"Embrace your cousin, Marie," said the nurse, "if Mademoiselle will be so good as to allow you."
Marie did not advance a step, nor Lucie either.
"Oh! she also was made to wear fine clothes," continued the nurse, "but what more could a poor woman like me do?"
Madame d'Aubecourt assured her that all the family were under great obligations to her, and Lucie, on a sign from her mother, went, blushing, and embraced her cousin. It was not pride that had at first withheld her, but the idea of having a peasant cousin had astonished her; and everything that astonished, also embarrassed her. Marie, equally surprised, had allowed herself to be kissed, without moving, or without returning the salutation. Madame d'Aubecourt took her by the hand, and drew her kindly towards her, remarking how much she resembled her father. The resemblance, in fact, was striking. Marie was very pretty; she had fine dark, brilliant, though at the same time very soft eyes; but the way in which she had been brought up, had given a certain brusquerie to her manners. She had beautiful teeth, and would have had a pretty smile, had it not been spoiled by awkwardness, shyness, and the habit of making grimaces. Her complexion, somewhat sun-burnt, was animated, and glowing with health; she was well formed, tall for her age, and had it not been for her awkward carriage, would have displayed nobility even under her coarse dress. It was impossible to make her raise her head, or answer a single word to Madame d'Aubecourt's questions. Her nurse was in despair: "That is the way with her," she said; "if she takes a thing into her head, you will never get it out of it;" and she began scolding Marie, who did not appear in the slightest degree moved by what she said. Madame d'Aubecourt made an excuse for her, on account of her embarrassment, and said that she had a gentle look. The nurse immediately began praising her with as much warmth as she had displayed in scolding her. Marie smiled, and looked at her with affection, but still without saying a word, or stirring from her place.
Madame d'Aubecourt promised the nurse that she should soon hear from her again, and took away the documents relating to Marie, and which the nurse, with some hesitation, confided to her. She felt sure that she should be able to induce her father-in-law to receive Marie; he was her nearest relative in France, and it was quite impossible that he should not feel what duty required of him in regard to her; still she well knew how much annoyance this would cause him. The children could talk of nothing else during their return to Guicheville, and M. d'Aubecourt awaited, with some anxiety, the result of the visit. He had nothing to oppose to the proofs she brought with her; nevertheless he said that further information was necessary. Madame d'Aubecourt wrote to every one whom she thought likely to give her any. All agreed with the first. There was, therefore, no longer any doubt of Marie's being really Adelaide d'Orly.
Then M. d'Aubecourt said, "I will think of it;" but the nurse, feeling herself worse, and not hearing from Madame d'Aubecourt, who had been prevented from going to see her, by a severe cold, had got the mayor to write to M. d'Aubecourt. It was also known, since Marie had been talked about at the château, how much people complained in the neighbourhood, of his neglect of his grandniece. Madame d'Aubecourt's visit to the nurse had spread the intelligence, that at last he was going to receive her. He heard this mentioned by the Registrar, by the Curé, and especially by Mademoiselle Raymond, who was much annoyed at it, and who, consequently, was perpetually talking of it. In order, therefore, to get rid of a subject which tormented him, he gave his consent in a moment of impatience, and Madame d'Aubecourt hastened to take advantage of it, for she felt extremely anxious about the situation of Marie, and grieved that so much time should not merely be lost to her education, but actually employed in giving her a bad one.
Having sent to inform the nurse of the day on which she would fetch Marie, Madame d'Aubecourt and her children set off one morning, mounted upon donkeys. The one that was to carry Marie, being mounted by a peasant girl, whom Madame d'Aubecourt had engaged to attend the nurse during her illness, which she was grieved to see would not be of long duration. As she could not reward her for all that she had done for Marie, she wished at least to do all that was in her power for her. She had already sent her some medicines suited to her condition, and some provisions rather more delicate than those to which she was accustomed, and she had learned with great satisfaction, that this good woman was in comparatively easy circumstances.
When they reached the cottage they found the door locked. They knocked, but remained for some time unanswered, and Madame d'Aubecourt began to feel excessively uneasy, for she feared the nurse might be dead, and in that case what had become of Marie? At length, the nurse herself, notwithstanding her debility, came and opened the door, telling them that she had been obliged to fasten it, as on the previous day, Marie, imagining that it was the one fixed for her departure, had fled from the house, and did not return until night, and she had been anxious to prevent the recurrence of the same thing on that day. Marie was standing in a corner, her eyes swoln and red with crying. She no longer wept, but stood perfectly motionless, and silent. Madame d'Aubecourt approached, and gently endeavoured to induce her to accompany them, promising that she should return to see her nurse. Lucie and Alphonse went to kiss her, but she still continued fixed and silent. Her nurse exhorted her, scolded her, and then began to grieve and weep at the idea of losing her. But all this did not extract a single syllable from Marie, only when she saw her nurse weep the tears rolled down her own cheeks. At length, Madame d'Aubecourt seeing that nothing was to be gained by these means, went over to her, and taking her by the arm, said in a firm tone, "Come, come, Marie, this will not do; have the kindness to come with me immediately." Astonished at this authoritative tone, to which she was not accustomed, Marie allowed herself to be led. Alphonse took her other arm, saying, "Come along, cousin." But when she came near her nurse, she threw her arms round her, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. The nurse wept as violently as the child, and Madame d'Aubecourt, though herself greatly affected, was nevertheless obliged to exercise her authority in order to separate them.
At length Marie was mounted on her donkey, she went on in silence, only now and then allowing large tears to escape from her eyes. By degrees, however, she began to laugh at the caracoles which Alphonse endeavoured to make his animal perform. All at once Lucie's donkey began to bray, and was going to lie down. Marie jumped off hers before either of the others, and ran to Lucie's assistance, who was crying out and unable to retain her seat. She scolded and beat the animal, and at length reduced him to obedience; but perceiving that he was about to recommence, she insisted that Lucie should mount hers, which was more gentle, saying that she would soon manage the other. This little incident established a good understanding between the two cousins. Marie began to be cheerful, and to defy Alphonse in the race, and had quite forgotten her griefs and troubles, when, on arriving at Guicheville, the sight of Mademoiselle Raymond and M. d'Aubecourt, again rendered her silent and motionless. She was, however, soon roused by Mademoiselle Raymond's dog, who came forward barking with all his might. Like the generality of dogs brought up in the house, he had a great antipathy to ill-dressed people, and Marie's dress quite shocked him. He rushed upon her as if about to bite her, but Marie gave him so violent a kick, that it sent him howling into the middle of the room. Mademoiselle Raymond ran forward and took him up in her arms, with a movement of anger which sufficiently announced all she was going to say, and which she would have said without hesitation, had not the presence of Madame d'Aubecourt in some degree restrained her. Alphonse forestalled her by saying, that if her dog had been better brought up, he would not have drawn such treatment upon himself. Mademoiselle Raymond could no longer contain herself. Madame d'Aubecourt, by a sign, imposed silence upon her son, who was about to reply. This sign, though not addressed to Mademoiselle Raymond, nevertheless obliged her also to restrain her feelings, and she left the room, carrying with her her dog and her resentment.