When during the Revolution the de Brezé castle was fired, a torch was simultaneously applied to the Adhemar mill, for these loyal servitors were stanch legitimists. The Marquis de Brezé and the Count de Lestrier, father and uncle respectively to René, were at the time in exile with the royal family. Elois Adhemar had fled to Switzerland, serving as a hand at the great mill of Berne, from which city he returned as an expert miller to France while the revolutionary ferment was quieting down. He repaired the mill and awaited the arrival of the de Brezé family, which was to regain possession of its estates with the advent of the Restoration. René was the head of the family, for his father had died in foreign lands. His mother, the Duchess de Rousillon, rebuilt the castle with increased magnificence, and it was during her occupation of it with her son that the latter contracted the habit of visiting the faithful Adhemar.
One day he met at the miller's house a young girl whom the family called Mademoiselle Amélie. She had come to renew her broken health in the fresh country air. René, standing now by the river, recalled his first vision of her, and fairylike memories flitted through his brain like a swarm of golden butterflies. Was she more beautiful than Geneviève? He could not answer, but he knew well that thoughts associated with the personality of Geneviève were impossible in the atmosphere of Amélie, for not only was she different from the miller's daughter, but from all women he had known. Only on cameos, medallions, rare miniatures and enamelled boxes had he beheld her patrician type of beauty. Her eyes, tenderly imperious and her lips of regal sweetness never failed to quicken in him an adoring mood.
So great was his infatuation that he did not seek to ascertain her origin, for she seemed to have descended from heaven. One circumstance, however, forced itself on his attention, namely that while the miller's daughter treated Amélie as a companion, Adhemar himself evinced toward her a deference which closely approached reverence.
"She is the daughter," he would say, "of persons who protected me during my exile."
How sweet had been those days! He recalled the walks during the summer along the river bank fringed with lilies and reeds and shaded by the languid foliage of willows, her arm intertwined in his, their feet moving rhythmically together; and then the return home in the moonlight with the perfume of honey-suckle and wild mint in their faces. In his ravishment he failed to note the satirical remarks and jealous glances of Geneviève. His eyes were for Amélie only who, pale at first like a wilted rose, rapidly recovered health and animation. What most captivated him was her air of distinction, her native dignity, her manners of a grande dame, so unaccountable in a girl of obscure origin. He said to himself that, compared with Amélie, the arrogant Duchess de Rousillon, his mother, was a woman most ordinary, almost vulgar.
It was not long before the news spread throughout the district that the Marquis de Brezé, the best match in the country, was to wed a young foreign girl of low extraction who had, in charity, been given an asylum at the mill. The Duchess de Rousillon was absent in Paris at the time, for the purpose of securing from the government of the Restoration the return of properties confiscated during the Reign of Terror.
One morning as the young Marquis was tranquilly sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of his fair Dulcinea, his arm was roughly shaken and he opened his eyes upon the angry countenance of his mother, who held toward him an open letter. There was no signature, but René recognized the coarse scrawls and crude expressions of Geneviève. It was addressed to the Duchess and announced the intended marriage of her son to an adventuress who had found refuge at the mill.
"I suppose," said the lady disdainfully, "that this is only a half-truth. Whether your gallantries relate to this girl or to some other is a matter having no interest for me. What I demand to know is this: Have you pledged your word?"
René raised himself on his elbow and answered: "If Amélie consents, we shall be married."
The tempest following this announcement and the ensuing days of conflict still lived vividly in the mind of the Marquis as the bitterest experience of his life, especially that occasion when the Duchess ordered her carriage for the purpose of interviewing Amélie. She took this resolution after receiving from Court a letter which seemed to throw her into a violent agitation. On reaching the mill, she demanded to see Amélie, who appeared with a quiet air of unconcern. The Duchess stared at her and seemed almost petrified, not mentioning her son. After some incoherent phrases, she stammered that the object of her visit was to look upon so beautiful a girl. On taking leave, she bowed obsequiously, her customary aplomb having been transformed into something very like the confusion of a raw peasant. The miller was ordered to accompany her home and, on reaching the castle, they were closeted together for over two hours. On leaving the apartment, Adhemar staggered like one drunk with wine and the Duchess flung herself in rage into a chair. That afternoon two journeys were begun; Adhemar accompanied Amélie to Calais and the Duchess forced her son to go with her to Paris.