Читать книгу The Maid of Honour - Wingfield Lewis - Страница 9

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The eccentric schemer was true to his word, as grateful Phebus acknowledged with eyes more watery than usual. What a blessed thing it was to have so accommodating a brother as Pharamond! The chevalier grew hot and cold as he considered the chance that was about to be thrown in his way, a golden chance--and between whimsical little prayers for success, he gazed furtively now and then at the other brother, whose honour he was so ready to smirch.

The prodigies having been sent to bed, and the evening meal being leisurely discussed, the abbé became inquisitive anent the latest intelligence from Spa. Was it true that the genius of the prophet had achieved yet greater marvels? What were these rumours as to a further magnetic development, accompanied by fresh triumphs? Clovis snapped eagerly at the bait, and proceeded to explain that something amazing had indeed been discovered such as should transform the world of science. Persons afflicted with ailments were in future to be ranged around a series of large buckets or tubs containing a mixture of broken glass, iron shavings, and cold water. How simple a treatment, and yet how efficacious! Talk of ancient miracles! No wonder that all the doctors were mad with spite, as well as all the apothecaries, and that they should thirst for the blood of him who had exposed their disgraceful cheating!

"Most amazing! Most wonderful!" echoed the abbé, leaning back in his chair. "The wicked spirits conquered, and those who were afflicted through their malice being cured by means of the tub, what was there left of the curse bequeathed by Adam? If somebody would only go a step or two further and discover the elixir of life, and a method of making gold, the world would be quite a pleasant place to live in, and he for one would positively decline to leave it."

Gabrielle listened, mystified, glancing from one to another of the trio. Clovis was quite animated. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were flushed, and his tongue loosened. What power was this of the abbé's, which could melt an icicle, bring a corpse to life? She was awed and uneasy.

Was Pharamond making fun of Clovis--fooling him to the top of his bent--in mischief? Surely not, for did he not owe to his brother's kindness a secure asylum, a refuge in an awkward strait, and pocket money also? For Gabrielle, in her kindness of heart, had guessed that the fugitives were out at elbows, and had quietly handed two neatly enveloped packets to her husband, with a request that he would pass them on. Clovis took the packets without surprise or even thanks, and his wife smiled to herself at his carelessness in money matters. Since his marriage he had always been well provided without the asking, and had come--how like a dreamer--to look on coin as convenient manna, which somehow dropped from heaven just at the auspicious moment.

What could so sensible a man as the abbé mean by encouraging him in his nonsense? He was sitting there now with head thrown back, and the placid air of one who knows how to enjoy digestion, rapping out now and then a leading question, such as would put Clovis on his mettle. Was she, Gabrielle, in the wrong to despise these things? It seemed so. Her husband dabbled in philanthropy; the abbé was an excellent man, bent on doing good to his fellows; and this was the reason for the interest of both in Mesmer.

"Just think!" the marquis was observing with regret, "what good work might be done in the district if we could inaugurate a magic tub! The mists rising from the Loire generate rheumatism and paralysis, to say nothing of fevers, all of which, by means of a blessed bucket, might cease to exist except in fable. Why! this gloomy old prison-house might become a central office from which benefits would be scattered broadcast; its primæval bloodstains might come in time to be washed away with Mesmer's tincture of iron!"

"Why not?" murmured the abbé, with increasing interest.

"Alas!" sighed Clovis. "The arrangement of the tub, it seems, is a matter of the most delicate nicety, which cannot be described by letter. If Mesmer would only visit us? But he is afraid now, he says, to venture into France."

"Why not go to him--Mahomet and the mountain, you know," suggested Pharamond. "Or get him to lend you for a time one of his cultured adepts."

"Ah! if he would do that!" echoed Clovis, eagerly. "If he would lend me somebody who knows."

"Our dear Gabrielle would not stand an adept!" cried the abbé, with laughter. "See how distressed she looks at my poor suggestion! Nay, sweet sister; I was only jesting. In sooth, this new-fangled bucket is too large a bolus to swallow. The idea of sensible people squatting round a tub with glass wands pressed against their temples!"

Pharamond's access of facetiousness nettled the marquis, who remarked peevishly, "What a puzzle you are! Too gifted and too learned, I should have thought, to mock as the ignorant do at all that they cannot fathom."

"Nay! I did not mean to anger you!" cried Pharamond, still laughing. "But I was bound to reassure our hostess as to an irruption of adepts. Come, come. Let her enjoy the evening air. Show me the plans and instructions, and while I endeavour to decipher them, play me a tune on the 'cello."

Oh! clever abbé, who knew so well how to twitch his puppet-strings! It certainly was a delightful evening, and Gabrielle, with the pursy chevalier trotting by her side, flung open a casement and stepped forth upon a balcony. As she gazed across the shadowy river, she was too absorbed with the consideration of a riddle to remark the condition of her companion, who panted nervously. Was Clovis mad--victim of a monomania--or did she wrong him? Why should he lie to her, and to Pharamond? He had declared, and the abbé accepted the statement without cavil, that the magic tub had already produced miraculous cures. No doubt it is both ignorant and stupid to contemn what you cannot understand. Clovis was always saying so, and he was right. If the discovery was genuine, then, as he had said, how wonderful a boon wherewith to endow the province! It was quite true that the peasantry were a prey to rheumatic pains and aches. In her rides she often went among the poor distributing simple remedies, and had been dubbed by them the "White Chatelaine," in contradistinction to some of dark and unsavoury memory who had gone before. But then, an irruption of adepts. What sort of a creature was an adept? The idea had revolted her, she scarce knew why; and yet, was she not unreasonable? If the prophet or a selection from his following were to take up their quarters at Lorge, what then? There was room enough in the great building, and the abbé would doubtless make himself useful in seeing that they kept to themselves. Ah! But the cherished hope which had been the means of bringing the chatelaine to Lorge; the hope to which she clung with the tenacity of love. Surrounded by an army of dreamers more dreamy than himself, the half-recovered Clovis would drift away again, be farther than ever from her yearning arms, engrossed in his magical operations. How unsteady a seat is that between the horns of a dilemma. If she refused to countenance the tub and its attendant sprites, she might be withholding from the sick a saving and certain cure. If she encouraged the new theory and its satellites, instinct told her that she would be raising a wall between herself and her husband which she would never be able to scale. She was wicked and selfish to hesitate. The marquise felt with humble conviction the extent of her badness; but human nature at the best is rickety, and she was unlucky enough to adore her husband. At this point, as she stood on the balcony reflecting, with the red hot chevalier by her side, she shivered, for plaintive sounds were floating on the breeze.

"This is intolerable!" she murmured. "If Clovis would only oblige me by sacrificing that dreadful 'cello!"

"It does set one's teeth on edge," agreed the chevalier.

"Because it contains a soul in torment," returned the marquise, pressing her fingers in her ears. "I can manage to endure other implements of music, but I cannot bear a 'cello."

"We have a remedy at hand," wheezed the amorous chevalier. "It is as balmy as a summer's night, and winter will soon be upon us. Put on a hood and scarf, and let me row you for an hour on the river."