CHAPTER XXIIHeaven, and Hell, and this earthly ball,And Jealousy confounds them all.
Heaven, and Hell, and this earthly ball,And Jealousy confounds them all.
Heaven, and Hell, and this earthly ball,And Jealousy confounds them all.
“I have always loved you! You only! You alone, ever since you were a little baby no higher than my knee!”
Marguerite laughed. “You are a vile flatterer!” she declared, making an adorable little grimace at her lord and master. “Who would have thought that my grim mentor of years ago—oh, so many years ago!—would one day descend to such trickery?”
They were sitting under the pink-and-white awning of their villa on the “Azure Coast”—as it is so fittingly called. In front of them a heavy garland of ivy-geraniums, a mass of rose-colored bloom nestling in their white-and-green foliage, seemed therendez-vousof every butterfly of the littoral. Marguerite’s gown was rose-hued, too, and her favorite floppy shape of garden hat was covered with pink acacia; on the love-finger of her left hand glowed the great ruby of herfiançailles, and Basil, in a spirit of emulation, wore a pink-and-white carnation in the lapel of his light-gray morning coat.
The honeymoon was, officially speaking, over, but only officially, for those two would be lovers always; and soon they would sail north again, where Régis and Piotr awaited their return with what patience they could muster.
It had been a pretty weddingau-village. The Castlechapel filled with flowers, the peasants and sailors and salt-workers in their gala costumes, the bagpipes blowing merrily on the green outside, and a whole ox roasting under the trees for the feast given to all the people, who, had come for miles around to do honor to theChevalier“Gamin.” Tatiana and Jean and Pavlo had arrived from Russia, other friends and relatives from all corners of France, and also from other lands, and during a week the countryside had beenen fête.
Piotr as his father’s best man had made a brave show, wearing proudly a Court suit with a little sword at his side; and as to the bride herself, words fail to describe that dream-maiden in her cloud of whiteness, like wreaths of delicate vapor one over the other, caught up here and there by clusters of odorous blossoms from theorangerie; and her long illusion veil, with the diadem of orange-buds that held something mystical in its fragrant purity. At Basil’s demand the “Moonglade” idea he loved was carried out by a jewel—the only one she wore—which he had himself designed, and combined, and ordered—a crescent moon of palest sapphires embedded in diamonds, and drooping from it fluent chain after fluent chain of the same gems—so exquisitely wrought that one could discover no setting—falling from her heart, over which the crescent was fastened, sideways, to the edge of her skirt in a wavy succession of softly shimmering rays, like those of a very young moon over misty water. Tatiana had cried out thatfiancéesin France wear no gems, and this is true enough, in the real “world” of old principles and aristocratic ways, but Basil had pleaded, and Marguerite had declared that his word was her law; and so Tatiana had yielded, laughing over her own discomfiture.
When at last the long days of festivity were over, Piotr, who, strange to relate, had displayed no jealousy of his father, had been taken to Salvières for a time by Régis to avoid his moping after his “little darling Malou.”
Two months had now elapsed since all these incidents: the vagabondage of thevoyage-de-noceswas over, and Marguerite’s yacht,La Mauve(Jean de Salvières’s marriage-gift to her), was waiting at anchor on the blue Mediterranean waters, a few cable-lengths from the villa, to take them back to Brittany.
“Will you like it at Plenhöel?” Marguerite asked, suddenly, a little anxiety in her voice, for the only shadow in her happiness was the thought that perhaps her Basil would miss Russia and his active life there among his own people.
“Will I like it?” he laughed. “Why d’you think I might not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “Brittany is not over-cheerful with its wild seas, its storms, its bleak moorlands and rock-girt shores. I adore it, but then I was born there, you know, which makes all the difference.”
“You perhaps forget that I am a bit of a Breton myself,” he retorted. “Not such a bad combination, either—Celt and Slav. What do you say, Madame ‘Moonglade’?”
“I find it extremely satisfactory,” she admitted, “still, I wish I were sure that you like it altogether—as much as you do Russia?”
Basil threw his half-smoked cigarette far into the bushes near the sea-wall, and rose.
“I didn’t want to talk about it; indeed, nothing was farther from my mind than to let the very essence of a surprise out of the bag, but you are irresistible, my little siren, and so here goes!”
“Whatareyou talking about?” asked Marguerite, wide-eyed.
“This: do you remember a certain antique ruin with manybeaux-resteslike your old friend Madame de Belbye ... a ruin, say I, perched on a lofty rock, with forests of cork-oaks and other useful vegetables unfurling their evergreen waves against the demantibulated bastions of theabove-mentioned fortress, a few leagues only from Plenhöel?”
“La Tour du Chevalier!” she cried, her eyes dancing with interest—“La Tour du Chevalier!the old warhold where Du Guesclin dwelt, and before him dozens of other great knights of Brittany, for hundreds and hundreds of years ... the finest, most romantic spot that exists or has ever existed!”
“The same!” gravely admitted Basil.
“And what of it?” she demanded, breathlessly.
“What of it? There’s a question to ask! What of it, forsooth? Millions of workmen—you know how I despise exaggeration—millions of workmen, therefore, are even now dealing with those mossy ancient stones, those tottering battlements where your hero ... and other heroes—you have such a collection of them, by the way, Marguerite—enough to make one horribly jealous—”
“Were not one the chief and dearest of them all?” she interrupted him.
He bowed, his hand on his heart. “Thanks, my lady-love, queen of my soul. Those tottering battlements, as I was endeavoring to explain—well, in short, the workmen are cementing their reunion. Flocks of decorators under the guidance of the most distinguished Viollet-le-Duc of our period are at this very instant evoking the past, poring over documentary evidence in black, and red-letter, tearing their hair and rolling their eyes, and laying back their ears in the endeavor to put together againLa Tour du Chevalieras it once reigned over the border—La Tour du Chevalier, for oneChevalier‘Gamin,’ whose home in Brittany it is to be.”
With a cry of delight Marguerite jumped up and threw her arms around her husband’s neck.
“Oh! You fairy prince! Aladdin of the Wonder-Lamp! Do you mean it? Is theTour du Chevalierto come back to life for my sake? Really? Really?”
With eyes full of joyful tears she nestled against him. The dream of her childhood had come true at the touch of a magician’s wand, as it were; and he, who had not realized quite what boundless pleasure he was giving, held closely the happy little creature he worshiped. Nor did he entirely understand until she told him of her rovings to theTour du Chevalierfrom her earliest childhood, her evocations there of Merlin and Mélusine, and the knights of Arthur riding in their splendid armor under the forest boughs. Of how she had wandered untiringly in and out of the dismantled halls and roofless galleries, the enormous crackling walls of which seemed held together merely by huge clinging ropes of ivy thick as a man’s leg. Ah!La Tour du Chevalierhad been her fairest record of chivalry, her window into that mediæval period where she had lived in thought, and whence she seemed to have emerged aimedcap-à-piéwith the virtues of those great Ages—their heroism and dauntlessness, their generosity and nobility and faith. And wasn’t Basil a proud man that day!
“Would it be ready?” she inquired, in the fashion of a child asking when Christmas will be here. “Could it be possible that it would be ready soon?”
Never had Basil been so conscious of the power of great wealth as he was now. Yes! The multiplication of hands and of ducats was easy to him, as easy, he asserted, as, “Kiss your hand, my lady.” Nothing was being neglected to hastenl’accomplissement du rêve. Moreover, ever since that unclouded morn when she had said “Yes” to him, the work had been going on. “So there, Madame ‘Moonglade,’ reassure yourself. Your slightest desire is an order to me—” etc., etc.—da-capo—to the end of the chapter!
So one very fine day, “once upon a time,” as the good Perrault tells us in hisContes de Fées, the prince and his princess returned from afar, and lo, and behold! the keysof the citadel were presented to them by their leal son andmaître-du-palaison a velvet cushion that he held on bended knee—Piotr in azure velvet, his curls falling on a broad lace collar, his plumed bonnet in one sunburnt hand—adauphinafter their own heart.
Régis felt as if his “Gamin” had been spirited away for eons upon eons of time, but there she was again, close to him; so “Antinoüs” looked more “Antinouistic” than ever.
Months of happiness followed; days woven of silk and gold (tissus de soie et d’or), as the good saying goes, cloudless, enchanting; “almost too perfect to be real,” mused Basil. Had he deserved it all? Presumably, since they were his and hers and Régis’s and Piotr’s; Piotr glorying in his father’s reconquered love, in the constant tenderness of his little darling Malou.
One late afternoon he rushed into the octagonal salon where she sat often now before her embroidery-frame or at her spinnet, like those ladies of the long ago who had preceded her at theTour du Chevalier. Greatly to Piotr’s chagrin she did not gallop in the forest with him now, nor canoe on the inlet below the Castle, nor undertake those league-long rambles over the moors that he was so fond of. She was, however, if possible, more tender than ever to him, and this consoled him somewhat.
“You are getting so lazy, little darling Malou!” he cried, throwing on her lap an armful of almond-scented white-and-pink thorn he had wrenched from its prickly fastness with some damage to his strong little fingers. “Why don’t you come out and play with me and Papa? We are throwing thepaume—like Henri-Quatre and his gentlemen.”
Marguerite laughed. “Come here, Piotr,” she said, making room for him on the broad window-seat beside her. “I want to speak to you, my son.”
“Isn’t it funny, little darling Malou? It’s true I am your son now! Just as Cousin Pavlo is Aunt Tatiana’s; but I’m your comrade and playfellow the same as I always was, and you love me better than any, any one else in the world.”
“I love your Papa, too,” she said, smiling, “and my own Papa, and Pavlo’s Papa—such a lot of Papas!”
“Yes, but I don’t mind that; they’re all big gentlemen, and you can’t love them as you do your little Piotr. Can you?”
“There are many different kinds of love—as many as there are kinds of stars in the sky, Piotr. They are all beautiful, and created to illuminate the dark places of the world; for where there is no love there is no light, my little one, and people are always plunged in gloom.”
“You do speak awfully pretty, little darling Malou. I like to listen to what you say.”
“Thank you, Piotr; so now listen. In a little while your father and I—if you are very good—are going to make you a present of a little playmate. He will be very tiny and awkward at the beginning, but he will grow up fast, and be able to romp with you, and toss thepaumelike Henri-Quatre. Won’t you be pleased, Piotr?”
The boy, leaning against her knees, looked slowly up at her, his eyes heavy with doubt.
“Is that another fairy-tale, like the ones you tell me every day, little darling Malou?” he asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to droop.
“A fairy-tale? Why, no, Piotr, it’s a true, true story!”
“And,” the child continued, “will youtruly, trulybring another Piotr here to play with me instead of you and Papa and Uncle Régis?”
Marguerite was not quite reassured. She knew her Piotr too well, and her thumbs began to prick oddly, as she claimed they invariably did when trouble was afoot.
“I imagined you’d like it very much,” she cautiouslyhazarded, not by any means certain of her ground and feeling her way about, so to speak.
Piotr’s strongly marked dark brows came together above his imperious little nose and his nostrils quivered.
“I would hate it!” he said, decisively; “so don’t bring a disgusting brat here, little darling Malou, or I’ll pitch him in theoubliettesunder the great round tower. I swear I will!”
She noticed a nervous twitching of his left eyebrow, which she was acquainted with as a very bad sign of the weather, and she hastened to try and smooth things down.
“Don’t talk like that, darling,” she said, stroking the rebellious head. “You know very well that you would never do anything so wicked; besides, you might get to be awfully fond of your little playmate.”
With a sudden brutality of gesture utterly disconcerting, Piotr snatched the starry branches from Marguerite’s lap and threw them helter-skelter across the room. Then turning, he fled toward the door.
“Piotr,” she called, very calmly, “come back to Malou!”
She had not stirred, her face was white; but there was no quiver in her voice, and the child, his hand already on the knob, paused at full tension, his back toward her.
“Come back here, please!” Again she did not raise her tone, but there was a new quality in it; and very reluctantly, his face dark as thunder, Piotr retraced his steps one by one until he stood within a foot of her.
“My little Piotr,” she murmured, very tenderly, “are you going to be bad with me, too?”
No answer. Her heart for a moment misgave her, but she held out her arms to him with infinite gentleness.
“Don’t you love Malou any more, Piotr?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
Fiercely the boy flung himself upon her and began tosob noiselessly, convulsively, with pitiful indrawings of the breath; and now she could no longer doubt what was coming. Weak and dizzy, she felt like calling aloud for help, but the mere thought of bringing Basil upon the scene, and of what his anger would be against Piotr, choked the appeal in her throat. Instead she gathered him closer and closer to her, crooning over him, hoping that she might once more avert the storm as she had so often done before; but the very roots of his being seemed to have been shaken, and nothing she could do would calm him.
At last there was a momentary lull, when, exhausted by his jealous fury, Piotr lay panting across her knees, head down, face hidden, throbbing all over like a little over-charged engine.
“Piotr,” she ventured, ready to burst into tears herself—“Piotr, please, please be quiet. You hurt me!”
Like a galvanized frog the boy bounded away from her, and, swaying back and forth, his eyes ablaze, literally shaking from head to foot in his uncontrollable rage, he roared:
“Promise you won’t bring the beast—promise—promise—promise—or I—tell—you—I’ll bash in his—his—h-head!” And all at once he rolled on the carpet at her feet, kicking with all his might.
At that unfortunate moment Basil opened the door and walked in. One glance, and although he had never as yet seen his son in one of these fits, he understood, also he realized the risk of such a scene for Marguerite, and in two strides he reached Piotr and, picking him up as if he weighed an ounce, held him tight.
“What do you mean by that, sir?” he asked, grimly.
“Basil!” Marguerite cried, rushing to him. “Basil! For God’s sake—he doesn’t know what he is doing! Please, for my sake, don’t be harsh!”
“Never you mind, Marguerite,” Basil answered, greatlyalarmed for her. “I won’t be harsh, but we must understand each other, he and I.”
An understanding did not seem likely to result, for Piotr, far from desisting, was wriggling desperately in Basil’s arms, poor little chap! maddened by the impossibility of escape, his face gray, his eyes nearly starting out of his head; and Marguerite suddenly caught hold of her husband’s shoulder with a grip that surprised him.
“You sha’n’t do that!” she commanded. “He is quite beside himself. You’ll only make it worse. Give him to me. I know what to do when he is like this!”
What would have followed cannot be conjectured had not Garrassime, attracted by the noise, and guessing what was happening, run into the room and, without a word, taken hold of Piotr and carried him off without further ceremony, still kicking and yelling.
Basil, for an instant completely dumfounded, remained planted, as it were, in the middle of the room, while Marguerite, thoroughly ashamed of her momentary loss of self-control, hung her head and twisted the ends of her peignoir ribbons, vainly trying to recapture herself.
“Well!” said Basil at last. “Well, this is a pretty state of things! Is he often like that, Marguerite? I never knew—my poor little girl!”
With difficulty she prevented her voice from trembling. “No; very rarely,” she said, shortly.
“Then what made him burst out like that? But here, for pity’s sake, sit down, Marguerite. Thisispleasant for you!”
“No! Not if you will only not interfere,” she faltered. “I couldn’t bear to see you twoaux-prises. It was my fault. I tried to—to prepare him for what is—what is coming, that’s all.”
She had gone back to her seat in the window and glanced imploringly up at him. Quickly he joined her and, bending before her, took her little icy hands in one of his.
“I beg your pardon from my heart. I beg your pardon, Marguerite,” he said, penitently. “You should not have had to suffer this!”
“My poor boy!” she tremulously murmured. “It is from you I should have wished to keep it concealed. He is such a fine little chap! He can’t help what he does now and then, and punishment would only make it worse. I know it. I am convinced that force would be folly to attempt. Don’t you ever try it!”
Touched by her courage and exceeding generosity he stared at her. “I believe from my soul you are more than half an angel,” he said. “I shall do what you say, whatever happens—I give you my word on it; but still he should be made to understand what he does. What may not one of these attacks bring about?”
“He will get out of it when he grows older,” she pleaded. “He is so very manly that one easily forgets what a baby he is yet.”
“My God!” Basil was thinking, “what obscure inheritance is this the result of?” And suddenly the image of Laurence flashed before him, Laurence beautiful and vicious, cankered inwardly like a fruit, splendid to the eye only.
He took a couple of turns up and down before speaking again.
“It is jealousy, then?” he said at length, stopping in front of her.
“Yes,” she admitted, “jealousy of me.”
“Then,” Basil continued, “why isn’t he jealous of my love for you, my presence near you?”
“He just told me,” she said, with the ghost of a smile lurking at the corners of her rosy mouth—for she had already recovered her delicate color—“that I couldn’t possibly love a grown-up gentleman like you as I did him—my little Piotr.”
Basil could not help laughing. “That’s ingenious!”he conceded; “very ingenious and plausible—and fortunate, too! What would we do if he had extended these kindly sentiments to me?”
“I don’t know. Sufficient unto the hour is the wonderment thereof,” she replied, delighted to find that he was not disposed to take the affair too tragically. “A few weeks ago he wanted to fight a duel withBoustifaille, his ex-canotlad, when he came to pay his respects on his return from the Banks, because I was imprudent enough to admire the finely bronzed appearance of the interestingTerre-neuvas.”
“Wanted to fight him? Swords or pistols for two, eh?” asked Basil, amused in spite of himself.
“Clasp-knives, if you please,” she responded. “Clasp-knives, sailor fashion.”
“Oh,” commented Basil, “nothing if not energetic!”
“Mercy, yes! Blood will tell, you know! You yourself are no milksop, my dearest Basil. Neither were your ancestors, from all I’ve heard and read.”
A shadow passed over his forehead. He could not as yet quite endure being reminded of the horrible period of doubt he had gone through with regard to Piotr’s birthright. During the last days of their sojourn on the Côte-d’Azur they had come unexpectedly, and most unpleasantly for him, across Sir Robert and Lady Seton stepping from the dinghy of their yacht. There had been a moment’s embarrassment, and then all four had sauntered on the promenade together, studiously avoiding any allusion to Laurence. Later on, by a special, if somewhat diffident, request of the nautical baronet, Basil had rowed back with him to the yacht for a short talk—a rather painful experience. Sir Robert, his choleric blue eye cocked up to the saloon skylight of thePhyllis, had roundly denounced his late niece, overbearing Basil’s chivalrous silence, and, glad to be able to let himself go for once, had used language of exceeding saltiness—picturesque,much to the point, and altogether adequate even to that subject.
This encounter had re-opened a wound or two which had not been very prompt to heal again, and had served, moreover, to show him how very much more deeply he had suffered during his first marriage than he had believed.
“I must dress for dinner now,” Marguerite said, cutting into his unamiable reminiscences. “Run along, dear, and do likewise.”
“Are you going to dress at once,” he asked, “or do you intend to go mooning after Piotr to get the latest bulletin, Madame ‘Moonglade’?”
“I shall do, beloved, just precisely as I see fit,” she laughed. “You gave me Piotr quite a long time ago as an earnest of good-will. He is, therefore, more mine than anybody else’s—past, present, or future—so kindly turn your exclusive attention to the tying of your cravat—the color of your buttonhole flower. I shall make myself very beautiful in rose and silver, since it is my lord’s favorite combination of tints, and meanwhile I bid you God-speed.”
She courtesied to him, made a quick little run, raised her delicious mouth to be kissed, and in a flurry of gauze and cobwebby lace disappeared through the narrow door in the arras leading to her apartments.