As here is quaffed a sweet forgetfulnessOf the long journey yet to go,So unto all who through life’s pathways press,Lord, from thy rock let waters flow!Let thy sweet grace refreshment be!On earth we wander wearily,And in a thirst that will not cease.Oh! let each dry and dusty lipFrom thy deep hidden fountain sipSweet draughts of love and peace.Ah! every soul drinks its own cup of bliss.Some the delights of glory bless;One finds it in a little daughter’s kiss,Another in a wife’s caress.The secret friendships of the heart,The rapture of creative art,Each hive its own sweet honey stores;To every lip let torrents burstFrom life’s great fount; but I—IthirstFor the eternal shores.Earth’s dreams are but a bitterness to thoseWhose yearnings are for love divine.No rivulet sparkles here, no runlet flows,To satisfy this thirst of mine.What shall assuage it? The desireThat heavenward ever doth aspire,And sigheth ceaselessly;The sweetness that in suffering lies,And tear-drops showering from my eyes,Are hope’s one draught for me.
As here is quaffed a sweet forgetfulnessOf the long journey yet to go,So unto all who through life’s pathways press,Lord, from thy rock let waters flow!Let thy sweet grace refreshment be!On earth we wander wearily,And in a thirst that will not cease.Oh! let each dry and dusty lipFrom thy deep hidden fountain sipSweet draughts of love and peace.
Ah! every soul drinks its own cup of bliss.Some the delights of glory bless;One finds it in a little daughter’s kiss,Another in a wife’s caress.The secret friendships of the heart,The rapture of creative art,Each hive its own sweet honey stores;To every lip let torrents burstFrom life’s great fount; but I—IthirstFor the eternal shores.
Earth’s dreams are but a bitterness to thoseWhose yearnings are for love divine.No rivulet sparkles here, no runlet flows,To satisfy this thirst of mine.What shall assuage it? The desireThat heavenward ever doth aspire,And sigheth ceaselessly;The sweetness that in suffering lies,And tear-drops showering from my eyes,Are hope’s one draught for me.
FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.
“Frankly, my dear friend, tell me, is she not charming? Does she not lend a certain grace to her white dress, and a brilliancy to her blue ribbons? Is she not the prettiest flower in my garden?”
“And my Alfred, dear Madame de Guers, does he not look well by her side? Are there many young men in our village who appear to such advantage near this fair and graceful darling, now in the flower of her youth?”
“What you say is true, my friend. We have both of us, thank God, fine children—noble, virtuous, and good; and I hope they will be happy.”
“They will make a very handsome couple, at all events,” concluded M. Maubars, rubbing his hands and smiling contentedly.
Thus spoke two old friends, as they sat quietly, one summer evening, in the shadow of the hop-vines of a pretty green arbor, and talked away in this simple, lively, and joyous manner, while they observed their children as they appeared here and there in the garden-walks.
When people have passed fifty, and known each other since they went to the same school in childhood, and during the long succeeding years have resided pretty much in the same place, they are very apt, when talking together, to speak openly from their hearts, especially if those hearts are filled to the brim and running over with justifiable paternal pride and motherly tenderness.And it was true that the dear Alfred, the only and cherished son of M. Maubars, was handsome, honest, active, and gifted, and, thanks to the fortune which he would inherit, would one day take his place among the most respectable citizens of the province. As to Madame de Guers, this fair and worthy old lady, with white hair, in whom all the select souls of the little town saluted and recognized a sister, all the poor a benefactress, and all the afflicted a friend, she had never been a mother. She had married late, less from inclination than duty, to obey a vow of her parents and fulfil a family project; she had cared for, with an admirable devotion, and supported with a no less admirable equality of temper, the precocious infirmities and frequent brusqueries of M. de Guers, who, as former captain of a vessel, had lived a silent, sombre, deserted life in an old cold-looking little house on the coast. But one happy day the sun seemed to shine brighter for her, and the radiant sentiment of an unknown happiness mingled with her tears and her regrets, as one of the friends of her childhood, a poor widow, in dying, confided to her the education and guardianship of her deserted infant. What a complete happiness, what a recompense for all the sunless days, the gloomy and heavy hours, so faithfully supported! M. de Guers, though very ill at the time, consented to receive the child, on condition, as he added peremptorily, “that she should be kept very neat and make nonoise”—this his precise and solemn declaration. The little Valentine seemed to understand what was expected of her, and, though stirring, vigorous, and lively, rarely a rent was seen in her little Indian silk, never a spot on her red lips nor her cherubic forehead. When she happened to fall, she smothered her sobs and cries; when she remembered the past, she wept low for her mother—and all this not to displease the old gentleman, shut up in his close parlor, where he contemplated with astonishment mingled with pity and respect his two unfortunate legs—done up in flannel. Time, childhood, and natural gaiety combining, the little girl began even to find herself perfectly happy in this old house, where she was cherished, and nothing left undone for her needs, her games, or her repose.
Need we say that her adopted mother was happy? At the end of the long nights of want of sleep and suffering that she passed with the ill and impatient old man, she ran for a moment to the little chamber above, and watched the sweet pet, with brown eyes and rosy cheeks, as she woke to her morning’s happiness; she felt the dear little round arms press her neck, the sweet tender lips imprinted on her own, and she thanked God for this blessing. The little toilet made, and the breakfast over, she carried down-stairs happiness enough for half-a-day. Later, when her voice trembled at the end of some long lecture, or her arms were wearied at some endless rubbing, she looked out the window, saw the little one disporting in the sun, playing hide-and-seek among the lilacs, or smiling to her from amidst the roses, and, at this sight, it seemed her cup of joy was full, that the spring light played even in the sick man’s chamber, and for the time she forgotwhether she was guardian or victim. Thus she lived on, consoled and strengthened by the child, consoling and strengthening her husband, until the day when M. de Guers died, and both wept his loss—Valentine with time having learned to love him; and he himself, won by the grace and beauty of the child, had often so far unbended as to keep time for her with his crutch while she danced all alone before his window in the garden.
From this moment, Madame de Guers gave Valentine all her time, her heart, her cares, her tenderness. I leave you to imagine how such precious gifts, with the aid of years, added to everything lovely and noble in the child. Of all the young girls of C——, Valentine at eighteen was not only one of the most beautiful, but, better still, the best, the simplest, the most tender, the humblest, the most joyous, and the best loved: the most ill-natured of the citizens could not refuse her their homage, and her adopted mother loved her to excess and with pride and delight; M. Maubars, too, the oldest friend of the house, and his son, the elegant Alfred, saw in her perfection a treasure, and their united wonder. Then at eighteen the future is so beautiful, the horizon so pure, dreams so sweet, and friends so tender! How happy, then, was our Valentine at this moment, when, joyous under the eyes of her mother, gay and confiding in the presence of her future husband, and gracious and pretty as she always was in her simple and quiet toilet, she wandered hither and thither in the garden, breathing the air, gathering the flowers, and breaking from the trees the large snow-balls that shed their petals on her lustrous brown hair.
We do not know exactly what Alfred and Valentine were talkingabout in the garden-walk, as running from side to side to form their bouquet they chanced so often to meet. But, under the arbor, they were more grave, calmer, and certainly more mature, and they spoke of business.
“If you will permit it, my dear friend, I should like the young couple to live in my house,” said M. Maubars. “It is, I may say, without vanity, one of the most comfortable and best furnished in the town. As to me, you know, I am becoming a monk, or a bear, or a house-rat. The rolling of the half-dozen coaches and the three or four cabs our town possesses is sufficient to trouble my digestion, and almost deafens me; so I think, in order to plant my cabbages in peace, I had better lodge in the pavilion of my large garden at Vaux, which is not more than a league from the town. My good old Baptistine will accompany me, and keep the pot boiling. Every evening the children can come and see me, that is, every fine evening; and you can have them right by you—nothing to do but cross the street, and walk a few steps on the quay, ring the little bell, the latch will fly up, and there will be Valentine in a clean dress and red ribbon coming to meet you, for her delicate hearing would distinguish your step among a thousand others on the same pavement.”
“Poor dear child! I don’t want to be selfish, and yet it is hard to part with her,” murmured Madame de Guers, while stifling a sigh.
“Do you call that parting with her, when I tell you she will be right under your eye? And then, my dear friend, I must tell you you have become very worldly of late. You are obliged to accompany Valentine to this and that soirée, and it fatigues you, absorbs and puts you out altogether. When it comes myAlfred’s turn to do all this for her, you will see how you will improve, and old ladies always recover so naturally. Confess it, my dear Madame de Guers, have you not for some time been very negligent of yourself and your old people?”
“Alas, yes! poor good old people!” replied the respectable lady, with a sweet smile. “Yet every morning, after Mass, I stop to see them. True, my child monopolizes much of the time I should give to them, but she loves them too: she has so excellent a heart! How often I have seen her, when quite a child, take from her weekly allowance to buy jujube for old Manou, who has catarrh so badly, and tobacco for Périne, whose happiness is in smoking! And how she takes care of them when necessary, my friend! How merry she makes them, and consoles them, and reads them good books, and the Scripture she explains so prettily! In truth, this humble work will not perish with me: I have some one to whom I can confide it.”
This demands an explanation. Madame de Guers was not only an excellent, tender, and devoted mother, a constant and generous friend, but she was, at the same time, profoundly pious and sincerely charitable. The death of M. de Guers had left in her soul a bitter and secret sorrow, which she had never been able to console. The former lieutenant of the service, in spite of the solicitations and tears of his Christian and devoted wife, had bid farewell to this world in a manner far from exemplary, dying, without doubt, peaceably and bravely enough, but without repentance, without hope, without penitence, neither fixing his eyes on the cross nor listening to the absolution of the curé. So, for the poor, tender soul of the wife there remained a gnawing regret, a continualterror, and at the price of any austerities, of any sacrifices, she wished to secure the eternal salvation of this obstinate husband. God only knows what mortifications she practised in secret, to gain a little every day towards the tender and sublime end she proposed; and, above all, she openly redoubled her works of fervor and charity. A part of the money left her by her husband had been employed by her in a house of refuge, where ten or twelve old, infirm women, the very poorest of the department, could live comfortably and in peace until the end of their days, and at the low price of reciting every day from their bench in the chapel a prayer for the repose and salvation of the soul of Jean Louis de Guers, former officer of the king’s fleet. We said before that Madame de Guers had given Valentine all her heart, her time, and her life: we should, nevertheless, have remarked that she reserved a portion for the poor old recluses of her little hospital, not finding it a difficult matter to reconcile, in her humble and peaceable existence, happiness and duty, charity and love.
“My dear old pensioners,” she said again, while regarding from a distance her charming adopted daughter, who smiled on her from amidst the shady trees, “they will be truly happy to find after me this dear child, who will, I am sure, possess the courage and strength to replace me. Good little Valentine! she has already given them, in my name, a portion of her heart, and to do so she needs to be as generous as in truth she is, for I could have given a much more brilliant heritage to this dear child had I not already adopted my old people. Her mother, alas! died without fortune, and for me, I have still remaining fortythousand francs, invested in rentes in the state, and my little property here. This is all, my good Maubars, I have to give her.”
“Well, well, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself. The whole will amount to sixty thousand francs, at the lowest figure. Valentine is treasure enough in herself, and don’t need any more.”
“A treasure! Yes, indeed, you have spoken the truth!” replied the noble woman, fixing on her interlocutor a look radiant with joy, happiness, and confidence; “and as you make me so happy, my brave Maubars, in speaking as you do, I am not ashamed to confess I have often thought—have often feared—well, don’t blame me; nothing, you know, is so restless and timid as a mother—I have feared that a dowry so small could not respond to the legitimate views of a young man like Alfred, who can aspire to the best match in the country. I dare not tell you how this secret doubt has tortured my heart. It would have been so painful, so frightful to think that my want of foresight might have prepared so bitter a disappointment for my dearly loved Valentine.”
“And who speaks of disappointment, cowardly mamma that you are?” replied M. Maubars, with the good hearty laugh of the retired successful merchant. “Of course I do not mean that any dowry is to be despised, and, I will add, if this were larger, it were so much the better. But the moment that the question is between it and you and Valentine, Alfred and I will accept what you have in all confidence. Let there be no more mention of these things between us any more than there is just now in the conversation of that happy couple smiling and babbling among the roses.”
“How good you are, Maubars,”replied the adopted mother with a sigh of relief. “Assuredly,” she continued with a sweet and mischievous smile, “I am very sure that it is not with dowry or business that they are entertaining themselves just now.”
This you may be assured of, my readers, for, just then, Valentine, spreading into a sweet smile her fine and delicate lips, while her brilliant eyes sparkled above the cheeks as rounded and satiny as the petals of her roses, said to her partner, who was coming toward her:
“You had better believe me, Mr. Alfred. We will not go to Paris. Paris is very far off, and it costs a great deal to go there. But we will go every evening and see dear papa in his little pavilion at Vaux. Won’t it be charming to do just as we did when we were little, ten years ago, just us two alone, you and I, running through the ruts and the fields, gathering the new hay and the herbs covered with dew?”
And the simple child, clapping her white hands, gently smiled still more joyously at the innocent, truant projects with which she proposed to inaugurate their future housekeeping. Then, Alfred having offered his arm, she accepted it a moment in order to adjust with her young intended some other detail of great importance, which she must tell her mamma immediately—mamma holding her breath meanwhile, hearing vaguely the murmur of the wind in the arbor and smiling with tenderness as her child approached.
“Mamma,” cried Valentine, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck, and with a caressing and infantine movement mingling the waves of her lustrous hair with the fine, heavy gray curls, “did you not say that the anniversary of your birth would come in two weeks, the second of nextmonth, and that you would love to see Alfred and me choose that day to celebrate our betrothal?”
“Yes, my darling,” replied Madame de Guers gently.
“Very well, dear mamma, it is all arranged; we will exchange our rings on the same day that gave me so dear a mamma. But have you decided anything about the invitations?”
“I have at least thought of them, my child. We will have, I think, the greater part of those of our own society, and especially, you understand, all your young friends.”
“Yes, just as you wish. But is it to be only for the evening, dear mamma?”
“Ah! my little ambitious one wishes to give a whole day to herfête.”
“Indeed I do, mamma; I have dreamed of it even, so I may as well confess. I want particularly in the morning to have those I invite al to myself; I will receive them, lodge them, and serve them with my own hands. O mamma! it will be so nice, in the shady part of the garden, among the flowers, to set the long tables, and have an excellent breakfast, good wine, cakes, a roast, and Pierrot the violinist with his violin, and the baskets all filled with flowers! And my guests will be so surprised, and so pleased, my dear good mamma!”
“But who are they, then?”
“Your old women, dear mamma.”
Madame de Guers’s response was to take the pretty brown head of the charming child in her trembling hands, and to press it tenderly and long upon her lips, while a gentle shivering of admiration and love made her heart beat.
“It is said,” she replied at last; “the table shall be set for fifteen, and there shall be cakes and violins, andwine and flowers. You shall serve them, my child, and my old people will believe they are at the wedding.”
Then, as the first stars began to dot the pure sky, and the happy and united group rose to leave the perfumed shelter of the garden, Madame de Guers, more joyous and prouder than ever, held back on purpose to let the young people pass before her, while she whispered in the ear of her old friend, who was philosophically taking in the whole scene:
“My good Maubars, did you not say, just now, my Valentine is a treasure?”
Two weeks afterward, the air being of the softest, and the sky most radiant, Valentine received with great joy and pomp her morning guests on this the day of her betrothal. Everything passed conformably to the announced programme: the large table was ornamented and covered with a long white cloth; the light wine of the country filled the glasses; the cakes appeared large and gilded; and the roast was cooked to perfection. At this succulent and cordial banquet the twelve old women arranged themselves in order, and Valentine waited on them, cutting up the mutton in rosy slices, distributing the pieces of cake with her pretty little white hand, upon which shone the golden ring, with its blue stone, that Alfred had sent her that morning to wear until she took the other that would enchain her for life. The poor old gossips feasted with a good heart, and laughed as they tippled, their glasses tumbling against each other; while the sparrows, somewhat ousted, piped in the branches, astonished at so much noise, then dropped gently to the earth to peck at the crumbs of cakethat fell in the grass; the violin of Pierrot, seated at his post under the arbor, played for the delighted old women all the minuets, gavottes, and hops of the good old time.
You can judge of the gratitude and general joy.
“God will take you to his holy paradise, good and beautiful young lady!” said mother Périne, as she received from the hands of the pretty child her third slice of mutton.
“What are you saying there, mother Périne?” cried Babet, her usual antagonist. “What kind of wish is that you are making? Better hope for Miss Valentine, as for many others, that paradise will come as late as possible, and that here the dear good young lady will become a great and good matron, and enjoy herself as much as she can in this world.”
“True enough,” said Manou, “for there is the scraping of the violin; and just listen to that pretty gavotte! Oh! in those days when I was but twenty, how I hopped about like a young goat at the first note of the music. Dear me! Miss Valentine, how this good wine makes you young again, and puts the gaiety into you! I do believe, if Pierrot begins that flourish once more, I shall jump up and dance a minuet in your honor.”
So Valentine laughed, and the other old women applauded, and Manou fluttered about in true dancing style. Madame de Guers herself, who was rarely gay, wiped away a joyous tear from her eyes, while a tender and proud smile spread over her countenance. There was only the very, very old Genevieve, who could not laugh, because she had lost her five sons and grown blind in weeping for them. But, with her old wrinkled hand, she had groped for the pretty little one of her youngfriend and protectress, pressed it between her own, and repeated in mourning accents:
“Miss Valentine, you deserve to be truly happy; you know how to give blessings like the good God, whose care and pleasure it is to think of the poor.”
Thanks to the pleasure of such a repast and so much time so happily spent, the old guests lingered around the table in the garden, and exceeded the limits of the morning hours. When at last they wended their way homeward, accompanied by the good sister who took care of them, they met on the road several of those invited for the afternoon, friends of Valentine mostly, accompanied by their mothers, in elegant toilets, and coming in great pomp to offer their compliments.
“Why, how is this, my dear? Have the old pensioners of Madame de Guers come to congratulate you?” asked Rosine Martin, one of the young ladies, as she entered and embraced her friend.
“Yes, Rosette, on this occasion I gave them a littlefête. They breakfasted here and drank my health; and, do you know, Pierrot played the violin, and old Manou was so excited she actually danced a minuet.”
“Do you hear what Valentine is saying?” whispered Madame Martin to her friend and confidante, Madame Fremieux. “I always thought Madame de Guers put on the airs of a great lady, and, of course, will leave the same to Valentine, as foundress of charitable institutions. Insupportable, is it not? And charity costs something too. It is well to make a parade of it, whether one has it or not; and the question is, whether it is prudent to put such ideas into the child’s head, when she will give her at the very most two poor thousand francs?”
“Provided that charity is a luxury like any other, and often more imprudent than any other,” added, sententiously, Madame Fremieux, while she pulled out with her right finger the crushed ruche of her green satin dress.
“What an odd fancy you have for these old gossips, Valentine!” said Adeline de Malers, another good friend, a pretty young woman with two handsome children, whom she led gaily into the garden. “There they go, charmed with your reception, and repeating your name to all the echoes of the town. Well, it is a good idea while you are waiting and have so little to do, and nothing much to love. See what will become of them when you will be mamma in your turn, my dear!”
“Do you think so, Adeline? I cannot agree with you,” replied Valentine, blushing a little. “My dear good mamma Marie always found time to give me all her care, her love, and her watchfulness, and yet I am sure she never neglected these poor old friends. It seems to me that when one becomes a mother, one desires to heap up a treasure of good actions, and multiply one’s merits and virtues, in order that God may requite the little good one does in graces and benedictions on these dear little heads.”
“You always have a sentimental way of seeing things,” replied Adeline, stooping and arranging with her rosy fingers the white plume that graced the hat of baby; “but I doubt if Mr. Alfred Maubars will give the same light to the chapter; for, my little one, husbands are not nonentities in the future organization of a household; their decrees are inevitable, and must be listened to.”
“O Adeline! do you really think that Alfred would wish to prevent my doing a little good in assistingthe unfortunate?” said Valentine, deeply moved and almost indignant. “He who gave up his project of going to Paris, which we were to do immediately after our marriage? He who promised to give me one-half of what it would cost to make this trip to make a present to dear mamma, and furnish woollen stockings and aprons for the poor little parish children in the winter?”
“O my good Valentine! where you are just now, all this may be. But later, it will not, my dear. Do you see? The most part of the good husbands I know—and there are none too many of them—think charity begins at home. The wife, if she pleases, may give away the old boots and slippers, but woe to her if, in a fit of generous imprudence, she parts with the half of the chicken or the little glass of port that belongs to my lord.”
The joyous Adeline laughed with all her heart as she finished these words, and for a moment Valentine smiled at the lively raillery of her friend. But, M. Maubars and Alfred appearing at the same time at the end of the walk, she fixed on her intended a disturbed, timid, and sad look, asking herself if it could be true, if it could ever be possible, that he who should be her natural confidant in all the sweet and tender inspirations of her heart, in all the Christian aspirations of her innocent and pious soul, should consider it a crime in her to continue to obey the great and holy law of Christ that she had seen practised, every day from her infancy, in her own humble home.
However, this passing distrust of the sweet and charming betrothed was soon dispelled. Alfred approached and presented her a rich and graceful bouquet, and his words as he handed it were so respectful and tender, and his look so subdued andsincere! Then all the young people invited had arrived; they were just finishing the joyous feast taken together on the grass, and already they were preparing for the dance. And now the scraping of Pierrot made way for an harmonious orchestra that resounded sweetly, echoing through the shady bowers. On the branches of the large lindens were suspended light and capricious-looking garlands, in which little red, blue, white, gilded, and green lamps were hung. They looked like stars that had come from heaven to see thefêteand smile at the other living stars, the young girls their sisters. M. Maubars had charged himself with this part of the entertainment—an offering not of charity, but one made to youth and pleasure. So, everything passed off as brilliantly as could be wished on such a day; and quadrille after quadrille succeeded each other on the same spot where, a few hours earlier, Manou, recalling her twenty years, had so valiantly executed the rhythmical and bounding steps of the ancient minuet of Auvergne.
And while the young people danced, the older ones talked in the parlor, or complacently looked on while their children enjoyed themselves from the little fringed pavilion with velvet benches that had been prepared for them in front of the greensward. Madame Martin, while admiring from afar her brown and pretty Rosette, had insensibly approached the father of Alfred—and of all the ladies in the town, she had the least sympathy for Valentine, having for a long time nourished very sweet maternal hopes on the possibility of a marriage between Rosette and the young Maubars.
“In truth, dear neighbor,” said she, accosting with an amiable smile the honorable retired merchant, “onemust confess you do things royally. It certainly cannot be these ladies, with their small, very small fortune, who have by themselves given us such afêteas this. And then, it is not according to their tastes. If by accident they should have a little too much money, they would have less pleasure in offering a ball to their friends than a breakfast to their old poor.”
“My dear Madame Martin, when one does as one can, one does as one should,” replied, with a deep bow, M. Maubars, responding to her compliment to himself. “As to these ideas of our excellent friend Madame de Guers, you see, we must not be surprised at them. She has always lived a little above our so-called middle society; she is a woman—how shall I say it?—well, of the oldrégime. In her devotions, in good works, and perseverance, she has grand ideas; the commandments of Christ, the love of her neighbor, the good of the poor. It is all beautiful, Madame Martin, and sits superbly on a woman like her, grave and dignified, with such handsome white hair.”
“But for the little one—for Valentine—do you think, M. Maubars, that it will suit her as well?” replied, quickly, the lady, with a mocking smile.
“Oh! why not? Everything becomes a child. All these fine devotions are an occupation for the widow and an amusement for the little one. It is much better to direct her by caring for the poor than by ruining the reputations of others and seeking false excitements. Wait till Valentine becomes the wife of Alfred; that will change everything, you know, neighbor. The dear child will only have one end, one duty, one love—her husband.”
“Do you really think so, neighbor?”interrupted Madame Martin, in a jeering tone.
“It is, at least, what all women promise at the altar, madame. And Valentine will do as she promises, I am certain. A child so docile, a nature so pliable, and a heart of gold. Yes, madame; I do not doubt, if my Alfred wishes it, she will prefer the road to the market or the grocery in preference to that of the church. And as to the refuge of which you speak, Madame de Guers will take care of that, as it will be her only occupation. My daughter-in-law will visit it occasionally in her leisure moments.”
“It will become her well to adapt her household to his wishes; for every one knows, neighbor, your son brings her a fortune far superior to her own.”
“Alas! yes, you say truly; her dowry is the only weak point.”
“The little one will have scarcely anything, will she, M. Maubars?” asked the lady precipitately, in her ardent, almost joyous curiosity.
“Oh! a modest cipher, but enough. There is nothing to complain of. If it had been less, I confess I do not know what Alfred would have done. The needs of luxury are so numerous nowadays, and it costs so much to live, my dear lady!”
“Yes, we all know that,” replied the prudent mother. “This is the reason I calculate, and economize, and stint myself every day for the love I bear Rosette. According to my ideas, it is a culpable charity that does not consider one’s own first.”
At the enunciation of this wise maxim, M. Maubars sighed profoundly. At the bottom of his heart he could not help wishing, in the interest of Valentine and Alfred also, that Madame de Guers, his dear old friend, had less tenderness and greatness of soul, less generousdevotion, and a little more worldly prudence and solicitude for the material side of life. Nevertheless, he was careful not to express aloud the secret preoccupations which now and then disquieted him a little; and just then Valentine, leaving the joyous group of dancers, approached him, sweet and charming in her innocent joy and unaffected simplicity. Her steps, delicate and modest, slid silently over the grass, and the golden reflection of the long garlands of light made her muslin dress appear whiter and more transparent, while her brown hair, simply raised and half-crowned with a bouquet of small roses, glittered browner and more lustrous as the tiny lamps threw their rays upon it as she passed. The smile alone of such a charming daughter-in-law could dispel a host of deceptions and fears. In Valentine’s eyes beamed so much candor, love, sweetness, and virtue that in admiring her one forgot the more or less respectable cipher of the promised dowry.
But Valentine did not remain long with the group of talkers seated in the shade; she was looking for Madame de Guers, and ran away promptly when she heard the good old lady had gone into the house.
“Dear mamma, are you ill?” said she, quite distressed when she saw her dear protectress in the little reception-room, carefully wrapped up in a large shawl, pale, trembling slightly, and appearing to suffer.
“Oh! my child, it is nothing; a slight chill—a trifling ailment only. We have had a great deal to do today, and I am tired. Perhaps I took cold sitting so long in the shade of the lindens. Go and dance, my love, for you must replace me and finish the ball. Make my excuses to our guests.”
Valentine obeyed, but she left hermother sadly, with a secret convulsion of the heart, that dimmed her bright eyes and her radiant smile. Two hours after, when, at last, alone on the step of the dear old house, she had said adieu to her guests and was at liberty to run to the room where Madame de Guers already reposed, she saw clearly that this instinctive fear was a realized fact. The sleep of her adopted mother was agitated and painful, her forehead was burning, her eyes half-open, her breathing difficult and accelerated. For the first time in these fifteen years of peace and happiness passed under the friendly roof of the old house, the heart of the young girl sank for a moment under the weight of an unknown grief—of a mortal anguish. Without thinking of her ball-dress, she knelt down at the foot of the bed, weeping in terror, praying to God, and gently kissing, from time to time, the hand of the sick woman, who, in her feverish sleep, muttered words without meaning. And thus she awaited the day—the new day that was to arise for her, and menace her with danger, grief, terror, and anguish.
It had been decided, on the day of the modest betrothal, that the marriage of Alfred and Valentine should be celebrated a week after the Nativity of Our Lady, in September, before the first fogs of autumn had tarnished the verdant woods, and before the vintagers had robbed the robust vines of their golden grapes on the slopes descending to the valley below. But autumn passed; the woods grew yellow and the leaves fell; the joyous shouts of the vintagers ceased to rejoice the hills, and the icy winds of winter blew over the blackened slopes, without Valentinehaving sought her white marriage robes. Alas! it was a robe of mourning that covered her now, poor little one! She had again become an orphan; her sweet and careless happiness of the young daughter, the cherished child so tenderly protected, was all gone, destroyed for ever, for ever lost with the last swallows that fled from the woods with the first falling leaves. The most devoted care, the greatest affection and constancy, could not preserve to her this nervous and tender mother, whose life here below was sad enough, and whose death would have been sweet, had she not so felt for and trembled for her child. Her illness, however, had been long and courageously combated, and for some time there was hope of triumph over the disease, until one day, when Valentine was absent on a pilgrimage to a neighboring chapel, a sudden hæmorrhage set in, and Madame de Guers, feeling it necessary to use what strength she had left, sent for several papers, and with pain wrote for her adopted daughter directions which were not to be opened until a month after her death, when the first transports of grief were over.
The fatal moment then came, and by one of the last auroras of September, soft, fresh, and almost veiled, Valentine found herself on her knees by the bedside of the dying, exchanging the last adieux with her tender benefactress, the devoted mother who, from her infancy, had so unceasingly studied her happiness. The poor child remembered no more: grief had completely prostrated her, and she forgot her own existence until one evening, returning to consciousness, she found herself clothed in deep black, and alone with Marianne, the old and faithful servant, who wept low by her side and tried to console her. Then, M. Maubarsand Alfred had come, and Valentine felt a secret consolation in the midst of her sadness. It was so sweet, so toning and strengthening, to know one’s self still loved while circumstances had separated her from him upon whom she had lavished such a wealth of affection. It is true the consolations offered by the future father-in-law and betrothed were not of the highest order of morality, and not very profound, perhaps, but they were truly affectionate and sincere—at least, Valentine thought so—so they had power to alleviate her grief and restore her heart’s serenity.
“What would you, my child? We are all mortal,” said the future papa. “But we can still console ourselves, and live almost happy in the love of the friends that remain to us.”
Alfred did not even say as much. But he looked at her tenderly, with a gentle expression of interest and pity; he quietly took the little white and thin hand that lay languidly on her black drapery, and pressed it between his own, while he murmured:
“Poor dear Valentine! Poor friend, so dearly loved.” And these simple words, this look, this affectionate gesture from the friend of her childhood, seemed to open to the heart-broken young girl a new treasure of hope and consolation.
The days, however, rolled on: grief was not less profound, less constant, or less bitter, but it became necessarily more contained, more resigned, was borne more valiantly in secret, giving place to austere duties, they serious preoccupations of life. The time came, naturally, when business had to be spoken of to Valentine. Until then, with respect for her grief and her weakness, they had spared her every proposition, every discussion on the subject.
“I will do all that is necessary,” murmured the poor child. So theytold her she must assist at the opening of the will, which would take place by the notary, in presence of authorized witnesses.
The solemn assembly, therefore, convened on a cold morning of November in the large parlor of the house. A biting and mournful wind shook the windows, and threw against them in disorder the last leaves of the lindens that on the day of the betrothal had balanced so joyously their green perfumed crowns above the gladdened heads of Valentine, her companions, and her betrothed. The last wishes of Madame de Guers were expressed in a manner at once neat and concise. Her little capital of 40,000 francs, placed in rentes on the state, and her house, with all its dependencies, were willed by her to her dear pupil, Valentine Vaudrey, in default of direct inheritors from her own family or from that of her husband. The assistants knew in advance the tenor of the will; nevertheless, after its reading they hastened to congratulate the poor heiress, now overwhelmed in tears.
“Dear good madame knew you well, and she was not wrong,” said the old and honest Marianne, with a convinced air.
“My dear child, hereafter you are quite at home,” added M. Maubars, as he pressed with lively affection the little white hand, quite dampened with tears.
The notary, however, made a gesture with his hand to reclaim still some moments of silence. “The reading of the papers establishing the last wishes of the defunct is not yet completed, gentlemen,” added he, in a grave and measured voice. “I have in my hand a letter written by my respectable client fifteen days before her death, and addressed to her pupil, Mlle. Valentine Vaudrey. Mlle. Valentine will be kind enoughto take notice, conjointly with myself and M. the President of the Tribunal or M. the Justice of the Peace, if these last recommendations are not to be considered as bearing upon her affairs.”
Valentine, drying her eyes, raised her pale, noble forehead, and tried to collect her voice, that trembled greatly.
“My good Monsieur Morin, read the letter,” said she, “I pray you. My dear and best friend had no secrets to confide to me, I am sure, and her last wishes should be respected and known by all.”
The notary bowed and broke the seal. With one look he glanced through the writing, and a shade of surprise and anxiety was depicted on his face. Valentine, disquieted in turn, advanced gently, and extended her hand toward the paper.
“Of what is this the subject, sir?” she asked timidly.
“Business; only business, my dear young lady,” stammered the good M. Morin in an embarrassed tone.
“Then read it aloud, I pray you, sir,” said the young girl, tranquil, resolved, and suddenly reassured.
The notary then slowly unfolded the paper, put on his spectacles, and began his reading in the midst of a profound silence, and perhaps anxiety, that reigned just then among the little assembly.
“My dearly loved Valentine,” said the noble woman dead, “forgive me if I open my heart to you, and if, in giving up what has been, after you, the joy and consolation of my existence, I leave you perhaps serious duties, real and profound anxiety. My will, as you no doubt have learned, makes you the one and only heiress to the modest sum I feel so happy to be able to leave you. But you know, my poor dear child, I have besides undertaken, and youknow with what end, a work of mercy that I wished to succeed and prosper a long time, even when my presence and aid would have, by the will of God, been withdrawn from my poor oldprotégées. This charitable foundation has been for me the object of grave and disquieting cares, that till now I have never found necessary to confide to you. I have just learned that the proprietor of the building that shelters my poor old pensioners, having some speculation in view, has decided to take possession of it and its dependencies himself, or will only permit me to retain it under conditions too exacting to be in harmony with my slender resources. Many people of judgment whom I have consulted have all counselled me to choose another abode and there install my pensioners. If I had found myself, as formerly, alone in the world, I should not have hesitated to do so; but to find a suitable house and pay several debts of my poor little hospital—for times have not been good for a few years past—I should have had to have laid out at least twenty thousand francs, almost the half of my present fortune; and could I deprive you of so important a sum—you, my best loved and only heiress, who cannot have the same reasons for being interested in the existence of the work, and therefore its continuation?
“This idea has not seemed possible to me, my dear child; therefore I have made no reserves, no stipulations in the interests of my poor old dependants, leaving it to your reason, not less than to your generous heart, to decide what you find best to do. Perhaps the advice, the support of the new family into which you are going to enter, of my good friend M. Maubars, whom I have always known so loyal and just, will be at your service, and, without impoverishingyourself, you can aid those whom I have always wished so much to see prosper. Take advice, then, of these friends, my daughter, consult your own faculties, your strength, and, above all, do not precipitate anything. It would have been too painful for me to have died in the thought of relinquishing this work which has been so dear and consoling, therefore I speak to you of it to-day, confident you will understand me in this as in everything else. But, in any event, I hope that Providence will continue to watch over this modest foundation for his glory, and whatever you decide to do, my good and tender child, be assured you will have my approval and my blessing.
“Farewell, joy and consolation of my old years, sweetness of my life, my dear daughter. I will not forget you in the presence of my God, if he will deign to hear my prayers.”
Thus the letter finished, and the sad and continued voice of M. Morin, which seemed to die out in murmurs, was only replied to by the long and bitter sobs of Valentine.
At the end, the young girl, trembling and half-tranquillized, approached the notary, turned toward him her mild countenance, where a timid smile of gratitude and tenderness already commenced to shine as a fugitive and light ray in the midst of her tears.
“Monsieur Morin, in four months I will be twenty-one,” said she. “Perhaps the proprietor of the asylum will wait till then. I shall be free then, will I not, to give the twenty thousand francs necessary for the purchase of the house?”
A profound silence, soon interrupted by a feeble murmur, greeted at first these words of the orphan. M. Maubars rose from his chair, shrugged his shoulders slightly, approachedher, and took her hand with a benevolent and paternal smile.
“Permit me, my dear child,” said he. “You are not—my worthy and respectable friend knew it well—quite competent to decide in matters of business, and you had better, I think—”
“You think perhaps I would do better to install the poor women in this dear old house,” interrupted the generous girl, with her sad and sweet smile. “Monsieur Maubars, I love it too much, this humble abode, too much in truth, I have in it so many sweet recollections, and have passed here so many happy days of infancy. But my poor dear mamma would perhaps be happier to know her old friends lodged and sheltered here, in her own house. So I am quite ready to give it up to them, if you think it right, quite suitable.”
“But no, no, dear good Valentine,” replied the prudent papa, with a very embarrassed air. “My child, you well understand, questions of sentiment should never interfere with those of business. Think, by abandoning this little property, or its equivalent sum, you give up in reality one-third of your dowry—a dowry, permit me to say too, without any grudge, that is already not the most considerable. Think that all prudent people would endeavor to dissuade you from taking this part; that you are not in reality free to accomplish a sacrifice so important and to the detriment of your future family.”
Ah! poor Valentine! had she ever expected such a declaration? At first she listened calmly, then smiled; then as she comprehended these words, that came like a thunderbolt upon her in all their cruelty, her paleness disappeared and gave place to a quick and glowing redness; then this in turn vanished, and she remained cold and white as a marble statue. Then a ray of indignation and griefglanced from her pure eyes, but compressing, however, the sudden beating of her heart, palpitating and growing colder every instant, she replied, still in an uncertain and timid voice, with a firm and serious accent, but caressing and affectionate:
“Free, did you say, my good Monsieur Maubars? Do you not mistake me? Should I not be always free to accomplish my duty, the last wishes of my mother?”
“But allow me ... distinguish,” repeated the future father-in-law, alarmed but yet not discouraged. “There is an imprudent and rash liberty, my dear young lady, and one that is provident and wise. You see yourself that your tender and generous protectress orders nothing, and asks nothing of you. She simply engages you to seek for the best advice of those who are interested in your happiness, in your future destiny, mine amongst others, my dear child. And you know well I am disposed to act toward you as an old friend, as your father. I have a great influence in benevolent societies, am a member of several; nothing easier for me to tranquillize you on the subject of your old women than to make out a little account of the actual state of things, with a few words of my own observation, and have them received without any delay or trouble into the hospital for incurables in this department. In this way, my dear Valentine, you see all can be arranged for the best. You will be relieved from all inquietude as to the fate of theprotégéesof the excellent Madame de Guers; your little fortune will not be compromised; exempted from every care, free from obligations, you can consecrate your entire time to your duties, to the affections that await you in your new family.”
Valentine listened to every word, her eyes fixed, her lips immovable.But from time to time a deeper and more sombre shade spread over her eyes, an expression more desolate fixed itself on her lips. When the caressing and persuasive voice of her future father-in-law ceased to be heard, she sadly bent her head, and replied:
“Alas! Monsieur Maubars, I see we can never again understand each other. I am not free, as you appear to think. What my dear and worthy protectress would have done, I must do for her.”
“But, my child, reflect: you cannot sacrifice your little fortune.”
“And this fortune, to whom do I owe it, then—I, a poor, abandoned orphan, who, without the generous protection of this inestimable friend, would have been sent in years gone by where you would place these poor infirm people—in a hospital. Oh! my good Monsieur Maubars, if my benefactress had in dying left some debt of honor that I should pay, would you advise me to cancel the obligation—you who are so just and honorable?”
“But, dear young lady, the case is different; your excessive delicacy leads you astray.”
“It is only different in one respect: it is more grave and solemn. This is a sacred debt that Madame de Guers has contracted toward God and toward the poor, to satisfy the yearning of her soul. To-day this debt is transmitted to me. I recognize it; I receive it with the rest of her heritage; I promise to use, if necessary, all my resources, all my time, all my strength to pay it as I should.”
The young girl, pale though resolute, rose in pronouncing these words, and extended her little hand, that had ceased to tremble, as if she called upon all the strangers assembled to witness her irrevocable decision, her generous determination. The oldfrequenters of the mansion could scarcely recognize her: she seemed to have grown taller, ripened in a moment, and was transfigured. Her former sweetness, so timid and charming, did not abandon her, but there mingled in it an expression of invincible courage and inflexible integrity; the weak and feeble child had disappeared, and in her place appeared a woman—loyal, intrepid, resigned, ready for every devotion, for every sacrifice, even of the oldest and most cherished affections of her heart.
M. Maubars was undeceived; it was with an expression evidently of extreme surprise and marked discontent that he fell back a few steps and bent his whitened head: “I persist in hoping, mademoiselle, that you will still reflect,” said he, in a tone impressed with remarkable coldness. “Otherwise, you understand, without doubt, our projects must undergo same modification. Consider that such obstinacy on your part is a most unhappy precedent for the well-being and peace of your future household.”
At this brutal menace, at this the saddest moment, perhaps, of her life, Valentine became still paler and her look more sombre, but she neither trembled nor flinched, accepting without a murmur and in silence all the bitterness of the duty she had just embraced. Only, by an old and tender habit of childhood, with the remains of a hope perhaps, her gaze, more eloquent and earnest than ever, was fixed upon Alfred—the friend, the betrothed, whom, for so long a time, she had been accustomed to consult in any sadness or disquietude. But Alfred, before the mute anguish of this regard, was not moved. He bore with his father an air of gravity and dissatisfaction.
“I am sure you will reflect uponthis, Valentine,” he simply said. “You see my father counsels you as a true friend, having only in view your happiness and the preservation of your fortune.”
Then Valentine turned slowly and sadly, without allowing a single tear to escape her, or a single sob that was then swelling in her breast.
“My good Monsieur Morin, my resolution is taken,” said she, her voice at first trembling, but becoming steadier as she spoke. “All the reflections that I could make would only serve to show me my duty, more distinct, more exact, more sacred. In two months, if you wish, we will hear what property had better be sold, and choose a suitable abode for our asylum.... Now, gentlemen, our council is ended, I believe.... I thank you one and all for having accorded me your advice and the support of your presence.”
All the assistants understood that the courageous young girl must be left alone to suffer, alone to weep. They rose simultaneously, bowed to her profoundly with admiration and respect, and went out. Alfred wore already a resigned look of sadness, and M. Maubars betrayed his irritation in his brusque movements and unsteady walk. The echoes of their steps died in the distance, and around the orphan in her mourning reigned only solitude and silence.
“It is all over; they have said it,” she murmured then, and let fall the pent-up tears. “But no! it was to be.... I wished it also. It was my duty—why could he not so understand it? Oh! Adeline told me the truth. God is good to have enlightened me while I am still single and free. Poor mamma, you could not have imagined this. So much the better, for you would have wept so bitterly.”
Speaking thus, she wept and wept,hiding her face in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. The hours flew by, night came, and the November rain fell on the windows, the November wind shook the shutters in the little parlor, formerly so tightly closed, so bright, and peopled with good friends, but now so solemn and deserted, and where the orphan alone must suffer and weep.
Valentine held firm to her resolution; her soul, so loyal and pure, was of those where the courage of devotion, and the love of duty accomplished, united to double the price of the humble virtues, submission, gentleness, and tenderness. To a very polite and respectful letter from Alfred, in which the young man begged her to let him know if she still persisted in her intentions, she replied in simple terms, releasing him from his engagement, and telling him that henceforward she should devote herself to the austere and honorable task bequeathed her by her adopted mother. Notwithstanding her orders to the contrary, one of her best friends forced her way into the house, no doubt with good intentions. It was the lively and joyous Adeline de Malers, in whom, in spite of much prudence and worldly experience, tenderness and benevolence were not wanting, and who would sincerely have desired to conquer what she considered the obstinacy and blindness of her poor dear friend. Adeline took care to bring precious arguments with her to plead the important marriage cause: she led her two dear little children by the hand, with their innocent babbling and sweet smiles, the source of so much delight and maternal felicity. However, Valentine did not yield; her soul was steeped and her resolutionstrengthened by the secret prayers and solitude of her affliction.
“My dear,” said Adeline to her at the end of her arguments, “if you grow poor by this foolish liberality, and if, half-ruined, you are obliged to give up M. Alfred Maubars, you will be an old maid, I warn you.”
“I have always been a happy young girl, I can be a tranquil and contented old maid. Happiness has no age,” replied Valentine, with her calm and tender smile.
“My dear, the obliged are generally ungrateful; gratitude from the poor is a rare and uncertain commodity.”
“I know it; but the satisfaction of an accomplished duty is immense, and the grace of God infinite. Besides, I shall be so happy to realize the intentions and to continue the work of my mother, who is in heaven.”
Adeline shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of impatience. “But your poor old folks won’t live for ever, and when the last one has disappeared, your work will be finished, and you will be alone. Besides, in devoting yourself in the flower of your years to their catarrhs and their rheumatisms, do you know, my poor child, what you renounce and what you lose? Come here, Bertha, my treasure, kiss me, Max, you dear little angel.... Look at them now, you wicked little obstinate one, and tell me, as you examine them well, if all the happiness, all the glory of a woman, does not consist in raising, caring for, and cherishing such charming little loves.”
At these words, Valentine drew the little ones to her; kissed each of their pretty white foreheads, and laid her hand gently on their blonde heads; for she had at heart that tender and deep love of children that God has given innocent young girls,in order that one day their most holy duty may become their truest and sweetest happiness. And for an instant perhaps the caressing look that she fixed upon them became more tender, deeper, and more tearful; she stooped then a moment toward the earth; then resumed her serenity, and replied peaceably and with resignation:
“God has given me my children—children, Adeline, who have great need of me, for they are suffering, poor, and feeble. Besides, my good friend, when the last of these poor old people shall have gone, there will remain to me the foundation, the hospital. I will open it then to real children, to young and poor orphans. In this way, I too will have my family—my family blessed by God.”
“It is fanaticism, truly, and I begin to despair of your future, my dear friend,” cried Adeline, surprised and discontented to find her overtures so energetically repulsed. “But, then, why do you persist in remaining in the world, that will only have, believe me, disdain for your heroism, coldness and raillery for your generous devotion? Why do you not at once adopt the cornette and serge of the Sister of Charity?”
“Because, thus far, God has not so commanded me,” replied the courageous child, modest and resigned. “My duty lies near these old women; here my place is marked out; I have nothing else to do but understand, adore, and obey. And since I have friends among my people, I esteem and love them also. Why should these friends abandon me because a sacred duty claims a portion of my time and my strength, and I must consecrate myself to it? My destiny is no doubt changed, but my heart will never change, and from those I should have loved my memory will never be detached; norival affection will banish their remembrance, and for them, always, I shall be Valentine.”
Adeline took leave soon after, half-angry, half-impressed, declaring she could understand nothing of the character of such an obstinate girl, who could hide such real perversity, such inexplicable tenacity, under a manner so timid and so gentle. After her departure, the pupil of Madame de Guers read for the last time the solemn message to Alfred, and finished the reply she had already commenced. Not a tear sullied the page whereon slowly and courageously she traced her farewell. Not a start of tenderness or grief agitated the poor little white hand, that so heroically sealed the decree of separation, renunciation, and forgetfulness. Only when she had finished, when there was nothing more to propose or hope for, when the old Marianne, carrying the letter, had disappeared in the fog, near the neighboring quay, she gently approached, with her eyes full of tears, the chimney where the noble and tender face of her second mother, the friend of her youthful years, smiled on her as if to encourage her from under her light glass covering. Before she pressed her trembling lips on the little portrait, she smiled sweetly through her tears.
“It is all finished, mamma,” murmured she. “I will do as you would—hereafter live only for God, and for his poor. You have told me more than once that such is the lot of the elect. I believe you, dear mamma; I love you and I bless you.”
And as the choice of the young girl was made, she lived, as she had said, devoted and valiant, active and resigned. The notary soon came to the conclusion, and made it known to her, that all her resources would be needed for the support of her oldpeople. But what would she have done all alone in the dear old house, much too large for her by herself, and so full of remembrances, rendered so bitter in silence and solitude? Valentine understood what she had to do, and easily resigned herself. The old and peaceable abode, a little enlarged, received on one story the old pensioners of the little hospital, while the young protectress reserved on another her bedroom, her little parlor, and her library: a modest apartment filled with pious relics and sweet and humble souvenirs. And from this moment her life was entirely consecrated to her retreat, to God and the poor; from this moment, too, she openly relinquished all hope of any new situation, any other destiny; and the circle of friends and acquaintances of the little town of C—— ceased to include her among the marriageable.
In obscure cares, in constant labor, in hidden devotions, passed the days, sped the years, and robbed her of her youth. But peace remained, because she was content to establish her abode in the shadow of a Christian roof, and in the love of grateful hearts. It is true—though some of our readers may be permitted to doubt it—that a peace the sweetest, the most delightful, the most constant, and the most sure does not depend on what excites and passes so quickly from earth, but on the true, salutary, and Christian manner in which the soul, wise and resigned, puts itself in harmony with the exigencies of its destiny and the will of its God. Valentine felt this early, and from that time experienced it always. The serene tranquillity of her heart, humble in its desires and contented in its destiny, was never overshadowed by a cloud; it stood proof against any shock, even on the day when, havingfinished the reading of the Scriptures to the old Genevieve, she heard in the street, quite close to her, a great noise of carriages, rolling joyously towards the church, from which resounded the sounds of afête, and, looking out the window to explain the cause of the tumult, she saw in the first of the carriages, ornamented with wedding favors, bouquets, and ribbons, two friends of her childhood: the betrothed of that day, Alfred Maubars and Rosine Martin. There passed over her face a calm smile, vague and almost dreaming; then a fixed and disturbed look, for at the bottom of the page, as she read, were these words: “It is not good for man to be alone.”
But almost immediately resounded in her ears the caressing and infantine voices of childhood, those of two little orphans, her cherished dependants, who had taken the places of Babet and Manou, dead full of years, and now quietly reposing in their graves. At the joyous call Valentine was once more herself, and, with a calm smile, bending her head as if she recognized her error, she said:
“Yes, indeed, it would be sad to be alone, but those are never so who know how to love. Dear mamma told me so, and well she knew what she said. Come, Marie, come Louisette, let me say theAngeluswith you.” The little ones approached, knelt down, and she laid her hands on their heads, and kissed their browned foreheads. And before she made the sign of the cross she regarded them earnestly, and with a joyful, softened, peaceable, and triumphant gaze, even an expression of indifference and forgetfulness to the carriage that was rolling towards the church, and she rose at last full of gratitude and love of benediction and prayer, and lifted her eyes to the clear and blue heaven that caressed her with its gold-lit rays.