# The Bonbonnière/Chapter 7

from The Smart Set magazine, June 1904, pp. 31–34.

### VII

The Vicomtesse de Malèvique spent a wakeful night. She was troubled and ill at ease, even when, for a moment, she forgot the cause. Had it not been for her talk with d'Alencourt, she would have convinced herself that her reason was unsettled. As it was, she argued, such coincidence of mania was impossible; the next moment she felt inclined to bar the latter word from the dictionaries. It was with a sigh of mingled apprehension and relief that she finally despatched a note to her tenant. She would call for Mrs. Lord at half after three, and take her driving.
For an anxious hour she awaited the reply. It came—a charmingly worded acceptance—and at once the vicomtesse planned her campaign. She ordered the strongest horses to be put to the carriage, for she was determined to place as many miles as possible between her guest and the mysterious influences that governed La Bonbonnière. By driving fast, one could reach the turn to Coligny on the Dieppe road in an hour; then to the Croix de Berueval, Gontreau, and the long road home. She was fighting for distance as a condemned man fights for time. It was her only hope that she might pass beyond the influence of the unknown atmosphere—a chance, but the only plan that offered promise of success.
When the victoria drew up before the villa, Margot, in a riding-habit, was sitting on the steps, slapping at her booted toes with an ivory-handled crop. She jumped gaily to her feet, took off her hat, a saucy tricorne with a gold cockade, and made a low bow.
“I am grateful,” she announced. “It was sheer inspiration that made you ask mama to drive. We have been having words on the subject of my Cavalier d'Alencourt. Mama thinks I ought to settle down. Isn't that absurd? Charming afternoon, isn't it? Hope you'll find it so. Mama is in an execrable humor, and here she is.”
Mrs. Lord appeared, followed by a footman bearing cushions, smelling-salts, and Reggie, growling protests.
“H'm,” she said, catching sight of her daughter and stopping short. “Insubordinate!'” Then, turning with a radiant smile to the vicomtesse, she nodded with an odd, familiar dignity. “Thank your horoscope, or whatever it is you thank when you have cause, that you have no daughter!”
Margot looked up, contrition upon her beautiful, down-drooping mouth, innocence in her eyes, the dimple smoothed away. “I promise you, I will not annoy you any more after this, mother—and I beg your pardon.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the old lady, “will the sky fall? Will the river run inland? Margot, upon my soul, you are extraordinary! Cease your joking. Ha! ha! Since when do we ask pardon—not you or I, whatever else we do. 'Pardon'! What a farce! Good for servants and abbés—it's their profession! Ride your insane horse till he breaks your neck or his, but leave pardons out of the question!”
Mrs. Wysong-Lord settled herself in the carriage, Reggie upon her arm, looked a reluctantly affectionate good-bye to the vision of loveliness framed in the doorway, and turned to the vicomtesse. “After all, she is beautiful! and what right have I—have you—has any one, to demand more of her? When she is forty, we shall have the privilege of requiring wit, but not till then, and she will have it long before, or she wouldn't be her mother's daughter!”
Jeanne acknowledged the remark, absently. She could not force her lips to frame the vapid sentences of temporary conversation. She was choked with emotion, dumb with apprehension. What if, after all, her efforts should be fruitless? She was spared the torture of small talk, for Mrs. Lord, taking the matter in her own hands, conversed with picturesque fluency upon local interests—neighbors, roads, incomes, taxes, peasants and stewards, showing an astonishing fund of information and an almost masculine grasp of each subject.
The smiling landscape changed its aspect as they neared the sea. Fishing-boats appeared upon the river, over the towns a veil of drying nets hung swaying in the breeze. An occasional gust of salt air tore the milder inland atmosphere.
Over Mrs. Wysong-Lord crept a subtle change. She sat erect, no longer lolling with easy nonchalance. Her language became stilted, less fluent. Her comments lost their cynic wit, her tones grew softly modulated. Something in her appearance underwent a transformation. The brilliant light of her eyes dimmed, the lines about her mouth softened and relaxed, a primness pursed her lips, where the rouge appeared suddenly out of place. The high arch of her blackened brows drooped, two deep lines forming above the nose. Character, the invisible, all-powerful artist, remodeled face, body, and manner, till before Jeanne's startled eyes, another woman was disclosed—a strangely incongruous creature, with Puritan eyes, overdone refinement, pinched lips and studied politeness, decked out in rouge and powder, loaded with jewels, swathed in extravagant finery, belaced, hair-dressed, perfumed—a personality impossible to describe.
As the victoria neared Coligny, the vicomtesse gathered her courage. Mrs. Lord was speaking. “My daughter's health and spirits have greatly improved since we took possession of your charming——”
“My dear lady,” the vicomtesse interrupted, “you have never taken possession of that house! It has taken possession of you—taken possession of every one of you!”
Mrs. Lord turned, startled by the vehement accents.
“Why, in what way? I do not understand,” she murmured, vaguely.
Jeanne caught Mrs. Lord's hand with a convulsive grip, as if by physical effort she might hold her, keep her from merging into the usurping personality.
“Listen—listen carefully. I must tell you the whole history; then you must judge for yourself. It's perfectly unprecedented, perfectly impossible, what I have to tell you, and, believe me, I did not let you go into the danger knowingly. No one, since the events of which I am going to speak, has ever occupied the villa, and who could have guessed, who could have dreamed of this visitation!”
Mrs. Lord gazed blankly at her companion. Then fear crept into her eyes. She glanced apprehensively at the lonely road, then with a sigh of relief, at the stalwart backs of the footmen.
Jeanne repressed a hysterical laugh.
“No, I'm not mad. Don't be frightened—at least, not anything so ordinary as an everyday maniac. But, listen, La Bonbonnière was built for Gabrielle de Malèvique. She was very much admired by Louis XV.—you know how it was in those days. It was an honor—the king could do no wrong. She had a daughter, the loveliest creature that ever lived, but utterly ungovernable as her mother had been—as her father was. The duchesse—the king gave her that title—was—er—very fond of high play, and wine, and music, in which she excelled. With her in La Bonbonnière lived her sister, Antoinette, and the Abbé Peudal—her confessor and abettor in all her freaks of fancy—you know what the abbés of that time were. Peudal was no exception; on the contrary, a typical example. La Bonbonnière was a very gay little candy-box, indeed. They had a band of musicians, who gave daily concerts. They kept open house for cards. The duchesse made no effort to control her daughter, who loved the chase, her liberty, and the companionship of the wildest gallants of the court.”
A dawn of comprehension lighted the pale eyes of Mrs. Lord—uncertainty, fear, resistance.
Jeanne pushed her advantage.
“The king,” she went on, “took the deepest interest in his beautiful daughter—the reckless, the fascinating, the untamable, little savage, Diane. A marriage was arranged with the Duc d'Alencourt, the great-great-great-grandfather of Geoffrey. He was madly in love with her, as his descendant is to-day with your daughter. Don't you understand?”
Jeanne read conviction in her companion's terrified eyes.
“She had shrugged her shoulders and acquiesced, the lovely daughter of the king. Then, without warning, whether from mere whimsical contrariness, love of intrigue, or because she really loved the man, she eloped—ran away with a worthless young scapegrace, of excellent family and impossible character. None ever knew what became of them. They disappeared completely. There is a tradition that they went to Canada, and settled near Quebec, but it was never authenticated.
“Ah; you see what I mean; I know you realize it now! They have come back in you, in Margot, in your whole household! You have been pushed aside—they have made themselves manifest—perhaps not even their true spirits, but some persistent part of the atmosphere they created has accomplished this. It is a mystery within a mystery. But now you are yourself again—and you must act! You cannot allow this to go on—this unnatural, this uncanny illusion. You must fight for yourselves, your very souls! Fight? No!—flight, is the only thing! Can one fight supernatural forces? Or, if it be natural, can one resist infection in the very air one breathes? You must go—all of you, and at once—at once!”
“To America, to Quebec!” Mrs. Lord repeated, mechanically. Across her face a hundred expressions passed. A terrible struggle was taking place—a fight for supremacy, a duel of impulses.
With terror and amazement the vicomtesse watched. On the older woman's forehead beads of perspiration gathered, her body was tense as a bow-string drawn, her stiffened fingers clutched Jeanne's hand with the grip of suffering. The wrinkled face was hard as stone and marble-white. On the livid cheeks, the rouge showed in blotches.
In silence the battle was fought—and won. Slowly the usurping personality lost its hold, the convulsive changes became less frequent, less intense. The lines of pain vanished, the body relaxed. For a moment, her eyelids closed from excessive weariness. Then she leaned forward suddenly, apparently unconscious of what had just happened.
“Let us go home at once,” she gasped. “We will leave to-morrow!”
The vicomtesse lay back with a sigh of exhaustion and relief. They drove on—it seemed for hours. Jeanne looked up. The scenes around them had grown familiar, they were nearing the outskirts of the village. Soon they would be within the enchanted circle, upon the dangerous ground! A new fear seized her. She should have kept Mrs. Lord at a distance—have telegraphed her party to join her. Would she fall back again under the spell?
She watched her, eagerly. There were no outward signs of the long dead duchesse. It was still Mrs. Wysong-Lord, anxious, frightened and puzzled, who sat beside her, nervously tearing the lace from her handkerchief. Closer they came, and closer—in at the park gates, beneath the ancient trees, up the stately avenue, at last, within sight of La Bonbonnière itself.
With her whole heart Jeanne prayed, her hands clasped beneath the lap-robe, her eyes fixed on the face of her guest. The dreaded change did not come.
They stopped. The footman descended. Hastily Mrs. Lord freed herself from robes and cushions. Reggie was tumbled unceremoniously to the ground, where he whined shrilly. The vicomtesse followed, the fear of some unknown calamity heavy upon her.
“Where is Margot?” she heard Mrs. Lord inquire, anxiously. “I wish to speak with her at once. Tell her to come to me.”
The servant bowed.
“Miss Margot has not yet returned from her ride,” he answered. “She went out with Mr. de Montalou, shortly after madame. She begged that madame should not be anxious in case she were a little late.”
“Montalou! Not anxious!” cried Mrs. Lord. She turned to the vicomtesse and stretched forth a shaking hand. “Do you suppose—? Could it be!”
Jeanne's face was sufficient answer. Filled with a new dread, the two ladies hurried into the house, up the stairs, through the rose boudoir, where the Watteau canvases laughed at them from the walls, to the dainty white-and-gold room that had been the case of that jewel of beauty—Margot.
The jewel was gone—stolen! On the dressing-table lay a note, neatly sealed with the Montalou arms.
Chère Maman: I know you've set your heart on d'Alencourt, so it is no use arguing with you. I've married Roland, so au revoir.
Your dutiful Margot.
Underneath was added in pencil, the last verse of “Belle Isambour”:
“Or n'est il homme avec pouvoir,
Qui peut encor qu'il voye bien cler,
Engarder sa fille d'aymer;
C'est a luy folie en parler.
For a flash the soul of the duchesse asserted itself. Mrs. Wysong-Lord laughed, cynically.
“Tiens! Roland will be surprised when he finds whom he has really married. I hope he'll like her.”
There were tears in the eyes of the Vicomtesse Jeanne.
“Poor d'Alencourt,” she said; “the end of the song!”