The man was my whole world all the same
With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame
And either or both to love.
—BROWNING.
The workshop of Master Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King of France, had been transformed into a vast assembly-room. The big central tables whereon usually sat cross-legged the 'prentices and stitchers, had been pushed to one side, right along the wall where it now groaned beneath the weight of pasties, and of pies, of a lamb roasted whole, of dishes of marrow bones, of prawns and of cheese, amongst which dishes and platters, the bottles of good Burgundy and of wine of Navarre, and the jugs of metheglin and hypocras reared their enticing heads.
The centre of the room was given over to dancing. The wooden floor had been greased and polished until it had become slippery to the feet, whilst in a corner raised upon a wooden platform covered with crimson cloth a band of musicians were playing good lilting, swinging measures for a dance. None of your simpering minuets or slow-going pavanes for these young people; but something with a good lively tune in it, and plenty of noise and banging of the small drum and cymbal, so that a youngster could have a chance of gripping a wench well round the waist and of turning her round and round until she became so giddy, so breathless and so hot that she had to cry for mercy even at the price of a sounding kiss.
For close upon an hour now the musicians had played the same rousing tune, and for close upon an hour indefatigable feet—some clad in shoe leather, others with hard bare soles beating the polished floor—had been raising up a mighty cloud of dust which settled on pasties and on cheese, on the big drum and on perspiring faces. Cheeks were crimson from the exertion, short hair and long hair, curly and straight hung limply over sweating, greasy foreheads. Pinners were getting awry, displaying more bosom than prudery would otherwise allow. To right and left surcoats and vests were being cast aside and flung across the room leaving bare arms and chests to view, or else a shirt more full of tatters than of stitches.
Daylight still came streaming in for it was only four o'clock and les mariés would not be leaving for at least another hour. In the meanwhile M. Legros had much ado to keep the curious, the idle, the impertinent from his doorstep, for, look you! though the hospitable abode of the goodly tailor was open on this great occasion to all and sundry friends and acquaintances who wished to eat and drink and to make merry, yet there was no intention of permitting every shiftless vagabond to come and partake of the cheer.
Good Papa Legros had planted two of his most stalwart assistants at the door, with orders to admit no one who did not bear a familiar face, and if any one prove importunate, why then the end of a whip-lash or even a stout stick should drive impudence away.
Thus it was that when Master Daniel Pye—the faithful henchman of fair Mistress Peyton—presented himself at the tailor's shop in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie, he was incontinently refused admittance.
"I desire to speak with M. Legros, tailor to His Majesty the King of France," growled Daniel Pye in excessively bad French, for he knew nothing of the gibberish and had only learnt this phrase off by heart like a parrot that jabbers without understanding.
"Then thou silly lout of a buffle-headed Englishman, thou'lt have to wait with thy desire until to-morrow."
"I desire to speak with M. Legros, tailor to His Majesty the King of France," repeated Pye mechanically. It was the only sentence which he knew, and he had been assured by his crony that the magic phrase would ope the doors for him without any difficulty.
"Get thee gone, and come back to-morrow," retorted the stalwart sentinel.
"I desire to speak with—"
"An thou'lt not go at once," shouted the tailor's irascible cutter, "I'll give thee a taste of a French stick across thy English shoulders."
"I desire—"
Bang! came the stout stick crashing down on worthy Pye's broad back, quickly bent in order to check the strength of the blow.
But he held his ground.
"Thou'lt go to Paris in company with my lord," the mistress had said to him peremptorily, "and on the day on which the daughter of Master Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King of France weds an English gentleman, thou'lt to the house of that same Master Legros, and thou'lt deliver him this letter—to him and to no one else—and without saying whence thou comest, nor who it was that sent thee. Thou'lt go to him one hour after the religious ceremony of matrimony shall have been performed in the church and before the newly-wedded pair have quitted the bride's parental home."
Daniel Pye had presented himself according to instructions. He had safely hidden in his breast pocket the letter which he was to deliver to the tailor of his Majesty the King of France, and to no one else. If he failed in the discharge of his duty, he knew that his fair mistress would punish him mercilessly, probably dismiss him from her service altogether and send him—old and unfit for other work—to starve in his remote East Anglian village.
At best there were plenty of subordinates in Mistress Peyton's household who would only too gladly wield the lash on him who never spared it to others. Therefore Daniel Pye held his ground. The more blows he received, the more sure would he be of the indulgence of his own mistress. He had a tough hide, and after all is said and done, one does not die of a beating. So he bore the blows of the stick on his back, and the stinging swish of whipcord round his legs. He knew quite well that on occasions such as marriage-feasts or other merrimaking days, 'prentices and young assistants would have their bit of fun.
He had had his own many a time. So when his back ached overmuch, and his legs were more sore than he could stand, he gave up all further attempts to force his way into the house and beat a retreat in the rear of the good-natured crowd.
He would, he thought, find a means to speak to Master Legros a little later on, when every one's attention would be more fully concentrated on merrimaking, and the door was not so closely guarded.
When Papa Legros heard of the incident he was vastly amused, then he bethought himself that mayhap the persistent English lout had some command for him for some rich clothes on behalf of one or other of the elegant milors who were in Paris at this moment—friends of my Lord Stowmaries, mayhap. Master Legros was vastly perturbed, and sent one of his 'prentices to search for the Englishman in the crowd, and to bring him hither forthwith. But Master Daniel Pye with that stolidity peculiar to his race had gone very quietly off to a neighbouring coffee house to nurse his sores, to drink mulled ale and to await events.
In the meanwhile within the house itself much time had been spent in eating and drinking, as the debris which at this hour littered Mme. Legros' kitchen could well testify. The banquet had lasted for nearly two hours and had gone on at intervals ever since. M. Legros had made a speech which had caused his fair young daughter to blush and made every one there clap mugs against the table and shout: "Long live! long live!" until the old rafters and beams shook with the mighty echo.
One or two buxom maids of all work, with muscular, bare arms and streaming, red faces had since then brought in fresh relays of victuals, and any number of bottles of wine—quite enough for every 'prentice in the shop to get as drunk as any lord.
The noise in the back shop was now incessant and the shouting of the dancers, the screams of the girls, the laughing and hooting of the boys, almost drowned the cymbal, hautbois and big drum. The intoxication of pleasure had whipped up the blood of all these youngsters. Ay! and of the sober folk, too, for behold Mme. Legros in her beautiful puce silk footing it with good M. Dumas, the shoesmith, and displaying a length of stockinged leg such as no decent matron should show except to her husband.
But what would you? This is an occasion such as only occurs once in a lifetime: the marriage of an only daughter, and that to the handsomest, richest, most noble seigneur that ever dwelt at the Court of the King of England.
Then vogue la galère! Let us dance and make merry! Dance until every sinew in the body aches and clothes slip off dripping shoulders.
"Mais va donc! vieille tortue!" shouted some of the young 'prentices to the musicians as these poor wretches, perspiring profusely, straining their arms and puffing out their cheeks tried to keep up the measure to the required rapidity.
"C'est un enterrement par Dieu!" yelled another, as he whirled his partner round until both her little feet gave way and she and the indefatigable youth collapsed with a violent thud upon the hard floor.
A terrific shout of laughter greeted the catastrophe. The musicians, in response to vigorous shouts, struck up the measure with renewed quickness. They blew and puffed at such a rate now that no foot of man could have kept up with the tune, at least not after an hour of this same exertion.
"Assez! assez! not so fast morbleu!"
But the players evidently had resented the previous comments anent their slowness, and now would listen to no admonition in the contrary direction. Faster and faster they played, the exhausted, sweating 'prentices tripped it with frantic efforts; the girls loudly clamoured for the music to stop. They were giddy, they were toweringly hot, the young men's breath almost burned their cheeks.
"Enough! enough! par tous les diables! These musicians have the devil in them!"
The couples fell back one by one panting against the wall, only one pair remained in the centre now twirling and twisting in a cloud of dust. The girl's white skirts flew out all round her like a thousand wings which seemed to lift her off her feet. The man held her tightly, his strong arms twined round her as if he never would let her go again, but meant to dance and turn, to whirl her through space even to eternity.
His head was bent for he was over-tall and towered above every one else in the room. He was a head taller than she was, but he looked straight down at her as he held her, straight into her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes of hers which he had thought so cold. They were dark now, almost as dark as his own, and flashed with curious purple lights, and deep velvety shadows; her lips were parted with the effort of breathing, they were red and full, and showed glimpses of small pearly teeth, and the red moist tongue between them.
The man's heart gave a great bound of joy. This was no ice-maiden wrapped in a mantle of snow, the tips of whose chaste fingers he had hitherto hardly dared to touch with his lips. No! this was a living, breathing woman full of passion, full of the joy of life, a woman moreover who was ready to love him, to return passion for passion, and kiss for kiss.
Ye gods! Michael, but thou'rt a happy man!
He held her close in his arms, for is not God's most glorious, most perfect creation upon earth a woman who is pure the while she burns with passion? And that priceless treasure was his. Fate had given her to him, Fate and his own damnable action.
Nay, Michael, thou blackguard, if thine action be damnable, then by all the Saints in Heaven and by all the devils in Hell, do thou go and be damned, but hold this woman first.
And wild, mad thoughts went coursing through his brain, thoughts of himself and of her:
"I am a man, and what I do, I do. With mine honour did I buy thee, with mine own humiliation and shame have I conquered thee. Thou who art no snow-maiden but living lava melting at my touch, thou whom I adore, for whom were it to be done again, I would lie and I would cheat, I would descend to Hell or conquer paradise. I am a man and what I do, I do! Perish honour, perish life itself and eternal salvation if to gain honour mean to forsake thee."
These were the tumultuous coursings of his excited brain the while he held her thus, swirling and whirling in his arms, swaying as a reed in the embrace of a blasting wind.
The cloud of dust enveloped them, as, on the Brocken, the steam from unseen cauldrons envelops the witches in their revels. Through this haze Rose Marie saw nothing but his face and in it she read mayhap something that was passing in his mind, something of that passion which her mind as yet could not understand, even though her blood and heart were so ready to respond.
But strangely enough she was not afraid. The child whose life boundary did not extend far beyond the walls of the parental home looked out on a limitless horizon of men's passions and men's sins, but even beyond that horizon the personality of the man to whom she had given her innocent love stood out clear and pure: the master to obey, the hero to worship. That she had roused a great love in him, she could not fail to see; of that she was proud, for her feminine instinct whispered that the greatness of his love transcended any sin which he ever might commit.
How it all happened she never afterwards could say; but it was all so different to what had been prearranged by mother and father, and by all the friends. Rose Marie had not heard the pawing of horse's hoofs outside, nor yet the rumble of the coach. Truth to tell she was so lost in the wild dream of the moment that she had forgotten all about what was to come: the farewell to maman and papa, the noisy "good-bye" to friends, the conventional departure accompanied by shouts and cheers and showers of rose leaves which all richly-dowered brides have to experience.
In her case, too, it had all been duly planned, but it happened so differently!
She had been dancing with her lord, looking up like a fascinated bird into his face glowing with ardent love. Then the room began to spin round and round, she could see nothing very clearly, yet a delicious languor stole into her every limb, she closed her eyes, and gave herself over limp and motionless into his embrace. Suddenly she felt herself lifted off her feet and carried by strong protecting arms through door and passage, until the cold April wind struck her cheeks and forced her with the power of his frolicsome will to open her eyes once more. She saw as in a quick vision a rearing horse, two or three men in sad-coloured surcoats, one of whom clung to the horse's bridle, whilst the other held the stirrup, and then as a background of curious faces the crowd of street gaffers standing gaping round. Behind her the dense throng of 'prentices and wenches, of friends and serving-maids pressed forward down the narrow passage, shouting, clamouring cheering to the echoes; in the forefront of these papa and maman half laughing, half crying, waving hands and mopping tears.
But it was only a vision swift and sudden, for everything happened so quickly—and she was still so dizzy with the frantic whirl of the dance that she hardly remembered being lifted up on to the saddle and landed safely in the strong arms of her lord. The words of command had been so quickly spoken, my lord had jumped with such rapidity into the saddle, no wonder that she did not know exactly how she came to be where she was, clinging to him with all her might, and making herself very, very small lest she hindered him in the guiding of his horse.
She knew exactly how to hold on, and how to sit, for she had oft sat thus ere now, on her father's saddle when he took her with him for a ride—he bent on some business errand, she enjoying the movement, and the fresh air as soon as the grime and smoke of Paris had been left behind.
But no other ride had ever been quite like this one, for soon the horse settled down to an easy, swinging canter in the soft mud of the road, and there was an infinite sense of security in the clasp of the sinewy arm which held her so deliciously close.
Just one slight shifting of her lissome body to settle herself more comfortably, one little movement which seemed to bring her yet a little nearer to him.
"Is it well with you, my snowdrop?" he asked, bending his head in a vain endeavour to catch sight of her face.
He only could see the top of a small, fair head, from which the hood had slipped off, disclosing the wealth of quaint curls and puffs, the formal bridal coiffure since then somewhat disarranged.
The wealth of curls shook in obvious assent, and presently a shy voice murmured:
"Why do you call me snowdrop?"
"Because I was an ignorant fool," he replied, "when I first beheld you, a blind and senseless lout who did not distinguish the lovely crimson rose that hid so shyly within a borrowed mantle of ice."
"They call me Rose Marie," she whispered.
"Rosemary to me," he said fervently, "which is for remembrance."
"Tu m'aimes?" she asked, but so softly that whilst she wondered if he would hear she almost hoped that the April breeze would fail to carry her words to his ear.
Of course he did not reply. There is no answer to that exquisite question when it is asked by the loved one's lips, but his right arm tightened round her, until she felt almost crushed in the passionate embrace.