The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
Читать онлайн книгу.
of life that was likely to make his wife unhappy?"
Count Paul looked straight into the blue eyes which told him so much more than their owner knew they told.
"Yes! He might easily give up that life for the sake of a beloved woman. But would he remain always faithful in his renunciation? That is the question which none, least of all himself, can answer!"
The victoria was now crossing one of the bridges which are, perhaps, the noblest possession of outdoor Paris.
Count Paul changed the subject. He had seen with mingled pain and joy how much his last honest words had troubled her.
"My brother-in-law has never cared to move west, as so many of his friends have done," he observed. "He prefers to remain in the old family house that was built by his great-grandfather before the French Revolution."
Soon they were bowling along a quiet, sunny street, edged with high walls overhung with trees. The street bore the name of Babylon.
And indeed there was something almost Babylonian, something very splendid in the vast courtyard which formed the centre of what appeared, to Sylvia's fascinated eyes, a grey stone palace. The long rows of high, narrow windows which now encompassed her were all closed, but with the clatter of the horses' hoofs on the huge paving-stones the great house stirred into life.
The carriage drew up. Count Paul jumped out and gave Sylvia his hand. Huge iron doors, that looked as if they could shut out an invading army, were flung open, and after a moment's pause, Paul de Virieu led Sylvia Bailey across the threshold of the historic Hôtel d'Eglemont.
She had never seen, she had never imagined, such pomp, such solemn state, as that which greeted her, and there came across her a childish wish that Anna Wolsky and the Wachners could witness the scene—the hall hung with tapestries given to an ancestor of the Duc d'Eglemont by Louis the Fourteenth, the line of powdered footmen, and the solemn major-domo who ushered them up the wide staircase, at the head of which there stood a slender, white-clad young woman, with a sweet, eager face.
This was the first time Sylvia Bailey had met a duchess, and she was perhaps a little surprised to see how very unpretentious a duchess could be!
Marie-Anne d'Eglemont spoke in a low, almost timid voice, her English being far less good than her brother's, and yet how truly kind and highly-bred she at once showed herself, putting Sylvia at her ease, and appearing to think there was nothing at all unusual in Mrs. Bailey's friendship with Paul de Virieu!
And then, after they had lunched in an octagon room of which each panel had been painted by Van Loo, and which opened on a garden where the green glades and high trees looked as if they must be far from a great city, there suddenly glided in a tiny old lady, dressed in a sweeping black gown and little frilled lace cap.
Count Paul bowing low before her, kissed her waxen-looking right hand.
"My dear godmother, let me present to you Mrs. Bailey," and Sylvia felt herself being closely, rather pitilessly, inspected by shrewd though not unkindly eyes—eyes sunken, dimmed by age, yet seeing more, perhaps, than younger eyes would have seen.
The old Marquise beckoned to Count Paul, and together they slowly walked through into the garden and paced away down a shaded alley. For the first time Sylvia and Marie-Anne d'Eglemont were alone together.
"I wish to thank you for your kindness to my poor Paul," the Duchesse spoke in a low, hesitating voice. "You have so much influence over him, Madame."
Sylvia shook her head.
"Ah! But yes, you have!" She looked imploringly at Sylvia. "You know what I mean? You know what I would ask you to do? My husband could give Paul work in the country, work he would love, for he adores horses, if only he could be rescued from this terrible infatuation, this passion for play."
She stopped abruptly, for the Count and his little, fairy-like godmother had turned round, and were now coming towards them.
Sylvia rose instinctively to her feet, for the tiny Marquise was very imposing.
"Sit down, Madame," she said imperiously, and Sylvia meekly obeyed.
The old lady fixed her eyes with an appraising gaze on her godson's English friend.
"Permit me to embrace you," she exclaimed suddenly. "You are a very pretty creature! And though no doubt young lips often tell you this, the compliments of the old have the merit of being quite sincere!"
She bent down, and Sylvia, to her confusion and surprise, felt her cheeks lightly kissed by the withered lips of Paul de Virieu's godmother.
"Madame Bailey's rouge is natural; it does not come off!" the old lady exclaimed, and a smile crept over her parchment-coloured face. "Not but what a great deal of nonsense is talked about the usage of rouge, my dear children! There is no harm in supplementing the niggardly gifts of nature. You, for instance, Marie-Anne, would look all the better for a little rouge!" She spoke in a high, quavering voice.
The Duchesse smiled. Her brother had always been the old Marquise's favourite.
"But I should feel so ashamed if it came off," she said lightly; "if, for instance, I felt one of my cheeks growing pale while the other remained bright red?"
"That would never happen if you used what I have often told you is the only rouge a lady should use, that is, the sap of the geranium blossom—that gives an absolutely natural tint to the skin, and my own dear mother always used it. You remember how Louis XVIII. complimented her on her beautiful complexion at the first Royal ball held after the Restoration? Well, the Sovereign's gracious words were entirely owing to the geranium blossom!"
Chapter XIV
The day after her memorable expedition to Paris opened pleasantly for Sylvia Bailey, though it was odd how dull and lifeless the Villa du Lac seemed to be without Count Paul.
But he would be back to-morrow, and in the morning of the next day they were to begin riding together.
Again and again she went over in retrospect every moment of the two hours she had spent in that great house in the Faubourg St. Germain.
How kind these two ladies had been to her, Paul's gentle sister and his stately little fairy-like godmother! But the Duchesse's manner had been very formal, almost solemn; and as for the other—Sylvia could still feel the dim, yet terribly searching, eyes fixed on her face, and she wondered nervously what sort of effect she had produced on the old Marquise.
Meanwhile, she felt that now was the time to see something of Anna Wolsky. The long afternoon and evening stretching before her seemed likely to be very dull, and so she wrote a little note and asked Anna if she would care for a long expedition in the Forest of Montmorency. It was the sort of thing Anna always said bored her, but as she was not going to the Casino a drive would surely be better than doing nothing.
And now Sylvia, sitting idly by her bed-room window, was awaiting Anna's answer to her note. She had sent it, just before she went down to luncheon, by a commissionaire, to the Pension Malfait, and the answer ought to have come ere now.
After their drive she and Anna might call on the Wachners and offer to take them to the Casino; and with the thought of the Wachners there came over Sylvia a regret that the Comte de Virieu was so fastidious. He seemed to detest the Wachners! When he met them at the Casino, the most he would do was to incline his head coldly towards them. Who could wonder that Madame Wachner spoke so disagreeably of him?
Sylvia Bailey's nature was very loyal, and now she reminded herself that this couple, for whom Count Paul seemed to have an instinctive dislike, were good-natured and kindly. She must ever remember gratefully how helpful Madame Wachner had been during the first few days she and Anna had been at Lacville, in showing them the little ways about the place, and in explaining to them all sorts of things about the Casino.
And how kindly the Wachners had