Next morning the baroness went away in her glittering caleche with
Louison. Each shining spoke and golden turret flashed the sunlight
back at me as I looked after them at the edge of the wood. The
baroness had asked me to go with her, but I thought the journey too
long. Louise came out and sat by me awhile as I lay in the
hammock. She was all in white. A trifle taller and a bit more
slender than her sister, I have sometimes thought her beauty was
statelier, also, and more statuesque. The sight of her seemed to
kindle in me the spirit of old chivalry. I would have fought and
died for her with my best lance and plume. In all my life I had
not seen a woman of sweeter graces of speech and manner, and, in
truth, I have met some of the best born of her sex.
She had callers presently--the Sieur Michel and his daughter. I
went away, then, for a walk, and, after a time, strolled into the
north trail. Crossing a mossy glade, in a circle of fragrant
cedar, I sat down to rest. The sound of falling water came to my
ear through thickets of hazel and shadberry. Suddenly I heard a
sweet voice singing a love-song of Provence--the same voice, the
same song, I had heard the day I came half fainting on my horse.
Somebody was coming near. In a moment I saw Louise before me.
"What, ma'm'selle!" I said; "alone in the woods!"
"Not so," said she. "I knew you were here--somewhere,
and--and--well, I thought you might be lonely."
"You are a good angel," I said, "always trying to make others
happy."
"Eh bien," said she, sitting beside me, "I was lonely myself. I
cannot read or study. I have neglected my lessons; I have insulted
the tutor--threw my book at him, and walked away, for he sputtered
at me. I do not know what is the matter. I know I am very wicked.
Perhaps--ah me! perhaps it is the devil."
"Ma'm'selle, it is appalling!" I said. "You may have injured the
poor man. You must be very bad. Let me see your palm."
I held her dainty fingers in mine, that were still hard and brown,
peering into the pink hollow of her hand. She looked up curiously.
"A quick temper and a heart of gold," I said. "If the devil has
it, he is lucky, and--well, I should like to be in his confidence."
"Ah, m'sieur," said she, seriously, a little tremor on her lips, "I
have much trouble--you do not know. I have to fight with myself."
"You have, then, a formidable enemy," I answered.
"But I am not quarrelsome," said she, thoughtfully. "I am only
weary of the life here. I should like to go away and be of some
use in the world. I suppose it is wicked, for my papa wishes me to
stay. And bah! it is a prison--a Hopital de Salpetriere!"
"Ma'm'selle," I exclaimed, "if you talk like that I shall take you
on my horse and fly with you. I shall come as your knight, as your
deliverer, some day."
"Alas!" said she, with a sigh, "you would find me very heavy. One
has nothing to do here but grow lazy and--ciel!--fat."
If my meeting with her sister had not made it impossible and
absurd, I should have offered my heart to this fair young lady then
and there. Now I could not make it seem the part of honor and
decency. I could not help adoring her simplicity, her frankness,
her beautiful form and face.
"It is no prison for me," I said. "I do not long for deliverance.
I cannot tell you how happy I have been to stay--how unhappy I
shall be to leave."
"Captain," she said quickly, "you are not strong; you are no
soldier yet."
"Yes; I must be off to the wars."
"And that suggests an idea," said she, thoughtfully, her chin upon
her hand.
"Which is?"
"That my wealth is ill-fortune," she went on, with a sigh. "Men
and women are fighting and toiling and bleeding and dying to make
the world better, and I--I am just a lady, fussing, primping,
peering into a looking-glass! I should like to do something, but
they think I am too good--too holy."
"But it is a hard business--the labors and quarrels of the great
world," I suggested.
"Well--it is God's business," she continued. "And am I not one of
his children, and 'wist ye not that I must be about my Father's
business?' It was not too good for the man who said that."
"But what would you do?"
"I do not know. I suppose I can do nothing because--alas! because
my father has bought my obedience with a million francs. Do you
not see that I am in bondage?"
"Be patient; the life of a rich demoiselle is not barren of
opportunity."
"To be gay--oh! one might as well be a peacock; to say pretty
things, one might better be a well-trained parrot; to grace the
court or the salon, I had as soon be a statue in the corner--it has
more comfort, more security; to be admired, to hear fine
compliments--well, you know that is the part of a pet poodle. I
say, captain, to be happy one must be free to do."