A NEW ENVIRONMENT
Madelon Pinel stood by the window of the inn parlour, and looked out
with round shining eyes. She was in a state of pleasing excitement, and
her comely cheeks vied in colour with the carnation riband in her cap,
for this was her first jaunt with her husband since their marriage, and
an expedition from quiet Rancy to the eight-miles-distant market-town
was a dissipation of the most agreeable nature. The inn looked out on
the small, crowded Place, where a great traffic of buying and selling,
of cheapening and haggling was in process, and she chafed with
impatience for her husband to finish his wine, and take her out into the
thick of it again. He, good man, miller by the flour on his broad
shoulders, stood at his ease beside her, smiling broadly. No one, he
considered, could behold him without envy; for Madelon was the
acknowledged belle of the countryside, and well dowered into the
bargain. Altogether, a man very pleased with life, and full of pride in
his married state, as he lounged beside his pretty wife, and drank his
wine, one arm round her neat waist.
With a roll and a flourish the diligence drew up, and Madelon's
excitement grew.
"Ah, my friend, look--look!" she cried. "There will be passengers from
Paris. Oh! I hope it is full. No--what a pity! There are only four.
See then, Jean Jacques, the fat old man with the nose. It is redder
than Gargoulet's and one would have said that was impossible. And the
little man like a rat. Fie! he has a wicked eye, that one--I declare he
winked at me"; and she drew back, darting a virtuously coquettish glance
at the unperturbed Jean Jacques.
"Not he," he observed with complete tranquillity. "Calm thyself,
Madelon. Thou art no longer the prettiest girl in Rancy, but a sober
matron. Thy winking days are over."
"My winking days!" exclaimed Madelon,--"my winking days indeed!" She
tossed her head with feigned displeasure and leaned out again,
wide-eyed.
A third passenger had just alighted, and stood by the door of the
diligence holding out a hand to some one yet unseen.
"Seigneur!" cried Madelon maliciously; "look there, Jean Jacques, if
that is not a fine man!"
"What, the rat?" grinned the miller.
"No, stupid!--the handsome man by the door there, he with the tricolour
sash. Ciel! what a sash! What can he be, then,--a Deputy, thinkest
thou? Oh, I hope he is a Deputy. There, now there is a woman getting
out--he helps her down, and now he turns this way. They are coming in.
Eh! what blue eyes he has! Well, I would not have him angry with me,
that one; I should think his eyes would scorch like lightning."
"Eh, Madelon, how you talk!"
"There, they are on the step. Hold me then, Jean Jacques, or I shall
fall. Do you think the woman is his wife? How white she is!--but quite
young, not older than I. And her hair--oh, but that is pretty! I wish
I had hair like that--all gold in the sun."
"Thy hair is well enough," said the enamoured Jean Jacques. "There,
come back a little, Madelon, or thou wilt fall out. They are coming
in."
Madelon turned from the window to watch the door, and in a minute
Dangeau and Aline came in. For a moment Aline looked timidly round,
then seeing the pleasant face and shining brown eyes of the miller's
wife, she made her way gratefully towards her, and sat down on the rough
bench which ran along the wall. Madelon disengaged herself from her
husband's arm, gave him a little push in Dangeau's direction, and sat
down too, asking at once, with a stare of frank curiosity:
"You are from Paris? All the way from Paris?"
"Yes, from Paris," said Aline rather wearily.
"Ciel! That is a distance to come. Are you not tired?"
"Just a little, perhaps."
"Paris is a big place, is it not? I have never been there, but my
father has. He left the inn for a month last year, and went to Paris,
and saw all the sights. Yes, he went to the Convention Hall, and heard
the Deputies speak. Would any one believe there were so many of them?
Four hundred and more, he said. Every one did not believe
him,--Gargoulet even laughed, and spat on the floor,--but my father is a
very truthful man, and not at all boastful. He would not say such a
thing unless he had seen it, for he does not believe everything that he
is told--oh no! For my part, I believed him, and Jean Jacques too. But
imagine then, four hundred Deputies all making speeches!"
Aline could not help laughing.
"Yes, I believe there are quite as many as that. My husband is one of
them, you know."
"Seigneur!" exclaimed Madelon. "I said so. Where is that great stupid
of mine? I said the Citizen was a Deputy--at once I said it!"
"Why, how did you guess?"
"Oh, by the fine tricolour sash," said Madelon naively; "and then there
is a look about him, is there not? Do you not think he has the air of
being a Deputy?"
"I do not know," said Aline, smiling.
"Well, I think so. And now I will tell you another thing I said. I
said that he could be angry, and that then I should not like to meet his
eyes, they would be like blue fire. Is that true too?"
Aline was amused by the girl's confiding chatter.
"I do not think he is often angry," she said.
"Ah, but when he is," and Madelon nodded airily. "Those that are angry
often--oh, well, one gets used to it, and in the end one takes no
notice. It is like a kettle that goes on boiling until at last the
water is all boiled away. But when one is like the Citizen Deputy, not
angry often--oh, then that can be terrible, when it comes! I should
think he was like that."
"Perhaps," said Aline, still smiling, but with a little contraction of
the heart, as she remembered anger she had roused and faced. It did not
frighten her, but it made her heart beat fast, and had a strange
fascination for her now. Sometimes she even surprised a longing to heap
fuel on the fire, to make it blaze high--high enough to melt the ice in
which she had encased herself.
Then her own thought startled her, and she turned quickly to her
companion.
"Is that your husband?" she asked, for the sake of saying something.
"Yes, indeed," said Madelon. "He is a fine man, is he not? He and the
Citizen Deputy are talking together. They seem to have plenty to
say--one would say they were old friends. Yes, that is my Jean Jacques;
he is the miller of Rancy-les-Bois. We have travelled too, for Rancy is
eight miles from here, and a road to break your heart."
"From Rancy--you come from Rancy?" said Aline, with a little, soft,
surprised sound.
"Yes, from Rancy. Did I not say my father kept the inn there? But I
have been married two months now"; and she twisted her wedding ring
proudly.
"I am going to Rancy," said Aline on the impulse.
"You, Citoyenne?" and Madelon's brown eyes became completely round with
surprise.
Aline nodded. She liked this girl with the light tongue and honest red
cheeks. It was pleasant to talk to her after four hours of tense
silence, during the most part of which she had feigned sleep, and even
then had been aware of Dangeau's eyes upon her face.
"Yes," she said. "Does that surprise you so much? My husband goes South
on mission, and I am to stay with his aunts at Rancy. They have written
to say that I am welcome."
"Oh!" cried Madelon quickly. "Then I know who you are. Stupid that I
am, not to have guessed before! All the world knows that the Citoyennes
Desaix have a nephew who is a Deputy, and you must be his wife--you must
be the Citoyenne Dangeau."
"Yes," said Aline.
"To be sure, if I had seen the Citoyenne Ange, she would have told me
you were coming; but it is ten days since I saw her to speak to--there
has been so much to do in the house. She will be pleased to have you.
Both of them will be pleased. If they are proud of the nephew who is a
Deputy--Seigneur!" and Madelon's plump brown hands were waved high and
wide to express the pride of Dangeau's aunts.
"Yes?" said Aline again.
"But of course. It is a fine thing nowadays, a very fine thing indeed.
All the world would turn out to look at him if he came to Rancy. What a
pity he must go South! Have you been married long?"
Aline was vexed to feel the colour rise to her cheeks as she answered:
"No--not long."
"And already he must leave you! That is hard--yes, I find that very
hard. If Jean Jacques were to go away, I should certainly be
inconsolable. Before one is married it is different; one has a light
heart, one is quick to forget. If a man goes, one does not care--there
are always plenty more. But when one is married, then it is another
story; then there is something that hurts one at the heart when they are
not there--n'est-ce pas?"
Aline turned a tell-tale face away, and Madelon edged a little nearer.
"Later on, again, they say one does not mind so much. There are the
children, you see, and that makes all the difference. For me, I hope
for a boy--a strong, fat boy like Marie my sister-in-law had last year.
Ah! that was a boy! and I hope mine will be just such another. If one
has a girl, one feels as if one had committed a betise, do you not think
so?--or"--with a polite glance at the averted face--"perhaps you desire
a girl, Citoyenne?"
Aline felt an unbearable heat assail her, for suddenly her old dream
flashed into her mind, and she saw herself with a child in her arms--a
wailing, starving child with sad blue eyes. With an indistinct murmur
she started up and moved a step or two towards the door, and as she did
so, Dangeau nodded briefly to the miller, and came to meet her.
"We are fortunate," he said,--"really very fortunate. These worthy
people are the miller of Rancy and his wife, as no doubt she has told
you. I saw you were talking together."
"Yes, it is strange," said Aline.
"Nothing could have been more convenient, since they will be able to
take you to my aunt's very door. I have spoken to the miller, and he is
very willing. Nothing could have fallen out better."
"And you?" faltered Aline, her eyes on the ground.
"I go on at once. You know my orders--'to lose no time.' If it had
been necessary, I should have taken you to Rancy, but as it turns out I
have no excuse for not going on at once."
"At once?" she repeated in a little voice like a child's.
He nodded, and walked to the window, where he stood looking out for a
moment.
"The horses are in," he said, turning again. "It is time I took my
seat."
He passed out, saluting Pinel and Madelon, who was much elated by his
bow.
Aline followed him into the square, and saw that the other two
passengers were in their places. Her heart had begun to beat so
violently that she thought it impossible that he should not hear it, but
he only threw her a grave, cold look.
"You will like perhaps to know that your friend's case came on yesterday
and that she was set free. There was nothing against her," he said,
with some constraint.
"Marguerite?"
"Yes, the Citoyenne Matigny. She is free. I thought you would be glad
to know."
"Yes--yes--oh, thank you! I am glad!"
"You will tell my aunts that my business was pressing, or I should have
visited them. Give them my greetings. They will be good to you."
"Yes--the letter was kind."
"They are good women." He handed her a folded paper. "This is my
direction. Keep it carefully, and if you need anything, or are in any
trouble, you will write." His voice made it an order, not a request,
and she winced.
"Yes," she said, with stiff lips.
Dangeau's face grew harder. If it were only over, this parting! He
craved for action--longed to be away--to be quit of this intolerable
strain. He had kept his word, he had assured her safety, let him be
gone out of her life, into such a life as a man might make for himself,
in the tumult and flame of war.
"Seigneur!" said Madelon, at the window. "See, Jean Jacques,"--and she
nudged that patient man,--"see how he looks at her! Ma foi, I am glad
it is not I! And with a face as if it had been cut out of stone, and
there he gets in without so much as a touch of the hand, let alone a
kiss! Is this the way of it in Paris?"
"Thou must still be talking, Madelon," said Jean Jacques, complacently.
"Well, I should not like it," shrugged Madelon pettishly.
"No, I 'll warrant you wouldn't," said the miller, with a grin and a
hearty kiss.
At four o'clock the business and pleasure of the market-day were over,
and the folk began to jog home again. Aline sat beside Madelon on the
empty meal-sacks, and looked about her with a vague curiosity as they
made their way through the poplar-bordered lanes, bumping prodigiously
every now and then, in a manner that testified to the truth of Madelon's
description of the road.
It was one of the days that seems to have drawn out all summer's beauty,
whilst keeping yet faint memories of spring, and hinting in its breadth
of evening shade at autumn's mellowness.
Madelon chattered all the way, but Aline's thoughts were too busy to be
distracted. She thought continually of the smouldering South and its
dangers, of the thousand perils that menaced Dangeau, and of the bitter
hardness of his face as he turned from her at the last.
Jean Jacques let the reins fall loose after a while, and turning at his
ease, slipped his arm about his wife's waist and drew her head to his
shoulder. Aline's eyes smarted with sudden tears. Here were two happy
people, here was love and home, and she out in the cold, barred out by a
barrier of her own raising. Oh! if he had only looked kindly at the
last!--if he had smiled, or taken her hand!
They came over the brow of a little hill, and dipped towards the wooded
pocket where Rancy lay, among its trees, watched from half-way up the
hill by an old grey stone chateau, on the windows of which the setting
sun shone full, showing them broken and dusty.
"Who lives in the chateau?" asked Aline suddenly.
"No one--now," returned Jean Jacques; and Madelon broke in quickly.
"It was the chateau of the Montenay but a year ago.--Now why dost thou
nudge me, Jean Jacques?--A year ago, I say, it was pillaged. Not by our
own people, but by a mob from the town. They broke the windows and the
furniture, and hunted high and low for traitors, and then went back
again to where they came from. There was nobody there, so not much harm
done."
"De Montenay?" said Aline in a low voice. How strange! So this was why
the name of Rancy had seemed familiar from the first. They were of her
kin, the De Montenay.
"Yes, the De Montenay," said Madelon, nodding. "They were great folk
once, and now there is only the old Marquise left, and she has
emigrated. She is very old now, but do you know they say the De
Montenay can only die here? However ill they are in a foreign place,
the spirit cannot pass, and I always wonder will the old Marquise come
back, for she is a Montenay by birth as well as by marriage?"
"Eh, Madelon, how you talk!" said Jean Jacques, with an uneasy lift of
his floury shoulders. He picked up the reins and flicked the mare's
plump sides with a "Come up, Suzette; it grows late."
Madelon tossed her head.
"It is true, all the same," she protested. "Why, there was M.
Rene,--all the world knows how she brought M. Rene here to die."
"Chut then, Madelon!" said the miller, in a decided tone this time; and,
as she pouted, he spoke over his shoulder in a low voice, and Aline
caught the words, "Ma'mselle Ange," whereon Madelon promptly echoed
"Ma'mselle" with a teasing inflexion.
Jean Jacques became angry, and the back of his neck seemed to well over
the collar of his blouse, turning very red as it did so.
"Tiens, Citoyenne Ange, then. Can a man remember all the time?" he
growled, and flicked Suzette again. Madelon looked penitent.
"No, no, my friend," she said soothingly; "and the Citoyenne here
understands well enough, I am sure. It is that my father is so good a
patriot," she explained, "and he grows angry if one says Monsieur,
Madame, or Mademoiselle any more. It must be Citizen and Citoyenne to
please him, because we are all equal now. And Jean Jacques is quite as
good a patriot as my father--oh, quite; but it is, see you, a little
hard to remember always, for after all he has been saying the other for
nearly forty years."
"Yes, it is hard always to remember," Aline agreed.
They came down into the shadow under the hill, and turned into the
village street. The little houses lay all a-straggle along it, with the
inn about half-way down. Madelon pointed out this cottage and that,
named the neighbours, and informed Aline how many children they had.
Jean Jacques did not make any contribution to the talk until they were
clear of the houses, when he raised his whip, and pointing ahead, said:
"Now we are almost there--see, that is the house, the white one amongst
those trees"; and in a moment Aline realised that she was nervous, and
would be very thankful when the meeting with Dangeau's aunts should be
over. Even as she tried to summon her courage, the cart drew up at the
little white gate, and she found herself being helped down, whilst
Madelon pressed her hands and promised to come and see her soon.
"The Citoyenne Ange knows me well enough," she said, laughing. "She
taught me to read, and tried to make me wise, but it was too hard."
"There, there, come, Madelon. It is late," said the miller. "Good
evening, Citoyenne. Come up, Suzette"; and in a moment Aline was alone,
with her modest bundle by her side. She opened the gate, and found
herself in a very pretty garden. The evening light slanted across the
roof of the small white house, which stood back from the road with a
modest air. It had green shutters to every window, and green creepers
pushed aspiring tendrils everywhere. The garden was all aflash with
summer, and the air fragrant with lavender, a tall hedge of which
presented a surface of dim, sweet greenery, and dimmer, sweeter bloom.
Behind the lavender was a double row of tall dark-eyed sunflowers, and
in front blazed rose and purple phlox, carnations white and red, late
larkspur, and gilly-flowers.
Such a feast of colour had not been spread before Aline's town-wearied
eyes for many and many a long month, and the beauty of it came into her
heart like the breath of some strong cordial. At the open door of the
house were two large myrtle trees in tubs. The white flowers stood
thick amongst the smooth dark leaves, and scented all the air with their
sweetness. Aline set down her bundle, and went in, hesitating, and a
murmur of voices directing her, she turned to the right.
It was dark after the evening glow outside, but the light shone through
an open door, and she made her way to it, and stood looking in, upon a
small narrow room, very barely furnished as to tables and chairs, but
most completely filled with children of all ages.
They sat in rows, some on the few chairs, some on the floor, and some on
the laps of the elder ones. Here and there a tiny baby dozed in the lap
of an older girl, but for the most part they were from three years old
and upwards.
All had clean, shining faces, and on the front of each child's dress was
pinned a tricolour bow, whilst on the large corner table stood a coarse
pottery jar stuffed full of white Margaret daisies, scarlet poppies, and
bright blue cornflowers. Aline frowned a little impatiently and tapped
with her foot on the floor, but no one took any notice. A tall lady
with her back to the door was apparently concluding a tale to which all
the children listened spellbound.
"Yes, indeed," Aline heard her say, in a full pleasant voice,--"yes,
indeed, children, the dragon was most dreadfully fierce and wicked. His
eyes shot out sparks, hot like the sparks at the forge, and flames ran
out of his mouth so that all the ground was scorched, and the grass
died.--Jeanne Marie, thou little foolish one, there is no need to cry.
Have courage, and take Amelie's hand. The brave youth will not be
harmed, because of the magic sword.--It was all very well for the dragon
to spit fire at him, but he could not make him afraid. No, indeed! He
raised the great sword in both hands, and struck at the monster. At the
first blow the earth shook, and the sea roared. At the second blow the
clouds fell down out of the sky, and all the wild beasts of the woods
roared horribly, but at the third blow the dragon's head was cut clean
off, and he fell down dead at the hero's feet. Then the chains that
were on the wrists and ankles of the lovely lady vanished away, and she
ran into the hero's arms, free and beautiful."
A long sigh went up from the rows of children, and one said regretfully:
"Is that all, Citoyenne?"
"That is all the story, my children; but now I shall ask questions.
Felicite, say then, who is the young hero?"
A big, sharp-eyed girl looked up, and said in a quick sing-song, "He is
the glorious Revolution and the dragon."
"Chut then,--I asked only for the hero. It is Candide who shall tell us
who is the dragon."
Every one looked at Candide, who, for her part, looked at the ceiling,
as if seeking inspiration there.
"The dragon is--is--
"Come then, my child, thou knowest."
"Is he not a dragon, then?" said Candide, opening eyes as blue as the
sky, and quite as devoid of intelligence.
"Little stupid one,--and the times I have told thee! What is it, then,
that the glorious Revolution has destroyed?"
She paused, and half a dozen arms went up eagerly, whilst as many voices
clamoured:
"I know!"--"No, ask me!"--"No, me, Citoyenne!"--"No, me!"--"Me!"
"What! Jeanne knows? Little Jeanne Marie, who cried? She shall say.
Tell us, then, my child,--who is the dragon?"
Jeanne looked wonderfully serious.
"It is the tyranny of kings, is it not, chere Citoyenne?"
"Very good, little one. And the lovely lady, who is the lovely lady?"
"France--our beautiful France!" cried all the children together.
Aline pushed the door quite wide and stepped forward, and as she came
into view all the children became as quiet as mice, staring, and nudging
one another.
At this, and the slight rustle of Aline's dress, Ange Desaix turned
round, and uttered a cry of surprise. She was a tall woman, soft and
ample of arm and bosom, with dark, silvered hair laid in classic fashion
about a very nobly shaped head. Her skin was very white and soft, and
her hazel eyes had a curious misty look, like the hollows of a hill
brimmed with a weeping haze that never quite falls in rain. They were
brooding eyes, and very peaceful, and they seemed to look right through
Aline and away to some place of dreams beyond. All this was the
impression of a moment--this, and the fact that the tall figure was all
in white, with a large breast-knot of the same three-coloured flowers as
stood in the jar. Then the motherly arms were round Aline, at once
comfortable and appealing, and Mlle Desaix' voice said caressingly, "My
dear niece, a thousand welcomes!"
After a moment she was quietly released, and Ange Desaix turned to the
children.
"Away with you, little ones, and come again to-morrow. Louise and Marthe
must give up their bows, but the rest can keep them."
The indescribable hubbub of a party of children preparing for departure
arose, and Ange said smilingly, "We are late to-day, but on market-day
some are from home, and like to know the children are safe with me."
As she spoke a little procession formed itself. Each child passed
before Mlle Desaix, and received a kiss and a smile. Two little girls
looked very downcast. They sniffed loudly as they unpinned their ribbon
bows and gave them up.
"Another time you will be wise," said Ange consolingly; and Louise and
Marthe went out hanging their heads.
"They chattered, instead of listening," explained Mlle Desaix. "I do
not like punishments, but what will you? If children do not learn
self-control, they grow up so unhappy."
There was an alluring simplicity in voice and manner that touched the
child in Aline. To her own surprise she felt her eyes fill with
tears--not the hot drops which burn and sting, but the pleasant water of
sympathy, which refreshes the tired soul. On the impulse she said:
"It is good of you to let me come here. I--I am very grateful, chere
Mademoiselle."
Ange put a hand on her arm.
"You will say 'ma tante,' will you not, dear child? Our nephew is dear
to us, and we welcome his wife. Come then and see Marthe. She suffers
much, my poor Marthe, and the children's chatter is too much for her, so
I do not take them into her room, except now and then. She likes to see
little Jeanne sometimes, and Candide, the little blue-eyed one. Marthe
says she is like Nature--unconsciously stupid--and she finds that
refreshing, since like Nature she is so beautiful. But there, the child
is well enough--we cannot all be clever."
Mlle Desaix led the way through the hall and up a narrow stair as she
spoke. Outside a door on the landing above she paused.
"But where, then, is Jacques--the dear Jacques?"
"After all he could not come," said Aline. "His orders were so
strict,--'to press on without any delay,'--and if he had lost the
diligence, it would have kept him twenty-four hours. He charged me with
many messages."
"Ah," said Mlle Ange, "it will be a grief to Marthe. I told her all the
time that perhaps he would not be able to come, but she counted on it.
But of course, my dear, we understand that his duty must come
first--only," with a sigh, "it will disappoint my poor Marthe."
She opened the door as she spoke, and they came into a room all in the
dark except for the afterglow which filled the wide, square window. A
bed or couch was drawn up to the open casement, and Aline took a quick
breath, for the profile which was relieved against the light was
startlingly like Dangeau's as she had seen it at the coach window that
morning.
Ange drew her forward.
"See then, Marthe," she said, "our new niece is come, but alas, Jacques
was not able to spare the time. Business of the Republic that could not
wait."
Marthe Desaix turned her head with a sharp movement--a movement of
restless pain.
"How do you do, my dear niece," she said, in a voice that distinctly
indicated quotation marks. "As to seeing, it is too dark to see
anything but the sky."
"Yes, truly," said Ange; "I will get the lamp. We are late to-night,
but the tale was a long one, and I knew the market folk would be late on
such a fine evening."
She went out quickly, and Aline, coming nearer to the window, uttered a
little exclamation of pleasure.
"Ah, how lovely!" she said, just above her breath.
The window looked west through the open end of the hollow where Rancy
lay, and a level wash of gold held the horizon. Wing-like clouds of
grey and purple rested brooding above it, and between them shone the
evening star. On either side the massed trees stood black against the
glow, and the scent of the lavender came up like the incense of peace.
Marthe Desaix looked curiously at her, but all she could see was a slim
form, in the dusk.
"You find that better than lamplight?" she asked.
"I find it very beautiful," said Aline. "It is so long since I saw
trees and flowers, and the sun going down amongst the hills. My window
in Paris looked into a street like a gutter, and one could only see, oh,
such a little piece of sky."
As she spoke Ange came in with a lamp, which she set beside the bed; and
immediately the glowing sky seemed to fade and recede to an immeasurable
distance. In the lamplight the likeness which had startled Aline almost
disappeared. Marthe Desaix' strong, handsome features were in their
original cast almost identical with those of her nephew, but seen full
face, they were so blanched and lined with pain that the resemblance was
blurred, and the big dark eyes, like pools of ink, had nothing in common
with Dangeau's.
Aline herself was conscious of being looked up and down. Then Marthe
Desaix said, with a queer twist of the mouth:
"You did not live long in Paris, then?"
"It seemed a long time," said Aline. "It seems years when I try to look
back, but it really is n't a year yet."
"You like the country?"
"Yes, I think so," faltered Aline, conscious of having said too much.
"Poor child," said Ange. "It is sad for you this separation. I know
what you must feel. You have been married so short a time, and he has
to leave you. It is very hard, but the time will pass, and we will try
and make you happy."
"You are very good," said Aline in a low voice. Then she looked and saw
Mlle Marthe's eyes gazing at her between perplexity and sarcasm.
When Aline was in bed, Ange heard her sister's views at length.
"A still tongue 's best, my Ange, but between you and me"--she shrugged
her shoulders, and then bit her lip, as the movement jarred her--"there
is certainly something strange about 'our new niece,' as you call her."
"Well, she is our nephew's wife," said Ange.
"Our nephew's wife, but no wife for our nephew, if I'm not much
mistaken," returned Marthe sharply.
"I thought she looked sweet, and good."
"Good, good--yes, we 're all good at that age! Bless my soul, Ange, if
goodness made a happy marriage, the devil would soon have more holidays
than working days."
"Ma cherie, if any one heard you!"
"Well, they don't, and I should n't mind if they did. What I do mind is
that Jacques should have made a marriage which will probably break his
heart."
"But why, why?"
"Oh, my Angel, if you saw things under your nose as clearly as you do
those that are a hundred years away, you would n't have to ask why."
"I saw nothing wrong," said Ange in a voice of distress.
"I did not say the girl was a thief, or a murderess," returned Marthe
quickly. "No, I 'll not tell you what I mean,--not if you were to ask
me on your knees,--not if you were to beg it with your last breath."
Ange laughed a little.
"Well, well, dearest, perhaps I shall guess. Good-night, and sleep
well."
"As if I ever slept well!"
"Poor darling! Poor dearest! Is it so bad to-night? Let me turn the
pillow. Is it a little better so?"
"Perhaps." Then as Ange reached the door:
"Angel!"
"What is it then, cherie?"
Mlle Marthe put a thin arm about her sister's neck and drew her close.
"After all, I will tell you."
"Though I did not beg it on my knees?"
"Chut!"
"Or with my last breath?"
"Very well, then; if you do not wish to hear----"
"No, no; tell me."
"Well then, Ange, she is noble--that girl."
"Oh no!"
"I am sure of it. The mystery, her coming here. Why has she no
relations, no friends? And then her look, her manner. Why, the first
tone of her voice made me start."
"Oh no, he would not----"
"Would not?" scoffed Marthe. "He 's a fool in love, and I suppose she
was in danger. I tell you, I suspected it at once when his letter came.
There, go to bed, and dream of our connection with the aristocracy. My
faith, how times change! It is an edifying world."
She pushed Ange away, and lay a long time watching the stars.