Chapter 6 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
M. LE COMTE
Hannah had certainly managed to say a good deal in this short but pungent lecture, and the immediate consequence was that Mrs. Mansfield was comparatively reasonable when her husband and Fergus saw her next. She confessed that children were a nuisance and if Fergus gave her twenty pounds she wouldn't mind parting with the child.
"It can't he done," said Mansfield firmly.
"Whatever do you mean by that, John Mansfield?"
"Exactly what I say, dear love. The little one has been the joy and blessing of my life. I can never express to this good brother of yours what little Margot has been to me and if I give her up at all, I give her up from a sense of duty, but I won't allow you to receive money for her."
"And right you are, sir, right you are," said Hannah, who came into the room at that moment. "The missus wouldn't touch a brass farthing for the kiddy when she gets over the kind of shock of seeing that fine man her brother. I'll manage her, master dear, you needn't trouble your head."
It so happened that Hannah had her way. She did manage Mrs. Mansfield and, what was more, she got everything in order for her master and Fergus Desmond to start for their expedition to Arles, not that night but on the following morning. How neither of these good gentlemen knew a word of the French tongue, but they did discover by the aid of atlases, etc., the direction in which Arles was situated and they started off on their quest for little Margot's French relations at an early hour the next day.
They arrived at Arles on the following evening and, after making enquiries by means of one of Cook's interpreters, they discovered the Château St. Juste. Arles is a lively and busy place and more than one person watched the singular pair as they passed down an avenue of plane-trees and by-and-bye came to some heavy iron gates, which the said interpreter informed them opened on to the avenue, and eventually led to the Château St. Juste. The interpreter then felt that he had done his duty.
Fergus paid him twenty francs and a sprightly little woman, quite young and very lively, came out of a small and daintily furnished lodge to greet them.
"Ah, but you are Anglais," she said, "it goes without saying. I will take you down to the château if messieurs so desire. Monsieur mon mari is ill, but it matters not—he can talk the English—ah, charmant! He has fallen ill of the accursed grippe, but I nurse him well and he will soon be restored. Come, then, my good messieurs, come for yourselves and see le Comte St. Juste. I am his wife, it goes without saying. He is old and I am young, that also goes without saying. Follow me, messieurs, you will be rewarded when you see all that I have done for the castle. It was in ruins—ah! but I had my dot, chers messieurs. I made my money by means of the chapeaux and the très chic garments for the different fêtes which abound at Arles. Ah, but I made my pile—my pile, and the Comte he worships me, and I myself am la Comtesse. Think you not it was well done, and think you I am ashamed of how I made my dot? Ah, mais non, mais non! The beautiful hats are made for the beautiful youth, the beautiful robes, très distinguées très comme il faut, are also made for the young and lovely, but see! I get my price, the true price—one hundred and fifty francs for one little chapeau, one thousand francs for a robe which might be distinguished in any part of Paris. Ah, think not of it any more. It is over. I am Madame la Comtesse and Monsieur is le Comte and I put the place—ah, into its bridal dress. See! behold! Not a weed, not an entanglement—all of the most spotless. Think what the place was! One raises the eyebrow at the thought, and behold it now! Monsieur the Comte, he is that eaten up with joie that he can scarcely contain himself. Ah, messieurs, have I not done well?"
"You have done very well," said John Mansfield.
The little French lady turned towards him and gave him a sparkling nod.
"You come from the cold Angleterre?" she enquired.
"I live in England and I love that country very dearly," said John Mansfield.
"Ah, and you, monsieur?" the black eyes fixed themselves on the eyes which were almost as black as Fergus Desmond's.
"I come from Ireland," he said. "I have come on a matter of great importance; I wish to speak to your husband, madame."
"Ah, certainement, certainement. Oh, la! la! you shall have your way. But Ireland—Ireland, have you not a name, monsieur?"
"My name is Desmond of Desmondstown," said Fergus in his slow, grave voice.
The little madame gave a sort of bounce in the air.
"Then the day of greatest joy has arrived," she said. "My poor husband, he frets day and night, oh, but he has no reason. He is not ravished as he ought to be with all those good things that I have provided him with. His son, his only son, married! Ah, but it was a Paul and Virginia affair. He married a young Irish lady of beauty the most superb. I know it, for she came here and I sold her a chapeau and a robe. Ah, but you are like her, monsieur—you of Ireland, I mean."
"I am her brother," said Fergus.
"Did I not say it was a day of joy," exclaimed the little Comtesse. "Well, she was beautiful and they loved her all of them, but the Comte, my good husband, he was harassed much because there was not the customary dot, and he made the young m'sieur Henri, the husband of the beautiful madame, angry with bitter words and the young m'sieur he took, yes, he took his wife away. She was like a star for loveliness and then we heard that she had died, and shortly afterwards we got the information that the romantic ideas of mon pauvre mari were never to be fulfilled, for the young Comte died also somewhere in that bitter Angleterre and we lost sight of the good babe that had been put into his hands by his young lovely wife before she departed to le bon Dieu. Ah, but those were sad times! This is the house, messieurs, now we will enter, and I will tell M'sieur le Comte that you have arrived."
The two men were left staring at each other. The château was in truly French style, and although it looked perfectly neat and tidy lacked the air of comfort which John Mansfield's little home possessed, and which was even to be seen in Desmondstown.
After a very short interval Madame appeared again on the scene.
"Alors, je vais vous présenter à l'instant. Follow me, I beg. Rest you here, M'sieur." She pointed to a little lounge in a gaily decorated drawing-room, "and I will take M'sieur, the Irish gentleman, to see my husband. I will bring you l'eau sucrée, tout-de-suite. Now follow me, M'sieur from Ireland."
Fergus Desmond gave his friend a glance of dismay.
"Be sure that all will be well," murmured the Rev. John Mansfield. There was a sort of intense encouragement in the words, and, holding his head very erect and pushing back his fine square shoulders, Fergus followed Madame la Comtesse into a peculiarly arranged salon, which was half a bedroom, half a sitting-room.
On a sofa, supported by many pillows, and covered by a thick crimson plush rug, lay a thin, very old, very worn man. He had all the inimitable grace of his nation, and would have sprung to his feet to put his heels and knees together, and make the necessary bow if Madame had not interrupted him.
"Alphonse, thou naughty one, thou must not rise," she exclaimed. "Rest at thine ease on thy cushions of down, and I will talk to the stranger with the good face in the other room. M'sieur Desmond will divert thee, my little Comte." Here she pressed a light kiss on his forehead and danced out of the room.
The first thing that Fergus felt when he found himself quite alone with the Comte St. Juste was the extraordinary likeness the old man bore to little Margot. It is true that it was a likeness between extreme youth and extreme age. Nevertheless, it was there. The shape of the face, the aristocratic poise of the head were repeated in the old man and the young child. There was a flush of childish pleasure now on the old Comte's cheeks. He spoke in a hurried voice,
"Behold! are you indeed a Desmond?"
"Undoubtedly. I am the eldest son of The Desmond of Desmondstown and in our country 'The' is the proudest of all titles."
"All, ah," said the Comte, "I know it not, I know it not. But see—I speak the English tongue. You doubtless bring me information. I have been long, long pining for my grandchild. Do you know whether the little one born to my Henri was son or daughter? All in vain have I made enquiries, but I have dreamt of that little one, by day and by night. Have you brought me news of her—of him?"
Fergus felt his heart sink within him.
"There is a child," he said, "a daughter. She is not so very young now—she will be twelve in ten months. She is beautiful. She came to us of her own accord and The Desmond wants to keep her."
"Mais non, non," exclaimed the old Comte. "Is she not the child of my son, my only son? And if she is eleven, she will ere long be marriageable. Ho, sir, no, M'sieur Desmond, I will not give her up."
"I thought, sir, we might pay you," began Desmond, who was not very tactful, and longed beyond words to have the clergyman by his side.
The old Comte moved restlessly. He coughed also; he waved his hot hands. At that instant Madame la Comtesse entered, accompanied by the Rev. John Mansfield.
"I have been hearing the story, the romance," she said. "Ah, but it is of the most romantic. See! I deliver myself. Écoutez. These are my words:
"The little Comtesse, for by the French usages she is also a Comtesse, belongs to us, M'sieur Desmond. But we do not wish to be unfair. This is what I propose. Ah, mon Alphonse, I adore thee, yes, hopelessly, incurably, I adore thee to the folly. Sip this iced lemonade, my adoring love, and then listen to the words of a French Comtesse, who knows how exactly to make the words come right, to make the thoughts come quickly, to put the ideas straight. The little one, it seems, belongs both to thee, my adorable Alphonse, and also to the father of this good gentleman from Ireland. Let's divide her, therefore. We have her half the time, and the good Desmond the other half the time, and I begin immediately to make her dot. See, my beloved one, see! Is it not sense? The two grandpapas shake hands over the head of the little one."
"It seems to me the best idea of all," said the Rev. John Mansfield. Now this man had a wonderfully sweet voice, but while he uttered these words, his heart was like lead within him, for while the two grandfathers claimed the possession of little Margot, she was to him the life of life. She was to him the joy of all joy, but not for the world would he interfere with what he knew was right. He thought of a home no longer joyful, blessed, cheerful, merry, and then he pushed that thought out of sight. He was here to mediate, to arrange.
The old Comte gave an impatient sigh.
"I tell thee what it is, my good Ninon," he said. "I have not the secret of eternal youth. I must have my little one soon—at once—or behold I die. These limbs grow cold, this heart ceases to beat. M'sieur Desmond, I will have her now—at once—for three months, then your father of the title so high and proud can have her for three months. Is that not fair, will not that suffice?"
"It is fair and it must suffice," said Fergus.
"Then go, my good M'sieur. Go quickly, I entreat, and return with the bébé to her French home. Will you not go? It will be good for l'enfant, the little Comtesse St. Juste. But hold for one moment, the heart and the head get hopelessly mixed. What dot can we settle on her, Ninon, ma petite?"
"Fifteen hundred thousand francs," replied Ninon without a moment's hesitation, "and when Monsieur the Irishman brings the little Comtesse here, we will have a notary present to sign the agreement, so that on her marriage day she shall be much looked up to, and I myself will arrange the marriage according to the true French style."
"We do not want any dot at all," began Fergus in an angry voice, but John Mansfield rose and interrupted him.
"We will go home at once and fetch the little one so that you may have three months' joy in her society, M'sieur le Comte," he said. "At the end of that time, I will myself fetch her to spend three months with her Irish grandfather."
"That is well," said the Comte; "that is as it ought to be."
"How soon then may we expect the little Comtesse Margot?" said the present Comtesse St. Juste.
"Within a week from now," said Fergus firmly.
"Ah, then, I must be preparing her little wardrobe. Think of that, my adorable Alphonse. The wardrobe of thy little Comtesse. Of what height is she, M'sieur Desmond, and of what breadth and of what colour? My taste is of the rarest. Come with me for one moment all alone, M'sieur Mansfield; you have seen most of her and can describe her best."
She ushered Mr. Mansfield into the salon, which adjoined that of the old Comte.
Mansfield found great difficulty in describing his little angel and Madame did not fail to notice that in spite of every endeavour the tears trembled to his eyes, although on no account would he allow them to fall.
"Oh, la, la! she is beautiful," exclaimed the Comtesse, when his description had come to an end. "Monsieur Englishman you are good. On that point rest assured. You have the distinction of bearing. I note it. I would that you could talk with our parish priest. You live among the high and holy things, M'sieur. Now, then, I have a little secret to impart, I would not tell it to another, but to you, yes, you have the air—the eye so clear and frank. Now, Monsieur, when I married the Comte, he was great with the notion that I, his little Ninon, had given up all the chapeaux and the robes that brought in the money—the francs so numerous that I could make the old place look like it did so long ago, but I did not give up my établissement, m'sieur. Mon Dieu! I could not—I could not live without my gifts—I could not live without my silks and my satins, my lace, all real, I assure you; my opera cloaks, my tortoise-shell ostrich feather fans. No, no, I keep my magasin going, so that I can give a good dot to the little Comtesse, and the old man he knows nothing about it. He must never—never know—must my adorable Alphonse."