Monsieur Beaucaire | Page 9

mystery. All of Bath that pretended to
fashion or condition was present that evening at a fete at the house of a
country gentleman of the neighborhood. When the stately junket was
concluded, it was the pleasure of M. de Chateaurien to form one of the
escort of Lady Mary's carriage for the return. As they took the road, Sir
Hugh Guilford and Mr. Bantison, engaging in indistinct but vigorous
remonstrance with Mr. Molyneux over some matter, fell fifty or more
paces behind, where they continued to ride, keeping up their argument.
Half a dozen other gallants rode in advance, muttering among
themselves, or attended laxly upon Lady Mary's aunt on the other side
of the coach, while the happy Frenchman was permitted to ride close to
that adorable window which framed the fairest face in England.
He sang for her a little French song, a song of the voyageur who
dreamed of home. The lady, listening, looking up at the bright moon,
felt a warm drop upon her cheek, and he saw the tears sparkling upon
her lashes.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered then, "I, too, have been a wanderer, but
my dreams were not of France; no, I do not dream of that home, of that
dear country. It is of a dearer country, a dream country - a country of
gold and snow," he cried softly, looking it her white brow and the fair,
lightly powdered hair above it. "Gold and snow, and the blue sky of a
lady's eyes!"
"I had thought the ladies of France were dark, sir.
"Cruel! It is that she will not understan'! Have I speak of the ladies of
France? No, no, no! It is of the faires' country; yes, 'tis a province of
heaven, mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my allegiance to France? Oh,
yes! I am subjec' - no, content to be slave - in the lan' of the blue sky,
the gold, and the snow.

"A very pretty figure," answered Lady Mary, her eyes downcast. "But
does it not hint a notable experience in the making of such speeches?"
"Tormentress! No. It prove only the inspiration it is to know you."
"We English ladies hear plenty of the like sir; and we even grow
brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the courtesies
of our own gallants."
"Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he
smothered the words upon his lips.
Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe
that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness
betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true - your true - "
She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full
stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
"Your - true - lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both
trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.
"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself,
though it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the
French do nothing al - ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think
I am like that. You think I am like that now!"
She made no sign.
"I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I would have the snow not so
col' - for jus' me."
She did not answer.
"Turn to me," he said.
The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance the
faint, clear note of a hunting-horn.
"Turn to me.

The lovely head was bent very low. Her little gloved hand lay upon the
narrow window ledge. He laid his own gently upon it. The two hands
were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers was not drawn away.
After a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and
clasp themselves tremulously about his own. At last she looked up
bravely and met his eyes. The horn was wound again - nearer.
"All the cold was gone from the snows - long ago," she said.
"My beautiful!" he whispered; it was all he could say. "My beautiful!"
But she clutched his arm, startled.
"'Ware the road!" A wild halloo sounded ahead. The horn wound
loudly. "'Ware the road!" There sprang up out of the night a flying
thunder of hoof-beats. The gentlemen riding idly in front of the coach
scattered to the hedge-sides; and, with drawn swords flashing in the
moon, a party of horsemen charged down the highway, their cries
blasting the night.
"Barber! Kill the barber!" they screamed. "Barber! Kill the barber!"
Beaucaire had but time to draw his sword when they were upon him.
"A moi!" his voice rang out clearly as he