THE GODMOTHER.
At Montreux, one of the nearest towns which, with Clarens, Vernex, and
Glion, form a garland at the northeastern end of the Lake of Geneva,
lived Babette's godmother, an English lady of position, with her
daughters and a young relative; they had recently arrived, but the
miller had already paid them a visit, told them of Babette's
engagement, and of Rudy and the eaglet, and of his visit to
Interlaken--in short, the whole history--and they had been highly
delighted and pleased with Rudy and Babette, and with the miller; and
at last made them all three come, and so they came--Babette must see
her godmother, the godmother see Babette.
Near the little town of Villeneuve, at the end of the Lake of Geneva,
lay the steamboat which in its half-hour's journey to Vernex lies
under Montreux. This is a shore which poets have praised; here, under
the walnut-trees, on the deep blue-green lake, sat Byron, and wrote
his melodious lines on the prisoner in the Castle of Chillon. Yonder,
where Clarens is reflected with its weeping willows in the lake,
wandered Rousseau, dreaming of Heloïse. The river Rhone glides forth
under the high, snow-capped mountains of Savoy; here lies, not far
from its outlet in the lake, a little island--indeed, it is so small
that from the shore it seems to be a boat out there; it is a rock
which, more than a hundred years ago, a lady had surrounded with a
stone wall, covered with soil, and planted with three acacia-trees,
which now overshadow the whole island. Babette was quite enraptured
with the little spot--it was to her the most charming in the whole
voyage; she thought they ought to stay there, for it was a most
delightful place. But the steamboat passed by it, and stopped, as it
always did, at Vernex.
The little company wandered hence between the white, sunlit walls
which enclosed the vineyards about the little mountain town of
Montreux, where fig-trees cast a shade in front of the peasants'
cottages, and laurels and cypresses grow in the gardens. Half-way up
stood the boarding-house where the godmother was living.
They were very cordially received. The godmother was a tall, kind lady
with a round, smiling face; as a child she must have been like one of
Raphael's angel heads, but now she was an old angel head, as her
silvery hair was quite curly. The daughters were handsome,
delicate-looking, tall and slim. The young cousin, who was with them,
was entirely dressed in white from top to toe, with yellow hair and
whiskers, of which he had so much that it might have been divided
between three gentlemen, and he at once paid great attention to little
Babette.
Handsomely bound books, pieces of music, and drawings were spread over
the large table, the balcony doors stood open overlooking the
beautiful, extensive lake, which was so bright and still that the
mountains of Savoy, with the country towns, woods, and snowy tops,
were all reflected in it.
Rudy, who was always bold, lively, and confident, felt himself out of
his element, as they say; and he moved about as if he were walking on
peas on a smooth floor. How slowly the hours passed! as if on the
treadmill. And now they went for a walk, and it was just as tedious;
Rudy might have taken two steps forward and then one back, and still
kept pace with the others. They walked down to Chillon, the old gloomy
castle on the rock, to see the instruments of torture, and
death-chambers, the rusty chains on the rocky walls, the stony bed for
those sentenced to death, the trap-doors through which the unfortunate
beings were precipitated downwards and impaled on the iron spikes
amidst the surf. They called it delightful to see all this. It was a
place of execution, elevated by Byron's song into the world of poetry.
Rudy felt it altogether the scene of executions; he leaned against the
great stone window-frames and looked into that deep, bluish-green
water, and over to the little solitary island with the three acacias;
he wished himself there, and away from the whole chattering party; but
Babette felt herself particularly cheerful. She said she had been
unusually entertained; she found the cousin perfect.
"Yes, a perfect chatterbox!" said Rudy; and it was the first time that
Rudy said anything which displeased her. The Englishman had presented
her with a little book as a memento of Chillon; it was a French
version of Byron's poem, _The Prisoner of Chillon_, which Babette
could read.
"The book may be good enough," said Rudy, "but I don't care for the
much-combed fellow who gave it you."
"He seemed to me like a meal-sack without any meal!" said the miller,
laughing at his own wit. Rudy also laughed, and said that it was very
well put.