“It is soon told, though the tale be sad enough,” said she, after a pause. “Her mother was a Mademoiselle Nipernois. She called herself De Nipernois, and not without reason; for the family had been of rank, and were Grand Seigneurs once on a time. Her father had, however, fallen into poverty, and for a livelihood was obliged to become a pharmacien in the little village of Linange, every house of which had once belonged to his family. They said he was a great chemist, which he had become for his own amusement in his prosperous days; and fortunately he could now practise the art for his support. At all events, the Blues wrecked his château, burned his books, melted down his plate, and left him penniless; so that he was fain to seek shelter amidst what once he would have styled his own 'vilains,' but who were now, thanks to the glorious fruits of the Revolution, his equals. That was not to be his only humiliation, however. A young noble that was betrothed to his eldest daughter, Hortense, and was to have married her just before 'the troubles,' joined the mildest party of the anarchists, and actually assisted at the sack of the château. Some said that he had had a dreadful altercation and quarrel with the father; some averred that he had met a contemptuous refusal from the daughter: either, or both, may have been the truth. What is certain is, that he exacted a vengeance far heavier than any injury he could have received. On the pretence of seeking for some concealed royalist, a party of the Blues, headed by the count, in disguise, broke into the old man's house in the village, and carried off his eldest daughter,—indeed, the only child that remained to him; for his second girl was an admitted nun of the Chaise Dieu, which had hitherto escaped pillage and destruction. From that hour no trace of her could ever be obtained; but on the same day twelvemonths, as morning broke, she was found on the steps of her father's door, with a baby in her arms. I have heard, for I have often spoken with those who discovered her, that her reason was shattered, and her memory so completely lost that she did not know her own name. An unbroken apathy settled down on her from that time.
“She cared for nothing, not even her child; and though Margot was very beautiful, and so engaging that all the neighbors loved and caressed her, her mother saw her without the slightest touch of interest or affection! After the lapse of thirteen, or almost fourteen years, a young man of the village named Bernois, who had just returned from studying at Paris, proposed to marry her. Some are of opinion that he had never heard her real history, nor knew of the relationship between her and Margot; others think differently, and say that he was aware of all, and acquitted her of everything save the misfortune that had befallen her. By what persuasion she was induced to accept him I never knew, but she did so, and accompanied him to Paris; for, strangely enough, they who had hitherto treated her with all the respect due to undeserved calamity, no sooner beheld her as a married woman, and lifted into a position of equality with them, than they vented a hundred calumnies upon her, and affected to think her beneath their condition. This persecution it was which drove Bernois to seek his fortune in Paris, where he has now met his death! The conducteur who arrived here last night told who had accompanied him from Paris, and the officers, who are all familiar with her mother's story, were curious to see the girl. They induced me to advise you to dine at the public table, and unhappily I yielded to their solicitations, not suspecting what might ensue. The only reparation in my power now is to tell you this whole story; for of course, having heard it, you will perceive how fruitless and vain it would be for you to oppose yourself to the entire force of public opinion.
“And is it the custom of the world to insult those situated as she is?” asked I, in a voice that plainly showed I put the question in all sincerity and ignorance.
“It is assuredly the habit of young men, and more especially soldiers, to treat them with less deference than the daughters of honest women; and you must have seen but little of life, or you had not asked the question.”
I sat silent for some seconds, revolving in my mind the sad history I had just listened to, and comparing the events with what I had myself witnessed of her who had been their victim. The hostess cut short my musing by saying,—
“There, I see the calèche has just driven into the cour: lose no time in getting away at once. The officers are now at coffee in the garden, and you can escape unobserved.”
So engrossed was I by thoughts of Margot, and the necessity of shielding her from insult, that I forgot totally all about myself, and what bore reference to my own feelings exclusively. I therefore hastened from the room to make the preparations for our departure. While I was thus engaged, and occupied with seeing our luggage tied on, a young officer, touching his cap in salute, asked if I was not the stranger who dined that day at the table-d'hôte, in company with a young lady; and on my replying, “Yes,” added,—
“Are you not aware, sir, that we have been expecting the pleasure of your society in the garden for some time back?”
I answered that I was totally ignorant of their polite intentions respecting me; that I was anxious to reach my destination, still twelve leagues away, and unable to accept of their hospitality.
He gave a faint smile as I said this, and then rejoined: