Because of conscience

by Amy Ella Blanchard

“So, then, when our maman became herself again she was still too feeble to do all that she had heretofore, and while she was striving for strength came the letter from François Dupont, which was like a death-knell to our hope of seeing our daughter Alaine again, for not a day but that we had prayed and longed for her return. So, then, we said, she is lost to us forever. Then came the young Dutchman. Ah, said I, when I told him the news, here is one whose grief is as great as ours, and if it should be that Alaine returns, it is he who loves her too well for us to deny her to him. By this time it had become very plain to me where Gerard’s heart was placed, and I am a sentimental old man, I love the poets, I love the songs of romance, I do not like to break hearts, and here, I said, we shall make a mistake if we reserve Gerard for one who will not return, and even, as I half expected, if the news were false, even then, I thought, it will still be better, for it is Mathilde whom Gerard loves. Do not blush so, little bride, it is quite true. I said that, and I saw—— No, no, you are safely married; there is no harm in telling that I perceived that you loved him. It is quite natural, I said, for he is tall and she is so little; it is always that way. Observe my inches and then gaze upon my wife.” Every one laughed. There was never any resisting Papa Louis’s pleasantries.

“Now I come to the finale. By this time we were agreed that a daughter was an indispensable luxury. Since we cannot have Alaine, I say, why not Mathilde? ‘Why not, indeed,’ agreed Michelle, as if she had just thought of it, although I know the idea had kept her awake nights.”

“Ta, ta, Louis,” broke in Michelle, “that is not so. Mathilde’s nightcaps were always of a sort to make one sleep. To be sure, I thought of it—in the daytime.”

Papa Louis laughed. “Very well, then, we proceed. I approach Gerard with caution. I say, ‘My son, it would be well if you should marry. We suddenly seem old, my wife and I; we need younger hands, and yours, big as they are, cannot do everything.’ ‘Who, then, would you have me marry?’ asked Gerard, all expectant eyes and ears. I consider a moment. ‘How would Madelaine Theroulde please you?’ I say. He turned pale. You did, Gerard, though you shake your head. ‘She is a good girl,’ he said, ‘certainly, but——’ ‘Ah,’ I remark, ‘you say “but.” Then let us pass on. I think Michelle and I might be satisfied with some one else. What do you say to Adrienne Selaine?’ And then Gerard had no smile nor even a word for a moment or two. At last he blurted out, ‘And why not Mathilde Duval?’ I laughed then. I had a good laugh. ‘I have amused myself,’ I cried. ‘I desired to break it gently to you lest you faint, and I am not strong enough, Gerard, to carry you in, so I approached the subject with care. It was Mathilde whom, all the time, I meant.’ And, will you believe it? the undutiful son then and there fell upon me and pounded me, then he embraced me in so bearlike a manner that I have scarce since been able to breathe as freely as before, and the only way I could recover myself from his embrace of me was to gasp, ‘But Mathilde, Mathilde, we may not be able to receive the consent of her guardian.’ And then he dropped me and stood off staring at me. Do not laugh, Mathilde. I should not perhaps tell all this, for it is not best always to let a woman know her power. I never confess to Michelle how I tremble in her presence.”

Michelle shook her head at him. “We desire facts, Louis, and not fancies.”

He nodded at his audience as he would say, You see how I am ruled. “So, then,” he resumed, “we digress. He looked crestfallen. I assure him that I will at once proceed to the uncle of Mathilde. I go. I return shortly. I do not seem to see that Gerard has done much work in my absence, for he sits stupidly by the door listening to Mathilde’s singing.” Papa Louis put his head back and laughed again.

“I say as I enter, ‘Will you go to the garden, Gerard, and see how many chickens the yellow hen has hatched? Michelle wishes to know.’ ‘But M. Theroulde?’ says Gerard. ‘I have no message for you from M. Theroulde,’ I say, looking severe, ‘but I have one for Mathilde.’ He goes forth slowly as if his shoes were of iron instead of wood, and I enter the house. ‘Mathilde,’ I say, ‘Gerard has gone to count the yellow hen’s chickens. Will you go to him and tell him that when he has concluded the sum of them that I am waiting here with Michelle to bestow a blessing?’ Mathilde looked puzzled. ‘On the chickens?’ she asked. Ho! ho! she said that. ‘Not on the chickens, but on two geese,’ I reply. She ran out. I do not know yet if she understood, but one thing I do know: to this day I have not been told the number of the yellow hen chickens.”

“There were eleven,” said Michelle, gravely. And every one else burst into a hearty laugh.

“That is all my part of the story,” Papa Louis concluded. “Of the rest it better befits Michelle and Mathilde to tell. We are very well pleased, are we not, Mathilde?” He pinched her cheek and looked around with a smile for every one.

And then Michelle, arising to her duty as hostess, set out to prepare a feast for the visitors, while Alaine gave a recital of her experiences. That the dinner was not late was not due to the frequent interruptions caused by Michelle’s dropping suddenly in a chair to raise her eyes to heaven and to exclaim at the wickedness of man.