ELISE DE TECLE
Meantime Camors directed his steps toward the residence of M. des
Rameures, of which he at last obtained correct information. He took the
same road as the preceding evening, passed the monastic-looking building
that held Madame de Tecle, glanced at the old oak that had served him for
an observatory, and about a mile farther on he discovered the small house
with towers that he sought.
It could only be compared to those imaginary edifices of which we have
all read in childhood's happy days in taking text, under an attractive
picture: "The castle of M. de Valmont was agreeably situated at the
summit of a pretty hill." It had a really picturesque surrounding of
fields sloping away, green as emerald, dotted here and there with great
bouquets of trees, or cut by walks adorned with huge roses or white
bridges thrown over rivulets. Cattle and sheep were resting here and
there, which might have figured at the Opera Comique, so shining were the
skins of the cows and so white the wool of the sheep. Camors swung open
the gate, took the first road he saw, and reached the top of the hill
amid trees and flowers. An old servant slept on a bench before the door,
smiling in his dreams.
Camors waked him, inquired for the master of the house, and was ushered
into a vestibule. Thence he entered a charming apartment, where a young
lady in a short skirt and round hat was arranging bouquets in Chinese
vases.
She turned at the noise of the opening door, and Camors saw--Madame de
Tecle!
As he saluted her with an air of astonishment and doubt, she looked
fixedly at him with her large eyes. He spoke first, with more of
hesitation than usual.
"Pardon me, Madame, but I inquired for Monsieur des Rameures."
"He is at the farm, but will soon return. Be kind enough to wait."
She pointed to a chair, and seated herself, pushing away with her foot
the branches that strewed the floor.
"But, Madame, in the absence of Monsieur des Rameures may I have the
honor of speaking with his niece?"
The shadow of a smile flitted over Madame de Tecle's brown but charming
face. "His niece?" she said: "I am his niece."
"You I Pardon me, Madame, but I thought--they said--I expected to find an
elderly--a--person--that is, a respectable" he hesitated, then added
simply" and I find I am in error."
Madame de Tecle seemed completely unmoved by this compliment.
"Will you be kind enough, Monsieur," she said, "to let me know whom I
have the honor of receiving?"
"I am Monsieur de Camors."
"Ah! Then I have excuses also to make. It was probably you whom we saw
this morning. We have been very rude--my daughter and I--but we were
ignorant of your arrival; and Reuilly has been so long deserted."
"I sincerely hope, Madame, that your daughter and yourself will make no
change in your rides."
Madame de Tecle replied by a movement of the hand that implied certainly
she appreciated the offer, and certainly she should not accept it. Then
there was a pause long enough to embarrass Camors, during which his eye
fell upon the piano, and his lips almost formed the original remark--
"You are a musician, Madame." Suddenly recollecting his tree, however,
he feared to betray himself by the allusion, and was silent.
"You come from Paris, Monsieur de Camors?" Madame de Tecle at length
asked.
"No, Madame, I have been passing several weeks with my kinsman, General
de Campvallon, who has also the honor, I believe, to be a friend of
yours; and who has requested me to call upon you."
"We are delighted that you have done so; and what an excellent man the
General is!"
"Excellent indeed, Madame." There was another pause.
"If you do not object to a short walk in the sun," said Madame de Tecle
at length, "let us walk to meet my uncle. We are almost sure to meet
him." Camors bowed. Madame de Tecle rose and rang the bell: "Ask
Mademoiselle Marie," she said to the servant, "to be kind enough to put
on her hat and join us."
A moment after, Mademoiselle Marie entered, cast on the stranger the
steady, frank look of an inquisitive child, bowed slightly to him, and
they all left the room by a door opening on the lawn.
Madame de Tecle, while responding courteously to the graceful speeches of
Camors, walked on with a light and rapid step, her fairy-like little
shoes leaving their impression on the smooth fine sand of the path.
She walked with indescribable, unconscious grace; with that supple,
elastic undulation which would have been coquettish had it not been
undeniably natural. Reaching the wall that enclosed the right side of
the park, she opened a wicket that led into a narrow path through a large
field of ripe corn. She passed into this path, followed in single file
by Mademoiselle Marie and by Camors. Until now the child had been very
quiet, but the rich golden corn-tassels, entangled with bright daisies,
red poppies, and hollyhocks, and the humming concert of myriads of flies-
blue, yellow, and reddishbrownwhich sported amid the sweets, excited her
beyond self-control. Stopping here and there to pluck a flower, she
would turn and cry, "Pardon, Monsieur;" until, at length, on an apple-
tree growing near the path she descried on a low branch a green apple, no
larger than her finger. This temptation proved irresistible, and with
one spring into the midst of the corn, she essayed to reach the prize, if
Providence would permit. Madame de Tecle, however, would not permit.
She seemed much displeased, and said, sharply:
"Marie, my child! In the midst of the corn! Are you crazy!"
The child returned promptly to the path, but unable to conquer her wish
for the apple, turned an imploring eye to Camors and said, softly:
"Pardon, Monsieur, but that apple would make my bouquet complete."
Camors had only to reach up, stretch out his hand, and detach the branch
from the tree.
"A thousand thanks!" cried the child, and adding this crowning glory to
her bouquet, she placed the whole inside the ribbon around her hat and
walked on with an air of proud satisfaction.
As they approached the fence running across the end of the field, Madame
de Tecle suddenly said: "My uncle, Monsieur;" and Camors, raising his
head, saw a very tall man looking at them over the fence and shading his
eyes with his hand. His robust limbs were clad in gaiters of yellow
leather with steel buttons, and he wore a loose coat of maroon velvet and
a soft felt hat. Camors immediately recognized the white hair and heavy
black eyebrows as the same he had seen bending over the violin the night
before.
"Uncle," said Madame de Tecle, introducing the young Count by a wave of
the hand: "This is Monsieur de Camors."
"Monsieur de Camors," repeated the old man, in a deep and sonorous voice,
"you are most welcome;" and opening the gate he gave his guest a soft,
brown hand, as he continued: "I knew your mother intimately, and am
charmed to have her son under my roof. Your mother was a most amiable
person, Monsieur, and certainly merited--" The old man hesitated, and
finished his sentence by a sonorous "Hem!" that resounded and rumbled
in his chest as if in the vault of a church.
Then he took the letter Camors handed to him, held it a long distance
from his eyes, and began reading it. The General had told the Count it
would be impolite to break suddenly to M. des Rameures the plan they had
concocted. The latter, therefore, found the note only a very warm
introduction of Camors. The postscript gave him the announcement of the
marriage.
"The devil!" he cried. "Did you know this, Elise? Campvallon is to be
married!"
All women, widows, matrons, or maids, are deeply interested in matters
pertaining to marriage.
"What, uncle! The General! Can it be? Are you sure?"
"Um--rather. He writes the news himself. Do you know the lady, Monsieur
le Comte?"
"Mademoiselle de Luc d'Estrelles is my cousin," Camors replied.
"Ah! That is right; and she is of a certain age?"
"She is about twenty-five."
M. des Rameures received this intelligence with one of the resonant
coughs peculiar to him.
"May I ask, without indiscretion, whether she is endowed with a pleasing
person?"
"She is exceedingly beautiful," was the reply.
"Hem! So much the better. It seems to me the General is a little old
for her: but every one is the best judge of his own affairs: Hem! the
best judge of his own affairs. Elise, my dear, whenever you are ready we
will follow you. Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte, for receiving you in this
rustic attire, but I am a laborer. Agricola--a mere herdsman--'custos
gregis', as the poet says. Walk before me, Monsieur le Comte, I beg you.
Marie, child, respect my corn!
"And can we hope, Monsieur de Camors, that you have the happy idea of
quitting the great Babylon to install yourself among your rural
possessions? It will be a good example, Monsieur--an excellent example!
For unhappily today more than ever we can say with the poet:
'Non ullus aratro
Dignus honos; squalent abductis arva colonis,
Et--et--'
"And, by gracious! I've forgotten the rest--poor memory! Ah, young sir,
never grow old-never grow old!"
"'Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem,"'
said Camors, continuing the broken quotation.
"Ah! you quote Virgil. You read the classics. I am charmed, really
charmed. That is not the characteristic of our rising generation, for
modern youth has an idea it is bad taste to quote the ancients. But that
is not my idea, young sir--not in the least. Our fathers quoted freely
because they were familiar with them. And Virgil is my poet. Not that I
approve of all his theories of cultivation. With all the respect I
accord him, there is a great deal to be said on that point; and his plan
of breeding in particular will never do--never do! Still, he is
delicious, eh? Very well, Monsieur Camors, now you see my little domain
--'mea paupera regna'--the retreat of the sage. Here I live, and live
happily, like an old shepherd in the golden age--loved by my neighbors,
which is not easy; and venerating the gods, which is perhaps easier. Ah,
young sir, as you read Virgil, you will excuse me once more. It was for
me he wrote:
'Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.'
And this as well:
'Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes,
Panaque, Silvanumque senem!'"
"Nymphasque sorores!" finished Camors, smiling and moving his head
slightly in the direction of Madame de Tecle and her daughter, who
preceded them.
"Quite to the point. That is pure truth!" cried M. des Rameures, gayly.
"Did you hear that, niece?"
"Yes, uncle."
"And did you understand it, niece?"
"No, uncle."
"I do not believe you, my dear! I do not believe you!" The old man
laughed heartily. "Do not believe her, Monsieur de Camors; women have
the faculty of understanding compliments in every language."
This conversation brought them to the chateau, where they sat down on a
bench before the drawing-room windows to enjoy the view.
Camors praised judiciously the well-kept park, accepted an invitation to
dinner the next week, and then discreetly retired, flattering himself
that his introduction had made a favorable impression upon M. des
Rameures, but regretting his apparent want of progress with the fairy-
footed niece.
He was in error.
"This youth," said M. des Rameures, when he was left alone with Madame de
Tecle, "has some touch of the ancients, which is something; but he still
resembles his father, who was vicious as sin itself. His eyes and his
smile recall some traits of his admirable mother; but positively, my dear
Elise, he is the portrait of his father, whose manners and whose
principles they say he has inherited."
"Who says so, uncle?"
"Current rumor, niece."
"Current rumor, my dear uncle, is often mistaken, and always exaggerates.
For my part, I like the young man, who seems thoroughly refined and at
his ease."
"Bah! I suppose because he compared you to a nymph in the fable."
"If he compared me to a nymph in the fable he was wrong; but he never
addressed to me a word in French that was not in good taste. Before we
condemn him, uncle, let us see for ourselves. It is a habit you have
always recommended to me, you know."
"You can not deny, niece," said the old man with irritation, "that he
exhales the most decided and disagreeable odor of Paris! He is too
polite--too studied! Not a shadow of enthusiasm--no fire of youth!
He never laughs as I should wish to see a man of his age laugh; a young
man should roar to split his waistband!"
"What! you would see him merry so soon after losing his father in such a
tragic manner, and he himself nearly ruined! Why, uncle, what can you
mean?"
"Well, well, perhaps you are right. I retract all I have said against
him. If he be half ruined I will offer him my advice--and my purse if he
need it--for the sake of the memory of his mother, whom you resemble.
Ah, 'tis thus we end all our disputes, naughty child! I grumble; I am
passionate; I act like a Tartar. Then you speak with your good sense and
sweetness, my darling, and the tiger becomes a lamb. All unhappy beings
whom you approach in the same way submit to your subtle charm. And that
is the reason why my old friend, La Fontaine, said of you:
'Sur differentes fleurs l'abeille se repose,
Et fait du miel de toute chose!'"