“Brother,” she said, “our dear child is, I trust, better. I have left Victorine to attend her, indeed she will not let Victorine go out of her sight; but Valmont thought we had better make our appearance, if only for an hour, at Lisette’s fête. The Seigneur has shown much kindness and condescension to Lisette, and it would not do for us to appear inattentive for so much goodness, though I must own I shall not be easy till I return to my poor child.”
“Then if you must stay here,” said Dorsain, “if you must do so much violence to your feelings, I think you had better go nearer to those who are dancing.”
“Yes, I know I ought,” she answered, “but I am ashamed for my children’s sake. Too, too many suspect the cause of my poor Caliste’s illness. Oh, Dorsain, how proud I was of my two daughters! how neglectful of Victorine! and now my beautiful girls make me
blush for them, and my modest Victorine by her own unobtrusiveness has attracted, it is true, but little admiration, yet nothing but respect and love can be attached to her name.”
“But Lisette,” inquired Dorsain, with an air of astonishment, for though he had heard words from her lips during their walk to the château that made him ashamed for her, yet he believed they were known only to himself. “What of Lisette, sister?”
“Look at her now!” exclaimed her mother. “Look at her, Dorsain. Would you think by her countenance that at this moment the sister, who was her chief companion in infancy, was lying on a sick bed, to which she has been the innocent means of bringing her?”
Dorsain sighed deeply when his eye rested on Lisette, then dancing under the trees, and laughing and conversing with her partner with all the selfish frivolity of her nature; but just at that moment her father approached her and whispered something in her ear, and even at that distance her uncle could see by the light of the lamps near which she stood, the expression of her countenance change to angry discontent. Her mirth ceased however, evincing
itself so openly, and on the first opportunity she withdrew with her partner from the observation of her father.
The mother repeated D’Elsac’s sigh, and then left him, to show herself to the dancers. Scarcely had she gone, before her brother, now at liberty to leave, set off to the cottage to inquire after Caliste. The village street was deserted, as it had been on the day D’Elsac first arrived there; and, unnoticed by one individual, he reached his sister’s cottage. The door was half opened to let in the air, for it was a warm evening; and, by the light of a lamp, he could perceive that Caliste was extended upon the bed, which I have before mentioned as one of the chief articles of furniture in the kitchen. Close beside her couch sat Victorine, still wearing the white dress put on for the fête; and at her feet was Mimi, whose head rested on her lap, and who was evidently in the sweet sleep of childhood.
For a moment, or more, all was silent; and D’Elsac had leisure to remark the softly serene countenance of Victorine, whose sweetly expressive face was sometimes turned towards Mimi and then towards Caliste. It was evident that Caliste slept not; for D’Elsac heard