Chapter V.

I

Iwalked on at a leisurely pace; the heavy carriage was very near the top of the hill. In about three minutes’ time we met. There sat alone in the carriage a tall dark man, with a puffy white face, a heavy mustache, and stern cold eyes. He was smoking a cigar. I plucked my hat from my head and made as if to pass by.

“Who’s this?” he called out, stopping the carriage.

I began to recite my lesson in stumbling French.

“Why, what are you? Oh, you’re English! Then in Heaven’s name, speak English—not that gabble.” And then he repeated his order, “Speak English,” in English, and continued in that language, which he spoke with stiff formal correctness.

He heard my account of myself with unmoved face.

“Have you any writings—any testimonials?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” I stammered, addressing him in style I thought most natural to my assumed character.

“That’s a little curious, isn’t it? You become intoxicated everywhere, perhaps?”

“I’ve never been intoxicated in my life, my lord,” said I, humbly but firmly.

“Then you dispute the justice of your dismissal?”

“Yes, my lord.” I thought such protest due to my original.

He looked at me closely, smoking his cigar the while.

“You made love to the chambermaids?” he asked suddenly.

“No, my lord. One evening, my lord, it was very hot, and—and the wine, my lord—”

“Then you were intoxicated?”

I fumbled with my hat, praying that the fellow would move on.

“What servants are there?” he asked, pointing to the house.

“Four maids, my lord, and old Jean.”

Again he meditated; then he said sharply:

“Have you ever waited at table?”

We have all, I suppose, waited at table—in one sense. Perhaps that may save my remark from untruth.

“Now and then, my lord,” I answered, wondering what he would be at.

“I have guests arriving to-morrow,” he said. “My man comes with them, but the work will perhaps be too much for him. Are you willing to stay and help? I will pay you the same wages.”

I could have laughed in his face; but duty seemed to point to seriousness.

“I’m very sorry, my lord—” I began.

“What, have you got another place?”

“No, my lord; not exactly.”

“Then get up on the front seat. Or do you want your employers to say you are disobliging as well as drunken?”

“But the lady sent me—”

“You may leave that to me. Come, jump up! Don’t keep me waiting!”

Doubtfully I stood in the road, the duke glaring at me with impatient anger. Then he leaned forward and said:

“You are curiously reluctant, sir, to earn your living. I don’t understand it. I must make some inquiries about you.”

I detected suspicion dawning in his eyes. He was a great man; I did not know what hindrances he might not be able to put in the way of my disappearance. And what would happen if he made his inquiries? Inquiries might mean searching, and I carried a passport in the name of Gilbert Aycon.

Such share had prudence; the rest must be put down to the sudden impulse of amusement which seized me. It was but for a day or two! Then I could steal away. Meanwhile what would not the face of the duchess say, when I rode up on the front seat!

“I—I was afraid I should not give satisfaction,” I muttered.

“You probably won’t,” said he. “I take you from necessity, not choice, my friend. Up with you!”

And I got up beside the driver—not, luckily, the one who had brought Gustave de Berensac and myself the day before—and the carriage resumed its slow climb up the hill.

We stopped at the door. I jumped down and assisted my new master.

The door was shut. Nobody was to be seen; evidently we were not expected. The duke smiled sardonically, opened the door and walked in, I just behind. Suzanne was sweeping the floor. With one glance at the duke and myself, she sprang back, with a cry of most genuine surprise.

“Oh, you’re mighty surprised, aren’t you?” sneered the duke. “Old Jean didn’t scuttle away to tell you then? You keep a good watch, young woman. Your mistress’ orders, eh?”

Still Suzanne stared—and at me. The duke chuckled.

“Yes, he’s back again,” said he, “so you must make the best of it, my girl. Where’s the duchess?”

“In—in—in her sitting-room, M. le Duc.”

“‘In—in—in,’” he echoed mockingly. Then he stepped swiftly across the hall and flung the door suddenly open. I believe he thought that he really had surprised Jean’s slow aged scamper ahead of him.

“Silence for your life!” I had time to whisper to Suzanne; and then I followed him. There might be more “fun” to come.

The duchess was sitting with a book in her hand. I was half-hidden by the duke, and she did not see me. She looked up, smiled, yawned, and held out her hand.

“I hardly expected you, Armand,” said she. “I thought you were in Algeria.”

Anybody would have been annoyed; there is no doubt that the Duke of Saint-Maclou was very much annoyed.

“You don’t seem overjoyed at the surprise,” said he gruffly.

“You are always surprising me,” she answered, lifting her eyebrows.

Suddenly he turned round, saying “Sampson!” and then turned to her, adding:

“Here’s another old friend for you.” And he seized me by the shoulder and pulled me into the room.

The duchess sprang to her feet, crying out in startled tones, “Back?”

I kept my eyes glued to the floor, wondering what would happen next, thinking that it would be, likely enough, a personal conflict with my master.

“Yes, back,” said he. “I am sorry, madame, if it is not your pleasure, for it chances to be mine.”

His sneer gave the duchess a moment’s time. I felt her regarding me, and I looked up cautiously. The duke still stood half a pace in front of me, and the message of my glance sped past him unperceived.

Then came what I had looked for—the gradual dawning of the position on the duchess, and the reflection of that dawning light in those wonderful eyes of hers. She clasped her hands, and drew in her breath in a long “Oh!” It spoke utter amusement and delight. What would the duke make of it? He did not know what to make of it, and glared at her in angry bewilderment. Her quick wit saw the blunder she had been betrayed into. She said “Oh!” again, but this time it expressed nothing except a sense of insult and indignation.

“What’s that man here for?” she asked.

“Because I have engaged him to assist my household.”

“I had dismissed him,” she said haughtily.

“I must beg you to postpone the execution of your decree,” said he. “I have need of a servant, and I have no time to find another.”

“What need is there of another? Is not Lafleur here?” (She was playing her part well now.)

“Lafleur comes to-morrow; but he will not be enough.”

“Not enough—for you and me?”

“Our party will be larger to-morrow.”

“More surprises?” she asked, sinking back into her chair.

“If it be a surprise that I should invite my friends to my house,” he retorted.

“And that you should not consult your wife,” she said, with a smile.

He turned to me, bethinking himself, I suppose, that the conversation was not best suited for the ears of the groom.

“Go and join your fellow-servants; and see that you behave yourself this time.”

I bowed and was about to withdraw, when the duchess motioned me to stop. For an instant her eyes rested on mine. Then she said, in gentle tones:

“I am glad, Sampson, that the duke thinks it safe to give you an opportunity of retrieving your character.”

“That for his character!” said the duke, snapping his fingers. “I want him to help when Mme. and Mlle. Delhasse are here.”

On the words the duchess went red in the face, and then white, and sprang up, declaring aloud in resolute, angry tones, that witnessed the depth of her feelings in the matter:

“I will not receive Mlle. Delhasse!”

I was glad I had not missed that: it was a new aspect of my little friend the duchess. Alas, my pleasure was short-lived! for the duke, his face full of passion, pointed to the door, saying “Go!” and, cursing his regard for the dignity of the family, I went.

In the hall I paused. At first I saw nobody. Presently a rosy, beaming face peered at me over the baluster halfway up the stairs, and Suzanne stole cautiously down, her finger on her lips.

“But what does it mean, sir?” she whispered.

“It means,” said I, “that the duke takes me for the dismissed groom—and has re-engaged me.”

“And you’ve come?” she cried softly, clasping her hands in amazement.

“Doesn’t it appear so?”

“And you’re going to stay, sir?”

“Ah, that’s another matter. But—for the moment, yes.”

“As a servant?”

“Why not—in such good company?”

“Does madame know?”

“Yes, she knows, Suzanne. Come, show me the way to my quarters; and no more ‘sir’ just now.”

We were standing by the stairs. I looked up and saw the other girls clustered on the landing above us.

“Go and tell them,” I said. “Warn them to show no surprise. Then come back and show me the way.”

Suzanne, her mirth half-startled out of her but yet asserting its existence in dimples round her mouth, went on her errand. I leaned against the lowest baluster and waited.

Suddenly the door of the duchess’ room was flung open and she came out. She stood for an instant on the threshold. She turned toward the interior of the room and she stamped her foot on the parqueted floor.

“No—no—no!” she said passionately, and flung the door close behind her, to the accompaniment of a harsh, scornful laugh.

Involuntarily I sprang forward to meet her. But she was better on her guard than I.

“Not now,” she whispered, “but I must see you soon—this evening—after dinner. Suzanne will arrange it. You must help me, Mr. Aycon; I’m in trouble.”

“With all my power!” I whispered, and with a glance of thanks she sped upstairs. I saw her stop and speak to the group of girls, talking to them in an eager whisper. Then, followed by two of them, she pursued her way upstairs.

Suzanne came down and approached me, saying simply, “Come,” and led the way toward the servants’ quarters. I followed her, smiling; I was about to make acquaintance with a new side of life.

Yet at the same time I was wondering who Mlle. Delhasse might chance to be: the name seemed familiar to me, and yet for the moment I could not trace it. And then I slapped my thigh in the impulse of my discovery.

“By Jove, Marie Delhasse the singer!” cried I, in English.

“Sir, sir, for Heaven’s sake be quiet!” whispered Suzanne.

“You are perfectly right,” said I, with a nod of approbation.

“And this is the pantry,” said Suzanne, for all the world as though nothing had happened. “And in that cupboard you will find Sampson’s livery.”

“Is it a pretty one?” I asked.

“You, sir, will look well in it,” said she, with that delicate evasive flattery that I love. “Would not you, sir, look well in anything?” she meant.

And while I changed my traveling suit for the livery, I remembered more about Marie Delhasse, and, among other things, that the Duke of Saint-Maclou was rumored to be her most persistent admirer. Some said that she favored him; others denied it with more or less conviction and indignation. But, whatever might chance to be the truth about that, it was plain that the duchess had something to say for herself when she declined to receive the lady. Her refusal was no idle freak, but a fixed determination, to which she would probably adhere. And, in fact, adhere to it she did, even under some considerable changes of circumstance.

Return to Table of Contents

T

The arrival of the duke, aided perhaps by his bearing toward his wife and toward me, had a somewhat curious effect on me. I will not say that I felt at liberty to fall in love with the duchess; but I felt the chain of honor, which had hitherto bound me from taking any advantage of her indiscretion, growing weaker; and I also perceived the possibility of my inclinations beginning to strain on the weakened chain. On this account, among others, I resolved, as I sat in the pantry drinking a glass of wine with which Suzanne kindly provided me, that my sojourn in the duke’s household should be of the shortest. Moreover, I was not amused; I was not a real groom; the maids treated me with greater distance and deference than before; I lost the entertainment of upstairs, and did not gain the interest of downstairs. The absurd position must be ended. I would hear what the duchess wanted of me; then I would go, leaving Lafleur to grapple with his increased labors as best he could. True, I should miss Marie Delhasse. Well, young men are foolish.

“Perhaps,” said I to myself with a sigh, “it’s just as well.”

I did not wait at table that night; the duchess was shut up in her own apartment: the duke took nothing but an omelette and a cup of coffee; these finished, he summoned Suzanne and her assistants to attend him on the bedroom floor, and I heard him giving directions for the lodging of the expected guests. Apparently they were to be received, although the duchess would not receive them. Not knowing what to make of that situation, I walked out into the garden and lit my pipe; I had clung to that in spite of my change of raiment.

Presently Suzanne looked out. A call from the duke proclaimed that she had stolen a moment. She nodded, pointed to the narrow gravel path which led into the shrubbery, and hastily withdrew. I understood, and strolled carelessly along the path till I reached the shrubbery. There another little path, running nearly at right angles to that by which I had come, opened before me. I strolled some little way along, and finding myself entirely hidden from the house by the intervening trees, I sat down on a rude wooden bench to wait patiently till I should be wanted. For the duchess I should have had to wait some time, but for company I did not wait long; after about ten minutes I perceived a small, spare, dark-complexioned man coming along the path toward me and toward the house. He must have made a short cut from the road, escaping the winding of the carriage-way. He wore decent but rather shabby clothes, and carried a small valise in his hand. Stopping opposite to me, he raised his hat and seemed to scan my neat blue brass-buttoned coat and white cords with interest.

“You belong to the household of the duke, sir?” he asked, with a polite lift of his hat.

I explained that I did—for the moment.

“Then you think of leaving, sir?”

“I do,” I said, “as soon as I can; I am only engaged for the time.”

“You do not happen to know, sir, if the duke requires a well-qualified indoor servant? I should be most grateful if you would present me to him. I heard in Paris that a servant had left him; but he started so suddenly that I could not get access to him, and I have followed him here.”

“It’s exactly what he does want, I believe, sir,” said I. “If I were you, I would go to the house and obtain entrance. The duke expects guests to-morrow.”

“But yourself, sir? Are not your services sufficient for the present?”

“As you perceive,” said I, indicating my attire, “I am not an indoor servant. I am but a makeshift in that capacity.”

He smiled a polite remonstrance at my modesty, adding:

“You think, then, I might have a chance?”

“An excellent one, I believe. Turn to the left, there by the chestnut tree, and you will find yourself within a minute’s walk of the front door.”

He bowed, raised his hat, and trotted off, moving with a quick, shuffling, short-stepping gait. I lit another pipe and yawned. I hoped the duke would engage this newcomer and let me go about my business; and I fancied that he would, for the fellow looked dapper, sharp, and handy. And the duchess? I was so disturbed to find myself disturbed at the thought of the duchess that I exclaimed:

“By Jove, I’d better go! By Jove, I had!”

A wishing-cap, or rather a hoping-cap—for if a man who is no philosopher may have an opinion, we do not always wish and hope for the same thing—could have done no more for me than the chance of Fate; for at the moment the duke’s voice called “Sampson!” loudly from the house. I ran in obedience to his summons. He stood in the porch with the little stranger by him; and the stranger wore a deferential, but extremely well-satisfied smile.

“Here, you,” said the duke to me, “you can make yourself scarce as soon as you like. I’ve got a better servant, aye, and a sober one. There’s ten francs for you. Now be off!”

I felt it incumbent on me to appear a little aggrieved:

“Am I to go to-night?” I asked. “Where can I get to to-night, my lord?”

“What’s that to me? I dare say if you stand old Jean a franc, he’ll give you a lift to the nearest inn. Tell him he may take a farm-horse.”

Really the duke was treating me with quite as much civility as I have seen many of my friends extend to their servants. I had nothing to complain of. I bowed, and was about to turn away, when the duchess appeared in the porch.

“What is it, Armand?” she asked. “You are sending Sampson away after all?”

“I could not deny your request,” said he in mockery. “Moreover, I have found a better servant.”

The stranger almost swept the ground in obeisance before the lady of the house.

“You are very changeable,” said the duchess.

I saw vexation in her face.

“My dearest, your sex cannot have a monopoly of change. I change a bad servant—as you yourself think him—for a good one. Is that remarkable?”

The duchess said not another word, but turned into the house and disappeared. The duke followed her. The stranger, with a bow to me, followed him. I was left alone.

“Certainly I am not wanted,” said I to myself; and, having arrived at this conclusion, I sought out old Jean. The old fellow was only too ready to drive me to Avranches or anywhere else for five francs, and was soon busy putting his horse in the shafts. I sought out Suzanne, got her to smuggle my luggage downstairs, gave her a parting present, took off my livery and put on the groom’s old suit, and was ready to leave the house of M. de Saint-Maclou.

At nine o’clock my short servitude ended. As soon as a bend in the road hid us from the house I opened my portmanteau, got out my own clothes, and,sub æthere, changed my raiment, putting on a quiet suit of blue, and presenting George Sampson’s rather obtrusive garments (which I took the liberty of regarding as a perquisite) to Jean, who received them gladly. I felt at once a different being—so true it is that the tailor makes the man.

“You are well out of that,” grunted old Jean. “If he’d discovered you, he’d have had you out and shot you!”

“He is a good shot?”

“Mon Dieu!” said Jean with an expressiveness which was a little disquieting; for it was on the cards that the duke might still find me out. And I was not a practiced shot—not at my fellow-men, I mean. Suddenly I leaped up.

“Good Heavens!” I cried. “I forgot! The duchess wanted me. Stop, stop!”

With a jerk Jean pulled up his horse, and gazed at me.

“You can’t go back like that,” he said, with a grin. “You’ll have to put on these clothes again,” and he pointed to the discarded suit.

“I very nearly forgot the duchess,” said I. To tell the truth, I was at first rather proud of my forgetfulness; it argued a complete triumph over that unruly impulse at which I have hinted. But it also smote me with remorse. I leaped to the ground.

“You must wait while I run back.”

“He will shoot you after all,” grinned Jean.

“The devil take him!” said I, picturing the poor duchess utterly forsaken—at the mercy of Delhasses, husband, and what not.

I declare, as my deliberate opinion, that there is nothing more dangerous than for a man almost to forget a lady who has shown him favor. If he can quite forget her—and will be so unromantic—why, let him, and perhaps small harm done. But almost—That leaves him at the mercy of every generous self-reproach. He is ready to do anything to prove that she was every second in his memory.

I began to retrace my steps toward thechâteau.

“I shall get the sack over this!” called Jean.

“You shall come to no harm by that, if you do,” I assured him.

But hardly had I—my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender remorse—started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim figure ran down from the bank by the roadside. It was the duchess. The short cut had served her. She was hardly out of breath this time; and she appeared composed and in good spirits.

“I thought for a moment you’d forgotten me, but I knew you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Aycon.”

Could I resist such trust?

“Forget you, madame?” I cried. “I would as soon forget—”

“So I knew you’d wait for me.”

“Here I am, waiting faithfully,” said I.

“That’s right,” said the duchess. “Take this, please, Mr. Aycon.”

“This” was a small handbag. She gave it to me, and began to walk toward the cart, where Jean was placidly smoking a long black cheroot.

“You wished to speak to me?” I suggested, as I walked by her.

“I can do it,” said the duchess, reaching the cart, “as we go along.”

Even Jean took his cheroot from his lips. I jumped back two paces.

“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed, “As we go along, did you say?”

“It will be better,” said the duchess, getting into the cart (unassisted by me, I am sorry to say). “Because he may find out I’m gone, and come after us, you know.”

Nothing seemed more likely; I was bound to admit that.

“Get in, Mr. Aycon,” continued the duchess. And then she suddenly began to talk English. “I told him I shouldn’t stay in the house if Mlle. Delhasse came. He didn’t believe me; well, he’ll see now. I couldn’t stay, could I? Why don’t you get in?”

Half dazed, I got in. I offered no opinion on the question of Mlle. Delhasse: to begin with, I knew very little about it; in the second place there seemed to me to be a more pressing question.

“Quick, Jean!” said the duchess.

And we lumbered on at a trot, Jean twisting his cheroot round and round, and grunting now and again. The old man’s face said, plain as words.

“Yes, I shall get the sack; and you’ll be shot!”

I found my tongue.

“Was this what you wanted me for?” I asked.

“Of course,” said the duchess, speaking French again.

“But you can’t come with me!” I cried in unfeigned horror.

The duchess looked up; she fixed her eyes on me for a moment; her eyes grew round, her brows lifted. Then her lips curved: she blushed very red; and she burst into the merriest fit of laughter.

“Oh, dear!” laughed the duchess. “Oh, what fun, Mr. Aycon!”

“It seems to me rather a serious matter,” I ventured to observe. “Leaving out all question of—of what’s correct, you know” (I became very apologetic at this point), “it’s just a little risky, isn’t it?”

Jean evidently thought so; he nodded solemnly over his cheroot.

The duchess still laughed; indeed, she was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

“What an opinion to have of me!” she gasped at last. “I’m not coming with you, Mr. Aycon.”

I dare say my face showed relief: I don’t know that I need be ashamed of that. My change of expression, however, set the duchess a-laughing again.

“I never saw a man look so glad,” said she gayly. Yet somewhere, lurking in the recesses of her tone—or was it of her eyes?—there was a little reproach, a little challenge. And suddenly I felt less glad: a change of feeling which I do not seek to defend.

“Then where are you going?” I asked in much curiosity.

“I am going,” said the duchess, assuming in a moment a most serious air, “into religious retirement for a few days.”

“Religious retirement?” I echoed in surprise.

“Are you thinking it’s not mymétier?” she asked, her eyes gleaming again.

“But where?” I cried.

“Why, there, to be sure.” And she pointed to where the square white convent stood on the edge of the bay, under the hill of Avranches. “There, at the convent. The Mother Superior is my friend, and will protect me.”

The duchess spoke as though the guillotine were being prepared for her. I sat silent. The situation was becoming rather too complicated for my understanding. Unfortunately, however, it was to become more complicated still; for the duchess, turning to the English tongue again, laid a hand on my arm and said in her most coaxing tones:

“And you, my dear Mr. Aycon, are going to stay a few days in Avranches.”

“Not an hour!” would have expressed the resolve of my intellect. But we are not all intellect; and what I actually said was:

“What for?”

“In case,” said the duchess, “I want you, Mr. Aycon.”

“I will stay,” said I, nodding, “just a few days at Avranches.”

We were within half a mile of that town. The convent gleamed white in the moonlight about three hundred yards to the left. The duchess took her little bag, jumped lightly down, kissed her hand to me, and walked off.

Jean had made no comment at all—the duchess’ household was hard to surprise. I could make none. And we drove in silence into Avranches.

When there before with Gustave, I had put up at a small inn at the foot of the hill. Now I drove up to the summit and stopped before the principal hotel. A waiter ran out, cast a curious glance at my conveyance, and lifted my luggage down.

“Let me know if you get into any trouble for being late,” said I to Jean, giving him another five francs.

He nodded and drove off, still chewing the stump of his cheroot.

“Can I have a room?” I asked, turning to the waiter.

“Certainly, sir,” said he, catching up my bag in his hand.

“I am just come,” said I, “from Mont St. Michel.”

A curious expression spread over the waiter’s face. I fancy he knew old Jean and the cart by sight; but he spread out his hands and smiled.

“Monsieur,” said he with the incomparable courtesy of the French nation, “has come from wherever monsieur pleases.”

“That,” said I, giving him a trifle, “is an excellent understanding.”

Then I walked into thesalle-à-manger, and almost into the arms of an extraordinarily handsome girl who was standing just inside the door.

“This is really an eventful day,” I thought to myself.

Return to Table of Contents

O

Occurrences such as this induce in a man of imagination a sense of sudden shy intimacy. The physical encounter seems to typify and foreshadow some intermingling of destiny. This occurs with peculiar force when the lady is as beautiful as was the girl I saw before me.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said I, with a whirl of my hat.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lady, with an inclination of her head.

“One is so careless in entering rooms hurriedly,” I observed.

“Oh, but it is stupid to stand just by the door!” insisted the lady.

Conscious that she was scanning my appearance, I could but return the compliment. She was very tall, almost as tall as I was myself; you would choose to call her stately, rather than slender. She was very fair, with large lazy blue eyes and a lazy smile to match. In all respects she was the greatest contrast to the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.

“You were about to pass out?” said I, holding the door.

She bowed; but at the moment another lady—elderly, rather stout, and, to speak it plainly, of homely and unattractive aspect—whom I had not hitherto perceived, called from a table at the other end of the room where she was sitting:

“We ought to start early to-morrow.”

The younger lady turned her head slowly toward the speaker.

“My dear mother,” said she, “I never start early. Besides, this town is interesting—the landlord says so.”

“But he wishes us to arrive fordéjeuner.”

“We will take it here. Perhaps we will drive over in the afternoon—perhaps the next day.”

And the young lady gazed at her mother with an air of indifference—or rather it seemed to me strangely like one of aversion and defiance.

“My dear!” cried the elder in consternation. “My dearest Marie!”

“It is just as I thought,” said I to myself complacently.

Marie Delhasse—for beyond doubt it was she—walked slowly across the room and sat down by her mother. I took a table nearer the door; the waiter appeared, and I ordered a light supper. Marie poured out a glass of wine from a bottle on the table; apparently they had been supping. They began to converse together in low tones. My repast arriving, I fell to. A few moments later, I heard Marie say, in her composed indolent tones:

“I’m not sure I shall go at all.Entre nous, he bores me.”

I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse. Consternation was writ large on her face, and suspicion besides. She gave her daughter a quick sidelong glance, and a frown gathered on her brow. So far as I heard, however, she attempted no remonstrance. She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made for the door. I sprang up and opened it; she walked out. Marie drew a chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet—for the summer night had turned chilly. I finished my supper. The clock struck half-past eleven. I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my programme.

Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round.

“You must not,” said she, “let me prevent you having your cigarette. I should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can’t sleep so early, and upstairs the fire is not lighted.”

I thanked her and approached the fire. She was gazing into it meditatively. Presently she looked up.

“Smoke, sir,” she said imperiously but languidly.

I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty.

“You have passed the day here?” she asked, gazing again into the fire.

“In this neighborhood,” said I, with discreet vagueness.

“You have been able to pass the time?”

“Oh, certainly!” That had not been my difficulty.

“There is, of course,” she said wearily, “Mont St. Michel. But can you imagine anyone living in such a country?”

“Unless Fate set one here—” I began.

“I suppose that’s it,” she interrupted.

“You are going to make a stay here?”

“I am,” she answered slowly, “on my way to—I don’t know where.”

I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real.

With another upward glance, she said:

“My name is Marie Delhasse.”

“It is a well-known name,” said I with a bow.

“You have heard of me?”

“Yes.”

“What?” she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.

“That you are a great singer,” I answered simply.

“Ah, I’m not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe. What about me?”

Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.

“Nothing,” said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a question. She glanced at me for an instant. I threw my eyes up to the ceiling.

“It is false!” she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her composure.

The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long silence. The last act of the day’s comedy seemed set for a more serious scene.

“Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?” I said at last, giving utterance to the thought that puzzled me.

“Whom should I ask? And I like your face—no, not because it is handsome. You are English, sir?”

“Yes, I am English. My name is Gilbert Aycon.”

“Aycon—Aycon! It is a little difficult to say it as you say it.”

Her thoughts claimed her again. I threw my cigarette into the fire, and stood waiting her pleasure. But she seemed to have no more to say, for she rose from the seat and held out her hand to me.

“Will you ‘shake hands?’” she said, the last two words in English; and she smiled again.

I hastened to do as she asked me, and she moved toward the door.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you to-morrow morning.”

“I shall be here.” Then I added: “I could not help hearing you talk of moving elsewhere.”

She stood still in the middle of the room; she opened her lips to speak, shut them again, and ended by saying nothing more than:

“Yes, we talked of it. My mother wishes it. Good-night, Mr. Aycon.”

I bade her good-night, and she passed slowly through the door, which I closed behind her. I turned again to the fire, saying:

“What would the duchess think of that?”

I did not even know what I thought of it myself; of one thing only I felt sure—-that what I had heard of Marie Delhasse was not all that there was to learn about her.

I was lodged in a large room on the third floor, and when I awoke the bright sun beamed on the convent where, as I presume, Mme. de Saint-Maclou lay, and on the great Mount beyond it in the distance. I have never risen with a more lively sense of unknown possibilities in the day before me. These two women who had suddenly crossed my path, and their relations to the pale puffy-cheeked man at the littlechâteau, might well produce results more startling than had seemed to be offered even by such a freak as the original expedition undertaken by Gustave de Berensac and me. And now Gustave had fallen away and I was left to face the thing alone. For face it I must. My promise to the duchess bound me: had it not I doubt whether I should have gone; for my interest was not only in the duchess.

I had my coffee upstairs, and then, putting on my hat, went down for a stroll. So long as the duke did not come to Avranches, I could show my face boldly—and was not he busy preparing for his guests? I crossed the threshold of the hotel.

Just at the entrance stood Marie Delhasse; opposite her was a thickset fellow, neatly dressed and wearing mutton-chop whiskers. As I came out I raised my hat. The man appeared not to notice me, though his eyes fell on me for a moment. I passed quickly by—in fact, as quickly as I could—for it struck me at once that this man must be Lafleur, and I did not want him to give the duke a description of the unknown gentleman who was staying at Avranches. Yet, as I went, I had time to hear Marie’s slow musical voice say:

“I’m not coming at all to-day.”

I was very glad of it, and pursued my round of the town with a lighter heart. Presently, after half an hour’s walk, I found myself opposite the church, and thus nearly back at the hotel: and in front of the church stood Marie Delhasse, looking atthe façade.

Raising my hat I went up to her, her friendliness of the evening before encouraging me.

“I hope you are going to stay to-day?” said I.

“I don’t know.” Then she smiled, but not mirthfully. “I expect to be very much pressed to go this afternoon,” she said.

I made a shot—apparently at a venture.

“Someone will come and carry you off?” I asked jestingly.

“It’s very likely. My presence here will be known.”

“But need you go?”

She looked on the ground and made no answer.

“Perhaps though,” I continued, “he—or she—will not come. He may be too much occupied.”

“To come for me?” she said, with the first touch of coquetry which I had seen in her lighting up her eyes.

“Even for that, it is possible,” I rejoined.

We began to walk together toward the edge of the openplacein front of the church. The convent came in sight as we reached the fall of the hill.

“How peaceful that looks!” she said; “I wonder if it would be pleasant there!”

I was myself just wondering how the Duchess of Saint-Maclou found it, when a loud cry of warning startled us. We had been standing on the edge of the road, and a horse, going at a quick trot, was within five yards of us. As it reached us, it was sharply reined in. To my amazement, old Jean, the duchess’ servant, sat upon it. When he saw me, a smile spread over his weather-beaten face.

“I was nearly over you,” said he. “You had no ears.”

And I am sorry to say that Jean winked, insinuating that Marie Delhasse and I had been preoccupied.

The diplomacy of non-recognition had failed to strike Jean. I made the best of a bad job, and asked:

“What brings you here?”

Marie stood a few paces off, regarding us.

“I’m looking for Mme. la Duchesse,” grinned Jean.

Marie Delhasse took a step forward when she heard his reference to the duchess.

“Her absence was discovered by Suzanne at six o’clock this morning,” the old fellow went on. “And the duke—ah, take care how you come near him, sir! Oh, it’s a kettle of fish! For as I came I met that coxcomb Lafleur riding back with a message from the duke’s guests that they would not come to-day! So the duchess is gone, and the ladies are not come; and the duke—he has nothing to do but curse that whippersnapper of a Pierre who came last night.”

And Jean ended in a rapturous hoarse chuckle.

“You were riding so fast, then, because you were after the duchess?” I suggested.

“I rode fast for fear,” said Jean, with a shrewd smile, “that I should stop somewhere on the road. Well, I have looked in Avranches. She is not in Avranches. I’ll go home again.”

Marie Delhasse came close to my side.

“Ask him,” she said to me, “if he speaks of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.”

I put the question as I was directed.

“You couldn’t have guessed better if you’d known,” said Jean; and a swift glance from Marie Delhasse told me that her suspicion as to my knowledge was aroused.

“And what will happen, Jean?” said I.

“The good God knows,” shrugged Jean. Then, remembering perhaps my five-franc pieces, he said politely, “I hope you are well, sir?”

“Up to now, thank you, Jean,” said I.

His glance traveled to Marie. I saw his shriveled lips curl; his expression was ominous of an unfortunate remark.

“Good-by!” said I significantly.

Jean had some wits. He spared me the remark, but not the sly leer that had been made to accompany it. He clapped his heels to his horse’s side and trotted off in the direction from which he had come. So that he could swear he had been to Avranches, he was satisfied!

Marie Delhasse turned to me, asking haughtily:

“What is the meaning of this? What do you know of the Duke or Duchess of Saint-Maclou?”

“I might return your question,” said I, looking her in the face.

“Will you answer it?” she said, flushing red.

“No, Mlle. Delhasse, I will not,” said I.

“What is the meaning of this ‘absence’ of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou which that man talks about so meaningly?”

Then I said, speaking low and slow:

“Who are the friends whom you are on your way to visit?”

“Who are you?” she cried. “What do you know about it? What concern is it of yours?”

There was no indolence or lack of animation in her manner now. She questioned me with imperious indignation.

“I will answer not a single word,” said I. “But—you asked me last night what I had heard of you.”

“Well?” she said, and shut her lips tightly on the word.

I held my peace; and in a moment she went on passionately:

“Who would have guessed that you would insult me? Is it your habit to insult women?”

“Not mine only, it seems,” said I, meeting her glance boldly.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Had you, then, an invitation from Mme. de Saint-Maclou?”

She drew back as if I had struck her. And I felt as though I had struck her. She looked at me for a moment with parted lips; then, without a word or a sign, she turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the hotel.

And I, glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts, started at a brisk pace along the foot-path that runs down the hill and meets the road which would lead me to the convent, for I had a thing or two to say to the duchess. And yet it was not of the duchess only that I thought as I went. There were also in my mind the indignant pride with which Marie Delhasse had questioned me, and the shrinking shame in her eyes at that counter-question of mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou’s invitation seemed to bring as much disquiet to one of his guests as it had to his wife herself. But one thing struck me, and I found a sort of comfort in it: she had thought, it seemed, that the duchess was to be at home.

“Pah!” I cried suddenly to myself. “If she weren’t pretty, you’d say that made it worse!”

And I went on in a bad temper.

Return to Table of Contents

Back to IndexNext