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.’
”‘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, never have to go away from Valmont,’ and Nanette wondered what had come over her usually talkative little mistress, for all the way through the park and along the village street she hardly said a word.
“The Germains’ cottage was at the further end. To reach it Edmée had to pass the old church, a large and imposing building for so small a village, and the neat little parsonage, or presbytère, 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.”