The Little Old Portrait. Molesworth Mrs.
seized his hand and kissed it.
”‘Tell me your name, that I may pray for you.’
”‘I am Pierre – Pierre Germain, the son of the forester at Valmont,’ he said, as he ran off.
“It was in very different circumstances that these two met again.”
Chapter Four
That was a terrible journey back from Sarinet to Valmont-les-Roses. Little Pierre Germain never forgot it. The first day they got on well enough, and perched up on his seat beside the coachman, the boy enjoyed the driving along the wintry roads, where the snow had hardened sufficiently to enable them to make their way with great difficulty. They stopped for the night at a village midway between châteaux, and despite some warnings, started again the next morning, for the Count was eager to get home, feeling sure that any delay would make the Countess very anxious. But long before they reached Valmont the snow came on again, more heavily than it had yet fallen that winter. For many hours it was absolutely impossible to go on, and they were thankful even for the refuge of a miserable cabin, inhabited by an old road mender and his wife, two poor creatures looking a hundred at least, whom they found cowering over a wretched fire, and who were at first too frightened at the sight of them to let them in. The name of the Count de Valmont reassured them, and they did their best to find shelter, both for the human beings and the horses, though their best was miserably insufficient. And the night in that poor hovel laid the seeds of the severe illness with which Edmée’s father was prostrated but a few hours after reaching home.
“For some weeks he was so ill that the doctors scarcely hoped he would live through the winter. The pretty young Countess grew thin and careworn with sorrow and anxiety and nursing, for she scarcely ever left his bedside, day or night. It was little Edmée’s first meeting with trouble. The Marquis de Sarinet deferred going to Paris till he saw how his brother-in-law’s illness was to end, and he came two or three times to Valmont. For if he had a tender spot in his cold selfish heart it was love for the young sister who had when but a child been confided to his care, and though he scarcely understood it he pitied her distress. Madame, his wife, the Marquise, did not come, and I do not think her absence was regretted. She must, by all accounts, have been a most unloveable woman, as cold and proud to the full as her husband, and with no thought but her own amusement and adornment. As to their only child, Edmond, you will hear more as I proceed with my narrative of events.
“To the delight, almost to the amazement, of all about him, the Count by degrees began to show signs of improvement. As at last the cold gave way to the milder days of spring, his strength slowly returned, and he would now and then allude to the possibility of recovering his health to a certain extent. It had been a most trying winter for many besides the invalid. Exceedingly rigorous weather is always a terrible aggravation of the sufferings of the poor, and even at Valmont, in so many ways an unusually happy and prosperous village, many had suffered; and some perhaps more than was suspected, for now that the Count and Countess were unable to go amongst their people as usual, and to see for themselves where their help was called for, a natural feeling of pride prevented many from complaining until actually forced to do so, though the Countess did her best. She intrusted Pierre’s mother with many a kindly mission, and whenever the weather was fit for so tender a creature to face it, little Edmée might have been seen, trotting along by the kind woman, often herself carrying a basket with gifts for some little child or old person whom they had heard of as ill or suffering in some way.
”‘I don’t like winter now,’ she said one day, when, with Pierre on one side and his mother on the other, she was on her way to a poor family a little out of the village. ‘I used to think it was so pretty to see the snow and to slide on the ice. Put I don’t like it now. It made dear papa ill, and the poor people are so cold, and I think they’re so much happier in summer.’
”‘Yes,’ said Madame Germain. ‘Hunger is bad to bear, but I fear cold is still worse. It has been a sad winter,’ and the kind woman sighed.
”‘And if sad here in Valmont, what must it have been in other places?’ said Pierre, his thoughts returning to what he had seen at Sarinet.
”‘At those places where the lords are not kind to the poor people, do you mean?’ said Edmée, eagerly. The subject always seemed to have a fascination for her, though her parents, and the Germains too, had taken care to tell her nothing to distress her sensitive feelings.
”‘Yes, of course that makes it worse,’ said Madame Germain.
”‘Is my uncle Sarinet kind to his poor people?’ asked Edmée, in a low voice, though there was no one to overhear her.
”‘Why do you ask that, my child?’ said Madame Germain. ‘No one has ever spoken against the Marquis to you?’
”‘N-no,’ said Edmée, ‘but he has not a kind face, mamma Germain. He smiles at me, but still it is not a real smile. And before Victorine went away – oh, I am so glad she has gone to be my aunt’s maid instead of little mamma’s! – before she went away she said she was glad she was going where there would be no nonsense of spoiling the common people like here. At Sarinet they are well punished, she said, if they are naughty. How do they punish them, mamma Germain?’
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