There were also the trellised walks of vines, and the orchards; in the midst of one of which we now approached a long, low farmhouse, whose galleries projected over the river. This was the abode of Madame d’Aigreville.
A peasant was cleaning a little mountain pony, from which a side-saddle had just been removed as we came up, and he, leaving his work, proceeded to ask us into the house, informing us, as he went, that the ladies had just returned from a long ramble, and would be with us presently.
The drawing-room into which we were shown was a perfect picture of cottage elegance; all the furniture was of polished walnut-wood, and kept in the very best condition. It opened by three spacious windows upon the terrace above the river, and afforded a view of mountain and valley for miles on every side. An easel was placed on this gallery, and a small sketch in oils of Kuffstein was already nigh completed on it. There were books, too, in different languages, and, to my inexpressible delight, a piano!
The reader will smile, perhaps, at the degree of pleasure objects so familiar and everyday called forth; but let him remember how removed were all the passages of my life from such civilising influences—how little of the world had I seen beyond camps and barrack-rooms, and how ignorant I was of the charm which a female presence can diffuse over even the very humblest abode.
Before I had well ceased to wonder, and admire these objects, the marquise entered.
A tall and stately old lady, with an air at once haughty and gracious, received me with a profound curtsy, while she extended her hand to the salute of the general She was dressed in deep mourning, and wore her white hair in two braids along her face. The sound of my native language, with its native accent, made me forget the almost profound reserve of her manner, and I was fast recovering from the constraint her coldness imposed, when her niece entered the room. Mademoiselle, who was at that time about seventeen, but looked older by a year or two, was the very ideal of brunette beauty; she was dark-eyed and black-haired, with a mouth the most beautifully formed; her figure was light, and her foot a model of shape and symmetry. All this I saw in an instant, as she came, half-sliding, half-bounding, to meet the general; and then turning to me, welcomed me with a cordial warmth, very different from the reception of Madame la Marquise.
Whether it was the influence of her presence, whether it was a partial concession of the old lady’s own, or whether my own awkwardness was wearing off by time, I cannot say—but gradually the stiffness of the interview began to diminish. From the scenery around us we grew to talk of the Tyrol generally, then of Switzerland, and lastly of France. The marquise came from Auvergne, and was justly proud of the lovely scenery of her birthplace.
Calmly and tranquilly as the conversation had been carried on up to this period, the mention of France seemed to break down the barrier of reserve within the old lady’s mind, and she burst out in a wild flood of reminiscences of the last time she had seen her native village. ‘The Blues,’ as the revolutionary soldiers were called, had come down upon the quiet valley, carrying fire and carnage into a once peaceful district. The château of her family was razed to the ground; her husband was shot upon his own terrace; the whole village was put to the sword; her own escape was owing to the compassion of the gardener’s wife, who dressed her like a peasant boy, and employed her in a menial station, a condition she was forced to continue so long as the troops remained in the neighbourhood. ‘Yes,’ said she, drawing off her silk mittens, ‘these hands still witness the hardships I speak of. These are the marks of my servitude.’
It was in vain the general tried at first to sympathise, and then withdraw her from the theme; in vain her niece endeavoured to suggest another topic, or convey a hint that the subject might be unpleasing to me. It was the old lady’s one absorbing idea, and she could not relinquish it. Whole volumes of the atrocities perpetrated by the revolutionary soldiery came to her recollection; each moment as she talked, memory would recall this fact or the other, and so she continued rattling on with the fervour of a heated imagination, and the wild impetuosity of a half-crazed intellect. As for myself, I suffered far more from witnessing the pain others felt for me, than from any offence the topic occasioned me directly. These events were all ‘before my time.’ I was neither a Blue by birth nor by adoption; a child during the period of revolution, I had only taken a man’s part when the country, emerging from its term of anarchy and blood, stood at bay against the whole of Europe. These consolations were, however, not known to the others, and it was at last, in a moment of unendurable agony, that mademoiselle rose and left the room.
The general’s eyes followed her as she went, and then sought mine with an expression full of deep meaning. If I read his look aright, it spoke patience and submission; and the lesson was an easier one than he thought.