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CHAPTER VIII

MARION'S LOVER

It was gusty spring weather when Lucien set forth on his travels. The hot sun flamed out at intervals, only to be fast obscured by thick masses of cloud, floated lightly across in a rollicking wind that shook the lilac blossoms down as soon as they opened, flung to and fro the golden hair of the laburnum, and covered the freshly-springing grass with hawthorn buds.

Moved by lover-like recollections of the conduct of the moon, he spent the first night and the second in the open air; but the weather became too cold, the rain fell in angry showers, and on the third day he was forced to think of taking shelter. He had walked for some miles without coming upon a house at all, when he beheld two, one on each side of the road, the Cigogne and the Duc de Bordeaux. As he was hesitating which to enter, his eye was caught by the words 'Marion de Lorme' written in large red letters upon the whitewashed walls of the Duc de Bordeaux.

'This is the inn for me,' he said to himself. 'Marion against the world!' Nor had he any reason to repent his choice, for he slept in sheets perfumed with

lavender.

He reckoned that it would take him about a fortnight to reach his destination, hiring a horse as often as he might, and walking when he could not get one.

After his long imprisonment in town, the freedom of open-air life enchanted him. His head was full of chiming words and fancies from the time he lifted it off his pillow to the time when he laid it down again.

Towards nightfall of the sixth afternoon he reached St. Gervais. Sure enough, there she was! The door of a stable belonging to an inn of the name of the Fleur-de-Lis was conspicuously adorned in red after the same fashion as that of the Duc de Bordeaux.

'Marion once more!' said Lucien. I have found her a good guide before now; I will try her again.' And he pulled the bell.

That evening, in the pauses of the rain, he heard the first nightingale sing from an elder-bush underneath his window.

He was beginning to wonder who the traveller could be that kept always three days ahead of him, liked the same inns, and cherished such an ardent admiration of the fair, frail lady at present occupying his thoughts to the exclusion-or so he fancied-of every other. When he reached La Souterraine, he looked about for the familiar sign. The name of 'Marion de Lorme' curled like a red ribbon round the old stone pillars of the porch of the Grande Duchesse. His bedroom window looked on an orchard white with blossom, through which a little stream ran golden in the red gold of the sun. Within there was a beautiful oak chest, finely carved with wreaths of laurel and a crown of bay.

A ladybird flew in and settled on his hand; he took it for a sign of good luck. They told him that Ronsard had slept there once, and he dreamt of the Pléïade.

Three nights later Marion' deserted him. When he

arrived at St. Benoît she was nowhere to be found. In spite of many assurances to the contrary, he felt certain that he had missed his way, but it was too dark to go further, and he had to put up with such accommodation as he could get. No scent of lavender, no bird, no dream, no music! His room was stuffy, and smelt of boiled cabbage; a horse in a stable below rattled its chain so that he could not sleep for more than a few minutes together, and he woke in the worst possible humour.

The skies were heavy and overclouded, the road was dull for two days after that. He took no joy in anything on his way to Bressuire. As he walked up the main street, however, he heard a voice he knew singing the first verse of the Song that had set the city of Lyons on fire. His spirits revived instantly; he stood listening for a moment to make sure of the direction whence the sound came, and then entered a courtyard, which was empty except for two men, one of whom held a lantern while the other, whose oval face and irregular teeth he remembered in the editor's office the night before his departure, was writing something in large letters to the left of the door. He waited only to make sure that the first letter was M, strolled in, ordered his supper, took out Marion de Lorme,' which he had never looked at since he started, and began to read with the air of a student.

Presently the singer made his appearance, seated himself on the opposite side of the table, and drew from his pocket a volume in size, shape, and colour exactly like that which Lucien held. It seemed to open at the same page; without delay he also became absorbed in it.

A few minutes later the maid-servant entered, bearing a roast fowl, which she set between the two admirers of poetry. Having duly provided them with knives, forks, and napkins, she waited a little; then, as neither of them took any notice, she left the room, observing that she had plenty to do, and these gentlemen might eat their own food if they wanted it.

'I wonder if he heard?' thought Lucien, who had made no sign that he heard himself.

He was very hungry, but not for the gold of Croesus would he have appeared to be less preoccupied than his neighbour. He stuffed his elbows on to his plate, and buried his head in his hands to exclude the delicious perfume.

'I wonder if he is going to finish the play before he begins! He must be in the fifth act now; but there are several pages to the end.'

The young man was clearly a swift reader. Read as hard as he would, Lucien could not keep pace with him. At length he turned the last page, noted something with a pencil at the foot of it, and looked up.

There,' said he triumphantly, this is the twentieth time that I have read "Marion de Lorme," and I declare that it is the most magnificent piece in the world. But pray forgive me; do not let me interrupt you. I noticed that you were deep in the same work, and I felt that it was a bond of sympathy between us. You have not yet reached the conclusion; we will wait to attack this excellent chicken until you have done.'

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On no account,' said Lucien, with a smile, shutting up the book as he spoke; ' I am not so inured to woe as you. Possibly I should not be able to eat at all if I

went through to the end; I would rather leave off while I have still a good appetite.'

The young man laughed, and looked at him with sudden distrust.

'You are not an Alexandrian?' he said suspiciously. 'I do not know what you mean. I am very hungry. Is that Alexandrian?'

The young man burst into loud laughter.

'Your pardon,' he said, choking. 'What it is to live in the provinces-for a person of real intelligence, too, like you! Have you never heard of Alexander Dumas, author of "Antony"? There are those who say that he is greater than Hugo. Very great he is— not a doubt of it; but "Antony

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to Marion" is a

candle to the sun; and I have not the least disposition to prejudice, but I could not sit down to table with anyone who preferred " Antony."

'Then,' said Lucien, 'you are safe with me, for I have never even heard of " Antony." Besides, I agree with you, heart and soul: "Marion de Lorme " is the greatest play in the French language.'

The young man bowed.

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My name is René le Romain. May I assist you to a wing?' he said; or, perhaps, we had better divide the hecatomb at once. I believe I am very hungry; I was not conscious of it before. But I warn you that, when once I begin, my appetite is Gargantuan. I am delighted to meet you; I have not conversed with a sensible person for weeks. I am reduced to writing the name of my idol on the walls of every village in which I happen to pass the night. It is true I make a sacred duty of this. Who can tell? Here and there one may be able to read; here and there one may say to himself,

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