Part 5 (1/2)
”Ah! Apparently he lavishes all his courtesy upon horses,” Gabrielle said pointedly.
”In the case to which I allude, he really did owe some consideration to his horse, for the poor animal could not possibly know why he was made to feel the spur. The fact was that at the races the other day Lodrin saw a lady the sight of whom so electrified him that he turned positively all round on his horse, and in doing so scratched the poor beast with his spur.”
”Ah, and who, if one may ask, was this remarkable lady?” asked Gabrielle.
”Ella, since when have you become conscience keeper for young gentlemen?” asked Truyn.
She blushed to the roots of her hair, but Oswald said with perfect composure, looking her directly in the face: ”Certainly--it was Countess Gabrielle Truyn.”
She bit her lip angrily.
”It serves you right,” said Truyn smiling, ”why do you ask about matters that do not concern you? The jest, however, is a little stale, Ossi.”'
”I should not venture to jest; I simply told the truth,” rejoined Oswald. In view of the young girl's evident agitation he had regained entire calm.
”One is not always justified in telling the truth,” Gabrielle observed with the pettish frankness in which even the best-bred young ladies will indulge, when irritated by the accelerated beating of their hearts.
”Indeed? Not even in reply to a question?” Oswald said very quietly, and Truyn frowned after the fas.h.i.+on of affectionate papas, whose daughters' behaviour does not exactly gratify their paternal ambition.
Zinka interrupted the fencing of the young people by an inquiry as to the new vaudeville which Gabrielle wished to see, but of which Zinka was not quite sure she should approve.
Oswald took no further notice of Gabrielle that evening, but devoted himself to Zinka. He sat beside her for nearly an hour, and enjoyed it extremely; she had a charming way of listening, a.s.senting to his observations by a silent smile, and inciting him to all kinds of small confidences, without asking any direct questions.
When he afterwards reflected upon what had been the interesting subject of their conversation, he discovered that she had led him to speak only of himself, that he had told her everything about his life that a young man can tell to a young woman whom he has seen but twice.
She listened attentively, and when he took his leave she had grown almost cordial.
”Now that you have broken the ice, I hope we shall see you frequently.
_A propos_, to-morrrow is our night at the opera; if you have nothing more agreeable in prospect and have not heard '_La Juive_' too often....”
And then the charming, uncertain, hoping, exulting, despairing time that ensued! Gabrielle's pique slowly vanished; then without any reasonable cause returned; her behaviour towards her cousin vacillated strangely between naive cordiality and proud reserve; some days she seemed to misconstrue everything that was said, and then all at once a single cordial word would mollify her.
And the dances, the cotillon at the Countess Crecy's ball in the pretty little Hotel, Rue St. Dominique,--the cotillon in which all had paid homage to Gabrielle as to a young queen, and in which when, of all the favours that she had to bestow only one remained, she suddenly became confused, looking from the favour to her cousin, and seeming more and more undecided until at last he advanced a step towards her and whispered, ”Well, Gabrielle, am I to have the Golden Fleece or not?”
That was two days before the betrothal. To the day of his death he should wear that favour and no other on his heart. It should be buried with him!
Although not given to writing much he had kept a diary in Paris. Long since he had torn out the first pages; its contents now extended exactly from the first meeting to the first kiss. After his marriage the book was to be sealed up, to be given to his eldest son upon his twenty-first birthday.
Whilst Oswald, borne upon a lover's wings that knew no boundary line between heaven and earth, between the future and the past, at one time eulogized his betrothed, and at another made arrangements for his own burial, and his eldest son's twenty-first birthday, Georges, who had gradually finished his breakfast, leaned back in his chair watching the fantastic wreaths of smoke ascending from the bowl of his tschibouk.
When at last Oswald paused and fell into a reverie he took occasion to utter the following profundity. ”Living is very dear in Paris!” Twice was he obliged to repeat this brilliant aphorism, before Oswald seemed to hear it. Then glancing at his cousin reproachfully, the young fellow put his hand in his pocket, ”would you like the key, Georges?” he said offering it to him.
”No,” replied Georges, taking Oswald's hand, key and all in his own, and pressing it down upon the table. ”No, my dear fellow, many thanks.
Do you remember what Montaigne says about _le desir qui s'accroist par la malaysance_.”
”Montaigne?--I am not very intimate with the old gentleman,” Oswald replied with a laugh, ”how came you pray to make his acquaintance?”