Chapter XXXV: In Love with a Soubrette

'Neither virtue nor vice consists in passive sentiment--but in action.' I remembered this maxim of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, and resolved to be actively good, and to thrust the Countess from my heart for the future; never considering, at the time I applied this trite saying of M. Marcus to myself, it was merely the image of Mademoiselle Nicola which was gradually effacing that of Madame d'Amboise.

Propinquity, no doubt, had much to do with this new fancy which hourly grew upon me; besides, the young heart is decidedly opposed to existing in a state of vacuum, and loves novelty and variety; hence, the moment one bright image passes away, another occupies it; thus as the distance between the Countess and me increased, the greater grew my interest in Nicola--but then, Nicola was only a soubrette!

Now as all that lovers say--but here as yet the love seemed all on my side--is deemed very prolix, vapid, and foolish, by the wise and matter-of-fact people of this world, I will not attempt to rehearse the various little conversations by which Nicola and I beguiled the way. One or two I may insert, as I know that such conferences are not without interest to the fairer portion of mankind; and with them I have the honour to agree in all things.

'Mademoiselle,' said I, after a long silence, as we approached Chalons, 'I am so happy to be with you!'

'I am equally glad that Monsieur is pleased.'

'How can we ever part, Nicola? When the time comes, I shall be the most wretched man in Lorraine.'

'A gallant man would have said "in the world,"' she replied, with a waggish smile; 'but will not M. l'Abbé have his prayers to attend to?

'By Jove! my dear girl, then I shall have to pray in my helmet and boots, like a bishop of Cahors.'

I observed, however, that unless my remarks savoured of the merest commonplace, of the scenery, the towns we passed through, or of the war which had cast us so oddly together, she was usually silent; and whenever I attempted to become tender or complimentary (and then only with a timidity for which I could not account), she betrayed a mixture of cloudy reserve, or quick irritation, which, if not very artful in a soubrette, were decidedly perplexing to me.

She was a singularly seductive girl; and with all my growing love for her, I began to fear--I knew not why--that she might be playing some deep game with me; and at one time this idea was strong in me--the more so when I remembered the peculiarly artful and intriguing character of the person who had confided her to me--the Countess, her late mistress. Yet when I gazed upon her pure, pale brow, and into her quiet, deep, and trusting eyes, thoughts that were gentler, kinder, and more loving filled my heart. Poor little Nicola!

In my attentions to her, as I became more delicate, or pointed, which you will, the more reserved did she seem, and the more anxious to hasten on her journey. This only served to pique me, to whet my interest and curiosity, and to render me more perplexed as to her real objects and character; and I observed at Meaux, Château Thierri, Epernay, and other places, when we put up at an inn or hostelry, she studiously secluded herself from me in her own apartment, and pleading fatigue, whether falsely or truly I knew not, rarely took even a meal with me; and never appeared until our horses were again at the door, bridled and saddled for us to resume our journey.

I observed, that whenever I spoke of the Countess, her cheeks were wont to flush, and her usually gentle blue eyes to sparkle with an anger which she was at little pains to conceal--thus betraying an impatience and irritation very remarkable in one generally so soft in manner, and gentle in disposition.

'Now what may all this mean?' thought I; 'is my little soubrette in love with me herself, and jealous of the Countess? Courage, Arthur Blane, and probe this other mystery.'

On the road towards Chalons, while traversing one of those broad and beautiful valleys which intersect Champagne, I spoke with such unreasonable admiration of Clara d'Amboise, that tears actually stood in the fine eyes of my companion.

'This Countess--,' I faltered, beginning to deprecate, but not knowing what to say.

'Countess--silence!' said Nicola, with beautiful scorn; 'speak no more of her, and let me endeavour to forget the hated companionship and collusion which I had with her--circumstances in which the force of political events involved me.'

'Do you speak thus of your old mistress?'

Nicola laughed, and then grew angry again. 'My mistress!' she reiterated; 'my poor M. Blane, you are a very good kind of creature----'

'Mademoiselle,' said I, with a sombre bow, 'I thank you for your patronage.'

'But you know not whom you address, whom you speak of, or what you say.'

'Such a spoiled child it is! we have become suddenly quite angry on one side, and quite stupid on the other it appears. But this Countess d'Amboise seems to be quite your _bête noir_, Nicola.'

'Silence!' said she, becoming angry again, and with her riding switch giving me a smart tap over the bridle hand--so smart indeed that had not my thick military glove protected me, I must have dropped both curb and snaffle reins. 'Silence, and say no more of this.'

'Of what?--you quite puzzle me!'

'Thank Heaven, yonder are the spires of Chalons!'

'You early warned me to beware of the Countess, dear Nicola.'

'Well.'

'One night at a gate of the Louvre when I was a sentinel, opposite the Hotel de Bourbon.'

'Do you remember what I said?'

'Could I forget anything in which Nicola bore a part? Well--I took your advice--I saw her no more.'

'Many thanks for such condescending acquiescence; but M. Blane will please to remember that he marched from Paris, as I foretold, next day. How far are we from Chalons?'

'About six miles.'

'Thank Heaven!'

'Why this thankfulness again?'

'Because this hateful--odious journey will soon be at an end.'

'Hateful?' said I, anxiously.

'Yes--exceedingly so!'

'You are weary of me, dearest Nicola,' said I, attempting to take her whip hand.

'Weary of your conversation, at least,' said she, giving a second switch over the fingers; 'and unless you can find a more entertaining subject than the beauty, wit, et cetera, of the French king's avowed mistress, please to speak no more.'

I began to fear that I had gone too far; but whence all this pique? Did this charming enigma--this beautiful girl--really love me, and feel her little heart swell at the thought of rivalry? I could neither answer this question, nor account for the strange timidity with which her manner infected me.

'Pardon me, mademoiselle,' said I, urging Dagobert close to her side, and venturing to kiss her hand--and this time the switch was not raised--'I will not say more until you address me.'

'Then, you shall be silent long enough, I promise you.'

She was evidently in a furious pet; thus we rode in silence into Chalons, and were then one hundred and three miles from Paris. I stole a glance from time to time at Nicola, and to my great perplexity perceived that she was in tears; but amid the bustle of Chalons, the examination of our papers by the suspicious guard at the gate, and my anxiety to find, in a strange city, a suitable hotel, I could not refer to our past and peculiar conversation, or to the delightful inferences I drew from it.

Chalons lies between two spacious meadows on the river Marne, which divides it into three parts--the town, the isle, and suburb; and high over all its mansions towered the spire of St. Stephen. The streets were wide and bordered by trees; the ramparts were strong; the ditches deep and broad. Sir Andrew Gray, of Broxmouth in Lothian, a veteran Scottish soldier of fortune, was governor, and his garrison consisted of two fine battalions of the regiment de Normandie.