# The Bonbonnière/Chapter 4

from The Smart Set magazine, June 1904, pp. 15–21.

### IV

Margot sat upon the lush green grass cushioning the river's edge, and threw crumbs to a foolish family of mandarin ducks. Roland stood upon the opposite bank, and looked on with envy.
“I wish I were a duck,” he remarked, “or a mandarin, or anything in which you would have a real interest. If I were an automobile, I would be so tame I would take gasoline from your hand.”
“I should like that,” said Margot, gravely. “I should then have the only tame auto in the whole world. But you are only a man, and almost everybody has a tame man. I think, in fact, I should like a wild one much better.”
“Very well,” he responded, cheerfully, “I will be savage. I will be a stealthy 'Mohoque,' and take 'scalppeloques.'”
Margot nodded.
“That will be nice. Begin on Renaud's, will you, please?”
Montalou flushed, angrily.
“What do you mean? Has that poet been annoying you?”
“Annoying, no—not that. He's just a nuisance. I'm tired of telling him I don't want him. Then he goes and complains to the Colville. At first, she was jealous of me because he would love me, and now she's furious because I won't love him.”
Montalou sat down, settling himself comfortably.
“That is most curious!”
“Oh, not at all, I quite understand it, myself. It's a reflection on her taste. She has made no effort to disguise her infatuation for him, so it's quite natural that she shouldn't like to see her special choice a drug on the market. I'm sorry to be disobliging to both of them, but, really, I can't be bothered.”
“How old are you?” demanded Roland, abruptly.
“Nineteen,” she answered, destroying a fleur-de-lis. “I have reached the years of indiscretion.”
He threw up horrified hands. “Nineteen! Heavens! Nineteen! This is an ingénue!”
“Nothing so worldly as that, I hope,” she observed, seriously.
“An ingénue!” he continued, “who dissects the heart of the most Balzacian episodes with the scalpel of a woman of forty! What is this America that produces such girls?”
“I will tell you.” Margot cast the remnants of the lily of France upon the curling eddies of the stream. “America is a hothouse, producing wonderful exotic varieties of jeune fille. When that is not the case, it is a wind-swept plateau, where the original plant differentiates and becomes, if less intoxicating of perfume, at least extremely hardy. In that case, the American Beauty becomes a hardy bloomer. Do you follow me, or am I too horticultural?”
“You could never be too anything for me to follow you!”
She ignored his compliment, and stared with wide eyes at the blue distance. “Mon Dieu!” she murmured. “How strange it all seems—America! Why, it is a foolish little colony somewhere far away, a place for Jesuits and coureurs-de-bois. I can hardly realize that I lived there and was part of it once. Isn't it wonderful how this country absorbs one? Really, don't you find me very French? Do I seem foreign?”
Roland leaned his head upon his arm, and gazed across the stream.
“You are like nothing and no one that I ever met before. I was hoping you were a real American type—I fondly dreamed, a common American type. I was planning to go to America to live. It would be the paradise of Mahomet.”
Margot dimpled.
“The Turkish room in the Waldorf would be your Mecca.” She sobered, suddenly. “But I really have no desire to go back. This garden, the river, the house—everything here, seems made for me. I've never been so happy.”
A self-satisfied smile appeared under Montalou's mustache, and he blew a kiss over the heads of the mandarin ducks.
“Never so happy—never so happy!” Margot repeated, dreamily, as she rose to her feet and brushed the bread-crumbs from her lap.
The dip of oars, the creak of a revolving lock smote upon their ears, and the slim bow of a canot shot around a curve, propelled by the vigorous biceps of young d'Alencourt. A few strong strokes brought him between the occupants of either bank. He floated in mid-stream, gently backing water, and regarded them with amused tolerance.
“I'm at the point of tears,” he observed, “to break up this neighborly tête-à-tête, but, my dear Montalou, it is what mademoiselle calls in her barbarous English—which I looked up in the dictionary—'une datte,' which is a tropical palm-fruit, but, nevertheless, appears to mean a rendezvous.”
Roland rolled over and addressed the clouds with disgust. “He is a spoil-joy, a species of a lettuce-head, an escaped one from the asylum! He has no consideration, no conception of the obligations of friendship!” He sat up and wrathfully watched his chum, as he brought the boat close to the opposite bank, and assisted the fair passenger to embark. “Ha!” he railed, “I hope mademoiselle stamps a hole right through the bottom! I hope there is a flood! I hope you catch a crab and make yourself ridiculous! I hope it rains! I hope you haven't an idea, and make yourself a bore! I hope you run aground! I hope you take cold!”
They were out of sight around the bend, but his sorrowing was distinctly audible. Margot laughed, delightedly.
“I like him,” she said. “He is such an object of luxury—so distinctly without any mission, save to delight the eye and amuse the ear.”
“His family have found him a very expensive luxury,” said d'Alencourt. Then, repenting of his treachery to his friend, he added, hastily: “Everybody likes him—he is so engagingly—er—naughty.”
She sighed with sun-warmed happiness of mind and body. The late afternoon light laid a red-gold caress upon the intense green of the landscape. The blue of the sky was half rusty violet; the rushing river flashed like a brazen buckler. Deep in its tumultuous currents the trailing water-weeds took on a copper hue. An opulence of color, an intense and silent orgy of vigorous life, throbbed in the air. Margot felt it in curious kinship of mood. It was as if the transmuted gold of the sun had become blood and glowed in her veins. She sat silent, inhaling deep breaths of pagan delight. They were gliding on an enchanted stream, and surely it took but little imagination to lift aside the veil of the commonplace. To right and left, the giant trees of ancient parks spread their twisted branches, thick foliaged and lusty in their green old age. Half revealed, half hidden, the massive walls and bastions of Norman châteaux looked down from above, or the airy, aspiring pinnacles of Gothic tourelles were silhouetted against the sky. A breeze, freighted with perfume, crept down upon them as they passed beneath the fairy spires of the chapel of Saint Cunegond. The bells chimed slowly, echoing mellow, liquid tones of topaz and amber.
“Yes,” said Margot, suddenly and reflectively. “'Roland'—it is a pretty name. Did you hear the bells say 'Ro—o—land'?”
D'Alencourt rested upon his oars.
“My Queen Margot, do not imagine to yourself that I brought you with me just to hear you talk about that brigand, Roland.”
Her eyes narrowed, teasingly. The spell of the golden afternoon was broken.
“Are you so like all other men, that you want to be talked to about yourself?”
D'Alencourt nodded, genially.
“Yes. Or you—on the whole, I think I should like to hear about you. Who are you, anyway?”
She turned from him with a smile.
“I am 'Belle Isambour,'” she said.
He started. Had she guessed it was he who had answered her song, on that moonlit night, when he had stood in the garden and seen her for the first time, as she looked from her window?
“Belle Isambour was very true to her love,” he said. “Would you be true like that?'
“Oof!” she sniffed. “Belle Isambour would have listened to the king, if they hadn't shut her up in a tower. Of course, then she made up her mind she'd escape. I would.
“Belle Isambour est à la tour,
Où il n'y a peu de jour,
Mais toutjours songe à ses amours.”
Margot's tones thrilled with a spell that was sheer magic—unearthly sweet, as if a supernatural voice sang second to her girlish soprano. So chanted Vivian, the Lorelei, the sirens.
D'Alencourt looked at her, his heart in his eyes, his soul straining to find and touch her elusive spirit.
She sat back among the cushions, her hand idly dipping in the water, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed, with something almost tragic in their dreaming look, and the voice that came between her scarlet, parted lips, seemed a call directed to him from some other world—a call that wrung his heart and stifled his breath.
“Margot,” he murmured, “Margot! Don't be so beautiful, my sweet—you break my heart! Margot!”
She roused herself, quickly, with an impish upturning of lips and eyes.
“Am I beautiful? Am I sweet?” she demanded. “I don't know that that pleases me—beautiful, yes—but sweet! 'Sweet'! Horrid!”
“'Ma douce mie' is a very exquisite old term of endearment. I'm sorry you don't like it.”
He was hurt and angry at her change of mood.
“Well, I don't!” she said, belligerently. “I hate it—it's weak, and poor and dependent. Sweet! How dare you call me sweet! You can put me ashore right here and now! Do you hear? You shall see if I'm sweet. I want to land. Row to the shore,” she ordered. She was half in jest, but as she saw his face harden into lines of determination, her mood changed to anger.
He did not obey, but continued to row quietly onward.
“You heard me?” she cried, flushing. “I wish to land!”
“You are perfectly absurd,” he argued, “to be angry because I called you sweet.”
“I'm angry because you don't do what I ask you to,” she retorted.
“But you ask me to put you ashore because I called you sweet, so it all comes back to the same thing.”
Opposition fanned the flame of her resistance. She glanced at the flower-grown banks, at the shimmering river, at d'Alencourt pulling energetically, and, without a word of warning, threw all her weight to one side, swinging her feet over the edge of the boat as it careened.
D'Alencourt instinctively strove to balance the capsizing skiff, but her action had been too swift. The water bulged for a moment above the shining, varnished rim, then, with a crystalline gurgle, rushed in. D'Alencourt lost his balance, and the next instant found them both in the water, the overturned boat between them.
“Can you swim?” came his voice, anxiously.
“No,” she answered, cheerfully. “Can you?”
“No. Absurd, isn't it? I'll work my way around, and hold you on. You won't lose your grip, will you?”
“Oh, dear, no!” she laughed. “How delightfully droll! But you'd better not come on this side, too—it would pull the boat over, and make it harder to hold on. Do you think we'll drift out to sea? Do look at the oars and cushions floating down—there's a perfect string of them. I didn't realize there were so many things in a boat, did you?”
Her anger had vanished. In its place was a childish delight in the novelty of the situation, and complete oblivion to any danger.
He worked his way slowly along on the opposite side of the boat till his hands closed over hers. The prospect of spending hours in the water suddenly became alluring.
“You have the most charming hands,” he observed, tightening his grip. “I'm so glad you thought to tip us over. And I take it all back; you are not sweet—you are a devil of an angel, or an angel of the devil—but not sweet. I hope no one ever rescues us, and we float on forever. We're not by any chance approaching that bank over there, are we? These eddies are the very mischief. However, we were fortunately in the middle of the channel when we turned over.”
“I'm glad it's a warm afternoon,” she remarked. “This bath is really refreshing.”
“The water has made your hair curl in a fashion ravishing,” said d'Alencourt. “I have but one wish—that the curves of this miserable boat were less. The keel is too round and wide—your enchanting head too far away; otherwise, this would be heaven!”
“Your sentiments, then, have not cooled?” she inquired.
“Not at all. Everything save my love has cooled—all is dampened save my ardor. But did you not see the clouds of steam that rose as I struck the water? Ah, there is a water-rat swimming just ahead of us!”
“Oh! Oh!” screamed Margot. She grasped his hands convulsively.
“That,” said d'Alencourt, closing his eyes, “was delicious. I pray the river may teem with rats.”
“I hate you!” said Margot, vindictively, with a flash of sudden friendliness in her deep eyes.
A swirl and rush of waters carried them around a bend. The river widened. On either side broad meadows and regular lines of poplars showed the castaways to be out of the château district and nearing the village. The heavy arches of a stone bridge marked where the roadway crossed above the town.
“Alas! a sail—a sail!” cried d'Alencourt. “At any moment we may be rescued!”
“Look!” exclaimed Margot, “there is Madame de Colville's automobile. It's the only mauve one, and that's Renaud chauffing all by himself.”
“Perhaps he won't see us,” said d'Alencourt, hopefully.
“Perhaps,” said Margot; “but he will hear me!”
She raised her voice in a soprano scream for help. The machine stopped short with a jerk and a cloud of steam.
“Hope he's blown the wretched thing up!” said d'Alencourt.
Margot laughed, delightedly, and began to sing once more:
“Regardant avec grand soin,
Elle avisa venir de loin,
Son amy chevauchant grand train.
“Amy, qui par icy passez,
Or arrestez vous, arrestez,
Ma patience vous aurrez.
“Only,” she explained, “Belle Isambour's knight wasn't riding a lavender automobile that belonged to another lady, was he?”
“I hope it bit and kicked, anyway,” said d'Alencourt, bitterly. “There, now, he's running down to the washing-stones on the other side of the bridge. I believe if I kick continuously I can keep this sacred affair in mid-stream where he cannot rescue us. I do not want to be saved!”
Preceded by a procession of oars, cushions and boat-mats, they approached the bridge. For a moment the cool gloom under the arches enfolded them. They looked up to ancient granite blocks, green and dank with weeds, over which reflections of the glittering waters ran in ripples of light. Then, out once more into the flash of the gold-red sun. D'Alencourt struggled energetically to keep the boat away from the right-hand shore, where leaped and called the excited poet, hovering, wet-footed, upon the broad, flat stones used by the village washerwomen when beating their linen, since linen was invented.
“Do not fear,” he called; “I will save you. Do as I say.”
Margot giggled, delightedly.
“Idiot,” murmured d'Alencourt, under his breath.
“Here,” called Renaud, waving a dust-cover over his head; “catch this and I will pull you in.”
As the boat shot by, he tossed the duster forward. Margot caught it. The skiff turned sidewise as the shawl became taut. She clung for an instant to the overturned keel, then, with a quick jerk, released her hold, dragging her hand from under d'Alencourt's grip.
“You don't want to be saved, you know,” she said, sweetly.
Down the stream went the heir to a dukedom, while an instant later Margot stood upon the stones of the lavoir, dripping, bedraggled, and shaking with laughter.
Her rescuer clasped his hands with horror. “D'Alencourt! Oh, why did you not cling to the boat? I could have pulled you both ashore. Mon Dieu! what will happen?”
“Happen?” said the lady, cheerfully. “Don't you suppose they'll pick him up as he passes through the village? Of course. They'll have him out by the time he's in sight of the second bridge.”
“Hélas!” cried the poet. “You are cold, you are wet! Why should I think of him when you suffer? Quick, to the auto! Ah, Dieu merci, I came in time.”
“I was glad when I saw you,” she smiled. “I really began to sing.”
“How brave you are!” he exclaimed.
They climbed the rise to the bridge, where stood the lavender motor. Margot leaned over the parapet and gazed affectionately down the river. An excited crowd was gathering along the bank. A fisherman in a dory had put off from the stone steps by the church of Notre Dame des Flots. In the midst of the flashing path of sunlight was her whilom companion in danger and the overturned boat.
“I like him,” said Margot, dreamily. “I like him very much—don't you?”
“No,” said Renaud, sharply, “I don't. He is a duc. Come, you are wet. I must take you home at once.”
She turned reluctantly, and mounted beside him. He manipulated the gear with a knowing air. There was a puff, an explosive jerk, the ponderous machine quivered spasmodically, and refused to move.
“I might have known it,” said Margot. “The lavender charger has balked.”
Renaud looked annoyed.
“I'll have it mended in a moment,” he assured her; “but perhaps you'd better get out, these stupid things are so uncertain.”
She descended from her perch, and watched him as he delved into the depths of coils and tanks, appearing from time to time, oil-covered, frowning and hot.
“This is most unfortunate,” he apologized. “I can't find anything the matter—but it won't go.”
The machinery pounded and blew with demoniacal energy. Margot kicked her heels against the parapet.
“I'm going to walk,” she said.
“You are cold!” he exclaimed, anxiously. “Heavens! you are shivering, and this animal of a motor! Ciel! It is to rage!”
Margot had shivered, but not with cold. Over her shoulder, she had watched the rescue of d'Alencourt. At any moment he might come up and offer assistance. After she had played her pranks upon him, that would never do, never!
The sharp, regular hoof-beat of a trotting horse became audible—came closer. Margot advanced to the centre of the road. Renaud under the automobile, deafened by his own language, the din of tools and the escape of steam, heard nothing.
Margot gave a little scream of joy and clapped her hands, as from behind the high stone wall emerged a tall, gray horse, surmounted by a tall, gray man. “The admiral!” she gasped, gleefully, running toward him on swift and noiseless feet.
De Gerney reined in with an exclamation of surprise. “Mademoiselle! What has happened? Did that dirty machine blow you into the water? Inventions of the devil! Va!” He dismounted and approached her eagerly.
“Quick, quick!” she whispered, rippling with merriment. “Help me on your horse and you lead him! We'll take the short cut through the Malèvique grounds. I'll tell you all about it—quick! before Mr. Renaud sees!”
Mystified, but delighted, the elderly horse-marine obeyed superior orders. Margot's foot was on his open palm, her hand on his shoulder, in another instant she was balanced, light as a bird, and quite at home, on the back of the gray charger.
“You are a knight,” she announced, gravely. “and you are rescuing a demoiselle in distress from a wicked troubadour on—I mean under—a lavender palfry belonging to an enchantress who lives in a château of glass.”
The admiral looked mystified, but supremely happy. They turned in at the Malèvique gates, and took a bridle-path that wound between giant oaks.
The long, blue twilight of France had come. Though every object was clear and distinct, all had grown mysterious. One big star pricked the east above the violet hills and spreading tree-tops. The warrior and the distressed demoiselle proceeded slowly and in silence along the moss-grown path.
“First,” said Margot, breaking the stillness with melodious whispers, “there was a chief of mercenaries, who would have lain a spell upon me. Then a prayer to good Saint Cunegond brought upon the scene a seigneur, in a barque, and together we drifted upon an enchanted stream, till the seigneur pronounced a forbidden word that broke the magic. So the boat was miraculously overturned, and the rich cargo scattered—rugs of Smyrna, cushions of Tyrian purple, brocades of Damascus—but Saint Cunegond preserved us. Then came the troubadour, from whom you rescued me, and, with the caparison of his charger, he caught me as in a net, and drew me to shore. The seigneur—Saint Ragonde protect him!—went on with the stream.”
The admiral listened, spellbound and puzzled.
“The troubadour would have me ride upon his lavender steed, but the beast was possessed of a devil, and would not move. Then you came, most noble knight—” Margot looked into his eyes, and the commander of many galleons straightway struck his colors.
Again they proceeded in silence. The forest trees grew rarer. At the end of an open glade, they came upon the grille admitting to the enclosed gardens of La Bonbonnière, where fruit-trees spread flat against the sun-warmed walls, displaying green, unripened globes. A spasm of regret—the keen, romantic regret of youth—smote the admiral. His enchanted journey was at an end! He forgot his sixty years, his honorable scars, his grown-up daughters. He was a boy again.
“Reine Margot,” he began, laying a hand that trembled on the sleek neck of his horse. “I——”
“Oh!” cried the distressed demoiselle, “here we are already—almost home. Take me down. I must slip in unobserved. My mother, the Lady Lord, would question me as to my adventures.” She did not wait for assistance, but sprang lightly down, curtsied deep, held out her hand to his bewildered salute, and slipped, swift and silent as a flying mist, between the formal hedges, through the orangerie toward La Bonbonnière.