Читать книгу Ride With Me - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 11

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Gabrielle de Salle knew that Frank Ellery had fallen in love with her. She had seen the symptoms so often that it was easy to recognize them. She had already begun to think of him as “my Englishman.”

She emerged from behind the screens with an apron of a cheerful new material called gingham around her waist and a cap to protect her hair. Margot had finished the ice cream and had placed the bowl on the sill of an open window. Two busy pairs of hands started immediately to work on the all-important ragout. Antoine came through the back door with an armful of silver plate which had been burnished with soldierly thoroughness. His entrance allowed a glimpse of the interior of a low outbuilding which served many purposes—woodshed, drying room, storehouse, and bedroom for Antoine himself and his small son.

“We can’t upset the order of the seating,” said Gabrielle with a worried frown. “Jules would never recover from it, I’m sure, if we made the smallest change in the arrangements. So. Let me think how it can be done.” She pursed up her lips and frowned again. “I’m afraid it will be necessary to place my Englishman between the Abbé Force and the old tartar.”

“Mme. de Gaseau?”

“None other. Yes, that’s how it must be done. It won’t be at all pleasant for my Englishman, but the Abbé will be glad to sit that much further away from her heavy breathing for once. And I must remember to warn Antoine that none of the special dishes are to be placed within his reach. He would celebrate his release from la Gaseau by gobbling everything.”

“Is he yours already, Gabrielle?”

“I held on to his coattails for half an hour. And it’s possible I tugged at them a little more than was strictly necessary. I think he’s rather nice, Margot.”

The son of the family returned soon thereafter, for the rumble of a deep masculine voice and the tread of a heavy foot could be heard in the front of the apartment. Sosthène de Salle did not take long to dress, appearing very soon in the kitchen door; a huge figure with sloping shoulders which appeared a little ridiculous in conjunction with the extreme thickness of his trunk and legs. He was many years older than Gabrielle, being the son of a first marriage. The length of his waistcoat, which reached almost to his knees, marked him as a reactionary. He looked, in fact, dull, as well as sluggish physically, and this was completely misleading; for the mind behind his sulky features was sharp and observing.

“A good dinner tonight, I hope,” he said.

“The dinner will be of the best,” declared Margot. “You will enjoy it, I’m sure, Sossy.”

“But with not too great an appetite!” warned his sister. “You’ll content yourself with one helping of everything tonight, my greedy one. And Antoine will see to it that we of the family are served light.”

“Were you lucky today?” asked Margot.

The heavy young man shook his head morosely. “It was a cocking main. I’m an indifferent judge of the birds. Tonight I’ve an appointment to play piquet with a fellow who fancies himself a tercel at the cards. It will be different, I promise you, my small Margot. I’m unbeatable at piquet.” He turned to Gabrielle. “I shall eat as much as I please tonight.”

When the last of the tasks had been completed, Gabrielle ran behind the screen to dress. The apron flew in one direction, the cap in another, both being promptly retrieved and hung on the line by the assiduous Margot. One expert wriggle and Gabrielle was out of the dress, which fell in a billowing mass to the floor, revealing that she wore no more in the way of undergarments than a wisp of chemise, a pair of stockings, and the usual pantalets. The latter, in the style of the moment, were a sham, extending only from instep to knee, where they were bound by black velvet garters.

Gabrielle looked down at the lacy network with a shake of the head. “I’m very much afraid, Margot, that the bottoms are soiled. I wouldn’t wear the silly things, but they’re the twig now, and so Mme. Lebery insists on them when I’m acting as a demoiselle d’magasin. How many have you ironed for me this week?”

“This will make the ninth time.”

Gabrielle shook her head again. “It’s too bad, my dear child. But what can we do? The sad part of it is that we put them on to interest the men, and then we wear such long skirts that the poor creatures never get as much as a glimpse.

“I’ll wear my calecons tonight,” she added, stripping off the stockings and replacing them with a pair which reached to the hips. “They’re so much warmer and more comfortable. Mme. Lebery says we should wear them even if they are so much criticized. Isn’t it absurd to call them opera drawers because actresses have been known to give small glimpses of them on the stage? I’m sure it’s quite proper for a lady to wear them, because she, goodness knows, never shows as much as an inch of them at the ankle.”

“You have such a lovely figure!” exclaimed the younger cousin, looking enviously at the slim and shapely legs so fully displayed. “Do you suppose, Gabrielle, I’ll ever look at all like you?”

An enormous skirt of waxed calico was now laced to the waist, Margot lending her aid in the operation. It had no hoops, for the staid English court had ruled them out, and the French visitors were reluctantly in the position of having to conform to foreign dictates. It was stiffened with long strips of whalebone, however, and so stood out enough to sway gracefully with every move. Over this a second skirt was then draped, a flutter of tulle with a furbelow of old lace.

A third skirt was added. It also was of tulle and was draped over the second to show a V in front. It had a few silver spangles and a touch of silver in each tuck. Margot held up a square mirror, and her cousin pirouetted in front of it, striving to catch glimpses of herself in it. “It’s still not bad at all,” she sighed, “even if it is two years old. Do you know, Margot, that neither of our mothers ever wore a gown more than three times? How wonderful it must have been!”

The servant bustled in through the back door, saying in a hearty voice, “It’s just old Antoine.” As he passed by the screens he added: “Ah, the white one, Mam’selle Gabrielle!”

Margot looked after him with a suspicious air. “I wonder if he’s been at the wine! I must find a new place to hide it. I’ve thought of keeping it under the coals, but it would be so hard to get at if I did.”

The full company had assembled when Frank arrived at six sharp. He had taken great pains with his toilet for perhaps the first time in his life. His frilled silk shirt, projecting through a low-cut lavender waistcoat, was impeccable, and his long-tailed black coat was tailored so perfectly that not a single wrinkle showed. The buckles on his shoes and the knee buttons on his satin breeches were of silver; and, despite the flattening of his one kneecap, he filled his white stockings creditably enough.

Antoine, stationed at the door, announced him in a pompous voice, and he made his way to where his host was seated in front of the fireplace. The Comte de Salle extended a shaking hand and said: “I am happy to welcome you, M’sieur Ellery. This is my son.” The bulky figure of the heir of the house, looming gloomily over the chair, bowed almost imperceptibly. Other introductions followed, but Frank found it impossible to distinguish any of the names. He saw Gabrielle at the far end of the room, where the long table was set for dinner, talking with animation to a group of middle-aged ladies, all of whom were generously loaded down with paint and jewelry. Her shoulders were white and slender above the precarious line of her gown.

The room was lighted now by dozens of candles and seemed, to the young Englishman, like a glimpse of Versailles. The silver and the old glass on the table shone brilliantly, and the articles behind the glass doors of the cabinets had acquired an added air of rarity. The company was very gay, and a buzz of talk and laughter filled the room. Antoine, his duties on the door at an end, had vanished. A glance at the rear of the apartment, where the servant had gone, would have puzzled Frank much more than the other guests. They had become inured to such contrasts by years of exile.

At table he found himself seated between the most grotesquely bedizened of the middle-aged ladies and a mountainous churchman with beady black eyes like currants in a suet pudding of a face. The conversation flowed along without a break, serving to cover the slowness of the service, which Antoine was managing alone. The churchman said to him in a rumbling voice: “I am the Abbé Force. And you, m’sieur, are a newspaper publisher, I understand. Do you happen to know the devious scoundrels who put out these newspapers in French for the use, if not the delectation, of the French residents of London?”

“No, M’sieur l’Abbé. It seems to me there’s a suggestion of blackmail in their operation.”

“Rather more than a suggestion.” The Abbé was spooning up his soup gustily. “They are filled with the most idle and troublesome of gossip as well. This is excellent soup but, I fear, there will be no second portions.”

Frank lowered his voice. “I noticed that some of the guests placed what seemed to me to be coins in a silver dish on a console in one of the front windows. Should I—is there something I’ve overlooked?”

“It’s the custom here,” grumbled the churchman. “I am exempt from it but, with the rest, it is expected. Each leaves a small fee. Two shillings, three, as much as he feels free to give, in fact. It’s the rule at a few other houses.”

“Would I be considered presumptuous if I followed the custom?”

The Abbé did not answer for a moment. His gloomy prognostication about the soup had been borne out; there had been no suggestion of second helpings. He plunged a fork into the slice of fish which had been placed in front of him. “Ah, sole!” he said. “And quite excellent! We are going to fare better than I had expected tonight. Yes, M’sieur Publisher, obey the custom of the house by all means. I think our worthy host would be disappointed if you allowed any scruples of modesty to check your generosity.”

The Abbé devoted himself to the food for some time, then, demolishing the better part of a plate of macaroni tartlets which had been placed within his reach in spite of Gabrielle’s warning. He would take one, crush in the crusty sides with his fingers, pop it into his mouth, and it was gone with one crunch of the jaws. Finding himself free, therefore, Frank took advantage of the chance to watch Gabrielle. Everything about her delighted him: the close curl of her brown hair, the fact that her nose, although slightly aquiline, still managed to be a little impudent, that her eyes were not black, as he had thought, but a warm brown. She was talking to Jules and managing to bring an occasional smile to the cold features of that convinced olympian. Frank was finding it an easy matter to dislike M. de Vitrelle.

“M’sieur Publisher, do you know Gosfield?” asked the Abbé suddenly.

“I know it only as the present residence of your King.”

“There’s a difficulty about his presence there. It’s too far from London, too far to make consultation possible with his subjects here. A new place of residence must be found for His Majesty, but we cannot discover any way of meeting him to discuss the situation. Obviously we cannot go to Gosfield in sufficient numbers for the purpose. It is equally clear that His Majesty can’t come to London.”

“Why not, if I may ask?”

“The expense. The King would have to make a proper entry. In addition he would have to pay a number of calls, to show himself in state, to distribute certain gifts. It would be ruinous, quite beyond his present purse, in fact.”

“But the British Government allows him an income of six thousand pounds a year. Surely that would make a single visit possible.”

The Abbé shook his head. “He has nearly one hundred people with him. They receive no set stipends, naturally, but they must be fed and clothed and provided with a little money for personal expenses. His Majesty finds it a difficult matter to stretch his budget to cover such costs.”

The churchman’s gravity made it clear that the problem was one of first importance to the members of the London colony. Frank suggested, suppressing a smile, that the solution would seem to be for the two parties to meet each other halfway. The King, he pointed out, might bring his court to some place not too far from London so that his subjects could go out to meet him without encountering any great difficulty.

“An excellent idea,” concurred the Abbé. “Has M’sieur any such place in mind? It would require to be of a considerable size.”

An idea suddenly flashed into Frank’s mind; he was becoming prolific of plans to provide further opportunities for seeing Gabrielle. “I’ve a country home which might serve,” he said, forgetting the transaction of the afternoon. “It’s not far from Windsor and, therefore, easy enough of access from London. I would be very glad to loan it for the purpose.”

The Abbé suspended a motion of his arm in the direction of the sole remaining macaroni tartlet. He turned around in his chair and regarded his companion with the first show of real interest.

“Indeed, m’sieur! This is most interesting. I would like to hear something about this estate of yours. I must point out that it would have to meet certain pressing requirements.”

“Perhaps you will enumerate them, then.”

“With pleasure. First, as to size. His Majesty would bring as many as thirty with him.” He began to check over lists. “The two Ducs, the Archbishop of Rheims, D’Avaray, all the gentlemen of his immediate household, at least two confessors, a handful of valets and officiers du gobelet, the faithful Turgy perhaps. Her Majesty would not be likely to come, being in the very worst of health. The Duchesse d’Angoulême would accompany him, naturally. A few ladies of the household. Yes, there would be thirty.”

“Caster Towers could not provide for the fifes and drums of the Hundred Swiss,” explained Frank with a smile, “but there would be reasonable accommodation for as many as sixty people.”

The Abbé’s broad face showed signs of something approaching excitement. “In that case it might serve. It might indeed. We would have to choose our delegation with great care to keep it down to thirty. They would all want to go. Could we include any ladies under the circumstances?” The churchman was talking as though to himself. “Well, a few perhaps. His Majesty likes young faces about him whenever possible, and I am sure the Duc de Berri would consider it almost in the nature of an affront if our pretty Gabrielle were not of the party.” Frank sighed with relief. “I must ask for more details, m’sieur. Your dining room is large enough for the Grand Couvert? His Majesty would feel it incumbent on him to dine alone in view of the full court at least once.”

“If my memory serves me right, it’s one hundred feet long and fifty wide. There’s a gallery at one end.”

“Excellent! And the state bedroom—does it contain a bed large enough to provide His Majesty with full comfort? He is—well, quite stout, as you doubtless know. A matter of two hundred and sixty pounds.” The Abbé smiled. “At least, m’sieur, he has never acknowledged that he exceeds that weight. The bed must be low because he objects to climbing.”

“I’m sure the bed is large enough. And it’s quite low.”

“And now about the—is it the dunagan that you call it?”

Frank smiled. “It’s known as that sometimes. The nearest one is located under the stairs a short distance down the corridor.”

“That is most important, m’sieur. It must be close and yet not too close.” The Abbé shook his head apologetically. “I’m sure you will pardon me, m’sieur, for asking so many questions when I have explained that, in matters of the court, one cannot be too careful. Every detail must be thought of and every possibility provided for. There are so many people to be pleased that every small move becomes a point for prayerful consideration. But we are progressing, m’sieur. Now we come to the kitchens. They are large, no doubt, and amply equipped for so many discriminating guests? The ladies and gentlemen of the court, although they have had to subsist often on the plainest and the scantiest of fare, are gourmets. No, I should go further. They are quarrelsome gourmets. A sauce which contains a single lump, the wrong wine selected for any one course! M’sieur, the storm that can be raised! His Majesty is not as hard to please as some of the people around him. He has a great liking for boned mutton cutlets. Give him a dish of truffles, cooked au champagne, and he is happy; although it must be served piping hot. With His Majesty, the worry would come in the matter of the wines. None of those we have been served tonight would do at all. A single glass of the lightest chambertin and a sup of the heaviest burgundy; after that he must have the rarest only. Have you cypress, pacaret, malaga, tokay?”

“There is a supply of malaga and tokay in the cellars. The others, no.”

“Still, it is something. Perhaps Bastange could be sent down in advance with some bottles of the rest, enough for His Majesty. Your cellars, m’sieur, could be made to serve for the ladies and gentlemen of the court.”

Frank felt reasonably sure that Caradoc would fall in with the plan. Entertaining the exiled King of France would attract a great deal of attention, the kind of interest that might prove useful to a rising politician of the conservative stripe. Clearly it was going to prove expensive, but that did not worry him. It would provide opportunities of the most golden kind. He leaned back in his chair, paying little attention to the other details which the Abbé brought up. He saw himself escorting Gabrielle through the long gallery (after getting rid of the attentive Jules), taking her to see the unique beauties of the yew walk, even perhaps stealing away with her for an excursion to Willars Bend.

Sosthène de Salle had been regarding Frank from across the table with sullen disapproval, caused no doubt by such Jacobinic experiments as the bringing of newspaper fellows into the homes of gentlemen. The Abbé Force, laying aside the proposal for discussion later with those on whose shoulders rested the making of all such momentous decisions, proceeded to regale the Englishman with whispered comments on the unfriendly Sosthène.

“If the Comte should die,” he asserted, “that great mountain of selfishness would return to France at once and make his peace with the usurper. We’re all sure of it. He thinks of nothing but himself, that Sossy. Sometimes I’m glad that his luck has not held. Would you believe, m’sieur, that for years he made as much as thirty thousand francs a year at the gaming tables? The family lived well in those days; they had no financial worries as the rest of us did. But of recent years it has been different. They’re glad of the shillings and the occasional half crowns which are left in the dish.”

The company began to diminish as soon as dinner was over. Sosthène vanished immediately, on the trail, no doubt, of the tercel fellow who was prepared to back his skill at piquet. Frank saw some of the older people shake hands with their host and then retrieve their wraps from the chairs near the entrance where they had been deposited on entering. He gravitated to the window embrasure where the console stood and added a guinea to the pile of coins; having decided, after much earnest thought, that this represented the limit of generosity without verging on ostentation. He then approached the Comte, whose ear in the meantime had been appropriated by the Abbé Force.

“From what the Abbé is telling me,” said the old man, who was looking the better for his dinner and the wine which he had imbibed rather generously, “your visit with us, m’sieur, has borne excellent fruit. The plan appears to me an excellent one.”

“I’m sure we will be in a position very soon to discuss it with you more definitely,” declared the churchman, nodding his great bare dome of a head.

Gabrielle was engaged at the far end of the room but, as Frank donned his greatcoat and gave the customary whisk of a sleeve to the crown of his tall beaver hat, she left the group she was with and joined him at the door.

“You’re leaving early, m’sieur,” she said reproachfully. “Has the company been so dull, then?”

“I publish a morning newspaper, mademoiselle, and my evenings are always devoted to it.”

“I’m very sorry. It was pleasant to have you with us, although this is the first chance we’ve had to talk. Would you believe it, m’sieur, that we’ve entertained this same company at least a dozen times? Always the same faces, and some of them so—well, so uninspiring. Always the same order at table; a change would precipitate a terrible crisis! Always the same things talked about! I found it a real pleasure to glance down the table and see a new face for once.”

“You didn’t glance down the table as often as I would have liked. As for the rest of your guests, I thought they were all quite pleasant.”

“Well, I can’t agree about some of them. Oh, I’m not criticizing them. They have admirable qualities, m’sieur. Would you believe it that almost all of them here tonight have found it necessary to engage in some employment? There were”—she began to count—“two governesses, a teacher of music, two of languages, one fencing master. And, yes, m’sieur, one cook!”

“A cook! Which one was that?”

“The lady on your left. Mme. de Gaseau. We didn’t put her there because of that, m’sieur! She was seated as usual. She’s employed in one of the fashionable inns and can get away one evening only during the week.”

“I remember now that she spoke to me once only, and it had something to do with the sauce on the ragout.”

Gabrielle looked up at him with her eloquent dark eyes. “I’ve heard something of what you’ve suggested to the good Abbé. It’s most extraordinarily kind of you. I’m so excited about it. I’ve never seen His Majesty, and so I must be one of those to go. I’m already doing what I can to make sure of it.”

“It would be an honor and a pleasure to see you at the Towers. In fact, that was my sole reason for making the invitation.”

“M’sieur! How very flattering.”

“If you are not on the list, mademoiselle, I’ll contrive to have a fire or to arrange a convenient outbreak of smallpox among the help. You might drop a hint of that if the need arises.”

Her fan brushed his sleeve lightly. “I’ve already told you how flattered I am. But must you go to such elaborate pretexts? If you want to see me, you can always pay us a call.”

Frank’s head was in a whirl. “I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to come again.”

“I’ll be much offended if you don’t. And soon.” She smiled up at him. “Good evening, M’sieur Ellery.”