Читать книгу Vivienne - Rita - Страница 6

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"She look'd so lovely as she sway'd

The rein with dainty finger tips.

A man had given all other bliss

And all his worldly wealth for this—

To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips." ....Tennyson.

OVER the mosses of the forest path Raoul de Verdreuil rode by the side of the Countess of Renonçeux. Through the leafy boughs stray sunbeams fell across her face, from which all the smiles and mirth had died away, leaving it grave, and anxious, and disturbed. The riding party had fallen into pairs as if by one consent, and none had disputed Raoul's claim as he took his place by Blanche de Verdreuil's side.

For some moments a total silence reigned between them, but the gloom deepened in Raoul's eyes, and the firm, grave lips were compressed as if with some determination—not pleasant, but still unalterable.

One swift glance from Blanche de Verdreuil's eyes read the expression of his whole face in an instant, and her cheek paled slightly as if with some fear she only breathed to her own heart. She knew that of all men she had met in the world, and with whom she had played at love-making in the ordinary course of events, none would have ridden by her side as Raoul did now, neither heeding nor admiring the dazzling beauty whose power she had long deemed invincible; neither lifting his eyes to meet her own, nor seeking to awaken her interest with words and courteous speech.

Blanche de Verdreuil was a thorough coquette, a woman who had studied the weakness, the foibles, the passions of men so well that she could adapt herself to each nature it pleased her to conquer. There was no womanly charm, no feminine grace she could not counterfeit most perfectly. The sweet voice could thrill, and sink to tenderest sympathy. The beautiful eyes could darken with earnest feelings, or sparkle with brightest mirth, or veil themselves beneath their fringing lashes to suit every sentiment and feeling she chose to simulate. She had a passionate belief in, and supreme love for, herself. She loved to think herself invincible; to rouse passions in others she could never feel, but which were the sole gratification her vanity craved, the insignia of her sovereignty—the very crown and sceptre of her kingdom.

But in one instance her arts had been useless because they were arts. Her schemes had been faulty, her beauty valueless; nay more, those schemes had recoiled on her own head, and inasmuch as they had been powerless to win the love for which she longed, had yet taught her the weakness of her own heart, which, waking at last from its selfish slumbers, had thrilled and burned with the reckless, unavailing passion she had so often kindled in the hearts of others.

In the hour that taught her one man's power, Blanche de Verdreuil first learned the full extent of woman's weakness; learnt it too when reckless of consequences, mad with despair, she had forgotten all womanly scruples, all womanly shame, and cast down her heart at the feet of a man who had not spurned, but simply and coldly declined the gift; had scarcely even cared to veil from her eyes the amused scorn, the half-concealed contempt he felt for the reckless self-betrayal, which coming from a woman was, in his eyes, inexcusable.

And so taking her wounded pride, her broken vanity, her aching undisciplined heart back to herself again, Blanche de Verdreuil had vowed that her life should be spent henceforth for one purpose, dedicated to one end—revenge; and fate playing into her hands, as it often does play into the hands of those who give themselves over to evil, sent across her path the father of the very man who had scorned and rejected her. Her decision was soon made. Her victim in this instance brought an old man's adoring faith and passionate belief, and boundless love to this beautiful woman's feet, and became her slave as blindly, as willingly, as she could have wished. All she told him as to herself, her life, her antecedents, he never questioned, never doubted. His first marriage had been of ambition, not of love; and twenty years of a wifeless, solitary life had left his heart still fresh and young despite his years. The love this woman kindled there burnt up like a devouring flame all thoughts of prudence, all demands of rank and honour. His passion blinded him, and its overmastering power swept all doubts and scruples away with swift increasing force. He married her and brought her to his home; that home where all the women had been noble, and pure, and true, where no stain of dishonour rested even amidst reckless passions, and faithful loves, and terrible temptations; brought her there to worship, and adore, and believe in her from that day forward, till the faithful, loyal heart she had won so securely had ceased to beat for life and love; had gone to learn in another world the secret she had guarded so well in this.

"You are very silent this morning, madame," said Raoul de Verdreuil at last, as he glanced at the beautiful face beside him.

"I might say the same of you," answered Blanche with a faint, nervous laugh. "May I ask to what I owe the unusual honour of your escort?"

"I promised my father to look after you," was the reply given coldly and indifferently. "He does not consider Estelle trustworthy."

Blanche de Verdreuil's lips curled somewhat scornfully.

"Any one else could perform that service equally well," she said; "but since I have the unusual pleasure of your company, Monsieur de Verdreuil, permit me to ask if you have altered the determination you expressed on the occasion of your last visit to Renonçeux?"

Raoul's face grew dark with anger at these words.

"I have not altered it. I repeat what I said then; the position you have gained here has been gained by treachery and deceit. For my father's sake I tolerate your presence and respect the secret of your real antecedents; but Renonçeux can no longer be my home while shared by you."

The hot blood dyed Blanche de Verdreuil's face as she listened.

"You still keep your old art of wounding, to perfection," she said passionately. "Ah, monsieur, the world speaks truly when it says you have neither pity nor love, nor even compassion for either man or woman. You have come to Renonçeux for one purpose only—to wound and torture me. I hear it in your words, I read it in your looks; it sounds in the veiled meaning, the cruel satire of every speech I hear from your lips!"

"Don't get excited, pray. You are frightening Estelle," interrupted the cool, tranquil voice of Raoul. "My object in coming to Renonçeux really does not deserve such abuse as you give it. I never war with women; I don't consider they are worth the trouble; but all the same, madame, Blanche Lecroix has no title to her present position, and she knows it; and it is small wonder that I—knowing it also—should scarce feel courteously disposed towards one so unworthy of the name and place of my dead mother."

"Oh, hush!" cried Blanche, her very lips growing white at his words. "For pity's sake forget that name, and all belonging to that time. The past is over and done with, how can it benefit you to rake up its memories again? You tried it once when you appealed to your father to annul our marriage; you know his answer; and I," she added, slowly and softly, "know my power. You had better let it be peace between us, monsieur."

He laughed again: a chill, merciless laugh which made her shiver at the sound.

"Do you really suppose," he said quietly, "that I shall enter into any compact with you? That, knowing what I know, suspecting what I do, I fear to measure weapons with you, or dread your influence, great as it may appear at present? You know very little of me, madame, to imagine such a thing. I am not given to softness or weakness as a rule, but what little I possess can never plead your cause, should it ever be in my power to make you answer for the shame and loathing which has filled my heart ever since I knew who it was my father had chosen as his wife. And now——" he paused a moment as if to curb the anger raging in his heart,—"now even, I might excuse you, did I think you really cherished and valued that wealth of love, that adoring trust, that boundless faith lavished upon you; could I think that any pure or womanly motive had prompted your marriage with my father. But I know it is not so. I know that ambition, vanity, selfishness, perchance motives even worse, alone influenced your choice; and looking at the Future by the light of the Past, I feel my heart ache with forebodings. I know that for once my home and race are in danger of what has never yet darkened the one, or sullied the other—dishonour!"

Blanche de Verdreuil raised her head with proud contempt, and her lip curled with intense scorn.

"I wonder you dare say such words to me," she said, her voice trembling with passion. "Were you so blameless in those days we know of, monsieur? Has the white flower of virtue been so entirely yours, that you should blame a woman for succumbing to such a temptation as your father's love was to me? You know what my life was, you say; is it then so wonderful that I should welcome any change, especially a change that promised to raise me from the degradation, the misery, the despair of such a life? Why should I have raised barriers in the very face of the peace and safety I had craved for so long? Why——"

"Why, in short, should you have been for once honest and unselfish," interrupted Raoul: "two virtues rarely found in women. No, I suppose it was not to be expected of you, madame. Loyalty and courage are not feminine qualities, at least as far as my experience goes; you were only true to the instincts of your sex after all. You thought it no shame to hide the sins and follies of the past behind the safe and sheltering love of a man's great trusting heart, beneath the honour of his name, the social distinction of his rank and wealth; and he—he believes you disinterested in your choice. Truly, the world may well say 'Love is blind;' a surer instance than this was never found of the truth of that proverb."

"How you must hate me!" she cried passionately, as the last of those cold, merciless words fell on her ear. "Oh, Raoul whose fault is it that I made this choice? who——"

"I think you had better not say any more," he interrupted, with a sudden flush upon his dark, grave face, a strange light in his eyes, as they rested on the beautiful, agitated woman before him. "There are some things a man cannot well hear, even from a woman; and you know," he added more gently, "the fault was not mine, say what you will; even if it were, I hold to my old creed; a woman who marries without love, who brings to her husband a heart whose histories are sealed from his knowledge, is a woman not worthy of his love, his home, his confidence."

"What an old-world, impossible creed that is!" laughed Blanche de Verdreuil scoffingly; "look at the society around you, the world you live in, and ask is such a doctrine possible. Does it exist in one marriage you have witnessed? The very social laws of France are against it."

"That may be," was the quiet answer. "I know it sounds absurd and impossible to women, because it would so materially affect their interests. I believe that goes before everything with them, does it not? Hearts are a mere secondary consideration."

"Not always," she said in the same tone; "but if you are going to wait till you find a woman who comes up to the standard you have described, I fear you will never find one worthy the inestimable honour of becoming your wife."

"Very probable, indeed. But yet there are such women in the world. You look incredulous. Well, it is only natural you should; I suppose you cannot understand the type of womanhood from among whom I might seek, yes, and find one capable of a disinterested marriage."

She flushed hotly at the speech. She knew its severity was well merited.

"You are a model of courtesy, I must say. I wonder all women——"

"Don't hate me?" he questioned as she hesitated. "Well, so do I sometimes. But it matters little whether they do or not. Take care, madame!" he cried, as the countess's horse suddenly swerved and reared, "Estelle is getting decidedly impatient of this quiet pace."

"And so am I," exclaimed Blanche de Verdreuil, with a bright, defiant smile. "I want a good stretching gallop to shake off the effects of our conversation."

"You should have had a curb for that mare," continued Raoul, somewhat uneasily. "I don't like her looks at all."

"Chut!" cried Blanche lightly. "There is nothing to fear from her. I am not afraid. There was never a horse yet I feared to mount. Now, monsieur, I shall join the others. Our tête-à-tête has lasted long enough. I don't suppose either of us will regret its termination. You are sure," she continued more earnestly, as she reined in her horse for a moment, despite its impatience, "you are sure it is to be war—not peace? I will never ask it again after to-day, Raoul."

As she spoke his name she looked up at his face with real anxiety shadowing her eyes; but his own never softened, even as they took in the living, exquisite loveliness of this woman he counted as a foe.

"Peace between us," he said bitterly. "Is it possible? Is my memory of the past too faithful when I say I cannot promise it? I will make no compact with—you."

Her face blanched beneath the quiet scorn of his words, but her eyes gleamed with a fierce, unsparing hate under the long, sweeping fringe of their lashes, and her mouth compressed tightly as if to keep back the fury of her unspoken wrath.

"Be it so," she said at length, her voice chill and passionless as his own! "Yours is the decision; yours be also the result. Only remember—I never spare."

Ere he could speak, she raised her whip, and struck the chestnut impatiently with it, forgetful of the warnings she had received. The animal started, reared, then dashed suddenly forward; the rider was unprepared for the sudden demand upon her nerve and coolness, and in another instant Estelle was tearing along the narrow road with the bit between her teeth, totally unmanageable.