TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—ON THE VOLCANO, 1789.

CHAPTER II—HUSBAND AND WIFE.

CHAPTER III—INVESTIGATION.

CHAPTER IV—THE CHATEAU OF “LORGE.”

CHAPTER V—THE HALF-BROTHERS.

CHAPTER VI—TEMPTATION.

CHAPTER VII—A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER VIII—A NEW ARRIVAL.

CHAPTER IX—THUNDER CLOUDS.

CHAPTER X—THE MAGIC TUB.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE VOLCANO, 1789.

Although there was no cash in silken fob or broidered pocket, the Elect denied themselves no luxury. Bejewelled Fashion was sumptuously clad: my ladies quarrelled and intrigued, danced and gambled—my lords slept off the fumes of wine, and mopped the wounds begot of midnight brawl; then drank and fought again.

Money? No credit even. Trade was at a standstill, yet the court was uproariously gay.

Money and credit—sinews of pleasure as well as business—having flitted from lively Paris, you might suppose that the wheels of Society would cease to turn—that the flower-decked car of gilded Juggernaut would come creeping to a standstill. Not yet. Impelled by the impulse of its own velocity, it continued to crush on awhile. Those who knew were numbed by the chill shadow of the inevitable, or rendered callous by the knowledge of their helplessness. Those who were deaf and blind groped blissfully on in their lighthearted ignorance. Selfish all, depraved most, the blue-blooded sang in merry chorus, “Let us eat and drink that the worms may grow fat on us.” Not so the gaunt crowds whose blood was but mud and water. As their long-suffering ancestors had monotonously done, they groaned in unison, crying to God for death, as the only release from misery.

What if whole villages were decimated by famine? What if plague and starvation stalked through the towns? My lords and my ladies cared not, for they were poised too high to see. Were the grovelling creatures slaves or insects? Slaves, for they delved patiently, with moans that were vain bleatings as of sheep; whereas outraged insects for the most part sting.

We all know that the first duty of serfs is to labour for their betters: their second, when the worn machinery is out of gear, to retire underground with promptitude. How unseemly—nay, revolting, therefore, is their conduct when, weary of groaning and of teeth-gnashing, they belabour with fists instead!

The scene we look upon is a tranquil and a pretty one, despite certain vague and ominous rumours which, intangible, permeate the air. The favourite saloon of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of the Tuileries, is a small, square chamber decorated with raised garlands, flutes, and tambourines in carved wood, painted a dead white, mellowed now by the glimmer of many candles, shaded. Curtains and furniture are yellow, embroidered with gold; the bare floor is waxed and polished, reflecting the costly and varied rainbow garb of some forty assembled guests. Through open casements—it is a warm evening in July—we mark the majestic outline of the venerable Louvre cut black against the blue—a calm unclouded blue, loftily oblivious of angry curls of darkling smoke which two days since uprose from the ruins of the stormed Bastile. Doors as well as windows are spread wide to woo the air; a bevy of ladies, glittering with gems, are fanning themselves languidly. Through the portals on the right you obtain a glimpse of the remains of supper: a dainty repast, fit for fastidious fairies; such an ideal cosy feast as the queen loved to conjure for her familiars. Through the left door we may perceive an array of green tables with gilt legs, at which gentlemen clad in satins of delicate hue are squabbling over the devil’s books. Their voices from time to time grow angry, their talk unduly loud. But for the adjacent presence of the queen, swords might be drawn and blood spilt. Young Monsieur de Castellane, officer in the Swiss Guard, has just lost his paternal acres to the Marquis de Gange, a fact which, in the latter, seems to evoke no sign of interest. With the usual luck of players who are quite indifferent, Fortune had befriended the marquis, and yet, as things were, the prize was an empty bauble—a mere meaningless array of lands with high-sounding names which looked vastly well—on paper.

The Marquis de Gange was an absentminded person, given to reverie and the contemplation of the infinite, and it is somewhat annoying to lose even paper property to one so utterly unappreciative.

Roused by the congratulations of the surrounding group of butterflies, the marquis descended for a moment to earth, and laughed lightly.

“A profitable stake to win, in sooth,” he observed, with a yawn. “Castellane! I hereby resign your empty title-deeds, having quite enough such foolish lumber of my own. Your part of the country is a caldron, mine is a furnace. Thank heaven, my wife’s estates are in a land of peace, or, like many more, we should be beggars.”

“It is not given to everyone to mate with a great heiress,” remarked rueful Castellane, feeling in his empty pocket.

“You should look out for one,” said the marquis, serenely smiling, “for you know that since the Third Estate has raised its ugly head, you don’t dare to show your nose at Castellane. The tenants would growl of rights of man, and prod your silk stockings with their pitchforks.”

“That’s true enough,” sighed the young scapegrace, with a puzzled air. “Though they deserve the galleys for their temerity, they are patted on the back by our too lenient sovereign—a mob of insolent ragamuffins! Last time I travelled south, I was worried to fiddle-strings by deputations whom I declined to see—a parcel of unpractical idiots, who, when I demanded rents, babbled of redress of grievances. Really, de Gauge, you may keep the title-deeds, for, since no one will lend a louis on them, they are no better than a musty mockery.”

The butterflies enjoyed the jest and laughed in chorus. There was something delightfully whimsical about the fact that the acres for which heroes had bled, and which had been enjoyed in majestic fashion by a long line of noble ancestors, should—as in the fairy tale—be transmuted into heaps of dead and mouldy leaves.

After the laugh came silence, for were they not all in the same battered boat? No matter. Whate’er betide, they must sink or swim together.

“Awkward customers, the Third Estate,” some one remarked presently. “That untoward matter of the Bastile may prove an evil precedent.”

“Pooh!” yawned a stout old gentleman, whose weatherbeaten visage was round and of a bluish red. “A flash in the pan—a paltry riot—a piece of low impertinence which ministers, if they were not hopelessly idiotic, should have foreseen and smothered. Stick to the title-deeds, son-in-law. If you live long enough, they will be useful some day.”

“No,” replied de Gange, carelessly. “Thanks to you, maréchal, my nest’s well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both.”

The wealthy old Maréchal de Bréze looked pleased. When you have hit on a suitable match for your heiress during an epidemic of impecuniosity, it is well to be assured that the fortunate spouse is not a greedy gold-seeker. “Clovis!” he cried heartily, “give me your hand. You are queer and dreamy, beyond my poor comprehension; but I believe—yes, I do!—that you are an upright and honest man!”

“Treason, maréchal! High treason! How dare you say rude things of ministers? Come and join the ladies. We affect learning, remember, nowadays, and can bandy wisdom with the best of you!”

It was the magical voice of Marie herself, whose silver tones had fluttered so many hearts to their undoing; whose radiant beauty and light spirits had given rise to such dark intrigues. The gentlemen, obeying the merry summons, streamed into the saloon, and were soon bowing, with bent spines and squared elbows, over the tiny cups of coffee, which, as her wont was, she distributed with her own hands. The king was not present, for he abhorred gambling and late hours, and on the soirées intimes of his consort invariably sought refuge in his study.

“Louise de Savoye,” commanded the queen in mock tragic tones, “hand round the cakes. Perform your office of mistress of the household. From your fair fingers they will taste all the sweeter.”

“Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid tiers état,” replied the lady addressed, with a little shudder. “Those who saw the dreadful women dancing and shouting like fiends as they marched in triumph from the Bastile, will not forget the spectacle.”

“Madame la Princesse de Lamballe was always nervous,” laughed M. de Castellane.

“Yes,” replied the princess, simply. “I don’t know why, but I am desperately afraid of a mob.”

“We were all a little frightened at first,” observed the queen; “for when we heard the booming of artillery which sounded so terribly close, and beheld the infatuated madcaps carrying away their dead, we could not comprehend the freak. ‘Tis a pity it was crowned with success, for it will put foolish ideas into ignorant minds. But it will lead to nothing, I am assured, and all’s well that ends well. When the king announced this morning that he was going to the Assembly, without guards or escort, I thought he must have lost his wits; but events showed that he was wise, as he always is. His confidence in the loyalty of the deputies combined with his simple and touching address, excited the keenest enthusiasm. The shouting throng escorted him on foot all the way hither to the palace. I am not ashamed to say that as from a balcony Lamballe and I contemplated the affecting scene of warm devotion, we clasped each other and wept.”

“For every precious tear,” murmured de Castellane, “we’ll have the life-drops of the canaille!”

“God forbid!” ejaculated the queen, with sudden pallor. “I wish them no ill if they would spare his majesty their vagaries. Love them I cannot, for I am not Christian enough to love my enemies. I wonder—I wonder–-“

“What, dear mistress?” inquired a tall young lady plainly dressed in white, who was the most beautiful member even of that favoured circle. “What causes our queen to wonder?”

“I wonder what will be the end—that’s all, dear Gabrielle,” laughed the volatile Marie, recovering her spirits. “What will happen to me; to our precious Lamballe; to you; to your shocking pedant of a husband there, who as usual is in cloudland?”

The beautiful lady whom she called Gabrielle, glanced at the abstracted Marquis de Gange, who was her husband, and shivered. There was an odd look upon his face sometimes which she had not the wit to decipher. What was he doing in cloudland so far removed from her? Then, when he dropped down to earth again, he would smile vaguely but pleasantly enough, and the strange impression would fade from her mind. Her wistful eyes were more often fixed on him than his on hers, which is curious, considering her beauty.

“The veil which hides the future is a precious boon,” reflected the queen, “and yet we all burn to pierce it.”

“That is because we should not,” observed Madame de Lamballe, with conviction, “on the principle of Eve and the apple, you know. A fortune-teller once took my hand to read my fortune, and what she read on my palm was so appalling that she fainted. I have had the discretion never to inquire further.”

“Pooh, I am not so prudent,” mused her majesty. “Three times have I sought to pierce the veil, with the same result—repentance.”

“I pray you in pity—hush!” implored the Marquise de Gange. “My husband dragged me once to see a horrible old hag who lived like a savage in a den somewhere—I know not where. She performed incantations and drew my horoscope. It makes my flesh creep to think of it!”

“Was it so ghastly?” inquired Marie Antoinette in a low tone of awe. “So was mine. Horoscopes are nightmares. And so it seems was that of our beloved Louise. I wonder—how I wonder what will be the end of it?”

She glanced around at the company, and all looked sympathetically glum. If the gipsies had with one accord been so audaciously rude to the three beauties as to hint at unpleasant things in the future, what was to be done? Was a crusade to be preached, for the annihilation of the peccant race? Fat old de Bréze might pay expenses, and, like Peter the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Bréze was a soldier who had won his spurs, yet instead of sounding a clarion and calling squires to arm him cap-a-pie, he only shuffled in his chair and snuffled uneasily while de Castellane snorted with ardour. Clearly the crusade was not likely to answer; it was a trifle out of date; and yet the fact remained that the fiat of the Fates had gone forth against the lovely trio. The Marquis de Gange was a mystic, well acquainted with the tortuous ways and spiteful tricks of the fatal three. Perhaps he would kindly elucidate the situation? No. His wife gazed wistfully at him. He looked furtively at her, then, smiling, lowered his eyes, and again sank into his accustomed reverie. The marquise sighed deeply, and concealed her face behind her fan.

The April visage of the queen was sombre; then the cloud cleared.

“Are we not silly,” she exclaimed, “to sit trembling before a bogey? A fig for the gipsies! Despite their lugubrious hints here am I, after over fifteen years of prosperous wedded life, queen of the land most favoured by nature in the world, adored by my husband and my children. What can woman desire more than complete domestic bliss? What say you, Gabrielle?”

The Marquise de Gange, target for a circle of inquiring eyes, blushed crimson and turned away.

“This is too good!” cried the queen in glee, drawing her friend towards her to imprint a kiss upon her brow. “You naughty, wayward girl! You are wicked and tempt Providence. A blush and something like a tear—ay, and a sigh, from the bosom of Gabrielle, Marquise de Gange—the only woman in the country who has any money—the most beautiful girl in France, whose wonderful complexion has gained for her the sobriquet of ‘the Lily.’ Yes, you are, and I admit it without envy. Blessed with a passable husband and two lovely babes, and an admirable mother and a doting father! Fie! You are ungrateful, but we must not see you punished.”

Marie Antoinette’s enjoyment increased as she poured forth her raillery, and marked the confusion of the marquise.

“Monsieur de Gange. Descend to earth and come into court!” she cried. “Confess! What have you done to Gabrielle? Have you lost heavily at cards? No? You are jealous that her name should be the toast on every lip? No? You are put out because she understands nothing of the philosopher’s stone? Not even that? I give it up. Fortune has spoiled you, child. As Figaro says, ‘Qu’avez vous fait pour tants de biens? Vous vous étes donnée la peine de naétre—rien de plus!’”

The marquis made a low bow and contemplated his fair wife with a moonlit kind of satisfaction, but answered nothing.

“He disdains to plead!” laughed Madame de Lamballe.

“Guilty or not guilty—say!” cried Marie Antoinette. “Dumb? Maréchal de Bréze! we surrender to you the prisoner that you may investigate and do your duty. We have respectful confidence in that strange phenomenon, a rich man, at a time when all others are paupers. Look after Gabrielle, Mr. Money-bag! Shield her from a designing husband who, I begin to believe, conceals the raffish vices of a rake under the mask of recondite erudition.”

The Marquise de Gange was unnecessarily perturbed by the lively sally, and tapped her wooden heel upon the floor.

“Alack, madam!” declared the marquis, compelled to speak, “I regret to be so unmodish as to have few of the fashionable vices. Instead of pleading in my own behalf, I would, if I dared, take up the cudgels for another. Doctor Mesmer–-“

“The arch charlatan!” exclaimed the queen, raising both hands in protest.

“Not so. Others have aped his ways; have draped themselves in tawdry frippery which bore some semblance to his robes. In spite of calumny, and persecution, and fraudulent imitation and roguish arts, the master remains the master still, although he be unjustly banished by those whom he has benefited.”

“The statue has come to life!” tittered Madame de Lamballe. “Cagliostro was unmasked as a cheat, so the one who went before wisely shook off his dust at him. Let us all agree to be convinced that Mesmer is a persecuted saint. We have the marquis’s word for it. Let us have Mesmer back at once from banishment. Perchance he will employ his occult essences to calm the Parisian mob!”

“The king will not permit him to return to France,” the queen said doubtfully; “yet as an empiric he was fascinating.”

“When your majesty deigns to say I am in cloudland,” remarked the marquis, with a high-bred courtesy, in which was a tinge of scorn, “you will understand that my spirit is on earth—at Spa—the refuge in exile of the master.”

“I see it all!” said Madame de Lamballe, flourishing her fan. “It is Gabrielle who is jealous—and of Mesmer! What singular complications are produced by mystical alliances. A husband has a lovely wife, for whom everyone else is sighing, and is no whit jealous of her because he is an absorbed neophyte at the fount of wisdom. The prophet usurps his soul and his will. Where is the poor wife then?”

“What cruel things are said in jest!” Gabrielle cried hotly, breaking her silence at last. “I am not unhappy; and if I were, it would be no one’s concern but mine. I care no sou for Mesmer or Cagliostro, or any of the conjuring rout. Jealous of such creatures—faugh!”

A shrunken dame who had been slumbering in a corner awoke with a start, and guiltily conscious of a nap, became garrulous in a weak piping treble like the irresponsible murmur of a rivulet.

“Your majesty is misinformed,” she babbled plaintively. “People will say such things, and go to mass o’ Sundays. Our daughter Gabrielle is happy as the day is long—why not? Clovis isn’t jealous one bit, and quite right too. He lets her do as she likes, go where she likes, doesn’t care where she goes. Perfect trust is a fine thing, but I often tell him that it is rash to throw so fair a creature into temptation, for who knows what they’ll do until they are tempted? Gabrielle, I must admit, though quite a saint, can be as provoking as saints often were. And they, the saints, were so dreadfully frail sometimes, and so easily forgiven, and then held up to us as patterns. I can’t quite make it out. If I had ever dreamed of doing half the shocking things that the canonized saints did, I should–- Eh?—oh!”

With that the rivulet ceased to flow as abruptly as it had begun, and the queen, who had with difficulty curbed her merriment, looked round for the cause of interruption. She beheld a little stout gentleman, with a round, blue-red face, in a state of imminent explosion. He whom she had declared to command the respect due to wealth, showed signs of choking from exasperation. His features had swelled till his bead-like eyes were scarcely visible; his finger nails were clenched into his palms. It was some seconds ere he could splutter out his spleen. Then with a deprecating look at her majesty, he gasped out—

“Majesté, pardon her. A fool! Always and for ever a fool—and my wife too.”

Then, forgetting the presence in which he sat, he continued in white heat—

“I’ll dash your stupid head against the wall when we get home. To dare to make your own daughter ridiculous before this company! To make your own flesh and blood absurd, through your incorrigible idiocy! Not that you can do it, for she’s an angel straight from heaven. Provoking, forsooth! My darling—the idol of my heart! The Marquis de Gange knows better than to ill-treat his wife. If he did—well; old battered soldier though I am, I’d be even with him in a way he’d not forget.”

“Oh—so harsh—always so harsh!” whimpered the rivulet in choking gasps. “Quite like dear M. Montgolfier’s fire-balloon! I did not mean–-“

“Hold your tongue!” snorted the maréchal in a menacing whisper—“and wait till we get home.”

The situation, like many born of jesting, grew embarrassing. Old soldiers, especially when rich, may be allowed a certain freedom. But the ways of the barrack-yard may not be introduced into palaces. Marie Antoinette was not averse to a certain licence, which should banish for the time being the buckramed etiquette that she so loathed. But a family skeleton suddenly popping out of ambush to shake all its joints and grin with all its teeth! How uncomely a spectacle at the Tuileries! The assembled company, too, evidently enjoyed the fun, and would surely spread the story all over Paris on the morrow as the style of repartée that obtained at the queen’s gatherings. If the episode, harmless in itself, were to reach the king’s ears, he would be annoyed, and justly in such times as these, when everybody’s hand was beginning to clutch his neighbour’s throat. How many an innocent jest of Marie Antoinette’s had already been built by malice into the proportions of a mountain? Unwittingly, she had, as it appeared, set fire to a mine. Gabrielle looked sorely distressed; her husband sullen, in that his pleading had failed, and that he could do nothing on behalf of the savant whom he worshipped. Her mother hazily perceived that it would be well to cork down the ebullient effervescence of her prattle, while the beady eyes of the maréchal, moving from the husband to the wife and back again, seemed to have detected the trace of something that was new, the discovery of which was disconcerting.

CHAPTER II.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.

When it is so plain to lookers-on that people ought to be happy, how perverse it is of them to be miserable! As the queen had declared, Gabrielle Marquise de Gange had no ostensible excuse for wretchedness. The specks on the sun of her good fortune were so tiny as to be well-nigh invisible. Upon the background of her portrait by Madame le Brun, that ingenious artist had inscribed in a hand so clear that all who ran might read, “The fairest woman of her time.”

Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Bréze, when she appeared at court in the capacity of maid of honour, took the town by storm. Veteran lady-killers withdrew gold toothpicks from their gums to vow that so brilliant a complexion, such melting eyes that changed like the moody sea, from blue to deepest violet, such a bewitching little nose, and such deliciously fresh lips, had never been seen before; “and her figure! and her ankle!! and her arm and shoulder!!!” chimed in the younger swains whose hearts were already in their hands to be flung down as a palpitating carpet for her dainty little shoes.

The queen was enchanted with the success of her protégée, who was speedily surrounded by an increasing circle of danglers who minced with toes turned out, shook back their costly ruffles, and lisped the most honeyed compliments from morn to dewy eve. She enjoyed her new position vastly, was blithe as a young bird, and gazed fearlessly on into a future, which seemed an interminable vista paved with roses. Nor was she the least spoilt by adulation. She liked flattery, as every pretty woman does, but looked forward at no very distant period to the sober, substantial enjoyment of calm domestic happiness. When it pleased her parents to provide a spouse, she was prepared to take him to her heart as a dutiful daughter should, and lavish on him all the treasures of a young and guileless affection.

The king was glad of her success, because she was the child of the Maréchal de Bréze, a veteran of the good old school, whose body had been improved and beautified by honourable scars won in his country’s battles. As for Madame de Bréze, people endured her existence. She was a fool and a chatterbox, and wrinkled to boot, with an extraordinary capacity for seeing things awry, and sagely commenting on them after the fashion of a Greek chorus. No one took heed of her, but all liked and respected the red-visaged old soldier whose rough rind covered a generous nature, and whose purse-strings were always slack.

For the Maréchal de Bréze was no mere soldier of fortune with naught in his valise except a béton. He was rich in moneys safely banked with Necker at Geneva; possessed estates in smiling Touraine; and, moreover, was afflicted with the possession of an ancient and dismal chateau on the Loire, whose waters mirrored a labyrinth of high-pitched roofs, gaunt turrets, and grim gargoyles.

Of noble birth, entrancingly lovely, and an heiress. Heavens! what a combination; and at a time, too, as the queen had remarked, when everyone was out at elbows. It was evident that such a phenomenon must be snapped up at once; and straightway—helter-skelter up the wide stairs of the Hotel de Bréze rushed a mob of needy suitors—a hungry pack, yelling in full cry, whose ravenous ardour so scared madame that she forgot to improve the occasion. They had never loved till now, they cried in unison. Their quarterings were legion, their rent-rolls were miles long. The tenants never paid, and the ermine was somewhat mud-stained, but these were trifling details. They all adored the divine Gabrielle for herself—her angel form alone; that she should happen to be an heiress was another detail, and of course rather a drawback than otherwise.

The maréchal laughed till his round red face was blue, for these disinterested persons oozed with ravening greed. The queen looked grave. To save her favourite from the maw of vultures was a responsibility she would not shirk. A spouse must be found for Gabrielle who might be trusted not to be outrageously bad to her. In these days a good husband of fitting rank was an extinct animal. Warily scanning the horizon, Marie Antoinette fixed, as the fitting swain, on Clovis, Marquis de Gange, and de Bréze agreed with her majesty that Clovis was just the man.

So far as family went, the De Ganges could compete with the noblest. Acres had dwindled; tenants were recalcitrant; Clovis’s income was little more than nominal, but nowadays poverty was modish in the highest circles; and, besides, it is well that the husband of a great heiress should be kept under due control. The cunning old soldier had settled long ago that the spouse of his daughter should not make ducks and drakes of her broad pieces, at least without her full consent. He had arranged in his own mind that he would bind up the money tight, and place it in her hands, hedged about with safeguards when called to another world. Till then he would himself dispense his fortune as his darling should wish and dictate. To this arrangement de Gange was quite agreeable, knowing that the maréchal was no skin-flint who would need abject suing. The old gentleman, who flattered himself that he was a judge of character, scanned the young man’s features with keen scrutiny, and on the smooth surface could detect nothing of the ravenous wolf. The marquis was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow, dreamy and absent in manner, pedantic in his ways, a trifle too much enamoured of the crotchets of his day.

In the waning eighteenth century, while ladies were hopelessly frivolous or else weighed down with pedantry, the gentlemen came for the most part under three categories. There was the debauched voluptuary, ruined alike in health, purse, and reputation, whose honour was perforce upon his sleeve, since there was no room in his body for aught but selfishness. Then there was a feeble imitator who was as artistically unsatisfactory as nondescripts always are, for his fragment of conscience pulled him one way, and his envious admiration of stupendous wickedness another. He was always on the see-saw between vice and virtue, barely within touch of either. The third class was the most interesting, for it was clothed in mystery and draped in paradox. The dark and uncanny and incomprehensible engrossed the minds of this set. Revealed religion having been voted out of date by the encyclopédists and others, it was necessary to replace the broken idol with another. It was affirmed that Nature was moved by secret springs, governed by a world of spirits whom it was possible to coerce and bring under man’s dominion. It was discovered that talismans, astrology, magic sciences, were not the vulgar impostures denounced by a jealous priestcraft; that the genus homo was composed of two distinct organisms, one visible and one invisible, the latter of which was privileged to roam freely about the universe, paying morning calls in remote planets, communing with angelic hosts. This was a fascinating theory for many reasons. The spirits who pulled our world-strings were good and bad, and alike vulnerable. Clearly, then, it was the distinct duty of philanthropists to fight and conquer those who were responsible for human ills. How delightful a sensation to seize a naughty spirit by the hair and administer a sound drubbing! To wrestle with the one, for instance, who is responsible for gout, and return him tweak for tweak! The yoke of the evil ones must be thrown off, that humanity, comfortably free from pain and sorrow, might sit down and enjoy millennium.

Hence, the dreamy people who vaguely wished well to their fellows, joined the train of mystics, laid claim to superior virtue, and titillated their petty vanity by posing cheaply as philanthropists.

Then think of the refreshing variety which might be introduced into one’s amours! A weariful succession of mundane mistresses is so palling to a jaded palate. But according to the new creed, as your earthly tenement was occupied, faute de mieux, by commonplace lovemaking and intrigue, your more fortunate other self was blessed by an ethereal Affinity. While, in the flesh, you dallied, for want of something more amusing to do, at the feet of Phryne, your soul was flirting with a seraph somewhere in rarified space. It is gravely and seriously related of the visionary Swedenborg that while he resided in London, his fleshly frame was continually being refreshed. And how? His ethereal essence was in constant communion with that of a noble lady in Gutemburg. Their entwined spirits sat on a satin sofa in a boudoir illumined by wax candles—which candles were punctually lighted by respectful footmen at the accustomed hour of the rendezvous.

The high priest of the new creed was Mesmer, a Swabian doctor, who was conspicuously successful in waging war against the envious elves who undermine the health. As to his career of victory there was no doubt whatever, for by hocus-pocus and laying on of hands, he succeeded in curing a variety of nervous complaints which the enemy said were due to diseased imagination. It was idle to deny that somehow or other he did work miracles. Even St. Thomas, arch-doubter, could believe what he saw and felt. Under Mesmer’s influence the sick took up their beds and walked, the halt flung away their crutches. The streets about his dwelling were choked with blazoned coaches. The frivolous and the earnest alike lost their heads. Considering the peculiarities of his temperament—too timid and too lazy to act, and therefore easily satisfied with theory—it was in the nature of things that Clovis, Marquis de Gange, should be Mesmer’s most fervent pupil.

At a period when the peccadilloes of high-born aspirants to eligible maidens were apt to be somewhat deep-dyed, it would have been absurd to object to a suitor on the frivolous score of mysticism. The most exacting of wives could hardly be jealous of a passing flirtation with the crystal ball of Doctor Dee. Nor could she fairly take umbrage at delicate attentions to a crucible. Clovis and Gabrielle were married in the royal chapel, the bride being given away by the most amiable and unsinning of hard-used monarchs, and the world (who ought to know) said that the future of the happy pair could not be otherwise than rosy. They were a model couple, for Clovis was serious and reflective beyond his years, with a graceful turn for music, while the lovely face of Gabrielle beamed with affectionate pride. She was quiet, steady, and domestic, quite smothered under a heap of virtues.

Unfortunately, there were spirits at work who should have been detected at once in their mischievous game if Mesmer had not been napping, and duly routed by that prophet for the behoof of his dear pupil. They should have been carefully exorcised by the Master for his benefit, and sent packing into space to worry some one else; but as ill-luck would have it, the prophet was no longer present. All the medicos of the French capital uprose with one accord, like one large man, and sent the great Mesmer flying. If the new creed was to be accepted, where would all the doctors be? It was altogether a pestilent affair. Bread must not be snatched out of the mouths of doctors by designing quacks. Deputations of furious physicians rushed to the Tuileries, charging the luckless Swabian with egregious misdemeanours, and the king, as was his wont, gave way on the wrong occasion. Mesmer fell a victim to professional jealousy and ignorance, and was banished from France. He paid clandestine visits to Paris between 1785 and 1793, and to the end his following was great, but for all that, like many another illustrious pioneer, he was kicked and buffeted by ignorance.

The spirits, whom he was too busy in his absence and his anxieties to exorcise, played havoc in the new ménage. Clovis, who took very kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife’s beauty and success, and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to him than the chef-d’éuvre of a great painter, which we admire as our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with the eye of the connoisseur, then—since it is always with us—cease to contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that. Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a respectful distance.

Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it were, “You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and true, and full of love, and you shall have it all?” It was not within her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven (which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She was—alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed—quite ignorant of female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her mother’s gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who, from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly accused him of indifference. What had she done to deserve it? As she complained, she cried a little, which was tiresome. Men abhor feminine whimpering, which always reddens the nose.

She insisted on knowing in what she had offended. Her listening lord came down from an excursion in some upper sphere, somewhat irritably disposed by the interruption, and abruptly assured the weeping lady that she was mistaken. He admired and liked her very much, and would like her still better if she would abstain from making scenes. He had never been in love, he tranquilly confessed, and never would be; had never been in the meshes of any siren. Perhaps his invisible twin-self was so devoted somewhere to an “Affinity” as to have engrossed the love-capacity of both.

Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth—in space! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner. It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love—ay—and never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy, half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. “It depends on yourself,” he remarked, coldly, “whether we dwell together in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them, for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not possess.”

It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, “Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!” But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune’s favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable.

As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his lights—intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise. A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the summum bonum; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that mariages de convenance are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world “things are not what they seem.” But if sympathy is nil—never existed at all—what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the ‘cello. Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Gléck from Lulli; the droning of the ‘cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite ‘cello, have begged to be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman’s mission self-effacement—the daily swallowing of a large dose of boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower, with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort?

Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to fling herself prone in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the marquise grew nervous in her husband’s presence; was fatally impelled somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower.

And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his wife’s society less and less; grew daily more indifferent.

The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls, and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her, and thanking God for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again.

Gabrielle’s nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not, softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up. The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted maréchal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to dwell in. They were to be shielded by triple walls from care and sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces like piles of cards. Had she not herself been shielded? Had not gold been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be crumpled? Yet—but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the watchful affection of the doting maréchal—had she not been very near fleeing from the tinsel grandeur of a squalid globe to take refuge at the altar-foot?

The castles insisted on being built, however. Patience and long-suffering would reap their reward some day. The cherubs would grow up and weave an indissoluble link with their young fingers which should draw the estranged parents together and bind them tight at last. Their mother would fondly teach them to adore their father, to see none but his best side. They would learn to respect his crotchets. And at this point she would herself be lost in dreamy reverie. Could his tenets with regard to the prophet be aught but midsummer madness? There was no doubt that he cured the sick. What if it were really possible to rout the wicked demons and produce millennium? To her practical but limited intelligence the creed was a farrago of folly. But then, Clovis, who was so clever, believed in it. Was she more stupid and ignorant even than humility confessed? Then she would rise suddenly and go about some household business, with the head-shake of the antlered stag that scatters dewdrops. The new creed was blasphemy, and she would have naught to do with it. The holy angels would guard herself and the dear innocents, if angelic suffrages could be secured by never-ceasing fervent prayer.

Sages do not care for babies, though mothers generally do. Clovis, when exhorted to that effect, contemplated his offspring once a day as some curious product from a distant land, gave each cherub a finger to suck, then retired with unseemly alacrity to his ‘cello and his books.

The ramifications of secret societies in the metropolis were spreading in all directions—societies which deliberated with closed doors to escape vulgar ribaldry—bands of philanthropists urged by pure benevolence, in search now of a universal panacea. Humanity was a vast brotherhood to be united for mutual defence against the machinations of the devils. Exhorted by Mesmer from a distance, the faithful toiled quietly on, that the name of their master might be exalted.

So matters progressed in humdrum fashion for several years, and Clovis was placidly content; but as the procession of the months went by, a gradual change came over the societies, which, when he became aware of it, filled the unmilitant soul of the marquis with dread. Bold philanthropists, at midnight meetings, would sometimes give vent to new and startling views, affecting not health, but politics. A few presumed openly to declare that the evil spirits had got into the ministers, from whom they must be quickly expelled. Considering that ministries fell and rose just now at brief intervals, it was shocking to think how many bad spirits must be at work. M. Necker and Turgot, and brilliantly fertile Calonne, were all occupied by fiends who entered in and made themselves comfortable, as the hermit-crab invades the shell of the creature he has devoured. This theorem being established, it became the duty of the philanthropists to busy themselves on behalf of their country, which needed special as well as prompt doctoring. Then uprose speakers whose discourse smacked little of philanthropy, but savoured rather of iconoclasm. The Marquis de Gange, noble and wealthy, would make a splendid figure-head for the budding movement. Ere he could recover breath, or gather the scattered strands of his scared wits, Clovis found himself on the point of becoming an important political personage, and at a moment when prominence and personal peril marched hand in hand abreast. He prudently took to shunning the places of meeting, which but the other day had been his favourite resorts, for he had a horror of politics, and objected to being made a hero; but the agitators declined to let him escape so easily. They pursued him to his home, strove to convince him that he was a patriot; by turns threatened and cajoled, till the dreamer in an agony beheld no safety but in flight. A pretty state of things! Was not his wife the favourite of the queen; his father-in-law esteemed by the king? What would the verdict of his class be, were he to turn round and bite the hands that had caressed him? He would be ostracised, undone, held up to merited obloquy. He had no ambition to become another Lafayette, and declined to be convinced by argument. To avoid being mixed in complications fraught with danger, it would be prudent to vanish for a time, but whither to retire was the rub. He wished to stay and yet to go, and bit his nails in indecision. Concealed anxiety made calm Clovis querulous and snappish, and Gabrielle was not slow to perceive that he was suffering, though the cause she could not guess. He had got himself into some mess. Was it money? If only he would let her share his worries! Her timid overtures were promptly nipped; terror made him absolutely harsh. Sighing, she fell back upon herself, as usual, and kissed the cherubs in their bed.

At the time when this story opens, July, 1789, the marquis and his wife had been married six years. The latter, though easily led by kindness, could fitfully display sometimes symptoms of independence. As a loving and self-respecting woman, she had kept with infinite care her catalogue of troubles from her parents. They, content with constant assurances that all was well, desired no further information. Madame de Bréze had settled, to her complete satisfaction, that her son-in-law was a harmless lunatic. When she obliged him with her views, he looked through her at something beyond. But then, who had ever appreciated her sagacity? Well, well. Have not some of our brightest lights been misunderstood while alive, to be tardily canonized afterwards? As for M. de Bréze, he was perfectly satisfied with Clovis, who, if eccentric and somewhat fish-like, was delightfully free from vices. If a man is perfect in manners and deportment, always civil and obliging, surely you may forgive the small drawbacks which go with the visionary and the bookworm. The bluff soldier would have had him drink and gamble more, just to show that he was human and a man, and be less fond of mysterious societies. But as Clovis had himself remarked, we must take people as we find them, and be content with mercies vouchsafed. Why! The marquis might have turned out an incorrigible rake; have squandered large sums coaxed from his wife on low theatrical hussies. Thank goodness, he showed no signs of breaking out in that direction; and it was not until the soirée intime at the palace that it came home to the doting father that there might be something amiss in the ménage.

Gabrielle had looked so unaccountably distressed and confused. She was concealing something—what? Was the placid marquis an ogre in private? Of course not. As he strolled home the maréchal made up his mind to pump Toinon on the morrow, and, from hints ingeniously extracted from that astute damsel, severely catechise his daughter.

CHAPTER III.
INVESTIGATION.

Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister and confidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as united as if they had indeed been sisters.

Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages, nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flame for her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping the swelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she would declare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organ which they professed to covet was no longer there, having been surrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. She had left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprising kitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, one gibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure?

Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on the Loire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. He who would venture thither in search of that missing organ of hers would have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honest gamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an oubliette without compunction, to vanish for evermore.

When the worthy maréchal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was his daily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter’s boudoir, turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, that damsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle, she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as for the marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; have cheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingled guiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture.

Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Bréze that when last the family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth together. The maréchal would, of course, rate her soundly for her folly, since with her advantages she might have done much better than throw herself away upon a peasant.

Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given to thinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper, half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad to place pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; but worse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by the king, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flaunting its arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands from every country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill with threatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter in village market-places, to discuss matters which concerned their betters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking in respect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence caused proper-minded and cultured persons to shiver in dismay. If we turn swine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. The old maréchal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when he found that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and was not slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill. “Life is a game of give and take,” he said, “in which the unscrupulous always take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should have no individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters.”

Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to have meekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should be insolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper class under the shadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the maréchal that his paid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and had used pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He received prompt warning that on a repetition of the offence he would lose his place, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, that soon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister and confidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret to this abandoned wretch!

It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recover the gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mind before confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply on the escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he should share the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. To this he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, which foreshadowed a thorny future. “My darling,” he had the assurance to write, “never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead of being selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but, alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit to suffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking. National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned and stretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions of Liberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it will have to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. God gives justice to men only at the price of battles!”

A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Bréze to receive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed the tell-tale scrap which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. These high-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he had copied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting one of those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, be consorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrands about who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jean would never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it be wise as well as loyal to send this lover packing—to disclaim at once both him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in love matters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and if he adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was her place to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On the very next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him by force out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumph the errant sheep clean and quite respectable.

But if the maréchal knew all about it, and was here now to administer a jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guilt and a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon’s cheek.

It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was a democrat that the maréchal strode into her room, and hearkening to his discourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of his suspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazing idly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in the direction of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes and no. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, of contradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained, complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was a weak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was a riddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the passions of which he seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in which he was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst his cerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was he deceitful—playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thought not; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of was this. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by some other hand than Gabrielle’s that he would eventually be aroused. He was an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had not the faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followed month they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. The estrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. In her pain she lowered herself to “scenes”—exhaled herself in wearisome complaints.

The Maréchal de Bréze 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 Bréze. 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!”

Then rising from her seat, trembling from head to foot, she clasped him in a fond embrace, and seemed about to make a confession. Words trembled on her lips, but whatever they were, she choked them back again, and indulged in delicious tears.

“You have spoilt me so, that I am naughty and capricious,” she remarked gaily. “Do you really sufficiently love your little Gabrielle to submit to a wayward whim?”

“When did I deny you anything?” reproachfully replied de Bréze.

“Never; nor will you now, though it is a great slice of property that I require. Will the best of men humour my new fancy? Yes? Well, then, know that I am tired of Paris and its tinsel, and would fain retire to the country.”

“You—leave the gaieties of Paris?”

“Yes. The good air and quiet will brace my nerves, untuned by racket, and that explosion of presumptuous wickedness that sacrificed so many lives.”

“The storming of the Bastile?” returned the maréchal. “Pshaw! By and bye we will terribly avenge de Launay and his intrepid garrison. What on earth will you do in the country? In a week you’ll be petrified with ennui.”

“Not at Lorge. Its grimness suits my humour. The children are less strong than I would have them. Freedom in pure air will bring back the roses to their cheeks, and in them you know I am engrossed. My children, oh! my children! What should I have become without them.”

The involuntary bitter cry, so eloquent of pain, and so speedily suppressed, clove the bosom of the maréchal.

“She will not tell me or have confidence,” he groaned inwardly, “and yet her suffering is great. She must have her way in this as in other things, and God be with her in her travail.”

With the delicate tact of a gentleman he let pass the cry unnoticed, and simply said, “What do you wish, my dearest?”

“Lorge,” she replied, “no less. What a rapacious greedy soul I must be to rob you of the home of your ancestors!”

“It shall be yours,” the maréchal replied, delighted to be able to do something. “I understand that for some reason you desire to take possession and hold the place without interference? Is that so? At my death, it will be yours with all the rest. Meanwhile, I lend it, to do with as you will.”

It was an odd fancy. What could be the meaning of the freak? Presently he enquired, “What will your husband do?”

“It was his idea,” was the eager rejoinder. “He wishes it, and I am—oh—so very glad! I long to get him away from Paris and its evil influences. Do you know, father?” Gabrielle continued in a grave whisper, “that there are secret meetings he attends, to come home at dawn in a fever. And there are forbidding men who come to see him, whom he evidently does not want to see; such coarse and common men. I don’t know what it all is, but it has something to do with that mystical groping after the unattainable which is so weariful, and can only end in madness. To a Christian, such impious presumption is horrible!”

“Then I hold the clue?” cried the old man, much relieved. “It is the prophet who is in your way? You would wean Clovis from Mesmer, turn him from Cagliostro, and carry him to Mass on Sundays?”

The idea was so comically innocent, that de Bréze wheezed with delight. “Sweet pet!” he said, tapping his daughter’s cheek archly, “you are earnest if not clever.”

And then he went off into a shout of laughter, as he beheld in imagination the daily scene at Lorge. Téte-é-téte in the dreary chateau among the bats and owls, she would drone out Bossuet’s sermons to put animal magnetism to flight; perhaps call in the village curé to assist. What a delightful prospect for the husband! How ghastly tiresome is the wife who preaches at her other half; drones out to him scraps out of good books. Well, well. We must not place our finger twixt bark and tree; but if any form of desperation was likely to awake the entranced Clovis (as Toinon had it), a system of moral lecturing on the part of a well-meaning but narrow-minded spouse was about the thing to perform the miracle.

The maréchal trotted home quite pleased, and straightway informed by letter those whom it concerned that henceforth, the Marquise de Gange was to be considered the proprietress of Lorge. Both M. and Madame de Bréze equally loathed the place. If Gabrielle was possessed by the strange fancy of playing chatelaine, in its cobwebbed corridors, let her do so by all means, and convert her husband if she might.

The good maréchal was mistaken. Gabrielle knew better than to worry her husband with importunate readings, but trusted rather for the working of a change to the renewed intimacy which retirement must produce. She never would have dared to propose a hermitage to Clovis, but when he himself suggested a temporary flitting, she thanked heaven as if a prayer had been answered. She could not guess that he was afraid to stop in Paris, and that he was revolving an embryo scheme of closer union with Mesmer. The prophet having been ejected from the land with Maranatha, could not unfortunately bestow his presence or personal assistance. But why should he not send to his pupil some learned adept, well versed in mystic lore who, in sylvan solitude would further instruct the neophyte? Removed from the frivolous court, and secure against being mixed in the treasonable doings of political philanthropists, his mind would be in a condition of receptivity, and his studies would make giant strides.

Poor Gabrielle! She had said to herself with a choking heart-leap that, removed from pernicious influences, she and the cherubs would wind fond webs about him, and win him from indifference to love. Alas! Poor simple yearning wife!

CHAPTER IV.
THE CHATEAU OF “LORGE.”

In Touraine, midway between Tours and Blois, the venerable chateau of Lorge stands out from a wooded background, bathing its feet in the swiftly flowing Loire, morosely contemplating the details of its grim reflection. Profoundly interesting from an archéological point of view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder that the jolly old maréchal should have ungrudgingly passed it to his daughter. Privileged to occupy a place in one of the most smiling provinces of France, it is within a drive of Amboise on one side and Chinon on the other, dignified castles both; and not very far away is Diane de Poictier’s Chenonceaux, whimsically spanning a river, a specimen of elfin architecture straight from fairyland. Lorge dates from the iron period; not the time of prehistoric man, who had recently blossomed out of monkeydom, but of the early mediéval barons, who slept in their armour—as they still do on their tombs—whose pet pastimes were the cleaving of pates and the quaffing of usquebaugh.

With the march of centuries Amboise, Chinon, and the rest found it advisable to polish themselves up, and modify their native harshness to be in touch with less rugged epochs; but no coaxing ingenuity of architect or landscape gardener could ever smooth the frown from the frowning face of Lorge. It seemed to say with pride, “The darkest and most cruel deeds have been perpetrated within my walls. Down below I have smothered the cries for mercy of weak women outraged, and children brutally maltreated. My favourite music is the clank of steel. I was baptised with blood, whose reek may never fade, whose stain may never be effaced.”

You cannot make a junketting house out of a fortress, and Lorge, despite changes, is a fortress still. On the faéade, defended by the river, are the stately reception rooms, opening one into the other in a string; a long suite which occupies the first floor, whose heavily mullioned casements are large enough to permit the sun to gild the antique hangings. Each of these windows is adorned by a ponderous stone balcony, which can be used for purposes of defence. The other sides of the edifice seem blank and blind, the high enclosing walls being unbroken, save by a dentilated series of merlons and crenels, with cruciform embrasures below, The chambers on these sides are particularly depressing to the spirits, since they afford no prospect, save a bare paved court with the enclosing wall beyond.

Courageous chatelaines, striving after cheerfulness, have made efforts from time to time to brighten Lorge. The drawbridge and portcullis, which jealously barred the entrance, have been removed from the double archway and replaced by wooden doors. The moat which guarded the three sides landward, with a defensive wall along the outer bank, has become a garden with trim green slopes, and a wealth of glorious roses. The ends that used to join the river have been walled up, and adorned with flights of steps which lead to decaying boat-houses. Private posterns, drilled in the masonry, afford easy access from the courtyard to the moat-pleasaunce for such as may possess the keys; but in spite of every effort, the flowering hedges and rose-bushes only serve by contrast to make Lorge more dreary—a skull bedecked with flowers. One specially brave lady had the hardihood once to plan great gardens in the Dutch style beyond the moat, on the other side of the road. There were long alleys of clipped yew and beech; tonelles or arched bowers to give grateful shade; a procession of weird animals, fashioned of holly, that cast fantastic shadows on the sward; oblong tanks where swans serenely sailed, steering among isles of water-lily. But no subsequent chatelaine was sturdy enough to carry on the hopeless war. The alleys were soon choked, the tonelles grew into thickets, the mimic menagerie degenerated into ragged rows of bushes. By the time the maréchal inherited, there was no place devoted to flowers except the moat-pleasaunce, and even that was sadly neglected.

Though you see them not, dank dungeons honeycomb the foundations. There are noisome cells on the level of the water-line that may at will be flooded. You know that they are there, although some lord with tender nerves fastened them up long since. There they are, under your feet, audibly crooning their low song of woe unmerited, of dumb despair, of remorseless cruelty. The ancient implements of torture that still ornament the wainscot of the banquet-hall take up their parable, and sing. Time does not still that wailing chaunt which tells of robbery, and tyranny, and persecution. No skill may exorcise the train of shades, undone for greed or lust, or victims for conscience’ sake, who parade the corridors of Lorge.

Not but what it has charms of its own: a plaintive sweetness set in a minor key. The view across the Loire in summer time of emerald woodland is superb. The long drawing-rooms overlooking the stream are of stately proportions. Their immense overhanging chimney-pieces are blazoned with coats of arms sculptured in the stone. Carved crests are repeated again and again in the fretted ceilings. The tapestries, with their shadowy story of mad King Charles the Sixth and his treacherous wife, and the faithful girl, Odette, with their warm background of dimmed gold, have been pronounced by experts to be priceless. The little boudoir at the end which closes the suite is a dainty and cosy nest. Than the country round nothing can be more delightful; you may ride for hours unchecked amid the leafy woods over a velvet carpet; or you may boat and explore the erratic sinuosities of the river, dreaming out epics as you go anent the lordly, but for the most part empty, dwellings that look down on you from either bank. As an irreverent Parisian visitor once observed to a horror-stricken neighbour, “Lorge would be a charming séjour if one might pull down the castle and erect instead a villa.”

At the time which occupies us there was but one near neighbour resident. The Chateau de Montbazon was not much more than a mile away, having been built on a little bit of Lorge property beyond the Loire, which had changed hands one night at cards. The spot commanded an exceptionally fine prospect, so the owner placed a house on it. It was bought a generation later by the Baron de Vaux, who dwelt there with his wife and daughter, Angelique, and great was the joy of those ladies upon hearing that Lorge, which was so little occupied, was again to be inhabited.

Country life at this period was, from a fashionable point of view, a singular anomaly. Marie Antoinette’s dairymaid proclivities at Trianon had rendered it de rigueur to find pleasure in bucolic occupations. Old customs were giving way to new-fangled habits borrowed from other nations. You were offered tea as in England instead of coffee, and were invited to join in the game of “boston,” brought from the infant republic beyond seas by the followers of Lafayette. Dress, except at the Parisian court, grew simpler. Ladies, instead of brocaded damasks, wore muslins and flimsy materials. Men donned garments of plain cloth instead of satin or velvet. Noble dames grown tired of expensive jewellery affected a badge made of some hero’s head executed in miniature. Franklin’s or Rousseau’s profile was modish, though the more sentimental preferred a pet cat’s portrait set on a ribbon in place of a diadem and feathers. Emancipated from trains and furbelows, you could now really move about in the country without much discomfort.

The court circle was perforce a narrow one. Those who had not the entrée to Versailles withdrew to their estates when the queen retired to Trianon, and there drank milk and made believe to hunt, or acted tragedies and spouted epic poesy, pretending to be vastly entertained; not but what they were ready to rush back to the capital with all despatch when Fashion declared it possible.

But then, of late years, the decrees of Fashion had been sorely interfered with by that aggressive Third Estate. Refusal to pay rents was annoying, but an evil to which all were accustomed. In some parts evil-disposed persons declared landlords to be the natural foes of the sovereign people, and discussed how the vermin was to be got rid of. A deep-rooted, bitter hate, sprung from long and systematic oppression, divided class from class by an intangible but impenetrable barrier; a hate that grew all the stronger, in that it had long been veiled by fear and lashed by supercilious scorn. Republicanism was in execrable taste—a subject for contemptuous laughter on the part of the provincial seigneurie. Its exponents bore on a pole a turnip with a candle in it, which could frighten none but children. The country nobility attached no special meaning to the unseemly snarling. Until the great crash came, and the rural palaces were sacked and burned, the seigneurie never fully realized the thinness of the crust they had been dancing on. In certain provinces it had been unsafe for some time past for landlords to show their noses at all, much less prate of paying rent. These not unwillingly left their chateaux to fate, whereby the condition of small shopkeepers and such local fry was not ameliorated. In more favoured districts dislike and discontent lay smouldering, and my lords were still free to amuse themselves with their guests from town, indifferent to the feelings of the masses.

The de Vaux family were not of the court circle; indeed, they rarely travelled to the metropolis, but were content to ape its manners from a distance. The trio were dull enough, as narrow in their views and as obstinately fixed in the tenets of their grandsires as most country gentlefolk are, but they were well intentioned, and availed themselves of the earliest opportunity to pay their respects at Lorge. Gabrielle received them with open arms. Was she not bent on inaugurating a new era for herself and Clovis, and had she not been informed by her father’s unseemly merriment, that it is not well to bore a husband? Not that the newcomers, who had driven over in the craziest of shanderydans, showed signs of being an acquisition. On the contrary. Long before the sun went down, Gabrielle felt that she could see too much of Madame de Vaux, while Clovis listened, marvelling, to the old gentleman’s platitudes which were at least a century old.

The baroness was not slow to tumble out upon the floor her peck of troubles. She always had a waggon-load about her. Angelique examined the gown of the marquise with absorbed interest. The baron lectured on affairs, with an occasional raid into his wife’s country, to rout her army of Jeremiads.

“Figure to yourself, my dear,” groaned Madame de Vaux, after a refreshing pinch of snuff, “that though we have had little disturbance here so far, we are surrounded by snakes in the grass. Our Angelique is always doing something for the ungrateful monsters who, when her back’s turned, gnash their teeth. All last winter, in spite of the hard times, we distributed broken victuals to the destitute, and they said that the refuse from our table had already been refused by the dogs. Did you ever hear the like? Horrid, spiteful, ungrateful creatures!”

“They know no better,” replied Angelique, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. “We can afford to laugh at them and their threats when we are conscious of having done our duty.”

“My brave child!” ejaculated madame with fervour; “what a comfort to be mother of a child who would rise equal to any emergency!”

“Noblesse oblige!” snorted the baron, proudly. “We may be poor and compelled to fill ourselves with over much bouilli, but our blood is of the ancestral colour. A daughter of yours and mine, madame, would, of course, be equal to an emergency.”

The sentiment was mighty fine—one that might not be disputed. Clovis languidly bowed and murmured something polite, while Gabrielle yawned behind her fan. Good gracious! Was the intercourse of the new neighbours to consist in mutual admiration of pedigrees?

The marquis turned the conversation to his favourite subject. Had the baron, who doubtless was acquainted with matters of current interest, by means of the Gazette, at all occupied himself with animal magnetism?

With what? A pretty subject for gentlefolk! Rumour had already whispered that the young marquis’s pursuits were uncanny. The baron glanced at the baroness, who looked unutterable things, while Angelique detected a shade of sadness flitting over the face of the marquise.

“God forbid!” cried the old lady, leaping into the breach, “that we should know aught of devil’s sabbats.”

Clovis laughed, amused. “It is so easy to denounce what we do not comprehend,” he observed, demurely. “Some day, when you are howling with pain, we will drive over to Montbazon, and cure you by laying on of hands.”

Gabrielle frowned. Such an ill-chosen expression, a parody on Holy Writ, or something like it! She began to perceive that it might not be so easy to vanquish Mesmer, and, seeing them as shocked as she was, felt rather anxious to be rid of her guests.

“I won’t be cured by devils!” stoutly declared the baroness. “I’d rather grin and bear it.”

“For my part, I care little to inquire into the means, provided that I am cured,” civilly remarked Angelique.

Here was one ready for conversion! Clovis woke up, and drawing his chair closer, detailed with eager admiration the triumphs of the prophet, to which the baron listened with the polite sceptical smile that becomes one who is a noble—a superior person—and knows it. Gabrielle looked grave and apologetic. The ground was slippery, and the baroness, agile, despite her figure, again jumped into the breach.

“Yes. Just one more dish of tea, my sweetest marquise,” she cried, “and then we must go home to Montbazon. When you come to see us, if you like to walk, you have only to cross the river in a boat, you know, and the distance by the bridle-path is nothing. But I would not wander alone if I were you, there are such sinister men about. Do you know—of course you don’t—that you’ve a nice thorn in your own side that will soon prick you—he! he! That Jean Boulot of yours is a shocking character, one of the odious, deceitful, crawling kind, which is the worst of all!”

“Nothing of the sort, my dear!” interrupted the baron. “His opinions are regretable, but he is a rough, honest fellow who professes a humble fondness for the de Bréze family, which does him honour!”

“And in the same breath he derides the aristocracy!” retorted the old lady, with a giggle.

“Which can well look after itself!” replied her husband.

“Take my advice, dear, and get rid of him, or you’ll regret it,” urged the baroness.

“He’s a confidential servant, who was born and bred here!” objected Gabrielle. “He and those who went before have always served us well, and Jean would not hurt a hair of any of our heads, I warrant. He did something silly the other day in the way of talking nonsense, and my father rated him for it. That episode is over and forgotten.”

“He’s a democrat, or worse, if possible,” asserted the baroness with many nods. “Capable of anything, my dear; get rid of him; a scorpion!” she continued, wagging her head; and content with this first impression, the old lady gathered up her wraps, and with an elaborate curtsey, swept away the family, delighted with the effect she had produced.

Neither Gabrielle nor Clovis were equally charmed. These tiresome people were their only neighbours! Then it must be solitude indeed. Angelique seemed a nice girl enough; but the baroness was overwise in her own conceit; and the baron ridiculously puffed with the overweening vanity of class. If the pair were to live absolutely alone, Gabrielle, doubting her own strength of will and power of fascination, already trembled for her experiment. Where could society be found which should rub off the jagged edges of a téte-é-téte? The chateaux round about were unoccupied. Nobody dwelt at Blois except bourgeoisie and common persons. Perhaps this move into the desert had been imprudent. Well, if it proved disastrous, they could return to Paris and no harm done, considering how far apart they had drifted already. A little society—just two or three congenial persons—would make all the difference; but where might such fowls be caught?

What of this communication about Jean Boulot? surely it was idle tittle-tattle, born in the murky brain of a stupid old woman. He a scorpion on the hearth, to be got rid of before he could sting? The charge was ridiculous, and yet demanded attention, considering the Bastile episode such a brief while ago. And he was engaged to Toinon too. Under the seal of strictest secrecy that damsel had shared her delicious secret with her foster-sister, and the latter with a hearty kiss had wished her joy. It was only fair to both the lovers that the matter should be cleared up, and to that end the damsel must be cross-examined.

When charged with the lamentable leanings of her affianced, Toinon made no attempt to laugh the matter off. She was fain to confess herself disappointed in Jean Boulot. He was too straightforward to stoop to knavery. You only had to look into his fearless, clear grey eyes to be assured of it; but his sentiments were distressing. He told his love when she remonstrated that reason and justice could only be departed from by paths watered with tears; and when she retorted that he would certainly be hanged if he were heard to indulge in such talk, he only shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the gallows were made for the unlucky. In the middle of an impressive lecture he snatched a kiss and laughed, and actually confessed with something that looked like pride that he had just been selected from among his fellows to be chief of some new society. He was constantly moving about among the rustics discoursing about the improvement of their condition at the expense of a superior class. All Toinon could be sure of was that Jean was beyond her control. Perhaps madame might succeed in managing the young man and bring him to a sense of his enormities.

The experiment was not crowned with success, for instead of confessing his sins with a mea culpa, Jean smiled and delivered himself of various mysterious hints. “Never you fear,” he asserted, cheerfully, “whatever may happen by and by, you and yours shall be defended with my best blood; not but what a glimpse of your sweet face will be enough to calm the boys, however spitefully inclined. As to the others—H’m!”

Enigmatical and unsatisfactory.

It was certainly very dull in the desert; and before many weeks were over, the marquise was prepared secretly to admit that her father had judged rightly. She was no nearer to her husband here than in Paris; and caught herself longing more and more for those two or three congenial persons who were unattainable. It is all very well to wrap yourself in your children, to watch the young intelligence unfolding tender leaves, to mark and record with little thrills of joy each new sally of infant wit; but carefully nurtured babes retire early to the nest, and long evening hours have to be got through which are apt to hang heavy on the hands. There was absolutely no one to talk to, Gabrielle was not of a studious turn, avoiding the library as a close and musty place, had no penchant for embroidery, cared not to tinkle on a spinette. Clovis, on the other hand, professed himself delighted with the unbroken solitude where there was nobody to plague him with politics; employed his time in writing reams to Mesmer, and counting the days which must elapse before he could receive replies. When weary of considering the pros and cons of the prophet’s theories, he locked himself in his study, and could be heard far into the night groaning sonatas on his ‘cello. Oh, that ‘cello! Its moans were extremely wearing to Gabrielle’s nerves, for it always suggested to her a coffin with some one in agony inside. Weave new bands of affection, forsooth, far from the madding crowd! How doleful a deception was hers.

The marquis seemed to have forgotten that he was father of two cherubs, was certainly oblivious of the fact that his better half was a reigning beauty, who, in her prime was self-deposed. Sometimes he would sally forth on solitary rides, and return, depressed and dumb, to fall asleep in his chair. It was certain that the pair were drifting more fatally distant from each other in the country even than in town. This was not life, but vegetation; sure any change would be a godsend.

At one moment the hapless marquise thought of summoning a bevy of the danglers whom she had loftily pretended to despise; but, if they were to come—unable to get on with Clovis—how were they to be amused? At another time she was on the point of imploring the maréchal and his wife to break the bonds of dulness by a visit, but then again she hesitated. How was she to parry her father’s anxious questions, how avoid his sympathetic eyes? No. Come what might, she would bear what she must bear, and veil her wounds from her beloved ones.

Now and again the de Vaux family drove over to spend the afternoon, and the visit was in due course returned; but though all parties were punctiliously civil and vowed they enjoyed themselves immensely, it was clear to both families that no intimacy could arise between them.

Gabrielle was almost driven to lower her flag and retire from the field; was indeed debating how she should set about it with dignity, when that for which she craved was suddenly tossed into her lap.

One morning, the marquis actually so far broke through his secluded habits, as without a formal message sent in advance, to invade his wife’s boudoir. Her heart gave a great bound, and looking up from the children’s hornbook in glad surprise, she smiled gratefully on him. Was this a first advance? She was determined that the visit should be a pleasant one, and to that end proceeded forthwith to trot out the prodigies. He had no idea, she prattled, how vast were their acquirements. They knew ever so many wondrous things which would no doubt delight their parent. Straightway, like little clockwork parrots, well-wound up, the infants chirped forth their lore, while the marquis’s face increased in length, the while with well-bred courtesy he made believe to listen. His dreamy eyes wandered over a map of varied stains on their dirty little pinafores. They diffused an aroma of bread and butter; their angel fingers shone with grease. Their acquirements, he coldly agreed when they had run down, were remarkable for tender years, and the weather being fine they had better run out and play.

Gabrielle sighed. Mere politeness—such politeness as a wearied but courteous stranger might bestow—in which was no scintilla of affection. Unnatural parent! After all, the darlings were perchance a trifle juvenile to interest a man. Men, as a rule, can see no beauty in babes and sucklings; vote them revolting lumps of adipose tissue; but then, sweet Victor and Camille were not babies, for one was five and the other four—were enjoying that most fascinating period of existence when we are never clean, and are always falling down and crying.

The unappreciated angels having shrieked off down the long drawing-rooms, there to tumble, hurt themselves, and howl, Clovis sat down and explained the cause of his irruption.

“A letter! Good news or bad?” inquired Gabrielle, with a presentiment of evil.

“That depends how you read it,” returned her husband, quietly. “As you are aware, I never inflicted my uncongenial presence overmuch on you; never sought to know why you were so ready to abdicate your brilliant position in Paris to suit a passing whim of mine, but I was none the less obliged by your compliance. I now wish you to please yourself, and make arrangements for the future, such as may suit your views.”

Gabrielle stared at the automaton. Good heavens! His uncongenial presence. Was he so blind as not to perceive how she hungered for it? A burning reproach was on her lips, but found no voice; for somehow, seeing him sit there so straight and cold and self-complacent, her courage oozed away.

“Do what you choose.” He continued with bland indifference. “I was never jealous of your entourage, because I liked you to enjoy the meed of admiration that is your due, and know that you are to be trusted even in so perilous a vortex as Versailles. For reasons with which I need not trouble you, I prefer myself to remain here for a while, with your permission; but seem to see that you are weary of playing the chatelaine. Is it so? Would you like to return to Paris. Please yourself. You will admit that I give you the completest liberty.”

The heart of the poor wife sank low. For what crime was she condemned to love an icicle? If he would only find fault, or discover a grievance, or even wax wroth without a cause, and smite her! Each calm and measured sentence as he sat, with the finger-tips of one hand poised accurately on those of the other, was like the prick of a steel stiletto. His gaze was fixed on a tree a long way off. He could not even trouble to look at her.

Sighing wearily, she murmured, “Completest liberty, no doubt. I and the children are to go away and leave you here alone?”

Clovis moved his gaze to another tree and cleared his throat. “Not unless you wish it,” he said, “but something has happened that is a little embarrassing.”

“Any trouble? Am I not here to share it.”

“Scarcely a trouble—an inconvenience only, which you may object to share,” her husband answered, smiling. “Could you brook other inmates?”

“Other inmates! What can you mean?’

“As you know, though you have never seen them, I have two half-brothers. They are inseparable—quite pattern brothers—the one brilliantly clever, the other his admiring shadow. The Abbé Pharamond, the younger one, would be welcomed in any society on account of his sparkling talent; but he has preferred to shine alone at Toulouse, rather than consent to be a unit in the system of stars at Paris. He has got into trouble, and writes to ask for an asylum for himself and Phebus.”

“What trouble?”

“A too pungent epigram followed by a fatal duel, makes it convenient to seek eclipse. In six months the affair will have blown over. You would be sure to like the abbé, if you met him; while as for poor dear Phebus, the chevalier, as he is called in the south, he is fat and somnolent, and would not hurt a fly.”

Gabrielle reflected, Why did a voice deep down within whisper words of warning? Here were the congenial persons for whose advent she had longed. What a relief to the téte-é-téte would be the brilliant abbé, and fat Phebus who would not hurt a fly! Thanks to them, Lorge might become endurable. On the suggestion of a return to Paris, the difficulty had occurred to her as to the excuse to be made for her husband’s lengthened absence. Clearly she must remain at Lorge, so long as he thought fit to do so. Perhaps the abbé disliked music and hated violoncellos? Together in the dead of night they would capture the marquis’s treasure and send it floating down the Loire.

“My dear Clovis!” she exclaimed presently, with genuine pleasure; “you singular being! What objection could I have? On the contrary, I am charmed with the opportunity of making the acquaintance of your brothers.”

CHAPTER V.
THE HALF-BROTHERS.

Never was there a greater bit of luck for the Lorge hermits than the epigram that was too pungent, and its consequences. With the arrival of the fugitives there was inaugurated a new régime. Cobwebs seemed to vanish at a stroke. The dismal old chateau stirred and rubbed its eyes, for, as by magic, the spirit of ennui who had his dwelling there was routed and put to flight.

The Abbé Pharamond was made of quicksilver. Such a mass of ubiquitous ever-moving energy would have awakened the seven sleepers. Everyone felt his influence; and no one had a word to say against him, except Toinon and Jean Boulot. Even the objections of these, as might be expected in low-born persons, were of the vaguest. The one found fault with his effeminate manners and mincing ways, the other vowed that he was so sweet as to be mawkish. Balanced one on either knee, the prodigies (with clean pinafores and polished visages) were taught to warble the amorous ditties of the south, an absurd performance which frequently brought over Madame de Vaux in the shanderydan, and caused her to explode with laughter. His presence acted like a magnet. There was always a stock of the neatest compliments on hand for Angelique; the most respectfully rapt attention for the baron’s platitudes. He was constantly riding to Montbazon on his way to somewhere else, bent on organizing a picnic or a hunt, and even discovered and dragged from their retreats into the light a variety of country gentlemen who seldom left their burrows. “If the dear man were a layman!” grieved the baroness. “The very thing for Angelique.” But since he was a churchman, she must do her best with the other.

“Pooh! Stuff and nonsense!” objected the baron. “They were of good family—could boast, indeed, of most superior blood—but were as poor as church mice, both.”

Whereupon his spouse remarked from out her nightcap folds that she did dislike a mole. Was not the marquis a good-natured gentleman, if stupid, and was he not plainly devoted to his brothers—proud at least of one? It could be seen with half an eye that the abbé‘s influence was great, and would grow greater. Out of Gabrielle’s wealth, after de Bréze’s death, he would, of course, provide for his brothers in a fitting and lavish manner.

Gabrielle fell at once, and without resistance, under the spell of the abbé. She had never known so charming and accomplished a person. Faugh! the tawdry butterflies of Versailles! The gaudy numskulls! Mere contemptible machines, that mopped and mowed to order. In Pharamond she beheld for the first time a man whose masterful nature somehow compelled obedience. Among other fascinating ways, he had a trick (aware of a trim and graceful figure) of tossing himself down in a picturesque attitude at Gabrielle’s feet, burningly eager for advice; and on considering the interview afterwards, she was pleasantly surprised to find how she had shone—how undoubtedly, yet unaccountably, sage had been her counsel. “He exerts a good influence over me,” she murmured. “Like flowers under the sun’s first rays I expand. Till he arrived, I knew not how dense had been our darkness. Alas! if Clovis were a little like him how different had been my fate!”

Even Clovis was the better for the abbé‘s advent. His brother would walk straight into his sanctum and drag him from his books to join some party of pleasure; but, lest he should turn restive, would argue in his nimble fashion, as they rode along, upon abstruse points of philosophy. Though not fully believing in the tremendous powers claimed by the prophet, he declared himself open to conviction with regard to Mesmer; and Gabrielle was amazed to perceive how animated her husband could become in his efforts to convince the doubter. When hounded from the capital, Mesmer had travelled south before settling at Spa, and the abbé had seen him perform his marvels. Hunted out of Paris by the Academy of Medicine, persecution had produced the usual result—attacked, defended, abused, glorified, Fame shook all her bauble bells, and rescued his name from neglect. At Montpelier, his following was so great that he and his small staff could not supply the necessary treatment. There was no denying that under his magnetic passes certain patients did recover. However much argument might meander, it always came back to that point. In what the mysterious healing fluid consisted, was the difficult question. Did an invisible current actually flow from the manipulator to the patient, or was it but the effect of ascendency of will—of the strong nature bearing down the weak?

During the discussions on the subject, the abbé would jokingly wave his whip at the chevalier, whose sleek figure jogged behind. “There is a case in point,” he laughed. “Phebus’s will is completely subservient to mine, and he knows it. Tell them, chevalier, is there anything I could not make you do?”

Then the broad visage of Phebus would beam with respectful pride as he surveyed his clever brother. “No, abbé,” he would quietly rejoin. “You are wiser and better than I, and I am content that you should think for both.”

Then in his turn would Clovis laugh as he glanced at the attentive Gabrielle. “We must be careful, lest,” he observed, slyly, “we forfeit our independence. While pretending to disbelieve, he is deceiving us, for he is himself gifted with magnetic powers of a high order. I vow I am half influenced already, and must take precautions lest I become a slave.”

Those were pleasant rides under the yellowing foliage in the late autumn of ‘89. Clovis was galvanised into a semblance of activity, and appeared under the process to have half realized how charming was his wife. Instead of provokingly staring without seeing her, he observed how fresh was her complexion, how silken and golden and heavy were the loose plaits of her unpowdered hair. To her astonishment, following the abbé‘s lead, he became almost attentive, guiding her horse over difficult ground, even marking the fact when she was tired.

And so it came about, as by touch of fairy wand, that Gabrielle, alone in the desert, had found a following. The husband whom she adored was displaying a ghostly kindness, with which for the present she was content. If he only would appreciate the prodigies—but that, under beneficent influence, would follow, doubtless. The newly-arrived swains vied with each other in endeavouring to forestall her wishes. The abbé ordered everyone about for the general good and her particular behoof, like some hovering farseeing deity; while the less pretentious chevalier plodded at her heel like a wheezy spaniel, as active as his redundancy permitted.

In their way, good looking fellows both. The chevalier was short and very fair, with pale blue eyes and a weak mouth, producing a somewhat washed-out effect. His nose was aquiline and delicately moulded. In many respects he bore a curious resemblance to his majesty the reigning monarch. The abbé, his junior by several years, looked a decade younger at least. He was slim and wiry, built on a small scale, with well-turned limbs and white hands remarkable for their fragility. Indeed, in considering his appearance people always remembered the soft, twining fingers which looked as weak as a woman’s, and which, in a hand-shake, could give so firm a grip. His face was round and pale, his lips thin and tightly pressed together, his eyes steel-grey with a strongly accentuated pupil. There was something about his usual expression that suggested a particularly high-bred white cat—due possibly to a purring manner and an air of sensual complacency. But there were moments—not unknown to the chevalier—when the eyes could gleam with tawny lightning, darken with thunder-clouds, while the small even teeth were ground in passion, and the pale face turned livid. Like all seemingly light and effeminate beings, who are really of wrought steel, the gay and frolicsome abbé could become a sweeping whirlwind; but since he usually managed to have his way unchallenged, serious atmospheric disturbances were of rare occurrence. As the eyes of an angry cat seem to be illumined from behind, so on rare occasions of excessive wrath those of the abbé assumed a malevolent glitter, in face of which the chevalier cowered, despite his breadth of beam. His plump uncertain hands grew moist, his words were few and husky; he whimpered and breathed hard; and the privileged observer could have little doubt that there was absolutely nothing he could not be goaded to essay under pressure from Abbé Pharamond.

On a certain mild evening in October, master and serf were riding home from Montbazon, and the latter unconsciously shrank and stopped his horse, conscious of the glitter that he feared. Wistfully and humbly he looked up, anxious to ascertain wherein he had offended.

“The de Vaux are a charming family,” remarked the abbé, airily kissing his fingertips. “I compliment you, dear brother.”

When the abbé chose to gibe, the chevalier sniffed something disagreeable.

“Ha, ha! How lugubrious a countenance for a favoured lover! As doleful as a bee who’s lost his sting! When do we propose to marry? Never keep a lady waiting!”

“What do you mean?” stammered Phebus, mopping his brow.

“Madame de Vaux expects you to propose for Angelique.”

“But I don’t want to marry Angelique.”

“What! Not the delightful shoot from the family tree of which we hear so much? Like the Indian banyan its proportions darken the sky. Why not—tell me?”

“Because I do not wish to marry at all,” replied Phebus.

“And why—and why—and why?” laughed Pharamond, in elfish mood. “Nay, do not tell me. Cannot I read into your erring soul as through a sheet of dirty glass? Because you are hopelessly enamoured of your brother’s handsome wife!”

Phebus started and turned scarlet.

“Don’t look so exasperatingly sheepish! you quivering mass of jelly,” sneered Pharamond.

An explosion of laughter resounded through the wood and ceased, and the glitter shone forth again.

“Do you know that it is extremely wrong to nourish a flame for one’s brother’s wife?” he inquired dryly. “Most reprehensible in itself and not unlikely to lead to complications. Will Clovis approve, think you?”

Perceiving that Phebus was too confused and upset by the sudden attack to answer, the abbé frisked on, urging forward both horses with his whip.

“See!” he observed, addressing nature generally. “How lenient Mother Church can be to the shortcomings of the weak! Do I blame this culprit for adoring the lovely Gabrielle? Not a bit! If he did not his heart would be of stone instead of pulp. Stout Phebus is consumed with hopeless adoration. But is it hopeless? Ah! There’s the rub. Don’t babble like an idiot, but confess. Have we openly given vent to our boiling passion? Yes, or no?”

The chevalier bent his head and sobbed out, “I’m a miserable wicked wretch!”

“Of course you are,” affably agreed the abbé. “Make a clean breast of it to Mother Church, who will straightway absolve the sinner. Do we adore her to the ends of our fat fingers? Eh?”

“How can I help adoring her?” replied harassed Phebus.

“Certainly not—how could you?” echoed his tormentor. “Ho! ho! ho! ho!” The abbé‘s mocking laugh reverberated among the trees. “I’ve half a mind to tell Clovis—shall I? How he’d enjoy the jest!” And at contemplation of the maze of mischief that might result from such a proceeding, he laughed again, “Ho! ho!”

“Does she return your love? Have you really made the trial?” he inquired suddenly, with a sneer upon his lips. “No? Then, my poor fellow, I am genuinely sorry for your plight. Presto! The Church has run away! Behold a doctor; hearken to words of wisdom. Your ailment’s very bad, but curable. This is a queer world, I’d have you know, in which there is one unpardonable crime, failure. We hunt down and exterminate the exposed bungler, who, if he bungles, and would yet save his skin, must take precautions not to be found out. Now I found you out at once, you simple oaf, so you deserve to be delivered to Clovis. I ought to sacrifice so paltry a specimen of intrigue, but then—are you not, too, my brother?”

The chevalier knitted his brows in a vain effort to comprehend what underlay the abbé‘s banter.

“Oh! what a tender brother!” the latter continued; “for I will even assist you in your quest. Yes, I, the virtuous Abbé Pharamond. The doctor prescribes a fervent wooing—a scaling of the ramparts—a storming of the citadel. You have gone too timidly to work. Between this husband and wife there can be no bond of union. That much we know. Ergo, the heart of the beauty is yet to win, since she is fancy free. You shall try your luck in earnest, and I will give you all my help—on one condition.”

“You will!” murmured Phebus, melted to tears by admiring gratitude, “How shall I repay such kindness?”

“Thus. You try your hand and do your best, but if you fail you retire for ever from the field. If she likes you, well and good. Win and wear her and be happy. If not, promise to worry her no more with annoying importunities.”

The suggested arrangement was so singular, that the chevalier, recovering himself a little, knew not what to think. What could his astute brother be driving at? Why should he desire to throw the hitherto unstained wife into a lover’s arms? Had he a spite against the marquis? No. Against Gabrielle? Hardly. Perhaps he was sorry, as Phebus had been, to observe Clovis’s neglect, and anxious to see Ariadne consoled? How kind of the abbé to select him, the chevalier, as the proposed comforter! A new vista of possibilities unrolled itself. Unaided he would have gone on sympathetically sighing, but with the abbé‘s encouragement and active assistance, wonders might be accomplished.

The latter was beaming on him now with bonhomie. Clearly he wished, fraternally, to see sister-in-law and brother happy, and imbued with the spirit of the times in which they lived, was doing his best to make them so. Warmly the chevalier blurted out his thanks. His brother was good and kind, as he always meant to be, though now and then so puzzling and strange. He would follow his instructions dutifully to the letter, and Gabrielle won, would be till death her slave.

“That is well,” assented the abbé with a friendly clap on the shoulder. “You have beaten about the bush too long, instead of making straight for the goal. Women have sharp instincts, and since they require wooing, despise too bashful swains. This very night the coast shall be kept clear for you. The balmy autumn breeze is to love vows the softest of accompaniments. I will retain Clovis in his study with arguments about the prophet he reveres.”

The two jogged on in amicable silence, both equally satisfied, to all appearances, with the result of the conference, until the peaked turrets of Lorge frowned black against a primrose sunset. Then, before entering the courtyard, the abbé turned and whispered sternly, “A compact, mind, which you will break at your peril. Win or withdraw. Do not attempt to deceive me, for I never forgive deceit.”

CHAPTER VI.
TEMPTATION.

The eccentric schemer was true to his word, as grateful Phebus acknowledged with eyes more watery than usual. What a blessed thing it was to have so accommodating a brother as Pharamond! The chevalier grew hot and cold as he considered the chance that was about to be thrown in his way, a golden chance—and between whimsical little prayers for success, he gazed furtively now and then at the other brother, whose honour he was so ready to smirch.

The prodigies having been sent to bed, and the evening meal being leisurely discussed, the abbé became inquisitive anent the latest intelligence from Spa. Was it true that the genius of the prophet had achieved yet greater marvels? What were these rumours as to a further magnetic development, accompanied by fresh triumphs? Clovis snapped eagerly at the bait, and proceeded to explain that something amazing had indeed been discovered such as should transform the world of science. Persons afflicted with ailments were in future to be ranged around a series of large buckets or tubs containing a mixture of broken glass, iron shavings, and cold water. How simple a treatment, and yet how efficacious! Talk of ancient miracles! No wonder that all the doctors were mad with spite, as well as all the apothecaries, and that they should thirst for the blood of him who had exposed their disgraceful cheating!

“Most amazing! Most wonderful!” echoed the abbé, leaning back in his chair. “The wicked spirits conquered, and those who were afflicted through their malice being cured by means of the tub, what was there left of the curse bequeathed by Adam? If somebody would only go a step or two further and discover the elixir of life, and a method of making gold, the world would be quite a pleasant place to live in, and he for one would positively decline to leave it.”

Gabrielle listened, mystified, glancing from one to another of the trio. Clovis was quite animated. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were flushed, and his tongue loosened. What power was this of the abbé‘s, which could melt an icicle, bring a corpse to life? She was awed and uneasy.

Was Pharamond making fun of Clovis—fooling him to the top of his bent—in mischief? Surely not, for did he not owe to his brother’s kindness a secure asylum, a refuge in an awkward strait, and pocket money also? For Gabrielle, in her kindness of heart, had guessed that the fugitives were out at elbows, and had quietly handed two neatly enveloped packets to her husband, with a request that he would pass them on. Clovis took the packets without surprise or even thanks, and his wife smiled to herself at his carelessness in money matters. Since his marriage he had always been well provided without the asking, and had come—how like a dreamer—to look on coin as convenient manna, which somehow dropped from heaven just at the auspicious moment.

What could so sensible a man as the abbé mean by encouraging him in his nonsense? He was sitting there now with head thrown back, and the placid air of one who knows how to enjoy digestion, rapping out now and then a leading question, such as would put Clovis on his mettle. Was she, Gabrielle, in the wrong to despise these things? It seemed so. Her husband dabbled in philanthropy; the abbé was an excellent man, bent on doing good to his fellows; and this was the reason for the interest of both in Mesmer.

“Just think!” the marquis was observing with regret, “what good work might be done in the district if we could inaugurate a magic tub! The mists rising from the Loire generate rheumatism and paralysis, to say nothing of fevers, all of which, by means of a blessed bucket, might cease to exist except in fable. Why! this gloomy old prison-house might become a central office from which benefits would be scattered broadcast; its priméval bloodstains might come in time to be washed away with Mesmer’s tincture of iron!”

“Why not?” murmured the abbé, with increasing interest.

“Alas!” sighed Clovis. “The arrangement of the tub, it seems, is a matter of the most delicate nicety, which cannot be described by letter. If Mesmer would only visit us? But he is afraid now, he says, to venture into France.”

“Why not go to him—Mahomet and the mountain, you know,” suggested Pharamond. “Or get him to lend you for a time one of his cultured adepts.”

“Ah! if he would do that!” echoed Clovis, eagerly. “If he would lend me somebody who knows.”

“Our dear Gabrielle would not stand an adept!” cried the abbé, with laughter. “See how distressed she looks at my poor suggestion! Nay, sweet sister; I was only jesting. In sooth, this new-fangled bucket is too large a bolus to swallow. The idea of sensible people squatting round a tub with glass wands pressed against their temples!”

Pharamond’s access of facetiousness nettled the marquis, who remarked peevishly, “What a puzzle you are! Too gifted and too learned, I should have thought, to mock as the ignorant do at all that they cannot fathom.”

“Nay! I did not mean to anger you!” cried Pharamond, still laughing. “But I was bound to reassure our hostess as to an irruption of adepts. Come, come. Let her enjoy the evening air. Show me the plans and instructions, and while I endeavour to decipher them, play me a tune on the ‘cello.”

Oh! clever abbé, who knew so well how to twitch his puppet-strings! It certainly was a delightful evening, and Gabrielle, with the pursy chevalier trotting by her side, flung open a casement and stepped forth upon a balcony. As she gazed across the shadowy river, she was too absorbed with the consideration of a riddle to remark the condition of her companion, who panted nervously. Was Clovis mad—victim of a monomania—or did she wrong him? Why should he lie to her, and to Pharamond? He had declared, and the abbé accepted the statement without cavil, that the magic tub had already produced miraculous cures. No doubt it is both ignorant and stupid to contemn what you cannot understand. Clovis was always saying so, and he was right. If the discovery was genuine, then, as he had said, how wonderful a boon wherewith to endow the province! It was quite true that the peasantry were a prey to rheumatic pains and aches. In her rides she often went among the poor distributing simple remedies, and had been dubbed by them the “White Chatelaine,” in contradistinction to some of dark and unsavoury memory who had gone before. But then, an irruption of adepts. What sort of a creature was an adept? The idea had revolted her, she scarce knew why; and yet, was she not unreasonable? If the prophet or a selection from his following were to take up their quarters at Lorge, what then? There was room enough in the great building, and the abbé would doubtless make himself useful in seeing that they kept to themselves. Ah! But the cherished hope which had been the means of bringing the chatelaine to Lorge; the hope to which she clung with the tenacity of love. Surrounded by an army of dreamers more dreamy than himself, the half-recovered Clovis would drift away again, be farther than ever from her yearning arms, engrossed in his magical operations. How unsteady a seat is that between the horns of a dilemma. If she refused to countenance the tub and its attendant sprites, she might be withholding from the sick a saving and certain cure. If she encouraged the new theory and its satellites, instinct told her that she would be raising a wall between herself and her husband which she would never be able to scale. She was wicked and selfish to hesitate. The marquise felt with humble conviction the extent of her badness; but human nature at the best is rickety, and she was unlucky enough to adore her husband. At this point, as she stood on the balcony reflecting, with the red hot chevalier by her side, she shivered, for plaintive sounds were floating on the breeze.

“This is intolerable!” she murmured. “If Clovis would only oblige me by sacrificing that dreadful ‘cello!”

“It does set one’s teeth on edge,” agreed the chevalier.

“Because it contains a soul in torment,” returned the marquise, pressing her fingers in her ears. “I can manage to endure other implements of music, but I cannot bear a ‘cello.”

“We have a remedy at hand,” wheezed the amorous chevalier. “It is as balmy as a summer’s night, and winter will soon be upon us. Put on a hood and scarf, and let me row you for an hour on the river.”

CHAPTER VII.
A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

The family did not meet again till the next day at the hour of second déjeuner, and an intangible cloud appeared to have fallen on the party. There was something like suspicion in the manner of those who yesterday were so trustingly united.

The chevalier, sulky and silent, would not raise his eyes from his plate. The liveliest sallies of the abbé fell dismally flat, for even Gabrielle was so pre-occupied that she could not summon a smile. Her beautiful face was grave and sad, and bore trace of recent tears, while the brow of the marquis wore a frown, as if he had heard bad news. Indeed, a proposition had been placed before him yesternight, or, rather, dropped carelessly, which startled and annoyed him. In course of their téte-é-téte over the plans, Pharamond had said, “If I were you I would be careful not to offend madame, for she, not you, is master.” It had never occurred to him before to see things in this light, and yet it was undoubtedly true. She had never stood between him and his desires, but it was not pleasant to be reminded that she might be led to do so some day. And from the conversation—as it chanced—a wavering idea had become in his mind a fixed resolve. The introduction of an adept into the household had been the happiest thought on the part of Pharamond, but—provoking fellow that he was—no sooner had he made the suggestion than he proceeded to nip it in the bud. For when Clovis would fain have enlarged upon the topic, the abbé had retorted with a demure headshake: “I made a mistake, and I am sorry. Your wife believes no more in Mesmer than I do—less—and, taking offence, might complain to old de Bréze of the introduction into his house of a pack of needy jugglers.”

If she did it would be awkward and insulting to her husband. Would she be capable of so unwifely a proceeding? Surely not. The abbé, who was a compendium of wise maxims, remarked that it would be better not to try her—to let sleeping dogs lie. Perhaps he was right, but the pill presented to the lips of Clovis was bitter, with a new and acrid taste.

Glancing round the breakfast-table, the spirits of Pharamond went up, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. No need to ask simple Phebus how he had fared last night? Failure was written on his face!

In the minds of all three who sat around him a tiny germ was working. So far all was well; but the ménage must not be permitted to fall back into the doldrums.

“Come, come!” cried the abbé, cheerily; “what ails us all? Is the angel of death passing overhead? The weather is divine. Were we not to hunt to-day, starting from Montbazon, and is not the attractive Angelique anxiously awaiting Phebus? Air and exercise will brace our nerves. Clovis’s wits want sharpening, and then, maybe, he will guess all about the bucket without further aid from Mesmer.”

Cloud or no cloud, there was no resisting Pharamond for long. His tact was infinite. Pretending to perceive that there was a tiff of some sort between the chevalier and the chatelaine, he ostentatiously interposed himself between them. No one was in the humour for the chase? Very well. No more was he. Phebus, whose one accomplishment was a knowledge of horseflesh, had business in the stables, which he would be good enough to see to. The other brothers would flutter around Gabrielle, who, established on her favourite seat in the moat-garden, would issue orders to her slaves.

What? The hobby again? Really the prophet should be proud of a pupil so serious and earnest! Well, well. Would dear Gabrielle mind being left alone for a little? No? Then the brothers would take a stroll together, and perhaps the abbé would be converted.

“If I am,” the latter cried merrily, as linking his arm within that of the marquis, he led him away, “I shall turn myself to the conversion of Gabrielle. After that we will set our wits to work, arrange a magic tub, and all preside over it together.”

The magic tub! When the brothers returned from their walk, heated with discussion, the one was airy and serene, the other wofully cross. Gabrielle was sorely troubled by the change which she indistinctly felt. Why should Clovis be cross? The reason of the chevalier’s sullenness, alas, she knew too well! The abbé was apparently much struck by the arguments of the neophyte, and wavered. Why, then, should Clovis be in a bad humour? And if Pharamond, the clever one, was well nigh convinced, who was she that she should doubt? There was nothing for it but to submit to the guidance of the abbé.

Clovis shambled off to his study in a self-conscious and sheepish way, whereupon a sly smile spread over the face of Pharamond.

“Do you know why our dear Clovis is in so villanous a humour?” he asked, glancing archly down at the marquise. “No, of course not. You would never guess. He wants something of you, and is afraid to ask, lest you refuse.”

“Afraid of me!” ejaculated Gabrielle, amazed.

“Not quite that—but husbands do not like to ask favours and be refused.”

The marquise held her peace, for she was bitterly hurt. Refuse a favour to him, the husband whose good graces she was here to cultivate? Never. Oh, why was he so very blind! How could she ever hope to win his entire love and confidence if he read her character so ill! Then, overcome by emotion, she wept and confided in the abbé, who skilfully soothed her pain. He did not deserve such a treasure—this purblind, blundering husband, of course he did not; but since the Church had bound the two together, there was nothing for it but to make the best of the bad bargain. It was most fortunate that he, Pharamond, should have joined the circle, for it should be his privilege, as son of the Church, if permitted so great a favour, to act as go-between on delicate subjects, and prevent friction. Now here was a silly thing which, but for him, might have led to estrangement. Clovis had concluded that his scientific investigations demanded a trained assistant, and dreaded to admit as much. Was he not a foolish fellow?

Gabrielle’s heart sank low within her. Oh, Clovis! Clovis! An assistant! an army of assistants, if he so wished it. But it was soul-harrowing that his desires should require an interpreter. And now the good churchman changed his note from comfort to gentle chiding. She was ungrateful, the dear Gabrielle, to be so impatient. The ambassador would run on the instant and tell Clovis how he wronged his wife. She was ready to do all he wished, as he might have known she would be. Rome was not built in a day, and the firm trusting confidence which should unite wife and husband requires to be put together brick by brick, with plodding patience for a trowel. It should not be the abbé‘s fault if his watchful care did not produce, with time, the desired end. He would try, but Clovis was of a suspicious and untrusting nature, and if failure were to result after all—why he, the abbé, could not help what, of course, he would bitterly deplore.

It is a curious fact that this was not quite the communication which he made to Clovis when, presently, he joined him in his study.

“She has given way,” he said; “I thought I could persuade her. I led her to feel that though she may hold the purse-strings, she must learn to know that you are master. We shall arrive at that, and make good our independence with constant quiet pressure. How wise of you to trust in me! Leave the whole matter in my hands. Say nothing on the subject yourself, for the plant of marital right is a fragile one which requires most careful handling.”

Gabrielle spent much of her time in reflection, wondering how it was that she should be so lamentably misunderstood. The only one who could read her aright was Abbé Pharamond, and yet there were points in his behaviour which perplexed the simple lady. He was kind and sympathetic now as he invariably was; but a change might be detected in his manner, which was a difference, though so slight a one that a man would scarce have noticed it. He loved to recline at her feet reciting poetry or reading classic prose—a course of improving literature, he called it, for the storing of a magazine that was somewhat empty; and in intervals of rest she would find his steely eyes fixed steadily on her with a peculiar expression that was half pity. Warming under his ever-ready sympathy she confided to him one day the shocking details of a certain evening on the river, and was unaccountably pained and disappointed at the way he treated the disclosure. In the butterfly clergy of Paris—steeped to the lips in vice—such a view would be natural and consistent; but that Pharamond, self-elected friend and Mentor, should display so little indignation and proper principle was distressing.

Instead of being shocked at the escapade of Phebus, he laughed outright, and remarked lightly, “Of course, the poor donkey fell in love with you. He must, indeed, be a figure-head of wood who could resist such charms, and I should be sorry to find a brother of mine to be made of timber. Command me. Am I not your champion? Shall I rush forth and spit the simpleton for his temerity?”

Clearly this was not the spirit in which a son of Mother Church should receive the news of a brother-in-law’s declaration, and Gabrielle declared as much to her trusted counsellor.

“Half-brother-in-law,” interrupted the latter, admiring his oval nails.

“It is all the same—equally wrong.”

“Oh, dear no! Excuse me, but it takes two halves to make a whole!” This light method of dealing with so grave a subject savoured of flippant levity; added to which distressful fact, the abbé, taking advantage of Gabrielle’s troubled silence, had sidled closer, and was peering up through half-closed lids with an admiring scrutiny which made her vaguely uncomfortable.

“The heart is independent of the will,” he whispered, absently, “and we should not be blamed for its vagaries! You could not like the fellow? Of course, you could not: he is fat and foolish; and I a dolt to ask so vain a question. Before we are aware of it our hearts are given, and the gift may not be cancelled. A platitude, is it not? Does not that same platitude show that Love is Fate—that where he wills he lights, always a conqueror? Who shall punish us for bending before the tyrant?”

“What can you mean?” inquired the marquise, startled.

“Say,” inquired the abbé. “Despite trivial drawbacks, we are all happy here together, are we not? As to Phebus, what is your decree? Because a man loved you, you would not chase him hence? That were unduly harsh.”

No. The marquise had no intention of endeavouring to banish Phebus. Was he not of the same blood as Clovis and Pharamond, husband and friend? To the latter she owed much, and, being grateful, would strain many a point to avoid offending him. It was thanks to his intervention that the wheels had run of late more smoothly. Indeed, she might have come in time to accept the situation as it was, ceasing to wish for something better, but for the chevalier’s inconvenient flame. Even as it was, there was no reason why the stream, disturbed for a moment, should not flow as smoothly as before, since Phebus, convinced of his mistake, ceased to be importunate. Enwrapt in a veil of reserve he studiously avoided a téte-é-téte with her whom he had honoured with elephantine love-making.

Impelled by these various considerations, Gabrielle replied, quietly, “No. I would not chase a man away because he loved me,” and a look of exultation flashed over the abbé‘s features, which as quickly faded.

Lorge in winter could scarcely be called a cheerful spot; yet, accustomed by gradual degrees to the still life of unbroken monotony, none of the party suggested a return to Paris. The chevalier wandered aimlessly, a solitary figure, the phantom of regret—and his energies seemed bent on equal avoidance of Gabrielle and Angelique. Clovis became more and more engrossed in his pursuits, and though he frequently discussed the proposed assistant, took no steps—lymphatic unpractical creature—to unearth an adept learned in mystic lore. It became his habit to join the family circle once a day, and on these occasions he grew almost genial under the skilled banter of his brother. Pharamond, a miracle of resource and ready usefulness, ferreted out curtains of thick silk from mouldering trunks, and made of the boudoir at the end of the suite quite a tempting and delightful nest. With heaps of cushions he arranged a species of divan about the fire, and stretched out at full length on it declaimed by the hour with nice emphasis the sparkling lines of Beaumarchais. Gabrielle did not quite take in the sense of all he read, but the voice was singularly sweet and soothing—so different from the groaning ‘cello—and she grew accustomed as time went on to the singular expression in the eyes.

Those were peaceful, placid days. When the snow swirled without in blustering eddies, the curtains were drawn close, and logs were piled upon the fire till they hissed and sparkled, and Gabrielle, as she listened to the rhythm of the verse, broken pleasantly from time to time by the distant mirth of the children as they romped now and then with the attentive chevalier, was fain to confess herself content. How smoothly the water runs as it approaches the edge of the precipice, and with what angry foam crests it hurries away after the fall. If the chatelaine had been asked at this juncture whether she pined for aught, she would have said No. Clovis, the shadowy one, was nearer to her than he had ever been, condescending sometimes to discuss affairs with her and even play with the darling prodigies. We can’t fashion our spouses to our liking. Those who are undemonstrative must not be expected to coruscate. Clovis was not wilfully unkind. The chevalier had forgotten his folly. What a mercy that was! The abbé, with all his lightly scintillating oddities, was a pearl of price. All things considered, existence was not unpleasant.

The dream was interrupted in this wise. On a certain stormy evening the abbé had laid down his book. The chevalier reclined in his chair, gulping in stentorous slumber, while Gabrielle sat listening to the saddest sound in the world—the soughing of the winter wind. At her feet lay Pharamond with flushed face, excited by the story he had been reading—that of Francesca da Rimini.

“That pig will die in a fit,” he remarked presently, with a glance of scorn at his brother, who lay with his back to them in gurgling unconsciousness; “and the sooner the better, for then we shall be alone.”

“That day they read no more!” Ah me, what a tale it is, old as the hills but ever new!

A silence. Gabrielle too was reflecting on the story of Francesca.

“An all-devouring consuming love. Tell me, Gabrielle, is it a curse or a blessing?”

“That depends,” replied the other, slowly, “whether it be pure or not. The condition of real love implies abnegation of self in favour of the one who is loved.”

“Too cold a view of it for me,” returned the abbé. “I belong to the south, where it burns and scorches. I believe that illicit love is best. Poor Gabrielle! Ignorant sleeping princess, yet awaiting the awakening kiss! How strange, that one so beautiful should never have felt the divine breath! Clovis could not love. He is too selfish. With that brute snoring there, the god-like sentiment rises no higher than the lust of the uncultured savage.”

Tears welled into the eyes of Gabrielle. “I take it,” she murmured, “that the reason love is so often a curse lies in its inequality, since it is given to no couple to love with equal fervour.”

Under influence of the reading and of the abbé‘s words, old yearnings had sprung newly into life again which she had deemed dead. Alas! If the affection of Clovis had been as true and staunch as hers, how unclouded a career would have been theirs. Illicit love, he had dared to say—this insidious Pharamond! No; never—never that! She sighed, and with chin on hand, gazed into the fire. It was mere idle prate. Men of a poetic turn run into such extremes.

How beautiful she looked in the warm fitful glow in a plain sacque of palest rose, her hair loosely gathered to display to advantage the poise of the graceful head. What a perfect neck and shoulder, and how exquisitely modelled an arm. One hand lay carelessly upon her lap. It was as though he saw that shapely arm for the first time. The blood surging to his brain, the abbé bent down and impressed a burning kiss on it.

Goaded by circumstances—an irresistible temptation—he had betrayed himself. Well! Why not now as well as later? On the whole, he was rather glad to have been drawn out of his usual caution.

Rising from the cushions to his knees, he pressed another kiss upon her shoulder, and whispered with hot and labouring breath, which seemed to burn the skin—“Gabrielle—my Gabrielle—my own, spite all; it is I who am to teach you the love that maddens and entrances.”

Bewildered by the suddenness of the act, crimson to the roots of her fair hair, Gabrielle sank panting, speechless, against the carven oak-panel—till, feeling a hand gliding round her waist, she writhed out of the embrace, and, revolted, half-choked, with swimming head, staggered to her feet.

“You too!” she faltered faintly, glancing from one brother to the other in fear. “Oh, Pharamond! You must be insane! You did not know what you were doing!”

“Did I not? Hush. Why wake that idiot?” whispered the abbé, striving, as he clung, to wreathe again about her arm his trembling sinuous fingers. “I know right well what I have done, and glory in it since I have made you my own. On the first evening that I set eyes on your lustrous beauty, I swore that some day you should be mine. That day is come; you are hemmed round. Others want you, but not so much as I; and when I say I will, all must give way to that! I hold you in my hand as I might a fluttering bird just caught. Aha! How the poor heart beats. Be calm; oh, heart of mine! I can be patient and wait until the bird shall cease to struggle, and will like you all the better for the fluttering!”

Gabrielle’s blood chilled in growing horror, and she endeavoured to recoil, as he approached. Now she understood the strange expression that he wore sometimes. Her chosen counsellor had been slowly winding a limed thread about her limbs which should hold her fast—a helpless victim to his unhallowed passions—ere she knew that she was bound. Fool! Vain, wicked fool! Could one so astute have so completely missed the key to the situation? She adored the husband who, in her ignorance and inexperience, she deemed a demigod. To her he was a genius of whom she was unworthy. Here was her shield of unsullied steel, and brilliant, cynical Pharamond, who saw through and despised Clovis, guessed nothing of its existence.

Then, as thought swiftly followed thought in tumultuous wave, it fell on her with a numb dead weight of misgiving, how much this discovery might mean to her. What would she do without the abbé‘s help? With terror, she realized now as she looked steadily at him, that this was no wild impulse borne of chance, to be condoned and forgotten like that of the chevalier, but the result of a deep-laid scheme. She could see before her an obstinate man whose will was iron and scruples nil, who had resolved some day to snatch what she had not to give. To whom in so strange an extremity could she turn for help? Wringing her hands together, she moaned out, “I am alone, without a friend!”

“Not so!” the abbé whispered, edging nearer. “Trust to me in this as in other matters, for I know best, and you will thank me—oh, how much. Are not you to learn and I to teach? I hold the clue of the mystery, which is still veiled to you. Learn love from me—burning, devouring love; and for the first time you will know happiness.”

“Another step and I will wake the chevalier!” Gabrielle faltered, wrapping round her a poor tattered shred of shivering dignity.

Pharamond laughed his long sweet laugh of rippling music, which now caused Gabrielle to shudder.

“Awake him? Do!” gibed he, “or shall I? Look at his bull neck and broad fat back! He is not yours, for he is mine, though he would have been yours if you had wished it. Why not admit the truth in order that you may know me? It will save useless trouble. I loyally allowed him as my elder the first chance, on condition that if he failed the prize should be left to me. Ha, ha! Awake him by all means, that I may bid him remove his carcase. It cumbers the ground! Pah! What a pig-like snore!”

Again, though she had retreated, with feet faltering among the draperies, to an extreme corner behind the cushions, Gabrielle felt the wreathing arm stealing round her waist.

“Pharamond!” she pleaded huskily, exhausted. “To yourself and me be merciful, and you will have my earnest prayers–-“

“Would you usurp my functions?” whispered the abbé in mischief.

The marquise pushed him from her with a strength wrung from indignation. “For the sake of all of us, go for a time,” she murmured. “In the name of honest womanhood and vain regret—go! that this folly may be forgotten. I will try to forget. Go! and I swear to you that no word of it shall pass my lips.”

“How little you know me,” scoffed the abbé, disdaining for the time to press her further. “Have you not learnt yet, that what I will is done? Awake the pig there, and ask if it is not so. What I have resolved upon, I do. You are mine—all mine—whether you like it or not; now or a little later!”

“Then I must seek refuge with my husband.”

“If you accuse me, he will not believe you. The influence over him that you awkwardly threw away, I gained. How ill you’ve played your cards, most charming woman! He is a weak man who must be led by some one—it might have been by you. Come, say the word, and you shall lead him yet; or, rather, we will together.”

Gabrielle looked again into the abbé‘s face (which was so terribly close to hers), then at that of his sleeping brother, who had turned in uneasy slumber. How could she have been deceived so long? Sensuality on both masks—the one, gross and altogether earthy; the other, marked by flashes of sly eyes and twists of thin lips that were not well to look upon, for that second mask was transparent, and the devil was peering through.

“I will give you time to think,” proceeded the abbé, “since, though the moment is propitious, you are not in the mood for wooing. Here is a rebus. Your fate is in my hand, yet in your own. According as you decide, you will find in me the most devoted servant or the most implacable enemy. The love of us southerners is not far removed from hate. According as you act, you may bask in its beams or be scorched into a cinder; hence it is to be feared and respected.”

Pressing so close to her that she could feel the pulsations of his breast, he added in low accents that cut into her heart like steel, “Be well advised, and comprehend the truth. Your life hangs in the balance for happiness or misery. Consider, and choose wisely, for this is the critical time on which your fate depends.”

Then, opening the door with a bow whose distinction would have done honour to Trianon, he stood aside to let the lady pass into her bedchamber. Closing the door again, he knit his brows and bit his nails while contemplating the sleeping chevalier. “A trifle premature, that’s all,” he muttered; “no harm done, for all her sweeping pride. Well-meaning, vacillating women are like satin-skinned horses in the arena—all the better for a touch of the lash. It is written, my mission is to teach her love, and I will do it thoroughly from my own point of view—of course. She is inexperienced, and proud, and empty. If the fruit’s not ripe, I’ve time to wait for it to mellow. Perhaps, who knows? I may, should she be restive, be forced to crush her pride. A pity! for it would be a charm removed. Perchance I shall only squeeze firmly, without crushing it. The snaring of a bird that is shy, whose plumage must not be injured! Shall it be tamed by kindness, or the reverse? A problem, this, that Time’s slow fingers must unravel. The key to it is patience—most valuable of virtues!” He stood long, pondering as he surveyed his sleeping brother. It was as if he sought some luminous answer in those puffed and stolid features.

Next morning, Gabrielle appeared at déjeuner with pallid cheeks and red eyes, under whose lids there glinted a ray of apprehension. That Clovis’s two half-brothers should both have developed, without encouragement, so ill-omened a passion! What had the future in store for a helpless woman as the upshot of so perilous a dilemma? Was it not, after all, an ugly dream—a hideous nightmare born of Erebus, that had been routed by healthful morning? Having eaten his fill, Clovis was placidly sipping claret, and forming a mimic tub out of bread-crusts. The round visage of the chevalier was as expressionless as usual.

Upon the entrance of the chatelaine, the abbé had risen to close the door with nimblest alacrity and deftest grace, and had led her to the table with ceremoniously respectful finger-tips. The evil expression was gone. Glancing nervously at him, she saw nothing but a polished bonhomie veneered with distant and deferential kindliness. He deplored her looks with ready grief, but added, for consolation, that a washed rose revives in sunshine, and becomes more fragrant for the shower.

“She mopes for lack of proper exercise,” he exclaimed, with a gentle headshake of reproach. “Let us make a little party, and make a raid on Montbazon.”

Clovis, busy with the bread-crusts, remarked somewhat tartly that he was much occupied, as they ought all to know; that the others had better go without him; whereupon Gabrielle turned pale. Ride with the two brothers, whose overweening and importunate affection she had so recently repulsed!

“I vow,” cried facetious Pharamond, “that our Gabrielle is growing delicate. She who was wont to be active objects to exercise. Decidedly, my Clovis, we must set the miraculous tub agoing for the benefit of your delightful wife.”

CHAPTER VIII.
A NEW ARRIVAL.

Our dear marquise—as you have realised ere this—satisfied the desire of the eye in all ways, for, combined with beauty of feature and of colour, was the suave sweetness of expression that is bred of the domestic virtues. Had she been an abbess the odour of her sanctity would have penetrated down to us in many a miraculous legend, and her carved simulacrum would have stood in many a niche and sculptured frieze along with those of other privileged young ladies. But she could not guide a husband who needed a bridle rein, neither could she decipher rebuses. The eccentric conduct of the versatile and too inflammable abbé completely mystified her. Why had he in the firelight resembled a satyr, to become in the morning so meek, and mild, and saint-like? Perhaps her prayers had been answered and, seeing the error of his ways, he had repented ere it was too late. It is disconcerting when an amorous and fervid swain inflicts burning kisses on your skin, and next day forgets the transgression. In the case of Pharamond a marvel must have been worked, for never by wink of eyelid did he attempt to recall his untoward proceedings during the storm. The episode was washed clean away by the snowdrift. He was alert, and lively, and amiable, as heretofore; always active in performing little services, inventing some new comfort or pleasure, rallying the dull, sympathizing with the weary. He knew better than to sit glum and mumchance like the chevalier. Betrayed into error, he had accepted rebuff like a gentleman, and by a marked increase of respect was trying to win forgiveness. This was quite as it should be, and there was no more to be said. And so, the clouds that threatened being dissipated, the months of winter rolled away in so uniform a sequence that their glassy flow seemed as if it must run for ever.

The marquis, influenced probably by his repentant brother, was amiable enough. The two talked Mesmer all day long; formed plans for mutual assistance: held lengthy conferences in the study, which always had, now the satisfying result of improving Clovis’s temper. The first primrose had just emerged from its bed when the abbé announced one day the portentous fact that the marquis was packing his valise.

“Packing his valise! Tired of the dulness of Lorge?” Gabrielle felt a tinge of sadness at the thought. Why not have let things be? If there was to be a change, would it be for better or worse?

“How silly you are!” observed Clovis, cheerfully, remarking her wistful look. “Are we limpets glued to a rock? I am about to make a little journey, quite a short one—the effect of which in the future may transfigure the countenance of earth.”

“You will not be absent long?” inquired the marquise, in a reproachful tone.

“A couple of weeks at most. The fact is, that I am going to Spa, and hope to bring back with me the assistant, without whom I can advance no further.”

“You said you did not object,” murmured Pharamond, softly.

“Object? Certainly not. I said so long ago.”

Clovis frowned. He did not like to be reminded of dependence just as he was about to use his liberty.

“I have a hundred questions to ask, which must be answered by word of mouth, and shall bring back such a budget of testimony as shall surprise even you into belief. The country is distressingly quiet and monotonous. You are not afraid, I suppose, to await my return under the joint protection of my brothers?”

The abbé was innocently contemplating the tapestry opposite with rapt interest; the chevalier was examining the floor. If the husband had only known—how whimsical a question! Gabrielle glanced at one, then at the other, with a tiny twinge of misgiving, which speedily gave way to confidence, and replied simply—

“Oh, no; I am afraid of neither. Even if they attempted to do me harm, and why should they? have I not Toinon at hand, and her no less devoted lover?”

“Harm! From us!” echoed Pharamond, vastly tickled. “Phebus is an ogre with great teeth and one blear eye, whilst I am the original Croquemitaine, devourer of white-fleshed maidens.”

“I have said I am not afraid of you,” remarked the marquise, demurely.

“Jean Boulot, the devoted lover!” continued the playful abbé. “More danger in his little finger, I warrant, than in both our bodies. While you are absent, Clovis, I’ve half a mind to divert myself with pretty Toinon; but, alas! I am in terror of her big surly bear. A brawny malcontent! Only the other day I heard him deliver an address under the village tree—such a compound of fire and brimstone—and I suppose my smile was not respectful; for, catching my eye, he directed his abuse at me, and poured forth such a scurrilous diatribe against our class that I was glad enough to escape. Like everyone else, however, he respects Gabrielle, and when he becomes aggressive, she shall shield us from his wrath!”

The marquise was relieved, for this was a delicate way of hinting that there was to be no recurrence of that scene. Why should she mind being left with the brothers? Clovis, who did not shine as a protector, might depart on his mission with a light heart, to return as soon as possible wreathed with the laurels of success.

He went, and the household, after the small excitement of the unimportant incident, returned to its monotony of peace. The brothers treated their chatelaine with such an increase of punctilio and ceremony as should perforce stop the idle gossip of provincial busybodies. Even shrewd Toinon, who was of an unbelieving turn, and never quite satisfied with regard to the honeyed churchman, looked on the situation with approval.

The marquis had been absent three weeks when a messenger arrived with a missive directed to the abbé. Gabrielle was in the moat garden superintending the chevalier, who was occupied in the watering of plants. Toinon was there, too, looking after Jean Boulot, as was her duty, while he clipped and trimmed the hedges, with the prodigies hanging to his coat-tails. The group made a charming picture of rural bliss, such as it makes good the heart to look upon. Through the postern-door leisurely emerged the abbé, gazing at a paper as he descended the grassy slope with a scowl of genuine annoyance.

“What is it?” cried Gabrielle, turning pale. “Nothing wrong with Clovis?”

“Everything wrong with Clovis,” retorted Pharamond, testily. “He must have lost his wits to be capable of such a proceeding.”

“He is well?”

“Oh, yes; he is well.”

“Then all is well.”

“Is it? That remains to be shown. He will be home to-morrow at supper time.”

“Then all is well, indeed. The best of news!”

Delighted as she was, a pang shot through the heart of the marquise, in that the absent one had elected to communicate with his brother rather than his wife.

“Do you know?” she remarked with a smile, “that I am quite jealous. He ought to have written to me.”

“I suppose he had the decency to be ashamed, and so left it to me to smooth the way for him. There is something here which I doubt your liking. It was wrong—very, very wrong—not to have first consulted you.”

“What is it? Let me know, without all this parley. You torture me!”

“Well, the prodigal returns to-morrow—but not alone.”

“I know that. He had full permission to hire an assistant. Are there more? He is welcome to bring his friends.”

“A female friend?”

“A woman!” ejaculated Gabrielle, dropping her garden scissors, while Toinon stared, round-eyed.

“A woman!” echoed Pharamond, moved to real anger. “Was there ever anything so ridiculous! a woman picked up at Spa!”

“What can she want here?’ inquired Toinon.

“A protégée, it appears, of that infernal prophet,” grumbled the abbé. “Listen to what he says: ‘Gabrielle will be charmed,’ he writes (double distilled blockhead), ‘when she understands it all, for by a most lucky chance, the presence of Mademoiselle Brunelle will serve a double purpose. She is an adept of the first class, educated under the eye of Mesmer himself, instructed in all the intricacies of animal magnetism, and has, moreover, successfully followed the avocation of governess. The dear children have outgrown the reach of my wife’s teaching, and Mademoiselle Brunelle can henceforth superintend their studies.’”

Pharamond looked dubiously at his sister-in-law, who flushed red, then paled. His annoyance was more than justified, for it was outrageous to engage a resident governess without consulting the wife and mother. And yet it might be for the best. The dear prodigies knew all that poor Gabrielle could teach them, and in this remote spot it was difficult without great expense to procure masters from Blois or Tours. Clovis had been enabled to see and interview a lady, which was better than taking her on trust by letter. The mother should have been consulted, though, before entering on a definite engagement.

Toinon’s indignation broke forth.

“Well, I’m sure,” she sniffed, “what next. Stray women are to be brought into the house without madame’s sanction. If I were she, I’d dispatch our Jean to bar the way, and forbid the baggage to approach. Such impudence!”

In curbing the maid’s zeal, Gabrielle convinced herself. The marquis was master, and his will was law. He had been most wise and far-seeing in thinking of the dear children’s welfare. He had thought more of them than she, who had twitted him with indifference. He had done well, as always, and Toinon would perhaps be kind enough to stifle her impertinence.

Toinon screwed up her lips, and muttered between her teeth, “Madame is a saint too good for earth. She may endure the insult patiently, but I shall hate the horrid woman from the very instant she arrives!”

It was evening when the wheels of the marquis’s coach were heard grinding on the gravel, and amid the din of servants moving trunks and bundles, Gabrielle, who waited in the salon, was aware of a deep, strong voice rapping out sharp orders like a rattle of artillery. “You awkward loons!” it shouted, “be careful of that tub and its contents. Are there not some other rascals somewhere who are less clumsy?”

Ere long, the voice was heard approaching up the stairs, along the corridor, still grumbling noisily anent bucolic yokeldom, and, by and by, a much cloaked figure loomed on the threshold, and straightway went through the complicated evolutions of an elaborate and respectful curtsey.

“Madame la Marquise, no doubt,” said the deep, strong voice. “Madame’s humble and obedient servant. My name is Aglaé Brunelle. Where are the darling infants?”

The abruptness of the salutation amused Gabrielle.

The woman rejoiced in a fine figure, of somewhat large proportions, as was evident when she unwound her wraps. Her complexion was dusky, her hair and eyes coal black. Her mouth large, with full, red lips, which contrasted well with the square white teeth behind. The thick, straight eyebrows were endowed with a strange mobility which hinted at habits of command curiously at variance with the position of the new-comer. Her manner, however, towards the marquise was a miracle of deportment. Submissive respect was deftly mingled with a tinge of independent nonchalance, glossed over with an unconcealed admiration, flattering to the beauty of the chatelaine.

“An oddity,” thought Gabrielle, unconsciously relieved to perceive that the large lady was uncomely.

“An ugly, insolent monster,” was the uncompromising verdict of fierce Toinon, who had scanned her from the top of the stairs.

Her noisy delight over the prodigies who had been kept up to make acquaintance with their governess quite won the mother’s heart. The tall figure went down on its knees with a prodigious thump, and twined them in its bare dark arms with a shower of kisses.

“The darlings—the cherubs—the pets,” growled the strong voice, like a muffled drum. “They will soon love their Aglaé, will they not? I knew that the offspring of a father like the good marquis and of so divinely lovely a mother, must be angels—and they are—they are;” another shower of kisses. “Madame la Marquise must forgive my brusquerie, for I do so dote on children.”

Here was an excellent beginning. The mother was gratified—the father looked on the picturesque group with a broad smile of self-complacency. It was evident for once that he had been extremely clever. Mademoiselle’s manners being peculiar, he had had misgivings as to this first interview, but nothing could have gone better. The lady was a marvel of intelligence! Of course she was—a favourite pupil of Mesmer’s, who knew his secrets, was mistress of his system. From this day a new era was to dawn on gloomy Lorge. The new-comer was an undoubted acquisition—just what was required to crown the family edifice. All would go merrily now as marriage bells.

The astute abbé was puzzled by the governess. Her arrival upset all his calculations. Clovis had never consulted him any more than Gabrielle, and under a preoccupied manner, he had, on receipt of the letter, been consumed by a white heat of rage. To dare to introduce a foreign element without his consent! Had he been scheming all this while to be baffled by a stranger? For surely in so small and retired a household she would take a prominent part. Would the woman turn out friend or foe? He had deemed the dreamy Clovis well under his thumb for life. The chevalier was a mere pawn upon the board. Since playing that false move on the night of the storm, he had employed all his arts to lull Gabrielle’s suspicions, and had succeeded beyond expectation. That a head so cool as his should for once so betray its owner! A little patience. So delicious a prize was worth working and waiting for, and trying for again and again. Of different grit to the chevalier, he was not one to submit to defeat on a first repulse. No: his appetite was whetted. The morsel should be his and only his, as he had openly sworn; and would be all the more enjoyable for a little vexatious waiting.

Thus had he arranged the future in his mind. But now, what of the governess? This unexpected move must be met somehow. Would it be well to form an alliance with her, or must she be promptly ousted? Her character must be studied with care. Evidently by nature domineering, what would be her attitude to him? Could she be frightened and brow-beaten? Not likely. Would she endeavour to undermine the influence he had already gained in order to reign alone? Probably.

At the thought the abbé‘s eyes gleamed cat-like, and his thin lips tightened over grinding teeth. Turned out by a scheming stranger, and when all promised so well. To be turned out meant ruin, for things in the south had been going so wrong during the last six months, had become so much worse since the period of their hurried flight from Toulouse, that both brothers were quite dependent on the marquis. To be ejected now, or later, by the large dark hand of the unwelcome Aglaé would mean pecuniary undoing, and the loss of the sweet morsel as well. Resign Gabrielle? Never! How to manage, then? The marquise was inclined to be friendly with the interloper, which showed a too Christian frame of mind to cope with mundane buffeting. This must be combated at once, lest it should become necessary before long to make a combined effort for the annihilation of the intruder.

What had the baleful woman come for to this dismal and remote retreat? Why had Mesmer thrust his protégée upon the neophyte? With curses the abbé admitted inwardly that he was himself at the bottom of the imbroglio. With the idea of dividing the husband from the wife for ever, he had conceived the plan of burying Clovis so deep in mysticism that he might never be pulled out of the slough, and to that end had suggested an assistant who should be taught to play upon his foibles. But who could be expected to foresee that the adept would take the form of a woman?

Of course, the woman was a greedy adventuress in search of flesh-pots, and had gauged aright the feeble and vacillating character of the young Marquis de Gange. She was evidently extremely gifted and he the dullest of good-looking dogs. Already he was dazzled by the jewels of a varied experience which she threw about so freely, and began to babble exasperating nonsense of having met his “Affinity” at last!

That she had some deep design on hand was evident, for she laid herself out to dazzle the besotted Clovis, and succeeded but too well. If it were not so, what could the motive of so brilliant a person be for deliberately banishing herself to this hermitage? She had certainly not jogged along those rugged roads for the edification of two strange children, however abnormally cherubic.

In the struggle which must come, simple Gabrielle would be worsted. Beauty and honest innocence alone are never a match for intellect, even when combined with outward homeliness. Aglaé Brunelle was not absolutely ugly, and yet by no means pretty; but when a superior mind shines through a face, however plain, does it not light the features with a beauty all its own? Toinon had learnt that long since, and used it, as we have seen, for a text.

The more he thought the matter over, the more puzzled grew the abbé; the more angry with himself and dissatisfied. A very few days after the arrival of Mademoiselle, her pervading presence began to be felt by the entire household in a way that maddened Pharamond. It was like the mysterious action of yeast on dough. As outwardly respectful and submissive as a dependent should be, everybody came to feel that orders emanated from her. Was the fascination due to an occult power inoculated by the prophet? Even the scoffing abbé began to wonder whether there was something serious underlying the antics of the charlatan, after all. Certain it was that she did possess a power, but whether due to magnetism or strong will, it was hard to determine. The abbé‘s will was as tough as hers, he was proud to think, but instinct told him that a struggle between the two would be exhausting to both, and that none might prophesy the result. Better an alliance, if she, like him, was working on a web. But would she brook a divided sway? Was he prepared to accept so unsatisfactory an arrangement? How exasperating, that just as the horizon seemed so clear, the sky so cloudless, a thunderbolt should come out of the blue to play havoc with all his combinations.

What of Gabrielle? His schemes revolved around her. Thanks to his cleverness he and she had tranquilly resumed their old relations. He did not propose to be content to read poetry for ever. A time was to come when she was to return the burning kisses he had impressed upon her shoulder, and twine her arms about his neck; and that longed-for moment was no nearer now than months ago. To tame the fluttering bird to his will he must do a little squeezing, after all, and make up by the ardour of the future for the painful proceedings of the present. Yes, Gabrielle must be gently racked, be made familiar with tweaks and pains. A little twist or two and a tug of ropes just to hint of such a tearing as was possible. Perhaps the governess, if an alliance could be brought about, might become a useful agent instead of a kill-joy. Isolated on all sides, the Marquise de Gange must be thrown on her dear friend the abbé for protection; then the rest would quite naturally follow.

Among other things the accomplished Aglaé was a skilled musician, and this became a new and unexpected bond between her and the enchanted marquis. She could rattle off by heart on the spinet all Lulli and Gléck, could even improvise entrancing accompaniments to airs hitherto unknown to her. She loved music, and considered the violoncello to be the most soul-stirring if sad of instruments. Sometimes her hands would slide from the keys while a great sigh burst from her capacious bosom, and the marquis looking up would perceive tears rolling down her cheeks. “It is nothing, but I do love it so,” she would snuffle incoherently, and then resume the improvising with eyes and nose unbecomingly roseate and swollen.

What with the music (Gabrielle of course, retired into space at the first scratching of the ‘cello) and experiments with the bucket, and abstruse instructions as to laying on of hands, and the careful study of Mesmer’s now frequent letters, the marquis and the governess were constantly thrown together. To flirt with your affinity—two souls denuded of their earthy envelope, side by side on a sofa—may have its delights; but surely to commune together in the flesh at all hours has conspicuous advantages.

On the day after her arrival Gabrielle had courteously volunteered to show mademoiselle over the castle, and that lady had overawed her hostess by the variety and minuteness of her knowledge, and bewildered her with searching questions. The abbé, looking on, had pointed out to the chevalier (who, gooseberry-eyed, saw nothing) the amusing contrast presented by the two ladies.

Gabrielle was a Greuze, without that painter’s namby-pamby softness; so fair a thing that the hours almost turned laggard on their plodding way to gaze at her. Tall, slim, erect, with a carriage which is a gift at birth and can never be mimicked by a parvenue; a perfect figure; a colour borrowed from an unopened moss-rose; an expression of calm, as of an unrippled sea in a land-locked bay. By her side moved Aglaé Brunelle—taller still, broad-shouldered; with a waist of smaller dimensions than might be expected from the massive moulding of the limbs; an expression changing each moment according to the object brought under the beady eyes; a heavy swinging gait, and a trick of tossing the head. There was something that pleased by its oddity, and was as effective in its way as the sweeping erectness of her companion.

Aglaé insisted upon going everywhere, and delivered a running lecture as she went, impressing points with a straight dark finger, square-tipped. From the turret window she delivered herself of a lesson in geography, showing that she knew more about the vicinity of the Loire than those who dwelt there. She vowed it was a shame to have walled up the dungeons, for in one (unless she was misinformed) was a crucifix carved with reverent care out of the stone, by the broken knife blade of a despairing prisoner. Then, the survey over, she declared she had not seen the most interesting object of all. What was that? Why! the school-room of the prodigies; what else? Was she not here to teach their minds to shoot, and was it not most important that the scene of the operation should be selected with consummate care? There was no school-room—only a nursery! Then and there so crying a defect should be remedied. Madame would forgive her energy, recognizing the importance of the subject? Madame was so beautiful and indulgent to a poor stranger that there was no doubt of it. The darlings must have every advantage. Did not madame think so? Of course she did. Then off stumped Mademoiselle Brunelle, shaking the floor as though a colossal statue had been endowed with movement, and the big voice was heard in thunder presently, shouting out peremptory commands about curtains and chairs and tables.

Who was to resist this interloper? Gabrielle, though she felt nettled at being taken despotically in hand, and thrust aside, was not prepared to interfere, for manifestly the arrangements were for the good of the darlings. The new broom was sweeping so very clean, that compunction invaded the maternal bosom, in that she had been remiss in not sufficiently considering the extent of the cherubic wants.

Established in the best room on the ground floor to her satisfaction, surrounded with pictures and statuettes and ornamental nicknacks ravished from other chambers, Mademoiselle Brunelle let all and sundry know that here was her especial stronghold which none would invade with impunity.

Nevertheless, the Marquise de Gange, who did not understand that such an ukase could possibly refer to her, prepared herself to assist at the lessons of the dear ones and to watch the process of shooting, and she was no little taken aback at the arbitrary proceedings of the governess. At first she took no notice of sour smiles and head-tossings, whereupon mademoiselle thought fit to dot her i‘s, and bluntly inform madame with that queer mixture of respect and independence, in which the latter was beginning to preponderate, that it was a troublesome matter to instruct youth in complicated subjects in the presence of an ignorant mother.

“Do consider, madame,” she observed, saucily, “how humiliating for you it will be, if they discover how little you know!”

Gabrielle bowed her head and blushingly admitted her shortcomings. “I too can learn,” she murmured with meekness, “and you will find me an anxious pupil;” but somehow whenever the rustle of her dress was heard in the corridor, the cherubs unaccountably began their music lesson; and when, remarking the fact, she requested that in future the scraping of Victor’s violin might be exchanged for more delectable study, mademoiselle raised her mobile thatch of brow, and curtly declared that she took orders only from the marquis.

Gabrielle left the school-room humbled and bewildered, for a novel idea had been thrust on her which her loyal nature refused to entertain. Clovis could not have introduced this new factor into the household for the purpose of annoying his wife! Everyone admitted that he was a good man, if selfish and somewhat unpractical.

He did not wish this creature to stand betwixt a mother and her babes? Surely not. The suspicion was unworthy of a true wife, and banished as soon as formed. There was a mistake somewhere. The woman meant well, but was officious. Clovis occupy himself about such domestic details! Why, he rarely took notice of the children at all, unless worried into doing so. Why should he show interest now—since the arrival of this person? Pondering over this problem in confused pain between the alleys of the moated garden, the marquise endeavoured to reassure herself. Could she be so foolish as to be growing jealous of a stranger who, it could not be denied, was acting for the best? It was perfectly true that the marquise knew nothing of the subjects that were being taught by Aglaé, and it was genuinely kind of her not to let the cherubs see that their erudition overtopped their mother’s.

And yet—the hireling had been sadly rude to the mother in the presence of the darlings.

“You are agitated, sweet sister?” whispered the abbé, coming softly up behind across the grass—his soft hands in a dainty muff, for it was chilly—and beaming down on her. “Do you know that I’ve been following these five minutes without obtaining a hearing?”

He looked so kind, had behaved with such discretion since his mistake, that her chilled heart warmed to him. Her lips trembled, and she burst into a flood of tears. His fingers clutched within the muff (oh! how like the vulture’s talons!) as though he would have clasped her to his breast and held her there; but with a supreme effort he restrained the impulse. “Not yet; not yet,” he murmured to himself, as hearkening to her artless tale with anxious mien he gazed in silence across the swiftly-flowing Loire.

“I fear your suspicion is well founded, and that Clovis wishes it,” he murmured shortly, when she had finished; then, taking her cold hand in his, he led her through the postern to a spot which overlooked the cherubic sanctuary.

Clovis sat by the spinet, beating time with a roll of music—the divine afflatus heavy on him—while the pair of angels played.

“She got rid of you on purpose; drove you out, to be untrammelled in her intercourse with him!” whispered the abbé with compassion.

“My children!” moaned the chatelaine, aghast. “Why can it be his wish that she should take them from me, their mother?”

CHAPTER IX.
THUNDER CLOUDS.

Gabrielle was stung to the quick. When she taught the infants her husband could never be lured into the nursery, and now—in so brief a space of time—a stranger had succeeded in rousing his dormant interest. In her jealousy she took to secretly watching the movements of the governess, and discovered, to her dismay, that the steps of Clovis were constantly wending towards the school-room. And this state of things had been brought about by the non-performance of duties. It was her own fault—of course it was her own fault for neglecting the abbé‘s warning. Had he not said that Clovis required leading; had he not even offered to assist her in leading him, and had she not replied by inference that so long as he was guided judiciously, it might be by another hand? But never, in wildest nightmare, had she conjured the possibility of that hand being another woman’s! She was a bad wife, for she had neglected her duty, since, surely, it is a wife’s first duty to make herself pleasant to her husband. Oh! woe on sins of omission! Instead of pampering her spouse’s hobbies she had scoffed at them, and punishment had swooped swiftly down on her.

But it was not too late to set the matter right. He was not a bad man, though difficult to live with. A word of remonstrance at this juncture was worth a homily later, and he would hearken to her words of pleading, for since the arrival of the brothers at Lorge he had shown, in a glimmering glow-worm way, that he admired and liked his wife. She was satisfied that his sluggish nature was not capable of a warmer feeling, and had brought herself meekly to accept that microscopic meed of affection. She must take her courage in her hands, and open her heart to him; declare that his new arrangement, which at the start promised well enough, was making his wife wretched. When he came to understand that she was miserable, he would apologise at once and send the interloper packing.

Rising from the sofa on which she had fallen after pacing the room in a fever, she moved rapidly along the corridor which led to the marquis’ study. Her fingers were on the door-knob, and her head was whirling with persuasive arguments, when of a sudden her hand dropped powerless. There were low voices murmuring within. The parquet all around the closed door was strewn with straw and bottles, while on an open packing-case was scrawled in large letters the name of Aglaé Brunelle. A cold shiver passed over her frame. She was with him now, that woman. On familiar terms, indeed, since her boxes were unpacked by Clovis! They were never weary of communing together, with heads close and hair mingling, discussing subjects which absorbed them both, but in which she would never have a part! The pride of the young chatelaine rebelled. She could not complain before the domineering adventuress. Would it not be humiliating enough to confess to him that his beautiful and high-born wife was jealous of a stranger, sprung from nowhere in particular, who was rather plain than otherwise?

Reluctantly returning to the boudoir, she took a pen and, after a pause of meditation, flung it down. Write to her fond father, begging him to intervene? No. He believed that she was happy, and should believe it to the end, however much she might be made to suffer. He should share her joys, but not her sorrows, the good father who adored her so. She must endeavour to remedy her own mistakes, fight this rival single-handed, win back the errant husband by the female arts which hitherto she had affected to despise, and understood so little. Was she strong enough for the difficult task? Perchance the abbé would assist; but was it not another bitter thing to summon one to the rescue who, though repentant, had once so grievously forgotten himself?

Meanwhile, though he kept up a show of airy levity, the cunning Pharamond was, in a different way, almost as perturbed as she. The strides of the affinity were prodigious, whereas his own siege of Gabrielle made no advance at all. Unless he grappled with the situation without delay, he would assuredly be worsted. But how to grapple with it, by cajolery or threats? Or would it be advisable to practise the arts of the bravo? Was the hand of cordial friendship to be extended to the interloper, or was she forthwith to be stabbed in the back? Pharamond considered himself a genius, and knew that one attribute of genius is to know when to seize an opportunity. Consider the knotty problem as he would, he could not come to a decision. Perhaps, for the present, a waiting game would be the best to play. The hand of friendship first, as an experiment; a stab with the poignard by and by.

The abbé in his uncertainty took to dividing his valuable society between the ladies. While the marquis and his affinity were fidgeting over experiments, he read impassioned strophes to the marquise. When the party went forth for a walk or drive he attached himself to the skirt of Aglaé. Her behaviour was irreproachable. She laughed slily at his delicate hints, and seemed mightily amused by his compliments. Once, when he thought he was really making progress in this direction, she placed her two large hands upon her haunches, and wagging her head, remarked, “Does monsieur think me blind?”

“Certainly not,” replied the gallant abbé. “Those sparkling orbs shine like fireflies.”

“Then why arrange a trap—and such a clumsy one—for my poor big simple feet to fall into?”

It is disconcerting to the astute to be twitted with lack of skill. The tactics that served for Gabrielle would not do with this shrewder lady. Since she guessed his hand, why not show the cards? Dangerous—but a hazardous game not unfrequently coerces Fortune.

“Why can’t you trust me, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “Cannot one so sharp perceive that I’m her friend?”

“A thousand thanks. I am indeed blessed,” simpered the lady, raising her bushy brows. “A fortunate wanderer on life’s rugged road. The marquis is all goodness. Have I also found favour with his brother?”

“I have helped you already,” pursued the abbé, fibbing. “I have explained to the marquise that she must no longer interfere with the children; that Mademoiselle Brunelle is to have absolute and complete control.”

Aglaé shot at the speaker a suspicious glance. An ally and not an enemy? To what end? If it were really so, a friend in the camp would be extremely useful. A snare—surely a snare—for this man had every reason to dislike the intruder.

“What motive have you for befriending a poor insignificant creature such as I?” bluntly demanded the governess. “People do nothing for nothing in this world, and I know that I am not a beauty.”

“I have my reasons.”

“What are they?”

“Eve was too prying. Accept the lesson and trust.”

Aglaé looked straight at Pharamond; then laughing her great rolling laugh playfully shook her head.

“No. Trust You? Thank you,” she said. “You overreach yourself, for you are a dreadfully sharp-witted gentleman who can see through a wall and round a corner. You think I have grand plans, when I have none; for I am only a guileless wandering waif who enjoys the good things of this world.”

There was a sly look of covert malice in her sparkling eyes which belied her words, “You do not believe me?” she continued. “I am not quite young, so I have learned to know the world and its funny little snares. Flies are only eaten by spiders because their lives are so short, that they’ve no time to learn experience.”

“You take me for a spider?” inquired Pharamond, uncertain what to make of the lady.

“You are certainly a wee bit like, for you want to gobble up poor me!”

“I assure you that both I and the chevalier are friends, whom you would do well to trust.”

“You take me for a cuckoo, and all the while I am a dove,” cried lively Aglaé. Then seeing that the abbé was nonplussed, she spoke musingly, as though discussing a grave matter with herself. “What a pity,” she observed regretfully to the landscape, “that the dear man cannot be explicit. He is afraid that the lowly governess may supplant him with his brother, and would like to tumble me neck and crop into his yawning gaping trap! In so shrewd a gentleman stupidity is sad.” She pretended not to see the gleam of menace in the abbé‘s eyes, or the sharp clenching of his hands, and turned with an ingenuous look of artless innocence when he blurted out in anger,—

“Afraid! I am afraid of no one. I can speak more plainly, if you will.”

“No need,” replied the governess, carelessly, “for I can see round corners quite as well as you. I can read your character up to a point, and beyond that I confess I am baffled. I have changed my mind—women have the right, haven’t they?—and will give you a lesson in candour. There is no witness to our cosy chat, for the birds are gone a-picnicing, so why should we beat about the bush? Stick to the truth, abbé. You say you are afraid of none, the while you are afraid of me. You look with fear on my growing influence over the marquis, and in that you are right, for I intend that he shall be my slave, unable to live out of my company. See how plain spoken I am, whilst you are full of artifice! When I came here I had no projects, being content to drift like a cork, leaving events to sort themselves, and my plans even now are of the vaguest. The marquis is rich. Do not suppose for a moment that I propose to become his mistress. Never, never, never! ce serait trop béte! If his puling wife were to die I might condescend to succeed her, but that is not just now within the limits of the probable. I like the marquis, and I like the grey old chateau, and I enjoy the sweets of wealth. Why trouble about the morrow, then? Whatever I may choose to do I shall succeed in it, for patience is one of my pet virtues—not but what I love them all—and success is made of patience as the sea of drops.”

“You are a singular woman!” remarked the abbé.

“Am I not? Frankness is so nice when no one’s by. My long speech is not finished yet, for I would like to add that I like you too, and should regret to have you for an enemy. Here is my point of doubt. I saw before I had been here a day that you were enamoured of the pretty doll. I do not blame you, for most men are idiots. They cannot learn that good looks are provokingly transient, while intellect bears wear and tear.”

“Your candour is half confidence disguised,” laughed Pharamond. “What can you be aiming at if you disdain to become his mistress?”

“Have I not said I do not know? I have not thought. I am open to be led by circumstances. Candour for candour. I burn to discover what you are aiming at with regard to the pretty doll? Why are you so anxious to make a friend of me? Am I to be the scourge to lash her to obedience? Yes? A crooked compliment, but let that pass. I have no pity for that sort of woman, and if you promise not to stand in my way when I discover what it is, I will accept the réle to serve you. If I help you now I may claim your assistance later, A bargain! We understand each other quite, I think? We will make the fool so wretched that in despair she’ll seek refuge on your breast.”

It was evident that tortuous ways did not find favour with mademoiselle, who preferred making for a goal with straight uncompromising march, kicking down barriers with her big broad feet. It was to be an alliance, then? Well and good; but it was somewhat nettling that the proposal should come from her, as if her own idea. When the caprice seized her, she could take things with so high a hand as to be bewildering. The abbé resolved to accept her terms, but would have the last word on the subject.

Bending over Aglaé‘s dusky fingers, he lightly touched them with his lips. “You are a monstrous clever lady,” he said, “and my admiring respect increases hourly. Trust us as we trust you, and each party will be the stronger for the union. We are both skilful players, you and I, who, antagonistic, might spoil each other. Loyalty and trust. It’s understood.” With that he made a low obeisance and left the lady to her thoughts.

Mademoiselle Brunelle revolved the course of the conference, and was satisfied. When first engaged, knowing the marquise to be a beauty, she had, as she explained, formed no definite design. That which was working in her brain had grown out of a survey of the situation. On the whole, there was nothing to find fault with. For a wage, the abbé was to throw all his weight into her scale—a wage which cost her nothing. He had correctly pointed out that as foes they would hurt each other; but she was far from admitting that in a contest it would be she who would succumb. Her contempt for the culpable helplessness of the marquise was so intense that it cost her much to be civil. What a pleasure, then, to stick pins into her quivering flesh! To have a woman always at one’s elbow who sighs like the east wind, and weeps like a cataract, as Gabrielle had taken to do of late, was vastly irritating. There is naught more trying to strong nerves than the fecklessness of one that can do nothing to help itself but scream—not that Gabrielle screamed, or made any uproar. She was far too haughty for that, and veiled her pain as closely as weakness permitted; but Aglaé knew as well as faithful and indignant Toinon, that the hapless lady’s grief found vent in midnight vigil, and earnest prayer and bitter tears, which in the morning left their mark. Entangled in an intrigue with Pharamond, such claws as she possessed for self-protection, would be cut. If by skilful handling the ripened cherry could be dropped into his mouth, it would be the better for everyone. Though Aglaé, for some eccentric reason, declined to be herself a mistress, she saw no reason why another should not. If Gabrielle and Pharamond could be brought together, all would be satisfied. The wind would change; the cataract dry up; a serious source of annoyance would be removed; and the lovers sufficient unto themselves, would not trouble about the subsequent proceedings of the marquis and his affinity.

But supposing that weeping Niobe proved obdurate—weak people are pigheaded—and was inconvenient enough to be inconsolable? There is no use in erecting castles till we know the ground they are to be built on. The abbé was a spiteful little wretch, and, baulked, there was no guessing how he would act, or of what he would be capable. Sufficient unto the day is the evil. To oblige him, Gabrielle should receive the lash, and it would be amusing to watch the result.

As week followed week, life seemed to run so oilily at Lorge, that onlookers would have envied the unruffled lot of the tranquil lotus eaters. And yet what fierce currents were beginning to battle under the smooth surface—currents of hate and sorrow, and envy and despair—some ensanguined, some black as winter night. The only member of the party who was not pining for something different—whose aspirations and desires were satisfied—was Clovis, Marquis de Gange. He had found his affinity, had caught his adept, and had succeeded, without remonstrance, in making her one of the family. His brother, instead of objecting in any way to the presence of an interloper, was constantly congratulating him on his good luck in having unearthed so desirable a specimen. “Just think,” he cried, beaming with satisfaction; “you might have saddled us with a tatterdemalion who would have stolen the family plate and have cut our throats while we were asleep, instead of which you have produced a bundle of charms, big enough for two!” Clovis was grateful to his brother for chiming in so promptly with his whim. “She is indeed a charmer,” he purred, “so good-natured and obliging; never cross or malevolent, with no touch of venom on her tongue. There’s nothing more dreadful than a spiteful or scheming woman. The very thought of such an anomaly makes me shudder.” And then he sighed a little. If Gabrielle could only be as good-humoured as Aglaé, and as accommodating as Pharamond. Despite his efforts, he could not help remarking that piteously sad face every morning at déjeuner. She was pale and thin, and her beauty was on the wane. Her eyes loomed unnaturally large. Never a talker, she rarely opened her lips now, but sat drumming her fingers on the table-cloth in the most uninteresting way, staring across the Loire as if she did not know each detail of that landscape. How different from Aglaé, who could prattle on for ever on any subject.

On the grand principle that we hate persons whom we have injured almost as much as those from whom we have received benefits, the sight of melancholy Gabrielle began to tell upon the nerves of Clovis. She was guilty of the great crime of boring him and of pinching conscience, and was unfortunate enough not to show advantageously by the side of the new foil. A moist statue of Endurance established at one’s breakfast-table is an overpoweringly cumbersome piece of furniture, however immaculate its contours. Poor Gabrielle was no actress. If her heart was bursting, she had not the art to grin, and smirk, and caper to conceal the unpleasant fact. If her dimmed eyes were surrounded by bistre circles like a rainy moon, if her lip quivered and her cheek was wan, she could not help it, for the modicum of courage she possessed was oozing, and she cared not if she lived or died. Her heart was slowly withering. When looking on the man upon whom she had bestowed her love, for better or worse for life, his image was blurred by distance. She saw him across a wide gulf that was ever widening. Our unlucky heroine’s mind, as we have learned, was not well stocked. The sometimes skittish Brunelle’s square head was so stocked with lore that doubtless in moments of woe she could unpigeonhole an array of valuable statistics and build with them a bulwark against trouble. Gabrielle was incapable of any such proceeding. She loved her husband with the loyalty of the simple woman who loves once. She worshipped the prodigies, who under the new régime were becoming even more prodigious. Her husband turned away from her; the darlings were estranged from their own mother. Seeing her so little, and pampered and flattered by the brilliant governess, they learned to dote on the funny tall brown woman with the voice like a deep-toned bell, who was ever ready, when they danced into the room, to cast aside her occupation and teach them a new game, or invent for them a new story. Her resources were endless, for her spirits were inexhaustible, and, like Richelieu and his kittens, she found the gambols of childhood entertaining.

Gabrielle rarely saw the darlings now. They were isolated in a remote wing, to which she dared not penetrate for fear of some covert insult. Wearied by the ever-present reproach of her sad face, Clovis changed his habits. For the future, he would breakfast in his study, he declared, so as not to interrupt his experiments.

How fortunately affairs were turning, to be sure! Clovis was enchanted. His neighbour, the Comte de Vaux, usually such an old nuisance with his prate of the grande noblesse, was opportunely attacked with acutest sciatica. What a chance to try the bucket! Thanks to that admirable Aglaé, it was complete. The exact placing of the various bottles; the quantity of iron filing in each; the modicum of liquid; the length of the glass wands: all was known and arranged to a fraction. The rheumatism of the respectable De Vaux would be sent packing. Glory would cover Mesmer and his two disciples.

Gabrielle had sought refuge from despair in good works, as most stricken women do. She was indefatigable amongst the poor, and the advent of the “White Chatelaine” produced always a chorus of blessing. When departing on her rounds, Aglaé, gazing down upon her from her window, had often been heard to give vent to growls and ribald thunderclaps.

“Just look at mawkish pale-face,” she cried one day to the chevalier, who nodded and smiled, pretending to be intelligent. “There’s not a thing she can do right. Fool! making friends with the weak instead of with the strong! I know better than that.”

Toinon, who chanced to overhear, smiled maliciously. “Indeed?” she chuckled to herself. “If Jean Boulot speaks truth, it is the strong who have been slumbering, while the weak danced and sang. Wait a bit, and you will get your deserts, milady. And, oh! won’t I help you on your road!”

This matter of the completed bucket was one in which the chatelaine might assist with propriety in an endeavour to please her husband. She had heard so much of it as almost to be convinced of its efficacy. True, the abbé had told her that it was a delusion, that the bottom of the whole scheme was imagination; that the mechanical effect of friction in disorders of a convulsive nature will produce startling results; that there is a well-known law which impels one excited animal to imitate another in a similar situation to himself, and that this would satisfactorily account for the phenomena of Mesmer’s cures. But this was some time ago, and since then Pharamond had affected to come round, and when he beheld the completed tub he gave way to spasms of rapture.

When the newly-wedded wife in pique had worried her spouse with scenes, they were only the ebullitions of a much-admired woman irritated by the loved one’s coolness. Now she had trod the path of trouble so far that those days were out of ken. In her efforts to win back her husband she would even conciliate the mischief-maker. Some women seem specially created for martyrdom. Otherwise insignificant, we should not see them but for the dazzling whiteness of their robes. I dare say that many of the canonized young ladies whose legends thrill us would, had they not been called to march over the ploughshare of trial, have remained as much in obscurity as any other ordinary young persons, who are too stupid to make a pudding or darn a stocking. They would have passed utterly unnoticed in the crowd but for the martyr’s nimbus.

“The woman does not like me, and is rude,” argued too guileless Gabrielle, as she considered her resolve, “but she is such a general favourite that surely she can’t be a bad woman; she is only vulgar, and given to self-assertion. Perhaps the fault lies in myself.” Bravely, then, the meek saint uprose and went straight to Aglaé‘s apartment, bearing with her a peace-offering, bent on the making up of differences.

But the sublime and the angelic were beyond the comprehension of mundane Aglaé, who since infancy had known nothing but the sordid; whose childhood had been passed in a beast-like tussle, a constant struggle for food. To her thinking, the maxim anent the turning of the cheek is an insult to common sense, considering the world whereon we were placed without consent of ours. In Saturn or Jupiter, perhaps, such inflated theories may be appropriate. Those worlds may be pleasant places to dwell in. There, no doubt, a police force is not required, while the wily but necessary detective is pictured as a curiosity, an extinct monster, like the Dodo and the Mammoth on this globe.

Mademoiselle Brunelle, an unromantic lady of middle age, too commonplace to enjoy the fantastic, looked on eccentricities with a jaundiced eye, and the contemplation made her peevish.

When the wan marquise knocked and gently entered the sanctum, where she should have known there was no place for her, the ire of Aglaé was kindled, and sulkily regarding the invader, she assumed her most offensive attitude. What could the abject, grovelling, brow-beaten creature want, coming here to bother? How dared she take such a liberty? She deserved a setting down—a drubbing. Here was a chance for the lash! The mere sight of the wide opened violet eyes of the marquise, with their eloquent depth of ineffable sadness, acted on her nerves as the flag of the toreador does upon the bull. We must not blame her, for those who have struggled up somehow without educated help, must judge for themselves according to their lights, and they are beset with insoluble riddles, as ill-cultured fields are choked with weeds. To women such as Aglaé, true pride is an unknown quantity. Instead of considering it as an organ of extremest delicacy, with ramifications as minute and various as that most amazing of creations, the nerve system—she, like others of her kidney, understood nothing more than an aggressive haughtiness, with an accompaniment of sledge hammers. To her, the refined pride which can afford to pass slights unnoticed and ignored impertinence, was a mystery which might not be deciphered.

Gabrielle—so misread by Aglaé—had bestirred herself to achieve an object, and was prepared to forgive and obliterate the ugly past. The pugnacious and low-souled Aglaé could only perceive a lady of high rank, who, out of cowardice, abdicated her position to grovel like a beggar in the dirt. Such an one obviously merited castigation; deserved to be rudely shown that being so mean-spirited she should cower into a corner and hide away her shame.

This was the occasion for judicious pin-sticking. The alliance demanded an operation. What would the abbé say, who had prated so seraphically about loyalty, if he came to know that his ally and his recalcitrant lady love had made a compact under the rose? Oh, dear no! A reconciliation between the marquise and her governess would never do at all! A consummation injudicious and undesirable. The purveyor of impossible theories must be well-rapped on the knuckles. The cheek that was turned to the smiter must be soundly thwacked to prevent a recurrence in the future of ill-judged and degrading mawkishness.

Aglaé, therefore, on the advent of the conciliatory marquise, made a pettish movement of studied impertinence, and yawned slowly in her face like a dyspeptic hippopotamus.

“What’s that you are bringing me?” she grunted. “You know that I don’t want to be worried with you? A present? From you? Oh dear! How you annoy me! As if I wished for your present!”

Nothing daunted, Gabrielle held out the olive-branch. “It is a bracelet my father gave me,” she said, calmly, “and I would like you to wear it, that you may be assured each time you look on it, that I bear no malice for your roughness.”

“Nice enough. Your father had good taste,” the governess remarked, with another portentous yawn. “But what do I want with your trinkets? Eh? I have only to say the word to be bedecked with the family jewels.”

First pin, plunged well into the flesh. Gabrielle turned white, but did not abandon her purpose.

“What harm have I ever done you?” she asked, quietly.

“Harm!” echoed Aglaé. “The harm of coming into the world, and making of yourself a perpetual nuisance. Nobody here wants you. Why can’t you go out of it?”

“I wish to be taught about Mesmer and his theories,” pursued Gabrielle, with a courage which should have compelled respect. “Give me lessons and I will pay you.”

“You pay me?” laughed Aglaé amused. “My price might be too high for your purse.”

The marquise looked at the governess in mild surprise. Could it be that she did not know how the case stood with regard to money? It was not for her to enlighten the interloper. The fact was, that as the marquis received what he wanted, the subject of filthy lucre was never mentioned in the household.

“The carriage has been ordered, and I will go with you to-day.” She decided quietly.

“What!” shrieked Aglaé, tired of the interview. “You want to go to Montbazon? Do you know that we are going to operate upon old de Vaux? My poor soul! You would only be most desperately in the way, seeing how ignorant and in experienced you are. Come. Saints prefer the truth, I’m told, though I don’t find it always pleasant; but then I’m not a saint, you see. I would have you realise that your method is deplorable. You have managed so ill as to drive the marquis from his own breakfast-table with your ridiculous woful airs. The luckless master of the house has been hunted from the dining-hall. For a saint, I call that ungenerous.” Pin No. 2.

“I may be incompetent to amuse—that is my misfortune,” sighed the marquise; “but it is strange that one with so good a heart as he, should treat her so harshly who loves him with all her soul.”

“Love!” laughed the governess with insolence, much tickled. “You don’t know what it means. How just it is that one so fair should be so brainless! All you could give him was the clammy affection of a fish. No wonder that anything so chilly should be returned with thanks.”

Gabrielle’s cheeks began to burn, her eyes to sparkle. “It is not for you who eat my bread to shower insults on me! Till you came,” she said, “we got on well enough. I took what he had to give with gratitude. I have endured too much from you, and know now that you are wicked. Beware lest you push me to extremity.”

“Till I came?” echoed the governess. “Till then it was the worthy abbé‘s tact that kept things going, no thanks to you. One of the few just rules of this bad world is that as we make our bed we lie on it. Your bed is full of creases? Too late, my dear, to smooth them. So I am the kill-joy, am I? Ask your husband whether he was ever so happy as since my coming? You poor, puling, whining bat!” pursued Aglaé, surveying her victim with withering scorn. “You could not perceive that natures such as his require a master—a strong hand to lead, an iron will to guide, a whip to drive, if need be. Here is the hand to which he has learnt to cling and shall cling to—to the end.”

Mademoiselle flourished the large square-fingered hand so close to the marquise’s face that she recoiled.

“Why, even your children care more for me than you,” she scoffed. Pin No. 3. “No doubt I have bewitched them? You should get me burned as a sorceress, and start your life afresh. I freely give you this advice, so never say I am ill-natured. Puling and whining adds loathing to indifference. Cheerfully accept the fate you’ve carved, and make the best of it. Now you must really excuse me; I must dress, for I never keep the marquis waiting;” and with that she firmly pushed the marquise from the room and slammed the door in her face.

It was cruelly put, but true—all of it. With sinking heart the pale chatelaine admitted it was true. Too late now for remedy. The woman had taken Clovis in that powerful hand of hers, and twisted him round her little finger. Would it be of any use to make the appeal to him from which she had shrunk so long? No. The woman had laid stress on the fact that he had come actually to avoid her presence, would not even sit at table with her. Nothing short of absolute aversion could deprive her thus of every privilege of wife and mother. What had she done to deserve it?

Painfully the chatelaine reviewed her empty life. If she had gone too far with one of the Paris swains she could not have been more completely ostracised. He was indifferent even then, heeding not her incomings or outgoings, and yet he must once have cared a little for his young wife, for then his eyes were sometimes fixed on her with genuine satisfaction. Never now. By what intangible, invisible degrees had things come to this grievous pass? Must she take the woman’s advice, and strive to look with cheerfulness on the inevitable? A wife, yet no wife! What was to be the end of it? Only twenty-five years old. How wide a waste of barren dreariness in front ere she might hope for rest.

A sound of wheels on the gravel—the carriage was gone. On the box was a wondrous array of parcels. Clovis and Aglaé were engaged in so animated a discussion that the children on the front seat crowed and clapped hands with glee, marking the gesticulations of papa and the dear, funny, brown woman. Their elfin laughter reverberated among the grim pinnacles and turrets, and as the carriage turned into a woody glade, Gabrielle saw from her seat in the moat-garden little Camille climb upon the woman’s knee and press her rosy face against the brown one. The action smote the marquise as with a knife-stab, and she moaned as if in bodily pain. “She usurps my place completely,” murmured the hapless lady, deadly pale. “I am as little a mother as a wife. Oh, God grant me strength to endure! Though I be without the gate, teach me to be thankful that they are happy.”

She was aware of a long shadow on the grass, and a gentle voice by her side echoed her own thought.

“Alone—always alone,” the suave abbé said, scrutinizing with lazy satisfaction the delicacy and whiteness of his hands. “How is it, dear marquise, that you only of our coterie are heavy-hearted? You need rousing. What will you gain by moping except a loss of beauty and a bad digestion? They’ve gone off to Montbazon, Clovis and his affinity and the babes—twittering like so many sparrows. I should like to survey the scene there, it will be most entertainingly ridiculous, but they won’t let us miserable scoffers assist at the incantation. Our presence would annul the charm. What a divine day!” he continued, flinging himself on the grass in a graceful attitude at the feet of the chatelaine. “How swiftly the seasons pass! These glorious summer days! How we enjoy the sun although we seek the shade, apparently ungrateful. We forget that the leaves will turn sallow and swirl down and die, and that we shall pine for warmth in vain. Why not? Why trouble about the future when the present is brimming with delight?”

The abbé, his hands clasped behind his head, was peering straight up into the blue, and what he saw there must have been pleasing, for he seemed as satisfied with everything in general as the cat that purrs before the fire.

“Why so dismal, my dear Gabrielle, on so perfect a morning as this; it savours of ingratitude to heaven?”

Gabrielle glanced down at him. Was he playing with her in malice, as the cat does with the mouse? Dismal, forsooth, when your heart overflows with misery!

Pharamond was in a retrospective mood, and dreamily surveyed the past as he might some moving panorama.

“Let me see,” he said. “How long have we dwelt here a model family? A year and a half—rather more than a year and a half.”

“Only that?” sighed Gabrielle. “It seems a lifetime.”

“You are discontented? Yearn for the frippery of court life? I am not surprised. It is horribly selfish of us all to lock up such peerless beauty as yours to gloat over among ourselves.”

“A worse than useless gift,” remarked Gabrielle, with conviction, “bestowed on us by nature in her most malicious mood. Happiness is given to the ugly ones.”

“At least they are saved the pang that accompanies the first wrinkle,” asserted Pharamond. “You refer to Mademoiselle Brunelle, I suppose; our charming Aglaé. She appears to be happy enough indeed. Those large women of stoutish build possess a power of assimilation—of selecting what is best, and chewing the cud of its enjoyment. Ages ago, before I appeared on the scene, you were discontented. Yes, you were, dear Gabrielle. It was my privilege then to bring back sunshine to this gloomy spot. You might have rewarded me but you were unkind. I did not complain, but endured your cruelty without a murmur. It was my solicitude that unwrinkled your rose-leaves. You might have rewarded me, I say, and you would not, and yet I bore no malice.”

A foreboding of new evil darkened around Gabrielle’s heart. “Why refer to that episode that was condoned, and dead, and buried?”

Without changing his attitude, the abbé pursued purringly—

“For those halcyon days you had me to thank—me only, remember that, and you could not be grateful. Ingratitude must be gently chidden, for it goes ill with beauty—as a mother gently chides a well-beloved one. I crumpled the leaves again, deliberately squeezed them into tiny roughnesses, that you might learn how much you owed me. I confess it was my doing. It was for your own good I did it.”

The marquise sat like stone. What was this new gulf slowly yawning—and she who looked to him for help!

“Did you never guess that it was I? No? How singular. Your intellect works slowly. I never say what I don’t mean, and I warned you, unless I mistake sadly, that it depended on yourself whether I was to be friend or foe. Does you memory serve you? Yes? So glad.”

“I had learned to trust you as a friend,” murmured Gabrielle, huskily. “A dear friend on whom to lean in trouble. Alas—alas! my only one!”

“Why, alas? You are, excuse me, so very foolish. As our sensible Aglaé is so fond of saying, ‘We do nothing for nothing in this world.’ To sit at these dainty feet is in itself a privilege, but ardent men, made of hot flesh and blood, crave more. It’s human nature to be grasping.”

“If you have mercy, peace!” implored the pale lady in growing terror.

The abbé raised himself on his elbow and surveyed Gabrielle—as lovely as a startled fawn in her distress—with a smile that was quite paternal, and belied the green glitter from beneath the lids. “What a naughty girl,” he chuckled, “to tempt a weak mortal with such charms. I swear to you that with that marble skin, and those widely-opened eyes of violet, like eyes that see a phantom, and ruby lips just slightly parted, and that fluttering heaving bosom, you are ten times more beautiful than I have ever seen you yet! Tut, tut! Calm yourself. Do not take me for that uncomfortable thing, a basilisk. I am not going to touch you, so don’t look horrified. I am going away. That is why I spoke. I wished you to know how matters stand, and to reflect during my absence. It is desirable that you should quite comprehend that for weal or woe your future depends on me.”

“Going away,” echoed Gabrielle, relieved, and yet dismayed.

“It is necessary. Was it not delicately imagined to speak, as I had to speak, just on the eve of departure? Am I not considerate? We have lately had letters of strange purport from Paris. Outrageous rumours are abroad, which, if a whit of them is true, may mean serious peril to our class. Over the affair of the Bastile the king was lamentably misguided. He and his ministers know now and bitterly regret their lack of purpose, for the scum, as was to be expected, has taken heart of grace and waxes impudent with impunity. So I am going to make a little trip to the capital, just to reconnoitre. Do not be alarmed. I think that the agitation is all moonshine. Reflect on what I have said, and remember that there’s a limit to man’s patience. Your future, whether for comfort or the reverse, depends entirely on me. I repeat it for the sake of emphasis. I gave you peace, then at my whim withdrew it. Have I made it clear that what I have done I can undo?”

“There are limits to a woman’s patience as well as a man’s,” Gabrielle observed, grimly.

“Quite so,” acquiesced the other. “Mademoiselle Brunelle has been a thorn in your flesh, which I regret. You have endured its irritation with fortitude, for which you deserve all praise. It depends upon yourself whether or no the thorn be pruned away. For that you need my aid, which shall be freely tendered—on conditions that you wot of. During my absence I have instructed the chevalier to watch, that you may be shielded from assaults of the enemy. A useful watchdog is the chevalier, faithful and obedient, who will report to me everything that passes. It is a sad pity that he takes to drink. I have observed lately that he takes more and more to the bottle. Of that by and by he must be cured. Meanwhile, I would have you consider the case from every point of view, and yourself deliver the verdict.”

The Abbé Pharamond rose to his feet, and kissing his finger tips, departed.

Pressure from all quarters to the same end. You have made your bed—make the best of it; accept the inevitable cheerfully. What the fates decree we fight against in vain. Unfortunate Gabrielle. Patience? Good heavens—how long-suffering was hers! And what had she gained by it? Rebuff. Persecution. Torture. Out of the labyrinth they had planted about her there were two exits. She might appeal to the maréchal for protection, return to the shelter of his roof. But to let him learn that her life was shattered, that the marriage he had himself arranged had turned out so disastrously; it would break the old man’s heart.

The other passage? Through the gates of Death. No. That method of escape might not be employed either. What would the old man’s feelings be if he discovered that she had been driven to suicide? And yet—to fall into the maw of the abbé. Never—never—never. Why not? Why should she care what happened? To her it mattered little now what chanced, bereft of all. Her father need never know. Perhaps, if she gave way they would in pity grant her peace? Sure she was going crazy. Peace? The peace of guilt? Peace where there was no peace? No—no. It should never come to that.

CHAPTER X.
THE MAGIC TUB.

The abbé was a chameleon—bewildering in the abruptness of his changes. The carriage that returned from Montbazon was a chariot of triumph, and the abbé joined with vigour in the péans of victory. He wished to leave a good impression, that his absence might be regretted. He was going on a tour of business and of pleasure; was determined to enjoy himself immensely—he, who as a provincial had rarely visited Paris. How delicious before he went, he declared with rapture, to have his mind relieved, to be assured that the magic tub was no fraud—Mesmer, a genius, not a charlatan! They must toast the prophet in bumpers of champagne. He insisted on it, and accordingly dragged the delighted Clovis from his study to join the circle at dinner. Clovis was quite another man. A gladness was in his eyes that transformed his glum visage, and Gabrielle sitting opposite wondered. In this mood, sure if she spoke, he would hearken. Was the case really hopeless? Was it, indeed, too late? Alack. It was evident that the abbé was playing a part, for now and again he glanced at Gabrielle with an expression that was full of meaning. The situation was bewildering. Like one who dreams she sat listening to the victorious duet, wherein the marquis and the governess took up their tale by turns.

Under the sun of success Clovis opened like a flower. He was radiant with content. His wife yearned to lead him from the room to her secluded boudoir, and there, twining her arms about his neck, point out the facets of the situation of which he seemed so singularly ignorant. She would have fallen at his feet and clasped his knees; have hugged him to her breast and warmed him with a spark of her own fire. But then, that insidious talk of mademoiselle’s under which her memory tingled. The clammy affection of a fish! A man who required a master. The venom instilled was inoculating her system. Pride laid a finger on her lips.

Oh! What a scene it had been at Montbazon! To perform a successful séance, Aglaé explained, many accessories were de rigueur, since the vital fluid could not work with effect unless the mind were brought into a condition of fixed and unruffled calm. Now it is no easy matter to bring about this state in one who is a prey to aches and pains. The case is somewhat akin to that in the dentist’s room when the patient is informed on the honour of a gentleman that the twinge will be a mere nothing, and that agitation is to be deprecated and calm desirable. Then he suddenly finds an object as large as a coach-house half down his throat, and the top of his head flies off. Unruffled calm, indeed, with a twang of the sciatic nerve and a twitter down the calf, and a great nail being hammered into the big toe! The crusty old Baron de Vaux growled out that as he could not be calm they had better remove their apparatus.

Calm being a sine qua non, Mesmer had pointed out long since that music was a necessary feature in an operation while the patient was being manipulated. He was in the habit of placing his devotees in a delicious garden carpeted with grass, refreshed by play of fountains, variegated by beds of perfumed flowers and clumps of bushes, from amongst which came dulcet strains. In the intervals of crises a complete orchestra hidden somewhere burst forth into harmonious symphonies, at one time grave at another gay, quieting the patient into beatitude due to gratification of his senses. Sight, smell, hearing, all were considered. So minutely did the prophet delve into the matter that he issued an order against wind instruments. The symphonies were to be in D minor, interpreted by stringed instruments only; and at critical moments their effect was increased by the strains of an harmonica, touched by his own skilled fingers. Lest nerves should be excited by all this instead of quieted, a silent attendant stood behind each patient with a jug, from which, according to his discretion, he dribbled cold water upon the pate below him. This item was particularly soothing.

Now it was obvious that all these perfections were not easily to be obtained in the provinces. The mind of Clovis had been much exercised in the matter, and he dreaded failure for himself and obloquy for the prophet. But Aglaé was a treasure of resource. While her deft hands were rubbing the count’s withered leg, the marquis was in an outer chamber to grumble ad libitum on his beloved ‘cello. The village band was to await the crisis, and then break forth into the baron’s favourite air of Vive Henri Quatre. The effect was sure to be splendid, for country magnates—even of the grande noblesse—were of rougher grit than pampered city ones; and, in sober fact, the baron did not know a bassoon from a violin.

But then there were unexpected difficulties, under which Clovis unaided would have succumbed. The bucket was there, and the marquis delivered a learned lecture on it to somewhat apprehensive lieges. They would be kind enough to remark that at the bottom of the tub was a substratum of rusty nails, covered with a layer of iron filings, over which was laid a set of bottles with necks radiating outward. Above them was another set of bottles with necks radiating inward. This was most important, for radiation was one of the secrets of the system. Cords of silk were attached all round with nooses, each for a patient’s neck, and by these cords the vital fluid was to circulate to the patient and back again.

Madame de Vaux was much scandalized. “On no account will I allow a rope around my husband’s neck,” she vowed emphatically. “The Baron de Vaux treated like a common felon! Never, while she could prevent it! Had not the low mob of the capital been stringing people to lamp-posts with ropes of late? Why the king allowed it she could not think; but he, no doubt, knew better than his subjects. The marquis ought to be ashamed of himself for proposing anything so improper and suggestive.”

Angelique considered the whole affair undignified, and was sorry that the village band should assist at such a spectacle. The rope was abandoned, and in its stead a long tube of glass was passed from the side of the tub to the right temple of the patient—a much more decorous proceeding where a live baron was concerned. Then the ‘cello began to drone and the governess to rub, and by and by the old man’s face began to twitch and his toothless gums to move. The baroness, much shocked at this derogation from accustomed dignity, vowed that it was impious, that the devil was at work, and that she ought to have provided a curt and a brush with holy water. The patient began to laugh, then cry; then shout, then mumble. All down his leg were prickings—such curious prickings. “Oh, Mother of Heaven! The prods of the arch-fiend,” faintly gurgled the old lady. “Stuff and nonsense! Angelic punctures!”

“All is going well!” announced the authoritative voice of Aglaé. “Band! Strike up—here is the crisis!” she shouted joyfully, but the musicians stood aghast. Sure the poor gentleman had the dance of St. Vitus as well as lesser ailments. A savour of brimstone pervaded the apartment. Some swore, with shrieks, that they could see his Satanic majesty—could count the hairs in his tail; and then all rushed forth pell-mell like panic-stricken sheep. Madame de Vaux screamed and fainted, while Angelique, who was no coward, retired into a corner.

Clovis had his misgivings, and as he scraped on, louder now to mask the retreat of defaulters, wondered inwardly whether it was all a devil’s trick? He cast uneasy glances at the stooping Aglaé, who rubbed on unmoved. What a stupendous woman. Not a tremor at suggestion of the Evil One. He felt sure that face to face with the whole Satanic court that strong-minded female’s colour would not have changed a shade. It was not possible to feel fear in so sturdily self-reliant a presence. Clovis’s misgivings waned, and he groaned on at his instrument with lightened heart. His ever-increasing admiration for mademoiselle became tinctured with an awe in which respect was mingled with apprehension. Who could resist such a woman whatever she might decree? She had indeed twisted her admirer round her finger, and could do with him as she listed.

The séance over, the baron was wrapped in blankets and exhorted to sleep while the adept and her neophyte refreshed the inner person. When they returned later to the operating room the old lady, recovered from her swoon, was weeping silently, while Angelique stood by amazed. The tears were those of relief and joy. The twang of the sciatic nerve was stilled. The pain was gone. The baron, wringing the hand of Mademoiselle Brunelle, vowed he was younger by ten years.

This was the tale told in duet, with the accompanying chorus of the abbé. Amazing, marvellous, wonderful! Aglaé beamed on all around like the dimmed sun through golden mist. At every moment Clovis appealed to her with the devoted submissiveness of willing slavery. His chains were of roses, and he hugged them. Pharamond glanced slyly from time to time at the two ladies, so contrasted in appearance and demeanour, and then frowned at the chevalier, who was absorbed by attentions to the bottle. It was inconvenient that the oaf should take to drink. Had he not been charged with the important mission of watching over the marquise? He had better take good care not to transgress. If aught went wrong in the abbé‘s absence the chevalier should repent it bitterly.

END OF VOLUME I.