The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 1 (of 3)Wingfield, Lewis
History
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 1 (of 3)
Wingfield, Lewis
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
The experiment was not crowned with success, for instead of confessing
his sins with a _mea culpa_, Jean smiled and delivered himself of
various mysterious hints. "Never you fear," he asserted, cheerfully,
"whatever may happen by and by, you and yours shall be defended with
my best blood; not but what a glimpse of your sweet face will be
enough to calm the boys, however spitefully inclined. As to the
others--H'm!"
Enigmatical and unsatisfactory.
It was certainly very dull in the desert; and before many weeks were
over, the marquise was prepared secretly to admit that her father had
judged rightly. She was no nearer to her husband here than in Paris;
and caught herself longing more and more for those two or three
congenial persons who were unattainable. It is all very well to wrap
yourself in your children, to watch the young intelligence unfolding
tender leaves, to mark and record with little thrills of joy each new
sally of infant wit; but carefully nurtured babes retire early to the
nest, and long evening hours have to be got through which are apt to
hang heavy on the hands. There was absolutely no one to talk to,
Gabrielle was not of a studious turn, avoiding the library as a close
and musty place, had no _penchant_ for embroidery, cared not to tinkle
on a spinette. Clovis, on the other hand, professed himself delighted
with the unbroken solitude where there was nobody to plague him with
politics; employed his time in writing reams to Mesmer, and counting
the days which must elapse before he could receive replies. When weary
of considering the pros and cons of the prophet's theories, he locked
himself in his study, and could be heard far into the night groaning
sonatas on his 'cello. Oh, that 'cello! Its moans were extremely
wearing to Gabrielle's nerves, for it always suggested to her a coffin
with some one in agony inside. Weave new bands of affection, forsooth,
far from the madding crowd! How doleful a deception was hers.
The marquis seemed to have forgotten that he was father of two
cherubs, was certainly oblivious of the fact that his better half was
a reigning beauty, who, in her prime was self-deposed. Sometimes he
would sally forth on solitary rides, and return, depressed and dumb,
to fall asleep in his chair. It was certain that the pair were
drifting more fatally distant from each other in the country even than
in town. This was not life, but vegetation; sure any change would be a
godsend.
At one moment the hapless marquise thought of summoning a bevy of the
danglers whom she had loftily pretended to despise; but, if they were
to come--unable to get on with Clovis--how were they to be amused? At
another time she was on the point of imploring the marechal and his
wife to break the bonds of dulness by a visit, but then again she
hesitated. How was she to parry her father's anxious questions, how
avoid his sympathetic eyes? No. Come what might, she would bear what
she must bear, and veil her wounds from her beloved ones.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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