Waiting-maid and Mistress.
THE CALMNESS with which Nicole returned to her room was not affected. Young, strong, full of an uncultivated self-confidence, she was blessed with that faculty so important for those who would govern where they love — the faculty of forgetting; and she could sleep after she had arranged with the little malicious sprites that dwelt in her heart her plan of vengeance.
Mademoiselle de Taverney appeared to her even more guilty than Gilbert. This aristocratic girl, rigid in her prejudices, elevated in her pride, who at their convent would descend to familiarity with none below the daughters of marquises — this statue, outwardly so cold, but yet with feeling in its marble bosom — this statue, warming to life for a rural Pygmalion like Gilbert, became contemptible in her estimation. For Nicole felt that Gilbert was her inferior in everything but a little reading, and thought that she had condescended very much when she, the waiting-maid of the daughter of a ruined baron, put herself on a level with the son of a poor peasant.
What, then, could she think of her mistress, if she really returned Gilbert’s love?
She calculated that, in relating what she had seen to the baron, she should fall into a great error; first, because he would only laugh at the affair, box Gilbert’s ears, and turn him out of doors; next, because it would deprive her of her power over Gilbert and Andree. What pleasure she should have — she, the waiting-maid — in seeing them turn pale or red as her eye fell on them! This idea flattered her pride and soothed her vindictive spirit; ‘and, at this idea, her reflections ceased — she slept.
It was day when she awoke, fresh, light-hearted, and her mind prepared for everything. She took her usual time to dress — that is, an hour. She looked at herself in the piece of broken glass which served as her mirror; her eyes appeared to her more brilliant than ever — her lips had not lost their brightness nor their roundness — her teeth were perfect — her neck, which she took particular care to hide from the sun, was white as a lily. Seeing herself so handsome, she began to think she could easily make her young lady jealous. Thus armed personally and mentally, she opened Andree’s door, as she was authorized to do whenever, at seven o’clock, her mistress had not rung for her.
When Nicole entered the room she stopped in amazement.
Pale, her beautiful hair damp with perspiration, Andree lay on her bed in a heavy sleep, in which she sometimes writhed as if in pain. She was still in the dress which she had worn the day before. Her breathing was hurried, and now and then a low groan escaped her lips. Nicole looked at her for a minute, and shook her head, for she acknowledged to herself that there could be no beauty which could contest the palm with Andree’s.
She went to the window and opened the shutters. A stream of light poured in, and made Mademoiselle Taverney’s violet-veined eyelids quiver. She awoke — tried to rise, but felt, at the same time, such great weakness and such excessive pain that she fell back on her pillow with a cry of suffering.
“Oh! mademoiselle, what is the matter?” asked Nicole.
“Is it late?” said Andree, rubbing her eyes.
“Very late, madame — much later than your usual hour for rising.”
“I do not know what is the matter with me, Nicole,” said she, looking around her, “I feel so oppressed — so ill!”
Nicole fixed her eyes on her mistress before replying; “It is the commencement of a cold that you have caught, madame, last night.”
“Last night!” replied Andree, surprised; then, looking at her disordered dress, “Have I really lain down without undressing? How could that be?”
“If mademoiselle would reflect—”
“I don’t recollect anything about it,” replied Andree, leaning her head on her hand; “what has happened? — I am going mad?” She sat up on the bed, and looked round for the second time all bewildered. Then, after reflecting; “Oh! yes, I remember I was very much tired — very much exhausted yesterday — it was the storm, no doubt — then I fell asleep on the music-stool at my harpsichord — but, after that, I remember nothing. I must have come up to my room half asleep, and thrown myself on my bed without strength to undress.”
“You should have called me, madame,” said Nicole; “mademoiselle knows that I am always ready to wait on her.”
“I either did not think of it, or had not strength to do it.”
“Hypocrite!” muttered Nicole to herself — then she added; “But mademoiselle must have stayed very late at her harpsichord then, for before she came up to her room, hearing a noise, I went down—” She stopped, hoping to discover in Andree something like agitation — a blush, perhaps; no! — Andree was calm, and her countenance, that clear mirror of her soul, was undisturbed. “I went down,” repeated Nicole.
“Well?”
“Well, madame, your were not at your harpsichord.”
Andree looked up, but there was only surprise to be read in her lovely eyes. “Very strange!” said she.
“It is quite true, however.”
“You say I was not in the salon? but I never left it for a moment till I came to bed.”
“Mademoiselle will pardon me for contradicting her.”
“But where was I, then?”
“Mademoiselle must know that better than I,” said Nicole, shrugging her shoulders.
“You must he wrong, Nicole,” said Andree, mildly; “I only remember feeling cold and stiff, and having great difficulty in walking.”
“Oh, but when I saw mademoiselle, she walked very well,” said Nicole, almost with a sneer.
“You saw me walk?”
“Yes, indeed, madame.”
“But just now you said I was not in the salon.”
“It was not in the salon I saw mademoiselle.”
“Where, then?”
“In the vestibule, near the staircase.”
“I?”
“Yes; I think I ought to know mademoiselle when I see her,” said Nicole, with an affected laugh.
“I am certain, however,” said Andree, with great simplicity, after she had again tried to recall the events of the night, “that I did not stir out of the salon.”
“I am, however, quite as certain that I saw mademoiselle in the vestibule — I thought, indeed, she had just come in from a walk in the garden — it was a beautiful night after the storm — and it is very pleasant to walk out when the air is so cool, and when the flowers smell so sweet — is it not, madame?”
“Oh, but you know I dare not walk out at night! I am too timid.”
“Mademoiselle might have some one with her, and then she would not be afraid.”
“And whom, pray, could I have with me?” asked Andree, without the least suspicion that she was undergoing a cross-examination.
Nicole was afraid to proceed further in her investigation — Andree’s coolness she thought the height of dissimulation — but she judged it best to give the conversation another turn.
“Mademoiselle was saying that she felt in pain?”
“Yes, indeed, I feel in great pain — and so weak, so low — I did nothing yesterday but what I do every day, yet I am so tired — perhaps I am going to be ill.”
“It may be some sorrow which caused that feeling of weariness — I have felt it myself.”
“Oh, you have sorrows, have you, Nicole?”
This was said with a disdainful carelessness which gave Nicole courage to speak more plainly.
“Oh yes, madame,” she replied; “yes, I have.”
Andree got slowly out of bed and, while proceeding to undress, that she might dress again, she said, “Well, let me hear them.”
“Indeed I have just come to tell mademoiselle” — she stopped.
“To tell what? You look frightened, Nicole.”
“I look frightened, and mademoiselle looks tired; so, doubtless, we are both suffering.”
This piece of familiarity displeased Andree. She smiled slightly, exclaiming, “Oh!”
The intonation of her voice might have made Nicole reflect, but she was not to be daunted.
“Since mademoiselle wishes me to speak, I shall do so.”
“Well, go on.”
“‘I wish to get married, madame.”
“Oh! Is that what you are thinking of? Why, you are not seventeen, yet.”
“Mademoiselle is only sixteen, and yet does she not sometimes think of marrying?”
“What reason have you to suppose so?” asked Andree, severely.
Nicole was just opening her mouth to say something impertinent, but she knew that that would cut short the conversation, which she had no desire should end yet.
“I beg mademoiselle’s pardon — I cannot certainly know her thoughts — I am but a country girl — I follow nature.”
“That is a strange expression!”
“ Is it not natural for a woman to love, and to wish to be loved?” “Perhaps so. Well?”
“Well; I am in love.”
“And the person you love loves you?”
“I think so, madame “ — then reflecting that this reply was not decided enough under the circumstances, she added, “Indeed, I am sure of it.”
“You are not wasting your time at Taverney, from your own account, Mademoiselle Nicole!”
“One must think of the future, madame; you are a lady, and doubtless some rich relation will leave you a fortune. I must do the best I can for myself.”
All this appeared natural enough, and forgetting Nicole’s little piece of impertinence, Andree’s goodness of heart began to resume the ascendancy.
“Very true,” said she; “but I should like to know who is your choice.”
“Ah, you do know him, madame!” said Nicole, fixing her eyes on Andree.
“I know him?”
“Yes, very well.”
“Who is it, then? — do not keep me in suspense.”
“I am afraid mademoiselle will be displeased.”
“I displeased?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Then it is some improper person whom you have chosen?”
“I dare not say that, madame.”
“Then tell it without fear. It is the duty of masters to take an interest in the welfare of their dependents who perform their duties satisfactorily — and you know I am satisfied with you.”
“You are very kind, madame.”
“Well, tell me quickly, and finish lacing me.”
Nicole collected all her firmness and all her powers of penetration, as she said, “Well, madame, it is Gilbert whom I have chosen.”
To her great surprise Andree betrayed no emotion of any kind; she only said:
“What, little Gilbert — my nurse’s son!”
“Yes, madame, the same.”
“And he loves you?”
Now was the decisive moment.
“He has told me so twenty times.”
“Well, marry him,” replied Andree, calmly. “I see nothing to prevent it. You have no relations — he is an orphan — you are each of you free from control.”
“Certainly,” stammered Nicole, quite amazed at the matter ending so differently from what she had expected. “Mademoiselle gives her permission, then?”
“My full permission, only you are both very young yet.”
“We shall live longer together.”
“And you have neither one nor other any money.”
“We shall work.”
“What can he work at? — he is good for nothing.”
This dissimulation was too much for Nicole. She could not contain herself.
“Mademoiselle must allow me to say that speaking so of poor Gilbert is treating him very ill!”
“It is treating him as he deserves — he is a lazy fellow.”
“Oh, mademoiselle, he reads a great deal — he wishes so to be well informed.”
“He will not work.”
“For mademoiselle he does all that he can.”
“For me?”
“Mademoiselle must know that, when she ordered him to procure game for her every day, and he does so.”
“I ordered him?”
“Yes; and he often goes twenty miles for it.”
“Indeed! I confess I never thought about it.”
“About the game?” asked Nicole, sarcastically.
“What does that witticism mean?” asked Andree, getting a little impatient, for she felt irritable and unwell.
“I have no wit, madame — wit is for great ladies. I am a poor girl, and tell things plainly as they are,” replied Nicole, “and mademoiselle is unjust to Gilbert, who is so very attentive to all her wishes.”
“He only does his duty as a servant, if he be so.”
“But Gilbert is not a servant, madame; he receives no wages.”
“He is the son of an old tenant — he is kept — he is fed, and he does nothing in return. But why defend so warmly this lad, when he was not attacked?”
“Oh, I knew very well that mademoiselle would not attack him.”
“More words that I do not understand!”
“Mademoiselle will not understand.”
“Enough! Explain this moment what you mean.”
“Mademoiselle must certainly have no difficulty to know what I mean.”
“I know nothing — and I shall not take the trouble of finding out; you ask my consent to your marriage?”
“Yes, and I would beg of you, mademoiselle, not to be angry with Gilbert for loving me.”
“What can it matter to me whether he loves you or does not love you? You are really very tiresome.”
“Perhaps mademoiselle has said the same to Gilbert?”
“I! — do I ever speak to your Gilbert? — you are crazy, I think.”
“If mademoiselle does not speak to him now, it is not very long since she did speak.”
Nicole turned on her a look of ineffable scorn. “You have been trying for an hour to let me hear some specimen of your impertinence; say it at once, I command you.”
“But—” began Nicole, a little alarmed.
“You say that I have spoken to Gilbert?”
“Yes, madame, I say so!”
A thought flashed across Andree’s mind, but it was so absurd that she burst into a fit of laughter. “Heaven forgive me!” she exclaimed, “I do believe the poor girl is jealous. Be not uneasy, Legay, I know so little of your Gilbert, that I do not even know the color of his eyes!” And Andree felt quite prepared to pardon what she now thought not impertinence, but mere folly. But Nicole did not want to be pardoned, because she looked on herself as the injured person.
“It is not the way to know their color to look at them by night,” said she.
“Did you speak?” asked Andree, now beginning to understand, but scarcely willing to allow herself to entertain the thought.
“I said that if mademoiselle only speaks to Gilbert at night, she will not see very well what his features are.”
“Take care!” said Andree, turning pale, “and explain instantly what you mean.”
“That is easily done. Last night I saw—”
“Be silent — some one calls me!”
In fact, a voice just then called, from the court in front of the house, “Andree! Andree!”
“It is the baron, madame,” said Nicole, “with the strange gentleman.”
“Go down and say that I cannot appear, that I am indisposed, and then return and let me know the end of this extraordinary history of yours.”
“Andree!” cried her father again, “it is merely the Baron Balsamo, who wishes to bid you good-morning and inquire after your health.”
“Go, I tell you,” said she to Nicole, and she pointed to the door with the gesture of a queen.
But when Nicole was gone, Andree felt a strange sensation; she had resolved not to appear, yet she was impelled by an irresistible power to the window left open by her waiting-maid. She saw Balsamo below; he bowed, at the same time fixing his eyes steadily on her. She trembled, and held by the window to prevent herself from falling.
“Good-morning, sir,” said she, in reply to his salutation, and just as she pronounced the words, Nicole, whom she had sent to say she should not, appear, advanced toward the gentlemen, looking with open mouth at this instance of caprice in her mistress.
Andree had scarcely spoken, when she sank deprived of strength on a chair; Balsamo still continued to gaze on her.