that I displayed them but to a very
slight degree in the course of the expedition on which I was now embarked.
The impression is a mistaken one. As I have said before, I did nothing
that was not forced upon me. Any of my ancestors would, I am sure, have
done the same, had they chanced to be thrown under similar circumstances
into the society of Mme. de Saint-Maclou and of the other persons whom I
was privileged to meet; and had those other persons happened to act in the
manner in which they did when I fell in with them.
Gustave maintained his gayety and good spirits unabated through the trials
of our voyage to Cherbourg. The mild mystery that attended our excursion
was highly to his taste. He insisted on our coming without servants. He
persuaded me to leave no address; obliged to keep himself within touch of
the Embassy, he directed letters to be sent to Avranches, where, he
explained, he could procure them; for, as he thought it safe to disclose
when a dozen miles of sea separated us from the possibility of curious
listeners, the house to which we were bound stood about ten miles distant
from that town, in a retired and somewhat desolate bit of country lining
the seashore.
"My sister says it is the most _triste_ place in the world," said he; "but
we shall change all that when we arrive."
There was nothing to prevent our arriving very soon to relieve Mlle. de
Berensac's depression, for the middle of the next day found us at
Avranches, and we spent the afternoon wandering about somewhat aimlessly
and staring across the bay at the mass of Mont St. Michel. Directly
beneath us as we stood on the hill, and lying in a straight line with the
Mount, there was a large square white house, on the very edge of the
stretching sand. We were told that it was a convent.
"But the whole place is no livelier than one," said I, yawning. "My dear
fellow, why don't we go on?"
"It is right for you to see this interesting town," answered Gustave
gravely, but with a merry gleam in his eye. "However, I have ordered a
carriage, so be patient."
"For what time?"
"Nine o'clock, when we have dined."
"We are to get there in the dark, then?"
"What reason is there against that?" he asked, smiling.
"None," said I; and I went to pack up my bag.
In my room I chanced to find a _femme-de-chambre_. To her I put a question
or two as to the gentry of the neighborhood. She rattled me off a few
distinguished names, and ended:
"The duke of Saint-Maclou has also a small _château_."
"Is he there now?" I asked.
"The duchess only, sir," she answered. "Ah, they tell wonderful stories of
her!"
"Do they? Pray, of what kind?"
"Oh, not to her harm, sir; or, at least, not exactly, though to simple
country-folk--"
The national shrug was an appropriate ending.
"And the duke?"
"He is a good man," she answered earnestly, "and a very clever man. He is
very highly thought of at Paris, sir."
I had hoped, secretly, to hear that he was a villain; but he was a good
man. It was a scurvy trick to play on a good man. Well, there was no help
for it. I packed my bag with some dawning misgivings; the chambermaid,
undisturbed by my presence, went on rubbing the table with some
strong-smelling furniture polish.
"At least," she observed, as though there had been no pause, "he gives
much to the church and to the poor."
"It may be repentance," said I, looking up with a hopeful air.
"It is possible, sir."
"Or," cried I, with a smile, "hypocrisy?"
The chambermaid's shake of her head refused to accept this idea; but my
conscience, fastening on it, found rest. I hesitated no longer. The man
was a cunning hypocrite. I would go on cheerfully, secure that he deserved
all the bamboozling which the duchess and my friend Gustave might prepare
for him.
At nine o'clock, as Gustave had arranged, we started in a heavy carriage
drawn by two great white horses and driven by a stolid fat hostler. Slowly
we jogged along under the stars, St. Michel being our continual companion
on the right hand, as we followed the road round the bay. When we had gone
five or six miles, we turned suddenly inland. There were banks on each
side of the road now, and we were going uphill; for rising out of the
plain there was a sudden low spur of higher ground.
"Is the house at the top?" I asked Gustave.
"Just under the top," said he.
"I shall walk," said I.
The fact is, I had grown intolerably impatient of our slow jog, which had
now sunk to a walk.
We jumped out and strode on ahead, soon distancing our carriage, and
waking echoes with our merry talk.
"I rather wonder they have not come to meet us," said Gustave. "See, there
is the house."
A sudden turn in the road had brought us in sight of it. It was a rather
small modern Gothic _château_. It nestled comfortably below the hill,
which rose very steeply immediately behind it. The road along which we
were approaching appeared to afford the only access, and no other house
was visible. But, desolate as the spot certainly was, the house itself
presented a gay appearance, for there were lights in every window from
ground to roof.
"She seems to have company," I observed.
"It is that she expects us," answered Gustave. "This illumination is in
our honor."
"Come on," said I, quickening my pace; and Gustave burst out laughing.
"I knew you would catch fire when once I got you started!" he cried.
Suddenly a voice struck on my ear--a clear, pleasant voice:
"Was he slow to catch fire, my dear Gustave?"
I started. Gustave looked round.
"It is she," he said. "Where is she?"
"Was he slow to catch fire?" asked the voice again. "Well, he has but just
come near the flame"--and a laugh followed the words.
"Slow to light is long to burn," said I, turning to the bank on the left
side of the road, for it was thence that the voice came.
A moment later a little figure in white darted down into the road,
laughing and panting. She seized Gustave's hand.
"I ran so hard to meet you!" she cried.
"And have you brought Claire with you?" he asked.
"Present your friend to me," commanded the duchess, as though she had not
heard his question.
Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the
duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was
a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued. She moved with
extraordinary grace and agility, and seemed never at rest. The one term of
praise (if it be one, which I sometimes incline to doubt) that I have
never heard applied to her is--dignified.
"It is most charming of you to come, Mr. Aycon," said she. "I've heard so
much of you, and you'll be so terribly dull!"
"With yourself, madame, and Mlle. de Berensac--"
"Oh, of course you must say that!" she interrupted. "But come along,
supper is ready. How delightful to have supper again! I'm never in good
enough spirits to have supper when I'm alone. You'll be terribly
uncomfortable, gentlemen. The whole household consists of an old man and
five women--counting myself."
"And are they all--?" began Gustave.
"Discreet?" she asked, interrupting again. "Oh, they will not tell the
truth! Never fear, my dear Gustave!"
"What news of the duke?" asked he, as we began to walk, the duchess
stepping a little ahead of us.
"Oh, the best," said she, with a nod over her shoulder. "None, you know.
That's one of your proverbs, Mr. Aycon?"
"Even a proverb is true sometimes," I ventured to remark.
We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open.
Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished
with rose-colored hangings. Here supper was spread. Gustave walked up to
the table. The duchess flung herself into an armchair. She had taken her
handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and
seemed to be biting it. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a
comical mixture of amusement and apprehension. A glance of her eyes at me
invited me to share the perilous jest, in which Gustave's demeanor
appeared to bear the chief part.
Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.
"One--two--three!" he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.
The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till
they almost reached her clustering hair.
"One--two--three?" repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. "Does
Claire remain upstairs?"
Appeal--amusement--fright--shame--triumph--chased one another across the
eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift
an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion
proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the
handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn't help it; I
began to laugh; the duchess' face disappeared altogether behind the
handkerchief.
"Do you mean to say Claire's not here?" cried Gustave, turning on her
swiftly and accusingly.
The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more
emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:
"She left three days ago."
Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew a
chair back from the table, and said:
"If madame is ready--"
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look
at Gustave's grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me
by the arm, crying:
"Isn't it fun, Mr. Aycon? There's nobody but me! Isn't it fun?"