The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 2 (of 3)Wingfield, Lewis
History
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 2 (of 3)
Wingfield, Lewis
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Clovis had resumed his habit of breakfasting alone--moreover, politics
bored him; but mademoiselle made a point of being present, after
having given her dear charges their own meal in the distant wing; for
she liked to hear the news, indited by the abbé.
Gabrielle seldom spoke. She seemed in a despondent daze which provoked
the observant governess. Was the silly creature going out of her mind?
Those who are unable to stand up for themselves deserve to be
subjected to the yoke. Aglaé's fingers itched to slap the marquise,
or give her a sound shaking. But she had been lectured by the abbé
before he left, was aware that the dog was watching, and knew that it
behoved her to be prudent; not to quarrel with her ally at present. As
to Gabrielle, she smiled sometimes a mysterious smile that was more
sad than tears. Happy! why, her heart was slowly breaking. Nobody
wanted her. Her only desire was to remain secluded--shielded by
distance from the searching glances of her father, who, with the eyes
of love, could not fail to read her misery.
Autumn waned, the winter came and went, and spring came round, and
still the abbé was absent. The long evenings, when, try as she would
to exorcise them, the procession of her sorrows danced fandangoes in
the brain of Gabrielle to the accompaniment of the chevalier's
snoring, were becoming unendurable. How long was this martyrdom to
continue?--how long?
The cold winds had softened their rigour; the air was growing balmy.
There were voices down below in half-whispered converse. Moving to the
open window, Gabrielle looked out. How calm and sweet an evening! How
placidly the river flowed past the feet of the gloomy castle! How
gently the boughs waved opposite beyond the stream to the rhythm of
the breeze!
Under the windows of the grand saloon there was a sort of narrow
gangway which acted as penthouse to the grilled windows of the
dungeons on the water's edge. In old times it had been used as a
platform for embarkation in boats, but now it was trodden by few feet,
for its flags were slimy and treacherous. The voices were those of
Jean and Toinon, who were apparently indulging in a delightful
flirtation. They had been out rowing. The clumsy wherry used by the
family was moored to a ring a few yards distant. The lovers were
exchanging delicious confidences before parting for the night.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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