University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE LUCK OF JACQUES.

BELLE-BOUCHE was busily at work upon a piece
of embroidery when Jacques entered; and this embroidery
was designed for a fire-screen. It represented
a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background uniformly
emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover
dwelt wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different
colors from a tortoise-shell work-box filled with
spools of silk.

Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer
with a frank smile, and held out her hand, which poor
Jacques pressed to his lips with melancholy pleasure.

“I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some
graceful occupation,” he said mournfully; “she is either
reading the poets, or writing poetry herself in all the
colors of the rainbow.”

The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a
smile.

“Oh, no,” she said; “I am only working a screen.”

“It is very pretty.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual
dried up like a fountain at midsummer. He made a
desperate effort.

“I thought I heard you singing as I entered,” he said.

“Yes, I believe I was,” smiled Belle-bouche.

“What music was so happy?” Jacques sighed.
Belle-bouche laughed.

“A child's song,” she said.

“Pray what?”

“ `Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.' ”

“A most exquisite air,” sighed Jacques; “please
commence again.”

“But I have finished.”

“Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche;
see how unfortunate I am—pray pardon me.”

“Willingly,” said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate
blush.

“I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near
you,” he said tenderly.

“Why? because you find me very idle?”

“Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of
sylvan queens—dryads and oreads and naiads,” said the
classic Jacques; “and you are like them.”

“Like a dryad?”

“They were very beautiful.”

Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her
blushes bent over the screen. Jacques sighed.

“Chloes are dead, however,” he murmured, “and
the reed of Pan is still. The fanes of Arcady are
desolate.”

And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy
Jacques was silent.

“Do you like `My Arcady?' ” asked Belle-bouche;
“I think it very pretty.”

“It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it,”
sighed poor Corydon.

Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spin
net, sat down and played the prelude.

Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.

“Please hand me the music,” said Belle-bouche;
“there in the scarlet binding.”

Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the
young girl's hand touched his own, and he uttered a
sigh which might have melted rocks. The reason was,
that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though it
has probably appeared before.

Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and
melodious flowers. Its melting involutions and expiring
cadences unwound themselves and floated from her lips
like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.

As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have
supposed that his nerves were steeped in the liquid
melody—or at times, when he started, that the music
came over him like a shower bath of perfume.

His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when
she turned and smiled on him, he almost staggered.

“Now,” said Belle-bouche smiling softly, “suppose I
sing something a little merrier. You know the minuet
always gives place to the reel.”

Jacques uttered an expiring assent, and Belle-bouche
commenced singing with her laughing voice the then
popular ditty, “Pretty Betty Martin, tip-toe fine.”

If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now.
The joyous and exhilarating music sparkled, glittered,
fell in rosy showers—rattled like liquid diamonds and
dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and ran—and stumbling
over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in
shattered cadences and fiery foam.

When she ended, Jacques remained silent, and was
only waked, so to speak, by hearing his name pronounced.

“Yes,” he said at random.

Belle-Bouche laughed.

“You agree with me, then, that my voice is wretchedly
out of tune?” she said mischievously.

Poor Jacques only sighed and blushed.

“Betty Martin was a foolish girl,” said Belle-bouche,
laughing to hide her embarrassment.

“How?” murmured Jacques.

Belle-bouche found that she was involved in a delicate
explanation; but thinking boldness the best, she replied:

“Because she could not find just the husband she
wanted. You know the song says so—`some were too
coarse and some too fine.' ”

“Yes,” murmured Jacques; “and 't is often the case
with us poor fellows. We seldom find the Chloe we
want—she flies us ever spite of our attempts to clasp her
to our hearts.”

“That is not because Chloe is fickle, but because Corydon
is so difficult to please,” Belle-bouche replied, with
a sly little smile.

“Ah! I am not!” he sighed.

“Indeed, you are mistaken; I'm sure you are a very
fastidious shepherd.”

“No, no. True, I may never find my Chloe; but
when I do, then I shall no longer be my own master.”

Belle-bouche hesitated, blushed, and said quickly:

“Perhaps you long to meet with an angel.”

“Oh, no—only a woman,” said Jacques; “and if you
will listen, I will describe my ideal in a moment.”

“Yes,” said Belle-bouche, looking away; for his eyes
were fixed upon her with such meaning that she could
not return his gaze.

“First,” said Corydon, sighing, “she should be young
—that is to say, she should unite the grace and innocence
of childhood with the splendor and fascination of
the fully-developed woman. This is most often found
at seventeen—therefore she should be just seventeen.”

Belle-bouche was scarcely more than seventeen, as we
know. The cunning Jacques went on.

“She should be a blonde, with light golden hair, eyes
as azure as the heavens, and, as one great poet said of
another, `with a charming archness' in them.”

“Yes,” murmured Belle-bouche, whom this description
suited perfectly.

“Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner
careless,” Jacques went on; “but a delicious gentleness,
and even at times a languor, should be diffused through
it—diffused through voice and manner, as a perfume is
diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible
almost, filling us with quiet pleasure.”

“Quite a poetical description,” said Belle-bouche,
trying to laugh.

“She should be soft and tender—full of wondrous
thoughts, and ever standing like a gracious angel,”
sighed the rapturous Jacques, “to bless, console, and
comfort me.”

“Still prettier,” said Belle-bouche, blushing.

“Now let me sum up,” said Jacques. “Golden hair,
blue eyes, a rosy face full of childlike innocence, at times
steeped in dewy languor, and those melting smiles which
sway us poor men so powerfully; and lastly, with a

heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and
emotions. There is what I look for—ah, to find her!
Better still to dream she could love me.”

“Well, can you not find your Chloe?” Belle-bouche
murmured, almost inaudibly.

“Never, I fear,” said Jacques; “or else,” he continued
with a sigh, “when we do find her, we always find
that some other discoverer claims possession.”

Belle-bouche blushed.

“Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines,”
she said, attempting to laugh.

Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.

“'T is the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers.”

“Oh no, it is not!” said Belle-bouche.

“What then?”

“The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere.”

Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which
leaned upon one of her fair hands—the other hand meanwhile
being an object of deep interest to her eyes, cast
down toward it.

“And should such a heart be wounded?” he said.

“Oh, no!” murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.

“Then do not wound mine!” cried Jacques; “dearest
Belle-bouche! light of my heart—that was your
portrait! Listen to your faithful——”

Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at
the very moment when he was about to fall upon his
knees—just when his fate was to be decided—just when
he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in its
brilliant hues, all love and sunshine—that excellent old
lady Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with

rustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his
fond romantic dreams.

Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery;
Aunt Wimple sat down comfortably, and commenced
a flood of talk about the weather; and Jacques
fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.

In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town
—his arms hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his
dreamy eyes fixed intently upon vacancy.

Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone
was in his vision—Belle-bouche, who by another chance
was snatched from him.

The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort
of odor, and the lark sang harshly.

As he passed through a meadow, he heard himself
saluted by name—by whom he knew not. He bowed
without looking at the speaker; he only murmured,
“One more chance gone.” As he passed the residence
of Sir Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him;
he only sighed, “Belle-bouche!”