Part 23 (1/2)
After a moment's hesitation, seeing that the young woman remained motionless, Gerfaut tried to turn the handle of the door as softly as possible so as to make his entrance quietly. The bolt had just noiselessly slipped in the lock when the drawing-room door suddenly opened, a flood of light inundated the floor, and Aline appeared upon the threshold, watering-pot in hand.
The young girl stopped an instant, for she thought her sister-in-law was asleep; but, meeting in the shade Clemence's sparkling eyes, she entered, saying in a fresh, silvery voice:
”All my flowers are doing well; I have come to water yours.”
Madame de Bergenheim made no reply, but her eyebrows contracted slightly as she watched the young girl kneel before a superb datura. This almost imperceptible symptom, and the rather ill-humored look, foretold a storm. A few drops of water falling upon the floor gave her the needed pretext, and Gerfaut, as much in love as he was, could not help thinking of the fable of the wolf and the lamb, when he heard the lady of his thoughts exclaim, in an impatient tone:
”Let those flowers alone; they do not need to be watered. Do you not see that you are wetting the floor?”
Aline turned around and looked at the scolder for a moment; then, placing her watering-pot upon the floor, she darted toward the divan like a kitten that has just received a blow from its mother's paw and feels authorized to play with her. Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise at this unexpected attack; but before she could sit up, she was thrown back upon the cus.h.i.+ons by the young girl, who seized both her hands and kissed her on each cheek.
”Good gracious! how cross you have been for the last few days!” cried Aline, pressing her sister's hands. ”Are you going to be like your aunt?
You do nothing but scold now. What have I done? Are you vexed with me?
Do you not love me any longer?”
Clemence felt a sort of remorse at this question, asked with such a loving accent; but her jealousy she could not overcome. To make up for it, she kissed her sister-in-law with a show of affection which seemed to satisfy the latter.
”What are you reading?” asked the young girl, picking up the book which had fallen to the floor in their struggle--”Notre Dame de Paris. That must be interesting! Will you let me read it? Oh! do! will you?”
”You know very well that my aunt has forbidden you to read novels.”
”Oh! she does that just to annoy me and for no other reason. Do you think that is right? Must I remain an idiot, and never read anything but history and geography the rest of my life? As if I did not know that Louis Thirteenth was the son of Henri Fourth, and that there are eighty-six departments in France. You read novels. Does it do you any harm?”
Clemence replied in a rather imperative tone, which should have put an end to the discussion.
”When you are married you can do as you like. Until then you must leave your education in the hands of those who are interested in you.”
”All my friends,” replied Aline with a pout, ”have relatives who are interested in them, at least as much as your aunt is in me, and they do not prevent their reading the books they like. There is Claire de Saponay, who has read all of Walter Scott's novels, Maleck-Adel, Eugenie and Mathilde--and I do not know how many more; Gessner, Mademoiselle de Lafayette--she has read everything; and I--they have let me read Numa Ponzpilius and Paul and Virginia. Isn't that ridiculous at sixteen years of age?”
”Do not get excited, but go into the library and get one of Walter Scott's novels; but do not let my aunt know anything about it.”
At this act of capitulation, by which Madame de Bergenheim doubtless wished to atone for her disagreeableness, Aline made one joyous bound for the gla.s.s door. Gerfaut had barely time to leave his post of observation and to conceal himself between two wardrobes, under a cloak which was hanging there, when the young girl made her appearance, but she paid no attention to the pair of legs which were but imperfectly concealed. She bounded down the stairs and returned a moment later with the precious volumes in her hand.
”Waverley, or, Scotland Sixty Years Ago,” said she, as she read the t.i.tle. ”I took the first one on the shelf, because you are going to lend them all to me, one by one, are you not? Claire says that a young girl can read Walter Scott, and that his books are very nice.”
”We shall see whether you are sensible,” replied Clemence, smiling; ”but, above all things, do not let my aunt see these books, for I am the one who would get the scolding.”
”Do not worry;--I will go and hide them in my room.”
She went as far as the door, then stopped and came back a few steps.
”It seems,” said she, ”that Monsieur de Gerfaut worked in the library yesterday, for there are piles of books on the table. It is very kind of him to be willing to make this tree, is it not? Shall we both be in it?
Do they put women in such things? I hope your aunt will not be there; she is not one of our family.”
Clemence's face clouded again at the name of Gerfaut.
”I know no more about it than you,” she replied, a little harshly.
”The reason I asked is because there are only pictures of men in the drawing-room; it is not very polite on their part. I should much prefer that there should be portraits of our grandmothers; it would be so amusing to see the beautiful dresses that they wore in those days rather than those old beards which frighten me. But perhaps they do not put young girls in genealogical trees,” she continued, in a musing tone.