Kitabı oku: «The Little Old Portrait», sayfa 3
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, did not come, 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 with him.’
“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 not that that 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 marry you. 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 me very angry!’
”‘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 vexes you, 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, all she had left; how bitterly she herself cried when she saw her dear father so cold and white and still, and through all, how kind and loving and unselfish were her dear “mamma Germain,” and Pierrot. Then came the funeral; – all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood assembled in the great salon, and first and foremost among them, and in everything, her uncle the Marquis, tall and dark and proud as ever, with a smile for her whenever he caught sight of her, which she disliked almost as much as his frown. He brought a magnificent box of bon-bons for her, and main pretty messages from her cousin ‘and devoted cavalier’ Edmond, none of which, she felt sure, child as she was, had really been sent by him. But she was a dignified little lady, and knew how to curtsey to the Marquis, and make her acknowledgments faultlessly, and to send messages in return to Edmond, saying that she would like to see him again, which seemed to please her uncle, and was really true.
“For she and Pierre had often talked together about the poor boy, and agreed that there must be some good in him, and that the ill was not to be wondered at, considering how feeble and pampered and badly brought up he had been.
“Many things were discussed at that time which 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, ‘that is a matter there can be no doubt about. But I wish you could have made up your mind to get in the way of visiting Paris sooner. Not that Clemence – Clemence was the Marquise, his wife – would expect you to take part in any gay doings for some time to come. But you are too young and too pretty, Louise, to get in the way of shutting yourself up. And for my little niece – for a girl with her prospects, sole heiress to all the de Valmont property – Paris is a necessity. I have a right to an opinion; Edmée, you remember, comes next to Edmond in our succession, and Edmond, poor fellow, is still a delicate lad.’
”‘Oh, brother, I trust not; I trust he may grow up strong and healthy!’ exclaimed the Countess, shocked at the Marquis’s cool way of talking of his son, and certainly with no desire to see her little 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 later must come unless timely measures were taken to avert it, – all these things were surely increasing. But at Valmont was heard but little, and that little affected but few. The Countess and her child lived so thoroughly among their people, they took such part and sympathy in their joys and sorrows, they felt themselves so trusted and gave back such trust in return, that the notion of treachery and disloyalty, even if suggested, which it never was, would not for an instant have found place in their hearts. But Valmont, and some few other favoured spots like it were, as I have said, happy exceptions to the rule. And even here, as will be seen later on, once the wild contagion was thoroughly aroused, there were some who yielded to it; for it is not difficult to dazzle and lead astray simple and uneducated people, who, left to themselves, would have remained faithful to their duties.
“The Marquis came from time to time, and his visits were the darkest spots in 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 brew tisanes, or warm drinks made from different kinds of herbs, which are very useful as household remedies. It was a quiet, simple life – compared with that of most ladies of their time. It appeared, I daresay, old-fashioned, and the Countess had taken an unusual course, and set at variance the opinions of her brother and other friends, in keeping 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. ‘I have a new trouble, my child. Many people, however, would think me very foolish for considering it a trouble. Besides, it is something I have always known would have to be sooner or later. I will promise to tell you all about it this evening, Edmée; I feel sure you will understand all I feel, though your are still only a little girl.’
