Angelique - Part 1. Marquise of the Angels Chapter 4 - Read online

NEXT MORNING, while Angelique was roaming in the courtyard, she saw a little peasant bring a crumpled piece of paper for the Baron.
“The steward Molines wants me to call on him. I shall probably not be back for dinner,” said the Baron, motioning to an ostler to saddle his horse.
Madame de Sance,'who was just about to leave for the kitchen-garden, with a straw hat over her tied head-kerchief, compressed her lips.
“Aren’t the times we live in past belief!” she sighed. “To let a neigh¬bouring commoner, a Huguenot steward, take the liberty simply to summon you, you, a genuine descendant of Philippe Auguste! I wonder what honest business a nobleman can transact with the manager of a neighbouring castle! It must be a matter of mules again. . . .”
The Baron did not answer, and his wife went away shaking her head.
Angelique, during this interlude, had slipped into the kitchen, where she knew she would find her shoes and cloak.
Then she joined her father in the stables.
“May I come with you, Father?” she asked with her most winsome smile.
He could not resist, and took her across his saddle. Angelique was his favourite daughter. He found her extremely pretty and sometimes dreamed of her marrying a Duke.
It was a bright autunm day, and the near-by forest, not yet shorn of its leaves, unrolled its russet foliage across the blue sky.
As they passed in front of the gate of the chateau of Plessis-Belhere, Angelique bent forward to try and glimpse, at the end of the chestnut avenue, the white vision of the exquisite building reflecting itself in a pool like a dream cloud. Everything was silent, and the Renaissance chateau, which its masters had abandoned to live at Court, seemed to slumber in the mystery of its park and gardens. The red deer of the forest of Nieul, which flanked it, passed through its deserted avenues.
The house of steward Molines was two miles farther on, at one of the park gates. It was a handsome pavilion of red brick with a blue slate roof, and stood, bourgeois and four-square, like a prudent guardian of the fragile edifice whose Italian grace still astonished the country folk, more used to medieval castles.
The bailiff was the image of his house. Sturdy and austere, solidly entrenched in his rights and in his role, he seemed indeed the master of the vast Plessis estate, whose owner was constantly absent. Every other year or so, for hunting in the autumn or picking lilies of the valley in spring, a swarm of lords and ladies would descend on Plessis with their carriages, horses, greyhounds and musicians. For a few days there would be a gay roimd of fStes and entertainments, to the bewilderment of the neighbour¬ing country squires who were invited to be made fun of . Then everybody returned to Paris and the chateau relapsed into silence, under the care of its stem manager.
At the sound of the horse’s hooves, Molines stepped out into the yard of his house and bowed several times with a suppleness of spine that cost him little, since it was a requisite of his duties. Angelique, who knew how harsh and overbearing the man could be, did not care for this exaggerated politeness, but it obviously gratified Baron Armand.
“I had some time to spare this morning, so I thought I might as well not keep you waiting, Monsieur Molines.”
“I am most grateful, Baron. I was afraid you might consider rather of f¬hand my sending a footman to invite you.”
“I did not take of fence at it. I know you avoid calling on me because of my father, who persists in regarding you as a dangerous Huguenot.” “Your lordship is extremely perspicacious. I have indeed no wish to displease Monsieur de Ridoue and the devout Baroness. I therefore prefer conversing with you here and trust you will do me the honour of sharing my meal, together with the little lady.”
“I am not little any more,” said Angelique sharply. “I am ten and a half, and there are Madelon, Denis and Marie-Agnes at home, all younger than I, as well as a new baby that’s just been bom.”
“Mademoiselle Angelique will excuse me. Indeed, being an elder daughter requires judgment and maturity. I should be happy if my daughter, Bertille, were to see more of you, for the nuns at hei; convent assure me, alas, that she has a bird’s brain with which nothing much can be done.”
“You exaggerate, Monsieur Molines,” protested Baron Armand courteously.
‘For once I share Molines’s opinion/ thought Angelique, who detested the bailiff’s daughter, a sly, swarthy little creature.
Her feelings towards the steward were more vague. While finding him rather unpleasant, she still had a certain respect for him, owing no doubt to the air of affluence about his person and his house. The steward’s invariably dark clothes were of expensive material and were sure to be given away, or rather sold, before showing any trace of wear and tear. He wore buckled shoes with fairly high heels, in accordance with the latest fashion.
And the food at his house was excellent. Angelique’s little nose quivered, as they went into the entrance hall, tiled and shining with cleanliness, next to the kitchen. Madame Molines plunged into her skirts in a deep curtsy, then returned to her cakes. The steward led his guests into a small of fice and ordered some fresh water and a flagon of wine to be brought. •
“I am rather fond of this wine,” he said, raising his glass. “It’s the produce of a slope that has lain fallow for a while and from which I was able to gather grapes last autumn. The wines of Poitou don’t compare with those of the Loire, but they have a rather subtle flavour.”
He added after a pause:
“I cannot tell you, sir, how glad I am that you have come in person in answer to my request. It strikes me as a good omen for the success of the business I have in mind.”
“In fact, you made me pass a sort of test?”
“May your lordship not hold it against me. I am not a well-educated man, I only attended a modest village school. But I confess that the arrogance of certain noblemen never seemed to me a mark of intelligence. Yet it requires intelligence to discuss business, be it even on a modest scale.”
The Baron leaned back in his tapestry chair and observed the bailiff with curiosity. He was a trifle apprehensive of the propositions of his neigh¬bour, who did not enjoy the best of reputations. Molines passed for a very wealthy man. In the beginning, he had been harsh with the tenants, but in recent years he had tried to become more amiable, even with the poorest peasants.
No one knew much about the reasons for this change of heart and this unwonted affability. The peasants distrusted it, but since Molines nowa¬days proved more amenable in matters of rent and other dues which the tenants owed to the King and the Marquis, he was treated with respect.
Malicious tongues insinuated that he was acting thus in order to plunge his absentee master into debt. As for the Marquise and her son, Philippe, they were no more interested in the estate than the Marquis himself.
“If what people say is true, you’re about to turn the entire Plessis estate over to your own account,” said Armand de Sance somewhat crudely.
“Sheer slander, Baron. Not only am I determined to remain a loyal servant of the Marquis, but I’d actually see no advantage in such an acquisition. To allay your doubts, I shall confide to you—and I am betraying no secret—that this property is already heavily mortgaged!” “Don’t of fer to sell it to me, I haven’t the means. . . .”
“I have no such idea in mind, Baron. ... A little more wine . . . ?” Angelique, for whom this conversation held no interest, slipped out of the of fice and returned to the big hall, where Madame Molines was busy rolling the dough for a huge tart. She smiled at the little girl and of fered her a box, from which emanated a delicious smell.
“Here, taste this, my pretty one. It’s candied angelica. You bear its name. I make it myself with fine white sugar. It’s better than that of the abbey fathers who only use brown sugar. How do you expect the Paris pastrycooks to appreciate this condiment after it’s lost all its flavour from being boiled in huge vats that haven’t been scoured properly after being used for soups and black pudding?”
Angelique bit with delight into the slender, sticky green stalks. So that’s what became of those big, strong marsh plants after you picked them! In their natural state they had a more bitter tang. She looked around admiringly. The furniture had been polished to a high shine. In one comer stood a clock, that invention which Grandfather called diabolic. To get a better look at it and catch its ticking, she drew closer to the of fice where the two men were talking. She heard her father say:
“By Saint Denis, Molines, you puzzle me. All sorts of things are being said about you, though on the whole people agree in crediting you with a strong character and a flair for business. Yet here I learn from your own lips that in fact you indulge in the most incredible fantasies.”
“In what respect does what I’ve just told you seem unreasonable?” “Why, only think, man. You know that I am interested in mules, that I have produced a pretty fine strain by cross-breeding. You encourage me to enlarge this breeding-station and wish to handle the sale of its products yourself. So far, so good. But where I don’t follow you is when you contemplate a long-term contract with . . . Spain. We are at war with Spain, my friend.”
“The war won’t last for ever, Baron.”
“We hope not. But we cannot found a serious business on a hope of this kind.” .
The steward had a faint, rather scornful smile, the meaning of which escaped the poverty-stricken nobleman. The Baron went on with vehemence:
“How can you expect to trade with a nation that’s at war with us? First of all, it’s forbidden, and righdy so, for Spain is our enemy. Further¬more, the frontiers are closed and the traffic and toll-barrier strictly watched. I’m willing to admit that supplying mules to the enemy is not as serious as supplying him with arms, especially since the fighting has moved from the district to foreign territory. And, last of all, I have too few animals to make any kind of trafficking worth while. It would require a lot of money as well as years of preparation. My financial circumstances do not allow such an experiment. . . .”
He was too proud to add that he was actually on the point of liquidating his stables.
“Your lordship will be gracious enough to consider that he already owns four exceptional stallions and that it would be far easier for you than for me to acquire many more from the neighbouring gentry. As for the she- asses, one can find hundreds of them at ten or twenty livres a head.
“A small additional amount of drainage work on the marshes might improve the pastures, and your draught-mules are, in any case, pretty sturdy. I believe that with twenty thousand livres this business could be put on a sound footing and begin to yield in three or four years’ time.”
The poor Baron felt his head reel.
“Upon my word, you do sec things on a large scale! Twenty thousand livres! So you set such great store by my wretched mules that everybody around here is laughing at? Twenty thousand livresl Surely you wouldn’t advance me that sum?”
“And why not?” asked Molines placidly.
The Baron stared at him dumbfounded.
“You’d be crazy, Molines! I must make it plain that I have no surety.”
“I’d be satisfied with a mere partnership agreement with equal shares and a mortgage on the stud-farm, but we would draw up the contract privately and in secret in Paris.”
“If you must know, I may not have the means of going up to the capital for some time yet. Besides, your proposition seems to me too amazing and hazardous. I would like to consult some friends first. . . .”
“In that case, Baron, let’s drop the matter here and now ... for the key to our success lies in its utter secrecy. Otherwise, there’s not a chance.”
“But I can’t rush unadvised into a business which seems to me, more¬over, at variance with my country’s interests!”
“It’s my country, too, Baron.”
“One wouldn’t think so, Molines!” w
“Then let’s talk no more of it, Baron. Let’s say I made a mistake. In view of your outstanding success, I considered that you alone in this part of the country would be able to set up a breeding-station on a large scale and under your name.”
The Baron felt that the estimate was just.
“That isn’t the question.”
“In that case, will you allow me to point out, your lordship, how closely this question is connected with the one that causes you concern, namely that of bringing up your numerous family honourably. . . .”
“You deserve to be horsewhipped, Molines, for that is none of your business!”
“As you wish, Baron. Still, although my means are more modest than some people care to believe, I had thought of adding an immediate loan— by way of an advance on our future business, of course—amounting to the same sum as the initial investment: twenty thousand livres, to enable you to devote yourself to your estate without being harassed by worries about your children. I know from experience that work does not progress so well when the mind is distracted by worries.”
“—and when you’re hounded by the Revenue,” added the Baron, flushing slightly under his tan.
“In order that these loans between us should not seem suspicious, I think we’d have no interest in divulging our agreement. I must insist, though, that, whatever your decision may be, our talk should not be repeated to anyone.”
“I understand. But you must realise that my wife will have to be informed of the proposition you have just made me. It concerns the future of our ten children.”
“Excuse my asking you an improper question, Baron, but will the Baroness be able to keep this to herself? I have never heard it said that a woman can keep a secret.”
“My wife is not a talkative person. Besides, we see nobody. She will not talk if I ask her not to.”
At that moment the steward perceived the tip of Angelique’s nose. She was leaning against the door-post, listening without even trying to conceal herself. The Baron turned round, saw her, too, and frowned.
“Come here, Angelique,” he said sternly. “I believe you are beginning to acquire the bad habit of eavesdropping. You always appear at in¬opportune moments and one does not hear you coming. These are deplorable manners.”
Molines looked at her searchingly, but did not seem as annoyed as her father.
“The peasants say she is a fairy,” he suggested with a thin smile.
She stepped forward unruffled.
“Did you hear our conversation?” asked the Baron.
“Yes, Father. Molines said that Josselin could leave for the army and Hortense for the convent if you produced a lot of mules.”
“You have a curious way of summing up. Now listen to me. You will promise me not to speak to anyone of this matter.”
Angelique raised her green eyes to him.
“I don’t mind . . . but what will you give me?”
The steward stifled a chuckle.
“Angelique! . . .” exclaimed her father, astonished and dismayed.
The answer came from Molines:
“First prove to us that you are discreet, Mademoiselle Angelique. If, as I hope, our partnership materialises, we’ll have to make sure the business prospers freely—and that nothing leaks out of our projects. In that case, as a reward, we shall give you a husband.”
She pursed her lips, seemed to think it over, then said:
“All right, I promise.”
Then she went out. In the kitchen Madame Molines was pushing aside the serving-girls in order to put the cream-topped cherry-tart into the oven herself.
“Madame Molines, shall we be dining soon?” inquired Angelique.
“Not yet, my dear. If you’re hungry, I’ll give you a slice of buttered bread.”
“It’s not that. All I want to know is whether there is time for me to run down to Plcssis.”
“Plenty of time! We shall send a boy to fetch you when the table is laid.”
Angelique ran of f. At the turn of the first path she took off her shoes and hid them under a stone where she could pick them up on her way back. Then she ran on again, nimble as a fawn. The undergrowth smelt of mushrooms and moss, and a recent shower had left small puddles here and there. She jumped across each in one leap. She was happy. Monsieur Molines had promised her a husband. She was not quite sure that this was a very remarkable present. What would she do with it? . . . Still, if he were as agreeable as Nicholas, he’d make an ever-present companion for cray-fishing.
She saw the outline of the chateau rise at the end of the avenue, standing out white against the blue enamel of the sky. The castle of Plessis-Belliere was surely a fairy-tale house, for there was none like it in the whole region. All the country houses around were like Monteloup, grey, blind, moss- covered. Whereas here, an Italian artist of the last century had multiplied the windows, dormers, and porticoes. A miniature drawbridge crossed a moat filled with water-lilies. The corner turrets served only as decoration. Yet the lines of the building were simple: there was no overloading of its flowing arches, its supple vaults, but the natural grace of plants or garlands. Only, above the main porch, a shield showing a winged monster thrusting out a tongue of fire recalled the more tortured decorations of the Middle Ages.
Angelique climbed with astonishing nimblcness on to the terrace; then, grasping the stone ornaments of the windows and balconies, she hoisted herself up to the upper storey where a gutter of fered her a convenient support. She pressed her nose against the window-pane. She had of ten come here, and she never tired of gazing at the mystery of this closed room where one could see glimmering in the darkness the silver and ivory knick-knacks on the inlaid furniture, the fresh red and blue tints of new tapestries and the brilliant paintings on the walls.
In the far corner was an alcove with a damask counterpane. The curtains shone, heavy with the gold threads mingled in their weave. Above the fire-place, the eye was drawn to a big picture which filled Angelique with admiration. A world of which she had not even an inkling blossomed within its frame, a dainty world of Olympian dwellers, with their free, heathen grace; and you could see a god and goddess embrace under the eyes of a bearded fawn, their magnificent bodies sym¬bolising, like the chateau itself, Elysian grace on the edge of a wild forest. Emotion gripped Angelique so strongly that it almost overcame her.
‘Oh!’ she thought, ‘how I would like to touch all these things, stroke them with my fingers. I would like them to be mine some day. . . .’