Part 27 (1/2)
Ca.n.a.lis did not listen to this statement after the opening sentence.
The four riders, having now reached a wider road, went abreast and soon reached a stretch of table-land, from which the eye took in on one side the rich valley of the Seine toward Rouen, and on the other an horizon bounded only by the sea.
”Butscha was right, G.o.d is the greatest of all landscape painters,” said Ca.n.a.lis, contemplating the view, which is unique among the many fine scenes that have made the sh.o.r.es of the Seine so justly celebrated.
”Above all do we feel that, my dear baron,” said the duke, ”on hunting-days, when nature has a voice, and a lively tumult breaks the silence; at such times the landscape, changing rapidly as we ride through it, seems really sublime.”
”The sun is the inexhaustible palette,” said Modeste, looking at the poet in a species of bewilderment.
A remark that she presently made on his absence of mind gave him an opportunity of saying that he was just then absorbed in his own thoughts,--an excuse that authors have more reason for giving than other men.
”Are we really made happy by carrying our lives into the midst of the world, and swelling them with all sorts of fict.i.tious wants and over-excited vanities?” said Modeste, moved by the aspect of the fertile and billowy country to long for a philosophically tranquil life.
”That is a bucolic, mademoiselle, which is only written on tablets of gold,” said the poet.
”And sometimes under garret-roofs,” remarked the colonel.
Modeste threw a piercing glance at Ca.n.a.lis, which he was unable to sustain; she was conscious of a ringing in her ears, darkness seemed to spread before her, and then she suddenly exclaimed in icy tones:--
”Ah! it is Wednesday!”
”I do not say this to flatter your pa.s.sing caprice, mademoiselle,” said the duke, to whom the little scene, so tragical for Modeste, had left time for thought; ”but I declare I am so profoundly disgusted with the world and the Court and Paris that had I a d.u.c.h.esse d'Herouville, gifted with the wit and graces of mademoiselle, I would gladly bind myself to live like a philosopher at my chateau, doing good around me, draining my marshes, educating my children--”
”That, Monsieur le duc, will be set to the account of your great goodness,” said Modeste, letting her eyes rest steadily on the n.o.ble gentleman. ”You flatter me in not thinking me frivolous, and in believing that I have enough resources within myself to be able to live in solitude. It is perhaps my lot,” she added, glancing at Ca.n.a.lis, with an expression of pity.
”It is the lot of all insignificant fortunes,” said the poet. ”Paris demands Babylonian splendor. Sometimes I ask myself how I have ever managed to keep it up.”
”The king does that for both of us,” said the duke, candidly; ”we live on his Majesty's bounty. If my family had not been allowed, after the death of Monsieur le Grand, as they call Cinq-Mars, to keep his office among us, we should have been obliged to sell Herouville to the Black Brethren. Ah, believe me, mademoiselle, it is a bitter humiliation to me to have to think of money in marrying.”
The simple honesty of this confession came from his heart, and the regret was so sincere that it touched Modeste.
”In these days,” said the poet, ”no man in France, Monsieur le duc, is rich enough to marry a woman for herself, her personal worth, her grace, or her beauty--”
The colonel looked at Ca.n.a.lis with a curious eye, after first watching Modeste, whose face no longer expressed the slightest astonishment.
”For persons of high honor,” he said slowly, ”it is a n.o.ble employment of wealth to repair the ravages of time and destiny, and restore the old historic families.”
”Yes, papa,” said Modeste, gravely.
The colonel invited the duke and Ca.n.a.lis to dine with him sociably in their riding-dress, promising them to make no change himself.
When Modeste went to her room to make her toilette, she looked at the jewelled whip she had disdained in the morning.
”What workmans.h.i.+p they put into such things nowadays!” she said to Francoise Cochet, who had become her waiting-maid.
”That poor young man, mademoiselle, who has got a fever--”
”Who told you that?”
”Monsieur Butscha. He came here this afternoon and asked me to say to you that he hoped you would notice he had kept his word on the appointed day.”
Modeste came down into the salon dressed with royal simplicity.