And the old servitors, well aware of the earnest love which had existed between the young people, and of the contract which had been entered into with the consent of all parties, knew not how their young master now stood affected toward the lady, and consequently feared to speak on the subject.
At length, when he had dined some hours, while he was sitting with the old bailiff, who had been endeavoring to seduce him into an examination of I know not what of rents and leases, dues and droits, seignorial and manorial—while the bottles of ruby-colored Bordeaux wine stood almost untouched before them—the young man made an effort, and raising his head suddenly after a long and thoughtful silence, asked his companion whether the comte d’Argenson was at that time resident at the château.
“Oh, yes, monseigneur,” the old man returned immediately, “he has been here all the summer, and the château has been full of gay company from Paris. Never such times have been known in my days: hawking-parties one day, and hunting-matches the next, and music and balls every night, and cavalcades of bright ladies, and cavaliers all ostrich-plumes and cloth of gold and tissue, that you would think our old woods here were converted into fairy-land. The young lady Melanie was wedded only three days since to the marquis de Ploermel; but you will not know him by that name, I trow: he was the chevalier only—the chevalier de la Rochederrien—when you were here before.”
“Ah, they are wedded, then,” replied the youth, mastering his passions by a terrible exertion, and speaking of what rent his very heartstrings asunder, as if it had been a matter which concerned him not so much even as a thought; “I heard it was about to be so shortly, but knew not that it had yet taken place.”
“Yes, monseigneur, three days since; and it is very strangely thought of in the country, and very strange things are said on all sides concerning it.”
“As what, Matthieu?”
“Why, the marquis is old enough to be her father, or some say her grandfather, for that matter; and little Rosalie, her fille-de-chambre, has been telling all the neighborhood that Mademoiselle Melanie hated him with all her heart and soul, and would far rather die than go to the altar as his bride.”
“Pshaw! is that all, good Matthieu?” answered the youth, very bitterly—“is that all? Why, there is nothing strange in that; that is an every-day event. A pretty lady changes her mind, breaks her faith, and weds a man she hates and despises! Well! that is perfectly in rule; that is precisely what is done every day at court! If you could tell just the converse of this tale—that a beautiful woman had kept her inclinations unchanged, her faith unbroken, her honor pure and bright—that she had rejected a rich man or a powerful man because he was base or bad, and wedded a poor and honorable one because she loved him—then, indeed, my good Matthieu, you would be telling something that would make men open their eyes wide enough, and marvel what should follow. Is this all that you call strange?”
“You are jesting at me, monseigneur, for that I am country bred,” replied the steward, staring at his youthful master with big eyes of astonishment; “you can not mean that which you say!”
“I do mean precisely what I say, my good friend; and I never felt less like jesting in the whole course of my life. I know that you good folk down here in the quiet country judge of these things as you have spoken; but that is entirely on account of your ignorance of court life, and what is now termed nobility. What I tell you is strictly true: that falsehood, and intrigue, and lying—that daily sales of honor—that adultery and infamy of all kinds—are every-day occurrences in Paris; and that the wonders of the time are truth and sincerity, and keeping faith and honor! This, I doubt not, seems strange to you, but it in true for all that.”