Miss Angela de Genneville was agreeably taken with the beauty and quietude of this remote little village. The beautiful château of Porhoët being for sale at the time, she bought it, took out letters of naturalisation, became a French subject, and from that moment never went outside the precincts of her newly acquired domain.
She never returned to England, and, with the exception of the Curé and her own sister and nephew, saw no one beyond her small retinue of servants.
But the dear old Curé thought all the world of her, for she was supremely charitable to him and to the poor, and scarcely a day passed but he told us something either of her kindness or of her eccentric ways. One day he arrived at the convent at an unaccustomed hour; we had just finished our simple déjeuner of steaming coffee and rolls when we saw him coming towards us across the garden.
That he was excited and perturbed was at once apparent by his hurried gait and by the flush on his kindly face. He bade us a very hasty “Good morning, my daughters!” and plunged abruptly into his subject. He explained with great volubility, which was intended to mask his agitation, that he was the bearer of an invitation to the charming English lady—a curious invitation, ah, yes! perhaps!—Mademoiselle de Genneville—very eccentric—but she is in great trouble—in very serious trouble—and very ill too, now—poor lady—half paralysed and feeble—yes, feeble in the brain—and then her nephew, the Marquis Amédé de Terhoven—such a misguided young man—has got into bad company in that den of wickedness called Paris—since then it has been debts—always debts—his mother is so indulgent!—too indulgent! but an only son!—the charming English ladies would understand. It was very sad—very, very sad—and no wonder Mademoiselle de Genneville was very angry. She had paid Monsieur le Marquis’ debts once, twice, three times—but now she will not pay any more—but she is in great trouble and wants a friend—a female friend, one of her own country, she declares—for he himself, alas! was only a poor curé de village, and did not understand great ladies and their curious ways. It would be true Christian charity if the charming English lady would come and see Mademoiselle.
“But her own sister, the Marquise?” suggested Lady Molly, breaking in on the old man’s volubility.
“Ah! her sister, of course,” he replied with a sigh. “Madame la Marquise—but then she is Monsieur le Marquis’ mother, and the charming English lady would understand—a mother’s heart, of course——”
“But I am a complete stranger to Miss de Genneville,” protested Lady Molly.
“Ah, but Mademoiselle has always remained an Englishwoman at heart,” replied the Curé. “She said to me to-day: ‘I seem to long for an Englishwoman’s handshake, a sober-minded, sensible Englishwoman, to help me in this difficulty. Bring your English friend to me, Monsieur le Curé, if she will come to the assistance of an old woman who has no one to turn to in her distress.’ ”
Of course, after that I knew that my dear lady would yield. Moreover, she was keenly interested in Miss de Genneville, and without further discussion she told Monsieur le Curé that she was quite ready to accompany him to the château of Porhoët.