CHAPTER VIII.
POPPING THE QUESTION.
On the following day, true to his word, the O'Hoolohan Roe might be seenpulling the bell at the door of No. 39, in the Rue de la VieilleEstrapade. He was elaborately got up in a suit of brand-new garments ofblue cloth, which did not fit his short, stout form too nicely. He hadbought them at a cheap slop warehouse, and doubtless paid more than hewould have been asked at one of the modest, humdrum establishments whereclothes are made to wear as well as sell. His hat was new and glistenedin the sunshine, for the day was one of those pet days which surprise usin early spring; in his gloved hands (yes, absolutely gloved) heflourished a silver-headed Malacca cane; on his broad breast were rangedin rainbow row, under a nosegay, perhaps a little too large, thevari-coloured ribbons of innumerable decorations. He marched up thestaircase with a firm, a pretentiously firm step, until he reached thecorridor, off which lay the apartment of Captain Chauvin; and then hestopped and listened. The tinkle-tinkle of a piano, lightly touched onthe treble, reached his ears through the keyhole. He halted andblushed--searched in the back-pockets of his new coat for hishandkerchief--drew it out and vehemently rubbed his face. His facelooked hot; the application of the handkerchief seemed to make ithotter. When he put back his handkerchief, a waft of perfume rested onthe air. Scarcely had he restored it to his pocket, when his hand soughtthe pocket again. What! can he be going to display it anew? How fidgetythe man looks! No; that is not the loud-patterned square of cambric,three horses' heads printed on its corner, which he brings forth thistime, but--it can hardly be believed--an oval pocket-mirror. He inspectshis hot, red face in its disk, goes through the motion of raising hisshirt-collar, brushes back his hair, replaces his hat on his head, andthe mirror in his pocket, and coughs.
'Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens.'
What it is to be in love!
Hist!--he speaks. Is he formulating the compliments he is about to make?No; he soliloquizes, and in what a curt, unnatural voice--a shamefacedvoice! Listen:
'I'm a fool. Rather lead a forlorn hope!'
And then he raps at the door with a desperate audacity, with the air ofa man who had nerved himself to something heroic.
The door swung back on its hinges, and the tall brunette, with the proudmelancholy face, she who was like to the dead Marguerite, stood beforehim. She did not know him at first, so completely had love and the newsuit of clothes transformed him.
'Good-morning, ma'amselle; how is grandfather?'
Old Chauvin, who was seated in his armchair beside Berthe at the piano,rose at the sound of the voice, and, advancing to the door, grasped himby both hands and drew him into the middle of the room.
'Welcome, welcome, my Irish friend; I was afraid you had forgotten us. Iwas with Monsieur O'Hara, and he did not know your address, or I wouldhave called on you in person to render you my thanks for your present tomy little Song-bird. See, she was practising one of your plaintive airsas you entered. What a world of sadness is in your Irish music! It islike the sighing of the wind through a lonely forest in the night-time.'
The O'Hoolohan Roe approached the piano. A richly-bound volume of Gaelicmusic, a harp rising in golden relief from its ground of green on thecover, lay before Berthe. The page at which it was open was headed, inilluminated letters, _Eiblin-a-ruin_. The white neck of the maidensuffused with a delicate pink, such a pink as we see sometimes colouringthe sea-shell, at the undisguised glance of admiration of the Irishman.She tossed up her pretty head, looking so classic under its canopy ofchestnut hair, and regarded him with frank eyes as he began to speak. Itwas too much for the O'Hoolohan Roe; he was not proof against woman'sgaze; he got embarrassed, stuttered in the middle of some phrase ofcongratulation about the correctness of her taste, and finally fell back_hors de combat_. To add to his confusion, there was a traitorous crashas he flopped down in a chair--the hand-mirror in his back-pocket wasbroken! She followed him with an arch, wicked smile; her brown eyeswilfully sparkled, and a line of ivory showed itself between the cherrybordering of her lips.
It was a critical moment. But the _esprit Fran?ais_ is not wanting iningenuity. It is equal to every occasion.
'Shall I play this beautiful air for our kind friend, grandfather? It isa poor way to show my gratitude, but it is the best and only way Ihave.'
The O'Hoolohan Roe opened a sentence which, we dare say, might have beenvery eloquent had it been completed, but unluckily a severe fit ofcoughing arrested him mid-way, and necessitated the production of theperfumed handkerchief.
'Do, dear,' said Captain Chauvin.
'I am in love with it; I think I could almost play it in the dark.'
The O'Hoolohan Roe seemed as if he would have no particular objection toa nether darkness--a darkness that would shut out his presence even fromhimself--falling on the scene.
Berthe commenced playing. The spirit of music lives and moves and hasits being in the Gaelic air, and she played as one who felt, admired,and held communion with that spirit--not with her fingers merely, butwith her soul, a beautiful, sensitive, emotional soul. The chordsthrilled like sentient creatures, and voiced their melodious plaints,now one by one, now in murmuring volume, until the very atmosphere waslanguid with the melting sweetness, and the pathetic notes stole out bythe flowers and the enraptured throstle in the window to soar upwards tothe clouds.
The O'Hoolohan Roe listened entranced. As the last note died away hegrew more fidgety than ever, and moved about uneasily in his chair. Theperfumed handkerchief was scarcely ever out of his hand. Evidently, hewas endeavouring to screw his courage to the sticking-place.
The brunette, ostensibly busy over an embroidery-frame, watched him withan amused look. Berthe toyed with the keys of the piano.
'Captain Chauvin,' he began at last, 'I have something important to sayto you--something private.'
The brunette rose and left for the inner room. Berthe was preparing tofollow her, but the Irishman, whose courage fortunately appeared tore-assert itself as the emergency neared, interposed.
'Stay, ma'amselle,' he said; ''tis of you I would talk; perhaps I maywant your assistance.'
She sank back in her seat with a puzzled look, regarded him a moment,and reddened with the characters of virgin modesty. Why? The quickinstinct of woman had divined the meaning of his visit in hiscountenance. She was not displeased; who could be displeased atdiscovering that they are loved? As Berthe turned her eyes from thisrobust, square-built man, in the palmy vigour of his manhood, and feltthat he, so strangely weak and confused at sight of her, did indeedtruly, passionately love her with the force of his sanguine temperament,there was a pit-a-pat under her bosom which made it visibly undulate;the blood rose to tropic heat in her veins and poured its tell-tale tidein rosy current over her neck and arms. She was loved--ineffablehappiness for woman! Could she help loving in return? There is ayearning in every female breast for sympathy, a sense of void to befilled. Her na?ve purity could not refuse the gift she had long desired,long dreamed of; she filled with a gladness which she averted her faceto conceal.
'Captain Chauvin,' resumed the Irishman, 'you have been a soldier.'
The old Frenchman bowed acquiescence.
'So have I. You have fought under many generals?'
'I fought under the greatest master of war France ever produced, or theworld ever crowned with glory!' and the aged voice swelled and the agedeye brightened.
'Did you ever remark that, while some would be cautiously laying theirparallels and making all the preparations of military science to take afortified town, others would trust to luck, rush to the attack at once,and seize the citadel by storm? The gods often favour audacity.'
'The audacity of genius--such audacity as Napoleon possessed. Oh! Iadmire the brave man who rushes forward boldly to his aim.'
The O'Hoolohan Roe was getting more at ease; a smile might even bedetected lurking at the corners of his mouth.
'The soldier's life is not always happy, captain; the camp and thebarrack have their
excitement, but there is a--a--a sort of anemptiness.'
'Alas! yes,' and the old man sighed and carried his hand to his face.'Alas! yes'--he brushed away something from the neighbourhood of hiseye; 'these pestering flies, how early in the season they come thisyear! Here is one has got under my lashes and brings the water down mycheeks. We were speaking about the soldier's life. Have you ever readMichelet's treatise on Love?'
The voice was broken.
'Never.'
The O'Hoolohan was beginning to be curiously fidgety again.
'I have been reading it these latter days. A wise, affectionate bookwritten by a wise, affectionate man. It was in it I found an Indianmaxim referred to which says _la femme c'est la maison_: "the wife isthe home." There, sir, you have the whole philosophy of the soldier'sunsatisfying life. He has no home; he wants the wife to make it.'
The old man buried his face in his hands.
There was a long pause, during which Berthe, agitated at the turn theconversation had taken, could count the throbbing of her pulse. Hergrandfather, no longer able to dissemble his anguish, silently nursedhis grief in the cradle of memory. The suitor, who had been craftilyleading up the dialogue to the avowal he wished, yet feared to make, ifhis face were index, was a prey to a violent mental struggle. At length,with an effort, which made itself physically perceptible in a jump onhis chair, he broke the silence:
'Captain Chauvin, you're listening. About this private business I wouldspeak with you.'
The old man raised his head.
'You have a grand-daughter.'
Berthe tried to rise from her seat, but found herself unable. Poor,pretty creature, she had miscalculated her strength. She had yet tolearn that there are other feelings that can rob the limbs of theirfunctions than terror or ecstasy of joy.
The Irishman resumed:
'I want a wife. _Voil? toute l'affaire!_'
Sure never was a maiden wooed in such a fashion; sure never was a handso demanded. 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' saith the proverb, andthere is truth in it. The old man looked from his visitor to Berthe, andfrom Berthe to his visitor.
'You have an open face,' he said at length; 'you have been a soldier,and I trust a soldier's honour not to betray the confidence of acomrade. I feel that I am getting old, and my Song-bird will want aprotector. You would guard her----'
'As the apple of my eye.'
'You can guard her?'
'I would not lead those I love on the path of misery.'
'Seek your answer from the child herself; I can read it already.'
Gently the strong man approached the girl, reverently almost, as onewould approach a sanctuary. He laid his hand on the soft wavy surface ofher chestnut hair, and in a voice whose soldierly firmness was modulatedto gentlest coaxing persuasion he whispered:
'Darling, I wait on thee. Wilt thou accept the hand of an honest man?'Tis rough, but there is no stain of dishonour upon it.'
'_J'accepte!_' murmured the girl in reply, and raised her face aglowwith passionate trustfulness to his, and as he imprinted the kiss ofbetrothal on those candid lips, innocent of contact with man's lipsbefore, the door of the inner room opened, and the brunette, who hadbeen reared with Berthe, worn out probably with waiting for her littlefriend, stood transfixed, a picture of amazement, on its threshold.
Mated from the Morgue: A Tale of the Second Empire Page 8
