El Dorado by Baroness Orczy (if you liked this book .txt) 📕

Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in by worthy Madame Belhomme, into the quaint and pretty drawing-room with its soft-toned hangings and old-world air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange was sitting there, in a capacious armchair, which encircled her delicate figure with its framework of dull old gold.

She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was announced, for an open book lay on a table beside her; but it seemed to the visitor that mayhap the young girl’s thoughts had played truant from her work, for her pose was listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave trouble upon the childlike face.

She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at the unexpected visit, and somewhat awed at the appearance of this beautiful woman with the sad look in her eyes.

“I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle,” said Lady Blakeney as soon as the door had once more closed on Madame Belhomme, and she found herself alone with the young girl. “This visit at such an early hour must seem to you an intrusion. But I am Marguerite St. Just, and⁠—”

Her smile and outstretched hand completed the sentence.

“St. Just!” exclaimed Jeanne.

“Yes. Armand’s sister!”

A swift blush rushed to the girl’s pale cheeks; her brown eyes expressed unadulterated joy. Marguerite, who was studying her closely, was conscious that her poor aching heart went out to this exquisite child, the far-off innocent cause of so much misery.

Jeanne, a little shy, a little confused and nervous in her movements, was pulling a chair close to the fire, begging Marguerite to sit. Her words came out all the while in short jerky sentences, and from time to time she stole swift shy glances at Armand’s sister.

“You will forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Marguerite, whose simple and calm manner quickly tended to soothe Jeanne Lange’s confusion; “but I was so anxious about my brother⁠—I do not know where to find him.”

“And so you came to me, madame?”

“Was I wrong?”

“Oh, no! But what made you think that⁠—that I would know?”

“I guessed,” said Marguerite with a smile.

“You had heard about me then?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Through whom? Did Armand tell you about me?”

“No, alas! I have not seen him this past fortnight, since you, mademoiselle, came into his life; but many of Armand’s friends are in Paris just now; one of them knew, and he told me.”

The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the girl’s face, even down to her graceful neck. She waited to see Marguerite comfortably installed in an armchair, then she resumed shyly:

“And it was Armand who told me all about you. He loves you so dearly.”

“Armand and I were very young children when we lost our parents,” said Marguerite softly, “and we were all in all to each other then. And until I married he was the man I loved best in all the world.”

“He told me you were married⁠—to an Englishman.”

“Yes?”

“He loves England too. At first he always talked of my going there with him as his wife, and of the happiness we should find there together.”

“Why do you say ‘at first’?”

“He talks less about England now.”

“Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and that you understand each other with regard to the future.”

“Perhaps.”

Jeanne sat opposite to Marguerite on a low stool by the fire. Her elbows were resting on her knees, and her face just now was half-hidden by the wealth of her brown curls. She looked exquisitely pretty sitting like this, with just the suggestion of sadness in the listless pose. Marguerite had come here today prepared to hate this young girl, who in a few brief days had stolen not only Armand’s heart, but his allegiance to his chief, and his trust in him. Since last night, when she had seen her brother sneak silently past her like a thief in the night, she had nurtured thoughts of ill-will and anger against Jeanne.

But hatred and anger had melted at the sight of this child. Marguerite, with the perfect understanding born of love itself, had soon realised the charm which a woman like Mademoiselle Lange must of necessity exercise over a chivalrous, enthusiastic nature like Armand’s. The sense of protection⁠—the strongest perhaps that exists in a good man’s heart⁠—would draw him irresistibly to this beautiful child, with the great, appealing eyes, and the look of pathos that pervaded the entire face. Marguerite, looking in silence on the dainty picture before her, found it in her heart to forgive Armand for disobeying his chief when those eyes beckoned to him in a contrary direction.

How could he, how could any chivalrous man endure the thought of this delicate, fresh flower lying crushed and drooping in the hands of monsters who respected neither courage nor purity? And Armand had been more than human, or mayhap less, if he had indeed consented to leave the fate of the girl whom he had sworn to love and protect in other hands than his own.

It seemed almost as if Jeanne was conscious of the fixity of Marguerite’s gaze, for though she did not turn to look at her, the flush gradually deepened in her cheeks.

“Mademoiselle Lange,” said Marguerite gently, “do you not feel that you can trust me?”

She held out her two hands to the girl, and Jeanne slowly turned to her. The next moment she was kneeling at Marguerite’s feet, and kissing the beautiful kind hands that had been stretched out to her with such sisterly love.

“Indeed, indeed, I do trust you,” she said, and looked with tear-dimmed eyes in the pale face above her. “I have longed for someone in whom I could confide. I have been so lonely lately, and Armand⁠—”

With an impatient little gesture she brushed away the tears which had gathered in her eyes.

“What has Armand been doing?” asked Marguerite with an encouraging smile.

“Oh, nothing to grieve me!” replied the young girl eagerly, “for he is kind and good, and chivalrous and noble. Oh, I love him with all my heart! I loved him from the moment that I set eyes on him,