(EXTRACT FROM A LETTER FROM RICHARD WHITTINGHAM, ESQ.)
You were formerly so much amused at my pride in my descent from that
sister of Calvin’s, who married a Whittingham, Dean of Durham, that I
doubt if you will be able to enter into the regard for my distinguished
relation that has led me to France, in order to examine registers and
archives, which, I thought, might enable me to discover collateral
descendants of the great reformer, with whom I might call cousins. I
shall not tell you of my troubles and adventures in this research; you
are not worthy to hear of them; but something so curious befel me one
evening last August, that if I had not been perfectly certain I was
wide awake, I might have taken it for a dream.
For the purpose I have named, it was necessary that I should make Tours
my head-quarters for a time. I had traced descendants of the Calvin
family out of Normandy into the centre of France; but I found it was
necessary to have a kind of permission from the bishop of the diocese
before I could see certain family papers, which had fallen into the
possession of the Church; and, as I had several English friends at
Tours, I awaited the answer to my request to Monseigneur de ——, at
that town. I was ready to accept any invitation; but I received very
few; and was sometimes a little at a loss what to do with my evenings.
The _table d’hôte_ was at five o’clock; I did not wish to go to the
expense of a private sitting-room, disliked the dinnery atmosphere
of the _salle à manger_, could not play either at pool or billiards,
and the aspect of my fellow guests was unprepossessing enough to make
me unwilling to enter into any _tête-à-tête_ gamblings with them.
So I usually rose from table early, and tried to make the most of
the remaining light of the August evenings in walking briskly off to
explore the surrounding country; the middle of the day was too hot
for this purpose, and better employed in lounging on a bench in the
Boulevards, lazily listening to the distant band, and noticing with
equal laziness the faces and figures of the women who passed by.
One Thursday evening, the 18th of August it was, I think, I had gone
further than usual in my walk, and I found that it was later than I had
imagined when I paused to turn back. I fancied I could make a round;
I had enough notion of the direction in which I was, to see that by
turning up a narrow straight lane to my left I should shorten my way
back to Tours. And so I believe I should have done, could I have found
an outlet at the right place, but field-paths are almost unknown in
that part of France, and my lane, stiff and straight as any street,
and marked into terribly vanishing perspective by the regular row of
poplars on each side, seemed interminable. Of course night came on, and
I was in darkness. In England I might have had a chance of seeing a
light in some cottage only a field or two off, and asking my way from
the inhabitants; but here I could see no such welcome sight; indeed, I
believe French peasants go to bed with the summer daylight, so if there
were any habitations in the neighbourhood I never saw them. At last—I
believe I must have walked two hours in the darkness,—I saw the dusky
outline of a wood on one side of the weariful lane, and, impatiently
careless of all forest laws and penalties for trespassers, I made my
way to it, thinking that if the worst came to the worst, I could find
some covert—some shelter where I could lie down and rest, until the
morning light gave me a chance of finding my way back to Tours. But
the plantation, on the outskirts of what appeared to me a dense wood,
was of young trees, too closely planted to be more than slender stems
growing up to a good height, with scanty foliage on their summits.
On I went towards the thicker forest, and once there I slackened my
pace, and began to look about me for a good lair. I was as dainty as
Lochiel’s grandchild, who made his grandsire indignant at the luxury of
his pillow of snow: this brake was too full of brambles, that felt damp
with dew; there was no hurry, since I had given up all hope of passing
the night between four walls; and I went leisurely groping about, and
trusting that there were no wolves to be poked up out of their summer
drowsiness by my stick, when all at once I saw a château before me, not
a quarter of a mile off, at the end of what seemed to be an ancient
avenue (now overgrown and irregular), which I happened to be crossing,
when I looked to my right, and saw the welcome sight. Large, stately,
and dark was its outline against the dusky night-sky; there were
pepper-boxes and tourelles and what-not fantastically going up into the
dim starlight. And more to the purpose still, though I could not see
the details of the building that I was now facing, it was plain enough
that there were lights in many windows, as if some great entertainment
was going on.
“They are hospitable people, at any rate,” thought I. “Perhaps they
will give me a bed. I don’t suppose French propriétaires have traps and
horses quite as plentiful as English gentlemen; but they are evidently
having a large party, and some of their guests may be from Tours, and
will give me a cast back to the Lion d’Or. I am not proud, and I am
dog-tired. I am not above hanging on behind, if need be.”
So, putting a little briskness and spirit into my walk, I went up to
the door, which was standing open, most hospitably, and showing a large
lighted hall, all hung round with spoils of the chase, armour, &c, the
details of which I had not time to notice, for the instant I stood
on the threshold a huge porter appeared, in a strange, old-fashioned
dress, a kind of livery which well befitted the general appearance
of the house. He asked me, in French (so curiously pronounced that I
thought I had hit upon a new kind of _patois_), my name, and whence I
came. I thought he would not be much the wiser, still it was but civil
to give it before I made my request for assistance; so, in reply, I
said—
“My name is Whittingham—Richard Whittingham, an English gentleman,
staying at ——.” To my infinite surprise, a light of pleased
intelligence came over the giant’s face; he made me a low bow, and said
(still in the same curious dialect) that I was welcome, that I was long
expected.
“Long expected!” What could the fellow mean? Had I stumbled on a nest
of relations by John Calvin’s side, who had heard of my genealogical
inquiries, and were gratified and interested by them? But I was too
much pleased to be under shelter for the night to think it necessary to
account for my agreeable reception before I enjoyed it. Just as he was
opening the great heavy _battants_ of the door that led from the hall
to the interior, he turned round and said,—
“Apparently Monsieur le Géanquilleur is not come with you.”
“No! I am all alone; I have lost my way,”—and I was going on with my
explanation, when he, as if quite indifferent to it, led the way up
a great stone staircase, as wide as many rooms, and having on each
landing-place massive iron wickets, in a heavy framework; these the
porter unlocked with the solemn slowness of age. Indeed, a strange,
mysterious awe of the centuries that had passed away since this château
was built, came over me as I waited for the turning of the ponderous
keys in the ancient locks. I could almost have fancied that I heard
a mighty rushing murmur (like the ceaseless sound of a distant sea,
ebbing and flowing for ever and for ever), coming forth from the great
vacant galleries that opened out on each side of the broad staircase,
and were to be dimly perceived in the darkness above us. It was as if
the voices of generations of men yet echoed and eddied in the silent
air. It was strange, too, that my friend the porter going before me,
ponderously infirm, with his feeble old hands striving in vain to keep
the tall flambeau he held steadily before him,—strange, I say, that he
was the only domestic I saw in the vast halls and passages, or met with
on the grand staircase. At length we stood before the gilded doors that
led into the saloon where the family—or it might be the company, so
great was the buzz of voices—was assembled. I would have remonstrated
when I found he was going to introduce me, dusty and travel-smeared, in
a morning costume that was not even my best, into this grand _salon_,
with nobody knew how many ladies and gentlemen assembled; but the
obstinate old man was evidently bent upon taking me straight to his
master, and paid no heed to my words.
The doors flew open, and I was ushered into a saloon curiously full of
pale light, which did not culminate on any spot, nor proceed from any
centre, nor flicker with any motion of the air, but filled every nook
and corner, making all things deliciously distinct; different from our
light of gas or candle, as is the difference between a clear southern
atmosphere and that of our misty England.
At the first moment, my arrival excited no attention, the apartment
was so full of people, all intent on their own conversation. But my
friend the porter went up to a handsome lady of middle age, richly
attired in that antique manner which fashion has brought round again of
late years, and, waiting first in an attitude of deep respect till her
attention fell upon him, told her my name and something about me, as
far as I could guess from the gestures of the one and the sudden glance
of the eye of the other.
She immediately came towards me with the most friendly actions of
greeting, even before she had advanced near enough to speak. Then,—and
was it not strange?—her words and accent were that of the commonest
peasant of the country. Yet she herself looked high-bred, and would
have been dignified had she been a shade less restless, had her
countenance worn a little less lively and inquisitive expression. I
had been poking a good deal about the old parts of Tours, and had had
to understand the dialect of the people who dwelt in the Marché au
Vendredi and similar places, or I really should not have understood
my handsome hostess, as she offered to present me to her husband, a
henpecked, gentlemanly man, who was more quaintly attired than she in
the very extreme of that style of dress. I thought to myself that in
France, as in England, it is the provincials who carry fashion to such
an excess as to become ridiculous.
However, he spoke (still in the _patois_) of his pleasure in making
my acquaintance, and led me to a strange uneasy easy-chair, much of a
piece with the rest of the furniture, which might have taken its place
without any anachronism by the side of that in the Hôtel Cluny. Then
again began the clatter of French voices, which my arrival had for an
instant interrupted, and I had leisure to look about me. Opposite to
me sat a very sweet-looking lady, who must have been a great beauty in
her youth, I should think, and would be charming in old age, from the
sweetness of her countenance. She was, however, extremely fat, and on
seeing her feet laid up before her on a cushion, I at once perceived
that they were so swollen as to render her incapable of walking, which
probably brought on her excessive _embonpoint_. Her hands were plump
and small, but rather coarse-grained in texture, not quite so clean as
they might have been, and altogether not so aristocratic-looking as the
charming face. Her dress was of superb black velvet, ermine-trimmed,
with diamonds thrown all abroad over it.
Not far from her stood the least little man I had ever seen; of such
admirable proportions no one could call him a dwarf, because with that
word we usually associate something of deformity; but yet with an
elfin look of shrewd, hard, worldly wisdom in his face that marred the
impression which his delicate regular little features would otherwise
have conveyed. Indeed, I do not think he was quite of equal rank
with the rest of the company, for his dress was inappropriate to the
occasion (and he apparently was an invited, while I was an involuntary
guest); and one or two of his gestures and actions were more like
the tricks of an uneducated rustic than anything else. To explain
what I mean: his boots had evidently seen much service, and had been
re-topped, re-heeled, re-soled to the extent of cobbler’s powers. Why
should he have come in them if they were not his best—his only pair?
And what can be more ungenteel than poverty? Then again he had an
uneasy trick of putting his hand up to his throat, as if he expected to
find something the matter with it; and he had the awkward habit—which
I do not think he could have copied from Dr. Johnson, because most
probably he had never heard of him—of trying always to retrace his
steps on the exact boards on which he had trodden to arrive at any
particular part of the room. Besides, to settle the question, I once
heard him addressed as Monsieur Poucet, without any aristocratic “de”
for a prefix; and nearly every one else in the room was a marquis, at
any rate.
I say, “nearly every one;” for some strange people had the entrée;
unless, indeed, they were, like me, benighted. One of the guests I
should have taken for a servant, but for the extraordinary influence he
seemed to have over the man I took for his master, and who never did
anything without, apparently, being urged thereto by this follower.
The master, magnificently dressed, but ill at ease in his clothes, as
if they had been made for some one else, was a weak-looking, handsome
man, continually sauntering about, and I almost guessed an object of
suspicion to some of the gentlemen present, which, perhaps, drove him
on the companionship of his follower, who was dressed something in the
style of an ambassador’s chasseur; yet it was not a chasseur’s dress
after all; it was something more thoroughly old-world; boots half way
up his ridiculously small legs, which clattered as he walked along, as
if they were too large for his little feet; and a great quantity of
grey fur, as trimming to coat, court-mantle, boots, cap—everything. You
know the way in which certain countenances remind you perpetually of
some animal, be it bird or beast! Well, this chasseur (as I will call
him for want of a better name) was exceedingly like the great Tom-cat
that you have seen so often in my chambers, and laughed at almost
as often for his uncanny gravity of demeanour. Grey whiskers has my
Tom—grey whiskers had the chasseur: grey hair overshadows the upper
lip of my Tom—grey mustachios hid that of the chasseur. The pupils of
Tom’s eyes dilate and contract as I had thought cats’ pupils only could
do, until I saw those of the chasseur. To be sure, canny as Tom is,
the chasseur had the advantage in the more intelligent expression. He
seemed to have obtained most complete sway over his master or patron,
whose looks he watched, and whose steps he followed, with a kind of
distrustful interest that puzzled me greatly.
There were several other groups in the more distant part of the saloon,
all of the stately old school, all grand and noble, I conjectured from
their bearing. They seemed perfectly well acquainted with each other,
as if they were in the habit of meeting. But I was interrupted in my
observations by the tiny little gentleman on the opposite side of the
room coming across to take a place beside me. It is no difficult matter
to a Frenchman to slide into conversation, and so gracefully did my
pigmy friend keep up the character of the nation, that we were almost
confidential before ten minutes had elapsed.
Now I was quite aware that the welcome which all had extended to me,
from the porter up to the vivacious lady and meek lord of the castle,
was intended for some other person. But it required either a degree
of moral courage, of which I cannot boast, or the self-reliance and
conversational powers of a bolder and cleverer man than I, to undeceive
people who had fallen into so fortunate a mistake for me. Yet the
little man by my side insinuated himself so much into my confidence,
that I had half a mind to tell him of my exact situation, and to turn
him into a friend and an ally.
“Madame is perceptibly growing older,” said he, in the midst of my
perplexity, glancing at our hostess.
“Madame is still a very fine woman,” replied I.
“Now, is it not strange,” continued he, lowering his voice, “how
women almost invariably praise the absent, or departed, as if they
were angels of light, while as for the present, or the living”—here
he shrugged up his little shoulders, and made an expressive pause.
“Would you believe it! Madame is always praising her late husband to
monsieur’s face; till, in fact, we guests are quite perplexed how
to look: for, you know, the late M. de Retz’s character was quite
notorious,—everybody has heard of him.” All the world of Touraine,
thought I, but I made an assenting noise.
At this instant, monsieur our host came up to me, and with a civil
look of tender interest (such as some people put on when they inquire
after your mother, about whom they do not care one straw), asked if I
had heard lately how my cat was? “How my cat was!” What could the man
mean? My cat! Could he mean the tailless Tom, born in the Isle of Man,
and now supposed to be keeping guard against the incursions of rats
and mice into my chambers in London? Tom is, as you know, on pretty
good terms with some of my friends, using their legs for rubbing-posts
without scruple, and highly esteemed by them for his gravity of
demeanour, and wise manner of winking his eyes. But could his fame have
reached across the Channel? However, an answer must be returned to the
inquiry, as monsieur’s face was bent down to mine with a look of polite
anxiety; so I, in my turn, assumed an expression of gratitude, and
assured him that, to the best of my belief, my cat was in remarkably
good health.
“And the climate agrees with her?”
“Perfectly,” said I, in a maze of wonder at this deep solicitude in a
tailless cat who had lost one foot and half an ear in some cruel trap.
My host smiled a sweet smile, and, addressing a few words to my little
neighbour, passed on.
“How wearisome those aristocrats are!” quoth my neighbour, with a
slight sneer. “Monsieur’s conversation rarely extends to more than two
sentences to any one. By that time his faculties are exhausted, and
he needs the refreshment of silence. You and I, monsieur, are, at any
rate, indebted to our own wits for our rise in the world!”
Here again I was bewildered! As you know, I am rather proud of my
descent from families which, if not noble themselves, are allied to
nobility,—and as to my “rise in the world”—if I had risen, it would
have been rather for balloon-like qualities than for mother-wit, to
being unencumbered with heavy ballast either in my head or my pockets.
However, it was my cue to agree: so I smiled again.
“For my part,” said he, “if a man does not stick at trifles, if
he knows how to judiciously add to, or withhold facts, and is not
sentimental in his parade of humanity, he is sure to do well; sure to
affix a _de_ or _von_ to his name, and end his days in comfort. There
is an example of what I am saying”—and he glanced furtively at the
weak-looking master of the sharp, intelligent servant, whom I have
called the chasseur.
“Monsieur le Marquis would never have been anything but a miller’s son,
if it had not been for the talents of his servant. Of course you know
his antecedents?”
I was going to make some remarks on the changes in the order of the
peerage since the days of Louis XVI.—going, in fact, to be very
sensible and historical—when there was a slight commotion among the
people at the other end of the room. Lacqueys in quaint liveries
must have come in from behind the tapestry, I suppose (for I never
saw them enter, though I sate right opposite to the doors), and were
handing about the slight beverages and slighter viands which are
considered sufficient refreshments, but which looked rather meagre
to my hungry appetite. These footmen were standing solemnly opposite
to a lady,—beautiful, splendid as the dawn, but—sound asleep in a
magnificent settee. A gentleman who showed so much irritation at her
ill-timed slumbers, that I think he must have been her husband, was
trying to awaken her with actions not far removed from shakings. All
in vain; she was quite unconscious of his annoyance, or the smiles of
the company, or the automatic solemnity of the waiting footman, or the
perplexed anxiety of monsieur and madame.
My little friend sat down with a sneer, as if his curiosity was
quenched in contempt.
“Moralists would make an infinity of wise remarks on that scene,” said
he. “In the first place, note the ridiculous position into which their
superstitious reverence for rank and title puts all these people.
Because monsieur is a reigning prince over some minute principality,
the exact situation of which no one has as yet discovered, no one must
venture to take their glass of eau sucré till Madame la Princesse
awakens; and, judging from past experience, those poor lacqueys may
have to stand for a century before that happens. Next—always speaking
as a moralist, you will observe—note how difficult it is to break off
bad habits acquired in youth!”
Just then the prince succeeded, by what means I did not see, in awaking
the beautiful sleeper. But at first she did not remember where she was,
and looking up at her husband with loving eyes, she smiled and said:
“Is it you, my prince?”
But he was too conscious of the suppressed amusement of the spectators
and his own consequent annoyance, to be reciprocally tender, and turned
away with some little French expression, best rendered into English by
“Pooh, pooh, my dear!”
After I had had a glass of delicious wine of some unknown quality, my
courage was in rather better plight than before, and I told my cynical
little neighbour—whom I must say I was beginning to dislike—that I
had lost my way in the wood, and had arrived at the château quite by
mistake.
He seemed mightily amused at my story; said that the same thing had
happened to himself more than once; and told me that I had better luck
than he had on one of these occasions, when, from his account, he must
have been in considerable danger of his life. He ended his story by
making me admire his boots, which he said he still wore, patched though
they were, and all their excellent quality lost by patching, because
they were of such a first-rate make for long pedestrian excursions.
“Though, indeed,” he wound up by saying, “the new fashion of railroads
would seem to supersede the necessity for this description of boots.”
When I consulted him as to whether I ought to make myself known to
my host and hostess as a benighted traveller, instead of the guest
whom they had taken me for, he exclaimed, “By no means! I hate such
squeamish morality.” And he seemed much offended by my innocent
question, as if it seemed by implication to condemn something in
himself. He was offended and silent; and just at this moment I caught
the sweet, attractive eyes of the lady opposite—that lady whom I
named at first as being no longer in the bloom of youth, but as being
somewhat infirm about the feet, which were supported on a raised
cushion before her. Her looks seemed to say, “Come here, and let us
have some conversation together;” and, with a bow of silent excuse
to my little companion, I went across to the lame old lady. She
acknowledged my coming with the prettiest gesture of thanks possible;
and, half apologetically, said, “It is a little dull to be unable to
move about on such evenings as this; but it is a just punishment to
me for my early vanities. My poor feet, that were by nature so small,
are now taking their revenge for my cruelty in forcing them into such
little slippers.... Besides, monsieur,” with a pleasant smile, “I
thought it was possible you might be weary of the malicious sayings
of your little neighbour. He has not borne the best character in his
youth, and such men are sure to be cynical in their old age.”
“Who is he?” asked I, with English abruptness.
“His name is Poucet, and his father was, I believe, a wood-cutter, or
charcoal burner, or something of the sort. They do tell sad stories
of connivance at murder, ingratitude, and obtaining money on false
pretences—but you will think me as bad as he if I go on with my
slanders. Rather let us admire the lovely lady coming up towards us,
with the roses in her hand—I never see her without roses, they are so
closely connected with her past history, as you are doubtless aware.
Ah, beauty!” said my companion to the lady drawing near to us, “it
is like you to come to me, now that I can no longer go to you.” Then
turning to me, and gracefully drawing me into the conversation, she
said, “You must know that, although we never met until we were both
married, we have been almost like sisters ever since. There have been
so many points of resemblance in our circumstances, and I think I may
say in our characters. We had each two elder sisters—mine were but
half-sisters, though—who were not so kind to us as they might have
been.”
“But have been sorry for it since,” put in the other lady.
“Since we have married princes,” continued the same lady, with an arch
smile that had nothing of unkindness in it, “for we both have married
far above our original stations in life; we are both unpunctual in our
habits, and, in consequence of this failing of ours, we have both had
to suffer mortification and pain.”
“And both are charming,” said a whisper close behind me. “My lord the
marquis, say it—say, ‘And both are charming.’”
“And both are charming,” was spoken aloud by another voice. I turned,
and saw the wily cat-like chasseur, prompting his master to make civil
speeches.
The ladies bowed with that kind of haughty acknowledgment which shows
that compliments from such a source are distasteful. But our trio of
conversation was broken up, and I was sorry for it. The marquis looked
as if he had been stirred up to make that one speech, and hoped that he
would not be expected to say more; while behind him stood the chasseur,
half impertinent and half servile in his ways and attitudes. The
ladies, who were real ladies, seemed to be sorry for the awkwardness
of the marquis, and addressed some trifling questions to him, adapting
themselves to the subjects on which he could have no trouble in
answering. The chasseur, meanwhile, was talking to himself in a
growling tone of voice. I had fallen a little into the background at
this interruption in a conversation which promised to be so pleasant,
and I could not help hearing his words.
“Really, De Carabas grows more stupid every day. I have a great mind to
throw off his boots, and leave him to his fate. I was intended for a
court, and to a court I will go, and make my own fortune as I have made
his. The emperor will appreciate my talents.”
And such are the habits of the French, or such his forgetfulness
of good manners in his anger, that he spat right and left on the
parquetted floor.
Just then a very ugly, very pleasant-looking man, came towards the
two ladies to whom I had lately been speaking, leading up to them a
delicate, fair woman, dressed all in the softest white, as if she were
_vouée au blanc_. I do not think there was a bit of colour about her.
I thought I heard her making, as she came along, a little noise of
pleasure, not exactly like the singing of a tea-kettle, nor yet like
the cooing of a dove, but reminding me of each sound.
“Madame de Mioumiou was anxious to see you,” said he, addressing
the lady with the roses, “so I have brought her across to give you
a pleasure!” What an honest, good face! but oh! how ugly! And yet I
liked his ugliness better than most persons’ beauty. There was a look
of pathetic acknowledgment of his ugliness, and a deprecation of your
too hasty judgment, in his countenance that was positively winning.
The soft, white lady kept glancing at my neighbour the chasseur, as if
they had had some former acquaintance, which puzzled me very much, as
they were of such different rank. However, their nerves were evidently
strung to the same tune, for at a sound behind the tapestry, which was
more like the scuttering of rats and mice than anything else, both
Madame de Mioumiou and the chasseur started with the most eager look of
anxiety on their countenances, and by their restless movements—madame’s
panting, and the fiery dilation of his eyes—one might see that
commonplace sounds affected them both in a manner very different to the
rest of the company. The ugly husband of the lovely lady with the roses
now addressed himself to me.
“We are much disappointed,” he said, “in finding that monsieur is not
accompanied by his countryman—le grand Jean d’Angleterre; I cannot
pronounce his name rightly”—and he looked at me to help him out.
“Le grand Jean d’Angleterre!” now who was le grand Jean d’Angleterre?
John Bull? John Russell? John Bright?
“Jean—Jean”—continued the gentleman, seeing my embarrassment. “Ah,
these terrible English names—‘Jean de Géanquilleur!’”
I was as wise as ever. And yet the name struck me as familiar, but
slightly disguised. I repeated it to myself. It was mighty like John
the Giant-killer, only his friends always call that worthy “Jack.” I
said the name aloud.
“Ah, that is it!” said he. “But why has he not accompanied you to our
little reunion to-night?”
I had been rather puzzled once or twice before, but this serious
question added considerably to my perplexity. Jack the Giant-killer had
once, it is true, been rather an intimate friend of mine, as far as
(printer’s) ink and paper can keep up a friendship, but I had not heard
his name mentioned for years; and for aught I knew he lay enchanted
with King Arthur’s knights, who lie entranced until the blast of the
trumpets of four mighty kings shall call them to help at England’s
need. But the question had been asked in serious earnest by that
gentleman, whom I more wished to think well of me than I did any other
person in the room. So I answered respectfully that it was long since I
had heard anything of my countryman; but that I was sure it would have
given him as much pleasure as it was doing myself to have been present
at such an agreeable gathering of friends. He bowed, and then the lame
lady took up the word.
“To-night is the night when, of all the year, this great old forest
surrounding the castle is said to be haunted by the phantom of a little
peasant girl who once lived hereabouts; the tradition is that she was
devoured by a wolf. In former days I have seen her on this night out
of yonder window at the end of the gallery. Will you, ma belle, take
monsieur to see the view outside by the moonlight (you may possibly see
the phantom-child); and leave me to a little _tête-à-tête_ with your
husband?”
With a gentle movement the lady with the roses complied with the
other’s request, and we went to a great window, looking down on the
forest, in which I had lost my way. The tops of the far-spreading and
leafy trees lay motionless beneath us in that pale, wan light, which
shows objects almost as distinct in form, though not in colour, as by
day. We looked down on the countless avenues, which seemed to converge
from all quarters to the great old castle; and suddenly across one,
quite near to us, there passed the figure of a little girl, with the
“capuchon” on, that takes the place of a peasant girl’s bonnet in
France. She had a basket on one arm, and by her, on the side to which
her head was turned, there went a wolf. I could almost have said it was
licking her hand, as if in penitent love, if either penitence or love
had ever been a quality of wolves,—but though not of living, perhaps it
may be of phantom wolves.
“There, we have seen her!” exclaimed my beautiful companion. “Though
so long dead, her simple story of household goodness and trustful
simplicity still lingers in the hearts of all who have ever heard
of her; and the country-people about here say that seeing that
phantom-child on this anniversary brings good luck for the year. Let us
hope that we shall share in the traditionary good fortune. Ah! here is
Madame de Retz—she retains the name of her first husband, you know, as
he was of higher rank than the present.” We were joined by our hostess.
“If monsieur is fond of the beauties of nature and art,” said she,
perceiving that I had been looking at the view from the great window,
“he will perhaps take pleasure in seeing the picture.” Here she sighed,
with a little affectation of grief. “You know the picture I allude
to,” addressing my companion, who bowed assent, and smiled a little
maliciously, as I followed the lead of madame.
I went after her to the other end of the saloon, noting by the way with
what keen curiosity she caught up what was passing either in word or
action on each side of her. When we stood opposite to the end wall, I
perceived a full-length picture of a handsome, peculiar-looking man,
with—in spite of his good looks—a very fierce and scowling expression.
My hostess clasped her hands together as her arms hung down in front,
and sighed once more. Then, half in soliloquy, she said—
“He was the love of my youth; his stern yet manly character first
touched this heart of mine. When—when shall I cease to deplore his
loss!”
Not being acquainted with her enough to answer this question (if,
indeed, it were not sufficiently answered by the fact of her second
marriage), I felt awkward; and, by way of saying something, I remarked,—
“The countenance strikes me as resembling something I have seen
before—in an engraving from an historical picture, I think; only, it
is there the principal figure in a group: he is holding a lady by her
hair, and threatening her with his scimitar, while two cavaliers are
rushing up the stairs, apparently only just in time to save her life.”
“Alas, alas!” said she, “you too accurately describe a miserable
passage in my life, which has often been represented in a false light.
The best of husbands”—here she sobbed, and became slightly inarticulate
with her grief—“will sometimes be displeased. I was young and curious,
he was justly angry with my disobedience—my brothers were too hasty—the
consequence is, I became a widow!”
After due respect for her tears, I ventured to suggest some commonplace
consolation. She turned round sharply:—
“No, monsieur: my only comfort is that I have never forgiven the
brothers who interfered so cruelly, in such an uncalled-for manner,
between my dear husband and myself. To quote my friend Monsieur
Sganarelle—‘Ce sont petites choses qui sont de temps en temps
necessaires dans l’amitié; et cinq ou six coups d’épée entre gens
qui s’aiment ne font que ragaillardir l’affection.’ You observe the
colouring is not quite what it should be?”
“In this light the beard is of rather a peculiar tint,” said I.
“Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, and gave
him such a distinguished air, quite different from the common herd.
Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come near this
flambeau!” And going near the light, she took off a bracelet of hair,
with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly. I did
not know what to say. “His precious lovely beard!” said she. “And the
pearls go so well with the delicate blue!”
Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fell upon
him before venturing to speak, now said, “It is strange Monsieur Ogre
is not yet arrived!”
“Not at all strange,” said she, tartly. “He was always very stupid,
and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he comes worse off; and
it is very well he does, for he is a credulous and cowardly fellow.
Not at all strange! If you will”—turning to her husband, so that I
hardly heard her words, until I caught—“Then everybody would have their
rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not, monsieur?”
addressing me.
“If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of the
reform bill, or the millennium,—but I am in ignorance.”
And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown open wide, and
every one started to their feet to greet a little old lady, leaning on
a thin black wand—and—
“Madame la Féemarraine,” was announced by a chorus of sweet shrill
voices.
And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollow oak-tree,
with the slanting glory of the dawning day shining full in my face, and
thousands of little birds and delicate insects piping and warbling out
their welcome to the ruddy splendour.