The Little Old Portrait Read online

hot and tired to romp more, they sat on the grass playing with theirpet kitten, till mother called them in. Their aunt and her little boysand the old cure soon after went away, and then, when Joseph and Rogerwere safely in bed, the three elder ones reminded their mother of herpromise.

  "I have not forgotten it," she said. "Your father is coming in amoment. I must let you sit up an hour later than usual this evening;but if there is not time to read all the story, we can finish it onSunday evening, perhaps."

  And then she led the way back to the parlour, which seemed the mostsuitable place for reading the story in, besides being cooler than thekitchen, for the evening was very hot.

  In a few minutes the farmer made his appearance. He seated himself inone of the two largest and most comfortable of the arm-chairs, whileMadame Marcel took the other, drawing it near enough to the window tohave a good light; for the sheaf of papers which she held in her handwas yellow with age, and the ink of the writing, from the same cause,had become pale and not very easy to read. And the children's eyeswatched with eagerness, not unmixed with awe, the pages, which were tiedtogether with a faded blue ribbon, as their mother smoothed them out andplaced them ready.

  "Before I begin," she said, "I must tell you, children, who wrote thislittle story, and why. It was written by my mother; you cannot rememberyour dear grandmother, children; she died when you, even, Pierre, were avery little boy, and Edmee still a baby. It was a great sorrow to me.I had hoped she would have lived to help me to bring you up, and toeducate you as she educated me, though I fear I have now forgotten muchof what she taught me."

  "There is no one in the village as clever as you, mother," said Pierreand Edmee. "Every one says so. Who can write so nicely, as you,mother, or keep accounts so beautifully?"

  "Yes, indeed," said the farmer. "Many a compliment I have had about myaccounts, and very proud I am to say it is my good wife who makes themout."

  "So you see, mother!" said the children.

  "Well, well," said Madame Marcel. "But the little I can do is nothingto what my dear mother knew and could do. And she, again, used to sayshe felt ashamed of her ignorance in comparison with _her_ mother'ssuperiority. And this brings me to the story, or rather, in the firstplace, to the picture. That dear little girl up there, children, is mygrandmother, your great-grandmother, whose maiden name was Edmee deValmont."

  "Edmee de Valmont," repeated the children, as if they could scarcelybelieve it. "You don't mean--not de Valmont of Valmont-les-Roses, notone of _them_?" said Pierre eagerly.

  "Yes, dear. My grandmother was the last of the old name. And how shecame to be so, and how in the end she changed it for a much humbler one,and never repented having done so--that is the story here written out byher wish, and under her superintendence, by her daughter, my mother."

  The children looked at their mother bewilderedly.

  "I don't think I quite understand," said Edmee. "Whom did she marry?Was it our grandfather Marcel?"

  "Oh dear no, my child," replied her mother, laughing. "That would havemade very funny relationships," and Farmer Marcel smiled as he said--

  "It is not to my side of the house, but to little mother's, that you oweyour noble descent."

  And Madame Marcel went on to explain.

  "My grandmother, Edmee de Valmont, married Pierre Germain. They had butone child, my mother, also Edmee, and she in turn married JosephLaurent, my father. I, again, was an only child, so it has always beenby Edmees that the de Valmonts have been remembered, till now, when mylittle Roger has revived the old Valmont name. There was always a Rogerde Valmont in the old days."

  "Ah yes," exclaimed Pierre, "I know that by the old inscriptions in thechurch. Mother, why did you not call me, the eldest, Roger? I shouldhave been proud of the name."

  His mother looked at him with a rather anxious expression; he was ahandsome boy, and before now some of the old people in the village hadwhispered to her that the Valmont blood was to be seen in the littlefarmer, though she had begged them always to put no nonsense in herboy's head.

  "My boy," she said seriously, almost solemnly, "when you have heard thislittle story, you will, I think, agree with me that no one could beotherwise than proud to bear the name of my dear and honouredgrandfather, Pierre Germain. I do not wish to speak with anything butrespect of my grandmother's ancestors, especially as I am happy to thinkmany of them deserved to be so thought of. They did their best, andstrove to be just and benevolent at a time when there were few to showthe example, and for that let us honour them. But the ancestors _I_ amthe most proud of, and I know your father agrees with me, are not the deValmonts."

  Pierre slipped his hand into his mother's.

  "I should like to think the same as you and father," he said gently.And then Madame Marcel, having the papers smoothed out, and sitting in agood clear light began to read as follows:--

  "Belle Prairie Farm,--

  "Valmont-les-Roses,--

  "Touraine.

  "_1st June, in the year of our Lord 1822_.

  "I, Edmee Germain, the only child of Pierre Germain and Edmee his wife(born Edmee de Valmont), by the wish of my mother, am going to endeavourto write the story of her life, that her descendants may know the truefacts, and above all, may learn to honour the memory of my dear father,Pierre Germain, who ended his good and faithful life on the 12th of lastApril. My dear mother and I have felt dreadfully sad since his death,and the idea of writing this simple narrative is the first thing whichhas at all consoled us. I fear I shall not do it very well, for thoughmy mother has educated me carefully, I am not by nature as clever asshe, and I feel that I have not well repaid the trouble she has takenwith me. But it is her wish that I should write it rather than sheherself; so I shall do my best, and if it should ever be read bychildren or grandchildren of mine, I am sure they will judge it gently,and not be severe on my blunders. When it is completed, mother is goingto ask our kind cure to read it through, and to put his name to it as asign that all is truly stated, and without exaggeration. My mother andI wish that these papers should be always kept in the top drawer of thehandsome chest of drawers in the best parlour at Belle Prairie Farm, solong, that is to say, as the farm continues in the hands of ourdescendants, which we hope will be for very, very long. And as thechildren of the family grow old enough to feel an interest in itshistory, we wish that what I am about to write should be read aloud tothem."

  Madame Marcel stopped a moment. All eyes were fixed on her, all earswere eagerly listening. So she went on again. There was no other titleor heading to the manuscript.

  "It is nearly forty years ago that one day a little girl--a very littlegirl--was playing with a boy a few years older than herself on theterrace in front of the chateau of Valmont-les-Roses. The chateau wasvery old; many generations of Valmonts had played on the same oldterrace--had grown to be men and women, and found there were many thingsbesides playing to be done in the world--had passed through the busynoontime of life, and gradually down the hill to old age and peacefuldeath. For they had been in general kindly and gentle, loving to livequietly on their lands, and make those about them happy, so that theywere respected and trusted by their dependants; and even in troubledtimes of widely-spread discontent and threatened revolt, the talk ofthese things passed quietly by our peaceful village, and no one paidmuch heed to it.

  "The little girl who was racing up and down the terrace, her companionpretending to try to catch her, and letting her slip past so that shemight fancy she was quicker than he, was Edmee, only child of the Countde Valmont, and the boy was Pierre Germain, her favourite playfellow,though only the son of her father's head forester.

  "Edmee had no brothers or sisters, and Pierre's mother had been for sometime her nurse when she was a tiny baby. The kind woman had left herown little boy to come to the chateau to take care of the Countess'sbaby, who was so delicate that no one thought she would live, and by herdevotion Madame Germain had helped to make her the bright, healthylittle girl that she now, at fi
ve years old, had become. So, as onealways loves those to whom one has been of great service, Madame Germainloved little Edmee dearly, and Edmee loved her. There was nowhere inthe village she so much liked to go as to the Germains' little cottage,and no child she cared to play with as much as Pierre, who was only fouryears older than she, but so gentle and careful with her that no onefelt any anxiety when they knew that the little lady, `Mademoiselle,' asshe was called, was with Pierre Germain.

  "Tired with running and laughing, Edmee called to Pierre to help herdown the steep stone steps at one end of the terrace, and the twochildren settled themselves comfortably under the shade of awide-spreading beech tree.

  "`Now Pierrot, good pretty Pierrot,' said Edmee