The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"Now, my child," said my mother, coming into my little room, where I had shut myself up to weep, "let these tears be dried. They are natural, but even natural grief must not be indulged too far. Bathe these eyes and flushed cheeks, arrange your dress, and come to me in my room in half an hour."

My mother spoke gently and kindly, but with decision, and there was that about her which made her least word a law. Besides, I believe, to say the truth, I was rather tired of my grief, and quite willing to be consoled, and to indulge my curiosity as to my new home. So I bathed my eyes as I had been bidden, smoothed my hair, which never would stay under my cap properly, but was always twisting out in rebellious little curls, and began to examine my room.

It was an odd little nook, opening from my mother's, as is the custom in France for young ladies of good family. It occupied one of the corner turrets which flanked the square tower of which I have spoken. The walls were so thick and the inclosed space so small that I used to compare the room in my own mind to one of the caves hollowed in the rock by the persecuted Vaudois of which I had heard from Jeanne. The bed was small, with heavy damask hangings and an embroidered coverlet. There was no carpet on the floor, which was of some dark wood waxed to a dangerous smoothness; but a small rug was laid by the side of the bed and before the little toilette-table. The rest of the furniture consisted of a chair and stool, and a small table on which lay a Bible and two or three books in a language which I did not understand, but which I took to be English. In an ordinary French family, there would have been a crucifix and a vase for holy water, and probably an image of the Virgin as well; but it may well be guessed that no such furniture found a place in our household.

Small and plain as the room was, it seemed magnificent in my eyes, and I felt a great accession of dignity in being able to call this magnificent apartment my own. I looked out at the window—a very narrow one—and was delighted to find that it commanded a view of the high road and a very little tiny bit of sea, now at ebb and showing only as a shining line on the edge of the sands. In short, I had not half completed the survey of my new quarters before I was in the best of spirits, and when my mother called me, I was able to meet her with a smiling face. I should have said that my room was elevated half a dozen steep steps above my mother's. Indeed, there were hardly two rooms in the house on a level with each other.

"Why, that is well," said my mother, kissing my cheek. "You are to be my companion and pupil now, little daughter, and I hope that we shall be very happy in each other's society."

She then made me sit down on a low seat beside her own chair, and examined me as to what I had learned. She heard me read, examined me in the Catechism, and asked me some questions on the Gospels, to all of which I gave, I believe, satisfactory answers. She looked at my sewing and knitting, and praised the thread, both linen and wool, with which I had taken great pains.

"That is very good thread," said she; "but I must teach you to spin on the wheel, as they do in England. You shall learn English too, and then we can talk together, and there are many pleasant books to read in that language. You must learn to write also, and to embroider."

"Is English very hard, madame?" I ventured to ask.

"It is called so, but I hope to make it easy to you. By and by, when we have mastered the writing, we will have some lessons on the lute. But now we must consult Mistress Grace about your dress. Your father will like to see you habited like a little lady."

My mother blew the silver whistle which always lay beside her, and Mistress Grace entered from the anteroom. She was a tall, thin personage, English to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in my life, but there was that in her face which at once attracted confidence and regard. She was my mother's special attendant, and ruled the household as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. The servants called her Mamselle Grace, or, more commonly, simply Mamselle, and treated her with great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her English French after her back was turned. I was taught to call her Mrs. Grace, in English fashion.