Ainslee's Magazine/Foreign Exchange/Chapter 1
CHAPTER I.
Perched high up on the brow of a hill, the historic château of the Savergne family, from time immemorial the most distinguished in the south of France, was an imposing pile of granite with its turrets and towers and oddly shaped medieval windows. And not less imposing were the broad, well-kept, and, now, highly remunerative acres of the domain that stretched out around and below it.
Far different had been the case some seven or eight years before. Then the estate, château and all, had been mortgaged to the last cent, and there was barely enough to provide a meager living for the elderly Prince De Savergne, his sister, the Duchesse De St. Maur, and her son, Comte Victor De Savergne, who were the only surviving members of the family. Then, as at the wave of a fairy's wand, the transformation took place. Comte Victor went to America, on the usual errand of penniless European aristocrats, and Dame Fortune was propitious. He met there a Miss Nancy Baxter, the youthful and charming daughter of Ira J. Baxter, a multimillionaire.
Miss Nancy had all the romance and enthusiasm of extreme youth, and was easily captivated by the good looks and really irreproachable manners of the count. The young man's suit was vastly aided by Nancy's mother, who was dazzled by the luster of his coronet, and whose matronly bosom swelled with pride at the thought of being able to allude to “my daughter, Madame La Comtesse De Savergne.”
And so they were married; and Nancy, fresh, unspoiled, full of roseate visions of the future, returned with her husband to take up her residence in France, and to rehabilitate the fallen fortunes of the great family. This latter was done even to the satisfaction of the critical and exacting prince, for the dowry presented to Ira J. Baxter's only child had been almost royal in its magnificence. The château was restored to its former glory, and the impoverished acres made to blossom luxuriantly.
All this was most gratifying to the haughty heart of the Prince De Savergne, head of the illustrious house, and yet there was a fly in the amber. The prince's thin lips were drawn into an ominous straight line, and his shaggy brows contracted in a frown above his close-set, beady black eyes as he paced restlessly up and down the terrace of his ancestral home, reviewing the situation. Oh, the absurdity of American ideas, the irritating qualities of the American temperament! What more could Nancy Baxter have expected? Was she not one of the greatest ladies of France, the mother of a boy who was the heir to all these high distinctions? And yet, because Victor, like all men of his age and station, had his little affairs of love, she needs must rise in revolt and protest in a scandalized fashion. Good heavens, was she herself not as free as air? What right had she then to complain, so long as Victor conducted himself in a prudent manner and there was no open scandal? Not for a moment would the prince himself have countenanced the latter; there must be no smudge on the family scutcheon. But so long as Victor's flirtations, peccadillos if you will, were conducted in a decorous manner, and strictly sub rosa, at least so far as the general public was concerned, he was acting thoroughly within his right. This had been the code of the family for generations, and now this foreigner, with her absurdly primitive, vulgar ideas as to her rights as a wife, must needs step in, and threaten, so to speak, to throw all the fat in the fire. It was aggravating in the extreme.
But, after all, was not he, the head of the family and the arbiter of its fate, capable of coping with the situation? Yes, his niece-in-law should be taught her position and her duties in that state of life into which she had married; and this desirable consummation should be attained, even if, in the end, he had to resort to extreme measures. At this thought the prince's face cleared as if by magic, and a slow, sardonic smile, born of the certainty of ultimate triumph, wreathed his pale lips.
Suddenly his attention was diverted by the palpitating whir of an automobile, which in a moment or two died away, and was succeeded by the confused murmur of excited voices.
Prince De Savergne advanced to the edge of the low stone parapet, which encircled the terrace, and, bending forward, looked over. Halfway up the winding, picturesque avenue which led to the heights upon which the château was enthroned, a machine had evidently broken down under the difficulties of the ascent. About this were gathered three people—two men and a woman. One of the men was undoubtedly the chauffeur, forced to listen to the objurgations and reproaches of his employers.
The other man was small, with a clean-shaven, keen, but rather nervous-looking face; while the woman, very fashionably dressed, was stout, florid, and with a determined manner, which, even at a distance, was easily discernible. The prince, who had gone to America for his nephew's wedding, knew them at once. They were the parents of the young countess, Mr. and Mrs. Ira J. Baxter. More annoyance! For the prince was not quite sure what their attitude would be toward their daughter's senseless and fancied grievance. Moreover, they had not been expected until to-morrow. Another American idiosyncrasy to arrive ahead of time! Well, he must make the best of it; and, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned and entered the château. There need be no hurry in welcoming these intruders.
Fifteen minutes or so later, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter reached the terrace, both puffing and blowing, and manifestly the worse for the enforced climb. With them, however, was now another whom the prince had not seen as he surveyed the group. This was a man of about thirty, trim, intelligent-looking, clean-shaven, and evidently an American. He wore an old, broad-brimmed, dark felt hat, a brown corduroy jacket, a negligee shirt, and black velveteen trousers tucked into high black boots. His general appearance was that of a man somewhat careless, but not untidy, and there was no question of his being a gentleman.
Mrs. Baxter sank panting into a chair and began to fan herself violently, while her husband, mopping his brow, addressed the young man.
“Well, it was great luck for us, running across you,” he said heartily. “We'd never have managed the turnings of that avenue without you as a guide. I didn't suppose there was an American within a hundred miles when this machine broke down. What did you say your name was?”
“Hardy.”
“Oh,” broke in Mrs. Baxter eagerly, “are you one of the T. Featherly Hardys, of Waterbury and New York?”
“I'm afraid not,” smiled the young man, “I came from Minnesota.”
There was an instantaneous change in the expression of Mrs. Baxter's rather too full face, which, however, still showed the traces of former beauty.
“Oh, from the West,” she said somewhat frigidly.
“Well,” remarked Baxter good-naturedly, “I guess you'd call me a New Yorker for the last twenty years or so, but we came from Northern Iowa.”
“When Mr. Baxter says we, he means his own family,” interposed Mrs. Baxter quickly, with a vexed glance at her husband. “I was born a Pinney!”
“Indeed,” said Hardy politely.
“Doubtless you know what that means in Poughkeepsie,” with conscious pride.
Hardy made no response to this, but turned to Mr. Baxter, who was gradually regaining his breath.
“As it seems you're safely here, I think I'd better get back to my work.”
“No, you don't,” cried Baxter, seizing him by the arm; “not till somebody comes that can talk English. I have had my experience with these foreigners. They can't understand a word I say. You live in this neighborhood?”
“I've rented an old tower just over yonder for the season, and made it into a studio. I'm an artist, you know. The tower belongs to this estate, by the way to the Prince De Savergne.”
At the mention of this name, Mrs. Baxter beamed.
“The prince is my daughter's uncle by marriage,” she deigned to inform him expansively. “Isn't he the most charming man?”
“I've no doubt,” replied the artist vaguely. “I haven't met him.”
“Oh, you dealt with an agent, of course?” And then, as Hardy nodded: “I can't imagine the dear prince coming down to details of business.”
At this Baxter gave a slight start of surprise.
“You can't?” he cried. “Details of business! Why, he”
But his wife, with a quick appreciation of what he was about to say, cut him off without compunction.
“He came over to the States when my daughter married his nephew, Count Victor,” she vouchsafed to Hardy. “In fact, he was there some time before the wedding, assisting in the—the arrangements.”
Baxter gave vent to a half chuckle, half groan.
“Assisting!” he repeated. “I should say he did! Why, first he wanted me to give 'em”
“My dear,” interrupted Mrs. Baxter hurriedly, “I'm sure you haven't observed that lovely view off to the right there.” And, as Baxter turned, puzzled, to look in the direction indicated, she continued to Hardy, with smiling condescension: “No doubt you remember hearing of my daughter's wedding to the Count De Savergne?”
“I read of it.”
“One could hardly pick up a paper without seeing our names in the most atrocious headlines.” Mrs. Baxter's tone was plaintive. “It was excessively annoying, but I felt that I should bear any sacrifice to have my daughter take her place in the—the real society of the world. An alliance with the De Savergnes! Yes, of course, you know what that means?” Hardy bowed mechanically. “Both Count Victor, my son-in-law, and his uncle, the prince, are the very essence of the aristocracy, and the dear Duchesse De St. Maur, Victor's mother, a real 'blue blood' of the old nobility, a great beauty once. Well,” with a sigh of satisfied pride, “it is no wonder my daughter is the happiest woman in the world.”
Hardy was distinctly bored, but he was too well bred to show it.
“I'm sure she must be,” he agreed politely.
“She's got a mighty neat-looking place here,” observed Baxter, coming into the conversation again.
“You see, we've never been at the château before,” explained Mrs. Baxter. “I've been over several times, but always stopped with them in Paris.”
“I've never seen my daughter since the wedding,” complained Baxter, and his shrewd though kindly eyes dimmed a little. “Too busy to get over. Why, I've a grandson here, Nancy's boy, I've never set eyes on yet!”
“Mr. Baxter is rather inclined to think of himself first,” remarked his wife apologetically. “My only thought was for my daughter's happiness.”
“I'd like to see that boy!” persisted Baxter wistfully.
At this moment, a thin, pale, solemn-looking man, dressed in rusty black, appeared from the château, and approached the little party, bowing profoundly.
At Baxter's request, Hardy, who spoke French as well as he did English, proceeded to interrogate the newcomer, and then imparted the result of the conversation to his companions.
“He is the prince's secretary. It seems that your daughter did not expect you until to-morrow. She is not at home now, but will be here soon. He says that the Prince De Savergne is here, and the Duchesse De St. Maur. He'll tell them you've come. He says also that your rooms are ready for you if you wish to go to them first.”
Mrs. Baxter eagerly assented. Their luggage had been sent on ahead, and she was anxious to appear in properly gorgeous attire before her noble connections in marriage. So, after renewed thanks to Hardy for his kindness, she went into the château, preceded by the secretary and followed by Baxter, still protesting that he wanted to see his grandson.
Hardy stood for a moment, surveying the exquisite landscape outspread before him. The distant Pyrenees were tinted with the first flush of approaching evening, the shadows had deepened, and the lights were golden down in the woody valleys below. It was a sight to gladden his artistic soul, but it would not do for him, a stranger, to linger long.
He walked to an opening in the parapet, where a flight of stone steps led to the avenue. He had not proceeded a dozen paces when he perceived coming toward him a stout, fair, wholesome-looking woman of middle age. She was dressed in the regulation costume of the French maid—black dress, white cap and apron, with linen cuffs and collar.
As she raised her eyes and caught sight of the artist, she stopped short, stared at him, and exclaimed loudly with a strong German-Swiss accent:
“Meester Hardy!”
The artist, too, had stopped, surprised and pleased as he recognized her.
“Why, it's Menga Davotz!” he exclaimed heartily.
The woman pressed both her hands to her buxom bosom and caught her breath for an instant. Then, speaking with great emotion, she said:
“Ach! Meester Hardy! I think I should never be going to see you any more again.”
She seized the hand which he extended to her, and, bending her head, pressed her lips to it.
Laughing, Hardy gently drew his hand away.
“Here, here, stop that!” he admonished in a kindly tone.
“Ach, such a pleasure, so wonderful!” she went on, while her comely face beamed all over with smiles. “I can't make myself such words to say how good that it is to see you. You remembered me good, too, yes?”
“Of course, I remembered you,” he declared warmly.
“Oh, but you look so fine, so pretty!” she said, half laughing, half crying.
The artist could not help being touched with her genuine delight at seeing him. He had boarded one summer at her mother's in Chamonix, among the Alps, and they had made him one of the family.
“Ach,” went on Menga Davotz, still a trifle hysterically, “will I forget when my little brother Conrad fell down those crevasse, the big crack in the ice, and would die, and you goes down and you ain't got no rope? That is something not even those guides would dare to done. You think we forget that ever? Ach! When I write my old mother and all the folks in Chamonix, I have dear happiness to see you some more, they will be so glad like me.” She paused, and then asked with such genuine interest that it was impossible to take offense: “You have not got married yet, Meester Hardy?'
“No—not married yet.”
“So?” laughing. “Not married! Because you have not fell in love, yes?”
Hardy's face took on a shade of gravity. “There might be other reasons, Menga.”
“Ha! Ha! Your mind is thinking about some lady, right now perhaps,” she ventured, eying him shrewdly, yet respectfully. “Some lady in Nort' America, I bet you.”
“No,” absently.
“Not a French lady?”
“No.”
She pouted.
“I don't believe you got your mind thinkin' about any lady at all,” she declared, with swift change of front.
Hardy was silent for a moment, and then he turned to her resolutely, an odd look in his blue eyes.
“Menga, I want to find out something. There's a lovely lady who drives and rides in this neighborhood, usually on the loneliest roads; and I want to know who she is. She's an American”
“The lady I work for here, the Comtesse De Savergne,” interposed Menga, “she is American.”
“But she's married.”
“And your lady ain't married?”
“No,” he answered resolutely. But his decision was prompted by desire rather than by any real knowledge.
“You don't know who she is, how can you tell?” persisted Menga, getting at the gist of the matter.
A sort of spasm seemed to contract Hardy's heart for a moment, and then he answered very gravely:
“Because she mustn't be.”
Menga shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I do not know,” she commented musingly.
“It couldn't be your countess,” said Hardy, with strong conviction. “She's very fashionable, and very popular, isn't she?”
Menga nodded.
“Well, the lady I mean is always alone on her rides and drives. I've seen her from the woods and through gaps in hedges—wherever I've pitched my easel. She's never seen me—because she never looked.”
Menga reflected an instant.
“I do not know any young American ladies,” she said at last. “My, I would like to know her if I should see her.”
“You will,” cried Hardy, blushing a little through his tan. “If you ever see her you'll know she's the one.”
Menga laughed.
“She is dot nice-looking?”
“You come over to my studio some day,” suggested Hardy impulsively. “It's the old Savergne tower, you know. And I'll show you a picture I made of her.”
Menga's eyes grew round with wonder and admiration.
“You make a picture of her! Just watch her go by two, three times?”
“One day she came to the church just over in the village, and alone,” he explained. “I was there in the shadow. That was quite a long look, Menga, and so I made the picture.”
“She has such a nice face?” repeated Menga again, with a shrewd look at his rapt countenance and dreamy eyes. “How does she look?”
“Just the way I always wanted some woman to look,” he replied softly and slowly.
Menga clapped her hands delightedly.
“Meester Hardy, I think you told me my question, yes?” she exulted.
“What question?”
“When I asked you had you fell in love.”
Hardy started to expostulate and then stopped short. After all, was she so far wrong?