I cried awhile, but the composing draught at last took effect, and I fell asleep to dream about ambassadors, balls, and my new-found uncle, who was strangely and uncomfortably mixed up with my father, and who was now burying me alive in the vault under the old chapel, while Andrew held the light, and now asking Betty about me, who was telling him all sorts of monstrous fictions.
[CHAPTER XVII.]
MY NEW FRIENDS.
I AWOKE in the morning tired enough; but dressing and a cup of coffee refreshed me, and by the time my uncle's carriage and servants came for me, I was quite ready to attend him. The Vevette of a year ago would perhaps have breathed a prayer for guidance under such difficult circumstances, but I never even thought of it. I was carried to the ambassador's residence, and led through more than one grand apartment to the room where my new uncle and aunt were awaiting me.
My aunt, Madame de Fayrolles, was a woman of forty or thereabout, elegantly dressed and rouged in a way that made me open my eyes at first. Rouge was not then commonly worn in England—scarcely at all, in truth, save by such kind of madams as Lady Castlemaine—but in France it was a regular part of the toilette of a lady of quality, and was worn without any disguise. She received me kindly, kissing me on both cheeks, and then presenting me to a gentleman in a semi-clerical dress, whom she called Father Martien.
I felt some of my old childish terror of a priest revive, as the gentleman bowed to me, but of course I returned his salute politely. After a few words, he quitted the room, saying that he hoped to meet me again and know me better.
"That is a distinguished man," said madame, as he closed the door behind him. "He is the ambassador's confessor, and very high in his order. Men say he is as like to be general."
"General of what?" I asked.