From a window I saw the hussars defiling by threes, past the end of the long and stately avenue of yews—along the road that led from Rennes. I heard the patter of the kettledrums, and saw the glittering sabres, the rich uniforms, the waving plumes, the braided pelisses, the gaudy housings of the horses, the sky-blue standard with the three fleurs de lys, that waved in the centre of the troop; and my heart swelled with proud and regretful emotions, as I thought of my present absurd and dangerous position, of my absent comrades—the lads who boasted themselves "second to none," and with whom I had twice ridden sword in hand, through the ranks of Boisguiller's Hussars.
That the chevalier was an ardent admirer of Jacqueline I perceived but too plainly; yet I did not dread him much as a rival, especially as the Catholic Church will not—unless in very particular instances—permit the marriage of cousins, and they were both within the forbidden degrees. But I dreaded his discovering me—his probable revenge for the insult implied by my residence so near his cousin; and yet this chevalier was a handsome, brave, and gallant fellow.
I was roused from my reverie by a soft hand that was laid caressingly on mine. I turned, and met the pretty face and dark eyes of Angelique.
"Twice, monsieur," said she, "I thought our rogue of a chevalier had discovered you; what eyes he has!"
"Tell me, Angelique: this chevalier, who was so anxious to have me knocked on the head when I first came here, does he—does he——"
"What, kiss me occasionally? Of course, every one does so sometimes—that is, except you."
"I can soon make amends for this unpardonable omission."
"That will do; one is enough, in that dress especially. Well?"
"Does he love your mistress?"
"He is her cousin. Of course he loves her."
"The devil!"
"But every one does."
"Does she love him?"
"Can you ask me that?" said the Breton girl, turning on me with her black eyes flashing.
I was silent, for I now knew that the prudent Angelique was completely the mistress of our dangerous secret.
"Well has propinquity done its work!" thought I.
I found the Countess Ninon very amusing (though fond of recurring with sorrowful recollections to her first love, a Scottish captain in the Irish Dragoons of Lord Clare, who had fallen in battle somewhere); and notwithstanding the little vanities incident to her years, sex, and country, her conversation was instructive. Thus, while attending her and her niece in their walks, &c., I listened with pleasure to her anecdotes of the court of Louis XIV., and even of that of Louis XIII., which she had gleaned from her mother.
At night, when the perfumed wax-candles were lighted in her boudoir, and I was busy with my skeins of silk, while she and Angelique plied their needles on the embroidery for that Right Reverend Father, the Bishop of St. Malo, she would tell us many a strange old story of the Breton wars between Guy of Thouars and Philip Augustus; of the enchanted sea-ducks that were neither fish nor flesh, but grew between the planks of ships that sailed in Breton waters; of the toad-stones that were found in the mountains, and proved a sovereign remedy for all manner of poisons; of the terrors of the Black Forest of Hunandaye; of the buried cities of Is and Douarnenez; of the ghosts that shrieked in the ancient vaults that lie between Rieux and Redon, and the subterranean torrent of St. Aubyn du Cormier.
She knew also many strange and wild legends of the great stones that stud all the land so thickly from Lorient to Quiberon—rising out of lonely heaths that are covered with holly and thistles, like that great block which marks, near Morlaix, where a peasant was devoured by the Moon, for blaspheming her. She told of the dreadful shipwrecks the Point of Raz had witnessed; of the Bay of the Dead, and the island of Sein, a melancholy sandholm, whereon neither grass nor trees will grow, and which was, of old, the abode of Celtic witches, who sold fair winds or foul to the Breton mariners.
I remember being particularly struck with a strange story which she related of the famous Ninon de L'Enclos, who is said to have preserved her beauty until she numbered ninety years.
We were seated in her boudoir. It was the fourth evening of my obnoxious masquerading. The eternal piece of embroidery for the bishop was finished at last, and Angelique was busy with the soft, silky, and luxuriant black hair of Jacqueline, which she had unloosed, and was pinning up for the night, before a large mirror, while I sat on a tabourette at some distance, contemplating with secret joy and admiration the beauty of one I loved so much, and envying her soubrette, a service which I could neither imitate nor perform.
It would seem as if the beautiful girl felt some coquettish joy in the contemplation of herself, for after a pause she said to her aunt—
"Tell me honestly, my dear aunt, am I as pretty as you could wish?"
"Quite so, Jacqueline."
"And you, Basile?"
I could only clasp my hands in silence.
"Yet," resumed Madame, "you are not half so pretty as I was at the same age."
"When Milord Clare's Irish dragoons lay at Versailles?" said Jacqueline, quickly adding, "of course not, dear aunt; I could not hope to excel you. The old Comte de Boisguiller is always polite enough to tell me so."
"Does he indeed? Dear M. le Comte!" said Madame, applying a gold vinaigrette to her nose to conceal a gratified smile. "You are charming, Jacqueline. But remember that faces which are pretty in youth often become hideous in age."
"You were beautiful, aunt?"
"Like yourself, Jacqueline. When Lord Clare's——"
"I do not care; I shall marry when young and lovely, and when old and hideous my husband cannot put me away."
"But he may love some one else."
Jacqueline glanced at me coquettishly between the masses that overhung her face, and her smile made my heart beat lightly and joyously.
"Oh, to be like Ninon de l'Enclos," said she; "always lovely!"
"Always?"
"Yes, dear aunt."
"Do you know the true, the terrible story of the reckless woman you speak of?" asked the countess, gravely.
"No; does it convey a moral?"
"A most severe one; shall I tell it you?"
"If you please, dear aunt, and if it is not too dreadful," replied Jacqueline, as she ran her slender white fingers through the masses of dark hair that overhung her shoulders.
Then without further preamble, the garrulous old countess commenced the following narrative, which, to say truth, I thought a very strange one; but the subject of it was the bosom-friend of Madame de Maintenon, of the Marquise de Sévigné, and moved in the best society of the very singular Paris of her day.