He watched the rose which the lady so carelessly tossed, with hungry eyes, as a dog watches a bone given to some well-fed and happier rival. At the call from one of the players he replaced a broken racket, then took up his former post, apparently intent upon the game, but in reality his mind was far afield.
It was in the early summer days of the year 1789. Looking out over the baron's noble estates through the eyes of a girl like mademoiselle, the world was very beautiful. Glancing at it through the careless eyes of the prodigal St. Hilaire, it seemed very pleasing; but in spite of these waving crops, and wealthy vineyards, in spite of the plenty in the baron's household and the rich wines in his cellar, throughout France there were many who had not enough to eat. Men, and women too, were crying out for their share of the world's riches.
A new wave of thought was sweeping over France. A thought as old as the hills, yet startlingly new to each man as he discovered it. Books were being written and words spoken which were soon to cause great political changes in a land already seething with discontent. Change and Progress at last were in the saddle, and they were riding fast. As the careless noblemen batted their tennis balls back and forth, thinking only of their game; as the young girl leaned over the rose-covered terrace, thinking of the sunlight, the flowers, and the beauty of life, Robert Tournay, the intendant's son, pondered deeply on the "rights of man" while he ran after the tennis balls for those who played the game.
As if wearied by the contemplation of his prospective married bliss, Monsieur de Lacheville yawned, arose from his seat and strolled leisurely from the room, descended the staircase and came out into the park in the rear of the château, unobserved by the tennis players. The note in his pocket called him to a rendezvous; and the marquis, after some deliberation, had decided to keep it. Once in the wooded park and out of sight of the house, he quickened his pace to a brisk walk; proceeding thus for half a mile he suddenly left the driveway and plunging through the thick foliage by a path which to the casual eye was barely visible, came out into a shady and unfrequented alley.
A few minutes after de Lacheville's disappearance into the woods, the other noblemen, wearied of their sport, retired into the house for refreshment.
This left young Tournay free for the time being, and he availed himself of the opportunity to go down toward a pasture beyond the park where some young horses were running wild, innocent of bit or bridle. It was Tournay's intention to break one of these colts for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. She was a fearless rider, and it gave the young man pleasure to be commissioned to pick out an animal at once gentle and mettlesome for the use of his young mistress.
The Tournays, from father to son, had been for generations the intendants of the de Rochefort estate. With the baron's permission Matthieu Tournay had sent his son away to school, and he had thus received a better education than most young men of his class. He was of an ambitious temper, and this very education, instead of making him more contented with his lot in life, increased his restlessness. It only served to show him more clearly the line that separated him from those he served. In his own mind he had never defined his feeling for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He only knew that it gave him great pleasure to serve her; and yet, as he did her bidding, he felt a pang that between them was the gulf of caste; that even when she smiled upon him it was merely the favored servant whom she greeted; that although he might be as well educated as the Count de Blois, a better horseman than St. Hilaire, and a better man than de Lacheville, they could enter as equals into the presence of this divine being, while such as he must always take his place below the salt.
It was with such thoughts as these revolving in his brain that the intendant's son walked through the woods of the park. He followed no path, for he knew each tree and twig from childhood. Suddenly he was interrupted in his reverie by the sound of voices, and stopping short, recognized the voice of the Marquis de Lacheville in conversation with a woman. Tournay hesitated, then went forward cautiously in the direction whence the sound came. Had he been born a gentleman he would have chosen another way; or at least would have advanced noisily. Indeed, such had been his first impulse,—but a much stronger interest than curiosity impelled him forward; and drawing near, he looked through a gap in the hedge.
On the other side stood de Lacheville facing a young woman. Her cheeks were flushed, and the manner in which she toyed with a riding-whip showed that the discussion had been heated. Although she was handsomely dressed in a riding-habit and assumed some of the airs of a lady, Tournay recognized her at once as a young girl who had disappeared some months before from the village of La Thierry, and whose handsome face and vivacious manner had caused her to be much admired. Near her stood the nobleman, calm and self-composed. Before men, de Lacheville had been known to flinch; but with a woman of the humbler class the marquis could always play the master.
"And now, Marianne," said the nobleman slowly, "you had better go,—and do not make the mistake of coming here again."