# The Bonbonnière/Chapter 3

from The Smart Set magazine, June 1904, pp. 9–15.

### III

“Roland,” said Madame de Montalou, “you are absurd! Pray remember I am arranging your marriage with your cousin, Claire; you are to make yourself agreeable to her, and let l' Américaine alone.”
“Adored mother, pray allow me”—Roland yawned discreetly—“the privilege of showering my attentions where I please until after marriage. Observe, if I do not devote myself to our fair neighbor, she will have the whole company distraught. I might efface myself and retire from the field, but that only means that every other man would rush to fill the place which, as host, I have a right to claim. If you wish your fête to be saved from becoming a scene of strife, permit me to bear away the golden apple of discord to the farthest corner of the orangerie, and there hold it tight.”
Madame de Montalou laughed. “Sophist!”
“Sophist? Not in the least. Wait till his three watchful daughters behold the admiral at his devotions!”
“True,” she chuckled. “It will be most amusing.”
“I perceive,” said Roland, “that you are preparing a comedy with which to delight your wicked-old-lady sense of humor. It is for this you would relegate me to the mercies of Cousin Claire. You are a heartless epicure of your own emotions.”
He crossed to his mother's chair, and kissed her withered cheek affectionately.
“You are very rude to your parent,” she said. “And, may I ask, is my son so devoid of emotional epicureanism?”
“I make it a point to inherit only good qualities,” he answered.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, ruefully. “What a small choice you had! Nevertheless, I love you, and fear for you.”
“The Margot mania? I have it, madame, in a desperate form—the bacilli quite large and active.”
“She has been here only a month,” she frowned.
“And what has happened? The admiral is quite irresponsible, the pious Edmond is prostrate at her feet, de Castries says he will commit suicide, d'Alencourt sighs all day and talks in his sleep; le petit Caissenote does not sleep, and talks all day. Thursday last, while watching her drive by, the fat innkeeper of the 'Golden Gun' fell from the window. How then, with a Béranger always in my pocket, could you hope for me to escape? I am no better than the rest.”
“Well, don't let Claire see it, that's all. This family has had too many dissensions already; we cannot afford to offend the few relatives who remain on speaking terms with us—particularly those with bank-accounts. Come, give me your arm.”
As they turned to leave the cheerful boudoir, his mother caught sight of their reflection in the tall cheval-glass. She paused, with a little squeeze of his arm, and a sigh, half content, half regret.
“I am proud of you, Roland,” she said.
“And I of you,” he answered.
“My sixtieth fête-day,” she murmured.
“And the greatest belle in the country-side,” he added, indicating the masses of flowers that decorated the room. “See how they have remembered you—and wait—you have not seen half!'
He led her affectionately down the stairs to the great salon, which had been transformed into a bower.
“Ah,” she smiled, “you have arranged everything charmingly—developed quite an executive power. I was somewhat tremulous, I must confess, when you insisted on planning everything yourself. Here, I see, you will have the collation served, and over there the musicians will be placed
“And here,” he interrupted, with a laugh, “I have devised a concealed corner for the apple of discord and her host!”
She shook her head in reproof.
“Incorrigible! In our world one does not do such things. Even if she is American, I do not imagine she will wish to impersonate the forest maid in the dismal wood. Listen, the music begins! People are arriving, and I suppose you wish to let them assemble here before you come for me to make my grande entrée. To your duties, my son. You will find me waiting in the library.”
A half-hour later the scene was brilliant. The salons overflowed with gaily dressed, animated groups, and the wide lawns were sprinkled with chattering visitors, the sparkle and color of uniforms blending with the pale tones of clinging Summer gowns.
Upon her throne-seat, smiling and gracious, Madame de Montalou received the congratulations of her friends. At her side stood Roland, handsome and aristocratic, easy and graceful, but obviously anxious because the party from La Bonbonnière delayed its appearance.
“There is Claire,” whispered his mother, maliciously. “You are excused from further service, and may join her. Ah, and here is Yolande, with her inevitable poet.”
A tall, nonchalant woman, with narrow, heavy-lidded eyes, advanced, leaning lightly upon the arm of a man, somewhat her junior, whose slightly bald temples, lined face, and sunken eyes, indicated experience beyond his years. Yolande de Colville greeted Madame de Montalou with obvious reserve.
“I was not aware,” Yolande said, coldly, when the poet had disposed of the well-turned phrase of compliment he had evidently prepared for the occasion, “that this was to be a costume affair, or is it some bouffe which you are preparing as a surprise?”
Roland looked his mystification, and Renaud d'Estreville colored.
“Ah,” she continued, “doubtless it is, as I suspected at first, the eccentric Americans, of whom I hear so much—my first glimpse, I must own, was startling.”
“Really?” said Madame de Montalou; “and may I inquire when and how this occurred?”
“It would be a pity,” replied Madame de Colville, with irritation, “to spoil the spectacular effect—here they are.”
A turning of heads, a ripple of exclamations, a Babel of sudden conversation, and the disturbing element entered. First, Mrs. Wysong-Lord in gorgeous array, her head held high, her quick, nervous step ringing sharp on the polished floor. Behind her, Margot, radiant as a June morning, smiling, bowing, dimpling irresistibly. A tiny spaniel was cuddled under her arm, and a totally inappropriate diamond collar encircled her young throat. Closing the procession was an extraordinary brilliant figure, a be-turbaned, be-sashed, balloon-breeched negro lad, bearing with solemn pride an enormous bunch of orchids. The three advanced to Madame de Montalou, whose piquant old face pleated into a thousand wrinkles of suppressed merriment. Madame de Colville turned her back and addressed herself to her cavalier, who, with his eyes riveted on Margot, was oblivious to the attention.
Roland advanced to meet the new-comers, and gallantly conducted Mrs. Lord to the dais.
“A thousand felicitations, chère Madame de Montalou,” she said, condescendingly.
“And mine,” added Margot, over her mother's shoulder.
“Will you let your elders speak, bad child!” rapped out Mrs. Lord. “Permettez, a few flowers with which to wish you happiness, avancez donc, William!”
The negro boy grinned, and, with a low bow, presented the orchids.
“What magnificence!” exclaimed Madame de Montalou, drawing away from the somewhat sickly fragrance. “Thank you for your kind wishes. Roland, have these flowers placed near the buffet. They are so beautiful every one should see them. Be sure they don't go to my rooms,” she added, under her breath—“I should smother.”
D'Estreville managed by a masterly flank manœuver to place himself next to Roland, Madame de Colville in vain redoubling her efforts to hold his attention—Margot had glanced at him.
“Ah,” murmured Roland to his mother, who was not missing the byplay, “what did I tell you? The trouble begins.”
A gleam of mischief lighted her eyes, and a moment later the poet was bowing before the Americans, while Madame de Colville, astounded and angry, had ranged herself by the discountenanced Roland.
“I wish you and Yolande would find Claire,” said the hostess, her eyes snapping with amusement. “D'Estreville will pilot Madame Lord and mademoiselle, and I'm really anxious Claire should feel quite at home. It is her first visit to me, you know,” she added, graciously.
The discomfited ones made common cause, and crossed the room to the doorway.
Madame de Montalou, still laughing, turned to her eccentric guests.
“Oh,” said Margot, apologetically, “I know I shouldn't have brought Reggie, but he made such a scene when we were leaving—you don't mind, do you?”
“Not in the least,” returned Madame de Montalou. “I'm always at home to dogs, and yours I like—he is well-bred. Where did you find your Nubian slave? Did you bring him with you?”
“No,” explained Mrs. Lord. “I wanted something, a bit of color, you know, about the house. First, I thought of a parrot. Then I remembered this boy. He was employed by Francis; so I sent for him, and had his livery made. It is really quite cheerful—a relief from the monotony of maids and butlers, though I think I shall put the footman in powder.”
“That will be quite perfect,” said Madame de Montalou, as she strove to overhear the conversation between the poet and the beauty.
“Yes,” Margot was saying, “I put on that diamond collar to keep mother from wearing it. She looked like a Christmas-tree, or the show-window in the Palais Royale. Will you really dedicate a song to me? I shall be enchanted; our Tziganies shall set it to music, and you shall come and listen.”
“If you will sing it, I will write a chançon that will live forever, that 'shall circle the world on wings of melody.'”
Margot smiled.
“Do,” she said. “But you know I don't sing much—just hum to myself when I take my solitary walks.”
The poet's face brightened.
“And where do you take these lonely rambles?” he inquired, with transparent disingenuousness.
Seemingly innocent of his trend of thought she answered: “Oh, everywhere; but my favorite road is the big highway leading to the village—the views are so beautiful.”
“We will see,” thought Renaud, “that the walks are not so solitary. A young girl should not wander thus unaccompanied about the country.”
Margot aroused him from his pleasant reflections by an exclamation of pleasure. A tall gentleman of military aspect was bowing before her.
“Ah, admiral,” she beamed, “I am so glad to see you again.”
“And I.” He blushed under his tan in violent contrast to his white hair and mustache. “You grow more beautiful every day.” He nodded a condescending recognition to the poet, who responded with affected indifference. “How do you manage to be radiant always?” the admiral continued. “You are invariably perched upon the very pinnacle of loveliness, as if to soar even to the realms of Venus herself.”
“Ha!” growled the poet; “these heavy-witted fools, who make themselves ridiculous in their efforts to follow the muse! Hear him prate! It sickens me!” And observing that Margot was presenting to his inspired eyes an exquisite view of her shoulder, he bowed his excuses and left them, haughtily.
“You flatter me, admiral,” Margot murmured.
“But you have discovered the secret of perfection!”
She smiled, wisely.
“I anoint my face with dew, gathered at five in the morning of the first of May, and I keep under my pillow a bat's wing from the belfry of Notre Dame—but the whole secret is that I am always well. I walk a great deal, and take long rides.”
“Ah!” said the admiral, who, in spite of his marine training, was an enthusiastic horseman. “And when, may I ask, do these gallops take place?”
“Every day.” And Margot was apparently quite unaware of the plans forming under the admiral's white hair. “About five o'clock, mother insists that I take a groom, but I always give him the slip. I hate to be tracked by servants—it grates on one's nerves, doesn't it?”
Evidently their tête-à-tête had had the same effect upon the admiral's three daughters, for suddenly and artfully the conversation was broken in upon, and Margot found herself flatteringly but completely absorbed by their enthusiastic attentions. Reggie growled; he was becoming restless. The eldest daughter smiled, tolerantly.
“I have heard,” she said, “that in America the dog has quite a social position. That teas and luncheons are given him, and he goes everywhere.”
Margot nodded. “Oh, yes, they are quite as much in demand there as the tame cat is here.”
“What a sweet little fellow!” murmured the second sister, bending forward, and extending a daintily gloved hand to caress Reggie's silky head. She did not see Margot's slim fingers close in a quick nip upon Reggie's confiding tail. The next instant she was startled by shrill and angry yelps, and Reggie's needle teeth sank into her thumb.
“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Margot, slapping the nose of her snarling pet. “Oh, do forgive him! I am so sorry! Let me see. I hope he won't be sick! Wasn't it fortunate you had on white gloves?—colored ones would have been full of poisonous dye. He didn't break the skin, did he? No? Oh, see,” she cried to d'Alencourt, who, having paid his devotions to his hostess, had joined them at the first outcry, “see what my bad, bad dog has done!”
The three daughters, forming a hollow triangle around their imperiled father, withdrew, ostensibly to ascertain the extent of the damage.
“I saw you pinch the tail of Reginald; I was just behind you,” Geoffrey remarked, quietly.
“Then you mustn't tell,” she answered, “or I shall let him loose at you!”
“Have pity!” he implored. “Spare me! I am not fit to die!”
“The impertinence of those creatures!” she exclaimed. “They deliberately came over to interfere with my conversation with the admiral! Reggie, you are a dog beloved by his mistress. You shall have unnumbered good things for your noble deed. Did he have his feelings hurt? Poor angel!”
“If I follow up the ladies and bite one—Mademoiselle Marie, the youngest, by preference—will you talk to me like that?” asked d'Alencourt, wistfully.
“You would develop hydrophobia,” she answered. “She was in a rage when she left.”
“TI would risk even that to please you,” he said, with conviction. “I couldn't possibly be any more mad than I am. In fact, I think if I should bite Mademoiselle Marie she would develop a wild infatuation for you.”
“Then,” said Margot, with decision, “I forbid you even the smallest nip.”
“Your will is law,” he bowed. “The snowy shoulder of the fair Marie shall continue intact. But suppose we walk out for a moment to the terraces. It is very warm here, which, I feel sure, accounts for Reginald's nervous attack; a little air will do him good, and, besides, I can point out to him some charming glimpses of the river and the park. I can tell by his large, full, protruding eyes that he has poetic dispositions and keen appreciations.”
“He has,” she nodded, gravely.
“His only fault is bad taste in gastronomy. Fancy biting that lean, dried lady!”
“Ah, but suppose him endowed with polite penetration in such matters, my dear, beautiful Miss Lord. He would not be a safe companion for you.”
“Let us,” said Margot, freezingly, “show Reggie the scenery.”
To conduct his fair charge out of doors was no easy matter. She was surrounded, stopped a dozen times to exchange compliments with as many infatuated Lovelaces. Even the women, when not openly hostile, were as enthusiastic as the men. At last, they gained refuge and comparative quiet upon the marble balcony overlooking the lovely valley.
“Reginald,” said d'Alencourt, gravely, “to the right you will observe the Château Colville; below is the Malèvique estate, administered by the Vicomtesse Jeanne, a dear friend of mine, to whom I hope some day to present you. She is a great admirer of well-conducted and intelligent dogs. Further on, beyond the meadows, the road leads to Dieppe and the sea. To the left is the river winding by various charming residences, while far away in that clump of very dark verdure, dominating the village of Arques, you will note two heavy Norman towers. Those, Reginald, belong to Les Charteries, and are absolutely at your disposal. I hope in the near future to entertain you there. I have an English pack, several Great Danes and some Russian boar-hounds of excellent family, who will be pleased to welcome you as their master.”
He looked wistfully to Margot's face as he spoke. Her eyes sparkled impishly.
“Reginald accepts with pleasure,” she said, with sufficient accent upon the name to rob the remark of any hopeful meaning. “Some day when I go for my daily row, I'll take Reginald along, and show him all the river and the châteaux you so kindly pointed out, and, perhaps, one day I'll row him past Les Charteries, and let him have a look at that.”
“About four o'clock to-morrow afternoon,” remarked d'Alencourt, “I shall be in my boat abreast of La Bonbonnière. I mention this so that you will not allow Reginald to call at his residence of Les Charteries, in the absence of his humble janitor. I think perhaps it would be wiser for you to pass by and have a glimpse of it before you let him come.”
“Perhaps,” said Margot, absently, “perhaps—listen!” she exclaimed, suddenly. “Oh, lovely! they are playing a minuet! I adore a minuet! Don't you? I never can keep still!” Reggie was unceremoniously slipped from his mistress's silken lap, as Margot rose with dignified sauciness. “One, two, three!” She tapped her slippered toe upon the tessellated pavement, delicately extending her skirt at the side between her dainty fingers. “Forward and bow!” She made a sweeping curtsey, and came back to her first position with exquisite grace. “Come, come!” she exclaimed, flushing with eagerness, “dance it with me—of course you can!”
Hardly knowing what he did, but wholly fascinated by his enchanting partner, he led her through the evolutions of the courtly dance. The figures came to him as if by inspiration, and the astonishing American was so sure of herself, so familiar with the stately measures that a mistake seemed impossible. With bows and turns, gallant advances and coy recedings, shy glances and bold declarations, the mimic dance of love and conquest drew to a close, till, with a final deep obeisance, it ceased.
The music stopped. The mocking voice of Roland de Montalou brought the oblivious dancers to their senses.
“Mademoiselle is a dream, a vision, a Fragonard—but you, mon cher, if you could see yourself performing in that twentieth-century costume, your coat-tails waving in the breeze, your white tie bulging, your collar decapitating you! And, oh, species of a blind ostrich, look about you, and behold your delighted audience.”
“You are jealous,” said d'Alencourt, “of our charming saraband; and as for the audience—so are they.”
“And why, may I ask,” demanded Margot, haughtily, “may I not dance a minuet upon a balcony, if I choose? Is there anything so unusual about that?”
“Whatever you do is right, your majesty,” he submitted, gravely; “but being, as d'Alencourt has so aptly put it, jealous, I think it time he made himself more generally agreeable, and permitted me to show the orangerie to your highness.”
“I go!” said d'Alencourt. “You are my host, and I must bend to your despotic will. But if you knew to what ends I leave you, you would not hold so high your homely head! Down with tyrants!”
Squaring his shoulders, he strode away.
“May I have the honor?” begged Roland, bowing.
She slipped her hand upon his arm, and they disappeared toward the retreat “specially designed for the host and the apple of discord.”
Meanwhile, d'Alencourt, determination written large upon him, sought out Mrs. Wysong-Lord. He found that lady surrounded, dividing the honors of the afternoon with Madame de Montalou herself, who was frankly absorbed in her eccentric guest. After some impatient manœuvering, he succeeded in separating the elderly belles, and finding a comparatively quiet spot.
“Ah!” sighed Mrs. Lord, as she seated herself in the depths of a Louis XVI. arm-chair; “I am abominably thirsty. This heat, this air, these sickening flowers! Heavens!”
D'Alencourt bowed. “I have a request to make, Madame Lord.”
“Foolish boy,” she laughed, raising her lorgnon and examining him with critical approval, “what may I do for you? I'm sure whatever an old lady can do for such a young scamp as you will be permissible and proper. Come, I am as thirsty as the great Sahara! What is your request?”
Geoffrey drew himself up to his full height with courtly manliness. “Madame, I have the honor to beg the hand of your daughter, or at least your permission to approach her as her suitor. I do not know what your customs may be, but I am anxious in all things to meet with your approval. The dot is immaterial to me. You know who I am, and what I have to offer—it is something, but not half what I wish I might give to the woman I love.”
Mrs. Wysong-Lord extended her slim hand graciously. D'Alencourt bent and kissed it.
“Naturally it is understood. Pay your court when you please, it has my entire approval—in fact, it is the proper thing. And now, my son, do not forget that I am quite, quite perishing in the desert. Prove to me what an attentive son-in-law you will be, and, as you love me, find me a glass of champagne!”