Читать книгу Forget-Me-Not - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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The next day the domestic storms that always muttered below the horizon in the Hotel du Boccage broke into the open. There had been an entertainment at which the Duc de Nemours had been present and everything had gone awry; the service, the food, the music, the lights. The Duke had spoken sharply to the Major Domo, he to the housekeeper, she to the cook, the house had rung with recriminations. The Duchess, with reddened eyes, had shut herself into her apartments; everyone shifted responsibility on to someone else and blamed some invisible daemon for creating this devilish disorder.

Mademoiselle Lucille Debelleyme was a good gambler, she knew when to play for high stakes. Twenty-four hours after this fracas, some time before her usual daily consultation with the Duke was due, she knocked at the door of his apartments, which, to the right of the entrance chamber, were separated from those of the Duchess by a narrow corridor.

M. du Boccage himself opened to her, and seemed, she thought, relieved to see her, as if he had expected some more unwelcome intruder.

He had risen from a light green bureau, charmingly painted with flowers. The room was done up in the gayest manner of the Regency, and seemed, even more than the other apartments of the hotel, an expression of his personality, virile, passionate, but carefully masked by an affectation of careless elegance that touched the appearance, but the appearance only, of effeminacy.

The governess, in spotless, severe muslin, stood in a bar of sunshine that fell through the pale silk curtains and made an indiscreet gleam in her long curls. What she was about to do was the result of desperation on her part and she was mentally fumbling her way in a situation that she only half understood, but her air was serene, melancholy and resolute.

"You are in some difficulty. Mademoiselle?" asked the Duke pleasantly but with the apprehensive air of a man who has too many people coming to him with difficulties. He stood by his desk; under his hand was a portfolio of white, gilded parchment on which lay a letter evidently just taken from the envelope.

"I am in no difficulty whatever. Monsieur," said the governess. "I hope I give satisfaction in my duties?"

"Your department is the only one in the house that is well run—"

She had hoped that he would say something like that; instantly she took her advantage.

"That is the point I wished to raise. Madame du Boccage is overburdened with duties—the poor, the church, her poor health, it is marvellous she does what she does—I feel already for her a devotion, a respect!—I would wish to help her—never have I had a mistress so considerate."

The Duke regarded her steadily from under his thick fair lashes, the smile on his sensual mouth was expressionless, but the governess was encouraged.

"Pray be seated. Mademoiselle, and tell me what you mean."

She gracefully sank into the light chair behind her, she had the delicious sensation of being perfectly understood without the help of words.

"Would it be any assistance to Madame du Boccage if I was, without troubling her at all, to undertake the management of the household?"

"You could do it. Mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

He regarded her thoughtfully; she still was not quite sure of him, not quite free from a fear that he might deeply resent her effrontery, yet she felt, somehow, secure.

She saw him look down at and flick over the letter on the desk. She sensed that this letter was important to him and was very anxious to know what it was; she rose as if in agitation, and approached the desk.

"If Monsieur thinks I have presumed—" she contrived to read the first line of the letter and notice the feminine handwriting—"My dear Camille, I implore you—"; he had then a mistress?

"No, Mademoiselle, you do not presume. I am, on the contrary, grateful for your offer."

He closed the portfolio and carelessly flung it into a drawer of his bureau; the governess marked which drawer. Henri, the valet de chambre, entered from an inner door to ask if his master was going to the hunt that day? Mademoiselle noted, behind his shoulder, an elegant bedchamber; M. du Boccage was not, then, so uxorious that he must always sleep beneath the baldaquin supported by amorini, draped with lace curtains where his wife took her repose.

While he spoke to his servant, the governess, whose eyes were never idle, noticed an engraving of a portrait hanging near the window of a soldier in armour, wearing a huge dust-blond peruke knotted with a black ribbon, who bore an unmistakable likeness to M. du Boccage; the same firm, blunt features, the same full, smiling, sensual mouth, beautifully formed, the same sweet expression, in the eyes that look which Mademoiselle Lucille interpreted as a profound duplicity, and, grasping a baton strewn with fleur de lis, the same powerful hand, indicating a brutal, almost vulgar strength.

The Duke noted the young woman's glance, and, as the servant left, he said:

"An ancestor of mine, Charles O'Brien, Vicomte de Clare—an Irish exile."

"It is a fascinating personality, Monsieur."

"You think so? He had a bad reputation—for cruelty, I believe, but in those days, bah!"

He broke off; she knew that he expressed himself ill on serious matters, had few words and found it an effort to use more than the light, idle sentences at which he was an adept, therefore she waited, patiently, respectfully.

"Eh, well. Mademoiselle," he brought out at length, "you have perceived the disorders in my household. I confess that they torment me, for I like a peaceful life. You appear to have energy, discretion—a gift of management—let us try what you can do—"

The governess cast down her eyes to hide her triumph. "Monsieur will support me?"

"Naturally—if I have given you authority, I shall support you."