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
Gabrielle bowed her head and blushingly admitted her shortcomings. "I
too can learn," she murmured with meekness, "and you will find me an
anxious pupil;" but somehow whenever the rustle of her dress was heard
in the corridor, the cherubs unaccountably began their music lesson;
and when, remarking the fact, she requested that in future the
scraping of Victor's violin might be exchanged for more delectable
study, mademoiselle raised her mobile thatch of brow, and curtly
declared that she took orders only from the marquis.
Gabrielle left the school-room humbled and bewildered, for a novel
idea had been thrust on her which her loyal nature refused to
entertain. Clovis could not have introduced this new factor into the
household for the purpose of annoying his wife! Everyone admitted that
he was a good man, if selfish and somewhat unpractical.
He did not wish this creature to stand betwixt a mother and her babes?
Surely not. The suspicion was unworthy of a true wife, and banished as
soon as formed. There was a mistake somewhere. The woman meant well,
but was officious. Clovis occupy himself about such domestic details!
Why, he rarely took notice of the children at all, unless worried into
doing so. Why should he show interest now--since the arrival of this
person? Pondering over this problem in confused pain between the
alleys of the moated garden, the marquise endeavoured to reassure
herself. Could she be so foolish as to be growing jealous of a
stranger who, it could not be denied, was acting for the best? It was
perfectly true that the marquise knew nothing of the subjects that
were being taught by Aglae, and it was genuinely kind of her not to
let the cherubs see that their erudition overtopped their mother's.
And yet--the hireling had been sadly rude to the mother in the
presence of the darlings.
"You are agitated, sweet sister?" whispered the abbe, coming softly up
behind across the grass--his soft hands in a dainty muff, for it was
chilly--and beaming down on her. "Do you know that I've been following
these five minutes without obtaining a hearing?"
He looked so kind, had behaved with such discretion since his mistake,
that her chilled heart warmed to him. Her lips trembled, and she burst
into a flood of tears. His fingers clutched within the muff (oh! how
like the vulture's talons!) as though he would have clasped her to his
breast and held her there; but with a supreme effort he restrained the
impulse. "Not yet; not yet," he murmured to himself, as hearkening to
her artless tale with anxious mien he gazed in silence across the
swiftly-flowing Loire.
"I fear your suspicion is well founded, and that Clovis wishes it," he
murmured shortly, when she had finished; then, taking her cold hand in
his, he led her through the postern to a spot which overlooked the
cherubic sanctuary.
Clovis sat by the spinet, beating time with a roll of music--the
divine afflatus heavy on him--while the pair of angels played.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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