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Some petty annoyance to which I had been subjected by one of the prison
authorities had kept me awake for a little while after I had gone to
bed, so that when at last I awoke in "Magna sed Apta," and lay on my
couch there (with that ever-fresh feeling of coming to life in heaven
after my daily round of work in an earthly jail), I was conscious that
Mary was there already, making coffee, the fragrance of which filled
the room, and softly humming a tune as she did so--a quaint, original,
but most beautiful tune, that thrilled me with indescribable emotion,
for I had never heard it with the bodily ear before, and yet it was as
familiar to me as "God save the Queen."
As I listened with rapt ears and closed eyes, wonderful scenes passed
before my mental vision: the beautiful white-haired lady of my childish
dreams, leading a small _female_ child by the hand, and that child was
myself; the pigeons and their tower, the stream and the water-mill; the
white-haired young man with red heels to his shoes; a very fine lady,
very tall, stout, and middle-aged, magnificently dressed in brocaded
silk; a park with lawns and alleys and trees cut into trim formal
shapes; a turreted castle--all kinds of charming scenes and people of
another age and country.
"What on earth is that wonderful tune, Mary?" I exclaimed, when she had
finished it.
"It's my favorite tune," she answered; "I seldom hum it for fear of
wearing away its charm. I suppose that is why you have never heard it
before. Isn't it lovely? I've been trying to lull you awake with it.
"My grandfather, the violinist, used to play it with variations of his
own, and made it famous in his time; but it was never published, and
it's now forgotten.
"It is called 'Le Chant du Triste Commensal,' and was composed by his
grandmother, a beautiful French woman, who played the fiddle too; but
not as a profession. He remembered her playing it when he was a child
and she was quite an old lady, just as I remember _his_ playing it when
I was a girl in Vienna, and he was a white-haired old man. She used to
play holding her fiddle downward, on her knee, it seems; and always
played in perfect tune, quite in the middle of the note, and with
excellent taste and expression; it was her playing that decided his
career. But she was like 'Single-speech Hamilton,' for this was the only
thing she ever composed. She composed it under great grief and
excitement, just after her husband had died from the bite of a wolf, and
just before the birth of her twin-daughters--her only children--one of
whom was my great-grandmother."
"And what was this wonderful old lady's name?"
"Gatienne Aubéry; she married a Breton squire called Budes, who was a
_gentilhomme verrier_ near St. Prest, in Anjou--that is, he made
glass--decanters, water-bottles, tumblers, and all that, I suppose--in
spite of his nobility. It was not considered derogatory to do so;
indeed, it was the only trade permitted to the _noblesse_, and one had
to be at least a squire to engage in it.
"She was a very notable woman, _la belle Verrière_, as she was called;
and she managed the glass factory for many years after her husband's
death, and made lots of money for her two daughters."
"How strange!" I exclaimed; "Gatienne Aubéry! Dame du Brail--Budes--the
names are quite familiar to me. Mathurin Budes, Seigneur de Monhoudéard
et de Verny le Moustier."
"Yes, that's it. How wonderful that you should know! One daughter,
Jeanne, married my greatgrandfather, an officer in the Hungarian army;
and Seraskier, the fiddler, was their only child. The other (so like her
sister that only her mother could distinguish them) was called Anne, and
married a Comte de Bois something."
"Boismorinel. Why, all those names are in my family too. My father used
to make me paint their arms and quarterings when I was a child, on
Sunday mornings, to keep me quiet. Perhaps we are related by blood,
you and I."
"Oh, that would be too delightful!" said Mary. "I wonder how we could
find out? Have you no family papers?"
_I_. "There were lots of them, in a horse-hair trunk, but I don't know
where they are now. What good would family papers have been to me?
Ibbetson took charge of them when I changed my name. I suppose his
lawyers have got them."
_She_. "Happy thought; we will do without lawyers. Let us go round to
your old house, and make Gogo paint the quarterings over again for us,
and look over his shoulder."
Happy thought, indeed! We drank our coffee and went straight to my old
house, with the wish (immediate father to the deed) that Gogo should be
there, once more engaged in his long forgotten accomplishment of
painting coats of arms.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and we found Gogo hard at work at a
small table by an open window. The floor was covered with old deeds and
parchments and family papers; and le beau Pasquier, at another table,
was deep in his own pedigree, making notes on the margin--an occupation
in which he delighted--and unconsciously humming as he did so. The sunny
room was filled with the penetrating soft sound of his voice, as a
conservatory is filled with the scent of its flowers.
By the strangest inconsistency my dear father, a genuine republican at
heart (for all his fancied loyalty to the white lily of the Bourbons), a
would-be scientist, who in reality was far more impressed by a clever
and industrious French mechanic than by a prince (and would, I think,
have preferred the former's friendship and society), yet took both a
pleasure and a pride in his quaint old parchments and obscure
quarterings. So would I, perhaps, if things had gone differently with
me--for what true democrat, however intolerant of such weakness in
others, ever thinks lightly of his own personal claims to aristocratic
descent, shadowy as these may be!
He was fond of such proverbs and aphorisms as "noblesse oblige," "bon
sang ne sait mentir," "bon chien chasse de race," etc., and had even
invented a little aphorism of his own, to comfort him when he was extra
hard up, "bon gentilhomme n'a jamais honte de la misère." All of which
sayings, to do him justice, he reserved for home consumption
exclusively, and he would have been the first to laugh on hearing them
in the mouth of any one else.
Of his one great gift, the treasure in his throat, he thought absolutely
nothing at all.
"Ce que c'est que de nous!"
Gogo was coloring the quarterings of the Pasquier family--_la maison
de Pasquier_, as it was called--in a printed book (_Armorial Général du
Maine et de l'Anjou_), according to the instructions that were given
underneath. He used one of Madame Liard's three-sou boxes, and the tints
left much to be desired.
We looked over his shoulder and read the picturesque old jargon, which
sounds even prettier and more comforting and more idiotic in French than
in English. It ran thus--
"Pasquier (branche des Seigneurs de la Marière et du Hirel), party de 4
pièces et coupé de 2.
"Au premier, de Hérault, qui est de écartelé de gueules et d'argent.
"Au deux, de Budes, qui est d'or au pin de sinople.
"Au trois, d'Aubéry--qui est d'azur à trois croissants d'argent.
"Au quatre, de Busson qui est d'argent au lyon de sable armé couronné et
lampassé d'or," And so on, through the other quarterings: Bigot, Epinay,
Malestroit, Mathefelon. And finally, "Sur le tout, de Pasquier qui est
d'or à trois lyons d'azur, au franc quartier écartelé des royames de
Castille et de Léon."
Presently my mother came home from the English chapel in the Rue
Marboeuf, where she had been with Sarah, the English maid. Lunch was
announced, and we were left alone with the family papers. With infinite
precautions, for fear of blurring the dream, we were able to find what
we wanted to find--namely, that we were the great-great-grandchildren
and only possible living descendants of Gatienne, the fair glassmaker
and composer of "Le Chant du Triste Commensal."