THE TOUR D'ANTIN.
THE very next day I was sent for to go and see my mother. Jeanne
accompanied me, and had a long private conference, from which she
returned bathed in tears. I anxiously asked the cause of her grief.
"The good Jeanne is grieved to part with thee, my little one," said my
mother kindly. "Thy parents wish thee henceforth to live at home with
them."
I did not know whether to be pleased or grieved at this news. I
adored my beautiful pale mother, but it was with a kind of awful
reverence—something, I suppose, like that a nun feels toward an image
of the Virgin; but I had never learned to be at all free with her.
Could I ever lay my head in her silken lap when it ached, as it often
did, or could I prattle to her as freely of all my joys and sorrows as
I did to Mother Jeanne? Other images also arose before my eyes—images
of lessons and tasks and the awful dignity I should have to maintain
when I was Mademoiselle Genevieve instead of only little Vevette.
To offset these I had my room—a room all to myself—a bed with worked
hangings, and a carved cabinet. Then there were lessons on the lute and
in singing, which I had always wished for. On the whole, however, the
grief predominated, and I burst into tears.
"Fie then!" said Jeanne, quite shocked at my want of breeding,
though she had been sobbing herself a moment before. "Is it thus,
mademoiselle, that you receive the condescension of madame your mother?
What will she think of your bringing up?"
"Madame could think but ill of her child did she show no feeling at
parting with her nurse," said my mother kindly. "But cheer up, my
little daughter; I hope you will be happy here. We will often visit our
good friend. Come, do not show to your father a face bathed in tears."
I wiped my eyes, kissed my mother's hand, which she held out to
me, and managed to say, "Thank you, madame!" in a manner not quite
unintelligible.
Then Jeanne humbly preferred her request. Might I return to the farm
for one day to partake of a farewell feast which she had it in mind to
prepare?
My mother smiled and consented, and I returned to the farm feeling that
I had had a reprieve.
The feast was a grand affair, though the company was small, consisting
only of our own family and Father Simon's father and mother—very old
people who lived in a cottage down near the sea-shore.
Father Simon picked out his reddest apples and the finest clusters
of raisins and nuts. Mother Jeanne made the most delicious galettes
and cream soup thickened with chestnuts, and spread her whitest and
finest cloth. The old people were the only persons of the company who
thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Old Sablot chirped like a cricket, and
told old stories of the wars of the League and of Henry of Navarre,
and his wife commended the soup and cakes, the eggs and custards, and
imparted choice secrets in cookery to her daughter-in-law, who received
them with all due deference, though she often said that no Norman woman
ever learned to cook. But she was always a most dutiful daughter to
the old people, and had quite won their hearts, though they had been
somewhat opposed to Simon's marriage in the first place.
We children were very silent, as indeed became us in presence of our
elders. And though we were helped to everything good on the table, we
had not much appetite, and stole out, as soon as we were dismissed by
a nod from the mother, to hide ourselves in the granary. Here we had a
playhouse and some dolls of our own making, though we—that is, Lucille
and I—were rather ashamed of playing with them.
David had also a work-bench with tools and a turning-lathe, which had
been his grandfather's. The old man had given them to him on his last
birthday, and David had learned to use them very cleverly.
We did not speak for a moment or two, and then David observed:
"How dusty it is here! To-morrow we must sweep out all the chips and
shavings, and make the place tidy."
"To-morrow I shall not be here," said I sorrowfully.
"I suppose David and I can make the place neat for ourselves if you are
not here," said Lucille, taking me up rather sharply.
"Lucille!" said her brother reproachfully. And then turning to me, "But
you will come and see us very often."
"If I can," said I; "but I suppose I shall have a great many lessons to
do now."
"Of course you will," said Lucille; "you will have to learn to play the
lute and to write and work embroidery, and a hundred other things. You
will be a great lady, and we cannot expect you to come and visit us.
David ought to know better than to think of such a thing."
"Lucille, you are too bad to say such things!" I cried passionately.
"To spoil our last day so. I believe you are glad I am going away."
"I am not either," she answered indignantly; "I am as sorry as David,
only I don't want to be left out in the cold while you two pity and pet
one another."
"Children, children!" said a voice which made us all start.
We looked toward the door, and there stood the curé of the parish,
Father Francois. He was old and fat, and somewhat too fond of eating
and drinking; but he was a kind old man, and lived in peace with every
one, Reformed or Romanist.
"What then!" he was wont to say. "They are all my sheep, though some of
them will persist in going astray. It is not for me to throw stones at
them or set the dogs on them. Let me rather win them back by kindness."
"Children!" said he gravely. "Are you quarrelling?"
"No, monsieur," answered David, taking off his hat to the priest,
while Lucille and I drew together and clasped hands, forgetting our
difference in fear of we knew not what.
The old man observed the movement, and said, in a tone of some emotion:
"But what, my little girls; are you afraid of?"
"No," answered David; "Monsieur has always been kind, but he must know—"
"I know, I know!" said the priest, as David paused. "But fear nothing
from me. I shall not harm you. But, oh, my children, if you would but
return to the bosom of our Holy Mother! Now, tell me, my son—just as a
friend, you know—why will you not invoke the mediation of the blessed
saints?"
"Because, monsieur, it is contrary to the Holy Scriptures," answered
David respectfully.
"But the example of the holy saints of old, my son—the teachings of the
earliest church—consider!"
"Monsieur," replied David, "as to the earliest teachings of the church,
I suppose they are to be found in the Gospels, and I read there that
when certain women would have brought their children to our dear Lord,
the disciples, instead of interceding for them, forbade them."
"Oh, the Scriptures—always the Scriptures!" said the priest, pettishly
enough.
"They are the words of God, monsieur!"
"True, my child, but you may see by their effects that they are not
fit for every one to read. And yet I don't know how it is," he added
musingly; "they certainly are the words of God, and meant to do people
good, but no sooner do they begin to study than they become heretics."
The old curé ruminated a moment over this riddle, and then, apparently
giving it up as hopeless, he took a large pinch of snuff and smiled
benignly upon David.
"Ah, well, my son, I did not come to argue, but to ask a favor in the
interest of charity. My poor sister, who is dying in a decline, as you
know, has a fancy for some fresh eggs, and there are none to be had.
But I know your mother has uncommon skill in the management of poultry,
and I thought perhaps she might help me to one or two."
"That I am sure she will," said David. "If monsieur will walk into the
house and sit down, I am quite certain I can find two or three eggs
quite new laid."
Father Simon looked surprised as the old priest entered, but made him
courteously welcome, and Mother Jeanne directed Lucille to put up a jug
of cream and a small jar of marmalade for the invalid. The curé thanked
her, accepted a glass of cider, and offered his snuff-box to old Sablot.
"Tut, tut! Don't be afraid, man," said he as the other hesitated.
"That is not an act of catholicity, as they call it!" And he muttered
something under his breath which did not sound like a blessing.
"Monsieur need not wonder that we are timid," remarked Father Simon.
"No, no, it is no wonder; and from all I hear, I fear that times are
not likely to be easier for you, my poor Sablot. Have you been to
Sartilly of late?"
"No, monsieur, I have little to take me that way."
"It is as well. Take care if you do go. It is said there are wolves
about, or likely to be; and you know that she-wolves carry off children
at times. Many thanks to you, Jeanne," he added, rising and taking the
little basket which my foster-mother had prepared; "my blessing be upon
you! An old man's blessing can do no harm, you know. Farewell!"
He closed the door, and for a moment the party sat looking at each
other in silence.
"What does he mean?" asked Jeanne at last.
"He means to give us a warning, the poor, kind old man," said Simon. "I
doubt not, he made his errand on purpose."
"Why did he not speak more plainly then?" said Jeanne in some
impatience. "Of what use is such a warning as that?"
"I suppose he dared not. Remember, my Jeanne, in what a difficult place
he stands. He has risked the displeasure of his superiors already by
not giving information."
"But what can he mean by wolves on the road to Sartilly?" asked Jeanne.
"That we must find out, and meantime we must be doubly on our guard."
"They are all alike—all wolves alike!" said the old man, in his thin
voice. "Some are in their own skin, some in sheep's clothing; some are
like the loup-garou,* and speak with the voice of a man; and they are
the worst of all."
* What the Germans call the wehr-wolf, a creature compounded of brute
and human.
"I do not think the curé looks much like a wolf," I ventured to say;
for I had been rather taken with the old man's ways. "He is too fat.
Wolves are always thin, and they howl and snarl."
"Ah, mademoiselle! But remember the loup-garou can take any forum or
any voice he pleases," said the old man.
"Is there really a loop-garou?" asked David. "I thought it was only an
idle tale."
"An idle tale indeed! What is the world coming to? Did not my
grandfather know one—a man who used to turn himself into a wolf and
scour the country at night, followed by his pack, and devouring all in
his way, but especially women and children. They caught him at last,
and he was burned at Sartilly, protesting his innocence all the time."
"Perhaps he was innocent," said David.
"Thou shouldst not answer thy grandfather, David," said his mother
mildly; "that is rude."
"No, no; he meant no harm," said the old man. "Let it pass. You women
are always finding fault with a boy. But as to the loup-garou. However,
we will tell no more tales to scare mademoiselle. It is well, at all
events, to remember that the good Lord is above all. But it was good
snuff the poor priest had."
I inwardly resolved that I would try to procure some snuff for the old
man, and that I would bribe him with it to tell me more tales of the
loup-garou, about which I was very curious. I knew there was no use in
asking Mother Jeanne, for she never would tell me frightful stories.
Indeed, the Reformed were not nearly as much under the influence of
superstition as their neighbors of the other faith. To the last, every
corner had its goblins. In this dell, the "Washers" were to be seen
by the unwary night traveller, and he who acceded to their courteous
request to assist them in wringing a garment, had his own heart's blood
wrung out, and became a pale spectre himself. If he escaped these
ghostly laundresses, there were the dancers on the field above, who
were equally dangerous, and another female demon who allured young men
into lonely places and there murdered and devoured them. Our country
neighbors here in Cornwall are bad enough, with their piskies, and
fairies, and wish-hounds, and what not, but they are not so bad as the
people in Normandy and Brittany.
That night Lucille and I slept together for the last time. Her jealousy
was quite overcome for the time, and we promised that we would always
be good friends, and built many castles in the air on the basis of that
future friendship. She was a girl of strong character in some respects,
and of great talents, but she had one fault which made her and those
about her very uncomfortable at times, and which came near working her
utter ruin. It is not likely that she will ever see these memoirs,
but if she should do so, she would not be hurt by them. The fires of
affliction which she has passed through have burned up the dross of her
character, and little is left but pure gold.
The next morning we went up to the château, and Jeanne took leave of me
with many tears.
Father Simon had prayed especially and earnestly for me at our
morning devotions, and had solemnly given me his blessing. David had
shaken hands with me, and then run away to hide his feelings. It was
a sorrowful parting on both sides, and when I had a last sight of
Jeanne turning at the bend of the path to wave her hand to me, I felt
more like an exile in a strange land than a child coming home to its
father's house. So I thought then, knowing nothing of an exile's woes.
"Now, my child," said my mother, coming into my little room, where
I had shut myself up to weep, "let these tears be dried. They are
natural, but even natural grief must not be indulged too far. Bathe
these eyes and flushed cheeks, arrange your dress, and come to me in my
room in half an hour."
My mother spoke gently and kindly, but with decision, and there was
that about her which made her least word a law. Besides, I believe, to
say the truth, I was rather tired of my grief, and quite willing to be
consoled, and to indulge my curiosity as to my new home. So I bathed
my eyes as I had been bidden, smoothed my hair, which never would stay
under my cap properly, but was always twisting out in rebellious little
curls, and began to examine my room.
It was an odd little nook, opening from my mother's, as is the custom
in France for young ladies of good family. It occupied one of the
corner turrets which flanked the square tower of which I have spoken.
The walls were so thick and the inclosed space so small that I used to
compare the room in my own mind to one of the caves hollowed in the
rock by the persecuted Vaudois of which I had heard from Jeanne. The
bed was small, with heavy damask hangings and an embroidered coverlet.
There was no carpet on the floor, which was of some dark wood waxed to
a dangerous smoothness; but a small rug was laid by the side of the
bed and before the little toilette-table. The rest of the furniture
consisted of a chair and stool, and a small table on which lay a Bible
and two or three books in a language which I did not understand,
but which I took to be English. In an ordinary French family, there
would have been a crucifix and a vase for holy water, and probably an
image of the Virgin as well; but it may well be guessed that no such
furniture found a place in our household.
Small and plain as the room was, it seemed magnificent in my eyes,
and I felt a great accession of dignity in being able to call this
magnificent apartment my own. I looked out at the window—a very narrow
one—and was delighted to find that it commanded a view of the high
road and a very little tiny bit of sea, now at ebb and showing only
as a shining line on the edge of the sands. In short, I had not half
completed the survey of my new quarters before I was in the best of
spirits, and when my mother called me, I was able to meet her with a
smiling face. I should have said that my room was elevated half a dozen
steep steps above my mother's. Indeed, there were hardly two rooms in
the house on a level with each other.
"Why, that is well," said my mother, kissing my cheek. "You are to be
my companion and pupil now, little daughter, and I hope that we shall
be very happy in each other's society."
She then made me sit down on a low seat beside her own chair, and
examined me as to what I had learned. She heard me read, examined me in
the Catechism, and asked me some questions on the Gospels, to all of
which I gave, I believe, satisfactory answers. She looked at my sewing
and knitting, and praised the thread, both linen and wool, with which I
had taken great pains.
"That is very good thread," said she; "but I must teach you to spin on
the wheel, as they do in England. You shall learn English too, and then
we can talk together, and there are many pleasant books to read in that
language. You must learn to write also, and to embroider."
"Is English very hard, madame?" I ventured to ask.
"It is called so, but I hope to make it easy to you. By and by, when we
have mastered the writing, we will have some lessons on the lute. But
now we must consult Mistress Grace about your dress. Your father will
like to see you habited like a little lady."
My mother blew the silver whistle which always lay beside her, and
Mistress Grace entered from the anteroom. She was a tall, thin
personage, English to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in my
life, but there was that in her face which at once attracted confidence
and regard. She was my mother's special attendant, and ruled the
household as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. The servants
called her Mamselle Grace, or, more commonly, simply Mamselle, and
treated her with great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her
English French after her back was turned. I was taught to call her Mrs.
Grace, in English fashion.
I was greatly in awe of her at first, but I soon learned to love her as
well as Mother Jeanne herself.
Mrs. Grace greeted me with prim courtesy.
"We must take orders for some dresses for our young lady, Grace," said
my mother, speaking French. "Will you see what we have for her?"
Mrs. Grace opened an armoire, from which she drew a quantity of stuffs
and silks, and an animated conversation ensued.
My mother kindly allowed me to choose what I liked best, and we were in
the full tide of discussion, when there was a knock at the door, and my
father entered with a very disturbed face, which brightened as he met
my mother's glance.
"Heyday, what have we here?" said he. "Has Mrs. Grace taken a new doll
to dress?"
"This is our little one, Armand," said my mother. "I have taken her
home, judging that it is time to complete her education, and also for a
companion."
"That is well," said he. "Come hither, my little one, and see thy
father."
I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed the hand he held out to
me.
He laid the other on my head and solemnly gave me his blessing. Then,
holding me off and looking at me:
"Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of thy mother,
dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change of tone, "I only wish she
and thou were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray house at Tre
Madoc."
My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything new happened?"
she asked.
"New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass, Margaret. We are
to be left in peace no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at
Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns and a black Dominican
for a confessor. They call it a hospital—we all know what that means
nowadays."
My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me, and I felt it
tremble.
"Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck with a sudden
light. I was a quick child, and the danger which was always in the
background sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. "That
was what he meant by the wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I
had committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered, "I beg
your pardon, monsieur."
"There is no offence, my child; and you must not say monsieur, but my
father," said he, sitting down and drawing me to him. "Tell me what was
that about the curé and the wolves."
I repeated my story.
"You are a clear-headed little maiden," said he, "and have a quick wit.
What did Simon Sablot think of the matter?"
"He said, monsieur—my father," I added, correcting myself, "that the
good man meant to give us a warning, and had probably made his errand
on purpose."
"More likely to spy out the nakedness of the land," muttered Grace, to
whom all priests were alike.
"Nay, my Grace, do the poor man justice," said my father. "The Jesuits
cannot make the whole nation over into tigers, not even the priests.
The poor old man has grown-up on our lands, as his father did before
him, and I believe he feels kindly toward us. But I wish, oh I wish
thou and the little one were in safety, my Marguerite."
My mother said some words in English which I did not understand, and
then in French, "But what shall we do, Armand, to guard against this
new danger?"
"We can only do as we have done in our family, but I fear we must
abandon our Sunday gatherings for the present. The risk will be too
great with such neighbors to spy upon us. But we will consult together.
Run away now, my little one, and explore the house, only do not go into
the upper rooms of the round tower. Some of the floors are dangerous.
However, you may go to the battlements if you like. The stairs are safe
enough."
"Only return at once when you hear the bell," said my mother. "To-day
shall be a holiday for you; to-morrow we will begin our lessons. But
first go with Grace and let her take your measure."
"Why is it so dangerous to have a hospital at Sartilly?" I ventured to
ask Grace at a pause in her operations. "I thought a hospital was a
place where poor sick people were taken care of."
"So it is in a Christian land, mademoiselle," answered Grace; "there
are many such in England. But now and here, a hospital means a place
where young people of the Religion are shut up away from their parents
and taught to worship images and say prayers to the Virgin and the
saints—yes, pretty saints some of them," she added, in English. "There,
I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It is not good manners to speak in a
foreign tongue before those who do not understand it."
"Madame says she will teach me English soon," I observed. "I shall like
that, if it is not too hard."
"Oh, it will not be hard to you; you are half an English woman,"
replied Grace.
"And will you tell me tales sometimes about England, and the place
where my mother lived when she was a young lady? I shall like so much
to hear them. I love to look at Jersey when we can see it, because it
is a part of England."
Grace's heart was quite won by this request. She kissed me, and called
me a pretty dear in her own tongue, which phrase, of course, I did not
understand, only I saw that it meant something kind and friendly.
Once released, I ran all over the house, peeped into the great old
kitchen, where I received many welcomes and blessings from the old
servants, and ascended to the top of the round tower to gaze at the sea
and at Mount St. Michael, now glowing in the autumn sunshine. True to
the habits of implicit obedience in which I had been brought up, I did
not even open the door which led into the upper floors of the tower,
though I confess to a strong temptation to do so.
I admired the salon hung with tapestry and adorned with carved
furniture and various grim family pictures. I wondered what was in the
cabinets, and studied the story of Judith worked in the hangings, and
had not half finished my survey, when the bell rang, and I hastened to
my mother's room.
We dined in considerable state, being waited on by two men servants,
while Mistress Grace stood behind her lady's chair and directed their
movements. The fare, though plain enough, was dainty compared to what I
was accustomed to at the cottage, and I should have enjoyed my dinner
only for a feeling of awkwardness, and a look in Mistress Grace's eyes
as if she were longing to pounce upon me. I got pounced upon many a
time after that, fur great stress was laid upon table etiquette in
those days. More than once I was sent away from the table in disgrace,
not so much for mistakes I made, as for fuming or pouting at having
them corrected.
The next day my lessons began. I had my task of Scripture and the
Catechism to learn, as at the cottage. Great stress was laid in the
families of the Religion on this learning of the Scriptures, and with
good reason, for we were liable at any time to be deprived of our
Bibles, or indeed to be shut up where we could not have read if we had
them; but that which was stored in our minds no one could take from
us. I learned to write and began English, and, thanks to the pains and
skill of my mother and the conversations I held with Mrs. Grace in our
working hours, I soon learned to speak the language with considerable
fluency, as well as to read in two or three English books which my
mother possessed. I learned to spin on the little wheel which my mother
had had sent her from England, and was greatly delighted when I was
allowed to carry down to Mother Jeanne some skeins of thread of my own
manufacture.
"But it is beautiful—no less," said Jeanne; "and done, you say, not
with spindle and distaff, but with the little machine I have seen in
madame's boudoir. See, Lucille, my child!"
"It is good thread, but I do not see that it much better than ours,"
said Lucille, somewhat slightingly. "And I do not see why one should
take so much pains to learn to spin in this new fashion. The spindle
and distaff are much better, I think, because they can be carried about
with one. I can spin when I am going to the fountain for water or to
the pasture for the cows. Vevette cannot do that with her grand wheel."
"That is true," said I, a little taken down; "but one can accomplish so
much more. My mother can spin more with the wheel in an hour than one
can do with the distaff in half a day, and I am sure the thread is more
even."
"Ah, well, the method of my grandmother is good enough for me," said
Lucille. "I am a Norman girl, and not an English lady." And she took up
her distaff as she spoke, and began drawing out her flax with a care
and attention which showed she was offended.
"Do you think, Mamselle Vevette, that madame would condescend to let me
look at this wheel of hers?" said David. "I should like so much to see
it."
"Why, do you think you could make one like it?" I asked. "Oh, do,
David! Make one for Lucille, and I will teach her to use it."
"Thank you!" said Lucille in a tone which did not bespeak much
gratitude. "I have already said that Norman fashions are good enough
for me."
And then, softening her tone as she saw how mortified I was, "I dare
say David would like to make a wheel, and if he succeeded, you would
have one of your own as well as madame."
I may as well say here that, after many efforts and failures, and
by the help of his uncle, who was the blacksmith at Sartilly, David
succeeded in constructing a very nice spinning-wheel, which he
presented to me on my birthday. I wonder whether that wheel is still in
use, or whether it has been thrown aside in some garret?
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