Red Towers

Part I

(Continued.} * HAPTER PAGE XIII. A SPOILT CHILD - - - 1 XIV. THE HOTEL DES DEUX FRERES - - 30 XV. AN OLD FRIEND AND A NEW SLAVE - - 59 XVI. DI AND HER MASTER - - 88 XVII. A LETTER FROM CELIA - - 113 XVIII. ' HE IS ONE OF THOSE WHO ARE BEAUTIFUL AND HAPPY' - - - - 141 XIX. AN EVENING WITH MADAME DE FERRAND - 166 XX. ' A GREY DISCOURAGED SKY OVERHEAD, THE SHORT LAST DAYLIGHT OF DECEMBER' - CONTENTS IV

Part II. Chapter Paoe

I. THE HERO'S RETURN - - - - 225 IL MADAME DE MONTMIRAIL - 240 III. THE ENGLISH COUSIN ----- 259 IV. A PILGRIM IN TOURAINE - - 278 V. 'MOIS DE MARIE' - -

PART I.

(CONTINUED.)

CHAPTER XIII.

A SPOILT CHILD. ' That evening — that was the last happy evening of my life,' said Antoinette, long after, to somebody who was very fond of her. ' Don't say that, dear,' said her friend. ' I mean — till now,' she said, and no one could be dissatisfied with the answer. VOL. il. In those days no child of ten could be more thoroughly childish than she, though even then she had her full share of womanly good sense and reasonableness. And in after days, in hours that would have tried some natures sorely, she did not lose much of her child-likeness, or of her good sense; but then the possibilities of the future had not even occurred to her ; when she left her reverend mothers that day, and came to La Tour Blanche with her father, it was all to her ' the wild freshness of morning.' Her father, Suzanne, and her old home — what more was wanted to make life perfect ?

That was indeed a happy evening, and for a finishing touch, just at sunset, beautiful gleams of yellow light darted out from under the thick curtain of grey clouds, and laid soft shadows all about the old precincts of the chateau, and gave a topaz shine to the west windows of the tower. Mdlle. Antoinette could have believed that they were lighted up from inside, as she saw them from the plantation below. Suzanne did not like her to say that, and crossed herself at the notion. There was really a good deal to do that evening. One must just poke one's head into every room in the house, however dark, damp, or unfurnished, to see whether there were any alterations ; and one must go into the kitchen, where there were really a row of new copper pans, and some very nice bunches of herbs hanging up to dry, and a smiling young cook, imported from Saint-Bernard for the occasion, and two or three old friends in sabots and blue gowns and cotton caps, looking in with rugged old brown faces to see mademoiselle.

Then out at the back, where the grass grew 21—2 long and wild in the old plaisance, there were chickens and geese to be visited, and away along a shady walk there was Antoi nette's own garden, which wanted so much digging and arranging that it must be put off till to-morrow. Then it was most necessary to inspect the chapel, which Suzanne had already decorated for Mass to-morrow morning. In fact, all the young chatelaine's work was hardly done when it was time to brush her curls for dinner, and tie them round with a blue ribbon, and array her small person in a large white pinafore. Then she danced downstairs into the salon, sparkling with life and beauty and fun, to join her father, who had been inspecting on his own account ; and together they went into the brown polished dining room, where the little cook from Saint- Bernard sent them in a dinner worthy of Paris, and old Pierre waited on them, very much to his own satisfaction.

If Antoinette had not been quite so happy herself, she might have noticed that her father was a little silent : but that evening nothing troubled her. Suzanne had something serious to say to Pierre in the pantry, when she was helping him to put the things away after dinner. ' My friend,' said she, ' I was down in the new wood with mademoiselle this evening, and the windows of the apartment of Madame la Marquise were illuminated.' ' What are you talking about ?' said Pierre, contemptuous. ' You laugh, and you tell me it is the sun, no doubt. Men like you always do. The child said they looked as if they were lighted from inside, and so they did. And you won't pretend to forget when they were lighted up inside, and you and I saw them from the end of the avenue, when we had run down to look at the triumphal arch.

And we had only just time to get back, to receive our young mistress, and all her Avindows were lighted up to welcome her. Fifteen years ago, Master Pierre. We were younger then than we are now, and I had not done the foolishness of marrying you.' ' Bah ! what does the woman mean !' Pierre tried to keep up his scornful airs, but failed a little before the solemn sin cerity of his wife's eyes. ' Well, well,' he said, ' I suppose you take it for a sign, do you, that M. le Marquis is going to be married again.' ' Dame ! Don't talk so loud.' ' I'm whispering. Well — and if he is V ' Mon Dieu ! you don't think it likely, do you ?' ' Stranger things might happen,' said Pierre, with the air of an oracle. ' I may tell you, I needed no illumination to put it into my head. He has been walking all over the place, and finding fault with things he never noticed before.

Pommard told me so. He is either going to marry or to sell the place.' ' Sell it ! Impossible !' ' Va !' said Pierre. ' Has that woman made the coffee V Under the great chimney of the salon a fire of logs was flaming ; in the uncertain light of this, and one dim lamp, the bare old room looked its best. The Marquis and his little daughter sat opposite to each other in two high arm-chairs beside the fire ; here and there, above their heads, a point of colour or tarnished gilding shone out from the tall emblazoned chimneypiece. All the ceiling was crossed by dark painted beams ; the walls were also painted, and hung with a few dismal old pictures ; and by this light one did not see the yawning cracks and blisters in the faded paint, or the great dam}) stains on the wall. M. de Montmirail was trying to read the Gaulois by the combined light of fire and lamp, which shone very becomingly on his handsome fair head, but was hardly satisfac tory in the matter of reading.

Antoinette sat smiling and looking about her. The chair was much too high for her, and her little feet were cocked up on a footstool ; she looked at them, then at the fire, then round the room, and then settled down into a prolonged gaze at her father, who presently threw the paper aside with an impatient exclamation : ' Pierre might have done something better for us in the way of light,' he said. ' Never mind, papa : talk to me/ said Antoinette. ' What do you want to talk about, chatterbox ? You look very dignified in that large chair. Madame de Cernay will be quite impressed, if you sit up like that to entertain her to-morrow.' ' I don't think I care for Madame de Cernay ; not passionately, at least.' ' Not passionately,' he repeated, smiling. ' Who cares passionately for anybody or anything ?

Not you or I. You need not use such strong words, petite.' ' Pardon !' said Antoinette quickly. ' I care passionately for this place, and for you, and for living here with you. The word is not too strong' for me. To me it is ravis sant, ravissant to the very utmost height, to sit here in this chair and see you in that one. It is all in life that is most exquisite.' ' Merci, petite,' he said, smiling, and very gently ; but there was some shadow of trouble in his eyes. ' Yes, an evening like this is all right ; it is perfection ; it is what ought always to on. ' Do you know, time I had a great be,' the girl went papa, once upon a fear.' ' What was it ?' he asked, looking up quickly. ' Don't be frightened, dearest,' she said. ' It is long ago now. It was when you were staying in England with our cousins.

You said in your letters that you liked England so much, and all the people there. I was afraid that you would wish to live in Eng land ; and I told grandmamma, and she was a little afraid too. But she said England was really so terrible that she could not be lieve it ; only to be sure she thought that you had little eccentric fancies sometimes, dear papa.' ' It is a charming country, and I met charming people there,' said the Marquis. ' I should like to take you there some day for a visit. You can talk English a little, and Lady Lefroy would be very kind to you. But as to living there — no, one is best in one's own country.' ' Do you remember the little Englishman whose name was Romaine, who spent Sunday with you on a hill ?' The Marquis laughed. ' Of course I remember him. He was a very nice fellow.

But why do you call him " little" ? He was nearly as tall as I am.' ' Is it possible ? Grandmamma and I made a picture of you walking side by side, and he was very much the smallest.' ' You never showed me that work of art, or I could have corrected you.' ' It was not worth while. Will you ask that Englishman to stay with you, when the house is restored, and we are living here together ?' ' Why ? Do you want to see him ?' ' Of course I want to see him. I want to like everybody you like. And I think we agree very well, for I know you like M. de Cernay better than madame, just as I do. And I can never go to England, be cause of that dreadful sea. Oh, I should die of fear !' ' Let us hope that some day you will find a little courage,' said M. de Montmirail. He was certainly unlike himself that even ing, a little disturbed from his usual frank placidity.

His talk with Antoinette had lost something of its old intimate charm ; the touch of perfect sympathy and mutual understanding was somehow absent, though she was not aware of it : she idolized him far too thoroughly to be critical. He presently got up, and walked along the room two or three times, from the door into the hall to the door into the dining-room. Antoinette watched him silently for a minute or two, and then sprang from her chair and joined him. ' Why do you march up and down ?' she said, ' and what are you thinking about ? I must march with you, and you must tell me.' Achille smiled, and took one more turn with the small hand in his arm. He could not tell her what he was thinking of: no, not that evening ; every word the child said made it harder. ' Come, let us play a game of tric-trac,' he said. . ' And then, mademoiselle, you must go to bed.

What will your grandmother say, if you don't have your proper sleep at La Tour Blanche ? And she will find it out at the first glance. As for me, I shall never hear the end of it.' It was the custom at La Tour Blanche for the Cure of the village to celebrate Mass, once a year, in the chapel at the chateau ; the day was a day in November, the anni versary of the last Marquis's death. It was, therefore, with this service for the repose of her grandfather's soul that little Antoinette de Montmirail began the next day. Her father made a point of being there every year, and she had often been with him ; but never, she thought, had the solemnity of the service been so real to her as on that morning. Her father was always a good man, and a good Catholic ; perhaps it was because she was older, and more able to understand things, but she felt that day, as she knelt beside him, as if his devotion was deeper than she had ever known it before.

It was indeed happiness to kneel beside him, even at such a sad service as this ; to feel that she belonged to him just as he belonged to the dear grandfather who was dead. People who were at all dilettante in religion might have been distressed by the rough, inharmonious tones of the good Cure's voice, which suited ill with his vestments of black velvet and silver lace. The blue blouse and corduroy trousers of his acolyte were also a little out of keeping : but neither M. de Montmirail, his daughter, nor the servants who knelt behind them in the little old vaulted chapel were disposed to be at all critical on these subjects. Their religion was too much a part of their life to be the least troublesome, or anything but simple. The Mass was said, the duty was done, and that was enough for them.

And all the time, a background to the Cure's chant ing, a thick, dark November rain descended steadily, running in a stream down the stone steps outside, and making its way to lie in little pools under the rugged old chapel door. When Mass was over, Mdlle. Antoinette darted across the archway and danced into the kitchen, where Suzanne made her sit down by the stove, and took her wet shoes off. Several attractive pots were stewing on the stove, with a view to the breakfast of monsieur and mademoiselle, also of M. le Cure, and of Monsieur and Madame de Cernay, if the day was not too wet for them. In the meanwhile the Cure, who had tucked up his soutane, and carried a large umbrella, was talking to M. de Montmirail over a comfortable blaze in the salon. The cracked and discoloured paint, the damp with which the walls were stained, the rickety windows, the faded, heavy, ugly furniture, the absence of curtains, portieres, tapestries, comfort or luxury of any kind, all were far more sadly conspicuous now than in the evening ; and Madame de Cernay, who drove up cheerfully with her husband in a small omnibus through all the rain, threw up her hands and screamed with laughter when M. de Montmirail smilingly welcomed her to his ruin. ' Ruin indeed, my dear Marquis !' she cried. ' We must take this into our calculations very carefully.' But if Madame de Cernay was uncompli mentary towards the old house, she took a vol. il 22 1 <-t very different tone with regard to Antoinette, who had grown to perfection since she last saw her. 'Ma belle — mon atnge,' were amongst her mildest expressions ; and the child thus treated began to think that, after all, Madame de Cernay was very agreeable.

No wonder that everyone thought and said so. ' At least,' said Antoinette afterwards, ' I liked her when she was there, praising me. But when she was gone, I did not much like to think about her.' Antoinette was all smiles, though she did not talk much in the presence of these grown up visitors. Madame de Cernay did most of the talking at breakfast, though the Cure made manful efforts to take his share, and argued with her on every subject. She was a fine, pleasant-looking woman, tall and large, with a pretty complexion ; altogether she and her ugly little husband were curiously matched, except in manners, both being very demonstrative and very noisy. They and his other friends often accused Achille de Montmirail of being as quiet as an Englishman. After breakfast the rain went on pouring in steady sheets.

M. le Cure again tucked up his soutane, and started off down the avenue with his large umbrella. M. de Montmirail and his friend went to smoke in the library, a dilapidated old room in the west tower. Before M. de Cernay left the salon, he made all sorts of telegraphic signs to his wife, who responded in the same way. Antoinette could hardly help laughing ; the dear Baron looked so very like a monkey. Pierre came in with a fresh log for the fire, which blazed cheerfully up the wide chimney. Madame de Cernay sat in the large arm-chair where M. de Montmirail 22—2 had sat last night, put her feet on a foot stool, and held up the Gaulois carefully for a screen, as there were no screens in this half-furnished old house. ' Now, Antoinette, entertain me — amuse me, my sweet child,' she said. ' Your poor little Cure proses terribly ; he thinks himself as wise as Solomon.

Don't sit there, my angel ; you will burn your cheeks,' as An toinette sat down in front of the fire. One could not exactly place one's self in the large chair opposite to Madame la Baronne. So, after a moment's thought, Antoinette fetched another, high-backed and very uncomfortable, and placed it a little way off, where she would both show proper politeness and preserve her complexion. ' Amuse me,' said Madame de Cernay again ; and her eyes wandered round the room with a considering look. ' Shall I tell you about the Convent, madame ?' said Antoinette. ' I made papa laugh yesterday with some of my stories.' ' Ah, no, no !' said Madame de Cernay. ' No doubt the Convent is entrancing, and you are all very good there. When I was at the Convent I was very wicked. I could tell you stories, but I won't, so don't ask me.

I don't want to hear about other people, my little angel, but about yourself. You are growing up now, and you must have a great many wishes. Tell me all about them.' Antoinette folded her arms and looked grave. Madame de Cernay sincerely thought that it was a very sweet and pretty little face, only a shade too earnest ; perhaps the girl might be inclined to take life too seriously. That was a fault of dear Achille, in spite of all his sweet temper and easy good nature. It appeared that Antoinette had not many wishes. They all resolved themselves into two : that La Tour Blanche might be restored ; and that she might live there with her father. ' Ah, mon Dieu ! Magnifique ! I never heard anything more excellent,' cried Madame de Cernay, in high approval. ' And does your dear father know of these pretty little wishes ?

Because I feel sure they must charm him beyond everything.' ' Oh yes, madame. He has known for a long time, and we were talking about them again yesterday.' ' Charming, charming !' ' Oh yes, one can make the most glorious plans ; only one must be reasonable,' said Antoinette with a little sigh. ' Where is the money to come from ? Papa is not rich enough to restore the chateau, and he does not think we can live here as it is, though I do. Yesterday he talked about selling it, which would break all our hearts.' ' Of course it would,' said the Baronne, staring at her and nodding. ' No, no ; he will never sell it. He will do something much pleasanter for everybody. Did he talk of any other plan ?' ' He said there might be a way. I did not know what he meant. He said, perhaps he would tell me to-day.' ' Ah !

He thought you were old enough to keep a secret, did he ? Bien, ma belle ! I think so too.' ' What secret, madame ?' Antoinette opened her large eyes very wide, and the colour rose in her cheeks. Suddenly she knew that something was going to happen, something that would change one's life — and yet, what could it be ? Was it happiness or sorrow ? Madame de Cernay was laughing ; but she laughed at everything. At that moment something forced into Antoinette's mind the consciousness that her father had been a little mysterious yesterday and this morning — her father, who was generally as open as the day. What could be going to happen ? Was he going away anywhere to make his fortune ? Had he got some ap pointment somewhere ? Would she be separated from him, perhaps for years ? Had he brought her here to say good-bye to the old home, till he could come back again with money enough to restore it ? ' Oh, he is going away !' she cried in shrill agony, clasping her hands together. ' Oh no, let him sell it to M. Chocolat !

That would be better than going away. Madame, you will let me go and tell him so. He is doing it for me, and I would rather die than lose him.' ' Stop ! stay here, my child !' exclaimed Madame de Cernay. ' You are talking like a little madwoman. Who said a word about your father's going away ? He is going nowhere but to Paris, as far as I know ; and he will take you with him.' Antoinette sat down again, comforted for the moment. But she watched the Baronne with a sort of nervous anxiety, and the happy child-look had vanished from her face. ' I thought he was going away to get some money,' she murmured. ' No, no,' said Madame de Cernay, smiling. ' His friends have thought of a better plan than that ; and I hope his charming little daughter will be too reasonable to set herself against it. It will be as good for her as for © © him.

She will have a happy, beautiful home, and a friend who will love her, and take her out into the world, and arrange her dress, and in fact give the dear child everything that she wants to make life perfect. She loves her father, and she will see him entirely happy with a companion who will adore him, and with a fortune to do anything he pleases to the old Tour Blanche. It will be one of these days the most beautiful house in the neighbourhood, and no doubt the most agreeable. As Mdlle. de Montmirail grows up Madame de Cernay went on very agree ably with her oration thus far. She leaned back in her chair, gently waving her news paper screen, and being satisfied that she was breaking the news for M. de Montmi rail with the most considerate tenderness, she let her eyes wander round the room as she talked.

But presently they fell on the child's face, and she stopped suddenly. ' Mon Dieu, Antoinette ! What is the matter ?' she cried. Antoinette was deadly pale : even her lips were white, and she was struggling to speak. At first, she could hardly utter a sound ; then she screamed out, ' Papa !' and the shrill agonized cry must have pierced through walls and doors, for he came hurriedly into the room a moment afterwards, and the child flung herself into his arms in a wild passion of crying. With many caressing words he lifted her up, and absolutely carried her away, leaving Monsieur and Madame de Cernay to express their sentiments to each other. These sentiments were hardly well de fined at once ; but they found a very decided voice later, when the Marquis's two friends Avere driving back in their omnibus to Saint-Bernard through the still pouring rain. ' I certainly Avould not be her stepmother, the spoilt child !' cried Madame de Cernay, Avith shrieks of laughter. ' She has gained her point ; she will not haA'e a stepmother at all,' said the Baron. ' I call his Aveakness scandalous.

Did you understand ? He Avishes to put an end at once to all negotiations. Says his chief object was the good of his child, and he will not make her miserable. On my faith, that child has something to ansAver for. He is too amiable, that clear Achille ; absolutely soft, ridiculous, insane, absurd. To let the fancies of a child OATerturn family arrange ments in that sort of Avay ! Cest assom mant! Better marry ten Avives than make one's self a slave to a girl of fourteen. Good heavens ! that a friend of mine should be such a fool !' M. de Cernay gnashed his teeth, clenched his fist, and thumped on the cushion. ' Well, our little plan is spoilt, that is all,' said his wife, ' for my aunt had a better match in view for Beatrice, and only listened to this to please me. Well, Ave shall see. Madame the mother-in-law may interfere, and bring la petite to her senses. I knoAv she wishes for more money in the family. It is a joke, indeed, if a poor man can't marry again, because his little daughter says no.'

CHAPTER XIV. THE HOTEL DES DEUX FRERES.

There is a corner of Paris Avhich few English knoAv, except those Avho have lived there long, or by some other means know the best of it. This corner is quiet, and yet actually the height of fashion, being in the same quarter as the hotels of the greatest old families. These families, Catholic, Legiti mist, and many of them immensely rich, are and must be at the head of France socially, though of course politically they have no poAver. And their social poAver they treat with so much indifference, that they are being deprived of it in great measure by the Jews, whose influence predominates in Paris now. But a few years ago these people were more con sistent ; and those great hotels of the Faubourg, with their high Avhite gates and endless roAvs of shutters, were in habited by some of the most really noble men and women in Europe.

The mad rush after pleasure, the worship of money, were not quite what they are now ; aristocrats, Avith many faults, to be sure, seemed better to deserve their name. The Rue Sainte-Monique was a short and quiet street, leading from a street chiefly made up of these great houses, with a few dignified shops here and there, to a boule vard opening on some old public gardens Avith large trees and fountains, certainly the quietest, perhaps in summer the most beautiful of the gardens of Paris. The Jardin Sainte-Monique had once belonged to a large convent, Avhich had given its name to the street and neighbourhood. The Convent itself still existed, very much reduced, hidden behind towering walls at the garden end of the street. It was rich, and at that time not persecuted, and a favourite school for the young girls of the Faubourg.

Next door to the Convent, at the end of its long garden wall, was a very pretty house, the H6tel Sainte-Monique, belonging to the ConATent, but lived in for years by the Vicomtesse de Ferrand. This house also had a garden ; and one more private house brought the little street to an end. A very large and handsome house, belonging to an old family, with its stables and gardens, had originally filled up the other side of the street. But about forty years ago, the owner haAdng ruined himself, the house was sold. The Convent tried to buy it, but did not bid high enough, and it fell into the hands of tAvo brothers, who had made their fortune as the chief barbers of the Faubourg. They turned it into an hotel in the modern sense of the Avord ; and ever since the Hotel des Deux Freres, as they called it, in the quiet little Rue Sainte-Monique, had kept up its character as the best hotel in Paris for French people.

Many people who had no house or apart ment of their own in Paris lived there for the season. It was conveniently near their friends, and not far from anything ; it was not dear, and it Avas supremely comfortable. The present proprietor was a middle-aged man, son of one of the founders. He kept up the traditions of his family by being a royalist and a good Christian. No atheism vol. 11. 2 or republicanism was to be met Avith in the Hotel des Deux Freres, even among the servants, at least Avith the knowledge of M. Dupont or his excellent wife. M. Dupont did not advertise his hotel, and it Avas by the merest chance that any casual travellers found their way there. He did not want them ; he Avas well off already, and preferred knoAving who his customers were, and ansAvering for their respectability.

No snobs, no Jews, no parvenus, if possible, at the Hotel des Deux Freres. He did not care much for foreign nobility, AArho Avere very often too ill-conducted for him ; but luckily they found his establishment too quiet to suit their taste. He had a feAv English customers of old standing, dignified people, yet cosmopolitan, connected with embassies, equally Avell knoAvn in English and French society ; related, perhaps, to families in the Faubourg. And a few Englishwomen less great in position had by some means found out the good qualities of M. Dupont's hotel, and were ahvays kindly Avelcomed by him. He, like his father and uncle before him, had a keen eye for the sort of person who would do him credit ; for other people, Avith all the politeness in the world, the hotel was full to OATer floAving.