_III.--The Ironmaster's Disappointment_

Touched by the disinterested delicacy of M. Derblay, the marchioness sanctioned her daughter's sudden determination without anxiety. In her mother's presence, Claire showed every outward sign of happiness, but her heart became bitter and her mind disturbed, and nought remained of the n.o.ble, tender-hearted Claire.

Her only object now was to avenge herself on Athenais and humiliate the duke; and the preparations for the wedding were carried on with incredible speed. Left ignorant of the ironmaster's generous intentions, she attributed his ready deference to all her wishes to his ambition to become her husband, and even felt contempt for the readiness with which he had enacted his part in the humiliating comedy played before the duke, so thoroughly did she misjudge pa.s.sionate, generous-hearted Philippe, whose only dream was to restore her happiness.

Mlle, de Beaulieu arrived at two decisions which stupefied everybody.

She wished the wedding to take place at midnight, without the least pomp, and only the members of the two families to be present. The marchioness raised her hands to heaven, and the marquis asked his sister if she were going mad, but Philippe declared these wishes seemed very proper to him, and so they were carried out.

The marriage contract was signed on the eve of the great day. Claire remained ignorant of the fact that she was ruined, and signed quite unsuspectingly the act which endowed her with half M. Derblay's fortune.

The service was performed with the same simplicity as would have been observed at a pauper's wedding. The dreary music troubled the duke, and reminded him of his father's funeral, when his aunt and cousins wept with him. He was now alone. Separated for ever from the dear ones who had been so kind to him, he compared Philippe's conduct with his own, and, turning his eyes to Claire, divined that she wept. A light broke on him; he realised the ironmaster's true position, and decided he might revenge himself very sweetly.

"She weeps," he said to himself. "She hates that man, and still loves me."

After the service he looked in vain for traces of tears. She was calm and smiling, and spoke in perfect self-possession.

But when she was left alone, all on a sudden she found herself face to face with the cruel reality. She held herself and Philippe in horror.

She must have been mad, and he had acted most unworthily in lending himself to her plans. When he at last ventured to come to her, her harsh expression astonished him. She managed to convey to him her wish to remain alone, and he showed himself so proud and magnanimous, she asked herself if it would be possible for her to live apart from him. How could she for ever repel such a loyal, generous man without showing herself unjust and cruel?

Her husband approached her. His lips touched her forehead. "Till to-morrow," he said. But as he touched her he was seized with a mad, pa.s.sionate longing. He caught her in his arms in an irresistible transport. "Oh, if you only knew how much I love you!"

Surprised at first, Claire turned livid.

"Leave me!" she cried in an angry voice.

Philippe drew back. "What!" he said, in a troubled voice. "You repel me with horror! Do you hate me, then? And why? Ah, that man who forsook you so cowardly--that man, do you still happen to love him?"

"Ah, have you not perceived that I have been mad?" cried Claire, ceasing to restrain herself. "I have deserved your anger and contempt, no doubt.

Come, take everything belonging to me except myself! My fortune is yours. I give it you. Let it be the ransom of my liberty."

Philippe was on the point of revealing the truth, which he had hitherto hidden with such delicacy and care, but he cast the idea aside. "Do you really take me for a man who sells himself?" he asked coldly. "I, who came here but a little while ago, palpitating and trembling to tell my love! Wasn't I more than mad, more than grotesque? For, after all, I have your fortune. I'm paid. I have no right to complain."

Philippe burst into a bitter laugh, and falling on the sofa, hid his face in his hands.

"Monsieur," said Claire haughtily, "let us finish this. Spare me useless raillery----"

Philippe showed his face, down which tears were streaming. "I am not railing, madame; I am weeping--mourning my happiness, for ever lost. But this is enough weakness. You wished to purchase your liberty. I give it you for nothing. You will realise one day that you have been even more unjust than cruel, and you may then think of trying to undo what you have done. But it will be useless. If I saw you on your knees begging my forgiveness, I should not have a word of pity for you. Adieu, madame. We shall live as you have willed it."

Claire simply bent her head in a.s.sent. Philippe gave her a last glance, hoping for some softening; but she remained inert and frigid. He slowly opened the door, and closed it, pausing again to listen if a cry or a sigh would give him--wounded as he was--a pretext for returning and offering to forgive. But all was silent.

"Proud creature," said he. "You refuse to bend, but I will break you."

The next morning Claire was found insensible, and for months she lay ill, nursed by Philippe with silent devotion. From that time forth his manner did not change. Gentle and most attentive to Claire in the presence of strangers, he was cold, grave, and strictly polite when they were alone.

_IV.--The Lover's Reward_

In the first expansion of her return to life she had decided she would be amiable, and frankly grant her friendship to Philippe, but saw, to her mortification, she was disposed to grant more than was asked of her.

When he handed her "the income of her fortune, for six months," she became in a moment the proud Claire of other times, and refused to take it. Their eyes met; she relapsed, conquered. He it was she loved now.

She constantly looked at him, and did whatever she thought would please him. She learnt with surprise that her husband was on the high road to becoming one of the princes of industry--that great power of the century. And when she learnt, accidentally from her brother, that she herself had had no dowry, she said, "I must win him back, or I shall die!"

The Duc and d.u.c.h.ess de Bligny arrived at La Varenne. La Varenne became the scene of numerous fetes, but Claire excused herself from attending on the ground that she was not yet well enough to sit up late. Athenais'

antic.i.p.ated pleasure was all lost, since she could not crush her rival with her magnificence. In her jealous rage she began to devote particular attention to Monsieur Derblay. At last, Claire judged the cup was full, and on her fete day, encouraged for the first time by her husband's glances, called Athenais aside and entreated her to stay away from their home for a time, at least. Athenais, pale with rage, replied insultingly, and Claire summoned the duke to take his wife away if he did not wish her to be turned out in presence of everyone.

With perfect composure Bligny asked Philippe if he approved of what Madame Derblay had done. In a grave voice, the ironmaster answered, "Monsieur le Duc, whatever Madame Derblay may do, whatever reason she may have for doing it, I consider everything she does as well done."

Claire saw two pistols lowered. With a shriek, she bounded forward and clapped her hand on the muzzle of Bligny's pistol!

An hour had elapsed without her regaining consciousness. The ironmaster was leaning over her. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she threw her arms round his neck. An acute pain pa.s.sed through her hand, and she remembered everything--her despair, her anguish, and her sacrifice.

"One word?" she asked. "Tell me, do you love me?"

Philippe showed her a radiant face.

"Yes, I love you," he replied.

A cry escaped Claire. She clung frantically to Philippe; their eyes met, and in inexpressible ecstasy they exchanged their first kiss of love.

OUIDA (LOUISE DE LA RAMeE)

Under Two Flags

There are few women writers who have created more stir by their works than Louise de la Ramee, the lady who wrote under the pen name of Ouida. Born of English and French parentage at Bury St. Edmund, England, in 1840, she began to turn to account her undoubted literary talents at the age of twenty, when she contributed to the "New Monthly" and "Bentley's Magazine." In the same year appeared her first long story, "Granville de Vigne," which was afterwards renamed and republished as "Held in Bondage." From that time an amazing output of romances fell in rapid succession from her pen, the most picturesque of them, perhaps, being "Under Two Flags"

(1867) and "Moths." With respect to the former, although on occasions it exhibits a tendency towards inaccurate observation, the story is told with rare dramatic force and descriptive power. From 1874, Mlle. Ramee made her home in Italy, where, at Lucca, in spite of her reputation as a novelist, she died in straightened circ.u.mstances Jan. 25, 1908.

_I.--An Officer of the Guards_

A Guardsman at home is always luxuriously accommodated, and the Hon.

Bertie Cecil, second son of Viscount Royallieu, was never behind his fellows in anything; besides, he was one of the crack officers of the 1st Life Guards, and ladies sent him pretty things enough to fill the Palais Royal.

Then Hon. Bertie was known generally in the brigade as "Beauty," and the appellative, gained at Eton, was in no way undeserved. His face, with as much delicacy and brilliancy as a woman's, was at once handsome, thoroughbred, languid, nonchalant with a certain latent recklessness, under the impa.s.sive calm of habit.

Life petted him and pampered him; lodged him like a prince, dined him like a king, and had never let him feel the want of all that is bought by money. How could he understand that he was not as rich a man as his oldest and closest comrade, Lord Rockingham, a Colossus, known as "the Seraph," the eldest son of the Duke of Lyonesse?