Chapter VII: Lucienne Laughs and Cries

“Je t’ai vue au temps des lilas,
Ton jeune cœur venait d’éclore,
Et tu disais, ‘Je ne veux pas,
Je ne veux pas qu’on m’aime encore !’
Qu’as-tu fait depuis mon départ?
Qui part trop tôt revient top tard. . . .”
—ALFRED DE MUSSET.

The high roofs of the three pavilions of the Tuileries once more peered at Gilbert as for the second time that day he made his way towards the Cour du Carrousel. A huddle of buildings—hotels, barracks, livery-stables, dependencies of all kinds—screened the great court from the passers-by; and having threaded his way through these the Marquis, whose goal was not now the royal apartments, directed his steps to the extreme left-hand wing of the palace, the Pavillon de Flore. Here, on the ground floor, were the rooms of Madame de Lamballe, and above her dwelt the King’s sister, to whose apartments Château-Foix, presenting his card of entry to the sentinel, was presently admitted by the Escalier de la Reine.

The room in which he waited for Lucienne was the same in which his cousin had brought her violets on a winter’s day six months ago. Now a pleasant sunlight filtered into it through the striped blinds, and it was full of the scent of roses. Among the pictures on the walls hung two portraits, both of women, and the Marquis guessed them to be those of Madame de Raigecourt and Madame de Bombelles, the Princess’ friends. This fact, and the presence of a little bronze crucifix standing on a table which bore a few books of devotion stamped with the arms of France, led him to suppose the room to belong to Madame Elisabeth herself. A half-finished piece of needlework lying on a chair somehow recalled Lucienne. All the shelter and refinement of the place, this very piece of embroidery, the roses and the sunlight, affected Gilbert with an odd sense of the contrast with his own uneasiness. They spelt security; yet its occupants must know—who better?—that the room had no such claim. It was but eleven days since the 20th of June.

On that thought the Marquis found himself at the window. The great garden which it overlooked was deserted, as usual; yet, away on the other side, at right angles to the palace, he could see the terrace of the Feuillants swarming with people. Nothing, he knew, but a trivial bit of ribbon stretched between two chairs kept the crowd from overflowing into the garden of the Tuileries. But the ribbon was symbolic; moreover, it proclaimed those green alleys accursed—the “country of Coblentz,” the “black forest.” Nobody but the Royal Family, accursed too, and for whose sake they were banned, walked in them now.

Gilbert sighed and turned away. What would be the end of it all? Not indeed that he had much thought to spare at the moment for the fate of France; his present preoccupations were Louis, with his reckless loyalty, and Lucienne, with her clinging to her royal mistress. . . . And that step in the corridor must be hers.

When Madame Vigée-Lebrun, about three years before, was painting Lucienne’s portrait, she had remarked to the Comtesse d’Aucourt that the girl was like a wood-nymph, and that she wished she had painted her as Daphne or Procris. And if a wood-nymph be a creature set apart from human passions—which is doubtful—then the term well represents the aspect under which his affianced bride appeared to the Marquis de Château-Foix also. For the last few years Lucienne had seemed to him a sort of elemental creature, a being fresh from the hands of nature, to be reverenced because she was so extraordinarily untouched and innocent. In those dark hours which he had known, and still knew, when the problem of existence weighed heavily upon him, Lucienne with her goodness and her beauty was always the one glimmer which never failed him, the one little star, free from all taint of passion and raised above the possibility of pollution, which swung clear of the mists in which he sometimes walked.

But, in truth, Lucienne was no elemental being of the sort. Her training had rendered it impossible. On the very lovable characteristics which were hers by nature Madame d’Aucourt, no mean architect, had superimposed a structure designed indeed to show them to the best advantage, but not intrinsically meritorious. She had a little exploited her daughter’s charm. And the result of the Comtesse’s example and training was that to some people the girl seemed to live in a series of pictures. Lucienne was herself quite innocent of any artistic intentions, but she constantly caused other people to see her, in memory or in imagination, in pictures too. Gilbert had a whole gallery of such compositions.

He had occasion at once to add a fresh canvas to his collection as the door opened now, and she came in. The whiteness of the soft dress she wore, the pallor of the rose drooping in the folds of her kerchief—a rose no whiter than her own long throat with its narrow band of black ribbon—the lovely freshness of her cheek, the poise of her head with its shining burden, the smile on her beautiful mouth—all these Gilbert suddenly saw anew, as for the first time, and was aware of a strange and dizzying sensation.

In another moment he was bending over her hand.

“I know why you have come,” said the girl’s delicious voice above him, alive with the very spirit of youth. “You all seem very anxious to get rid of me!” And she laughed—a trickle of clear merriment.

“Let me look at you!” he exclaimed. He held her wrists prisoner for a moment, and then drew her down to a sofa. “What you must have gone through—what you must have gone through!” he repeated. “I can’t think how I ever let you remain here! No, I ought never to have done it!” He had a sudden flashing vision of this exquisite creature, so nearly his, at bay in a window in the palace, insulted, frightened, helpless. . .

The momentary mirth died out of Lucienne’s eyes, and her mouth took on the shadow of a pout.

“But, Gilbert, I always asked you to leave me here. It was what I wanted. I don’t want to go even now. The Princess——”

“Yes, I know, my darling,” interrupted Château-Foix. “It is just like you. But I ought never to have done it. However, it is no good talking about it. The Princess had more sense than I have had, in making arrangements for you to go to England. I shall not know a moment’s peace till you are out of this horrible place.”

The smile came back to Lucienne’s mouth, “Oh, it wasn’t so bad as that!” she said, not very truthfully. “I—we—were quite safe, really. And we have got used to seeing the _sans-culottes_ about by this time.”

But his betrothed’s treatment of the crisis seemed very far from reassuring the Marquis. His face grew still graver, his clasp of her hands closer, his voice more charged with feeling. “Lucienne, you must never go through such things again. You don’t know what you are to me. Do you realise in the least, I wonder, how I think of you—how I see you down at Chantemerle, in the morning, perhaps, when I go round the home-farm, or when I ride alone along the lanes. And all the time——” His voice changed. “If I had seen you in reality, here, in this, I could not have respected your mother’s wish, and waited. . . . And now we have waited too long, and I have got to send you away.”

He broke off abruptly, loosed her hands, sprang up and went to the window. A fire which he had never guessed at ran along his nerves, strung as they were by anxiety and excitement. She was no longer the creature removed above the sphere of emotion; she was a woman, beautiful, adorable—and his! He swung round from the window, stood in front of her, and holding out his arms said in a shaken but imperious voice: “Come here, Lucienne!”

And when Lucienne had got up from the sofa—blindly, almost as if she did not know what she was doing, he folded her passionately in his arms, and kissed her again and again, till she hid her face on his breast, and he discovered that she was crying.

At that he kissed her hair. “Why are you crying, darling?” he asked tenderly. “You are quite safe now.”

She pushed with her little hands against his breast, trying to free herself. “Don’t, don’t—you frighten me!”

He loosed her instantly, thinking what a selfish brute he was, and she—how untouched a lily! “I didn’t mean to frighten you, dear. But there’s nothing to be frightened of. See—let us sit down again and talk quietly. You must never be afraid of me, Lucienne.” And he got her gently back to the sofa, where she sat leaning against his shoulder, with her handkerchief to her eyes and her sobs growing gradually fainter, while, reproaching himself for his want of consideration, he talked of he knew not what. “The Princess was telling me yesterday how brave you have been.”

“I haven’t been brave.” She choked down a sob. “But I wish I could stay. If you knew how Madame Elisabeth——”

“Yes, dearest; but surely you would not wish to add to the burdens she carries already. Besides, you belong to me a thousand times more than to her. If only I could take you back with me!”

“Couldn’t you?” came in a very small, low voice.

“My darling, it’s impossible. Affairs are much too critical just now, in Vendée. And that is why I cannot even go with you to England. But I shall send Louis in my place, to escort you and Madame Gaumont.”

At that she started away from her support as if galvanised. “Louis!” she exclaimed. “Oh no, he must not come!”

Gilbert turned his head and looked at her in surprise. “Why not? Surely you would be glad to have him if it can be managed?”

“Oh, but I am sure he could not leave the King. Do not ask him; I am sure he ought not to come!” All traces of tears had vanished.

He was still surprised, but rather pleased at her independence, and said, smiling: “You seem to rate Louis’ protection of his Majesty rather highly, dearest. As a matter of fact, Louis appears to have been doing the same thing himself, and I should therefore be only too glad to find a reason cogent enough to get him out of Paris at once.”

Gilbert was partly conscious indeed of the somewhat startled gaze which Lucienne turned on him at these words, but he was wholly ignorant of the sick horror which mounted to the girl’s heart as he went on. “I suppose you have not seen much of him recently? I am rather anxious about him; he has been dabbling a little too freely in politics of late.”

For an instant the room went round—but not to Gilbert. Then she asked breathlessly: “Politics? What sort of politics?”

The sharp anxiety in her voice warned the Marquis that he was alarming her. “Oh, just one of the usual Royalist schemes, rather more hare-brained than usual—but I hope—— It is all right, darling, there is no need to be alarmed; Louis is always lucky. And now I must go.”

Lucienne rose too, and hearing some one say in indifferent tones, “I hope he is in no real danger,” supposed that it was she herself who spoke.

“No; I think it has been stopped in time,” answered Château-Foix not very reassuringly. There was a talk after that in Lucienne’s ears about final arrangements, and of seeing her at Madame Gaumont’s house, whither she was to go to-morrow. Then came good-bye, and a kiss which now she hardly felt. At last the door shut, and she was left alone.

* * * * * *

She sat there without moving, her hands locked together in her lap, suffering horribly. The flame which Louis de Saint-Ermay had lighted still burnt for him alone; wanting in depth as she might be, the girl was not of those who, after the first awakening of love, care not very greatly to whom they dedicate the flame. The emergence of the lover in Gilbert only terrified her; she did not take it for a tribute. Six months ago, in this very room, she had known another embrace; had sat on this very sofa, with her head on Louis’ shoulder, trying to reconcile herself to the bitter sacrifice which they must make for the sake of honour, and of the man who had a right to hold her in his arms. And almost impossible though the sacrifice had seemed at times, Lucienne had never lifted a finger to bring Saint-Ermay back. She was capable of renunciation—if only she had some one to help her. Her mistress, whom she adored, had been her support; it was the Princess’s strength that had upheld her all these six months. Lucienne had confided to Madame Elisabeth the whole episode, and the Princess, seeing that Lucienne was anxious to do right, had comforted and counselled her, and kept her on those heights which are more easy of first attainment than of permanent occupation. It never occurred to either of them—so binding did they consider a betrothal—that, putting aside the suffering caused to Lucienne and to her lover, the girl would be doing the Marquis a wrong to marry him when her heart could never be his. Meanwhile Lucienne was faithful to the course that she had laid down for herself, and she had never seen Louis alone again; indeed, as there was now no properly constituted court, they met seldom under any circumstances. The last encounter had been on the memorable day of the invasion of the mob, when he had made a rampart of his body for her safety. And to be so close to him for so long had transformed that day of terror—at least in memory—from an ordeal to a regretted joy.

Lucienne did not move even when the door was quietly opened, and a voice said gently, “My child, has Monsieur le Marquis gone?” and when, receiving no answer, the speaker came into the room—a clear-complexioned lady of twenty-eight or thereabouts, with a carriage at once dignified and graceful—Madame Philippine-Marie-Hélène-Elisabeth de France, the King’s sister. Lucienne rose mechanically as she came towards her, and turned on her mistress a pale, strained face. The Princess, with a long look at her, took the girl by the hands, and Lucienne without a word of explanation broke out: “Madame, give me some of your strength! Oh, I promise you, I promise you I will be brave——”

“I know you will,” said Madame Elisabeth gently, sitting down on the sofa and drawing Lucienne down with her. “And you do not need my strength. You have plenty of your own, and you will know better how to use it by and by. Dear little one,” she went on, kissing her on the forehead, “you have made me very happy to-day, and M. de Château-Foix, he is happy too. England is not far away, and we shall know that you are in safe keeping until . . . until happier days come for France.”

Lucienne hardly seemed to heed her words. She was staring straight in front of her as she leant forward with her hands clasped. “I will tell you what happened,” she said in slow, dry tones. “He was very kind to me, and he was very strong, so that it was rest to be with him.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Somehow or other I knew that it was different from anything before, and I knew that he loved me, and I was afraid. But I was almost glad to be afraid, too; for I thought that perhaps one day he might make me forget, and make me love him. And then he is so good; he spoke of Louis—of the Vicomte de Saint-Ermay—taking me to England, and I told him that the Vicomte could not leave the King, and that he must not ask him, for again I was afraid, but that was a different kind of fear. And then—and then——” She turned to the Princess. “How can I tell you? He said that M. de Saint-Ermay was involved in some political scheme, and I thought my heart would have stopped beating, for from the way he spoke I saw that it means danger—perhaps worse—to Louis. In that moment I knew that I should never be able to tell myself that all which passed in the winter had been but a girl’s fancy, for I knew—God forgive me—I knew that I loved Louis, so that I could die for him, and that whatever happened I was his altogether . . . always!” She stopped, and turned a frightened look on her companion, and then with a cry, “What have I said! what have I said!” she burst into a passion of weeping.

At Lucienne’s last words Madame Elisabeth had raised her hand in silent protest, for she could not find words before what seemed to her one of pain’s mysteries—unhappy love, ashamed at its own articulate confession. Every trace of self, of private sorrow or of remembrance of personal danger had left the Princess, for hers was one of those rare natures which can really identify themselves with another’s grief. To all who suffered her love and her pity went out unasked, but for those of her own family, and for those who for special reasons claimed her affection, she was more than ready to be spent and offered. On Lucienne in particular she had lavished all the affection of her tender and generous heart. But at this moment the Princess felt instinctively that she was going to fail Lucienne, and the knowledge was very bitter to her. Lucienne was looking to her for understanding, and she could not give it. The suffering, as suffering, called out her sympathy, but its nature was incomprehensible. The saints see with clearness that what the world calls suffering is not always misery, and that what the world calls happiness is not always joy, and are separated by this knowledge from the society in which they live far more effectually than by convent walls. And since Madame Elisabeth de France was a saint, it was her ideals, and not the fact that she had never known the force of human passion, which made her feel that she could hardly stop to be sorry for the girl whom she loved as her own daughter. She saw Lucienne’s way so plainly.

Yet because she was very human, she dared not take the girl again into her arms, lest the words which she must speak should die upon her lips. It was possibly the last time that she should see Lucienne—for she never had any illusion as to the extremity of the danger which threatened the Royal Family, although for her brother’s sake she kept up the appearance of a brave heart. Immeasurable love and pity shone in her face as she looked at the bowed head. At last she put out her hands and took Lucienne’s into her own. Lucienne remembered to her last day what the woman who was her best friend found to say to her in the crisis of her life. There was no word of blame, no word of duty, no hint that she feared for the future.

“My child,” said the Princess very gently, “the pain will not always be as it is now, and in the future there will be things to comfort you—perhaps the love of children. And remember always that it is only to the highly favoured that there comes the possibility of so great a sacrifice as yours.”