Then—how we young people of an unceremonious age should have stared—the demoiselles de Beaurepaire, inasmuch as this was their mother’s first appearance, lowered their fair heads at the same time like young poplars bowing to the wind, and so waited reverently till she had slightly lifted her hands, and said, “God bless you, my children!”
It was done in a moment on both sides, but full of grace and piety, and the charm of ancient manners.
“How did our dear mother sleep?” inquired Josephine. Aubertin interposed with a theory that she slept very well indeed if she took what he gave her.
“Ay, IF,” suggested Rose, saucily.
“I slept,” said the baroness, “and I wish I had not for I dreamed an ugly dream.” They all gathered round her, and she told her dream.
“I thought I was with you all in this garden. I was admiring the flowers and the trees, and the birds were singing with all their might. Suddenly a dark cloud came; it cleared almost directly; but flowers, trees, sky, and birds were gone now, and I could see the chateau itself no more. It means that I was dead. An ugly dream, my children, an ugly dream.”
“But only a dream, dear mother,” said Rose: then with a sweet, consoling smile, “See, here is your terrace and your chateau.”
“And here are your daughters,” said Josephine; and they both came and kissed her to put their existence out of doubt. “And here is your Aesculapius,” said Aubertin. “And here is your Jacintha.”
“Breakfast, madame,” said Jacintha. “Breakfast, mesdemoiselles. Breakfast, monsieur:” dropping each a distinct courtesy in turn.
“She has turned the conversation very agreeably,” said the baroness, and went in leaning on her old friend.