IN THE MEANTIME Andree made active preparations for her departure, and Nicole assisted her with an ardor which quickly dissipated the little cloud that had arisen between them in the morning.
“She is a good girl,” said Andree to herself, “devoted and grateful; she has faults, but what human creature has not? Let me forget them.”
Nicole was not a girl who was slow to observe the expression of her mistress's face. “Fool that I was!” said she to herself; “I was nearly quarreling with my young lady, and all about that young good-for-nothing Gilbert! and she going to Paris, and will take me with her! One is sure of making one's fortune in Paris.”
Andree was the first to speak.
“Put my lace in a bandbox,” said she.
“Really, I don't know. Have we one at all?””
“Oh, yes—the one you gave me; it is in my room.”
And Nicole ran to bring it with an obliging air, which disposed Andree still more in her favor.
“But this bandbox is your own,” said Andree, when she reappeared with the article in her hand, “and you may want it yourself, my poor Nicole.”
“Oh, you have more need of it, mademoiselle; and besides, it ought to be yours—you lent it me.”
“When people get married and set up housekeeping, they require many little things; so just now you have most need of the box. Keep it to put your bridal finery in.”
“Oh, mademoiselle,” said Nicole, gayly, shaking her head, “my finery will not take up much room.”
“But if you marry, Nicole, I should wish you to be happy—and rich.”
“Yes, rich according to your rank.”
“Then you have found some fermier-general for me, mademoiselle?”
“No! but I have found a dowry.”
“You know what is in my purse?”
“Yes, madame; twenty-five shining louis-d'ors.”
“Twenty-five louis-d'ors!” cried Nicole with rapture; “it is indeed a fortune!”
“My poor girl! I am glad you think so.”
“And you really give them to me, madame?”
“I wish I could give you more.”
Nicole felt surprised—moved; the tears came to her eyes; she seized her young lady's hand and kissed it.
“Do you think your husband will be satisfied?”
“Oh, quite satisfied!” said Nicole. “At least. I hope so.”
She reflected that Gilbert had doubtless refused her hand through fear of poverty, and that now when she was rich matters would turn out differently. Then she determined immediately to offer him a share of her young lady's generous gift, and to attach him to her by gratitude. Such was Nicole's generous plan. Andree looked at her as she reflected. “Poor girl!” sighed she; “may she be happy in her simple life!”
Nicole heard the words and started from her reverie. They opened to her fancy a whole Eldorado of silks, diamonds, lace, and love—things of which Andree had not thought. But Nicole turned away her eyes from the gold and purple cloud brightening her horizon, and resisted the temptation. “After all, madame,” said she, “I shall be happy here—in a humble way.”
“Reflect seriously on what you are going to do.”
“Yes, mademoiselle, I shall reflect on it.”
“That is right. Make yourself happy in the way you propose, if you can; but do not be foolish.”
“You are very kind, mademoiselle. And let me say now, that I was very foolish this morning—but I hope mademoiselle will forgive me. When one is in love—
“Then you are really in love with Gilbert?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I—I loved him,” said Nicole.
“Is it possible!” said Andree, smiling. “What can you see to admire in the young man? The first time I meet him I must take a look at this M. Gilbert who steals young girls' hearts.”
“Is he not going with us to Paris, mademoiselle?” inquired Nicole, who wished to be fully informed on every point before taking the step she meditated.
“Of what use would he be there? He is not a domestic, and could not take charge of a horse in Paris. Idle people at Taverney live like the birds; however poor the soil, it feeds them. But in Paris an idle person would cost too much—we could not support him.”
“But if I marry him?” stammered Nicole.
“Well, if you marry him, you shall live here with him at Taverney. You shall take care of this house which my mother was so fond of.”
Andree pronounced these words in so firm a voice that Nicole could no longer doubt. Yet she hesitated before speaking again. Andree, seeing her hesitation, thought that her mind was wandering from the pleasures of a Parisian life to those of the quiet country, and that she knew not how to decide. So she went on gently; “Nicole, the decision which you are now to make will affect all your future life. Be not hasty; I shall give you one hour; it is little, but you are prompt, and I think it will be sufficient to enable you to choose between continuing to serve me or having a husband—between me and Gilbert.”
“An hour! Oh, yes, mademoiselle, I can decide in a hour.”
“Collect all my clothes, and my mother's! I would not leave behind those relics so dear to me. Then go, and return in an hour fully decided; but whatever your determination be, here are your twenty-five louis-d'ors. If you marry, they shall be your dowry; if you continue in my service, your wages for two years.”
Nicole took the purse from Andree's hands and kissed it. Then she completed her task—not a great one, certainly—hurried downstairs, and Andree saw her cross the courtyard and enter the avenue. Not finding Gilbert there, she flew to a window on the ground-floor, which was that of his room, and tapped at it. He was bustling about with his back to the window; but hearing her drumming, he turned, and like a thief caught in the fact, he quickly abandoned his occupation.
“Oh, is it you, Nicole?” said he.
“Yes, it is!” she replied, smiling, but with something very decided in her tone.
“You are welcome,” said he, coming forward and opening the window.
Nicole felt that there was kindness in his reception of her, and held out her hand; he took it, pressed it—” This is a good beginning,” thought she, “farewell my journey to Paris!” and to Nicole's praise, it must be said, she did not sigh at this thought.
“You know,” said the young girl, leaning her elbows on the window; “you know, Gilbert, that the family are leaving Taverney and going to Paris?”
“Well, I am to go to Paris too.”
“I did not know that; but I congratulate you if you are pleased at going.”
“I say it plainly, I think—if you are pleased at going.”
“My being pleased or not depends on you.”
“I don't understand you,” said Gilbert, seating himself on the window so that his knees touched Nicole's arm, and they could thus converse unseen and unheard.
Nicole looked at him tenderly—he shook his head, insinuating that he understood her look no more than her words.
“Well,” said she, “since all must be told, listen to what I am going to say.”
“I hear you,” replied Gilbert, coldly.
“In plain words, my young lady offers to take me to Paris with her—”
“Then you still think of getting married?” he answered, quite unmoved.
“Yes, more particularly since I have become rich.”
“Oh, you have become rich?” he asked, so phlegmatically, that Nicole knew not what to think.
“And how did that miracle come about?”
“My young lady has given me a marriage portion.”
“You are very fortunate. I congratulate you, Nicole.”
“Look!” said she, pouring out of the purse into her hand the twenty-five louis d'ors, and watching Gilbert's eyes to discover some ray of pleasure or covetousness in them.
Gilbert moved not a muscle. “On my word, it is a nice little sum!” said he.
“And that is not all,” continued Nicole. “The baron will be rich once more; the old castle will be rebuilt, and the care of it given—”
“To the fortunate husband of Nicole,” said Gilbert, with an irony not so well concealed but that it grated on Nicole's fine ear; yet she restrained her anger.
“And Nicole's husband—do you not know him?”
“Have you, then, grown stupid, or do I no longer speak French?” cried the young girl, who began to show symptoms, of impatience.
“I understand you, perfectly,” replied Gilbert; “you offer to make me your husband, do you not, Mademoiselle Legay?”
“And it is since you have become rich that you have thought of this,” returned Gilbert, hastily. “I am truly grateful to you indeed—I am indeed!”
“Well,” said Nicole, frankly, and holding out her hand, “take it!”
Nicole sprang up from her leaning position. “Gilbert,” said she, “you have a bad heart; and, trust me, what you now do will not bring you happiness. If I felt any warmer sentiment, in making the offer I have just done, than a sense of duty and honor, trust me, I would now be miserable indeed; but having become rich, I did not wish it to be said that Nicole would look down on her old friend Gilbert. However, all is now over between us.”
Gilbert made a gesture of indifference.
“What I think of your conduct in the matter, you must be well aware. I, whose character you know to be as free and independent as your own, had decided to bury myself here, from an old prepossession for you, when I had it in my power to go to Paris, which may be for me a scene of triumph! I would have borne to see before me, every day of the year, for a whole lifetime, that cold and impenetrable face, the mask of so many wicked thoughts. You have not felt that there was any sacrifice in this; so much the worse for you, Gilbert! I do not say that you will regret me; but remember, you may yet feel remorse for the contempt and scorn you have shown rue! Guided by you, I should have been a virtuous, happy, and contented woman; now, I am abandoned on the ocean of life, without a keeping or a guiding hand! Gilbert, if I fall, God will not hold you innocent of my fall! Farewell!”
And the proud young girl turned away, without anger or impatience, but having shown, as all impassioned natures do in, the time of trial, true generosity of soul.
Gilbert shut his window quietly, and returned to the mysterious occupation in which she had interrupted him.
