The Bonbonnière/Chapter 2
II
With varied anticipations, Mrs. Wysong-Lord, Miss Presby, the Rev. A. Z. Van Zeim and the icily beautiful Margot journeyed from Paris. In a second-class compartment rode many maids, and a King Charles spaniel; in the baggage-car rose a tumulus of luggage that seemed to defy transportation.
The entire party was irreproachable, particularly Mrs. Wysong-Lord, gowned in a smart traveling suit of gray, her beautiful white hair almost concealed by the many veils depending from her eminently appropriate toque. Miss Margot was immaculate. Her rebellious hair was subdued in neat coils. Her hat was properly girlish, her gown of blue severely plain, though it bore the mark of Paquin.
The train slowed down, a tiny station came into view, the guard opened the compartment doors, and the party descended rapidly, but without hurry. The maids appeared, laden with hand baggage; a thunderous thumping at the rear of the platform testified to the disintegration of the tumulus in the baggage-car. A moment later, and the order of the guard, “Gentlemen the voyageurs into carriages!” rang out. Compartment locks clicked, a horn sounded, and the Wysong-Lords stood alone upon the platform. Yet not alone; a bowing menial in livery respectfully called their attention to the unimportant fact that he was a footman, doubtless in their service, and, with a touch to his hat, led the way behind the gare, where a maroon station-omnibus of American pattern was drawn up. Behind it a second conveyance awaited the servants, while a flat-car on high wheels fairly yawned for trunks.
All this Mrs. Wysong-Lord accepted at a glance, with no sign of either surprise or commendation.
The party drove off through a hamlet of low, stone houses, down a dusty road lined with poplars, then to the right through a smiling and beautiful valley—ancient trees, broad meadows, a silver river of rapid flow, bending and winding in its erratic course seaward, superb vistas, hills crowned with verdure, through which here and there turrets and crenelated towers pricked the sky.
“What a pleasing landscape!” approved Mrs. Wysong-Lord.
“Lovely!” said Margot.
“Charming!” sighed Miss Presby.
“And what excellent roads!” added the chaplain.
The carriage turned through a high brick-and-marble gateway, and bowled smoothly down a wide avenue, shadowed by huge, interlacing trees. There was a glimpse of lawn, a flash from the placid surface of the most artificial of artificial lakes, before high lilac hedges shut off the view. The horses trotted smartly around a formal parterre, and stopped before the exquisitely carved doors of La Bonbonnière.
An hour or so later, while the other members of the household were resting from the fatigue of travel, Margot, in a white tea-gown, looking like a self-satisfied angel, made a tour of inspection. The hallway, with its wooden panels of saffron hue and delicate polish, delighted her. The candle brackets and the ormolu newel-post were finer than any she had ever seen. Even the knob of the salon door was a gem of workmanship. She turned it, and stepped softly into the room.
Yes, there were the Boucher panels—groups of laughing cherubs, weeping cherubs, even quarreling cherubs, each instinct with life and love. The walls swarmed with them, the ceiling was a-swirl with their flying forms, the whole coquettish room was vaguely astir. One was conscious of inaudible laughter. On the mantel, upheld by two delicately modeled dryads, stood a gold Cupid spinning a ball of blue enamel, which bore, in golden outlines, the world's familiar continents—the equator was a band upon which the hours shone in white numbers. The mechanism that had revolved the equator had long ago ceased to move, but Cupid appeared ready to make the world go round for all time.
The dimple in Margot's chin suddenly asserted itself, a gleam of joy lighted her somber eyes. She gazed, laughed aloud and clapped her hands. With a gurgle of sheer enjoyment, she drew her hand lightly over the azure silk of the hangings, and sniffed at a bowl of roses on the card-table. She passed to the adjoining apartment.
“Oh,” she said, aloud, “you love of a room!” All was yellow, embroidered satin, except what was shining Chinese porcelain, in panels long and narrow, in plates let into the walls, in vases on the mantels. A delightful Louis XV. notion of Chinese luxury, contrasting sharply with the view from the long French windows—terraces a-quiver with nodding flowers, descending in soft succession to the borders of a fountain, where three marble mermaids disported themselves with the mincing manners of court dames.
“Oh,” said Margot, “you dear, sweet duck of a house!—you delicious delight of a garden!”
The afternoon shone warm and mellow. “I'm going out,” said Margot. Pushing open one of the door-windows, she set her dainty foot on the gravel paths, but, the soft turf alluring, forgetful of decorum, she ran pell-mell across the grass, among the parti-colored flower-beds, tumbled down the terraces, laughing all the time in ripples of irrepressible merriment. Stopping suddenly at the fountain, she blew a kiss to the mermaids.
“For two cents,” said Margot, “I would wade!” The mood was strong upon her, but the shock of this remarkable impulse steadied her for a moment. She glanced back at the gay red-and-white façade of the house. “I wonder if mother saw me?” flashed through her mind.
Then a miracle happened. “And what if she did? I don't care!” exclaimed Miss Margot Angeline Wysong-Lord. Thereupon she dipped one tiny foot, silk stocking, slipper and all, into the fountain. “Oo—oo!” she shivered; “it's cold!” She shook her foot with the disgusted movement of a Persian kitten that has tested the cream-jug with an inquisitive paw, then darted on, between scented hedges, across more lawns, down to the glimmering river where it wound in graceful curves, hurrying by as if on some important, happy mission. Margot's eyes were dancing, so were her feet; her cheeks were as pink as the roses on the terraces; her hair was shaken into a million ripples, clusters and curls, and, though the hem of her tea-gown was wet, grass-stained and muddy, in all her life she had never been so beautiful.
Roland de Montalou, on the other side of the stream, sat up suddenly, nearly dropping his Béranger into the water.
“What have we here? In the name of all the little blue rabbits, is it a goddess? Am I dreaming? I have had but one absinthe! Oh, beautiful providence! so to reward me for burying myself in this hole to please my mother! If such is the reward of virtue, I will be a Bayard! I will burn candles to all the young and lovely saintesses in the calendar!”
His movement attracted her attention. She looked up. He rose hastily, still clinging to Béranger, and bowed profoundly.
The goddess's behavior was disconcerting. She dimpled, laughed outright, dropped a deep court curtsey, and, with a gleeful wave of her hand, fled laughing toward the shelter of the hedges.
Roland de Montalou stood as if petrified—for how long he did not know. He was aroused by a halloo, as young d'Alencourt came galloping over the lawn, followed by half a dozen English hounds.
“What are you doing, wasting an afternoon like this, gazing at nothing?” he demanded, gaily. “It's a day in a thousand!”
“I believe thee, my old one! It is a day in two hundred thousand! Gazing at nothing! Oh, sacred name of an umbrella! I have been gazing at a pearl, a rose, a dream!”
D'Alencourt glanced up, quickly. “Oh, the Americans who have taken La Bonbonnière! Is she, then, such a marvel?”
“As I said, a vision—eyes like black diamonds, hair of jet, a cheek of marble flushed with rose, features chiseled!”
“Mon cher,” said d'Alencourt, “according to your description your Dulcinea needs only a heart of stone and a will of iron to make her the hardest thing I have ever heard of. But I gather sufficient from your sculptor-lapidary description to determine me to pay my respects as attendant to the first lady caller—and I shall see that no time is lost.”
“You will find me there when you come,” said Montalou, with decision.
D'Alencourt laughed.
“It's droll. Figure to yourself, this American household is exactly—oh, but, exactly, the same as that of the celebrated duchesse. If you please—la maman, daughter, aunt, and the abbé—his pardon, the clergyman—even, so I am told by François, who saw them at the station, a lap-dog—a King Charles.”
Roland grinned, hopefully.
“Well, you know what the lovely daughter did. I'm sure I could live up to the other half of the bargain.”
“You've lived down to the gentleman's reputation in the past, anyway. Come along, and make yourself beautiful. As I passed the stable, I told Victor to saddle The Fox for you. Come, species of an old do nothing.”
The species of an old do nothing arose and followed.
Through an opening in the hedge Margot had watched the arrival of the horseman and all subsequent happenings. “It promises,” said the young lady, cheerfully, “to be a pleasant Summer.” She addressed the clouds overhead, much as if she depended upon the weather for her enjoyment. Evidently satisfied with the atmospheric promise, she burst into song, the refrain of a music-hall ditty and, dancing back to the house, entered the yellow room.
Comfortably ensconced on the famous chaise longue was Mrs. Wysong-Lord, attired in her very best négligée of black Cluny lace over white moire. On the window-seat, the Rev. V. Z. conversed in seductive tones with Miss Presby, who undoubtedly was “making eyes.”
At any other time, this exhibition, no less than the sight of Mrs. Wysong-Lord actually lounging, would have startled Margot. Somehow, these things seemed natural in their present surroundings. She even kept on humming her disreputable little song, and, contrary to all precedent, her mother beamed approval.
“You seem very happy, my dear,” she murmured, indulgently.
“And so do you, mother, and you look as pretty as a peach. I wish you would wear more light things instead of black.”
Mrs. Lord smiled and bridled. Never had she been so susceptible to adulation.
The Rev. Van Zeim joined the conversation, gallantly.
“I quite agree with our lovely Margot. I conceive it the duty—yes, duty—of every beautiful woman to be just as beautiful as possible.”
His bow included the three ladies with equal politeness, but his gaze lingered on the blue eyes of Miss Presby, who returned the glance with interest.
Mrs. Lord laughed, and shook her fan coquettishly at the chaplain.
“Tut, tut! Remember your cloth, flatterer— Tea!” she demanded, suddenly, in tones of irritation; “tea at once! What are these servants thinking of!”
The curtains parted, and the footman entered, bearing the glittering service. His mistress delivered herself of a few remarks in far more fluent French than she had previously found at her command. A moment later, her displeasure found vent once more.
“Rum! Where is the rum? Mon Dieu! The idea! No rum for the tea! Then bring port, Madeira—anything”
She was tired. There was no life in tea!
Her wants were hurriedly supplied, and the good lady comforted herself liberally.
“Really,” smiled the chaplain, “I feel the need of a little stimulant myself—with your kind permission—” He tossed down a glass of Madeira and smiled, knowingly. “Ah! excellent! Thirty years old, if it's a day. For perfection in wine and women, one must have maturity—unless”—and he raised his glass to Margot—“it is the effervescent and intoxicating champagne; that is not age, but vintage.”
“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Lord, “that I have not ordered the wines for dinner, and, by the way, we must dress.”
The first meal within the hospitable walls of the frivolous, mirror-decked dining-room passed off with unwonted gaiety. Mrs. Lord developed a wit so caustic, and the Rev. Van Zeim a cynicism so humorous, that the airy roof-tree rang with merriment. The party rose from the table to coffee and liqueurs in the Chinese room. Margot, weary with laughter, languidly made her way to the deep window. Candles innumerable cast a mellow glow upon the thousand treasures of the salon d'or, but found not one to compare with her in loveliness. She stood looking out upon the garden, white and slender as the moonlit lilies beneath the casement, and, as she gazed, she sang a quaint, Provençal ditty that had suddenly leaped to life in her memory. Where had she heard it? Ah, yes, she had glanced over the music in “Les Vieilles Chançons de France.” Strange it should have made so deep an impression!
There was a pause, half physical well-being, half sentiment, as the notes of “Belle Isambour” floated through the room.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Wysong-Lord, suddenly, rapping her lorgnon on the arm of the chair. “This is abominably uninteresting. Do something, somebody. You have no more conversation than a Buddhist idol. I didn't come here to be bored!”
There was a suspicious after-dinner flush on her cheeks, and her speech was unusually rapid.
Miss Presby yawned.
“Why do anything? We've been traveling all day; getting settled, too, and after such a heavy dinner—why do anything? Let us retire early”
“Retire early!” exclaimed Mrs. Lord. “Marcia, you're an idiot! I am awake, very wide awake! If there is one thing I abhor, it's going to bed early. I asked you to suggest something to do—to do, you understand! Augustus, haven't you an idea in your head?”
“Dominoes,” said Van Zeim.
“Dominoes!” Mrs. Lord exploded. “I'll have you to understand I'm not to be made game of!”
“Whist,” he suggested, brightening.
“Well, yes,” she nodded. “Margot, ring! There are duplicate boards in the second tray of my pigskin trunk.”
Miss Presby yawned again. “Not duplicate whist! I really can't, it's such a strain on one's mind!”
“Strain on your mind!” cried her irritable sister. “One would have to search for your intellect with a magnifying glass! Strain on the mind, indeed!—first catch your mind! If you hadn't taken five glasses of port, you'd be able to play as well as you are ever capable of playing.”
The Rev. Van Zeim laughed as Miss Presby colored with annoyance. “Plain whist for to-night,” he murmured, in conciliating tones. “I confess I do not feel up to mental gymnastics.”
Margot turned from the window.
“I'd rather go out of doors,” she said. “It's a heavenly night.”
“We are going to play whist,” said Mrs. Lord, rising with decision. She turned instinctively to the card-room—a genial alcove, where the Boucher Cupids again occupied the available wall space, but were here engaged in such reprehensible pastimes as fighting turtle-doves, throwing dice for hearts, and racing slender greyhounds.
They took their places as cards were brought.
Mrs. Lord's eyes sparkled, her lips twitched.
“I'm glad you thought of whist,” she said, warmly, turning to the chaplain. “I had forgotten how much I enjoy the game.”
“He jests at scores who never played at bridge,” observed Augustus, tentatively.
The game began, but before the deal had passed around the circle, Mrs. Lord's interest had waned.
“Heavens!” she railed, “this is the most 'flat, stale and unprofitable' game I ever sat down to.” The last adjective inspired her. “I have it!” she exclaimed, tapping her fingers excitedly upon the table. “We will play for a sou a point.”
Miss Presby woke from her lethargy, and drew up her chair.
The Rev. Van Zeim demurred.
“My dear lady, should we—should you— Remember, Miss Lord is but a child.”
“Indeed!” said Margot, indignantly. “I'm no more a child than you are! Besides, I don't see what your objections can be. After all, it's mother's money I play with, and that gives her twice as many chances to lose as you have.”
“And twice as many to win,” he retorted.
“Tut, tut!” interrupted Mrs. Wysong-Lord. “Cut the pack. My soul! you are a set of snarling spaniels! There—a five of hearts! Just my luck! Hearts! Pooh! a meaningless trump. I have never held an honor in hearts.”
Van Zeim bowed.
“On the contrary, you have always held all honors in hearts.”
Mrs. Lord sniffed, but, having discovered the ace among her cards, her lips relaxed.
Miss Presby led a small diamond with an exaggerated air of mystery, and the game began in earnest. Mrs. Lord was in luck, and the neatly piled tricks at her elbow accumulated rapidly.
Then Miss Presby nodded. Whether weariness or port held sway was hard to determine. But the result was a game impossible to comprehend, and sorely trying to the patience of her ecclesiastical partner. Margot played with total disregard of convention, and, had it not been for her mother's phenomenal good fortune, she must have brought bankruptcy upon them.
“Who are our neighbors?” she asked, as she trumped her partner's ace with the nonchalance of a card-sharper.
Mrs. Lord gave vent to her feelings concerning the play before answering the question.
“Heavens! What do you do that for? Of all the utterly imbecile performances I have ever witnessed, that was the most foolish! Pay attention, can't you? The Montalous”
Margot ignored the invectives, and peacefully returned her opponent's lead.
“Are they friends of Cousin Adelaide's—do you suppose they will call?”
“Margot! are you insane? Clubs were Van Zeim's long suit! Call! Of course, they'll call; but I'm sure I don't care whether they do or not. I don't intend to modify my way of doing things for anybody.”
“I don't see any question of modifying our way of living for the Montalous,” said Miss Presby, helplessly, concealing a yawn behind her hand.
“Well, I won't—that's all!”
Mrs. Lord slammed down the jack of spades with personal animosity.
They played for some time in silence. Then Mrs. Lord abruptly pushed back her chair. “That's forty-five francs you owe me, Van Zeim,” she said. She rang the bell for the butler. “You may close the house now—and—well—I did say I'd never fall into these French habits—but I want my chocolate served to me in bed, at ten to-morrow. The rest of you can please yourselves. Forty-five francs—you remember, now!”
Half an hour later, all was still in La Bonbonnière save a heavy snore from Miss Presby's room. Margot sat before her dressing-glass and smiled roguish approval at her reflection. The soft night wind swept back the curtains, while the moonlight, silvering over her girlish loveliness, contended with the rose-shaded light of the candles.
She gathered the narrow skirts of her kimono about her, and crossed to the window. How the garden stirred and whispered—lily to rose, rose to lily! The view opened to her a glimpse of fairyland—velvet black and mysterious crystal, dusky silver and shadowed purples. The rippling river shone and beckoned; myriad perfumes, keen and intoxicating, filled the air. Out of the night a nightingale sang, piercing sweet. Margot leaned far out upon the sill, her heart a-throb with youth and romance, night magic and perfume spells. The words of the old song came again to her lips. Softly she sang:
“Le Roy seant en pleine cour
Où arrive maint grand Seignour,
Là l'on ne parle que d' Amour.”
From the shadows beneath the window came a voice—a tender tone, a breath, a sigh—so faint it might have been but the echo of her own:
“Le Roy envoy un messager,
Vers Isambour, sans plus tarder,
D'autant qu'il veut la marier.”
Margot drew back, hesitated, and searched the shadows with smiling eyes, but the song vanished like the ghost of a song. There was no stir in the hedges; the nightingale took up his interrupted serenade to the roses nodding gently.
Margot turned from the window, her pulses strangely stirred.
“It seems,” she said, slowly, “that the terraces are haunted!”
Outside, in the bewitched garden, stood young d'Alencourt. He sighed as one awakening from a dream.
“I couldn't imagine what made me come,” he murmured, “but now I know!—now I know!”