A Marriage Under the Terror

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Seigneur!” said Madelon, at the window. “See, Jean Jacques,”—and she nudged that patient man,—“see how he looks at her! Ma foi, I am glad it is not I! And with a face as if it had been cut out of stone, and there he gets in without so much as a touch of the hand, let alone a kiss! Is this the way of it in Paris?”

  “Thou must still be talking, Madelon,” said Jean Jacques, complacently.

  “Well, I should not like it,” shrugged Madelon pettishly.

  “No, I’ll warrant you wouldn’t,” said the miller, with a grin and a hearty kiss.

  At four o’clock the business and pleasure of the market-day were over, and the folk began to jog home again. Aline sat beside Madelon on the empty meal-sacks, and looked about her with a vague curiosity as they made their way through the poplar-bordered lanes, bumping prodigiously every now and then, in a manner that testified to the truth of Madelon’s description of the road.

  It was one of the days that seems to have drawn out all summer’s beauty, whilst keeping yet faint memories of spring, and hinting in its breadth of evening shade at autumn’s mellowness.

  Madelon chattered all the way, but Aline’s thoughts were too busy to be distracted. She thought continually of the smouldering South and its dangers, of the thousand perils that menaced Dangeau, and of the bitter hardness of his face as he turned from her at the last.

  Jean Jacques let the reins fall loose after a while, and turning at his ease, slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and drew her head to his shoulder. Aline’s eyes smarted with sudden tears. Here were two happy people, here was love and home, and she out in the cold, barred out by a barrier of her own raising. Oh! if he had only looked kindly at the last!—if he had smiled, or taken her hand!

  They came over the brow of a little hill, and dipped towards the wooded pocket where Rancy lay, among its trees, watched from half-way up the hill by an old grey stone château, on the windows of which the setting sun shone full, showing them broken and dusty.

  “Who lives in the château?” asked Aline suddenly.

  “No one—now,” returned Jean Jacques; and Madelon broke in quickly.

  “It was the château of the Montenay but a year ago.—Now why dost thou nudge me, Jean Jacques?—A year ago, I say, it was pillaged. Not by our own people, but by a mob from the town. They broke the windows and the furniture, and hunted high and low for traitors, and then went back again to where they came from. There was nobody there, so not much harm done.”

  “De Montenay?” said Aline in a low voice. How strange! So this was why the name of Rancy had seemed familiar from the first. They were of her kin, the De Montenay.

  “Yes, the De Montenay,” said Madelon, nodding. “They were great folk once, and now there is only the old Marquise left, and she has emigrated. She is very old now, but do you know they say the De Montenay can only die here? However ill they are in a foreign place, the spirit cannot pass, and I always wonder will the old Marquise come back, for she is a Montenay by birth as well as by marriage?”

  “Eh, Madelon, how you talk!” said Jean Jacques, with an uneasy lift of his floury shoulders. He picked up the reins and flicked the mare’s plump sides with a “Come up, Suzette; it grows late.”

  Madelon tossed her head.

  “It is true, all the same,” she protested. “Why, there was M. Réné,—all the world knows how she brought M. Réné here to die.”

  “Chut then, Madelon!” said the miller, in a decided tone this time; and, as she pouted, he spoke over his shoulder in a low voice, and Aline caught the words, “Ma’mselle Ange,” whereon Madelon promptly echoed “Ma’mselle” with a teasing inflexion.

  Jean Jacques became angry, and the back of his neck seemed to well over the collar of his blouse, turning very red as it did so.

  “Tiens, Citoyenne Ange, then. Can a man remember all the time?” he growled, and flicked Suzette again. Madelon looked penitent.

  “No, no, my friend,” she said soothingly; “and the Citoyenne here understands well enough, I am sure. It is that my father is so good a patriot,” she explained, “and he grows angry if one says Monsieur, Madame, or Mademoiselle any more. It must be Citizen and Citoyenne to please him, because we are all equal now. And Jean Jacques is quite as good a patriot as my father—oh, quite; but it is, see you, a little hard to remember always, for after all he has been saying the other for nearly forty years.”

  “Yes, it is hard always to remember,” Aline agreed.

  They came down into the shadow under the hill, and turned into the village street. The little houses lay all a-straggle along it, with the inn about half-way down. Madelon pointed out this cottage and that, named the neighbours, and informed Aline how many children they had. Jean Jacques did not make any contribution to the talk until they were clear of the houses, when he raised his whip, and pointing ahead, said:

  “Now we are almost there—see, that is the house, the white one amongst those trees”; and in a moment Aline realised that she was nervous, and would be very thankful when the meeting with Dangeau’s aunts should be over. Even as she tried to summon her courage, the cart drew up at the little white gate, and she found herself being helped down, whilst Madelon pressed her hands and promised to come and see her soon.

  “The Citoyenne Ange knows me well enough,” she said, laughing. “She taught me to read, and tried to make me wise, but it was too hard.”

  “There, there, come, Madelon. It is late,” said the miller. “Good evening, Citoyenne. Come up, Suzette”; and in a moment Aline was alone, with her modest bundle by her side. She opened the gate, and found herself in a very pretty garden. The evening light slanted across the roof of the small white house, which stood back from the road with a modest air. It had green shutters to every window, and green creepers pushed aspiring tendrils everywhere. The garden was all aflash with summer, and the air fragrant with lavender, a tall hedge of which presented a surface of dim, sweet greenery, and dimmer, sweeter bloom. Behind the lavender was a double row of tall dark-eyed sunflowers, and in front blazed rose and purple phlox, carnations white and red, late larkspur, and gilly-flowers.

  Such a feast of colour had not been spread before Aline’s town-wearied eyes for many and many a long month, and the beauty of it came into her heart like the breath of some strong cordial. At the open door of the house were two large myrtle trees in tubs. The white flowers stood thick amongst the smooth dark leaves, and scented all the air with their sweetness. Aline set down her bundle, and went in, hesitating, and a murmur of voices directing her, she turned to the right.

  It was dark after the evening glow outside, but the light shone through an open door, and she made her way to it, and stood looking in, upon a small narrow room, very barely furnished as to tables and chairs, but most completely filled with children of all ages.

  They sat in rows, some on the few chairs, some on the floor, and some on the laps of the elder ones. Here and there a tiny baby dozed in the lap of an older girl, but for the most part they were from three years old and upwards.

  All had clean, shining faces, and on the front of each child’s dress was pinned a tricolour bow, whilst on the large corner table stood a coarse pottery jar stuffed full of white Margaret daisies, scarlet poppies, and bright blue cornflowers. Aline frowned a little impatiently and tapped with her foot on the floor, but no one took any notice. A tall lady with her back to the door was apparently concluding a tale to which all the children listened spellbound.

  “Yes, indeed,” Aline heard her say, in a full pleasant voice,—“yes, indeed, children, the dragon was most dreadfully fierce and wicked. His eyes shot out sparks, hot like the sparks at the forge, and flames ran out of his mouth so that all the ground was scorched, and the grass died.—Jeanne Marie, thou little foolish one, there is no need to cry. Have courage, and take Amelie’s hand. The brave youth will not be harmed, because of the magic sword.—It was all very well for the dragon to spit fire at him, but he could not make him afraid. No, indeed! He raised the gr
eat sword in both hands, and struck at the monster. At the first blow the earth shook, and the sea roared. At the second blow the clouds fell down out of the sky, and all the wild beasts of the woods roared horribly, but at the third blow the dragon’s head was cut clean off, and he fell down dead at the hero’s feet. Then the chains that were on the wrists and ankles of the lovely lady vanished away, and she ran into the hero’s arms, free and beautiful.”

  A long sigh went up from the rows of children, and one said regretfully:

  “Is that all, Citoyenne?”

  “That is all the story, my children; but now I shall ask questions. Félicité, say then, who is the young hero?”

  A big, sharp-eyed girl looked up, and said in a quick sing-song, “He is the glorious Revolution and the dragon.”

  “Chut then,—I asked only for the hero. It is Candide who shall tell us who is the dragon.”

  Every one looked at Candide, who, for her part, looked at the ceiling, as if seeking inspiration there.

  “The dragon is—is—”

  “Come then, my child, thou knowest.”

  “Is he not a dragon, then?” said Candide, opening eyes as blue as the sky, and quite as devoid of intelligence.

  “Little stupid one,—and the times I have told thee! What is it, then, that the glorious Revolution has destroyed?”

  She paused, and half a dozen arms went up eagerly, whilst as many voices clamoured:

  “I know!”—“No, ask me!”—“No, me, Citoyenne!”—“No, me!”—“Me!”

  “What! Jeanne knows? Little Jeanne Marie, who cried? She shall say. Tell us, then, my child,—who is the dragon?”

  Jeanne looked wonderfully serious.

  “It is the tyranny of kings, is it not, chère Citoyenne?”

  “Very good, little one. And the lovely lady, who is the lovely lady?”

  “France—our beautiful France!” cried all the children together.

  Aline pushed the door quite wide and stepped forward, and as she came into view all the children became as quiet as mice, staring, and nudging one another.

  At this, and the slight rustle of Aline’s dress, Ange Desaix turned round, and uttered a cry of surprise. She was a tall woman, soft and ample of arm and bosom, with dark, silvered hair laid in classic fashion about a very nobly shaped head. Her skin was very white and soft, and her hazel eyes had a curious misty look, like the hollows of a hill brimmed with a weeping haze that never quite falls in rain. They were brooding eyes, and very peaceful, and they seemed to look right through Aline and away to some place of dreams beyond. All this was the impression of a moment—this, and the fact that the tall figure was all in white, with a large breast-knot of the same three-coloured flowers as stood in the jar. Then the motherly arms were round Aline, at once comfortable and appealing, and Mlle Desaix’ voice said caressingly, “My dear niece, a thousand welcomes!”

  After a moment she was quietly released, and Ange Desaix turned to the children.

  “Away with you, little ones, and come again to-morrow. Louise and Marthe must give up their bows, but the rest can keep them.”

  The indescribable hubbub of a party of children preparing for departure arose, and Ange said smilingly, “We are late to-day, but on market-day some are from home, and like to know the children are safe with me.”

  As she spoke a little procession formed itself. Each child passed before Mlle Desaix, and received a kiss and a smile. Two little girls looked very downcast. They sniffed loudly as they unpinned their ribbon bows and gave them up.

  “Another time you will be wise,” said Ange consolingly; and Louise and Marthe went out hanging their heads.

  “They chattered, instead of listening,” explained Mlle Desaix. “I do not like punishments, but what will you? If children do not learn self-control, they grow up so unhappy.”

  There was an alluring simplicity in voice and manner that touched the child in Aline. To her own surprise she felt her eyes fill with tears—not the hot drops which burn and sting, but the pleasant water of sympathy, which refreshes the tired soul. On the impulse she said:

  “It is good of you to let me come here. I—I am very grateful, chère Mademoiselle.”

  Ange put a hand on her arm.

  “You will say ‘ma tante,’ will you not, dear child? Our nephew is dear to us, and we welcome his wife. Come then and see Marthe. She suffers much, my poor Marthe, and the children’s chatter is too much for her, so I do not take them into her room, except now and then. She likes to see little Jeanne sometimes, and Candide, the little blue-eyed one. Marthe says she is like Nature—unconsciously stupid—and she finds that refreshing, since like Nature she is so beautiful. But there, the child is well enough—we cannot all be clever.”

  Mlle Desaix led the way through the hall and up a narrow stair as she spoke. Outside a door on the landing above she paused.

  “But where, then, is Jacques—the dear Jacques?”

  “After all he could not come,” said Aline. “His orders were so strict,—‘to press on without any delay,’—and if he had lost the diligence, it would have kept him twenty-four hours. He charged me with many messages.”

  “Ah,” said Mlle Ange, “it will be a grief to Marthe. I told her all the time that perhaps he would not be able to come, but she counted on it. But of course, my dear, we understand that his duty must come first—only,” with a sigh, “it will disappoint my poor Marthe.”

  She opened the door as she spoke, and they came into a room all in the dark except for the afterglow which filled the wide, square window. A bed or couch was drawn up to the open casement, and Aline took a quick breath, for the profile which was relieved against the light was startlingly like Dangeau’s as she had seen it at the coach window that morning.

  Ange drew her forward.

  “See then, Marthe,” she said, “our new niece is come, but alas, Jacques was not able to spare the time. Business of the Republic that could not wait.”

  Marthe Desaix turned her head with a sharp movement—a movement of restless pain.

  “How do you do, my dear niece,” she said, in a voice that distinctly indicated quotation marks. “As to seeing, it is too dark to see anything but the sky.”

  “Yes, truly,” said Ange; “I will get the lamp. We are late to-night, but the tale was a long one, and I knew the market folk would be late on such a fine evening.”

  She went out quickly, and Aline, coming nearer to the window, uttered a little exclamation of pleasure.

  “Ah, how lovely!” she said, just above her breath.

  The window looked west through the open end of the hollow where Rancy lay, and a level wash of gold held the horizon. Wing-like clouds of grey and purple rested brooding above it, and between them shone the evening star. On either side the massed trees stood black against the glow, and the scent of the lavender came up like the incense of peace.

  Marthe Desaix looked curiously at her, but all she could see was a slim form, in the dusk.

  “You find that better than lamplight?” she asked.

  “I find it very beautiful,” said Aline. “It is so long since I saw trees and flowers, and the sun going down amongst the hills. My window in Paris looked into a street like a gutter, and one could only see, oh, such a little piece of sky.”

  As she spoke Ange came in with a lamp, which she set beside the bed; and immediately the glowing sky seemed to fade and recede to an immeasurable distance. In the lamplight the likeness which had startled Aline almost disappeared. Marthe Desaix’ strong, handsome features were in their original cast almost identical with those of her nephew, but seen full face, they were so blanched and lined with pain that the resemblance was blurred, and the big dark eyes, like pools of ink, had nothing in common with Dangeau’s.

  Aline herself was conscious of being looked up and down. Then Marthe Desaix said, with a queer twist of the mouth:

  “You did not live long in Paris, then?”

  “It seemed a long time,” said Aline. “It seems yea
rs when I try to look back, but it really is n’t a year yet.”

  “You like the country?”

  “Yes, I think so,” faltered Aline, conscious of having said too much.

  “Poor child,” said Ange. “It is sad for you this separation. I know what you must feel. You have been married so short a time, and he has to leave you. It is very hard, but the time will pass, and we will try and make you happy.”

  “You are very good,” said Aline in a low voice. Then she looked and saw Mlle Marthe’s eyes gazing at her between perplexity and sarcasm.

  When Aline was in bed, Ange heard her sister’s views at length.

  “A still tongue’s best, my Ange, but between you and me”—she shrugged her shoulders, and then bit her lip, as the movement jarred her—“there is certainly something strange about ‘our new niece,’ as you call her.”

  “Well, she is our nephew’s wife,” said Ange.

  “Our nephew’s wife, but no wife for our nephew, if I’m not much mistaken,” returned Marthe sharply.

  “I thought she looked sweet, and good.”

  “Good, good—yes, we’re all good at that age! Bless my soul, Ange, if goodness made a happy marriage, the devil would soon have more holidays than working days.”

  “Ma chérie, if any one heard you!”

  “Well, they don’t, and I should n’t mind if they did. What I do mind is that Jacques should have made a marriage which will probably break his heart.”

  “But why, why?”

  “Oh, my Angel, if you saw things under your nose as clearly as you do those that are a hundred years away, you would n’t have to ask why.”

  “I saw nothing wrong,” said Ange in a voice of distress.

  “I did not say the girl was a thief, or a murderess,” returned Marthe quickly. “No, I’ll not tell you what I mean,—not if you were to ask me on your knees,—not if you were to beg it with your last breath.”