Читать книгу The Burning Glass - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Julie De Lespinasse awoke from the slumber induced by the opium, moved slowly in the great bed, and gazed round the room. The drug had calmed her, she felt dazed and giddy. Lately, she had had to increase the dose to obtain any effect, and during her recent agitation with regard to M. de Mora and the subsequent effect on her own health, she had been taking enormous doses of opium in defiance both of her friends and her doctor. The habit had commenced when she was at the Convent of Saint-Joseph. Her health enfeebled by the painful life she led in constant attendance on Madame du Deffand, her spirit exasperated by the miserable scenes with her mistress consequent on her first thwarted love-affair, she had resort to the fashionable remedy of nervous and overstrung women, and had taken such a large quantity of opium that many believed she had permanently injured her already delicate constitution. When she was happy she could resist the dangerous sedative, but it was her only resort when her physical and mental sufferings became acute. Her nerves were soothed now, and she was only conscious of a gentle melancholy. She thought of M. D'Alembert with affection and was grieved that she had deceived him. Slowly she sat up. The sun had left the street, and faint shadows began to fill the chamber. Julie found that she had very little strength. She sank back on the tumbled pillows.

The chamber was charming. The bed was in an alcove facing the door into the salon and curtained with hangings of dull crimson damask; the bed-curtains, valence, and quilt were of the same; the mattresses and pillows were of wool, the linen of the finest embroidery. The walls were also hung with this crimson damask, and the window that gave on the street was curtained with this material. Above the door where the polished panels showed, was, an oil portrait of M. the Archbishop of Toulouse in an oval frame of carved gilt wood, and in between the hangings were small engravings, mostly after Greuze, in black and gilt frames.

The fireplace faced the window, the fire-dogs, grate, and furniture were of polished iron, ornamented with silvered brass; the chimney-piece was also of polished metal, supported by wrought bronze arms; either side of this stood a large wardrobe with drawers, in rosewood, and in front were two arm-chairs covered with crimson damask. In front of the window was a bureau of black wood and leather, with drawers and writing-materials; before it a tapestry chair. Next the door into the salon was a low dressing-table of polished wood, with drawers, along this being a mirror in a gilt frame, and in front of it was a bergère in green, with green cushions and two other chairs in crimson damask. This table, which was beautifully finished with metal locks and handles, held Julie's few treasures, which were contained in a box of painted wood, lined and finished with tortoise-shell, another of plain polished wood, another of red horn, and a fourth of tortoiseshell adorned with a medallion in a circle of gold, showing two cupids. A little cabinet of cardboard, lined with tortoise-shell and ornamented with gold, and a writing-case of rosewood, also stood on this table, together with two powder boxes and two dressing-cases in painted wood. A small table covered in green velvet, a chair in crimson Utrecht velvet, and a 'concessional' chair in the same, completed the furniture of the room. In the above, was a small walnut-table with a marble top, and a door leading into the dressing-room.

Such was the chamber where Julie had slept for nearly ten years.

At length she sat up, drew the curtains of the alcove yet farther apart, and let the last daylight stream over the bed. A pale beam fell over the opium-bottle and the glass on the bed-table, a little had fallen on the marble and left a faint purplish stain.

Julie hastily put all away in the table-drawer and pulled the crimson bell-rope. Madame Saint-Martin had been expecting this summons, and came instantly.

She was a middle-aged, elegant woman, precise in her gray gown and delicate muslin apron and cap; she had long been in the service of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse.

'Mademoiselle will eat?' she asked, coming up to the alcove.

Julie had fallen back on the pillows, her hair, still heavy with pomade, lay scattered beneath her, her frail muslin skirts, the crimson and white jacket, were crumpled; she had flung off her shoes, her lace cap, and the velvet neck-band. These lay on the polished floor beside the bed.

'Yes, I am hungry,' she answered faintly, without moving.

The chamber-woman saw at once what had happened.

'Mademoiselle has been taking opium,' she said reproachfully.

'My good Saint-Martin,' replied Julie, 'there are times when I can resist no longer—-eh, it matters little!'

She made an effort and sat up, pressing her thin hands to her giddy head. 'M. D'Alembert dined?' she asked.

'Yes, mademoiselle, and I have ordered some food for you which, is coming now.'

'No one has been?'

'M. de Vaines, mademoiselle, only. M. D'Alembert saw him.'

The maid entered with a tray, and Julie was served on the little walnut-table. Some of her few pieces of silver gleamed on a snowy napkin, the food was well-cooked and tempting. She ate with some appetite, drank white wine and black coffee, and then declared she would get up. A gentle warmth circulated in her veins. Her spirits rose until she felt almost gay, a great sense of vitality animated her. The colour flushed into her face. It was delightful to be free from pain and to have that sense of disaster lifted from her spirit.

'I hope some one will come to-night,' she said. 'I am in the mood for company. Give me a fresh gown. If no one comes I will go out.' She rose, vibrant with life, her whole slim body eager. She flung back her fallen hair and slipped off her tumbled jacket, and stood straight and elegant in her tight muslin bodice. 'It is as if I were expecting something,' she said.

Madame Saint-Martin hastened into the dressing-room. This affectionate woman was delighted with the high spirits of her mistress.

'Mademoiselle does not eat enough,' came her voice through the open door. 'And mademoiselle is too sensitive. Certainly she had disturbed herself too much over the illness of M. de Mora.'

This name caused Julie to shiver, but she quickly recovered herself. She felt now that it was impossible that any great misfortune was about to overtake her; it was May, she was beloved—why should she be haunted with thoughts of death and terror?

Her heart leapt at the remembrance that she would see him again; and yet again, were there not two months to his departure? And perhaps he would not go at all? And if he did, why not believe that he would return safe and well—her betrothed husband? As the Marquise de Mora she would be secured against all that threatened her as Julie de Lespinasse.

She went and stood at the door of the dressing-room in which Madame Saint-Martin had lit the candles. This little chamber was lined with polished wood, furnished with straw-bottomed chairs, a walnut table, and blue and white curtains at the two windows; engravings were on the walls, and in one corner was a marble basin with a metal tap and cover; to the right another door led to the bathroom.

Julie took off her muslin gown, and stood in her white dimity petticoat and corset. She laid her watch and chatelaine on the walnut table, and held out her arms for the jacket of thin cotton with muslin ruffles that the chamber-woman offered her. She sat in one of the low straw chairs, which were filled with green cushions, while Madame Saint-Martin fetched the toilet articles from the bathroom.

'Perhaps I shall hear from Bagnères to-morrow,' she thought.

Half an hour later her maid came to tell her that some one had asked for her. Julie glanced at her watch.

'But I am expecting no one at this hour,' she said. 'Who is it?'

'M. le Comte de Guibert, mademoiselle.'

Julie was now standing in a full white taffeta petticoat and tight white satin corset. She held an ivory mirror in her hand. Her hair was already dressed dose to her head, powdered and adorned with a vivid pink silk rose. Her eyes were very dark and shining.

'Tell M. de Guibert that T will be with him immediately,' she said. Then glancing in the mirror, she added: 'I am glad that he came by candle-light.' She smiled at Madame Saint-Martin. 'Give me the rose taffeta. Did it not come home yesterday?'

When she entered her salon, the last daylight had been excluded by the drawing of the crimson curtains, and the candles were lit. A man who seemed like a stranger to Julie, rose from the ottoman and looked at her in radiant greeting. Julie de Lespinasse gave him the tips of her frail, perfumed fingers.

'M. de Guibert! you have chosen a day when I am dull.'

'The dullness of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse is as the wit of others.'

'Ah, you know me very little or you would not pay me compliments which I neither deserve nor like.'

She stood before him smiling, fragrant and delicious in her full, transparent, striped white muslin, draped over her ruffled rose silk petticoats, with fine lace at her bosom and elbows and paste buckles gleaming on her white velvet shoes.

'You are too early for me to be able to offer you an entertainment,' she smiled, 'and too late to have an excuse to leave me—so?'

'So you cannot escape a little weariness, mademoiselle, and must bear with me with what patience you may.'

'I have no patience at all,' said Julie. 'I am very stupid and very natural. When I am bored I yawn—when I am interested, behold me!'

She seated herself on the low ottoman from which he had risen, and smiled up into his face. The opium was still in her veins giving her a false life; never had she felt farther from pain and illness.

'How is it that I have never met you since the fête of M. Watelet?' asked M. de Guibert.

'I have been much at home—and you have never been here—voilà!'

'If you knew, mademoiselle,' he protested; 'how full my life has been of stupid things—'

Julie interrupted him.

'Do not blaspheme your gods who have given you all you want, M. le Comte.'

'Ah, you imagine that I am a creature of the salons?' he asked, slightly piqued.

She laughed at his ingenuous vanity. 'I imagine that you enjoy your life, monsieur,' she said. 'Mon Dieu I have you not reason to?' Her frankness moved him to respond.

He looked at her with that simplicity that was such a charming counter-balance to his brilliancy and made him, despite his gifts, so entirely an ordinary masculine creature.

'I am twenty-nine,' he said seriously, 'and I have hardly begun to do what I want to do.'

With her exquisite and acute sympathy, Julie instantly reflected his mood. She was sincerely grave as she replied,—

'But you have! Every one talks of you—you do know what hopes you have aroused—and, monsieur, we are sure that you will justify them! Oh, mon ami, the world, is changing. Something different from all this is coming, something better—and you young! Mon Dieu! young—a man—brilliant, intelligent, powerful to influence, admired, you dare to be discontented.'...M. de Guibert flushed with the pleasure of her warm enthusiasm. 'You know better than I what the future is going to be—Madame du Barry will not always rule France nor people always laugh at the 'Encyclopaedia'—and you—you may well see these great changes!' she added, all in a breath.

'I wish to make them,' he replied.

'You will do that,' she said confidently. 'What is to hinder your destiny?'

'I am poor,' smiled M. de Guibert.

'Oh, fi, fi!' cried Julie. 'But this is ridiculous!' To her it did, in truth, seem so; she was utterly indifferent to money herself and the things that she cared for had always seemed entirely independent of wealth; it was no factor one way or another in her world of philosophers and wits, and sentiment.

'It matters,' he assured her, still smiling

Julie gave him a keen look.

'Of course, you are a great gentleman—like M. de Crillon who talks of marrying for money.' She spoke with a faint tinge of irony. His remark had reminded her that he belonged to that world that had always excluded her, save as a pet, or a fashion, and that adventures such as she and M. D'Alembert had known could never be for such as M. de Guibert.

'I also shall have to marry,' answered the young soldier lightly.

'Are you then free?' asked Julie, with some little dryness.

A shadow fell on his charming, expressive face.

'Mon Dieu, are we any of us ever free?' he asked.

'If I were such a man as you,' said Julie, leaning over the arm of the ottoman and looking up at him, 'I would be free as air!'

The candles were behind him on the chimney-piece, so that he stood in shadow and the light fell full on her upturned face, pale beneath the powder, frail and splendidly lit by the soft dark eyes.

M. de Guibert could not quite understand her. He had thought that he knew all there was to know about woman; but this was a type new to him, since she was neither the frivolous, artificial, exquisite lady of the Court, nor the witty, sentimental, learned lady of the salons—though, in appearance, she might have been either.

It was the repressed passion, the hidden flame, the driving force, the fierce energy animating the delicate frame, that puzzled M. de Guibert. He was used to emotions diluted by philosophy, sentiments shaped by fashion, opinions and judgments dictated by the head rather than the heart. He was so interested in her that he did not answer.

'Tell me,' she repeated, with something of a challenge, 'why you are not free?'

'Did I admit that I was not?'

'A hundred times—you are fretted, tired, galled! Eh bien, end it!'

M. de Guibert was somewhat startled at her frankness.

'Break with Madame de Montsauge?' he asked, surprised into an indiscretion.

Julie's eyes narrowed a little. 'So it is Madame de Montsauge! I do not know her, but I have always heard that she is very stupid and a little vulgar.'

'She is a charming woman,' said M. de Guibert, with a slight flush.

'She is a habit,' replied Julie, 'which is more important.'

M. de Guibert turned away with a restless movement. He was a little doubtful if the dark eyes were mocking him, or no. He rested one arm on the chimney-piece and stared down at the gleaming fire-irons. Julie let her trained, acute glance rest on him. She noted the strength of his figure, the depth of chest, the powerful shoulders, the thick neck, the grace of the small, compact head, the flush of health in his clear, fair skin, the firm lines of his short, blunt profile. How different he was from M. de Mora! She hated him for this, and yet, this dissimilarity fascinated her. She noted every point in which he differed from the man who, for six years, had been the idol of her soul. His carriage was not so elegant, he was not so splendid in his clothes, he wore his uniform carelessly, he was slower and quieter in his speech and movements, his hands and feet were smaller, he was not nearly so dark—Ah, bah! She pulled herself up short. What did it matter to her that there was a difference between M. de Mora and M. de Guibert? She rose impetuously.

'I am half-promised to Madame la Maréchale de Luxembourg.'

'And I to half a dozen places,' he said, without looking up.

'Mon Dieu!' cried Julie, 'then why spend your time here?'

He raised his head, and his gray eyes smiled at her as he answered. 'I wanted to speak to you, mademoiselle—who is the man you mentioned at "Le Moulin Joli"?'

'You ask that?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'One must be interested to know who could entirely occupy such a heart and soul as yours, mademoiselle.'

'It is my secret,' said Julie.

'You have mine.'

'Punchinello's secret. All Paris knows of—Madame de Montsauge.'

'Eh, bien, mademoiselle—perhaps all Paris knows of—M. le Marquis de Mora.'

Julie de Lespinasse laughed in a sad, yet proud, fashion.

'All Paris is welcome to that knowledge, M. de Guibert.'

'It was M. de Mora to whom you referred at M. Watelet's fête?'

'Yes.'