Читать книгу The Burning Glass - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 3

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On a May evening a woman was walking in a delicious garden that was formed out of the little islands on the waters of the Seine, near Paris.

There was a number of people moving about among the lofty elms, Italian poplars and weeping willows that seemed as if untouched by Art, and yet which had been cunningly disposed by the hand of man, for the owner of this pleasant place was holding one of those fêtes which had become recently so fashionable in the capital.

But this woman walked alone.

She was very famous, very sought after, and generally the centre of a brilliant company; but to-night she had fled all her usual associates for that part of the island farthest from the chateau, where she might hope to be undisturbed. For her heart was full of sad emotions and a passionate melancholy pervaded her being. Solitude and the sweetness of the hour in some degree soothed her; she walked yet farther away from the festivities, and the lamps and music, and at last stood at the edge of the island and paused, looking across the darkening river towards the ferry house at Bezons, where the boats waited to take away the guests of M. Watelet. The evening was warm and perfumed by the first divine freshness of spring, a few stars were out in a sky that was fading to a translucent green hue; these sparkled in their crystal colours and pure brightness as if they pulsed with intense vitality.

A low breeze ruffled the waters of the Seine and sent little waves to break against the flowery banks of M. Watelet's domain.

All, in deference to that passion for nature which was the reaction after centuries of artificiality, the nostalgia of a society too highly cultured, over-civilised, was studiously arranged to appear a piece of untouched country.

Wild flowers grew among the tall grasses, humble herbs mingled with costly shrubs, the worldling's conception of rusticity was visible in the toy summerhouses and wooden bridges and seats.

It was all exquisite—and as false to nature as the stiff Italian gardens of a preceding fashion.

The lonely guest standing looking wistfully out across the water, knew this.

She could remember the country in her childhood, the gloom, the poverty, the cruelty, the immensity of it—so different from this pretty arrangement of trees and flowers, the result of a wealthy man's taste and intelligence, the whim of an artist jaded with city pleasures.

The woman shivered, and turned away from the edges of the river to a weeping willow that drooped its budding foliage over a wooden bench.

There she seated herself and stared through the lovely interlacing branches at the stars that seemed to hang so low, that she had the illusion that if she put out her hand she could catch hold of one entangled in the willow boughs.

Silent she sat, fighting with her melancholy, while the pearl-pure light faded about the island.

She was not young, but she had such a vivid air of vitality that even when she was quiet, as now, she gave no impression of fading, or of the placidity that comes from maturity, or of the sadness or bitterness common to a woman whose youth is past.

In every way she was vital, ardent, eager, though these qualities were veiled by a charming feminine timidity that showed in her look and pose, and the warm charm of her passionate personality lay over her like a spell. In person she was tall and infinitely graceful, with an elegance natural and improved by training Every movement showed her the great lady; very slender and well-fashioned, her hands and feet, her throat and bust, the set of her head, the swing of her shoulders, were truly beautiful.

Her face that had always been plain, was disfigured by the smallpox which had blurred the lineaments and destroyed the freshness of the traits; her nose was tilted, her mouth too wide, her brown eyes large, short-sighted, and in no way remarkable save for their passionate expressiveness.

She had been called ugly, even by her admirers, yet this was not true, as her features were in proportion, her teeth white, her ears small, her hair thick, waving, a pretty light brown colour and growing in a becoming manner about her low brows.

Her dress, which was the finest she had, was expensive and fashionable; the robe and petticoat of apricot silk were veiled in faint-coloured blue gauze, her ruffled sleeves and her chemisette were of fine blonde lace, her full mantle, with a hood, was of white satin lined with white fox, and on her knee rested a muff of grebe's feathers.

A black velvet ribbon was fastened round her throat, and her hair was dressed simply, with a touch of powder on the crown of her small head.

She wore no jewellery whatever, the buckles on her white velvet shoes were of ordinary paste, and the brooch that held the laces on her bosom was of plain silver; thus the poverty that her dress belied was revealed.

Yet her breeding became her so that she had an atmosphere of extravagance and wealth; although she was a woman who would have worn many jewels if she could—she was able to do without them as gaily as she was able to do without beauty.

She was roused from her reflections by a masculine voice.

'It is Mademoiselle de Lespinasse!'

A man parted the drooping willow boughs and stood before her, looking down at her with a little smile.

Julie de Lespinasse returned his glance totally unconcerned.

'How did you find me?' she asked. 'We were only presented to each other an hour ago, monsieur.'

'And then you disappeared, mademoiselle,' said the man, looking at her intently. 'And I followed you.'

'Why?'

'Are you not used to people following you, mademoiselle?'

'You are certainly not used to seeing—people—run away,' she replied with a quick smile. Then, with a sudden change to a perfectly natural manner: 'Forgive me, I am no fit company for any one to-night—least of all for M. de Guibert.'

'Why least of all for me?' He had a changeful, beautiful voice, wholly attractive, that he lowered as he spoke.

He was still standing, making a darkness before her, blotting out the stars.

'Oh, mon Dieu!' answered Julie de Lespinasse, with a certain impatience, 'do you come to me for compliments? Half the witty and pretty women of Paris are here to-night—all ready to praise you. Why do you come to me who am ugly, old, sick, and in a melancholy mood?'

She looked at him with an expression of faint irony on her mobile features.

'Are even you tired of flattery?' she added, lightly.

'Ah, you think that my head has been turned by all this boudoir praise—that is why you avoided me.'

Julie rose.

'I thought nothing at all, monsieur,' she said frankly. 'I came here because I was full of sadness—the fête did not prove the distraction I thought it would. I should have stayed at home.' She was nearly as tall as he and stood so near to him that her looped petticoats touched the skirts of his coat.

It was now so dark that they could hardly see each other, and the sweeping branches of the weeping willow enclosed them like the meshes of a cage.

'You are not happy?' he asked curiously.

'Mon Dieu! Happy!'

'You are one of the most envied women in Paris, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse.'

Again impatience showed in her manner.

'M. de Guibert, you know on what happiness depends. If you try to compliment me, I shall never count you among my friends, and that I am disposed to do, for many dear to me love you.'

He answered her earnestly.

'How can you mistake my sincerity for flattery? I have been wanting to meet you ever since I came to Paris.'

She was used to such speeches, even from men as brilliant as this one; all the famous people of her world loved and admired her; for years she had reigned over the salon where all the intellect of Paris met to do her homage, and the language of admiration and respect had become commonplace to her by constant repetition.

'Oh, la, la!' she cried, carrying her muff to her lips and speaking over it. 'Here we have M. de Guibert in a serious mood! Seeks he new worlds to conquer?'

'You mock me, mademoiselle. Perhaps I, also, am unhappy.'

Julie de Lespinasse frowned.

'Why—is that possible?' she asked.

'Can it not be as possible for me as for you?'

'But you are a man—young!' she cried impetuously, then checked herself.

'Come into the open,' she added. 'These boughs stifle me.'

He parted the branches for her and followed her out on to the slope of long grass that dipped to the edge of the river.

The sky was now a deep violet colour and the stars blazed.

The yellow light of lanterns showed among the boats clustered by the landing stage of the ferry; the wind was rising and larger waves lapped at the flowery banks of 'Le Moulin-Joli.'

Julie turned to her companion.

Do you like this better than the salons of Paris, monsieur?'

'When I am here with you, yes,' he replied gravely.

'Mon Dieu! how commonplace you make it with such remarks,' she replied; she still held her grebe muff to her cheek and the long line of her lovely figure was visible in the starlight.

She was not insensible of the fact that she was alone with the man who was the most admired, most wanted in Paris, famous as soldier, philosopher, writer, adored by the women, envied by the men, with all her brilliant world at his feet.

The situation that she had first accepted with indifference began to please her; she was a very woman and the presence, the interest of the man whom every one gathered at 'Le Moulin Joli' would have been enchanted to flatter, began to please her into some passing forgetfulness of her sorrow.

Her piquant face, so full of light and shade, of changeful expression, of quick emotion, was turned towards M. de Guibert.

As she had not tried to disguise her preoccupation, so she did not try to disguise her interest.

'I shall read your book,' she said.

He made a gesture of protest.

'Do you wish me to do something more original?' she added. 'Well, monsieur, perhaps I shall—'

'What is that, mademoiselle?'

'Oh, I am very difficult—terribly difficult, and perhaps when I have read Essai sur la Tactique I shall write you a criticism!'

'You would?' he asked eagerly.

Julie laughed.

'Oh, we should not talk of books on such a night as this—mon Dieu!—the stars!'

Her hurrying, rather hoarse voice, had the same arresting quality as her person; her speech was slightly broken and slightly difficult, but her accent was pure, her inflexion pleasing, emphatic and fast; in her speech, as in everything else, she showed breed and polish, noticeable even in the great world in which she moved.

'Leave your book, monsieur,' she said suddenly. 'My life is already too full—I have no room for another interest.'

Her words seemed too serious for the occasion; the young man was moved by something vibrant, appealing in her tone.

'Ah, your life is full of friends,' he replied. 'And yet you are unhappy.'

'Ah!' she answered, in a tone of infinite melancholy. 'The dearest of all leaves me, and I am frightened—'

He did not know of whom she spoke, and his curiosity was roused.

'Frightened?' he questioned delicately.

'A mortal illness and a great distance!' said Julie, in a tone of touching confidence.

'This is one you love?' he asked.

'The only one I love,' she replied, with her swift frankness, 'though I have many dear, dear friends.'

'Even if he be doomed, he is fortunate,' said M de Guibert.

'He is the noblest man in the world,' said Julie ardently.

As the bank now sloped sheer into the water, they turned aside into a little alley of ilex and laurel; turning again in this, a sudden light flooded their path. It came from a lantern of pale yellow silk that had just been lit and hung low on the boughs of a Lombardy poplar.

Julie de Lespinasse suddenly paused and looked at the man by her side.

He was very charming, more so than she had thought at first, ten years younger than herself, and attractive in face and figure; he wore his uniform as a colonel of the Corsican Regiment with a certain carelessness; despite his reputation as the most irresistible cavalier in Paris, there was nothing about him that was not serious, and even stately. He did not seem in any way a squire of dames.

Julie noticed in him that vital air of eager interest in life that she had herself, but he was composed while she was nervous, perfectly balanced while she was overstrung.

She observed this quiet sanity in him and wondered if it was that which made him different from her brilliant friends.

'For certainly,' she thought to herself, 'he is not like any other man I know.'

Her frank scrutiny amused him.

'What do you make of me?' he asked.

The pale yellow light was full over his face; the short, finely-shaped features quivered with life and intelligence; the complexion was fresh with youth and an active life; the eyes, long, gray, and sparkling, were full of interchanging emotions, wit, humour, and tenderness; his hair was dressed with a certain looseness, for all the pomade and military side curls.

His whole person had an air of healthy vigour hardly to be looked for in a philosopher, and Julie's exact perception noted something ingenuous and simple about the man who had the salons of Paris at his feet, the great Voltaire proclaiming him a genius, the whole Encyclopedia acclaiming him, all the noted women in the capital competing for his smiles.

Looking at his radiant charm, and finding how he pleased her, she became impatient of herself.

'Oh, you will be a great man,' she said in her hasty way. 'And now I hear music—I think they go in to supper—'

M. de Guibert laughed.

'You do not finish with me so easily, mademoiselle.'

'Eh? What do you want of me?' she challenged. She put out the hand that held the muff and let the soft feathers rest on his arm; her dark eyes were as intense as if they veiled flame. 'I tell you my soul—my heart—my life is full!'

'I think you could be an incomparable friend,' he insisted.

'And you lack—friends?' she mocked.

'Friends such as you would be—yes,' he answered calmly.

Julie seemed slightly to wince; she withdrew her hand; her petticoats shimmered, a wonderful colour under the white satin mantle gleaming in the lantern light; her face was in shadow, but the frail grace of her was a wonderful thing; she seemed as if she might float away into the fairy-like twilight.

'Wait till you see me in the morning,' she said. 'No woman is old, or ugly, or sick, or sad—at "Le Moulin Joli" on a May night, with M. de Guibert for company—but I am all of these—and you could never have patience with me.'

'Am I so different from those who have patience with you?'

'Yes, you are different,' she replied quickly. 'I do not think I ever knew any one who had such an air of—success, as you.'

M. de Guibert coloured under his powder; in swift contrition she laid her hand, free of the muff now, on his arm.

'Do you think I meant less than a compliment? You are so alive. I meant that.'

'Ah, mademoiselle, I do not mean to pass my old age regretting the things I did not do in my youth.'

Her eyes flashed to his; this magnificent assertion of his manhood found an echo in her own tumultuous heart.

'I like you—you please me,' she said. 'Come and see the poor demoiselle in her humble room, monsieur—'

'I shall come,' he interrupted eagerly.

'—And see me by daylight.' Her laugh quivered a little. 'And now, M. de Condorcet is to take me to supper—and you?'

'Madame de Montsauge,' he replied, quietly; they were now strolling towards the pavilion where supper was served; the air was heavy with the sound of violins; they did not look at each other. Julie knew that he spoke the name of the woman who held him in chains almost as difficult to break as those of matrimony. She at once hated Madame de Montsauge and was instantly horrified at herself.

M. de Guibert belonged to this other woman—and she belonged to another man.

'Adieu,' she said suddenly, turning away. 'You have made me forget my melancholy for half an hour.'

'I shall come to the rue Saint-Dominique,' he told her. But she was gone so quickly among the trees that it seemed as if she had not heard.