Tales and Novels Volume VI Part 57

de Coulanges, I can answer for her that the sole thing in nature she thought of, in leaving this house, was the bad step of the hackney-coach."

"Hackney-coach!" cried Mrs. Somers, with surprise. "Did they go away in a hackney-coach?"

"Yes, ma'am, much against the countess' stomach, I am sure: I only wish you had seen the face she made when the gla.s.s would not come up."

"But why did not they take my carriage, or wait for Lady Littleton's?

They were, it seems, in a violent hurry to be gone," said Mrs. Somers.

"So it seems, indeed, ma'am--no better proof of their being the most ungratefullest people in the universe: but so it is, by all accounts, with all of their nation--the French having no constant hearts for any thing but singing, and dancing, and dressing, and making merry-andrews of themselves. Indeed, I own, till to-day, I thought Miss Emilie had less of the merry-andrew nature than any of her country; but the b.u.t.terfly has satisfied me that there is no striving against climate and natural character, which conquer grat.i.tude and every thing else."

Mrs. Somers sighed, and told Masham that she had said enough upon this disagreeable subject. At dinner the subject was renewed by many visitors, who, as soon as they found that Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges had left Mrs. Somers, began to find innumerable faults with the French in general, and with the countess and her daughter in particular. On the chapter of grat.i.tude they were most severe; and Mrs. Somers was universally pitied for having so much generosity, and blamed for having had so much patience. Every body declared that they foresaw how she would be treated; and the exclamations of wonder at Lady Littleton's inviting to her house those who had behaved so ill to her friend were unceasing. Mrs. Somers all the time denied that she had any cause of complaint against either Mad. de Coulanges or her daughter; but the company judiciously trusted more to her looks than her words. Every thing was said or hinted that could exasperate her against her former favourites: for Mad. de Coulanges had made many enemies by engrossing an unreasonable share in the conversation; and Emilie by attracting too great a portion of attention by her beauty and engaging manners. Malice often overshoots the mark: Mrs. Somers was at first glad to hear the objects of her indignation abused; but at last she began to think the profusion of blame greater than was merited, and when she retired to rest at night, and when Masham began with "Oh, ma'am! do you know that Mlle. de Coulanges--" Mrs. Somers interrupted her, and said, "Masham, I desire to hear nothing more about Mlle. de Coulanges: I have heard her and her mother abused, without ceasing, these two hours, and that is enough."

"Lord! ma'am, I was not going to abuse them--G.o.d forbid! I was just going to tell you," cried Masham, "that never was any thing so mistaken as all I said before dinner. Just now, ma'am, when I went into the little dressing-room, within Mad. de Coulanges' room, and happened to open the wardrobe, I was quite struck back with shame at my own unjustice: there, ma'am, poor Miss Emilie left something--and out of her best things!--to every maid-servant in the house; all directed in her own hand, and with a good word for each; and this ring for me, which she is kind enough to say is of no value but to put me in mind of all the attentions I have shown her and her mother--which, I am sure, were scarcely worth noticing, especially at such a time when she had enough to do, and her heart full, no doubt, poor soul!--There are her little paintings and embroideries, and pretty things, that she did when she was confined with her sprain, all laid out in order--'tis my astonishment how she found time!--and directed to her friends in London, as keep-sakes:--and the very b.u.t.terfly that I was so angry with her for staying to finish, is on something for you, ma'am; and here's a packet that was with it, and that n.o.body saw till this minute."

"Give it me!" cried Mrs. Somers. She tore it open, and found, in the first place, the pocketbook, full of bank notes, which she had given Mad. de Coulanges, with a few polite but haughty lines from the countess, saying that only twenty guineas had been used, which she hoped, at some future period, to be able to repay. Then came a note from Emilie, in which Mrs. Somers found her own letter to Lady Littleton. Emilie expressed herself as follows.

"Many thanks for the enclosed, but we have determined not to go to Lady Littleton's: at least we will take care not to be the cause of quarrel between friends to whom we are so much obliged.--No, dear Mrs. Somers! we do not part in anger. Excuse me, if the last words I said to you were hasty--they were forced from me by a moment of pa.s.sion--but it is past: all your generosity, all your kindness, the recollection of all that you have done, all that you have wished for my happiness, rush upon my mind; and every other thought, and every other feeling, is forgotten. Would to Heaven that I could express to you my grat.i.tude by actions!--but words, alas! are all that I have in my power--and where shall I find words that can reach your heart? I had better be silent, and trust to time and to you. I know your generous temper--you will soon blame yourself for having judged too severely of Emilie. But do not reproach yourself--do not let this give you a moment's uneasiness: the clouds pa.s.s away, and the blue sky remains. Think only--as I ever shall--of your goodness to mamma and to me. Adieu!

"EMILIE DE COULANGES."

Mrs. Somers was much affected by this letter, and by the information that Emilie and her mother had declined taking refuge with Lady Littleton, lest they should occasion jealousies between her and her friend. Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity of sentiment or of action. Mrs. Somers went to bed, enraged against herself--but it was now too late.

In the mean time, Emilie and her mother were in an obscure lodging, at a haberdasher's near Golden Square. The pride of Mad. de Coulanges, at first, supported her even beyond her daughter's expectations; she uttered no complaints, but frequently repeated, "Mais nous sommes bien ici, tres bien--we cannot expect to have things as well as at the Hotel de Coulanges." In a short time she was threatened with fits of her _vapeurs noirs_; but Emilie, with the a.s.sistance of her whole store of French songs, a bird-organ, a lap-dog, and a squirrel, belonging to the girl of the house, contrived to avert the danger for the present--as to the future, she trembled to think of it. M. de Brisac seemed to be continually in her mother's thoughts; and whatever occurred, or whatever was the subject of conversation, Mad. de Coulanges always found means to end with "_a propos de M. de Brisac_."

Faithful to her promise, however, which Emilie, with the utmost delicacy, recalled to her mind, she declared that she would not give M. de Brisac an answer till the end of the month, which she had allowed her daughter for reflection, and that, till that period, she would not even let him know where they were to be found. Emilie thought that the time went very fast, and her mother evidently rejoiced at the idea that the month would soon be at an end. Emilie endeavoured, with all her skill, to demonstrate to her mother that it would be possible to support themselves, by her industry and ingenuity, without this marriage; and to this, Mad. de Coulanges at first replied, "Try, and you will soon be tired, child." Emilie's spirits rose on receiving this permission: she began by copying music for a music-shop in the neighbourhood; and her mother saw, with astonishment, that she persevered in her design, and that no fatigue or discouraging circ.u.mstances could vanquish her resolution.

"Good Heavens! my child," said she, "you will wear yourself to a skeleton with copying music, and with painting, and embroidery, besides stooping so many hours over that tambour frame. My dear, how can you bear all this?"

"How!--Oh! dear mamma!" said Emilie, "there is no great difficulty in all this to me--the difficulty, the impossibility would be, to live happily with a man I despise."

"I wish," cried Mad. de Coulanges, "I wish to all the saints, that that hero of yours, that fellow-prisoner of ours at the Abbaye, with his humanity, and his generosity, and his courage, and all his fine qualities, had kept out of your way, Emilie: I wish he were fairly at the bottom of the Black Sea."

"But you forget that he was the means of obtaining your liberty, mamma."

"I wish I could forget it--I am always doomed to be obliged to those whom I cannot love. But, after all, you might as well think of the khan of Tartary as of this man, whom we shall never hear of more.

Marry M. de Brisac, like a reasonable creature, and do not let me see you bending, as you do, for ever, over a tambour frame, wasting your fine eyes and spoiling your charming shape."

"But, mamma," said Emilie, "would it not be much worse to marry one man, and like another?"

"For mercy's sake! say something new to me, Emilie; at all events, I have heard this a hundred times."

"The simple truth, alas!" said Emilie, "must always be the same: I wish I could put it in any new light that would please you, dear mamma."

"It never can please me, child," cried Mad. de Coulanges, angrily; "nor can you please me, either, as you are going on. Fine heroism, truly!--you will sacrifice your duty and your mother to your obstinacy in an idle fancy. But, remember, the last days of the month are at hand--longer I will not listen to such provoking nonsense--it has half killed me already."

Neither lap-dog, squirrel, bird-organ, nor Emilie's whole stock of French songs, could longer support the vivacity of Mad. de Coulanges; for some days she had pa.s.sed the time in watching and listening to the London cries, as she sat at her window: the figures and sounds in this busy part of the town were quite new to her; and, whilst the novelty lasted, she was, like a child, good-humoured and full of exclamations.

The want of some one to listen to these exclamations was an insupportable evil; she complained terribly of her daughter's silence, whilst she was attending to her different employments. This want of conversation, and of all the luxuries she enjoyed at the house of Mrs.

Somers, her anger against that lady, her loss of all hope of hearing from France, and her fear that Emilie would at last absolutely refuse to obey and marry M. de Brisac, all together operated so powerfully upon Mad. de Coulanges, that she really felt sick, and kept her bed.

Emilie now confined herself to her mother's room, and attended her with the most affectionate care, and with a degree of anxiety, which those only can comprehend who have believed themselves to be the cause of the illness of a friend--of a parent. Mad. de Coulanges would sometimes reply, when her daughter asked her if such or such a thing had done her good, "No, my child, nothing will do me good but your obedience, which you refuse me--perhaps on my deathbed."

Though Emilie did not apprehend that her mother was in any immediate danger, yet these continual fits of low spirits and nervous attacks excited much alarm. Emilie's reflections on her own helpless situation contributed to magnify her fears: she considered that she was a stranger, a foreigner, without friends, without credit, almost without money, and deprived, by the necessary attendance on her sick mother, of all power to earn any by her own exertions. The bodily fatigue that she endured, even without any mental anxiety, would have been sufficient to wear out the spirits of a more robust person than Emilie. She had no human being to a.s.sist her but a young girl, a servant-maid belonging to the house, who, fortunately, was active and good-natured; but her mistress was excessively cross, vulgar, and avaricious; avarice, indeed, often seemed to conquer in her the common feelings of humanity. Once, whilst Mad. de Coulanges was extremely ill, she forced her way into her bedchamber, to insist upon changing the counterpane upon the bed, which she said was too good to be stained with coffee: another day, when she was angry with Mlle. de Coulanges, for having cracked a basin by heating some soup for her mother, she declared, in the least ceremonious terms possible, that she hated to have any of the French _refugees_ and emigrants in the house, for that she was not accustomed to let her lodgings to folk that n.o.body ever came near to visit, and that lived only upon soups and salads, and such low stuff; "and who, when they were ill, never so much as called in a physician, or even a nurse, but must take up the time of people that were not bound to wait upon them."

Mlle. de Coulanges bore all this patiently rather than run the hazard of removing to other lodgings whilst her mother was so ill.

The countess had a prejudice against English physicians, as she affirmed that it was impossible that they could understand French const.i.tutions, especially hers, which was different from that of any other human being, and which, as she said, only one medical man in France rightly understood. At last, however, she yielded to the persuasions of her daughter, and permitted Emilie to send for a physician. When she inquired what he thought of her mother, he said, that she was in a nervous fever, and that unless her mind was kept free from anxiety he could not answer for her recovery. Mad. de Coulanges looked full at her daughter, who was standing at the foot of her bed; a mist came before Emilie's eyes, a cold dew covered her forehead, and she was forced to hold by the bed-post to support herself.

At this instant the door opened, and Lady Littleton appeared. Emilie sprang forward, and threw herself into her arms--Mad. de Coulanges started up in her bed, exclaiming "Ah Ciel!" and then all were silent--except the mistress of the house, who went on making apologies about the dirt of her stairs, and its being Friday night. But as she at length perceived that not a soul in the room knew a word she was saying, she retreated. The physician took leave--and, when they were thus left at liberty, Lady Littleton seated herself in the broken arm-chair beside the bed, and told Mad. de Coulanges that Mrs. Somers had been very unhappy, in consequence of their quarrel; and that she had been indefatigable in her inquiries and endeavours to find out the place of their retreat; that she had at last given up the search in despair. "But," continued Lady Littleton, "it has been my good fortune to discover you by means of this flower of Emilie's painting"--(she produced a little hand-screen, which Emilie had lately made, and which she had sent to be disposed of at the Repository for Ingenious Works).

"I knew it to be yours, my dear, because it is an exact resemblance of one upon your watch of Flora, which was drawn from the flower I brought you from Kew Gardens. Now you must not be angry with me for finding you out, nor for begging of you to be reconciled to poor Mrs.

Somers, who has suffered much in your absence--much from the idea of what you would endure--and more from her self-reproaches. She has, indeed, an unfortunate susceptibility of temper, which makes her sometimes forget both politeness and justice: but, as you well know, her heart is excellent. Come, you must promise me to meet her at my house, as soon as you are able to go out, my dear Mad. de Coulanges."

"I do not know when that will be," replied Mad. de Coulanges, in a sick voice: "I was never so ill in my life--and so the physician says.

But I am revived by seeing Lady Littleton--she is, and ever has been, all goodness and politeness to us. I am ashamed that she should see us in such a miserable place. Emilie, give me my other night-riband, and the wretched little looking-gla.s.s."

Mad. de Coulanges sat up and arranged her head-dress. At this moment, Lady Littleton took Emilie aside, and put into her hand a letter from France!--"I would not speak of it suddenly to your mother, my dear,"

said she; "but you will find the proper time. I hope it contains good news--at present I will have patience. You shall see me again soon; and you must, at all events, let me take you from this miserable place. Mrs. Somers has been punished enough.--Adieu!--I long to know the news from France."

The news from France was such as made the looking-gla.s.s drop from the hand of Mad. de Coulanges. It was a letter from the son of her old steward, to tell her that his father was dead--that he was now in possession of all the family fortune, which he was impatient to restore to the wife and daughter of his former master and friend.

"Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Mad. de Coulanges, in an ecstasy of joy--"Heaven be praised! we shall once more see dear Paris, and the Hotel de Coulanges!"

"Heaven be praised!" cried Emilie, "I shall never more see M. de Brisac. My mother, I am sure, will no longer wish me to marry him."

"No, in truth," said the countess, "it would now be a most unequal match, and one to which he is by no means ent.i.tled. How fortunate it is that I had not given him my promise!--After all, your aversion to him, child, was quite providential. Now you may form the most splendid alliance that your heart can desire."

"My heart," said Emilie, sighing, "desires no splendid alliance. But had you not better lie down, dear mamma?--You will certainly catch cold--and remember, your mind must be kept quiet."

It was impossible to keep her mind quiet; she ran on from one subject to another with extravagant volubility; and Emilie was afraid that she would, the next day, be quite exhausted; but, on the contrary, after talking above half the night, she fell into a sound sleep; and when she wakened, after having slept fourteen hours, she declared that she would no longer be kept a prisoner in bed. The renovating effects of joy and the influence of the imagination were never more strongly displayed. "Le malheur pa.s.se n'est bon qu'a etre oublie," was la comtesse's favourite maxim--and to do her justice, she was as ready to forget past quarrels as past misfortunes. She readily complied with Emilie's request that she would, as soon as she was able to go out, accompany her to Lady Littleton's, that they might meet and be reconciled to Mrs. Somers.

"She has the most tormenting temper imaginable," said the countess; "and I would not live with her for the universe--Mais d'ailleurs c'est la meilleure femme du monde."

If, instead of being the best woman in the world, Mrs. Somers had been the worst, and if, instead of being a benefactress, she had been an enemy, it would have been all the same thing to the countess; for, in this moment, she was, as usual, like a child, a _friend_ to every creature of every kind.

Her volubility was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Littleton, who came to carry Mad. de Coulanges and Emilie to her house, where, as her ladys.h.i.+p said, Mrs. Somers was impatiently waiting for them. Lady Littleton had prevented her from coming to this poor lodging-house, because she knew that the being seen there would mortify the pride of some of the house of Coulanges.

Mrs. Somers was indeed waiting for them with inexpressible impatience.

The moment she heard their voices in the hall at Lady Littleton's, she ran down stairs to meet them; and as she embraced Emilie she could not refrain from bursting into tears.

"Tears of joy, these must be," cried Mad. de Coulanges: "we are all happy now--perfectly happy--Are not we?--Embrace me, Mrs.

Somers--Emilie shall not have all your heart--I have some grat.i.tude as well as my daughter; and I should have none if I did not love you--especially at this moment."

Mad. de Coulanges was, by this time, at the head of the stairs; a servant opened the drawing-room door; but something was amiss with the strings of her sandals--she would stay to adjust them--and said to Emilie, "Allez, allez--entrez."

Emilie obeyed. An instant afterwards Mad. de Coulanges thought she heard a sudden cry, either of joy or grief, from Emilie--she hurried into the drawing-room.

"Bon Dieu! c'est notre homme de l'Abbaye!" cried she, starting back at the sight of a gentleman who had been kneeling at Emilie's feet, and who arose as she entered.

"My son!" said Mrs. Somers, eagerly presenting him to Mad. de Coulanges--"my son! whom it is in your power to make the happiest or the most miserable of men!"

"In my power!--in Emilie's, you mean, I suppose," said the countess, smiling. "She is so good a girl that I cannot make her miserable; and as for you, Mrs. Somers, the honour of your alliance--and our obligations--But then I shall be miserable myself if she does not go back with me to the Hotel de Coulanges--Ah! Ciel!--And then poor M.

de Brisac, he will be miserable, unless, to comfort him, I marry him myself."--Half laughing, half crying, Mad. de Coulanges scarcely knew what she said or did.