Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 13

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HE came in smiling, of course. When was the Abbé to be caught without his self-possessed smile, his easy manner, and his carefully-arranged dress? On the present occasion he carried with him some rare flowers as well. The Marquise sprang at them almost before he had time to offer his elaborate homage, while he bent over her extended hand. He snatched the nosegay away, however, with great quickness, and held it behind his back.

“Pardon, madame,” said he, “this is forbidden fruit. As such I bring it into the garden of Paradise; where my cousin dwells there is Eden, and the resemblance is the more striking that neither here are found mirrors to offend me with the reflection of my own ugly face. Consequently, my attention is concentrated on yourself. I look at you, Marquise, as Adam looked at Eve. Bah! that father of horticulture was but a husband. I should rather say, as the subtle creature who relieved their domestic tête-à-tête looked at the lady presiding over that charming scene. I look at you, I say, with delight and admiration, for I find you beautiful!”

“And is it to tell me this important news that you are abroad so early?” asked the Marquise, laughing gaily, while she pointed to the easy-chair she had just left. “Sit down, Monsieur l’Abbé, and try to talk sense for five minutes. You can be rational; none more so, when you choose. I want your opinion—nay, I even think I want your advice. Mind, I don’t promise to take it, that of course! Don’t look so interested. It’s not about myself. It’s about Cerise.”

“How can I look anything else?” asked the Abbé, whose face, to do him justice, never betrayed his thoughts or feelings. “Madame, or Mademoiselle, both are near and dear to me—too much so for my own repose.”

He sighed, and laid his white hand on his breast. She was so accustomed to his manner that she never troubled herself whether he was in jest or earnest. Moreover, she was at present engrossed with her daughter’s future, and proceeded thoughtfully.

“Cerise is a woman now, my cousin. Her girlhood is past, and she has arrived at an age when every woman should think of establishing herself in life. Pardon! that bouquet is in your way; put it down yonder in the window-sill.”

The Abbé rose and placed the flowers in the open window, whence a light air from without wafted their sweet and heavy perfume into the apartment.

When he reseated himself the Marquise had relapsed into silence. She was thinking deeply, with her eyes fixed on the dead musketeer in the picture.

The Abbé spoke first. He began in a low tone of emotion, that, if fictitious, was admirably assumed.

“It is not for me, perhaps, madame, to give an opinion on such matters as concern the affections. For me, the churchman, the celibate, the man of the world, whose whole utility to those he loves depends on subjection of his love at any cost—at any sacrifice; who must trample his feelings under foot, lest they rise and vanquish him, putting him to torture, punishment, and shame. My cousin, have not I seemed to you a man of marble rather than a creature of flesh and blood?”

The Marquise opened her black eyes wide. He had succeeded at least in rousing her attention, and continued in the same low, hurried voice.

“Can you not make allowance for a position so constrained and unnatural as mine? Can you not comprehend a devotion that exists out of, and apart from self? Is not the hideous Satyr peering from behind his tree at the nymph whose beauty awes him from approach, an object more touching, more to be respected than vain Narcissus languishing, after all, but for the mere reflection of himself? Is not that a true and faithful worship which seeks only the elevation of its idol, though its own crushed body may be exacted to raise the pedestal, if but by half a foot? Do you believe—I ask you, my cousin, in the utmost truth and sincerity—do you believe there breathes a man on earth so completely consecrated to your interests as myself?”

“You have always been a kind counsellor—and—and—an affectionate kinsman,” answered the Marquise, a little confused; adding, with an air of frankness that became her well—“Come! Abbé, you are a good friend, neither more nor less, staunch, honest, constant. You always have been, you always will be. Is it not so?”

His self-command was perfect. His face betrayed neither disappointment, vexation, nor wounded pride. His voice retained just so much of tremor as was compatible with the warm regard of friendship, yet not too little to convey the deeper interest of love. He did not approach his cousin by an inch. He sat back in the arm-chair, outwardly composed and tranquil, yet he made it appear that he was pleading a subject of vital importance both to her welfare and his own.

“Pass over me, madame!” he exclaimed, throwing both his white hands up with a conclusive gesture. “Walk over my body without scruple if it will keep you dry-shod. Why am I here; nay, why do I exist at all but to serve you—and yours? Nevertheless it is not now a question of the daughter’s destiny—that will arrive in course of time—it is of the mother I would speak. For the mother I would plead, even against myself. What temptation is there in the world like ambition? What has earth to offer compared to its promises? The draught of love may be, nay, I feel too keenly must be, very sweet, but what bitter drops are mingled in the cup! Surely I know it; but what matters its taste to me? the Abbé! the priest! Marquise, you have a future before you the proudest woman in Europe might envy. That fair hand might hold a sceptre, that sweet brow be encircled by a crown. Bah! they are but baubles, of course,” continued the Abbé, relapsing without a moment’s warning into his usual tone; “the one would make your arm ache and the other your head; nevertheless, my cousin, you could endure these inconveniences without complaint, perhaps even with patience and resignation to your fate?”

The Marquise, it must be confessed, was relieved at his change of tone. Her feelings had been stimulated, her sympathies enlisted, and now her curiosity was aroused. This last quality is seldom weak in her sex, and the Abbé, though it is needless to inquire where or how he learned the trade, was far too experienced a practitioner to neglect so powerful an engine as that desire for knowledge which made shipwreck of Eve and is the bane of all her daughters. Madame de Montmirail was proud—most women are. She loved power—most women do. If a thought flashed through her mind that the advancement of her own position might benefit those in whom she felt interest, what was this but a noble instinct, unselfish as are all the instincts of womanhood?

“You speak in parables, my good Abbé,” said she, with a laugh that betrayed some anxiety to know more. “You talk of crowns and sceptres as familiarly as I do of fans and bracelets. You must expound to me what you mean, for I am one of those who find out a riddle admirably when they have been told the answer.”

“I will instruct you, then,” was his reply, “in the form of a parable. Listen and learn. A certain Sultan had a collection of jewels, and he changed them from time to time—because he could not find a gem that sparkled with equal brilliance by day and by night. So he consulted every jeweller in his dominions, and squandered great sums of money, both in barter and in a search for what he required. Nay, he would trample under foot and defile the treasures he possessed, passionate, languishing, wretched, for want of that he possessed not. So his affairs went to ruin, and his whole country was in want and misery.

“Now, a Dervish praying at sunset by a fountain, saw a beautiful bird fly down to the water to drink. Between its eyes grew a jewel that flamed and glittered like the noonday sun on the Sultan’s drawn scimitar. And the Dervish bethought him, this jewel would be a rare addition to the collection of his lord; so he rolled his prayer-carpet into a pillow, and went to sleep by the side of the fountain, under a tree.

“At midnight the Dervish woke up to pray, and on the branch above his head he saw something flash and sparkle like the sun on the Sultan’s scimitar at noonday. So he said, ‘This is the gem for which my lord pineth. Lo! I will take the bird captive, and bring it with me to the feet of my lord.’

“Then the Dervish took the bird craftily with his hand, and though the fowl was beautiful, and the gem was precious, he kept neither of them for himself, but brought them both for his lord, to be the delight of the Sultan and the salvation of the land.”

“And suppose the poor bird would rather have had her liberty,” replied the Marquise. “It seems to me that in their dealings with men the birds get the worst of it from first to last.”

“This bird was wise in her generation, as the goose that saved Rome,” answered the Abbé; “but the bird I have in my thoughts wants only opportunity to soar her pitch, like the falcon, Queen of Earth and Air. Seriously, madame—look at the condition of our Sultan. I speak not of the young king, a weak and rickety boy, with all respect be it said, ill in bed at this very moment, perhaps never to leave his chamber alive. I mean the Regent, my kind patron, your devoted admirer—the true ruler of France. And look at the jewels in his casket. Do you think there is one that he prizes at the value of a worn-out glove?”

The subject possessed a certain degree of interest, trenching though it was upon very delicate ground.

“He has plenty to choose from, at any rate,” observed the Marquise; “and I must say I cannot compliment him on the taste he has displayed in these valuables,” she added, with a mischievous laugh.

“He would throw them all willingly into the Seine to-morrow,” continued Malletort, “might he but possess the gem he covets, and set it in the Crown-royal of France. Yes, madame, the Crown-royal, I repeat it. Where are the obstacles? Louis XV. may not, will not, nay, perhaps, shall not live to be a man. Madame d’Orleans inherits the feeble constitution, without the beauty of her mother, Madame de Montespan. Fagon himself will tell you her life is not worth nine months’ purchase, and since she has quarrelled with her daughter she has less interest with the Regent than one of the pages. Her party is no longer in power, the Comte de Toulouse is in disgrace, the Duc du Maine is in disgrace. Illegitimacy is at a discount, though, parbleu, it has no want of propagators in our day. To speak frankly, my cousin, a clever woman who could influence the Regent might sway the destinies of the whole nation in six weeks,—might be Queen of France in six months from this time.”

The Marquise listened, as Eve may have listened to the serpent when he pressed her to taste the apple. For different palates, the fruit, tempting, because forbidden, assumes different forms. Sometimes it represents power, sometimes pique, sometimes lucre, and sometimes love. According to their various natures, the tempted nibble at it with their pretty teeth, suck it eagerly with clinging lips, or swallow it whole, like a bolus, at a gulp. The Marquise was only nibbling, but her cheek glowed, her eyes shone, and she whispered below her breath, “The Queen of France;” as if there was music in the very syllables.

The Abbé paused to let the charm work, ere he resumed, in his half-jesting way—

“The Queen, madame! Despite the injustice on our Salic law, you may say the King! Such a woman, and I know well of whom I speak, would little by little obtain all the real power of the crown. She might sway the council—she might rule the parliament—she might control the finances. In and out of the palace she would become the dispenser of rank, the fountain of honour. Nay,” he added, with a laugh, “she might usurp the last privileges of royalty, and command the very Musketeers of the Guard themselves!”

Did he know that he had touched a string to vibrate through his listener’s whole being? She rose and walked to the window, where the flowers were, while at the same moment he prepared to recall her hastily. It was needless, for she started, turning very pale, and came quietly back to her seat. The Abbé’s quick ear detected the tramp of a boot crunching the gravel walk outside, but it was impossible to gather from his countenance whether he suspected the passer-by to be of more importance than one of the gardeners. The Marquise, however, had caught a glimpse of a figure she was beginning to know by heart too well. Captain George had of late, indeed ever since Cerise came home, contracted a habit of traversing the gardens of the Hôtel Montmirail to visit a post of his musketeers in the neighbourhood. These guards were permitted to enter everywhere, and Madame de Montmirail was the last person to interfere, in this instance, with their privileges. So little annoyance, indeed, did she seem to experience from the intrusion, that the windows of her boudoir were generally wide open at this hour of the day. Though to visit this post might be a necessary military precaution, it was obviously a duty requiring promptitude less than consideration. Captain George usually walked slowly through the garden, and returned in a very short time at the same deliberate pace. The Marquise knew perfectly well that it took him exactly ten minutes by the clock in her boudoir. When she sat down again, Malletort, without noticing her movement or her confusion, proceeded in a sincere and affectionate tone—

“I need not explain more clearly, madame; I need not urge my motives nor dwell upon my own self-sacrifice. It is sufficient for the Abbé to see his peerless cousin set out on her journey to fame, and to feel that he has indicated the shortest path. There are obstacles, no doubt; but for what purpose do obstacles exist save to be surmounted or swept away? Let us take them as they come. I can count them all on the fingers of my hand.” The Abbé began systematically at his thumb. “The young King and Madame d’Orleans are already disposed of, or, at worst, soon will be, in the common course of events. Remain—the roués—Madame de Sabran, and Madame Parabére. Of these, I can manage the first without assistance. I have influence with the whole gang. Some may be persuaded, others intimidated, all can be bribed. I anticipate no opposition worth speaking of from the male element, fond of pleasure, fond of wine, and embarrassed as they are good for nothing. With the last two it is different. Madame de Sabran is witty, handsome, and well-bred; but she spares no person, however exalted, in her sarcasm, and the Regent fears her tongue while he is oppressed with her society. One or two more of her cutting sayings, and she will sever the cord, already frayed very thin, by which she holds on to fortune. Then she becomes but yesterday’s bouquet, and we need trouble ourselves no more with her! Exit Madame de Sabran. Enter—whom shall we name, my beautiful cousin? Whoever it is will have it in her power to become Queen of France. Now there is only Madame de Parabére left; but alas! she is the most dangerous and the most powerful of all. It is against her that I must ask you, madame, to lend me your assistance.”

“Mine!” repeated the Marquise, half surprised and half unwilling, though with no especial liking for the lady in question. “Mine! what can I do?”

“Much,” replied Malletort, earnestly. “Indeed, everything! Yet, it is very little I will ask you to undertake, though it must eventually lead to the greatest results. Listen. The Regent, while he has confessed to me over and over again that he grows weary of Madame de Parabére, is yet fascinated by her beauty—the beauty, after all, of a baby-face with a skin like cream. Such beauty as even the devil must have possessed when he was young. She has neither wit, nor grace, nor intellect, nor form, nor even features. But she has her skin, and that I must admit is wonderfully clear and soft. This attraction possesses some incredible fascination for the Duke. If she went out in the sun to-morrow and came home tanned, adieu to her power for ever! I cannot make her go out in the sun, but I think if you will help me I can arrange that she shall become tanned—aye, worse than tanned, speckled all over like a toad. Do you remember once when they praised your beauty at the late King’s dinner, she said, ‘Yes, you were very well for a mulatto?’”

“I have not forgotten it!” replied the Marquise, and her flashing eye showed that neither had she forgiven the offence.

“That little compliment alone would make me her enemy,” continued the Abbé, “if I allowed myself such luxuries as likes and dislikes; but she is in our way, and that is a far better reason for putting her aside. Now my beautiful cousin has admired those flowers in the window more than once. She thinks they are an offering from her faithful kinsman. It is not so. I have procured them with no small trouble for Madame de Parabére!”

“Then why bring them here?” asked the Marquise, with a spice of pardonable pique in her tone.

“Because, if I sent them to her with the compliments of Monsieur l’Abbé Malletort, the Swiss would probably not take them in; because if I offered them to her myself, I, the cynic, the unimpressionable, the man of marble, who has eyes but for his kinswoman, she would suspect a trick, or perhaps some covert insult or irony that would cause her to refuse the gift point-blank. No, my plan is better laid. You go to the masked ball at the opera to-night. She will be there on the Regent’s arm. Jealous, suspicious, domineering, she will never leave him. There is not another petal of stephanotis to be procured for love or money within thirty leagues of Paris; I have assured myself of this. They are her favourite flowers. You will appear at the ball with your bouquet; but for the love of heaven, my cousin,” and the Abbé’s countenance was really in earnest while he thus adjured her, “do not, even with a mask on, put it within six inches of your face!”

“It is poisoned!” exclaimed the Marquise, walking, nevertheless, to the open window where the flowers stood. “Poisoned! I will have nothing to do with it. If we were men, I would force her to cross swords with me on the turf down there. But poison! No, my cousin. I tell you no. Never!”

“Poison is entirely a relative term,” observed the Abbé, philosophically. “All drugs in excess become poisons. These pretty flowers are not poisoned so much as medicated. There is no danger to life in smelling them—none. But their effect on the skin is curious, really interesting from a scientific point of view. A few hours after inspiration, even of one leaf, the complexion loses its freshness, fades, comes out in spots—turns brown.”

The Marquise listened attentively.

“Brown! Deep brown! Browner than any mulatto!”

The Marquise wavered.

“It really would not be a bad joke, and I think she deserves it for what she said of you.”

The Marquise consented.

“I will take them to the ball,” said she, “and if Madame de Parabére asks for them, why, in common politeness, she must have them. But mask or no mask, I will take care to let her know who I am!”

“Better not,” said the more cautious Abbé, and would have explained why, but the Marquise paid no attention to what he said. She seemed uneasy, and moved behind the window-curtain with a nervous gesture and a rising colour in her cheek. “Another complication,” muttered her companion, catching once more the measured boot-tramp on the gravel-walk. “So be it! The more cards dealt, the better chance for the player who can peep at his adversary’s hand!”

Looking into the garden, he perceived the Musketeer’s tall figure moving leisurely along the walk. His pace became slower and slower, and the Marquise, behind the curtain, blushed deeper and deeper as he came directly below the window, peering up at the house with an air of caution, not lost on Malletort’s observation.

“I will force one of them to play a court card,” thought the Abbé, and muttering something about “stifling heat,” pushed the window noisily, as far open as it would go.

The Musketeer looked quickly up, and at the same moment something white and buoyant fluttered lightly to the ground at his very feet.

The Marquise was trembling and blushing behind her window-curtain.

The ruffles at Malletort’s wrist had brushed a cluster of blossoms from the stephanotis, and it fell within six inches of Captain George’s boot.

He picked it up with a murmur of delight. In another moment he would have pressed it to his lips, but the Marquise could keep silence no longer. Shrouding herself in the window-curtain, she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, “Hold! Monsieur, in Heaven’s name! It is poisoned!”

He cast a rapid penetrating glance, up, down, all round. His monitress was invisible, and the Abbé had shrunk back into the room. Then he examined the blossoms minutely, though at arm’s-length, holding them in his gloved hand, and so twirling them carelessly about, as if to avoid observation, went on a few paces, ere he threw them on the walk and crushed them to pieces beneath his heel. For two minutes Madame Montmirail had been hot and cold by turns, giddy, choking—the Abbé, the room, the gardens, swimming before her eyes—now she drew a long breath of relief and turned to her cousin.

“By my faith, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said she, “that soldier down there is a true gentleman!”

And Malletort took his leave, reflecting that in research after general information, his last hour’s work had been by no means thrown away.