“Undoubtedly,” purred Sieur Raymond, “you love the lad unboundedly, madly, distractedly! Now we come to the root of the matter.” He sank back in his chair and smiled. “Young people,” said he, “be seated, and hearken to the words of wisdom. Love is a divine insanity, in which the sufferer fancies the world mad. And the world is made up of madmen who condemn and punish one another.”
“But,” Matthiette dissented, “ours is no ordinary case!”
“Surely not,” Sieur Raymond readily agreed; “for there was never an ordinary case in all the history of the universe. Oh, but I, too, have known this madness; I, too, have perceived how infinitely my own skirmishes with the blind bow-god differed in every respect from all that has been or will ever be. It is an infallible sign of this frenzy. Surely, I have said, the world will not willingly forget the vision of Chloris in her wedding garments, or the wonder of her last clinging kiss. Or, say Phyllis comes tomorrow: will an uninventive sun dare to rise in the old, hackneyed fashion on such a day of days? Perish the thought! There will probably be six suns, and, I dare say, a meteor or two.”
“I perceive, sir,” Raoul said here, “that after all you have not forgotten the young Raymond of whom I spoke.”
“That was a long while ago,” snapped Sieur Raymond. “I know a deal more of the world nowadays; and a levelheaded world would be somewhat surprised at such occurrences, and suggest that for the future Phyllis remain at home. For whether you—or I—or anyone—be in love or no is to our fellow creatures an affair of astonishingly trivial import. Not since Noé that great admiral, repeopled the world by begetting three sons upon Dame Noria has there been a love-business worthy of consideration; nor, if you come to that, not since sagacious Solomon went a-wenching has a wise man wasted his wisdom on a lover. So love one another, my children, by all means: but do you, Matthiette, make ready to depart into Normandy as a true and faithful wife to Monsieur de Puysange; and do you, Raoul de Prison, remain at Arnaye, and attend to my falcons more carefully than you have done of late—or, by the cross of Saint Lo! I will clap the wench in a convent and hang the lad as high as Haman!”
Whereon Sieur Raymond smiled pleasantly, and drained his wine-cup as one considering the discussion ended.
Raoul sat silent for a moment. Then he rose. “Monsieur d’Arnaye, you know me to be a gentleman of unblemished descent, and as such entitled to a hearing. I forbid you before all-seeing Heaven to wed your niece to a man she does not love! And I have the honor to request of you her hand in marriage.”
“Which offer I decline,” said Sieur Raymond, grinning placidly—“with every imaginable civility. Niece,” he continued, “here is a gentleman who offers you a heartful of love, six months of insanity, and forty years of boredom in a leaky, windswept château. He has dreamed dreams concerning you: allow me to present to you the reality.”
With some ceremony Sieur Raymond now grasped Matthiette’s hand and led her mirror-ward. “Permit me to present the wife of Monsieur de Puysange. Could he have made a worthier choice? Ah, happy lord, that shall so soon embrace such perfect loveliness! For, frankly, my niece, is not that golden hair of a shade that will set off a coronet extraordinarily well? Are those wondrous eyes not fashioned to surfeit themselves upon the homage and respect accorded the wife of a great lord? Ouais, the thing is indisputable: and, therefore, I must differ from Monsieur de Frison here, who would condemn this perfection to bloom and bud unnoticed in a paltry country town.”
There was an interval, during which Matthiette gazed sadly into the mirror. “And Arnaye—?” said she.
“Undoubtedly,” said Sieur Raymond—“Arnaye must perish unless Puysange prove her friend. Therefore, my niece conquers her natural aversion to a young and wealthy husband, and a life of comfort and flattery and gayety; relinquishes you, Raoul; and, like a feminine Mettius Curtius, sacrifices herself to her country’s welfare. Pierre may sleep undisturbed; and the pigs will have a new sty. My faith, it is quite affecting! And so,” Sieur Raymond summed it up, “you two young fools may bid adieu, once for all, while I contemplate this tapestry.” He strolled to the end of the room and turned his back. “Admirable!” said he; “really now, that leopard is astonishingly lifelike!”
Raoul came toward Matthiette. “Dear love,” said he, “you have chosen wisely, and I bow to your decision. Farewell, Matthiette—O indomitable heart! O brave perfect woman that I have loved! Now at the last of all, I praise you for your charity to me, Love’s mendicant—ah, believe me, Matthiette, that atones for aught which follows now. Come what may, I shall always remember that once in old days you loved me, and, remembering this, I shall always thank God with a contented heart.” He bowed over her unresponsive hand. “Matthiette,” he whispered, “be happy! For I desire that very heartily, and I beseech of our Sovereign Lady—not caring to hide at all how my voice shakes, nor how the loveliness of you, seen now for the last time, is making blind my eyes—that you may never know unhappiness. You have chosen wisely, Matthiette; yet, ah, my dear, do not forget me utterly, but keep always a little place in your heart for your boy lover!”
Sieur Raymond concluded his inspection of the tapestry, and turned with a premonitory cough. “Thus ends the comedy,” said he, shrugging, “with much fine, harmless talking about ‘always,’ while the world triumphs. Invariably the world triumphs, my children. Eheu, we are as God made us, we men and women that cumber His stately earth!” He drew his arm through Raoul’s. “Farewell, niece,” said Sieur
