The Maréchal de Brèze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes, complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur on the mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task; pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him to his knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not the finger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "The paled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings. She is an angel--the best of women--but too apt sometimes to figure as a femme incomprise. All may come right in time, for he is a well-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled off on the sea of conjecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word," she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell what he is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are people with whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom we believe we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! They suddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew them at all!"
"But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the maréchal, chafing. "Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the man marble? What more could mortal require?"
Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas, dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by this time that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not often impelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for their defects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook their virtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, who have adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast over the details of her ugliness."
The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon the damsel continued.
"Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest. Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideous wretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of mésalliances? Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics; leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Because to some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is in itself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis."
The maréchal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel's discourse. In his own time he had had a wide experience, grave and gay, and was not unaware that a jaded or unhealthy appetite craves for abnormal food. None knew better than he that the insipidity of doll-like prettiness may grow exasperating. We gaze at portraits of the celebrated fair ones of the past, and scanning their queer mouths and noses, conclude that fashions change in beauty as well as costume. We fail to detect the charms of Anne Bullen or Mary Stuart, and we are wrong. Intellect and wit can illumine irregular features as the sun lights up a landscape. Thick lips and a snub nose may be transfigured under the divine rays till they seem a miracle of loveliness.
Then the anxious old gentleman waxed cross. A froward girl was Toinon with her sham sagacity. She had ridden away on a false premise. The most plausible theories are delusive. Gabrielle was no doll, but a quiet, well-conducted, sensible woman enough, if not of brilliant parts. Femme incomprise, indeed! Modest but fragrant violets lurk under leaves, and we take the trouble to look for them. How dared this presumptuous marquis to misunderstand the treasure he had won? It was not the comely mask of flesh alone that drew the buzzing crowd of moths. Married, they could not be aiming at her wealth. The marquise was constantly surrounded by the attentive bevy of youths. Butterflies attended her daily lévée, drank chocolate while her hair was being powdered, spent hours over her trivial errands, and she accorded to none the preference. A virtuous wife in an unvirtuous throng might be of momentary interest as an anomaly, but sparks would soon weary of the wonder. No. She was lively enough to hold her own in the swift patter of petty small-talk. It did the heart good to hear her jocund laugh. It must be admitted that the expression of her face changed little, but then it was so fair that to change would be to mar it. Who would have the sculptured Psyche grin, or ask the Venus of Milo to grimace?
The more carefully he reviewed this knotty question, the more bewildered became the excellent de Brèze. Laudably resolved to delve to the bottom, he left the waiting-maid for the mistress, and observed for the first time that his daughter's welcoming smile was less bright than of yore. On being cross-questioned, she grew grave and reticent, refusing to complain of her husband, and entrenched herself within a proud reserve. "He might be odd, but she preferred him as he was," she declared shortly; would not have him altered by one tittle. Vainly her father pressed her, assured her that he would do nothing that she would not entirely approve. There was naught to be drawn from Gabrielle.
"Well," said the maréchal at last, wistfully sighing, "if I am not to interfere, I won't; but you know that I live only for my child."
"I know you do, dear," she softly answered. "Your anxiety wrings my heart!"