Angelot Part 27

"Pardon! Ah no, mamma, impossible."

"It is true. The other night, as you guessed, I sent you away that I might discuss your future with your father and his family. That very absurd person, Cousin Joseph de la Mariniere, chose to give his opinion without being asked for it, and took upon himself to suggest a marriage between you and that little nephew of his. Take your hand away. I dislike being touched, as you know."

The girl's pale face was full of life and colour now, her melancholy eyes of light. She s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hand and rose quickly to her feet, stepping back to her old place near the window.

"Dear Uncle Joseph!" she murmured under her breath.

"The young man was not grateful. He said in plain words that he did not wish to marry you. Yes, look as bewildered as you please. Ask your father, ask either of his cousins. I will say for young Ange that he has more wits than you have; he does not waste his time craving for the impossible. If it were not so, I should send you away to a convent. As it is, I shall stop this little flirtation by taking care that you do not meet him, except under supervision."

The girl looked stricken. She leaned against the wall, once more white as a statue, once more terrified.

"Angelot said--but it is not possible!" she whispered very low.

"Angelot very sensibly said that he did not care for you. Under those circ.u.mstances I think you are punished enough; and I will not insist on knowing how you came to deceive yourself so far. But I advise you not to spend any more time staring at that line of poplars," said Madame de Sainfoy. "Learn not to take in earnest what other people mean in play; your country cousin admires you, no doubt, but he knows more of the world than you do, most idiotic and ill-behaved girl!"

As she said the last words she rose and crossed the room to the door, throwing them scornfully over her shoulder. Then she pa.s.sed out, and Helene, planted there, heard the key grind in the lock.

She was a prisoner in her room; but this did not greatly trouble her.

She went back to the window, leaned her arms on the sill, gazed once more at La Mariniere, its trees motionless in the afternoon sunlight, thought of the old room as she had first seen it that moonlit evening with its sweet air of peace and home, thought of the n.o.ble, delicate face of Angelot's mother, thought of Angelot himself as the candle-light fell upon him, of the first wonderful look, the electric current which changed the world for herself and him. And then all that had happened since, all that her mother did not and never must know. Was it really possible, could it be believed that he meant nothing, that he did not love her after all? No, it could not be believed. And yet how to be sure, without seeing him again?

Ah, well, for some people life must be all sadness, and Helene had long believed herself one of these. Angelot's love seemed to have proved her wrong, but now the leaf in her book was turned back again, and she found herself at the old place. Not quite that either, for the old deadness had been waked into an agony of pain. Angelot false! h.e.l.l must certainly be worse to bear after a taste of Paradise.

She laid her fair head down on her arms at the open window, high in the bare wall. An hour pa.s.sed by, and still she sat there in a kind of hopeless lethargy. She did not hear a gentle tapping at the door, nor the trying of the latch by some one who could not get in. But a minute later she started and exclaimed when a dark head was suddenly nestled against hers, her cheek kissed by rosy lips, her name whispered lovingly.

"Oh, little Riette!" she cried. "Where did you come from, child? Was the key in the door?"

"No, there was no key," Riette whispered. "You are locked in, ma belle; but never mind. I know my way about Lancilly. I am going home now, and I wanted to see you. They will ask me how you are looking."

Helene blushed and almost laughed. She looked eagerly into the child's face.

"Who will ask you?"

"Papa, of course."

"Ah, yes, he is very kind. What will you say to him?"

Riette looked hard at her and shrugged her slight shoulders.

"I must go," she said. "Kiss me again, ma belle."

"Stop!" Helene held her tight, with her hands on her shoulders. "Do you often see--your cousin--Angelot?"

Riette's face rippled with laughter. "Every day--nearly every hour."

"Why do you laugh?"

"How can I tell? It is my fault, my own wickedness," said Riette, penitently. "Why indeed should I laugh, when you look sad and ill? Can I say any little word to Angelot, ma cousine?"

"Tell him I must see him--I must speak to him. Tell him to fix the place and the hour."

"And you a prisoner?"

"Yes--but how did you get in? That way I can get out--Riette--Riette!"

"Precisely. Adieu! they are calling me."

The child was gone. Helene, standing in the deep recess in the window, now came forward and looked round wonderingly. The old tapestried walls surrounded her; ancient scenes of hunting and dancing which at first had troubled her sleep. There was no visible exit from the room, except the locked door. But Riette was gone, and the message with her. Was she a real child, or only a comforting dream?

CHAPTER XVI

HOW ANGELOT PLAYED THE PART OF AN OWL IN AN IVY-BUSH

That night, while Helene sat alone and in disgrace, her lover was dancing.

After dinner Riette persuaded her father to walk across with her to La Mariniere, where they found Monsieur Urbain, his wife and son, spending the evening in their usual sober fashion; he, deep in vintage matters, still studying his friend De Serres, and arguing various points with Angelot whose day had been pa.s.sed with Joubard in the vineyards; she, working at her frame, where a very rococo shepherd and shepherdess under a tree had almost reached perfection.

Madame de la Mariniere had views of her own about little girls, and considered Riette by no means a model. She had tried to impress her ideas on Monsieur Joseph, but though he smiled and listened admiringly, he spoiled Riette all the more. So her Aunt Anne reluctantly gave her up. But still, in her rather severe way, she was kind to the child, and Riette, though a little shy and on her good behaviour, was not afraid of her. There was always a basket beside Aunt Anne, of clothes she was making for the poor, for her tapestry was only an evening amus.e.m.e.nt. In this basket there was a little white cap such as the peasant children wore, partly embroidered in white thread. This was Riette's special work, whenever she came to La Mariniere. Sitting on a footstool beside her aunt, she st.i.tched away at "le bonnet de la pet.i.te Lise." At her rate of progress, however, as her aunt pointed out with a melancholy smile, Lise would be a grown-up woman before the cap was finished.

And on this special evening the st.i.tches were both few and crooked.

Riette paid no attention to her work, but sat staring and smiling at Angelot across the room, and he, instead of talking to his father and uncle, watched her keenly under his eyelids. Presently he came and stood near his mother's chair while she asked Riette a few questions about her lessons that day. It appeared that all had been satisfactory.

"A good little woman, Mademoiselle Moineau," said Riette, softly, smiling at Angelot, who felt the colour mounting to his hair. "I like her very much. She pretends to scold, but there is no malice in it, you know. I don't think she is very clever. Quite clever enough for Sophie and Lucie, who are most amiable, poor dear children, but stupid--ah!"

"They are older than you, I believe, Henriette," said her aunt, reprovingly.

"Yes, dear aunt, in years, but not in experience. I have lived, I know life"--she nodded gently--"while those poor girls--Ah, how charming! May I have a little dance with Ange, Aunt Anne?"

"I suppose so. Lise will not have her cap yet, it seems," said Madame de la Mariniere, smiling in spite of herself.

Monsieur Joseph had sat down to the piano and was playing a lively polka. Angelot started up, seized his little cousin, and whirled her off down the room. In a minute or two Urbain took off his spectacles, shut the _Theatre d'Agriculture_ with a sharp clap, walked up to Anne and held out his hands with a smiling bow.

"I can't resist Joseph's music, if you can, my little lady!"

"It seems we must follow the children," she said. "Riette has just been pointing out that she, at least, is wiser than her elders."

Angelot and his father jumped their light partners up and down with all the merry energy of France and a new world. After a few turns, Angelot waltzed Riette out into the hall, and they stood still for a few moments under the porch, while she whispered Helene's message into his ear.

"Mon Dieu! But how can she meet me? It must be at night, or they will see us. And if she is locked into her room?"

"She can get out of her room, mon pet.i.t! She knows there is a way, though I have not shown it to her. Then there is the secret staircase in the chapel wall."

"You are right, glorious child that you are. She will find me in the moat, close to the little door. Nothing can be safer, provided that no one misses her."

"At what time?"