Stray Pearls: Memoirs of Margaret De Ribaumont, Viscountess of Bellaise by Yonge (summer reads txt) 📕

beautifully laid out gardens; and after we had rested, the reception began, but only in the little green cabinet, as it was merely a select few who were to be admitted to hear the young aspirant. I watched anxiously for the appearance of my family, and presently in came Eustace and Annora. My mother had the migraine, and my brother had taken upon him, without asking leave, to carry off my sister!

I had never seen her look so well as she did, with that little spirit of mischief upon her, lighting her beautiful eyes and colouring her cheeks. Madame de Rambouillet whispered to me that she was a perfect nymph, with her look of health and freshness. Then M. Darpent came in, and his grave face blushed with satisfaction as he saw his friend, my Lord Walwyn, present.

His was a fine face, though too serious for so young a man. It was a complete oval, the hair growing back on the forehead, and the beard being dark and pointed, the complexion a clear pale brown, the eyes with something of Italian softness in them, rather than of French vivacity, the brows almost as if drawn with a pencil, the mouth very grave and thoughtful except when lighted by a smile of unusual sweetness. As a lawyer, his dress was of plain black with a little white collar fastened by two silken tassels (such as I remember my Lord Falkland used to wear). It became him better than the gay coats of some of our nobles.

The circle being complete by this time, the young orator was placed in the midst, and began to read aloud his manuscript, or rather to recite it, for after the fire of his subject began to animate him, he seldom looked at the paper.

It was altogether grand and eloquent discourse upon the loyalty and nobility of holding with unswerving faith to the old laws and constitutions of one’s country against all fraud, oppression, and wrong, tracing how Cicero’s weak and vain character grew stronger at the call of patriotism, and how eagerly and bravely the once timid man finally held out his throat for the knife. It might be taken as the very highest witness to the manner in which he had used his divine gift of rhetoric, that Fulvia’s first thought was to show her bitter hatred by piercing his eloquent tongue! ‘Yes, my friends,’ he concluded, with his eyes glancing round, ‘that insult to the dead was the tribute of tyranny to virtue!’

Annora’s hands were clasped, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glanced with the dew of admiration, and there were others who were carried along by the charm of the young orator’s voice and enthusiasm; but there were also anxious glances passing, especially between the divine Arthenice and her son-in-law, M. de Montausier, and when there had been time for the compliments the discourse merited to be freely given, Madame de Rambouillet said: ‘My dear friend, the tribute may be indeed the highest, but it can scarcely be the most appreciable either by the fortunate individual or his friends. I therefore entreat that the most eloquent discourse of our youthful Cicero of admires who have listened to it.’

Everybody bowed assent, but the young man himself began, with some impetuosity: ‘Madame will believe me that I had not the slightest political intention. I spoke simply as a matter of history.’

‘I am perfectly aware of it, Monsieur,’ returned the Marquise; ‘but all the world does not understand as well as I do how one may be carried away by the fervour of imagination to identify oneself and one’s surroundings with those of which one speaks.’

‘Madame is very severe on the absent,’ said M. Darpent.

‘Monsieur thinks I have inferred more treason than he has spoken,’ said Madame de Rambouillet gaily. ‘Well, be it so; I am an old woman, and you, my friend, have your career yet to come, and I would have you remember that though the great Cesar be dead, yet the bodkin was not in his time.’

‘I understand, Madame, after the lion comes the fox. I thank you for your warning until the time—’

‘Come, come, we do not intend to be all undone in the meantime,’ exclaimed Madame de Rambouillet. ‘Come, who will give us a vaudeville or something joyous to put out the grand serious, and send us home gay. My dear Countess,’ and she turned to a bright-looking young lady, ‘relate to us, I entreat of you, one of your charming fairy tales.’

And the Countess d’Aulnoy, at her request, seated herself in a large arm-chair, and told us with infinite grace the story I have so often told you, my grandchildren, of the White Cat and the three princes.