CHAPTER II.

THE TOUR D'ANTIN.

THE very next day I was sent for to go and see my mother. Jeanne accompanied me, and had a long private conference, from which she returned bathed in tears. I anxiously asked the cause of her grief.

"The good Jeanne is grieved to part with thee, my little one," said my mother kindly. "Thy parents wish thee henceforth to live at home with them."

I did not know whether to be pleased or grieved at this news. I adored my beautiful pale mother, but it was with a kind of awful reverence—something, I suppose, like that a nun feels toward an image of the Virgin; but I had never learned to be at all free with her. Could I ever lay my head in her silken lap when it ached, as it often did, or could I prattle to her as freely of all my joys and sorrows as I did to Mother Jeanne? Other images also arose before my eyes—images of lessons and tasks and the awful dignity I should have to maintain when I was Mademoiselle Genevieve instead of only little Vevette.

To offset these I had my room—a room all to myself—a bed with worked hangings, and a carved cabinet. Then there were lessons on the lute and in singing, which I had always wished for. On the whole, however, the grief predominated, and I burst into tears.

"Fie then!" said Jeanne, quite shocked at my want of breeding, though she had been sobbing herself a moment before. "Is it thus, mademoiselle, that you receive the condescension of madame your mother? What will she think of your bringing up?"

"Madame could think but ill of her child did she show no feeling at parting with her nurse," said my mother kindly. "But cheer up, my little daughter; I hope you will be happy here. We will often visit our good friend. Come, do not show to your father a face bathed in tears."

I wiped my eyes, kissed my mother's hand, which she held out to me, and managed to say, "Thank you, madame!" in a manner not quite unintelligible.

Then Jeanne humbly preferred her request. Might I return to the farm for one day to partake of a farewell feast which she had it in mind to prepare?

My mother smiled and consented, and I returned to the farm feeling that I had had a reprieve.

The feast was a grand affair, though the company was small, consisting only of our own family and Father Simon's father and mother—very old people who lived in a cottage down near the sea-shore.

Father Simon picked out his reddest apples and the finest clusters of raisins and nuts. Mother Jeanne made the most delicious galettes and cream soup thickened with chestnuts, and spread her whitest and finest cloth. The old people were the only persons of the company who thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Old Sablot chirped like a cricket, and told old stories of the wars of the League and of Henry of Navarre, and his wife commended the soup and cakes, the eggs and custards, and imparted choice secrets in cookery to her daughter-in-law, who received them with all due deference, though she often said that no Norman woman ever learned to cook. But she was always a most dutiful daughter to the old people, and had quite won their hearts, though they had been somewhat opposed to Simon's marriage in the first place.

We children were very silent, as indeed became us in presence of our elders. And though we were helped to everything good on the table, we had not much appetite, and stole out, as soon as we were dismissed by a nod from the mother, to hide ourselves in the granary. Here we had a playhouse and some dolls of our own making, though we—that is, Lucille and I—were rather ashamed of playing with them.

David had also a work-bench with tools and a turning-lathe, which had been his grandfather's. The old man had given them to him on his last birthday, and David had learned to use them very cleverly.

We did not speak for a moment or two, and then David observed:

"How dusty it is here! To-morrow we must sweep out all the chips and shavings, and make the place tidy."

"To-morrow I shall not be here," said I sorrowfully.

"I suppose David and I can make the place neat for ourselves if you are not here," said Lucille, taking me up rather sharply.

"Lucille!" said her brother reproachfully. And then turning to me, "But you will come and see us very often."

"If I can," said I; "but I suppose I shall have a great many lessons to do now."

"Of course you will," said Lucille; "you will have to learn to play the lute and to write and work embroidery, and a hundred other things. You will be a great lady, and we cannot expect you to come and visit us. David ought to know better than to think of such a thing."

"Lucille, you are too bad to say such things!" I cried passionately. "To spoil our last day so. I believe you are glad I am going away."

"I am not either," she answered indignantly; "I am as sorry as David, only I don't want to be left out in the cold while you two pity and pet one another."

"Children, children!" said a voice which made us all start.

We looked toward the door, and there stood the curé of the parish, Father Francois. He was old and fat, and somewhat too fond of eating and drinking; but he was a kind old man, and lived in peace with every one, Reformed or Romanist.

"What then!" he was wont to say. "They are all my sheep, though some of them will persist in going astray. It is not for me to throw stones at them or set the dogs on them. Let me rather win them back by kindness."

"Children!" said he gravely. "Are you quarrelling?"

"No, monsieur," answered David, taking off his hat to the priest, while Lucille and I drew together and clasped hands, forgetting our difference in fear of we knew not what.

The old man observed the movement, and said, in a tone of some emotion:

"But what, my little girls; are you afraid of?"

"No," answered David; "Monsieur has always been kind, but he must know—"

"I know, I know!" said the priest, as David paused. "But fear nothing from me. I shall not harm you. But, oh, my children, if you would but return to the bosom of our Holy Mother! Now, tell me, my son—just as a friend, you know—why will you not invoke the mediation of the blessed saints?"

"Because, monsieur, it is contrary to the Holy Scriptures," answered David respectfully.

"But the example of the holy saints of old, my son—the teachings of the earliest church—consider!"

"Monsieur," replied David, "as to the earliest teachings of the church, I suppose they are to be found in the Gospels, and I read there that when certain women would have brought their children to our dear Lord, the disciples, instead of interceding for them, forbade them."

"Oh, the Scriptures—always the Scriptures!" said the priest, pettishly enough.

"They are the words of God, monsieur!"

"True, my child, but you may see by their effects that they are not fit for every one to read. And yet I don't know how it is," he added musingly; "they certainly are the words of God, and meant to do people good, but no sooner do they begin to study than they become heretics."

The old curé ruminated a moment over this riddle, and then, apparently giving it up as hopeless, he took a large pinch of snuff and smiled benignly upon David.

"Ah, well, my son, I did not come to argue, but to ask a favor in the interest of charity. My poor sister, who is dying in a decline, as you know, has a fancy for some fresh eggs, and there are none to be had. But I know your mother has uncommon skill in the management of poultry, and I thought perhaps she might help me to one or two."

"That I am sure she will," said David. "If monsieur will walk into the house and sit down, I am quite certain I can find two or three eggs quite new laid."

Father Simon looked surprised as the old priest entered, but made him courteously welcome, and Mother Jeanne directed Lucille to put up a jug of cream and a small jar of marmalade for the invalid. The curé thanked her, accepted a glass of cider, and offered his snuff-box to old Sablot.

"Tut, tut! Don't be afraid, man," said he as the other hesitated. "That is not an act of catholicity, as they call it!" And he muttered something under his breath which did not sound like a blessing.

"Monsieur need not wonder that we are timid," remarked Father Simon.

"No, no, it is no wonder; and from all I hear, I fear that times are not likely to be easier for you, my poor Sablot. Have you been to Sartilly of late?"

"No, monsieur, I have little to take me that way."

"It is as well. Take care if you do go. It is said there are wolves about, or likely to be; and you know that she-wolves carry off children at times. Many thanks to you, Jeanne," he added, rising and taking the little basket which my foster-mother had prepared; "my blessing be upon you! An old man's blessing can do no harm, you know. Farewell!"

He closed the door, and for a moment the party sat looking at each other in silence.

"What does he mean?" asked Jeanne at last.

"He means to give us a warning, the poor, kind old man," said Simon. "I doubt not, he made his errand on purpose."

"Why did he not speak more plainly then?" said Jeanne in some impatience. "Of what use is such a warning as that?"

"I suppose he dared not. Remember, my Jeanne, in what a difficult place he stands. He has risked the displeasure of his superiors already by not giving information."

"But what can he mean by wolves on the road to Sartilly?" asked Jeanne.

"That we must find out, and meantime we must be doubly on our guard."

"They are all alike—all wolves alike!" said the old man, in his thin voice. "Some are in their own skin, some in sheep's clothing; some are like the loup-garou,* and speak with the voice of a man; and they are the worst of all."

* What the Germans call the wehr-wolf, a creature compounded of brute and human.

"I do not think the curé looks much like a wolf," I ventured to say; for I had been rather taken with the old man's ways. "He is too fat. Wolves are always thin, and they howl and snarl."

"Ah, mademoiselle! But remember the loup-garou can take any forum or any voice he pleases," said the old man.

"Is there really a loop-garou?" asked David. "I thought it was only an idle tale."

"An idle tale indeed! What is the world coming to? Did not my grandfather know one—a man who used to turn himself into a wolf and scour the country at night, followed by his pack, and devouring all in his way, but especially women and children. They caught him at last, and he was burned at Sartilly, protesting his innocence all the time."

"Perhaps he was innocent," said David.

"Thou shouldst not answer thy grandfather, David," said his mother mildly; "that is rude."

"No, no; he meant no harm," said the old man. "Let it pass. You women are always finding fault with a boy. But as to the loup-garou. However, we will tell no more tales to scare mademoiselle. It is well, at all events, to remember that the good Lord is above all. But it was good snuff the poor priest had."

I inwardly resolved that I would try to procure some snuff for the old man, and that I would bribe him with it to tell me more tales of the loup-garou, about which I was very curious. I knew there was no use in asking Mother Jeanne, for she never would tell me frightful stories.

Indeed, the Reformed were not nearly as much under the influence of superstition as their neighbors of the other faith. To the last, every corner had its goblins. In this dell, the "Washers" were to be seen by the unwary night traveller, and he who acceded to their courteous request to assist them in wringing a garment, had his own heart's blood wrung out, and became a pale spectre himself. If he escaped these ghostly laundresses, there were the dancers on the field above, who were equally dangerous, and another female demon who allured young men into lonely places and there murdered and devoured them. Our country neighbors here in Cornwall are bad enough, with their piskies, and fairies, and wish-hounds, and what not, but they are not so bad as the people in Normandy and Brittany.

That night Lucille and I slept together for the last time. Her jealousy was quite overcome for the time, and we promised that we would always be good friends, and built many castles in the air on the basis of that future friendship. She was a girl of strong character in some respects, and of great talents, but she had one fault which made her and those about her very uncomfortable at times, and which came near working her utter ruin. It is not likely that she will ever see these memoirs, but if she should do so, she would not be hurt by them. The fires of affliction which she has passed through have burned up the dross of her character, and little is left but pure gold.

The next morning we went up to the château, and Jeanne took leave of me with many tears.

Father Simon had prayed especially and earnestly for me at our morning devotions, and had solemnly given me his blessing. David had shaken hands with me, and then run away to hide his feelings. It was a sorrowful parting on both sides, and when I had a last sight of Jeanne turning at the bend of the path to wave her hand to me, I felt more like an exile in a strange land than a child coming home to its father's house. So I thought then, knowing nothing of an exile's woes.

"Now, my child," said my mother, coming into my little room, where I had shut myself up to weep, "let these tears be dried. They are natural, but even natural grief must not be indulged too far. Bathe these eyes and flushed cheeks, arrange your dress, and come to me in my room in half an hour."

My mother spoke gently and kindly, but with decision, and there was that about her which made her least word a law. Besides, I believe, to say the truth, I was rather tired of my grief, and quite willing to be consoled, and to indulge my curiosity as to my new home. So I bathed my eyes as I had been bidden, smoothed my hair, which never would stay under my cap properly, but was always twisting out in rebellious little curls, and began to examine my room.

It was an odd little nook, opening from my mother's, as is the custom in France for young ladies of good family. It occupied one of the corner turrets which flanked the square tower of which I have spoken. The walls were so thick and the inclosed space so small that I used to compare the room in my own mind to one of the caves hollowed in the rock by the persecuted Vaudois of which I had heard from Jeanne. The bed was small, with heavy damask hangings and an embroidered coverlet. There was no carpet on the floor, which was of some dark wood waxed to a dangerous smoothness; but a small rug was laid by the side of the bed and before the little toilette-table. The rest of the furniture consisted of a chair and stool, and a small table on which lay a Bible and two or three books in a language which I did not understand, but which I took to be English. In an ordinary French family, there would have been a crucifix and a vase for holy water, and probably an image of the Virgin as well; but it may well be guessed that no such furniture found a place in our household.

Small and plain as the room was, it seemed magnificent in my eyes, and I felt a great accession of dignity in being able to call this magnificent apartment my own. I looked out at the window—a very narrow one—and was delighted to find that it commanded a view of the high road and a very little tiny bit of sea, now at ebb and showing only as a shining line on the edge of the sands. In short, I had not half completed the survey of my new quarters before I was in the best of spirits, and when my mother called me, I was able to meet her with a smiling face. I should have said that my room was elevated half a dozen steep steps above my mother's. Indeed, there were hardly two rooms in the house on a level with each other.

"Why, that is well," said my mother, kissing my cheek. "You are to be my companion and pupil now, little daughter, and I hope that we shall be very happy in each other's society."

She then made me sit down on a low seat beside her own chair, and examined me as to what I had learned. She heard me read, examined me in the Catechism, and asked me some questions on the Gospels, to all of which I gave, I believe, satisfactory answers. She looked at my sewing and knitting, and praised the thread, both linen and wool, with which I had taken great pains.

"That is very good thread," said she; "but I must teach you to spin on the wheel, as they do in England. You shall learn English too, and then we can talk together, and there are many pleasant books to read in that language. You must learn to write also, and to embroider."

"Is English very hard, madame?" I ventured to ask.

"It is called so, but I hope to make it easy to you. By and by, when we have mastered the writing, we will have some lessons on the lute. But now we must consult Mistress Grace about your dress. Your father will like to see you habited like a little lady."

My mother blew the silver whistle which always lay beside her, and Mistress Grace entered from the anteroom. She was a tall, thin personage, English to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in my life, but there was that in her face which at once attracted confidence and regard. She was my mother's special attendant, and ruled the household as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. The servants called her Mamselle Grace, or, more commonly, simply Mamselle, and treated her with great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her English French after her back was turned. I was taught to call her Mrs. Grace, in English fashion.

I was greatly in awe of her at first, but I soon learned to love her as well as Mother Jeanne herself.

Mrs. Grace greeted me with prim courtesy.

"We must take orders for some dresses for our young lady, Grace," said my mother, speaking French. "Will you see what we have for her?"

Mrs. Grace opened an armoire, from which she drew a quantity of stuffs and silks, and an animated conversation ensued.

My mother kindly allowed me to choose what I liked best, and we were in the full tide of discussion, when there was a knock at the door, and my father entered with a very disturbed face, which brightened as he met my mother's glance.

"Heyday, what have we here?" said he. "Has Mrs. Grace taken a new doll to dress?"

"This is our little one, Armand," said my mother. "I have taken her home, judging that it is time to complete her education, and also for a companion."

"That is well," said he. "Come hither, my little one, and see thy father."

I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed the hand he held out to me.

He laid the other on my head and solemnly gave me his blessing. Then, holding me off and looking at me:

"Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of thy mother, dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change of tone, "I only wish she and thou were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray house at Tre Madoc."

My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything new happened?" she asked.

"New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass, Margaret. We are to be left in peace no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns and a black Dominican for a confessor. They call it a hospital—we all know what that means nowadays."

My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me, and I felt it tremble.

"Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck with a sudden light. I was a quick child, and the danger which was always in the background sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. "That was what he meant by the wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I had committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered, "I beg your pardon, monsieur."

"There is no offence, my child; and you must not say monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting down and drawing me to him. "Tell me what was that about the curé and the wolves."

I repeated my story.

"You are a clear-headed little maiden," said he, "and have a quick wit. What did Simon Sablot think of the matter?"

"He said, monsieur—my father," I added, correcting myself, "that the good man meant to give us a warning, and had probably made his errand on purpose."

"More likely to spy out the nakedness of the land," muttered Grace, to whom all priests were alike.

"Nay, my Grace, do the poor man justice," said my father. "The Jesuits cannot make the whole nation over into tigers, not even the priests. The poor old man has grown-up on our lands, as his father did before him, and I believe he feels kindly toward us. But I wish, oh I wish thou and the little one were in safety, my Marguerite."

My mother said some words in English which I did not understand, and then in French, "But what shall we do, Armand, to guard against this new danger?"

"We can only do as we have done in our family, but I fear we must abandon our Sunday gatherings for the present. The risk will be too great with such neighbors to spy upon us. But we will consult together. Run away now, my little one, and explore the house, only do not go into the upper rooms of the round tower. Some of the floors are dangerous. However, you may go to the battlements if you like. The stairs are safe enough."

"Only return at once when you hear the bell," said my mother. "To-day shall be a holiday for you; to-morrow we will begin our lessons. But first go with Grace and let her take your measure."

"Why is it so dangerous to have a hospital at Sartilly?" I ventured to ask Grace at a pause in her operations. "I thought a hospital was a place where poor sick people were taken care of."

"So it is in a Christian land, mademoiselle," answered Grace; "there are many such in England. But now and here, a hospital means a place where young people of the Religion are shut up away from their parents and taught to worship images and say prayers to the Virgin and the saints—yes, pretty saints some of them," she added, in English. "There, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It is not good manners to speak in a foreign tongue before those who do not understand it."

"Madame says she will teach me English soon," I observed. "I shall like that, if it is not too hard."

"Oh, it will not be hard to you; you are half an English woman," replied Grace.

"And will you tell me tales sometimes about England, and the place where my mother lived when she was a young lady? I shall like so much to hear them. I love to look at Jersey when we can see it, because it is a part of England."

Grace's heart was quite won by this request. She kissed me, and called me a pretty dear in her own tongue, which phrase, of course, I did not understand, only I saw that it meant something kind and friendly.

Once released, I ran all over the house, peeped into the great old kitchen, where I received many welcomes and blessings from the old servants, and ascended to the top of the round tower to gaze at the sea and at Mount St. Michael, now glowing in the autumn sunshine. True to the habits of implicit obedience in which I had been brought up, I did not even open the door which led into the upper floors of the tower, though I confess to a strong temptation to do so.

I admired the salon hung with tapestry and adorned with carved furniture and various grim family pictures. I wondered what was in the cabinets, and studied the story of Judith worked in the hangings, and had not half finished my survey, when the bell rang, and I hastened to my mother's room.

We dined in considerable state, being waited on by two men servants, while Mistress Grace stood behind her lady's chair and directed their movements. The fare, though plain enough, was dainty compared to what I was accustomed to at the cottage, and I should have enjoyed my dinner only for a feeling of awkwardness, and a look in Mistress Grace's eyes as if she were longing to pounce upon me. I got pounced upon many a time after that, fur great stress was laid upon table etiquette in those days. More than once I was sent away from the table in disgrace, not so much for mistakes I made, as for fuming or pouting at having them corrected.

The next day my lessons began. I had my task of Scripture and the Catechism to learn, as at the cottage. Great stress was laid in the families of the Religion on this learning of the Scriptures, and with good reason, for we were liable at any time to be deprived of our Bibles, or indeed to be shut up where we could not have read if we had them; but that which was stored in our minds no one could take from us. I learned to write and began English, and, thanks to the pains and skill of my mother and the conversations I held with Mrs. Grace in our working hours, I soon learned to speak the language with considerable fluency, as well as to read in two or three English books which my mother possessed. I learned to spin on the little wheel which my mother had had sent her from England, and was greatly delighted when I was allowed to carry down to Mother Jeanne some skeins of thread of my own manufacture.

"But it is beautiful—no less," said Jeanne; "and done, you say, not with spindle and distaff, but with the little machine I have seen in madame's boudoir. See, Lucille, my child!"

"It is good thread, but I do not see that it much better than ours," said Lucille, somewhat slightingly. "And I do not see why one should take so much pains to learn to spin in this new fashion. The spindle and distaff are much better, I think, because they can be carried about with one. I can spin when I am going to the fountain for water or to the pasture for the cows. Vevette cannot do that with her grand wheel."

"That is true," said I, a little taken down; "but one can accomplish so much more. My mother can spin more with the wheel in an hour than one can do with the distaff in half a day, and I am sure the thread is more even."

"Ah, well, the method of my grandmother is good enough for me," said Lucille. "I am a Norman girl, and not an English lady." And she took up her distaff as she spoke, and began drawing out her flax with a care and attention which showed she was offended.

"Do you think, Mamselle Vevette, that madame would condescend to let me look at this wheel of hers?" said David. "I should like so much to see it."

"Why, do you think you could make one like it?" I asked. "Oh, do, David! Make one for Lucille, and I will teach her to use it."

"Thank you!" said Lucille in a tone which did not bespeak much gratitude. "I have already said that Norman fashions are good enough for me."

And then, softening her tone as she saw how mortified I was, "I dare say David would like to make a wheel, and if he succeeded, you would have one of your own as well as madame."

I may as well say here that, after many efforts and failures, and by the help of his uncle, who was the blacksmith at Sartilly, David succeeded in constructing a very nice spinning-wheel, which he presented to me on my birthday. I wonder whether that wheel is still in use, or whether it has been thrown aside in some garret?

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