Читать книгу The Third Estate - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 11

Table of Contents

'You wish to see Eugénie now, Monsieur, and alone?' asked Madame de Haultpenne in some surprise.

'Now and alone,' repeated her husband.

The two elder ladies rose at once and left the room. Pélagie was too vexed by the unceremonious departure of M. de Sarcey to think of anything else; her mother suspected trouble. She thought Eugénie had been making difficulties about her marriage with M. de Rochefort and shot her younger daughter a warning glance as she departed.

Eugénie remained seated. She had at once connected the visit of the Marquis with their interview of that morning; she could imagine what he had said—the reason of his abrupt departure; he had claimed her. 'Leave it to me,' he had said, and this was what it had meant; he had gone straight to her father and claimed her. She had expected no less; in her eyes no other course of action was possible, but she trembled with joy and relief that the thing was done, and with gratitude that his action had been so swift.

M. de Haultpenne took the chair nearest to her; a little work-table of tulip-wood and porcelain was between them; he rested his hand on it and spoke at once, a frown on his face.

'Eugénie, have you seen the Marquis de Sarcey?' he asked. 'I saw him yesterday. He came back for something and I was passing to the salon to take up my music.'

'You were alone?'

'Yes, Monsieur, it was a question of a few moments.'

'And what did he say to you, Eugénie?'

The girl hesitated; she did not know how much M. de Sarcey had told. 'Oh, Monsieur!' she cried impulsively, 'why this probing? You are aware, you must be aware, of how matters stand—'

She faced him, flushed and desperate, but by no means shaken in her courage. Her words made M. le Président's spirit sink; things were worse than he had feared.

He spoke angrily.

'I know too much for my peace and your credit, Eugénie. Have you been exchanging words of love, at the first glance, with your sister's contracted husband?'

The colour faded in Eugénie's fair face.

'Do not speak of it like that, Monsieur. He and Pélagie were strangers.'

'He was a stranger to you.'

'But I love him,' said the girl, using the words the Marquis had not used in speaking of her.

She rose and leant against the back of the chair.

'I cannot explain it,' she added breathlessly, 'but we must belong to each other—we do belong to each other.'

'All this from a few moments' speech?' said M. le Président bitterly.

'You do not understand!' cried Eugénie. It was the eternal cry of passion confronted by the cold judgment of the world.

'Girl, you are crazed,' said the father hotly. 'I must send you from Paris. Back to your convent if need be—'

She winced now, and a look of astonishment clouded her face. 'Send me away? But has not M. de Sarcey spoken to you?'

He has spoken, and I have answered.'

At these words Eugénie stepped back.

'You have refused your consent to our marriage?' she whispered.

'You talk like a fool. M. de Sarcey was not free to ask for you. Can you not understand that he is contracted to Pélagie? The porte-claquette went out to-day.'

'But it is monstrous that he should marry Pélagie.'

'It is monstrous that you should even think of one who is almost your brother. Girl, girl, what has happened to you? Is this the teaching of the good Sisters!'

Eugénie looked at him desperately; she could not put into words her sense of injustice, of sorrow, of despair.

'Did he not ask for me?' she demanded, a catch in her breath.

'He made me the proposal of a madman—that your sister's name should be changed for yours.'

He saw the joy that flashed into her darkened eyes.

'But M. de Sarcey soon renounced you, child, when he found that I would not transfer to you Pélagie's dowry,' he added cruelly.

'Oh, oh,' whispered Eugénie.

'He needs the money,' continued M. de Haultpenne, 'and, great as he is, he cannot afford to insult me—openly. So I brought him to reason. We shall hear no more of this folly.'

'He consented to let the contract stand, he is going to marry Pélagie?' asked Eugénie; such treachery, such desertion seemed to her impossible. She looked down at a red mark on her wrist—the mark of his kiss.

'It is impossible!' she cried. 'He cannot be going to do this thing!'

'You do not know the world,' said M. le Président. 'You know nothing at all of such men as M. de Sarcey. I speak to you now to warn you against him—you must never see him, nor speak to him, nor write to him, do you hear?'

'Oh, my God, has he renounced me?' sobbed Eugénie.

'Utterly. He gave me his word to speak of the matter no more. It was just a caprice, and when he saw that it collided with his interests he renounced it.'

M. de Haultpenne did not want to add anything of the veiled threat that told of a firm and unalterable passion; even in his own soul he did not care to admit to that.

'I cannot believe it!' cried Eugénie desperately.

'The nineteenth of next month he is to marry your sister. Nothing will be in the least changed.'

'This cannot be,' answered Eugénie. 'Monsieur, it would be a crime, a horrible thing. I cannot believe that you will permit it. For all our sakes.'

M. de Haultpenne looked cruelly at the fair face so like his own, pale now and distorted with despair.

'If this marriage is also the wish of the Marquis? I tell you he needs the money. He is desirous to marry Pélagie.'

'If this is true, then all love's a lie!' cried Eugénie in her misery.

'You have behaved like a fool,' said M. le Président coldly. 'M. de Sarcey is a man of a thousand love affairs. One week one, the next week another. Do you wish to be one of the whims of a rake?'

'If he is like that, why do you marry him to Pélagie?'

'Love is not in the marriage contract. Pélagie will be his wife, however his likings may rove.'

'I should be his wife,' flashed Eugénie, 'and then his likings would not rove!'

'Unfortunately he will not take you with the dowry I can offer,' returned M. de Haultpenne grimly.

'Does money enter into this?'

'Into the calculations of M. de Sarcey. As you observe.'

Eugénie sank into the chair and put her hands to her face.

Her father's irritation flared at the despair in her attitude; he considered that he had been very forbearing before an unheard-of state of affairs.

'No more of such childishness, Eugénie,' he said sternly: 'Let your pride help you to forget an admiration that was an insult. You see how he values you—let that strengthen you, if nothing else can.'

For answer she raised her head with a desperate look and fell to her knees, stretching out her arms to her father.

'Do not let this happen!' she cried in a voice almost incoherent with emotion. 'This is no whim to me—my life is on it! Have pity on me—on him!'

He was maddened by her attitude, her tears, her agony; he flung himself away from the hands she held out.

'Have you no shame? I tell you the man does not want you for his wife—do you plead to be his wanton? My God, I shall marry you to M. de Rochefort as soon as possible.'

'No, no,' she answered quickly. 'I at least will be true if he is false. I will marry no one, J swear!'

'Then you will go into a convent,' he replied in a towering passion. 'I will not be so disgraced and shamed!' and he stormed out of the room.

In the outer chamber was Pélagie, placid and gentle, with her book and her sewing; she had recovered from her disappointment at the non-appearance of her betrothed; she thought that he might still come. When she saw her father furiously leave the room where he had been with Eugénie, she rose quickly, in some alarm. But he passed her without a glance and left the chamber.

She put down her book and her work and hurried into the boudoir her father had just left.

The sight that met her startled gaze was Eugénie kneeling on the floor, her arms flung over the seat of a chair, her head sunk on her arms.

Pélagie closed the door.

'Eugénie,' she said in a low frightened voice, 'Eugénie—Eugénie.'

The girl looked up, her hair was falling loose against her flushed cheeks.

'Oh, Eugénie what has happened?' cried Pélagie in alarm.

Cool and composed, in her precise elegant gown and her correctly dressed hair, she was a strange contrast to the dishevelled figure of Eugénie; they seemed utterly unlike sisters.

'Are you ill?' continued the elder girl. 'You look as if you had a fever. What has father been saying to you? Will you not speak to me?'

She tried to raise her sister, but was not strong enough, so sat on the floor beside her, putting her arm round her waist. 'Yes, I am ill,' murmured Eugénie, looking down at the floor.

'My dear—let me help you up—yes, you are ill—your hands are so hot.' Soft-hearted Pélagie gazed at her in distress.

'Leave me,' said Eugénie.

No, not like this—come to the couch. Shall I call someone? Is there anything you wish, dear?'

Seeing that Eugénie resisted her caress she rose and went to the bell.

'Call no one,' said the younger girl, and she also rose.

Pélagie paused, looking at her intently; she was very fond of Eugénie.

Will you not tell me?' she asked softly, a little wistfully. Eugénie suddenly looked at her, putting back a lock of the bright hair with a swift gesture.

'Oh, Pélagie!' she said, 'you must not marry M. de Sarcey!' Pélagie stared in utter amazement.

'You must not marry him,' Eugénie said again; 'it would be terrible—for all of us.'

'What has he done?' stammered Pélagie. She knew, dimly, something of the reputation of the Marquis.

'What has he done?' echoed Eugénie wildly. 'He has made me love him—and he loves me.'

Pélagie gave a quick little cry like one stabbed unawares. 'Are you meaning this?' she said at last, very faintly.

'Yes. We have only seen each other twice, but I know. Oh, you can understand, if father will not!'

'Twice?' questioned Pélagie drearily; she seated herself on the couch, for her limbs seemed suddenly heavy.

'Yesterday—we met by chance a few moments. This morning he came to see me—in the garden.'

Pélagie felt her heart contract at the thought of this love—love that she had only dared to approach in dreams. 'What are we to do?' she asked in a bewildered fashion. Her dazed gentleness moved Eugénie to some compassion.

'Pélagie, it hurts me that this should be. Perhaps you cared too. But it was only for a few moments that you saw him.'

'It could have been no more with you.'

'But that was different,' said Eugénie. 'It was—How can I explain to you?'

How could she? Pélagie recognised that her sister was in a world which she had never entered—nor dared to contemplate entering which was beyond her; she looked at Eugénie with envy, almost with awe.

This morning, when she was asleep, he, that splendid creature to whom she had hardly dared lift her eyes, had come to see Eugénie, defying everything. She felt that if anything so wonderful had happened to her she would have died of joy.

'It would be terrible for you to marry him,' continued Eugénie. 'Do you not see that?'

Pélagie did not answer this question; it seemed as if she did not hear it. 'What did he say to you?' she asked in a low voice.

'I do not know. I could not tell,' replied Eugénie.

It was perfectly true; not to a catechising angel could she have put into words what had passed between her and M. de Sarcey.

'Did he kiss you?'

'Kiss me?' said Eugénie; she put out her hand and looked at the red sign on the wrist. 'Yes, he kissed me,' she whispered.

'And—and you love him?'

Pélagie used the word she stressed, shyly; she could not remember having ever spoken it before in connection with man and woman.

Eugénie paced about the room.

'Have I not told you?'

'And only yesterday we both saw him for the first time,' said Pélagie slowly. She still could not grasp the situation, nor understand in the least what was to be done.

'You will not marry him?' cried Eugénie; she seemed unable to think of anything beyond this.

'But does it rest with me?' asked Pélagie helplessly. 'What does father say?'

'He says you must.'

'Then what shall I do?'

'You can refuse,' flashed Eugénie, 'as I am refusing to marry M. de Rochefort.'

Slowly the full complications, the full miseries began to dawn on Pélagie. 'Oh, what have you done!' she cried sharply.

Before she could speak further, Madame de Haultpenne entered the darkening room.

Eugénie flung herself on the couch and turned her face away from her mother, whom she felt had become her enemy, or would soon become so. Madame de Haultpenne had not seen her husband and knew nothing of what had happened, but she at once discerned that there was trouble and sorrow between the two girls.

Pélagie, a pale neat figure, stood, with drooping shoulders, in the centre of the room.

'What is this?' asked Madame le Présidente sharply. She was more her daughters' mistress than their friend, and allowed them no secrets.

Pélagie was in no mood to deceive her; a full realisation of the truth was coming to her, she was smitten with horror and indignant grief.

'Oh, Madame!' she cried bitterly. 'M. de Sarcey loves Eugénie and she him, and my marriage must be stopped—'