Читать книгу The Third Estate - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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M. de Sarcey paused and looked back at the mansion of M. le Président; he would have returned had it not been for the presence of M. de Rochefort.

He was in no mood to return to Versailles; his duties there were a mere excuse. He lingered in indecision, then resolved to visit his petite maison at Auteuil.

First he returned to his great Paris Hôtel, in the fashionable Faubourg St. Germain, called his valet, changed his clothes and ordered his coach.

Then he changed his mind, flung himself into a riding habit, took the first horse they brought him and rode towards Auteuil.

Donatien de Sarcey, Marquis de Sarcey, Prince de Beaucy, with a dozen other titles and lord of a dozen fiefs and estates, relative of the Rohan, the Soissons, the Soubise and almost every great family in France, captain in the famous corps des chevaux légers, and occupying several honourably useless posts at Court, was a man who, till now, had never had a wish ungratified nor a desire unsatisfied.

He was in the prime of life, and having succeeded in repairing his damaged fortunes by a wealthy marriage, and not being the least interested in, or concerned by, the embarrassments of the Government, the finances of M. Necker or the popular grouses, he would have ridden to-night to Auteuil calmly self-satisfied and proudly self-assured as usual, if he had not chanced to meet Eugénie de Haultpenne.

He wanted, for the first time, a woman who was out of his reach.

Eugénie's price was marriage, and he was already contracted to her sister whose dowry was necessary to him. And she herself was promised to another man. It was the thought of this rival that roused the primitive forces beneath his callous cynicism; he felt a murderous rage when he thought of M. de Rochefort. The girl was clearly his; she had responded to his claim in a manner that sent the blood to his heart just thinking of it.

He did not analyse his feelings nor pause to wonder if this was love, but he knew that never had he been so roused and excited; the image of Eugénie de Haultpenne, bright, vital, never left his mind.

It was unthinkable that she should not be his; his instinct was to return at once and force her to swear fidelity to him. He wanted to see her again also, he wanted to study her and see what made her so different from all the others. He had dreamt of a woman like that, long ago—he had thought he might find her in a picture, in a statue, in a poem, but never as a human being.

Never had his desire been so fierce, never the object of it so unobtainable.

He looked up at the moon, now crystal clear in a dark sky and raged inwardly. He was in the mood to break his marriage contract, but he needed the money; his rage deepened as he realised that. He thought of Pélagie with contempt and irritation—but her dowry was necessary.

His thoughts turned to M. de Rochefort. He had always disliked that young nobleman, who was a friend of M. de Mirabeau and M. de Lafayette, who affected to interest himself in the troubles of the people and who had sat at the feet of M. Benjamin Franklin during the American's visit to Versailles.

A man who knew nothing about horses or cards or women or sport, a poor swordsman, in bad health—this was to be the husband of Eugénie!

M. de Sarcey arrived at his destination in the worst of humours; he had a savage desire to do a mischief to someone—anyone who came his way.

The house before which he alighted was enclosed by a high-walled garden and stood in open country on the bank of the river. M. de Sarcey had the key of the garden door in his pocket; he unlocked this and whistled. A valet came instantly running and took his horse. The Marquis, without a word, turned through the dark garden towards the house which rose square and black against the moonlit sky. He climbed the few steps of a terrace and, unlocking a long window that served as a door, entered.

He flung off his hat and mantle. He felt stifled by the close, perfumed room, the prettiness of the rose-painted walls and the crowd of gilt and satin furniture. The valet entered, discreet and self-effacing.

'Madame would be pleased to know if Monsieur will sup with her,' he said.

M. de Sarcey paused with his hand on the door; he had completely forgotten Madame. Now he recalled the woman who, by his latest caprice, had been installed as mistress of his petite maison.

He wondered if she afforded the least chance of amusement or distraction, and thought not; but she was something to be cruel to, something on whom to vent his vexation and his rage.

'Tell Madame I am coming,' he said.

The valet, who on occasion was loquacious and confidential in his report of his guardianship, saw his master's mood and slipped away silently..

The Marquis paused to torture himself by thinking what it would have meant if the woman waiting for him had been Eugénie de Haultpenne, Eugénie with her arms outstretched, her lips parted, her eyes shining. He turned, in an evil mood, crossed an antechamber and entered the most beautiful room of the beautiful little house.

This was entirely decorated in ivory-coloured silk, which, drawn into gilt-framed panels, covered the walls, the spindle-legged gold furniture, and was draped with gilt cords across the tall window.

The candles in their gilt sconces were shaded by rose-coloured silk screens; on the delicate alabaster chimney-piece was a porcelain clock, and above it a landscape in pastel.

An extravagant supper was set on a table in the centre of the room; the covers were for two, and there was a profusion of silver, of painted china, of fine glass, of lace napery, of expensive flowers.

For once the Marquis did not match this lavish and beautiful setting of wealth and elegance; he wore a plain riding suit of black cloth, a black brocade waistcoat and a lawn cravat, soft boots still dusty, and spurs. The something strong and fierce and brutal that always underlay his elegance and his pride was very noticeable to-night. He went up to the supper table, looked at the wines, poured out two glasses of malaga and drank them swiftly.

He then rang the bell and ordered the supper. At the sound of the bell an inner door opened and a woman entered. 'I did not know that you were coming,' she said.

'Nor did I,' he assured her grimly.

Her practised eye glanced at his sombre and careless attire, at his passionate dark face.

'Still sullen?' she asked lightly, but her eyes showed wariness.

He looked at her evilly.

'Still Donatien de Sarcey,' he said insolently.