”‘You speak of your lady as different from others,’ they would say. ‘Let her show herself among you. If she cared for you she would be here, not amusing herself and wasting money on nonsense like all the fine ladies in Paris. It is that which has brought ruin on the country.’
“And some listened to and believed these cunning words, so that already, had the Countess just then returned to Valmont, it is to be doubted if she would have been received with the old affection. There was some reason, too, for discontent. Collet, the Countess’s bailiff, was the most discreet of men, devoted to the family’s interest, but at the same time ready to carry out all his lady’s endeavours to do good to her people. But it began to be noticed that he was more rigorous than formerly in exacting all the payments due, also that less money was forthcoming for charitable purposes, that the new year’s gifts year by year were curtailed, and that Collet looked anxious and careworn.
”‘It is his bad conscience,’ said some. ‘He is going the way of all like him, enriching himself at our expense.’
”‘And the Countess is no doubt learning to throw about her money too. Trust fine ladies for that, however sweet-spoken they may be; and after all she is a Sarinet by birth,’ said others.
“But I need not say that in the Germains’ cottage, and indeed in most of those in the village, nothing of this kind was believed, and once or twice, when words or hints to this effect were uttered before Pierre, his father had to check the hot indignation with which the lad would have met them, reminding him that by a dignified silence he was both showing more respect for their lady, and perhaps better serving her cause. He could speak with authority, for both he and the old curé were in poor Collet’s confidence, and knew, what he thought it would be dishonourable to tell, that he strongly suspected that the Marquis, having exhausted his own resources, was now helping himself to the money of his sister and his niece. And more than once both were of a mind to say out what they were almost, sure of. ‘If it goes much further we shall feel it our duty to do so,’ said the curé to the bailiff. ‘And even now I have almost made up my mind to write to the Countess, for I am certain she has no idea of what is being done, to some extent, in her name.’
“But just as the good man was meditating a letter to Paris, one was received from there which altered the state of things, and for a long time brought some sunshine and hopefulness back to the hearts of the faithful friends of Edmée and her mother.
“The Countess and her daughter were returning to Valmont.
”‘All then will be well,’ said Madame Germain, wiping her eyes from which were running tears of joy. ‘Things are evidently quieting down; otherwise our ladies would not think of undertaking the journey. Those poor, foolish people, no doubt, seeing how ready the king is to agree to everything reasonable, will be satisfied at last, and all will be well.’
“Nor was she the only one to hope, from time to time, during these early years of the Revolution, that the black cloud might after all disperse. For, thanks to the efforts of some unselfish and wise men, more than once a cordial understanding between the king, the government, and the people was almost arrived at, though always, alas! to be again broken through by treachery or mistakes or passionate outburst on one side or the other.
“This was in the summer of 1790, about a year after the taking of the Bastille. All through the autumn days that followed, the Germain family and others waited eagerly for further news from Paris. At last came again a few hurried words to Madame Germain from the Countess, referring to other letters sent by the post which had never been received at Valmont. She had found it impossible, she said, to carry out her plan of returning home that last summer. The Marquis had opposed it; he was so sure that things were calming down, and he objected to any member of his family leaving Paris. ‘So again,’ wrote the poor lady, ‘Edmée and I must take patience. But surely next summer, the fourth since our absence, will see us in our own dear home.’