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ADRIENNE
A ROMANCE OF FRENCH LIFE

CHAPTER I.

IT was the height of the season at Trouville.

Swarms of yachts came and went in the beautiful bay. A fashionable crowd disported itself in endless variety of toilettes. An equally fashionable crowd bobbed and splashed in semi-nude audacity in the glittering blue water. The sunshine shone gaily over the quaint little green-shuttered villas, the variegated awnings, the laughing, chattering women, and the bored and idle men.

Armand de Valtour knew it all so well. Too well to feel much interest in those semi-nude women bobbing up and, down in the blue waters. Too well to see any charm in the myriad gorgeous toilettes, carefully "got-up" complexions, the dancing and gambling, and flirting, and scandal-making, and eating and drinking--No! He did | | 8 care about that last amusement--cared about it a good deal, despite a tendency to dyspepsia, which no fashionable medicines seemed able to cure. There was a little of the gourmand about Armand de Valtour, and in his easy, lazy, somewhat selfish fashion, he gave into the weakness, and disregarded the consequences.

He very often had disregarded consequences during his by no means irreproachable life, until what at first seemed only a weakness had become a habit.

He was tired of Trouville.

He had been there a week only; yet he told himself he was sick of the place and everyone in it. His dinners had disagreed with him; his friend, Victor Lamboi, had won a heavy sum from him at écarté the previous night; a woman whom he particularly disliked had come to stay at the same hotel where he was located, and had given more than a hint that she expected his attentions as of yore; it was intolerably hot; the sea was so brilliant it hurt his eyes to look at it; the women looked frights in the water--in fact, he was out of humour with everything and everybody, and so turned hotelward from the sea to have his breakfast, and made up his mind to leave the place that very night.

He might feel better after breakfast, there was no knowing. But--

He stopped quite suddenly in his slow, sauntering | | 9 walk-stopped, and was almost guilty of a prolonged stare. Yet all he saw was a young girl in a simple cream white dress, standing and watching the scene. Beside her was an elderly lady, dowdily and unfashionably dressed.

"English," thought Armand de Valtour. "But what an exquisite face!"

He almost wondered at his own sudden admiration. Women's beauty had so long been an old tale to him. But nevertheless he had been startled into it. This girl, with her soft, rose-tinted cheeks, and serious eyes, and parted, scornful lips, that seemed to utter a mute reproach to her own sex as they disported themselves unblushingly before the gaze of the idle crowds around, struck a chord of wonder in his soul.

"I wonder who she is?" he thought, as he went on his way. "What a contrast to all these dressed-up dolls!"

Which speech was rank heresy on the part of a man whose Paradise was Paris, and who had been wont to be more than critical over women's dress all his life.

He passed the girl, and went slowly up to his hotel, and partook of cutlets and drank his claret, and leaned lazily back, looking out of the windows at the bright sunshine, and the rippling sea, and the white sails of the boats, and half resolved to wait another day before laving Trouville.

He had thought of going to Provence; he had an estate there, and all his people adored him, seldom as | | 10 he honoured them with his presence. They would give him a genuine welcome, that he knew, and there would be old friends glad to greet him; and his sister, Céline, who lived in the old château, would receive him with open arms. It was five years since he had been there. Yes, he thought he had better go, and he would be rid of care and embarrassments, and Madame Aurélie could find herself another cavalier servante. He was sick and tired of her whims and fancies! He had cared for her a little once; but that, of course, was long ago. Why would women never believe that love is not made to last for ever? Why could they never see that a time comes when a passion should be dropped easily and gracefully, as an undesirable acquaintance is dropped, and not persist in recurring to the past as if one always remained at fever-point?--so ridiculous and unreasonable as they were!

Ah! here was Lamboi; farewell to meditations. This good Victor never had any repose about him; never could be brought to understand that there are times to be silent as well as times to talk.

"Ah, Armand! What, done breakfast already?" cried a hearty voice, and a stout, good-tempered-looking man entered the room, and drew his chair up to the table. "You have had your bath. Yes? Was it not fine the sea this morning, and did you see Aurélie? What a costume! and how stout she gets. And who do you think has arrived? The little Marquise de Savigny! I saw her talking to some | | 11 English people. A girl like a rose,--fresh, lovely, quite à l'Anglaise. And a mother--such a woman--dressed!--ah, but of course you know how they dress at forty, cher Armand. But the girl belle comme une ange!--ravissante! Such a complexion, such eyes!"

"The cutlets are getting cold," said Armand de Valtour, making a faint endeavour to stem the torrent of talk. "Had you not better begin your breakfast?"

Victor took the hint. Words would keep, after all; but the cutlets would be spoilt. He devoted himself to them with unmitigated ardour for the next two minutes.

"And does Madame de Savigny know these English people?" asked Armand de Valtour presently.

"Yes--did I not tell you so? She was with them."

"You did not speak, I suppose?"

"Au contraire! I did speak, and to some purpose. I was introduced. The English girl and her mother of the dreadful toilette are staying with the charming Odylle. The rose and fleur-de-lys are old school-fellows--were at Brussels, I believe. The fleur-de-lys has married, and asks her old school-friend to visit her at Trouville--that is the story. They stay here a month."

"How you do manage to get hold of everything!" said Armand, regarding his friend with a glance of half-envious, half-amused admiration.

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Lamboi shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not? One must know all one can."

He poured out some Moselle as he spoke, and drank it slowly and appreciatively.

"By the way," he said, as he set the glass down, "madame has asked us both to dinner to-night. I accepted for you!"

"The devil you did!" exclaimed De Valtour angrily. "I am not going. I leave Trouville by the evening train."

"Leave Trouville!" cried his friend, regarding him with astonishment. "And why? You have only just come. Leave Trouville? Is it Aurélie you fear? Console yourself, mon ami. I will take her off your hands."

"No; it is not Aurélie," answered De Valtour impatiently, "though she is tiresome, I admit. I am tired of the place; it fatigues one. I am going to Provence."

"To Provence!" ejaculated Victor Lamboi, in unfeigned astonishment. "To bury yourself in your old château, to leave all the gaiety and life here for the dullness of the country! Mon cher, what has occurred to you? Something has put you out."

"N'importe," muttered Armand de Valtour, "I am going--that is all."

Victor was silent, an unusual thing for him. As he sipped his wine, and looked out at the bright prospect, he thought to himself that Armand was a fool; but he did not give audible expression to the senti- | | 13 ment, only pondered slowly over some means to combat his friend's resolution and keep him here in Trouville.

"Will you not wait?" he asked persuasively, as he handed him his cigarette case. "I promised for us both; and Madame de Savigny is worth dining with, and you would see the English girl. All Trouville will rave of her to-morrow."

Armand de Valtour took a cigarette, and gazed dreamily out at the sea. Should he go, or stay? He debated the question lazily with himself, while his friend, for once, practised the self-denial of silence, and watched him with well-assumed indifference. Should he go?

After all, there was no haste. A day would not make much difference. And Odylle de Savigny was a charming little woman, Parisian to the back-bone--and the English girl was very lovely, though prudish and cold, doubtless, as they all were. Should he go?

The cigarette crumbled itself away. The haze of sunshine on the blue sea grew dim and soft; a peal of girlish laughter fell on his ears.

Victor Lamboi started forward.

"There they are!" he said eagerly. "Is she not lovely?"

Armand de Valtour did not lean forward--did not even seem to look. But two minutes afterward he took another cigarette--lighted it--glanced seawards.

"Bien," he said reluctantly; "for to-night I will | | 14 remain. But only to-night. To-morrow I leave for Provence."

"That is well," said Lamboi, with a quiet smile.

It was a hot July night. Windows were open to the sea; bands playing; dainty dresses flitting by; a faint breeze fluttered the laces and muslins of the women; all the amusements of the evening awaited their choice or invited their notice. At a window of one of the little green-shuttered houses a girl was standing. She was dressed all in white, and held in her hand a large fan of ostrich feathers.

Standing thus, she met the gaze (for the second time that day) of one of the most critical and difficile men of fashion. She turned swiftly, as he was announced, and answered his low bow by a slight inclination of her graceful head.

"Madame de Savigny will be here directly, monsieur," she said, in her soft, clear, young voice--a voice which spoke his native tongue with perfect ease and fluency.

"I am a little early, I fear," said Armand de Valtour, coming over to the window by which she had been standing. "I could not remember whether my friend Lamboi told me seven or half-past."

She made no reply. She was thinking how handsome this man was, and marvelling at the ease and grace of his manner. Why had Englishmen not that perfect, well-bred, easy grace? His voice cut short her conjectures.

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"You have but just arrived; is it not so, mademoiselle? I saw you this morning, I think."

"Yes, we came last evening," she said, taking the chair by the window he had placed for her.

"And what do you think of Trouville? Or have you been here before?"

"No; it is quite a new experience to me. My friend was so eager for me to come, and wrote such glowing accounts of the life here, that I could not resist her invitation. My mother did not wish to come. She hates crossing the Channel, and I don't think she likes foreign ways."

"Very likely not; I think your nation has many prejudices against us, mademoiselle, and I daresay we return the compliment."

"No doubt," said the girl, with a quiet smile. "But I think everyone ought to travel. One acquires broader views of life and people, and it is so pleasant to have change. Moving always in one groove makes one narrow-minded."

"A French girl would not talk like this," thought Armand de Valtour wonderingly. "How soon these English women learn to think for themselves." Aloud, he said, "I think you are quite right. Travelling has its advantages without doubt, and there is so much to see, and to learn in the world, it makes one pity those whom prejudice or indifference has kept in but one place. They are not many, I hope; for nowadays travelling is made so easy for us there are but few excuses for avoiding it."

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"I suppose you have been a great traveller, monsieur?"

"I have had a fair share of it in my time. I have seen most of Europe, and paid my respects to America. I have passed a winter in Canada, and gone for a shooting excursion to the Himalayas. But I am growing lazy now, I fear, or else I have found that, like everything else in this life, travelling palls on one after a time. My last four years have been spent almost exclusively in Paris. Have you ever been there, mademoiselle?

"No; I have a great wish to see your famous capital. It is very beautiful, is it not?"

"Beautiful!" He made an expressive gesture. "Ah! mademoiselle, one needs a poet's tongue to paint it aright. Some day, perhaps, I shall have the happiness to see you there. I will not attempt to disenchant you now with a feeble description of its charms."

"I do not think you will ever see me there!" said the girl seriously; "at least it seems very improbable."

"I have known many more improbable things happen, mademoiselle, than that seems," he said, with a grave smile. "Ah, here is Madame de Savigny."

He rose to greet her with the courtly grace that had so charmed the serious, musing eyes of the English girl.

"Ah, monsieur! so you have made friends with Mdlle. Heath, I see," said the pretty, sparkling little | | 17 Parisienne who entered. "I asked her to play hostess for me. I am rather late, I fear. You early? Oh, no not at all. I said seven. Where is Monsieur Lamboi?"

"He will be here immediately, madame."

"That is right. Have you been long at Trouville? A week? Ah, we only came yesterday. All Paris is here, is it not? I have asked my little English friend to stay with me. My husband has gone to Brittany--his mother is ill. I would not go. I hate Brittany. I am never well there."

"And you have come to distract Trouville, madame, as you have already distracted Paris. A cruel kindness!"

"I shall do nothing of the kind, and you know it. I will leave that cruelty to my friend here."

"Then Trouville is indeed to be pitied--and envied," he said, with a low bow. "You have done so much mischief yourself, madame, that you might have had a little pity by this time. With two such--"

"Ah, Monsieur de Valtour," she interrupted, hastily, "my friend does not care for pretty speeches, and I am tired of them. Tell me who is here, and what you have been doing with yourself all this week. I shall expect you to be our cavalier."

"Madame knows she has only to express a wish to be obeyed."

"Yes, that is very pretty; I only hope you mean it. Ah! Monsieur Lamboi--welcome Now, messieurs, dinner is served. Ah, Count, you are looking | | 18 for Madame Heath, I suppose? She is indisposed after her journey--has a bad headache, and is lying down. We shall not have the pleasure of her presence this evening. Will you give your arm to mademoiselle instead? Adrienne, ma chère, we will follow you."

"And you really leave Trouville to-morrow?" asked Victor Lamboi, some three hours later, as he and his friend were strolling towards the Casino. "But it is a pity. I would stay if I were you."

"I mean to stay," said Armand de Valtour quietly.