I have scarcely less reason to be satisfied with the other inhabitants of the château. Mlle. Marguerite, who is always plunged like a Nubian sphinx in some mysterious vision, nevertheless condescends to treat me to my favourite airs with the utmost good-nature. She has a fine contralto voice, which she uses with perfect art, but at the same time with an indifference and coldness which I think must be deliberate. Sometimes, in an unguarded moment, I have heard her tones become impassioned, but almost immediately she has returned to an icy correctness, as if ashamed of the lapse from her character or from her role.
A few games of piquet with M. Laroque, which I had the tact to lose, won me the favour of the poor old man. Sometimes I find his dim and feeble gaze fixed on me with strange intentness, as if some dream of the past, some fanciful resemblance, had half revived among the mists of an exhausted memory, in which the images of a century hover confusedly.
They actually wanted to return me the money I lost to him. Mme. Aubry, who usually plays with the old captain, accepts these restitutions without scruple; but this does not prevent her from winning pretty frequently, on which occasions she has furious encounters with the old corsair. M. Laubépin was lenient when he described this lady merely as embittered. I have no liking for her, but, out of consideration for the others, I have made an effort to gain her good-will, and have succeeded in doing so by listening patiently first to her lamentations over her present position, and then to her impressive description of her former grandeur, her silver, her furniture, her lace, and her gloves.
It must be confessed that I have come to the right school to learn to despise the advantages I have lost. Every one here by their attitude and language eloquently exhorts me to the contempt of riches. Firstly, Mme. Aubry, who might be aptly compared to those shameless gluttons whose greediness takes away one's appetite, and who disgust one with the dishes they praise; the old man, perishing as sadly among his millions as Job on his dunghill; the good woman, romantic and blasé, who in the midst of her inopportune prosperity dreams of the forbidden fruit of suffering; and lastly, the haughty Marguerite, who wears like a crown of thorns the diadem of beauty and opulence which Heaven has forced on her brow. A strange girl!
Nearly every fine morning I see her ride past the windows of my belfry; she bows gravely to me, the black plume of her felt riding hat dipping and waving in the wind; and then she slowly disappears along the shaded path that runs through the ruins of the ancient château. Sometimes old Alain follows her, and sometimes her only companion is the huge and faithful Mervyn, who strides at the side of his beautiful mistress like a pensive bear. So attended, she covers all the country round on her errands of charity. She does not need a protector, for there is not a cottage within six leagues where she is not known and worshipped as the goddess of good works. The poor people call her "Mademoiselle," as if they were speaking of one of those daughters of kings who give poetry to their legends, and whose beauty and power and mystery they recognise in her.
I, meanwhile, am seeking the key to the sombre preoccupation that clouds her brow, the haughty and defiant severity of her eyes, the cold bitterness of her tongue. I ask myself if these are the natural traits of a strange and complex character, or the symptoms of some secret suffering, remorse, or fear, or love, which preys on this noble heart. However slightly one may be interested in the question, it is impossible not to feel a certain curiosity about a person so remarkable. Last night, while old Alain, with whom I am a favourite, was serving my solitary repast, I said:
"Well, Alain, it's been a lovely day. Have you been riding?"
"Yes, sir, this morning, with mademoiselle."
"Oh, indeed!"
"You must have seen us go by, sir."