Part 34 (1/2)
Georges de Sainfoy read the doc.u.ment, truly a strange one, and it was a strange sort of man who had the effrontery to put it into his hand. Like a flash of blinding light, it showed the revolutionary, the tyrannical side of the Empire which had fascinated him on its side of military glory.
This paper gave a full description, as officially demanded, of Mademoiselle Helene de Sainfoy, aged nineteen. It mentioned her personal attractions, her _education distinguee_, her probable dowry, the names and position of her parents, the extent and situation of her property--in short, every particular likely to be useful in arranging a marriage for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy. It was all highly complimentary, and it was supposed to be a confidential communication from the Prefect to Savary, Duc de Rovigo, the Minister of Police. But it was not pleasant reading for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy's brother, however devotedly imperialist he might be.
He stepped forward and laid it on the table without a remark. Ratoneau, watching him keenly, smiled, and held out the letter.
”A private letter from Monsieur le Prefet? I do not read it,” said Georges, shortly.
”As you please, my friend,” said Ratoneau. ”I only show you these things for the satisfaction of Madame la Comtesse. Monsieur Urbain de la Mariniere may be interested, too. The letter mentions my distinguished claims on His Majesty, and suggests me as a husband for mademoiselle.
That is all. I think it will be effectual. But now, monsieur, you have not answered my little question about your cousin Angelot. He is in love with your sister, n'est-ce pas?”
”As you put it so, monsieur, I think it is not unlikely,” said Georges.
”But what does that signify? Every one knows it is an impossibility, even himself, ambitious fool as he may be.”
”And the young lady?” said Ratoneau, his face darkening.
”My mother answers for her,” Georges answered coldly, and bowed himself out.
He had information enough to carry back to his mother.
He was not too comfortable in his mind, having ideas of honour, at the unscrupulous doings by which Helene's future husband was protecting his own interests and bringing his marriage about. He rather wished, though he wors.h.i.+pped power, that this powerful General had been a different sort of man.
”Still he may make her a good husband,” he thought. ”He is jealous already.”
He rode across the square, gay and stately in his Cha.s.seur uniform, and dismounted at the Prefecture to leave his card and to enquire for Monsieur de Mauves.
Ratoneau watched him from the window with a dissatisfied frown, then rang sharply for Simon.
”That young fellow would turn against me on small provocation,” he said.
”Now--as to the seal for these papers--you can procure that, I suppose?”
”Leave that to me, monsieur.”
”Another thing: this means further delay, and I am not sure that you were entirely wrong about young La Mariniere. Listen. He would be better out of the way until this affair is settled. He has been met in company with known Chouans. A word to the wise, Simon. Devise something, or go to the devil, for I've done with you.”
”But there is nothing easier, monsieur! Nothing in the world!” Simon cried joyfully.
CHAPTER XIX
THE TREADING OF THE GRAPES
The weather for the vintage was splendid. A slight frost in the morning curled and yellowed the vine-leaves, giving, as it does in these provinces, the last touch of ripeness to the grapes, so that they begin to burst their thin skins and to drop from the bunches. This is the perfect moment. Crickets sing; the land is alive with springing gra.s.shoppers; harmless snakes rustle through the gra.s.s and bask in the warm sand. The sun s.h.i.+nes through an air so light, so crystal clear, that men and beasts hardly know fatigue, though they work under his beams all day long. The evening closes early with hovering mists in the low places, the sudden chill of a country still wild and half-cultivated. This was the moment, in an older France, chosen for the Seigneur's vintage; the peasants had to deal with their own little vineyards either earlier or later, and thus their wine was never so good as his.
The laws of the vintage were old; they were handed down through centuries, from the days of the Romans, but the Revolution swept them and their obligations away. Napoleon's code knew nothing of them. Yet private individuals, when they were clever men like Urbain de la Mariniere, were sure by hook or by crook to arrange the vintage at the time that suited their private arrangements. The ancient connection, once of lord and va.s.sal, now of landlord and tenant, between La Mariniere and La Joubardiere, had been hardly at all disturbed by the Revolution. Joubard was not the man to turn against the old friends of his family. Besides, he believed in the waning moon. So when Monsieur Urbain hit on the precise moment for his own vintage, and summoned him and his people, as well as Monsieur Joseph's people, to help at La Mariniere and to let their own vineyards wait a week or two, he made no grievance of it.
”The weather will last,” he said, when Martin grumbled, ”and the moon will be better. Besides, those slopes are always forwarder than ours.
And we shall lose nothing by helping the master. But if we did, I would rather spoil my own wine than disappoint Monsieur Angelot.”
”You and the mother are in love with his pretty face,” growled the soldier. ”Why doesn't he go to the war, and fight for his country, and come home a fine man like his cousin? Ah, you think there are different ways of coming home, do you? Well, if you ask me, I am prouder of my lost limbs than the young captain is of his rank and his uniform.”