Читать книгу The Knot Garden: Some Old Fancies Reset - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

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THEY had always disliked each other with a firm, unchangeable dislike; often expressed in words on the part of the master and glances and gestures on the part of the servant. They had remained together for nearly forty years, from expediency or custom. De Ravignac paid well and was just in his dealings; Jacques was a good and honest servant.

De Ravignac aged first; he was suddenly an old man: his beautiful youth, his superb manhood seemed stolen from him as suddenly as the gold watch and sapphire seal that had been snatched out of his pocket one dusky blue evening as he entered the Opera. He also had lost most of his money, his estates, his credit; partly through his own extravagant vices, partly because his class, which had so long battened on the labours of the plebeians, was in turn plucked and stripped. He had never cared about politics—nor, indeed, about anything save himself; but a revolution he was forced to notice. His friends, his mistresses, his property disappeared; he was too old to fight in the press, too feeble to raise his voice in the tumult; too old, he declared, to be able to die a violent death with decency. With a sneer he retired to a little château he owned in the Limousin. All his servants had been dismissed or had left; only Jacques remained. De Ravignac kept him, he said, because he was cheap, and Jacques said he stayed because he was too old to find work or even a home elsewhere. They lived alone, save for a village woman or two, in the pleasant little country house, and regarded each other with contempt.

De Ravignac had his books, his comforts, his flower-beds. He had discovered a passion for horticulture: even when gout held him in his room, he received a pleasure that was almost violent from contemplating the parterres beneath his windows. Jacques waited on him precisely, efficiently. He gave that one chamber the air of an apartment in a palace; his service hinted at many lackeys beyond the door; but the other parts of the château were unfurnished. Everything had been stolen or sold, and Jacques mended his own livery and gave a gourmet's touch to the rough cooking of Mère Bonnot.

De Ravignac had never condescended to ask the opinions of Jacques, who had been born a peasant and had become a servant; but Jacques was a liberal, a progressive. Whenever he was with his own class he proclaimed his eager sympathy with the people, his delight in the "Age of Reason" and the "Rights of man." Many times he had been asked: "Why do you stay with an aristocrat? Why do you perform these menial services for an enemy of France? You should have seen he was put out of the way long ago..." And the reply of Jacques was always the same: he was saving his master for a tit-bit of revenge; he had so much stored up against de Ravignac; so many insults, neglects, quietly borne; such a long tale of endless service accepted without a shade of thanks or even recognition; such a long-garnered hatred against a man in whom not even his friends nor his lovers had found a single virtue. Yes, yes, that was it: he was staying by de Ravignac till the moment should be quite ripe—and he would strike with all the force of accumulated years of patient waiting. Oh, yes! he was still strong, vigorous—how different from cet animal-là worn out by his sins!

This attitude on the part of Jacques had been the means of saving, several times, the life of de Ravignac. His servant's friends declared that it was but just that Jacques should have the handling of the affair; and when the shabby carriage passed the Paris barriers, some sans-culottes on the outlook for prey had whispered: "Let them go—his executioner is on the box!"

The Limousin was quiet with the peace of devastation, but even there some keen prying peasants remained who questioned sharply the seeming devotion of Jacques to his hateful old master—a cruel landlord, a man of whom no good was ever said; a fine specimen of the vermin from whom France was to be cleansed! Why was Jacques, himself one of the people, serving, even petting and coddling, the villainous old dog? Even Mère Bonnot wanted to know that: "You wait on him like a slave; he lacks for nothing; you even fuss about his cooking, keeping a bit of silver for him to eat off—wearing his livery—even looking after his flowers!"

"I'm waiting," Jacques would answer, showing his long teeth. "He's mine. I'm to do what I like with him." Then even Mère Bonnot refused to come any more; the temper of the times was more fierce; it wasn't safe to work at the château, she declared.

"What more do the people want?" grinned Jacques, polishing his buttons, which bore the de Ravignac crest. "They don't pay any rent; they've stripped the château and the park."

"They don't think he should be allowed to live."

"Tell them to leave that to me."

Early in the lovely gay April mornings, while de Ravignac slept, Jacques worked silently in the flower-beds beneath his window. De Ravignac, peering out, could not know that all other portions of the garden were a tangle of neglect: failing eyesight had brought his horizon very close; he affected to believe that there were several gardeners, several indoor servants remaining, that Jacques was still merely his own body-servant; and often, with cold elegance, he complained of Jacques, as he had complained all his life.

"You rascal, you are not worth what I pay you—how fortunate for you to be in my service! You are past work, that is what's the matter—old and incapable, Jacques."

His fine hands would pass the wages of Jacques across the marquetry table. He had brought a small hoard of coin from Paris; as he never counted this, he did not know that while he slept Jacques frequently replenished it from his own savings.

"I shall have to dismiss you, Jacques, you become every day more clumsy and stupid."

"Yes, Monseigneur le Marquis."

It was a delicious spring, like the youth of the world; strong green leaves thrust up through the carefully kept soil beneath the window of de Ravignac as the lusty plants forced up to the sunshine, which was thick and sweet like Narbonne honey. "It will be agreeable," remarked de Ravignac, "when the flowers appear."

Though his physical powers failed so rapidly, his spirit was not clouded; he was still arrogant, alert, malicious. Though his eyes were sunk in their sockets, they still turned glances of amused contempt, of wicked raillery, on Jacques. He scorned to think of the possibility of a changed world; his lofty cynical intelligence appeared to be satisfied with his books, his game of solitaire, his hyacinth border. He was like an aged bird of prey, gaunt, still magnificent, in his dying moments gazing at a few bright feathers from the gorgeous affrays of the past.

Jacques (who kept him exquisitely—linen, food, lace, and napery) wondered if the bright green leaves, the rich promise of blossom, reminded him of those bold, joyous sins of his which the servant had witnessed for so many years.

"That white flower will be the first, Jacques. I wish it potted and brought in here when the blossoms appear."

"Very good, Monseigneur le Marquis."

The morning that de Ravignac gave these orders, a threatening group appeared before the château where the two old men dwelt alone: a straggle of soldiers of the Republic passing through the village had been informed of the continued existence of the ci-devant Marquis. They battered on the door; a moment after, the silver bell of de Ravignac rang. Jacques, who had seen the soldiers from the window, went first to his master's room. He believed that de Ravignac knew everything; perhaps he was going to ask for mercy—he, Louis Anne de Ravignac!

De Ravignac said: "I intend to reduce your wages. It is regrettable that I have not been able to train you better. You are still very clumsy and incompetent. Why doesn't someone answer those knocks?"

When Jacques went to the door, opened it, and showed his large powerful hands glistening with blood, the citizen soldiers grinned approvingly; Mère Bonnot had told them already the story of the patient old servant hoarding his revenge.

"Too late!" he snarled. "Why, what do you suppose? Just now he told me he was going to reduce my wages..."

They went away; they agreed that if there was any plunder left in the château it belonged to Jacques, who had waited so long for his reward. With them went the remaining villagers; the whole countryside was deserted; it had become the kingdom of Jacques, where he was not likely to be again disturbed.

He went into the kitchen and very carefully washed his hands, while he considered what sauce would most successfully make the rabbit taste like chicken. On the shelf was a freshly-potted white flower; the purity of the clustered bells was as intense as light incarnate. Jacques carried this to de Ravignac's elegant chamber. Arrogant and cool, the haughty old man waited. Jacques was sure that he understood everything; why, his glance, guarded under his full-folded lids, even fell to a speck of the rabbit's blood under the thick nails of Jacques' scrubbed fingers.

"This is the first hyacinth to blossom, Monseigneur le Marquis."

Their gaze met for a quick second across the radiancy of the perfect bloom; Jacques felt an inexpressible joy as de Ravignac serenely remarked: "It is a fine blossom. Thank you, Jacques."