The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How he carried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he was imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and would stand at his window crying, 'Bread, bread; for the love of God!' yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in the night and gave him half her black loaf. Not once, but every night for six months, though she robbed her children to do it. And when he was dying, it was she who took a priest to him, that he might confess through the bars of his cell.
'So good, ah, so good, this poor woman! It is beautiful to hear of that, mademoiselle!' little Marie would say, with her black eyes full and her lips trembling.
But the story she liked best of all was about the peasant girl and her grandmother.
'See then, dear ladies, it was in this way. In the time of the great war many poor people were shot because it was feared they would burn the chateaus. In one of these so sad parties being driven to St. Malo to be shot, was this young girl. Only fifteen, dear ladies, behold how young is this! and see the brave thing she did! With her went the old grandmother whom she loved next the good God. They went slowly, she was so old, and one of the officers who guarded them had pity on the pretty girl, and said to her as they were a little apart from the rest, "Come, you are young, and can run. I will save you; it is a pity so fine a little girl should be shot."
'Then she was glad and thanked him much, saying, "And the grandmother also? You will save her with me?" "It is impossible," says the officer. "She is too old to run. I can save but one, and her life is nearly over; let her go, and do you fly into the next wood. I will not betray you, and when we come up with the gang it will be too late to find you."
'Then the great temptation of Satan came to this girl. She had no wish to suffer, but she could not leave the good old grandmere to die alone. She wept, she prayed, and the saints gave her courage.
'"No, I will not go," she said; and in the morning at St. Malo she was shot with the old mother in her arms.'
'Could you do that for your grandmere?' I once asked, as she stopped for breath, because this tale always excited her. She crossed herself devoutly, and answered with fire in her eyes, and a resolute gesture of her little brown hands,—
'I should try, mademoiselle.'
I think she would, and succeed, too, for she was a brave and tender-hearted child, as she soon after proved.