Читать книгу A Sheaf of Bluebells - Baroness Orczy - Страница 22

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An hour later Mme. la Marquise de Mortain had been put in possession of all the facts which related to Ronnay de Maurel’s quarrel with his brother and of his hasty exit from the château. Laurent had recovered from his sudden access of madness, and was not a little ashamed that Fernande had seen him at the very height of his outburst of fury against his brother, when fratricide was in his eye and in his uplifted hand. M. de Courson preserved a non-committal attitude. He was bound to maintain that de Maurel had been unduly provoked, yet owned that he was guilty of a grave social solecism in wearing the badge of the usurper in the house of his kinsfolk who were loyal adherents of the King. He thought the whole episode a grave pity, since it had undoubtedly jeopardized, if not entirely upset, every plan for ultimate conciliation.

“You promised me, Laurent,” said Madame, with a frown of impatience, “that you would not quarrel with your brother.”

“He exasperated me beyond endurance,” retorted Laurent moodily, “and I consider that the manner in which he appeared here in Courson was an insult to us all.”

It became very noticeable after a while that Fernande offered no opinion upon the brooding catastrophe which her timely interference alone had averted. At the midday meal, whilst every phase of the momentous interview with de Maurel was being discussed by the others, she remained strangely self-absorbed and silent. She was eating her dinner with a childish and hearty appetite, but whenever she sipped her wine, she looked over her glass and through the window opposite with eyes that seemed to dance with inward merriment and with elfish mischief, and whilst her father and her aunt talked and argued and conjectured, a whimsical smile played round the corners of her full, red lips.

“Something seems to have tickled your fancy, Fernande,” said Laurent at last with some irritation, when on two separate occasions the young girl failed to reply to a direct question addressed to her by him.

“Something has,” Fernande replied demurely.

“May we know what it is?” queried Mme. la Marquise. “The situation,” she added tartly, “has become so grave for us all that, personally, I fail to detect any humour in it.”

“That’s just it, ma tante,” rejoined Fernande gaily. “You fail to detect any humour in to-day’s occurrence, so does father—so does Laurent. That is just what seems to me so ludicrous. The situation may be grave, but it is also very funny, and whilst you were all lamenting over it I was turning it over in my mind how best we can utilize it to our advantage.”

“You are far too young, Fernande,” interposed M. le Comte dryly, “to turn over any grave situation in your mind.”

“Let us allow, then, that I have said nothing,” retorted Fernande, with the same demure casting down of her eyes, which implied that a fund of worldly knowledge was concealed behind her smooth, white brow.

“Nay, my dear Baudouin,” rejoined Mme. la Marquise sharply, “’tis like a father to belittle his own child’s wisdom. I for one am over-ready to listen to advice wherever it may come from. I feel so guilty about the whole affair, for I fear me that we have gravely compromised the interests of His Majesty by quarrelling hopelessly with my son.

“I had made such firm resolutions,” she added with a sigh, “to conciliate him, to make friends with him if possible. His help—or, failing that, his neutrality—would have been of such immense value to our cause. I had dreams of establishing myself at La Frontenay, of using the place as an arsenal—as headquarters for our leaders ... of suborning or winning over the workmen at the factory.... I am heart-broken at the thought that my own foolishness hath all in a moment destroyed my best laid schemes.”

“Nay, ma tante,” here broke in the young girl, with an elfish toss of her dainty head, “your schemes have not yet gone agley, that I can see. My cousin Ronnay—he is my cousin, is he not?—has of a truth departed hence in high dudgeon—but surely he can be brought back?”

“Never!” asserted M. de Courson emphatically.

And Mme. la Marquise shook her head. “No one can gauge the obstinate temper of a de Maurel—and Ronnay is the living image of his father. It was a delicate business to get him to come here at all. I declare that I am at my wits’ ends how to bring him back.”

For a moment or two Fernande de Courson was silent; a gentle glow suffused her cheeks, her eyes danced with mischief, her whole face was lit up with inward merriment.

“Will you let me try?” she asked suddenly.

“You, Fernande?” exclaimed Mme. la Marquise. “What in the world can you do in the matter?”

“Quite a great deal, ma tante,” replied Fernande with that demure little air, which sat so quaintly upon her laughter-loving face.

“Ronnay de Maurel,” here interposed M. de Courson, “is not bait for a feminine fisher. If you have thoughts of casting your nets in that direction, my child....”

“I for one would protest,” broke in Laurent hotly.

“Protest against what?” queried the girl, and she turned wide, inquiring eyes on the young man, eyes in which injured innocence, unfettered mischief and provoking coquetry were alike expressed.

“Against your sowing seeds of hope of ... of ...” stammered Laurent with a scowl; “against your exercising your arts on that lout, who no doubt is filled with self-conceit, and might imagine things which....”

Fernande leaned back in her chair, and her rippling childlike laugh roused the echoes of the ancient walls around.

“Oh, you funny, jealous old Laurent!” she said breathlessly. Then seeing that the young man still looked morose and wrathful, she went on, with a quick turn to seriousness: “You are childish, my dear cousin. Let me begin by reminding you that your jealousy is not only unjustifiable but singularly out of place. The interests of His Majesty being at stake, it behoves us all to sharpen our wits by mature reflection, rather than to dull them by senseless outbursts of temper. Ma tante declared just now that M. de Maurel’s wealth and influence would be of inestimable value to His Majesty, and yet owned that she was at her wits’ ends how to bring him back repentant or reconciled to Courson. Well, where ma tante owns to having failed, I still believe in success; and though father says that I am too young to turn a grave situation over in my mind, I am convinced that I can turn the present one to our advantage.”

“But how, my dear child?” sighed Madame dejectedly, “how?”

“I don’t know yet,” rejoined Fernande, “but I would dearly love to try.”

“To try and do what?” queried Laurent, who was by no means mollified.

“To make the bear dance to my piping,” replied Fernande archly.

“That is what I could never allow.”

“If ma tante grant me leave,” quoth Fernande dryly, “you, my dear cousin, will not be asked to give your consent.”

“Fernande!” exclaimed the young man, in a tone of passionate reproach.

“There! there!” she said gently, “do not look so glum. It was you, remember, who talked of sowing seeds of hope in the impressionable field of M. de Maurel’s fancy.... Father and tante Denise spoke of the necessity of making friends with that untamed bear, and I....”

“Yes? You, Fernande?” queried Laurent, his glowering eyes fixed moodily upon the exquisite face that smiled so tantalizingly upon him.

“I,” she said lightly, “have no other wish save to bring back that same untamed bear to heel, and to make him pay his respects to ma tante; to bring him back to Courson, not once but often and willingly, until we are all the best of friends.”

Then as her sally was greeted by a shrug of the shoulders from her father, a sigh of despondency from her aunt and a further scowl from Laurent, she continued more earnestly:

“Surely, if M. de Maurel’s friendship is so important to the interests of His Majesty as ma tante and father think, it is worth while making an effort to gain it. No harm can come in trying. If I fail we shall be no worse off than we are now.”

“You will fail, my dear,” concluded Mme. la Marquise, with her usual authoritative decision. “You will fail. No de Maurel has yet succumbed to a woman’s charm unless interest or obstinacy prepared him for the fall.”

“Well, in this case obstinacy mayhap will prepare M. de Maurel for the fall. Laurent,” added the young girl, turning once more to her cousin with merry, glowing blue eyes, “will you take me in a level bet that this day month Ronnay de Maurel will dance to my piping like a tamed bear? He will at my suggestion ask you and ma tante to take up your quarters at La Frontenay, he will close his eyes to everything that we don’t wish him to see. His money and his influence will be at our disposal. With his help we’ll dethrone that impudent Bonaparte whom at present he worships and who has dared to seat himself upon the throne of France, and we’ll bring His Majesty King Louis XVIII. back to his own heritage again.”

She rose to her feet, and with mock solemnity she held up her glass. “Long live Ronnay de Maurel!” she said, “by the grace of God and the machinations of Fernande de Courson the most loyal adherent His Majesty has ever had.”

Then she placed her small white hand on Laurent’s shoulder.

“I entreat you not to look so glum, dear cousin,” she said, with that tender earnestness which at times lent to her dainty face an additional and contrasting charm. “Your own courage and loyalty will have their due; the courage and loyalty of all those who have sacrificed everything for King and country will have their just reward. But, remember, that the prospects of the cause which we all have so much at heart are none too rosy just now. We may despise Bonaparte for an usurper and impudent knight of industry, but we must grant that he is passing clever, and that he holds the allegiance of the nation at this moment in the hollow of his hand. We cannot go with flying banners through the villages and towns of Normandy and rally enthusiastic recruits to our armies; we shall have to go very warily to work and meet cunning with cunning ere we succeed. We want M. de Maurel’s wealth, we want his influence. You knew that this morning, dear Laurent; ma tante knew it and desired it passionately. Yet you both quarrelled with him within half an hour of his arrival here.”

“He insulted my mother,” broke in Laurent hotly. “He....”

“I know he did,” she rejoined quietly. “He is a bear—one with a sore head and an ill temper. But even flies must needs be caught with honey. You all think me very babyish and stupid, I know! Father says that I am too young even to weigh a serious situation in my mind. Well, that may be so, I don’t know. But childish instinct hath oft been a guiding star, where hoary-headed wisdom has groped in the dark, and in any case, there is no one in the whole of France who has the cause of our King more at heart than I have.”

“We all know that, my child,” said the Comte gravely; “it was far from me to impugn your loyalty.”

“Only my wisdom—eh, father mine? But ’tis not wisdom that is required now. Wisdom has quarrelled with Ronnay de Maurel—guilelessness shall bring about the reconciliation. M. de Maurel’s wealth shall be placed at the service of the King on the faith of Fernande de Courson!”

“God hear you, my child!” concluded Mme. la Marquise fervently.