Читать книгу A Sheaf of Bluebells - Baroness Orczy - Страница 16

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The very atmosphere of the old Château de Courson had become electrical—excitement was in the air. Even Mme. la Marquise, that perfect pattern of aristocratic sang-froid, had been unable to sit still all morning.

She wandered restlessly from room to room; she held long conversations with her son, with her brother, with Fernande—even with old Matthieu Renard and with Annette.

“I expect my son, M. de Maurel,” she said to the worthy couple, who, of a truth, could not understand why it was not the most natural thing in the world for a mother to receive her son. “He may come over at about noon and may stay to have dinner with us. Watch over your cooking, my good Annette—see that everything is very plain but thoroughly good.”

“Bien, bien, Mme. la Marquise,” nodded Annette, who, womanlike, was more ready to become impregnated with that fever of excitement which pervaded the château than was sober old Matthieu. “You may be sure that I will do my best. I saw the General when first he came home from the war....”

“Not General, my good woman,” interposed Madame la Marquise haughtily; “my son is no General in the army of a parvenu. He is Comte de Maurel, Duc de Montauban, and bears no other grade or title; and all the democratic governments in the world cannot strip him of his rank.”

Now that Ronnay had so quickly—if somewhat coldly—acceded to her request for an interview, Mme. la Marquise’s imagination went galloping on the wings of fancy.

“We’ll convert him yet,” she said to her brother. “You’ll see, my dear Baudouin! I’ll make that unrelenting democrat dance to my piping before long. Once I have succeeded in drawing him away from that old fiend Gaston’s influence, I’ll twirl him round my little finger.”

M. de Courson gave a slight shrug. He was doubtful as to that. Madame promptly turned to her son.

“Laurent, you are prepared to make friends with your brother, are you not?” she said, in a tone almost of entreaty.

“If he will meet me half-way,” retorted Laurent, not too genially. He had been taught from his babyhood to hate his elder brother, not only for the latter’s political convictions, but because of the wealth which an indiscriminating Fate had chosen to pour down at his feet. It was difficult for a young and impetuous creature like Laurent de Mortain to adapt himself quite so readily to his mother’s new mood.

“At any rate, promise me that you will not quarrel!” added Mme. la Marquise with unwonted earnestness.

At ten o’clock in the forenoon Madame decided that she would receive her son in the noble—if somewhat dilapidated—reception-room where a few gilt-legged fauteuils and the satin-wood parquet floor bore mute testimony to past dignity and grandeur. Half an hour later she wandered out upon the terrace, from whence, she thought, the aspect of the neglected and overgrown garden would of a certainty touch the heart of the visitor and incline him to generosity.

At eleven o’clock she thought that the small boudoir—the only living room which she and her family had in use at the present moment—would shame the wealthy son by its air of poverty and of simplicity. At half-past, she was once more inclined to favour the reception-room, and at noon she was back in the boudoir, discussing the question with her brother and with her son, when a heavy and halting footstep was heard in the corridor outside, and the next moment the door was thrown open and Ronnay de Maurel appeared upon the threshold.