"Mother Germain stroked back the fair hair from Edmee's forehead.
"`My lady said I might tell you?' she said slowly, `my dear, do not look
so unhappy. It is no such very news. It is only what we have always
known would have to be, sooner or later. You are growing a big girl,
Edmee--indeed, I should no longer call you thus by your name.'
"`Ah yes, yes, mamma Germain,' interrupted the child; `to you I must
always be Edmee.'
"Madame Germain smiled.
"`You will always be as dear to me as my own child, whatever name you
are called by,' she said. `But as I was saying, Edmee, you are growing
a big girl; there are many things young ladies of your station need to
learn that cannot be taught in a village like Valmont. And your dear
mother has never wished to be separated from you, so she would not send
you away to a convent to be educated, as so many young girls are sent.
That is why she now feels there is truth in what her brother, my lord
the Marquis, is always saying--that she must go to live in Paris for
awhile, taking you with her. There you can have lessons of every kind,
in all the accomplishments right for you to know. And my lady too--she
has lived here so many years, seldom seeing any friends of her own
rank--perhaps for her, too, it may be well--this change. It is only
natural, sadly as we shall all miss her.'
"Edmee's face had grown more and more melancholy as Madame Germain went
on speaking, till at last she dropped it in her hands, and, leaning her
head on her friend's knees, burst into a fit of sobbing. She did not
cry loudly or wildly, but Madame Germain, laying her hand on her
shoulders, felt how the child shook all through, and was startled at the
effect of her words.
"`My child, my precious little lady,' she said, `do not take it so to
heart. Be brave, my Edmee. Think how it will trouble your dear mamma
if she sees you so unhappy. For it is for your sake my lady is doing
this--for your good--that you may grow up all that she and the good
Count hoped you would.'
"Edmee raised her tear-stained face.
"`I don't mean to be naughty,' she said, `but I don't want to go to
Paris. I want to stay here, among my own people. In Paris no one will
love us; it will all be full of strangers, who care for us no more than
we care for them. Here in my own Valmont I know every face. I never
walk down the village street without every one smiling at me. Oh! mamma
Germain, I shall feel starved and cold among strangers, and I shall
choke to be in a town among houses and walls--no longer my dear gardens
and park, and trees and fields, and all the lovely country.'
"`But that is selfish, Edmee, my child,' said her kind friend. `If your
dear mother can make up her mind to do it--for to her it is perhaps even
more painful than to you--for your sake, you at least should be grateful
to her, and do your best to show her you are so. In after years, if you
never saw anything of the world but your little Valmont, you might
regret your ignorance--might even reproach your friends for having shut
you up in this corner. And you will come back again. It is not for
_always_ you are going away.'
"`No, indeed, that is my only comfort,' said Edmee. `I will try to
learn all my lessons as fast and well as ever I can, so that little
mother will soon see there is no need to stay longer in Paris, and we
will come back, never again to leave our dear Valmont. Will not that be
a good plan, mother Germain?'
"`Excellent!' said the good woman, delighted to see that the child had
taken up this idea; `that will certainly be much better than crying.'
"`Though,' continued Edmee, `I shall not like Paris--I have a sort of
fear of it. I think there must be many cruel people there. That
Victorine--do you remember her, mamma Germain?--she told me things I
hardly understood, about the way people live there--how the rich despise
the poor, and the poor hate the rich. And sometimes she would shake her
head and say, "Ah, one would live to see many things changed--she
herself might be a great lady yet; but if she were a great lady she
could know how to enjoy herself--_she_ would not choose for her friends
common peasants." That she said to vex me, you know.'
"`Ah yes, she was not a nice girl,' said Madame Germain.
"`And she is still with my aunt, the Marquise,' went on Edmee. `I do
not want to see her again. I hope mamma will take Nanette. I should
not like Victorine to have anything to do for me.' She remained silent
for a moment, then looking up suddenly, `Mother Germain,' she said,
`does Pierre, my poor Pierrot, does he know about our going away?'
"Madame Germain nodded her head. For herself she could bear her share
of the sorrow, but her heart failed her when she thought of how her boy
would feel it, and for the first time the tears came into her eyes.
"`Ah, he does,' said Edmee. `He has not been to the Chateau for two
days, and I wondered why.'
"`He dared not go, till we knew that you knew it,' said Pierre's mother.
`We felt sure your quick eyes would see there was something the
matter.'
"`I think I have known it was coming,' said the little girl with a sigh.
`I have felt sad sometimes of late without knowing why, and never has
my uncle been here without my seeing that his words troubled my mother,
even though she did not tell me why. Mother Germain, I cannot do any
embroidery to-day; just let me sit still here beside you for awhile, and
then I will go home. Pierre will be in soon, will he not?'
"And, tired with the excitement and the crying, Edmee again laid her
head on her old friend's knee, and Madame Germain went on quietly
knitting, and did not at first notice that the little girl had fallen
asleep, till, hearing a step approaching, she looked up and saw Pierre
entering the cottage. She was going to speak, but the boy held up his
hand.
"`She is asleep, mother,' he whispered as he came near, `and she has
been crying. Does she know? Has my lady told her?'
"`I have told her, the poor lamb!' said Madame Germain. `Her mother
wished it so. Yes, she has been crying bitterly. She seems to think it
will break her little heart to leave Valmont and go away to Paris.'
"Pierre looked very sorrowfully at the innocent face, which seemed
scarcely older than the fair baby-face of the portrait at the Chateau.
"`Mother,' he said gently, `I think I would give my life for our little
lady.'
"`I believe you would, my boy,' said his mother.
"`I cannot bear their going away,' he continued. `It is not only that
we shall miss them so sorely, but I have a sort of fear for them--our
lady and this tender little creature; who would protect them and take
care of them in any danger as we--their own people of Valmont--would?'
"`But what danger could come to them?' said Madame Germain. `You must
not be fanciful, my boy. They will be in the Marquis's grand house in
Paris, surrounded by his servants. And though I have no love for him,
still I have no doubt he will take good care of his sister and her
child. Indeed, the Countess has told me that that is one of the
arguments he uses with her--he says it is not safe for two ladies alone
as they are in the country in these unsettled times. For it appears
there is a great deal of discontent and bad feeling about; that was a
terrible business your father was telling me of the other day--a chateau
burnt to the ground in the dead of night, and several of the inmates
burnt to death, and no one can say who did it.'
"`But then it is no mystery as to why it was done,' said Pierre. `The
lord of that country is noted for his cruelty. Father said he would not
wish you ever to hear the horrors that he has committed among his
people; what wonder that at last some one should try to avenge them?
And, mother, the Marquis is both feared and hated. I hear strange
things and see strange looks when he comes over here. I cannot think
that _he_ is a good protector for our ladies. They are far safer here
at Valmont, where every one loves them.'
"`It might be so were they going to Sarinet,' said Madame Germain, who
was of a cheerful and hopeful disposition; `but in Paris! In Paris,
where are the king and queen, and all the great lords and ladies, and
the king's regiments of guards!--ah no, it is not there that there could
ever be any revolt.'
"`But dark days have been known there before now, mother, and dreadful
things have been done in Paris,' persisted Pierre, who had read all the
books of history he could get hold of, and had thought over what he had
read. `I could tell you--'
"`Hush!' said Madame Germain, speaking still, as they had been doing all
the time, in a whisper; `the child is waking.'
"And as she spoke Edmee opened her blue eyes and looked about her in
surprise. As she saw where she was she gradually remembered all, and
how it was that she had fallen asleep there, and a look of distress
crept over her face as she held out her hands to her friend Pierre.
"`I did not know I had fallen asleep,' she said. `My eyes were sore
with crying. Oh, Pierrot, are you not sorry for your poor little
Edmee?'
"Pierre did not speak, but his lip quivered, and he turned away his
face. He was too big now to cry, he thought, but it was very difficult
to keep back the tears.
"`Come now, my children,' said Madame Germain; `you must not look so
sad, or my lady will think I have very badly fulfilled her commission.
You must cheer Edmee, Pierre; talk to her of the happy time when she
will come home again to her own people--two, three years soon pass! Ah,
when you are my age you will see how true that is, and not wish the time
over.'
"Edmee drew the kind face down to hers and kissed it.
"`I will promise you to try to be cheerful with mamma,' she said. `It
is only here I will allow myself to cry. Now I must go home; Pierrot
will come with me to the little gate.'
"But all the way home to the Chateau through the village the children
scarcely spoke, though usually their tongues ran fast enough. Their
hearts were too full; and when they got to the little gate through which
a footpath led directly to the side door by which Edmee usually entered,
she did not urge Pierre to come in to see her mother.
"`Come to-morrow,' she said; `by that time I shall be a little more
accustomed to it. To-night it will be all I can do not to cry when
mamma speaks to me, and to see you looking so sorry makes me still more
unhappy, my poor Pierrot!'
"So they said good-night at the gate. I would not undertake to say that
on his way home Pierre's resolution not to cry now that he was so big a
boy held good. There was no one to see him except the little birds and
a rabbit or two that scudded across the path through the park--and it
was his first real trouble.
"His tears would have been still more bitter, poor boy, had he known how
few `to-morrows' he and Edmee would have to spend together; for when the
little girl entered the Chateau she was met by unexpected news, and
Nanette, who had been on the point of going to fetch her, told her to go
at once to her mother's room, as the Countess wished to speak to her.
"Feeling still bewildered by all she had heard, Edmee obeyed
half-tremblingly. A glance at her mother told her there was further
trouble in store for her. The Countess was in tears, and her room,
usually so neat and orderly, was all in confusion: cupboards and drawers
open, and great travelling cases, which Edmee did not remember ever to
have seen before, standing about, and the Countess's maid, Franchise, an
old woman who had been in the Valmont family since the time of the last
Count's mother, was fussing about with trembling hands, her red eyes
telling their own tale.
"`Oh, Edmee, my darling, I am glad you have come back!' exclaimed her
mother, but without giving her time to say more the little girl flew
into her arms.
"`She has told me, mamma--mother Germain has told me. But why are you
crying? You were not so unhappy when I went out this morning--and poor
Francoise too!'
"`It is only, my darling,' said the Countess, taking her little daughter
upon her knee, `it is only that the summons has come rather sooner than
I expected. A courier has arrived from Sarinet with letters from your
uncle, desiring us to arrange for going there almost at once. He
requires me to be there a few days before going on with him and the
Marquise to Paris, for there is much to arrange. So, Edmee, my sweet,
we must say good-bye to our dear home.'
"It was hard, very hard, for Edmee to keep her resolution of doing
nothing to add to her mother's distress. But she bravely drove back her
tears, and throwing her arms round the Countess's neck, kissed her
tenderly.
"`Don't cry, dear little mother,' she said; `Madame Germain has been
speaking to me, and I am going to be very good. I am going to learn my
lessons in Paris so well, so very well, that you will be quite surprised
how clever I shall become, and then we shall all the sooner be able to
return to our dear Valmont. When are we to start, dear mamma? You see,
I am going to be very good. You need not be afraid to tell me all, and
she sat up, valiantly blinking away the tears that _would_, keep
coming.'
"The Countess was greatly relieved.
"`My good Marie,' she said--`Marie' was Madame Germain's first name--`it
is very kind of her to have spoken so wisely to my little girl, and it
will make all easier for me. Yes, dear, it will be soon, very soon--the
day after to-morrow we have to leave for Sarinet.'
"`The day after to-morrow!' exclaimed Edmee. `Ah, yes, that is _very_
soon.'
"But no other words of complaint or distress escaped her.
"And two days later saw the Countess and her daughter in the great big
travelling carriage, which had made but few journeys since the good
Count's death, on their way to the Chateau de Sarinet. They were
accompanied by Nanette and her uncle Ludovic, who had long been a sort
of steward in the house, and could not make up his mind to see his lady
go to Paris without him. Poor old Francoise would gladly have gone too,
but at her age it was out of the question, so she remained, with many
tears, at Valmont, where she kept all in the most perfect order, so
that, as she used to say, `if my lady comes back at any moment, there
will be nothing to do but light the fire.' And on the box, between the
rather fat coachman and Ludovic, Pierre Germain managed to squeeze
himself in. He had begged hard to accompany them all the way to
Sarinet, but the Countess had judged it better not. Her regard for the
boy and his parents was very sincere, and it would have pained her for
him to have been treated at her brother's house like a common
servant-boy, as, indeed, no servant-boy was ever treated at Valmont. So
Pierre bade his dear ladies farewell at Machard, a little village where
they stopped for the first night, whence he returned by himself to his
home, for twenty or thirty miles on foot were nothing to the sturdy boy.
"It was a sad farewell--sadder my mother has often told me, than the
actual circumstances really warranted, and many times, on looking back
to it, she has thought that some foreboding of the terrible events to
come must have been on their spirits.
"`Good-bye, my faithful little friend,' were the Countess's last words
to poor Pierre, as he reverently kissed her hand; `you are the true son
of your good father and mother--I can wish no better thing for you, my
boy, than that you may grow up to resemble them.'
"`My lady,' said Pierre, the tears coursing down his face, `I can never,
never thank you for all your goodness to me, but my life--everything I
possess--is yours and my little lady's. I would give my life for you if
it would do you good.'
"And the future showed that his words said no more than the truth. As
for Edmee, she was sobbing too much to say farewell to her childhood's
friend at all. But the last view he had of her face was drowned in
tears--the dear little face that had so seldom been aught but radiant
and sunny.
"She brightened up a little when they started again. It was the first
time in her remembrance that she had been so far from home, and novelty
has always great charm for a child. Travelling was not in those days as
it is now, when the public conveyances go to Paris at least twice a
week, and one does not require to be a great lord to be able to visit
distant places. And Edmee felt as if she had got quite to the other
side of the world when, on the evening of the second day, the heavy
travelling carriage turned in the gates of Sarinet and drew up before
the great door, where her uncle, the Marquise, a small delicate-looking
lady, with a peevish expression, and a boy, whom, though he had grown
taller, she knew again in an instant to be her cousin Edmond, were all
waiting to receive them with proper ceremony.
"Edmee turned as quickly as she could, with politeness, from the smiles
of her uncle, which she somehow always fancied to be half-mocking, and
the careless greeting of her aunt, to the boy cousin, of whom she had
often thought with pity. She wondered if he had become better-tempered
and less selfish. But the first glance was not reassuring. Except that
he had grown taller he was very much the same as the cross, haughty
little boy of two or three years ago.
"`What do you look at me so for, my cousin?' he said; `I have grown
tall, have I not? You are taller too, though of course much smaller
than I. But you are very pretty. I find you even prettier than before,
only your hair is arranged in a very old-fashioned way. However, I am
delighted you have come to live with us. I shall now have some one to
amuse me, and for you too--you will find Paris, and even Sarinet much
livelier than Valmont.'
"Edmee had grown redder and redder during this speech, but Edmond did
not seem to observe it.
"`And how is that stable-boy you used to be so fond of?' continued
Edmond. The children were a little apart from the elders of the group
by this time, so, fortunately perhaps for future harmony, no one
overheard when the girl flashed round upon her cousin.
"`Edmond de Sarinet,' she said with a dignity that was comical and yet
touching, `I warn you now, once for all, that I will only be your
friend--I will only play with you and be kind to you--on condition of
your never daring to say one word against my dear home or my dear
friends. And this, sir, it is just as well you should understand from
the beginning,' and then, overcome by all she had gone through in the
last few days, she flew to her mother, and hiding her face in her arms
burst into tears.
"`What a little savage!' said the Marquise in a low voice to her
husband. But the boy Edmond looked sorry."