That evening—I cannot readily forget it—was the first I had ever an opportunity of being alone with Laura! Hitherto the marquise had always been beside us; now she had all this correspondence to read over with the general, and they both retired into a little boudoir for the purpose, while Laura and myself wandered out upon the terrace, as awkward and constrained as though our situation had been the most provoking thing possible. It was on that same morning I had received the general’s message regarding my situation, and I was burning with anxiety to tell it, and yet knew not exactly how. Laura, too, seemed full of her own thoughts, and leaned pensively over the balustrade and gazed on the stream.
‘What are you thinking of so seriously?’ asked I, after a long pause.
‘Of long, long ago,’ said she, sighing, ‘when I was a little child. I remember a little chapel like that yonder, only that it was not on a rock over a river, but stood in a small garden; and though in a great city, it was as lonely and solitary as might be—the Chapelle de St. Blois.’
‘St. Blois, Laura!’ cried I; ‘oh, tell me about that!’
‘Why, you surely never heard of it before,’ said she, smiling. ‘It was in a remote quarter of Paris, nigh the outer Boulevard, and known to but a very few. It had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there were châteaux and country-houses within that space, which then was part of Paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there. How well I remember it all! The dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the poor curé.’
‘Can you remember all this so well?’ asked I eagerly, for the theme was stirring my very heart of hearts.
‘All—everything—the straggling, weed-grown garden, through which we passed to our daily devotions, the congregation standing respectfully to let us walk by, for my mother was still the great Marquise d’Estelles, although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. They who had known us in our prosperity were as respectful and devoted as ever; and poor old Richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my mother’s bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how everything stands out clear and distinct before my memory! Nay, Maurice, but I can tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. There was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve the mass with the père, and he always came to place a footstool or a cushion for my mother. Poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was, changing colour at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when he had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands crossed on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of the church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder and pleasure! Yes, I think I see his dark eyes, glistening through the gloom, ever fixed on me! I am sure, Maurice, that little fellow fancied he was in love with me!’
‘And why not, Laura? was the thing so very impossible? was it even so unlikely?’
‘Not that,’ said she archly; ‘but think of a mere child; we were both mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house, perhaps—of course he must have been that—raising his eyes to the daughter of the great “marquise”; what energy of character there must have been to have suggested the feeling! how daring he was, with all his bashfulness!’
‘You never saw him afterwards?’