There is a dull and heavy looking sort of personage, amongst the various classes of human beings, by whom the wit and clear-sightedness of the shrewd and the cunning in human character, are more frequently set completely at defiance than even by the politic and the artful. The air of cold indifferent stupidity, which is natural to it, in itself generates an idea of a slow and unexcitable spirit, and an obtuse and inactive mind incapable of strong feelings except of a very animal kind, which not unfrequently deceives the most penetrating. The surface looks so much as if there were nothing below, that we rarely take the trouble of ascertaining the depth and strength of the currents that may be running underneath.
Of this character was the maid Blanchette. She gave no indication of being offended at the censure of the Marchioness de Chazeul, except by the momentary heightening of her colour; and the lady fancied that she had effaced all trace of her harsh words, by holding out the idea of her accompanying Rose to Paris. But it was not so. Blanchette was always displeased with censure, even when, as a humble dependant, she had no claim, but for services that could be performed by a dozen others, as well as by herself; but, when she had grown a person of importance in her own eyes, by being entrusted with a charge that no one but herself could perform, she felt injured and indignant at the slightest blame, and that of Madame de Chazeul had been neither very gentle in manner nor very temperate in words. She only dropped a profound courtesy then, without making any reply while the Marchioness spoke, as if her little wit were busily engaged with other matters, and she was prepared to receive and obey all orders communicated to her without doubt or hesitation. But such a line of conduct was far from her intention; deep and angry passion was at the bottom of her heart; and she determined, if fortune prospered with her, to find some means of retaliating, in act, if not in seeming, the bitter words of the Marchioness, without spoiling her own prospects of advancement. She listened then to the end without saying a word; but merely courtesying from time to time, till at length as the lady finished, she replied, "I will see to it all, Madam! Everything shall be quite ready."
"Ay, see that it be," replied Madame de Chazeul. "And now, Blanchette, send Monsieur de Chazeul to me if you can find him."
The maid retired, and the Marchioness remained turning in her mind the next step to be taken. "Yes," she said, "we may trust the priest,--but not too far. Rose will tell him nothing, thanks to her promise. I wonder how she learned anything to tell.--Some letter from Helen doubtless: or else that girl has made herself some friends in the camp of the Bearnois; perhaps has got some new paramour.--I was a fool to deal so harshly with her. What was it to me, if she chose to play the harlot with the boy? My fear of her spoiling this marriage drove me too far.--Yes we can trust the priest. I have had the castle gates too strictly watched for any one to have brought him tidings without my knowing it.--We must trust him, that is the worst--though I do think he would go on, even if he knew all. But his chamber is too near, not to make him a sharer of our plans.--These priests are but spies upon us in our own châteaux. I wonder that we tolerate them. Yet they are useful too, when they choose to be serviceable.--His zeal for the league will keep him faithful."
Such were some of the half-muttered, half-silent thoughts of Jacqueline de Chazeul, as she sat waiting for her son; but he kept her not long in expectation, for he was anxious to hear the result of her interview with Rose d'Albret; and, as soon as he did appear, the Marchioness greeted him with a gay look, asking, "Well, Chazeul, have you seen your uncle?"
"No!" he replied, "He has not come to the hall. What are your news? What says the little prisoner?"
"Of that afterwards," answered the Marchioness, "First, the marriage is to be to-morrow before noon. For that, your Uncle's word is pledged, and we must see that he keeps it; for, if this obstinate girl should still resist, he may be shaken. Now tell me, Chazeul, when did her looks first begin to grow cold towards you?"
"They were never very warm," said Chazeul, "but they have been chilly enough for the last ten days."
"Then it is so!" rejoined his mother as if speaking to herself; "that chilliness makes me think that she may love you rather more than less."
"Come, good mother, no riddles," exclaimed Chazeul, "we have no time for solving them; nor am I an [OE]dipus. What is it that you mean?"