The Last Duchess of Belgarde Book Reviews

The Last Duchess of Belgarde by Molly Elliot Seawell Book Summary

CHAPTER I
TRIMOUSETTE

IN the great, green old garden of Madame, the Countess of Floramour, sat her granddaughter, little Mademoiselle Trimousette, wondering when she was to be married and to whom. Such an enterprise was afoot, and even then being arranged, but nobody, so far, had condescended to give Trimousette any of the particulars. She was stitching demurely at her tambour frame, while in her lap lay an open volume of Ronsard. Every now and then her rosy
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 lips murmured the delicious verses of the poet. A very pale, quiet little person was Mademoiselle Trimousette, with a pair of tragic black eyes, and something in her air so soft, so pensive, so appealing, that it almost made up for the beauty she lacked. Although the only granddaughter of the rich, the highly born and the redoubtable Countess of Floramour, little Trimousette was the very soul of humility, and in her linen gown and straw hat might have passed for a shepherdess of Arcady.
A clump of gnarled and twisted rose trees made a niche for her small white figure on the garden bench. To one side was the yew alley, where the clipped hedge met overhead, making the alley dark even in the May noontime. Before Trimousette stood, in a little open space, a cracked sundial, on which could still be made out in worn letters the legend:
L’ombre passe, et repasse:
Sans repasser, l’homme passe.
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This sounded very sad to little sixteen-year-old Trimousette; shadows passed and re-passed; but men, passing once, passed forever. She sighed, and then her young heart turned away to sweeter, brighter things as she again took up her tambour frame. She knew the motto on the sundial well, did little Trimousette, but it always made her sad, from the time she first spelled it out in her childish days. However, her heart refused to give it more than one little sigh to-day, as she turned again to her embroidery and to her love dream. If only she was to be married to the Duke of Belgarde—that splendid, daredevil duke, whom she had once seen face to face, and to whom she had yielded her innocent heart and all her glowing imagination! Her grandmother, the old countess, who was frightfully pious, probably would not let little Trimousette marry the duke, not even if he asked her; the Duke of Belgarde could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a pious person. But
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 Trimousette believed firmly that all the wild duke needed to make him a model of propriety was a little tender remonstrance and perhaps a kiss or two— Here Trimousette held her embroidery frame up to her eyes to hide the hot blushes that leaped into her pale cheeks.
Presently came striding along the garden path the fierce old Countess of Floramour, as tall as a bean pole, and with a voice like an auctioneer.
“It is all arranged,” she said to little Trimousette, “and you are to be married to the Duke of Belgarde.”
The blood dropped out of Trimousette’s face, like water dashed from a vase. She had risen when she saw the old countess approaching. Everybody rose when the old countess approached, for she was a martinet to the backbone. The volume of Ronsard fell out of Trimousette’s lap, and Madame de Floramour pounced upon it.
“Reading poetry, indeed!” she cried indignantly;
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 “precious little use will you find for poetry when you are a duchess. You will be visiting morning, noon, and night, until you can hardly stand upon your legs, and receiving visits until your head swims, or going to balls and routs when you should be in bed, and trailing after their Majesties until you are ready to drop, and racking your brain for compliments to frowsy old women and doddering old men, and doing everything you don’t want to do—that’s being a duchess. Still, it is a fine thing to be a duchess.”
Dark-eyed Trimousette scarcely heard anything of this; her ear had caught only the words—“the Duke of Belgarde”—and she was dazzled and stunned with the splendid vision that rose before her like magic at the speaking of the winged words. Nevertheless, she managed to gasp out:
“And when am I to be married, grandmamma?”
“When you see my coach with six horses
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 drive into the courtyard, miss—then you are to be married, and not before.”
With this the old countess stalked off, and Trimousette fell into a rapturous dream, her head resting upon her hand. So motionless was she that a pair of bluebirds, still in their honeymoon, cooed and chirped almost at her feet. The world held but one object for Trimousette at that moment—the Duke of Belgarde. She knew his first name—Fernand—and her lips involuntarily moved as if speaking it. A heavenly glow seemed to envelop the old garden, the sundial with its melancholy motto, the dark yew walk, bathing them in a golden glory. Before her dreamy eyes returned the vision of the day she had seen the Duke of Belgarde, and had laid her innocent, trembling heart at his feet, just as a subject bows before his king, without waiting to be told. It was exactly a year ago, on a May day, and it was close by the Tuileries gardens. Madame de Floramour’s great coach
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 was drawn up, waiting to see King Louis the Sixteenth and Queen Marie Antoinette pass to some great ceremony at Notre Dame. The duke in a gorgeous riding dress, and superbly horsed, was among the courtiers, and on seeing a certain beautiful lady, Madame de Valençay, he dismounted, and stood uncovered talking with her, the sun gleaming upon his powdered hair, and making his sword hilt shine as a single jewel. How well Trimousette remembered Madame de Valençay’s glorious blonde beauty! She seemed, in her pale violet satin robe that matched the color of her eyes, a part of the splendid pageant of earth and sky that day. At the first sight of her a sudden, sharp, jealous pain rent Trimousette’s little heart. Instantly she realized that she was small and pale, and her gown was dull in color. The duke scarcely saw her, as he left Madame de Valençay’s side long enough to speak to the old countess. Trimousette, making herself as small as possible in the corner of the coach,
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 was, as usual, completely swamped by Madame de Floramour’s enormous hoop, tremendous hat and feathers, and voluminous fan. The old lady, who had a fierce virtue which she would not have hesitated to cram down the throat of the King himself, was lecturing the duke upon the sin of gaming, to which he was addicted, along with several other mortal sins. He listened with laughing, impenitent eyes, and grinning delightfully, swore he would make public confession of his sins and lead a life thereafter as innocent as that of the daisies of the field. Behind him, while he was talking, shone the lovely, fair face of Madame de Valençay, all dimpling with smiles.
Not the least notice did the duke take of little Trimousette until, the old countess preparing to alight and walk about while waiting for their Majesties, Trimousette stepped timidly out of the coach after her. One vagrant glance of the duke’s fell upon Trimousette’s
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 little, little feet, encased in beautiful red-heeled shoes, and, as he turned away with a low bow and a sweep of his hat, Trimousette’s quick ear heard him say to a companion standing by: “What charming little feet!”
From that day Trimousette’s innocent head had been full of this adorable, impudent scapegrace of a duke. She did not, like older and wiser women, try to put him out of her mind, but cherished her idyl, as young things will; only, he seemed too far above her and beyond her. And the beautiful Madame de Valençay was certainly better suited to so splendid a being as the Duke of Belgarde than a small creature like herself, so Trimousette thought. But she had not read the story of Cinderella for nothing—and small feet had carried the day in that case over beauty in all its pride.
The duke divided the empire of Trimousette’s soul with her brother, Count Victor
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 of Floramour, who was an edition in small of the Duke of Belgarde, whom he ardently admired and earnestly copied, especially in his debts. Count Victor had succeeded in piling up quite a respectable number of obligations, but unlike the Duke of Belgarde, who feared nobody, Victor was in mortal terror of his grandmother, the old countess. She held the reins tight over her grandson as over everybody else, and gave him about enough of an allowance to keep him in silk stockings. Being an officer of the Queen’s Musketeers, Victor had a great many opportunities to spend money, which he alleged was a solemn duty he owed her Majesty, the Queen. This was devoutly believed by Trimousette, but the old countess scoffed at it. Trimousette had determined, if she made a rich marriage, she would ask her husband to pay Victor’s debts, even if they were so much as a thousand louis d’ors—and now—ah, sweet delight!—she was to be married to the finest,
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 the most beautiful duke in the world, who no doubt was as rich as he was grand. The thought of Madame de Valençay disturbed Trimousette a little, but she believed if she was very sweet and loving with the duke, and sang him pretty little songs, and always wore enchanting red-heeled shoes, he would soon forget Madame de Valençay.
The duke had more than one splendid château, but Trimousette had heard of the small old castle of Boury, on the coast of Brittany, where the duke was born. Thither Trimousette decided they would go directly they were married; for, of course, the duke—or Fernand, as Trimousette already called him in her thoughts—would ask her where she wished to go. In her day dream she saw the place—an old stone fortalice, perched on the brown Breton rocks, with a garden of hardy shrubs and flowers, straying almost to the cliff, and seagulls clanging overhead in the sharp blue air. There would Trimousette and
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 her duke live like their Majesties at the Little Trianon, where the Count d’Artois milked the cow, and Queen Marie Antoinette herself skimmed the cream from the milk pails. The Queen, too, always wore a linen gown and a straw hat when she was at the Little Trianon, and Trimousette would dress in the same way at Boury.
While all these idle, sweet fancies floated through her mind, like white butterflies dancing in the sun, she glanced up and saw Victor coming toward her. Victor did not march across the flower beds like the old countess, but slinked along through the yew alley, in the dull green light that brooded upon it even at noontide. He was like Trimousette, only ten times handsomer, and gave indications of having seen a good deal of life. To-day, it was plain he had been up all night. He was unshaven, his hat had lost its jaunty cock, his waistcoat was wine-stained, and the lace on his sleeves had been badly damaged in
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 a romp with some very gay ladies about four o’clock that morning.
Victor beckoned to Trimousette, and she rose and went into the cool, dark alley with him where they were quite secure from observation. Then, taking Trimousette’s hand, he kissed it gallantly.
“So you want to be a duchess, my little sister,” he said, laughing, yet kindly. “I hope you will be happy, but don’t get any nonsense in your romantic head about you and Belgarde living like a pair of blue pigeons in an almond tree. Belgarde is a gay dog if ever I saw one. We were together last night—and look!” Victor showed his tattered ruffles and battered hat, and touched his unshaven chin. “We went to a little supper together, which began at midnight, and is just over now within the hour.”
Trimousette firmly believed that she would be able to cure her duke of his taste for such suppers, but she was too timid to put her belief
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 in words. She said, however, after a blushing pause:
“One thing I mean to ask the duke as soon as we are married, and that is for some money to pay your debts, dear Victor.”
At that Victor sat down on the ground and laughed until he cried.
“You are as innocent as the birds upon the bushes, my little duchess,” he said. “Belgarde pay my debts! He cannot pay his own.”
“But yours cannot be so very large,” urged Trimousette earnestly. “If it were even as much as a thousand louis d’ors, I should ask the duke to give it to me, and if he loved me—”
She paused with downcast eyes, and Victor stopped laughing and looked at her with pity. What an innocent, affectionate, guileless child she was, and what a lesson lay before her!
“My debts amount to a good deal more than a thousand louis d’ors,” he responded, smiling in spite of himself at Trimousette’s
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 simplicity. “You will have a good many thousands of louis d’ors at your command, my little duchess, but you will need them all yourself; for Belgarde will have his wife finely dressed, and your hotel and equipages must be suitable to your rank.”
“I shall always be able to spare a little for you, Victor,” answered Trimousette, looking at him with adoring eyes.
“Belgarde will not mind the money; he is a free-handed, generous fellow, as brave as my sword. But you must not try to domesticate him, you must become gay like himself. Belgarde told me on our way home just now that everything had been arranged, and that he meant to treat you well. I answered, if he did not, I would run him through the body; and so I will.”
At which Trimousette was frightened half to death, and replied:
“Then if he treats me ill, I will never let you know anything about it.”

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