Rosin the Beau Part 6

Generally, Yvon paid little heed to his aunt, rather taking pleasure in thwarting her, which was wrong, no doubt, yet her aspect invited it; but on this occasion, she daunted us both. There was a weight in her words, a command in her voice, which I, for one, was not inclined at that moment to dispute; and Yvon, after an angry stare, and a few muttered words of protest, went away, only charging me to be with him within the half-hour.

Left alone with the ancient lady, there was silence for a time. I could not think what she wanted with me; she had shown no love for my society since I had been in the house. I waited, thinking it the part of courtesy to let her begin the conversation, if she desired any.

Presently she began to talk, in a pleasanter strain than I had yet heard her use. Was the pain less severe? she asked; and now she changed the linen cloths dipped in something cool and fragrant, infinitely soothing to the irritated skin. I must have been very quick, to prevent further mischief; in truth, it was a great debt they owed me, and she, I must believe her, shared the grat.i.tude of her niece and nephew, even though her feelings were less vivaciously expressed.

I told her it was nothing, and less than nothing, that I had done, and I thought there had been far too much said about it already. I was deeply thankful that no harm had come to Mlle. de Ste. Valerie, but I could claim no merit, beyond that of having my eyes open, and my wits about me.

She bowed in a.s.sent. "Your wits about you!" she said. "But that in itself is no small matter, M. D'Arthenay, I a.s.sure you. It is not every young man who can say as much. Your eyes open, and your wits about you?

You are fortunate, believe me."

Her tone was so strange, I knew not what reply to make, if any; again I waited her lead.

"The young people with whom I have to do are so widely different from this!" she said, presently. "Hearts of gold, heads of feather! you must have observed this, M. D'Arthenay."

I replied with some warmth that I had recognised the gold, but not the other quality. She smiled, a smile that had no more warmth in it than February suns.h.i.+ne on an icicle.

"You are modest!" she said. "I give you credit for more discernment than you admit. Confess that you think our marquis needs a stronger head beside him, to aid in his affairs."

I had thought this, but I conceived it no part of my duty to say as much. I was silent, therefore, and looked at her, wondering.

"Confess," she went on, "that you saw as much, when he came to your estate--of which the t.i.tle escapes me--in North America; that you thought it might be well for him to have a companion, an adviser, with more definite ideas of life; well for him, and possibly--incidentally, of course--for the companion?"

"Madam!" I said. I could say no more, being confounded past the point of speech.

"It is because of this friendly interest in my nephew," the lady went on, taking no notice of my exclamation. "In my _nephew_, that I think to give you pleasure by announcing a visit that we are shortly to receive.

A guest is expected at Chateau Claire in a few days; in fact, the day after to-morrow. My nephew has doubtless spoken to you of the Vicomte de Crecy?"

I said no, I had heard of no such person.

"Not heard of him? Unpardonable remissness in Yvon! Not heard of the vicomte? Of the future husband of Mlle. de Ste. Valerie?"

I took the blow full and fair, my dear. I think my father in me kept me from flinching; but I may have turned white as I saw myself an hour after; for after one glance the woman turned her eyes away, and looked at me no more as she spoke on. "It seems hardly credible that even my nephew's featherpate should have kept you a month in ignorance of what so nearly concerns his sister and our whole family. The vicomte is a charming man, of high polish and n.o.ble descent. His estate adjoins ours on the south. The match was made by my late brother, the father of Yvon and Valerie, shortly before his death. It had been his cherished plan for years, ever since Providence removed the vicomtesse to a better world than this; but Valerie was very young. The matter was arranged while she was still in the convent, and since then the vicomte has been travelling, in Russia, India, the world over, and is but just returned.

The betrothal will be solemnised, now, in a few days."

I feared to speak at the moment. I snuffed the candle, and, finding my hand steady, tried my voice, which had a good strength, though the sound of it was strange to me.

"Do they--does she know?" I asked.

The lady cleared her throat, and looked--or I fancied it--a trifle confused. "I have not yet told my niece and nephew. I--the letter came but this evening. There was a letter also for you, M. D'Arthenay; I ordered it sent to your room. I think your hands will do well now, and I need no longer detain you from your friend."

I stood up before her.

"Madam," I said, "permit me a word. I have to thank you for your kindness, and for the hospitality which I have received under this kindly roof, whether it were with your will or not. For Mlle. de Ste.

Valerie, I wish her all joy that earthly life can know. If her--if her husband be one half so n.o.ble as herself, she cannot fail of happiness.

It is only a princely nature that should be matched with the purity of an angel and the goodness of a saint. For myself"--I paused a moment, finding myself short of breath; but my strength was come back to me. I sought her eye and held it, forcing her to look at me against her will.

"For myself, I am no n.o.ble, though there is good blood in my veins. I am a plain man, the son of a peasant. But G.o.d, madam, who sees your heart and mine, created, I make bold to remind you, both n.o.ble and peasant; and as that G.o.d is above us, you have done bitter wrong to an honest man. There is no heart of a woman in you, or I would commend to it that fair young creature, who will need, I think, a woman's tenderness. I thank you again for your a.s.sistance, and I take my leave. And I pray you to remember that, whatever the D'Arthenays may have been in France, in my country, in America, madam, they pa.s.s for men of honour!"

I bowed, and left her; and now, methought, it was she who was white, and I thought there was fear in her eyes when she dropped them. But I turned away, and, pa.s.sing Yvon's door, went to my own room.

CHAPTER X.

THE shock of my awakening was so violent, the downfall of my air-castles so sudden and complete, that I think for awhile I had little sense of what was going on. Yvon came to my door and knocked, and then called; but I made no answer, and he went away, thinking, I suppose, that I had forgotten him, and gone to bed. I sat on the side of my bed, where I had thrown myself, great part of that night; and there was no thought of sleep in me. My folly loomed large before me; I sat and looked it in the face. And sometimes, for a few moments, it would not seem altogether folly. I felt my youth and strength in every limb of me, and I thought, what could not love do that was as strong as mine? for now I knew that all these quiet weeks it had been growing to full stature, and that neither grat.i.tude nor friends.h.i.+p had any considerable part in my feeling, but here was the one woman in the world for me. And would it be so hard, I asked, to take her away from all this, and make a home for her in my own good country, where she should be free and happy as a bird, with no hateful watchers about her path? And would she not love the newness, and the greatness and beauty of it all, and the homely friends whom her brother so truly loved? Could I not say to her, "Come!"

and would she not come with me?

Ah! would she not? And with that there fell from my eyes as it were scales,--even like the Apostle Paul, with reverence be it said,--and I saw the thing in its true light. My heart said she would come; had not her eyes answered mine last night? Was there not for her, too, an awakening? And if she came,--what then?

I saw her, the delicate lady, in my father's house; not a guest, as Yvon had been, but a dweller, the wife and daughter of the house, the wife of a poor man. I remembered all the work that my mother Marie had done so joyfully, so easily, because she was a working-woman, and these were the things she had known all her life. This form of grace that filled my eyes now was no lighter nor more graceful than hers; but the difference!

My mother's little brown hands could do any work that they had strength for, and make it a woman's work in the doing, because she was pure woman in herself; but these white fingers that had caught mine last night,--what could they do? What ought they to do, save work delicately with the needle, and make cordials and sweets (for in this my young lady excelled), and beyond these matters, to play the harp and guitar, and tend her roses, and adorn her own lovely person?

"But," cried the other voice in me, "I am young and strong, and I can work! I can study the violin, I can become a musician, can earn my bread and hers, so that there will be no need of the farm. It would be a few years of study, a few years of waiting,--and she is so young!"

Ah, yes! she was so young! and then that voice died away, and knew that it had no more to say. What--what was this, to think of urging a young girl, still almost a child, to give up the station of life in which she had lived happy and joyous, and go away with a stranger, far from her own home and her own people, to share a struggling life, with no certain a.s.surance of anything, save love alone? What was this but a baseness, of which no honest man could be capable? If,--if even I had read her glance aright,--last night,--or was it a year ago? Still, it was but a thing of a moment, the light springing up of a tiny fire of good will, that would die out in a few days after I was gone, for want of fuel; even if it were not s.n.a.t.c.hed out strongly by other hands, as I had put out those climbing flames last night. How her startled eyes sought mine! How the colour flashed into her face when I spoke. No! no! Of that I must not think, if my manhood was to stay in me!

This other, then, who was coming,--this man would turn her thoughts. She would yield, as is the custom for young maidens in France, with no thought that it might be otherwise. He was no longer young,--he had already been once married,--I looked up at this moment, I do not know by what chance, and my eyes fell on a long gla.s.s, what they call a cheval-gla.s.s in France, my dear, showing the whole figure. I think no harm, seeing this was so long ago, in saying that I appeared to advantage in such a view, being well-made, and perhaps not without other good points. This will seem strangely trifling to you, my child, who see nothing but the soul of man or woman; but I have always loved a good figure, and never felt shame to thank G.o.d for giving me one. My clothes were good, having been bought in Paris as we came through. I have never made any claim to pa.s.s for a gentleman, Melody, but yet I think I made a fair enough show of one, that night at least. And being so const.i.tuted, I sat staring at my image in the mirror, and wondering like a fool if the other man were as good-looking. This would be like a slight crust of contentment,--sad enough at that,--forming for a moment over the black depth of sorrow that was my heart; and next moment the pain would stab through it again, till I could have cried out but for the shame of it; and so the night wore by, and the morning found me still there. I had learned little, save the one thing that was all the world,--that I could not commit a baseness.

It was strange to me, coming down to breakfast, to find Yvon unchanged, his own gay self simply. I was grown suddenly so old, he seemed no more than a child to me, with his bits of song that yesterday I had joined in with a light heart, and his plans for another day of pleasure, like yesterday and all the days. Looking at him, I could have laughed, had there been any laughter in me, at the thought of his aunt that I had come over with a view to bettering myself at his expense. It seemed a thing of so little moment; I had half a mind to tell him, but held my peace, wis.h.i.+ng her really no evil, since what she had done had been through love and care for her own. There might be such men as she had thought me; I have since found that there are indeed.

Yvon was full of plans; we were to ride this afternoon, to such and such a place; it was the finest view in the country, there was nothing to approach it. Pierre should drive over and meet us there, with peaches, and cream, and cakes, and we would sup, we three together, and come home by moonlight. It would be the very thing! if I really could hold the bridle? it was the very thing to remove the recollection of last night from his sister's mind, impressionable, as youth always is. (He said this, Melody, with an air of seventy years, and wisdom ineffable, that was comical enough.) "From my own mind," he cried, "never shall the impression be effaced. Thy heroism, my Jacques, shall be inscribed in the annals of our houses. To save the life of a Demoiselle de Ste.

Valerie is claim sufficient for undying remembrance; to save the life of my sister, my Valerie,--and you her saviour, the friend of my heart,--the combination is perfect; it is ideal. I shall compose a poem, Jacques; I have already begun it. '_Ciel d'argent_--' you shall hear it when it has progressed a little farther; at present it is in embryo merely."

He sent for his sister, that they might arrange their plans before she pa.s.sed to her lessons, which were strictly kept up. She came, and my heart spoke loud, telling me that all my vigil had brought to me was true, and that I must begone. There was a new softness in her sweet eyes, a tone in her voice,--oh, it was always kind,--but now a tenderness that I must not hear. She would see my hands; could not believe that I was not seriously wounded; vowed that her aunt was a magician; "though I prayed long, long, last night, monsieur, that the wounds might heal quickly. They are really--no! look, Yvon! look! these terrible blisters! but, they are frightful, M. D'Arthenay. You--surely you should not have left your room, in this condition?"

Not only this, I a.s.sured her, but I was so entirely well that I hoped to ride with them this afternoon, if the matter could be arranged. She listened with delight while Yvon detailed his plan; presently her face fell a little.

"Walk back!" she said. "Yes, Yvon, what could be more delightful? but when I tell you that the sole is sprung from my walking-shoe, and it must go to the village to be mended! How can I get it back in time?"

A thought came to me. "If mademoiselle would let me see the shoe?" I said. "Perhaps I can arrange it for her." Yvon frowned and pshawed; he did not like any mention of my shoemaking; this was from no unworthy feeling, but because he thought the trade unsuited to me. I, however, repeated my request, and, greatly wondering, the young lady sent a servant for the shoe. I took it in my hand with pleasure; it was not only beautiful, but well made. "Here is an easy matter!" I said, smiling. "Will mademoiselle see how they mend shoes in my country?" A hammer was soon found, and sitting down on a low bench, I tapped away, and soon had the pretty thing in order again. Mademoiselle Valerie cried out upon my cleverness. "But, you can then do anything you choose, monsieur?" she said. "To play the violin, to save a life, to mend a shoe,--do they teach all these things in your country? and to what wonderful school did you go?"

I said, to none more wonderful than a village school; and that this I had indeed learned well, but on the cobbler's bench. "Surely Yvon has told you, mademoiselle, of our good shoemaker, and how he taught me his trade, that I might practise it at times when there is no fiddling needed?" I spoke cheerfully, but let it be seen that I was not in jest.

A little pale, she looked from one of us to the other, not understanding.

"All nonsense, Valerie!" cried Yvon, forcing a laugh. "Jacques learned shoemaking, as he would learn anything, for the sake of knowledge. He may even have practised it here and there, among his neighbours; why not? I have often wished I could set a st.i.tch, in time of need, as he has done to-day. But to remain at this trade,--it is stuff that he talks; he does not know his own nature, his own descent, when he permits himself to think of such a thing. Fie, M. D'Arthenay!"

"No more of that!" I said. "The play is over, _mon cher_! M. D'Arthenay is a figure of your kind, romantic heart, Yvon. Plain Jacques De Arthenay, farmer's son, fiddler, and cobbler, stands from this moment on his own feet, not those of his grandfather four times back."

I did not look at my young lady, not daring to see the trouble that I knew was in her sweet face; but I looked full at Yvon, and was glad rather than sorry at his black look. I could have quarrelled with him or any man who had brought me to this pa.s.s. But just then, before there could be any more speech, came the sour-faced maid with an urgent message from Mme. de Lalange, that both the young lady and the marquis should attend her in her own room without delay.

Left alone, I found myself considering the roses on the terrace, and wondering could I take away a slip of one, and keep it alive till I reached home. In the back of my head I knew what was going on up-stairs in the grim lady's room; but I had no mind to lose hold on myself, and presently I went for my fiddle, which was kept in the parlour hard by, and practised scales, a thing I always did when out of Yvon's company, being what he could not abear. To practise scales is a fine thing, Melody, to steady the mind and give it balance; you never knew, my child, why I made you sing your scales so often, that night when your aunt Rejoice was like to die, and all the house in such distress. Your aunt Vesta thought me mad, but I was never in better wits.

So I was quiet, when after a long time Yvon came down to me. When I saw that he knew all, I laid my violin away, agitation being bad for the strings,--or so I have always thought. He was in a flame of anger, and fairly stammered in his speech. What had his aunt said to me, he demanded, the night before? How had she treated me, his friend? She was--many things which you know nothing about, Melody, my dear; the very least of them was cat, and serpent, and traitress. But I took a cool tone.

"Is it true, Yvon," I asked, "about the gentleman who comes to-morrow?

You have already known about it? It is true?"