“You have been very kind to me,” said Jaqueline—“very kind; and you may depend upon it I shall not be ungrateful. You must come and pay me a visit in October, at the vintage, and then——”
“You’ll be very glad to see me,” continued the old woman. “That’s what you mean to say, I know. Well, well, there’s time enough for that; but—now, now—tell me! Isn’t there anything that I can do for you now? Haven’t you some wish?”
“Only that you would be so good as to show me the way to the Cock and Bottle, in the high-road,” replied Jaqueline, to the apparent great amusement of the old crone, who cackled immoderately till a fit of coughing compelled her to take a few more sips of wine, of which Jaqueline began to suspect she had already taken quite enough.
“Excuse my laughing, my child,” said she at length—“but really your mistake was so diverting. I meant to talk of more serious things—of your prospects in life—of your wishes particularly. Young people always have wishes. Ay! I see by that smile that you have. There—that’s understood—and now tell me what it is.”
Here followed a long confabulation, in which Jaqueline revealed all the particulars of her birth, parentage, and education; and eventually the old body wormed out of her the secret that she did really wish the other sex would pay her somewhat more marked attention.
“But can’t you name any particular one whom you should prefer?” was the next question; “if you can, don’t be afraid to tell me. No one else shall know it, and I’m sure I could manage it. What’s his name?”
Jaqueline replied that she felt no decided preference for any one, and added merrily, “Let them come and offer themselves—that’s all I wish. No matter how many of them. It will be time enough then for me to make my choice.”
“Perhaps you might find that difficult if they were very numerous,” observed her hostess. “I remember, when I was about your age, there was—heigho! never mind! That’s all gone by, and so it’s of no use talking about it. Come, let us go out and look at the weather. Something tells me that you will not be able to go farther to-night. There’s another storm brewing, or I am much mistaken.” Jaqueline’s arm on the left, and a crutch-headed stick on the right, supported the old lady as they walked round and about the ruins of the castle, every part of which she explained the former uses of, with an accuracy that might have satisfied the most curious inquirer, but which quite bewildered our heroine. What people could have wanted with so many different salons, galleries, and apartments, was to her quite a mystery, and she gazed upon the massive thickness of the walls with feelings approaching to reverence. Consequently, when they were driven in by the promised storm, she was precisely in the right state of mind to be strongly impressed by the awful long stories that her hostess had to relate of and concerning the former owners of the place. She told how the castle had been ransacked and set on fire at the Revolution, and how Monsieur le Comte de Montjeu and his family made their escape into foreign parts, and were not heard of till after the Restoration, when the young Comte Henri, whom she had nursed when an infant, suddenly made his appearance. Of him she spake in raptures. He had purchased the site of the ruins, and some land adjacent, and would doubtless some day restore all to its former splendour, as he held some very lucrative appointment at Paris. Moreover, she described him as a very handsome young man, though she feared that he was somewhat too much addicted to gallantry and gaiety. But then, she added, that was a family failing, and put her in mind of some passage in the life of his grandfather, which she immediately proceeded to relate; and so on, and on, and on continuously, as though reading from a book, went the old lady with her long tales; and Jaqueline listened, first with curiosity, then from complaisance (as it was evident that the narrator took pleasure in her own performance), and at length with a rather dim apprehension of what she heard. This may be accounted for, either by her not being able to sleep on the previous night, for thinking of her intended journey, or from the fatigue and exposure to sunshine and storm during the day, or by her hostess’s hospitable entertainment at dinner and supper (the latter meal forming an interlude between two of the long stories), or by the whole combined. But be the cause what it may, she nodded, as most folks would under similar circumstances, and then was suddenly aroused by missing the monotonous tones of her entertainer, to whom she apologised, and shook herself into an attentive attitude. The apology was graciously received, and Jaqueline’s drowsiness dispelled for a while by a legend about a spring, just at the bottom of the hill, the water of which was reported to have the power of causing young maidens, who drank thereof, to become wonderfully fascinating, and to attract lovers of every degree.
“You shall take a draught of it in the morning, ma bonne,” she said. “Don’t be afraid; you will have your wish before you come back from Moulins, I’m pretty sure. If not, however, call upon me on your way back. However, take the water in the morning. Perhaps it mayn’t operate immediately, but perhaps it may; for I remember hearing of two young ladies who”—and off went the old lady into another long story about romantic lovers of high degree; and the result of all was, that Jaqueline went late to bed, with her head full of strange and multitudinous fancies.