Book II
Book II — Garish Day
Chapter I (1)
A great deal of wind made its entry with Armand and Horatia, and two dry leaves, scurrying gleefully over the polished floor, hurled themselves into oblivion under a chest. Roland the deerhound paced, very dignified, across the hall, and let himself down in front of the fire with a sigh. But his master and mistress lingered at the door, and when the tails of old Jean’s livery had disappeared, Armand took Horatia into his arms and kissed her three times without a word. Then, hand in hand, like lovers and like children, they also crossed the hall to the fire.
“How I love coming in!” whispered Horatia. “Everyday it is different. Yesterday it was not so dark, but the portraits looked rather forbidding. To-day they are more friendly. Are they getting more used to me, do you think?” Her eyes ran along the row of observers.
“They are getting more jealous of you, I am afraid,” said the young man, devouring her face, all aglow from the wind. “Unfasten your furs—let me do it. Not one of them was ever as beautiful as you.” His hands shook a little as he unclasped the pelerine of marten skins. “How could they help but be jealous?”
The heavy furs slipped to the ground. “Am I beautiful?” asked Horatia, slim and straight and smiling. “I never used to be.” She sat down in the great carved chair in front of the fire, and pulled off her gloves. “Tell me about them; tell me about her.” She indicated the portrait over the hearth—the lady in flowing draperies, half reclining in a sylvan landscape, a Louis Quinze Diana, the goddess’s crescent moon shining in her close-dressed powdered hair, and on her lips a narrow riddle of a smile that already haunted the newcomer.
“Another day,” answered Armand, kneeling beside her. “She is not lucky, my great-great-grandmother. I think I will have her removed from here. Besides, there is only one thing that I can possibly tell you—that I love you, I love you... and that none of them was ever loved so much!” And, prisoning her hands, he kissed her.
Ancestors and ancestresses round the half-dusk hall looked on unruffled, having seen something like this not once nor twice in the centuries of their vigils, having most of them enacted it themselves—except that young man in wig and cuirass, faintly resembling Armand himself, who fell at Fontenoy before he could bring home his bride. But Roland was disturbed by something outside his comprehension, and getting up, he tried to thrust his nose between the two.
“O, Armand, he is licking me—he is eating me!” protested Horatia, who could not lift a hand to keep off the intruder. “Let me go, dearest; I must change my dress.”
“But I like you in your furs,” answered Armand, raising his head. His dark blue eyes sparkled. “I thought when we were walking together just now that you should always wear them. They do something—I don’t know what—to that incomparable hair of yours.” He touched it. “Will you always wear your furs, to please me?”
“Silly boy!” retorted his wife. “And only two or three years ago there was such an outcry against the danger of wearing even cloth dresses instead of muslins indoors! What is more foolish than a man?”
“Nothing, indeed, but a woman,” replied the Comte, gazing at her. “Well, I shall at least come and prescribe what you are to wear for me to-night.”
“For you, Monsieur!” exclaimed Horatia. “Learn that I dress entirely to please myself! Adieu. Bring my furs.” And slipping cleverly from her chair she was round it before he could get from his knees. If she did not actually run full-paced up the great staircase, at any rate she flitted up it with little of the dignity of a new-made wife. Armand, snatching up the pelerine, overtook her three stairs at a time.
(2)
That was part of the charm of those wonderful days, that Horatia found she could be a child, playing with another child. Armand was not only the most fervent of lovers; he was an enchanting playmate as well. It seemed to come naturally to him, like all he did, and Horatia was amazed to find how naturally it came to her also, who had never played much in her childhood, and who judged herself now, at twenty-four, so much too old for such high spirits. But there was no one of their own condition to witness them, and most of the servants were old and indulgent.
And not Armand only, but the house itself seemed to conspire against Horatia’s gravity. Had her imagination been nourished, like that of most of her contemporaries, on the pseudo-Gothic poetry of the Annuals, on the Mysteries of Udolpho or the Tales of Terror and Wonder, she might have been disappointed to find, in the château of Kerfontaine, neither drawbridge, portcullis, nor moat, neither battlements from which the heroine could espy the approach of her chosen knight, nor dungeons where a hero could languish, but only a residence of the time of Louis XIII, symmetrical, many windowed, tall-chimneyed, steep-roofed, with an atmosphere entirely unsuited to visors, palfreys, distressed damsels, falchions, or jongleurs. But the history she knew was different; and here, in this house which had its own harmony, she could place the people who had really lived in it—ladies of the time of her admired Arthénice, and of Madame de Sévigné, and men who had rhymed in Paris with Voiture and fought with the great Condé at Rocroi. She was enchanted with the odd nests of tiny rooms, dressing-rooms, powdering closets, which squired all the bedrooms; with the tall white doors, with the old pre-Revolution furniture, with the absence of carpets, with the long narrow gallery hung with armour; with old Jean the butler, and young Françoise the laundry-maid, with the dinner service of St. Cloud, with the yellowed books on heraldry and hawking, with the thousand and one things which Armand showed her when they explored their domain. And she knew not whether she were most pleased to sit by the flaming log-fire in the hall, or in the salon, which opened out by a double flight of curving stone steps on to the lawn, a walk of cut lime-trees, and a carefully contrived view of the little pièce d’eau, or whether she preferred to walk in the garden, all dank and flowerless as it was, and watch the leaves sailing on the surface of the water, the three decrepit Tritons blowing their soundless horns, and the little Florentine boy in the fountain pressing the captive dolphin which had not spouted for so many years.
And it was all hers, to do as she liked with. Sometimes she and Armand planned alterations, chiefly for the pleasure of the planning alone, for she would not rearrange even the drawing-room under the eyes—though they were so like Armand’s—of that beautiful mother of his who smiled above the spinet, looking down over her shoulder in her yellow Empire gown. And Armand promised her new furniture; but she did not want it.
There was indeed only one thing on earth that he would not promise her at present, and that was, not to go wolf-hunting. When first she heard a rumour of the existence of this sport in Brittany she did not believe it; surely there were no wolves nowadays, and if there were, he would not be so unkind as to go after them and leave her. But she was doubly mistaken; there were wolves, and savage wolves, as she discovered from questioning not only him, but the servants, and her entreaties quite failed to move him. He went... It was a day of long-drawn agony, and she was almost speechless with apprehension when at nightfall he returned, dirty, dishevelled, bloodstained, and full of the joyous fatigue of the successful hunter. Sobbing and clinging to him she reproached him with his cruelty to her; he only laughed and kissed her, and next day she was able to admire his courage.
(3)
Full intimation had been given to Armand de la Roche-Guyon from headquarters—in other words from his grandmother the Duchesse—that he and his bride must be in Paris for New Year’s Day, that feast sacred to the ties of kindred. Before they left Kerfontaine, Horatia and he felt it incumbent on them to give a dinner-party for the neighbours on whom, as a newly-married wife, she had called, and Horatia therefore sat one morning in her boudoir writing out the invitations, while her husband, leaning lazily against her escritoire, made appropriate comments on each. A little snow had fallen, and lit up the room with its reflected light; and Horatia, who loved snow, felt that only this was needed to add the last touch of glamour to her home.
“I think I know where everyone lives now,” she said, putting down her pen. “By the way, Armand, whose is that rather large château in the classical style, which we passed when we were riding two or three days ago? I forgot to ask you.”
“You mean the ugly building on the way to Lanvaudan?” inquired her husband.— “(Silly child, you have inked your fingers.)—That is Saint-Clair, which belongs to the Vicomtesse de Vigerie. She is away at present—in Italy, I believe.”
“A widow, I suppose,” commented Horatia, trying to rub the dry ink off her fingers. “Is she old or young? It is a large place. Why have you never told me about her before?”
“Because,” answered Armand, with equal candour and cleverness, “I was within an ace or two of marrying her.”
Horatia jumped. “O!” she exclaimed. Her eyes opened wide at him, and she could find no more to say.
“At least,” went on the Comte, with entire tranquillity, “that is what you will probably be told sooner or later. And, after all, it is better that I should tell you myself.”
Horatia was dumb. The yellowing paint of the panel behind Armand’s head, with its impossible combinations of the flowers of every season, seemed to intensify the feeling of unreality.
“Did you... did you...?”
“No, I did not. And I doubt if she would have had me in any case.—No, mon amie, your expression flatters me too much. But think, if I had! However, Providence sent me over to England in time...” His glance set Horatia’s heart beating.
“Think, my angel,” went on Armand, ticking off the links on his fingers, “think, if the King had not published the Ordonnances, there would not have been a revolution; if there had not been a revolution, His Majesty would not have fled to England; if he had not fled to England my father would not have accompanied him thither; if my father had not accompanied him I should not have gone over to see my father; if I had not gone over to see him...”
“O, did it need a revolution to bring us together!” cried Horatia, half laughing, half serious, for indeed effect and cause did not seem at that moment disproportionate.
“Or think,” continued Armand, “that if my brother Emmanuel had not got to know that good Hungerford—what is it you call him, Tristan?—at the Embassy Ball...”
He went on developing his theme, but for a couple of seconds Horatia did not hear him. It passed over her, swift as the wind, that she had never so much as given a thought to Tristram since she left England—not so much as one thought.
“... So you see,” she heard Armand concluding, “that it was very much an affair of chance, was it not?”
And, coming back fully to the present, she realised that the half-jesting hypotheses were indeed playing round the fringes of truth. So very little—and they had never met!
“O my darling!” she cried with a shudder.
(4)
Half-past five on her last day at Kerfontaine found Horatia, a trifle nervous, receiving her guests of the dinner-party, all of that class of country gentry forced by the modesty of their incomes to live on their little estates, and able but rarely to afford a visit to Paris. The ladies’ modes were a little antiquated, and one old gentleman was even wearing powder. It was evident that all were curious to see the English bride.
Among the somewhat crude tones of the women’s dresses and the old-fashioned coloured coats of the men, the village curé in his cassock was easily discernible, and him, to Horatia’s momentary surprise, she found in the place of honour at her right hand when they were at last seated round the table. He was a little, snuffy old man, very noticeably of peasant origin, and not above relishing better fare than ordinary, for he looked with an appreciative eye upon the large piece of boiled beef in the middle of the table, and upon the other dishes round it, the roast mutton, the sweetbreads, the pâtes de cervelle. He was also, to Horatia’s further surprise, served before any of the ladies, and made good use of his start.
“Madame la Comtesse is not Catholic?” he asked after a while, turning on her a not unkindly gaze.
“No,” answered Horatia, flushing a little. “I am English, you know, M. le Curé.”
“It will come, it will come,” said the old man, and he polished his plate strenuously with a bit of bread. Then, his utterance impeded by the sodden morsel, he added, “No doubt M. le Comte will get Monsignor de la Roche-Guyon to convert you.”
Armand, looking very handsome, gay and debonair at the other end of the table, must have caught this stifled remark, for he flashed an amused glance at his wife. But the subject was not pursued, and the old Baron on Horatia’s left hand, who had been all through the Chouannerie, and had left two fingers in it, began to discourse on the battle of Navarino, and after that the lady nearest to him desired to know of Horatia the motion of a steam-packet; oh, of course Madame had not come by Calais, but by sailing-vessel to St. Malo; and she actually preferred the long voyage? Incredible!...
The last couple had scarcely taken their leave before Armand gave a sigh of relief. “Are they not strange old fossils?” he inquired. “I think you can have nothing so curious in England. Some of these ladies have never been to Paris in their lives.... You shall give me sixteen kisses, one for each guest.”
The due was in course of payment when the young man suddenly drew away with an ejaculation. “What, M. le Curé, are you still here?” For a short, stout, cassocked figure was standing under the crystal chandelier regarding them with approbation.
“I wished,” said the old priest benevolently, “to give my blessing to you, M. le Comte, if you will permit it, and to Madame la Comtesse also—though as yet a heretic—and so I retired until the others should be gone. But I have not heard what you were saying to each other, only I perceive that you are indeed a wedded pair, such as the Church approves, and I will give you the Church’s blessing on your union. May it be sanctified with mutual love and regard, and made happy by many children, and ended only by a Christian death—Benedicat vos Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus!” He cut the air crosswise with his not overclean hand, and before the astonished couple could find speech, had hurried from the room.
“Mort de ma vie, he has an assurance, our old curé!” exclaimed Armand, staring after him. “Darling, do not look so startled; it is a sort of pious compliment. But I am glad that he had the tact to wait until the rest had gone; not but what they would have been edified by it. Ces dames are all as devout as even the heart of Prosper could desire.”
“Prosper?” questioned Horatia doubtfully.
“My cousin the Monsignor, who is said to be going to convert you, little heretic. Not that it is necessary; you would go straight to Heaven anyhow; and there you would pray for your poor husband grilling in Purgatory, would you not?—Come and sit by the fire in the hall and confide to me the ideas of your Church on the future state. Ours, you know, are very consoling to sinners like myself!”
Armand had long ago stopped talking nonsense, and lay silent on the floor, his head in Horatia’s lap. Her fingers wandered slowly among the dark, fine, and waving hair. To come back to this dear intimacy after the chatter was bliss too profound for speech. The fire began to sink; the deerhound sighed, fixing melancholy eyes upon them, his nose along his paws, and Horatia, with the weight of Armand’s body against her, felt that she should not know an hour more exquisite than this, which the great clock was tolling so relentlessly into eternity. And again she wondered why such happiness had been given to her, who had done so little to deserve it; for surely no woman before her had known so penetrating a joy!
Then suddenly she felt the gaze of the lady over the hearth, and looked up.
“I, too, have known,” the enigmatical, half-closed eyes said to her—“and I have been dust and ashes these many years—and so shall you be, and so shall he.” O, it was awfully, cruelly true! “Please God I die first!” she thought, and sliding her hand round Armand’s neck kissed the head on her knee to register the hope.
Next morning, amid all the clatter of an early departure, she bent forward from the chaise for a last look at the place of so much happiness. The transient snow had melted, and the château stood as she had first seen it.
“I wonder shall I ever be so happy anywhere,” she murmured. “Good-bye, dear house!”
“It appears to me,” said Armand gaily, “that my wife is on the way to love the house better than its owner.”
No articulate response was, naturally, required to this accusation, but after a moment Horatia said, still a little wistfully, “I wish it were not all over!”
“You belong to the Romantics, mon amie, that is clear,” observed her husband, laughing outright. “And it is only just beginning.” He drew her head down to his shoulder, and the horses sprang forward on the first stage to Paris.