The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"I have a few for madame, and Marie Duclas has some, I know."

"Who is this fine chevalier, my child?" asked Jeanne, as I followed her to the well-known outhouse where the hens' nests were. "Is he one of your English cousins?"

It was with some pride that I informed my foster-mother of Andrew's relation to myself. Jeanne was much affected. She clasped me in her arms and wept over me, calling me by every endearing name in her vocabulary, now lamenting that I should go so far-away, and then rejoicing that I should be in safety.

"But, ah, my lamb, my precious one, do not set thy heart too strongly upon thy young bridegroom. Remember what times of shaking and separation these are, when the desire of one's eyes may be taken away with a stroke at any time. Ah, my poor daughter—my Lucille, my youngest lamb! Tell me, my Vevette, dost thou think I was ever unjust or unkind to her?"

"No, indeed!" I answered, with honest indignation, for my heart burned within me every time I thought of Lucille's cruel note of farewell. "Nobody ever had a better home or kinder friends. I imagine she will find out before many days what she has lost."

"I fear she will not be happy," said Jeanne, wiping her eyes. "I had lost so many before she came, and she was so delicate in her childhood, that I was always more careful of her than of David, who never gave me an hour's anxiety since he was born, except on that unlucky day when he went to see the procession."

"I do not believe poor Lucille will be very happy anywhere—not unless she changes her disposition," said I. "It seems to me that a jealous person will always find something to torment him. But though I knew she was discontented, I never could have believed she would take such a step. Poor Lucille!"

"It is some comfort to speak of her," said Jeanne. "The father never mentions her name except in prayer. He feels the disgrace most deeply. I must tell you, my child, that that poor reprobate Pierre Le Febre came here yesterday, and most earnestly disclaimed having any hand in or knowledge of Lucille's decision. He confessed that he loved her, and would gladly have married her, and then he broke down and wept, saying that he should have felt her death less. He had been a bad man, but he had some human feeling left. Simon led him into the orchard and had a long talk with him, and this morning they met, and Pierre told him that he had gone with poor Isabeau before the priest and made her his wife. So some good has come out of the evil."

By this time Jeanne had set out some refreshment for us, of which we partook, not to seem ungracious. Andrew had been over the farm with Father Simon, and though his French was not the most fluent in the world, and Simon's was deeply flavored with patois, they seemed to get on together very well. I think two such manly, honest hearts could not fail to understand each other, though they had not a word in common.

Andrew could not say enough in praise of the grand Norman horses and the beautiful little cows, but he turned up his nose at the buckwheat, and thought that a great deal more might be made of the land. We visited Lebrun's and one other farm, where we were received with the same welcome. Everywhere we heard comments on poor Lucille's conduct.