My mother has been reading over what I have already written. She smiles
at my description of her as a child, and maintains that my portrait of
her, as well as that which hangs in the best parlour, is flattered. But
I must, with all respect, disagree with her. She says I must now hurry
on a little faster, otherwise I shall never arrive at the most
interesting part of my story. Of the history of her early childhood
there is not very much more to tell. It may really be said to have
ended with the death of her dear father, the good Count, which took
place early in the spring of the year after that of which I have been
telling you. They had not expected him to linger so long, but the last
winter of his life was an unusually mild one, and he had regained some
strength during the preceding summer, when he had lived almost entirely
in the open air. The last days, and weeks even, of his life are not
very distinct in my mother's remembrance. She thinks she was probably
kept away from him a good deal on purpose, that she might not be
saddened by the sight of his suffering and increased feebleness: and it
seems to her, on looking back, that the greater part of that time was
spent by her with Madame Germain and Pierre. But she distinctly
remembers the day of the good Count's death, and those that followed it:
her poor mother's terrible grief--how she clasped her to her arms,
repeating that her Edmee was now all, _all_ she had left; how bitterly
she herself cried when she saw her dear father so cold and white and
still, and through all, how kind and loving and unselfish were her dear
"mamma Germain," and Pierrot. Then came the funeral;--all the gentlemen
of the neighbourhood assembled in the great salon, and first and
foremost among them, and in everything, her uncle the Marquis, tall and
dark and proud as ever, with a smile for her whenever he caught sight of
her, which she disliked almost as much as his frown. He brought a
magnificent box of _bon-bons_ for her, and main pretty messages from her
cousin `and devoted cavalier' Edmond, none of which, she felt sure,
child as she was, had really been sent by him. But she was a dignified
little lady, and knew how to curtsey to the Marquis, and make her
acknowledgments faultlessly, and to send messages in return to Edmond,
saying that she would like to see him again, which seemed to please her
uncle, and was really true.
"For she and Pierre had often talked together about the poor boy, and
agreed that there must be some good in him, and that the ill was not to
be wondered at, considering how feeble and pampered and badly brought up
he had been.
"Many things were discussed at that time which Edmee knew nothing of
till long afterwards.
"The Marquis did his utmost to persuade his sister to leave her dear
home and take up her quarters at Sarinet for part of the year,
accompanying him and his wife to Paris every autumn; there to spend six
months in their house, in the Rue de Lille. But the Countess was firm
in refusing. She knew in her heart, though she did not say so, that
there never could be any real sympathy between herself and her
sister-in-law, and she longed to keep Edmee in the country. But she
thanked her brother for his kindness and affection for her, which so far
as they went, were real.
"`When Edmee is older,' she said, `and her education calls for it, I
must make up my mind to spend part of the year in Paris.'
"`Of course,' said the Marquis, `_that_ is a matter there can be no
doubt about. But I wish you could have made up your mind to get in the
way of visiting Paris sooner. Not that Clemence--Clemence was the
Marquise, his wife--would expect you to take part in any gay doings for
some time to come. But you are too young and too pretty, Louise, to get
in the way of shutting yourself up. And for my little niece--for a girl
with her prospects, sole heiress to all the de Valmont property--Paris
is a necessity. I have a right to an opinion; Edmee, you remember,
comes next to Edmond in _our_ succession, and Edmond, poor fellow, is
still a delicate lad.'
"`Oh, brother, I trust not; I trust he may grow up strong and healthy!'
exclaimed the Countess, shocked at the Marquis's cool way of talking of
his son, and certainly with no desire to see her little Edmee in his
place.
"`I hope so too. I hope to see the properties united in a different
way, my fair sister,' he replied with a courtly bow. And the Countess
pretended not to understand what he meant, for she was by no means sure
that Edmond, brought up as he was, would ever be the husband she would
choose for her precious child.
"And then to her relief, and the relief of all the inhabitants of the
chateau, the Marquis, and his crowd of insolent attendants, took their
leave. He drove away, satisfied that he had thoroughly fulfilled the
duties of a brother and an uncle, and his servants gossiped and grumbled
among themselves at the dull life they had led the last week at Valmont,
and rejoiced to think that next month they would be back at Paris. And
when one of the horses broke down on the road, from the furious driving
the Marquis loved, the coachman was sworn at till he forced a trembling
innkeeper to give them another, for which the chances were he would
never be repaid save by the oaths the coachman threw at him in his turn.
It was no matter of rejoicing in those days when a great lord came
driving through the country, and this one was specially well-known. No
friendly voices bade him good speed on his way, as his wheels tossed the
dust against the villagers of Valmont, as they had been wont to do to
their own good lord, when he passed with a kindly greeting,--no homely
faces lighted up with pleasure, or little children shouted with glee as
he re-entered his own domain; on the contrary, the men turned aside with
a scowl, to avoid the servile obeisance expected of them, and more than
one woman rushed into the road to see that no unfortunate child happened
to be straying there. It was not to be supposed that the steeds of my
lord the Marquis would be checked for an instant for the sake of any
risk to a being so utterly beneath contempt as a peasant's brat!
"And little Edmee and her mother for a time, a considerable time, were
left in peace.
"Those were quiet and uneventful years--at Valmont-les-Roses, that is to
say. In the outside world the distant storm was coming nearer and ever
nearer; the secret discontent was brewing and fermenting; the hard,
cruel determination to listen to none of the people's complaints, the
stupid blindness to what sooner or later _must_ come unless timely
measures were taken to avert it,--all these things were surely
increasing. But at Valmont was heard but little, and that little
affected but few. The Countess and her child lived so thoroughly among
their people, they took such part and sympathy in their joys and
sorrows, they felt themselves so trusted and gave back such trust in
return, that the notion of treachery and disloyalty, even if suggested,
which it never was, would not for an instant have found place in their
hearts. But Valmont, and some few other favoured spots like it were, as
I have said, happy exceptions to the rule. And even here, as will be
seen later on, once the wild contagion was thoroughly aroused, there
were some who yielded to it; for it is not difficult to dazzle and lead
astray simple and uneducated people, who, left to themselves, would have
remained faithful to their duties.
"The Marquis came from time to time, and his visits were the darkest
spots in Edmee's quiet life. He was more gentle to her and her mother
than to anyone else, but nevertheless the child shrank from him with
indescribable dislike and fear. She could not bear the cold contempt
underlying his courteous tones, and some remarks she once overheard as
to his becoming her guardian, in case of her mother's death, made an
impression on her she never forgot,--though, just because she thought of
it with such terror perhaps, she could not bear to speak of it to the
Countess.
"All these years the mother devoted herself to Edmee's education, which
she was well fitted to do. She was herself of great intelligence, and
had learnt much from her studious husband. Edmee never had at Valmont
any teacher but her mother, or any attendant of more importance than the
young girl who had been her maid ever since Madame Germain had left her.
And in some things Madame Germain still had a charge of her former
nursling. It was she who taught Edmee all sorts of fine and beautiful
needlework. It was under her direction that the young lady of the
chateau worked the set of chairs which, as I write, are still
wonderfully fresh and beautiful in the best parlour here. It was she,
too, who taught her how to nurse the sick, to dress wounds and burns, to
distil scented waters, and make simple salves, and brew _tisanes_, or
warm drinks made from different kinds of herbs, which are very useful as
household remedies. It was a quiet, simple life--compared with that of
most ladies of their time. It appeared, I daresay, old-fashioned, and
the Countess had taken an unusual course, and set at variance the
opinions of her brother and other friends, in keeping Edmee at home
instead of sending her to be educated at a convent.
"Till the year Edmee was ten years old--that was the year 1787--she had
never again seen her cousin Edmond. She and Pierre often talked of him,
for in her secluded life his two days' visit had been an event she had
never forgotten: they wondered how he was growing up, if he were less
petulant and self-willed, if he were strong and healthy now--for Pierre
especially had always an idea that to be delicate and sickly was an
excuse for almost anything; he, who had never known a day's illness,
scarcely an hour's discomfort, could imagine nothing more unbearable.
And when her uncle came to Valmont, Edmee always inquired with pretty
courtesy, and at the same time with real interest, for the poor boy,
though the answers she received never gave her much satisfaction.
"`Edmond was quite well--would be much honoured by his cousin's
remembrance of him,' the Marquis would reply, with the half-mocking
courtesy the little girl so disliked. But once she overheard some
careless words of his to her mother which roused her old pity for the
boy.
"`He is a poor specimen; he will never be much of a credit to me,' and
by the look on her mother's face, she saw that she too pitied the
evidently unloved boy.
"This year, 1787, began the great changes in Edmee's life. They came in
this way.
"It was autumn. Several months had passed since the Marquis had been at
Valmont, but now and then letters had come to the Countess which seemed
to trouble and distress her. More than once Edmee had seen her mother
with tears in her eyes, and at last one day, coming suddenly into her
room and finding her crying, the little girl could no longer keep
silent.
"`Little mamma,' she said, as she sat down on her favourite stool at her
mother's feet, and stroked and kissed the hand she had taken possession
of, `I know it is not my place to ask you what you do not choose to tell
me, but I am sure there is something the matter. I can see you have
been crying.'
"`But you have often seen me cry, my poor Edmee.'
"`Yes, but not in that way. When you cry about dear papa it is sad, but
not troubled in the same way.'
"`That is true,' said her mother. `I _have_ a new trouble, my child.
Many people, however, would think me very foolish for considering it a
trouble. Besides, it is something I have always known would have to be
sooner or later. I will promise to tell you all about it this evening,
Edmee; I feel sure you will understand all I feel, though your are still
only a little girl.'
"`Not so very little, mamma. Ten past.'
"The Countess smiled.
"`Certainly, compared with the Edmee up there,' she replied, `you are
beginning to look a very big girl. But I am going to be busy now, dear.
I have a long letter to write. This evening I will tell you all about
it. You are going now to Madame Germain for your embroidery lesson, are
you not?'
"`Yes, mamma. Nanette is waiting to take me. Mamma,' she said, then
stopped and hesitated.
"`What is it, Edmee?'
"`Does mamma Germain know about what is troubling you?'
"`Yes, dear; she does.'
"`Might I--would you mind her telling me?'
"The Countess considered a moment.
"`You may ask her to tell you. I know she will say nothing that is not
wise and sensible.'
"`Thank you, mamma,' said Edmee, well pleased. `You see, dear mamma, if
it is anything that troubles you, it will save you the pain of telling
me,' she added, with a little womanly protecting air she sometimes used
to her mother; `and then this evening we can talk it over, and I will do
my best to console you. Good-bye; and good-bye, little Edmee,' she
said, waving her hand to her own portrait, as she ran off; `take care of
little mother till I come back.'
"Big Edmee, as she now considered herself, was very silent on her way to
the village that afternoon. She went down the long, red-paved passages
and crossed the large tiled hall, so cool and pleasant in summer, but so
cold in winter, with the two great flights of stairs one at each side,
meeting up above on a marble landing, and again branching off till they
ended in an immensely wide and long corridor, running the whole length
of the house, with doors on each side leading into rooms which of late
years had been but seldom used. Edmee stopped a moment when she had
half crossed the hall and looked up--then out through the open doorway
on to the terrace.
"`How I love the chateau!' she said to herself. `I daresay it isn't so
grand as Sarinet, but I don't care; I should never be so happy anywhere
else. I do hope I shall never, _never_ have to go away from Valmont,'
and Nanette wondered what had come over her usually talkative little
mistress, for all the way through the park and along the village street
she hardly said a word.
"The Germains' cottage was at the further end. To reach it Edmee had to
pass the old church, a large and imposing building for so small a
village, and the neat little parsonage, or _presbytere_, as it is
called, where lived the good old cure, who had baptised and married and
seen die more than one generation since he had first come to Valmont.
He was standing at his garden gate as the little girl passed, and,
though he smiled and waved his hand to her, he did not speak or entice
her to come in to see his flowers and bees as usual, which rather
surprised her.
"`I think Monsieur the Cure looks sad this morning,' thought Edmee;
`perhaps he too knows the news that is making little mother sad.'
"And unconsciously her own face looked graver than usual as she nodded
back in greeting to all her friends, who came to their cottage doors to
see their little lady pass.
"The Germains' cottage was a little better than most of the others in
the village, yet it was extremely plain and simple. It was perhaps the
neatness and cleanliness that made it seem so much more comfortable than
its neighbours, though compared with such villages as Sarinet, every
cottage in Valmont was a picture of prosperity. There were few but what
possessed one or two good beds--sometimes, it is true, only recesses in
the wall, but with good mattresses and blankets; but in several there
were substantial four posters, which had been handed down for
generations. And in almost all, the large family cupboards, which are
to be seen, I believe, nearly all over France, and which those learned
in such subjects can recognise by their carving as belonging to the
various parts of the country.
"The walls of Madame Germain's kitchen were somewhat smoke-stained, for
in cold or stormy weather it is, of course, impossible to keep the smoke
of the great open chimneys altogether in its proper channel. But once a
year it was whitewashed, and just at this season, the end of the summer,
when the weather had been better for several months, it looked fresh and
clean.
"Madame Germain was sitting by a table near the window, arranging
Edmee's tapestry frame, which the little girl had left behind her the
last time to have a mistake which she had made put right. She had
already cleared up all remains of their dinner, though the big pot was
simmering slowly by the fire, reminding one that supper and soup were to
come.
"`So there you are, my child,' said the good woman; `I was just
expecting you. See, here is where you made the wrong stitch--I have put
it all right. You must get on with it, my child, if it is to be ready
for my lady's birthday.'
"`Yes, I know,' said Edmee, sitting down with a rather disconsolate air.
`Nanette,' she added, rather less courteously than she usually spoke,
`you may go; I don't want you; Pierre will bring me home.'
"`Very well, Mademoiselle,' said Nanette; `of course I was only waiting
for Mademoiselle's pleasure.'
"Madame Germain looked rather anxiously at Edmee when the maid had left
her.
"`I don't mean to be cross,' said the little girl, `but she troubles me,
Mother Germain. She would chatter all the way, and I didn't want to
talk. Mamma Germain, there is something very much the matter; you must
tell me what it is, for you know. I saw it in Monsieur the Cure's face,
and even, it seemed to me, in the look of the villagers, as I passed. I
am so unhappy; tell me what it is. Mamma said I might ask you,' and the
child pushed aside her embroidery frame and knelt down beside her old
friend, leaning her elbows on Madame Germain's knees."