CHAPTER VI.
Even the card of Lieutenant McVeigh could not annoy her that morning.He came with some message to the dowager from his mother. At any othertime the sound of his name would have made a discord for her. Theprejudices of Judithe were so decided, and so independent of allaccepted social rules, that the dowager hoped when she did choose ahusband he would prove a diplomat--they would need one in the family.
"Madame Blanc, will you receive the gentleman?" she asked. "Maman hasnot yet left her room, and I am engaged."
And for the second time the American made his exit from the Caronestablishment without having seen the woman his friends raved about.Descending the steps he remembered the old saw that a third attemptcarried a charm with it. He smiled, and the smile suggested that therewould be a third attempt.
The Marquise looked at the card he left, and her smile had not so muchthat was pleasant in it.
"Maman, my conjecture was right," she remarked as she entered the roomof the dowager; "your fine, manly American was really the youth of myCarolina story."
"Carolina story?" and the dowager looked bewildered for a moment; whenone has reached the age of eighty years the memory fails for thethings of today; only the affairs of long ago retain distinctness.
"Exactly; the man for whom Rhoda Larue was educated, and of whom youforbade me to speak--the man who bought her from Matthew Loring, ofLoringwood, Carolina."
"You are certain?"
"Here is the name, Kenneth McVeigh. It is not likely there are twoKenneth McVeighs in the same region. How small the world is after all!I used to fancy the width of the ocean was as a barrier between twoworlds, yet it has not prevented these people from crossing, andcoming to our door!"
She sank into a seat, the card still in her hand.
"Judithe," said the dowager, after watching her moody face thoughtfully,"my child, I should be happier if you banished, so far as possible,that story from your memory. It will have a tendency to narrow yourviews. You will always have a prejudice against a class for the wrongdone by an individual. Put it aside! It is a question outside of yourlife, outside of it always unless your sympathies persist in draggingyou into such far-away abuses. We have the Paris poor, if you mustthink and do battle for the unfortunate. And as to the American,consider. He must have been very young, perhaps was influenced byolder heads. He may not have realized--"
The Marquise smiled, but shook her head. "You are eloquent, Maman, butyou do not convince me. He must be very handsome to have won you socompletely in one interview. For me, I do not believe in his ignoranceof the evil nor in his youthful innocence. I think of the women whofor generations have been the victims of such innocence, and I shouldlike to see your handsome young cadet suffer for his share of it!"
"Tah!" and the dowager put out her hand with a gesture of protest anda tone of doubt in her voice. "You say so Judithe, but you could notsee any one suffer, not even the criminal. You would come to hisdefense with some philosophical reason for the sin--some theory ofpre-natal influence to account for his depravity. Collectively youcondemn them; individually you would pardon every one rather than seethem suffer--I mean, than stand by and actually see the suffering."
"I could not pardon that man," insisted the Marquise; "Ugh! I feel asif for him I could have the hand of Judithe as well as the name."
"And treat him a-la-Holofernes? My child, sometimes I dislike thatname of Judithe for you; I do not want you to have a shadow of thecharacter it suggests. I shall regret the name if it carries such darkinfluences with it. As for the man--forget him!"
"With all my heart, if he keeps out of my way," agreed the Marquise;"but if the old Jewish god of battles ever delivers him into myhands--!" She paused and drew a deep breath.
"Well?"
"Well--I should show him mercy such as the vaunted law-giver, thechosen of the Lord, the man of meekness, showed to the conqueredMidianites--no more!" and her laugh had less of music in it thanusual. "I instinctively hate the man, Kenneth McVeigh--KennethMcVeigh!--even the name is abhorrent since the day I heard of thatawful barter and sale. It seems strange, Maman, does it not, when Inever saw him in my life--never expected to hear his name again--thatit is to our house he has found his way in Paris; to our house, wherean unknown woman abhors him. Ah!" and she flung the card from her."You are right, Maman; I am too often conquered by my own moods andfeelings. The American need be nothing to us."
The dowager was pleased when the subject was dropped. She had seen somany battles fought, in theory, by humanitarians who are alive to theinjustice of the world. But her day was over for race questions andcreeds. Judithe was inspiring in her sympathies, but the questionsthat breathe living flame for us at twenty years, have burned intodead ashes at eighty.
"Tah! I would rather she would marry and let me see her children," shegrumbled to Madame Blanc; "if she does not, I trust her to your carewhen I am gone. She is different since we reached Paris--different,gayer, and less of the student."
"But no more in touch with society," remarked the attentive companion;"she accepts no invitations, and goes only to the galleries andtheatres."
"Um!--pictured people, and artificial people! Both have a tendency tomake her an idealist instead of a realist."
To Dumaresque she made the same remark, and suggested he should helpfind attractions for her in real life.
"She is too imaginative, and I do not want her to be of the romanticwomen; the craze for romance in life is what fills the columns of thejournals with new scandals each month."
"Madame Judithe is safe from that sort of romance," declared hergod-son. "Yet with her face and those glorious eyes one should allowher some flights in the land of the ideal. She suggests all old Italyat times, but she has never mentioned her family to me."
"Because it was a topic which both Alain and I forbade her, when shewas younger, to discuss. Naturally, she has not a joyous temperamentand memories of her childhood can only have an unhappy effect, whichaccounts for our decision of the matter. Her father died before shecould remember him, and the mother, who was of Greek blood, not longafter. A relative who arranged affairs left the daughter penniless. Atthe little chateau Levigne she was of great service to me when she wasbut sixteen. Madam Blanc, who tried to reach me in time, declares thechild saved my life. It was a dog--a mad one. I was on the lawn whenhe broke through the hedge, snapped Alain's mastiff, Ponto, and camestraight for me. I was paralyzed with terror; then, just as he leapedat me, the child swung a heavy chair over her head. Tah! She lookedlike a young tigress. The dog was struck helpless, his back broken.The gardener came and killed him, and Ponto, too, was killed, when heshowed that the bite had given him the poison. Ah, it was terrible,that day. Then I wrote Alain and we decided she should never leave us.I made over to her the income of the little Lavigne estate, thus hereducation was carried on, and when we went to Rome--well, Alain wasnot satisfied until he could do even more for her."
The old lady helped herself to snuff and sighed. Her listener wonderedif, after all, that death-bed marriage had been entirely acceptable tothe mother. Some suggestion of his thought must have come to her, forshe continued:
"Not that I disapproved, you must understand. No daughter could bemore devoted. I could not be without her now. But I had a hope--amother's foolish hope--that perhaps it might be a love affair; thatthe marriage would renew his interest in life and thus accomplish whatthe physicians could not do--save him."
"Good old Alain," said Dumaresque, with real feeling in his tones. "Hedeserved to live and win her. I can imagine no better fortune for aman."
"But it was an empty hope, and a sad wedding," continued the dowager,with a sigh. "That was, to her, a day of gloom, which to others isthe one day to look forward to through girlhood and backward to fromold age. Oh, yes; it is not so much to be wondered at that she is acreature of moods and ideals outlined on a background of shadow."
The voice of the Marquise sounded through the hall and up the stairs.She was singing, joying as a bird. The
eyes of the two met, andDumaresque laughed.
"Oh! and what is that but a mood, too?" demanded the dowager; "a moodthat is pleasant, I grant you, and it has lasted longer thanusual--ever since we came to Paris. I enjoy it, but I like to know thereason of things. I guess at it in this case; yet it eludes me."
Dumaresque raised his brows and smiled as one who invites furtherconfidences. But he received instead a keen glance from the old eyes,and a question:
"Loris, who is the man?"
"What! You ask me?"
"There is no other to ask; you know all the men she has met; you arenot a fool, and an artist's eye is trained to observe."
"It has not served me in this case, my god-mother."
"Which means you will not tell. I shall suspect it is yourself if youconspire to keep it from me."
"Pouf! When it is myself I shall be so eager to let it be known thatno one will have time to ask a question."
"That is good," she said approvingly. "I must rest now. I have talkedso long; but a word, Loris; she likes you, she trusts you, andthat--well, that goes far."
And all the morning her assurance made for him hours of brightness.The stranger of Fontainbleau had drifted into the background, andshould never have real place in their lives. She liked and trusted_him_; and that would go far.
He was happy in imagining the happiness that might be, forgetful ofanother lover, one among the poets, who avowed that the happiness ofthe future was the only real happiness of the world.
He was pleased that his god-mother had confided to him these littlefacts of family history. He remembered how intensely eager the dowagerhad been for Alain's marriage, years before, that there might be anheir; and he remembered, in part, the cause--her detestation of afemale relative whose son would inherit the Marquisate should a son beborn to her, and Alain die without children. He could see how eagerlythe dowager would have consented to a marriage with even the poorestof poor relations if both the Marquisate and Alain might be saved byit.
Poor Alain! He remembered the story of why he had remained single; astory of love forbidden, and of a woman who entered a convent because,in the world, she could not live with her lover, and would not livewith the man whose name she bore. It was an old story; she had diedlong ago, but Alain had remained faithful. It had been the one greatpassion he had known of, outside of a romance, and the finale of itwas that the slight girlish protegee was mistress of his name andfortune, though her heart had never beat the faster for his glance.
And the Greek blood doubtless accounted for her readiness of speech indifferent tongues; they were so naturally linguists--the Greeks. Hehad met her first in Rome, and fancied her an Italian. Delaven hadasked if she were not English; and now in the heart of France sheappeared to him entirely Parisian.
A chameleon-like wife might have her disadvantages, he thought, as hewalked away after the talk with his god-mother; yet she would not beso apt as others to bore one with sameness. At nineteen she wascharming; at twenty-five she would be magnificent.
The streets were alive that morning with patriotic groups discussingthe victory of the French troops at Magenta. The first telegrams wereposted and crowds were gathered about them.
Dumaresque passed through them with an unusually preoccupied air. Thena tall man, leaning against a pillar and viewing the crowd, bowed tohim in such a way as to arrest his attention. It was the American, ofthe smiling, half sleepy eyes, and the firm mouth. The combinationappealed to Dumaresque as an artist; also the shape of the head, itwas exceedingly good, strong; even his lounging attitude had the gracesuggestive of strength. He remembered seeing somewhere the head of ayoung lion painted with just those half closed, shadowy eyes.Lieutenant McVeigh was regarding him with something akin to theirwatchfulness, the same slow gaze travelling from the feet to the headas they approached each other; it was deliberate as the measuring ofan adversary, and its finale was a smile.
"Glad to see a man," he remarked. "I have been listening to thejabbering and screeches of the crowd until they seem only manikins."
Dumaresque laughed. "You come by way of England, I believe; do youprefer the various dialects of that land of fog?"
"No, I do not; have a cigar?" Dumaresque accepted the offer. McVeighhimself lighted one and continued:
"Their stuffiness lacks the picturesque qualities possessed by eventhe poorest of France, and then they bore one with their wranglingsfor six-pences, from Parliament down to peasant. They are always at itin Brittania the gem of the ocean, wrangling over six-pences, andhalf-pennies and candle ends."
"You are finding flaws in the people who call you cousin," remarkedthe artist.
"Yes, I know they do," said the other, between puffs. "But I can'timagine a real American helping them in their claims for relationship.Our history gives us no cause for such kindly remembrances."
"Unless on the principle that one has a kindly regard for a man afterfighting with him and not coming out second best," remarkedDumaresque. "I have an errand in the next street; will you come?"
McVeigh assented. They stalked along, chattering and enjoying theircigars until they reached a florists, where Dumaresque produced amemorandum and read off a list of blossoms and greenery to bedelivered by a certain date.
"An affair for the hospitals to be held in the home of Madame Dulac,wife of General Dulac," he explained; "it is to be all very novel, abazaar and a ball. Madame is an old friend of my god-mother, thedowager Marquise de Caron, whom you have met."
McVeigh assented and showed interest.
"We have almost persuaded Madame Alain, her daughter, to preside overone of the booths. Ah! It will be a place to empty one's pockets; youmust come."
"Not sure about invitations," confessed McVeigh, frankly. "It is avery exclusive affair, I believe, and a foreigner will be such adistinctive outsider at such gatherings."
"We will undertake to prevent that," promised Dumaresque, "and in theinterests of charity you will find both dames and demoiselleswonderfully gracious to even a lonely, unattached man. If you danceyou can win your own place."
"Oh, yes; we all dance in our country; some of us poorly, perhaps;still, we dance."
"Good! You must come. I am assisting, after a fashion, in planning thedecorations, and I promise to find you some one who is charming, andwho speaks your language delightfully."
There was some further chat. McVeigh promised he would attend unlesshis mother had made conflicting engagements. Dumaresque informed himit was to be a fancy dress affair; uniforms would be just the thing;and he parted with the American much more pleased with him than in thesalons where they had met heretofore.
Kenneth McVeigh sauntered along the avenue, tall, careless, reposeful.His expression was one of content, and he smiled as he silentlyblessed Loris Dumaresque, who had done him excellent service withoutknowing it--had found a method by which he would try the charm of thethird attempt to see the handsome girl who had passed them that day inthe carriage.
He entered the hotel late that night. Paris, in an unofficial way, wascelebrating the victory of Magenta by shouting around bon-fires,laughing under banners, forming delegations no one remembered, andmaking addresses no one listened to.
Late though it was, Mrs. McVeigh had not retired. From a window shewas looking out on the city, where sleep seemed forgotten, and herbeautiful eyes had a seriousness contrasting strangely with the joyouscelebrations of victory she had been witnessing.
"What is it, mother?" he asked, in the soft, mellow tones of theSouth, irresistible in their caressing qualities. The mother put outher hand and clasped his without speaking.
"Homesick?" he ventured, trying to see her face as he drew a chaircloser; "longing for that twelve-year-old baby of yours? Evilenacertainly would enjoy the hubbub."
"No, Kenneth," she said at last: "it is not that. But I have beenwatching the enthusiasm of these people over a victory they havehelped win for Italy's freedom--not their own. We have questions justas vital in our country; some day they must be settled in t
he sameway; there seems no doubt of it--and then--"
"Then we will go out, have our little pass at each other, and comeback and go on hoeing our corn, just as father did in the Mexicancampaign," he said with an attempt at lightness; but she shook herhead.
"Many a soldier left the corn fields who never came back to them."
"Why, mother, what is it, dear? You've been crying, crying here allalone over one war that is nothing to us, and another that may neverhappen; come! come!" He put his arm about her as if she were a childto be petted. Her head sank on his shoulder, though she still lookedaway from him, out into the brilliantly lighted street.
"It was not the--the political justice or injustice of the wars," sheconfessed after a little; "it was not of that I was thinking. But awoman screamed out there on the street. They--the people--had justtold her the returns of the battle, and her son was among thekilled--poor woman! Her only son, Kenneth, and--"
"Yes, dear, I understand." He drew her closer and lifting her headfrom her lap, placed it on his shoulder. She uttered a tremulouslittle sigh of content. And then, with his arms about her, the motherand son looked out on Paris after a victory, each thinking of theirown home, their own capital cities, and their own vague dread ofbattles to be in the future.
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