Now, this dear relative was the possessor of a small gold locket of antique fashion and exquisite workmanship, which was an object of unceasing admiration to our childish fancy. In form it was an oblong octagon. The border was a graceful tiny pattern in mosaic-gold inlaid with amethyst and pearl. In the centre were two miniatures painted on glass with marvellous distinctness and accuracy: the one a likeness of that most unfortunate queen, Marie Antoinette, the other of her beloved sister-in-law, the amiable Princess Elizabeth. A heavy pebble crystal, perfectly transparent, covered the pictures without in the least obscuring their delicate tints. In the back of the locket was an open space, within which, our relative said, was once laid, upon the ground of dark satin that still remained, a knot formed by two small locks of glossy, silken hair, one a light rose-tinged auburn, the other flaxen with a golden sheen. A glass covered these also.
After much persuasion our relative related to us the following
STORY OF THE LOCKET.
My father was an officer in the Continental army, and, soon after the war of our Revolution closed, returned to his former home in the city of Hartford, Conn., where he accepted an office of high municipal trust. He was moved by the generous impulses of his nature to a life of active benevolence; and when, in 1792-3, the Revolution in France drove thousands of her citizens to take refuge in our republic, none were more zealous and untiring than he in seeking out and providing for the unfortunate strangers. Every apartment in our spacious house was soon filled. Rooms were prepared in the carriage-house and barns for my brothers and the domestics of the household, while my sisters and myself took possession of a small room in the attic which had been a repository for the spare bedding, now called into use.
Among our guests was one lady who was distinguished by having a spacious room set apart for her sole use, and who seldom left it or mingled with her companions in misfortune and exile. Upon the rare occasions when she did appear briefly in their circle, it was striking to observe the ceremonious deference, amounting almost to veneration, with which she was received. Where or how my father found her I never knew; but his manner towards her was so profoundly respectful as to impress us all with feelings akin to fear in her presence. Yet these impressions were produced by the demeanor of others only; for on her own part there was not the slightest self-assertion or assumption of stateliness. Simple and unobtrusive as a child in her manners, she was indescribably affable to all; but her countenance wore an expression which, when once seen, could never be forgotten. More forcibly and clearly than words did it convey the story that some overwhelming deluge of calamity had swept from her life every vestige of earthly hope and joy. By no outward token did she parade her griefs. Her dress, plain, even severe, in its perfect neatness and simplicity, displayed no mourning-badge, but her very smile was an intimate revelation of sorrow.
She was known by the title of “Madame,” though some of our guests would now and then add, when speaking of her in an undertone—not lost upon a small listener like myself—“la Comtesse.” Her waiting-maid, Celeste, was entirely devoted to her, and always served her slight and simple meals to her in her own room.
Soon after her arrival I was sent on some errand to madame’s apartment, and her agitation upon seeing me was a thing to be remembered for a lifetime. She drew me to her bosom, caressing me with many tears, suppressed sobs, and rapid exclamations in her own language. I learned afterwards from Celeste that I was of the same age and bore a striking resemblance in form and face to her daughter, who had been torn from her in the storm and turmoil of their escape. They had been rescued by a faithful servant, and hurried off, more dead than alive, in the fright, confusion, and uproar of a terrible outbreak in Paris, and had discovered, when too late, that her daughter had been separated from them and was missing. Their deliverer promised to make every possible effort to find the child, but Celeste had little hope; for she had heard from the servant of another lady, who escaped later—but had never told her mistress—that one of the women who daily watched the carts which conveyed the victims to the guillotine had averred that she was sure she saw the child among their number.
From the first I was a welcome visitor in the lady’s room. She encouraged me to pass all the time with her which could be spared from household duties; for in those days every child was required to perform a portion of these. The schools in Hartford were, for the most part, closed during that period, that the buildings might be devoted to the accommodation of the strangers, who requited the kindness by teaching the children of each household where they were entertained, daily. I was the chosen pupil of madame. She soon imparted sufficient knowledge of the French to give her instructions in her own language. Never was child blest with a more gentle and painstaking teacher! To a thorough course in the simple branches of study she added many delicate accomplishments then unknown in our country, and the most patient training in all matters connected with dress and deportment. After lessons she would hold long conversations with me, more profitable than the lessons themselves, awakening interest by suggestions and inquiries tending to form habits of thinking, as well as of acquiring knowledge. Then such wonderful fairy tales as she would relate! I used to listen perfectly entranced. Never have I heard in English any fairy lore that would compare with it. Translations we may have, but the fairy charm of the original is lost.
At that time the spirit of infidelity and atheism which laid the train for the horrors of the French Revolution prevailed widely in our own country. When too young to comprehend their import, I had often listened to warm discussions between my father, who was strongly tinctured with those opinions—while in politics he was an ultra-democrat—and my maternal grandfather, a High-Churchman and Tory. The latter always insisted—and it was all I understood of their conversations—that it was impossible for a government founded upon popular unbelief and insubordination to stand. He was utterly hopeless for ours, not because it was democratic in form, but because the people no longer reverenced authority, had ceased to be imbued with the first principle of loyalty to God as Supreme Ruler, and to the “powers that be” as his appointed instruments. These subjects were themes of constant debate, and were treated with a warmth that commanded even the notice of children.
Some of our guests affected a gay and careless indifference to the claims of God and man that amounted to a rejection of both; others vehemently denounced all religion as a figment of priest-craft; while still another class met such questions with the solemnity arising from a conviction of the tremendous temporal and eternal interests which they involved.