CHAPTER XXII.
[DOMESTIC COOKERY.]
That Clovis should have thought proper to leave Lorge without notice, or any hint of his intentions, was not a subject for vexation now to Gabrielle. She saw the carriage disappear round the corner with a valet and a valise in the rumble, and the eyes of the occupant fixed steadily upon the postilion. No smile, or nod, or wave of a hand for her to whom he owed so much. She could contemplate him now without a wince or heartache, as calmly as we examine uncanny specimens of beetledom in a glass case. She prayed Heaven that her son, the dear Victor, should not grow up too like his father. One good point about the marquis's going was that he was separated from that woman. Then she began to wonder a little that he should have prematurely torn himself away before the moment of her flitting. That was good. Perhaps he had acted thus on purpose to keep up the show of appearances which all agreed was to be maintained. Be that as it might, it was not probable that the woman would linger on in a false position--pour les beaux yeux de l'abbé--and so the chatelaine, sitting with the dear ones in the moat garden, was prepared at any moment to witness the departure of another carriage. And after that? Would Clovis return when the coast was clear, or remain at a distance in dudgeon, leaving her to the tender mercies of his brothers? What then? She had given way, or seemed to do so, for peace' sake. They could require no more of her, and would doubtless respect her seclusion. It was curious to think though of the whimsicality of the situation. She, Gabrielle de Gange, erstwhile the reigning belle, with all at her feet that the world had to give, was living now with unruffled equanimity under the same roof as sheltered the man whom she had learned to look on as a devil.
It was October, and the leaves were circling over the grass in whispering eddies. The mournful days of late autumn have a charm of their own, as nature still peeps forth half-chilled from under the closing slab of the tomb. The monotony of mundane existence is in tune with the scene, and as all that is pleasant of the year slowly vanishes, we dream and moralize in a regretful way, which is not discontent.
Nature is dying, but will live again anon. Ah! what of us who gaze ahead striving to peer into the unknown? Have we not learned to know too well that the Future is the grave in which all our poor puny ambitions are to lie, never to arise any more, and yet we would fain examine the resting-place where Hope is to play chief mourner! Most of us who have reached middle age have had ambition crushed out of us long since, and we can smile with quiet amusement at the vaulting aspirations of our youth.
Gabrielle, while tranquilly embroidering, was not averse to recalling the past, summoning on the disc of memory the pageants of Versailles, the innocent bucolics of Trianon, the magnificent fêtes at the Tuileries. Where were all the gaily gilded puppets now? The Tuileries was a Golgotha, Trianon a nest for owls. The lovely Lamballe had been hacked to pieces by demons; their majesties were doing gruesome penance for the sins of others; even the saintly and immaculate Elizabeth, one of the purest and noblest women who ever trod the earth, was also enduring long-drawn and excruciating pangs of martyrdom.
Laying down her embroidery as she reviewed these things, Gabrielle would clasp her hands behind her head, and marvel, as others in similarly incongruous situations have done, whether Providence is not a myth. Every fibre of the human soul revolts against the monstrous doctrine that the innocent shall suffer for the guilty, and yet every day we see that it obtains, and always has obtained from the time of Adam downwards. Such gloomy reflections should not perplex young and pretty heads, and yet the marquise was unable to conquer melancholy. Perhaps it was induced by the season, perhaps by the germs of illness. She must have dreamed too long in the moat garden without being provided with sufficient wraps. Certainly she had caught a chill, for when Toinon brought her as usual her morning chocolate, a few days after the marquis's departure, she found her shivering and feverish, with chattering teeth and laboured breath. Drawing aside the heavy curtains of the ancestral bed, Toinon gazed long and anxiously at her mistress, who said, turning impatiently, "You stare as if I were a ghost!"
"Madame thinks she has caught cold?" Toinon agreed quietly. "Madame was always too fond of sitting in the open air."
"I knew I was going to be unwell," her mistress observed drowsily, "for last night I could scarce touch my supper. When the palate is affected, things taste quite differently. The good Bertrand sent up some of my favourite cakes, as light as if made by fairies, and somehow they seemed quite coppery. Do something, Toinon; give them to your dog, for the dish is scarcely touched, and I would not have Bertrand think I am ungrateful."
"And you were always so partial to those cakes!" drily remarked Toinon, with a peculiar smile. "Yes, I will give them to the dog."
"First make me some tisane," entreated Gabrielle. "I am languid and feverish, and my throat is parched and burning."
Toinon slowly shook her head and went straight into the adjoining boudoir, where the light refection described as supper was always laid out on a low table. Her movement was so abrupt that had she not been much preoccupied, she could not have failed to perceive the whisk of a black coat-tail, as it disappeared into the long saloon. Had she opened the door four minutes earlier, she would have seen a dapper figure clad in black leaning over the plate that held the confectionery, and have heard a soft voice mutter, "Only half a cake. It must have had a peculiar taste."
As it was, Toinon saw nothing of this, but finding the room empty, moved swiftly to the tray, took up a cake and smelt it. A thin, pale face was watching her through a door-chink with gleaming eyes.
She again shook her head, and murmuring, "Can they be so wicked?" carried the plate away.
Along the corridor she sped, and down the stairs, unconscious of a dark shadow moving noiselessly, till she reached her own apartment. At sound of the well-known footstep, an animal within, hitherto quiescent, began to whine and yelp, and beat itself against the door.
"Patience, patience--poor hound," Toinon said aloud. "Is it wise to be in so great a hurry? Even now, I cannot believe it!"
She turned the handle and the boisterous dog dashed the plate from her hand with its great paws. She picked up two of the cakes which had remained whole, and with the same peculiar smile of meaning she had worn above, watched the hound as he ravenously devoured the fragments. There was still a piece left--a large one--and she pushed it towards him with her foot.
"Poor dog! Forgive me, Jean," she said, "if what I think is true."
The shadow without gazed in on the scene with craning neck. "She suspects," the abbé muttered. "What will she do with the others?"
As though in direct answer to the question, Toinon turned rapidly from the animal which she had been eyeing with a suspicious frown, and carefully taking up the remaining pieces of confectionery wrapped them in paper. Then she stood stroking her chin irresolute. The dog approached and wagged his tail, rubbing his muzzle in her hand, as his way was when he wanted something. "What is it, poor fellow?" she enquired, stroking his head. "Water! I thought as much!" Filling a basin, she placed it on the floor, and the dog drank eagerly till the last drop was drained, then curled himself up to sleep.
Starting, the abigail took up the parcel, went to a cupboard, selected a bottle from a row and mixed some of its contents with water.
"Mustard," murmured the abbé, slinking into the shade. "That stupid woman said there was no especial taste. See what it is to have to deal with bunglers."
Wearing his most unpleasant scowl, and grinding his sharp teeth, he stole along the corridor, and moving up a step or two turned and came down again humming a blythesome stave, just as Toinon appeared at the bottom, holding the parcel and a glass.
"Our pretty Toinon is vastly occupied," he laughed, merrily. "But for fear of the stalwart arm of burly Jean, I would steal a kiss from those sweet lips."
"Maybe you will feel that arm sooner than you expect," she said, scarce able to steady her voice; "make way, and if you dare to touch me, I will spit in your villain's face."
This was clearly not the moment for persiflage, so with a careless shrug of indulgence for the coarse manners of the lower classes, the abbé stood aside. "What a dear darling little vixen," he shouted up the stairs. "I pity poor Jean Boulot, despite his thews and sinews."
The first attempt was a failure, an egregiously contemptible and inartistic failure, and all due to that inveterate bungler. Had not mademoiselle's coadjutor suggested that liquid is preferable to solid, for the purpose they both had at heart, since you only munch a biscuit, whereas you take a preliminary sip at a liquid and then, your mouth feeling a trifle dry, take a longer gulp before remarking that the taste is peculiar? And the execrable Algaé had insisted on the cakes, declaring that if you are fond of a particular cake, you will indulge in several before any little peculiarity can manifest itself. And the fool--the hopelessly obstinate and self-sufficient idiot--had perpetrated another bungle, a worse one than before, since Gabrielle had only bitten into one of her favourites, while the others had been gobbled by the dog. The dog would die; no doubt of it, and Toinon's suspicions would be justified. What would she do with that tell-tale parcel? An extremely awkward mistake of mademoiselle's. There was one way out of the dilemma. The abbé must be taken ill as well as the lady of the house; complain of a taste of copper, make an outcry in the kitchen, and discover that the careless cook had spread his materials upon a copper-plate that had not been cleared of verdigris.
Toinon was busy all day with her mistress, whom she found in a half lethargy, with burning palms and widely distended pupils. She had some ado to force the mustard down her throat; but, this done, she soon had the pleasure of seeing the patient revive. By evening, Gabrielle was calm, but exhausted, and when Toinon descended to the kitchen to fetch some bouillon (which Bertrand would have first to taste) she was astonished to hear that the abbé was screaming with agony, kicking in frightful convulsions.
Toinon smiled her peculiar smile again, and uttered a few common-place words of sympathy.
"Badly played," she said to herself, "he might as well have bethought him that the symptoms should be lethargy and coma."
M. Bertrand, the cook, was in high dudgeon. How dared anybody hint that he had poisoned madame's biscuits? It was all owing to that oaf of a scullion, who had laid the large square copper-plate on the confectionery table, without remembering that it had been unused for a week. Was he, a cordon bleu, a chef de premier caliber, to be blamed for the stupidity of a scullion? He would be expected to clean his own saucepans next. When the marquis returned--who always appreciated efforts to please--he would give warning and leave this sale maison, which was only fit for cockroaches and rats.
"Go back to Paris!" gibed Toinon. "Safer where you are, believe me. A chef with so splendid a reputation for pampering the palates of the gangrened aristocracy, would surely be strung up to a lantern! This bouillon looks excellent," she added saucily; "but M. Bertrand will be good enough to sip two spoonfuls, lest the scullion should have dipped his fingers in it."
Next day, thanks to Toinon's vigilant solicitude, the marquise was sufficiently recovered to sit at her embroidery as usual. Holding out a hand to the abigail while tears rose to the eyes of both, "My sister," she said, "it is worth while to be a little ill just to learn how much we are beloved."
Alas! beloved! Poor lady. Hated by four persons without consciences, who were panting and thirsting for her death! A target for poisoned arrows!
After sagely considering the matter, Toinon made up her mind that if she did not interfere, she might become in some sort an accessary to a tragedy. In whom was faith to be placed? Honest Jean? What could he do, if he were to come, in the face of such diabolical ingenuity? He would learn that his favourite dog--companion of many trudgings through the woods at all times and seasons--had died of poisoned cakes. But then was it not admitted in the household, that the abbé as well as the marquise had accidentally partaken, and that the abbé of the two had been the most sick? Had not varlets and kitchen wenches cowered and clung together at sound of his piercing screams? He was well again, for he had had the presence of mind to swallow mustard. The marquise had recovered, thanks to a like precaution. Toinon had been cunning enough to keep two cakes which, when the time came should be examined, and if the abbé were foolish enough to declare that he had been poisoned by similar articles, it would be easy to prove that his agonies were sham, as they were not the natural results of such a poison as had been administered to Gabrielle.
Meanwhile, something must be done, and the question that troubled Toinon was what that something was to be. At last she made up her mind and broke the ice.
"Will madame pardon me for what may appear an act of presumption," she inquired, gently rearranging the wraps about the invalid. "I have taken something on myself which may anger madame, who will, I know, believe that if I was guilty of an error it was made through excess of zeal."
There was a pause, unbroken by Gabrielle, who glanced at her foster-sister with a wan and wearied look that was full of pathos.
Presently she raised the fingers of the waiting maid to her face, and stroked her cheek with them.
"What is this grand effort of the intellect?" she asked, cheerily. "I know it is something well intentioned."
"I have written a letter in madame's name and sent it off by special courier."
"Not to the marquis?" cried Gabrielle, the colour flushing over her face and neck.
Poor soul! The marquis! Much good would it be to write to him, unless to request him to order a coffin.
"No," Toinon said, quietly. "It cuts me to the heart to see madame so solitary, and during a convalescence too, a time when we always brood and consider the least pleasant subjects. I have written to the Maréchale de Brèze, stating that you have been ill, but are out of danger, and would be glad of a visit from your mother."
Gabrielle remained thoughtful, still stroking Toinon's fingers. Why not? The maréchale owed a visit, and the absence of her husband on business would account for the seclusion of his wife. Moreover, it would be a splendid thing to lure the old dame from dangerous Paris, where Mother Guillotine was commencing to display a Catholic taste in the way of food. Yes; from all points of view it was an admirable idea to induce Madame de Brèze to visit Lorge. Why! it was a thousand years at least since she had set eyes upon the darlings! Her own and only grandchildren! How shockingly reprehensible. How she would joy in marking each trait of genius, and how proud their mother would be to show how cultured were their minds! The maréchale's mind was considerably less stored than her daughter's, but she would appreciate with greater awe the progress of their climb up Parnassus. Did they not write each other poems and moral essays, after the manner of the Scuderi, and of the encyclopædist ladies!--such prodigiously clever verses, and such heavenly prose sermons! The more she considered it the more enchanted was she that Toinon should have taken this move upon herself. Had it been left to her, she would have doubted, have written a dozen letters only to tear them up, weighing in that tender and over-scrupulous conscience of hers whether it was right or wrong to drag an old lady to the wilds of Touraine at such a troublous moment. She would have considered whether it was not her duty to have unselfishly exhorted the ancient dame never to stir out of her modest abode; never even to open her window, lest by the act she should be drawn into the maw of Mother Guillotine.
The more she thought over it the more delighted was she with the idea, and, opening her arms, clasped Toinon to her breast.
"My dear, my dear," she murmured, fondly, "what should I do without you? Let the dear mother come. Together we will make her welcome."