was little accustomed to checkor restrain her feelings, and she at once took her cousin to task.
"`I don't know what "louts" means,' she said; `we never hear those wordshere, but our people are not stupid, whatever yours are. And I don'tcare how grand your gardens at Sarinet are. I should never like it aswell as Valmont. Here everybody is happy and contented. I know it isnot so at Sarinet.'
"Edmond laughed contemptuously.
"`At Sarinet people are kept in their proper places,' he said. `Wedon't have low fellows like that'--and he flung a little cane he held inhis hand at Pierre--`consorting with ladies and gentlemen.'
"The cane struck Pierre on the cheek, and for an instant the pain wassharp, but it was not _that_ that made him start forward with clenchedhands and glowing eyes--he minded pain as little as any one--it was theinsult, for he and his had not been used to such treatment; they had notbeen ground down by insolence and oppression, and the first contact withsuch things was bitter to him. Put almost as quickly as he had startedforward he drew back again, and passing his hand over his eyes, wherethe tears were springing, he turned away.
"`I must not touch him,' he said; `he is my lady's guest, and--'
"Edmee was by his side in a moment.
"`Pierrot--my Pierrot!' she said; `that naughty, horrid boy!--I will runin and tell papa--I will! Why don't you beat him, Pierrot?'
"Pierre could not help smiling at her vehemence.
"`The Countess trusted me to take care of him,' he said, `and then--whyhe is only half my size. One never lights with a boy like that.'
"`I see,' said Edmee, quite convinced. `Put let me look at your face,Pierre. No, it is not very bad. Stoop down and let me tie my nice softhandkerchief round it. There now, that will do.'
"`But what are we to do?' said Pierre. `We can't leave him alone. I donot want him to go in and complain, and perhaps add to your dear mamma'stroubles.'
"They turned and looked at Edmond. He was standing half sulky, halfdisconsolate--as if he too did not know what to do.
"`After all,' said Pierre, philosophically, `we must remember he hasnever been taught better. I think the best way is to treat him as anaughty, spoilt child, and take no notice.'
"He turned back.
"`Master Edmond,' he said, `if you would like to play a game of "graces"with Miss Edmee, I will go and get you the hoops and sticks.'
"Edmond muttered something about not knowing how.
"`Never mind,' said Pierre good-naturedly; `I'll soon show you how,' andoff he set.
"Edmee stood still; she was less generous for Pierre than he was forhimself; she would make no advances to Edmond. He, feeling, to tell thetruth, rather ashamed of himself, threw on her from time to time furtiveglances, which she took no notice of. At last tired of herindifference, he spoke.
"`Edmee,' he said.
"`Well,' replied the little girl.
"`It did not hurt him--that boy, I mean.'
"`Did it not? How do you know?'
"`It did not hurt him much,--I did not wish to hurt him,' continuedEdmond.
"`I am glad to hear it,' said Edmee. Her tone was a very littlesoftened, Edmond was encouraged by it to edge a little nearer.
"`I would not wish to hurt any one you like, Edmee,' he said. `But youmade me angry by speaking against Sarinet.'
"`You began by speaking against Valmont.'
"`Well, I beg your pardon for that. I can see that that was ill-bred.I never wish to be ill-bred. My father would be shocked if he heard ofthat.'
"`Would he not be more shocked at your throwing your stick at Pierre?'
"`Ah no,' said Edmond; `in that there is nothing ill-bred. That is adifferent thing altogether from saying anything to annoy a lady.'
"`But,' said Edmee, her eyes flashing again, `I am much more angry withyou for hitting Pierre than for speaking against Valmont.'
"`Really? Well, I am sorry to have vexed you,' said Edmond, `I like youvery much, Edmee, and I want you to like me and Sarinet, for when I amquite grown up I mean to marry you. I have often thought of it; forsince I was quite little I have known we were to be married some day.'
"`Who told you so?' said Edmee. `I am not at all sure that I shouldlike to marry _you_. You will have to do a great many things and changevery much before I could even think of it.'
"`How? What things do you mean?' said the boy eagerly.
"`You must grow tall and strong--like Pierre.'
"`_Pierre_!' repeated Edmond, contemptuously; `I will not be comparedwith a--'
"`Hush!' said Edmee, putting her little hand on his mouth before hecould pronounce the word; `don't say it, or you will make me _very_angry!'
"`Well, do not speak of Pierre; say tall and strong like my father.'
"Edmee gave a little shiver.
"`No,' she said, `I won't say that. Never mind about being tall andstrong. You must above all be very good and brave, and yet kind toeverybody,--like a true knight in some of Pierre's stories. I thinkthere are no true knights now.'
"`Pierre again!' muttered the boy discontentedly. `Tell me, Edmee, whatdo you mean by a true knight?'
"`One who is always good and kind to everybody,' said Edmee. `Not onlyto ladies and gentlemen, but to poor people, and weak and unhappypeople, and who will not let any one be cruel. I can't tell you verywell. But papa has books with stories about knights, which he lends toPierre, and then Pierre tells them to me.'
"`I never heard anybody talk like that before,' said Edmond. `I don'tknow anything about poor people, and I'm sure I shouldn't like them.But I won't call that boy names if it vexes _you_, Edmee.'
"Edmee had no time to say more, for just then Pierre returned with thesticks and hoops. And when the Countess, rather anxious in her mind inconsequence of the new addition to the childish party, came out an hourlater to call Edmee and her cousin in, she found all of them playingmerrily, and apparently on good terms with each other.
"`Perhaps my nephew is a more amiable child than he appears at firstsight,' she said to herself.
"This afternoon--the first visit of Edmond de Sarinet to Valmont--isanother of the scenes of her early childhood clearly impressed on mymother's mind."
CHAPTER FIVE.
My mother has been reading over what I have already written. She smilesat my description of her as a child, and maintains that my portrait ofher, as well as that which hangs in the best parlour, is flattered. ButI must, with all respect, disagree with her. She says I must now hurryon a little faster, otherwise I shall never arrive at the mostinteresting part of my story. Of the history of her early childhoodthere is not very much more to tell. It may really be said to haveended with the death of her dear father, the good Count, which tookplace early in the spring of the year after that of which I have beentelling you. They had not expected him to linger so long, but the lastwinter of his life was an unusually mild one, and he had regained somestrength during the preceding summer, when he had lived almost entirelyin the open air. The last days, and weeks even, of his life are notvery distinct in my mother's remembrance. She thinks she was probablykept away from him a good deal on purpose, that she might not besaddened by the sight of his suffering and increased feebleness: and itseems to her, on looking back, that the greater part of that time wasspent by her with Madame Germain and Pierre. But she distinctlyremembers the day of the good Count's death, and those that followed it:her poor mother's terrible grief--how she clasped her to her arms,repeating that her Edmee was now all, _all_ she had left; how bitterlyshe herself cried when she saw her dear father so cold and white andstill, and through all, how kind and loving and unselfish were her dear"mamma Germain," and Pierrot. Then came the funeral;--all the gentlemenof the neighbourhood assembled in the great salon, and first andforemost among them, and in everything, her uncle the Marquis, tall anddark and proud as ever, with a smile for her whenever he caught sight ofher, which she disliked almost as much as his frown. He brought amagnificent box of _bon-bons_ for her, and main pretty me
ssages from hercousin `and devoted cavalier' Edmond, none of which, she felt sure,child as she was, had really been sent by him. But she was a dignifiedlittle lady, and knew how to curtsey to the Marquis, and make heracknowledgments faultlessly, and to send messages in return to Edmond,saying that she would like to see him again, which seemed to please heruncle, and was really true.
"For she and Pierre had often talked together about the poor boy, andagreed that there must be some good in him, and that the ill was not tobe wondered at, considering how feeble and pampered and badly brought uphe had been.
"Many things were discussed at that time which Edmee knew nothing oftill long afterwards.
"The Marquis did his utmost to persuade his sister to leave her dearhome and take up her quarters at Sarinet for part of the year,accompanying him and his wife to Paris every autumn; there to spend sixmonths in their house, in the Rue de Lille. But the Countess was firmin refusing. She knew in her heart, though she did not say so, thatthere never could be any real sympathy between herself and hersister-in-law, and she longed to keep Edmee in the country. But shethanked her brother for his kindness and affection for her, which so faras they went, were real.
"`When Edmee is older,' she said, `and her education calls for it, Imust make up my mind to spend part of the year in Paris.'
"`Of course,' said the Marquis, `_that_ is a matter there can be nodoubt about. But I wish you could have made up your mind to get in theway of visiting Paris sooner. Not that Clemence--Clemence was theMarquise, his wife--would expect you to take part in any gay doings forsome time to come. But you are too young and too pretty, Louise, to getin the way of shutting yourself up. And for my little niece--for a girlwith her prospects, sole heiress to all the de Valmont property--Parisis a necessity. I have a right to an opinion; Edmee, you remember,comes next to Edmond in _our_ succession, and Edmond, poor fellow, isstill a delicate lad.'
"`Oh, brother, I trust not; I trust he may grow up strong and healthy!'exclaimed the Countess, shocked at the Marquis's cool way of talking ofhis son, and certainly with no desire to see her little Edmee in hisplace.
"`I hope so too. I hope to see the properties united in a differentway, my fair sister,' he replied with a courtly bow. And the Countesspretended not to understand what he meant, for she was by no means surethat Edmond, brought up as he was, would ever be the husband she wouldchoose for her precious child.
"And then to her relief, and the relief of all the inhabitants of thechateau, the Marquis, and his crowd of insolent attendants, took theirleave. He drove away, satisfied that he had thoroughly fulfilled theduties of a brother and an uncle, and his servants gossiped and grumbledamong themselves at the dull life they had led the last week at Valmont,and rejoiced to think that next month they would be back at Paris. Andwhen one of the horses broke down on the road, from the furious drivingthe Marquis loved, the coachman was sworn at till he forced a tremblinginnkeeper to give them another, for which the chances were he wouldnever be repaid save by the oaths the coachman threw at him in his turn.It was no matter of rejoicing in those days when a great lord camedriving through the country, and this one was specially well-known. Nofriendly voices bade him good speed on his way, as his wheels tossed thedust against the villagers of Valmont, as they had been wont to do totheir own good lord, when he passed with a kindly greeting,--no homelyfaces lighted up with pleasure, or little children shouted with glee ashe re-entered his own domain; on the contrary, the men turned aside witha scowl, to avoid the servile obeisance expected of them, and more thanone woman rushed into the road to see that no unfortunate child happenedto be straying there. It was not to be supposed that the steeds of mylord the Marquis would be checked for an instant for the sake of anyrisk to a being so utterly beneath contempt as a peasant's brat!
"And little Edmee and her mother for a time, a considerable time, wereleft in peace.
"Those were quiet and uneventful years--at Valmont-les-Roses, that is tosay. In the outside world the distant storm was coming nearer and evernearer; the secret discontent was brewing and fermenting; the hard,cruel determination to listen to none of the people's complaints, thestupid blindness to what sooner or later _must_ come unless timelymeasures were taken to avert it,--all these things were surelyincreasing. But at Valmont was heard but little, and that littleaffected but few. The Countess and her child lived so thoroughly amongtheir people, they took such part and sympathy in their joys andsorrows, they felt themselves so trusted and gave back such trust inreturn, that the notion of treachery and disloyalty, even if suggested,which it never was, would not for an instant have found place in theirhearts. But Valmont, and some few other favoured spots like it were, asI have said, happy exceptions to the rule. And even here, as will beseen later on, once the wild contagion was thoroughly aroused, therewere some who yielded to it; for it is not difficult to dazzle and leadastray simple and uneducated people, who, left to themselves, would haveremained faithful to their duties.
"The Marquis came from time to time, and his visits were the darkestspots in Edmee's quiet life. He was more gentle to her and her motherthan to anyone else, but nevertheless the child shrank from him withindescribable dislike and fear. She could not bear the cold contemptunderlying his courteous tones, and some remarks she once overheard asto his becoming her guardian, in case of her mother's death, made animpression on her she never forgot,--though, just because she thought ofit with such terror perhaps, she could not bear to speak of it to theCountess.
"All these years the mother devoted herself to Edmee's education, whichshe was well fitted to do. She was herself of great intelligence, andhad learnt much from her studious husband. Edmee never had at Valmontany teacher but her mother, or any attendant of more importance than theyoung girl who had been her maid ever since Madame Germain had left her.And in some things Madame Germain still had a charge of her formernursling. It was she who taught Edmee all sorts of fine and beautifulneedlework. It was under her direction that the young lady of thechateau worked the set of chairs which, as I write, are stillwonderfully fresh and beautiful in the best parlour here. It was she,too, who taught her how to nurse the sick, to dress wounds and burns, todistil scented waters, and make simple salves, and brew _tisanes_, orwarm drinks made from different kinds of herbs, which are very useful ashousehold remedies. It was a quiet, simple life--compared with that ofmost ladies of their time. It appeared, I daresay, old-fashioned, andthe Countess had taken an unusual course, and set at variance theopinions of her brother and other friends, in keeping Edmee at homeinstead of sending her to be educated at a convent.
"Till the year Edmee was ten years old--that was the year 1787--she hadnever again seen her cousin Edmond. She and Pierre often talked of him,for in her secluded life his two days' visit had been an event she hadnever forgotten: they wondered how he was growing up, if he were lesspetulant and self-willed, if he were strong and healthy now--for Pierreespecially had always an idea that to be delicate and sickly was anexcuse for almost anything; he, who had never known a day's illness,scarcely an hour's discomfort, could imagine nothing more unbearable.And when her uncle came to Valmont, Edmee always inquired with prettycourtesy, and at the same time with real interest, for the poor boy,though the answers she received never gave her much satisfaction.
"`Edmond was quite well--would be much honoured by his cousin'sremembrance of him,' the Marquis would reply, with the half-mockingcourtesy the little girl so disliked. But once she overheard somecareless words of his to her mother which roused her old pity for theboy.
"`He is a poor specimen; he will never be much of a credit to me,' andby the look on her mother's face, she saw that she too pitied theevidently unloved boy.
"This year, 1787, began the great changes in Edmee's life. They came inthis way.
"It was autumn. Several months had passed since the Marquis had been atValmont, but now and then letters had come to the Countess which seemedto trouble and distress her. More than once Edmee had seen her motherwith t
ears in her eyes, and at last one day, coming suddenly into herroom and finding her crying, the little girl could no longer keepsilent.
"`Little mamma,' she said, as she sat down on her favourite stool at hermother's feet, and stroked and kissed the hand she had taken possessionof, `I know it is not my place to ask you what you do not choose to tellme, but I am sure there is something the matter. I can see you havebeen crying.'
"`But you have often seen me cry, my poor Edmee.'
"`Yes, but not in that way. When you cry about dear papa it is sad, butnot troubled in the same way.'
"`That is true,' said her mother. `I _have_ a new trouble, my child.Many people, however, would think me very foolish for considering it atrouble. Besides, it is something I have always known would have to besooner or later. I will promise to tell you all about it this evening,Edmee; I feel sure you will understand all I feel, though your are stillonly a little girl.'
"`Not so very little, mamma. Ten past.'
"The Countess smiled.
"`Certainly, compared with the Edmee up there,' she replied, `you arebeginning to look a very big girl. But I am going to be busy now, dear.I have a long letter to write. This evening I will tell you all aboutit. You are going now to Madame Germain for your embroidery lesson, areyou not?'
"`Yes, mamma. Nanette is waiting to