It was in my favour that M. de Nidemerle had conceived a very high
opinion of me, far above my deserts. My dear husband’s letters had been
full of enthusiasm for me. I found them all among the Marquis’s papers;
and his tenderness and gratitude, together with the circumstances of
my return, had invested me with a kind of halo, which made me a sort of
heroine in his eyes.
Besides, I did my best to make the old man’s life more cheerful. I read
him the Gazette that came once a week, I played at cards with him
all the evening, and I sometimes even wrote or copied his letters on
business; and, when I sat at my embroidery, he liked to come and sit
near me, sometimes talking, playing with Gaspard, or dozing. He was
passionately fond of Gaspard, and let the child domineer over him in a
way that sometimes shocked me.
Thus he was ready to believe what I told him of his niece, and assured
me I might keep her with me as long as I wished, if the Countess, her
mother-in-law, would consent. The first thing we did together was that I
took her to see her children. The boy was at a farm not very far off; he
was seven months old, and a fine healthy infant, though not as clean
as I could have wished; but then Tryphena and I had been looked on as
barbarians, who would certainly be the death of Gaspard, because we
washed him all over every evening, and let him use his legs and arms.
Cecile was enchanted; she saw an extraordinary resemblance between her
son and his father; and hugged the little form like one who had been
famished.
Our search for the little Armantine was less prosperous. Cecile could
not ride, nor could even walk a quarter of a mile without nearly dying
of fatigue; nay, the jolting of the coach as we drove along the road
would have been insupportable to her but for her longing to see her
little one. We drove till it was impossible to get the coach any
farther, and still the farm was only just in sight.
I jumped out and said I would bring the child to her, and I went
up between the hedges with two lackeys behind me, till I came to a
farmyard, where three or four children, muddy up to the very eyes, were
quarrelling and playing with the water of a stagnant pool. I made my way
through animals, dogs, and children, to the farm kitchen, where an old
grandmother and a beggar sat on two chairs opposite to one another, on
each side of the fire, and a young woman was busy over some raw joints
of an animal. They stared at me with open mouths, and when I said that
Madame la Comtesse d’Aubepine was come to see her child, and was waiting
in the carriage, they looked as if such a thing had never been heard of
before. The young woman began to cry--the old woman to grumble. I think
if they had dared, they would have flown into a passion, and I was
really alarmed lest the child might be sick or even dead. I told them
impressively who I was, and demanded that they would instantly show me
the little one.
The young woman, muttering something, stepped out and brought in her
arms the very dirtiest child of the whole group I had left in the
gutter, with the whole tribe behind her. My first impulse was to snatch
it up and carry it away to its mother, taking it home at once to Nid de
Merle; but it squalled and kicked so violently when I held out my arms
to it, that it gave me time to think that to carry it thus away without
authority might only bring Cecile into trouble with those who had the
mastery over her, and that to see it in such a condition could only
give her pain. I should not have objected to the mere surface dirt of
grubbing in the farmyard (shocking as it may sound to you, Mademoiselle
mes Petites Filles). Eustace and I had done such things at Walwyn
and been never the worse for it; but this poor little creature had a
wretched, unwholesome, neglected air about her that made me miserable,
and the making her fit to be seen would evidently be a long business,
such as could hardly be undertaken in the midst of the salting of a pig,
which was going on.
I therefore promised the woman a crown if she would make the child tidy
and bring her to Nid de Merle on the Sunday. Something was muttered
about Mademoiselle having said the child was not to be constantly
brought to the house to incommonde Madame la Comtesse; but I made her
understand that I meant Nid de Merle, and trusted that the hope of the
money would be a bait.
Cecile was sorely disappointed when I returned without the child, and
conjured me at once to tell her the worst, if it were indeed dead; but
she let herself be pacified by the hope of seeing it on Sunday, and
indeed she was half dead with fatigue from the roughness of the road.
The child was duly brought by the foster-mother who was in the full
costume of a prosperous peasant, with great gold cross and gay apron;
but I was not better satisfied about the little on, though she had a
cleaner face, cap, and frock. Unused to the sight of black, she would
let neither of us touch her, and we could only look at her, when she
sat on her nurse’s knee with a cake in her hand. I was sure she was
unhealthy and uncared for, her complexion and everything about her
showed it, and my Gaspard was twice her size. It was well for the peace
of the young mother that she knew so little what a child ought to be
like, and that her worst grief was that the little Armantine would not
go to her.
‘And oh! they will send her straight into a convent as soon as she is
weaned, and I shall never have her with me!’ sighed Cecile.
‘ON’ ON had done many harsh things towards my poor little sister-in-law,
and I began now to consider of whom ON now consisted. It seemed to me
to be only Mademoiselle de Gringrimeau acting in the name of the doting
Countess and the absent husband, and that one resolute effort might
emancipate the poor young thing.
I was still considering the matter, and rallying my forces, when a
message came from the Chateau l’Aube that Madame la Douariere was dying,
and Madame la Comtesse must return instantly. I went with her; I could
not let her return alone to Mademoiselle’s tender mercies, and the
Marquis approved and went with us. In fact, the two chateaux were not
two miles apart, through the lanes and woods, though the way by the road
was much longer.
The old Countess lingered another day and then expired. Before the
funeral ceremonies were over, I had seen how Mademoiselle de Gringrimeau
tyrannise over this young sister-in-law, who was still a mere gentle
child, and was absolutely cowed by the woman. When I tried to take her
home with me, Mademoiselle had the effrontery to say that the Count
himself, as well as the late dowager, had given her authority over
Madame as dame de compagnie, and that she did not consider it etiquette
to visit after so recent a bereavement, thus decidedly hitting at me.
However, I had made up my mind. I entreated my poor weeping Cecile to
hold out yet a little longer in hope; and then I returned home to lay
the whole situation before the Marquis, and to beg him to assert his
authority as uncle, and formally request that she might reside under
his protection while her husband was with the army--a demand which could
hardly fail to be granted.
I wrote also to M. d’Aubepine, over whom I thought I had some influence,
and added likewise a letter to my half-brother De Solivet, explaining
the situation, and entreating him to get the young gentleman into his
lodgings, and not let him out till he had written his letters, signed
and sealed them!
The plan answered. In due time our courier returned, and with all we
wanted in the way of letters, with one great exception, alas! any true
sign of tenderness for the young wife. There was a formal letter for
her, telling her to put herself and her children under the charge of her
uncle and her brother’s widow, leaving the charge of the chateau and the
servants to the intendant and to Mademoiselle de Gringrimeau. The poor
child had to imbibe what her yearning heart could extract from the
conventional opening and close. I have my share of the budget still, and
her it is:--
‘MADAME--You still love to play your part of beneficent angel, and wish
to take on your shoulder my impedimenta. Well, be it so then; though
I have no hope that you will make thereof (en) anything like yourself.
Kissing your hands.
‘LE COMTE D’AUBEPINE.’
His whole family was thus disposed of in two letters of the alphabet
(en).
M. de Nidemerle received a polite request to undertake the charge of
his niece, and Mademoiselle had likewise her orders, and I heard from my
brother how he had smiled at my commands, but had found them necessary,
for Armand d’Aubepine had been exactly like a naughty boy forced to do
a task. Not that he had the smallest objection to his wife and children
being with me--in fact, he rather preferred it; he only hated being
troubled about the matter, wanted to go to a match at tennis, and
thought it good taste to imitate the Duke of Enghien in contempt for
the whole subject. Would he ever improve? My brother did not give much
present hope of it, saying that on returning to winter quarters he had
found the lad plunged all the deeper in dissipation for want of the
check that my dear husband had been able to impose on him; but neither
M. de Solivet nor the Marquis took it seriously, thinking it only what
every youth in the army went through, unless he were such a wonderful
exception as my dear Philippe had been.
Cecile could hardly believe that such peace and comfort were in store
for her, and her tyrant looked as gloomy as Erebus at losing her slave,
but we did not care for that; we brought her home in triumph, and a
fortnight’s notice was given to the foster-mother in which to wean
Mademoiselle d’Aubepine and bring her to Nid de Merle.
That fortnight was spent by our guest in bed. As if to justify
Mademoiselle de Gringrimeau, she was no sooner under my care than she
had a sharp illness; but Tryphena, who had been so instructed by
my grandmother, Lady Walwyn, as to be more skilful than any doctor,
declared that it was in consequence of the long disregard of health and
strain of spirits, and so managed her that, though never strong, she
improved much in health, and therewith in looks. Beautiful she could
hardly be, as the world counts beauty, but to me her sweet, tender,
wistful expression made her countenance most lovable, and so did her
gentle unmurmuring humility. She sincerely believed that all the cruel
slights she underwent were the result of her own ugliness, stupidity,
and ignorance, and instead of blaming her husband, she merely pitied him
for being tied to her. As to grating that her brother had been a better
man than her husband, she would have thought that high treason--the
difference was only that her dear Marguerite was so pretty, so clever,
amiable, and well taught, that she had won his heart.
In truth, I had outgrown the ungainliness of my girlhood, and, now that
it did not matter to any one, had become rather a handsome woman, and it
was of no use to tell her that I had been worse than she, because there
was so much more of me, when my dear young husband gave me the whole of
his honest heart.
To make herself, at least, less dull was her next desire. One reason
why she had so seldom written was that she knew she could not spell, and
Mademoiselle insisted on looking over her letters that they might not
be a disgrace. I doubted whether M. le Comte would have discovered the
errors, but when the Marquis praised some letters that I had written to
amuse him from Nancy and Mezieres, she was fired with ambition to write
such clever letters as might bewitch her husband. Besides, if she could
teach her daughter, the child need not be banished to a convent.
I began to give her a few lessons in the morning, and to read to her.
And just then there came to Nid de Merle, to see me, the good Abbe
Bonchamp, the excellent tutor to whom my dear Philippe always said he
owed so much. The good man had since had another employment, and on
quitting it, could not help gratifying his desire to me and see the wife
and child of his dear pupil, as indeed I had begged him to do, if ever
it were in his power, when I fulfilled my husband’s wishes by writing
his last greeting and final thanks to the good man.
I remember the dear quaint form riding up on a little hired mule, which
he almost concealed with his cassock. Above, his big hat looked so
strange that Gaspard, who was wonderfully forward for his age, ran up
to me crying: ‘A droll beast, mamma! it had four legs and a great hat!’
while little Armantine fled crying from the monster.
All the servants were, however, coming out eagerly to receive the
blessing of the good man, who had mad himself much beloved in the
household. The Marquis embraced him with tears, and presented him to
me, when he fell on his knee, took my hand, pressed it to his lips
and bathed it with his tears, and then held Gaspard to his breast with
fervent love.
It was necessary to be cheerful before M. de Nidemerle. He had truly
loved his nephew, and mourned for him, but the aged do not like a
recurrence to sorrow, so the abbe amused him with the news brought from
Saumur, and our party at cards was a complete one that evening.
But the next day, the Abbe, who had loved his pupil like a son, could
talk of him to me, and it was a comfort I cannot express to my aching
heart to converse with him. Everything had settled into an ordinary
course. People fancied me consoled; I had attended to other things, and
I could not obtrude my grief on the Marquis or on Cecile; but on! My
sick yearning for my Philippe only grew the more because I might not
mention him or hear his name. However, the Abbe only longed to listen to
all I could tell him of the last three years, and in return to tell me
much that I should never otherwise have known of the boyhood and youth
of my dear one.
I felt as if the good man must never leave us, and I entreated M. de
Nidemerle to retain him at once as governor to little Gaspard. The
Marquis laughed at securing a tutor for a child not yet three years old;
but he allowed that the boy could not be in better hands, and, moreover,
he was used to the Abbe, and liked to take his arm and to have him to
make up the party at cards, which he played better than the cure.
So the Abbe remained as chaplain and as tutor, and, until Gaspard should
be old enough to profit by his instructions, Cecile and I entreated him
to accept us as pupils. I had begun to feel the need of some hard and
engrossing work to take off my thoughts alike from my great sorrow and
my pressing anxieties about my English home, so that I wished to return
to my Latin studies again, and the Abbe helped me to read Cicero de
Officiis again, and likewise some of the writings of St. Gregory the
Great. He also read to both of us the Gospels and Mezeray’s HISTORY OF
FRANCE, which I did not know as an adopted Frenchwoman ought to know
it, and Cecile knew not at all; nay, the nuns had scarcely taught her
anything, even about religion, nor the foundations of the faith.
No, I can never explain what we, both of us, owe to the Abbe Bonchamp.
You, my eldest grandchild, can just recollect the good old man as he sat
in his chair and blessed us ere he passed to his rest and the reward of
his labours.