Raymond, therefore, proposed that she should take into her service
a young girl named Gothon, who was her goddaughter, and Madame
d'Aubecourt accepted this proposal with her usual grace and
sweetness, saying that, recommended by Mademoiselle Raymond, she
was sure she would suit her. Mademoiselle Raymond, enchanted, drew
herself up, bewildered herself in complimentary phrases, and ended by
saying that Mademoiselle Lucie had her mother's sweet look, and that
M. Alphonse, though a little hasty, was very amiable.
M. d'Aubecourt's temper experienced the good effects of this return
to a friendly understanding. When Mademoiselle Raymond was out of
humour, every one in the house was so likewise, for every one was
scolded. She was naturally kind-hearted, but easily offended. Subject
to prejudices, and being accustomed to have her own way, she feared
everything that might interfere with her authority. But when she saw
that Madame d'Aubecourt interfered with nothing in the house, she
laid aside all the bitterness which had at first been produced by
her arrival. M. d'Aubecourt, who had hesitated between the desire
of spending less money, and the dread of the confusion which might
result from the establishment of his daughter-in-law at the château,
was comforted when he learned that Madame d'Aubecourt had refused
to pay any visits in the neighbourhood, alleging that her present
situation, and that of her husband, did not permit of her seeing
any one. Besides, she was careful to conform to all his habits,
so that everything went on smoothly, provided that Alphonse and
Lucie scarcely spoke at dinner, because M. d'Aubecourt, accustomed
to take his meals alone, asserted that noise interfered with his
digestion; provided they were careful never to exceed a smile, for
a burst of laughter would make M. d'Aubecourt start as violently as
a pistol-shot; and provided they never entered his private garden,
which he cultivated himself, and where every day he counted the buds
and the branches. He could not without trembling see Alphonse, who
was always impulsive and ever bustling from side to side, go into it,
or even Lucie, whose shawl might accidentally catch and break some of
the branches as she passed by.
Madame d'Aubecourt had been about six weeks at Guicheville, when
she received a letter from her husband, informing her that one of
their relations, little Adelaide d'Orly, was living at a village
two leagues off. Adelaide was at that time about the age of Lucie;
she had lost her mother at her birth, and had been placed at nurse
with a peasant, on the estate of M. d'Orly. As she was extremely
delicate, and had been benefited by the country air, she was left
there a long time. The revolution having broken out, her father left
France, and not being able to carry with him a child who was only
three years old, he thought it best to leave her, for the present,
with her nurse, hoping to be able to return soon, and take her away.
Things turned out otherwise, however: M. d'Orly died soon after his
arrival in a foreign land; his property was sold, and Adelaide's
nurse having lost her husband, married again, and left the province,
taking Adelaide with her, as she was now her sole protector. For a
long time it was not known where she had gone to, but at last it was
ascertained, and M. d'Aubecourt, who had received information of it
from another relative, begged his wife to see her.
M. d'Orly was the nephew of old M. d'Aubecourt, and had been an
intimate friend of his son's, whom at his death, he had entreated
to take care of his daughter. M. d'Aubecourt had several times
mentioned the matter in his letters to his father, but the latter
had remained silent on the subject, from which the son had concluded
that he was ignorant of the fate of the child. Such, however, was
not the case, for the nurse having discovered, the year before, that
he was Adelaide's grand-uncle, had come to see him. M. d'Aubecourt,
who feared everything that might put him out of his way, or lead to
expense, had tried to persuade himself that she had made a false
statement, and that Adelaide was really dead, as had been rumoured.
Mademoiselle Raymond, who did not like children, confirmed him in
this opinion, which possibly she believed to be well founded, for we
are always tempted to believe what we desire to be true. The nurse
having met with an indifferent reception, and, besides, not caring to
have Adelaide, whom she loved as her own child, taken from her, did
not insist further, and the child, therefore, remained with her.
As soon as Madame d'Aubecourt had received this intelligence, she
communicated it to her father-in-law, at the same time informing him
of her intention of going to see Adelaide. M. d'Aubecourt appeared
embarrassed, and Mademoiselle Raymond, who happened to be in the
room, assured her that the roads were very bad, and that she would
never be able to get there. Madame d'Aubecourt saw plainly that they
were already in possession of the information which she had supposed
herself the first to communicate, and she also perceived that her
project was not very agreeable to M. d'Aubecourt; nevertheless,
however great might be her desire to oblige him, she did not consider
herself justified in renouncing her intention. Her extreme gentleness
of disposition, did not prevent her from possessing great firmness in
everything that she considered a duty. She set out then, one morning,
with Lucie, who was enchanted at making acquaintance with her cousin,
and with Alphonse, who was delighted at having to travel four leagues
on foot.
As they approached the village, they asked each other what kind of
person their cousin was likely to be, brought up as she was among the
peasantry.
"Perhaps something like that," said Alphonse, pointing to a young
girl, who, in company with two or three little boys, ran out to see
them pass. There was a pool of water by the side of the road where
they were walking, and the children, in order to see them closer,
ran into it, splashing them all over. Alphonse wanted to throw stones
at them, but his mother prevented him.
"It would be a good joke," said he, "if it turned out to be my
cousin, at whom I was going to throw stones."
Lucie exclaimed against such an idea, and one of the little boys
having called the girl _Marie_, she was comforted by thinking that it
was not her cousin Adelaide d'Orly, whom she had seen dabbling about
with a troop of little idle urchins.
On reaching the cottage, in which Adelaide's nurse lived, they found
her laid up with an illness resulting from debility, and from which
she had suffered for six months. Madame d'Aubecourt having given her
name, the poor woman recognised her, and said she was thankful to see
her before she died, and that finding herself unable to go out, it
had been her intention to ask the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt,
"for," said she, "my child" (it was thus she always called Adelaide)
"will have no one to look to when I am gone." She had lost her second
husband; and had no children of her own, and she did not doubt that
her brother-in-law would come and take possession of everything, and
turn her child out of doors, who would not then have even bread to
eat, for she had nothing to leave her; and the poor woman began to
weep. She added, that she had been to see M. d'Aubecourt, who would
not listen to her, and she went on to complain of the cruelty of
Adelaide's relations, who thus left her a burden upon a poor woman
like her. Madame d'Aubecourt interrupted her to inquire whether she
had any documents. The nurse showed her an attestation from the
mayor and twelve of the principal inhabitants of the parish which she
had left, certifying that the child whom she took with her, was truly
the daughter of M. d'Orly, and baptized under the name of _Marie
Adelaide_, and also another from the mayor of the parish in which
she was now residing, certifying that the girl living with her under
the name of _Marie_, was the same that she brought with her into the
parish, and whose age and description corresponded exactly with those
of _Marie Adelaide d'Orly_.
"Marie," exclaimed Lucie, when she heard this name.
"Yes, indeed," said the nurse, "the Holy Virgin is her true patron;
she has saved her in a dangerous illness: this is her only name in
the village."
Lucie and her brother looked at each other, and Alphonse began to
laugh, amused at the idea of having been on the point of throwing
stones at his cousin. At this moment Marie made her appearance,
singing in a loud voice, and carrying a faggot, which she had
gathered. She threw it down as she entered, and was somewhat
astonished on seeing with her nurse the very ladies whom she had
splashed, and the young gentleman who was going to throw stones at
her.
"Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle will
be so good as to allow you."
Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either.
"Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse,
"but what more could a poor woman like me do?"
Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under great
obligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went,
blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had at
first withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin had
astonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her.
Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, without
moving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourt
took her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarking
how much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, was
striking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, though
at the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had been
brought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She had
beautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not been
spoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces.
Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing with
health; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not been
for her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even under
her coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, or
answer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nurse
was in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takes
a thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and she
began scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degree
moved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, on
account of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look.
The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as she
had displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her with
affection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from her
place.
Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear from
her again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and which
the nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure that
she should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; he
was her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible that
he should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; still
she well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The children
could talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville,
and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of the
visit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her;
nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madame
d'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give her
any. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer any
doubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly.
Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse,
feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt,
who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold,
had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known,
since Marie had been talked about at the château, how much people
complained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece.
Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence,
that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned by
the Registrar, by the Curé, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond,
who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetually
talking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject which
tormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, and
Madame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she felt
extremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that so
much time should not merely be lost to her education, but actually
employed in giving her a bad one.
Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetch
Marie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning,
mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, being
mounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged to
attend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to see
would not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for all
that she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all that
was in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicines
suited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicate
than those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned with
great satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easy
circumstances.
When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. They
knocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madame
d'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared the
nurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? At
length, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came and
opened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fasten
it, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the one
fixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not return
until night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence of
the same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyes
swoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectly
motionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gently
endeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that she
should return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her,
but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her,
scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losing
her. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, only
when she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. At
length, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained by
these means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in a
firm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindness
to come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone,
to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led.
Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But when
she came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping and
sobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently as
the child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected,
was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order to
separate them.
At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence,
only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. By
degrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonse
endeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkey
began to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hers
before either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who was
crying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat the
animal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving that
he was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mount
hers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage the
other. This little incident established a good understanding between
the two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonse
in the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when,
on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond and
M. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was,
however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forward
barking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought up
in the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, and
Marie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if about
to bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it sent
him howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ran
forward and took him up in her arms, with a movement of anger which
sufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which she
would have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madame
d'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled her
by saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would not
have drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond could
no longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposed
silence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though not
addressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also to
restrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her her
dog and her resentment.
From this moment war was declared. Zizi, who did not forget the kick
which Marie had given him, never saw her without showing his teeth,
and if he came too near her, another kick sent him off again, without
softening his resentment. Alphonse never met him without threatening
him, either with his hand or his cane, and Mademoiselle Raymond,
constantly occupied in running after her dog, and protecting him from
his enemies, had not a moment's repose between her fears for Zizi's
safety and her aversion for Marie, whose follies she eagerly seized
upon; and Marie's follies were almost as frequent as her actions.
However, she did not often commit any before M. d'Aubecourt; she
scarcely dared either to speak or move in his presence. At meals,
during the first few days, it was impossible to make her eat; but
as soon as they had risen from table, she could take a large slice
of bread, and eat it while running in the garden, where Alphonse
speedily joined her. With him she agreed better than with any
one else in the house. Both were gay, livery, thoughtless, and
enterprising, and vied with each other in all kinds of tricks and
follies. Marie, who was very expert, taught Alphonse to throw
stones at the cats, as they ran along the leads, and during this
apprenticeship he had twice managed to break some panes of glass,
one of which belonged to the window of Mademoiselle Raymond's room.
In return, he taught his cousin to fence, and they often entered
the house with their faces all scratched. Marie had also a method
of pinning up her dress, so as to enable her to climb upon the
trees and walls. Madame d'Aubecourt sometimes surprised her while
engaged in this amusement, and reprimanded her severely. Marie
immediately became quiet and modest, for she felt great respect
for Madame d'Aubecourt, and would never have thought of disobeying
her to her face, but as soon as she was out of sight, whether
from thoughtlessness, or from not being aware of the necessity of
obedience, a thing to which she had never been accustomed, she seemed
to forget all that had been said to her. Alphonse occasionally
reminded her of it, and to him she willingly listened, for she had
great confidence in him. Neither was she obstinate, but she had never
been taught to reflect, and her thoughts seldom extended beyond the
moment; so that when she took a fancy into her head, she could think
of nothing else. She spoke but little, and was almost constantly in
motion. Motion, indeed, seemed to constitute her very existence.
When her timidity compelled her to remain quiet, this repose was not
turned to any advantage, in the way of reflection: the constraint
she felt absorbed her mind, and she could think of nothing but the
speediest means of escaping from it. Unlike other children, she made
no remarks on what she saw around her. When asked whether she did
not think the château de Guicheville much more beautiful than her
nurse's cottage, she replied that she did; still she never thought
of enjoying its comforts and conveniences, and she had more pleasure
in sitting upon the tables than upon the chairs. Madame d'Aubecourt
had a frock made for her like the every-day dress worn by Lucie,
and she was delighted at seeing herself attired like a lady, but she
always managed to have it too much on one side or the other, while
the string belonging to the neck was very usually tied with that
which belonged to the waist. She was constantly forgetting to put
her stockings on, and her hair, which had been cut and arranged, was
almost always in disorder. A pair of stays had been made for her, and
she allowed them to be put on without any opposition, for she never
resisted; but the moment afterwards the lace was burst and the bones
broken; they were mended two or three times, and at length given up.
On one occasion, Madame d'Aubecourt had sent her, accompanied by
Gothon, to see her nurse. While the girl was gone into the village to
execute a commission, Marie made her escape into the fields, in order
to avoid being taken back. Half a day was consumed in seeking for
her, and everything was in commotion at Guicheville, on account of
the uneasiness occasioned by her protracted absence.
All these facts were carefully noted by Mademoiselle Raymond; nor had
she any trouble in becoming acquainted with them, for they formed a
perpetual subject of conversation between Lucie and Gothon. Lucie
could not reconcile herself to the manners of her cousin; besides,
her arrival at Guicheville had afforded her very little amusement,
for Madame d'Aubecourt, fearful lest she should contract any of
Marie's bad habits, left them but little together. Lucie, too,
saw much less of her brother than formerly, for the moment he had
finished his lessons, he ran off in search of Marie, to join him in
those sports which were little suited to his sister's disposition,
so that she sought amusement in discussing the new subjects for
blame or astonishment, which Marie's conduct perpetually supplied.
Gothon, her _confidante_, spoke of them in her turn to her godmother,
Mademoiselle Raymond, and Mademoiselle Raymond discussed them with
M. d'Aubecourt. He attached but little importance to them, so long
as they did not decidedly affect himself; but after some time, when
Marie had become accustomed to the persons and things about her, the
circle of her follies widened, and at last reached him. Since she
had dared to speak and move at table, she seldom spoke without a
burst of noise; and if she turned round to look at anything, it was
with so hasty a movement, that she upset her plate upon the floor,
or shook the whole table. If she climbed upon an arm-chair in the
drawing-room, for the purpose of reaching anything, she upset the
chair, and fell with it, breaking one of its arms, and with the foot
tearing a table-cover, which happened to be near it. Alphonse had
frequently warned her not to enter his grandfather's garden; but
this advice was forgotten as soon as the garden happened to be the
shortest way from one place to another; or that the shuttlecock had
chanced to fall into it, or that she wanted to pursue a cat, or a
butterfly. On such occasions, M. d'Aubecourt always found a branch
broken off, a rose-bush or a border trodden down; and Mademoiselle
Raymond, whose window looked upon the garden, had always seen Marie
either going in, or coming out of it. These multiplied vexations
tormented M. d'Aubecourt all the more, from his not complaining of
them openly, but only by indirect allusions, as is often the case
with the aged. Sometimes he would say that, at his time of life, one
could seldom hope to be master of his own house, and that it was
natural that people should trouble themselves very little about the
aged, or their inconveniences. At another time, he would assure them
that they might do just what they pleased with his garden, and that
he should not trouble himself any more about it. Madame d'Aubecourt
understood all this, and was greatly grieved, and as she perceived
that Marie's presence occasioned him a constantly increasing
annoyance, she kept her away from him as much as possible.