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CHAPTER XXVII.

IT was the late autumn. The old château of Valtours had long been closed and desolate.

André Brizeaux had grown accustomed to see it thus, and almost given up longing for the time when the young Countess should be back.

He and Maï were married now--had been wedded with all the simple peasant customs and rejoicings that Provence still holds.

The girl was very happy, and his own goodness and gentleness to her were unfailing. To say that he also was happy would be untrue. But he was fairly content, and successfully hid his feelings from Maï's eyes, so that by degrees she became accustomed to his sacrifice, and decided that, after all, his life contented him.

To his father he was devoted. It seemed to him that no service or sacrifice would be too great to give the old man a moment's happiness; and he still strove after that forlorn hope that he might recognise his son yet, and with his own lips speak forgiveness. But there were times when the green fields and the shining skies, and the rush of soft waters, and songs of hidden birds, awoke the old passionate longings in | | 287 his breast--when the thought of what music had meant for him once made his heart ache with vain desires, and he knew that ambition was not laid at rest, but only sleeping. Hard work and bodily labour in some way exorcised such feelings--labour harder than he had ever known, because it was also more distasteful. There were times when a great weight seemed to oppress him, and he seemed to himself to have voluntarily buried the best part of his nature in a grave of eternal despair.

It was hard to conquer these feelings--hard to get the better of them--hard to be out on the quiet lonely nights and see the silver moonlight above the dim blue hills, and feel the poetry and beauty and exquisiteness of his past dreams steal softly back to his soul, yet know that they must henceforth have no place there.

But to whom is life not hard in some way or another? The strife and warfare, the fret and turmoil of it all are endless as eternity.

In some simple, unexpressed way André recognised this fact, and knew that he was not alone in sufferings; felt, too, some dim faint hope in his soul that for him also there would come rest and peace, when the burden and heat of life's long day were over and ended at last.

It was quite late in the autumn when news came that the people at the château were about to return.

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Maï heard it, and told André gleefully one evening as he came back from his work in the fields.

He heard her in silence. The romantic adoration of his beautiful chatelaine was but another of those fanciful, impulsive dreams that the prose of daily life would not allow him to indulge in now.

"The Count--does he return too?" he asked coldly.

"It is said not," answered Maï, and she flushed a little, and looked away from her young husband's face. "He is not a good man, is he, André? I have thought so often when he used to come and talk to me, and try to make me discontented with my life here, and tell me of Paris and all its beauty and riches."

"He did--that?" exclaimed André suddenly, and turned and looked at her with such wrath on his brow and in his eyes as she had never seen before.

"Yes," she answered timidly; "it was when you were in Paris, and he used to say how changed you were, and how you would forget us, and grow rich, and great, and heartless; and many a time he has pained me sorely by such words: for all that, I would not let him see I believed him. He will see how wrong he was," she added triumphantly, as she linked her arm in André's, and looked up into his eyes with a world of love and pride beaming in her own; "for you did not forget, and you did come back, and you have made me so happy--so happy-- | | 289 that every night on my knees I bless your name, and the saints that kept me in your memory."

His eyes softened as they met that tender, innocent gaze. How she loved him, this girl! It moved him, as it always did, to hear that frank, outspoken, innocent declaration of her feelings--feelings which had been proof against the tempting of evil, or the silence of apparent neglect.

"You are sure you are happy?" he asked her tenderly, as she leant her little brown head against his breast.

"Sure! Can you ask it, André?" she said, and smiled up in his face--a smile so radiant, so sweet in its confession of heart-whole, perfect happiness, that words were not needed to confirm its assurance.

He bent down and kissed her, and then bade her get him his supper, while he went upstairs. His heart felt heavy within him. He said to himself "The Count de Valtour is a villain!" And as he thought of Adrienne and her sufferings, a fierce, unholy longing grew up in his heart to avenge them on the man who had been so unworthy of her love. Maï's words had roused him to hot anger. Even this little, humble, wayside flower had not been exempt from his polluting influence--had only had the staunchness and fidelity of her great love to keep her pure and unharmed under his vile tempting.

"If he crossed my path now," he said, and clenched his hand involuntarily as he spoke, while passion and indignation made his brow dark, his eyes fierce. He | | 290 did not finish the threat. He only flung himself down and buried his face in his hands. In that moment a horror of himself--of his life--of everything and everyone--was upon him. He groaned aloud and cursed the fate that had made him what he was. It was in moments like these that he felt the full force and suffering of his sacrifice--that he despaired of that content which duty, and the consciousness of doing it, is supposed to bring.

With the next day's noon Adrienne and Mdlle. de Valtour arrived at the château. The young Countess was stronger and better, people said, and whispers stole about of the great joy and rejoicing that was soon to be, and among the whispers mingled a marvel that the Count was not here at such a time.

André bade his wife go up to the château and see the ladies. He did not go himself. He felt a strange disinclination to see the beautiful object of his buried romance--to hear again the rich sweet music of the voice that could thrill to his heart's core, and waken all the pain and fever and restlessness of the wildest dream a man's soul had ever held.

But he wished to hear of her--to know how she looked--whether she had in some measure recovered from the great shock she had received; whether she still grieved and mourned for her faithless husband. It was evening when Maï went, and he walked up later to meet and bring her home.

"The Countess was certainly stronger and better," | | 291 she told him, "but still she looked very sad and sorrowful. Of her husband she had never spoken. Mdlle. de Valtour asked so kindly after you," continued Maï; "she bade me tell you she would expect to see you soon. I said no doubt you would call when the vintage was over--that you were so busy now."

"Yes," said André absently. He was scarcely heeding what she said.

Maï prattled on. She had so many things to tell. Of the wonderful preparations for the little heir; of the beautiful presents Madame and Mdlle. de Valtour had brought her; of the charming pretty lady, Madame's friend, who was staying with her, and had worn a dress that was a marvel to look upon; of the exquisite cradle that had been sent from Paris, and was fit for a prince of the blood. All these, and many other things, she spoke of, and André listened with but few comments. He was, in truth, wondering why Adrienne was not reconciled to her husband, and whether she still grieved in that terrible heart-breaking manner of yore over his faults and sins.

"Do they not speak of M. le Comte at all?" he asked Maï, at length.

"No," she said. "No one mentioned him. Do you think they have quarrelled, André?"

"I know he is a brute," answered the young man sternly. "He was never worthy to touch the hem of Madame's garment. She was so pure, so gracious, so good. He--" A contemptuous gesture finished the | | 292 sentence. "Do not let us speak of him," he said impatiently.

Maï looked at him, a little surprised by his strong emotion.

"You lived in Paris, too; of course you would know," she said simply. "I am sorry, so sorry, for our beautiful lady. Now that I know what it is to be happy myself, I can feel for all she suffers and has lost."

He drew her hand within his arm, and smiled down on her with a tender, wistful smile.

"I am happier than she," sighed little Maï, as they went slowly on through the silvery evening light, and under the boughs and shadows of the laden vines.

"I think you are," he answered.

Meanwhile, at the château, Madame Odylle and Adrienne were sitting in the boudoir of the latter, and discussing the recent visit of little Maï.

"To think of Orpheus returning to the ploughshare," laughed the Marquise: "Were you not disappointed, chérie?"

"I was, indeed," said Adrienne gravely. "I do not think it was wise of him. I am sure he is not happy."

"He has not been happy for a very long time," said the little Marquise, with I quick glance at the fair, serious face before her. "I hardly suppose matrimony will make him so."

"He and Maï have always loved each other," said Adrienne, looking at her in surprise. "Certainly we | | 293 did not ever think they were quite suited, but lately, when André came from Paris, he seemed bent on marrying her. I suppose he thought it right. The girl seems happy enough, do you not think so?"

"Yes; but there has been no sacrifice on her part, and I suppose she loved him always."

"Do you fancy he has changed to her?" asked Adrienne, with surprise.

"I have heard of the desire of the moth for the star," answered Madame Odylle sententiously. "From my short experience of the young man, I should say he most certainly had."

"I do not understand you."

"No, dear one, I am quite sure of that. So much the better. You did not see so much of your protégé in Paris as I did."

"Was there someone in Paris, then? I suppose, like all men, he could not be constant to the absent."

And Adrienne sighed wearily, while her friend wondered a little impatiently whether any woman had ever yet been so wilfully blind, or so utterly free from vanity.

"Someone in Paris!" she echoed thoughtfully. "Of course there was. Not that it matters much now. I wonder what it feels like, that doing one's duty for duty's sake? You high-principled people always seem to me to be so unhappy. I cannot fancy you find it a satisfactory performance."

A little sad smile played round Adrienne's mouth.

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"Perhaps not," she said. "Only there are some natures on which the weight of moral obligation presses so heavily that they cannot shake it off. Principle and conscience are monitors no sophistry will stifle, no reasoning will silence. I do not suppose they enjoy life half so well as those whose natures are more easily satisfied. No beguilement of the senses can be possible to the over-sensitive, for brighter and clearer than the fire of temptation burns the star of virtue, and louder than the voice of any tempter is the 'still small voice' within their own breasts."

"Yes, and to pursue your metaphor further, the starlight that shines upon their souls becomes a fire of torture--the voice whose whispers cannot be stilled, a trumpet of discord that maddens them with its deafening echoes. That at least has been my experience."

"In your own case?" asked Adrienne.

"Pardieu, no! I am not a bit exaltée, nor given to heroics. I like the sweets of life as one finds them. I would not put them aside and take voluntarily to all the sours and disagreeables simply because the one was a little wrong, the other decidedly right. After all, though you are years younger than myself, you have not had half as much fun and enjoyment out of life. Is it not so?"

"I suppose it is," said Adrienne quietly. "You see youth is so much a matter of temperament, it has not to do with one's actual years. The things that | | 295 please you never did and never could please me. I suppose the fault lies with myself."

"Of course it does," answered Madame Odylle, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I married young; so did you. I found matrimony a mistake; so have you. But, all the same, I would not lead a nun's life, or break my heart over a man's faithlessness. There are a hundred other consolations always at hand. You can make a career for yourself. You can be celebrated by reason of your beauty, or great by reason of your mind, or famous by reason of your political principles, or a success, by virtue of your own brilliance and loveliness, and envied by all women, and courted by all men, simply because you wish to be so. Have none of these things a charm for you?"

"None."

"Then, frankly, I must tell you that you are the very oddest woman I ever met."

"You have said the same thing in different words many and many a time."

"Possibly I have. You see, dear, it seems hard to me that you should throw your life away at its very outset only for want of a little common sense."

"You speak as if I had acted voluntarily. You forget why my life is thrown away, as you call it."

"No; I do not forget. I remember very well. In your place I should never have acted as you did. To be the reigning beauty and queen of Paris one day; the next to throw yourself away on such | | 296 a life as this, and bury your youth in voluntary exile!"

"Why go over that old ground again, Odylle? I thought we had agreed to discuss the matter no more."

"I am always forgetting that promise. It tries my patience more than I can say to see you exiled in this fashion."

"It is an exile I prefer to the frivolity and folly of the world you profess to adore."

"That is just your odd way of looking at things. I cannot understand it myself. Nothing would induce me to bury myself from the world. I simply could not live without its excitements and pleasures."

"And when you come to die?" asked Adrienne gravely.

"To die! Quelle idée! Don't say such terrible things! Of course, long before that I shall have given up the world. We always turn devout after thirty."

"Oh, hush, Odylle! One would think life was to be measured by our own convenience, suited to our own will. How can you tell, or any one, how long of how short our days are to be? They are in God's hands."

"How you rebuke one, Adrienne!" said the little | | 297 Marquise, almost humbly. "How grand you are, and how good! Perhaps, after all, you are right. You are not suited to the world nor it to you."

"I knew that--long ago," sighed Adrienne wearily.