Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Incorrect page numbers in the Table of Contents have been corrected.
[Illustration: "Keransiflan and I, sitting on our wheelbarrow, were
allowed to go on eating in peace"]
A Childhood
in Brittany
Eighty Years Ago
by
Anne Douglas Sedgwick
With illustrations by
Paul de Leslie
New York
The Century Co.
1919
Copyright, 1918, 1919, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, October, 1919_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I QUIMPER AND BONNE MAMAN 3
II ELIANE 44
III THE FÊTE AT KER-ELIANE 55
IV THE OLD HOUSE AT LANDERNEAU 68
V TANTE ROSE 83
VI THE DEMOISELLES DE COATNAMPRUN 98
VII BON PAPA 122
VIII LE MARQUIS DE PLOEUC 131
IX LOCH-AR-BRUGG 153
X THE PARDON AT FOLGOAT 196
XI BONNE MAMAN'S DEATH 204
XII THE JOURNEY FROM BRITTANY 215
A CHILDHOOD IN
BRITTANY
This little sheaf of childish memories has been put together from many
talks, in her own tongue, with an old French friend. The names of her
relatives have, by her wish, been changed to other names, taken from
their Breton properties, or slightly altered while preserving the
character of the Breton original.
A CHILDHOOD IN BRITTANY
CHAPTER I
QUIMPER AND BONNE MAMAN
I was born at Quimper in Brittany on the first of August, 1833, at
four o'clock in the morning, and I have been told that I looked about
me resolutely and fixed a steady gaze on the people in the room, so
that the doctor said, "She is not blind, at all events."
The first thing I remember is a hideous doll to which I was
passionately attached. It belonged to the child of one of the
servants, and my mother, since I would not be parted from it, gave
this child, to replace it, a handsome doll. It had legs stuffed with
sawdust and a clumsily painted cardboard head, and on this head it
wore a _bourrelet_. The _bourrelet_ was a balloon-shaped cap made of
plaited wicker, and was worn by young children to protect their heads
when they fell. We, too, wore them in our infancy, and I remember that
I was very proud when wearing mine and that I thought it a very pretty
head-dress.
I could not have been more than three years old when I was brought
down to the _grand salon_ to be shown to a friend of my father's, an
Englishman, on his way to England from India, and a pink silk dress I
then wore, and my intense satisfaction in it, is my next memory. It
had a stiff little bodice and skirt, and there were pink rosettes over
my ears. But I could not have been a pretty child, for my golden hair,
which grew abundantly in later years, was then very scanty, and my
mouth was large. I was stood upon a mahogany table, of which I still
see the vast and polished spaces beneath me, and Mr. John Dobray, when
I was introduced to him by my proud father, said, "So this is Sophie."
[Illustration: "Quimper is an old town"]
Mr. Dobray wore knee-breeches, silk stockings, and a high stock. I see
my father, too, very tall, robust, and fair, with the pleasantest
face. But my father's figure fills all my childhood. I was his pet and
darling. When I cried and was naughty, my mother would say: "Take your
daughter. She tires me and is insufferable." Then my father would take
me in his arms and walk up and down with me while he sang me to sleep
with old Breton songs. One of these ran:
Jésus péguen brasvé,
Plégar douras néné;
Jésus péguen brasvé,
Ad ondar garan té!
This, as far as I remember, means, "May Jesus be happy, and may His
grace make us all happy."
At other times my father played strange, melancholy old Breton tunes
to me on a violin, which he held upright on his knee, using the bow
across it as though it were a 'cello. He was, though untaught,
exceedingly musical, and played by ear on the clavecin anything he had
heard. It must have been from him that I inherited my love of music,
and I do not remember the time that I was not singing.
I see myself, also, at the earliest age, held before my father on his
saddle as we rode through woods. He wore an easy Byronic collar and
always went bareheaded. He spent most of his time on horseback,
visiting his farms or hunting.
My father was of a wealthy bourgeois family of Landerneau, and it must
have been his happy character and love of sport rather than his
wealth--he was master of hounds and always kept the pack--that made
him popular in Quimper, for the gulf between the _bourgeoisie_ and the
_noblesse_ was almost impassable. Yet not only was he popular, but he
had married my mother, who was of an ancient Breton family, the
Rosvals. One of the Rosvals fought in the Combats de Trente against
the English, and the dying and thirsty Beaumanoir to whom it was said
on that historic day, "Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir," was a cousin of
theirs.
[Illustration: We played in the garden at Quimper]
My mother was a beautiful woman with black hair and eyes of an intense
dark blue. She was unaware of her own loveliness, and was much amused
one day when her little boy, after gazing intently at her, said,
"_Maman_, you are very beautiful." She repeated this remark, laughing,
to my father, on which he said, "Yes, my dear, you are."
My mother was extremely proud, and not at all flattered that she
should be plain Mme. Kerouguet, although she was devoted to my father
and it was the happiest _ménage_. I remember one day seeing her bring
to my father, looking, for all her feigned brightness, a little
conscious, some new visiting-cards she had had printed, with the name
of Kerouguet reduced to a simple initial, and followed by several of
the noble ancestral names of her own family.
"What's this?" said my father, laughing.
"We needed some new cards," said my mother, "and I dislike so much the
name of Kerouguet."
But my father, laughing more than ever, said:
"Kerouguet you married and Kerouguet you must remain," and the new
cards had to be relinquished.
My mother, with her black hair and blue eyes, had a charming nose of
the sort called "_un nez Roxalane_." It began very straight and fine,
but had a flattened little plateau on the tip which we called "_la
promenade de maman_." My memory of her then is of a very active, gay,
authoritative young woman, going to balls, paying and receiving
visits, and riding out with my father, wearing the sweeping habit of
those days and an immense beaver hat and plume.
Quimper is an old town, and the _hôtels_ of the _noblesse_, all
situated in the same quarter and on a steep street, were of blackened,
crumbling stone. From _portes-cochères_ one entered the courtyards,
and the gardens behind stretched far into the country.
In the courtyard of our _hôtel_ was a stone staircase, with elaborate
carvings, like those of the Breton churches, leading to the upper
stories, but for use there were inner staircases. My mother's boudoir,
the _petit salon_, the _grand salon_, the _salle-à-manger_, and the
billiard-room were on the ground floor and gave out upon the garden.
The high walls that ran along the street and surrounded the garden
were concealed by plantations of trees, so that one seemed to look out
into the country. Flower beds were under the salon-windows, and there
were long borders of wild strawberries that had been transplanted from
the woods, as my mother was very fond of them. Fruit-trees grew
against the walls, and beyond the groves and flower beds and winding
gravel paths was an orchard, with apricot-, pear-, and apple-trees,
and the clear little river Odel, with its washing-stones, where the
laundry-maids beat the household linen in the cold, running water.
It was pleasant to hear the _clap-clap-clap_ on a hot summer day. Is
it known that the pretty pied water-wagtail is called _la lavandière_
from its love of water and its manner of beating up and down its tail
as our washerwomen wield their wooden beaters?
Beyond the river were the woods where I often rode with my father, and
beyond the woods distant ranges of mountains. I looked out at all this
from my nursery-windows, with their frame of climbing-roses and
heliotrope. Near my window was a great lime-tree of the variety known
as American. The vanilla-like scent of its flowers was almost
overpowering, and all this fragrance gave my mother a headache, and
she had to have her room moved away from the garden to another part of
the house. How clearly I see this room of my mother's, with its high,
canopied four-poster bed and the pale-gray paper on the walls covered
with yellow fleurs-de-lis!
The wall-paper in my father's room was one of the prettiest I have
ever seen, black, all bespangled with bright butterflies. Of the
_grand salon_ I remember most clearly the high marble mantelpiece,
upheld by hounds sitting on their haunches. On this mantelpiece was a
huge _boule_ clock, two tall candelabra of Venetian glass, and two
figures in _vieux Saxe_ of a marquis and a marquise that filled us
with delight. On each side of the fireplace were two Louis XV court
chairs--chairs, that is, with only one arm, to admit of the display of
the great hoop-skirts of the period. I remember, too, our special
delight in the foot-stools, which were of mahogany, shaped rather like
gondolas and cushioned in velvet; for we could sit inside them and
make them rock up and down.
The houses of the _noblesse_ swarmed with servants; many of them were
married, and their children, and even their grandchildren, lived on
with our family in patriarchal fashion. Men and maids all wore the
costumes of their respective Breton cantons, exceedingly beautiful
some of them, stiff with heavy embroideries, the strange caps of the
women fluted and ruffled, adorned with lace, rising high above their
heads and falling in long lappets upon their shoulders, or perched on
their heads like butterflies. These caps were decorated with large
gold pins and dangling golden pendants, and these and the materials
for the costumes were handed down in the peasants' families from
generation to generation. My young nurse Jeannie--there was an old
nurse called Gertrude--wore a skirt of bright-blue woolen stuff and a
black-cloth bodice opening in a square over a net fichu thickly
embroidered with _paillettes_ of every color. Hers was the small flat
cap of Quimper, with the odd foolscap excrescence, rather like the
horn of a rhinoceros, curving forward over the forehead. Needless to
say, the servants did not do their daily work in this fine array;
while that went on they were enveloped from head to foot in large
aprons.
The servants and the peasants in the Brittany of those days had a
pretty custom of always using the _thou_ when addressing their masters
or the Deity, thus inverting the usual association of this mode of
address; for to each other they said _you_, and on their lips this was
the familiar word, and the _thou_ implied respect. Our servants were
of the peasant class, but service altered and civilized them very
much, and while no peasant spoke anything but Breton, they talked in
an oddly accented French. I remember a pretty example of this in a
dear old man who served my little cousin Guénolé du Jacquelot du
Bois-Laurel. Guénolé and I, because of some naughtiness, were deprived
of strawberries one day at our supper, and the fond old man, grieving
over the discomfiture of his little master, said, or, rather chanted,
half in condolence, and half in playful consolation: "Oh, le pauvre
Guén_o_lé, que tu es dés_o_lé!" accenting the _o_ in a very droll
fashion.
[Illustration: "A very stately autocratic person"]
The servants were all under the orders of a very stately autocratic
person, the steward or major-domo. It was he who directed the service
from behind his master's chair at the head of the table and he who
prescribed the correct costume for the servants. His wife had charge
of Jeannie and of me; it was she who, when two little sisters and a
brother had been added to the family, took us down to our breakfast
and supervised the meal. We had it in a little tower-room on the
ground floor, milk soup or gruel and the delicious bread and butter of
Brittany.
We lunched and dined at ten and five--such were the hours of those
days--with our parents in the dining-room, and it was here that one of
the most magnificent figures of my childhood appears; for my devoted
father brought me back from Paris one day a splendid mechanical pony,
life-sized and with a real pony-skin, the apparatus by which he was
moved simulating an exhilarating canter. Upon this steed, after
dessert, we children mounted one by one, and we resorted to many ruses
in order to get the first ride of the day. This dear pony accompanied
all my childhood. He lost his hair as the result of an unhappy
experiment we tried upon him, scrubbing him with hot water and soap,
one day when we were unobserved. He had a melancholy look after that,
but was none the less active and none the less loved. When I saw his
dismembered body lying in the garret of a grand-niece not many years
ago I felt a contraction of the heart. How he brought back my youth,
and since that how many generations had ridden him!
We played at being horses, too, driving each other in the garden,
where we spent most of our days when at Quimper. Strange to say, even
while we were thus occupied, we always wore veils tightly tied over
our bonnets and faces to preserve our skins from the sun. We all wore,
even in earliest childhood, stiff little dresses with closely fitting
boned bodices. My sister Eliane was delicate and wore flannel next her
skin; but my only underclothing consisted of cambric chemise,
petticoats, and drawers, these last reaching to my ankles and
terminating in frills that fell over the foot in its little sandaled
shoe. When I came back from a wonderful stay, later on, of four or
five years in England, a visit that revolutionized my ideas of life, I
wore the easy dress of English children, and had bare arms, much to my
mother's dismay. Another change that England wrought in me was that I
was filled with discomfort when I saw the peasants kneeling before us
at Loch-ar-Brugg, our country home; for in those days, although the
Revolution had passed over France, it was still the custom for
peasants to kneel before their masters, and my mother felt it right
and proper that they should do so. I begged her not to allow it, but
she insisted upon the ceremony to her dying day, and only when I came
as mistress to Loch-ar-Brugg with my children and grandchildren was it
discontinued.
Another early memory is the long row of family portraits in the
_salle-à-manger_. I think I must have looked up at these from my
father's shoulder as he walked up and down with me, singing to me
while my mother went on with her interrupted dessert, for the awe that
some of them inspired in me seems to stretch back to babyhood. Some
were so dark and severe that it was natural they should frighten a
baby; but it was a pastel, in flat, pale tones, of an old lady with
high powdered hair, whose steady, forbidding gaze followed me up and
down the room, that frightened me most. This was an elder sister of my
grandmother's, a March'-Inder, who, dressed as a man, had fought with
her husband and daughter in the war of the Chouans against the
republic. Her husband was killed, and her daughter, taken prisoner by
a French officer, had hanged herself, so the family story ran, to
escape insult. Another portrait of a great-grandmother enchanted me
then, as it has done ever since, a charming young woman seated, with
her hands folded before her, her golden hair unpowdered, her dress of
citron-colored satin brocaded with bunches of pale, bright flowers.
And there was a portrait of my grandmother in youth, with black hair
and eyes as black as jet. I thought her very ugly, and could never
associate her with my dearly loved _bonne maman_.
I must delay no longer in introducing this most important member of
the family, my mother's mother, with whom we lived, for the old
Quimper _hôtel_ was her dower-house.
Poor _bonne maman_! I see her still, in her deep arm-chair, always
dressed in a long gown of puce-colored satin, a white lace mantilla,
caught up with a small bunch of artificial buttercups, on her white
hair. She wore white-thread lace mittens that reached to her elbows,
and her thin, white hands were covered with old-fashioned rings. My
mother was her favorite daughter, and I, as the eldest child of this
favorite, was specially cherished. Both of _bonne maman's_ parents had
been guillotined in the Revolution. I do not think her husband was of
much comfort to her. He came to Quimper only for short stays. He was
_directeur des Ponts et chaussées_ for the district, but also a deputy
in Paris, and these political duties, according to him, gave him no
leisure for family life. He was at least ten years younger than _bonne
maman_, very gay and witty, _l'homme du monde_ in all the acceptations
of the term, full of deference to _bonne maman_, whom he treated like
a queen, with respectful salutes and gallant kissings of the hand. He
seemed very fond of his home at Quimper when he was in it, but he
seldom graced it with his presence.
When I went up to see _bonne maman_ in the morning, she would give me
her thumb to kiss, an odd formality, since she was full of
demonstrations of affection toward me. I did not find the salute
altogether agreeable, since _bonne maman_ took snuff constantly, and
her delicate thumb and forefinger were strongly impregnated with the
smell of tobacco. Taking me on her knees, she would then very gravely
ask to see my little finger, and when I held it up, she would
scrutinize it carefully, and from its appearance tell me whether I had
been good or naughty. Beside her chair _bonne maman_ had always a
little table, the round polished top surrounded by a low brass
railing. On this were ranged a number of toilet implements, her
glasses, scent-bottle, work-bag, and various knickknacks. A very
unique implement, I imagine, was a little stick of polished wood, with
a tuft of cotton wool tied by a ribbon at one end. This she used,
when her maid had powdered her hair or face, to dust off the
superfluous powder, and I can see her now, her little mirror in one
hand, the ribboned stick in the other, turning her head from side to
side and softly brushing the tuft over her brow and chin. The table
was always carried down with her to the _petit salon_, where, her
morning toilet over, she was borne in her chair by means of the
handles that projected before and behind it.
[Illustration: "_Bonne maman_ was devoted to my father"]
_Bonne maman_ had an old carriage, an old horse, and an old coachman.
None of these was ever used, since she never went out except on Easter
day, when she was carried in a sedan-chair to hear mass at the
cathedral near by. The sedan-chair was gray-green with bunches of
flowers painted on it, and upholstered with copper-colored satin. It
was carried by four bearers in full Breton costume. They wore jackets
of a bright light blue, beautifully embroidered along the edges with
disks of red, gold, and black; red sashes, tied round their waists,
hung to the knees; their full kneebreeches were white, their shoes
black, and their stockings of white wool. Like all the peasants of
that time, they wore their hair long, hanging over their shoulders,
and their large, round Breton hats were of black felt tied with a
thick chenille cord of red, blue, and black, which was held to the
brim at one side by a golden fleur-de-lis, and that had a scapular
dangling from the end. Within the chair sat my grandmother, dressed,
as always, in puce color; but this gala costume was of brocade,
flowers of a paler shade woven upon a dark ground, and the lace
mantilla of every-day wear was replaced by a sort of white tulle
head-dress, gathered high upon her head and falling over her breast
and shoulders. I remember her demeanor in church on these great
occasions, her gentle authority and _recueillement_, and the glance of
grave reproach for my mother, who was occupied in looking about her
and in making humorous comments on the odd clothes and attitude of her
fellow-worshipers. On all other days the curé brought the communion to
my grandmother in her room. I remember the first of these communions
that I witnessed. I was sitting on _bonne maman's_ bed when the curé
entered, accompanied by his acolytes in red and white, and I was
highly interested when I recognized in one of these important
personages the cook's little boy. The curé was going to lift me from
the bed, but _bonne maman_ said: "No; let her stay. When you are gone
I will explain to her the meaning of what she sees." This she
attempted to do, but not, I imagine, with much success. Old Gertrude,
Jeannie's chief in the nursery, had of course already told me of _le
petit Jesus_, and I had learned to repeat, "Seigneur, je vous donne
coeur." But _bonne maman_ was grieved to find that I did not yet
know "Our Father."
"Sophie does not know her Pater," she said to my mother. "She must
learn it."
"Oh, she is too young to learn it," said my mother. But _bonne maman_
was not at all satisfied with this evasion and saw that the prayer was
taught to me. She was very devout, and confessed twice a week; but
more than this, she was the best of women. I never heard her speak ill
of any one or saw her angry at any time, nor did I ever see her give
way to mirth, though I remember a species of silent laughter that at
times shook her thin body.
_Bonne maman_ was devoted to my father, even more devoted than to her
own sons, of whom she had had eight. They had been so severely brought
up by her, but especially, I feel sure, by my grandfather, that
through exaggerated respect and absurd ceremony they almost trembled
during the short audiences granted to them by their parents. My father
trembled before nobody. He was always cheerful, good-tempered, and
kind. During our life at Quimper he was not much at home, as he had a
horror of receptions and visits,--all the bother, as he said, of
social life,--and the time not spent in hunting was fully occupied in
seeing after his farms, his crops, and his peasants. Therefore, when
he came back for a three-or-four-days' stay with us, it was a delight
to young and old. I see him now, sitting in a low chair beside _bonne
maman's_ deep _bergère_, his head close to hers, his pipe between his
teeth,--yes, his pipe--for _bonne maman_ not only permitted, but even
commanded, him to smoke in her presence, so much did she value every
moment of the time he could be with her. So they smiled at each other
while they talked,--the snowy, powdered old head and the fair young
one enveloped in the midst of smoke,--understanding each other
perfectly; and although their opinions were diametrically opposed,
politics was their favorite theme. They must have taught me their
respective battle-cries, for I well remember that, riding my father's
knee and listening, while he varied the gait from trot to gallop, I
knew just when to cry out, "_Vive le Roi!_" in order to please _bonne
maman_, and "_Vive la République!_" to make papa laugh. When disputes
occurred in _bonne maman's_ room, they were between my father and
mother, if that can be called a dispute where one is so gay and so
imperturbable. It was _maman_ who brought all the heat and vehemence
to these differences, and, strange to say, _bonne maman_ always took
my father's side against her beloved daughter. My mother's quick
temper, I may add, displayed itself toward me pretty frequently in
slaps and whippings, no doubt well deserved, for I was a naughty,
wilful child; whereas in all my life I never received a punishment
from my father. I remember his distress on one of these occasions and
how he said, "It is unworthy to beat some one who cannot retaliate."
To which my mother, flushed and indignant, replied, "It would indeed
need only that." She was a charming and lovable woman, but I loved my
father best.
[Illustration: "I heard music constantly"]
_Bonne maman_ was very musical, and in the _petit salon_, when she was
installed there for the day, I heard music constantly, performed by
two young _protégés_ of the house. One of these was Mlle. Ghislaine du
Guesclin, the youngest descendant of our great Breton hero. It was a
very poor, very haughty family, and extremely proud of its origin.
Ghislaine's father, the Marquis du Guesclin (for with a foolish
conceit he had separated the particle from the name) had died, leaving
his daughter penniless and recommending her to my grandfather, who
placed her as _dame de compagnie_ beside my mother and _bonne maman_.
Ghislaine was an excellent musician, and their relation was of
the happiest. The other _protégé_ was called Yves le Grand, and was
the son of _bonne maman's coiffeur_. His story was curious. As a boy
of fourteen or fifteen he had come three times a week to wash the
windows and doors, and while he worked he sang all sorts of Breton
songs and strange airs that, as was learned later, were his own
improvisations. _Bonne maman_, noticing his talent, had him taken to
Paris by her husband, and he was educated in the conservatory, where,
after ten years of admirable study, he took the second prize. He
returned to Quimper, and earned a handsome livelihood by giving
pianoforte lessons while remaining in a sense our private musician,
for he was much attached to us all and accompanied us on all our
travels. Ghislaine sang in a ravishing fashion, and Yves accompanied
her on the clavecin that stood in the _petit salon_, mingling the
grave accents of his baritone with her clear soprano. When I first
heard them I was almost stupefied by the experience, cuddling down
into _bonne maman's_ arms, my head sunk between her cheek and
shoulder, but listening with such absorption and with such evident
appreciation that _bonne maman_ loved me more than ever for the
community of taste thus revealed between us.
I must often have tired her. I was a noisy, active child, and
sometimes when I sat on her knee and prattled incessantly in my
shrill, childish voice, she would pass her hand over her forehead and
say: "Not so loud, darling; not so loud. You pierce my ear-drums; and
you know that _le bon Dieu_ has said that one must never speak without
first turning one's tongue seven times round in one's mouth." At this
I would gaze wide-eyed at _bonne maman_ and try involuntarily to turn
my tongue seven times, an exercise at which I have never been
successful. I may add in parenthesis that I have often regretted it.
Another amusing adage I heard at the same time from Gertrude. If a
child made a face, it was told to take care lest the wind should turn,
and the face remain like that forever. I was much troubled by this
idea on one occasion when _maman_ and Ghislaine had been to a fancy
dress ball. Ghislaine told me next day about the dances and dresses.
_Maman_ had danced a minuet dressed in a Pompadour costume, and she
herself had gone as a deviless, with a scarlet-and-black dress and
little golden horns in her black hair. I felt this to have been a very
dangerous proceeding, for if _le bon Dieu_ had noticed Ghislaine's
travesty, He might have made the wind turn, and she would then have
remained a deviless and been forced to live in hell for all eternity.
A pretty custom at that time and in that place was that the young
matrons who went to such balls and dinner-parties were expected to
bring little silk bags in which they carried home to their children
the left-over sweetmeats of the dessert; so that we children enjoyed
these entertainments as much as Ghislaine and _maman_.
Ghislaine taught me my letters from a colored alphabet in the _petit
salon_, showing an angelic patience despite my yawns and whimperings.
My memories of the alphabet are drolly intermingled with various
objects in the _petit salon_ that from the earliest age charmed my
attention. One of these was an immense tortoise-shell mounted on a
tripod, and another a vast Chinese umbrella of pale yellow satin, with
silk and crystal fringes, that, suspended from the ceiling in front of
the long windows that gave on the garden, was filled with flowers.
This had been an ingenious contrivance of my father's, and _bonne
maman_ found it as bewitching as I did, never failing to say to
visitors, after the first greetings had passed: "Do you see my Chinese
umbrella?" When I had learned seven letters _bonne maman_ gave me four
red _dragées de baptême_,--the sugar-almonds that are scattered at
christenings,--and promised me as many more for each new attainment.
Thus sustained, I was able to master the alphabet and to pass by slow
degrees to Æsop's Fables, with pictures and a yellow cover. It was
later on that Ghislaine began to coach me in all the _départements_ of
France and their capitals. _Maman_ lent a hand in this and instituted
a method that was singularly successful. I still laugh in remembering
how at any time of the day, before guests, at meals, or while we were
at play, she might suddenly call out to us, "Gers!" for instance, to
which one must instantly reply "Auch." Or else it was "Gironde!" and
the reply, "Bordeaux," must follow without hesitation. If I replied
correctly, I was given fifty centimes; if incorrectly, I received a
slap. I used to dream of the _départements_ and their capitals at
night. One rainy day I was playing in the _petit salon_, lying at full
length on the floor and making a castle of blocks, when _maman_,
coming suddenly out of the library, a great tray of books in her arms,
cried out to me as she came, walking very quickly, "Gare!" ["Take
care!"] Without moving and without looking up, I replied obediently,
"Nîmes" (the capital of Gard), and an avalanche of books descended
upon me, poor _maman_ and her tray coming down with a dreadful
clatter. _Maman_ was not hurt, but very much afraid that I was.
When she found us both, except for a few bruises, safe and sound, she
went off into a peal of laughter, and I followed suit, much relieved;
for I had imagined for one moment that I had made a mistake in my
answer, and I found the punishment too severe.
"You are sure I have not hurt you, darling?" said _maman_, kissing me;
and I replied with truth:
"No, _Maman_; but I should have preferred the _gifle_." On that day,
instead of fifty centimes, I received a franc for consolation.
It was not until my brother's tutor came to us, when I was eight or
nine years old, that I ever had any teacher but Ghislaine.
Poor Ghislaine! Hers was a rather sad story. She had great beauty,
thick, black hair, white skin, her small prominent nose full of
distinction, but one strange peculiarity: there were no nails on her
long, pointed fingers. This, while not ugly, startled one in noticing
her hands. As I have said, she had been left penniless, and it was
difficult in France, then as now, to find a husband for a _jeune fille
sans dot_. Ghislaine only begged that he should be a gentleman. But
after _bonne maman's_ death, when we had gone to live in Paris,
Ghislaine was left behind with my aunt's family, and they finally
arranged a marriage for her with a notary. My mother was much
distressed by this prosaic match. She had for a time cherished the
romantic project of a marriage between Ghislaine and Yves, who,
besides being an artist, was the best of men, sincere, devoted, and
delicate.
[Illustration: "Ghislaine taught me my letters"]
For a descendant of du Guesclin the _coiffeur's_ son would, however,
have been as inappropriate as was the notary. The latter, too, was an
excellent man, and Ghislaine was not unhappy with him.