Four Phases of Love Part 5

Eight days had pa.s.sed away, and Marion sat in her chamber one afternoon, with eyes red with weeping, and cheeks pale with sorrow, so intently engaged turning over old letters which she had in her lap that she did not hear the door open, and one of her old playmates enter.

When her friend called her by name, she sprang up startled. "Good day, Perette," she said; "what brings you here?" "or rather, what keeps _you_ here?" answered the girl, saucily; "you sit and you cry, and you never think of going near the Three Lilies, where your husband's new piece is to be acted by the strange players. What a wife you are! I should be the first to go if I had a husband who could charm half the town into the courtyard of an old inn. What have you got there? Have you been studying all the old songs your Adam made on you? I should think that you ought to have them all at your fingers' ends now like your rosary." The poor wife began to weep bitterly. "Don't you know then," she sobbed, "and is not the whole town of Ara.s.s talking about it--that he is going to Paris, and intends to leave me behind, and is never, never coming back again?" "Bah! nonsense," cried Perette, "what has put all that into your head?" "He said it to me himself, word for word; and since that time he has never eaten at home, and only returns very late at night, and sleeps below in the saloon." "Well, well, he has had his hands full of his new play, and then men are always fanciful, Marion, and must always be doing something to plague us; but, G.o.d be praised! all are not dead that do not laugh. Dry your eyes, be a sensible woman, and come with me to the play. What will your husband think of you if you don't even wish to see a play he has written himself?"

So half comforting, half scolding, she drew the sorrowing young wife out of her room to the Three Lilies.

There all was gay enough. A number of the townspeople were seated on benches in the s.p.a.cious courtyard. The windows of the low buildings at the side had been chosen as boxes by the more distinguished of the burghers. And the stage was erected in a large barn at the end of the yard, the mighty doors having been removed for that purpose. Marion and Perette arrived at the moment of the exit of Dame Avaritia, who had spoken the prologue, and a.s.sured many rich burghers of the town of her further protection. Not a place was left free for our two fair sight-seers, either in the courtyard, or at the windows. But Perette was not to be daunted, and knowing the house, she made her way through a side building, and advanced with Marion up to the barn. Here they placed themselves behind the great linen cloths with which the stage had been fenced off, and peeped through a rent in the curtain at the play, unhindered by the actors, who, in their fantastic dresses, sought to pay their court to the two pretty women. Marion took not the slightest notice of them, and stood rooted to one spot. Perette exercised the sharpness of her little tongue on the player folk now and then, and, in common parlance, gave them quite as good, or perhaps better than they brought.

But Master Adam, little dreaming that his young wife was watching him, had, in the meantime, advanced from the other side in his own character and costume.

He began in smooth verses to bewail his sorrows. He wanted to go to Paris, and never a _sou_ had he in his pockets, and his _millionaire_ of an uncle had, just at this moment, been attacked by the most hopeless complaint in the world, an obstinate avarice, so that from him there was nothing to hope. To him entered a doctor, whom Adam consulted as to whether it was possible to cure avarice, for he could show him a splendid specimen of it, if he wished to try his hand. Whereupon the doctor broke forth into a learned dissertation on the different varieties of the disease, distinguishing those curable from those incurable; and in the case which Adam described, he had but little doubt that he could be of service, if he was only permitted to see the patient himself. Then a third personage advanced, so ridiculously like Adam's venerable uncle in figure and manner and dress, that the laughter of the spectators seemed never coming to an end. To this worthy gentleman the doctor advanced with great politeness, felt his pulse, and looked gravely at his tongue, asked about this and that, and then made some more pointed inquiries about specific symptoms of the miser fever, from which he understood he suffered. Upon which the old gentleman burst into a great rage, upbraided his rascally nephew soundly for accusing him of having such a scandalous complaint, and declared the grounds upon which he refused to a.s.sist him on his journey to Paris. The princ.i.p.al reason was, that Adam was only just married, and had already grown tired of his wife, who nevertheless was, as all Arras knew, a perfect model of beauty and virtue.

In ever-increasing irritation had poor Marion been an unsuspected partic.i.p.ator in all this conversation--and who could blame a virtuous wife for feeling irritated--when all at once she saw her domestic sorrows made a b.u.t.t for a laughing public. She took no heed of the polished verses and comical grimaces with which the conversation of the three actors was adorned, and which so delighted the audience. With a bitter anxiety, and forgetting all else, she now listened to the answer her husband was to give to her uncle. When, however, Adam drily explained to the audience that a pretty woman was not necessarily an amusing one, and that his Marion's mouth was better adapted for kisses than conversation, that nevertheless no one grew wiser by kissing, but, on the contrary, by witty conversation; and that he would present any one amongst them, who had ever heard his Marion give utterance to an observation at all bordering on the witty, the sum of two golden crowns; then the poor listener could no longer restrain herself. With one bound she was on the stage, and stood with glowing eyes and angry brow directly opposite to him who had so basely slandered her.

"Are you not ashamed, Adam?" she cried in the midst of his harangue; "are you not ashamed to speak thus of your own wedded wife before all the town? Oh, if you had ever loved me, only a little, a little, that speech would never have pa.s.sed your lips! And now tell me, have I deserved it from you? Have I ever caused you one hour's grief? Have I not done everything to please you? And now will you speak ill of me before all Arras?"

So angry and heart-grieved, amidst tears and sobbings, scolded the poor beauty. The audience who took it all for part of the play, laughed at first, aye, and some amongst them were mischievous enough to enjoy their neighbour's domestic discomfort. When, however, they began to see that it was the veritable Marion herself, the worst of them lost their gaiety and stared astonished at the stage. But Adam, much as he was startled at first by this sudden apparition, quickly recovered himself, and cried loudly and undauntedly, "My good fellow-townsmen, this does not belong to our play; this woman fell suddenly in amongst us, and does not belong to our company at all. Let me entreat some of you to lead her away. You hear that she does not talk verse, like all the actors who have the honour of performing this most remarkable farce before your worthinesses!" Therewith, he took Marion gently by the hand, to lead her from the stage. But she shook herself free, and encouraged by the demand of some amount the spectators, that she should be permitted to remain, and fight for her own cause, cried, "Aye! and I _will_, I say too! and make you all the judges of whether I have not been badly played upon. It is true that I am naturally silent, but is it to be considered a fault, on my part, if I do what you men are always throwing in the teeth of us poor women, letting alone all useless chattering, and listening quietly to what my husband has to say?" "Marion is right." "Long live Marion! she shall speak again!"

shouted the spectators, laughing, and waving her encouragement. "And,"

she continued, growing even more eloquent, "if I have no right to be here because I do not speak verses, I know enough and of the very best too! My husband, who slanders me now, wrote them on me himself before we were married; and you shall hear them that you may know how double-tongued he is, and what fair words he once had for my praise, although he now has only complaints."

Therewith she stepped to the edge of the stage and sang the following verses, with a voice that threatened to desert her--

"Cheeks as red and eyes as dancing, Arms and necks like lilies glancing, You may find in Arras town.

Hearts as soft and limbs as rounded, Forms with every grace surrounded, You may meet with, up and down!

But with wisdom no one's blest, Like the maiden I love best!"

A shout of laughter answered this strophe; some began to sing the _refrain_ and others joined them. But a voice from the crowd asked, "But how can you prove, fair Marion, that this lady of whom he talks is not another than yourself?" "Listen again," cried Marion, "there is no doubt about it." Then she sang--

"Others may more sweetly sing, Lighter through the dancers swing, Never a straw I care!

Prattle half an hour free, Marion's rosy lips to me, That's a pleasure rare!

Prettier, wittier ne'er was known, Than my Marion, darling one!"

This time the whole audience sang the _refrain_ with her, and then resounded loud cheerings for the songstress, who stood with the tears still in her eyes, frightened at her own boldness, but lovelier than ever on the stage. Adam sprang from the back of the scene and cried, "Silence, good burghers all! I too have a word to say." All were silent, and curious to know how he would manage to bring himself into grace again. He said, "There is not one amongst you who cannot perceive that my dear wife here has blamed me terribly, and managed to get all the laughter on her side; for that, I thank her from the very bottom of my soul: I tell you all truly that my heart quivered with joy at each word she spoke, and when, at last, she hit upon the charming idea of making my own words witness against me, I said quietly to myself, Master Adam, you are a rogue if you desert such a model of a wife, though it rained honours and doubloons in Paris! and so I come penitently hoping that my dear fellow-townsmen will intercede for me with my wife, that she may take her insolent, reckless husband back to her heart and love, and forget what his slanderous tongue has said of her."

As he said this with ah emotion, which no one had ever seen him under before, there was a deep silence in the court--Marion smiled at him with an a.s.suring kindness--fell upon his neck, and said, "You dear, mischievous man." Then broke from all the windows and benches a universal shout of congratulation. But Adam, freeing himself from the arms of his wife, grasped her hand firmly, and cried, "I owe you the third song." it runs thus--

"Let those who will to Paris wander, And time and gold for learning squander, For me I mean at home to rest!

All the knowledge that's worth knowing Lies, fresh springing, ever blowing, In a gentle woman's breast.

Wiser woman ne'er was known Than the one----I call mine own!"

We need hardly say how gaily all joined in the _refrain_ this time.

Just, however, as they were all in full song, there arose a noise of contention before the house; certain people had kindly let Adam's uncle know that his nephew had introduced his honourable presentment on the stage, and the old gentlemen came, with a company of archers, firmly determined to make his irreverent nephew pay dearly for his indiscretion. The people were now busied in the house explaining to him the favourable turn things had taken, and when he heard of Adam's recantation and the renunciation of the Paris idea, he permitted himself to be pacified, became gracious and forgave the saucy poet, who approached humbly with Marion on his arm; and in order to strike a joyous blow against the accusation of avarice, he gave a grand banquet that very evening at the Three Lilies, where Marion was obliged to dance with all the great people of the town.

The play was quite spoilt for the good burghers of Arras; but we have, however, so much faith in their good heartedness, as to believe that the miracle, as performed by Marion, pleased them more than if, as was originally intended, the angel Gabriel and half a dozen of his body guard, had descended from heaven and kicked Dame Avaritia out of the country with due honour. It is possible that there might have been never a miser the less in Arras for it, and now, at least, there was one happy pair the more.

LA RABBIATA.

CHAPTER I.

The sun had not yet risen. Over Vesuvius lay a broad grey sweep of mist, which spread itself out towards Naples, and overshadowed the little towns along the coast. The sea was tranquil, but on the Marina, which is situate in a narrow inlet under the high Torrentine cliffs; fishermen and their wives were already busied, dragging in with stout ropes the net boats, which had been fishing at sea during the night.

Others cleaned up their boats, shook out the sails, and brought oars and spars out of the great railed vaults, cut deep in the rock, in which they kept their tackle at night. No one was idle. For even the old people, who were no longer able to go to sea, ranged themselves amongst the long rows of those who drew the nets, and here and there there stood an old woman with her distaff on one of the flat roofs, or took care of the children, whilst her daughter helped her husband at his work.

"Look there, Rach.e.l.la! there is our padre, Eurato," said an old woman, to a little thing of ten years old, who swung its little spindle by her side; "He has just stepped into the boat. Antonino is going to take him over to Capri. Maria Santissima! how sleepy the holy man looks still!"

and therewith she waved her hand towards a kindly looking little priest, who had seated himself cautiously in a boat below her, having first carefully raised his black coat and spread it over the seat. The people on the sh.o.r.e paused in their work to see their padre start, who nodded and greeted them kindly right and left.

"Why must he go to Capri, grandmother?" asked the child. "Have the people over there got no priest of their own that they are obliged to borrow ours?"

"Do not be so silly," answered the old woman, "They have plenty of priests, and beautiful churches, and a hermit too--which we have not.

But there is a n.o.ble signora there, who stopped once a long time here at Lorento, and was so ill that the padre was often obliged to carry her the Hoste, when she did not think that she should live through the night. Well, the Holy Virgin helped her, and she got strong and well again, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. When she went from here to go over to Capri, she left a pretty heap of ducats behind for the Church and the poor people, and said that she would not go until our padre promised to visit her over there, that she might confess to him, for it is wonderful how fond she is of him; and we may bless ourselves that we have a padre who has gifts like an archbishop, and who is asked after by all the great people. The Madonna be with him."

And therewith she nodded down towards the boat which was just putting off.

"Shall we have fine weather, my son?" asked the little priest, looking thoughtfully towards Naples.

"The sun is not up yet," answered the young man; "It will soon scatter that bit of fog when it rises."

"So, let us start at once, and avoid the heat." Antonino was in the act of grasping the long oar, in order to push off the boat, when he suddenly checked himself, and looked up towards the steep path which led from the little town of Lorento, down towards the Marina.

A slender girlish form was visible above, tripping hastily over the rough stones, and waving a handkerchief She carried a small bundle under her arm, and was poorly enough dressed; yet she had an almost n.o.ble, though rather wild way of throwing her head back on her shoulders, and the black tresses which she wore twined round her forehead decked her like a coronet.

"What are we waiting for?" asked the little priest.

"There is some one coming down who wants to go to Capri. If you will permit it, padre, we shall not go the slower, for it is only a young girl, hardly eighteen."

Just as he spoke the girl appeared round the end of the wall which bordered the winding path. "Lauretta!" cried the padre, "what can she want in Capri?"

Antonino shrugged his shoulders. The girl approached with hasty steps, looking straight before her.

"Good day! La Rabbiata!" cried some of the young sailors. They might indeed have said more if the proximity of their padre had not kept them a little in order, for the short defiant manner with which the girl received their greetings seemed to irritate them vastly.

"Good day, Lauretta!" cried the padre, "how goes it with you? Do you want to go over to Capri with us?"

"If you will permit me, padre."

"You must ask Antonino there. He is the patron of the boat. Every one is master of his own, and G.o.d of us all."

"Here is a half Carolus," said Lauretta, without looking at the young boatman, "can I go over for it?"