The Haute Noblesse: A Novel

“Well, my dear, it is a long story and a sad one. I could not tell it to you even in brief, but you are a man now, and must know the meaning of the word love.”

“Oh; yes, I know what that means; but I say, don’t fidget my hair about so.”

“I could not tell you all, Henri. It was thirty years ago. He was a French gentleman of noble descent. His estates had been confiscated, and I was only too glad to place my little fortune at his disposal to recover them.”

“And did he?”

“No, my dear. Those were terrible times. He lost all; and with true nobility, he wrote to me that he loved me too well to drag me down to poverty – to share his lot as an exile. I have never seen him since. But I would have shared his lot.”

“Humph! Lost it? Then if I had money and tried for our family estates, I might lose it too.”

“No, no, my boy; you would be certain to win. Did you do what I told you?”

“Yes, aunt; but I can’t use them down here.”

“Let me look, my dear; and I do not see why not. You must be bold; and proud of your descent.”

“But they’d laugh.”

“Let them,” said Aunt Margaret grandly. “By-and-by they will bow down. Let me see.”

The young man took a card-case from his pocket, on which was stamped in gold a French count’s coronet.

“Ah! yes; that is right,” said the old lady, snatching the case with trembling fingers, opening it, and taking out a card on which was also printed a coronet. “Comte Henri des Vignes,” she read, in an excited manner, and with tears in her eyes. “My darling boy! that will carry conviction with it. I am very glad it is done.”

“Cost a precious lot, aunt; made a regular hole in your diamond ring.”

“Did you sell it?”

“No; Vic Pradelle pawned it for me.”

“Ah! he is a friend of whom you may be proud, Henri.”

“Not a bad sort of fellow, aunt. He got precious little on the ring, though, and I spent it nearly all.”

“Never mind the ring, my boy, and I’m very glad you have the cards. Now for a little serious talk about the future.”

“Wish to goodness there was no future,” said Harry glumly.

“Would you like to talk about the past, then?” said the old lady playfully.

“Wish there was no past neither,” grumbled Harry.

“Then we will talk about the present, my dear, and about – let me whisper to you – love!”

She placed her thin lips close to her nephew’s ear, and then held him at arm’s length and smiled upon him proudly.

“Love! Too expensive a luxury for me, auntie. I say, you are ruffling my hair so.”

“Too expensive, Henri? No, my darling boy; follow my advice, and the richest and fairest of the daughters of France shall sue for your hand, and be proud to take your noble name.”

“I say, auntie,” he said laughingly, “aren’t you laying on the colour rather thick?”

“Not a bit, my darling; and that’s why I want to talk to you about your sister’s friend.”

“What, Maddy?” he said eagerly; “then you approve of it.”

“Approve! Bah! you are jesting, my dear. I approve of your making an alliance with a fat Dutch fraülein!”

“Oh, come, aunt!” said Harry, looking nettles; “Madelaine is not Dutch, nor yet fat.”

“I know better, my boy. Dutch! Dutch! Dutch! Look at her father and her mother! No, my boy, you could not make an alliance with a girl like that. She might do for a kitchen-maid.”

“Auntie, she’s a very charming girl.”

“Silly boy! Go and travel, and see the daughters of France.”

“And she’ll be rich some day.”

“If she were heiress to millions she could not marry you. As some writer says, eagles do not mate with plump Dutch ducklings. No, Henri, my boy, you must wait.”

Harry frowned, but Aunt Margaret paid no heed.

“That is a boyish piece of nonsense, unworthy the Comte des Vignes, my dear boy. But tell me – you have been with your father – what does he say now?”

“The old story. I’m to choose what I will do. I must go to work.”

“Poor George!” sighed Aunt Margaret; “always so sordid in his ideas in early life; now that he is wealthy, so utterly wanting in aspirations! Always dallying over some miserable shrimp. He has no more ambition than one of those silly fish over which he sits and dreams. Oh, Henri, my boy, when I look back at what our family has been – right back into the distant ages of French history – valorous knights and noble ladies; and later on, how they graced the court at banquet and at ball, I weep the salt tears of misery to see my brother sink so low, and so careless about the welfare of his boy.”

“Ah! well, it’s of no use, aunt. I must go and turn somebody’s grindstone again.”

“No, Henri, it shall not be,” cried the old lady, with flashing eyes. “We must think; we must plot and plan. You must get money somehow, so as to carry on the war; and we will have back the estate in Auvergne; and a noble future shall be yours; and – ”

“If you please, ma’am, I’ve brought your lunch,” said a voice; and Liza, the maid, who bore a strong resemblance to the fish-woman who had accosted Uncle Luke at the mouth of the harbour, set down a delicately-cooked cutlet and bit of fish, and spread on a snowy napkin, with the accompaniments of plate, glass, and a decanter of sherry.

“Ah! yes, my lunch,” said Aunt Margaret, with a sigh. “Go, and think over what I have said, my dear, and we will talk again another time.”

“All right, auntie,” said the young man, rising slowly; “but it seems to me as if the best thing I could do would be to jump into the sea.”

“No, no, Henri,” said Aunt Margaret, taking up a silver spoon and shaking it slowly at her nephew, “a des Vignes was ready with his sword in defence of his honour, and to advance his master’s cause; but he never dreamed of taking his own life. That, my dear, would be the act of one of the low-born canaille. Remember who you are, and wait. I am working for you, and you shall triumph yet. Consult your friend.”

“Sometimes I think it’s all gammon,” said Harry, as he went slowly down-stairs, and out into the garden, “and sometimes it seems as if it would be very jolly. I dare say the old woman is right, and – ”

“What are you talking about – muttering aside like the wicked man on the stage?”

“Hullo, Vic! You there?”

“Yes, dear boy. I’m here for want of somewhere better.”