CASTLES IN THE AIR.
For some time after this conversation with the Chourineur, Rodolph
remained preoccupied and pensive, while Fleur-de-Marie, too timid to
break the silence, continued to gaze on him with saddened earnestness.
At length Rodolph looked up, and, meeting her mournful look, smiled
kindly on her, and said, "What are you thinking of, my child? I fear our
rencontre with the Chourineur has made you uncomfortable, and we were so
merry, too."
"Oh, no, M. Rodolph, indeed, I do not mind it at all; nay, I even
believe the meeting with the Chourineur may be useful to you."
"Did not this man pass amongst the inhabitants of the _tapis-franc_ as
possessing some good points among his many bad ones?"
"Indeed, I know not, M. Rodolph; for although, previously to the scene
of yesterday, I had frequently seen him, I had scarcely ever spoken to
him. I always looked upon him as bad as all the rest."
"Well, well, do not let us talk any more about him, my pretty
Fleur-de-Marie. I should be sorry, indeed, to make you sad,--I, who
brought you out purposely that you might spend a happy day."
"Oh, I am happy. It is so very long since I have been out of Paris."
"Not since your grand doings with Rigolette."
"Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph; but that was in the spring. Yet, though it is
now autumn, I enjoy it quite as much. How beautifully the sun shines!
Only look at the gold-coloured clouds out there--there, I mean; and then
that hill, with its pretty white houses half hid among the trees, and
the leaves still so green, though we are in the middle of the month of
October. Do not you think it is wonderful, M. Rodolph, they should so
well preserve their verdure? In Paris, all the leaves wither so soon.
Look! look at those pigeons! how many there are! and how high they fly!
Now they are settling on that old mill. One is never tired in the open
fields of looking at all these amusing sights."
"It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in
all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-Marie; though they, in reality,
constitute the charm of a landscape."
And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while
gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an
expression of the purest joy.
"See!" she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that
unfolded themselves to her eager look, "see how beautifully the clear
white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds
themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. What a capital
plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. Oh, if I were
a man, how I should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields,
and drive one's own plough; and then when you look to see the blue
skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests,--such a
day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep,
without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like
'Geneviève de Brabant.' Do you know 'Geneviève de Brabant,' M. Rodolph?"
"No, my child; but I hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me
before the day is over. You know our time is all our own."
At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted
happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the
brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to
all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all
restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much
surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.
"What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?"
"Nothing,--nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the girl, drying her
eyes and trying to smile. "Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please
not to notice it. I assure you I have nothing at all to grieve
about,--it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will
see."
"And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago."
"Yes, I know I was; and it was my thinking how soon--" answered
Fleur-de-Marie, naïvely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with
touching candour, to his face.
The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to the cause of her
distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly:
"I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are
crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used
to do."
La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her
cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her
fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of
the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would
succeed it. The vehicle had by this time almost arrived at St. Denis,
and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible.
"Oh, what a fine steeple!" exclaimed La Goualeuse.
"It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis: would you like to see
it? We can easily stop our carriage."
Poor Fleur-de-Marie cast down her eyes. "From the hour I went to live
with the ogress," said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her
cheek, "I never once entered a church,--I durst not. When in prison, on
the contrary, I used to delight in helping to sing the mass; and,
against the Fête-Dieu, oh, I made such lovely bouquets for the altar!"
"But God is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to
enter his holy church?"
"Oh, no, no, M. Rodolph! I have offended God deeply enough; let me not
add impiety and sacrilege to my sins."
After a moment's silence, Rodolph again renewed the conversation, and,
kindly taking the hand of La Goualeuse, said, "Fleur-de-Marie, tell me
honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?"
"Never, M. Rodolph."
"And how do you account for this?"
"You saw the kind of persons who frequented the _tapis-franc_. And then,
to love, the object should be good and virtuous--"
"Why do you think so?"
"Oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we
should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. But, M.
Rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears
will come into my eyes."
"Willingly, Fleur-de-Marie; let us change the conversation. And now tell
me, why do you look so beseechingly at me with those large, tearful
eyes? Have I done anything to displease you?"
"On the contrary, 'tis the excess of your goodness that makes me weep;
indeed, I could almost fancy that you had brought me out solely for my
individual pleasure and enjoyment, without thinking of yourself. Not
content with your generous defence of me yesterday, you have to-day
procured for me happiness such as I never hoped to enjoy."
"You are, then, truly and entirely happy?"
"Never, never shall I forget to-day."
"Happiness does not often attend us on earth," said Rodolph, sighing.
"Alas, no! Seldom, perhaps never."
"For my own part, to make up for a want of reality in its possession, I
often amuse myself with pictures of what I would have if I could, saying
to myself, this is how, and where, I should like to live,--this is the
sort of income I should like to enjoy. Have you never, my little
Fleur-de-Marie, amused yourself with building similar 'castles in the
air?'"
"Yes, formerly, when I was in prison, before I went to live with the
ogress,--then I used to do nothing all day but dance, sing, and build
these fairy dreams; but I very seldom do so now. Tell me, M. Rodolph, if
you could have any wish you liked, what should you most desire?"
"Oh, I should like to be rich, with plenty of servants and carriages; to
possess a splendid hôtel, and to mix in the first circles of fashion; to
be able to obtain any amusement I pleased, and to go to the theatres and
opera whenever I chose."
"Well, then, you would be more unreasonable than I should. Now I will
tell you exactly what would satisfy me in every respect: first of all,
sufficient money to clear myself with the ogress, and to keep me till I
could obtain work for my future support; then a pretty, little, nice,
clean room, all to myself, from the window of which I could see the
trees while I sat at my work."
"Plenty of flowers in your casement, of course?"
"Oh, certainly! And, if it could be managed, to live in the country
always. And that, I think, is all I should want."
"Let me see: a little room, and work enough to maintain you,--those are
positive necessaries; but, when one is merely wishing, there is no harm
in adding a few superfluities. Should you not like such nice things as
carriages, diamonds, and rich clothes?"
"Not at all! All I wish for is my free and undisturbed liberty,--a
country life, and the certainty of not dying in a hospital. Oh, that
idea is dreadful! Above all things, I would desire the certainty of its
never being my fate. Oh, M. Rodolph, that dread often comes across me
and fills me with terror."
"Alas! poor folks, such as we are, should not shrink from such things."
"'Tis not the dying in a charitable institution I dread, or the poverty
that would send me into it, but the thoughts of what they do to your
lifeless remains."
"What do they do that shocks you so much?"
"Is it possible, M. Rodolph, you have never been told what will become
of you if you die in one of those places?"
"No, indeed, I have not; do you tell me."
"Well, then, I knew a young girl, who had been a sort of companion to me
when I was in prison; she afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you
think? Her body was given to the surgeons for dissection!" murmured the
shuddering Fleur-de-Marie.
"That is, indeed, a frightful idea! And do these miserable anticipations
often trouble you, my poor girl?"
"Ah, M. Rodolph, it surprises you that, after my unhappy life, I can
feel any concern as to what becomes of my miserable remains! God knows,
the feeling which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty is all
my wretched fate has left me!"
The mournful tone in which these words were uttered, and the bitter
feelings they contained, went to the heart of Rodolph; but his
companion, quickly perceiving his air of dejection, and blaming herself
for having caused it, said, timidly:
"M. Rodolph, I feel that I am behaving very ill and ungratefully towards
you, who so kindly brought me out to amuse me and give me pleasure; in
return for which I only keep talking to you about all the dull and
gloomy things I can think of! I wonder how I can do so!--to be able even
to recollect my misery, when all around me smiles and looks so gay! I
cannot tell how it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of
myself; and, though I feel happier to-day than I ever did before in my
life, my eyes are continually filling with tears! You are not angry with
me, are you, M. Rodolph? See, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly
as it came. There now, it is all gone, and shall not return to vex you
any more, I am determined. Look, M. Rodolph, just look at my eyes,--they
do not show that I have been crying, do they?"
And here Fleur-de-Marie, having repeatedly closed her eyes to get rid of
the rebellious tears that would gather there, opened them full upon
Rodolph, with a look of most enchanting candour and sweetness.
"Put no restraint on yourself, I beseech you, Fleur-de-Marie: be gay, if
you really feel so; or sad, if sadness most suits your present state of
mind. I have my own hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings
would be much increased were I compelled to feign a lightness of heart I
did not really possess."
"Can it be possible, M. Rodolph, that you are ever sad?"
"Quite possible, my child, and true. Alas! the prospect before me is but
little brighter than your own. I, like you, am without friends or
parents; what would become of me if I were to fall ill and be unable to
earn my daily bread,--for I need scarcely tell you I live but from day
to day, and spend my money quite as fast as I obtain it?"
"Oh, but that is wrong, M. Rodolph,--very, very wrong!" said La
Goualeuse, in a tone of such deep and grave remonstrance as made him
smile. "You should always lay by something. Look at me: why, all my
troubles and misfortunes have happened because I did not save my money
more carefully. If once a person can get a hundred francs beforehand, he
need never fear falling into any one's power; generally, a difficulty
about money puts very evil thoughts into our head."
"All that is very wise and very sensible, my frugal little friend; but a
hundred francs!--that is a large sum; how could a man like myself ever
amass so much?"
"Why, M. Rodolph, it is really very easy, if you will but consider a
little. First of all, I think you said you could earn five francs a
day?"
"Yes, so I can, when I choose to work."
"Ah! but you should work, constantly and regularly; and yours is such a
pretty trade. To paint fans! how nice such work must be,--mere
amusement, quite a recreation! I cannot think why you should ever be
tired or dull. Indeed, M. Rodolph, I must tell you plainly I do not pity
you at all; and, besides, really you talk like a mere child when you say
you cannot save money out of such large earnings," added La Goualeuse,
in a sweet, but, for her, severe tone. "Why, a workman may live well
upon three francs a day; there remain forty sous; at the end of a month,
if you manage prudently, you will have saved sixty francs. Think of
that! There's a sum!--sixty francs in one month!"
"Oh, but one likes to show off sometimes, and to indulge in a little
idleness."
"There now, M. Rodolph, I declare you make me quite angry to hear you
talk so childishly! Pray let me advise you to be wiser."
"Come, then, my sage little monitress, I will be a good boy, and listen
to all your careful advice. And your idea of saving, too, is a
remarkably good one; I never thought of it before."
"Really!" exclaimed the poor girl, clapping her hands with joy. "Oh, if
you knew how delighted I am to hear you say so! Then you will begin from
to-day to lay by the forty sous we were talking about, will you? Will
you, indeed?"
"I give you my honour that, from this very hour, I will resolve to
follow up your most excellent plan, and save forty sous out of each
day's pay."
"Are you quite, quite sure you will?"
"Nay, have I not promised you that I will?"
"You will see how proud and happy you will be with your first savings;
and that is not all--ah, if you would promise not to be angry!"
"Do I look as though I could be so unkind, Fleur-de-Marie, as to find
fault with anything you said?"
"Oh, no, indeed, that you do not; only I hardly know whether I ought--"
"You ought to tell me everything you think or feel, Fleur-de-Marie."
"Well, then, I was wondering how _you_, who, it is easily seen, are
above your condition, can frequent such low cabarets as that kept by the
ogress."
"Had I not done so, I should not have had the pleasure of wandering in
the fields with you to-day, my dear Fleur-de-Marie."
"That is, indeed, true, M. Rodolph; but, still, it does not alter my
first opinion. No, much as I enjoy to-day's treat, I would cheerfully
give up all thoughts of ever passing such another if I thought it could
in any way injure you."
"Injure me! Far from it! Think of the excellent advice you have been
giving me."
"Which you have promised me to follow?"
"I have; and I pledge my word of honour to save henceforward at least
forty sous a day." Thus speaking, Rodolph called out to the driver of
their vehicle, who was passing the village of Sarcelles, "Take the first
road to the right, cross Villiers to Bel, turn to the left, then keep
along quite straight."
"Now," said Rodolph, turning to his companion, "that I am a good boy,
and promised to do all you tell me, let us go back to our diversion of
building castles in the air: that does not run away with much money. You
will not object to such a method of amusing myself, will you?"
"Oh, no, build as many as you like, they are very cheaply raised, and
very easily knocked down when you are tired of them. Now, then, you
begin."
"Well, then--No! Fleur-de-Marie, you shall build up yours first."
"I wonder if you could guess what I should choose, if wishing were all,
M. Rodolph."
"Let us try. Suppose that this road--I say _this_ road, because we
happen to be on it--"
"Yes, yes, of course; this road is as good as any other."
"Well, then, I say, I suppose that this road leads to a delightful
little village, at a considerable distance from the highroad--"
"Oh, yes; that makes it so much more still and quiet!"
"It is built facing the south, and half surrounded by trees--"
"And close by flows a gentle river."
"Exactly!--a clear, gently flowing river. At the end of this village
stands a pretty farm, with a nice orchard on one side of it, and a
garden, filled with flowers, on the other--"
"That farm shall be called my farm, to which we will pretend we are now
going."
"Just so."
"And where we know we shall get some delicious milk to drink after our
journey!"
"Milk, indeed! Excellent cream, and newly laid eggs, if you please."
"And where we would be glad to stay all our lives!"
"All our lives! Quite right,--go on."
"And then we should go and see all the cows!"
"To be sure we should."
"And afterwards visit the dairy?"
"Visit the dairy! Yes."
"Then the pigeon-house?"
"Yes, so we should."
"Oh, how very, very nice, only to think of such things!"
"But let me finish the description of the farm--"
"Yes, pray do! I quite forgot that."
"Well, then, the ground floor contains two rooms; one, a large kitchen
for the farm servants, and the other for the owner of the place."
"Make that room have green blinds, M. Rodolph,--do, pray; they are so
cool, and look so pretty!"
"Yes, yes,--green blinds to the windows. I quite agree with you,--they
do look uncommonly pretty, and set off a place so well! Of course, the
person tenanting this farm is your aunt."
"Of course she is my aunt, and a very good, sensible, kind woman, M.
Rodolph, is she not?"
"Particularly so, and loves you like her own child."
"Dear, good aunt! Oh, how delightful to have some one to love us!"
"And you return the tender affection she bears you?"
"Oh, with all my heart!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands,
and raising her eyes to heaven with an expression impossible to
describe. "And I should help her to work, to attend to the family linen,
to keep everything neat and clean, to store up the summer fruits against
winter--oh, she would never have to complain that I was idle, I promise!
First of all, in the morning--"
"Wait a bit, Fleur-de-Marie; you are in too great a hurry. I want to
finish describing the house to you; never mind your aunt just yet."
"Ah, ha, Mr. Painter! All this is taken from some pretty landscape you
have been painting on a fan. Now I know what makes you so expert at
describing it!" said La Goualeuse, laughing merrily at her own little
jest.
"You little chatterer, be quiet, will you?"
"Yes, I am a chatterer, indeed, to interrupt you so often, M. Rodolph;
but pray go on, and I will not speak again till you have finished
painting this dear farm."
"Your room is on the first floor--"
"My room! how charming! Oh, go on--go on, please, M. Rodolph, and
describe all about it to me!" And the delighted girl opened her large
laughing eyes, and pressed more closely against Rodolph, as if she
expected to see the picture in his hand.
"Your chamber has two windows looking out upon the flower garden, and a
small meadow, watered by the river we mentioned. On the opposite bank of
the stream rises a small hill, planted with fine old chestnut-trees; and
from amongst them peeps out the village church--"
"Oh, how beautiful,--how very beautiful, M. Rodolph! It makes one quite
long to be there."
"Three or four fine cows are grazing in the meadow, which is only
separated from the garden by a hedge of honeysuckle--"
"And from my windows I can see the cows?"
"Perfectly."
"And one among them ought to be my favourite, you know, M. Rodolph; and
I ought to put a little bell round its neck, and use it to feed out of
my hands!"
"Of course she would come when you called her. Let me see, what name
shall we give her? Suppose we say, Musette. Do you like that? She shall
be very young and gentle, and entirely white."
"Oh, what a pretty name! Musette! Ah, Musette, Musette, I shall be
always feeding you and patting you to make you know me."
"Now we will finish the inside of your apartment, Fleur-de-Marie. The
curtains and furniture are green, like the blinds; and outside the
window grow an enormous rose-tree and honeysuckle, which entirely cover
this side of the farm, and so surround your casements that you have only
to stretch out your hand to gather a large bunch of roses and
honeysuckle wet with the early morning dew."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, what a good painter you are!"
"Now this is the way you will pass your day--"
"Yes, yes, let us see how I shall employ myself all day."
"Early in the morning your good aunt wakes you with a tender kiss; she
brings with her a bowl of new milk, just warm, which she prays you to
drink, as she fancies you are delicate about the lungs, poor dear child!
Well, you do as she wishes you; then rise, and take a walk around the
farm; pay a visit to Musette, the poultry, your pets the pigeons, the
flowers in the garden, till nine o'clock, when your writing-master
arrives--"
"My writing-master?"
"Why, you know, unless you learned such necessary things as reading,
writing, and accounts, you would not be able to assist your aunt to keep
her books relative to the produce of the farm."
"Oh, to be sure! How very stupid of me not to recollect that I must
learn to write well, if I wished to help my aunt!" cried the young girl,
so thoroughly absorbed in the picture of this peaceful life as to
believe for the moment in its reality.
"After your lesson is concluded, you will occupy yourself in household
matters, or embroider some pretty little article of dress for yourself;
then you will practise your writing for an hour or two, and, when that
is done, join your aunt in her round of visits to the different
operations of the farm; in the summer, to see how the reapers get on in
the hay field; in harvest-time, to observe the reapers, and afterwards
to enjoy the delight with which the gleaners pick up the scattered ears
of grain; by this time you will have almost tired yourself, and
gathering a large handful of wild herbs, carefully selected by you as
the known favourites of your dear Musette, you turn your steps
homewards--"
"But we go back through the meadow, dear M. Rodolph, do we not?"
inquired La Goualeuse, as earnestly as though every syllable her ears
drank in was to be effectually brought to pass.
"Oh, yes! by all means; and there happens, fortunately, to be a nice
little bridge, by which the river separating the farm-land from the
meadow may be crossed. By the time you reach home, upon my word, it is
seven o'clock; and, as the evenings begin to be a little chill, a
bright, cheerful fire is blazing in the large farm kitchen; you go in
there for a few minutes, just to warm yourself and to speak a few kind
words to the honest labourers, who are enjoying a hearty meal after the
day's toil is over. Then you sit down to dinner with your aunt;
sometimes the curé, or a neighbouring farmer, is invited to share the
meal. After dinner you read or work, while your aunt and her guest have
a friendly game at piquet. At ten o'clock she dismisses you, with a kiss
and a blessing, to your chamber; you retire to your room, offer prayers
and thanksgivings to the Great Author of all your happiness, then sleep
soundly till morning, when the same routine begins again."
"Oh, M. Rodolph, one might lead such a life as that for a hundred years,
without ever knowing one moment's weariness."
"But that is not all. There are Sundays and fête-days to be thought of."
"Yes; and how should we pass those?"
"Why, you would put on your holiday dress, with one of those pretty
little caps _à la paysanne_, which all admit you look so very nicely in,
and accompany your aunt in her large old-fashioned chaise, driven by
James the farm servant, to hear mass in the village church; after which,
during summer, your kind relative would take you to the different fêtes
given in the adjoining parishes. You, so gentle, so modest and
good-looking, so tenderly beloved by your aunt, and so well spoken of by
the curé for all the virtues and qualifications which make a good wife,
will have no scarcity of offers for your hand in the dance,--indeed, all
the principal young farmers will be anxious to secure you as a partner,
by way of opening an acquaintance which shall last for life. By degrees
you begin to remark one more than the others; you perceive his deep
desire to attract your undivided attention, and so--" And here Rodolph,
struck by the continued silence of La Goualeuse, looked up at her. Alas!
the poor girl was endeavouring, though fruitlessly, to choke the deep
sobs which almost suffocated her. For a brief period, carried away by
the words of Rodolph, the bright future presented to her mental vision
had effaced the horrible present; but too quickly did the hideous
picture return, and sweep away for ever the dear delight of believing so
sweet, so calm an existence could ever be hers.
"Fleur-de-Marie," asked Rodolph, in a kind and affectionate tone, "why
is this? Why these tears?"
"Ah, M. Rodolph, you have unintentionally caused me much pain. Foolish
girl that I was, I had listened to you till I quite fancied this
paradise were a true picture."
"And so it is, my dear child! This paradise, as you call it, is no
fiction."
"Stop, coachman!"
"Now look! see! observe where we are!"
As the carriage stopped, La Goualeuse, at Rodolph's bidding,
mechanically raised her head,--they were on the summit of a little
hill. What was her surprise, her astonishment, at the scene which
revealed itself to her gaze! The pretty village, built facing the south,
the farm, the meadow, the beautiful cows, the little winding river, the
chestnut grove, the church in the distance,--the whole picture, so
vividly painted, was before her eyes. Nothing was wanting,--even the
milk-white heifer, Musette, her future pet, was peacefully grazing as
she had been described. The rich colouring of an October sun gilded the
charming landscape, while the variegated tint of the chestnut-leaves,
slightly tinged by the autumnal breezes, stood out in bold relief
against the clear blue of the surrounding sky.
"Well, my little Fleur-de-Marie, what do you say to this? Am I a good
painter, or not?"
La Goualeuse looked at him with a surprise in which a degree of
uneasiness was mingled; all she saw and heard appeared to her to partake
largely of the supernatural.
"M. Rodolph," she at length exclaimed, with a bewildered look, "how can
this be? Indeed, indeed, I feel afraid to look at it,--it is so exactly
alike. I cannot believe it is anything but a dream you have conjured up,
and which will quickly pass away. Speak to me! pray do; and tell me what
to believe."
"Calm yourself, my dear child! Nothing is more simple or true than what
you behold here. The good woman who owns this farm was my nurse, and
brought me up here; intending to give myself a treat, I sent to her
early this morning to say I was coming to see her. You see I painted
after nature."
"You are quite right, M. Rodolph," sighed La Goualeuse. "There is,
indeed, nothing but what is quite natural in all this."
The farm to which Rodolph had conducted Fleur-de-Marie was situated at
the outer extremity of the village of Bouqueval,--a small, isolated, and
unknown hamlet, entirely surrounded by its own lands, and about two
leagues' distance from Ecouen; the vehicle, following the directions of
Rodolph, rapidly descended the hill, and entered a long avenue bordered
with apple and cherry trees, while the wheels rolled noiselessly over
the short fine grass with which the unfrequented road was overgrown.
Fleur-de-Marie, whose utmost efforts were unavailing to shake off the
painful sensations she experienced, remained so silent and mournful that
Rodolph reproached himself with having, by his well-intentioned
surprise, been the cause of it. In a few moments more, the carriage,
passing by the large entrance to the farm, entered a thick avenue of
elm-trees, and stopped before a little rustic porch, half hidden by the
luxuriant branches of the vine which clustered round it.
"Now, Fleur-de-Marie, here we are. Are you pleased with what you see?"
"Indeed I am, M. Rodolph. But how shall I venture before the good person
you mentioned as living here? Pray do not let her see me,--I cannot
venture to approach her."
"And why, my child?"
"True, M. Rodolph; I forget she does not know me, and will not guess how
unworthy I am." And poor Fleur-de-Marie tried to suppress the deep sigh
that would accompany her words.
The arrival of Rodolph had, no doubt, been watched for; the driver had
scarcely opened the carriage door when a prepossessing female, of middle
age, dressed in the style of wealthy landholders about Paris, and whose
countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and benevolent in its
expression, appeared in the porch, and with respectful eagerness
advanced to meet Rodolph.
Poor Goualeuse felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat as she timidly
descended from the vehicle.
"Good day, good day, Madame Georges," said Rodolph, advancing towards
the individual so addressed, "you see I am punctual." Then turning to
the driver, and putting money into his hand, he said, "Here, my friend,
there is no further occasion to detain you; you may return to Paris as
soon as you please."
The coachman, a little, short, square-built man, with his hat over his
eyes, and his countenance almost entirely concealed by the high collar
of his driving-coat, pocketed the money without a word, remounted his
seat, gave his horses the whip, and disappeared down the _allée verte_
by which he had entered.
Fleur-de-Marie sprang to the side of Rodolph, and with an air of
unfeigned alarm, almost amounting to distress, said, in a tone so low as
not to be overheard by Madame Georges:
"M. Rodolph! M. Rodolph! pray do not be angry, but why have you sent
away the carriage? Will it not return to fetch us away?"
"Of course not; I have quite done with the man, and therefore dismissed
him."
"But the ogress!"
"What of her? Why do you mention her name?"
"Alas! alas! because I must return to her this evening; indeed, indeed,
I must, or--or she will consider me a thief. The very clothes I have on
are hers, and, besides, I owe her--"
"Make yourself quite easy, my dear child; it is my part to ask your
forgiveness, not you mine."
"My forgiveness! Oh, for what can you require me to pardon you?"
"For not having sooner told you that you no longer owe the ogress
anything; that it rests only with yourself to decide whether you will
henceforward make this quiet spot your home, and cast off the garments
you now wear for others my kind friend, Madame Georges, will furnish you
with. She is much about your height, and can supply you with everything
you require. She is all impatience to commence her part of 'aunt,' I
can assure you."
Poor Fleur-de-Marie seemed utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of
all she saw and heard, and gazed with wondering and perplexed looks from
one companion to the other, as though fearing to trust either her eyes
or ears.
"Do I understand you rightly?" she cried at length, half breathless with
emotion. "Not go back to Paris? Remain here? And this lady will permit
me to stay with her? Oh, it cannot be possible; I dare not hope it; that
would, indeed, be to realise our 'castles in the air.'"
"Dear Fleur-de-Marie, your wishes are realised,--your dream a true one."
"No, no, you must be jesting; that would be too much happiness to
expect, or even dare to hope for."
"Nay, Fleur-de-Marie, we should never find fault with an oversupply of
happiness."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, for pity's sake deceive me not; you cannot believe the
misery I should experience were you to tell me all this happiness was
but a jest."
"My child, listen to me," said Rodolph, with a tone and manner which,
although still affectionate, was mingled with a dignified accent and
manner Fleur-de-Marie had never previously remarked in him. "I repeat
that, if you please, you may from this very hour lead here, with Madame
Georges, that peaceful life whose description but a short time since so
much delighted you. Though the kind lady with whom you will reside be
not your aunt, she will feel for you the most lively and affectionate
interest, and with the personages about the farm you will pass as being
really and truly her niece, and this innocent deception will render your
residence here more agreeable and advantageous. Once more I repeat to
you, Fleur-de-Marie, you may now at your own pleasure realise the dream
of our journey. As soon as you have assumed your village dress," said
Rodolph, smilingly, "we will take you to see that milk-white heifer,
Musette, who is to be your favourite henceforward, and who is only
waiting for the pretty collar you designed to ornament her with; then we
will go and introduce ourselves to your pets, the pigeons, afterwards
visit the dairy, and so go on till we have been all over the farm. I
mean to keep my promise in every respect, I assure you."
Fleur-de-Marie pressed her hands together with earnest gratitude.
Surprise, joy, and the deepest thankfulness, mingled with respect, lit
up her beautiful countenance, while, with eyes streaming with tears, she
exclaimed:
"M. Rodolph, you are, you must be, one of those beneficent angels sent
by the Almighty to do good upon earth, and to rescue poor fallen
creatures, like myself, from shame and misery."
"My poor girl," replied Rodolph, with a smile of deep sadness and
ineffable kindness, "though still young, I have already deeply suffered.
I lost a dear child, who, if living, would now be about your age. Let
that explain my deep sympathy with all who suffer, and for yourself
particularly, Fleur-de-Marie, or, rather, _Marie_ only. Now, go with
Madame Georges, who will shew you the pretty chamber, with its
clustering roses and honeysuckle to form your morning bouquets. Yes,
Marie, henceforward let that name, simple and sweet as yourself, be your
only appellation. Before my departure we will have some talk together,
and then I shall quit you, most happy in the knowledge of your full
contentment."
Fleur-de-Marie, without one word of reply, gracefully bent her knee,
and, before Rodolph could prevent her, gently and respectfully raised
his hand to her lips; then rising with an air of modest submission,
followed Madame Georges, who eyed her with a profound interest, out of
the room.