“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little Annette.”
“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”
“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till time of need.”
The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court, warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they knew so little and feared so much.
As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to pass that night.
The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.
Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green. The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by, Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.
At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her by her father as a parting gift.
“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore on my wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too marries.”
Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and the coach gradually came to a standstill.