XVIII.
ROGER DE MONBERT
to
MONSIEUR EDGAR DE MEILHAN,
Pont de l'Arche (Eure).
PARIS, July 2d 18—.
Do you believe, my dear Edgar, that it is easy to live when the age of love is passed? Verily one must be able to love his whole lifetime if he wishes to live an enchanted life, and die a painless death. What a seductive game! what unexpected luck! How many moments delightfully employed! Each day has its particular history; at night we delight in telling it over to ourselves, and indulge in the wildest conjectures as to what will be the events of each to-morrow. The reality of to-day defeats the anticipations of yesterday. We hope one moment and despair the next—now dejected, now elated. We alternate between death and blissful life.
The other morning at nine o'clock we stopped at the stage-office at Sens for ten minutes. I went into the hotel and questioned everybody, and found they had seen many young ladies of the age, figure and beauty of Mlle. de Chateaudun.
Happy people they must be!
However, I only asked all these questions to amuse myself during the ten minutes' relay. My mind was at rest—for the police are infallible; everything will be explained at the Château de Lorgeville. I stopped my carriage some yards from the gate, got out and walked up the long avenue, being concealed by the large trees through which I caught glimpses of the château.
It was a large symmetrical building—a stone quadrangle, heavily topped off by a dark slate roof, and a dejected-looking weathercock that rebelled against the wind and declined to move.
All the windows in the front of the house were tear-stained at the base by the winter rains.
A modern entrance, with double flights of steps decorated by four vases containing four dead aloe-stems buried in straw, betrayed the cultivated taste of the handsome Léon.
I expected to see the shadow of a living being.... No human outline broke the tranquil shade of the trees.
An accursed dog, man's worst enemy, barked furiously, and made violent efforts to break his rope and fly at me.... I hope he is tied with a gordian knot if he wishes to see the setting sun!
Finally a gardener enjoying a sinecure came to enliven this landscape without a garden; he strolled down the avenue with the nonchalance of a workman paid by the handsome Léon.
I am able to distinguish among the gravest faces those that can relax into a smile at the sight of gold. The gardener passed before me, and after he had bestowed upon me the expected smile, I said to him:
"Is this Mad. de Lorgeville's château?"
He made an affirmative sign. Once more I bowed to the genius of the Jerusalem street goddess.
I said to the gardener in a solemn tone: "Here is a letter of the greatest importance; you must hand it to Mlle. de Chateaudun when she is alone." I then showed him my purse and said: "After that, this money is yours."
"The sweet young lady!" said the gardener, walking off towards the château with the gold in one hand, the letter in the other, and the purse in his eye—"The good young lady! it is a long time since she has received a love-letter."
I said to myself, The handsome Léon does not indulge in letter-writing—he has a good reason for that.
The following is the letter carried by the gardener to the château:—
"Mademoiselle,—
"Desperate situations justify desperate measures. I am willing to believe that I am still, by your desire, undergoing a terrible ordeal, but I judge myself sufficiently tried.
"I am ready for everything except the misery of losing you. My last sane idea is uttered in this warning.
"I must see you; I must speak to you.
"Do not refuse me a few moments' conversation—Mademoiselle, in the name of Heaven save me! save yourself!
"There is in the neighborhood of the château some farmhouse, or shady grove. Name any spot where I can meet you in an hour. I am awaiting your answer.... After an hour has passed I will wait for nothing more in this world."
The gardener walked along with the nonchalance of the man of the Georgics, as if meditating upon the sum of happiness contained in a piece of gold. I looked after him with that resignation we feel as the end of a great trial approaches.
He was soon lost to view, and in the distance I heard a door open and shut.
In a few minutes Mlle. Chateaudun would be reading my letter. I read it over in my own mind, and rapidly conjectured the impression each word would make upon her heart.
Through the thick foliage where I was concealed, I had a confused view of one wing of the château; the wall appeared to be covered with green tapestry torn in a thousand places. I could distinguish nothing clearly at a distance of twenty yards. Finally I saw approaching a graceful figure clad in white—and through the trees I caught sight of a blue scarf—a muslin dress and blue scarf—nothing more, and yet my heart stood still! My sensations at this moment are beyond analyzation. I felt an emotion that a man in love will comprehend at once.... A muslin dress fluttering under the trees where the fountains ripple and the birds sing! Is there a more thrilling sight?
I stood with one foot forward on the gravel-path, and with folded arms and bowed head I waited. I saw the scarf fringe before seeing the face. I looked up, and there stood before me a lovely woman ... but it was not Irene!...
It was Mad. de Lorgeville. She knew me and I recognised her, having known her before her marriage. She still possessed the beauty of her girlhood, and marriage had perfected her loveliness by adorning her with that fascinating grace that is wanting even in Raphael's madonnas.
A peal of merry laughter rooted me to the spot and changed the current of my ideas. The lady was seized with such a fit of gayety that she could scarcely speak, but managed to gasp out my name and title in broken syllables. Like a great many men, I can stand much from women that I am not in love with.... I stood with arms crossed and hat off, waiting for an explanation of this foolish reception. After several attempts, Mad. de Lorgeville succeeded in making her little speech. After this storm of laughter there was still a ripple through which I could distinguish the following words, although I did not understand them:—
"Excuse me, monsieur, ... but if you knew ... when you see ... but she must not see my foolish merriment, ... she cherishes the fancy that she is still young, ... like all women who are no longer so, ... give me your arm, ... we were at table ... we always keep a seat for a chance visitor ... One does not often meet with an adventure like this except in novels...."
I made an effort to assume that calmness and boldness that saved my life the day I was made prisoner on the inhospitable coast of Borneo, and the old Arab king accused me of having attempted the traffic of gold dust—a capital crime—and said to the fair young châtelaine:
"Madame, there is not much to amuse one in the country; gayety is a precious thing; it cannot be bought; happy is he who gives it. I congratulate myself upon being able to present it to you. Can you not give me back half of it, madame?"
"Yes, monsieur, come and take it yourself," said Madame de Lorgeville; "but you must use it with discretion before witnesses."
"I can assure you, madame, that I have not come to your château in search of gayety. Allow me to escort you to the door and then retire."
"You are my prisoner, monsieur, and I shall not grant your request. The arrival of the Prince de Monbert is a piece of good fortune. My husband and I will not be ungrateful to the good genius that brought you here. We shall keep you."
"One moment, madame," said I, stopping in front of the château; "I accept the happiness of being retained by you; but will you be good enough to name the persons I am to meet here?"
"They are all friends of M. de Monbert."
"Friends are the very people I dread, madame."
"But they are all women."
"Women I dread most of all."
"Ah! monsieur, it is quite evident that you have been among savages for ten years."
"Savages are the only beings I am not afraid of!"
"Alas! monsieur, I have nothing in that line to offer you. This evening I can show you some neighbors who resemble the tribes of the Tortoise of the Great Serpent—these are the only natives I can dispose of. At present you will only see my husband, two ladies who are almost widows, and a young lady" ... here Mad. de Lorgeville was seized with a new fit of laughter ... finally she continued: "A young lady whose name you will know later."
"I know it already, madame."
"Perhaps you do ... to-morrow our company will be increased by two persons, my brother." ...
"The handsome Léon!"
"Ah you know him!... My brother Léon and his wife." ...
I started so violently that I dropped Mad. de Lorgeville's arm—she looked frightened, and I said in a painfully constrained voice:
"And his wife.... Mad. de Varèzes?... Ah! I did not know that M. de Varèzes was married."
"My brother was married a month ago," said Mad. Lorgeville. "He married Mlle. de Bligny."
"Are you certain of that, madame?"
This question was asked in a voice and accompanied by an expression of countenance that would have made a painter or musician desperate, even were they Rossini or Delacroix.
Mad. de Lorgeville, alarmed a second time by my excited manner, looked at me with commiseration, as if she thought me crazy! Certainly neither my face nor manner indicated sanity.
"You ask if I am sure my brother is married!" said Mad. de Lorgeville with petrified astonishment. "You are surely jesting?"
"Yes, madame, yes," said I, with an exuberance of gayety, "it is a joke.... I understand it all ... I comprehend everything ... that is to say—I understand nothing ... but your brother, the excellent Léon de Varèzes, is married—that is all I wanted to know.... What a very handsome young man he is!... I suppose, madame, that you opened my note without reading the address ... or did Mlle. de Chateaudun send you here to meet me?"
"Mlle. de Chateaudun is not here ... excuse this silly laughter ... the gardener gave your note to one of my guests ... a young lady of sixty-five summers.... Who by the strangest coincidence is named Mlle. de Chantverdun.... Now you can account for my amusement ... Mlle. de Chantverdun is a canoness. She read your letter, and wished for once in her life to enjoy uttering a shriek of alarm and faint at the sight of a love letter; so come monsieur," said Mad. de Lorgeville, smilingly leading me towards the house, "come and make your excuses to Mlle. de Chantverdun, who has recovered her senses and sent me to her rendezvous."
Involuntarily, my dear Edgar, I indulged in this short monologue after the manner of the old romancers: O tender love! passion full of intoxication and torment! love that kills and resuscitates! What a terrible vacuum thou must leave in life, when age exiles thee from our heart! Which means that I was resuscitated by Mad. de Lorgeville's last words!
In a few minutes I was bowing with a moderate degree of respect before Mlle. de Chantverdun, and making her such adroit excuses that she was enchanted with me. Happiness had restored my presence of mind—my deferential manner and apologies delighted the poor old-young lady. I made her believe that this mistake was entirely owing to a similarity of names, and that the age of Mile. de Chantverdun was an additional point of resemblance.
This distinction was difficult to manage in its exquisite delicacy; my skilfulness won the approbation of Mad. de Lorgeville.
We passed a charming afternoon. I had recovered my gayety that trouble had almost destroyed, and enjoyed myself so much that sunset found me still at the château. Dear Edgar, this time I am not mistaken in my conjectures. Mile, de Chateaudun is imposing a trying ordeal upon me—I am more convinced of it than ever; it is the expiation before entering Paradise. Hasten your love affairs and prepare for marriage—we will have a double wedding, and we can introduce our wives on the same day. This would be the crowning of my dearest hopes—a fitting seal to our life-long friendship!
ROGER DE MONBERT.