BON PAPA
My most vivid recollections of Grandfather de Rosval place him at
Landerneau, where he would stop with us on his way to Quimper during
his tours of inspection. His arrivals in the sleepy little town were
great affairs and caused immense excitement: post-chaise, postilion,
whips cracking, horns blowing, and a retinue of Parisian servants. We
children never had more than a glimpse of him at first, for he
withdrew at once to his own rooms to rest and go through his papers.
When he made his entry into the salon,--the salon of the slippery
parquet and the nodding mandarins,--all the household was ranged on
each side, as if for the arrival of a sovereign, and we had all to
drop deep curtseys before him.
[Illustration: Grandfather de Rosval]
He was a rather imposing figure, with splendid clothes, the coat
thickly embroidered along the edge with golden oak-leaves, and a
fine, handsome head; but he was enormously, even ridiculously, stout.
With an often terrifying and even repellent severity he mingled the
most engaging playfulness, and our childish feelings toward him were
strangely compounded of dislike and admiration.
When he arrived in the salon a lackey came behind him, carrying a
large linen bag filled with a sweetmeat bought at Seugnot's, the great
Parisian confectioner. I always associate these sweetmeats with _bon
papa_. They were called _croquignoles_, were small, hard, yet of the
consistency of soft chalk when one bit into them, and glazed with
pink, white, or yellow. After the salutations, _bon papa_ would take
up his position before the mantelpiece and beckon the servant to give
him the bag of _croquignoles_. We children, quivering with excitement,
each of us already provided with a small basket, stood ready, and as
_bon papa_, with a noble gesture, scattered the handfuls of
_croquignoles_ far and wide, we flung ourselves upon them, scrambling,
falling, and filling our baskets, with much laughter and many
recriminations. Then, besides the little case for _maman_, also from
Seugnot's, filled with tablets of a delicious _sucre-de-pomme_ in
every flavor, were more dignified presents, bracelets and rings for
her and for our _Tante de Laisieu_ and boxes of beautiful toys for us.
The only cloud cast over these occasions was that after having
distributed all his bounties, _bon papa_ sat down, drew a roll of
manuscript from his pocket, and composed himself to read in a sonorous
voice poems of his own composition. Their theme, invariably, was the
delight of reëntering one's family and country, and they were very
pompous and very long, sometimes moving _bon papa_ almost to tears.
The comic scene of family prayers that followed was pure relief, for
even we children felt it comic to see _bon papa_ praying.
"And are they good children?" he would ask. "Have they said their
prayers?"
[Illustration: "The château was one of the oldest in Finisterre"]
"Not yet, _mon père_," _maman_ would answer. "They always say their
prayers at bedtime." But _bon papa_ was not to be so deterred from yet
another ceremony.
"Good, good!" he would reply. "We will all say the evening prayers
together, then."
And when we had all obediently knelt down around the room, _bon papa_
recited the prayers in the same complacent, sonorous voice, making
magnificent signs of the cross the while. On one of these occasions we
were almost convulsed by poor little Ernest, whom _bon papa_ had taken
in his arms, and who was so much alarmed by the great gestures going
on over his head that he broke at last into a prolonged wail and had
to be carried hastily away.
One of _bon papa's_ poetic works I can still remember, of a very
different and more endearing character. I was taken ill one morning
while we were living with him in Paris and had been given to console
me by a cousin of ours staying with us, the Duchesse de M----, a
delicious little purse in white, knitted silk, embroidered with pale
blue forget-me-nots. I told _maman_ that I wished very much to show
this purse to _bon papa_, and that he should be informed of my
illness. So I wrote him a note, and it was taken, with the purse, to
his room. Presently the little parcel, much heavier, was brought back
to me, and on opening my purse, I found inside it a centime, a liard,
a sou--every coin, in fact, up to and including a golden twenty-franc
piece. And this is the poem that was sent with the purse:
"Vous voulez jeune Princesse
Que je me rends près de vous?
Que je baise de votre altesse
Les pieds, les mains, et les genoux?
Dans un instant je vais me rendre
A vos désirs et à vos voeux,
Mais vous me permettrez de prendre
Deux baisers sur vos beaux yeux bleus."
Such a grandfather, it must be admitted, had advantages as well as
charms, yet our memory of him was always clouded by the one or two
acts of cruel severity we had witnessed and of which I could not trust
myself to speak.