CHAPTER XIX

MATRE PULCHRÂ, FILIA PULCHRIOR

Since Horace wrote that musical ode in which he expresses a poet’s admiration pretty equally divided between mother and daughter, how many similes have been exhausted, how many images distorted to convey the touching and suggestive resemblance by which nature reproduces in the bud a beauty that has bloomed to maturity in the flower! Amongst all the peculiarities of race, family likeness is the commonest, the most prized, and the least understood. Perhaps, because the individuality of women is more easily affected by extraneous influences, it seems usually less impressed upon the sons than the daughters of a House. Then a girl often marries so young, that she has scarcely done with her girl’s graces, certainly lost none of her woman’s charms, ere she finds a copy at her side as tall as herself; a very counterpart in figure, voice, eyes, hair, complexion; all the externals in which she takes most pride; whose similarity and companionship are a source of continual happiness, alloyed only by the dread of a contingency that shall make herself a grandmother!

As they sat in the boudoir of the Hôtel Montmirail, enjoying the cool evening breeze at an open window, the Marquise and her daughter might have been likened to a goddess and a nymph, a rose and a rosebud—what shall I say?—a cat and her kitten, or a cow and her calf! But although in voice, manner, gestures, and general effect, this similarity was so remarkable, a closer inspection might have found many points of difference; and the girl seemed, indeed, an ideal sketch rather than a finished portrait of the woman, bearing to her mother the vague, spiritualised resemblance that memory bears to presence—your dreams to your waking thoughts.

Cerise was altogether fairer in complexion and fainter in colouring, slenderer, and perhaps a little taller, with more of soul in her blue eyes but less of intellect, and a pure, serene face that a poet would have fallen down and worshipped, but from which a painter would have turned to study the richer tones of the Marquise.

Some women seem to me like statues, and some like pictures. The latter fascinate you at once, compelling your admiration even on the first glance, while you pass by the former with a mere cold and critical approval. But every man who cares for art must have experienced how the influence of the model or the marble grows on him day by day. How, time after time, fresh beauties seem to spring beneath his gaze as if his very worship called them into life, and how, when he has got the masterpiece by heart, and sees every curve of the outline, every turn of the chisel in his dreams, he no longer wonders that it was not a painter, but a sculptor, who languished to death in hopeless adoration of his handiwork. These statue-women move, in no majestic march, over the necks of captive thousands to the strains of all kinds of music, but stand in their leafy, shadowy nooks apart, teaching a man to love them by degrees, and he never forgets the lesson, nor would he if he could.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the Marquise loved her daughter very dearly. For years, the child had occupied the first place in her warm impassioned heart. To send Cerise away was the first lesson in self-sacrifice the proud and prosperous lady had ever been forced to learn, and many a tear it used to cost her, when her ball-dress had been folded up and Célandine dismissed for the night. Nor, indeed, was the Quadroon’s pillow quite dry when first she lost her nursling; and long after Cerise slept calmly and peacefully between those quiet convent walls, far off in Normandy, the two women would lie broad awake, calling to remembrance the blue eyes and the brown curls and the pretty ways of their darling, till their very hearts ached with longing to look on her once more. Now, since mademoiselle had returned, the Marquise thought she loved her better than ever, and perhaps all the feelings and impulses of a heart not too well disciplined had of late been called into stronger play.

Madame de Montmirail threw herself back in her chair with an exclamation of pleasure, for the cool, soft breeze lifted the hair from her temples, and stirred the delicate lace edging on her bosom. “It is delightful, my child!” she said, “after the heat of to-day, which was suffocating. And we have nothing for to-night, I thank the saints with my whole heart! Absolutely nothing! Neither ball, nor concert, nor opera (for I could not sit out another of Cavalli’s), nor even a horrid reception at the Luxembourg. This is what I call veritable repose.”

Like all people with a tinge of southern blood, the Marquise cried out at the slightest increase of temperature. Like all fashionable ladies, she professed to consider those gaieties without which she could not live, duty, but martyrdom.

Mademoiselle, however, loved a ball dearly, and was not ashamed to say so. She entered such gatherings, indeed, with something of the nervousness felt by a recruit in his first engagement. The prospect of triumph was enhanced by the chance of danger; but the sense of personal apprehension forcibly overcome, which is, perhaps, the true definition of courage, added elasticity to her spirits, keenness to her intellect, and even charms to her person. Beauty, moving gracefully amongst admiring glances, under a warm light in a cloud of muslin, carries, perhaps, as high a heart beneath her bodice as beats behind the steel cuirass of Valour, riding his mailed war-horse in triumph through the shock of opposing squadrons.

“And I like going out so much, mamma,” said the girl, sitting on a footstool by her chair, and leaning both elbows on her mother’s lap. “With you I mean; that must, of course, be understood. Alone in a ball-room without the petticoats of Madame la Marquise, behind which to run when the wolf comes, I should be so frightened, I do believe I should begin to cry! Seriously, mamma, I should not like it at all. Tell me, dear mother, how did you manage at first, when you entered a society by yourself?”

“I was never afraid of the wolf,” answered the Marquise, laughing, “and lucky for me I was not, since the late king could not endure shy people, and if you showed the slightest symptoms of awkwardness or want of tact you were simply not asked again. But you are joking, my darling; you who need fear no criticism, with your youth, your freshness, the best dressmaker in Paris, and all that brown hair which Célandine talks of till the tears stand in her eyes.”

“I hate my hair!” interrupted Cerise. “I think it’s hideous! I wish it was black, like yours. A horrid man the other night at ‘Madame’s’ took me for an Englishwoman! He did, mamma! A Prince somebody, all over decorations. I could have run a pin into the wretch with pleasure. One of the things I like going out for is to watch my beautiful mamma, and the way to flatter me is to start back and hold up both hands, exclaiming, ‘Ah! mademoiselle, none but the blind could take you for anything but the daughter of Madame la Marquise!’ The Prince-Marshal does it every time we meet. Dear old man! that is why I am so fond of him.”

The young lady illustrated this frank confession by an absurd little pantomime that mimicked her veteran admirer to the life, causing her mother to laugh heartily.

“I did not know he was such a favourite,” said the Marquise. “You are in luck, my daughter. I expect him to pay us a visit this very evening.”

Cerise made a comical little face of disgust.

“I shall go to bed before he catches me, then,” she answered; “not that he is in the least out of favour; on the contrary, I love him dearly; but when he has been here five minutes I yawn, in ten I shut my eyes, and long before he gets to that bridge which Monsieur de Vendôme ought, or ought not, to have blown up—there—it’s no use! The thing is stronger than I am, and I go fast asleep.”

“And so my little rake is disappointed,” said the elder lady, taking her child’s pretty head caressingly between her hands. “She would like to have a ball, or a reception, or something that would make an excuse for a sumptuous toilet, and she finds it very wearisome to sit at home, even for one night, and take care of her old mother!”

“Very!” repeated the girl playfully, while her tone made so ungracious an avowal equivalent to the fondest expression of attachment. “My old mother is so cross and so tiresome and so very _very_ old. Now, listen, mamma. Shall I have a dress exactly like yours for the ball at the Tuileries? The young king is to dance. I know it, for my dear Prince-Marshal told me so while I was still awake. I have never seen a king, only a regent, and I _do_ think Monsieur d’Orleans so ugly. Don’t tell him, mamma, but our writing-master at the convent was the image of him, and had the same wrinkles in his forehead. He used to wipe our pens in his wig, and we called him ‘Pouf-Pouf!’ I was the worst writer amongst all the girls, and the best arithmetician. ‘Pouf-Pouf’ said I had a geometrical head! Well, mamma, you must order me a dress the exact pattern of yours; the same flounces, the same trimmings, the same ribbons, and I will present myself before the Prince-Marshal the instant he arrives in the ball-room, to receive his accustomed compliment. Perhaps on that occasion he will take me for _you_! Would it not be charming? My whole ambition just now is to be exactly like my mother in every respect!”

As she finished, her eyes insensibly wandered to the picture of the Prince de Chateau-Guerrand, which adorned the boudoir, but falling short of its principal figure, rested on the dead musketeer in the foreground. The Marquise also happened to be looking at the same object, so that neither observed how the other’s gaze was employed, nor guessed that besides figure, manner, features, voice, and gestures, there was yet a stronger point in which they bore too close and fatal a resemblance. Deep in the heart of each lurked the cherished image of a certain Grey Musketeer. The girl draping her idol, as it were, even to herself, not daring so much as to lift a corner of its veil; yet rejoicing unconsciously in its presence, and trusting with a vague but implicit faith to its protection. The woman alternately prostrating herself at its pedestal, and spurning it beneath her feet, striving, yielding, hesitating, struggling, losing ground inch by inch, and forced against her judgment, against her will, to love him with a fierce, eager, anxious love, embittered by some of the keenest elements of hate.

These two hearts were formed in the same mould, were of the same blood, were knit together by the fondest and closest of ties, and one must necessarily be torn and bruised and pierced by the happiness of the other.

It was so far fortunate that neither of them knew the very precarious position in which Captain George found himself placed. Under such a ruler as the Débonnaire, it was no jesting matter for any man that his name should be written in full on a _lettre de cachet_, formally signed, sealed, and in possession of an ambitious intriguer, who, having no feelings of personal enmity to the victim, would none the less use his power without scruple or remorse. A woman was, of course, at the bottom of the scrape in which Captain George found himself; but it was also to a woman that he was indebted for timely warning of his danger. Madame de Parabére had not only intimated to him that he must make his escape without delay, but had even offered to sell her jewels that he might be furnished with the means of flight. Such marks of gratitude and generosity were none the less touching that the sacrifice proved unnecessary. A Musketeer was seldom overburdened with ready money, but our Captain of the Grey Company not only bore a Scottish surname, he had also a cross of Scottish blood in his veins. The first helped him to get money, the second enabled him to keep it. Monsieur Las, or Law, as he should properly have been called, like his countrymen, “kept a warm side,” as he expressed it, towards any one claiming a connection, however remote, with his native land, and had given Captain George so many useful hints regarding the purchase and sale of Mississippi stock, that the latter, who was by no means deficient in acuteness, found himself possessed of a good round sum, in lawful notes of the realm, at the moment when such a store was absolutely necessary to his safety.

He laid his plans accordingly with habitual promptitude and caution. He knew enough of these matters to think it improbable he would be publicly arrested while on guard, for in such cases profound secrecy was usually observed, as increasing the suddenness and mystery of the blow. He had, therefore, several hours to make his preparations, and the messenger whom he at once despatched to prepare relays of horses for him the whole way to the coast was several leagues on his road long before the sun went down. A valise, well packed, containing a change of raiment, rested on the loins of his best horse, ready saddled, with pistols in holsters and bridle hanging on the stall-post, to be put on directly he was fed. Soon after dark, this trusty animal was to be led to a particular spot, not far from the Hôtel Montmirail, and there walked gently to and fro in waiting for his master. By daybreak next morning, the Musketeer hoped to be half-way across Picardy.

Having made his dispositions for retreat like a true soldier, he divested his mind of further anxiety as to his own personal safety, and turned all his attention to a subject that was now seldom absent from his thoughts. It weighed on his heart like lead, to reflect how soon he must be parted from Cerise, how remote was the chance of their ever meeting again. In his life of action and adventure he had indeed learned to believe that for a brave man nothing was impossible, but he could not conceal from himself that it might be years before he could return to France, and his ignorance in what manner he could have offended the Regent only made his course the more difficult, his future the more gloomy and uncertain. On one matter he was decided. If it cost him liberty or life he would see the girl he loved once more, assure her of his unalterable affection, and so satisfy the great desire that had grown lately into a necessity of his very being.

So it fell out that he was thinking of Cerise, while Cerise, with her eyes on the Musketeer in the picture, was thinking of him; the Marquise believing the while that her child’s whole heart was fixed on her ball-dress for the coming gaieties at the Tuileries. With the mother’s thoughts we will not interfere, inasmuch as, whatever their nature, the fixed expression of her countenance denoted that she was keeping them down with a strong hand.

The two had been silent longer than either of them would have allowed, when Célandine entered with a note—observing, as she presented it to her mistress, “Mademoiselle is pale; mademoiselle looks fatigued; madame takes her too much into society for one so young; she had better go to bed at once, a long sleep will bring back the colour to her cheeks.”

The Marquise laughed at her old servant’s carefulness. “You would like to put her to bed as you used when she was a baby. Who brought this?” she added, with a start, as, turning the note in her hand, she observed the royal arms of the Body-guard emblazoned on its seal; bending her head over it the while to conceal the crimson that rose to her very temples.

What a wild gush of happiness filled her heart while she read on—her warm wilful heart, that sent tears of sheer pleasure to her eyes so that she could scarcely decipher the words, and that beat so loud, she hardly heard Célandine’s disapproving accents in reply.

“The fiercest soldier, and the ugliest I have yet set eyes on. Nine feet high at least, and the rudest manners I ever encountered, even in a Musketeer!”

Cerise was no longer to be pitied for want of colour, but Célandine, though she observed the change, took no notice of it, only urging on her young lady the propriety of going immediately to bed.

Meanwhile, the Marquise read her note again. It was not (what letter ever was?) so enchanting on the second perusal as the first.

It ran thus:—

“MADAME,

“I am distressed beyond measure to trouble a lady with a question of military discipline. I cannot sufficiently regret that my duty compels me to post a sentry in the grounds of the Hôtel Montmirail. In order that this inconvenient arrangement may interfere as little as possible with the privacy of Madame, I urgently request, as the greatest favour, that she will indicate by her commands the exact spot on which she will permit one of my Musketeers to be stationed, and I will be at Madame’s orders at the usual time of going my rounds to-night. I have the honour to remain, with assurances of the most distinguished consideration, the humblest of Madame’s humble servants.

(Signed) “GEORGE, “Captain, Grey Musketeers of the King.”

It was a polite document enough, and obviously the merest affair of military arrangement, yet the Marquise, after a third perusal, kept it crumpled up in her hand, and when she thought herself unobserved, hid it away, probably for security, in the bosom of her dress.

“There is no answer, Célandine,” said she, with well-acted calmness, belied by the fixed crimson spot in each cheek. “My darling,” she added caressingly, to her daughter, “your old _bonne_ is quite right. The sooner you are in bed the better. Good-night, my child. I shall come and see you as usual after you are asleep. Ah! Cerise, how I used to miss that nightly visit when you were at the convent. You slept better without it than your mother did, I am sure!”

Then, after her daughter left the room, she moved the lamp far back into a recess, and sat down at the open window, pressing both hands against her bosom, as though to restrain the beating of her heart.

How her mind projected itself into the future! What wild inconceivable, impracticable projects she formed, destroyed, and reconstructed once more! She overleaped probability, possibility, the usages of life, the very lapse of time. At a bound she was walking with him through her woods in Touraine, his own, his very own. They had given up Paris, the Court, ambition, society, everything in the world for each other, and they were so happy! so happy! Cerise, herself, and _him_. Ah! she felt now the capabilities she had for goodness. She knew what she could be with a man like that—a man whom she could respect as well as love. She almost felt the pressure of his arm, while his kind, brave face looked down into her own, under just such a moon as that rising even now through the trees above the guard-house. Then she came back to her boudoir in the Hôtel Montmirail, and the consciousness, the triumphant consciousness that, come what might, she must at least see him and hear his voice within an hour; but recalling the masked ball at the Opera House the night before, she trembled and turned pale, thinking she would never dare to look him in the face again.

There was yet another subject of anxiety. The Prince-Marshal was to come, as he often did of an evening, and pass half-an-hour over a cup of coffee before he retired to rest. It made her angry to think of her old admirer, as if she did indeed already belong to some one else. How long that some one seemed in coming, and yet she had sat there, hot and cold by turns, for but five minutes, unless her clock had stopped.

Suddenly, with a great start, she sprang from her chair, and listened, upright, with parted lips and hair put back. No! her ear was not deceived! It had caught the clink of spurs, and a faint measured footfall, outside in the distant street.