A dream of blue roses

Chapter I A Decision And A Proposal

Goethe.

Petite Mere leaned forward in her chair, and, placing both her hands on the shoulders of the girl who knelt beside her, said gently —

"Eh bien ! ma tille, so it must be, since thou wilt have it so ! "

"Ah! No, Petite Mere," was the quick reply, "say not so ! Thou knowest it is not I would have it so ! Loved one do not cry — I cannot bear to see thee cry ! Since there is no other way, I must go."

Two slow tears brimmed from the older woman's eyes and coursed down her furrowed cheeks. She fumbled for her handkerchief and brushed them away impatiently.

"Bah! a foolish old woman, n'est-ce pas? — Voila ! c'est fini ! we make no more complaint. Since there is no other way, thou goest ! " she said briskly, and then, lifting her head with a quick birdlike movement, characteristic of her, she asked, "Thou art sure there is no other way ? not, par exemple — Jean Paul ? "

The earnestness underlying her would-be jesting tone made the question rather pathetic.

The girl laughed — a ripple of laughter, with all her youth in it.

" Petite Mere ! If there w-ere but one man in the world, and that man were Jean Paul, I would not marry him. Nor, of a certainty, even if such were the case, would'st thou counsel me to become Madame Jean Paul ! "

They rose to their feet. "C'est vrai, Mignonne ! " said Petite Mere sturdily, with a little laugh that was more than half a sob, "Toi! Madame Jean Paul! Jamais de la vie ! Sooner would I see thee go, though it tears my heart to part from thee. Bah ! this money ! it is a cursed thing, and causes half the trouble in life. My Joseph always said so, and he knew ! " she nodded her head wisely as she spoke. "Where parting is, it is for one of two reasons, death or money ! "

"Say rather, the want of it, and that is now a point for consideration ; I must have money for the journey."

"That is true. Thou must have money . . . much money . . . for it is an affair of great expense, truly, with the train and the boat, and God knows what beside I "

Petite M^re crossed the room to where the girl stood gazing out of the window. Taking her arm with a loving gesture, she stood for a while in silence. Then she said softly, "There is the ring, Babette I "

"There is the ring. Petite Mere," was the quiet answer. " It must be, since there is no other way."

"It is worth much money! "

"So much the better."

"Monsieur Legrand — he would do it for us "

"Bien! Petite Mere."

" Then we will go to him next market day."

"Bien, Petite M^re."

"And now, embrace me, my child."

Babette threw her strong arms round the slight figure, and kissed her fondly. For a moment they clung together. Petite Mere sighed heavily.

"Enfin!" she said. "It is not easy — this life — of a truth it is not easy ! My Joseph always said so, and he knew ! Come now, ma fille, Melanie will be returning."

She hurried from the room, followed by the girl, but on the threshold she stopped suddenly, as a familiar sound met her ears. A donkey brayed loudly and discordantly.

" It is the voice of Cleopatre ! " Petite M^re said.

A DECISION AND A PROPOSAL 8

smiling. "Vraiment elle a beaucoup de caractere ! It is witliout doubt jMelanie who returns."

Babette ran to the porch and glanced in the direction of the sound. The next moment she was back on flying feet.

" La ! La ! Petite M^re, it is Madame Laurent who arrives ! "

"Then, without doubt, she comes once more on the business of the bon gar^on, Jean Paul ! " announced Petite Mere calmly. "What reply wilt thou have me give to her ? "

Babette gave her a playful shake. -"Go thou to meet her, naughty one, I go to prepare coffee ! " and with that she disappeared into the tiny kitchen.

Petite Mere greeted her guest with her customary cheerfulness and courtesy. No one would have guessed from her demeanour that the heart under her worn black bodice was aching sorely. She escorted her to the salon and invited her to be seated.

"^ladame had walked? Madame was doubtless fatigued. The day had been fine — but yes, and warmer than usual at this season of the year . . . but in truth there was already a feeling of spring in the air ! "

If Petite Mare's calmness was a cloak donned to cover her inward feelings, it was very evident that her visitor possessed no such garment, or if she did, that she had dispensed with it for the afternoon. She was much agitated, and her hostess's attempts at pleasant conversation fell on deaf ears.

Madame Laurent was a large gaunt woman, with a large bony face. On seeing the expanse of square forehead unblushingly revealed by the scantiness of her hair, and the angle at which her beaded bonnet was perched at the back of her head, you were irresistibly and at once reminded of a horse — and the way in which her wide nostrils worked in moments of excitement, such as the present, heightened the resemblance.

She was plainly, even shabbily, dressed, but there was no hint of poverty in her appearance. The large

B 2 cameo brooch, heavily set in gold, and the massive gold watch-chain which she wore, gave an air of opulence. ... It was as though they said, "There is no lack of wealth, don't think it for a moment . . . but why waste it on the things that perish ? Gold will outlast raiment ! "

The equine forehead was beaded with moisture, and the large bony hands plucked restlessly at the tips of the black cotton gloves which covered them. And still Petite M^re chatted on, her bright eyes roving this way and that, noting every detail of dress — every symptom of distress of mind. Outwardly she gave no sign of comprehension, but inwardly she was enjoying herself. In consequence she made no effort to assist the agitated lady, who, at last, unable to suffer any longer in silence, interrupted her suddenly, almost rudely —

" Madame, I come on business ! "

Petite M^re bowed with admirably simulated surprise, but with a twinkling eye.

"I come, Madame, on business — to speak with you yet once more of the affair of my unhappy son."

"Monsieur Laurent is not ill, I trust," inquired Petite M^re, with polite concern. And then, as though the question shattered some obstacle which dammed the torrent of her emotion, words poured from Madame Laurent in a resistless flood.

"My son is ill ! ... mais oui ! it is a malady . . . it is an obsession ! He sleeps not ! he eats not ! He grows pale and thin ! To-day, once more, I urge him to take courage ... to combat this foolishness, but it is useless. ' Ch^re Maman ! ' he said, ' I cannot live, I die ! ' Again I beseech, I implore . . . but no ! it is useless. ... I cannot reason with a man possessed. It cannot continue. ... I dread what may happen to my unhappy son. So loving ... so obedient. . . . Who knows but that he may be driven to dreadful deeds ! And so I say to myself, this must cease, I will be magnanimous. I come, Madame, to ask of you the hand of your ward. Mademoiselle Vincent, for my son, Jean Paul."

A DECISION AND A PROPOSAL 5

Petite M^re essayed to speak, but was waved into silence with a decided gesture.

"Permit that I continue. On my last visit I think I expressed my sentiments — the marriage is not all that I desire ! Mais non ! Mademoiselle is stranger — Engleesh ! For my part, you understand ... I should prefer a compatriot . . . but in this unhappy affair it would seem that for me and my sentiments there is no consideration ! Bien ! We pass that ! — I will be magnanimous. Then . . . mademoiselle is h^retique ! that is for me une horreur ! I, for me, am a faithful daughter of the Church — but that is a point which could perhaps be arranged. She is young, and has doubtless no knowledge of the truth. ... I will consult Monsieur le Cure, who will, I trust, find her docile and obedient and will consent to admit her to the arms of Mother Church, ever ready to receive those who truly repent of error. Then . . . encore. . . ." Madame drew her chair a few inches nearer and dropped her voice almost to a whisper, "The dot? Madame, what of the dot? You understand that it will be the subject of the closest scrutiny. For me . . ." here she tapped her flat chest with a hard forefinger to emphasize her words, "for me, I am a woman of business, and I will not disguise from you, Madame, that some day . . . some day my Jean Paul will have a noble heritage, and in such an alliance as this the bride must bring a portion worthy of such a husband — fully worthy, you understand." Here she shook her hollowed hands as if they contained coin which rattled with the movement. " I will instruct Monsieur le Notaire to go carefully into the matter later. ... I wish you merely to understand that I have my opinion, and that it is no undecided one ! Truly a girl does not get a husband like my Jean Paul every day. Ah! if he would only be guided by me I There is Marie Bigot . . . she is rich ! rich, I assure you ! and not too ill-favoured, and she would be thankful to have him to-morrow, but he will not be persuaded ! ' Maman,' he says, ' for me it is Babette Vincent, and no other.' He desires her madly ... I speak of matrimony ... of my desire that he should range himself, of my desire to see the children of my Jean Paul beside

the hearth before the good God calls " Her voice

faltered, and Petite Mere, watching intently, forgot for a moment the grasping, usurious hands, forgot the horse-like figure, and saw a glimpse of the mother-love pleading for a dear son, and that son's happiness. Not many people had ever seen that side of Madame Laurent, woman of business. "And he said, ' Maman, I too desire with all my heart to see my children beside the hearth . . . give me Babette Vincent ! ' My son. . . . Ah ! Madame, I can assure you that there is no other so good in all the country-side ... so industrious ... so obedient ... he would make a most docile husband ! "

She paused, and for a moment there was silence, and then resuming her former decisiveness of manner, she said, "But affection is not everything. You understand, Madame, I must be satisfied on all the considerations I have named, and also that the family of Mademoiselle is entirely suitable. I must know that by birth she is the equal of my son ! "

Petite Mare's turn had come. She rose to her feet, her diminutive figure drawn to its full height, her appearance more bird-like than ever — like a little brown wren smoothing her plumage before engaging in an encounter.

" Madame," — she spoke with the most deceptive calmness— "I thank you for the proposal you have made to my ward. Mademoiselle Barbara Vincent — but I am compelled to decline it. Mademoiselle is leaving me . . . she goes very shortly to England. . . ." Petite M^re wetted her dry lips, and lied bravely. "Mademoiselle goes to join her relatives . . . she has relatives and friends . . . the most distinguished, in England."

Madame Laurent collapsed into the chair she had just quitted as if her knees had given under her involuntarily, and emitted what could only be described as a neigh of surprise.

"You understand, Madame," continued Petite M^re, "that while entirely appreciating the most worthy prin-

A DECISION AND A PROPOSAL 7

ciples of Monsieur your son, I feel that when Mademoiselle Vincent marries she will form an alliance in her own country, and in the exalted rank to which she is by birth and by nature entitled. On the two previous occasions on which you have favoured me with your views and the sentiments of your son, I informed you without hesitation that he could hope for no encouragement. I w-as not prepared at that time to state the reason, but now, Madame, I give it to you in full. Thanking you for your magnanimity, and trusting that Monsieur your son will speedily find consolation elsewhere, I would now suggest a cup of coffee."

Leaving her adversary thus completely routed. Petite M^re crossed the little salon with all the dignity of an empress in miniature, in order to summon her sister with the desired refreshment. Engrossed as she had been in the conversation, or rather in her role of listener, she had failed to notice the voice of Cl^opatre, that ass of character, who invariably announced all arrivals, and she only devoutly trusted that Melanie had returned. The appearance of Babette at this juncture would be inadvisable, to say the least of it. Questions might be asked which it would be impossible to answer — a hundred things might happen.

But what actually took place was entirely unforeseen, for, hardly had she reached the door, when Madame Laurent rose, a flush upon her face, and hot anger in her gleaming eyes. Past speech . . . past good manners . . . conscious only of the fact that an alliance with her Jean Paul had been refused, when she, Jeanne Laurent, had in her magnanimity demanded, nay, almost implored it, her one desire was to depart without further parley with the imbeciles, who knew not good fortune when they saw it. Pushing past Petite M6re in spite of her protesting, ** Mais, Madame ! " she seized her bulky gingham and a basket which she had deposited in the porch upon her arrival, and deaf, dumb and furious, fairly cantered to the gate.

In vain Petite M^re, her sense of hospitality outraged, pursued, imploring her to return if but to taste a cup of Melanie's excellent coffee, or a glass of cider . . . she paid no heed, and, moving with a rapidity extraordinary for one of her age and bulk, disappeared down the lane. Petite M^re walked slowly back to the house, and by the time she had reached it, she had regained her composure. "Phut! ... a foolish woman! Let her go ... an avaricious woman ! "

But one thought troubled her. She had lied ! Magnificently, it was true, but lied, nevertheless ! But there ! what would you ? Was Babette to be lightly considered by a miserly bourgeoise ? Jamais de la vie ! God grant that the recording angel would rub an effacing finger across the slate before making up his books that night ! What was done, was done ! Joseph had always said so — and he knew !

Chapter II An Old Story

French Proverb.

It was evening. The trio had partaken of their frugal meal, which consisted of bread and fried potatoes. The fact that it had been accompanied to-night by hot and fragrant coffee, should have made the simple repast something of a festivity, a thing to be lingered over and enjoyed, for good coffee was not a luxury for every day . . . for a visitor, yes ! and since on this occasion the visitor had scorned it they would drink and be merry. So said Petite M^re ; but, somehow, the merriment was lacking. Babette was unusually silent, engrossed in the thoughts of an unknown future. Petite M6re was busily occupied in making plans, and Melanie — well, Melanie was never given to much talking . . . being stout and lethargic.

Petite INI^re pushed back her chair, and proceeded to gather the crumbs for the birds. "Eh bien ! " she said, "we must tell Melanie the news, ma fille. Ma soeur, figure to thyself the change, the great change, that comes to us ! Babette is leaving us; she goes to England ! "

Melanie's fat, sallow face was not prone to changes of expression, but now the surprise was so great that the little colour she possessed faded, and her small beady eyes grew round with consternation.

"La petite is leaving us?" she repeated stupidly.

"La petite has business which must be attended to," continued Petite M^re briskly, "business which cannot be arranged through the post, so she has decided to go herself to transact it."

Melanie stared at her sister. All she said was, "Lk ! L^! L^! L^!" Petite Mere blinked furiously. Babette stared at her empty plate. In the corner the high oak clock ticked with irritating persistence. For a few moments no one spoke. Then Melanie's voice broke the silence, " La ! Lk\ La! La !" and again " La ! Lk ! Lk\"

Petite M^re rose hastily . . . her nerves were frayed to-night.

"For the love of God, Melanie, since thou canst do nothing but make a noise like the dripping of water from a leaky tap, go thou and wash the plates ! "

She spoke so sharply that her voice surprised Babette, who rose with the crushed INIelanie. Never in all the years had she known Petite M^re speak like that . . . not even when P^re Joseph died and all the trouble began. Then she saw the tear-filled eyes, and the worn hands that trembled so that even the crumbling of bread was a task of difficulty — and understood. Crossing to her, she kissed her fondly, but without speaking. Petite M^re returned the embrace. " I am stupid to-night — me ! but what would you ? Melanie can be on occasion most trying, but," she added, as if repenting of her words, "she has a good heart. Now, my child, go thou and finish what has to be done, and then we will speak together once more. Is it not so ? Also I have a letter which must be written to-night."

The table was cleared, the little salle-k-manger, which was also the hall of the cottage, was tidied, and Petite M^re carried the lamp to the salon and placed it on the round table which occupied the centre of the apartment. Then, drawing a bunch of keys from a pocket concealed under her skirt, she selected one, and opened an old-fashioned bureau which stood against the wall. Taking out a writing-case, she laid it on the table — a small bottle of purple ink and a pen were set beside it. Then, putting on her spectacles, she seated herself and prepared for her task.

On the top right hand corner of the paper she wrote the address, carefully and in a neat, flowing writing,

AN OLD STORY 11

Le Pavilion des Fleurs, Mentheville,

Seine Inferieure, France, and commenced in English,

"My dear Molly."

So far it was easy, but then she paused and sat for a long while, her eyes fixed on the written words, without moving, lost in thought.

It was so long ago, that day, and yet how clearly she remembered every incident as though it were yesterday. Fifteen years ago ! Joseph had gone to Paris — that in itself was a thing to be remembered — an extraordinary thing, Joseph seldom went to Paris !

A letter had come from his brother Georges requesting his presence, and so, wonderingly, he had gone. She recalled it so well. Just as he was starting she had noticed a stain on the sleeve of his best black coat. There had been no time to attend to it, and he had been forced to depart, stain and all, but it had troubled her, and during the three days of his absence she had thought of it continually.

And then he had returned. Petite M^re had not known which day to expect him, and she had been sitting by the fire, sewing, with Napoleon the black cat purring contentedly beside her, when she had heard his voice.

"Cherie! Cherie ! What thinkest thou that I bring to thee ? Come, see ! See the little cat that I have brought ! "

She well remembered her answer. "Tiens! Joseph! why a cat when we already have Napoleon ? "

She had hurried to meet him, and then she had understood. Joseph had ever loved his little jest, his plaisanterie.

He stood there, his massive form filling the narrow doorway, and before him, still clinging to his friendly hand was a little child, a tired, frightened child, who stepped straight into Petite Mare's heart, never to leave it.

And later that night, when the Httle one was sleeping, he had explained. His brother Georges, who was, as Cherie well knew, a notary of distinction in Paris, had sent for him. It appeared that "un Monsieur Anglais," of good family, desired to place his motherless girl with kindly French people of the Protestant Faith, and Georges had at once thought of them. The child was seven years old, amiable and charming.

A certain sum of money would be paid yearly for her maintenance during her minority, and at the age of twenty-one there would be "une bonne petite fortune" awaiting her. There were but two conditions : the first was that the child should continue to speak English fluently, the second, that on no account should the English lawyers, whose name and address were given, be communicated with, save on a matter of grave import.

Circumstances compelled the Englishman to travel" abroad in a country most inaccessible, where letters could not reach him. Communications were unnecessary— in fact undesirable. In the event of the child's death — which need not be thought probable, she was strong and healthy — the lawyers were to be advised and the money would cease. Joseph had known that his wife was capable of fulfilling the first condition, she had lived for several years in England before her marriage, and after some hesitation he agreed.

He had shown her the papers he had received with the child. They were very few. Merely the certificate of the marriage of her parents, and that of her baptism, and, on a sheet of writing paper, the address of the English lawyers, and the full name of his little charge — Barbara Claudia Vincent.

Joseph had read the words, and the syllables had come haltingly to his unfamiliar tongue.

"Tiens! c'est drole ! what would it mean to say, cherie?"

Cherie had explained.

"Bien ! c'est bien ! Babette she shall be," had been his answer. And Babette she had been albeit on state occasions only ; at other times pet names, such as Little

AN OLD STORY 18

Cabbage, Little Cat, Mignonne, and who knows what besides had been fondly employed.

Petite Mere had timidly asked if her Joseph had any assurance that the yearly allowance would be paid, and he had replied that Georges had given him every assurance on that point. He was entirely satisfied. Whatever her doubts had been they were lulled to rest. Joseph was satisfied, and he knew.

So, through the long years Barbara Claudia Vincent had remained to be the joy of the childless couple.

But now, all was altered : Joseph was gone, the little house beside the gleaming river knew them no more, it was exchanged for the home of Petite Mare's childhood, Le Pavilion des Fleurs, a tiny domicile for all its high sounding name. And worse than all, since there was no other way, Babette must go ! The allowance which had arrived every year punctually, for so long that it seemed as imperishable an institution as the village church itself, suddenly failed. For two years now they had waited, patiently at first, but with ever increasing anxiety, for, in the untoward way in which troubles come, never as spies but always in battalions, a financial disaster had robbed Petite M^re of the larger part of her income, soon after the death of Joseph. A mere pittance remained — quite insufficient for their daily needs should they continue to live in the style and comfort to which they had been accustomed. The little pavilion, which had previously been let, fell vacant, and no tenant could be found. Melanie too was growing feeble, and could no longer support herself in the employment in which she had been engaged. Altogether it seemed wisest to move. To part with 'Toinette, the faithful servant of years, was a wrench, to leave the little house so fragrant with memories a greater, but there was no help for it.

And finally, Babette realized for herself that her childhood was over, that without contributing to the general purse she could no longer stay. For months Petite M6re refused to agree. " Why speak of it ? " she urged.

"What thou eatest, what is it? A bagatelle ! I cannot part from thee." But at last she agreed.

Babette should go to the lawyers in England, and obtain possession of the "bonne petite fortune" which was to be hers when she was twenty-one. But she was very sad — truly, as Joseph had said, " It was not easy, this life ! "

The door opened, and the entrance of Babette recalled her to herself.

"All is finished. Petite M^re," she said cheerfully. "Melanie has gone to bed; she has a headache. I will bring my knitting, and sit beside you as you write. I must not be idle, for I have still two pairs of stockings and several other things to finish."

"Come, Mignonne," responded Petite Mere brightly. "For me, I write to Molly Seymour, or, to be exact, to Molly Arkwright. Thou knowest that for seven years she was my pupil in a part of England that calls itself Hampshire. We have always corresponded, although for some time now I have not heard from her, and for years I have not seen her. Alas ! how many years ? But once since my marriage, when Joseph took me to England. But he loved it not — the ' land of rain and fog,' he called it always. There were two sisters when I lived with them — Molly and Evelyn. . . . Evelyn was intelligent, but Molly had the good heart. She, too, has been married this long time ; she has a good husband, and now four children. We saw Monsieur Arkwright, and Joseph was well content with him. Mademoiselle has made a good choice, he said. ... So I write to Molly ; I say thou comest to England on business which may detain thee, or, again, it may not ! Who can say ? But she will be a friend to thee. She lives in the country, but what matters it ? There are always trains in these days. I say that thou wilt come in three or four weeks, and that tfiou wilt write or telegraph from London. N'est ce pas?"

For a while nothing was heard but the scratching of Madame Mare's fine pen and the click of the knittingneedles.

AN OLD STORY 15

"Cherie!" said Babette suddenly, "I think that no girl ever had such a happy childhood as I."

"I thank God for it, little one."

The girl leaned forward, and, resting her elbows on the table, framed her face in her hands. Her large grey eyes were full of light.

"Truly, so do 1," she said gently. "Every day has been happy."

Petite M^re gazed at the sweet face as if her eyes could never take their fill of gazing. It was not a beautiful face — no, the features were too irregular, the mouth a shade too large, but it was more than redeemed from plainness by the eyes, and by the wide brow beneath the brown hair which rioted in waves and curls, and caught the reflected fire-light in bright gleams of gold. The expression was remarkable — youthful radiance shone in every curve and line, hope, fearlessness, joy, and, above all, a sweet sensibility — wholesome, loving and pure, and supremely attractive.

A little shiver shook Petite Mere's slight form. "Mignonne," she said, "suppose — only suppose that shouldst fail and that there is no money ! what wilt thou do then ? "

"Then I will obtain employment," replied the girl quickly. "I am young and strong, I can easily earn money."

Petite M^re nodded. "Yes, perhaps, by teaching. French is a language always in demand, and thy French is of an accent the most pure. It would without doubt be wise for thee to furnish thyself with letters of recommendation. I myself will write one for thee. Monsieur Danton and Madame Menoux also, who have known and loved thee. I myself went to England at no greater age than thine — but I was friendless, and thou wilt have Molly, who will be a friend to thee, of that I am very sure." She paused, and then in a voice which was scarcely audible, she asked, "And — if thou hast the money — if thy heritage is sure ? "