Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.That was a terrible journey back from Sarinet to Valmont-les-Roses. Little Pierre Germain never forgot it. The first day they got on well enough, and perched up on his seat beside the coachman, the boy enjoyed the driving along the wintry roads, where the snow had hardened sufficiently to enable them to make their way with great difficulty. They stopped for the night at a village midway between châteaux, and despite some warnings, started again the next morning, for the Count was eager to get home, feeling sure that any delay would make the Countess very anxious. But long before they reached Valmont the snow came on again, more heavily than it had yet fallen that winter. For many hours it was absolutely impossible to go on, and they were thankful even for the refuge of a miserable cabin, inhabited by an old road mender and his wife, two poor creatures looking a hundred at least, whom they found cowering over a wretched fire, and who were at first too frightened at the sight of them to let them in. The name of the Count de Valmont reassured them, and they did their best to find shelter, both for the human beings and the horses, though their best was miserably insufficient. And the night in that poor hovel laid the seeds of the severe illness with which Edmée’s father was prostrated but a few hours after reaching home.“For some weeks he was so ill that the doctors scarcely hoped he would live through the winter. The pretty young Countess grew thin and careworn with sorrow and anxiety and nursing, for she scarcely ever left his bedside, day or night. It was little Edmée’s first meeting with trouble. The Marquis de Sarinet deferred going to Paris till he saw how his brother-in-law’s illness was to end, and he came two or three times to Valmont. For if he had a tender spot in his cold selfish heart it was love for the young sister who had when but a child been confided to his care, and though he scarcely understood it he pitied her distress. Madame, his wife, the Marquise, didnotcome, and I do not think her absence was regretted. She must, by all accounts, have been a most unloveable woman, as cold and proud to the full as her husband, and with no thought but her own amusement and adornment. As to their only child, Edmond, you will hear more as I proceed with my narrative of events.“To the delight, almost to the amazement, of all about him, the Count by degrees began to show signs of improvement. As at last the cold gave way to the milder days of spring, his strength slowly returned, and he would now and then allude to the possibility of recovering his health to a certain extent. It had been a most trying winter for many besides the invalid. Exceedingly rigorous weather is always a terrible aggravation of the sufferings of the poor, and even at Valmont, in so many ways an unusually happy and prosperous village, many had suffered; and some perhaps more than was suspected, for now that the Count and Countess were unable to go amongst their people as usual, and to see for themselves where their help was called for, a natural feeling of pride prevented many from complaining until actually forced to do so, though the Countess did her best. She intrusted Pierre’s mother with many a kindly mission, and whenever the weather was fit for so tender a creature to face it, little Edmée might have been seen, trotting along by the kind woman, often herself carrying a basket with gifts for some little child or old person whom they had heard of as ill or suffering in some way.”‘I don’t like winter now,’ she said one day, when, with Pierre on one side and his mother on the other, she was on her way to a poor family a little out of the village. ‘I used to think it was so pretty to see the snow and to slide on the ice. Put I don’t like it now. It made dear papa ill, and the poor people are so cold, and I think they’re so much happier in summer.’”‘Yes,’ said Madame Germain. ‘Hunger is bad to bear, but I fear cold is still worse. It has been a sad winter,’ and the kind woman sighed.”‘And if sad here in Valmont, what must it have been in other places?’ said Pierre, his thoughts returning to what he had seen at Sarinet.”‘At those places where the lords are not kind to the poor people, do you mean?’ said Edmée, eagerly. The subject always seemed to have a fascination for her, though her parents, and the Germains too, had taken care to tell her nothing to distress her sensitive feelings.”‘Yes, of course that makes it worse,’ said Madame Germain.”‘Is my uncle Sarinet kind to his poor people?’ asked Edmée, in a low voice, though there was no one to overhear her.”‘Why do you ask that, my child?’ said Madame Germain. ‘No one has ever spoken against the Marquis to you?’”‘N-no,’ said Edmée, ‘but he has not a kind face, mamma Germain. He smiles at me, but still it is not a real smile. And before Victorine went away—oh, I am so glad she has gone to be my aunt’s maid instead of little mamma’s!—before she went away she said she was glad she was going where there would be no nonsense of spoiling the common people like here. At Sarinet they are well punished, she said, if they are naughty. How do they punish them, mamma Germain?’”‘My little girl must not trouble herself about these things,’ said Pierre’s mother. ‘It is sometimes right to punish those who are really naughty.’”‘Yes,’ said Edmée. ‘But the poor people who are so often cold and hungry—ah, I could not make them more unhappy!’”‘Bless her kind heart!’ murmured Madame Germain, and many a dweller in Valmont-les-Roses echoed the words.“Some weeks passed—as if to make up for the severity of the winter, the spring came early that year, and with unusual softness and balminess. The Count was able to sit out on the terrace in the finest part of the day, enjoying the sweet air after his long confinement to the house, and though he knew in his heart that the improvement was but for a time, he had not the courage to say so to his poor wife. And so some amount of hopefulness seemed to have returned.“One day, when Edmée was coming back from a visit to the village, escorted by Pierre, she was met at the gates of the château by one of the servants, who told her that the Count and Countess wished her to go at once to the terrace.”‘My lord the Marquis has arrived unexpectedly,’ added the man.“Edmée shrank back.”‘Pierrot,’ she said, in the half-babyish way she still sometimes spoke, ‘Edmée doesn’t want to see him.’”‘But Edmée must,’ said the boy smiling.”‘Pierrot must come too, then,’ said the little girl coaxingly; and so, a good deal against his will, for he had an instinctive dislike to the lord of Sarinet, the boy was obliged to go with her. And, out of a sort of mischief, the child clung tightly to him, even when they came within sight of the group on the terrace, though when he saw that there were strangers there, Pierre would gladly have drawn back.“A tall, distinguished-looking man, with clear cut features and piercing dark eyes, was sitting beside the Countess. He rose as he heard her exclamation, ‘At last comes Edmée!’ and calling to him a boy about Pierre’s age, but much smaller and thinner, came forward as if to meet her. But catching sight of her companion he hesitated: a frown crossed his face, and turning to his sister—for he was the Marquis de Sarinet—he said coldly:”‘Whom have we here, Louise? It is time it seems to me, that Edmée had some one to play with if you are so at a loss for comrades for her.’“The Countess’s face flushed. But she knew her brother’s character, and knew that there was no use in noticing such speeches. She held out her hand to Edmée, who ran forward to her, and then smiling kindly to Pierre, who stood, cap in hand, waiting respectfully—”‘This is Pierre Germain,’ she said, ‘the son of our much-trusted forester. His mother, you may remember, saved our Edmée’s life by her devotion to her when she was such a delicate baby. Pierre often accompanies Edmée in her walks. I am never the least uneasy when I know he is there—he is so careful of her.’”‘Ah, indeed!’ said the Marquis indifferently, as if the matter had already ceased to occupy his thoughts; he knew his sister too, and knew that, gentle as she was, she would not yield to any prejudices when she felt she was in the light. ‘Here, Edmond, you must make friends with your cousin, and be her little cavalier.’“Edmond did not stir; he stood beside his father with a vacant expression, as if he hardly heard his words. The Countess stooped and whispered something to Edmée; the little girl, though with much less than her usual bright readiness, came forward, and trying to get hold of the boy’s hands, said gently—”‘Good day, my cousin. Welcome to Valmont.’“Curiosity got the better of Edmond’s surliness. He looked at Edmée with a mixture of expressions on his face—admiration, suspicion, and as I said, a strong spice of curiosity.”‘Good day, Mademoiselle,’ he said.”‘But you must not say “Mademoiselle” to your little cousin,’ said the Countess, half laughing. She was sorry for the boy, and wished to be kind to him; but she had a strong feeling that Edmée would not approve of him as a playfellow. He was pale and thin, and looked extremely delicate, and his face, though the features were small and pretty if closely examined, was not attractive. Its expression was peevish and discontented, and there was a want of the bright, open frankness one loves to see in a child. ‘Would you not like to go with Edmée to see some of her treasures?’ she went on encouragingly. ‘She has two pet rabbits and several birds to begin with.’”‘Would you also like to see my picture?’ said Edmée, for since the picture had been framed and hung up in her mother’s room, she thought it the most wonderful thing in the house.”‘I don’t care for rabbits, and I don’t care for birds,’ replied Edmond. ‘I don’t mind looking at the picture. You may show it me if you chose.’“Edmée had kept hold of his hand, and now drew him away.”‘Come, then,’ she said: ‘we shall look first at the picture, and then we shall go out in the garden, and Pierre will tell us stories, if you don’t care to play with the rabbits. Pierre tells such pretty stories.’“She was, to tell the truth, so exceedingly anxious to get away from the Marquis, that she was not easily discouraged by Edmond’s ungraciousness. Besides, had not dear little mother whispered to her to be ‘kind to the poor boy?’“Edmond, who was on the point of allowing her to lead him away, drew back again.”‘Who is Pierre?’ he said. ‘Is it that boy? I don’t want to play withhim.’“Edmée’s patience seemed about to give way. She looked at her mother appealingly. The Countess took Edmond’s other hand.”‘Come with me,’ she said decidedly. ‘It is right I should show you Edmond’s picture, as it is in my room. And then we shall see what we can find for you to play at. Come, Pierre, my boy.’“Edmond could no longer resist; the Marquis, affecting to pay no attention to what was passing, had sat down by the Count, and went on talking to him. Pierre followed the lady and the children into the house.“The first pleasant look that had been in Edmond’s face came over it at the sight of the picture. He actually smiled.”‘It is like her,’ he said. ‘I wish it was mine.’”‘It was Pierrot made me sit still,’ said Edmée; ‘he told me stories all the time. He knows such pretty stories.’“Edmond glanced at Pierre with some approach to amiability for the first time. At that moment, through the open window, the Countess heard her husband’s voice calling her. She turned quickly away.”‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Edmée, take care of your cousin, and try to amuse him. Pierre will, I know, help you.’“The children made their way down into the garden. Then, after all, Edmond condescended to look at the rabbits, and to give his opinion of things in general. It was less pretty, he said, here at Valmont than at his own home of Sarinet, where the flower garden was very magnificent, laid out and managed by foreign gardeners—‘not by these stupid louts of ours,’ he added, contemptuously.“Pierre’s face flushed, but he said nothing. He felt on his honour bound to resent nothing the querulous little lord of Sarinet might say or do, for had not his dear lady trusted him—him, Pierre Germain—to help Edmée to amuse the guest. But Edmée was little accustomed to check or restrain her feelings, and she at once took her cousin to task.”‘I don’t know what “louts” means,’ she said; ‘we never hear those words here, but our people are not stupid, whatever yours are. And I don’t care how grand your gardens at Sarinet are. I should never like it as well as Valmont. Here everybody is happy and contented. I know it is not so at Sarinet.’“Edmond laughed contemptuously.”‘At Sarinet people are kept in their proper places,’ he said. ‘We don’t have low fellows like that’—and he flung a little cane he held in his hand at Pierre—‘consorting with ladies and gentlemen.’“The cane struck Pierre on the cheek, and for an instant the pain was sharp, but it was notthatthat made him start forward with clenched hands and glowing eyes—he minded pain as little as any one—it was the insult, for he and his had not been used to such treatment; they had not been ground down by insolence and oppression, and the first contact with such things was bitter to him. Put almost as quickly as he had started forward he drew back again, and passing his hand over his eyes, where the tears were springing, he turned away.”‘I must not touch him,’ he said; ‘he is my lady’s guest, and—’“Edmée was by his side in a moment.”‘Pierrot—my Pierrot!’ she said; ‘that naughty, horrid boy!—I will run in and tell papa—I will! Why don’t you beat him, Pierrot?’“Pierre could not help smiling at her vehemence.”‘The Countess trusted me to take care of him,’ he said, ‘and then—why he is only half my size. One never lights with a boy like that.’”‘I see,’ said Edmée, quite convinced. ‘Put let me look at your face, Pierre. No, it is not very bad. Stoop down and let me tie my nice soft handkerchief round it. There now, that will do.’”‘But what are we to do?’ said Pierre. ‘We can’t leave him alone. I do not want him to go in and complain, and perhaps add to your dear mamma’s troubles.’“They turned and looked at Edmond. He was standing half sulky, half disconsolate—as if he too did not know what to do.”‘After all,’ said Pierre, philosophically, ‘we must remember he has never been taught better. I think the best way is to treat him as a naughty, spoilt child, and take no notice.’“He turned back.”‘Master Edmond,’ he said, ‘if you would like to play a game of “graces” with Miss Edmée, I will go and get you the hoops and sticks.’“Edmond muttered something about not knowing how.”‘Never mind,’ said Pierre good-naturedly; ‘I’ll soon show you how,’ and off he set.“Edmée stood still; she was less generous for Pierre than he was for himself; she would make no advances to Edmond. He, feeling, to tell the truth, rather ashamed of himself, threw on her from time to time furtive glances, which she took no notice of. At last tired of her indifference, he spoke.”‘Edmée,’ he said.”‘Well,’ replied the little girl.”‘It did not hurt him—that boy, I mean.’”‘Did it not? How do you know?’”‘It did not hurt him much,—I did not wish to hurt him,’ continued Edmond.”‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edmée. Her tone was a very little softened, Edmond was encouraged by it to edge a little nearer.”‘I would not wish to hurt any one you like, Edmée,’ he said. ‘But you made me angry by speaking against Sarinet.’”‘You began by speaking against Valmont.’”‘Well, I beg your pardon for that. I can see that that was ill-bred. I never wish to be ill-bred. My father would be shocked if he heard of that.’”‘Would he not be more shocked at your throwing your stick at Pierre?’”‘Ah no,’ said Edmond; ‘in that there is nothing ill-bred. That is a different thing altogether from saying anything to annoy a lady.’”‘But,’ said Edmée, her eyes flashing again, ‘I am much more angry with you for hitting Pierre than for speaking against Valmont.’”‘Really? Well, I am sorry to have vexed you,’ said Edmond, ‘I like you very much, Edmée, and I want you to like me and Sarinet, for when I am quite grown up I mean to marry you. I have often thought of it; for since I was quite little I have known we were to be married some day.’”‘Who told you so?’ said Edmée. ‘I am not at all sure that I should like to marryyou. You will have to do a great many things and change very much before I could even think of it.’”‘How? What things do you mean?’ said the boy eagerly.”‘You must grow tall and strong—like Pierre.’”‘Pierre!’ repeated Edmond, contemptuously; ‘I will not be compared with a—’”‘Hush!’ said Edmée, putting her little hand on his mouth before he could pronounce the word; ‘don’t say it, or you will make meveryangry!’”‘Well, do not speak of Pierre; say tall and strong like my father.’“Edmée gave a little shiver.”‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t say that. Never mind about being tall and strong. You must above all be very good and brave, and yet kind to everybody,—like a true knight in some of Pierre’s stories. I think there are no true knights now.’”‘Pierre again!’ muttered the boy discontentedly. ‘Tell me, Edmée, what do you mean by a true knight?’”‘One who is always good and kind to everybody,’ said Edmée. ‘Not only to ladies and gentlemen, but to poor people, and weak and unhappy people, and who will not let any one be cruel. I can’t tell you very well. But papa has books with stories about knights, which he lends to Pierre, and then Pierre tells them to me.’”‘I never heard anybody talk like that before,’ said Edmond. ‘I don’t know anything about poor people, and I’m sure I shouldn’t like them. But I won’t call that boy names if it vexesyou, Edmée.’“Edmée had no time to say more, for just then Pierre returned with the sticks and hoops. And when the Countess, rather anxious in her mind in consequence of the new addition to the childish party, came out an hour later to call Edmée and her cousin in, she found all of them playing merrily, and apparently on good terms with each other.”‘Perhaps my nephew is a more amiable child than he appears at first sight,’ she said to herself.“This afternoon—the first visit of Edmond de Sarinet to Valmont—is another of the scenes of her early childhood clearly impressed on my mother’s mind.”

That was a terrible journey back from Sarinet to Valmont-les-Roses. Little Pierre Germain never forgot it. The first day they got on well enough, and perched up on his seat beside the coachman, the boy enjoyed the driving along the wintry roads, where the snow had hardened sufficiently to enable them to make their way with great difficulty. They stopped for the night at a village midway between châteaux, and despite some warnings, started again the next morning, for the Count was eager to get home, feeling sure that any delay would make the Countess very anxious. But long before they reached Valmont the snow came on again, more heavily than it had yet fallen that winter. For many hours it was absolutely impossible to go on, and they were thankful even for the refuge of a miserable cabin, inhabited by an old road mender and his wife, two poor creatures looking a hundred at least, whom they found cowering over a wretched fire, and who were at first too frightened at the sight of them to let them in. The name of the Count de Valmont reassured them, and they did their best to find shelter, both for the human beings and the horses, though their best was miserably insufficient. And the night in that poor hovel laid the seeds of the severe illness with which Edmée’s father was prostrated but a few hours after reaching home.

“For some weeks he was so ill that the doctors scarcely hoped he would live through the winter. The pretty young Countess grew thin and careworn with sorrow and anxiety and nursing, for she scarcely ever left his bedside, day or night. It was little Edmée’s first meeting with trouble. The Marquis de Sarinet deferred going to Paris till he saw how his brother-in-law’s illness was to end, and he came two or three times to Valmont. For if he had a tender spot in his cold selfish heart it was love for the young sister who had when but a child been confided to his care, and though he scarcely understood it he pitied her distress. Madame, his wife, the Marquise, didnotcome, and I do not think her absence was regretted. She must, by all accounts, have been a most unloveable woman, as cold and proud to the full as her husband, and with no thought but her own amusement and adornment. As to their only child, Edmond, you will hear more as I proceed with my narrative of events.

“To the delight, almost to the amazement, of all about him, the Count by degrees began to show signs of improvement. As at last the cold gave way to the milder days of spring, his strength slowly returned, and he would now and then allude to the possibility of recovering his health to a certain extent. It had been a most trying winter for many besides the invalid. Exceedingly rigorous weather is always a terrible aggravation of the sufferings of the poor, and even at Valmont, in so many ways an unusually happy and prosperous village, many had suffered; and some perhaps more than was suspected, for now that the Count and Countess were unable to go amongst their people as usual, and to see for themselves where their help was called for, a natural feeling of pride prevented many from complaining until actually forced to do so, though the Countess did her best. She intrusted Pierre’s mother with many a kindly mission, and whenever the weather was fit for so tender a creature to face it, little Edmée might have been seen, trotting along by the kind woman, often herself carrying a basket with gifts for some little child or old person whom they had heard of as ill or suffering in some way.

”‘I don’t like winter now,’ she said one day, when, with Pierre on one side and his mother on the other, she was on her way to a poor family a little out of the village. ‘I used to think it was so pretty to see the snow and to slide on the ice. Put I don’t like it now. It made dear papa ill, and the poor people are so cold, and I think they’re so much happier in summer.’

”‘Yes,’ said Madame Germain. ‘Hunger is bad to bear, but I fear cold is still worse. It has been a sad winter,’ and the kind woman sighed.

”‘And if sad here in Valmont, what must it have been in other places?’ said Pierre, his thoughts returning to what he had seen at Sarinet.

”‘At those places where the lords are not kind to the poor people, do you mean?’ said Edmée, eagerly. The subject always seemed to have a fascination for her, though her parents, and the Germains too, had taken care to tell her nothing to distress her sensitive feelings.

”‘Yes, of course that makes it worse,’ said Madame Germain.

”‘Is my uncle Sarinet kind to his poor people?’ asked Edmée, in a low voice, though there was no one to overhear her.

”‘Why do you ask that, my child?’ said Madame Germain. ‘No one has ever spoken against the Marquis to you?’

”‘N-no,’ said Edmée, ‘but he has not a kind face, mamma Germain. He smiles at me, but still it is not a real smile. And before Victorine went away—oh, I am so glad she has gone to be my aunt’s maid instead of little mamma’s!—before she went away she said she was glad she was going where there would be no nonsense of spoiling the common people like here. At Sarinet they are well punished, she said, if they are naughty. How do they punish them, mamma Germain?’

”‘My little girl must not trouble herself about these things,’ said Pierre’s mother. ‘It is sometimes right to punish those who are really naughty.’

”‘Yes,’ said Edmée. ‘But the poor people who are so often cold and hungry—ah, I could not make them more unhappy!’

”‘Bless her kind heart!’ murmured Madame Germain, and many a dweller in Valmont-les-Roses echoed the words.

“Some weeks passed—as if to make up for the severity of the winter, the spring came early that year, and with unusual softness and balminess. The Count was able to sit out on the terrace in the finest part of the day, enjoying the sweet air after his long confinement to the house, and though he knew in his heart that the improvement was but for a time, he had not the courage to say so to his poor wife. And so some amount of hopefulness seemed to have returned.

“One day, when Edmée was coming back from a visit to the village, escorted by Pierre, she was met at the gates of the château by one of the servants, who told her that the Count and Countess wished her to go at once to the terrace.

”‘My lord the Marquis has arrived unexpectedly,’ added the man.

“Edmée shrank back.

”‘Pierrot,’ she said, in the half-babyish way she still sometimes spoke, ‘Edmée doesn’t want to see him.’

”‘But Edmée must,’ said the boy smiling.

”‘Pierrot must come too, then,’ said the little girl coaxingly; and so, a good deal against his will, for he had an instinctive dislike to the lord of Sarinet, the boy was obliged to go with her. And, out of a sort of mischief, the child clung tightly to him, even when they came within sight of the group on the terrace, though when he saw that there were strangers there, Pierre would gladly have drawn back.

“A tall, distinguished-looking man, with clear cut features and piercing dark eyes, was sitting beside the Countess. He rose as he heard her exclamation, ‘At last comes Edmée!’ and calling to him a boy about Pierre’s age, but much smaller and thinner, came forward as if to meet her. But catching sight of her companion he hesitated: a frown crossed his face, and turning to his sister—for he was the Marquis de Sarinet—he said coldly:

”‘Whom have we here, Louise? It is time it seems to me, that Edmée had some one to play with if you are so at a loss for comrades for her.’

“The Countess’s face flushed. But she knew her brother’s character, and knew that there was no use in noticing such speeches. She held out her hand to Edmée, who ran forward to her, and then smiling kindly to Pierre, who stood, cap in hand, waiting respectfully—

”‘This is Pierre Germain,’ she said, ‘the son of our much-trusted forester. His mother, you may remember, saved our Edmée’s life by her devotion to her when she was such a delicate baby. Pierre often accompanies Edmée in her walks. I am never the least uneasy when I know he is there—he is so careful of her.’

”‘Ah, indeed!’ said the Marquis indifferently, as if the matter had already ceased to occupy his thoughts; he knew his sister too, and knew that, gentle as she was, she would not yield to any prejudices when she felt she was in the light. ‘Here, Edmond, you must make friends with your cousin, and be her little cavalier.’

“Edmond did not stir; he stood beside his father with a vacant expression, as if he hardly heard his words. The Countess stooped and whispered something to Edmée; the little girl, though with much less than her usual bright readiness, came forward, and trying to get hold of the boy’s hands, said gently—

”‘Good day, my cousin. Welcome to Valmont.’

“Curiosity got the better of Edmond’s surliness. He looked at Edmée with a mixture of expressions on his face—admiration, suspicion, and as I said, a strong spice of curiosity.

”‘Good day, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

”‘But you must not say “Mademoiselle” to your little cousin,’ said the Countess, half laughing. She was sorry for the boy, and wished to be kind to him; but she had a strong feeling that Edmée would not approve of him as a playfellow. He was pale and thin, and looked extremely delicate, and his face, though the features were small and pretty if closely examined, was not attractive. Its expression was peevish and discontented, and there was a want of the bright, open frankness one loves to see in a child. ‘Would you not like to go with Edmée to see some of her treasures?’ she went on encouragingly. ‘She has two pet rabbits and several birds to begin with.’

”‘Would you also like to see my picture?’ said Edmée, for since the picture had been framed and hung up in her mother’s room, she thought it the most wonderful thing in the house.

”‘I don’t care for rabbits, and I don’t care for birds,’ replied Edmond. ‘I don’t mind looking at the picture. You may show it me if you chose.’

“Edmée had kept hold of his hand, and now drew him away.

”‘Come, then,’ she said: ‘we shall look first at the picture, and then we shall go out in the garden, and Pierre will tell us stories, if you don’t care to play with the rabbits. Pierre tells such pretty stories.’

“She was, to tell the truth, so exceedingly anxious to get away from the Marquis, that she was not easily discouraged by Edmond’s ungraciousness. Besides, had not dear little mother whispered to her to be ‘kind to the poor boy?’

“Edmond, who was on the point of allowing her to lead him away, drew back again.

”‘Who is Pierre?’ he said. ‘Is it that boy? I don’t want to play withhim.’

“Edmée’s patience seemed about to give way. She looked at her mother appealingly. The Countess took Edmond’s other hand.

”‘Come with me,’ she said decidedly. ‘It is right I should show you Edmond’s picture, as it is in my room. And then we shall see what we can find for you to play at. Come, Pierre, my boy.’

“Edmond could no longer resist; the Marquis, affecting to pay no attention to what was passing, had sat down by the Count, and went on talking to him. Pierre followed the lady and the children into the house.

“The first pleasant look that had been in Edmond’s face came over it at the sight of the picture. He actually smiled.

”‘It is like her,’ he said. ‘I wish it was mine.’

”‘It was Pierrot made me sit still,’ said Edmée; ‘he told me stories all the time. He knows such pretty stories.’

“Edmond glanced at Pierre with some approach to amiability for the first time. At that moment, through the open window, the Countess heard her husband’s voice calling her. She turned quickly away.

”‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Edmée, take care of your cousin, and try to amuse him. Pierre will, I know, help you.’

“The children made their way down into the garden. Then, after all, Edmond condescended to look at the rabbits, and to give his opinion of things in general. It was less pretty, he said, here at Valmont than at his own home of Sarinet, where the flower garden was very magnificent, laid out and managed by foreign gardeners—‘not by these stupid louts of ours,’ he added, contemptuously.

“Pierre’s face flushed, but he said nothing. He felt on his honour bound to resent nothing the querulous little lord of Sarinet might say or do, for had not his dear lady trusted him—him, Pierre Germain—to help Edmée to amuse the guest. But Edmée was little accustomed to check or restrain her feelings, and she at once took her cousin to task.

”‘I don’t know what “louts” means,’ she said; ‘we never hear those words here, but our people are not stupid, whatever yours are. And I don’t care how grand your gardens at Sarinet are. I should never like it as well as Valmont. Here everybody is happy and contented. I know it is not so at Sarinet.’

“Edmond laughed contemptuously.

”‘At Sarinet people are kept in their proper places,’ he said. ‘We don’t have low fellows like that’—and he flung a little cane he held in his hand at Pierre—‘consorting with ladies and gentlemen.’

“The cane struck Pierre on the cheek, and for an instant the pain was sharp, but it was notthatthat made him start forward with clenched hands and glowing eyes—he minded pain as little as any one—it was the insult, for he and his had not been used to such treatment; they had not been ground down by insolence and oppression, and the first contact with such things was bitter to him. Put almost as quickly as he had started forward he drew back again, and passing his hand over his eyes, where the tears were springing, he turned away.

”‘I must not touch him,’ he said; ‘he is my lady’s guest, and—’

“Edmée was by his side in a moment.

”‘Pierrot—my Pierrot!’ she said; ‘that naughty, horrid boy!—I will run in and tell papa—I will! Why don’t you beat him, Pierrot?’

“Pierre could not help smiling at her vehemence.

”‘The Countess trusted me to take care of him,’ he said, ‘and then—why he is only half my size. One never lights with a boy like that.’

”‘I see,’ said Edmée, quite convinced. ‘Put let me look at your face, Pierre. No, it is not very bad. Stoop down and let me tie my nice soft handkerchief round it. There now, that will do.’

”‘But what are we to do?’ said Pierre. ‘We can’t leave him alone. I do not want him to go in and complain, and perhaps add to your dear mamma’s troubles.’

“They turned and looked at Edmond. He was standing half sulky, half disconsolate—as if he too did not know what to do.

”‘After all,’ said Pierre, philosophically, ‘we must remember he has never been taught better. I think the best way is to treat him as a naughty, spoilt child, and take no notice.’

“He turned back.

”‘Master Edmond,’ he said, ‘if you would like to play a game of “graces” with Miss Edmée, I will go and get you the hoops and sticks.’

“Edmond muttered something about not knowing how.

”‘Never mind,’ said Pierre good-naturedly; ‘I’ll soon show you how,’ and off he set.

“Edmée stood still; she was less generous for Pierre than he was for himself; she would make no advances to Edmond. He, feeling, to tell the truth, rather ashamed of himself, threw on her from time to time furtive glances, which she took no notice of. At last tired of her indifference, he spoke.

”‘Edmée,’ he said.

”‘Well,’ replied the little girl.

”‘It did not hurt him—that boy, I mean.’

”‘Did it not? How do you know?’

”‘It did not hurt him much,—I did not wish to hurt him,’ continued Edmond.

”‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Edmée. Her tone was a very little softened, Edmond was encouraged by it to edge a little nearer.

”‘I would not wish to hurt any one you like, Edmée,’ he said. ‘But you made me angry by speaking against Sarinet.’

”‘You began by speaking against Valmont.’

”‘Well, I beg your pardon for that. I can see that that was ill-bred. I never wish to be ill-bred. My father would be shocked if he heard of that.’

”‘Would he not be more shocked at your throwing your stick at Pierre?’

”‘Ah no,’ said Edmond; ‘in that there is nothing ill-bred. That is a different thing altogether from saying anything to annoy a lady.’

”‘But,’ said Edmée, her eyes flashing again, ‘I am much more angry with you for hitting Pierre than for speaking against Valmont.’

”‘Really? Well, I am sorry to have vexed you,’ said Edmond, ‘I like you very much, Edmée, and I want you to like me and Sarinet, for when I am quite grown up I mean to marry you. I have often thought of it; for since I was quite little I have known we were to be married some day.’

”‘Who told you so?’ said Edmée. ‘I am not at all sure that I should like to marryyou. You will have to do a great many things and change very much before I could even think of it.’

”‘How? What things do you mean?’ said the boy eagerly.

”‘You must grow tall and strong—like Pierre.’

”‘Pierre!’ repeated Edmond, contemptuously; ‘I will not be compared with a—’

”‘Hush!’ said Edmée, putting her little hand on his mouth before he could pronounce the word; ‘don’t say it, or you will make meveryangry!’

”‘Well, do not speak of Pierre; say tall and strong like my father.’

“Edmée gave a little shiver.

”‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t say that. Never mind about being tall and strong. You must above all be very good and brave, and yet kind to everybody,—like a true knight in some of Pierre’s stories. I think there are no true knights now.’

”‘Pierre again!’ muttered the boy discontentedly. ‘Tell me, Edmée, what do you mean by a true knight?’

”‘One who is always good and kind to everybody,’ said Edmée. ‘Not only to ladies and gentlemen, but to poor people, and weak and unhappy people, and who will not let any one be cruel. I can’t tell you very well. But papa has books with stories about knights, which he lends to Pierre, and then Pierre tells them to me.’

”‘I never heard anybody talk like that before,’ said Edmond. ‘I don’t know anything about poor people, and I’m sure I shouldn’t like them. But I won’t call that boy names if it vexesyou, Edmée.’

“Edmée had no time to say more, for just then Pierre returned with the sticks and hoops. And when the Countess, rather anxious in her mind in consequence of the new addition to the childish party, came out an hour later to call Edmée and her cousin in, she found all of them playing merrily, and apparently on good terms with each other.

”‘Perhaps my nephew is a more amiable child than he appears at first sight,’ she said to herself.

“This afternoon—the first visit of Edmond de Sarinet to Valmont—is another of the scenes of her early childhood clearly impressed on my mother’s mind.”

Chapter Five.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 Edmée was now all,allshe 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 ofbon-bonsfor 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 Edmée 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 Edmée in the country. But she thanked her brother for his kindness and affection for her, which so far as they went, were real.”‘When Edmée 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, ‘thatis 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; Edmée, you remember, comes next to Edmond inoursuccession, 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 Edmée 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 château, 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 Edmée 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 latermustcome 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 Edmée’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 Edmée’s education, which she was well fitted to do. She was herself of great intelligence, and had learnt much from her studious husband. Edmée 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 Edmée all sorts of fine and beautiful needlework. It was under her direction that the young lady of the château 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 brewtisanes, 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 Edmée at home instead of sending her to be educated at a convent.“Till the year Edmée 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, Edmée 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 Edmée’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 Edmée 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 Edmée.’”‘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. ‘Ihavea 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, Edmée; 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 Edmée 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, Edmée?’”‘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 Edmée, 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 Edmée,’ she said, waving her hand to her own portrait, as she ran off; ‘take care of little mother till I come back.’“Big Edmée, 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. Edmée 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 château!’ 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,neverhave 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 Edmée had to pass the old church, a large and imposing building for so small a village, and the neat little parsonage, orpresbytère, as it is called, where lived the good old curé, 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 Curé looks sad this morning,’ thought Edmée; ‘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 Edmée’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 Edmée, 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 Edmée 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 Curé’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.”

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 Edmée was now all,allshe 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 ofbon-bonsfor 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 Edmée 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 Edmée in the country. But she thanked her brother for his kindness and affection for her, which so far as they went, were real.

”‘When Edmée 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, ‘thatis 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; Edmée, you remember, comes next to Edmond inoursuccession, 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 Edmée 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 château, 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 Edmée 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 latermustcome 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 Edmée’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 Edmée’s education, which she was well fitted to do. She was herself of great intelligence, and had learnt much from her studious husband. Edmée 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 Edmée all sorts of fine and beautiful needlework. It was under her direction that the young lady of the château 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 brewtisanes, 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 Edmée at home instead of sending her to be educated at a convent.

“Till the year Edmée 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, Edmée 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 Edmée’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 Edmée 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 Edmée.’

”‘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. ‘Ihavea 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, Edmée; 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 Edmée 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, Edmée?’

”‘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 Edmée, 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 Edmée,’ she said, waving her hand to her own portrait, as she ran off; ‘take care of little mother till I come back.’

“Big Edmée, 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. Edmée 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 château!’ 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,neverhave 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 Edmée had to pass the old church, a large and imposing building for so small a village, and the neat little parsonage, orpresbytère, as it is called, where lived the good old curé, 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 Curé looks sad this morning,’ thought Edmée; ‘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 Edmée’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 Edmée, 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 Edmée 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 Curé’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.”

Chapter Six.“Mother Germain stroked back the fair hair from Edmée’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, Edmée—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 Edmée.’“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, Edmée, 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.’“Edmée’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 Edmée. 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.’“Edmée 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, Edmée, 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 foralwaysyou are going away.’”‘No, indeed, that is my only comfort,’ said Edmée. ‘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 Edmée, ‘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—shewould 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 Edmée. ‘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 Edmée. ‘He has not been to the Château 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, Edmée 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 Château.”‘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 château 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 thatheis 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 Edmée 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 Edmée?’“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 Edmée, 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.’“Edmée 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 Château 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 Edmée 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 Edmée would have to spend together; for when the little girl entered the Château 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, Edmée 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 Edmée 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, Edmée, 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 Françoise 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, Edmée, my sweet, we must say good-bye to our dear home.’“It was hard, very hard, for Edmée 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 thatwould, 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 Edmée. ‘Ah, yes, that isverysoon.’“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 Château 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 Françoise 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 Edmée, 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 Edmée 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.“Edmée 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.’“Edmée 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.”

“Mother Germain stroked back the fair hair from Edmée’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, Edmée—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 Edmée.’

“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, Edmée, 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.’

“Edmée’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 Edmée. 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.’

“Edmée 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, Edmée, 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 foralwaysyou are going away.’

”‘No, indeed, that is my only comfort,’ said Edmée. ‘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 Edmée, ‘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—shewould 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 Edmée. ‘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 Edmée. ‘He has not been to the Château 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, Edmée 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 Château.

”‘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 château 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 thatheis 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 Edmée 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 Edmée?’

“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 Edmée, 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.’

“Edmée 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 Château 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 Edmée 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 Edmée would have to spend together; for when the little girl entered the Château 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, Edmée 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 Edmée 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, Edmée, 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 Françoise 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, Edmée, my sweet, we must say good-bye to our dear home.’

“It was hard, very hard, for Edmée 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 thatwould, 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 Edmée. ‘Ah, yes, that isverysoon.’

“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 Château 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 Françoise 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 Edmée, 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 Edmée 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.

“Edmée 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.’

“Edmée 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.”

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