A broken blossom, vol. 2 of 3

The goûter was laid in a long narrow room, which evidently had once been a banqueting hall. Remnants of exquisitely stained glass still ornamented its windows, although the ravages made in them by time had been replaced by ordinary white panes. Tall, straight-backed chairs, carved in black oak, and furnished with green cushions, the embossed velvet covering of which was both faded and rent, stood at the table for our accommodation, whilst from the panelling of the walls looked down upon us an almost obliterated collection of the Baron’s ancestors.

Although the summer sun was shining through the windows, casting rainbow lights of ruby and violet and amber over the damask tablecloth, and the roses and clematis were hanging in clusters about the casement, there was a weird unearthly feeling about this chamber that made me shudder.

An artist would have fallen into raptures over the old oaken floors and wainscoting; the leash of wolfhounds that lay stretched out blinking in the sunshine, and watching their master’s eye as for a revelation; the fragments of stained glass; the blackened ancestors. But to me, the aspect of the whole place spelt Ruin, and I feared lest our host should read my feelings in my face.

That did not, however, seem likely. There he sat at the head of the table, dispensing his simple hospitality as though he had been entertaining crowned heads at a royal banquet. He made no apology for the repast he offered us. It was the best he had to give, and he credited us with too much good taste to wish it better. When he pledged us in the vin ordinaire of the country, poured into the most delicate of Venetian wineglasses, the slender stems of which were encircled by a tiny twist of blue and their bowls dotted with specks of gold, he might have been a prince drinking to his courtiers in a vintage of fabulous value. Those glasses alone were a marvel in themselves, and, mere fragmentary remains as they were of a past glory, told tales of what that glory must have been.

I thought, as I balanced mine between my finger and thumb, what an exquisite specimen of workmanship it was, and how I should like to possess it and keep it in my bedroom for my own delectation, to place the first violets of spring in, or the first lilies of summer. It looked so much too fragile and precious to be handled for ordinary purposes.

I was thinking thus, when some one spoke to me—the Baron himself, perhaps—and I was startled into letting the wineglass slip from my hand. It struck the table and was shivered into a thousand fragments. I blushed to scarlet. Had the accident happened in the house of an ordinary host, I should have thought little of it, but to Monsieur le Baron, who was so poor! I tried to stammer out an apology, but the words failed on my lips. Mr. Lovett saw my embarrassment, and laughed heartily at it. I had already commenced to find out that his notions were beyond his means, and that he did not sympathise very strongly with any ideas of economy or restriction.

Tessie and Ange looked as concerned as I did. The Baron alone continued the conversation as if nothing had occurred. But I could not allow the matter to rest there.

‘Monsieur!’ I said, ‘I am so very sorry. I was only just thinking how beautiful this little glass was, and how much too delicate to hold anything except spring flowers.’

‘Then I am sorry also, mademoiselle! But was that the only one of the pattern you admire? Cannot we find another that will do as well to hold your blossoms?’

I remonstrated with this proposal, although he made Denise bring the remainder of her stock of glasses and spread them out upon the table before us. There they sparkled in their prismatic hues of blue and red and gold, and their elegant fragile shapes and twisted stems. But I refused to do more than look at them. I was too clumsy, I averred, to be the possessor of such delicate things. One such injury to art, as I had done that day, was enough for me!

The Baron did not press the point, but, as we had finished luncheon, he unleashed his hounds, and, calling them to follow us, led the way into the tangled wilderness he called his garden. As we passed the stables and coachhouse, I perceived that they were shut up and empty. Their owner had not even the means sufficient to keep a riding-horse for himself. As I glanced at his noble bearing and pictured the luxury in which he had probably been reared, I did feel intense pity for his lonely and impoverished condition.

‘We must not forget the object for which you honoured the château with a visit,’ he said as we traversed the grounds, which were of some extent, ‘which was to ascertain if any life remains in the poor old organ; but I must show you my pet first.’

He pushed aside the trailing branches of the bushes as he spoke, and led the way up to a large cave, or den, surrounded by a palisade of stout wood. Inside it, running restlessly up and down, was a splendid wolf of the Piron breed. We girls rather shrunk back as we came in sight of the animal.

‘You need not be in the slightest degree alarmed, mesdemoiselles,’ said our host; ‘for the palings are very strong, and “L’Empereur” is wonderfully tame!’ And, in proof of his assertion, the Baron walked up to the palisades and stroked the wolf’s head. ‘_Eh bien, mon ami!_’ he exclaimed, ‘are you glad to see me again? It is some time since I have paid you a visit, mon pauvre Empereur.’

‘Monsieur, where did you get him?’ asked Ange.

‘I shot his mother in the forest, Mademoiselle Ange, two years ago. Empereur was then a little cub, of perhaps a month or six weeks old. He was easily caught, and I brought him home and kept him in the château, until he took to biting the heels of Denise rather too vigorously as she went about her work, and I was compelled to have this apartment erected for him out of doors.’

‘He is a strange pet to keep,’ I observed.

‘So several people have told me; but Empereur and I have sympathies in common. His estates, like mine, have been confiscated; for, since St. Pucelle has been a town, the wolves have been driven farther and farther back into the interior of the forest of Piron. Then he is solitary, and so am I; and his misfortunes make him savage, as mine have done to me; and we thirst in common, I think, for the blood of our enemies, and choose the night-time to moan over our wrongs. Is it not so, Empereur?’ concluded the Baron, with a forced laugh, as he thrust his hand again between the open palings, and rubbed the head of his favourite.

‘And a wolf is your family crest, is it not, monsieur?’ I said, with a view to cover the Baron’s last remark, which had made us all feel rather uncomfortable.

‘True, mademoiselle. It was granted to be borne by my ancestor, Godefroi de Nesselrode, and his descendants, by one of the first Ducs de Nemours. The Duc and De Nesselrode were riding, unattended and unarmed, when an assassin made an attempt upon the life of the former. His first shot, however, failed; and, before he had time to fire a second time, my ancestor had leapt from his horse and flown at his throat, never leaving hold until he had strangled him where he lay. As a wolf will invariably fly at the throat of a man, if it is possible to do so, his princely master, the Duc de Nemours, was pleased to command that that animal should be carried as a crest upon the helmets of the De Nesselrodes from that time forward.’

‘It was a very brave thing for your ancestor to do,’ said Tessie.

‘He could hardly have done anything else,’ replied the Baron, quietly. ‘But would it be agreeable to you now, mesdemoiselles, to try the organ we have spoken of?’

‘Yes, yes; let us return to the house,’ interposed Mr. Lovett. ‘It is too hot to stand about, so early in the afternoon.’

The fact is, the old gentleman had made an excellent luncheon, and began to miss the nap which he invariably took at that hour of the day. So, his will being law to all of us, we retraced our footsteps to the château, and were introduced to what had originally been its private chapel. But what a desecration appeared to have taken place there!

The altar was disrobed and bare, and what ornaments it had possessed had vanished. Over it hung a crucifix, covered with a layer of dust an inch in thickness. On one side was erected a little altar to the Virgin. Her statue still rested there, on a cloth of what had been white silk, now brown with dirt and age, with the yellow lace hanging from it in tattered fragments. A dusty wreath of artificial flowers stood before it, and a little lamp which still held the rancid remains of oil. A row of oak benches was on either side the altar; but, beyond what I have mentioned, and a few votive offerings of little value which hung against the wall, all traces of this place having been one of prayer had disappeared. As we entered it, Ange gave vent to an exclamation of dismay.

‘Oh, monsieur! why do you not have this chapel properly cleaned, and kept in order——?’ But there the child stopped, remembering his poverty.

‘To what intent, mademoiselle?’ he asked her.

‘Oh, because—because—it has been so beautiful!’ she replied. ‘Papa, what would we not give to have this chapel carried down into St. Pucelle, and to use it for our services, instead of the schoolroom? Does it not seem ten thousand pities that it should be wasted like this?’

Mr. Lovett had already ensconced himself on the corner of one of the benches, and put two cushions at his back, preparatory to passing into the land of dreams.

‘A great pity, my little maid,’ he answered, sleepily. ‘But I am not sure how De Nesselrode would approve of your carrying it off, nevertheless.’ And then he gave two huge yawns, and closed his eyes.

‘It will all be restored some day,’ I said cheerily, ‘and made more beautiful, perhaps, than it was before.’

‘Do you think so, mademoiselle?’ inquired the Baron of me.

‘I hope so, monsieur. And what a fine organ! If its tone is only as good as its appearance, we shall have a treat.’

‘It has not been touched for years,’ he said, as he opened it, ‘until I told Denise to dust it for you this morning.’

Tessie seated herself at the instrument, and commenced to play some passages from the ‘Stabat Mater,’ whilst I worked the bellows for her. The organ had been left to the tender mercies of so many winters, that its tone left a good deal to be desired. Still, it was a very fine instrument, and only required a few fires and regular practice to bring it once more into working order. I was wondering to myself what this visit would lead to, and if Tessie would receive an invitation to come up to the château and play the organ, until she had played herself into the owner’s heart, when I found that the owner had crept round to the back of the instrument, and was standing beside the bellows and myself.

Ange was busily engaged setting the Virgin’s altar in order, and dusting the ornaments with her pocket-handkerchief; Mr. Lovett was slumbering blissfully on the oaken seat, and the notes of the ‘Mater Dolorosa’ were still pealing out from under Tessie’s skilful fingers.