The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn
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bright eyes would light up the old hall better than the huge brazen lamps which now served to make darkness visible. From thinking of the pleasantness of such an illumination, he began to think of its difficulties; and the difficulties of the project soon referred only to the place. One thought suggests another; and from thinking how many obstacles opposed the introduction of bright eyes and sweet smiles into the castle, he arrived at the conclusion, how easily they were to be obtained in other parts.
To say the truth, Paris became daily more familiar to his mind’s eye; and, as he justly observed, staying at the dull old castle could do his uncle no good, and he was quite sure it did himself none. Now, in spite of philanthropy, people are not very fond of doing good gratuitously; but, to be sure, such doctrines were not so much discussed in those days as in ours, though the practice was about the same. Sometimes he argued with himself, “It is well to be out of harm’s way;”—and the prediction and a cold shudder came together. But we are ready enough to dare the danger we do not know: and though a few years of Parisian life had placed the nephew’s early on a level with the uncle’s late experience, touching the evil inherent in womanhood, nevertheless Adolphe supposed their bad qualities might be borne, at all events, better than the dullness of the Chateau de Launaye.
One day riding with his bridle on his horse’s neck, mediating whether his next ride should not be direct to Paris, a most uncommon spectacle in that unfrequented part of the country attracted his attention. This was a large lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, whose rich harness and housings bore the crest in gold—a lynx rampant. A very natural curiosity (by-the-by, all curiosity is natural enough) made him look in at the window. Was there ever a face half so beautiful as that of the girl who, like himself, actuated by natural curiosity, looked out as he looked in? The black silk wimple was drawn over her head, but allowed a very red upper lip, an exquisite Grecian nose, and a most brilliant pair of eyes to be seen. Our young cavalier sat as if he had been stupefied. This is a very common effect of love at first. It goes off, however—so it did with Adolphe. His first act on recovering his senses was to gallop after the coach. He spurred on, and caught a second glance of the most radiant orbs that ever revolved in light. Large, soft, clear, and hazel, as those of a robin—they were bright and piercing as those of a falcon. Certainly de Launaye had never seen such eyes before, or at least none that ever took such an effect upon him.
He ate no dinner that day—walked by moonlight on the terrace—and the only thing which excited his attention was the seneschal’s information, that the Marquise de Surville and her granddaughter were come to stay some months at their chateau.
“They could not have done that in the late baron’s time—the Lord be good unto his soul!” And the old man forthwith commenced the history of some mysterious feud between the two families, in which the deceased Baron Godfred had finally remained victor.
To this tedious narrative of ancient enmities Adolphe was little inclined to listen. “A name and an estate are all our ancestors have a right to leave behind them. The saints preserve us from a legacy of their foes! Nothing could be worse—except their friends.”
The next morning the baron arranged his suit of sable with unusual care, though it must be confessed he always took care enough.
“Pray Heaven the marquise may be of my way of thinking respecting the quarrels of our forefathers! Some old ladies have terrible memories,” were Adolphe’s uppermost ideas as he rode over the drawbridge at the Chateau de Surville, which had been promptly lowered to his summons;—their only neighbor, he had thought it but courteous to offer his personal respects. How much more cheerful did the saloon, with its hangings in sea-green silk, worked in gold, seem than his own hall, encumbered with the dusty trophies of his ancestors. To be sure, the young baron was not at that moment a very fair judge; for the first thing that met him on his entrance was a glance from the same pair of large bright eyes which had been haunting him for the last four-and-twenty hours.
The grandmother was as stern a looking old gentlewoman as ever had knights in armor for ancestors: still, her eyes, also bright, clear, and piercing, somewhat resembled those of her granddaughter. On the rest of her face time had wrought “strange disfeatures.” She was silent; and, after the first compliments, resumed the volume she had been reading on the baron’s appearance. It was a small book, bound in black velvet, with gold clasps, richly wrought. Adolphe took it for granted it was her breviary; and inwardly concluded how respectable is that piety in an old woman which leaves the young one under her charge quite at liberty! The visitor’s whole attention was soon devoted to the oriel window where sat the beautiful Clotilde de Surville. The Baron de Launaye piqued himself on fastidious taste in women and horses: he had had some experience in both. But Clotilde was faultless. There she leaned, with the splendor of day full upon her face; it fell upon her pure complexion like joy upon the heart, and the sunbeams glittered amid the thick ringlets till every curl was edged with gold. Her dress alone seemed capable of improvement; but it is as well to leave something to the imagination, and there was ample food for Adolphe’s, in picturing the change that would be wrought upon Clotilde by a Parisian milliner. “This comes,” thought he, “of being brought up in an old German castle.”
For very shame he at last rose; when, with a grim change of countenance, meant for a smile, the marquise asked him to stay for dinner. It is a remark not the less true for being old (though nowadays opinions are all on the change), that love-making is a thing “to hear, and not to tell.” We shall therefore leave the progress of the wooing, and come to the denouement, which was the most proper possible, viz. marriage. Adolphe had been the most devoted of lovers, and Clotilde had given him a great deal of modest encouragement; that is, her bright eyes had often wandered in search of his, and the moment they had found them, had dropped to the ground; and whenever he entered the room, a blush had come into her cheek, like the light into the pearl, filling it with the sweet hues of the rose. Never did love-affair proceed more prosperously. The old seneschal was the only person who grumbled. He begged leave to remind the young baron that it was not showing proper respect to his ancestors not to take up their quarrels.
“But things are altered since the days when lances were attached to every legacy,” returned Adolphe.
“We are altering everything nowadays,” replied the old man; “I don’t see, however, that we are a bit the better off.”
“I, at all events, expect happiness,” replied his master, “in this change in my condition.”
“Ay, ay, so we all do before we are married: what we find after there is no use in saying, for two reasons; first, that you would not believe me; secondly, my wife might hear what I’m telling.”
“Ah!” exclaims the young baron, “the caution that marriage teaches! If it were only for the prudence I should acquire, it would be worth my while to marry.”
“Alas! Rashness never yet wanted a reason. My poor young master! The old marquise and her dark-eyed granddaughter have taken you in completely.”
“Taken me in!” ejaculated de Launaye angrily; “why you old fool, were this a mere match of interest I might thank my stars for such a lucky chance. Young, beautiful, high-born, and rich, Clotilde has but to appear at court and ensure a much higher alliance than mine. What motive could they have?”
“I don’t know; but when I don’t know people’s motives, I always suppose the worst,” replied the obstinate Dominique.
“Charitable,” laughed the master.
“And besides,” resumed the seneschal, “the old marquise plagued her husband into the grave; and I dare say her granddaughter means to do as much for you.”
“A novel reason, at all events, for taking a husband,” said de Launaye, “in order that you may plague him to death afterward.”
Chapter III
Well, the wedding-day arrived at last. De Launaye could have found some fault with his bride’s costume, but for her face. There was a stiffness in the rigid white satin, and the ruff was at least two inches too high—indeed he did not see any necessity for the ruff at all; they had been quite out some years at Paris. However, he said nothing, remembering that a former hint on the subject