Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois Part 2

THE VILLAGE.

They lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's lodge, whither I accompanied them, and then turned back toward Montagny, where I was staying with my uncle. Leaving the highway to cross a little wood that divides Loisy from Saint S----, I plunged into a deep track skirting the forest of Hermenonville. I thought it would lead me to the walls of a convent, which I had to follow for a quarter of a league. The moon, from time to time, concealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the grey rocks, and the heath which lay thick upon the ground as I advanced. Right and left stretched a pathless forest, and before me rose the Druid altars guarding the memory of the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans. From these ancient piles I discerned the distant lakelets glistening like mirrors in the misty plain, but I could not distinguish the one where the feast was held.

The air was so balmy, that I determined to lie down upon the heath and wait for the dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by one, the neighbouring landmarks. On the left stretched the long line of the convent of Saint S----, then, on the opposite side of the valley, La b.u.t.te aux Gens d'Armes, with the shattered ruins of the ancient Carlovingian palace. Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling walls of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out against the horizon. Further on, the manor of Pontarme, surrounded as in olden times, by a moat, began to reflect the first fires of dawn, while on the south appeared the tall keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of Bertrand Fosse, on the slopes of Montmeliant.

The night had pa.s.sed pleasantly, and I was thinking only of Sylvie, but the sight of the convent suggested the idea that it might be the one where Adrienne lived. The sound of the morning bell was still ringing in my ears and had probably awakened me. The thought came to me, for a moment, that by climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a peep over the walls, but on reflection, I dismissed it as profane. The sun with its rising beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving only the rosy features of Sylvie. "I will go and awaken her," I said to myself, and again I started in the direction of Loisy.

Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is the village, twenty cottages whose walls are festooned with creepers and climbing roses. A group of women, with red kerchiefs on their heads, are spinning in the early light, in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not among them. She is almost a young lady, now she makes dainty lace, but her family remain simple villagers. I ran up to her room without exciting surprise, to find that she had been up for a long time, and was busily plying her bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against the square green cus.h.i.+on on her knees. "So, it is you, lazybones," she said with her divine smile; "I am sure you are just out of bed."

I told her how I had lost my way in the woods and had pa.s.sed the night in the open air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to pity me.

"If you are not too tired, I will take you for another ramble. We will go to see my grand-aunt at Othys."

Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously to smooth her hair before the mirror, and put on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling with innocent gaiety.

Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the Theve, through meadows sprinkled with daisies and b.u.t.tercups; then we skirted the woods of Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams and thickets to shorten the road. Blackbirds were whistling in the trees, and tomt.i.ts, startled at our approach, flew joyously from the bushes.

Now and then we spied beneath our feet the periwinkles which Rousseau loved, putting forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of twin leaves, a network of tendrils which arrested the light steps of my companion.

Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher of Geneva, she sought here and there for fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the New Heloise, and repeated pa.s.sages from it, which I knew by heart.

"Is it pretty?" she asked.

"It is sublime."

"Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine?"

"It is more tender."

"Well, then," said she, "I must read it. I will tell my brother to bring it to me the next time he goes to Senlis."

I went on reciting portions of the Heloise, while Sylvie picked strawberries.

VI.

OTHYS.

When we had left the forest, we found great tufts of purple foxglove, and Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for her aunt who loved to have flowers in her room.

Only a stretch of level country now lay between us and Othys. The village church-spire pointed heavenward against the blue hills that extend from Montmeliant to Dammartin. The Theve again rippled over the stones, narrowing towards its source, where it forms a tiny lake which slumbers in the meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris. We soon reached the first houses where Sylvie's aunt lived in a little cottage of rough stone, adorned with a trellis of hop-vine and Virginia creeper.

Her only support came from a few acres of land which the village folk cultivated for her, now her husband was dead. The coming of her niece set the house astir.

"Good morning, aunt; here are your children!" cried Sylvie; "and we are very hungry." She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her the flowers, and then turned to present me, saying, "He is my sweetheart."

I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who exclaimed, "He is a fine lad! why, he has light hair!" "He has very pretty hair," said Sylvie. "That does not last," returned her aunt; "but you have time enough before you, and you are dark, so you are well matched."

"You must give him some breakfast," said Sylvie, and she went peeping into cupboards and pantry, finding milk, brown bread and sugar which she hastily set upon the table, together with the plates and dishes of crockery adorned with staring flowers and birds of brilliant plumage. A large bowl of Creil china, filled with strawberries swimming in milk, formed the centrepiece, and after she had raided the garden for cherries and goose-berries, she arranged two vases of flowers, placing one at each end of the white cloth. Just then, her aunt made a sensible speech: "All this is only for dessert. Now, you must let me set to work." She took down the frying-pan and threw a f.a.got upon the hearth. "No, no; I shall not let you touch it," she said decidedly to Sylvie, who was trying to help her. "Spoiling your pretty fingers that make finer lace than Chantilly! You gave me some, and I know what lace is."

"Oh, yes, aunt, and if you have some left, I can use it for a pattern."

"Well, go look upstairs; there may be some in my chest of drawers."

"Give me the keys," returned Sylvie.

"Nonsense," cried her aunt; "the drawers are open." "No; there is one always locked." While the good woman was cleaning the frying-pan, after having pa.s.sed it over the fire to warm it, Sylvie unfastened from her belt a little key of wrought steel and showed it to me in triumph.

I followed her swiftly up the wooden staircase that led to the room above. Oh youth, and holy age! Who could sully by an evil thought the purity of first love in this shrine of hallowed memories? The portrait of a young man of the good old times, with laughing black eyes and rosy lips, hung in an oval gilt frame at the head of the rustic bed. He wore the uniform of a gamekeeper of the house of Conde; his somewhat martial bearing, ruddy, good-humoured face, and powdered hair drawn back from the clear brow, gave the charm of youth and simplicity to this pastel, dest.i.tute, perhaps, of any artistic merit Some obscure artist, bidden to the hunting parties of the prince, had done his best to portray the keeper and his bride who appeared in another medallion, arch and winning, in her open bodice laced with ribbons, teasing with piquant frown, a bird perched upon her finger. It was, however, the same good old dame, at that moment bending over the hearth-fire to cook. It reminded me of the fairies in a spectacle who hide under wrinkled masks, their real beauty revealed in the closing scene when the Temple of Love appears with its whirling sun darting magic fires.

"Oh, dear old aunt!" I exclaimed, "how pretty you were!"

"And I?" asked Sylvie, who had succeeded in opening the famous drawer which contained an old-fas.h.i.+oned dress of taffeta, so stiff that the heavy folds creaked under her touch. "I will see if it fits me," she said; "I shall look like an old fairy!" "Like the fairy of the legends, ever young," thought I.

Sylvie had already unfastened her muslin gown and let it fall to her feet. She bade me hook the rich robe which clung tightly to her slender figure.

"Oh, what ridiculous sleeves!" she cried; and yet, the lace frills displayed to advantage her bare arms, and her bust was outlined by the corsage of yellow tulle and faded ribbon which had concealed but little the vanished charms of her aunt.

"Come, make haste!" said Sylvie. "Do you not know how to hook a dress?"

She looked like the village bride of Greuze. "You ought to have some powder," said I. "We will find some," and she turned to search the drawers anew. Oh! what treasures, what sweet odours, what gleams of light from brilliant hues and modest ornaments! Two mother-of-pearl fans slightly broken, some pomade boxes covered with Chinese designs, an amber necklace and a thousand trifles, among them two little white slippers with sparkling buckles of Irish diamonds. "Oh! I will put them on," cried Sylvie, "if I find the embroidered stockings."

A moment more, and we were unrolling a pair of pink silk stockings with green clocks; but the voice of the old aunt, accompanied by the hiss of the frying-pan, suddenly recalled us to reality. "Go down quickly," said Sylvie, who refused to let me help her finish dressing. Her aunt was just turning into a platter the contents of the frying-pan, a slice of bacon and some eggs. Presently, I heard Sylvie calling me from the staircase. "Dress yourself as soon as possible," and, completely attired herself, she pointed to the wedding clothes of the gamekeeper, spread out upon the chest. In an instant I was transformed into a bridegroom of the last century. Sylvie waited for me on the stairs, and we went down, arm in arm. Her aunt gave a cry when she saw us. "Oh, my children!" she exclaimed, beginning to weep and then smiling through her tears. It was the image of her own youth, a cruel, yet charming vision. We sat beside her, touched, almost saddened, but soon our mirth came back, for after the first surprise, the thoughts of the good old dame reverted to the stately festivities of her wedding day. She even recalled the old-fas.h.i.+oned songs chanted responsively from one end of the festal board to the other, and the quaint nuptial hymn whose strains attended the wedded pair when they withdrew after the dance. We repeated these couplets with their simple rhymes, flowery and pa.s.sionate as the Song of Solomon. We were bride and bridegroom the s.p.a.ce of one fair summer morn.

VII

CHAaLIS.

It is four o'clock in the morning; the road winds through a hollow and comes out on high ground; the carriage pa.s.ses Orry, then La Chapelle. On the left is a road that skirts the forest of Hallate. Sylvie's brother took me through there one evening in his covered cart, to attend some local gathering on the Eve of Saint Bartholomew, I believe. Through the woods, along unfrequented ways, the little horse sped as if hastening to a witches' sabbath. We struck the highway again at Mont-l'eveque, and a few moments later pulled up at the keeper's lodge of the old abbey of Chaalis--Chaalis, another memory!

This ancient retreat of the emperors offers nothing worthy of admiration, save its ruined cloisters with their Byzantine arcades, the last of which are still mirrored in the lake--crumbling fragments of the abodes of piety, formerly attached to this demesne, known in olden times as "Charlemagne's farms." In this quiet spot, far from the stir of highways and cities, religion has retained distinctive traces of the prolonged sojourn of the Cardinals of the House of Este during the time of the Medici; a shade of poetic gallantry still lingers about its ceremonial, a perfume of the Renaissance breathing beneath the delicately moulded arches of the chapels decorated by Italian artists.

The faces of saints and angels outlined in rose tints upon a vaulted roof of pale blue produce an effect of pagan allegory, which recalls the sentimentality of Petrarch and the weird mysticism of Francesco Colonna.

Sylvie's brother and I were intruders in the festivities of the evening.

A person of n.o.ble birth, at that time proprietor of the demesne, had invited the neighbouring families to witness a kind of allegorical spectacle in which some of the inmates of the convent close by were to take part. It was not intended to recall the tragedies of Saint Cyr, but went back to the first lyric contests, introduced into France by the Valois princes. What I saw enacted resembled an ancient mystery. The costumes, consisting of long robes, presented no variety save in colour, blue, hyacinth or gold. The scene lay between angels on the ruins of the world. Each voice chanted one of the glories of the now extinct globe, and the Angel of Death set forth the causes of its destruction. A spirit rose from the abyss, holding a flaming sword, and convoked the others to glorify the power of Christ, the conqueror of bell. This spirit was Adrienne, transfigured by her costume as she was already by her vocation. The nimbus of gilded cardboard encircling her angelic head seemed to us a circle of light; her voice had gained in power and compa.s.s, and an infinite variety of Italian trills relieved with their bird-like warbling the stately severity of the recitative.

In recalling these details, I come to the point of asking myself, "Are they real or have I dreamed them?" Sylvie's brother was not quite sober that evening. We spent a few minutes in the keeper's house, where I was much impressed by a cygnet displayed above the door, and within there were tall chests of carved walnut, a large clock in its case and some archery prizes, bows and arrows, above a red and green target. A droll-looking dwarf in a Chinese cap, holding a bottle in one hand and a ring in the other, seemed to warn the marksmen to take good aim. I think the dwarf was cut out of sheet-iron. Did I really see Adrienne as surely as I marked these details? I am, however, certain that it was the son of the keeper who conducted us to the hall where the representation took place; we were seated near the door behind a numerous company who seemed deeply moved. It was the feast of Saint Bartholomew--a day strangely linked with memories of the Medici, whose arms, impaled with those of the House of Este, adorned these old walls. Is it an obsession, the way these memories haunt me? Fortunately the carriage stops here on the road to Plessis; I leave the world of dreams and find myself with only a fifteen-minutes walk to reach Loisy by forest paths.

VIII

THE BALL AT LOISY.