Читать книгу Bijou - Gyp - Страница 4
II.
ОглавлениеIn the evening as they were driving through Pont-sur-Loire on their way back to Bracieux, M. de Rueille said to Denyse:
"There is no mistake about it, Bijou, my dear with you there is no chance of passing by unnoticed. Oh, dear, no!"
She glanced at the foot-passengers, who were turning round to look at her with intense curiosity, and answered:
"It's my pink dress that—"
"No, it is not your dress, it is you yourself."
Her large violet eyes grew larger with astonishment as she asked:
"I, myself? But why?"
"Oh, Bijou, my dear, it is not at all nice of you to act like that with your poor old cousin."
"You think I am acting?" she exclaimed, looking more and more astounded.
"Well, it appears like it to me; it is impossible for you not to know how pretty you are. In the first place, you have eyes, and then you are told often enough for—"
"I am told?—by whom?"
"By everyone. Why, even I, although I am nearly your uncle and a settled-down respectable sort of man."
"'Nearly my uncle.' No—considering that Bertrade is my first cousin; and, as to the rest—" She stopped abruptly, and then finished with a laugh. "You flatter yourself!"
"Alas, no! I shall soon be forty-two."
She looked at him in surprise.
"Oh, well! you don't look it."
"Thank you! There now! Do you see how all the natives are gazing at you? I can assure you, Bijou, that when I come to do any shopping alone, they do not watch me so eagerly."
"I tell you it is this pink dress that astonishes them."
"But why should they be astonished? They are accustomed to that, because you often come to Pont-sur-Loire, and you always wear pink."
Ever since she had left off her mourning for her parents, who had died four years ago, Denyse had adopted pink as her only colour for all her dresses. The reason was, she said, because her grandmother preferred seeing her dressed thus. Anyhow, this pink, a very pale, soft shade, like that of the petals of a rose just as it begins to fall, suited her to perfection, as it was almost exactly the same delicate colour as her skin.
She always wore it, and when the weather was cold or gloomy she would put on a long, gathered cloak, which covered her entirely, and on taking this dark wrap off, she would come out, looking as fresh and sweet as a flower, and seem to brighten up everything around her.
Her dresses were always of batiste, muslin, or some soft woollen material, comparatively inexpensive. The greatest luxury to which she treated herself now and again was a taffetas or surah silk. And then, nothing could be more simple than the way these dresses were made—always the same little gathered blouses and straight skirts, and never any trimming whatever, except, perhaps, in the winter, a narrow edging of fur.
"Yes, that's quite true," she said thoughtfully, "I am always in pink. You don't like that?"
"Not like it? I—good heavens!—why, I think it is perfectly charming! I tell you, Bijou, that if I were not an old man, I should make love to you all the time!"
"You are not an old man!"
"Very many thanks! If, however, you do not look upon me as quite an old man—which, by the bye, is certainly debatable—I am at any rate a married man."
"Yes, that's true, and so much the better for you, for there is nothing more stupid and tiresome than men who are always making love."
"Well, then, you must know a terrible number of people who are stupid and tiresome."
"Why?"
"Because everyone makes love to you—more or less!"
"Not at all! Why, just think! I was brought up in the most isolated way, like a veritable savage. When papa and mamma were living, they were always ill, and I was shut up with them, and never saw anyone. It is scarcely four years since I came to live with grandmamma, where I do see people."
"Oh, yes; plenty of them, and no mistake!"
"You speak as though that annoyed you?"
She glanced sideways at Rueille, her eyes shining beneath her drooping eyelids, whilst he replied, with a touch of irritation in his voice in spite of himself:
"Annoyed me, but why should it? Are your affairs any business of mine; have I any voice in the matter of anything that concerns you?"
"Which means that if you had a voice in the matter—?"
"Ah, there would certainly be many changes, and many reforms that I should make."
"For instance?"
"Well, I should not allow you, if I were in your grandmamma's place, to be quite as affable and as ready to welcome everyone; I should want to keep you rather more for myself, and prevent your letting strangers have so much of you."
"Yes," she said, with a pensive expression, "perhaps you are right."
"And all the more so because we shall have you to ourselves for so short a time now."
The large candid eyes, with their sweet expression, were fixed on Paul de Rueille as he continued:
"You will be marrying soon? You will be leaving us?"
Bijou laughed. "How you arrange things. There is no question, as far as I know, of my marriage."
"There is nothing definite—no; at least, I do not think so. But, practically, it is the one subject in question, and grandmamma thinks of nothing else."
"Oh, well, I am not like her then, for I scarcely ever give it a thought." And then she added, turning grave all at once: "Besides, my marriage is very problematical."
"Problematical?"
"Why, yes—in the first place, I should want the man who marries me to love me."
"Oh, well, you can be easy on that score; you will have no difficulty about that."
Her fresh young voice took an almost solemn tone as she continued:
"And then I should want to love him, too."
"Oh, so you will. One always does love one's husband—to begin with," said Rueille carelessly; and then he stopped short, thinking that the words "to begin with" were unnecessary.
Bijou had not understood, however, nor even heard, for she asked:
"What did you say?"
"I said that he will be very happy."
"Who will be happy?"
"The man you love!"
"I hope so. I shall do all I can for that!"
M. de Rueille seemed to be annoyed and irritated. He said, in a disagreeable way, as though he wanted to discourage Denyse in her dreams of the future:
"Yes, but supposing you do not happen to meet with him?"
"Well, then, I shall die an old maid, that's all! But I do not see why I should not meet with him. I do not ask for anything impossible, after all!"
In a mocking tone, and a trifle aggressive, he, asked:
"Would it be very indiscreet to ask you what you expect?"
"Oh, not indiscreet in the slightest degree, for I can only answer just as I have already answered, I should simply want to love him! I do not care at all about money; I neither understand money nor worship it!" She turned towards her cousin, and said, in conclusion, as she looked up into his face: "Now, I'll tell you, I would agree to a marriage like Bertrade's."
"With another husband," he stammered out.
Very simply and naturally, and without the slightest embarrassment, she said, laughing:
"Oh, dear no! No, I think the husband is quite nice."
M. de Rueille did not answer. He could not help feeling some emotion, in spite of himself, at this idea that Bijou might have cared for him. It seemed to him that the evening air was delicious, and never had the setting sun, which was sinking slowly like a ball of flame into the Loire, appeared more brilliant to him. The little gig was so narrow, that, with every oscillation, his elbow touched the young girl's arm, whilst her soft fair hair, escaping from her large straw hat, kept brushing against his cheek, which began to burn.
Bijou noticed his absent-mindedness.
"It seems to me," she said, laughing, "that you are not listening much to the description of my ideal."
"Oh, yes!"
"Oh, no!—by the bye, have we done all the errands?"
She took out of her pocket a long list, which she began to read:
"Ice. Cakes. Fruit. Fish. The Dubuissons. Speak to the butcher. Pink gauze. Mère Rafut. Hat. Pierrot's books. Henry's cartridges (16)."
"What's that?" asked M. de Rueille, who was looking at the list. "Henry has commissioned you to get his cartridges instead of telling me to get them?"
"Yes; the time before last when he asked you, you forgot them; and last time you brought him number twelve cartridges, and his are number sixteen; therefore, he preferred—"
"Ah! I can understand that; but they do take advantage of you—and the children too have taken advantage. 'Balloon for Marcel, pencils for Robert;' Fred is the only one who has not given you any commissions. You need not despair though, he is only three years old; he will begin next year."
"He did not give me any commissions, but I have brought him a picture book—'Puss in Boots.' He adores cats, so that will amuse him."
"How delicious you are!"
"Delicious! Is that saying enough? Could you not find something rather more eulogistic? Let us see—try now!"
She was still glancing down the list; and Paul de Rueille pointed with the handle of his whip to a line written in pencil:
"What's that?—'Tell grandmamma about La Norinière!'"
"Why, I met the Juzencourts, and they said I was to be sure to tell grandmamma that 'The Norinière' is to be inhabited."
"Ah, Clagny has sold it?"
"No; he is coming back to it. It appears that he is coming every summer."
"Ah, so much the better. Grandmamma will be very glad of that."
"Yes, she likes him very much. I do not know him, this M. de Clagny, but I have often heard about him."
"Don't you remember seeing him a long time ago?"
"Why, no!"
"Well, he was your godfather, anyhow!"
"You are dreaming! Uncle Alexis is my godfather."
"Your Uncle Jonzac is the godfather of Denyse, but it was M. de Clagny who was the godfather of Bijou. Yes, he said once, speaking of you when you were very little, the Bijou—and the name suited you so well that you have had it ever since."
"Don't you think it is rather ridiculous to call me Bijou now that I am old?"
"You look as though you were fourteen, and you always will look like that, I promise you."
"Isn't it rather risky to promise me that?"
She laughed as she glanced at him, and he, too, looked at her as though he could not take his eyes away from the pretty, fresh young face turned towards him. He was paying no attention to the road, which was in a very bad state, until suddenly the right wheel went into a rut, and the gig gave a jerk, which sent Denyse on to him. She clung to his arm with all her might, and they remained an instant like this until they were able to regain their balance. The wheel, then, in some way or another, got clear of the deep rut in which it had been caught, and the horse went on again at a quick pace as before.
"That's right!" said Bijou, laughing heartily. "I certainly thought we should be upset."
"It was as near a shave as possible," he answered gravely.
She loosened the grasp of her small fingers, which had been pressed tightly on her cousin's shoulder.
"Is it really over?" she asked. "You are not going to begin again, I hope?"
M. de Rueille did not answer. He was looking at her with an absent-minded, troubled expression in his eyes.
"Yes; but, instead of looking at me, do look before you," she went on. "We shall get into another rut directly, you'll see."
"Oh, no! oh, no!" he murmured, as though he were in some dream.
"I'm sure we shall be late for dinner," said Bijou; "and you know grandmamma does not altogether like that."
Rueille touched the pony's back with the whip, and the animal, springing forward, jerked the little carriage violently, and then started off at a mad pace.
This time Bijou looked stupefied.
"What's that for?" she asked. "Whatever is the matter with you to-day? Just now you almost upset us, and now you touch Colonel with the whip, and you ought not to let him even guess that you have one; you have made him take fright," and then, seeing that the horse was calming down, she added, "or nearly so; you are not yourself at all."
"No," he answered mechanically, "I am not myself."
At the pony's first plunge Denyse had taken M. de Rueille's arm again. It was not that she was in the least afraid, but she was perched on a seat which was too high for her, so that she could not keep her balance, and, consequently, she tried to hold on to something firm. Without loosing the arm on to which she was hanging, she leant towards her cousin, and asked, with evident interest:
"Not yourself? What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"Ill? No! at least, not exactly."
"What do you mean by not exactly? Oh, but you must not be ill. We have to work at our play this evening, and if you do not set about it, all of you, and in earnest, why, it will never be finished for the race-ball."
"I don't care a hang about the play, and—I—if I were you—"
He stopped abruptly, evidently embarrassed.
"Well?" asked Bijou, "what is it? You were going to say something."
"Yes," he stammered out, scarcely knowing how to put what he wanted to say. "I was going to remark that the design Jean has made for your—for Hebe's dress—"
"Well?"
"Well, it isn't the thing at all; there is too little of it."
"Too little of it? Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense. I say it is not the thing for a woman, and especially a young girl like you, to appear like that."
Bijou looked at Paul de Rueille with a bewildered expression on her face, and then burst out laughing.
"Oh, you are queer; you look exactly like a jealous husband."
"Jealous!" he stammered out, vexed and ill at ease. "It isn't for me to be jealous, but I—"
"No, certainly, but all the same, without being jealous, you men do not like a woman to look pretty, or to be nice, or amusing, for anyone else's benefit than just your own."
"Well, admitting that that is so, it is quite natural."
"Ah! you think so? Oh, well, a woman, on the contrary, is always glad when the men she likes are admired; she is delighted when other people like them too."
"Nonsense! You do not know anything about it, my dear Bijou. You are most deliciously inexperienced in such things fortunately."
"Why fortunately?" she asked, opening her soft, innocent eyes wide in astonishment.
"Because—"
He stopped short, and Bijou insisted, pinching his arm.
"Well, go on—do go on."
"No, it would be too complicated," he answered, evidently ill at ease, and trying to shake off the grasp of the strong little hand.
"Too complicated!" repeated Bijou, turning red. "I detest being put off like that. Why will you not explain what you were thinking?"
"Explain what I was thinking," he said, in a sort of fright. "Oh, no!"
"No? Well, it is not nice of you."
They went on for a minute or two without speaking, Bijou calm and smiling, and her companion with a serious, uneasy look on his face.
Just as the gig was entering the avenue, Bijou turned towards M. de Rueille, and touching him, this time very gently, with her little hand, she said in a penetrating voice, which, in his agitated state of mind, was the last straw:
"As it vexes you so much I won't wear that costume. We will get Jean to design another for me."
He seized the hand that was resting on his arm and pressed it to his lips with an almost brutal tenderness.
Bijou did not appear to like this passionate display of feeling. She drew her hand away quietly, but there was a strange gleam in her eyes as she said:
"Take care of the gate, it is a sharp turn remember, and you are not in luck to-day."
She then began to collect her parcels calmly, and until they arrived at the door of the château she was silent and thoughtful. The first dinner-bell was just ringing, and Bijou ran upstairs to her room, and ten minutes later entered the drawing-room, arrayed in a dainty dress of rose-leaf coloured chiffon, with a large bunch of roses on the shoulder.
"Why! you don't mean to say that you are here already!" exclaimed Madame de Rueille admiringly. "I will wager anything that that slow coach of a Paul is not ready."
"Did you do all the commissions?" asked the marchioness.
"Yes, grandmamma, and I have a special one for you. The Juzencourts wished me to tell you that M. de Clagny is coming back to live at The Norinière, and that he will come every year."
"Oh!" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, looking very delighted, "I am glad to hear that. I never expected to see him come back here."
"Why?" asked Bijou.
"Well, because when he was here he had a great grief, just at an age when painful impressions can never be effaced."
"At what age is that?" asked Jean de Blaye, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
"Forty-eight. And when you are that age, you will not be as fond of ridiculing everything as you are now, my dear boy; and it won't be so long before you get there as you think either."
"So much the better," he answered, smiling; "that must be the ideal age—the age when one's heart is at rest."
"In some cases it is at rest before that age," said the marchioness slily, looking at her nephew.
Jean shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, but it wakes up again, or, at least, it might wake up; one is not quite easy about it; but at forty-eight … "
"Ah! that's your opinion. Well, it is twelve years ago now since my old friend Clagny was forty-eight. He must therefore be sixty at present, and I would wager anything that his heart has never been at rest—never. You understand me?" And then in a lower tone, so that Bijou, who was just talking to Bertrade, should not hear, she added: "Neither his heart nor he himself."
Jean laughed.
"Oh, well! he's a curiosity this friend of yours. Why does he not go about in a show? He would get some money."
"He has no need of money."
"He is rich, then?"
"Atrociously rich!"
"Well, but what's he got?"
"Sixteen thousand a year. Don't you consider that a fair amount?"
"Yes," he answered, without any sign of enthusiasm, "yes, of course, that's very fair—for anyone who has not got it dishonestly." And then, after a pause, he asked: "What was this great trouble that he had?"
"Oh, I'll tell you about it when Bijou is not here."
The young girl, however, could scarcely have heard what they were saying. She was joking with Pierrot, who had just come into the room. She wanted to part his hair again, and Pierrot, a tall youth of seventeen, strong-looking, but overgrown, with long feet and hands, and a forehead covered with extraordinary bumps, was trying to make himself short, so that the young girl might reach up to his bushy, colourless hair. He was bending his head, and looking straight before him, with a far-away expression in his eyes, evidently enjoying having his hair stroked by the skilful little hands.
Madame de Bracieux, seeing that Bijou was at a safe distance, ventured in a low voice to tell her nephew the details about the love-affair, which had in a way changed the whole life of her friend, M. de Clagny.
Suddenly Denyse came across to the marchioness.
"Grandmamma—I forgot—the Dubuissons cannot come to dinner on Thursday, but M. Dubuisson will bring Jeanne on Friday, and leave her with us for a week."
"Well, then, we shall only be eighteen to dinner."
"No, we shall be twenty all the same; because I saw the Tourvilles, and I gave them an invitation from you; I thought that—"
"You did quite right."
"Oh!" exclaimed Bertrade, "the Tourvilles and the Juzencourts at the same time! We shall be sure, then, of hearing their stories of William the Conqueror and Charles the Bold!"
"Oh, well!" exclaimed Bijou, laughing, "it will be much better like that, we shall have it altogether, once for all, at any rate."
Just as dinner was announced, M. de Rueille entered the room. He had an absent-minded look, and his eyes shone strangely. He took his seat silently at table, and did not talk during the meal.
