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CHAPTER III.

Two weeks went by. Madame de Savigny watched and waited for the ripening of her scheme, and felt a little thrill of triumph as she saw it approaching its desired issue. That the Count de Valtour was in love with Adrienne admitted of no doubt. The girl held for him a singular and unaccountable charm, and he never sought to conceal it. The innocence and honesty of her nature--the purity of her thoughts--the sweet, serious grace of face and manners, all allured him as no woman's charms had allured him yet.

When he was not by her side, he watched her with an interest and intentness of which he was scarcely aware. His friend Lamboi was disgusted. This promised to be an affaire sérieuse indeed--no mere phantasy of passion or caprice of fancy; and if Armand de Valtour married, it would not please him at all. But he could not influence his friend in the matter, that he knew; for Armand possessed the virtue--or vice--of obstinacy in an unusual degree. The only thing Lamboi could do was to hold matrimony up to ridicule, which he did; but to his surprise he was stopped by a stern rebuke from Armand.

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"Men would cease to make it a jest," he said, "if they only married the right women."

To find fault with Adrienne herself was impossible. All Trouville raved of her beauty, and would have shrined her as a fashionable idol had she so wished it; but she did not. The frivolities and amusements and endless noise and racket did not interest her. It pleased her far better to be on Armand de Valtour's yacht than to tread the planks with the fashionable swarm of gaily-dressed, high-heeled, chattering women, whose souls never seemed to soar above their toilets, and the amusements present or forthcoming of each day--only the worst of it was that the Marquise did not like the sea, and Mrs. Heath was always in terror while on it, so Adrienne could not enjoy her favourite pastime very often.

She had not begun to acknowledge to herself the peculiar fascination that the Count held for her. She liked him or thought she liked him, because of his contrast to the other men she met; for Armand de Valtour was observant, and never addressed her in the language of compliment or flattery, seeing how she hated it. Other men, less keen-sighted, sickened and wearied her very soon--foremost among all being Victor Lamboi. She disliked him excessively, and she had not tact or inclination sufficient to conceal that aversion. It did not escape his notice, and certainly in no way contributed to lessen his own dislike to Armand de Valtour's marriage; for it could be only that he intended, thought his friend uneasily, | | 35 seeing how he was neglected, and Madame Aurélie's frowns disregarded, for the sake of this grave-faced English girl.

Madame de Savigny had not said much to Adrienne. She saw things were drifting very pleasantly in the right direction, and that no guidance was necessary yet. She only dropped words now and then that spoke of Armand de Valtour's nobleness of mind, his chivalrous nature, his generosity to others. These praises were skilfully intermingled with hints of his own indifference to women, and his oft-repeated declaration that one had yet to be found who would come up to his idea of a wife. Adrienne listened and said nothing, but the words sank into her soul, and took deeper root than she herself imagined, and led her to form an idea of his mental characteristics as far above what they were as her own pure dreams and fancies were beyond his powers of comprehension. He admired them vaguely, but as to understanding them--that was a different matter indeed.

And the girl, to whom this handsome, courtly man was gradually becoming a hero, never for one moment guessed at the baser passions that lay beneath those outward graces which worldly experience and innate tact led him to display for her eyes alone.

Perhaps when Armand de Valtour pleased her best was when he spoke of his own home in Provence. He pictured to her, with, vivid, picturesque words, that old château, gray with age, and lying in the | | 36 shelter of tall plane trees and dark orange groves, and all about it the beautiful vineyards and olive trees and rose gardens for which Provence is famed. He told her of the country, where the Rhone and the Var rolled their calm blue waters through fields and plains and vine hills, and of old Roman ruins dating back to far ages, ere ever Provence became a portion of the Turkish empire.

He knew all the history of those famous Counts of Provence who once held royal rule in the lovely province ere it was claimed as Crown property. His own ancestors claimed descent from them, he told her; and the girl, in whom pride of race was almost a fault, so intense was it and so deeply rooted, thought more of Armand de Valtour's birth than if he had been the richest man in all France.

"I suppose that is why I love music so," he said, laughing, to her, as he ended one of his descriptions. "You know the Counts of Provence were famous for their love of the fine arts. But I think the troubadours were rather useless beings on the whole, do not you, mademoiselle? Still, the life has its charms, doubtless. When one is young and the world lies all before one, it is the time for idylls, triumphs. Passions, festivals, ambitions, all these are for later years. When I was young I used to think the perfection of a life would be that of a singer and a poet combined: to write the beauty one dreams and feels, and then let the world hear it in a voice that would command its whole attention--ah!--that | | 37 would be something worth living for. But even art seems hardly great now. The singer thinks of the gold he can charm out of his hearers' pockets, and the poet of the editions through which his verses will run; and life is all hurry and struggle, and pushing and scrambling for the laurel wreaths of fame, never calm and peaceful and full of silent beauty as an artist's life should be. And even the great are so soon forgotten! The grave that closes over them is not more cold and deaf than the world they have quitted. Yet I suppose one should not wonder. When eyes and lips are shut in eternal silence what further use can they be?"

Adrienne looked at him in wonder. He was not wont to talk like this, and his face had grown more grave and sad than she had ever seen it. She did not know that for once he seemed to feel the folly and emptiness of the life he had spent with the keenness of a sharp regret; that, looking into her pure eyes, some of his lost dreams seemed to wake and stir into life again, and with them came the memory of misspent years and the futility of the very wishes he expressed.

All men and all women, too, have some such feeling as this at some moment of their lives, if, indeed, they be not utterly vile, or utterly callous.

"Somehow one would not think of that if one was great," she said, timidly answering those last words of his after a pause of silence.

He looked at her with a start of remembrance.

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"I suppose not," he said, with a faint sigh. "But who is really great, in your sense of the word, in this nineteenth century of wickedness?"

"There have always been contrasts in the world, have there not?" she said--"good and bad--faithful and faithless--true and false--great and mean? Oh, yes, I think so. And there is always some good in it if one would but take the trouble to look below the surface. But that we so seldom do."

"Yes," he said, looking at her with those dark, eloquent eyes that always seemed to say so much more than his lips. "Ah, chère mademoiselle, if only I were young again!"

"Why?" she asked involuntarily, and then met his glance and blushed rose-red at the innocent question.

"If I could dare to tell you," he said, and stopped abruptly. Should he woo her English fashion after all? Should he seek from her own lips the answer to his question? He took the slender white hand that hung by her side, and lightly touched it with his lips. "I would make my life more worthy of you," he said.

She read his meaning. Her eyes sank; her colour came and went beneath the tender, ardent gaze of those soft southern eyes. He watched her with a thrill of gratified vanity--pleasure--excitement--unlike all former love-making. How beautiful she was, and how natural! Should he speak on?

The impulse of the moment was stronger than | | 39 prudence. The gay crowd beyond were not paying much attention to the two who had wandered off the plage, and were standing by the silver foam of the slowly rolling waves.

Their eyes met, and hesitation was vanquished.

"You know I love you, do you not?" he said softly. "Can you overlook my years--the difference between us? Will you be my wife?"

It was not very eloquent wooing, but it was the most earnest in all Armand de Valtour's life.

The girl turned very pale; then raised her face, and looked at him with those calm, serious eyes, whose beauty he loved.

"Yes!" she said simply, and no more.

He bent his head. A flush of triumph came over his face.

"You shall never repent it," he said earnestly. "I will devote my life to your happiness. But--one word more. Do you--have I the happiness of knowing that you love me?"

"Would I be your wife else?" she asked simply.

He half smiled as he turned and walked by her side back to the crowd they had left.

"Certainly these English girls are different to ours," he said to himself. "What French girl would have said that?"

In the old picturesque Château de Valtours a woman sat with an open letter in her hands. She was a little, slender woman, with white hair, and | | 40 a plain, dark-hued face that had no beauty save in the grave sweetness and patience of its expression. She laid the letter down, and a troubled look came into her eyes.

"Married!" she said, "and so suddenly! An English girl, too. I would almost as soon he had married an American. How strange it seems! And they will be here so soon now!"

She took up the letter again, and read the lines that told of the husband's pride and rapture of possession; of the "pearl of price" he had had the good fortune to win; of the marriage which had taken place only a month after he had proposed to the girl; of how they were coming straight to Valtours, and she was to have all in readiness for their arrival, to tell his people to receive their new châtelaine with all honours. All this she read, and a dim sense of trouble came over her. "Will he make her happy?" she thought; "or is it one of his sudden fancies again. Armand married! How odd it seems! He who always declared nothing would induce him to do such a thing."

Then, with a sigh, she put aside the letter in her escritoire, and went away to give the necessary instructions to the household for the expected arrival of the young Countess.

Armand de Valtour had said truly when he spoke of the beauty of his ancestral home. The fine, gray old château was some way out from the sleepy, picturesque little town, with its narrow streets paved | | 41 with rough-pointed stones, and quaint old houses and dark gateways under the ramparts, whose battlements stood out in bold relief against the blue sky.

It looked like a town of mediæval romance still, so quaint and old-world was its aspect.

The market-place formed its centre--a wide, open space, where the silvery trunks of the great plane trees spread themselves up to the very courtyards of the houses. On market days only the little town seemed to rouse itself to life; at other times it was very still, very peaceful--a little, strange, old-world niche, with quaint, grass-grown nooks, and an air of sleepiness and quiet that seemed to set it apart from all doings with the busy world of which it formed so small and unimportant a part.

The château itself stood in a park of vast extent, and all around it were fragrant avenues of orange trees and sweet, dim, flower-shaded paths, and groves of tall palms and rose aisles rich with colour and fragrance, and afar off the blue gleam of a winding river that stole along by green fields and grey olive groves and purple vineyards to the blue sea beyond.

In Céline de Valtour's eyes, there was no place so beautiful in all the world as this home where she had spent her life. She had seen gay towns and beautiful cities, but always came back with weariness and contempt for the life of each, and a deeper yearning and more tender love for her own peaceful home under the shelter of its palms and orange groves.

She would be no longer mistress of it, she thought, | | 42 and sighed as she thought of it. A younger and fairer rival would hold its honours in her hands, and her word would be all-powerful now. Perhaps, too, she would wish for change, or those alterations that modern society calls "improvement," in the beautiful old place.

"But perhaps she will not care to live here; she may think it dull," thought the old French lady, and almost prayed in her heart that the young bride might think it so, and leave the grey walls and green alleys as her own dwelling-place once more. But she soon stifled the thought, ashamed of its selfishness and disloyalty, and, to make amends for it, set about organising a grand fête to be given the day after her brother's arrival in honour of his marriage.

Late one September evening a carriage rolled up to the gates of the château, and a few minutes afterwards Céline de Valtour found herself greeting a tall, slender girl, with a beautiful fair face and deep soft eyes, and a smile that won the old lady's heart at once, as it answered her somewhat stately greeting. The young Countess went straight to her room; she was fatigued after her long journey. Then her sister-in-law turned to Armand de Valtour.

"She is very beautiful," she said simply. "And you--you are happy?"

A smile broke over his face.

"I never knew what the word could mean till now," he said.

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A brilliant day dawned for the fête that was to celebrate Armand de Valtour's marriage. It was to take place at some old Roman ruins, an arena of vast extent and notable fame, and was to consist of races, dances, musical competitions, all sorts of games, including those of étranglechat and saute sur autre, and other spectacles, diverting or interesting, as the case might be.

All the country people for miles around, all the notabilities of the neighbouring châteaux, and the whole town of Valtour itself, turned out en masse to do honour to the occasion. Stands were erected for the visitors, and decorated with flowers, and covered in from the hot sun-rays, so that they at least might enjoy the fête in comfort, and the scene was picturesque and brilliant enough to have delighted one even more difficult to please and critical of taste than Armand de Valtour. At present he was radiantly happy, and as he stood there among the gay concourse who had come to do him honour, and saw his wife's beautiful face all flushed and sparkling with excitement, and heard on every side the murmurs of admiration for her, of devotion to himself, his heart beat high, a fire of nobler purposes and purer sympathies awoke to bright warm life within his soul; he drew Adrienne's arm within his own and pointed to the excited crowd, now fused into a mass of glittering colour and excited faces, whose shouts of homage were all for him.

"Look there!" he said, and smiled, with a new | | 44 strange feeling of content. "Is it not worth while to live to be so loved?"

"Yes," she said softly. "How good, how noble you must be to have won such devotion!"

A momentary sense of shame flushed his cheeks then. She was such a child still; she took all this homage as a tribute to his own merits, not as the obeisance and duty due to his suzerainship.

"You shall make me so," he murmured tenderly. "For you alone have shown me where I have failed."

He meant the words sincerely enough; but, then, Armand de Valtour had meant so many things sincerely in his life, and--had so soon forgotten them.