D. Broster - The Vision Splendid (D. K. Broster) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

"But why?"

"I am not sure that I dare tell you, after all! But you have promised me absolution. Eh bien, I wanted to make sure of ... in other words, I thought I would force M. le Recteur to ask me to luncheon.... You are not annoyed?"

Certainly the emotion which shot through Miss Grenville, and which flew its flag in her cheeks was not annoyance. She did not know what it was.

"I should like to give M. Hungerford a golden horseshoe," proceeded the Comte, watching her. "It is true that I need not have – – "

"Hush!" said Horatia, "Miss Bailey is going to sing."

In the centre of the room a very blonde lady in white was already displaying her arms to the harp, and her sister, similarly clad, shortly gave commands, in a rather shrill soprano, to light up the festal bower when the stars were gleaming deep, asserting that she had met the shock of the Paynim spears as the mountain meets the sun, but asseverating that naught to her were blood and tears, for her lovely bride was won.

Under cover of the applause which greeted this statement, Tristram made his way back to the couple.

"La Roche-Guyon, be prepared to emulate the songstress. Your fate will be upon you in a moment."

"Misericorde!" exclaimed the young man, and at that moment, indeed, his hostess was seen to be bearing down upon him.

"M. le Comte, you will sing to us, will you not? Oh, I am sure you can sing without your music – you foreigners are so gifted! Do, pray, favour us!" And, other ladies joining in the request, M. le Comte, with none of the self-consciousness of an Englishman similarly placed, seated himself at the piano. "I shall sing to you, ladies," he announced after a moment's thought, "a little old song that was a favourite with Marie Antoinette."

The fair listeners prepared to be affected, expecting regrets for Trianon or sighs from the Temple. But M. de la Roche-Guyon broke into the gallant impertinence of Joli Tambour, and very well he sang it.

So the assembly heard that there was once a drummer boy returning from the wars, from whom, as he passed under the palace window, the princess asked his rose, but that, when he demanded her hand in marriage, the king, her father, refused it, saying he was not rich enough. However, when Joli Tambour replied that he was "fils d'Angleterre," with three ships upon the sea, one full of gold, one of precious stones, and the third to take his love a-sailing, the king said that he might have his daughter. But Joli Tambour refused her, for there were fairer in his own land:

"Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,

Dans mon pays, y'en a de plus jolies,

Et ran, tan, plan!"

"Rather a slap in the face!" laughed a jolly dowager to Horatia. "The young man evidently wishes to intimate that he is not for marrying any of our daughters."

"Oh, surely he had no such motive!" returned Miss Grenville. "Besides – – " she began, and stopped, for it had suddenly occurred to her that she did not really know whether he were married or not.

She had no further speech that evening with the singer, but he appeared, mysteriously and unnecessarily to hand her into the carriage when it came round to the steps, though the master of the house was there for that purpose, and she had her father's assistance as well. But somehow, when it came to the point, it was the Frenchman who put her in.

"Thank you, thank you," said the Rector, as he shut the door. "I hope we shall see you again soon."

Armand de la Roche-Guyon bowed, and, stepping back into the circle of flickering light thrown downwards by the cressets at the foot of the steps, became for the second time that evening a disturbing picture.

(1)

"And so, my dear friends," said the Rector, "terrible as is the idea of the punishment reserved for the ungodly...."

"Poor Papa!" thought Horatia, looking up out of the high Rectory pew at his handsome, kindly face, now clouded with the delivery of the sermon that cost him so much ingenuity.

But she was not listening very attentively. Her gaze wandered on and up to the huge Royal arms that rested on the beam over the chancel arch, over the "When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness." What stories she had told herself about the unicorn once!

Beyond the top of the great three-decker pulpit there was not indeed much that she could see, except the little square carpeted room without a roof in which she sat, for since she had put away childish things she no longer stood upon the seat which ran round three of its four sides. But she knew exactly how the knees of the young men stuck through the railings of the gallery at the end of the church, how red and shiny were their faces, how plastered their Sunday hair. Moreover, she was sure that in the space behind them, occupied by the singers and players, William Bates was fidgetting with his flute, unscrewing it and putting it together again, and the bassoonist was going to sleep. "I can't 'elp it, your Reverence, I really can't; seems as if there was something in this 'ere instrument," he was wont to plead. Horatia wondered whether he would awake before the end of the discourse.

And then, almost without knowing it, she found herself speculating upon what Tristram and his guest were doing. She had hoped (she put it to herself as "thought") that Tristram might have brought the latter over here. But, of course, the Comte de la Roche-Guyon was a Roman Catholic.

Her mind went back to last night. What an extraordinary knack he had of appearing in a different light every time she met him – he seemed to be almost a different person. She counted up the times.... It puzzled her, but she was by now beginning to realise that it interested her too. And what would he be like when he came to say good-bye? The week for which she had understood him to be staying would be up next Wednesday, and Tristram would be sure to bring him over before that.

She wondered if he would ever come to England again....

The Rector was beginning to descend from his eminence, the clerk below was clearing his throat before giving out "Thy dreadful anger, Lord, restrain, and spare a wretch forlorn" – the metrical version of the sixth Psalm – and of the end of the sermon Horatia had not heard a word.

(2)

In the course of a week it had become abundantly clear to Tristram Hungerford that the Comte de la Roche-Guyon, young as he was, had made a close study of the fair sex, if, indeed, he did not consider himself an authority upon it. It was therefore without surprise, if without appreciation, that Tristram listened perforce, this Wednesday morning, to a dissertation on the subject. The two were on their way to Compton Rectory; their horses had dropped to a walk, and under the bright, windy September sky the young Frenchman imparted to his host the fruit of ripe reflection on the dames of Britain.

"Every time that I am in England," he said, gesticulating with his riding-whip, "I am struck afresh with the curious – how do you call it – limitations of the English ladies. They have so much in their favour, and yet – pardon me that I say it – if you desire the fresh toilette, the graceful walk and gesture, ease in conversation, knowledge of coquetry, you must seek for them in France, for a real Englishwoman knows nothing of them."

"But I thought that our English ladies were supposed to model themselves nowadays on those of the Continent," objected Tristram, keeping the ball rolling out of politeness.

Armand de la Roche-Guyon nearly dropped his reins. "Mais, mon Dieu, that makes it worse!" he exclaimed. "In a party of English ladies you can indeed observe that each has taken a hint from the Continent for her dress or her manner, and the result, ma foi, is often to make die of laughter. I have seen ... but that would not interest you ... Tenez, the way an Englishwoman sits down upon a chair, have you ever thought to remark that? It is as if chance alone had caused her to fall there! She sits down without paying the least attention to her dress. But the care with which a Frenchwoman places herself in an armchair, taking hold of her robe on either side, raising her arms gently as a bird spreads its wings! Even if she should be exhausted by laughing or half-fainting from emotion, still her dress will remain untumbled. It is worth remarking, I assure you!"