Читать книгу The Third Estate - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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It was impossible for de Sarcey to sleep; he was full of restless excitement and brooding rage. He left the room and the house, and went out into the garden. The air was fragrant with the scent of blossoms, and the drowsy tinkle of a fountain struck pleasantly on the ear.

The Marquis turned in the direction of this fountain and slowly descended the shallow steps that led to the water. He seated himself on the lowest step, dropped his face in his hands and bitterly, clear-headedly, considered the situation.

He tried to think of Eugénie coolly; he had seen women more beautiful, he did not know enough of her to know if she was clever or brilliant, she was not very nobly born—probably straight from a convent—probably stupid. But he felt sure she was capable of returning his passion—and that was all he wanted; he ground his teeth as he thought of it—she was so completely and undeniably his, and so unattainable.

He had to admit that she was unattainable; she was guarded, hedged about, watched by her parents—and soon to be watched by her promised husband. It was doubtful if he would be able to see her alone for five minutes, be able to speak two words to her; he thought that he had already aroused M. de Rochefort's jealousy, and now she would be protected more than ever and any attempt to see her by stealth would instantly cause a scandal.

He was not afraid of that in itself; the Haultpennes were afraid of him and greedily eager for the match, but he knew that once it had been observed that he noticed Eugénie she would be immediately removed beyond his reach.

And the girl?

If he could believe her eyes she expected him to do something; he could hardly contain himself as he thought of her waiting for him.

He rose up angrily and returned to the house; the supper things had been removed and the candles extinguished, but a silver lamp had been left burning for his convenience. He snatched it up and went into the inner room where he had left his hat and mantle and rang the bell.

The valet came, struggling with sleep; he paid for his easy idle life by these occasional vagaries on the part of his master.

'I want my horse,' said M. de Sarcey.

The lackey went to give the order; the Marquis flung on his hat and fastened his mantle. Some Italian stones were lying on a table.

A purple gem caught his eye; he picked it up and put it in his pocket.

The valet returned to say the horse was ready; he knew better than to ask when his master was returning or to demand instructions, and the Marquis vouchsafed nothing.

He turned his horse down the lone drive, dismissed the groom at the gates and rode towards Paris. He went straight to the house of M. le Président in the rue Neuve du Luxembourg. He had no fixed plan nor purpose in his mind except that of seeing Eugénie, of continuing the interview that had been interrupted by the arrival of M. de Rochefort.

It was dawn when he reached Paris, and full daylight when he walked his horse through the still, silent streets of the fashionable quarter where M. le Président dwelt.

When he arrived at his destination he rode twice past the entrance, baffled by those closed iron gates of the courtyard, and by the severe front of the hôtel, the closed doors and shuttered windows.

Probably they were all still asleep—but not Eugénie, he did not believe that Eugénie had slept to-night.

He turned away, left his horse at the first stable he could find, and came back on foot to the mansion of the Haultpennes. This time he went to the back of the house, which opened on a quiet side street. Here he found what he was looking for, a small door in the high wall that surrounded the garden.

This was locked and without handle or knocker.

The Marquis still carried his riding-whip; he struck violently on the door with this. For some time he waited, but at length the door was opened and a gardener looked cautiously out.

The Marquis pushed him aside and entered the garden.

'Fellow,' he said, 'I must see Mademoiselle Eugénie—here—is anyone awake who can bid her come down to me?'

The gardener stared in absolute amazement at this gentleman who came at such an hour with such a demand, and his look of dazed stupidity roused all the Marquis' angry impatience. He was tempted to cut the man across the face with his whip, but restrained himself; this fool was his only means of finding what he sought.

He resorted to the only other means he knew of dealing with his inferiors; he thrust his hand in his breeches pocket and took out two pieces of gold.

Two more if you bring the lady here,' he said. 'Make haste—it is a matter on which depends life—and perhaps death.'

The sight of the money cleared the fellow's dazed senses.

'Almost everyone is still abed, Monseigneur,' he replied, 'but Mademoiselle Eugénie is abroad. I saw her on the terraces when it was not yet seven o'clock.'

M. de Sarcey's dark eyes flashed with triumph; so she had not slept!

He had known it.

'Go and find her,' he commanded, 'and tell her I am here.' The man, though overawed, still hesitated.

'Mademoiselle Eugénie is up betimes every morning,' he said, 'but never have I seen her as early as this morning. Is she—waiting for you, Monsieur?'

'Tell her I am here and she will come,' replied the Marquis impatiently.

'She may have returned to the house.'

'In that case you must find her maid and give the message. Make haste, fool, or the whole house will be astir.'

'I do not know Monseigneur's name.'

'I am the Marquis de Sarcey,' said the young man, utterly recklessly.

At this name that he knew as that of the betrothed husband of Mademoiselle Pélagie, the man moved back as if frightened.

'Will you not do my bidding?' cried the Marquis, and the gardener turned away, clutching the money.

The Marquis sank down on a low stone bench that stood among the poplar trees. He was tired, more by emotion than by physical fatigue, though he had not slept, had eaten little, and had ridden to Auteuil and back since last he saw Eugénie.

The quiet of the garden, so different in its simplicity from the exotic beauty of that garden he had just left soothed him. He felt almost at peace in this moment—so near to her, in the surroundings that were her surroundings—waiting for her to come.

And even while the thought was causing his heart to stir, she came, running along the path through the box and laurel, out-stripping her startled guide.

He rose, all his strength returned at the sight of her. He flung his purse, not stopping to count the contents, to the gardener, and told him to be gone in a tone that sent the man hurrying away.

Eugénie paused a few feet from him; she also had slept little that night. Unconsciously she had been waiting for him, expecting him. And now she saw him before her in his tumbled attire, his hair disordered, his boots muddy, without powder, pomade or patches, but resplendent in his gallant good looks, she felt all force of resistance or denial or remorse or fear swallowed up in the intense joy that thrilled her from head to foot.

She took a step towards him, and he put his hand on her shoulder, gazing at her with passionate intensity.

She wore a gown of lemon-coloured stuff, with blue ribbons and a muslin apron, a muslin cap drawn over her bright curls.

In the low-cut bosom of her gown was a cluster of already drooping jasmine flowers.

'Swear that you love me,' said M. de Sarcey; his voice had changed utterly, to a deep note, like music.

'You know it,' she stammered.

'Yes, I know it, but you must tell me so—again and again—'

'I am afraid to tell you so!'

'Afraid of me?'

He had drawn her to him, and she leant against him, her hands resting on his heart.

'Afraid of me?' he repeated.

'Afraid of myself—afraid of—Oh, my God, I do not know!'

'You are happy?'

'You know it.'

'You have thought of me—all night?'

'I have thought of nothing else!'

'Eugénie! Eugénie!'

He stooped to kiss her, but the sudden tightening of his embrace and the note in his voice stirred her into resistance; she dragged herself from his arms and turned to the stone bench where he had rested.

'Give me time, let me think,' she whispered.

He was beside her at once bending over her and holding her hands.

'Why do you want to think?' he demanded. 'Are you not mine?'

'Yes—yes I am yours.' She lifted her eyes to his and added passionately. 'What must you think of a woman won so easily!'

'Why do you talk to me like that?' he asked almost roughly. But she could not dismiss the fear which was now her uppermost emotion, the woman's fear of not being sufficiently valued, the dread of having given herself too impetuously.

'I am not what you might think,' she said. 'I have never done this before—I have never been touched before!' He laughed.

'You do not need to say that to me,' he returned. 'I know something of women. No need to explain to me—as well explain to a gardener the difference between a carnation and a violet!'

'Oh, you do understand—you do not think me worthless!' she implored.

'If I had not understood I should not have taken you in my arms. If I had been playing, I should have kissed your hand. No more. But I took you like a king entering his kingdom. I knew you were mine. My woman—my mate—my soul, perhaps.'

He laid his face, pale with passion, on her shoulder, as he sat on the bench beside her.

'Listen, Eugénie. You must listen. I have never adored a woman before. I have never paused for any woman before. They have been as flowers of the day to me, to be picked and forgotten—but before you my life stops. I adore you—you can do what you wish with me. You have the love of a man who has never loved before—do you understand this—do you understand, Eugénie?'

He raised his head, and, taking hold of her shoulders, gazed down into her face.

She could not answer; it seemed to her impossible that this magnificent man was really so moved by her. She could be bold in her dreams of him, but now that they were face to face she felt as if the whole thing was a fancy with no solid basis.

'Listen to me,' he said, speaking with passionate earnestness. 'This is the most important moment of your life—'

'Yes,' she murmured.

'And if you are false to it, if you are false to this truth that there is between you and me—you will never be happy all your days—'

'No, I shall never be false to you.' The thought of it gave her fresh strength. 'How could I say to another what I have said to you? I do not play at these things.'

'That I know, but you must not be afraid or shy with me. You are mine. Think of it, Eugénie, mine, mine!' He paused, his face transfigured. 'I have never possessed a human being—I have never owned even a dog. And now I possess you—and you me—think of it Eugénie.'

Still she could not believe it, could not completely respond to his passion which had so easily overcome all there was between them, all the real and artificial difficulties that divided them and claimed her so triumphantly.

She wanted to get away and think, and yet she did not want these moments ever to end.

'I love you'—she whispered—'but—'

'And I love you without but,' he interrupted impetuously. 'I love you as a man loves a woman—the woman. Kiss me.'

This time she made no resistance; but his kiss sent the blood to her face and she desperately struggled away. 'Why do you leave me?' he asked.

'You kiss me as if you want to kill me,' she said.

'Kiss me,' he answered. 'See, I will not touch you, only kiss me.'

She leant forward and her lips softly touched his dark cheek. He laughed.

'Your ingenuous kisses! You know nothing. Nothing about love.'

'I know I love you,' she stammered. 'I know I want to be with you always. You must forgive me if I am stupid. I want to please you.'

'You please me—by Heaven you please me!'

'Have patience with me. I hardly know what I do. There is my father—and M. de Rochefort.'