[CHAPTER II.]
THE TOUR D'ANTIN.
THE very next day I was sent for to go and see my mother. Jeanne accompanied me, and had a long private conference, from which she returned bathed in tears. I anxiously asked the cause of her grief.
"The good Jeanne is grieved to part with thee, my little one," said my mother kindly. "Thy parents wish thee henceforth to live at home with them."
I did not know whether to be pleased or grieved at this news. I adored my beautiful pale mother, but it was with a kind of awful reverence—something, I suppose, like that a nun feels toward an image of the Virgin; but I had never learned to be at all free with her. Could I ever lay my head in her silken lap when it ached, as it often did, or could I prattle to her as freely of all my joys and sorrows as I did to Mother Jeanne? Other images also arose before my eyes—images of lessons and tasks and the awful dignity I should have to maintain when I was Mademoiselle Genevieve instead of only little Vevette.
To offset these I had my room—a room all to myself—a bed with worked hangings, and a carved cabinet. Then there were lessons on the lute and in singing, which I had always wished for. On the whole, however, the grief predominated, and I burst into tears.
"Fie then!" said Jeanne, quite shocked at my want of breeding, though she had been sobbing herself a moment before. "Is it thus, mademoiselle, that you receive the condescension of madame your mother? What will she think of your bringing up?"
"Madame could think but ill of her child did she show no feeling at parting with her nurse," said my mother kindly. "But cheer up, my little daughter; I hope you will be happy here. We will often visit our good friend. Come, do not show to your father a face bathed in tears."
I wiped my eyes, kissed my mother's hand, which she held out to me, and managed to say, "Thank you, madame!" in a manner not quite unintelligible.