The Marcel children were up betimes the next morning--not that they were
ever late, in summer especially, for, young as they were, there were
plenty of ways in which they already helped their busy father and
mother. And as everybody knows, there is no time so busy in a farm in
summer as the early morning. In general they were all, except little
Roger, due at school at eight o'clock, but to-day, as I have explained,
was a holiday, and the mere feeling of not having to go to school seemed
to make them wish to get up even earlier than usual.
Then there was the treat of coffee for breakfast, instead of the soup--a
very homely kind of soup made with dripping, which English children
would not, I fancy, think very good--which was their usual fare, and not
coffee, but white bread and _butter_! Joseph smacked his lips at this,
you may be sure. After breakfast they all went into the parlour for a
few minutes, there to present to Madame Marcel the little gifts they had
prepared for her, with which she was of course greatly pleased, as well
as with the decorations of the room.
"Now go, my children," she said, "and amuse yourselves well till
dinner-time. It is a most lovely day. If you can find a nice basketful
of wood strawberries they will not come in badly for the dessert."
"No, indeed," said Joseph, "there is nothing better than strawberries
with cream. You will give us a little of that beautiful thick cream you
make the little cheeses for market with, won't you, mother? For a
_very_ great treat."
And Madame Marcel could not help laughing at the pathetic air with which
he said it, even though she told him she feared he was growing too fond
of nice things to eat.
The strawberry hunt was very successful, and the children came home in
good spirits, and quite ready to do justice to the birthday dinner, to
which had been invited the clergyman of the village, or cure, as he was
called, and Farmer Marcel's widowed sister, with her two children.
Later in the day the young people all played games in the orchard; then,
too hot and tired to romp more, they sat on the grass playing with their
pet kitten, till mother called them in. Their aunt and her little boys
and the old cure soon after went away, and then, when Joseph and Roger
were safely in bed, the three elder ones reminded their mother of her
promise.
"I have not forgotten it," she said. "Your father is coming in a
moment. I must let you sit up an hour later than usual this evening;
but if there is not time to read all the story, we can finish it on
Sunday evening, perhaps."
And then she led the way back to the parlour, which seemed the most
suitable place for reading the story in, besides being cooler than the
kitchen, for the evening was very hot.
In a few minutes the farmer made his appearance. He seated himself in
one of the two largest and most comfortable of the arm-chairs, while
Madame Marcel took the other, drawing it near enough to the window to
have a good light; for the sheaf of papers which she held in her hand
was yellow with age, and the ink of the writing, from the same cause,
had become pale and not very easy to read. And the children's eyes
watched with eagerness, not unmixed with awe, the pages, which were tied
together with a faded blue ribbon, as their mother smoothed them out and
placed them ready.
"Before I begin," she said, "I must tell you, children, who wrote this
little story, and why. It was written by my mother; you cannot remember
your dear grandmother, children; she died when you, even, Pierre, were a
very little boy, and Edmee still a baby. It was a great sorrow to me.
I had hoped she would have lived to help me to bring you up, and to
educate you as she educated me, though I fear I have now forgotten much
of what she taught me."
"There is no one in the village as clever as you, mother," said Pierre
and Edmee. "Every one says so. Who can write so nicely, as you,
mother, or keep accounts so beautifully?"
"Yes, indeed," said the farmer. "Many a compliment I have had about my
accounts, and very proud I am to say it is my good wife who makes them
out."
"So you see, mother!" said the children.
"Well, well," said Madame Marcel. "But the little I can do is nothing
to what my dear mother knew and could do. And she, again, used to say
she felt ashamed of her ignorance in comparison with _her_ mother's
superiority. And this brings me to the story, or rather, in the first
place, to the picture. That dear little girl up there, children, is my
grandmother, your great-grandmother, whose maiden name was Edmee de
Valmont."
"Edmee de Valmont," repeated the children, as if they could scarcely
believe it. "You don't mean--not de Valmont of Valmont-les-Roses, not
one of _them_?" said Pierre eagerly.
"Yes, dear. My grandmother was the last of the old name. And how she
came to be so, and how in the end she changed it for a much humbler one,
and never repented having done so--that is the story here written out by
her wish, and under her superintendence, by her daughter, my mother."
The children looked at their mother bewilderedly.
"I don't think I quite understand," said Edmee. "Whom did she marry?
Was it our grandfather Marcel?"
"Oh dear no, my child," replied her mother, laughing. "That would have
made very funny relationships," and Farmer Marcel smiled as he said--
"It is not to my side of the house, but to little mother's, that you owe
your noble descent."
And Madame Marcel went on to explain.
"My grandmother, Edmee de Valmont, married Pierre Germain. They had but
one child, my mother, also Edmee, and she in turn married Joseph
Laurent, my father. I, again, was an only child, so it has always been
by Edmees that the de Valmonts have been remembered, till now, when my
little Roger has revived the old Valmont name. There was always a Roger
de Valmont in the old days."
"Ah yes," exclaimed Pierre, "I know that by the old inscriptions in the
church. Mother, why did you not call me, the eldest, Roger? I should
have been proud of the name."
His mother looked at him with a rather anxious expression; he was a
handsome boy, and before now some of the old people in the village had
whispered to her that the Valmont blood was to be seen in the little
farmer, though she had begged them always to put no nonsense in her
boy's head.
"My boy," she said seriously, almost solemnly, "when you have heard this
little story, you will, I think, agree with me that no one could be
otherwise than proud to bear the name of my dear and honoured
grandfather, Pierre Germain. I do not wish to speak with anything but
respect of my grandmother's ancestors, especially as I am happy to think
many of them deserved to be so thought of. They did their best, and
strove to be just and benevolent at a time when there were few to show
the example, and for that let us honour them. But the ancestors _I_ am
the most proud of, and I know your father agrees with me, are not the de
Valmonts."
Pierre slipped his hand into his mother's.
"I should like to think the same as you and father," he said gently.
And then Madame Marcel, having the papers smoothed out, and sitting in a
good clear light began to read as follows:--
"Belle Prairie Farm,--
"Valmont-les-Roses,--
"Touraine.
"_1st June, in the year of our Lord 1822_.
"I, Edmee Germain, the only child of Pierre Germain and Edmee his wife
(born Edmee de Valmont), by the wish of my mother, am going to endeavour
to write the story of her life, that her descendants may know the true
facts, and above all, may learn to honour the memory of my dear father,
Pierre Germain, who ended his good and faithful life on the 12th of last
April. My dear mother and I have felt dreadfully sad since his death,
and the idea of writing this simple narrative is the first thing which
has at all consoled us. I fear I shall not do it very well, for though
my mother has educated me carefully, I am not by nature as clever as
she, and I feel that I have not well repaid the trouble she has taken
with me. But it is her wish that I should write it rather than she
herself; so I shall do my best, and if it should ever be read by
children or grandchildren of mine, I am sure they will judge it gently,
and not be severe on my blunders. When it is completed, mother is going
to ask our kind cure to read it through, and to put his name to it as a
sign that all is truly stated, and without exaggeration. My mother and
I wish that these papers should be always kept in the top drawer of the
handsome chest of drawers in the best parlour at Belle Prairie Farm, so
long, that is to say, as the farm continues in the hands of our
descendants, which we hope will be for very, very long. And as the
children of the family grow old enough to feel an interest in its
history, we wish that what I am about to write should be read aloud to
them."
Madame Marcel stopped a moment. All eyes were fixed on her, all ears
were eagerly listening. So she went on again. There was no other title
or heading to the manuscript.
"It is nearly forty years ago that one day a little girl--a very little
girl--was playing with a boy a few years older than herself on the
terrace in front of the chateau of Valmont-les-Roses. The chateau was
very old; many generations of Valmonts had played on the same old
terrace--had grown to be men and women, and found there were many things
besides playing to be done in the world--had passed through the busy
noontime of life, and gradually down the hill to old age and peaceful
death. For they had been in general kindly and gentle, loving to live
quietly on their lands, and make those about them happy, so that they
were respected and trusted by their dependants; and even in troubled
times of widely-spread discontent and threatened revolt, the talk of
these things passed quietly by our peaceful village, and no one paid
much heed to it.
"The little girl who was racing up and down the terrace, her companion
pretending to try to catch her, and letting her slip past so that she
might fancy she was quicker than he, was Edmee, only child of the Count
de Valmont, and the boy was Pierre Germain, her favourite playfellow,
though only the son of her father's head forester.
"Edmee had no brothers or sisters, and Pierre's mother had been for some
time her nurse when she was a tiny baby. The kind woman had left her
own little boy to come to the chateau to take care of the Countess's
baby, who was so delicate that no one thought she would live, and by her
devotion Madame Germain had helped to make her the bright, healthy
little girl that she now, at five years old, had become. So, as one
always loves those to whom one has been of great service, Madame Germain
loved little Edmee dearly, and Edmee loved her. There was nowhere in
the village she so much liked to go as to the Germains' little cottage,
and no child she cared to play with as much as Pierre, who was only four
years older than she, but so gentle and careful with her that no one
felt any anxiety when they knew that the little lady, `Mademoiselle,' as
she was called, was with Pierre Germain.
"Tired with running and laughing, Edmee called to Pierre to help her
down the steep stone steps at one end of the terrace, and the two
children settled themselves comfortably under the shade of a
wide-spreading beech tree.
"`Now Pierrot, good pretty Pierrot,' said Edmee coaxingly, `tell Edmee a
story--a pretty story.'
"`What about? My little lady has heard all the stories I know, so
often,' said Pierre, gently stroking the pretty fair hair tumbling over
his arm, as she leant her head against him.
"`Never mind, I like them again--only _not_ about Red Riding Hood,' said
Edmee; `that frightens me so, Pierre; I fancy I am little Red Riding
Hood, only then I always think my Pierrot would come running, running
_so_ fast, so that the naughty wolf _shouldn't_ eat me. Wouldn't my
Pierrot do that? He _wouldn't_ let the naughty wolf eat poor little
Edmee?'
"`No, indeed--_indeed_! I wouldn't,' said Pierre eagerly.
"`I'd get the old sword--you know it, Edmee: father has it hanging up
over the door in our cottage; it's rather rusty, but it would be good
enough for a wolf--and I'd run at him with it before he could touch you.
If he _had_ to eat up somebody, I'd let him eat me first.'
"`Oh, don't! don't, Pierrot,' said Edmee, trembling and clinging to him,
`I don't say that; don't let us speak about things like that! There are
no wolves here, are there? and don't you think, Pierrot dear, if people
were very, very kind to all the wolves, and never hunted them, or
anything like that--don't you think perhaps the wolves would get kind?'
Pierre smiled.
"`I'm afraid not,' he said, `but there are no wolves about here.'
"`No, no,' repeated Edmee, `no wolves and no naughty people at Valmont.
Don't you wish there were no naughty people anywhere, Pierrot?'
"`Indeed, I do,' said the boy, and then he sat silent. `What makes you
talk about naughty people, Edmee?'
"`I don't know,' said Edmee; `sometimes I hear things, Pierrot, that
frighten me. I hear the servants talking--they say that some lords like
papa are so naughty and unkind. Is it true, Pierrot?'
"`I'm afraid all rich men are not so kind as the Count,' said Pierre.
`But don't trouble yourself about it, dear; we won't let naughty unkind
people come here.'
"Somehow Edmee had grown silent; she sat there quite still, leaning her
little head on the boy's shoulder. And he did not talk either; Edmee's
innocent words had reminded him of things he too had heard--of talk
between his father and mother, which, young as he was, he already
understood a good deal of. Even to quiet Valmont growlings of the yet
distant storm, which ere long was to overwhelm the country, had begun to
penetrate. Now and then peasants from other villages would make their
way to this peaceful corner, with tales of cruelties and indignities
from which they were suffering, which could not but rouse the sympathy
of their more fortunate compatriots. And more than once Pierre had seen
his quiet and serious father strangely excited.
"`It cannot go on for ever,' he would say to his wife; `we may not live
to see, but our children will, some terrible retribution on this unhappy
land. Ah, if all masters were like ours! But I fear there are but few,
even in his own family, think of the difference.'
"But when Pierre eagerly asked what he meant, he would say no more--he
would say nothing to sow prejudice in the child's heart. But from
others the boy learnt something of what his father was thinking of, and
as he grew older and understand still more, his heart ached sometimes
with vague fear and anxiety, though not for himself.
"`It would be a bad day for us all--a bad day for our poor mistress and
the dear little lady--if the good Count were taken from us,' he heard
now and then, and the words always struck a cold chill to his heart; for
the Count was by no means in good health--he had always been somewhat
delicate, unable to take part much in field sports, and such amusement
as absorbed the time of most of his country neighbours. He read much
and thought much, and in many ways he was different from those among
whom he lived. And though somewhat cold in manner, it was evident he
was not so in heart, for all the little children in the village loved
him as well as his beautiful and loveable young wife, and their dear
little daughter, and beyond the limits even of his own domain he was
spoken of as the good Count of Valmont.
"Suddenly, as the two children sat there in silence, a voice was heard
calling--
"`Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! wherever can the child have hidden
herself? Mademoiselle, you are wanted at once in the drawing-room.'
"And as Edmee rose slowly, and perhaps rather unwillingly, to her feet,
she saw coming along the terrace her mother's new maid Victorine, to
whom, it must be confessed, she was not partial.
"`I am not hidden, Victorine,' she said; `it is easy to see if one
looks.'
"`If one looks in proper places,' said the maid pertly, `_I_ never
before saw a young lady always playing with a clodhopper!' and she came
forward as if about to take Edmee by the hand and lead her away. But
she reckoned without her host."