"No, mademoiselle; and I allowed your father to read them it was to justify my love by showing him how it was born, and how sincere my efforts were to cure you of your fancy."

"But how came the idea of that unworthy masquerade ever to arise?" she said, with a sort of impatience.

La Briere related truthfully the scene in the poet's study which Modeste's first letter had occasioned, and the sort of challenge that resulted from his expressing a favorable opinion of a young girl thus led toward a poet's fame, as a plant seeks its share of the sun.

"You have said enough," said Modeste, restraining some emotion. "If you have not my heart, monsieur, you have at least my esteem."

These simple words gave the young man a violent shock; feeling himself stagger, he leaned against a tree, like a man deprived for a moment of reason. Modest, who had left him, turned her head and came hastily back.

"What is the matter?" she asked, taking his hand to prevent him from falling.

"Forgive me--I thought you despised me."

"But," she answered, with a distant and disdainful manner, "I did not say that I loved you."

And she left him again. But this time, in spite of her harshness, La Briere thought he walked on air; the earth softened under his feet, the trees bore flowers; the skies were rosy, the air cerulean, as they are in the temples of Hymen in those fairy pantomimes which finish happily.

In such situations every woman is a Ja.n.u.s, and sees behind her without turning round; and thus Modeste perceived on the face of her lover the indubitable symptoms of a love like Butscha's,--surely the "ne plus ultra" of a woman's hope. Moreover, the great value which La Briere attached to her opinion filled Modeste with an emotion that was inestimably sweet.

"Mademoiselle," said Ca.n.a.lis, leaving the colonel and waylaying Modeste, "in spite of the little value you attach to my sentiments, my honor is concerned in effacing a stain under which I have suffered too long. Here is a letter which I received from the d.u.c.h.esse de Chaulieu five days after my arrival in Havre."

He let Modeste read the first lines of the letter we have seen, which the d.u.c.h.ess began by saying that she had seen Mongenod, and now wished to marry her poet to Modeste; then he tore that pa.s.sage from the body of the letter, and placed the fragment in her hand.

"I cannot let you read the rest," he said, putting the paper in his pocket; "but I confide these few lines to your discretion, so that you may verify the writing. A young girl who could accuse me of ign.o.ble sentiments is quite capable of suspecting some collusion, some trickery.

Ah, Modeste," he said, with tears in his voice, "your poet, the poet of Madame de Chaulieu, has no less poetry in his heart than in his mind.

You are about to see the d.u.c.h.ess; suspend your judgment of me till then."

He left Modeste half bewildered.

"Oh, dear!" she said to herself; "it seems they are all angels--and not marriageable; the duke is the only one that belongs to humanity."

"Mademoiselle Modeste," said Butscha, appearing with a parcel under his arm, "this hunt makes me very uneasy. I dreamed your horse ran away with you, and I have been to Rouen to see if I could get a Spanish bit which, they tell me, a horse can't take between his teeth. I entreat you to use it. I have shown it to the colonel, and he has thanked me more than there is any occasion for."

"Poor, dear Butscha!" cried Modeste, moved to tears by this maternal care.

Butscha went skipping off like a man who has just heard of the death of a rich uncle.

"My dear father," said Modeste, returning to the salon; "I should like to have that beautiful whip,--suppose you were to ask Monsieur de La Briere to exchange it for your picture by Van Ostade."

Modeste looked furtively at Ernest, while the colonel made him this proposition, standing before the picture which was the sole thing he possessed in memory of his campaigns, having bought it of a burgher at Rabiston; and she said to herself as La Briere left the room precipitately, "He will be at the hunt."

A curious thing happened. Modeste's three lovers each and all went to Rosembray with their hearts full of hope, and captivated by her many perfections.

Rosembray,--an estate lately purchased by the Duc de Verneuil, with the money which fell to him as his share of the thousand millions voted as indemnity for the sale of the lands of the emigres,--is remarkable for its chateau, whose magnificence compares only with that of Mesniere or of Balleroy. This imposing and n.o.ble edifice is approached by a wide avenue of four rows of venerable elms, from which the visitor enters an immense rising court-yard, like that at Versailles, with magnificent iron railings and two lodges, and adorned with rows of large orange-trees in their tubs. Facing this court-yard, the chateau presents, between two fronts of the main building which retreat on either side of this projection, a double row of nineteen tall windows, with carved arches and diamond panes, divided from each other by a series of fluted pilasters surmounted by an entablature which hides an Italian roof, from which rise several stone chimneys masked by carved trophies of arms. Rosembray was built, under Louis XIV., by a "fermier-general" named Cottin. The facade toward the park differs from that on the court-yard by having a narrower projection in the centre, with columns between five windows, above which rises a magnificent pediment. The family of Marigny, to whom the estates of this Cottin were brought in marriage by Mademoiselle Cottin, her father's sole heiress, ordered a sunrise to be carved on this pediment by Coysevox. Beneath it are two angels unwinding a scroll, on which is cut this motto in honor of the Grand Monarch, "Sol n.o.bis benignus."

From the portico, reached by two grand circular and bal.u.s.traded flights of steps, the view extends over an immense fish-pond, as long and wide as the grand ca.n.a.l at Versailles, beginning at the foot of a gra.s.s-plot which compares well with the finest English lawns, and bordered with beds and baskets now filled with the brilliant flowers of autumn. On either side of the piece of water two gardens, laid out in the French style, display their squares and long straight paths, like brilliant pages written in the ciphers of Lenotre. These gardens are backed to their whole length by a border of nearly thirty acres of woodland. From the terrace the view is bounded by a forest belonging to Rosembray and contiguous to two other forests, one of which belongs to the Crown, the other to the State. It would be difficult to find a n.o.bler landscape.

CHAPTER XXVII. A GIRL'S REVENGE

Modeste's arrival at Rosembray made a certain sensation in the avenue when the carriage with the liveries of France came in sight, accompanied by the grand equerry, the colonel, Ca.n.a.lis, and La Briere on horseback, preceded by an outrider in full dress, and followed by six servants,--among whom were the Negroes and the mulatto,--and the britzka of the colonel for the two waiting-women and the luggage. The carriage was drawn by four horses, ridden by postilions dressed with an elegance specially commanded by the grand equerry, who was often better served than the king himself. As Modeste, dazzled by the magnificence of the great lords, entered and beheld this lesser Versailles, she suddenly remembered her approaching interview with the celebrated d.u.c.h.esses, and began to fear that she might seem awkward, or provincial, or parvenue; in fact, she lost her self-possession, and heartily repented having wished for a hunt.

Fortunately, however, as the carriage drew up, Modeste saw an old man, in a blond wig frizzed into little curls, whose calm, plump, smooth face wore a fatherly smile and an expression of monastic cheerfulness which the half-veiled glance of the eye rendered almost n.o.ble. This was the Duc de Verneuil, master of Rosembray. The d.u.c.h.ess, a woman of extreme piety, the only daughter of a rich and deceased chief-justice, spare and erect, and the mother of four children, resembled Madame Latournelle,--if the imagination can go so far as to adorn the notary's wife with the graces of a bearing that was truly abbatial.

"Ah, good morning, dear Hortense!" said Mademoiselle d'Herouville, kissing the d.u.c.h.ess with the sympathy that united their haughty natures; "let me present to you and to the dear duke our little angel, Mademoiselle de La Bastie."

"We have heard so much of you, mademoiselle," said the d.u.c.h.ess, "that we were in haste to receive you."

"And regret the time lost," added the Duc de Verneuil, with courteous admiration.

"Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie," said the grand equerry, taking the colonel by the arm and presenting him to the duke and d.u.c.h.ess, with an air of respect in his tone and gesture.

"I am glad to welcome you, Monsieur le comte!" said Monsieur de Verneuil. "You possess more than one treasure," he added, looking at Modeste.

The d.u.c.h.ess took Modeste under her arm and led her into an immense salon, where a dozen or more women were grouped about the fireplace. The men of the party remained with the duke on the terrace, except Ca.n.a.lis, who respectfully made his way to the superb Eleonore. The d.u.c.h.esse de Chaulieu, seated at an embroidery-frame, was showing Mademoiselle de Verneuil how to shade a flower.

If Modeste had run a needle through her finger when handling a pin-cushion she could not have felt a sharper p.r.i.c.k than she received from the cold and haughty and contemptuous stare with which Madame de Chaulieu favored her. For an instant she saw nothing but that one woman, and she saw through her. To understand the depths of cruelty to which these charming creatures, whom our pa.s.sions deify, can go, we must see women with each other. Modeste would have disarmed almost any other than Eleonore by the perfectly stupid and involuntary admiration which her face betrayed. Had she not known the d.u.c.h.ess's age she would have thought her a woman of thirty-six; but other and greater astonishments awaited her.

The poet had run plump against a great lady's anger. Such anger is the worst of sphinxes; the face is radiant, all the rest menacing. Kings themselves cannot make the exquisite politeness of a mistress's cold anger capitulate when she guards it with steel armor. Ca.n.a.lis tried to cling to the steel, but his fingers slipped on the polished surface, like his words on the heart; and the gracious face, the gracious words, the gracious bearing of the d.u.c.h.ess hid the steel of her wrath, now fallen to twenty-five below zero, from all observers. The appearance of Modeste in her sublime beauty, and dressed as well as Diane de Maufrigneuse herself, had fired the train of gunpowder which reflection had been laying in Eleonore's mind.

All the women had gone to the windows to see the new wonder get out of the royal carriage, attended by her three suitors.

"Do not let us seem so curious," Madame de Chaulieu had said, cut to the heart by Diane's exclamation,--"She is divine! where in the world does she come from?"--and with that the bevy flew back to their seats, resuming their composure, though Eleonore's heart was full of hungry vipers all clamorous for a meal.

Mademoiselle d'Herouville said in a low voice and with much meaning to the d.u.c.h.esse de Verneuil, "Eleonore receives her Melchior very ungraciously."

"The d.u.c.h.esse de Maufrigneuse thinks there is a coolness between them,"

said Laure de Verneuil, with simplicity.

Charming phrase! so often used in the world of society,--how the north wind blows through it.

"Why so?" asked Modeste of the pretty young girl who had lately left the Sacre-Coeur.

"The great poet," said the pious d.u.c.h.ess--making a sign to her daughter to be silent--"left Madame de Chaulieu without a letter for more than two weeks after he went to Havre, having told her that he went there for his health--"

Modeste made a hasty movement, which caught the attention of Laure, Helene, and Mademoiselle d'Herouville.

"--and during that time," continued the devout d.u.c.h.ess, "she was endeavoring to have him appointed commander of the Legion of honor, and minister at Baden."

"Oh, that was shameful in Ca.n.a.lis; he owes everything to her," exclaimed Mademoiselle d'Herouville.

"Why did not Madame de Chaulieu come to Havre?" asked Modeste of Helene, innocently.

"My dear," said the d.u.c.h.esse de Verneuil, "she would let herself be cut in little pieces without saying a word. Look at her,--she is regal; her head would smile, like Mary Stuart's, after it was cut off; in fact, she has some of that blood in her veins."

"Did she not write to him?" asked Modeste.

"Diane tells me," answered the d.u.c.h.ess, prompted by a nudge from Mademoiselle d'Herouville, "that in answer to Ca.n.a.lis's first letter she made a cutting reply a few days ago."