Her dress, her carriage, her air, all suggested it; and she might, as Nick said, have been walking in the gardens of the Trianon.Titles I cared nothing for.Hers alone seemed real, to put her far above me.Had all who bore them been as worthy, titles would have meant much to mankind.
She was coming swiftly.I rose to my feet before her.
I believe I should have risen in death.And then she was standing beside me, looking up into my face.
``You must not do that,'' she said, ``or I will go away.''
I sat down again.She went to the door and called, Ifollowing her with my eyes.Lindy came with a bowl of water.
``Put it on the table,'' said the Vicomtesse.
Lindy put the bowl on the table, gave us a glance, and departed silently.The Vicomtesse began to arrange the flowers in the bowl, and I watched her, fascinated by her movements.She did everything quickly, deftly, but this matter took an unconscionable time.She did not so much as glance at me.She seemed to have forgotten my presence.
``There,'' she said at last, giving them a final touch.
``You are less talkative, if anything, than usual this morning, Mr.Ritchie.You have not said good morning, you have not told me how you were--you have not even thanked me for the roses.One might almost believe that you are sorry to come to Les Iles.''
``One might believe anything who didn't know, Madame la Vicomtesse.''
She put her hand to the flowers again.
``It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause,''
she said.
She was so near me that I could have touched her.Aweakness seized me, and speech was farther away than ever.She moved, she sat down and looked at me, and the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that I knew was the forerunner of raillery.
``There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which seems always about to speak, and then to think better of it.You remind me of that statue, Mr.Ritchie.It is the statue of Wisdom.''
What did she mean?
``Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth, Madame,'' I replied.
``It is the one particular in which I should have thought wisdom was lacking,'' she said.``You have a tongue, if you will deign to use it.Or shall I read to you?'' she added quickly, picking up a book.``I have read to the Queen, when Madame Campan was tired.Her Majesty poor dear lady, did me the honor to say she liked my English.''
``You have done everything, Madame,'' I said.
``I have read to a Queen, to a King's sister, but never yet --to a King,'' she said, opening the book and giving me the briefest of glances.``You are all kings in America are you not? What shall I read?''
``I would rather have you talk to me.''
``Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English.
No, I will not do that,'' she said, a swift expression of sadness passing over her face.``I will never mock her again.She was a good sovereign and a brave woman and I loved her.'' She was silent a moment, and I thought there was a great weariness in her voice when she spoke again.``I have every reason to thank God when I think of the terrors I escaped, of the friends I have found.And yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr.Ritchie.''
``You are unhappy when you are not doing things for others, Madame,'' I suggested.
``I am a discontented woman,'' she said; ``I always have been.And I am unhappy when I think of all those who were dear to me and whom I loved.Many are dead, and many are scattered and homeless.''
``I have often thought of your sorrows, Madame,'' Isaid.
``Which reminds me that I should not burden you with them, my good friend, when you are recovering.Do you know that you have been very near to death?''
``I know, Madame,'' I faltered.``I know that had it not been for you I should not be alive to-day.I know that you risked your life to save my own.''
She did not answer at once, and when I looked at her she was gazing out over the flowers on the lawn.
``My life did not matter,'' she said.``Let us not talk of that.''
I might have answered, but I dared not speak for fear of saying what was in my heart.And while I trembled with the repression of it, she was changed.She turned her face towards me and smiled a little.
``If you had obeyed me you would not have been so ill,'' she said.
``Then I am glad that I did not obey you.''
``Your cousin, the irrepressible Mr.Temple, says I am a tyrant.Come now, do you think me a tyrant?''
``He has also said other things of you.''
``What other things?''
I blushed at my own boldness.
``He said that if he were not in love with Antoinette, he would be in love with you.''
``A very safe compliment,'' said the Vicomtesse.
``Indeed, it sounds too cautious for Mr.Temple.You must have tampered with it, Mr.Ritchie,'' she flashed.``Mr.
Temple is a boy.He needs discipline.He will have too easy a time with Antoinette.''
``He is not the sort of man you should marry,'' I said, and sat amazed at it.
She looked at me strangely``No, he is not,'' she answered.``He is more or less the sort of man I have been thrown with all my life.
They toil not, neither do they spin.I know you will not misunderstand me, for I am very fond of him.Mr.Temple is honest, fearless, lovable, and of good instincts.One cannot say as much for the rest of his type.They go through life fighting, gaming, horse-racing, riding to hounds,--I have often thought that it was no wonder our privileges came to an end.So many of us were steeped in selfishness and vice, were a burden on the world.The early nobles, with all their crimes, were men who carved their way.Of such were the lords of the Marches.We toyed with politics, with simplicity, we wasted the land, we played cards as our coaches passed through famine-stricken villages.The reckoning came.Our punishment was not given into the hands of the bourgeois, who would have dealt justly, but to the scum, the canaille, the demons of the earth.Had our King, had our nobility, been men with the old fire, they would not have stood it.They were worn out with centuries of catering to themselves.
