“Yes, indeed,” said the farmer. “Many a compliment I have had about my accounts, and very proud I am to say it is my good wife who makes them out.”
“So you see, mother!” said the children.
“Well, well,” said Madame Marcel. “But the little I can do is nothing to what my dear mother knew and could do. And she, again, used to say she felt ashamed of her ignorance in comparison with her mother’s superiority. And this brings me to the story, or rather, in the first place, to the picture. That dear little girl up there, children, is my grandmother, your great-grandmother, whose maiden name was Edmée de Valmont.”
“Edmée de Valmont,” repeated the children, as if they could scarcely believe it. “You don’t mean—not de Valmont of Valmont-les-Roses, not one of them?” said Pierre eagerly.
“Yes, dear. My grandmother was the last of the old name. And how she came to be so, and how in the end she changed it for a much humbler one, and never repented having done so—that is the story here written out by her wish, and under her superintendence, by her daughter, my mother.”
The children looked at their mother bewilderedly.
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said Edmée. “Whom did she marry? Was it our grandfather Marcel?”
“Oh dear no, my child,” replied her mother, laughing. “That would have made very funny relationships,” and Farmer Marcel smiled as he said—
“It is not to my side of the house, but to little mother’s, that you owe your noble descent.”
And Madame Marcel went on to explain.