Puck — October 17, 1877 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

eae PUCK. wo fnaves and a fucon. a: AN ENGLISH STORY. By FRANK BARRETT. (This Story was begun in No. 4. Back Numbers can be obtained at the office of PUCK, 13 North William st. CHAPTER XXVIII. ENE was pleased to see M. de Gaillefon- US\_ taine; she felt the want of one who could take her out of her contemplative mood—one with an independent flow of small- talk and the ability to amuse, M. de Gaille- fontaine could talk for hours upon dagatedies, with no greater incentive than now and then “yes” or no,” to show him his hearer was interested in the variety of trifles selected for his amusement; for he was not wasteful of ma- terial. He would change his topics a dozen times to hit upon the subject of interest to his companion. Undoubtedly he had the ability to amuse. He had devoted his life to making himself pleasant to others. He knew that con- versation, to be agreeable, must be regulated with a regard to the peculiarities of the hearer, and that it were the foolishest waste of time to talk of the digestive system to the astronomer, or solar systems to the gastronomist. His pri- mary object in opening a conversation was to discover his companion’s want; that discovered, the chat he supplied never failed to please. ‘The look of apathy in René’s face before she saw him, and the smile of pleasure when he spoke, showed him her requirements and the line he was to take. It was clear he must be entertaining, and refer but lightly to the grave matters which had been harrowing him with doubt and misgiving for the past four or five weeks, He must avoid questions, and satisfy his curiosity without probing wounds. He began to talk at once, and the bright gayety of his voice was to René like the feel of brisk, frosty air after close confinement. There was unmistakable sincerity in the pleasure he expressed in again seeing her, which warmed her towards him, and overcame a certain invol- untary feeling of reserve and distrust that was habitually present to her mind in her relations with him—a feeling of which she was conscious, but at a loss to account for. Antoine was delighted—ah, so delighted!— to see once more his ancient pupil, his esteemed benefactress, his dear friend! It were grief to the servant to lose such a mistress for so long; what, then, must it be to him who had been for years her inseparable friend, who had shared her fortunes, her poverty, her hopes and fears, and the sickness of sea voyages—to lose her for whole weeks, hearing no tidings of her, fearing for her safety and health, and dreading her alienation! Almost his joy in her return made him oblivious of the pain she must have felt in the suffering of her charming protegé, the good gardener, and the inconvenience of the London climate. Away! The world turns round. Yesterday we were in shadow, to-day we see the sun! Regard! Mister the parson and his amiable wife! . . . Observe the new English fashion. We raise our hat to the tall wife with the classical nose, and she raises her eyeglass and stares in response, while Monsicur her husband sees us not. Truly the good pas- tor looks only after his sheep. M. de Gaillefontaine explained the reason of his presence in England, in disobedience to René’s wish that he should represent her in her hotel in Italy. It was thus: When her friends learnt that René had left Italy, they left also. Artists and musicians all deserted the saloon, and left him, Antoine, alone in that vast soli- tude, to read ten thousand letters of apology and adieu. Some, with the pretext of sending their pictures to the Exhibition of thefRoyal Academy—others, with the excuse of engage- ments at the Opera House in Covent Garden —had followed René to London, and were seeking her, and, ma foi! dying of vexation and ennui, M. de Gaillefontaine, like the in- trepid child Casabianca, had stood his ground when all but he had fled; and, as a servant, there he had waited until he perished, had not the feelings of one more devoted than a ser- vant impelled him to seek in England for some trace of his beloved friend. He had arrived unexpected at Riverford, hoping there to find his lamb perdu. Confusion! he found instead his Mister Fox taking tea with the housekeeper. Alas, even he knew nothing of the sought one! M. de Gaillefontaine feared to enrage René, or he would have attempted to dispel his great fears by seeking her in London; and he re- mained in Riverford, growing hourly thinner. Twice had the tailor been called to make alter- ations in the vestments. He stopped the landau on the hill that com- manded a view of the house, and calling René’s attention to the noticeable alterations, asked her if she called to mind the hour when they stood at this very point, with nothing besides the boots they stood in, those being patched, but a few shillings in their pockets, and how he had prognosticated the very changes now real- ized. The appearance of the house was entirely different. So much had been added that no- thing of the flat, box-like structure of the orig- inal was to be seen, and the building was now as light and graceful as it had previously been heavy and ugly. The grounds too were altered. The long drive, flanked by the smooth lawn, that spread generously away to the outlying av- enues, was untouched; but the ground about the house was broken up into terraces, upon which gardeners were yet working. “Flowers and beauty and wit are yet want- ing to make up the picture we drew,” said M. de Gaillefontaine. ‘‘ Nature with her flowers will be a month behind you with the other adornments.”” He watched René keenly, to see how her mind was affected by the changes he had made, and was delighted to see the animation in her face. He had been tormented with a thousand fears that, removed from his influence, she would form opinions or accept a guidance an- tagonistic to his, and subversive of the plans he was making for the future. Her evident plea- sure with the preparations made for her reas- sured him. Cautiously, but in a light, careless manner, he opened the subject of René’s in- tentions, and found her quite prepared to oc- cupy the English house at once. All M. de Gaillefontaine’s care left him in a sigh. Signor Borcatti, the famous decorator, had superintended the painting and furnishing of the house, and he conducted René through the rooms. Her interest grew to excite- ment as she passed from room to room and beheld the taste and beauty of the arrange- ments. Her progress terminated in the bijou theatre, a surprise for which she was totally un- prepared. Again M. de Gaillefontaine looked in her face with the apprehensive curiosity of a guide who has brought his tourist to the high- est ledge of the precipice. She was in a position such as probably no other girl had attained. He had taken a step which he would not have attempted with one less adventurous and bold than René. There was but one meaning for René in all these arrangements, whereby the solemn country mansion was transformed to a gay palace, which was that in future she must be queen, and hold in England a court such as had astonished Italy. The theatre was not built for silence; the fauseui/s not placed there to remain empty. “This temple,” said M. de Gaillefontaine, “T have raised in honor to your nobility. I have dared to do this on no authority but the knowledge of your high purposes. This shall bethe birthplace of great works, to live forever associated with your name. Here shall genius unfold,“and great minds reveal themselves to appreciativesouls. And you, René Biron, shall rise amidst the fraternity of art—a sister who has united the wandering brothers, and con- nected the chain of sympathetic souls!” The color heightened in René’s cheek, and her eyes flashed, whilst something like exultant superiority dwelt in the curve of her smile. Her faith was somewhat shaken in the high ideals she had formed before her Bohemian ex- perience in Italy, and she had a shrewd suspi- cion that M. de Gaillefontaine’s eloquence was not more ¢on amore than most speeches deliv- ered on “occasions;” nevertheless, she was pleasurably excited by the prospect suggested to her mind. Mirth and flattery are not unenvied by older and sager ladies than she was. At any rate, the life presented to her imagination was pre- ferable to a dull country life, and the society of a rude parson and his wife, and their ever- lasting train of ‘‘respectables.” Wit, music, art, all amidst flowers and sweet odors, and the enthusiastic admiration and gratitude of clever men—are not these good things, and worth the having? Why should René nof accept them? “When do you ring up the curtain, Mr. Manager ?” she asked, with a smile. The question was a sufficient intimation that she accepted the position, and M. de Gaille- fontaine, relieved of doubt and anxiety, laid out his plans without hesitation. In three weeks it would be the first day of June, and by that time the gardeners promised that their work should be presentable. Then, also, the foliage of the trees, the verdure of the fields, would be perfect, and the air soft and warm, In three weeks it would be quite possible to ar- range everything for a dramatic representation, and the reception and entertainment of visi- tors. Yes, on the first of June the gates of Riverford might be thrown open to the world of art, and René might assure herself that her visitors would find nothing wanting which should be found in one taking her high stand. Her faithful steward and good friend would an- swer with his honor for that. But in detail he must beg La Reine’s assistance. For example: in the matter of genius. There was more of it at_René’s disposal than her steward, with all his ingenuity, knew what to do with. It was for René to select the individuals she would honor. Of instrumentalists, more desired to perform than could be squeezed into the or- chestra; of vocalists, those who had offered to take leading parts were more than, compressed into a chorus, the stage would accmomodate. More artists clamored to paint scenes than could find place to stick a brush upon the lim- ited spread of canvas. The English artists had sent a dozen comediettas for production, and every mother’s son was capable and anxious of taking any part in anything. Nicolo Rococo- foco had written an opera expressly for the oc- casion, and Botelli Piccallilo a cantata. Per- haps, M. de Gaillefontaine suggested, La Reine would like to read a few manuscripts before dinner; but René pleaded fatigue, and was not sorry to be left alone in the repose and luxury of a room scented with mignonette, where car- pets and seats yielded to the touch, and the color reflected from walls and furniture sug- gested early morning light. Her maid brought a letter. The excitement of the last hour had thoroughly engaged her attention, and left her no thought for the past; but the letter brought back her previous senti- ment, and she opened the letter hastily and