"Oh, madame, I do not say so. I have no positive reason for saying so.
She has told me nothing--"
"I should think not," said Madame de Sainfoy, shortly.
Mademoiselle Moineau was dismissed back to her pupils, whom she found, under Henriette"s surveillance, deep in the romance of French history.
Madame de Sainfoy crossed the pa.s.sage and tried Helene"s door. It was not fastened, as she had half expected. Opening it quickly and gently, she found her daughter sitting in the window, as the governess had described her, with both arms stretched out upon its broad sill, and eyes fixed in a long wistful gaze on the small spire of the church at La Mariniere, and the screen of trees which partly hid the old manor buildings from view.
"What are you doing, Helene?" said Madame de Sainfoy.
Her voice, though low, was peremptory. The girl started up, turning her white face and tired eyes from the window. Her mother walked across the room and sat down in a high-backed chair close by.
"What a waste of time," she said, "to sit staring into vacancy! Why are you not reading history with your sisters, as I wished?"
"Mamma--my head aches," said Helene.
"Then bathe it with cold water. What is the matter with you, child? You irritate me with your pale looks. Do you dislike Lancilly? Do you wish yourself back in Paris?"
"No, mamma."
"I could excuse you if you did," said Madame de Sainfoy, with a smile.
"I find the country insupportable myself, but you see, as the fates have preserved to us this rat-infested ruin, we must make the best of it. I set you an example, Helene. I interest myself in restoring and decorating. If you were to help me, time would not seem so long."
She did not speak at all unkindly.
"I like the country. I like Lancilly much better than Paris," said Helene.
There was a moment"s gleam of pity in Madame de Sainfoy"s bright blue eyes. Languid, sad, yet not rebellious or sulky, her beautiful girl stood drooping like a white lily in the stern old frame of the window.
The mother believed in discipline, and Helene"s childhood and youth had been spent in an atmosphere of cold severity. Punishments would have been very frequent, if her father"s rather spasmodic and inconsequent kindness had not stepped in to save her. She owed a good deal to her father, but these debts only hardened her mother against both of them.
Yet Madame de Sainfoy was not without a certain pride in the perfect form and features, the delicate, exquisite grace and distinction, which was one of these days to dazzle the Tuileries. On that, her resolution was firm and unchanging. _Tout va bien!_ One of these days the Emperor"s command might be expected. With that confident certainty in the background, she felt she need not trouble herself much about her husband"s objections or her daughter"s fancies.
"You are a very difficult young woman, Helene," she said, still not unkindly, and her eyes travelled with slow consideration over every detail as the girl stood there. "I do not like that gown of yours," she said. "Don"t wear it again. Give it to Jeanne--do you hear?"
"Must I? But it is not worn out, mamma. I would rather keep it," the girl said quickly, stroking her soft blue folds, which were in truth a little faded.
Then she flushed suddenly, for what reason could she give for loving the old gown! Not, certainly, that she had worn it one day in the garden--one day when Mademoiselle Moineau went to sleep!
"You will do as I tell you," said Madame de Sainfoy. Then she added with a slight laugh--"You are so fond of your own way, that I wonder you should object to being married. Do you think, perhaps, you would find a husband still more tyrannical?"
The girl shook her head. "No," she murmured.
"Then what is your reason? for you evidently intend not to be married at all."
"I do not say that," said Helene; and Madame de Sainfoy was conscious, with sudden anger, that once more the dreamy grey eyes travelled out of the open window, far away to those lines of poplars and clipped elms opposite.
"How different things were when I was young!" she said. "My marriage with your father was arranged by our relations, without our meeting at all. I never saw him till everything was concluded. If I had disliked him, I could neither have said nor done anything."
"That was before the Revolution," said Helene, with a faint smile.
"Indeed you are very much mistaken," her mother said quickly, "if you think the Revolution has altered the manners of society. It may have done good in some ways--I believe it did--but in teaching young people that they could disobey their parents, it did nothing but harm. And it deceived them, too. As long as our nation lasts, marriages will be arranged by those who know best. In your case, but for your father"s absurd indulgence, you would have been married months ago. However, these delays cannot last for ever. I think you will not refuse the next marriage that is offered you."
The girl looked wonderingly at her mother, half in terror, half in hope. She spoke meaningly, positively. What marriage could this be?
"What would you say to a distinguished soldier?" said Madame de Sainfoy, watching her keenly. "Then, with some post about the Court and your husband always away at the wars, you could lead a life as independent as you chose. Now, pray do not think it necessary to throw yourself out of the window. I make a suggestion, that is all. I am quite aware that commands are thrown away on a young lady of your character."
"What do you mean, mamma?" the girl panted, with a quick drawing-in of her breath. "Who is it? Not that man who dined here--that man who was talking to you?"
Madame de Sainfoy flamed suddenly into one of those cold rages which had an effectiveness all their own.
"Idiot!" she said between her teeth. "Contemptible little fool! And if General Ratoneau, a handsome and distinguished man, did you the honour of asking for your hand, would you expect me to tell him that you had not taken a fancy to him?"
"Mon Dieu!" Helene murmured. She turned away to the window for a moment, clasping her hands upon her breast; then, white as death, came back and stood before her mother.
"It is what I feared," she said. "It is what you were talking about; I knew it at the time. That was why you sent me out of the room--you wanted to talk it over. Have you settled it, then? What did papa say?"
Madame de Sainfoy hesitated. She had not at all intended to mention any name, or to make Helene aware to any extent of the true facts of the case. Her sudden anger had carried her further than she meant to go. She neither wished to frighten the girl into flying to her father, nor to tell her that he had refused his consent.
"Really, Helene, you are my despair," she said, and laughed, her eyes fixed on the girl"s lovely, changing face. "You leap to conclusions in an utterly absurd way. If such a thing were already settled, or even under serious consideration, would you not have been formally told of it before now? Would your father have kept silence for two days, and would you not have heard of another visit from General Ratoneau? You would not be surprised, I suppose, to hear that he admires you--and by the bye, I think your taste is bad if you do not return his admiration--but that is absolutely all I have to tell you."
"Is it?" the girl sighed. "Ah, mamma, how you terrified me!"
Madame de Sainfoy shrugged her shoulders.
"I wonder," she said, "how I have deserved such a daughter as you! No courage, no ambition for your family, no feeling of duty to them.
Nothing but--I am ashamed to say it, Helene, and you can deny it if it is not true--some silly sentimental fancy which carries your eyes and thoughts to that old farm over there. Ah, I see I am right. When did this preposterous nonsense begin? Why, the question is not worth asking, for you have hardly even spoken to that cousin of yours, and I will do him the justice to say that he, on his side, has no such ridiculous idea. He does not sit staring at Lancilly as you do at La Mariniere!
Yes, Helene, I am ashamed of you."
Helene stood crimson and like a culprit before her mother. She hardly understood her words; she only knew that her mother had read her heart, had known how to follow her thoughts as they escaped from this stony prison away to sunshine and free air and waving trees and a happy, homely life; away to Angelot. What was there to be ashamed of, after all? She expected no one to be on her side; she dreaded their anger and realised keenly what it might be; but as for shame!
Even as Madame de Sainfoy spoke, the thought of her young lover seemed to surround Helene with an atmosphere of joyful sweetness. Yes, he was wonderful, her Angelot. Would he ever be afraid or ashamed to confess his love for her? Why could she not find courage then to tell of hers for him?
With a new and astonishing courage Helene lifted her long lashes and looked up into her mother"s face. It was a timid glance at the best; the furtive shadow lingered still in her eyes, result of a life of cold repression.
"Why should I deny it, mamma?" she said. Her voice was distinct, though it trembled. "It is true, and I am not ashamed of it. Angelot has been kinder to me than any one in the world. Yes--I love him."
"Ah!" Madame de Sainfoy drew a long breath. "Ah! Voyons! And what next, pray?"
"If you care at all to make me happy," the girl said, and she gained a little hope, heaven knows why, as she went on, "you and papa will--will give me to him. Yes, that is what I want. Mamma, see, I have no ambition. I don"t care to live in Paris or to go to Court--I hate it! I want to live in the country--over there--at La Mariniere."
A smile curled Madame de Sainfoy"s pretty mouth. It was not an agreeable one; but it frightened Helene much less than an angry word would have done. She came forward a step or two, knelt on her mother"s footstool, timidly rested a hand on her knee. Madame de Sainfoy sat immovable, looking down and smiling.
"Speak, mamma," murmured the girl.
"Helene, are you deaf?" said Madame de Sainfoy. "Did you hear what I said just now?"
"You told me I had no courage or ambition. I suppose it is true."
"I told you something else, which you did not choose to hear. I told you that this fancy of yours was not only foolish and low, but one-sided.
Trust me, Helene. I know more of your precious cousin than you do, my dear."