CHAPTER XIII
The next morning found Paul de Virieu walking up and down platform No. 9of the Gare du Nord, waiting for Mrs. Bailey's train, which was due toarrive from Lacville at eleven o'clock.
Though he looked as if he hadn't a care in the world save the pleasantcare of enjoying the present and looking forward to the future, life wasvery grey just now to the young Frenchman.
To a Parisian, Paris in hot weather is a depressing place, even under thepleasantest of circumstances, and the Count felt an alien and an outcastin the city where he had spent much of his careless and happy youth.
His sister, the Duchesse d'Eglemont, who had journeyed all the way fromBrittany to see him for two or three days, had received him with thattouch of painful affection which the kindly and the prosperous so oftenbestow on those whom they feel to be at once beloved and prodigal.
When with his dear Marie-Anne, Paul de Virieu always felt as though hehad been condemned to be guillotined, and as if she were doing everythingto make his last days on earth as pleasant as possible.
When he had proposed that his sister should ask his new friend, thisEnglish widow he had met at Lacville, to luncheon--nay more, when he hadasked Marie-Anne to lend Mrs. Bailey a riding habit, and to arrange thatone of the Duc's horses should come over every morning in order that heand Mrs. Bailey might ride together--the kind Duchesse had at onceassented, almost too eagerly, to his requests. And she had asked herbrother no tiresome, indiscreet questions as to his relations with theyoung Englishwoman,--whether, for instance, he was really fond of Sylvia,whether it was conceivably possible that he was thinking of marrying her?
And, truth to tell, Paul de Virieu would have found it very difficult togive an honest answer to the question. He was in a strange, debatablestate of mind about Sylvia--beautiful, simple, unsophisticated SylviaBailey.
He told himself, and that very often, that the young Englishwoman, withher absurd, touching lack of worldly knowledge, had no business to beliving in such a place as Lacville, wasting her money at the Baccarattables, and knowing such queer people as were--well, yes, even AnnaWolsky was queer--Madame Wolsky and the Wachners!
But if Sylvia Bailey had no business to be at Lacville, he, Paul deVirieu, had no business to be flirting with her as he was doing--forthough Sylvia was honestly unaware of the fact, the Count was carryingon what he well knew to be a very agreeable flirtation with the lady hecalled in his own mind his "_petite amie Anglaise_," and very much hewas enjoying the experience--when his conscience allowed him to enjoy it.
Till the last few weeks Paul de Virieu had supposed himself to have cometo that time of life when a man can no longer feel the delicious tremorsof love. Now no man, least of all a Frenchman, likes to feel that thistime has come, and it was inexpressibly delightful to him to know thathe had been mistaken--that he could still enjoy the most absorbing andenchanting sensation vouchsafed to poor humanity.
He was in love! In love for the first time for many years, and with asweet, happy-natured woman, who became more intimately dear to him everymoment that went by. Indeed, he knew that the real reason why he had feltso depressed last night and even this morning was because he was partedfrom Sylvia.
But where was it all to end? True, he had told Mrs. Bailey the truthabout himself very early in their acquaintance--in fact, amazingly soon,and he had been prompted to do so by a feeling which defied analysis.
But still, did Sylvia, even now, realise what that truth was? Did she inthe least understand what it meant for a man to be bound and gagged, ashe was bound and gagged, lashed to the chariot of the Goddess of Chance?No, of course she did not realise it--how could such a woman as wasSylvia Bailey possibly do so?
Walking up and down the long platform, chewing the cud of bitterreflection, Paul de Virieu told himself that the part of an honest man,to say nothing of that of an honourable gentleman, would be to leaveLacville before matters had gone any further between them. Yes, thatwas what he was bound to do by every code of honour.
And then, just as he had taken the heroic resolution of going back toBrittany with his sister, as Marie-Anne had begged him to do only thatmorning, the Lacville train steamed into the station--and with the sightof Sylvia's lovely face all his good resolutions flew to the winds.
She stepped down from the high railway carriage, and looked round herwith a rather bewildered air, for a crowd of people were surging roundher, and she had not yet caught sight of Count Paul.
Wearing a pinkish mauve cotton gown and a large black tulle hat, Sylvialooked enchantingly pretty. And if the Count's critical French eyesobjected to the alliance of a cotton gown and tulle hat, and to thewearing of a string of large pearls in the morning, he was in the stateof mind when a man of fastidious taste forgives even a lack of taste inthe woman to whom he is acting as guide, philosopher, and friend.
He told himself that Sylvia Bailey could not be left alone in a placelike Lacville, and that it was his positive duty to stay on there andlook after her....
Suddenly their eyes met. Sylvia blushed--Heavens! how adorable she lookedwhen there came that vivid rose-red blush over her rounded cheeks. Andshe was adorable in a simple, unsophisticated way, which appealed to Paulde Virieu as nothing in woman had ever appealed to him before.
He could not help enjoying the thought of how surprised his sister wouldbe. Marie-Anne had doubtless pictured Mrs. Bailey as belonging to therather hard, self-assertive type of young Englishwoman of whom Paris seesa great deal. But Sylvia looked girlishly simple, timid, and confiding.
As he greeted her, Paul de Virieu's manner was serious, almost solemn.But none the less, while they walked side by side in a quiet, leisurelyfashion through the great grey station, Sylvia felt as if she had indeedpassed through the shining portals of fairyland.
In the covered courtyard stood the Duchesse's carriage. Count Paulmotioned the footman aside and stood bareheaded while Sylvia took herplace in the victoria. As he sat down by her side he suddenly observed,"My brother-in-law does not like motor-cars," and Sylvia felt secret,shame-faced gratitude to the Duc d'Eglemont, for, thanks to this prejudiceof his, the moments now being spent by her alone with Count Paul weretrebled.
As the carriage drove with swift, gondola-like motion through the hotstreets, Sylvia felt more than ever as if she were in a new, enchantedcountry--that dear country called Romance, and, as if to prolong theillusion, the Count began to talk what seemed to her the language ofthat country.
"Every Frenchman," he exclaimed, abruptly, "is in love with love, andwhen you hear--as you may do sometimes, Madame--that a Frenchman israrely in love with his own wife, pray answer that this is quite untrue!For it often happens that in his wife a Frenchman discovers the love hehas sought elsewhere in vain."
He looked straight before him as he added: "As for marriage--well,marriage is in my country regarded as a very serious matter indeed! NoFrenchman goes into marriage as light-heartedly as does the averageEnglishman, and as have done, for instance, so many of my own Englishschoolfellows. No, to a Frenchman his marriage means everything ornothing, and if he loved a woman it would appear to him a dastardlyaction to ask her to share his life if he did not believe that life to bewhat would be likely to satisfy her, to bring her honour and happiness."
Sylvia turned to him, and, rather marvelling at her own temerity, sheasked a fateful question:
"But would love ever make the kind of Frenchman you describe give up away of life that was likely to make his wife unhappy?"
Count Paul looked straight into the blue eyes which told him so much morethan their owner knew they told.
"Yes! He might easily give up that life for the sake of a beloved woman.But would he remain always faithful in his renunciation? That is thequestion which none, least of all himself, can answer!"
The victoria was now crossing one of the bridges which are, perhaps, thenoblest possession of outdoor Paris.
Count Paul changed the subject. He had seen with mingled pain and joy howmuch his last honest words
had troubled her.
"My brother-in-law has never cared to move west, as so many of hisfriends have done," he observed. "He prefers to remain in the old familyhouse that was built by his great-grandfather before the FrenchRevolution."
Soon they were bowling along a quiet, sunny street, edged with high wallsoverhung with trees. The street bore the name of Babylon.
And indeed there was something almost Babylonian, something very splendidin the vast courtyard which formed the centre of what appeared, toSylvia's fascinated eyes, a grey stone palace. The long rows of high,narrow windows which now encompassed her were all closed, but with theclatter of the horses' hoofs on the huge paving-stones the great housestirred into life.
The carriage drew up. Count Paul jumped out and gave Sylvia his hand.Huge iron doors, that looked as if they could shut out an invading army,were flung open, and after a moment's pause, Paul de Virieu led SylviaBailey across the threshold of the historic Hotel d'Eglemont.
She had never seen, she had never imagined, such pomp, such solemn state,as that which greeted her, and there came across her a childish wish thatAnna Wolsky and the Wachners could witness the scene--the hall hung withtapestries given to an ancestor of the Duc d'Eglemont by Louis theFourteenth, the line of powdered footmen, and the solemn major-domo whoushered them up the wide staircase, at the head of which there stooda slender, white-clad young woman, with a sweet, eager face.
This was the first time Sylvia Bailey had met a duchess, and she wasperhaps a little surprised to see how very unpretentious a duchess couldbe!
Marie-Anne d'Eglemont spoke in a low, almost timid voice, her Englishbeing far less good than her brother's, and yet how truly kind andhighly-bred she at once showed herself, putting Sylvia at her ease, andappearing to think there was nothing at all unusual in Mrs. Bailey'sfriendship with Paul de Virieu!
And then, after they had lunched in an octagon room of which each panelhad been painted by Van Loo, and which opened on a garden where the greenglades and high trees looked as if they must be far from a great city,there suddenly glided in a tiny old lady, dressed in a sweeping blackgown and little frilled lace cap.
Count Paul bowing low before her, kissed her waxen-looking right hand.
"My dear godmother, let me present to you Mrs. Bailey," and Sylvia feltherself being closely, rather pitilessly, inspected by shrewd though notunkindly eyes--eyes sunken, dimmed by age, yet seeing more, perhaps, thanyounger eyes would have seen.
The old Marquise beckoned to Count Paul, and together they slowly walkedthrough into the garden and paced away down a shaded alley. For the firsttime Sylvia and Marie-Anne d'Eglemont were alone together.
"I wish to thank you for your kindness to my poor Paul," the Duchessespoke in a low, hesitating voice. "You have so much influence over him,Madame."
Sylvia shook her head.
"Ah! But yes, you have!" She looked imploringly at Sylvia. "You know whatI mean? You know what I would ask you to do? My husband could give Paulwork in the country, work he would love, for he adores horses, if only hecould be rescued from this terrible infatuation, this passion for play."
She stopped abruptly, for the Count and his little, fairy-like godmotherhad turned round, and were now coming towards them.
Sylvia rose instinctively to her feet, for the tiny Marquise was veryimposing.
"Sit down, Madame," she said imperiously, and Sylvia meekly obeyed.
The old lady fixed her eyes with an appraising gaze on her godson'sEnglish friend.
"Permit me to embrace you," she exclaimed suddenly. "You are a verypretty creature! And though no doubt young lips often tell you this, thecompliments of the old have the merit of being quite sincere!"
She bent down, and Sylvia, to her confusion and surprise, felt her cheekslightly kissed by the withered lips of Paul de Virieu's godmother.
"Madame Bailey's rouge is natural; it does not come off!" the old ladyexclaimed, and a smile crept over her parchment-coloured face. "Not butwhat a great deal of nonsense is talked about the usage of rouge, mydear children! There is no harm in supplementing the niggardly gifts ofnature. You, for instance, Marie-Anne, would look all the better for alittle rouge!" She spoke in a high, quavering voice.
The Duchesse smiled. Her brother had always been the old Marquise'sfavourite.
"But I should feel so ashamed if it came off," she said lightly; "if, forinstance, I felt one of my cheeks growing pale while the other remainedbright red?"
"That would never happen if you used what I have often told you isthe only rouge a lady should use, that is, the sap of the geraniumblossom--that gives an absolutely natural tint to the skin, and my owndear mother always used it. You remember how Louis XVIII. complimentedher on her beautiful complexion at the first Royal ball held after theRestoration? Well, the Sovereign's gracious words were entirely owing tothe geranium blossom!"