“His son then lives with him?”
“Yes, madam, and he is married.”
“Married!—but it is not of this young man I wish to speak, but of his sister, of Geneviève; tell me of her.”
“I only learned, madam, that she had married a tailor, named Guérard—who, after having been very unsuccessful in business, died suddenly, leaving her wholly destitute with two young children.”
I immediately wrote the following note to my early friend:—
“The comtesse du Barry having heard of the misfortunes of madame Guérard, and knowing how much she is deserving of a better fate, is desirous of being useful to her. She therefore requests madame Guérard will call next Monday, at two o’clock, on her at her hotel, rue de la Pussienne.”
Poor Geneviève nearly fainted when she received this note, which was conveyed to her by a footman wearing my livery. She could not imagine to whom she was indebted for procuring her such exalted patronage, and she and her family spent the intervening hours before her appointed interview in a thousand conjectures on the subject. On Monday, punctually at two o’clock, she was at the hotel dressed in her best, her lovely countenance setting off the humble style of even her holiday garb. She knew me the instant she saw me; and, in the frank simplicity of her own heart imagining she could judge of mine, she ran to me, and threw herself into my arms, exclaiming,
“Oh, my dear Jeannette, what pleasure does it afford me to meet you again. Oh! I see how it is; you are the friend of the comtesse du Barry, and it is to you I shall owe my future good fortune, as I do this present mark of her favor.”
“No, my good Geneviève,” cried I, weeping for joy, “she who now embraces you is the comtesse du Barry.”
After we had a little recovered ourselves, I took my friend by the hand, and led her to a sofa, where we seated ourselves side by side. Returning to the scenes of our early youth, I related to Geneviève all that had occurred since—my adventures, faults, and favour. When I had concluded my recital, Geneviève commenced hers, but it was soon told. There is little to relate in the life of a woman who has passed her days in the virtuous discharge of her duties.