Robert Tournay Part 1

Robert Tournay.

by William Sage.

CHAPTER I

HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS

The Marquis de Lacheville sat in the dining-hall of the chateau de Rochefort. In his hand he held a letter. Although it was from a woman, the writing was not in those delicately traced characters which suggest the soft hand of some lady of fas.h.i.+on. The note-paper was scented, but the perfume, like the color, was too p.r.o.nounced; and the spelling, possibly like the lady's character, was not absolutely flawless.

A smile played about the cold thin lips of the marquis; he carelessly thrust the missive into his pocket, as one disposes of a bill he does not intend to pay, and lifting his eyes, allowed his gaze to wander through the open window toward the figure of a young girl who stood outside upon the terrace.

She was watching a game of tennis in the court below, now and then conversing with the players, whose voices in return reached de Lacheville's ears on the quiet summer air.

A few minutes before in that dining-hall the Baron de Rochefort had betrothed his daughter Edme to his friend and distant kinsman, Maurice de Lacheville. In the eyes of the world it was a suitable match. The marquis was twenty-five, the girl eighteen. She was an only child; and their rank and fortunes were equal.

They did not love each other. The marquis loved no one but himself.

Mademoiselle had been brought up to consider all men very much alike.

She might possibly have had some slight preference for the Marquis de St. Hilaire, who was now playing tennis in the court beneath; but it was well known that he was dissipating his fortune at the gaming-table.

Mademoiselle did not lack strength of will; but, her heart not being involved, she allowed her father to make the choice for her, as was the custom of the time.

De Lacheville continued sitting at the table, now looking dispa.s.sionately at the woman who was to become his wife, now looking beyond toward the wide sweep of park and meadow land, while he calculated how much longer his cousin, the baron, would live to enjoy possession of his great wealth.

What the young girl thought is merely a matter of conjecture. She was as fresh and sweet as the pink rose which she plucked from the trellis and gayly tossed to the marquis below. He caught it gracefully and put it to his lips--while she laughed merrily with never a thought for the marquis within.

Near the tennis court stood another man. He was tall and well-made, with dark eyes and a sun-browned face. Beyond furnis.h.i.+ng new b.a.l.l.s and rackets when required, he took no part in the game, for he was the son of the intendant of the chateau and therefore a servant.

He watched the rose which the lady so carelessly tossed, with hungry eyes, as a dog watches a bone given to some well-fed and happier rival.

At the call from one of the players he replaced a broken racket, then took up his former post, apparently intent upon the game, but in reality his mind was far afield.

It was in the early summer days of the year 1789. Looking out over the baron's n.o.ble estates through the eyes of a girl like mademoiselle, the world was very beautiful. Glancing at it through the careless eyes of the prodigal St. Hilaire, it seemed very pleasing; but in spite of these waving crops, and wealthy vineyards, in spite of the plenty in the baron's household and the rich wines in his cellar, throughout France there were many who had not enough to eat. Men, and women too, were crying out for their share of the world's riches.

A new wave of thought was sweeping over France. A thought as old as the hills, yet startlingly new to each man as he discovered it. Books were being written and words spoken which were soon to cause great political changes in a land already seething with discontent. Change and Progress at last were in the saddle, and they were riding fast. As the careless n.o.blemen batted their tennis b.a.l.l.s back and forth, thinking only of their game; as the young girl leaned over the rose-covered terrace, thinking of the sunlight, the flowers, and the beauty of life, Robert Tournay, the intendant's son, pondered deeply on the "rights of man"

while he ran after the tennis b.a.l.l.s for those who played the game.

As if wearied by the contemplation of his prospective married bliss, Monsieur de Lacheville yawned, arose from his seat and strolled leisurely from the room, descended the staircase and came out into the park in the rear of the chateau, un.o.bserved by the tennis players. The note in his pocket called him to a rendezvous; and the marquis, after some deliberation, had decided to keep it. Once in the wooded park and out of sight of the house, he quickened his pace to a brisk walk; proceeding thus for half a mile he suddenly left the driveway and plunging through the thick foliage by a path which to the casual eye was barely visible, came out into a shady and unfrequented alley.

A few minutes after de Lacheville's disappearance into the woods, the other n.o.blemen, wearied of their sport, retired into the house for refreshment.

This left young Tournay free for the time being, and he availed himself of the opportunity to go down toward a pasture beyond the park where some young horses were running wild, innocent of bit or bridle. It was Tournay's intention to break one of these colts for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. She was a fearless rider, and it gave the young man pleasure to be commissioned to pick out an animal at once gentle and mettlesome for the use of his young mistress.

The Tournays, from father to son, had been for generations the intendants of the de Rochefort estate. With the baron's permission Matthieu Tournay had sent his son away to school, and he had thus received a better education than most young men of his cla.s.s. He was of an ambitious temper, and this very education, instead of making him more contented with his lot in life, increased his restlessness. It only served to show him more clearly the line that separated him from those he served. In his own mind he had never defined his feeling for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He only knew that it gave him great pleasure to serve her; and yet, as he did her bidding, he felt a pang that between them was the gulf of caste; that even when she smiled upon him it was merely the favored servant whom she greeted; that although he might be as well educated as the Count de Blois, a better horseman than St. Hilaire, and a better man than de Lacheville, _they_ could enter as equals into the presence of this divine being, while such as he must always take his place below the salt.

It was with such thoughts as these revolving in his brain that the intendant's son walked through the woods of the park. He followed no path, for he knew each tree and twig from childhood. Suddenly he was interrupted in his reverie by the sound of voices, and stopping short, recognized the voice of the Marquis de Lacheville in conversation with a woman. Tournay hesitated, then went forward cautiously in the direction whence the sound came. Had he been born a gentleman he would have chosen another way; or at least would have advanced noisily.

Indeed, such had been his first impulse,--but a much stronger interest than curiosity impelled him forward; and drawing near, he looked through a gap in the hedge.

On the other side stood de Lacheville facing a young woman. Her cheeks were flushed, and the manner in which she toyed with a riding-whip showed that the discussion had been heated. Although she was handsomely dressed in a riding-habit and a.s.sumed some of the airs of a lady, Tournay recognized her at once as a young girl who had disappeared some months before from the village of La Thierry, and whose handsome face and vivacious manner had caused her to be much admired. Near her stood the n.o.bleman, calm and self-composed. Before men, de Lacheville had been known to flinch; but with a woman of the humbler cla.s.s the marquis could always play the master.

"And now, Marianne," said the n.o.bleman slowly, "you had better go,--and do not make the mistake of coming here again."

Although she had evidently been worsted in the argument, a defiant look flashed in her dark eyes as she answered him: "If I believe you speak the truth I shall not come here again."

[Ill.u.s.tration: DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN]

"Of course I speak the truth," replied de Lacheville lightly. "I shall marry Mademoiselle de Rochefort"--

The young woman winced, but she did not speak.

De Lacheville went on slowly as if he enjoyed the situation--"In a year or two--I am in no hurry. She is very beautiful"--here he paused again--"but I prefer your style of beauty, Marianne; I prefer your vivacity, your life, your fire; I like to see you angry. My engagement to Mademoiselle de Rochefort need make no difference in my regard for you. That depends upon yourself." Here the marquis stepped forward and kissed her on the lips.

Tournay controlled himself by a great effort, his heart swelling with the resentment of a man who hears that which he holds sacred insulted by another. And this man who held Mademoiselle de Rochefort in such slight esteem was to be her husband.

"And now, Marianne," said the n.o.bleman, "you must ride away as you came," and suiting the action to the words he swung her into the saddle.

She was docile now and gathered up the reins obediently. "And, Marianne," continued the n.o.bleman, "never write letters to me. I am rather fastidious and do not want my illusions dispelled too soon.

Good-by, my child."

She flushed as he spoke, and a retort seemed about to spring to her lips; but instead of replying she shrugged her shoulders, gave a sharp cut of the whip to the horse, and rode off down the pathway.

De Lacheville laughed. "She has spirit to the last. She pleases me;" and turning, beheld Robert Tournay in the path before him.

For a moment neither spoke; then the n.o.bleman asked sternly, "Have you been spying upon me?"

"I have heard what has pa.s.sed between you and that woman," replied Tournay with a significance that made the marquis start.

"You villain," replied the n.o.bleman hotly, "if you breathe a word about what you have seen I will have you whipped by my lackeys."

Tournay's lips curled defiantly.

"Or," continued the marquis, "if one word of scandal reaches the ears of Mademoiselle de Rochefort"--

Before the words had left his lips, Tournay sprang forward and had him by the arm.

"Do not stain her name by speaking it," he cried fiercely. "I have heard you insult her; I have seen how you would dishonor her; you, who are not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. What right have you to become her husband? Your very presence would degrade her. You shall not wed her."

White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himself from Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist nor move his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in the hands of the stronger man, he remained pa.s.sive, only the twitching of his mouth betraying his pa.s.sion.

"And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go to the baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter; repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how will they receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room and mademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor for a lady!"

The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his arms dropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless.

The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his hand upon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. He smarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glittered viciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all the marquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue he possessed a weapon keener than a sword.

He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as he spoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips.

"I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word, while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one by one, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was a vicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you,"

continued the marquis,--"you, who one might think had dared to raise your eyes toward the lady's face"--