The Indiscretion of the Duchess/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
Significance of a Supper-Table
HE Aycons of Aycon Knoll have always been a hard-headed, levelheaded race. We have had no enthusiasms, few ambitions, no illusions, and not many scandals. We keep our heads on our shoulders and our purses in our pockets. We do not rise very high, but we have never sunk. We abide at the Knoll from generation to generation, deeming our continued existence in itself a service to the state and an honor to the house. We think more highly of ourselves than we admit, and allow ourselves to smile when we walk in to dinner behind the new nobility. We grow just a little richer with every decade, and add a field or two to our domains once in five years. The gaps made by falling rents we have filled by judicious purchases of land near rising towns; and we have no doubt that there lies before us a future as long and prosperous as our past has been. We are not universally popular, and we see in the fact a tribute to our valuable qualities.
I venture to mention these family virtues and characteristics because it has been thought in some quarters that I displayed them but to a very slight degree in the course of the expedition on which I was now embarked. The impression is a mistaken one. As I have said before, I did nothing that was not forced upon me. Any of my ancestors would, I am sure, have done the same, had they chanced to be thrown under similar circumstances into the society of Mme. de Saint-Maclou and of the other persons whom I was privileged to meet; and had those other persons happened to act in the manner in which they did when I fell in with them.
Gustave maintained his gayety and good spirits unabated through the trials of our voyage to Cherbourg. The mild mystery that attended our excursion was highly to his taste. He insisted on our coming without servants. He persuaded me to leave no address; obliged to keep himself within touch of the Embassy, he directed letters to be sent to Avranches, where, he explained, he could procure them; for, as he thought it safe to disclose when a dozen miles of sea separated us from the possibility of curious listeners, the house to which we were bound stood about ten miles distant from that town, in a retired and somewhat desolate bit of country lining the seashore.
“My sister says it is the most triste place in the world,” said he; “but we shall change all that when we arrive.”
There was nothing to prevent our arriving very soon to relieve Mlle. de Berensac’s depression, for the middle of the next day found us at Avranches, and we spent the afternoon wandering about somewhat aimlessly and staring across the bay at the mass of Mont St. Michel. Directly beneath us as we stood on the hill, and lying in a straight line with the Mount, there was a large square white house, on the very edge of the stretching sand. We were told that it was a convent.
“But the whole place is no livelier than one,” said I, yawning. “My dear fellow, why don’t we go on?”
“It is right for you to see this interesting town,” answered Gustave gravely, but with a merry gleam in his eye. “However, I have ordered a carriage, so be patient.”
“For what time?”
“Nine o’clock, when we have dined.”
“We are to get there in the dark, then?”
“What reason is there against that?” he asked, smiling.
“None,” said I; and I went to pack up my bag.
In my room I chanced to find a femme-de-chambre. To her I put a question or two as to the gentry of the neighborhood. She rattled me off a few distinguished names, and ended:
“The duke of Saint-Maclou has also a small château.”
“Is he there now?” I asked.
“The duchess only, sir,” she answered. “Ah, they tell wonderful stories of her!”
“Do they? Pray, of what kind?”
“Oh, not to her harm, sir; or, at least, not exactly, though to simple country-folk”
The national shrug was an appropriate ending.
“And the duke?”
“He is a good man,” she answered earnestly, “and a very clever man. He is very highly thought of at Paris, sir.”
I had hoped, secretly, to hear that he was a villain; but he was a good man. It was a scurvy trick to play on a good man. Well, there was no help for it. I packed my bag with some dawning misgivings; the chambermaid, undisturbed by my presence, went on rubbing the table with some strong-smelling furniture polish.
“At least,” she observed, as though there had been no pause, “he gives much to the church and to the poor.”
“It may be repentance,” said I, looking up with a hopeful air.
“It is possible, sir.”
“Or,” cried I, with a smile, “hypocrisy?”
The chambermaid’s shake of her head refused to accept this idea; but my conscience, fastening on it, found rest. I hesitated no longer. The man was a cunning hypocrite. I would go on cheerfully, secure that he deserved all the bamboozling which the duchess and my friend Gustave might prepare for him.
At nine o’clock, as Gustave had arranged, we started in a heavy carriage drawn by two great white horses and driven by a stolid fat hostler. Slowly we jogged along under the stars, St. Michel being our continual companion on the right hand, as we followed the road round the bay. When we had gone five or six miles, we turned suddenly inland. There were banks on each side of the road now, and we were going uphill; for rising out of the plain there was a sudden low spur of higher ground.
“Is the house at the top?” I asked Gustave.
“Just under the top,” said he.
“I shall walk,” said I.
The fact is, I had grown intolerably impatient of our slow jog, which had now sunk to a walk.
We jumped out and strode on ahead, soon distancing our carriage, and waking echoes with our merry talk.
“I rather wonder they have not come to meet us,” said Gustave. “See, there is the house.”
A sudden turn in the road had brought us in sight of it. It was a rather small modern Gothic château. It nestled comfortably below the hill, which rose very steeply immediately behind it. The road along which we were approaching appeared to afford the only access, and no other house was visible. But, desolate as the spot certainly was, the house itself presented a gay appearance, for there were lights in every window from ground to roof.
“She seems to have company,” I observed.
“It is that she expects us,” answered Gustave. “This illumination is in our honor.”
“Come on,” said I, quickening my pace; and Gustave burst out laughing.
“I knew you would catch fire when once I got you started!” he cried.
Suddenly a voice struck on my ear—a clear, pleasant voice:
“Was he slow to catch fire, my dear Gustave?”
I started. Gustave looked round.
“It is she,” he said. “Where is she?”
“Was he slow to catch fire?” asked the voice again. “Well, he has but just come near the flame”—and a laugh followed the words.
“Slow to light is long to burn,” said I, turning to the bank on the left side of the road, for it was thence that the voice came.
A moment later a little figure in white darted down into the road, laughing and panting. She seized Gustave’s hand.
“I ran so hard to meet you!” she cried.
“And have you brought Claire with you?” he asked.
“Present your friend to me,” commanded the duchess, as though she had not heard his question.
Did I permit myself to guess at such things, I should have guessed the duchess to be about twenty-five years old. She was not tall; her hair was a dark brown, and the color in her cheeks rich but subdued. She moved with extraordinary grace and agility, and seemed never at rest. The one term of praise (if it be one, which I sometimes incline to doubt) that I have never heard applied to her is—dignified.
“It is most charming of you to come, Mr. Aycon,” said she. “I’ve heard so much of you, and you’ll be so terribly dull!”
“With yourself, madame, and Mlle. de Berensac”
“Oh, of course you must say that!” she interrupted. “But come along, supper is ready. How delightful to have supper again! I’m never in good enough spirits to have supper when I’m alone. You’ll be terribly uncomfortable, gentlemen. The whole household consists of an old man and five women—counting myself.”
“And are they all?” began Gustave.
“Discreet?” she asked, interrupting again. “Oh, they will not tell the truth! Never fear, my dear Gustave!”
“What news of the duke?” asked he, as we began to walk, the duchess stepping a little ahead of us.
“Oh, the best,” said she, with a nod over her shoulder. “None, you know. That’s one of your proverbs, Mr. Aycon?”
“Even a proverb is true sometimes,” I ventured to remark.
We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open. Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished with rose-colored hangings. Here supper was spread. Gustave walked up to the table. The duchess flung herself into an armchair. She had taken her handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and seemed to be biting it. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a comical mixture of amusement and apprehension. A glance of her eyes at me invited me to share the perilous jest, in which Gustave’s demeanor appeared to bear the chief part.
Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.
“One—two—three!” he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.
The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till they almost reached her clustering hair.
“One—two—three?” repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. “Does Claire remain upstairs?”
Appeal—amusement—fright—shame—triumph—chased one another across the eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn’t help it; I began to laugh; the duchess’ face disappeared altogether behind the handkerchief.
“Do you mean to say Claire’s not here?” cried Gustave, turning on her swiftly and accusingly.
The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:
“She left three days ago.”
Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew a chair back from the table, and said:
“If madame is ready”
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look at Gustave’s grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me by the arm, crying:
“Isn’t it fun, Mr. Aycon? There’s nobody but me! Isn’t it fun?”