Chapter 21 A Girl of High Adventure by L. T. Meade
THE PALACE OF TRUTH
In the morning, the old Comte St. Juste was less feverish, but nevertheless not himself. He had, as he complained, a confused feeling. The world was full of Roses—oh, the most charmantes—and of Clotildes equally divine. They were coming up the avenue in automobiles, they were entering the room, they were sitting with him, they were pouring into his ear the fact that his mission was not accomplished. He had gone to the établissement, but he had not seen the little wonder. He could not rest until he saw her. In vain Margot tried to soothe him. She longed beyond words to quiet his mind by telling him the simple truth—that she was la petite, she was the little wonder of the établissement Marcelle. But when she hinted at such a proceeding to la belle grand'mère, that poor woman gave a cry of bitter horror.
"Thou wilt kill mon Alphonse; thou wilt not be so cruel, thou canst not be so cruel."
"Ah, but I ought, I ought," sobbed Margot.
Madame la grand'mère consulted with the doctor.
"M. le docteur said that if anything was told at the present moment to excite the very old man, it would be his death; if Margot would not promise silence, she must keep out of the room."
"It will soothe him, ma belle grand'mère," cried little Margot.
Nevertheless la Comtesse kept the child from the sick man's room. One hour he grew better, another hour weaker, his strength kept fluctuating; then he began to watch the door.
"It will soon be time for la petite Comtesse to return; I want la petite," he said to his wife.
The distracted woman kept on telling him that she would soon appear; the Comte kept on listening; he fixed his sunken eyes on the clock.
"How soon will the time fly?" he cried impatiently; "how soon will la petite be in these arms?" Poor little Margot was upstairs, struggling with the great despair that had visited her. The dear old man—the dearest old man in all the world except The Desmond—why was she not with him?—how wicked of people to tell lies; she would never tell another. She resolved as soon as she returned to Desmondstown to tell The Desmond also the whole truth.
Toward evening the Comte's temperature went down; it went down to normal—below normal—far below. Madame was thankful, thinking the worst was over.
The old man dropped into a quiet sleep; he looked very aged in that sleep. The doctor came in. Madame exclaimed excitedly:
"Ah, Monsieur le docteur, I have news of the best. His temperature is——"
Then she suddenly stopped speaking—the doctor's face was very grave. He prepared a strong stimulant and forced the old man to swallow it in teaspoonfuls. Then he went into another room with Madame la Comtesse.
"What is the matter?" he said. "Has the child betrayed you?"
"Non, non," replied Madame. "I have put her upstairs, but he thinks she is still at school at Arles—learning, ever learning; dancing, ever dancing; making herself très jolie—ah, that is what he thinks, mon adored one."
"Listen, Madame," said the doctor. "Your husband is ill, very ill indeed. Keep the little one away if you can, but if not, let her go to him. It may be possible that the truth and the truth alone may save him even now. I will come back in two hours. Try to save him from shock, if possible; but behold! if it is necessary, fetch la petite Comtesse."
The doctor departed and Madame went back to her husband's bedside. He was talking in a rambling, feeble way, and kept looking first at the clock and then at the door.
"La petite, she does not arrive," he said suddenly. As suddenly a thought flashed through the mind of la Comtesse.
"She will not be here till late to-night, mon Alphonse," was her reply. "She has been asked to partake of tisane with her cousins, the Marquises Clotilde et Rose. She will have much to tell thee when she does enter thy room."
"Ah," said the poor old Comte feebly, "is she also one of those who overlook the old, the very aged, when they can hardly speak, hardly think? Time flies for us both—ah, ma petite Comtesse, mon ange, I may not be here if thou dost delay. I want her to tell me——"
"What, my unhappy one?" asked his wife.
"All about that wonderful petite who performs such extraordinary feats at the établissement which once was thine, my Ninon."
All of a sudden the heart of Ninon rose in a great wave. It seemed to struggle for utterance. She could scarcely contain herself.
"Harken, mon Alphonse," she said. "I will go myself and see whether the automobile has yet returned."
"Ah, do, my Ninon," replied the Comte. "Thou, at least, hast always been faithful and true—faithful, loving and true. I trust thee to the uttermost."
The poor woman staggered out of the room. She was met by little Margot, who was standing in the passage, and whose face was the colour of a white sheet. Her deep, dark eyes were full of untold misery.
"Belle grand'mère," she began—but grand'mère had no words to express her feelings. She pointed to the door where the sick man lay.
"Thou mayst save him. Thou hast my permission," she said in the lowest whisper; and little Margot with her gentle step entered the darkened room.
She knew at once that it was a trifle too hot. She opened wide one of the French windows; she let in the soft air, which, winter-time as it was in most places, felt like summer here. The old man breathed more easily. He turned on his pillow. He opened his eyes, so very sunken in his head, but they lit up with a joy beyond expression when he saw little Margot.
"Ah, I am weak, mon enfant," he said. "But thou hast come, ma petite. Put thy little hand on mine. There is life in thy little hand; lay it on mine. Ah, ma petite, how greatly do I love thee."
"And I thee, mon grandpère," cried Margot.
"Tell me," said the Comte, after a few minutes' silence, during which Margot had fed him with some of the doctor's restorative—"tell me what thou didst do at the établissement to-day. Didst thou buy a chapeau?—didst thou watch the little wonder as she sold chapeaux and robes for Madame Marcelle?"
"I was not there at all to-day, grandpère."
"Ah, ma petite, but wast thou there yesterday?"
"Mais oui," said Margot.
"And didst thou perchance see the little wonder?"
"I saw her; she is not a wonder."
"Ah, ma petite, be thou not of the jealous ones!" said the old man. "That would not be worthy of thee. Thou hast thy gifts; she has hers. Her chapeaux, they are perfect. Her taste, it is what I never saw before. Tell me about her, chérie."
"I will," said Margot, "if thou, mon grandpère, will let me put both of my hands round one of thine, and if thou wilt promise not to—not to turn me away afterwards."
"Turn thee away, best beloved, it couldn't be."
"Ah, but it might be," said little Margot. "There is a burden on thy mind; there is a—I call it not a fear, but it approaches in the direction of a fear. La petite who sells les chapeaux, les robes and all the other articles of refinement in the établissement, is thine own Margot. Dost thou hear me? I will not keep it back from thee any longer. La pauvre belle grand'mère thought that it was best for thee not to know, but there are cruel people in the world who tried to tell thee, but failed, so now I tell thee. The ladies who came here yesterday were of the cruel sort; the girl in the grass-green hat was of the cruel sort; but thy Margot—thy Margot—mon grandpère, art thou angry?"
"With thee? Mais non—non!" His face was whiter than ever; he could scarcely swallow. After a little he seemed to gather strength.
"Call thy belle grand'mère back to me, Margot," he said.
Margot fetched the poor woman. She came in, trembling from head to foot.
"I have told him; he had to know," whispered Margot.
The old man's eyes were bright now with some of the brightness of yore; his voice was firmer, too.
"Listen, Ninon," he said, "behold! Keep thy hand in mine, Margot, beloved. Ninon, I thought thou wert truthful, and I thought this child truthful, but she, la petite, has told me all the truth at last. I cannot appear before the Great Almighty with the sin of pride on my soul. Behold, now, we are all alike in Heaven; only make me one promise, Ninon. Never again shall this little one enter the établissement of Madame Marcelle, never except to buy."
"She shall not, mon Alphonse," said Ninon, falling at his side and burying her face in the counterpane and beginning to weep.
"Thy tears distress me," said the old man. "Behold la petite, she does not weep."
"I come of those who regard tears as not wise," said Margot; "but, behold! I promise thee, grandpère, I promise with all—all my heart. I will never again sell in the établissement Marcelle."
"Then see! how happy I am," said M. le Comte. "I am in the palace of truth. For a long time I lived in the palace of lies; gorgeous in colour was that palace and very beautiful to the senses, nevertheless it was the palace of lies. Now I breathe the healthy air of truth. Thou hast spoken, mon enfant; thou hast promised, ma Ninon; there is no pride left. For me, I also did wrong. The spirit of pride led me wrong."
"Then, grand'mère, we are all happy together," said Margot; "but see!—do not talk, he has fallen asleep."
The old Comte St. Juste had fallen asleep, and there was a lovely smile, something like that of an angel, on his face. The child and the woman watched him. The doctor came in presently and shook his head. He deliberately took a seat in the room and partly closed the window which Margot had opened.
"The restorative, M. le docteur," cried poor Madame.
"He could not swallow now," said the doctor, "but I will stay; yes, I will stay to the end."
The end came in the early hours of the morning. The old Comte slipped silently, softly and painlessly out of this life into a better one; and poor belle grand'mère cried as though her heart would break, but Margot did not cry. She made wreaths of violets, out of their own garden, to surround him. She was never idle for a moment. She put in his hands the Rose of France.
He had lost the look of age; he had slipped back twenty, even thirty years; but for his white hair, he did not look so very old.
"It is because the angels have kissed him," said little Margot.
Madame wept nearly the whole of the day; but Margot kept quiet, thoughtful, busy. She had much to do for la belle grand'mère.
Toward evening the tired woman lay down and slept; and little Margot sat in the room with her dead grandfather, where the great wax candles were lighted—seven at the head of the bed, and seven at the feet. The room was full of the scent of violets.
"If that is death, I should like to go, too, some day," thought little Margot.
All in a moment, she observed the sweet smile on the lips of the dead man, and there came a lump in her throat. Had she not remembered that she was a Desmond she might have cried; but being a Desmond she kept back her tears.
The servants sat in the passage outside. They were surprised that Margot should like to be alone with the dead; but Margot was without fear because she loved so dearly.
"I am glad I told him," she said once or twice to herself; and then she thought of The Desmond and resolved that she would tell him, too, for lies were not of the Kingdom of God, and she wanted to belong to that kingdom and to that alone. What did a dot matter?—what did riches matter? "Pauvre belle grand'mère," thought the little girl. "I will always uphold her and strengthen her and help her in my little, poor way; but she shall not spend her money on me."
After the funeral the will was read.
Fergus Desmond and Uncle Jacko came over for the service and the after ceremony. Margot was quietly told of the extent of the funds which would be at her disposal when she came of age, or before that if she married. They were her French grandfather's present to his beloved grandchild.
Poor la belle grand'mère looked with anguish at Margot. Margot took her hand.
"I must speak the truth, and now," she said. "Mon grandpère was rich only because of this most dear lady; and I will not take the money, no, not a penny of it. She earned it for him, for him!"
"You cannot refuse," said the notary. "See, there was a deed of gift made to you. The dead would walk if you did refuse;" but Margot said gently and firmly that she did not believe in that sort of thing, for chère grandpère was in the heavenly garden with God, and that anyhow she now meant to make a deed of gift.
All those present turned and stared at her.
"Behold!" she cried. "The dot was arranged for me, who care not for money at all. I give back every farthing of it to la belle grand'mère; and I will come and see her once at least every year; and I love her, for she has a true, brave heart; but now I must go back to The Desmond, for I hear his voice calling me across the waters."
All in vain did la belle grand'mère implore of little Margot not to make the deed of gift for her; to forget her—not to think of her at all; but Margot could never forget, and would never take the money.
In the end her wishes were carried out, and la belle grand'mère returned to the établissement at Arles. The Château St. Juste was shut up for the present, but once every year it was to be opened and filled with servants, and little Margot was to spend a month there with la belle grand'mère. For although she had given up the dot, she could not by any manner of means dispose of the Château St. Juste, which was her direct property, coming to her through her own father and grandfather.