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CHAPTER V.

As dinner went on at the château, the clouds began to clear from Armand de Valtour's brow.

After all, why should he be jealous or annoyed? Adrienne was a child still, easily moved by the impulse of the moment. She had thrown her flowers to the young player because his music pleased her, not because of his handsome face or the homage of admiration his eyes had paid her. By the time dessert was on the table, he had regained his usual good humour, and talked and laughed to his sister and his wife in the gay and pleasant fashion habitual to him.

Dinner in France is always the most social of meals. Conversation is its special grace. It is well-known that French people hate dining alone; they must have someone to talk to. Armand de Valtour liked his table to be dainty and tasteful, and his meal enlivened with wit and intelligence. If anything, Adrienne was a little too grave, but she had a keen and true appreciation--a faultless taste and ready tact. With such qualities as these, she could not fail to be a charming companion, even without taking into consideration that he was still very much in love, and that her beauty made her a feast for his eyes whenever they pleased to rest on her.

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As for his sister, she would always be a pleasant companion. She could discuss politics as well as he himself; she was perfectly well read in most of the topics of the day; she was a good linguist and musician. She loved art for its own sake, and could thoroughly appreciate it. Added to this, she had the sweetest temper and readiest sympathy that ever woman possessed, and adored her brother with her whole heart, even though she could not be blind to the imperfections of his character.

With two such women beside him--with all the surroundings of wealth, rank, and perfect taste, it was no wonder that Armand de Valtour felt his ill-humour rapidly evaporating, and became once more his bright and radiant self.

The conversation turned at last to the fête, and naturally from that to the young hero of the day, André Brizeaux. Armand felt he could discuss him quite good-temperedly now.

"You must come to the farm and see old Brizeaux," said Mdlle. de Valtour, after a long eulogium on her protégé. "And close by is old Manon's cottage--you remember Manon, do you not, Armand? That little grandchild of his has grown up so pretty. She is to marry young Brizeaux, I believe. It will be quite a grand marriage for her. The old gran'mère is so very poor, and the girl has no other relative."

"I will give her a dowry on her wedding-day," said the Count good-humouredly. "What say you, Adrienne? Shall we go and see these people to- | | 61 morrow? I suppose I must look up all my old friends again."

"Oh, yes, I should like it very much," said the young wife eagerly. "I want them all to like me, and I must try and make friends with them, too."

"It would be difficult for any one not to like you, chérie," said her husband lovingly. "I think you will soon win me absolution for my own sins of neglect; but then, Provence is so dull after Paris. You will think so yourself when you live there."

"Do you intend going to Paris soon?" asked his sister.

"Not till the winter," he answered.

Adrienne looked up quickly from the peach she was peeling. "I thought we were to live here," she said anxiously.

"For a time--yes," answered her husband; "but not altogether; I could not suffer that. I must introduce my wife to my own world; I expect it will go mad about you, Adrienne. Does that idea please you?"

"No," she said gravely; "I want no admiration but yours, Armand."

He smiled. "She means that," he thought to himself. Aloud he added, "That is very sweet of you to say, dear one; but I am not so selfish as to hide my treasure from the world's eyes."

He did not add that the world's admiration would be her hall mark of merit in his own--that to be envied her possession would gratify his vanity and | | 62 stimulate a passion which was not pure enough or noble enough to live long without such aid.

"Come," he said at last, when the long dinner was over, "we will go out on the terrace. The night is fine and warm. You will not object to my smoking, Adrienne?"

"Not at all!" she answered, rising gladly to accompany him. They had not been alone a single moment all day, and she was yet too new to marital habits to recognise the difference between lover and husband.

"I will go to the salon and play," said Céline de Valtour. "If the windows are open you can hear the music quite distinctly."

"That will be charming, ma sœur," said Armand de Valtour, kissing her hand. Then he offered his arm to his wife, and together they went out on to the beautiful terrace. The scents of the rose-gardens stole up from their fragrant thickets, the golden gleam of the orange fruit shone in the starlight.

Adrienne clasped her husband's arm and looked up at him with softly shining eyes.

"How beautiful it is, this home of yours," she said; "I wonder you ever care to leave it."

He smiled down at the lovely wistful face.

"I am tired of it--a little," he said. "I know it all so well, you see, and then life here is always like this--beautiful enough, I daresay, but utterly monotonous, utterly insipid; I grow weary of it after a time."

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A troubled look stole into her eyes.

"Do you get tired of all things that you know well?" she asked. "If so, my turn will come also, I suppose."

"Do not fear that," he said, laughing; "you are not the sort of woman of whom one tires easily."

She sighed.

"You cannot tell that," she said. "You have known me but a short time, and then you love me now. Will you always do so?"

"Always," he murmured passionately.

It was so easy for him to promise such fidelity--here alone with a beautiful woman in the starlit glory of the late summer night, with her eyes looking up to his, a world of love in their earnest depths.

She sighed no longer. A smile parted her lips. His arm stole round the graceful form. Her head drooped upon his breast.

She was so happy now--so dreamlessly, perfectly happy. What had she to fear, or life to offer, that could rob her of her new-found bliss? But into the future no mortal eye can see, and the magic of love's giving is only of the present.

The warmth of the morning sun was glittering over roofs and fields and vineyards. It glittered, too, on a ruined tower, half-buried in ivy, and with masses of creepers and wild blossoms covering its decaying stone-work--a beautiful place in its way, and with a history of its own dating from the Saracen invasion. | | 64 One portion of the building was still in perfect preservation, and it was here that André Brizeaux dwelt. It had belonged to his ancestors for generations. They had all lived there, and worked in the fields and vineyards around, and one and all were prouder of their dwelling-place than if it had been one of the neatest and most commodious of farmhouses.

No one was quite sure how it had come to be the property of the Brizeaux family. But a long lease of inheritance is in itself a claim not easily disputed; and there was no one who cared to dispute it in this instance. Close by stood the little cottage of Gran'mère Manon. Beside it the tower looked very grand and important, even though it was so old, and decaying rapidly, and in parts only fit for the birds, who built their nests among the ivy. The blue waters of the Rhone gleamed through the orchard boughs. The air was cool and fresh--the sunlight broken with shade--it was all so still, so fair, so peaceful; and yet André Brizeaux, coming out with his tambourine in hand, looked round on it all, and only felt his discontent increase.

"To be here all one's life--why, the very birds are better off," he sighed; and he leaned against the old stone wall and began to play with a cloud on his handsome face and a frown on his brow, that even his music was for once powerless to banish. Yet suddenly the cloud vanished as if by magic. He laid aside his instrument, and went quickly forward. He | | 65 saw his father speaking to two persons, who had apparently alighted from a little basket carriage, now standing at the gate. They were the Count and Countess de Valtour.

The young man hurried forward--his face radiant, his eyes bright. He bowed low to the beautiful girl, who indeed seemed to him as an angel--a being from another world, so fair was she in her youthful grace and exquisite loveliness.

"Ah, André, we have come to see you," said Armand de Valtour. "I did not remember you yesterday. You have grown up to manhood these last five years. I was just telling your father he does not look a day older; just as well and healthy as ever. No--I will not go in. I prefer the outer air, and so, I know, does the Countess, your new châtelaine, Brizeaux. Of course you have heard? Ah, yes. And you gave us a charming welcome yesterday. It is quite refreshing to share in country ways and sights once more."

"Will not Madame la Comtesse be seated?" asked André. "And may one offer anything? It is but little we can give--this is a poor place for a great lady's presence. But some fruit--some milk--"

"Thank you," said the soft, clear voice, whose music seemed the sweetest the young Provençal's ears had ever heard. "I should be glad of some milk. I am thirsty."

With his own hands the young man waited on her, marvelling almost whether he was not in a dream-- | | 66 whether this rare and beautiful vision would not melt into air and leave him desolate. She seated herself on the old stone seat, leaving the chair to her husband, and sipped her milk and ate some of the grapes and figs the young Provençal had piled up on the humble wooden platter. The sound and scent of the fresh breeze, and the ripening orchards, and rustling leaves came to her as she sat there making the summer morning an idyl for her, even as it was for him.

"Will you not play to us?" she asked presently. "I see your instrument is there."

"With pleasure, if madame really cares to hear," he said, and coloured all over his handsome boyish face as he met those grave, sweet eyes again.

He went over to the well beside which his instrument lay. The Count seated himself astride on the wooden chair and lit a cigar. The old man Brizeaux took a seat on a block of stone near the doorway. André began to play. Not the stirring strains of the previous day, but a slow plaintive air that was sad as despair--sweet as the summer hour. He threw his whole soul into the music. It was to her he played. Of anyone or anything else he never thought. He made quite a poetic picture himself, leaning there against the old well--the green leaves of the wild fig-tree above his head--the background of blue sky and misty hills stretching far away behind; the breeze tossing the dark curls of his hair to and fro as he played--the linen of his shirt | | 67 open at the neck and displaying the sculpture-like beauty of the bare throat, which, unlike his face, had escaped all sun-tan, and was fair and delicate as a woman's.

Adrienne watched him with ever-deepening interest. His music was so sad and strange, and his own grace and youth and beauty so marked and out of keeping with the peasant's garb he wore and the peasant's life he lived. Armand de Valtour was keeping time to the music, and enjoying the fresh morning air, the fragrant cigar, the sense of peace and rest and stillness everywhere. The music brought back the scenes and days of his boyhood--the memory of a life free from the fret and fever of the world--the sins and follies of his later years.

A sigh rose to his lips. "I wish I could have my time back again," he thought; "how differently I would spend it."

All the listeners were engrossed with their own emotions. They did not notice that the rude curtain before the doorway was suddenly drawn aside, and that behind the folds a girl's face looked out on the scene before her. She wore the dress of a peasant; the sun-tanned beauty of the dark, picturesque face was troubled and perplexed. Her eyes rested on the figure of the young Countess, and from thence turned to the dreamy face of the player. With some subtle instinct of a truth she dimly understood, the girl's eyes watched the two young faces--that of the high-born lady and the peasant.

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"Is it she who has made him discontented?" she thought, and a great sadness and trouble seemed to weigh down her usual light heart and happy nature. Dreariness stole over the blue sky, and the radiant sunlight seemed to lose all life and colour. With a sudden impulse she dropped the curtain and went back into the kitchen, and thence out by another door and across the old shady garden path, back to her own home.

"Did you give my message to Brizeaux?" asked Gran'mère Manon, meeting her on the threshold.

"No," said the girl abruptly. "They were busy--they could not attend to me. They have grand visitors there."

"Visitors! But whom? That is unusual for the Brizeaux family."

"The Comte and Comtesse de Valtour," said Maï. "André is playing to them."

"Perhaps they will come here," said Gran'mère eagerly. "The Comte is always kind, and he never forgets me. And the young lady--I could not see her well at the fête yesterday; my eyes are weak, and she was so far away. But she is very beautiful, is it not so, Maï?"

"Yes," answered the girl, while a strange jealous pang shot through her heart. How coarse and common she would look beside that vision of loveliness; and yet such a thought had never crossed her mind before, when she had seen other ladies | | 69 as daintily dressed, as beautiful in their way as the young Countess.

Maï felt frightened at herself. Frightened at the pain in her heart--the discontent in her soul--the sudden anger at André--the sudden aversion to the fair young bride, who had come among them all. What had happened to make her feel thus--what had come to her in this short space of time? She could not tell. Only a pain she could not stifle was ever in her breast, and all the golden beauty of the summer day, for her, grew clouded and obscured.

Meanwhile André played on and on. All the sweet old national airs--all the quaint songs and dances of Provence, of which he had so great a store, and then at Adrienne's bidding he laid aside his instrument and began to sing.

Out there, in the pure bright sunlight, his voice rose clear as a lark's to heaven. The birds flew in and out of the ivy; the scents from ripening vineyards and late roses came to them on the breeze. The sunlight fell warm and golden on the sweet soft air, but the singer's eyes were only on the fair face that looked up to the drifting clouds, the flush of the climbing roses about her head as she leant against the old grey walls.

She was his inspiration. He sang only to her, forgetful of time, and place, and everything, save only that one presence, which held in it something divine for him. He sang first the old familiar airs | | 70 of his native land, and then those grand and cultured melodies which he had been taught, and whose difficulties were difficulties no longer, since to the charm of perfect voice had been also added the charm of cultivation and skilful training.

Armand de Valtour felt moved, as few things had power to move him. When the voice ceased, he sprang from his chair, and grasped the hand of the young peasant in both his own.

"A thousand thanks!" he cried eagerly. "Your singing is marvellous. Why, André, you are a genius. No wonder you care little for plodding in fields and driving oxen. Brizeaux, you should send your boy to Paris. He would make his fortune.

"To Paris! Ah, Monsieur le Comte," sighed the young man. "It is my one dream. If only it might be!"

"To Paris! Say rather to Satan!" muttered the old man, rising from his seat on the stone, and hobbling over to where the Count was standing. "No, no, monsieur; leave him alone. He is a good lad and pure, and with no evil ways; and he has a good home here, and bread to eat, and all that he needs. I know what they are, those cities. Body and soul they kill you, surely--greedily--without remorse. You may ask how do I know? Ah, but I do. The gold, the grandeur, the glitter on the surface; the fever of unrest and misery beneath. Life all a pageant to look at--a dark and weary burden to | | 71 bear. No--not with any will of mine shall my son go to the cities!"

The Count smiled. "You are wrong, friend," he said. "Life is everywhere just what we choose to make it. It is possible to be pure and innocent and brave of heart even in a city, and your son has a great gift. It seems unjust to him to stifle it. Do not you think so, Adrienne?"

His wife had come up to his side. She looked now at the face of the young singer, while his burning eyes drooped before her clear, frank gaze.

"I do not know," she said softly. "Doubtless his father is the best judge. For himself, if life here contents him, it is calm, and safe, and useful in its way, no doubt. He might regret leaving it, even if he found the fame his voice should command."

André looked up at her as she ceased speaking. "I am not content," he said, in a low, half-stifled voice. "I never shall be content--here."

"Hush! that is ungrateful," said the old man fretfully. "You would not be any happier in Paris."

"I might be great some day," sighed his son.

"Great! That is always your word! Dreams will earn no bread," said his father contemptuously. "I have lived here and worked and laboured as my fathers and their fathers before them have done. Why cannot you do the same? You can sing and play just as well, can you not? and your own people love you and give you honest praise for what you do, and you are the best tambourinier and the sweetest | | 72 singer in all Provence. What more do you want?"

The young man was silent. His eyes rested on the beautiful sweet face and dreaming eyes of the young Countess. He moved restlessly away from his father's hand.

"You do not understand," he said, using unconsciously the same reproach he had used to Maï. "And I cannot quite explain. Only if you would let me go--"

"Yes, let him go," said the Count good-humouredly. "I will look after him. I have plenty of influence in Paris. Who knows but that he may be singing in the Grand Opera there before many years are over his head! You would be proud enough of him then, Brizeaux."

He urged the request without any particular motive. He cared little enough whether the young man left his home or not. The impulse of the moment, the genuine admiration he had felt for a talent so striking, had carried him away in a fit of enthusiasm. The ill-humour of the day before, the spasms of jealousy he had experienced, were quite forgotten now. The young musician looked at him eagerly; his face was pale beneath the bronze of sun and air; his lips quivered.

"Do you mean it, Monsieur le Comte?" he asked. "Would you really help me?"

"Most assuredly," answered Armand de Valtour. "Come up to Paris this winter and you will see. | | 73 Adrienne, ma chère, it grows late, and we have other of my people to see. We must be going now."

"Madame has done us a great honour," said the old man, bowing low to the beautiful young châtelaine. "We shall not easily forget her visit."

André was silent.

He went with them to the carriage and held open the gate, and stood bare-headed before them as they drove away. His brain was in a whirl; a mad ecstasy came over him. To go to Paris--to realise his dreams of fame--to be in the same city that held her! The idea was intoxicating--delirious! He stood there till the carriage was out of sight. Then, forgetful of home duties, of his father's behests, of all the household offices he by rights should have discharged, he rushed away through the green fields, fleet as a hare, joyous as a bird, on, on to where solitude and peace were to be found--in the heart of the deep woods, with only the music of babbling brook and tossing leaves to mingle with that other music of which his heart was full.

Nature to him was a closer friend than any human soul had ever been. Men say that poets are but madmen!