“Emperor, you think yourself surrounded by honest men. You are mistaken. You are surrounded by conspirators. You think that, in offering a reward for Colvellino’s murderer, you are repaying a debt of gratitude. You are mistaken. You are honouring the memory of a murderer. You think that, in giving the hand of the Princess of Marosin to Prince Charles of Buntzlau, you are uniting two persons of rank in an honourable marriage. You are mistaken. You are pampering a coxcomb’s vanity, and breaking a noble heart. You think that, in sending your Pandours to scour the country, you can protect your court, your palace, or yourself.“You are mistaken. The whole three are inmypower.“Speranski.”
“Emperor, you think yourself surrounded by honest men. You are mistaken. You are surrounded by conspirators. You think that, in offering a reward for Colvellino’s murderer, you are repaying a debt of gratitude. You are mistaken. You are honouring the memory of a murderer. You think that, in giving the hand of the Princess of Marosin to Prince Charles of Buntzlau, you are uniting two persons of rank in an honourable marriage. You are mistaken. You are pampering a coxcomb’s vanity, and breaking a noble heart. You think that, in sending your Pandours to scour the country, you can protect your court, your palace, or yourself.
“You are mistaken. The whole three are inmypower.
“Speranski.”
The Baron laid down the paper, and gravely paused for the Emperor’s commands. But the Emperor had none to give. He put the simple query—“Is this a burlesque or a reality? Is the writer a charlatan or a conspirator?”
“Evidently something of both, in my conception,” said the Colonel; “the paper is not courtly, but it may be true, nevertheless. The writer is apparently not one of your Majesty’s chamberlains, and yet he is clearly master of some points that mark him for either a very dangerous inmate of the court, or a very useful one.”
Leopold’s anxious gesture bade the Baron proceed. He looked again over the letter, and commented on it as he passed along.
“‘Surrounded by conspirators!’ Possible enough. The Hungarian nobles never knew how to obey. They must be free as the winds, or in fetters. The mild government of Austria is at once too much felt and too little. No government or all tyranny, is the only maxim for the magnates. If not slaves, they will be conspirators.”
“Then this rascal, this Speranski, tells the truth after all?” said the Emperor.
“For the fact of conspiracy I cannot answer yet,” said Von Herbert; “but for the inclination I can,at any hour of the twenty-four.” He proceeded with the letter—“You are honouring the memory of a murderer.”
“An atrocious and palpable calumny!” exclaimed the Emperor. “What! the man who died at my feet? If blood is not to answer for honour and loyalty, where can the proof be given? He had got, besides, everything that he could desire. I had just made him Grand Chamberlain.”
Von Herbert’s grave countenance showed that he was not so perfectly convinced.
“I knew Colvellino,” said he, “and if appearances were not so much in his favour by the manner of his death, I should have thought him one of the last men in your Majesty’s dominions to die for loyalty.”
“You are notoriously a philosopher, Von Herbert,” said Leopold, impatiently. “Your creed is mistrust.”
“I knew the Grand Chamberlain from our school-days,” said the Baron, calmly. “At school he was haughty and headstrong. We entered the royal Hungarian guard together; there he was selfish and profligate. We then separated for years. On my return as your Majesty’s aide-de-camp, I found him the successor to an estate which he had ruined, the husband of a wife whom he had banished from his palace, the Colonel of a regiment of Hulans which he had turned into a school of tyranny, and Grand Chamberlain to your Majesty, an office whichI have strong reason to think he used but as a step to objects of a more daring ambition.”
“But his death—his courageous devotion of himself—the dagger in his heart!” exclaimed the Emperor.
“They perplex, without convincing me,” said the Baron.
He looked again at the letter, and came to the words, “Breaking a noble heart.”
“What can be the meaning of this?” asked Leopold, angrily. “Am I not to arrange the alliances of my family as I please? Am I to forfeit my word to my relative, the Prince of Buntzlau, when he makes the most suitable match in the empire for my relative the Princess of Marosin? This is mere insolence, read no more.”
The Baron laid down the letter, and stood in silence.
“Apropos of the Princess,” said Leopold, willing to turn the conversation from topics which vexed him, “has there been any further intelligence of her mysterious purchase—that far-famed plunder of the Turk, her Hungarianchef d’œuvre?”
“If your Majesty alludes to the Princess’s very splendid watch,” said the Baron, “I understand that all possible inquiry has been made, but without the effect of tracing any connection between its sale and the unfortunate assassination of the Turkish envoy.”
“So my cousin,” said the Emperor, with a half smile, “is to be set down by the scandalous Chronicle of Presburg as an accomplice in rifling the pockets of Mohammed? But the whole place seems full of gipsyism, gossiping, and juggling. I should not wonder if that superannuated belle, the Countess Joblonsky, lays the loss of herpenduleto my charge, and that the Emperor shall quit Hungary with the character of a receiver of stolen goods.”
“Your Majesty may be the depredator to a much more serious extent, if you will condescend but to take the Countess’s heart along with you,” said the Colonel, with a grave smile. “It is, I have no doubt, too loyal not to be quite at your Majesty’s mercy.”
“Hah!” said Leopold; “I must be expeditious then, or she will bedevoté, or in the other world—incapable of any love but for a lapdog, or turned into a canonised saint. But in the mean time look to these nobles. If conspiracy there be, let us be ready for it. I have confidence in your Pandours. They have no love for the Hungarians. Place a couple of your captains in my antechamber. Let the rest be on the alert. You will be in the palace, and within call, for the next forty-eight hours.”
The Emperor then left the room. Von Herbert wrote an order to the Major of the Pandours for a detachment to take the duty of the imperial apartments. The evening was spent at the opera, followedby a court ball; and the Emperor retired, more than satisfied with the dancing loyalty of the Hungarian beaux and belles.
The night was lovely, and the moon shone with full-orbed radiance upon the cloth of gold, embroidered velvet curtains, and high enchased silver sculptures of the imperial bed. The Emperor was deep in a midsummer night’s dream of waltzing with a dozen winged visions, a ballet in the Grand Opera given before their Majesties of Fairyland, on the occasion of his arrival in their realm. He found his feet buoyant with all the delightful levity of his new region; wings could not have made him spurn the ground with more rapturous elasticity. The partner round whom he whirled was Oberon’s youngest daughter, just come from a finishing school in the Evening Star, andbrought outfor the first time. But a sudden sound of evil smote his ear; every fairy drooped at the instant; he felt his winged heels heavy as if they were booted for a German parade; his blooming partner grew dizzy in the very moment of a whirl, and dropped fainting in his arms; Titania, with a scream, expanded her pinions, and darted into the tops of the tallest trees. Oberon, with a frown, descended from his throne, and stalked away in indignant majesty.
The sound was soon renewed; it was a French quadrille, played by a Golden Apollo on the harp—asound, however pleasing to earthly ears, too coarse for the exquisite sensibilities of more ethereal tempers. The God of Song was sitting on a beautiful pendule, with the name ofSismondeconspicuous on its dial above, and the name of the Countess Joblonsky engraved on its marble pedestal below. The Emperor gazed first with utter astonishment, then with a burst of laughter; his words had been verified. He was in a new position. He was to be the “receiver of stolen goods” after all. But in the moonlight lay at his feet a paper; it contained these words:—
“Emperor—You have friends about you, on whom you set no value; you have enemies, too, about you, of whom you are not aware. Keep thependule; it will serve to remind you of the hours that may pass between the throne and the dagger. It will serve, also, to remind you how few hours it may take to bring a noble heart to the altar and to the grave. The toy is yours. The Countess Joblonsky has already received more than its value.“Speranski.”
“Emperor—You have friends about you, on whom you set no value; you have enemies, too, about you, of whom you are not aware. Keep thependule; it will serve to remind you of the hours that may pass between the throne and the dagger. It will serve, also, to remind you how few hours it may take to bring a noble heart to the altar and to the grave. The toy is yours. The Countess Joblonsky has already received more than its value.
“Speranski.”
The Countess Joblonskyhad beenthe handsomest woman in Paris twenty years before. But in Paris, the reign of beauty never lasts supreme longer than a new Opera—possibly, among other reasons, for the one that both are exhibited without mercyfor the eyes or ears of mankind. The Opera displays its charms incessantly, until all that remain to witness the triumph are the fiddlers and the scene-shifters. The Belle electrifies the world with such persevering attacks on their nervous system, that it becomes absolutely benumbed. A second season of triumph is as rare for the Belle as the Opera, and no man living ever has seen, or will see, a third season for either. The Countess retired at the end of her second season, like Diocletian, but not, like Diocletian, to the cultivation of cabbages. She drew off her forces to Vienna, which she entered with the air of a conqueror, and the rights of one; for the fashion that has fallen into the “sere and yellow leaf” in Paris, is entitled to consider itself in full bloom at Vienna. At the Austrian capital she carried all before her, for the time. She had all the first of the very first circle in her chains. All the Archdukes were at her bidding; were fed at herpetits soupersof five hundred hungry noblesse,en comité; were pilfered at her loto-tables; were spell-bound by her smiles, laughed at in her boudoir, and successively wooed to make the fairest of Countesses the haughtiest of Princesses. Still the last point was incomplete,—she was still in widowed loveliness.
The coronation suddenly broke up the Vienna circle. She who had hitherto led or driven the world, now condescended to follow it; and the Countess instantly removed her whole establishment,her French Abbé, her Italian Chevaliers, ordinaires and extraordinaires, her Flemish lapdogs, her Ceylonese monkeys, and her six beautiful Polish horses, to Presburg, with the determination to diedevoté, or make an impress on the imperial soul, which Leopold should carry back, and the impression along with it, to Vienna. But cares of state had till now interposed a shield between the Emperor’s bosom and the lady’s diamond eyes. She had at last begun actually to despair; and on this morning she had summoned her Abbé to teach her the most becoming way for a beauty to renounce the world. She was enthroned on a couch of rose-coloured silk, worthy of Cytherea herself, half-sitting, half-reposing, with her highly rouged cheek resting on her snowy hand, that hand supported on a richly bound volume of the Life of La Vallière, delicious model of the wasted dexterity, cheated ambition, and profitless passion of a court beauty, and her eyes gazing on the letter which this pretty charlatan wrote on her knees, in the incredible hope of making a Frenchman feel. The Countess decided upon trying the La Vallière experiment upon the spot, writing a letter to the Emperor, declaring the “secret flame which had so long consumed her,” “confessing” her resolution to fly into a convent, and compelling his obdurate spirit to meditate upon the means of rescuing so brilliant an ornament of his court from four bare walls, the fearful sight ofmonks and nuns, and the performance of matins and vespers as duly as the day.
At this critical moment, one of the imperial carriages entered theporte cochère. A gentleman of the court, stiff with embroidery, and stiffer with Austrian etiquette, descended from it, was introduced by the pages in attendance, and with his knee almost touching the ground, as to the future possessor of the diadem, presented to the Countess a morocco case. It contained a letter. The perusal of the missive brought into the fair reader’s face a colour that fairly outburned all the labours of her three hours’ toilette. It requested the Countess Joblonsky’s acceptance of the trifle accompanying the note, and was signed Leopold. The case was eagerly opened. A burst of brilliancy flashed into the gazers eyes. It was the superb watch, the long-talked of—the watch of the Princess Marosin, and now given as an acknowledgment of the personal superiority of her handsome competitor. She saw a crown glittering in strong imagination above her head. The Life of La Vallière was spurned from her. The Abbé was instantly countermanded. The Countess had given up the nunnery; she ordered her six Polish steeds, and drove off to make her acknowledgments to the Emperor in person.
But what is the world? The Countess had come at an inauspicious time. She found the streetscrowded with people talking of some extraordinary event, though whether of the general conflagration, or the flight of one of the Archduchesses, it was impossible to discover from the popular ideas on the subject. Further on, she found her progress impeded by the troops. The palace was double-guarded. There had evidently been some formidable occurrence. A scaffold was standing in the court, with two dead bodies in the Pandour uniform lying upon it. Cannon, with lighted matches, were pointed down the principal streets. The regiment of Pandours passed her, with Von Herbert at their head, looking so deeply intent upon something or other, that she in vain tried to obtain a glance towards her equipage. The Pandours, a gallant-looking but wild set, rushed out of the gates, and galloped forward to scour the forest like wolf-dogs in full cry. The regiment of Imperial Guards, with Prince Charles of Buntzlau witching the world with the best-perfumed pair of mustaches, and the most gallantly embroidered mantle in any hussar corps in existence, rode past, with no more than a bow. All was confusion, consternation, and the clank of sabre-sheaths, trumpets, and kettle-drums. The Countess gave up the day and the diadem, returned to her palace, and began the study of La Vallière again.
The story at length transpired. The Emperor’s life had been attempted. His own detail to hisPrivy Council was—That before daylight he had found himself suddenly attacked in his bed by ruffians. His arms had been pinioned during his sleep. He called out for the Pandour officers who had been placed in his antechamber; but to his astonishment, the flash of a lamp, borne by one of the assailants, showed him those Pandours the most active in his seizure. Whether their purpose was to carry him off, or to kill him on the spot; to convey him to some cavern or forest, where they might force him to any conditions they pleased, or to extinguish the imperial authority in his person at once, was beyond his knowledge; but the vigour of his resistance had made them furious, and the dagger of one of the conspirators was already at his throat, when he saw the hand that held it lopped off by the sudden blow of a sabre from behind. Another hand now grasped his hair, and he felt the edge of a sabre, which slightly wounded him in the neck, but before the blow could be repeated, the assailant fell forward, with a curse and a groan, and died at his feet, exclaiming that they were betrayed. This produced palpable consternation among them; and on hearing a sound outside, like the trampling of the guards on their rounds, they had silently vanished, leaving him bleeding and bound. He had now made some effort to reach the casement and cry out for help, but a handkerchief had been tied across his face, his arms and feet were fastenedby a scarf, and he lay utterly helpless. In a few moments after, he heard steps stealing along the chamber. It was perfectly dark; he could see no one; but he gave himself up for lost. The voice, however, told him that there was no enemy now in the chamber, and offered to loose the bandage from his face, on condition that he would answer certain questions. The voice was that of an old man, said he, but there was a tone of honesty about it that made me promise at once.
“I have saved your life,” said the stranger; “what will you give me for this service?”
“If this be true, ask what you will.”
“I demand a free pardon for the robbery of the Turkish courier, for shooting the Turkish envoy, and for stabbing the Grand Chamberlain in your presence.”
“Are you a fool or a madman who ask this?”
“To you neither. I demand, further, your pardon for stripping Prince Charles of Buntzlau of his wife and his whiskers together—for marrying the Princess of Marosin—and for turning your Majesty into an acknowledged lover of the Countess Joblonsky.”
“Who and what are you? Villain, untie my hands.”
The cord was snapped asunder.
“Tell me your name, or I shall call the guards, and have you hanged on the spot.”
“My name!” the fellow exclaimed, with a laugh,—“Oh, it is well enough known everywhere,—at court, in the cottages, in the city, and on the high-road—by your Majesty’s guards, and by your Majesty’s subjects. I am the Pandour of Pandours—your correspondent, and now your cabinet counsellor. Farewell, Emperor, and remember—Speranski!”
“The cords were at the instant cut from my feet. I sprang after him; but I might as well have sprung after my own shadow. He was gone—but whether into the air or the earth, or whether the whole dialogue was not actually the work of my own imagination, favoured by the struggle with the conspirators, I cannot tell to this moment. One thing, however, was unquestionable, that I had been in the hands of murderers, for I stumbled over the two bodies of the assassins who were cut down in the mêlée. The first lamp that was brought in showed me also, that the two Pandour captains had been turned into the two Palatines of Sidlitz and Frankerin, but by what magic I cannot yet conjecture.”
A more puzzling affair never had bewildered the high and mighty functionaries of the imperial court. They pondered upon it for the day, and they might have added the year to their deliberations without being nearer the truth. The roll of the Pandours had been called over. None were missing exceptthe two captains; and certainly the two conspirators, though in the Pandour uniform, were not of the number.
More perplexity still. The imperial horse-guards returned in the evening terribly offended by a day’s gallop through the vulgarity of the Hungarian thickets, but suffering no other loss than of a few plumes and tassels, if we except one, of pretty nearly the same kind, Prince Charles of Buntzlau. The Prince had been tempted to spur his charger through a thicket. He led the way in pursuit of the invisible enemy; he never came back. His whole regiment galloped after him in all directions. They might as well have hunted a mole; he must have gone under ground—but where, was beyond the brains of his brilliantly dressed troopers. He wasun prince perdu.
Leopold was indignant at this frolic, for as such he must conceive it; and ordered one of his aides-de-camp to wait at the quarters of the corps, until the future bridegroom grew weary of his wild-goose chase, and acquaint him that the next morning was appointed for his marriage. But he returned not.
Next morning there was another fund of indignation prepared for the astonished Emperor. The bride was as undiscoverable as the bridegroom. The palace of the Princess de Marosin had been entered in the night; but her attendants could tell no more than that they found her chamber doorsopen, and their incomparable tenant flown, like a bird from its gilded cage. All search was made, and made in vain. The Prince returned after a week’s detention by robbers in a cave. He was ill received. Leopold, astonished and embarrassed, conscious that he was treading on a soil of rebellion, and vexed by his personal disappointments, broke up his court, and rapidly set out for the hereditary dominions.
He had subsequently serious affairs to think of. The French interest in Turkey roused the Ottoman to a war. Orders were given for a general levy through the provinces, and the Emperor himself commenced a tour of inspection of the frontier lying towards Roumelia. In the Croatian levy, he was struck peculiarly with the Count Corneglio Bancaleone, Colonel of a corps of Pandours, eminent for beauty of countenance and dignity of form; for activity in the manœuvres of his active regiment, and one of the most popular of the nobles of Croatia. The Emperor expressed himself so highly gratified with the Count’s conduct, that, as a mark of honour, he proposed to take up his quarters in the palace. The Count bowed; reluctance was out of the question. The Emperor came, and was received with becoming hospitality; but where was the lady of the mansion? She was unfortunately indisposed. The Emperor expressed his regret, and the apology was accepted; but in the evening, while, after aday of reviews and riding through the Croatian hills, he was enjoying the lovely view of the sun going down over the Adriatic, and sat at a window covered with fruits and flowers, impearled with the dew of a southern twilight, a Hungarian song struck his ear, that had been a peculiar favourite of his two years before, during his stay in Presburg. He inquired of the Count who was the singer. Bancaleone’s confusion was visible. In a few moments the door suddenly opened, and two beautiful infants, who had strayed away from their attendants, rambled into the room. The Count in vain attempted to lead them out. His imperial guest was delighted with them, and begged that they might be allowed to stay.
The eldest child, to pay his tribute to the successful advocate on the occasion, repeated the Hungarian song. “Who had taught him?” “His mother, who was a Hungarian.” Bancaleone rose in evident embarrassment, left the room, and shortly returned leading that mother. She fell at the Emperor’s feet. She was the Princess of Marosin, lovelier than ever; with the glow of the mountain air on her cheek, and her countenance lighted up with health, animation, and expressive beauty. Leopold threw his arms round his lovely relative, and exhibited the highest gratification in finding her again, and finding her so happy.
But sudden reflections covered the imperial browwith gloom. The mysterious deaths, the conspiracies, the sanguinary violences of Presburg, rose in his mind, and he felt the painful necessity of explanation.
Bancaleone had left the room; but an attendant opened the door, saying that a Pandour had brought a despatch for his Majesty. The Pandour entered, carrying a portefeuille in his hand. The Emperor immediately recognised him, as having often attracted his notice on parade, by his activity on horseback and his handsome figure. After a fewtours d’addresse, which showed his skill in disguise, the Count threw off the Pandour, and explained the mystifications of Presburg.
“I had been long attached,” said he, “to the Princess of Marosin, before your Majesty had expressed your wishes in favour of the alliance of Prince Charles of Buntzlau. I immediately formed the presumptuous determination of thwarting the Prince’s objects. I entered, by the favour of my old friend, Colonel von Herbert, as a private in his Pandours, and was thus on the spot to attend to my rival’s movements. The Pandours are, as your Majesty knows, great wanderers through the woods, and one of them, by some means or other, had found, or perhaps robbed, a part of the Turkish courier’s despatches. These despatches he showed to a comrade, who showed them to me; they were of importance, for they developed a plot which theTurks were concerting with some profligate nobles of Presburg, to carry off your Majesty into the Turkish dominions, a plot which waited only for the arrival of the Turkish envoy. I got leave of absence, joined some of the rabble of gipsies who tell fortunes, and rob when they have no fortunes to tell. We met the Turk, a mêlée ensued, he was unfortunately killed; but I secured the despatches. The Turk deserved his fate as a conspirator. His papers contained the names of twenty Magnates, all purchased by Turkish gold. The Magnates were perplexed by his death. They now waited for the arrival of a Romish priest, who was to manage the ecclesiastical part of your Majesty’s murder. I went into the woods again, caught the Cardinal alive on his march, put him into the hands of the gypsies, who, feeling no homage for his vocation, put him on a sanative and antipolitical regimen of bread and water for a fortnight, and then dismissed him over the frontier. On the day of the coronation, your Majesty was to have died by the hands of Colvellino. I volunteered the office. Colvellino followed me, to keep me to my duty. I plucked your robe to put you on your guard; saw the Grand Chamberlain’s dagger drawn to repay me for my officiousness, and in self-defence was forced to use my own. He was a traitor, and he died only too honourable a death.”
“But the magic that changed the Pandour captainsinto Palatines? That Speranski too, who had the impudence to lecture me in my bonds?” asked the Emperor, with a smile.
“All was perfectly simple,” said the Count; “the two captains were invited to a supper in the palace, which soon disqualified them for taking your Majesty’s guard. Their uniforms were then given to two of the Palatines, who undertook to carry off your Majesty, or kill you in case of resistance. But no man can work without instruments. One of the gypsies, who was to have acted as postilion on the occasion, sold his employment for that night to another, who sold his secret to me. I remained in the next chamber to your Majesty’s during the night. I had posted a dozen of the Pandours within call, in case of your being in actual danger. But my first purpose was to baffle the conspiracy without noise; however, the ruffians were more savage than I had thought them, and I was nearly too late. But two strokes of the sabre were enough, and the two Palatines finished their career as expeditiously at least as if they had died upon the scaffold. In this portefeuille are the Turk’s despatches, the Cardinal’s prayers, Colvellino’s plot, and the Magnate’s oaths.”
Leopold rose and took him by the hand. “Count, you shall be my aide-de-camp, and a general. You deserve every praise that can be given to skill and courage. But the watch, the pendule, the trap forthat prince of parroquets, Buntzlau?” said Leopold, bursting out into a laugh fatal to all etiquette.
“Your Majesty will excuse me,” said the Count; “these are a lady’s secrets, or the next to a lady’s, a man of fashion’s. Mystification all. Magic everywhere; and it is not over yet. The Vienna paper this morning met my astonished eye with a full account of the marriage of his Serene Highness of Buntzlau with the illustrious widow of the Count Lublin née Joblonsky. Capitally matched. He brings her his ringlets, she brings him her rouge. He enraptures her with the history of his loves; she can give him love for love at least. He will portion her with his debts, and she is as equal as any Countess in Christendom to return the politeness in kind.Vive le beau marriage!A coxcomb is the truecupidonfor a coquette all over the world.”
Jaqueline Triquet was the daughter of apropriétaire, or owner, of a very small farm, near a village in the Bourbonnois, the real name of which it might be dangerous to state, for reasons that will be apparent to such of our fair readers as may condescend patiently to toil through what is to follow. Let it therefore be called, after the patron saint of France, St Denis.
Jaqueline, our heroine, was about the middle height of her sex, but had the appearance of being somewhat shorter, in consequence of the rather masculine breadth of her frame and vigorous “development” of muscle. These were, however, great advantages to one compelled to live a life of labour, and to associate with persons of a class not particularly celebrated for delicacy of manners or feeling; and of these advantages Jaqueline evinced that she was perfectly aware, by frequently asserting that she was “not afraid of any man.”
Her other personal qualifications were a compact, round, good-humoured-looking countenance, with two very bright black useful eyes, which had an odd way of trying to look at each other—a propensity that, if not over-violent, has been pronounced exceedingly attractive by many connoisseurs of beauty. But, alas! Jaqueline was no beauty, whatever she might have been in early youth; for that dreadful enemy of fair faces, the small-pox, had attacked her in his angry mood, and sadly disfigured every charm save that over which even he hath no power, the all-pleasing expression of good-humour. So that remained for Jaqueline; and not that alone. Not merely was the cheerful outward sign upon her homely sunburnt countenance, but the blessed reality was within; and there was not a merrier, more industrious, nor lighter-hearted lass in the wholecommune. Artless, simple, and kind to all, she was a general favourite; and with general favour she remained apparently quite content, till certain of her younger companions got married, and then she felt occasionally dull—she knew not why.
“It is not that I envy them, I am sure,” said she to herself in one of her musing fits; “no—I rejoice in their happiness. If Franchette had not married Jean Clement, I am sure I never should, even if he had asked me, which he never did. And then Jaques Roget, and Pierre Dupin, and Philippe Chamel—bless them all, and their wives too, I say!I wish them happy; I’m sure I do. I don’t envy them; I’m sure I don’t. And yet—yet—I can’t think what’s the matter with me!”
Poor Jaqueline’s was no very uncommon case. She was not in love with any particular person. Her heart was her own, and a good warm heart it was, and she felt conscious that it was well worth somebody’s winning; therefore it is no marvel that at last she breathed a secret wish that somebody would set about the task in earnest.
Such was the state of her feelings when her father, who was a widower, resolved to intrust her with the management of certain affairs in the way of business at Moulins, which he had hitherto always attended to personally.
“The change will do you good, my child,” said he; “and Madame Margot will be delighted to see you, if it were only for your poor dear mother’s sake, rest her soul! She always asks after you, and has invited me to bring you with me a thousand times. So you may be sure of a welcome from her. And Nicolas is a good lad too, and has managed the business admirably since his father’s death, though he is such a lively fellow that one could hardly expect it. He’llchaperonyou, and do theaimable, no doubt. So,vale! never fear. And if you find yourself happy with them, and Madame presses you to stay—why, it’s only August now, and I sha’n’t want you home till the vintage—sodo as you like, my good child; I can trust you.”
The journey to Moulins was little more than ten leagues; but travelling in the cross-roads of the Bourbonnois is a very rough and tedious affair. To Jaqueline it appeared the most important event in her life; and as she rode, in the cool of a Monday morning, upon her father’s nag, to a neighbouring farmer’s, about two leagues on her way, she felt half inclined to turn back, and request to be left at home in quiet, rather than go on to be mingled in scenes of gaiety, wherein something whispered to her that she was not likely to be very happy. But the congratulations of the said farmer’s daughters, who all declared how much they envied her, and how delighted they should be to be in her place, to which, perhaps, may be added the invigorating effects of a most unromantic, substantial breakfast, caused a marvellous change in her feelings, insomuch that she appeared the merriest of the party, as they walked afterward to the summit of a rising ground, from which her further progress on foot into the high-road might be clearly indicated. There, after receiving minute instructions, by attending to which she was assured that it was impossible she could mistake her way, she took leave of her friends, with the feeling that she was about to be launched into a new sort of world.
The sun shone brightly, the birds sang merrily,and ever and anon a passing breeze rustled cheerfully the foliage above and all around, as Jaqueline stepped lightly on, scarcely encumbered by her not very elegant nor ponderous bundle, containing much less than the fair sex usually require when going on a visit. But this lightness of wardrobe caused the not least agreeable of her anticipations, as her father had given her acarte blancheto supply its defects from themagasinsof Moulins, stipulating only that in her headgear there should be no deviation from the established costume of their ancestresses, who, from generation to generation, had worn, or rather carried, perched forward upon their caps, the small, boat-like, diminutive-crowned hat calledLa Fougère.
Now, whether she had been thinking too much about how her newfougèreshould be trimmed, or that the plain directions of her friends were too perplexingly minute to be borne clearly in memory, cannot be ascertained; but at a spot where a single footpath became double, she hesitated and looked round, and endeavoured to recollect. There was no one near to bias her choice; so she decided for herself, and took the left path, uttering the self-comforting ejaculation—“I am sure that this is the right.” Therefore she walked briskly on, till visited by unpleasant misgivings that her steps had deviated too far to the left; and then followed doubt upon doubt, fast walking, stopping, hesitation,and looking about, as usual in such cases, till it became too evident that she had contrived to do that which her kind friends pronounced to be impossible. She had lost her way.
Now, losing one’s way is far from agreeable, even to common, everyday people; but when such a misfortune occurs to heroines, it is a much more serious piece of business, inasmuch as their blundering always exercises an evil influence over the weather. No matter how fine and cloudless the day may have previously been, no sooner is a heroine bewildered, and, amid unknown tracks, compelled to “give it up” as a too-puzzling riddle, than all the elements combine to increase her perplexity. The thunders incontinently commence growling over her head, the vivid lightning flashes all around, the winds blow a hurricane, and down comes the rain like a cataract. The moral intended to be drawn from such often-repeated disasters probably is, that young ladies should be careful of their footsteps; for certainly the elements of society are not less pitiless to an erring female than are those of nature toward a lost heroine.
Jaqueline’s predicament was no exception to the general rule, which is not surprising, as the sudden and violent summer storms of the Bourbonnois are proverbial. However, before she was quite “wet through,” she had the heroine’s usual good-luck of finding shelter in the ruins of an old castle, to whichshe was guided by the welcome sight of a small wreath of smoke, ascending from a corner of the dilapidated building. After peeping cautiously from behind the open folding-shutter of an unglazed window, and ascertaining the sex of the lonely tenant, she ventured to enter, and was most kindly welcomed by an aged woman, whose bodily infirmities had in no degree affected the organs of speech. So Jaqueline soon had the consolation of learning how and where she had missed her way, and also of hearing many particulars of her hostess’s life, which need not be repeated here. The best of the affair, however, was, that the old body had both the means and the inclination to make her guest comfortable. There was plenty of dry wood piled up in the corner of the room, and it was not spared. The fire crackled and blazed cheerfully; and then she placed certain culinary earthen vessels upon and around it, and at the end of a string in the front suspended a fowl, over the roasting of which she sate down to watch and talk.
The rain still continued, and Jaqueline felt grateful; therefore, after some little necessary attention to her dress, she thought she could not do better than, as the phrase is, “make herself generally useful.” So she bustled about, and evinced a knowledge of themenageand thecuisinethat raised her greatly in the estimation of her entertainer.
The wing of a fowl, andune petite goutteof wine,in a tumbler of water, is the usual allowance for French heroines. How far Jaqueline surpassed them need not be told; but, by the time their dinner was ended, she and the ancient dame seemed quite upon the footing of old acquaintance.
“Ah!” continued the old woman (for she had talked continuously)—“Ah! I like you, my good girl. I’ve taken a fancy to you; and when I take a fancy to anybody, I can do something—hem!”
“You have been very kind to me,” said Jaqueline—“very kind; and you may depend upon it I shall not be ungrateful. You must come and pay me a visit in October, at the vintage, andthen——”
“You’ll be very glad to see me,” continued the old woman. “That’s what you mean to say, I know. Well, well, there’s time enough for that; but—now, now—tell me! Isn’t there anything that I can do for you now? Haven’t you some wish?”
“Only that you would be so good as to show me the way to the Cock and Bottle, in the high-road,” replied Jaqueline, to the apparent great amusement of the old crone, who cackled immoderately till a fit of coughing compelled her to take a few more sips of wine, of which Jaqueline began to suspect she had already taken quite enough.
“Excuse my laughing, my child,” said she at length—“but really your mistake was so diverting. I meant to talk of more serious things—of your prospects in life—of your wishes particularly. Youngpeople always have wishes. Ay! I see by that smile that you have. There—that’s understood—and now tell me what it is.”
Here followed a long confabulation, in which Jaqueline revealed all the particulars of her birth, parentage, and education; and eventually the old body wormed out of her the secret that she did really wish the other sex would pay her somewhat more marked attention.
“But can’t you name any particular one whom you should prefer?” was the next question; “if you can, don’t be afraid to tell me. No one else shall know it, and I’m sure I could manage it. What’s his name?”
Jaqueline replied that she felt no decided preference for any one, and added merrily, “Let them come and offer themselves—that’s all I wish. No matter how many of them. It will be time enough then for me to makemychoice.”
“Perhaps you might find that difficult if they were very numerous,” observed her hostess. “I remember, when I was about your age, there was—heigho! never mind! That’s all gone by, and so it’s of no use talking about it. Come, let us go out and look at the weather. Something tells me that you will not be able to go farther to-night. There’s another storm brewing, or I am much mistaken.” Jaqueline’s arm on the left, and a crutch-headed stick on the right, supported the old ladyas they walked round and about the ruins of the castle, every part of which she explained the former uses of, with an accuracy that might have satisfied the most curious inquirer, but which quite bewildered our heroine. What people could have wanted with so many differentsalons, galleries, and apartments, was to her quite a mystery, and she gazed upon the massive thickness of the walls with feelings approaching to reverence. Consequently, when they were driven in by the promised storm, she was precisely in the right state of mind to be strongly impressed by the awful long stories that her hostess had to relate of and concerning the former owners of the place. She told how the castle had been ransacked and set on fire at the Revolution, and how Monsieur le Comte de Montjeu and his family made their escape into foreign parts, and were not heard of till after the Restoration, when the young Comte Henri, whom she had nursed when an infant, suddenly made his appearance. Of him she spake in raptures. He had purchased the site of the ruins, and some land adjacent, and would doubtless some day restore all to its former splendour, as he held some very lucrative appointment at Paris. Moreover, she described him as a very handsome young man, though she feared that he was somewhat too much addicted to gallantry and gaiety. But then, she added, that was a family failing, and put her in mind ofsome passage in the life of his grandfather, which she immediately proceeded to relate; and so on, and on, and on continuously, as though reading from a book, went the old lady with her long tales; and Jaqueline listened, first with curiosity, then from complaisance (as it was evident that the narrator took pleasure in her own performance), and at length with a rather dim apprehension of what she heard. This may be accounted for, either by her not being able to sleep on the previous night, for thinking of her intended journey, or from the fatigue and exposure to sunshine and storm during the day, or by her hostess’s hospitable entertainment at dinner and supper (the latter meal forming an interlude between two of the long stories), or by the whole combined. But be the cause what it may, she nodded, as most folks would under similar circumstances, and then was suddenly aroused by missing the monotonous tones of her entertainer, to whom she apologised, and shook herself into an attentive attitude. The apology was graciously received, and Jaqueline’s drowsiness dispelled for a while by a legend about a spring, just at the bottom of the hill, the water of which was reported to have the power of causing young maidens, who drank thereof, to become wonderfully fascinating, and to attract lovers of every degree.
“You shall take a draught of it in the morning,ma bonne,” she said. “Don’t be afraid; you willhave your wish before you come back from Moulins, I’m pretty sure. If not, however, call upon me on your way back. However, take the water in the morning. Perhaps it mayn’t operate immediately, but perhaps it may; for I remember hearing of two young ladies who”—and off went the old lady into another long story about romantic lovers of high degree; and the result of all was, that Jaqueline went late to bed, with her head full of strange and multitudinous fancies.
“What a lovely morning it is!” thought Jaqueline. “How pure and delicious the water of this spring looks! As to what the old lady says about its wonderful qualities, I can’t believe that; but, however, I will taste it. There! oh, how cool and refreshing!”
Suddenly there was heard the sound of a horn at a short distance, and a moment after a hunting party came galloping toward the fountain. Jaqueline would have hid herself, but it was too late; and ere she had decided in what direction to make her escape, a young, handsome, elegantly dressed cavalier, who led the party, threw himself from his horse, and, respectfully approaching her, begged that she would not be alarmed.
“Thank ye!” said Jaqueline; “no, I an’t frightened; only I stopped just to see which way you was a-galloping, because I don’t want to be run over.”
“Charming creature!” exclaimed the cavalier, “do you suppose it possible that any human being would hurt a hair of your head?”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Jaqueline. “All as I can say is, that I don’t know any reason why they should; for I never did no harm to nobody as I know of.”
“Never, I am sure,” said the young man. “No; innocence and benevolence are too plainly expressed in every feature of that lovely countenance. May I crave to know by what happy chance you have been led to this sequestered spot?”
“I can’t see exactly as that’s any business of yours,” replied Jaqueline; “howsomever, if you must know, I’m going to the Cock and Bottle in the high-road, where I hope to find apatacheto take me to Moulins; so, as the good old dame is asleep, and I don’t like to wake her, if you or some of your people will direct me, I shall feel obliged to you: but I’ll thank you not to give me no more of your fine speeches, that’s all.”
“A miracle! She despises flattery!” exclaimed the enraptured youth, clasping his hands together; and then, without farther ceremony, he threw himself upon his knees, made a regular fervent offer ofhimself and fortune, declared himself to be the Comte Henri de Montjeu, and, seizing the hard hand of his inamorata, pressed it to his lips.
“Drat the man! He’s mad!” cried Jaqueline, attempting to extricate her hand; but, the moment after, finding that he did not bite it, she allowed it to remain where it was, and, heaving a sigh of compassion, said to herself, “What a pity! He is so very handsome!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Comte, “you sigh! You pity me, and pity is—Well, well. What more can I expect at present? I have been rash. I have alarmed you, I fear; but henceforth I will be calm,” and he got up and gave himself a violent slap on the forehead to prove his intention.
“Ah!” thought Jaqueline, “you may knock, but there’s nobody at home, I guess. Bless my heart! what a pity, so handsome as you are!”
“I will believe that by time and opportunity, and the most devoted attentions, I may at length hope to excite an interest in your heart?” said the Comte inquiringly, and again taking her hand.
“The best way is to humour him, I suppose,” thought Jaqueline, as she replied, “Very likely you may, for I can’t say but I’m sorry for you. Howsomever, you must mind and behave yourself.”
This encouragement exhilarated the Comte so powerfully, that, after uttering sundry brief rhapsodies, his lips approached so near her sunburntcheeks, that he seemed on the point of forgetting her injunctions concerning his behaviour, when she called him to order by the ejaculation of “Paws off!” on hearing which he bowed low, and retired to give certain instructions to his followers. These were executed with wonderful rapidity; for Jaqueline had barely time to tuck up and adjust her clothes for running, or, as she called it, “make a bolt,” when she found herself surrounded by the horsemen, one of whom, the ugliest of the lot, was mounted before a pillion, upon which the Comte begged he might have the honour of placing her. To this, after some demur, she submitted, because escape on foot now seemed impossible; but no sooner had she taken her seat, than she whispered in the ear of the man before her, “Your master’s mad, that’s clear. So contrive, if you can, to let us get away from him; and if you take me safe to the Cock and Bottle, I’ll not stand upon trifles, but make it worth your while. What d’ye say?”
“What do I say?” replied the man, in the same low tone, and looking round with a most hideous leer. “I say that I wouldn’t mind going all over the world for you, without fee or reward, except, perhaps”—(and he smacked his thick wide lips too significantly)—“for I’m blessed if you ain’t just about the nicest girl I ever clapped my eyes on.” And again he leered so frightfully, that Jaquelinewould have jumped down had she not been strapped to the pillion.
“The holy Virgin protect me,” she murmured; “what sort of folks have I got among?” and she looked round timidly, but could discern no cause for alarm, unless it were that the eyes of all the party seemed fixed upon her, and every countenance was expressive of deep admiration. This was certainly a sort of homage to which she had been unused, and probably, on that account, acted more strongly on her feelings; for she immediately decided that such handsome, agreeable faces could belong only to men utterly devoid of evil intentions. Having thus made up her mind, she rather enjoyed the first part of her ride, as they bounded along merrily across the country, and the Comte rode by her side, ever and anon making observations and complimentary speeches, to which she usually replied by hoping that they were in the right road to the Cock and Bottle.
“Soyez tranquille!” was his invariable answer to that question; and so they held on their way, till they arrived at a large house, into the courtyard of which he led the cavalcade, and then, dismounting from his horse, he informed her that she was at her journey’s end, and assisted her to alight at the principal entrance, which seemed to her more fit for a palace than an inn.
“You will please to take every care of this younglady, for my sake, my good Madame Rigaud,” said the Comte to an elderly female, who stood, with several livery servants, in the hall.
“This way, Mademoiselle,” said the said housekeeper, with a curtsy, and she led Jaqueline through divers passages and elegant apartments, at which she marvelled exceedingly, although she had heard strange stories of the magnificence of certain large hotels in Paris and elsewhere. But the splendour of the chamber into which she was at last ushered was quite overpowering, and she stood gazing at the profusion of rich velvet and silk surrounding her, till roused by Madame Rigaud’s request to be favoured with her commands.
“Bless your heart, my good madame!” exclaimed Jaqueline, “this is no place for me! I’m only a small farmer’s daughter. So just have the goodness to show me the way into the kitchen, and let me have a basin of soup and boulli, if there happens to be any, till the nextpatachecomes by for me to make a bargain to go to Moulins.”
Madame Rigaud replied, that no vehicles of that description ever passed the place; and an explanation followed, from which it appeared that Jaqueline was in the new chateau of the Comte, and some leagues farther from the Cock and Bottle than when she commenced her ride.
“How could he think of serving me such a trick?”she gasped, sinking into one of the velvet chairs, and all but sobbing. “He’s mad, isn’t he?”
“I should almost think he is,” said Madame Rigaud. “To be sure, there is no accounting for the tricks of young men, I know that pretty well; nor their fancies neither; butthisis soveryextraordinary!” and, looking down upon her charge, she elevated her hands and then her eyes, and shrugged her shoulders expressively.
“I’ll not stay here; I’m determined upon that!” exclaimed Jaqueline.
“That’s right, my dear,” said Madame Rigaud; and forthwith they concocted a plan of escape, which was to be carried into effect by the aid of Madame Rigaud’s son Philippe, who was in the Comte’s service; and in the meanwhile they retired to her private room to avoid observation; and there the said Philippe, a smart, active young man, presently made his appearance.
“It’s a burning shame,” he cried, when he had heard the story; “but I’ll see Ma’mselle safe to the Cock and Bottle, and to Moulins too, if she will allow me. So, mother, you must go directly to the stables, and tell Pierre to put the side-saddle on the strawberry mare, and let me have Volante. Nobody will suspect you; and, by the time you come back, the Comte’s breakfast will be served, and the footman will be engaged in waiting, and then Ma’mselle and I can slip off unnoticed. Courage!”and he laughed, and slapped his thigh right jovially. But the moment his mother had disappeared and closed the door, his demeanour was totally changed, and making a serious face, and putting his hand on his heart, he bent his body forward most obsequiously, and then went upon his knees before Jaqueline, and vowed after a very solemn fashion, that not only would he conduct her to Moulins, but that it would give him the greatest of all possible satisfaction to accompany her throughout the whole journey of life.
“Do you suppose I’m going to ride on horseback all my days?” inquired the bewildered maid; “no, no. All I want is to get safe to the Cock and Bottle. But you’d better get up, and not make such a fool of yourself; for don’t you see that the floor has been fresh ruddled, and you’ll stain yourbest——”
Here her speech was cut short, and the scene abruptly changed, by the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a remarkably fat, red-faced, profusely powdered, well-dressed man of “a certain age,” who, the moment he caught sight of Jaqueline, seemed fixed to the spot where he stood, with his eyes riveted upon her countenance. Whether he had observed Philippe’s position was doubtful, as that sprightly youth had jumped upon his feet at the first movement of the door, and stood sheepishly against the wall, twirling his thumbs;a task from which he was speedily relieved by the advance of the new-comer, who dismissed him from the room by a silent, authoritative wave of the hand.
“This must be the old Comte,” thought Jaqueline, rising and bobbing her best curtsy. “No wonder he is surprised to see the like of me here; but I’ll tell him all about it, and I daresay he’ll be glad enough to send me off to the Cock and Bottle, if it’s only to get rid of me.”
“Oh! I beg, I entreat, Mademoiselle,” gasped the unwieldy stranger; and as he spake he continued a series of short bows, ducking his red face as forward as he dare, without danger of destroying the equilibrium of his body. “Oh, Mademoiselle! Pray do not disturb yourself. It is a mistake, quite. Ah! Monsieur le Comte requests—oh, oh! Pray, be seated! Ugh! ugh! What can I say? What shall I do? I never was so perplexed in my life before. Oh! You will never forgive!”
“Yes, but I will, though,” said Jaqueline; “I’ll forgive all that’s past, if you will but get me out of the way of your son.”
“My son!” exclaimed the fat man; “Eh? How came Mademoiselle to know that I had a son? And he, the young rascal! has he dared to aspire so high? I could not have supposed him capable of such audacity!”
“Couldn’t you?” observed Jaqueline; “well,then, you ought to look after him better, and not let him go playing such precious tricks as he has with me this morning, deceiving me first by talking all sorts of nonsense, and then bumping me about the country on horseback, till I declare I’m quite uncomfortable.”
The eyes of the huge red face before her here became dilated to an extraordinary degree; but the mental perception of their owner appeared to be eclipsed, as he stood with puffed-out cheek discharging his breath violently through his pursed-up mouth, as though playing upon a trumpet.
“It’s no use being in a passion about it now,” continued Jaqueline; “what’s done can’t be helped; and if you’ll only see me safe to the Cock andBottle——”
“What, I!” exclaimed the stout gentleman; “may I venture to hope that you will condescend to accept of my humble services?”
“To be sure I will,” replied Jaqueline, “and thank you too. Why not?”
“Oh! this is too much happiness!” sighed the panting elderly beau, and forthwith, by the help of a chair, he lowered himself down upon his knees, and then attempted to seize the maiden’s hand; but she somewhat too nimbly moved her chair and self backward, and thereby caused him to fall forward on all-fours, in which position he was when Madame Rigaud suddenly re-entered, and exclaimed—“Ah!Monsieur Robert! what can be the matter?”
“I’m afraid the poor gentleman is taken suddenly ill,” replied Jaqueline.
“What presence of mind! what angelic—humph!” muttered the patient, looking up, and winking in a very odd way at the maiden.
Madame Rigaud declared that it was of no kind of use for them to try to lift him up, so she lifted up her voice, and presently the room was crowded; for Monsieur Robert was no less a personage than the house-steward, or maître-d’hotel, who had been sent by the Comte to desire Madame Rigaud to inform the young lady that breakfast was served, and her presence to grace that meal was most respectfully requested, and anxiously desired.
Of this invitation Jaqueline was not made aware until the apoplectic invalid had been placed upon a sofa, and contrived to catch hold of one of her hands, and pinch it sadly. “Ah! I’m quite well now!” he exclaimed, “it was only a momentary—ah! I don’t know what;” and, rising briskly, he ordered all present to leave the room, as he had something particular to say to the young lady. The domestics instantly withdrew; but Madame Rigaud remained, and whispered to Jaqueline that the horses would be ready in ten minutes, and then, in a louder tone, proposed that they should take breakfast together immediately.
At this proposition Monsieur Robert appeared much shocked, and spake incoherently about proper respect, and the Comte’s particular desire, and his own most perfect devotion to the service of Mademoiselle; to which she replied—“You may as well save your breath to cool your broth, old gentleman. I’ve had quite enough of the Comte’s tricks already this morning; and as for your services, they’re of no use to me.”
“Oh, cruel!” groaned Monsieur Robert. “Did you not just now accept them, and even condescend to request me to see you safe to some place?”
“Well, well, I don’t want you now,” said Jaqueline; “I’ve got an active young man, who will do a great deal better.”
“Oh! how cruelly capricious!” he sighed, and the great red face was turned upward as he clasped his hands imploringly, and he was striving, no doubt, to concoct something very pathetic, when the young Comte burst in upon them, and began, in no measured terms, to upbraid Madame Rigaud for her misconduct in allowing his distinguished visitor to occupy any other than the best apartments. He then apologised to Jaqueline, and taking her hand, and bowing respectfully, led her out of the room toward thesalle à manger, from whence issued certain savoury odours, which operated more powerfully upon the hungry maiden than could all the fine speeches he continued to utter. So, determinedto make a good breakfast, to strengthen her for her flight with Philippe, she allowed herself to be conducted into the elegant apartment, where she was received by the company with as much deference as though she had been a princess. The party consisted of half-a-dozen persons; and as there were no other ladies present, she was the great object of attention. The Comte gallantly pressed her to partake of certain delicacies at table; and, when she laconically expressed her approbation thereof, seemed quite in ecstasy. One gentleman complimented her upon patronising the dress of the country, and thereby evincing a purity of taste far superior to that of ladies who fancy nothing becoming unless brought from Paris. “Ah!” sighed another, “with such personal attractions, Mademoiselle has little need to trouble herself about fashions.”—“No,” said Jaqueline; “that’s the mantua-makers’ and milliners’ business, not mine; I never trouble my head about such things, not I.”—“What elevation of mind!” exclaimed the Comte.—“How infinitely above vulgar prejudices!” ejaculated one of his companions; and the rest expressed their admiration by the epithets “charming,” “admirable,” &c. &c. In short, everything she uttered was declared to be replete with wit or sentiment; and the result was, that by the time she had finished a very heartydéjeuné à la fourchette, she began to question whether she really might notpossess certain endowments for which she had never previously given herself credit, and had not quite decided, when the Comte contrived to draw her attention toward a window, and so have her to himself. He then, without loss of time, made her a regular offer of himself, his chateau, and his fortune; and Jaqueline replied with a sigh, “I don’t think I shall do for you, nor you for me; but, howsomever, I can’t say nothing more about it without asking my father.”
“I’ll ask him!” exclaimed the enraptured Comte; “I’ll ride over to him directly. I’ll bring him back to dinner. We have a priest in the chateau,” and he knelt and pressed her hand to his lips.
“Well, upon my word!” said Jaqueline, “some people fancy they’ve only to ask and have. Just as if my father would give me away like a bunch of grapes.”
“What an admirable simile!” exclaimed the Comte. “Yes, a bunch of grapes, sound, ripe, beautiful to the eye, exquisite in flavour, blooming, delicate to thetouch——”
“Better not try,” muttered Jaqueline, for, as he spake, he rose up and approached rather too near. “Paws off! as I told you before, or you’ll catch it presently,” and she pushed him away with a vigour seldom displayed by ladies of his own rank.
“This is too much!” exclaimed one of the party, rushing forward. “Monsieur le Comte, you forgetyourself strangely. No man can stand tamely by, and see such innocence and beauty annoyed. You must perceive that your attentions are unwelcome, and I insist upon it that you proceed no farther. Don’t be alarmed, Mademoiselle, I will protect you.”
“You insist!” cried the Comte, scowling fiercely. “It is you who forget yourself, Monsieur le Capitaine, when you dare to address such language to me.”
“Dare!” shouted the captain; “for this lady’s sake I would dare a thousand such miserables.”
“I think a walk into the open air may be of service to you,” observed the Comte, pointing significantly to the door.
“Good!” replied the captain, and after bowing respectfully to Jaqueline, he withdrew, and was almost immediately followed by the Comte and two more of the party, leaving only a dapper thin little gentleman dressed in black, who immediately strutted up to our heroine, and, laying his hand upon his left breast, began to hem and cough, and looked exceedingly perplexed and miserable. “What’s the matter withyou?” thought Jaqueline; “you look as if you had eaten something that had disagreed with you.”
“That benevolent glance has revived me!” exclaimed the small gentleman. “Ah, mademoiselle! I have struggled hard. The Comte is my patron. I would not be ungrateful; but—but—I am convincedthat a lady of your delicate perceptions, of your incomparable—Oh! what shall I say? I am a notary, and seldom want words—but on this occasion they seem to fail me. I mean to say that I am firmly convinced that neither my friend the Comte nor his boisterous comrades are fit or capable of—ahem! In short, a quiet life, with one who would do his utmost to secure your affections, to merit your esteem, and to promote your happiness,is——”
“Just the very thing I should like,” said Jaqueline; “but the question is, where to find him.”
“Behold him here!” exclaimed the notary, dropping on his knees. “Never before did this heart surrender to beauty. Hitherto my whole soul has been given to making money, without being very particular how, I must own; but now, all is changed! There is about you an irresistiblecharm——”
“Ah!” shrieked Jaqueline, “so there is! I see it all now! It’s all along of that water I drank this morning. Get out of the way, do!” and, rushing past him, she ran off to the room of Madame Rigaud, whom she earnestly entreated to introduce her to the priest of the family without loss of time. “I shall place myself under his protection,” said she.
“The resolution does you great credit,” observed Madame Rigaud. “He will attend you here immediately, I am sure; for he is an excellent man, and always delighted to do good.”
About five minutes after, as Jaqueline was standing alone before a mirror, endeavouring vainly to discover what change in her appearance had caused such a marvellous change in the manners of the men toward her, the door slowly opened, and a venerable grey-haired ecclesiastic stood gazing upon her in respectful silence.
“Ah! Father Dunstan!” she exclaimed joyously, “is that you? Oh! I am so rejoiced to see you! Don’t you know me?”
“Really, Mademoiselle,” said the holy man, nervously, “there must be some mistake. If I had ever had the honour of being introduced to you, I am sure I could not haveforgotten——”
“No, I can’t be mistaken,” observed Jaqueline, “only I’m grown a good deal since you left St Denis. Many a time you’ve dandled me on your knee; but I suppose I’m too heavy for that now; so come, sit down, and I’ll take a chair beside you, or perhaps I ought to go upon my knees, for it is a sort of confession that I’ve got to make, though really I didn’t think there could be any great harm in just drinking a little water. However, you’ll tell me what to do, I know; for you were always very kind and indulgent, though you used to thump me on the back, and laugh at me for romping, and say that I was too strong for a girl, and ought to have been a boy.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the bewildered priest.
“Perfectly true,mon bon père,” said our heroine. “Look at me again. There, I am your old play-fellow, Jaqueline Triquet.”
“Is it possible!” repeated the good man, elevating his hands and eyes in especial wonder.
Jaqueline then told her tale, and in conclusion, said, “And now, my good father, I place myself under your protection, and hope you will take me away from this place, and all the strange people about it. I’ll go anywhere with you; but had rather go to the Cock and Bottle, because there I shall be sure to find apatacheto take me to Moulins.”
“My dear child,” said the priest fervently, “I will go with thee; I will protect thee; but while I am preparing for our departure, thou must leave this room, where thou art liable to intrusions, and I will place thee in the charge of good Madame Rigaud.”
Jaqueline was accordingly removed to a more private apartment, where she awaited the priest’s summons in great uneasiness, as Madame Rigaud, who was not particularly taciturn, visited her from time to time with strange accounts of what had passed, and was then going on among the household, all in consequence of her untoward presence therein.
It seemed that the Comte had wounded his friend the Captain, and that, while he was so laudablyengaged, a footman, anxious to gaze upon the charms of the bewitching fair one, had peeped through the opening of the half-closed door of thesalon, and witnessed the scene between her and the amorous notary, the particulars of which he whispered to his master on his triumphant return. The Comte thereupon rushed furiously forward, and, discovering the luckless limb of the law still upon his knees, and apparently paralysed by Jaqueline’s abrupt retreat, without any ceremony bestowed upon him sundry hard names and one particularly ugly kick, by the latter of which the little gentleman was so thrown off his guard as to abandon the chance of a lucrative legal process, and to demand satisfaction instanter. It was given, and the Comte was wounded; and then the notary, feeling that his suit was in no degree advanced by this display of his prowess, and yet smarting under the mortification consequent upon our heroine’s style of receiving his addresses, most unadvisedly spake of her after the fashion of the fox in the fable, when he found that the grapes were above his reach. This produced certain sarcastic observations from another of the party, which led to a fresh encounter, that terminated by the legal functionary’s being disarmed with a violent sprain in his right wrist.