Petticoat Rule Part 8

"Irene!"

"Why don't you tell me?" she said with pa.s.sionate vehemence. "Can't you see that I have been torturing myself with jealous fears? I am jealous--can I help it? I suffered martyrdom when I saw you there with her! I could not hear your words, but I could see the earnestness of your att.i.tude. Do I not know every line of your figure, every gesture of your hand? Then the curtain fell at your touch, and I could no longer see--only divine--only tremble and fear. Mon Dieu! did I not love you as I do, were my love merely foolish pa.s.sion, would I not then have screamed out the truth to all that jabbering crowd that stood between me and you, seeming to mock me with its prattle, and its irresponsible laughter? I am unnerved, Gaston," she added, with a sudden breakdown of her self-control, her voice trembling with sobs, the tears welling to her eyes, and her hands beating against one another with a movement of petulant nervosity. "I could bear it, you know, but for this secrecy, this false position; it is humiliating to me, and--Oh, be kind to me--be kind to me!" she sobbed, giving finally way to a fit of weeping. "I have spent such a miserable evening, all alone."

Stainville's expressive lips curled into a smile. "Be kind to me!"--the same pathetic prayer spoken to him by Lydie a very short while ago. Bah! how little women understood ambition! Even Lydie! Even Irene!

And these two women were nothing to him. Lydie herself was only a stepping-stone; the statuesque and headstrong girl made no appeal to the essentially masculine side of his nature, and he had little love left now for the beautiful pa.s.sionate woman beside him, whom in a moment of unreasoning impulse he had bound irrevocably to him.

Gaston de Stainville aspired to military honours a couple of years ago; the Marechal de Saint Romans, friend and mentor of the Dauphin, confidant of the Queen, seemed all-powerful then. Unable to win the father's consent to his union with Irene--for the Marechal had more ambitious views for his only daughter and looked with ill-favour on the young gallant who had little to offer but his own handsome person, an ancient name, and a pa.s.sionate desire for advancement--Gaston, who had succeeded in enchaining the young girl's affections, had no difficulty in persuading her to agree to a secret marriage.

But the wheel of fate proved as erratic in its movements as the flights of Stainville's ambition. With the appearance of Jeanne Poisson d'etioles at the Court of Versailles, the Queen's gentle influence over Louis XV waned, and her friends fell into disfavour and obscurity. The Marechal de Saint Romans was given an unimportant command in Flanders; there was nothing to be gained for the moment from an open alliance with his daughter. Gaston de Stainville, an avowed opportunist, paid his court to the newly risen star and was received with smiles, but he could not shake himself from the matrimonial fetters which he himself had forged.

The rapid rise of the Duc d'Aumont to power and the overwhelming ascendancy of Lydie in the affairs of State had made the young man chafe bitterly against the indestructible barrier which he himself had erected between his desires and their fulfilment. His pa.s.sion for Irene did not yield to the early love of his childhood's days; it was drowned in the newly risen flood of more boundless ambition. It was merely the casting aside of one stepping-stone for another more firm and more prominent.

Just now in the secluded alcove, when the proud, reserved girl had laid bare before him the secrets of her virginal soul, when with pathetic abandonment she laid the sceptre of her influence and power at his feet, he had felt neither compunction nor remorse; now, when the woman who had trusted and blindly obeyed him asked for his help and support in a moral crisis, he was conscious only of a sense of irritation and even of contempt, which he tried vainly to disguise.

At the same time he knew well that it is never wise to tax a woman's submission too heavily. Irene had yielded to his wish that their marriage be kept a secret for the present only because she, too, was tainted with a touch of that unscrupulous ambition which was the chief characteristic of the epoch. She was shrewd enough to know that her husband would have but little chance in elbowing his way up the ladder of power--"each rung of which was wrapped in a petticoat," as M. de Voltaire had pertinently put it--if he was known to be dragging a wife at his heels; Gaston had had no difficulty in making her understand that his personality as a gay and irresponsible b.u.t.terfly, as a man of fashion, and a squire of dames, was the most important factor in the coming fight for the virtual dominion of France.

She had accepted the position at first with an easy grace; she knew her Gaston, and knew that he must not be handled with too tight a curb; moreover, her secret status pleased her, whilst he remained avowedly faithful to her she liked to see him court and smile, a _preux chevalier_ with the ladies; she relished the thought of being the jailer to that gaily-plumaged bird, whom bright eyes and smiling lips tried to entice and enchain.

But to-night a crisis had come; something in Gaston's att.i.tude toward Lydie had irritated her beyond what she was prepared to endure. His love for her had begun to wane long ago; she knew that, but she was not inclined to see it bestowed on another. Stainville feared that she was losing self-control, and that she might betray all and lose all if he did not succeed in laying her jealous wrath to rest. He was past master in the art of dealing with a woman's tears.

"Irene," he said earnestly, "I have far too much respect for you to look upon this childish outburst of tears as representing the true state of your feelings. You are unnerved--you own it yourself. Will you allow me to hold your hand?" he said with abrupt transition.

Then as she yielded her trembling hand to him he pressed a lingering kiss in the icy cold palm.

"Will you not accept with this kiss the a.s.surance of my unswerving faith and loyalty?" he said, speaking in that low, deep-toned voice of his which he knew so well how to make tender and appealing to the heart of women. "Irene, if I have committed an indiscretion to-night, if I allowed my ambition to soar beyond the bounds of prudence, will you not believe that with my ambition my thoughts flew up to you and only came down to earth in order to rest at your feet?"

He had drawn her close to him, ready to whisper in her ear, as he had whispered half an hour ago in those of Lydie. He wanted this woman's trust and confidence just a very little while longer, and he found words readily enough with which to hoodwink and to cajole. Irene was an easier prey than Lydie. She was his wife and her ambitions were bound up with his; her mistrust only came from jealousy, and jealousy in a woman is so easily conquered momentarily, if she be beautiful and young and the man ardent and unscrupulous.

Gaston as yet had no difficult task; but every day would increase those difficulties, until he had finally grasped the aim of his ambitious desires and had rid himself of Lydie.

"Irene!" he whispered now, for he felt that she was consoled, and being consoled, she was ready to yield. "Irene, my wife, a little more patience, a little more trust. Two days--a week--what matter? Shut your eyes to all save this one moment to-night, when your husband is at your feet and when his soul goes out to yours in one long, and tender kiss. Your lips, ma mie!"

She bent her head to him. Womanlike, she could not resist. Memory came to his aid as he pleaded, the memory of those early days on the vine-clad hills near Bordeaux, when he had wooed and won her with the savour of his kiss.

CHAPTER VII

THE YOUNG PRETENDER

And Lydie d'Aumont's eyes had watched his disappearing figure through the crowd, until she could bear the sight no longer, and closed them with the pain.

An even, pleasant, very courteous voice roused her from her reverie.

"You are tired, Mlle. d'Aumont. May I--that is, I should be very proud if you would allow me to--er----"

She opened her eyes and saw the handsome face of "le pet.i.t Anglais"

turned up to her with a look of humility, a deprecatory offer of service, and withal a strange mingling of compa.s.sion which somehow at this moment, in her sensitive and nervous state, seemed to wound and sting her.

"I'm not the least tired," she said coldly; "I thank you, milor. The colours and the light were so dazzling for the moment, my eyes closed involuntarily."

"I humbly beg your pardon," said Eglinton with nervous haste; "I thought that perhaps a gla.s.s of wine----"

"Tush child!" interposed Lady Eglinton in her harsh dry voice; "have you not heard that Mlle. d'Aumont is not fatigued. Offer her the support of your arm and take her to see the Chevalier de Saint George, who is waiting to bid her 'good-bye.'"

"Nay! I a.s.sure you I can walk alone," rejoined Lydie, taking no heed to the proffered arm which Lord Eglinton, in obedience to his mother's suggestion, was holding out toward her. "Where is His Majesty the King of England?" emphasizing the t.i.tle with marked reproof, and looking with somewhat good-natured contempt at the young Englishman who, with a crestfallen air, had already dropped the arm which she had disdained and stepped quickly out of her way, whilst a sudden blush spread over his good-looking face.

He looked so confused and sheepish, so like a chidden child, that she was instantly seized with remorse, as if she had teased a defenseless animal, and though the touch of contempt was still apparent in her att.i.tude, she said more kindly:

"I pray you forgive me, milor. I am loth to think that perhaps our gallant Chevalier will never bear his rightful t.i.tle in his own country. I feel that it cheers him to hear us--who are in true sympathy with him--calling him by that name. Shall we go find the King of England and wish him 'G.o.d-speed'?"

She beckoned to Lord Eglinton, but he had probably not yet sufficiently recovered from the snub administered to him to realize that the encouraging glance was intended for him, and he hung back, not daring to follow, instinctively appealing to his mother for guidance as to what he should do.

"He is modest," said Lady Eglinton, with the air of a proud mother lauding her young offspring. "A heart of gold, my dear Mlle.

d'Aumont!" she whispered behind her fan, "under a simple exterior."

Lydie shrugged her shoulders with impatience. She knew whither Lady Eglinton's praises of her son would drift presently. The pompous lady looked for all the world like a fussy hen, her stiff brocaded gown and voluminous paniers standing out in stiff folds each side of her portly figure like a pair of wings, and to Lydie d'Aumont's proud spirit it seemed more than humiliating for a man, rich, young, apparently in perfect health, to allow himself to be domineered over by so vapid a personality as was milady Eglinton.

Instinctively her thoughts flew back to Gaston; very different physically to "le pet.i.t Anglais;" undoubtedly not so attractive from the point of view of manly grace and bearing, but a man for all that!

with a man's weaknesses and failings, and just that spice of devilry and uncertainty in him which was pleasing to a woman.

"So unreliable, my dear Mlle. d'Aumont," came in insinuating accents from Lady Eglinton. "Look at his lengthy entanglement with Mlle. de Saint Romans."

Lydie gave a start sudden; had she spoken her thoughts out loudly whilst her own mind was buried in happy retrospect? She must have been dreaming momentarily certainly, and must have been strangely absent-minded, for she was quite unconscious of having descended the alcove steps until she found herself walking between Lord Eglinton and his odious mother, in the direction of the corridors, whilst milady went prattling on with irritating monotony:

"You would find such support in my son. The Chevalier de Saint George--er--I mean the King of England--trusts him absolutely, you understand--they have been friends since boyhood. Harry would do more for him if he could, but he has not the power. Now as Comptroller of Finance--you understand? You have such sympathy with the Stuart pretensions, Mademoiselle, and a union of sympathies would do much towards furthering the success of so just a cause; and if my son--you understand----"

Lydie's ears were buzzing with the incessant chatter. Had she not been so absorbed in her thoughts she would have laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. This insignificant nonent.i.ty beside her, with the strength and character of a chicken, pushed into a place of influence and power by that hen-like mother, and she--Lydie--lending a hand to this installation of a backboneless weakling to the highest position of France!

The situation would have been supremely ridiculous were it not for the element of pathos in it--the pathos of a young life which might have been so brilliant, so full of activity and interest, now tied to the ap.r.o.n-strings of an interfering mother.

Lydie herself, though accustomed to rule in one of the widest spheres that ever fell to woman's lot, wielded her sceptre with discretion and tact. In these days when the King was ruled by Pompadour, when Mme. du Chatelet swayed the mind of Voltaire, and Marie Therese subjugated the Hungarians, there was nothing of the blatant petticoat government in Lydie's influence over her father. The obtrusive domination of a woman like milady was obnoxious and abhorrent to her mind, proud of its feminity, gentle in the consciousness of its strength.

Now she feared that, forgetful of courtly manners, she might say or do something which would offend the redoubtable lady. There was still the whole length of the banqueting-hall to traverse, also the corridor, before she could hope to be released from so unwelcome a companionship.

Apparently unconscious of having roused Lydie's disapproval, milady continued to prattle. Her subject of conversation was still her son, and noting that his attention seemed to be wandering, she called to him in her imperious voice:

"Harry! Harry!" she said impatiently. "Am I to to be your spokesman from first to last? Ah!" she added, with a sigh, "men are not what they were when I was wooed and won. What say you, my dear Mlle. Lydie?

The age of chivalry, of doughty deeds and bold adventures, is indeed past and gone, else a young man of Lord Eglinton's advantages would not depute his own mother to do his courting for him."

A shriek of laughter which threatened to be hysterical rose to Lydie's throat. How gladly would she have beaten a precipitate retreat.

Unfortunately the room was crowded with people, who unconsciously impeded progress. She turned and looked at "le pet.i.t Anglais," the sorry hero of this prosaic wooing, wondering what was his _role_ in this silly, childish intrigue. She met his gentle eyes fixed upon hers with a look which somehow reminded her of a St. Bernard dog that she had once possessed; there was such a fund of self-deprecation, such abject apology in the look, that she felt quite unaccountably sorry for him, and the laughter died before it reached her lips.

Something prompted her to try and rea.s.sure him; the same feeling would have caused her to pat the head of her dog.

"I feel sure," she said kindly, "that Lord Eglinton will have no need of a proxy once he sets his mind on serious wooing."