M onsieur Beaucaire
‘By BOOTH TARKINGTON,
Author of “The Gentleman From Indiana’ and “The
Conquest of Canaan.”
1900, by McClure, Phillips & Co.
Copyright,
[Continued from last week. [
CHAPTER IIL
WAS well agreed by the fashion of Bath that M. le
Duc de Chateaurien was a person of sensibility and
haut ton, that his retinue and equipage surpassed in
elegance, that his person was exquisite, his manner
engaging. In the company of gentlemen his ease
was slightly tinged with graciousness (his single
equal in Bath being his grace of Winterset), but it
was remarked that when he bowed over a lady’s hand his air bespoke
only a gay and tender reverence.
He was the idol of the dowagers within a week after his appear-
ance. Matrons warmed to him. Young belles looked sweetly on him,
while the gentlemen were won to admiration or envy. He was of
prodigious wealth. Old Mr. Bicksit, who dared not, for his fame’s
sake, fail to have seen all things, had visited Chateaurien under the
present duke’s father and descanted to the curious upon its grandeurs.
The young noble had one fault. He was so poor a gambler. He
cared nothing for the hazards of a die or the turn of a card. Gayly
admitting that he had been born with no spirit of adventure in him,
he was sure, he declared, that he failed of much happiness by his lack
of taste in such matters.
But he was not long wanting the occasion to prove his taste in the
matter of handling a weapon. A certain led-captain, Rohrer by name,
notorious, among other things, for bearing a dexterous and blood-
thirsty blade, came to Bath post haste one night and jostled heartily
against him in the pump room on the following morning. M. de Cha-
teaurien bowed and turned aside without offense, continuing a conver-
gation with some gentlemen near by. Captain Rohrer jostled against
him a second time. M. de Chateaurien looked him in the eye and
apologized pleasantly for being so much in the way. Thereupon
Rohrer procured an introduction to him and made some observations
derogatory to the valor and virtue of the French.
There was current a curious piece of gossip of the French court:
7A prince of the blood royal, grandson of the late regent and second
in the line of succession to the throne of France, had rebelled against
the authority of Louis XV., who had commanded him to marry the
Princess Henrietta, cousin to both of them. The princess was re-
ported to be openly devoted to the cousin who refused to accept her
hand at the bidding of the king, and, as rumor ran, the prince's ca-
price elected in preference the discipline of Vincennes, to which re-
tirement the furious king had consigned him. The story was the
staple gossip of all polite Europe, and Captain Rohrer, having in his
mind a purpose to make use of it in leading up to a statement that
should be general to the damage of all Frenchwomen and which a
Frenchman might not pass over as he might a jog of the elbow, re-
peated it with garbled truths to make a scandal of a story which bore
none on a plain relation.
He did not reach his deduction. M. de Chateaurien, breaking into
his narrative, addressed him very quietly. “Monsieur,” he said,
“none but swine deny the nobleness of that good and gentle lady,
Mlle. la Princesse de Bourbon-Conti. Every Frenchman know’ that
her cousin is a bad rebel and ingrate, who had only honor and rispec’
for her, but was so willful he could not let even the king say, ‘You
shall marry here, you shall marry there.’ My frien’s,” the young
man turned to the others, “may I ask you to close roun’ in a circle for
one moment? It is clearly shown that the Duke of Orleans is a scurvy
fellow, but not”—he wheeled about and touched Captain Rohrer on
the brow with the back of his gloved hand—“but not so scurvy as
thou, thou swine of the gutter!”
Two hours later, with perfect ease, he ran Captain Rohrer through
the left shoulder, after which he sent a basket of red roses to the
Duke of Winterset. In a few days he had another captain to fight.
This was a ruffling buck who had the astounding indiscretion to pro-
claim M. de Chateaurien an imposter. There was no Chateaurien, he
swore. The Frenchman laughed in his face and, at twilight of the
same day, pinked him carefully through the right shoulder. It was
not that he could not put aside the insult to himself, he declared to
Mr. Molyneux, his second, and the few witnesses, as he handed his
wat sword to his lackey—one of his station could not be insulted by a
«doubt of that station—but he fought in the quarrel of his friend Win-
terset. This rascal had asserted that M. le Duc had introduced an
imposter. Could he overlook the insult to a friend, one to whom he
owed his kind reception in Bath? Then, bending over his fallen ad-
versary, he whispered, “Naughty man, tell your master find some
_ better quarrel for the nex’ he sen’ agains’ me.”
The conduct of M. de Chateaurien was pronounced admirable.
‘There was no surprise when the young foreigner fell naturally
into the long train of followers of the beautiful Lady Mary Carlisle
nor was there great astonishment that he should obtain marked favor
in her eyes, shown so plainly that my Lord Townbrake, Sir Hugh
Guilford and the rich Squire Bantison, all of whom had followed her
through three seasons, swore with rage, and his grace of Winterset
stalked from her aunt’s house with black brows.
Meeting the duke there on the evening after his second encounter,
de Chateaurien smiled upon him brilliantly. “It was badly done, oh,
so badly!” he whispered. “Can you afford to have me strip’ of my
mask by any but yourself? You, who introduce’ me? They will say
there is some bad scandal that I could force you to be my godfather.
You mus’ get the courage yourself.”
“I told you a rose had a short life,” was the answer.
“Qh, those roses! ’Tis the very greates’ rizzon to gather each
day a fresh one.” He took a red bud from his breast for an instant
and touched it to his lips.
“M. de Chateaurien!” It was Lady Mary’s voice. She stood at a
table where a vacant place had been left beside her. “M. de Chateau-
rien, we have been waiting very long for you.”
and he lost countenance for a moment.
“We approach a climax, eh, monsieur ”” said M. de Chateaurien.
CHAPTER IV.
was radiant over town and country, over cobbled
mists rose slowly, and the air was mild and fragrant,
while distances were white and full of mystery. All
of Bath that pretended to fashion or condition was
present that evening at a fete at the house of a
country gentleman of the neighborhood. When the stately junket
was concluded it was the pleasure of M. de Chateaurien to form one
#1 the escort ot Lady Mary's carriage for the »eturn. As tney took
the road Sir Hugh Guilford and Mr. Bantison, engaging in indistinct |
but vigorous remonstrance with Mr. Molyneux over some matter, fell
fifty or more paces behind, where they continued to ride, keeping up
their argument. Half a dozen other gallants rode in advance, mut- |
tering among themselves, or attended laxly upon Lady Mary's aunt
on the other side of the coach, while the happy Frenchman was per-
mitted to ride close to that adorable window which framed the fairest |
face in England.
He sang for her a little French song, a song of the voyageur who
dreamed of home. The lady, listening, looking up at the bright moon,
felt a warm drop upon her cheek, and he saw the tears sparkling upon
her lashes.
“Mademoiselle,” he whispered then, “I, too, have been a wan-
derer, but my dreams were not of France; no, I do not dream of that
home, of that dear country. It is of a dearer country, a dream coun-
try—a country of gold and snow,” he cried softly, looking at her
white brow and the fair, lightly powdered hair above it. “Gold and
snow and the blue sky of a lady’s eyes!”
“T had thought the ladies of France were dark, sir.”
“Cruel! It is that she will not understan’! Have I speak of the
ladies of France? No, no, no! It is of the faires’ country—yes, ’tis
a province of heaven, mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my alle-
giance to France? Oh, yes! Iam subjec’—no, content to be slave—
in the lan’ of the blue sky, the gold and the snow.”
“A very pretty figure,” answered Lady Mary, her eyes downcast.
“But does it not hint a notable experience in the making of such
speeches ?”
“Tormentress! No. It prove’ only the inspiration it is to know,
you.”
“We English ladies hear plenty of the like, sir, and we even grow.
brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the cour-
tesies of our own gallants.”
“Merci! I should believe so!” ejaculated M. de Chateaurien, but
he smothered the words upon his lips.
Her eyes were not lifted.” She went on: “We come, in time, to,
believe that truc feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that;
smoothness betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true—
your true”— She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply and
halting to a full stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
“Your—true—Ilover,” he said huskily.
word both trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the
coach.
“T know wha. make’ you to doubt me,” he said, faltering himself,
though it was not his art that prompted him. “They have tol’ you
the French do nothing al-ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, you
think T am like that. You think I am like that now!” :
She made no sign.
“I suppose,” he sighed, “I am unriz’nable.
snow not so col’—for jus’ me.”
She did not answer.
“Turn to me,” he said.
The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance
the faint, clear note of a hunting horn.
“Turn to me.”
The lovely head was bent very low. Her little gloved hand lay,
upon the narrow window ledge. He laid his own gently upon it. The
two hands were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers was not:
drawn away. After a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the
warm fingers turn and clasp themselves tremulously about his own.
‘At last she looked up bravely and met his eyes. The horn was wound!
again—nearer.
“All the cold was gone from the snows—long ago,” she said.
“My beautiful!” he whispered. It was all he could say. “My,
beautiful!” But she clutched his arm, startled.
“*Ware the road!” A wild halloo sounded ahead. The horn
wound loudly. “’Ware the road!” There sprang up out of the night
a flying thunder of hoof beats. The gentlemen riding idly in front of
the coach scattered to the hedge sides, and, with drawn swords flash-
{ng in the moon, a party of horsemen charged down the highway, their
cries blasting the night.
“Barber! Kill the barber!” they screamed.
barber !”
Beaucaire had but time to draw his sword when they were upon
him.
“A moi!” his voice rang out clearly as he rose in his stirrups.
“A moi, Francois, Louis, Berquin! A moi, Francois!”
The cavaliers came straight at him. He parried the thrust of the
first, but the shock of collision hurled his horse against the side of tho
coach.
“Sacred swine!” he cried bitterly. “To endanger a lady, to make,
this brawl in a lady’s presence! Drive on!” he shouted.
“No!” cried Lady Mary.
The Frenchman’s assailants were masked, but they were not high-
waymen. “Barber! Barber!” they shouted hoarsely and closed in|
on him in a circle.
“See how he use’ his steel!” laughed M. Beaucaire, as his point,
passed through a tawdry waistcoat. For a moment he cut through the’
ring and cleared a space about him, and Lady Mary saw his face shin-
ing in the moonlight. “Canaille!” he hissed as his horse sank beneath
him, and, though guarding his head from the rain of blows from
above, he managed to drag headlong from his saddle the man who had
hamstrung the poor brute. The fellow came suddenly to the ground’
and lay there.
“Ts it not a compliment,” said a heavy voice, “to bring six large
{Continued on page 7]
I would have the
“Barber! Kill the
The duke saw the look she did not know she gave the Frenchman, |
HERE fell a clear September night, when the moon |
streets and winding roads. From the fields the |
When he had said that |
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