Chapter XI (1)
It was at Chartres, on the homeward journey to Paris, that Armand’s ingenious idea first occurred to him, and that he matured it, pacing by moonlight round the Place des Epars. During that promenade there was fully revealed to him the means whereby he might break Madame de Vigerie’s friendship with his wife.
The fortnight which had followed the Vicomtesse’s departure from St. Clair had given him ample time for reflection. That he should be prevented from seeing as much as he wished of Laurence because Laurence had entered upon a tiresome and totally unnecessary friendship with Horatia, was preposterous. This friendship was evidently the cause of Madame de Vigerie’s very annoying attitude towards him. It behoved him to take some step about it. Still more did he see the necessity of this when he discovered part of the reason why Horatia was suddenly as anxious to get back to Paris as she had been to come down to Brittany. She missed Madame de Vigerie.
And this, it seemed to Armand, was carrying matters too far. It was ridiculous in itself; worse, it put him, in his own eyes at least, in a ludicrous position. Moreover, Horatia’s submissive attitude had finished by getting on his nerves. Not that he was dissatisfied with his bargain; every husband, he supposed, had something to put up with. Only he intended to have what he wanted in another quarter to boot.
Horatia was far enough from guessing the source of the preoccupation which was visible in him during the last few days of their stay at Kerfontaine, nor had she the faintest idea why he was in such good spirits the morning that they left Chartres. He judged it wiser, however, not to put his plan into operation for two or three days after their return to the Hôtel de la Roche-Guyon, which still lacked the presence of Emmanuel and his son, but which was re-adorned by that of the Duchesse. On the fourth morning he came into Horatia’s boudoir looking unusually grave, with his hands full of papers.
“I have something to tell you, my dear, which you will not like hearing, I am afraid,” he said, looking down at her as she sat at her writing table, an unfinished letter to her father under her hand.
Horatia’s colour went. “No bad news from England, I hope?” she said, and looking at her frail, startled face, Armand had a momentary pang of remorse for what he was about to do. But it did not turn him from his purpose, and he told her, gently, and with apparent consideration, that all communication between the Hôtel and Madame de Vigerie must cease for the present. The Government was opening a wakeful eye upon both parties and was only waiting for some tangible evidence of conspiracy to move against them. He had this information, he said, from an unimpeachable source.
Horatia said very little, only her eyes slowly filled with tears, and seeing this Armand went away to the mantelpiece behind her. He was enjoying his ingenuity less than he had expected.
“Then I cannot write to her, for you will not be seeing her either?” came his wife’s voice after a moment.
“No, certainly I shall not be seeing her,” replied the Comte, studying the Rector’s coal-black profile, and wishing that this further sacrifice to truth were not involved in his plan. “It would be very serious for her if she became further suspect to the Government; it would be very serious for me also. Even my friend might lose his place if it were known that he had warned us. I daresay that it will only be for a time.... Of course I need not ask for your promise, Horatia, that you will not communicate with her in any way?”
She made no answer, and looking round Armand saw that she had her handkerchief to her eyes, though not a sound escaped her. He bit his lip, hesitated, then went and bent over her.
“My dear, I am so sorry,” he said—and he was sorry. “See, I must go this evening and tell her—she does not know yet—and you would like to write just this once to her, would you not? and I will take the letter for you.”
(2)
Some compensation for the discomfort of this little scene was undoubtedly afforded to its author by the reflection that the Vicomtesse would not be so easy to dupe. Conceivably, even, he might fail to persuade her of his good faith. The prospect of a battle of wits was exhilarating, if momentous.
But his star, good or evil, fought for Armand, putting into his pocket Horatia’s depressed note to her friend—convincing in that she, at least, had no doubts—surrounding Madame de Vigerie that evening with an unusually large circle of habitués, and thus giving the Comte de la Roche-Guyon the opportunity of displaying in the midst of them so gloomy and dejected an air that his hostess could not fail to observe it, and yet was unable at once to penetrate to its cause. At last she beckoned him aside into the embrasure of a window.
“What on earth is the matter with you this evening?” she demanded. “You look as if you had been to a funeral.”
Armand did not smile. On the contrary he told her his tale, garnishing it, as was necessary for her more expert ear, with preciser details. The Vicomtesse was plainly staggered.
“But that is absurd!” she ejaculated. “The Government cannot possibly connect—Tiens, I will ask M. de Chateaubriand before he goes.” And she looked across to where the great man, his fine white head supported on his hand, was standing in a favourite attitude with his arm on the chimney-piece, an elevation which his want of stature must have rendered difficult of comfortable attainment.
Armand laid a hand on her arm. “I implore you to do nothing of the sort. It will ruin my friend if this gets about. It is far best to submit, for prudence’ sake, to precautions which may only be temporary. Needless to say that I intend, however, to come and see you sometimes—if you, too, will run the risk—but, of course, it cannot be openly.... Meanwhile, here is a note which I promised my wife to bring; but you must on no account communicate with her.”
“But if I am to see you occasionally, I can communicate through you,” protested Madame de Vigerie, still amazed.
“This once, yes, for she knows that I am here, but in the future, to avoid alarming her, I shall not tell her when I come. Perhaps, indeed, it will be better for me not to come for a few weeks. It will depend on what my friend says.”
But here the Vicomtesse, visibly perplexed, was reft from him by M. le Vicomte de Chateaubriand, desiring to take his leave... And Armand’s luck held, for Chateaubriand, head as he was of the Royalist Committee of Paris, strongly disapproved of the tendency to push matters to too sudden an issue displayed by the younger and more extravagant spirits of the party, and he cast a glance of disapproval upon the Comte de la Roche-Guyon.
“Do not, Madame,” he said in a low tone, “commit any imprudence just now. The time is not ripe, and the Government is on the watch.” He bowed over her hand, and passed on.
After this unexpected reinforcement it seemed to the Comte more diplomatic not to outstay the rest, as he often did, but of a prudence more finished to leave Madame de Vigerie still under the empire of M. de Chateaubriand’s warning and his own unusual caution—his, who had often been reproached by her for recklessness—and uneasy, perhaps, at the possible cessation of his visits. But before he left the Vicomtesse had found time to scribble a pencil note to Horatia (which he punctually delivered) and to say that if it must be so, she could see him alone next Friday, but that she did not wish him to run risks. To which he replied with suitable gravity that if he considered it unwise, he would not come, and so departed, having accomplished his object and gained to boot the spice of clandestine intercourse.
He had, moreover, the fortitude not to go on the appointed Friday after all, and, when he appeared the following week in the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, to come armed with so many statistics of the progress of Royalism in the West, and to keep so strictly to conversation on the Duchesse de Berry’s plans, that Madame de Vigerie was thoroughly deceived. But gradually, almost as imperceptibly as September merged into October, and the scorched leaves said farewell to the trees of the Luxembourg and the Tuileries, the stolen meetings lost something of the political character which had given them birth. Laurence de Vigerie was hardly conscious of the change, or, at least, she shut her eyes to it. She only knew that she missed him when he did not come. And Armand came more and more frequently.
(3)
And so, after all, the object for which Horatia had wanted to return to Paris—Laurence’s society—was not to be hers. She did not seem to desire that of anyone else, and yet she was very lonely. She went out driving, perhaps, for an hour or two, but she neither paid nor received calls now. Always once a day at least Armand would come to see her. He was very bright and very polite, and almost punctilious in his enquiries after her health, but it was apparent to her that, these courteous formalities at an end he was anxious to make his exit, to pursue his own avocations, whatever they might be. She did not attempt to detain him. She would reply to him cheerfully, never admit that she had a headache or felt tired, and he would kiss her hand and say, “Do not wear out your eyes over that embroidery, my dear; why not go to the Rue Neuve des Augustins and order as much as you want?”
Once or twice when he had shut the door and gone out, and the great house seemed settled into silence, she lay back on her couch and cried a little. She was very homesick, A dreadful lassitude took possession of her, and she began to feel afraid. Horatia was not used to illness. On the few occasions when she had had a sore throat or some such slight indisposition, the Rector had read to her by the hour, and enquiries would come twice a day from Tristram, accompanied by flowers or grapes or the latest “Edinburgh Review” which he had ridden into Oxford to fetch for her. All this attention she had then taken for granted, almost as her due, and now that she could not longer command it she seemed to herself but a poor creature after all, for she had come to have only one conscious wish, that some one should take care of her and understand. It was not that these new relatives were not considerate, but that their solicitude seemed to spring from a different source, and sometimes it almost irritated her. She felt as if she were in a palace, stifled by the precautions taken to ensure the safe entrance into the world of an heir apparent.
But at the worst she found always a spring of secret joy, and this was in itself a surprise. Before her marriage she had never been able to analyse her feelings about children. Just as she had supposed that in some distant future she would marry (in spite of her protestations to the contrary) so also she imagined that she would have children of her own. But that she should ardently desire to hold her own child in her arms was an astonishment. In the picture she had made of him he was never a very small baby. He appeared to her always as a child of eighteen months or two years, and he had red-gold curls and grey eyes. It was only after some time that she realised she was thinking of a miniature of herself which hung in her father’s bedroom. It had never so much as occurred to her that Maurice might be like Armand. For as she had settled that the child would be a boy, so had she fixed upon the English form of his name, by which she meant always to call him. He would of course have a string of French names; she had heard them several times: Maurice after his father, whose second name it was (and fortunately Maurice was an English name as well, though her English pronunciation of it would probably give offence), and Stanislas after the Duc, and Victor after the Dowager (suppose he should be like the Dowager!), and Etienne after her own father, and Marie, or Anne, or Elisabeth, she had forgotten which, and probably Charles after the dethroned monarch.
Almost every day now mysterious cases and parcels arrived, addressed to her and bearing an English postmark; a bath, painted on the outside with a design of blue loops and knots, had recently found its way into the Hôtel. In a fortnight an English nurse was expected, chosen by Aunt Julia, and she would have plenty of time to become accustomed to the ways of the house before her services would be needed. The married ladies of the family made their own comments when they heard that all the babyclothes which Horatia had not made herself had been sent direct from England, and there was much hostile criticism on the proposed addition of an English nurse to the household. However, Armand had let it be known that his wife should not be thwarted, and as she did not trouble him about arrangements he was only too glad for her to amuse herself in such a harmless fashion. The nurseries had been decorated by a well-known Paris firm, and Horatia was pleased with the cream panelling of the walls, and the cream curtains with their sprays of pink roses caught up with pale blue ribbons, and lined with deep rose pink to give a warm glow to the room.
The day that the painters and decorators left she had a sudden idea. There was in her boudoir a copy in oils of that beautiful Madonna of Raphael’s, which Ferdinand III of Tuscany, discovering in a peasant’s cottage, so loved that it hung always over his bed. Some privileged person apparently had obtained permission to have it copied; the copy had somehow found its way to a dealer’s, and the Duc de la Roche-Guyon, on an Italian tour, had bought it and presented it to his wife, Armand’s mother. It had made little appeal to Horatia at first, but of late she had come to love it, congratulating herself on being able to discriminate between the natural beauty of this picture of a mother and her child, and its superstitious associations. Her fancy now was to have the work of art, in its heavy Florentine frame, removed from her sitting-room and hung over the mantelpiece in the day nursery. In these rather unusual surroundings it could reign alone, and later on it would be company for her and Maurice.
The order was executed by rather bewildered servants, who secretly wondered what Madame la Comtesse would command to be done next, and Horatia, in the growing dusk, went to look at the effect. The result was beyond her expectations.
She sat down and gazed for a long time at the simplicity, purity, and calm of the fair face. Suddenly she bent forward, and, hardly knowing what she was doing, held out her arms to it with an indescribable gesture at once of entreaty and of offering, and then as suddenly leant back in her chair, and covering her face with her hands began to cry. She was terribly lonely. But it was not for long now. It was not for long that she would hold out empty arms....
(4)
The next day it rained in torrents from an early hour, the persistent rain of autumn. Armand was away, but this was nothing unusual. The post brought her no fresh parcels, and it was too wet to go out driving, and her boudoir without the familiar picture seemed forlorn. Seeking for a diversion she told Martha to light the fire in the nursery.
“Yes, certainly, my lady,” responded Mrs. Kemblet, delighted, “and perhaps you would like to count through the things Polly sent over yesterday, and there is the christening robe to be put away.”
“Of course, I had forgotten,” said Horatia. “We will be very busy, and pretend we are at home in England.”
It was dusk before mistress and maid had finished their task, and the last heap of small white garments had been arranged, and the last drawer returned to its place in the wide press against the wall. Horatia gave a sigh of satisfaction. The occupation had soothed her.
“Now, Martha, if you will bring me a cushion I shall want nothing more. Just put that easy chair by the fire, and a footstool, and I shall sit here till dinner time. If anyone asks for me you can say I am resting.”
She was tired with the small extra exertion, but, for some reason extraordinarily happy this afternoon. As a rule the hours between four and six o’clock were the longest, but to-night they hardly seemed long enough. She settled herself deeper in the chair, looked up once at the picture, and closed her eyes. She had so much to think about.
An hour later and Armand’s voice was saying, “Horatia, Horatia, what are you doing here? It is very cold in this room; you will be chilled. I cannot think what possessed you to come and sit in such a barn, though I hardly liked to wake you, for you were smiling about something.”