 |
|
|
|
|
 | The prose works of N.P. Willis |  |
THE BELLE OF THE BELFRY;
OR, THE DARING LOVER.
A grisette is something else beside a “mean girl”
or a “gray gown,” the French dictionary to the contrary
notwithstanding. Bless me! you should see the
grisettes of Rochepot! And if you wished to take a
lesson in political compacts, you should understand
the grisette confederacy of Rochepot! They were
working-girls, it is true—dressmakers, milliners, shoe-binders,
tailoresses, flowermakers, embroideresses—
and they never expected to be anything more aristocratic.
And in that content lay their power.
The grisettes of Rochepot were a good fourth of
the female population. They had their jealousies,
and little scandals, and heart-burnings, and plottings,
and counterplottings (for they were women) among
themselves. But they made common cause against
the enemy. They would bear no disparagement.
They knew exactly what was due to them, and what
was due to their superiors, and they paid and gave
credit in the coin of good manners, as can not be done
in countries of “liberty and equality.” Still there
were little shades of difference in the attention shown
them by their employers, and they worked twice as
much in a day when sewing for Madame Durozel,
who took her dinner with them, sans façon in the
work-room, as for old Madame Chiquette, who dined
all alone in her grand saloon, and left them to eat by
themselves among their shreds and scissors. But
these were not slights which they seriously resented.
Wo only to the incautious dame who dared to scandalize
one of their number, or dispute her dues, or
encroach upon her privileges! They would make
Rochepot as uncomfortable for her, parbleu! as a
kettle to a slow-boiled lobster.
But the prettiest grisette of Rochepot was not often
permitted to join her companions in their self-chaperoned
excursions on the holydays. Old Dame
Pomponney was the sexton's widow, and she had the
care of the great clock of St. Roch, and of one only
daughter; and excellent care she took of both her
charges. They lived all three in the belfry—dame,
clock, and daughter—and it was a bright day for
Thénais when she got out of hearing of that “tick,
tick, tick,” and of the thumping of her mother's
cane on the long staircase, which always kept time
with it.
Not that old Dame Pomponney had any objection
to have her daughter convenably married. She had
been deceived in her youth (or so it was whispered)
by a lover above her condition, and she vowed, by the
cross on her cane, that her daughter should have no
sweetheart above a journeyman mechanic. Now the
romance of the grisettes (parlons bas!) was to have
one charming little flirtation with a gentleman before
they married the leather-apron—just to show that,
had they by chance been born ladies, they could have
played their part to the taste of their lords. But it
was at this game that Dame Pomponney had burnt her
fingers, and she had this one subject for the exercise
of her powers of mortal aversion.
When I have added that, four miles from Roche
pot, stood the château de Brevanne, and that the old
Count de Brevanne was a proud aristocrat of the an
cien régime, with one son, the young Count Felix,
whom he had educated at Paris, I think I have prepared
you tolerably for the little romance I have to
tell you.
It was a fine Sunday morning that a mounted hussar
appeared in the street of Rochepot. The grisettes
were all abroad in their holyday parure, and the gay
soldier soon made an acquaintance with one of them
at the door of the inn, and informed her that he had
been sent on to prepare the old barracks for his troop.
The hussars were to be quartered a month at Rochepot.
Ah! what a joyous bit of news! And six officers
beside the colonel! And the trumpeters were
miracles at playing quadrilles and waltzes! And not
a plain man in the regiment—except always the
speaker. And none, except the old colonel, had ever
been in love in his life. But as this last fact required
to be sworn to, of course he was ready to kiss the
book—or, in the absence of the bock, the next most
sacred object of his adoration.
“Finissez donc, Monsieur!” exclaimed his pretty
listener, and away she ran to spread the welcome intelligence
with its delightful particulars.
The next day the troop rode into Rochepot, and
formed in the great square in front of St. Roch; and
by the time the trumpeters had played themselves red
in the face, the hussars were all appropriated, to a
man—for the grisettes knew enough of a marching
regiment to lose no time. They all found leisure to
pity poor Thénais, however, for there she stood in
one of the high windows of the belfry, looking down
on the gay crowd below, and they knew very well
that old Dame Pomponney had declared all soldiers
to be gay deceivers, and forbidden her daughter to
stir into the street while they were quartered at
Rochepot.
Of course the grisettes managed to agree as to each
other's selection of a sweetheart from the troop, and
of course each hussar thankfully accepted the pair of
eyes that fell to him. For, aside from the limited
duration of their stay, soldiers are philosophers, and
know that “life is short,” and it is better to “take the
goods the gods provide.” But “after everybody was
helped,” as they say at a feast, there appeared another
short jacket and foraging cap, very much to the relief
of red-headed Susette, the shoebinder, who had
been left out in the previous allotment. And Susette
made the amiable accordingly, but to no purpose, for
the lad seemed an idiot with but one idea—looking
for ever at St. Roch's clock to know the time of day!
The grisettes laughed and asked their sweethearts his
name, but they significantly pointed to their foreheads
and whispered something about poor Robertin's being
a privileged follower of the regiment and a protegé of
the colonel.
Well, the grisettes flirted, and the old clock of St.
Roch ticked on, and Susette and Thénais, the plainest
and the prettiest girl in the village, seemed the
only two who were left out in the extra dispensation
of lovers. And poor Robertin still persisted in occupying
most of his leisure with watching the time
of day.
It was on the Sunday morning after the arrival of
the troop that old Dame Pomponney went up, as
usual, to do her Sunday's duty in winding up the
clock. She had previously locked the belfry door to
be sure that no one entered below while she was
above; but—the Virgin help us!—on the top stair,
gazing into the machinery of the clock with absorbed
attention, sat one of those devils of hussars! “Thief,”
“vagabond,” and “house-breaker,” were the most
moderate epithets with which Dame Pomponney accompanied
the enraged beating of her stick on the
resounding platform. She was almost beside herself
with rage. And Thénais had been up to dust the
wheels of the clock! And how did she know that
that scélérat of a trooper was not there all the time!
But the intruder, whose face had been concealed
till now, turned suddenly round and began to gibber
and grin like a possessed monkey. He pointed at the
clock, imitated the “tick, tick, tick,” laughed till the
big bell gave out an echo like a groan, and then suddenly
jumped over the old dame's stick and ran down
stairs.
“Eh, Sainte Vierge!” exclaimed the old dame, “it's
a poor idiot after all! And he has stolen up to see
what made the clock tick! Ha! ha! ha! Well!—
well! I can not come up these weary stairs twice a
day, and I must wind up the clock before I go down
to let him out. `Tick, tick, tick!'—poor lad! poor
ad! They must have dressed him up to make fun
of him—those vicious troopers! Well!—well!”
And with pity in her heart, Dame Pomponney hobbled
down, stair after stair, to her chamber in the
square turret of the belfry, and there she found the
poor idiot on his knees before Thénais, and Thénais
was just preparing to put a skein of thread over his
thumbs, for she thought she might make him useful
and amuse him with the winding of it till her mother
came down. But as the thread got vexatiously entangled,
and the poor lad sat as patiently as a wooden
reel, and it was time to go below to mass, the dame
thought she might as well leave him there till she
came back, and down she stumped, locking the door
very safely behind her.
Poor Thénais was very lonely in the belfry, and
Dame Pomponney, who had a tender heart where her
duty was not involved, rather rejoiced when she returned,
to find an unusual glow of delight on her
daughter's cheek; and if Thénais could find so much
pleasure in the society of a poor idiot lad, it was a
sign, too, that her heart was not gone altogether after
those abominable troopers. It was time to send the
innocent youth about his business, however, so she
gave him a holyday cake and led him down stairs and
dismissed him with a pat on his back and a strict injunction
never to venture again up to the “tick, tick,
tick.” But as she had had a lesson as to the accessibility
of her bird's nest, she determined thenceforth
to lock the door invariably and carry the key in her
pocket.
While poor Robertin was occupied with his researches
into the “tick, tick, tick,” never absent a
day from the neighborhood of the tower, the more
fortunate hussars were planning to give the grisettes
a fête champétre. One of the saints' days was coming
round, and, the weather permitting, all the vehicles
of the village were to be levied, and, with the troop-hourses
in harness, they were to drive to a small wooded
valley in the neighborhood of the château de
Brevanne, where seclusion and a mossy carpet of
grass were combined in a little paradise for such enjoyment.
The morning of this merry day dawned, at last,
and the grisettes and their admirers were stirring be-times,
for they were to breakfast sur l'herbe, and they
were not the people to turn breakfast into dinner. The
sky was clear, and the dew was not very heavy on the
grass, and merrily the vehicles rattled about the town,
picking up their fair freights from its obscurest corners.
But poor Thénais looked out, a sad prisoner,
from her high window in the belfry.
It was a half hour after sunrise and Dame Pomponney
was creeping up stairs after her matins, thanking
Heaven that she had been firm in her refusals—at
least twenty of the grisettes having gathered about
her, and pleaded for a day's freedom for her imprisoned
daughter. She rested on the last landing but one
to take a little breath—but hark!—a man's voice talking
in the belfry! She listened again, and quietly
slipped her feet out of her high-heeled shoes. The
voice was again audible—yet how could it be! She
knew that no one could have passed up the stair, for
the key had been kept in her pocket more carefully
than usual, and, save by the wings of one of her own
pigeons, the belfry window was inaccessible, she was
sure. Still the voice went on in a kind of pleading
murmur, and the dame stole softly up in her stockings,
and noiselessly opened the door. There stood
Thénais at the window, but she was alone in the room.
At the same instant the voice was heard again, and
sure now that one of those desperate hussars had
climbed the tower, and unable to control her rage at
the audacity of the attempt, Dame Pomponney clutched
her cane and rushed forward to aim a blow at the
military cap now visible at the sill of the window.
But at the same instant the head of the intruder was
thrown back, and the gibbering and idiotic smile of
poor Robertin checked her blow in its descent, and
turned all her anger into pity. Poor, silly lad! he
had contrived to draw up the garden ladder and place
it upon the roof of the stone porch below, to climb
and offer a flower to Thénais! Not unwilling to have
her daughter's mind occupied with some other thought
than the forbidden excursion, the dame offered her
hand to Robertin and drew him gently in at the window.
And as it was now market-time she bid Thénais
be kind to the poor boy, and locking the door
behind her, trudged contentedly off with her stick and
basket.
I am sorry to be obliged to record an act of filial
disobedience in the heroine of my story. An hour
after, Thénais was welcomed with acclamations as she
suddenly appeared with Robertin in the midst of the
merry party of grisettes. With Robertin—not as he
had hitherto been seen, his cap on the back of his
head and his under lip hanging loose like an idiot's—
but with Robertin, gallant, spirited, and gay, the handsomest
of hussars, and the most joyous of companions.
And Thénais, spite of her hasty toilet and the cloud
of conscious disobedience which now and then shaded
her sweet smile, was, by many degrees, the belle of
the hour; and the palm of beauty, for once in the
world at least, was yielded without envy. The grisettes
dearly love a bit of romance, too, and the circumventing
of old Dame Pomponney by his ruse of
idiocy, and the safe extrication of the prettiest girl
of the village from that gloomy old tower, was quite
enough to make Robertin a hero, and his sweetheart
Thénais more interesting than a persecuted princess.
And, seated on the ground while their glittering
cavaliers served them with breakfast, the light-hearted
grisettes of Rochepot were happy enough to be envied
by their betters. But suddenly the sky darkened,
and a slight gust murmuring among the trees, announced
the coming up of a summer storm. Sauve
qui peut! The soldiers were used to emergencies,
and they had packed up and reloaded their cars and
were under way for shelter almost as soon as the
grisettes, and away they all fled toward the nearest
grange—one of the dependencies of the château de
Brevanne.
But Robertin, now, had suddenly become the director
and ruling spirit of the festivities. The soldiers
of the grange hurried out with his keys and unlocked
the great storehouse, and disposed of the horses under
shelter; and by the time the big drops began to
fall, the party were dancing gayly and securely on the
dry and smooth thrashing-floor, and the merry harmony
of the martial trumpets and horns rang out far
and wide through the gathering tempest.
The rain began to come down very heavily, and the
clatter of a horse's feet in a rapid gallop was heard in
one of the pauses in the waltz. Some one seeking
shelter, no doubt. On went the bewitching music
again, and at this moment two or three couples ceased
waltzing, and the floor was left to Robertin and Thénais,
whose graceful motions drew all eyes upon them
in admiration. Smiling in each other's faces, and
wholly unconscious of any other presence than their
own, they whirled blissfully around—but there was
now another spectator. The horseman who had been
heard to approach, had silently joined the party, and
making a courteous gesture to signify that the dancing
was not to be interrupted, he smiled back the
courtesies of the pretty grisettes—for, aristocratic as
he was, he was a polite man to the sex, was the Count
de Brevanne.
“Felix!” he suddenly cried out, in a tone of surprise
and anger.
The music stopped at that imperative call, and
Robertin turned his eyes, astonished, in the direction
from which it came.
The name was repeated from lip to lip among the
grisettes, “Felix!” “Count Felix de Brevanne!”
But without deigning another word, the old man
pointed with his riding-whip to the farm-house. The
disguised count respectfully bowed his head, but held
Thénais by the hand and drew her gently with him.
“Leave her! disobedient boy!” exclaimed the
father.
But as Count Felix tightened his hold upon the
small hand he held, and Thénais tried to shrink back
from the advancing old man, old Dame Pomponney,
streaming with rain, broke in unexpectedly upon the
scene.
“Disgrace not your blood,” said the Count de Brevanne
at that moment.
The offending couple stood alone in the centre of
the floor, and the dame comprehended that her daughter
was disparaged.
“And who is disgraced by dancing with my daughter?”
she screamed with furious gesticulation.
The old noble made no answer, but the grisettes,
in an under tone, murmured the name of Count
Felix!
“Is it he—the changeling! the son of a poor gardener,
that is disgraced by the touch of my daughter?”
A dead silence followed this astounding exclamation.
The old dame had forgotten herself in her rage,
and she looked about with a terrified bewilderment—
but the mischief was done. The old man stood aghast.
Count Felix clung still closer to Thénais, but his
face expressed the most eager inquisitiveness. The
grisettes gathered around Dame Pomponney, and the
old count, left standing and alone, suddenly drew his
cloak about him and stepped forth into the rain; and
in another moment his horse's feet were heard clattering
away in the direction of the château de Brevanne.
We have but to tell the sequel.
The incautious revelation of the old dame turned
out to be true. The dying infant daughter of the
Marchioness de Brevanne had been changed for the
healthy son of the count's gardener, to secure an heir
to the name and estates of the nearly extinct family
of Brevanne. Dame Pomponney had assisted in
this secret, and but for her heart full of rage at the
moment, to which the old count's taunt was but the
last drop, the secret would probably have never been
revealed. Count Felix, who had played truant from
his college at Paris, to come and hunt up some of his
childish playfellows, in disguise, had remembered and
disclosed himself to the little Thénais, who was not
sorry to recognise him, while he played the idiot in
the belfry. But of course there was now no obstacle
to their union, and united they were. The old count
pardoned him, and gave the new couple a portion of
his estate, and they named their first child Robertin,
as was natural enough.
| The prose works of N.P. Willis | |