Revenge herself now? On whom? and what for? There was an end of her hatred now, for had she not her love? From this day she was another woman, such an one as when she is seen with her lover or her husband, supporting her unhasty steps upon the tender cradle of his arm, makes the common people say, 'Well, _she_ has got what she wants.' There are not so many of them as people think, particularly in society. Not that the mistress of a great house could be thinking exclusively of her own happiness; there were guests going away and other guests arriving and settling in, a second instalment, more numerous and less intimate, the whole in fact of the Academic set. There were the Duke de Courson-Launay, the Prince and Princess de Fitz-Roy, the De Circourts, the Huchenards, Saint-Avol the diplomatist, Moser and his daughter, Mr.

and Mrs. Henry of the American emba.s.sy. It was a hard task to provide entertainment and occupation for all these people and to fuse such different elements. No one understood the business better than she, but just now it was a burden and a weariness to her. She would have liked to keep quiet and meditate on her happiness, to think of nothing else: and she could devise no other amus.e.m.e.nts for her guests than the invariable.

visit to the fish preserves, to Ronsard's castle, and to the Orphanage.

Her own pleasure was complete when her hand touched Paul's, as accident brought them together in the same boat or the same carriage.

In the course of one such pompous expedition on the river, the little fleet from Mousseaux, sailing on a shimmering mirror of silken awnings and ducal pennons, had gone somewhat further than usual. Paul Astier was in the boat in front of his lady's. He was sitting in the stern beside Laniboire, and was receiving the Academician's confidences. Having been invited to stay at Mousseaux till his report was finished, the old fool fancied that he was making good progress towards the coveted succession; and as always happens in such cases, he chose Paul as the confidant of his hopes. After telling him what he had said and what she had answered, and one thing and another, he was just saying, 'Now, young man, what would you do, if you were me?' when a clear voice of low pitch rang over the water from the boat behind them.

'Monsieur Astier!'

'Yes, d.u.c.h.ess.'

'See yonder, among the reeds. It looks like Vedrine.'

Vedrine it was, painting away, with his wife and children at his side, on an old flat-bottomed boat moored to a willow branch alongside of a green islet, where the wagtails were chirping themselves hoa.r.s.e. The boats drew quickly up beside him, any novelty being a break to the everlasting tedium of fashionable society: and while the d.u.c.h.ess greeted with her sweetest smile Madame Vedrine, who had once been her guest at Mousseaux, the ladies looked with interest at the artist's strange home and the beautiful children, born of its light and its love, as they lay in the shelter of their green refuge on the clear, placid stream, which reflected the picture of their happiness. After the first greetings, Vedrine, palette in hand, gave Paul an account of the doings at Clos Jallanges, which was visible through the mists of the river, half-way up the hill side--a long low white house with an Italian roof. 'My dear fellow, they have all gone crazy there! The vacancy has turned their heads. They spend their days ticking votes--your mother, Picheral, and the poor invalid in her wheelchair. She too has caught the Academic fever, and talks of moving to Paris, entertaining and giving parties to help her brother on.' So Vedrine, to escape the general madness, camped out all day and worked in the open air--children and all; and pointing to his old boat he said, with a simple unresentful laugh, 'My dahabeeah, you see; my trip to the Nile.'

All at once the little boy, who in the midst of so many people, so many pretty ladies and pretty dresses, had eyes for no one but old Laniboire, addressed him in a clear voice, 'Please, are you the gentleman of the Academie who is going to be a hundred?' The philosopher, occupied in showing off his boating for the benefit of the fair Antonia, was all but knocked off his seat: and when the peals of laughter had somewhat subsided, Vedrine explained that the child was strangely interested in Jean Rehu, whom he did not know and had never seen, merely because he was nearly a hundred years old. Every day the handsome little boy asked about the old man and inquired how he was. Child as he was, he admired such length of days with something of a personal regard. If others had lived to a hundred, why not he?

But a sudden freshening of the breeze filled the sails of the little craft, and fluttered all the tiny pennons; a ma.s.s of clouds was moving up from over Blois, and towards Mousseaux a film of rain dimmed the horizon, while the four lights on the top of the towers sparkled against the black sky.

There was a moment of hurry and confusion. Then the vessels went away between the banks of yellow sand, one behind the other in the narrow channels; while Vedrine, pleased by the brightness of the colours beneath the stormy sky and by the striking figures of the boatmen, standing in the bows and leaning hard on their long poles, turned to his wife, who was kneeling in the punt packing in the children, the colour-box, and the palette, and said, 'Look over there, mamma. I sometimes say of a friend, that we are in the same boat. Well, there you may see what I mean. As those boats fly in line through the wind, with the darkness-coming down, so are we men and workers, generation after generation. It's no use being shy of the fellows in your own boat; you know them, you rub up against them, you are friends without wishing it or even knowing it, all sailing on the same tack. But how the fellows in front do loiter and get in the way! There's nothing in common between their boat and ours. We are too far off, we cannot catch what they say.

We never trouble about them except to call out "Go ahead; get on, do!"

Meanwhile youth in the boat behind is pushing _us_; they would not mind running us down; and we shout to them angrily, "Easy there! Where's the hurry?" Well, as for me,' and he drew himself to his full height, towering above the line of coast and river, 'I belong, of course, to my own beat and I am fond of it. But the boat just ahead and the one coming up interest me not less. I would hail them, signal to them, speak to them all. All of us alike, those before and those behind, are threatened by the same dangers, and every boat finds the current strong, the sky treacherous, and the evening quick to close in... Now, my dears, we must make haste; here comes the rain!'

CHAPTER XIII.

'Pray for the repose of the soul of the most n.o.ble Lord, the Duke Charles Henri Francois Padovani, Prince d'Olmitz, formerly Member of the Senate, Amba.s.sador and Minister, Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, who departed this life September 20, 1880, at his estate of Barbicaglia, where his remains have been interred. A ma.s.s for the deceased will be celebrated on Sunday next in the private chapel, where you are invited to attend.'

This quaint summons was being proclaimed on both banks of the Loire, between Mousseaux and Onzain, by mourners hired from Vafflard's, wearing tall hats with c.r.a.pe m.u.f.flers that reached the ground, and ringing their heavy bells as they walked. Paul Astier, hearing the words as he came downstairs to the midday breakfast, felt his heart beat high with joy and pride. Four days ago the news of the Duke's death had startled Mousseaux as the report of a gun startles a covey of partridges, and had unexpectedly dispersed and scattered the second instalment of guests to various seaside and holiday resorts. The d.u.c.h.ess had had to set off at once for Corsica, leaving at the castle only a few very intimate friends. The melancholy sound of the voices and moving bells, carried to Paul's ear by a breeze from the river through the open panes of the staircase window, the antiquated and princely form of the funeral invitation, could not but invest the domain of Mousseaux with an impressive air of grandeur, which added to the height of its four towers and its immemorial trees. And as all this was to be his (for the d.u.c.h.ess on leaving had begged him to stay at the castle, as there were important decisions to be taken on her return), the proclamation of death sounded in his ears like the announcement of his approaching installation. 'Pray for the repose of the soul,' said the voices. At last he really had fortune within his grasp, and this time it should not be taken from him.

'Member of the Senate, Amba.s.sador and Minister,' said the voices again.

'Those bells are depressing, are they not, Monsieur Paul?' said Mdlle. Moser who was sitting at breakfast between her father and the Academician Laniboire. The d.u.c.h.ess had kept these guests at Mousseaux, partly to amuse Paul's solitude and partly to give a little more rest and fresh air to the poor 'Antigone,' kept in bondage by the interminable candidature of her father. There was certainly no fear that the d.u.c.h.ess would find a rival in this woman, who had eyes like a beaten hound, hair without colour, and no other thought but her humiliating pet.i.tion for the unattainable place in the Academie. But on this particular morning she had taken more pains than usual with her appearance, and wore a bright dress open at the neck. The poor neck was very thin and lean, but--there was no higher game. So Laniboire, in high spirits, was teasing her with a gay freedom. No, he did not think the death-bells at all depressing, nor the repet.i.tion of 'Pray for the repose,' as it died away in the distance. No, life seemed to him by contrast more enjoyable than usual, the _Vouvray_ sparkled more brightly in the decanters, and his good stories had a telling echo in the huge half-empty dining-room. The sodden subservient face of Moser the candidate wore a fawning smile, though he wished his daughter away. But the philosopher was a man of great influence in the Academie.

After coffee had been served on the terrace, Laniboire, with his face coloured like a Redskin, called out, 'Now let's go and work, Mdlle.

Moser; I feel quite in the humour. I believe I shall finish my report to-day.' The gentle little lady, who sometimes acted as his secretary, rose with some regret. On a delicious day like this, hazy with the first mists of autumn, a good walk, or perhaps a continuation on the gallery of her talk with the charming and well-mannered M. Paul, would have pleased her better than writing at old M. Laniboire's dictation commendations of devoted hospital-nurses or exemplary attendants. But her father urged her to go, as the great man wanted her. She obeyed and went upstairs behind Laniboire, followed by old Moser, who was going to have his afternoon nap.

Laniboire may have had Pascal's nose, but he had not his manners. When Paul came back from cooling his ambitious hopes by a long walk in the woods, he found the break waiting at the foot of the steps in the great court. The two fine horses were pawing the ground, and Mdlle. Moser was inside, surrounded by boxes and bags, while Moser, looking bewildered, stood on the doorstep, feeling in his pockets and bestowing coins on two or three sneering footmen. Paul went up to the carriage, 'So you are leaving us, Mademoiselle.' She gave him a thin clammy hand, on which she had forgotten to put a glove, and without saying a word, or removing the handkerchief with which she was wiping her eyes under her veil, she bent her head in sign of good-bye. He learnt little more from old Moser, who stammered out in a low voice, as he stood vexed and gloomy, with one foot on the step of the carriage 'It's her doing: she _will_ go. He was rude to her she says, but I can't believe it.' Then with a profound sigh, and knitting the wrinkle in his brow, the deep, red, scar-like wrinkle of the Academic candidate, he added, 'It's a very bad thing for my election.'

Laniboire stayed all the afternoon in his room, and at dinner, as he took his seat opposite Paul, he said, 'Do you know why our friends the Mosers went off so suddenly?'

'No, sir, do you?'

'It's very strange, very strange.'

He a.s.sumed an air of great composure for the benefit of the servants, but it was obvious that he was disturbed, worried, and in desperate fear of a scandal. Gradually he regained his serenity and satisfaction, not being able to think ill of life at dinner, and ended by admitting to his young friend that he had perhaps been a little too attentive. 'But it is her father's fault; he pesters me; and even an awarder of good-conduct prizes has his feelings, eh?' He lifted his gla.s.s of liqueur with a triumphant flourish, cut short by Paul's remark, 'What will the d.u.c.h.ess say? Of course Mdlle. Moser must have written to her to explain why she left.'

Laniboire turned pale. 'Really, do you think she did?'

Paul pressed the point, in the hopes of ridding himself of such a far from gay gallant. If the lady had not written, there was the chance that a servant might say something. Then, wrinkling his deceitful little nose, he said, 'If I were you, my dear sir----'

'Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! I may get a scolding, but it won't really do me any harm.'

But in spite of his a.s.sumed confidence, the day before the d.u.c.h.ess returned, upon the pretext that the election to the Academie was coming on, and that the damp evenings were bad for his rheumatism, he went off, taking in his portmanteau his completed report on the prizes for good-conduct.

The d.u.c.h.ess arrived for Sunday's ma.s.s, celebrated with great magnificence in the Renaissance chapel, where Vedrine's versatility had restored both the fine stained gla.s.s and the wonderful carving of the reredos. A huge crowd from the villages of the neighbourhood filled the chapel to overflowing, and gathered in the great court. Everywhere were awkward fellows in hideous black coats, and long blue blouses shining from the iron, everywhere white caps and kerchiefs stiff with starch round sunburnt necks. All these people were brought together not by the religious ceremony, nor by the honours paid to the old Duke, who was unknown in the district, but by the open-air feast which was to follow the ma.s.s. The long tables and benches were arranged on both sides of the long lordly avenue; and here, after the service, between two and three thousand peasants had no difficulty in finding room. At first there was some constraint; the guests, overawed by the troop of servants in mourning and the rangers with c.r.a.pe on their caps, spoke in whispers under the shadow of the majestic elms. But as they warmed with the wine and the victuals, the funeral feast grew more lively, and ended in a vast merrymaking.

To escape this unpleasant carnival, the d.u.c.h.ess and Paul went for a drive, sweeping rapidly in an open carriage draped with black along the roads and fields, abandoned to the desertion of Sunday. The mourning c.o.c.kades of the tall footmen and the long veil of the widow opposite reminded the young man of other similar drives. He thought to himself, 'My destiny seems to lie in the way of dead husbands.' He felt a touch of regret at the thought of Colette de Rosen's little curly head, contrasting so brightly with the black ma.s.s of her surroundings. The d.u.c.h.ess however, tired as she was by her journey, and looking stouter than usual in her improvised mourning, had a magnificence of manner entirely wanting in Colette, and besides, her dead husband did not embarra.s.s her, for she was much too frank to feign a grief which ordinary women think necessary under such circ.u.mstances, even when the deceased has been cordially detested and completely abandoned. The road rang under the horses' hoofs, as it unrolled before them, climbing or descending gentle slopes, bordered now by little oak plantations, now by huge plains which, in the neighbourhood of the isolated mills, were swept by circling flights of crows. A pale sunlight gleamed through rare gaps in a sky soft, rainy, and low: and to protect them from the wind as they drove, the same wrap enveloped them both, so that their knees were closely pressed together under the furs. The d.u.c.h.ess was talking of her native Corsica, and of a wonderful _vocero_ which had been improvised at the funeral by her maid.

'Matea?'

'Yes, Matea. She's quite a poet, fancy'--and the d.u.c.h.ess quoted some of the lines of the _voceratrice_, in the spirited Corsican dialect, admirably suited to her contralto voice. But to the 'important decision'

she did not refer.

But it was the important decision that interested Paul Astier, and not the verses of the lady's-maid. No doubt it would be discussed that evening. To pa.s.s the time, he told her, in a low tone, how he had got rid of Laniboire. 'Poor little Moser,' said the d.u.c.h.ess, 'her father really must be elected this time.' After that they spoke but a word now and then. They only drew together, lulled, as it were, by the gentle movement of the carriage, while the daylight left the darkening fields, and let them see over towards the furnaces sudden flashes of flame and flickering gleams like lightning against the sky. Unfortunately the drive home was spoilt by the drunken cries and songs of the crowds returning from the feast. The peasants got among the wheels of the carriage like cattle, and from the ditches on either side of the road, into which they rolled, came snores and grunts, their peculiar fashion of praying for the repose of the soul of the most n.o.ble Lord Duke.

They walked, as usual, on the gallery, and the d.u.c.h.ess, leaning against Paul's shoulder to look out at the darkness between the ma.s.sive pillars which cut the dim line of the horizon, murmured, 'This is happiness!

Together, and alone!' Still not a word on the subject which Paul was waiting for. He tried to bring her to it, and with his lips in her hair asked what she was going to do in the winter. Should she go back to Paris? Oh, no! certainly not. She was sick of Paris and its false society, its disguises and its treachery! She was still undecided, however, whether to shut herself up at Mousseaux, or to set out on a long journey to Syria and Palestine. What did he think? Why, this must be the important decision they were to consider! It had been a mere pretext to keep him there! She had been afraid that if he went back to Paris, and away from her, some one else would carry him off! Paul, thinking that he had been taken in, bit his lips as he said to himself, 'Oh, if that's your game, my lady, we'll see!' Tired by her journey and a long day in the open air, the d.u.c.h.ess bid him good-night and went wearily up to her room.

The next day they hardly met. The d.u.c.h.ess was busy settling accounts with her steward and her tenants, much to the admiration of Maitre Gobineau, the notary, who observed to Paul as they sat at breakfast, with slyness marked in every wrinkle of his shrivelled old face, 'Ah, it's not easy to get on the blind side of the d.u.c.h.ess!'

'Little he knows,' was the thought of the d.u.c.h.ess's young pursuer as he played with his light brown beard. But when he heard the hard cold tones which his lady's tender contralto could a.s.sume in a business discussion, he felt that he would have to play his cards carefully.

After breakfast there arrived some trunks from Paris with Spricht's forewoman and two fitters. And at last, about four o'clock, the d.u.c.h.ess appeared in a marvellous costume, which made her look quite young and slim, and proposed a walk in the park. They went along briskly, side by side, keeping to the bye-paths to avoid the noise of the heavy rakes.

Three times a day the gardeners struggled against the acc.u.mulation of the falling leaves. But in vain; in an hour the walks were again covered by the same Oriental carpet, richly coloured with purple, green, and bronze; and their feet rustled in it as they walked under the soft level rays of the sun. The d.u.c.h.ess spoke of the husband who had brought so much sorrow into her youth; she was anxious to make Paul feel that her mourning was entirely conventional and did not affect her feelings. Paul understood her object, and smiled coldly, determined to carry out his plan.

At the lower end of the park they sat down, near a little building hidden behind maples and privet, where the fishing nets and oars of the boats were kept. From their seat they looked across the sloping lawns and the plantations and shrubberies showing patches of gold. The castle, seen in the background, with its long array of closed windows and deserted terraces, lifting its towers and turrets proudly to the sky, seemed withdrawn, as it were, into the past, and grander than ever.

'I am sorry to leave all that,' said Paul, with a sigh. She looked at him in amazement with storm in her knitted brows. Go away? Did he mean to go away? Why?

'No help. Such is life.'

'Are we to part? And what is to become of me?--and the journey we were to make together?'

'I could not interrupt you----' he said. But how could a poor artist like him afford himself a journey to Palestine? It was an impossible dream, like Vedrine's dahabeeah ending in a punt on the Loire.

She shrugged her aristocratic shoulders, and said, 'Why, Paul, what nonsense! You know that all I have is yours.'

'Mine? By what right?'

It was out! But she did not see yet what he was driving at. Fearing that he had gone too far, he added, 'I mean, what right, in the prejudiced view of society, shall I have to travel with you?'

'Well then, we will stay at Mousseaux.'

He made her a little mocking bow as he said, 'Your architect has finished his work on the castle.'

'Oh, we will find him something to do, if I have to set fire to it to-night!'

She laughed her open-hearted tender laugh, leant against him, and taking his hands pressed them against her cheeks--fond trifling this, not the word which he was waiting for, and trying to make her say. Then he burst out, 'If you love me, Antonia, let me go. I must make a living for myself and mine. Society would not forgive my living on the bounty of a woman who is not and never will be my wife.'