Lifting her eyes once more, they rested on a picture that held the place of honour in her boudoir. It was a coloured drawing of considerable spirit, and had been given her by no less a favourite than the Prince-Marshal himself, for whose glorification it had been executed by a rising artist.
It represented a battle-field, of which the Prince de Chateau-Guerrand constituted the principal object; and that officer was portrayed with considerable fidelity, advancing to the succour of the Count de Guiches, who at the head of the Guards was covering Villeroy’s retreat before Marlborough at Ramillies. Two or three broad, honest faces of the English grenadiers came well out from the smoke and confusion in the background, ingeniously increased by a fall of rafters and conflagration of an imaginary farm-house; but the Count de Guiches himself occupied no prominent place in the composition, dancing about on a little grey horse in one corner, as if studious not to interfere with the dominant figure, who was, indeed, the artist’s patron, and who presided over the whole in a full-bottomed wig, with a conceited smile on his face and a laced hat in his hand. There lay, also, a dead Musketeer in the foreground, admirably contrived to impart reality to the scene of conflict; and it was on this figure that the eyes of the Marquise fixed themselves, devouring it with a passionate gaze, in which admiration, longing, self-scorn, and self-reproach, seemed all combined.
For a full minute the wild, pitiful expression never left her face, and during that minute she tore her handkerchief to the coronet near its hem. Then she rose and paced the room for a couple of turns, restless as a leopard; but ere she had made a third, footsteps were heard approaching through the bed-chamber. The door opened, and one of her servants announced “Monsieur l’Abbé Malletort!”
CHAPTER XI
WHAT THE SERPENT SAID
HE came in smiling, of course. When was the Abbé to be caught without his self-possessed smile, his easy manner, and his carefully-arranged dress? On the present occasion he carried with him some rare flowers as well. The Marquise sprang at them almost before he had time to offer his elaborate homage, while he bent over her extended hand. He snatched the nosegay away, however, with great quickness, and held it behind his back.
“Pardon, madame,” said he, “this is forbidden fruit. As such I bring it into the garden of Paradise; where my cousin dwells there is Eden, and the resemblance is the more striking that neither here are found mirrors to offend me with the reflection of my own ugly face. Consequently, my attention is concentrated on yourself. I look at you, Marquise, as Adam looked at Eve. Bah! that father of horticulture was but a husband. I should rather say, as the subtle creature who relieved their domestic tête-à-tête looked at the lady presiding over that charming scene. I look at you, I say, with delight and admiration, for I find you beautiful!”
“And is it to tell me this important news that you are abroad so early?” asked the Marquise, laughing gaily, while she pointed to the easy-chair she had just left. “Sit down, Monsieur l’Abbé, and try to talk sense for five minutes. You can be rational; none more so, when you choose. I want your opinion—nay, I even think I want your advice. Mind, I don’t promise to take it, that of course! Don’t look so interested. It’s not about myself. It’s about Cerise.”
“How can I look anything else?” asked the Abbé, whose face, to do him justice, never betrayed his thoughts or feelings. “Madame, or Mademoiselle, both are near and dear to me—too much so for my own repose.”
He sighed, and laid his white hand on his breast. She was so accustomed to his manner that she never troubled herself whether he was in jest or earnest. Moreover, she was at present engrossed with her daughter’s future, and proceeded thoughtfully.