Gallantry. Dizain des Fetes Galantes

his eyes were tender, and her eyes were resolute, but very, very compassionate.

'I love you!' he said. He said no more than this, but none could doubt he spoke the truth.

'Monsieur,' the Duchess replied, and the depths of her contralto voice were shaken like the sobbing of a violin, and her hands stole upward to her bosom, and clasped the gold heart, as she spoke,—'monsieur, ever since I first knew you, many years ago, at my father's home, I have held you as my friend. You were more kind to the girl, Monsieur de Soyecourt, than you have been to the woman. Yet only since our stay in Poictesme yonder have I feared for the result of our friendship. I have tried to prevent this result. I have failed.' The Duchess lifted the gold heart to her lips, and her golden head bent over it. 'Monsieur, before God, if I had loved you with my whole being,— if I had loved you all these years,—if the sight of your face were to me to-day the one good thing life holds, and the mere sound of your voice had power to set my heart to beating—beating'—she paused for a little, and then rose, with a sharp breath that shook her slender body visibly,—'even then, my Louis, the answer would be the same; and that is,—go!'

'Helene—!' he murmured; and his outstretched hands, which trembled, groped toward her.

'Let us have no misunderstanding,' she protested, more composedly; 'you have my answer.'

De Soyecourt did not, at mildest, lead an immaculate life. But by the passion that now possessed him the tiny man seemed purified and transfigured beyond masculinity. His face was ascetic in its reverence as he waited there, with his head slightly bowed. 'I go,' he said, at last, as if picking his way carefully among tumbling words; then bent over her hand, which, she made no effort to withdraw. 'Ah, my dear!' cried the Marquis, staring into her shy, uplifted eyes, 'I think I might have made you happy!'

His arm brushed the elbow of the Duke as de Soyecourt left the salon. The Marquis seemed aware of nothing: the misery of both the men, as de Puysange reflected, was of a sort to be disturbed by nothing less noticeable than an earthquake.

VII

'If I had loved you all these years,' murmured the Duc de Puysange. His dull gaze wandered toward the admirable 'Herodias' of Giorgione which hung there in the corridor: the strained face of the woman, the accented muscles of her arms, the purple, bellying cloak which spread behind her, the livid countenance of the dead man staring up from the salver,—all these he noted, idly. It seemed strange that he should be appraising a painting at this particular moment.

'Well, now I will make recompense,' said the Duke.

VIII

He came into the room, humming a tune of the boulevards; the crimson hangings swirled about him, the furniture swayed in aerial and thin-legged minuets. He sank into a chair before the great mirror, supported by frail love-gods, who contended for its possession. He viewed therein his pale and grotesque reflection, and he laughed lightly. 'Pardon, madame,' he said, 'but my castles in the air are tumbling noisily about my ears. It is difficult to think clearly amid the crashing of the battlements.'

'I do not understand.' The Duchess had lifted a rather grave and quite incurious face as he entered the salon.

'My life,' laughed the Duc de Puysange, 'I assure you I am quite incorrigible. I have just committed another abominable action; and I cry peccavi!' He smote himself upon the breast, and sighed portentously. 'I accuse myself of eavesdropping.'

'What is your meaning?' She had now risen to her feet.

'Nay, but I am requited,' the Duke reassured her, and laughed with discreetly tempered bitterness. 'Figure to yourself, madame! I had planned for us a life during which our new-born friendship was always to endure untarnished. Eh bien, man proposes! De Soyecourt is of a jealous disposition; and here I sit, amid my fallen aircastles, like that tiresome Marius in his Carthaginian debris.'

'De Soyecourt?' she echoed, dully.

'Ah, my poor child!' said the Duke and, rising, took her hand in a paternal fashion, 'did you think that, at this late day, the disease of matrimony was still incurable? Nay, we progress, madame. You shall have grounds for a separation—sufficient, unimpeachable grounds. You shall have your choice of desertion, infidelity, cruelty in the presence of witnesses—oh, I shall prove a yeritabie Gilles de Retz!' He laughed, not unkindlily, at her bewilderment.

'You heard everything?' she queried.

'I have already confessed,' the Duke reminded her. 'And speaking as an unprejudiced observer, I would say the little man really loves you. So be it! You shall have your separation, you shall marry him in all honor and respectability; and if everything goes well, you shall be a grand duchess one of these days—Behold a fact accomplished!' De Puysange snapped his fingers and made a pirouette; he began to hum, 'Songez de bonne a suivre—'

There was a little pause.

'You, in truth, desire to restore to me my freedom?' she asked, in wonder, and drew near to him.

The Duc de Puysange seated himself, with a smile. 'Mon Dieu!' he protested, 'who am I to keep lovers apart? As the first proof of our new-sworn friendship, I hereby offer you any form of abuse or of maltreatment you may select.'

She drew yet nearer to him. Afterward, with a sigh as if of great happiness, her arms clasped about his neck. 'Mountebank! do you, then, love me very much?'

'I?' The Duke raised his eyebrows. Yet, he reflected, there was really no especial harm in drawing his cheek a trifle closer to hers, and he found the contact to be that of cool velvet.

'You love me!' she repeated, softly.

'It pains me to the heart,' the Duke apologized—'it pains me, pith and core, to be guilty of this rudeness to a lady; but, after all, honesty is a proverbially recommended virtue, and so I must unblushingly admit I do nothing of the sort.'

'Gaston, why will you not confess to your new friend? Have I not pardoned other amorous follies?' Her cheeks were warmer now, and softer than those of any other woman in the world.

'Eh, ma mie,' cried the Duke, warningly, 'do not be unduly elated by little Louis' avowal! You are a very charming person, but—'de gustibus—'' 

'Gaston—!' she murmured.

'Ah, what is one to do with such a woman!' De Puysange put her from him, and he paced the room with quick, unequal strides.

'Yes, I love you with every nerve and fibre of my body—with every not unworthy thought and aspiration of my misguided soul! There you have the ridiculous truth of it, the truth which makes me the laughing-stock of well bred persons for all time. I adore you. I love you, I cherish you sufficiently to resign you to the man your heart has chosen. I—But pardon me,'—and he swept a white hand over his brow, with a little, choking laugh,—'since I find this new emotion somewhat boisterous. It stifles one unused to it.'

She faced him, inscrutably; but her eyes were deep wells of gladness. 'Monsieur,' she said, 'yours is a noble affection. I will not palter with it, I accept your offer—'

'Madame, you act with your usual wisdom,' said the Duke.

'—Upon condition,' she continued,—'that you resume your position as eavesdropper.'

The Duke obeyed her pointing finger. When he had reached the portieres, the proud, black-visaged man looked back into the salon, wearily. She had seated herself in the fauteuil, where the Marquis de Soyecourt had bent over her and she had kissed the little gold locket. Her back was turned toward, her husband; but their eyes met in the great mirror, supported by frail love-gods, who contended for its possession.