Kabanata Kabanata 2 · THE ARISTOCRAT

. THE ARISTOCRAT

The sleepy village of Gavrillac, a half-league removed from the main

road to Rennes, and therefore undisturbed by the world’s traffic, lay

in a curve of the River Meu, at the foot, and straggling halfway up the

slope, of the shallow hill that was crowned by the squat manor. By the

time Gavrillac had paid tribute to its seigneur--partly in money and

partly in service--tithes to the Church, and imposts to the King, it was

hard put to it to keep body and soul together with what remained. Yet,

hard as conditions were in Gavrillac, they were not so hard as in many

other parts of France, not half so hard, for instance, as with the

wretched feudatories of the great Lord of La Tour d’Azyr, whose vast

possessions were at one point separated from this little village by the

waters of the Meu.

The Chateau de Gavrillac owed such seigneurial airs as might be claimed

for it to its dominant position above the village rather than to any

feature of its own. Built of granite, like all the rest of Gavrillac,

though mellowed by some three centuries of existence, it was a squat,

flat-fronted edifice of two stories, each lighted by four windows with

external wooden shutters, and flanked at either end by two square towers

or pavilions under extinguisher roofs. Standing well back in a garden,

denuded now, but very pleasant in summer, and immediately fronted by a

fine sweep of balustraded terrace, it looked, what indeed it was, and

always had been, the residence of unpretentious folk who found more

interest in husbandry than in adventure.

Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac--Seigneur de Gavrillac was all

the vague title that he bore, as his forefathers had borne before him,

derived no man knew whence or how--confirmed the impression that his

house conveyed. Rude as the granite itself, he had never sought the

experience of courts, had not even taken service in the armies of his

King. He left it to his younger brother, Etienne, to represent the

family in those exalted spheres. His own interests from earliest years

had been centred in his woods and pastures. He hunted, and he cultivated

his acres, and superficially he appeared to be little better than any of

his rustic metayers. He kept no state, or at least no state commensurate

with his position or with the tastes of his niece Aline de Kercadiou.

Aline, having spent some two years in the court atmosphere of Versailles

under the aegis of her uncle Etienne, had ideas very different from

those of her uncle Quintin of what was befitting seigneurial dignity.

But though this only child of a third Kercadiou had exercised, ever

since she was left an orphan at the early age of four, a tyrannical rule

over the Lord of Gavrillac, who had been father and mother to her, she

had never yet succeeded in beating down his stubbornness on that

score. She did not yet despair--persistence being a dominant note in

her character--although she had been assiduously and fruitlessly at work

since her return from the great world of Versailles some three months

ago.

She was walking on the terrace when Andre-Louis and M. de Vilmorin

arrived. Her slight body was wrapped against the chill air in a white

pelisse; her head was encased in a close-fitting bonnet, edged with

white fur. It was caught tight in a knot of pale-blue ribbon on the

right of her chin; on the left a long ringlet of corn-coloured hair had

been permitted to escape. The keen air had whipped so much of her cheeks

as was presented to it, and seemed to have added sparkle to eyes that

were of darkest blue.

Andre-Louis and M. de Vilmorin had been known to her from childhood. The

three had been playmates once, and Andre-Louis--in view of his spiritual

relationship with her uncle--she called her cousin. The cousinly

relations had persisted between these two long after Philippe de

Vilmorin had outgrown the earlier intimacy, and had become to her

Monsieur de Vilmorin.

She waved her hand to them in greeting as they advanced, and stood--an

entrancing picture, and fully conscious of it--to await them at the end

of the terrace nearest the short avenue by which they approached.

“If you come to see monsieur my uncle, you come inopportunely,

messieurs,” she told them, a certain feverishness in her air. “He is

closely--oh, so very closely--engaged.”

“We will wait, mademoiselle,” said M. de Vilmorin, bowing gallantly over

the hand she extended to him. “Indeed, who would haste to the uncle that

may tarry a moment with the niece?”

“M. l’abbe,” she teased him, “when you are in orders I shall take you

for my confessor. You have so ready and sympathetic an understanding.”

“But no curiosity,” said Andre-Louis. “You haven’t thought of that.”

“I wonder what you mean, Cousin Andre.”

“Well you may,” laughed Philippe. “For no one ever knows.” And then,

his glance straying across the terrace settled upon a carriage that was

drawn up before the door of the chateau. It was a vehicle such as was

often to be seen in the streets of a great city, but rarely in the

country. It was a beautifully sprung two-horse cabriolet of walnut,

with a varnish upon it like a sheet of glass and little pastoral scenes

exquisitely painted on the panels of the door. It was built to carry two

persons, with a box in front for the coachman, and a stand behind for

the footman. This stand was empty, but the footman paced before the

door, and as he emerged now from behind the vehicle into the range of M.

de Vilmorin’s vision, he displayed the resplendent blue-and-gold livery

of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.

“Why!” he exclaimed. “Is it M. de La Tour d’Azyr who is with your

uncle?”

“It is, monsieur,” said she, a world of mystery in voice and eyes, of

which M. de Vilmorin observed nothing.

“Ah, pardon!” he bowed low, hat in hand. “Serviteur, mademoiselle,” and

he turned to depart towards the house.

“Shall I come with you, Philippe?” Andre-Louis called after him.

“It would be ungallant to assume that you would prefer it,” said M. de

Vilmorin, with a glance at mademoiselle. “Nor do I think it would serve.

If you will wait...”

M. de Vilmorin strode off. Mademoiselle, after a moment’s blank pause,

laughed ripplingly. “Now where is he going in such a hurry?”

“To see M. de La Tour d’Azyr as well as your uncle, I should say.”

“But he cannot. They cannot see him. Did I not say that they are

very closely engaged? You don’t ask me why, Andre.” There was an arch

mysteriousness about her, a latent something that may have been elation

or amusement, or perhaps both. Andre-Louis could not determine it.

“Since obviously you are all eagerness to tell, why should I ask?” quoth

he.

“If you are caustic I shall not tell you even if you ask. Oh, yes, I

will. It will teach you to treat me with the respect that is my due.”

“I hope I shall never fail in that.”

“Less than ever when you learn that I am very closely concerned in the

visit of M. de La Tour d’Azyr. I am the object of this visit.” And she

looked at him with sparkling eyes and lips parted in laughter.

“The rest, you would seem to imply, is obvious. But I am a dolt, if you

please; for it is not obvious to me.”

“Why, stupid, he comes to ask my hand in marriage.”

“Good God!” said Andre-Louis, and stared at her, chapfallen.

She drew back from him a little with a frown and an upward tilt of her

chin. “It surprises you?”

“It disgusts me,” said he, bluntly. “In fact, I don’t believe it. You

are amusing yourself with me.”

For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts.

“I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle

this morning from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, announcing the visit and its

object. I will not say that it did not surprise us a little...”

“Oh, I see,” cried Andre-Louis, in relief. “I understand. For a moment I

had almost feared...” He broke off, looked at her, and shrugged.

“Why do you stop? You had almost feared that Versailles had been wasted

upon me. That I should permit the courtship of me to be conducted like

that of any village wench. It was stupid of you. I am being sought in

proper form, at my uncle’s hands.”

“Is his consent, then, all that matters, according to Versailles?”

“What else?”

“There is your own.”

She laughed. “I am a dutiful niece... when it suits me.”

“And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this monstrous

proposal?”

“Monstrous!” She bridled. “And why monstrous, if you please?”

“For a score of reasons,” he answered irritably.

“Give me one,” she challenged him.

“He is twice your age.”

“Hardly so much,” said she.

“He is forty-five, at least.”

“But he looks no more than thirty. He is very handsome--so much you will

admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the

greatest nobleman in Brittany. He will make me a great lady.”

“God made you that, Aline.”

“Come, that’s better. Sometimes you can almost be polite.” And she moved

along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her.

“I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this

beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made.”

She frowned, and her lips tightened. “You are speaking of my future

husband,” she reproved him.

His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler.

“And is it so? It is settled, then? Your uncle is to agree? You are to

be sold thus, lovelessly, into bondage to a man you do not know. I had

dreamed of better things for you, Aline.”

“Better than to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr?”

He made a gesture of exasperation. “Are men and women nothing more than

names? Do the souls of them count for nothing? Is there no joy in life,

no happiness, that wealth and pleasure and empty, high-sounding titles

are to be its only aims? I had set you high--so high, Aline--a thing

scarce earthly. There is joy in your heart, intelligence in your mind;

and, as I thought, the vision that pierces husks and shams to claim the

core of reality for its own. Yet you will surrender all for a parcel of

make-believe. You will sell your soul and your body to be Marquise de La

Tour d’Azyr.”

“You are indelicate,” said she, and though she frowned her eyes laughed.

“And you go headlong to conclusions. My uncle will not consent to more

than to allow my consent to be sought. We understand each other, my

uncle and I. I am not to be bartered like a turnip.”

He stood still to face her, his eyes glowing, a flush creeping into his

pale cheeks.

“You have been torturing me to amuse yourself!” he cried. “Ah, well, I

forgive you out of my relief.”

“Again you go too fast, Cousin Andre. I have permitted my uncle to

consent that M. le Marquis shall make his court to me. I like the look

of the gentleman. I am flattered by his preference when I consider his

eminence. It is an eminence that I may find it desirable to share. M. le

Marquis does not look as if he were a dullard. It should be interesting

to be wooed by him. It may be more interesting still to marry him, and

I think, when all is considered, that I shall probably--very

probably--decide to do so.”

He looked at her, looked at the sweet, challenging loveliness of that

childlike face so tightly framed in the oval of white fur, and all the

life seemed to go out of his own countenance.

“God help you, Aline!” he groaned.

She stamped her foot. He was really very exasperating, and something

presumptuous too, she thought.

“You are insolent, monsieur.”

“It is never insolent to pray, Aline. And I did no more than pray, as I

shall continue to do. You’ll need my prayers, I think.”

“You are insufferable!” She was growing angry, as he saw by the

deepening frown, the heightened colour.

“That is because I suffer. Oh, Aline, little cousin, think well of what

you do; think well of the realities you will be bartering for these

shams--the realities that you will never know, because these cursed shams

will block your way to them. When M. de La Tour d’Azyr comes to make his

court, study him well; consult your fine instincts; leave your own noble

nature free to judge this animal by its intuitions. Consider that...”

“I consider, monsieur, that you presume upon the kindness I have always

shown you. You abuse the position of toleration in which you stand. Who

are you? What are you, that you should have the insolence to take this

tone with me?”

He bowed, instantly his cold, detached self again, and resumed the

mockery that was his natural habit.

“My congratulations, mademoiselle, upon the readiness with which you

begin to adapt yourself to the great role you are to play.”

“Do you adapt yourself also, monsieur,” she retorted angrily, and turned

her shoulder to him.

“To be as the dust beneath the haughty feet of Madame la Marquise. I

hope I shall know my place in future.”

The phrase arrested her. She turned to him again, and he perceived that

her eyes were shining now suspiciously. In an instant the mockery in him

was quenched in contrition.

“Lord, what a beast I am, Aline!” he cried, as he advanced. “Forgive me

if you can.”

Almost had she turned to sue forgiveness from him. But his contrition

removed the need.

“I’ll try,” said she, “provided that you undertake not to offend again.”

“But I shall,” said he. “I am like that. I will fight to save you, from

yourself if need be, whether you forgive me or not.”

They were standing so, confronting each other a little breathlessly, a

little defiantly, when the others issued from the porch.

First came the Marquis of La Tour d’Azyr, Count of Solz, Knight of the

Orders of the Holy Ghost and Saint Louis, and Brigadier in the armies

of the King. He was a tall, graceful man, upright and soldierly of

carriage, with his head disdainfully set upon his shoulders. He was

magnificently dressed in a full-skirted coat of mulberry velvet that was

laced with gold. His waistcoat, of velvet too, was of a golden

apricot colour; his breeches and stockings were of black silk, and his

lacquered, red-heeled shoes were buckled in diamonds. His powdered hair

was tied behind in a broad ribbon of watered silk; he carried a little

three-cornered hat under his arm, and a gold-hilted slender dress-sword

hung at his side.

Considering him now in complete detachment, observing the magnificence

of him, the elegance of his movements, the great air, blending in so

extraordinary a manner disdain and graciousness, Andre-Louis trembled

for Aline. Here was a practised, irresistible wooer, whose bonnes

fortunes were become a by-word, a man who had hitherto been the despair

of dowagers with marriageable daughters, and the desolation of husbands

with attractive wives.

He was immediately followed by M. de Kercadiou, in completest contrast.

On legs of the shortest, the Lord of Gavrillac carried a body that at

forty-five was beginning to incline to corpulence and an enormous head

containing an indifferent allotment of intelligence. His countenance

was pink and blotchy, liberally branded by the smallpox which had almost

extinguished him in youth. In dress he was careless to the point

of untidiness, and to this and to the fact that he had never

married--disregarding the first duty of a gentleman to provide himself

with an heir--he owed the character of misogynist attributed to him by

the countryside.

After M. de Kercadiou came M. de Vilmorin, very pale and self-contained,

with tight lips and an overcast brow.

To meet them, there stepped from the carriage a very elegant young

gentleman, the Chevalier de Chabrillane, M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s

cousin, who whilst awaiting his return had watched with considerable

interest--his own presence unsuspected--the perambulations of Andre-Louis

and mademoiselle.

Perceiving Aline, M. de La Tour d’Azyr detached himself from the others,

and lengthening his stride came straight across the terrace to her.

To Andre-Louis the Marquis inclined his head with that mixture of

courtliness and condescension which he used. Socially, the young lawyer

stood in a curious position. By virtue of the theory of his birth, he

ranked neither as noble nor as simple, but stood somewhere between the

two classes, and whilst claimed by neither he was used familiarly

by both. Coldly now he returned M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s greeting, and

discreetly removed himself to go and join his friend.

The Marquis took the hand that mademoiselle extended to him, and bowing

over it, bore it to his lips.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, looking into the blue depths of her eyes, that

met his gaze smiling and untroubled, “monsieur your uncle does me the

honour to permit that I pay my homage to you. Will you, mademoiselle,

do me the honour to receive me when I come to-morrow? I shall have

something of great importance for your ear.”

“Of importance, M. le Marquis? You almost frighten me.” But there was

no fear on the serene little face in its furred hood. It was not

for nothing that she had graduated in the Versailles school of

artificialities.

“That,” said he, “is very far from my design.”

“But of importance to yourself, monsieur, or to me?”

“To us both, I hope,” he answered her, a world of meaning in his fine,

ardent eyes.

“You whet my curiosity, monsieur; and, of course, I am a dutiful niece.

It follows that I shall be honoured to receive you.”

“Not honoured, mademoiselle; you will confer the honour. To-morrow at

this hour, then, I shall have the felicity to wait upon you.”

He bowed again; and again he bore her fingers to his lips, what time she

curtsied. Thereupon, with no more than this formal breaking of the ice,

they parted.

She was a little breathless now, a little dazzled by the beauty of the

man, his princely air, and the confidence of power he seemed to radiate.

Involuntarily almost, she contrasted him with his critic--the lean and

impudent Andre-Louis in his plain brown coat and steel-buckled shoes--and

she felt guilty of an unpardonable offence in having permitted even one

word of that presumptuous criticism. To-morrow M. le Marquis would

come to offer her a great position, a great rank. And already she had

derogated from the increase of dignity accruing to her from his very

intention to translate her to so great an eminence. Not again would

she suffer it; not again would she be so weak and childish as to permit

Andre-Louis to utter his ribald comments upon a man by comparison with

whom he was no better than a lackey.

Thus argued vanity and ambition with her better self and to her vast

annoyance her better self would not admit entire conviction.

Meanwhile, M. de La Tour d’Azyr was climbing into his carriage. He had

spoken a word of farewell to M. de Kercadiou, and he had also had a

word for M. de Vilmorin in reply to which M. de Vilmorin had bowed in

assenting silence. The carriage rolled away, the powdered footman in

blue-and-gold very stiff behind it, M. de La Tour d’Azyr bowing to

mademoiselle, who waved to him in answer.

Then M. de Vilmorin put his arm through that of Andre Louis, and said to

him, “Come, Andre.”

“But you’ll stay to dine, both of you!” cried the hospitable Lord of

Gavrillac. “We’ll drink a certain toast,” he added, winking an eye that

strayed towards mademoiselle, who was approaching. He had no subtleties,

good soul that he was.

M. de Vilmorin deplored an appointment that prevented him doing himself

the honour. He was very stiff and formal.

“And you, Andre?”

“I? Oh, I share the appointment, godfather,” he lied, “and I have a

superstition against toasts.” He had no wish to remain. He was angry

with Aline for her smiling reception of M. de La Tour d’Azyr and the

sordid bargain he saw her set on making. He was suffering from the loss

of an illusion.