MISTRESS AND MAID.
"She had forgot her gowne of gray
Which she did weare of late."
It would be hard to imagine a prettier picture than there was to be seen
in the apartments of Mlle de Tricotrin on the afternoon of the day
following the eventful reception. The cold season was drawing to a
close. The day had been very sultry; and clad in the rich _déshabillé_
of the zenana, the beauty was lying listlessly on a luxurious divan,
pretending to finish her siesta. A loose white robe of softest cotton
was wrapped about her negligently, and her bare feet peeped shyly out of
it. Her rounded arms, her littered brown hair, the tumbled heap of gaily
striped pillows, in which her flushed face was half buried, all told of
the languorous unrest of the East; and the soft, rose-coloured light
glimmered in from the domed ceiling upon a scene in which Europe seemed
quite forgotten.
Indeed, it was in its only half-concealed Orientalism that Oneiria had
the greatest charm for her. That was easy to see in all the decoration
and appointments of the room, in the harmonious shimmer of the
arabesques, with which the plastered walls were painted, and the dwarf
tables, and scattered cushions and softly glowing mats, which almost hid
the cool, polished floor. No less was it visible in her own dress, and
that of Penelophon, who stood fanning her mistress with a large and
gaudy palm-leaf fan. It has been said that Mlle de Tricotrin had a
pretty taste in costume, and it was her delight to devise modifications
of the Eastern attires, which surrounded her amongst the lower orders,
and dress her pretty maid in them. To-day Penelophon wore in the Moorish
fashion, to which she was accustomed, a long robe that reached loosely
from her shoulders to her feet, of a soft yellow hue. Low about her
waist it was girt by a band of scarlet cloth, richly embroidered with
gold, and of almost extravagant breadth. Yet there is no other cincture
which will so beautifully express the grace of a lithe young figure. It
confined without restraint, and allowed the robe to fall open naturally
at the breast, so as to show beneath it a glimpse of a scarlet bodice. A
silken scarf, knotted about her head, almost concealed her dark hair.
Her arms and feet were bare, and looked almost as white as the silver
anklets and armlets with which they were clasped, and which jingled with
a soft and pleasant sound as she gently moved the fan. All other noise
was hushed, and Penelophon stood quiet and content to look down with
deepest admiration at the lovely face resting in the pillows, while she
waited patiently till her mistress should be tired of pretending to
sleep.
"'Tis useless," said Mlle de Tricotrin at last, rousing herself with a
lazy toss of her arms; "I can sleep no more."
"Is it thinking of Trecenito that keeps you awake?" asked Penelophon, as
her mistress sat up on the divan, and she kneeled at her feet to put on
her dainty slippers.
"Hush! hush! my girl; a maid must not speak of such things to her
mistress."
"Forgive me, madam, for indeed I meant no harm," said Penelophon,
pausing in her work and looking up wistfully.
"And you did no harm," replied her mistress. "Yes, you may speak of this
to me. I like to hear you, for you are maid and friend in one. Yes,
child," she went on, taking the sweet upturned face in her hand
caressingly, "you are the only woman I ever loved; the only friend I
ever had."
She sank back wearily upon the divan, and Penelophon stooped and kissed
in deep devotion the little white foot she held in her hand before she
hid it in the slipper.
"Why do you do that, child?" asked her mistress.
"I don't know," answered Penelophon; "but you are so kind, and I am so
happy, and you love Trecenito so."
The girls great dark eyes were brimming with tears as she looked up,
and her mistress saw them. "Why, child," she said, "you love him too!"
"No, no," said Penelophon eagerly, a faint blush tinting her pale face.
"I do not love him. He is high above where my love can reach. I adore
him and worship him, and it is you I love because you love him. There is
no one but you in the wide world whom such a man as he could love. It is
only such a one as you who can know how to love him, and that is why you
are so dear to me. You are the sweet saint that helps me to reach the
throne of my heaven. It is like worship to tire your hair, and dress
you, and send you away in all your beauty to make him glad. You are the
prayers I say to him, and the hymns I sing, and the sweet incense I
offer to my god."
"My child, my child," said her mistress in a hushed voice, as of one who
speaks in some vast, solemn cathedral, "whence and what are you? It is
only the angels who love like that. Surely it was one of them who
whispered in my ear that I should ask him to give you to me."
"Yes," answered the maid, "and it was surely one that brought you to
him, because they knew how good he would be to me. 'He must not wait for
paradise,' they said. 'We will bring him a wife as bright and pure and
beautiful as the heavens, and he shall have a paradise on earth.' So
they brought you to him, and they will show him the sunshine in your
face, and the blue sky that slumbers in your eyes; he shall feel the
warm glow of your lips, and know it is the spirit of life; he shall hear
the murmur of your voice, and know it is the echo of the prayers which
the saints have prayed."
"Hush! hush!" said her mistress, almost beneath her breath. "You must
not speak so. You frighten me. I am not what you think. God help me! I
am not what you think. And yet, child, yet I believe you would almost
make me what you say. Ah me! if I had had a sister such as you! Sing to
me, child, while I lie and think what I am and what I might have been."
Penelophon rose, and took a kind of lute, which was the instrument of
the people, and began to sing to it some half Moorish love-song, full of
those slurs and weird modulations which sound so strange to European
ears. But Penelophon's plaintive voice had a fascination for her
mistress, and she lay quite still listening till the end. As the song
finished, the door opened, and Monsieur de Tricotrin came in.
"My child," said he, "I want to speak to you."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone."
"Go then, Penelophon," said Mlle de Tricotrin; "but come back and talk
to me before I dress."
"It is a pretty wench the King gave you," said the Marquis, as the
beggar-maid left the room. "I doubt if she helps much when he sees you
together."
"But I am very fond of her, sir!"
"That is what I fancy is the case with him."
"No, that is impossible. A man could never be taken with a child like
her."
"You must remember, my dear," said the Marquis, "they have been playing
hero and heroine together in a very romantic drama? You know?"
"Perfectly, sir; Penelophon has told me."
"And yet you do not believe a man may be infatuated with her?"
"No, sir. She has nothing to charm a man."
"Well, I have reasons for what I say."
"Indeed, sir."
"Yes. To begin with, Turbo, the Chancellor, is crazy about her."
"That was but the passing fancy of a brutal nature."
"My dear, you are quite mistaken. He is crazy still."
"You surely must be joking, sir."
"Not at all. In fact, it is on this very subject I came to speak. He
wants you to give her up to him."
"I would rather give up the throne!" cried she warmly.
"Softly, my child," said the Marquis. "Do not decide this matter too
hastily. A throne is not a thing to be lightly cast on one side for the
sake of a miserable little beggar-girl."
"Yes; but that is not the question now."
"My dear, it is the question."
"You do not mean----"
"I mean simply that the Chancellor asks your maid as the price of his
adhesion, and without his adhesion we cannot succeed. That is all. I
call it really handsome."
"And I--I call it infamous!" cried Mlle de Tricotrin hotly. "It is a
villainy, and I will never consent to it!"
"My dear," said the Marquis soothingly, "what a fuss to make about this
miserable creature. It is a mere matter of business; for you can hardly
call a beggar a human being. Equality and fraternity are all very well,
but that would be going too far."
"I know your principles of equality well enough, sir, and I do not call
this poor girl human. She is an angel, and he--he is a fiend that
Penelophon dreams of and wakes screaming. She shudders when she even
thinks of him, and the sight of him is a horror that paralyses her. No,
no; I will not part with her. You have my answer, sir."
"My child," said the Marquis calmly, in spite of his vexation, "I am not
pleased with you. You are talking very foolishly. I did not ask you for
an answer now, and I will not take one. This evening, ere you retire
for the night, I will hear your decision. Turbo will be in waiting, and
you can send the girl to him to be got out of the way, or else you can
let her stay for the King to marry, whichever you like. Remember what
has happened in this country before, and remember the character of the
present sovereign. That is all I ask at present. I will leave you to
consider the matter."
With these words M. de Tricotrin went abruptly from the room. He saw he
had made an impression upon his daughter by what he had said, and he was
an old enough hand at the game of persuading women to know the value of
allowing impressions so made to ferment by themselves. He knew that
further discussion would only disturb her and arrest the process, till
perhaps what he considered a mere girlish fantastic mood would become
solidified into a wholly illogical and obstinate determination which
might afterwards prove quite insoluble.
"Women," he used to say, "have no opinions. They have merely
contradictory states of mind, which serve them indifferently instead.
They are states of mind which live upon contradictions. Failing this
they perish, and, consequently, as a state of mind of some kind is a
moral necessity, to women no less than to men, in the absence of
external contradiction, they will soon contradict themselves."
Whether the Marquis's theory has any real scientific value is a matter
of doubt. It is merely interesting here as the one upon which he acted
with his daughter. She was not always easy to manage. She was naturally
a woman of spirit, and, moreover, quite understood the high pecuniary
value her father placed upon her. She had known all her life that she
was the best card he had to play, and that now she was the only one. It
is not to be wondered at then, that, being human, she from time to time
showed a strong disposition to have a say in the game. The Marquis saw
she was in one of her antagonistic moods now; so, as we have said, he
left the poisonous barm he had dexterously planted to ferment and
produce the metamorphosis he desired.
Mlle de Tricotrin did not talk much to Penelophon when she returned. She
was occupied in trying to convince herself that no man of the world
could possibly admire the girl. She had always liked the pale, delicate
face herself for its purity and dreamy simplicity. She could imagine,
perhaps, a painter, or a sculptor, or a poet--yes, but was not Kophetua
a poet after all? Were not all the high-flown democratic opinions which
he was constantly expressing nothing but the love of a poet for nature,
and the base multitude whom he idealised as the children of nature?
She was conscious of feeling distinctly colder to her maid, as she was
being dressed for Count Kora's rout, to which she was going that
evening. But Penelophon saw no difference, and she fondled her idol's
lustrous hair, and caressed the soft folds of her gown as lovingly as
ever; and when all was done rejoiced as unaffectedly in the surpassing
beauty she was sending forth as her offering to the hero she worshipped.
The Marquis did not refer again to the subject at his heart; but as he
ascended the stairs of the Kora Palace, he gently stirred the
fermentation he had set up.
"You know, my child," he said blandly, "that your presence here to-night
finally marks you as the accepted candidate of the Kallists."
"You have told me so, sir."
"And you know that there remain now only two persons to gain."
"You mean, sir, I presume----"
"The Chancellor and the King. To-night you will either win or lose the
former. You have to play a stroke which will count more than everything
we have done. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, as you are determined to refuse the price Turbo asks for his
alliance, you had better try and win him by the other way in which you
are so clever, my dear."
"He is invulnerable to those weapons, sir. I might as well try to charm
the wind."
"Then I suppose we must call him lost."
Mlle de Tricotrin did not answer. It was a good sign. The Marquis felt
hopeful, and determined to assure the Chancellor that if he would be
present at the time and place appointed he would not be disappointed.