(Complete Story.) De Villery’s Long Sleep.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XVII, 22 October 1904, Page 56

(Complete Story.) De Villery’s Long Sleep.

By

A lovely evening in June, 1769. The sun was setting in soft, deep colours, such as delighted the poets and painters of those times. A corner of the park was lit up by a lingering ray, which fell on an artistically trimmed hedge, a Sphinx of yellow marble, a nymph of white marble, and a young man with powdered hair seated on a bench with a little blond spaniel asleep at his feet. The young man was handsome and was dressed with exquisite elegance. The silver embroidery of his blue satin vest, the rich lace of his ruffles, the red heels of his delicate shoes, his whole costume, in fact, was in perfect harmony with the surrounding scene: but his face was sad, his attitude depressed. His elbow leaned on the back of the bench, his head rested on his hand, his eyes were now raised to the sky, now fastened on a knot of jonquil ribbon, which he kissed fervently. Few men of that epoch would have been capable of kissing a ribbon jonquil or any other colour when no one was looking at them; but the Marquis de Cillery was not of his age. Tn a court and a country where above Louis XV. reigned King Pleasure, with his crown of flowers and sceptre of silver bells, Zephyrin de Cillery, young, handsome, rich, and a Marquis, had managed to make himself miserable by loving an indifferent woman with the constancy of a shepherd. That was why he kissed a knot of jonquil ribbon without having any witnesses to his gallant action except "a sleepy spaniel, a stone Sphinx, a marble nymph, and the setting sun. All at once a light step sounded on the walk. Zephyrin started from his reverie as a fresh young waiting maid stopped before him. “Well, Marthon?” ‘•“Well. Monsieur le Marquis, Madame la Coin! esse threw your letter into tlia fireplace, as usual: but f picked it up and begged so hard that she finally read it.” “Excellent girl, you will not find me ungrateful. And then ?’’ “Then, Monsieur le Marquis, she shrugged her shoulders and threw it hack again. But wait; 1 begged and praved, and madanie is coming to speak to you.” “She is coming! Thanks, good MarIkon. Here, take this, and if the Comtesse accepts my hand be sure I shall give you more.” The girl weighed the purse with a satisfied air. slipped it. into the packet, of her elegant little apron, eourtesied to the gentleman and left: but at the end of the walk she paused and returned. “Monsieur le Marquis, you must give me back that knot of ribbon 1 let you have. Madame wants it. She may send me away if I do not find it.” “Marthon, 'my good Marthon,” he cried, in a supplicating tone, “do not ask me to give up my only happiness, my only consolation. ‘lf anything happens T will provide for you. Here, while waiting for a better recompense for your zeal and devoticv, take this.” He drew a fine diamond from his linger and presented it to the artful girl. “Oh! many thanks,” and with a mocking smile and coquettish bow she tripped away. Exactness is the politeness of kings, I>ut inexactness is the privilege of beaulies. The Comtesse Flore de Pimpronelle made, her unhappy adorer wait, twenty good minutes, which was cruel indeed', when we reflect that in lovers’ arithmetic one minute equals a century. The Marquis awaited his divinity tn an indeserionble agony; but at last a murmur of silk and clinking of ornaments announced her coming. The blonde spaniel who had not deigned to stir for the maid, bounded to meet the lovely huly, aaid the genl lonian followed his dog. “Down, Phoebe;” said Madame de Pimprenolle, repulsing the spaniel and scornfully refusing the. Marquis’ arm. Then tinning toward the marble bench, she sealed herself and arranged the sil-

BERTHE VADIER.

Translated from the French by Sophie Earl.

ver lace and folds of her jonquil satin gown. “I have nothing new to say, Madame," said De Cillery, throwing himself on his knees bate re her, “but I wish to repeat what 1 have often said. I love you! adore you! I cannot live without you! Look at me for one moment —• let. me hold your hand; tell me you accept my love, my devotion, my life! If not, 1 ean only die!” “Listen, my dear Marquis,” replied the beauty with a cool smile, “I want to be frank with you. I should be sorry for your death; but if I must marry you to prevent it I am not capable of the sacrifice. Me many! Take a master! Consent to carry chains! No, no. 1 am not foolish enough to change my position of queen for that of slave!”

“A slave! You, Madame! Ah, if you give me the title of husband, you will be more of a queen than ever, f should pass my life at your feet ■” “You would bore me prodigiously. I know that beforehand, and so refuse you. I have many suitors, nil the young nobles at Versailles are your rivals. I love none of them, but they amuse me; you fatigue me. You do not suit me, my dear Marquis; you arc no longer French. You were spoiled in Germany, and your friend, the learned, the illustrious M. de Rosenberg, continues to crush out the little wit and gaiety that nature gave you. Throw away your black mask, if you desire to please. Love is called and captured by smiles. And so, adieu, Marquis.” Florc rose. “As to killing yourself,” she added, with heartless disregard of

Iffs despair, “when one is called Zephy. rin, it is absurd to make such threats." “The name I bear, Madame, is Fate’e irony; for never a truer lover ’* He spoke, but Flore no longer listened. She moved away with a graceful step, humming the while a lively, fashionable song. Zephyrin plunged into the park, walking recklessly until he reached the bonders of a lake. “Here will I die,” he said. “In the bosom of this tranquil water, on the borders of which I have so often dreamed of love, I will extinguish the flames. To-morrow Flore will know the strength of my love.” He was about to throw himself in, when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned with sudden joy, imagining that the Comtesse, touched by his despair, had come to bid him live. Error and deception; it was not Flore, but a tall, grave man, soberly dressed; his friend, the Baron de Rosenberg. “What were you about to do, de Villery?” he demanded, in a tone at once sweet and severe. “Leave me, Rosenberg, leave me. She loves me not. She never ■will love me.” “If you wish to quit life for the sake of a heartless beauty, I will not oppose you,” replied M. de Rosenberg, quietly; “but is it necessary that your death should bring dishonour on the name of Villery? Do you wish to have it said;, ‘The first Villery was ennobled in fighting the Saxons with Charlemagne; those who came after were illustrious in the Crusades; a Villery defended the French frontiers against the Imperial forces; all were valiant, many perished in battle, but the last descendant of this illustrious race drowned himself in the lake of a park because he was crossed in love. No; let your weakness be concealed. Let us go in. Science has revealed many of her secrets to me. Death obeys me; she can come at, my will, swift or slow, terrible or sweet. Follow me. I promise you forgetfulness."

The young man allowed himself to be persuaded, and returned to the house with his friend.

Some days after it was stated that

the Marquis de Villery had gone to America, leaving the administration of hia affairs to the Baron de Rosenberg. Flore de Piinprenelle was disappointed, tjhe had hoped, in her ferocious vanity, that her rejected lover would have been gallant enough to kill himself; but after reflecting that a voyage to America was almost as good, she consoled herself. Permit us now to jump over forty years, and take up our story in November, 1804. Jt was a dull, cold day; the weather evidently had revolutionary opinions; for the wind swept the leaves over the de Villery park with Jacobin violence, and shook the windows emblazoned with the coat-of-arms as though it would dash them to pieces. The reception room on the first floor had been transformed into a study. The mythological beings painted on the walls seemed to look with comie astonishment at the great volumes in the bookcase, at the stuffed animals, the globes and maps, the electric machine -which shone in a corner, at all the objects, more or less odd or ugly, with which learned men like to surround themselves.

An old man with a thoughtful brow was leaning against a window, watching the whirling leaves and dust as they were carried by the wind. He was enveloped in a long riding coat, which made him look like a sorcerer, but his expression was kind, and admitting that this man held magic secrets, it was impossible to fear him. If any apprehension should linger it would be driven away by the presence of a lovely girl who was painting a garland. For several instants the pencil had remained idle in her pretty hand, and hetgaze was no longer fixed on her painting. but on the carved door which led into the adjoining room.

"Father,” she said at last, “I am always wondering about that forbidden door. What can be behind it? A library full of rare editions? Fine scientific instruments’ A suspect? They are no longer hunted since Robespierre’s death, and besides, if there were any

person there I should hear some sound. What can be behind that door?”

"Happiness, perhaps, my daughter. Give me my hat and cane; 1 am off to see my patients.” M. de Rosenberg had hardly gone when the fair young girl put down her palette and brushes ami went to place her rosy ear against the carved door, as she did every day; then hearing nothing she turned the handle. Oh, surprise! This time the oaken panel yielded to the pressure of the little hand. She looked in. Oh, marvel! She saw a righly furnished parlour, all painted and gilded, no one there except the nymphs and loves that smiled from the frescoed walls. She advanced, admiring the thick earpet, the silk hangings, tin- gilded furniture. She looked curiously at the etageres, which were covered with Sevres enamels; go’d ‘nuff b.oxe--, silver flasks, and a thousand precious nothings; she opened the drawers of a little rosewood cabinet and found a knot of jonquil satin, all covered with little round spots, which could only have been rain drops or tears. To whom eould these things have belonged? A gilded harpsichord in an angle attracted her next; she approached and found a song open on the rack. She was too musical not to feel tempted to try it. She let her lingers wanderover the ivory keys and sang in a lowtone : “Aimable Floro, Vous qut‘ i'actore!” And as she sang she thought she heard an answering sigh. She turned trembling, but saw no one. Only at the end of the room hung long mysterious curtains. Behind those curtains, perhaps She listened, but heard nothing more. Approaching the alcove she raised the enrtains, but immediately let them fall, and with a slight scream fell half-faint-ing into an armchair. ■What had she seen? Behind those draperies was a lounge, on which lay a young man in the deepest sleep. He was beautiful as the day; his

white aud pink face, with delicate features. was charming; he smiled m though he were soothed by a sweet dream; one of his hands rested on his heart, the other hung carelessly over the edge of the lounge. He wore a white silk vest with silver flowers and a light blue satin eoat. A little blond spaniel, with a cherry ribbon around its neck, lay at the young man's feet as if to guard him. Little Mina stand with delight, one foot raised ready to run, in a charming, timid posture which made one think of Psyche watching the sleeping Love. “How handsome he is!” she thought. “But it is a singular sleep—not a breath comes from h’-s lips; not a movement, from his breast, and the dog is the same. If they should be dead! No; death has not that colour nor that grace. It is not death; but still it is not life.”

The girl then thought of the wax figures she had seen at Paris. Their immovability, their stillness and their fixed look had always frightened her. “That is it,” she thought; “it is wax.” She touched the young mans hand; it was flexible and warm; he might awaken; Mina had been imprudent. She flew out of the room, sat before her easel, and tried to paint; but her trembling hand eould not guide the brush. Soon after M. de Rosenberg returned. “Eh!” he said, “your picture does not seem much advanced.” “Dear father, do not scold me. the ■mysterious door was open—and. oh! who is that handsome young man. and ■why is he asleep?” “You shall be told.” M. do Rosenberg sat down in an armchair; Mina jumped on his knees, passed her arm around his neck, and he continued: “The young man you saw is the sleeping Marquis in the wood —the Marquis de Villery.” “Then he is not in America?”

“No; he is in the other room. 1 will tell you the story from the beginning. Zephyrin de Villery came to Berlin in 1758 with the French Ambassador, and it was then that our friendship began ”

"In 1758? Surely you are mistaken, pi.pa!” "I am correct, my daughter. The Marquis <le \ illery is a young man, about 05 years old. Yes; the .Marquis and 1 are the same age. But yon sec. Mint-hen, he has slept and I have lived Out friendship, then, began in 1755, and we loved each oilier all tie more, l-c--eaww we were unlike. 1 was practical, he was romantic: I loved siiam-e, he loved poetry. He was a captivating fellow. whom women loved. Only one did not, because she was incapable of loving anybody but hcrscif. She was the very one that Zcphyrii .arid for. You know her, Fiore de I’impreiiille.” “The old Comtesse de Piinprenelle? Im-

possible!” “Forty years ago she was young and beautiful. The Marquis loved her to distraction, and, rendered dcspeiatv by her indifference, he resolved to take his own life. I stopped him as he was about to take the fatal plunge. Hut since he was determined to die. I magnetised him, threw him into this sleep, which be has slept for 40 year--, with his little dog Phoebe at his feet. When I magnetised the Marquis de Villery I intended io awake him as soon as the Comtesse Flore could no longer attract him. But the Revolution came; the Marquis de Villery awakened might have lost his head. 1 let him sleep, lie was supposed to be in America, ami was regarded as an emigre, iiis goods were confiscated, sold as national property; I bought his lands, bis mansion, bis furniture. himself.” "Intending to restore it al! some day!” “Yes, my darling.” "Well, now Hull the Revolution is ended, wake him soon, dear lather." "In one month, my child. But. tel! me, do you not think I ov.e him a compensation for having let him sleep so long? 1 would like to give him my daughter.” "Oil! papa!——” “Unless you withhold your consent.” A rosy flush mounted to Mina's brow. She bent her head and whispered.: "But he—do you think lie would love mo?” “I hope so,” said Al. de Rosenberg,

kissing his daughter's fresh cheeks, •‘aud when I look at your blue eyes, 1 even feel certain.” The next day Mina returned to the handsome sleeper. Sure th.it he would not woken till her father willed it, she gazed at him quite at ease. “Is it possible that the t’omtesse P'tnpunelle did not love him/' she said to her«»lf. “Hardhearted old thing! She deserves to be as unattractive as she i*. To have nearly caused the death of this lovable Marquis'. Poor Zephyrin. how hr suffered. But I sltail make up to him for it all, I love him so!” \ud to begin the compensation, Mina bent aml touched the brow of the sleeper with her lips. Whether the kiss awoke him. or whether the spell had lost its p >wer, no ore can say. but at. that instant the Marquis half opened his eyes, and seeing a feminine iorm bending over him. he murmured : *(>, Here! My sorrow has touched your heart, you have come;” and he raised Mina’s hum! to his lips. Mina, confused, drew away her hand and ran bark to the library. Hut she lingered near enough to livur the young man say: “What a swe?t dream!” An instant later he called Phoebe, who awoke and Marked joyously, while her master walked about the room. Then lie sat down before the harpsichord and began to sing; ‘•Aimable Fiore, ; Vous quo j’adore!’’ hl. de Kosenberg entered. Mina threw herself into his arms. “Papa. pupa, he is awake; but he loves her still; he will never love me!” “We shall see ft'hout that; ah! he is awake. («<• to your chamber, my child, and do not leave it until t send for you. Above all, do not cry. I want you to keep your eyes bright.” .M. de Rosenberg pushed open the door and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Well. \'il!ery, how goes it thii morning’” “Ab! my dear Rosenborg, ( was happy in a dream. Flore was there, and —but what do I see!” he exclaimed, fixing a frightened look on his friend. "What has happened to you, Rosenberg?” “I wHI tell you about that: my hair and beard seem Io you to have whitened suddenly; it is a long story.” “For you to have changed so in one night you must have had some horrible grief. Rosenberg, you should not have hidden your trouble from me.” “I have no trouble, Villery. Let us speak of yourself. You have slept well? had sweet dreams?” “Alas! Rosenberg, I have bad all sorts. First. I thought I was with Flore, and she flouted me disdainfully. I left her. intending to throw myself in Ihr lake, when you stopped me and promised me an easier death. You brought me here, made me lie down; •then you stared at me fixedly and I fell asleep. The sleep was agreeable; if has rested me. I dreamed vaguely of music and perfumes; bul this morning. just now, I had a pleasanter dream: a sweet voice murmured near me T love you.’ and I felt a kiss on my cheek.” "Ah’ ah! a kiss, now truly?” “I opened my eyes. I half saw a form I tried to seize, but which escaped me. Idiot that I was, I believed for an instant that Flore had repented of her •r licit y and had come to comfort me.”

‘•No; *he (lid not e»nie, bOt I think she repents her cruelty and if you still wish to live for her sue will now permit it.” “She must l»e greatly changed.” ‘‘She is, indeed, greatly changed.” “You really think she will deign to bestow her hand upon me?” “1 am very sure of it.” “What enchanter has wrought this miracle?” “Time.” “Time! Since yesterday?” “Since yesterday iny black hair has grown white. Cannot- the heart of Mino, de Pimprenelie change like the fare of your old friend?” "Ah. Rosenberg! how happy 1 should be. But are you sure?” "I am sure she regrets you and that she will be glad if you still love her.” "If 1 still lore her! Can you doubt it? Ah! come. Rosenborg, come; let us go and find her.” “Come!” said M. de Rosenberg, quietly. The corner of the park that we savs at the beginning of our story was partly torn away; the bench was broken, the Sphinx, had lost her head, the nymph also; it could easily be seen that the destructive agents of the Revolution had passed over the place. An old and wrinkled woman, in whom it would have been difficult to recognise the brilliant Comtesse de Pimprenelie, was seated on the debris of the bench. Marthon—-the lively, bright Marthon — grown yellow as parchment and sulky as an owl, was knitting as she leaned against the pedestal of the statue. The Comtesse was thinking of other days, and she sighed. “Do you guess my thoughts, Marthon?” she inquired, turning to her maid. “It would not be difficult. Madam dreams of the days when she was beautinil. when all the court was at her feet. I also dream of my youth. It is long ago naw.” “I bat abominable .Revolution made us grow old.” “Yes, and the years also.” ’ ‘‘How sad it is io be alone! If I had known— - ” “Madame would have married; and she would have done well; she had enough to choose among. But was she too disdainful! When I think of all lhe lovers she cast off! above all, that poor Marquis de V’illery. I was sorry tor h:m. He was so handsome, kind, and generous. One evening he was seated where Madame is now, and he gave me ten louis only because I announced that Madame was coming to talk to him. Ten louis—and the day after that he went to America. But what is the matter with Joseph? See how he is running!” As she spoke a domestic in livery arrived all out of breath. “Monsieur le Marquis de Vi-lery, returned yesterday, asks if Madame la Comtesse will receive him?” “lhe Marquis de Villery!” repeated Ihe Comtesse,. overcome with astonishment. “Well.” thought Marthon, “when one speaks of a wolf he comes out of the woods. Madame is lucky; she may marry him yet.” "Madame will not rece : ve him?” asked the valei, taking the lady’s s : fence for a refusal. “What! not receive him! You forget, Joseph. M. de Villery, an old friend, whom I highly esteem. Run and tell him that I await him.”

The valet bowed and obeyed. The Comtesse passed her hand vapidly over her hair, arranged her curls, her laees, Iter skirts, and recalled her smiles. “Am I looking' well, Marthon?” she asked, anxiously. “Certainly, Maclaine;” then she muttered between her teeth: “As well as one can at sixty." MM. de Rosenberg and de Villery advanced. “Good Heavens!” cried Marthon. “Look at M. de Villery! Madame, he is exactly the same as on the evening we were talking about. Well,. America must be a land where people keep young. 1 wish we had both been there, too.” The Comtesse was petrified with amazement. Zephyrin advanced, his eyes lowered; he saw a skirl and laees. and not daring to look his divinity in the faee he dropped on one knee. ‘■Permit me. Madame, to repeat to you to-day what ! said yesterday.” "Yesterday!” cried Flore. “The time must have seemed to him short,” ‘bought the maid. The rather cracked voice of Mme. de Pimprenelie made the young man raise his eyes. For one instant he stared at the old faee to which rouge and white powder gave an artificial vivacity; at the sunken eyes, at the grimacing smile, and through it all. seeing something which resembled the Flore of olden days, he gave a scream of fright, rose, and fled. "What, does that mean?” cried the Comtesse, with irritation. “Pray pardon my friend. Madame,” replied Rosenberg with a mischievous smile; “he has just returned from the Wild West, where he has grown a little savage. It is not surprising that he could not hide his emotion on seeing the changes brought, about by years. He will soon return to present his excuses and respects.” M. de Rosenberg, bowing politely, took leave, and hurried after his friend. "Rosenberg! Rosenberg! what has happened?” demanded the Marquis. “The change in you and in Flore cannot have been the work of a single night; you are deceiving me. I want to know the truth. M. de Rosenberg then told the youthful olil man all that had happened. “Conic, now.” he said at last, “did I not do well? Are you not cured of your love and glad you did not drown yourself for the sake of that old woman?” "I agree with you,” said Zephyrin. “And when I think of my dream this morning and remember that kiss! Ah', what a pity it was only a dream!” "And if it were not ?” “Wluit!” “If the kiss were really given by- a lovely girl of 1(1 what would you say?” ”1 should be the happiest of men, for I must love some one. Think, Rosenberg, my heart was filled with Flore for forty years and now it is empty.” "We shall try to fill it,” returned Rosenberg. “Be patient and at present let us sit down to eat; you have not dined for forty years, my friend.” A splendid repast has been prepared.

M. de Villery, in spite oT his long fast, did not do it much honour; he was preoccupied with the thought of the gentle sylph who had visited him. Mina appeared at dessert, dressed in white with a blue ribbon in her hair.

“Well,” said M. de Rosenberg to his friend, “how do you like my daughter?” “1 ' find her so charming,” answered the Marquis, “that I ask your permission io offer tier my heart and hand.” “You have it, my friend.” “Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis, courteously; bowing before the young girl, “will you be Marquise de Villery!” Mina blushed and made no reply; but she held out her baud to the young man, who kissed it. A few days after Mina's marriage with the Marquis was celebrated, and never was seen a lovelier bride or a mere devoted brielegroom; the Comtesse de Pimprenelie was punished for her pride. Zephyrin and Mina were as happy as the people* in fairy stories, and lived to see an amiable family grow up around them. The Marquis had the charming manners of the old Court; his political ideas were a little behind the times, but that was excused by alt who knew of his strange adventure, and there were few who had not heard of de Villery ’a long sleep.