The Little Old Portrait Page 6

got it ready, Louis musteither pay the fine or do extra work. You know we have not got itready--how could we? And then--I think he had been drinking--he beganteasing me. He said I was a pretty girl, in spite of my rags;--they arepoor enough, Madelon, but they are not rags; I do my best to mend them.'

  "`Ah, that you do,' replied the neighbour.

  "`And,' pursued Marguerite, `he pulled me to him and tried to kiss me,and said if I would be amiable he would get me a new silk kerchief, andwould persuade his father not to be harsh with us for the rent. Put Itried to push him away--and Louis, he got so angry--my poor Louis!--heseized a stick and hit him.'

  "`Hit Martin, the bailiff's son!' exclaimed Madelon, an expression offear and anxiety replacing the sort of hard indifference on her face.`My poor child--he must have been mad!'

  "`He did not hurt him much,' continued Marguerite, `but Martin wasfurious. He went out vowing vengeance, and with an evil smile on hisface. And not half-an-hour after he left, one of the bailiff's men camedown, late as it was, to order Louis to be there at five this morning.Louis, so delicate as he is, and so cold and dark and miserable as itwas! But that is not the worst; the man--it was Andre Michaud--wassorry for us, and warned us that Louis is to be terribly punished. Thebailiff swore he would put him in harness--the roads are so bad for thehorses in this weather; he laughed and said it would give one of them arest. Oh, Madelon, you know how dreadful it is--and Louis so weak as heis still--it will kill him! I have been all the morning running to thedoor, thinking he would be coming back, or that perhaps they would becarrying him back, all torn and bleeding, like Felix--you rememberFelix, when they put him in the horse's place, and he broke a bloodvessel?'

  "Madelon turned away--ah, yes, she remembered but too well, but whatcould she say? It was true what Marguerite had described, and there wasno use in complaining. The lords, such as were cruel enough to do so,were allowed by law to drive the peasants in their employ, in the placeof horses or oxen, and even if lashed or goaded till they dropped, thewretched sufferers could claim no redress.

  "`Warm yourself, my child,' she said at last to the weeping girl. `Keepup your heart, for Louis' sake, as well as you can. Have you a bit offire in there?'

  "Marguerite shook her head. Madelon went to a corner of the cottage,and came back with some twigs.

  "`I will try to make it up for you,' she said; `come back with me. Thiswood is dry.'

  "`But, Madelon, you have so little for yourself,' said Marguerite. `Ihad meant to try to find some this morning, though there is scarcely anynow, but my fears for Louis, have stopped my doing anything.'

  "They had coaxed the miserable fire into a more promising condition whenthe sound of voices on the road made Marguerite start nervously, andrush to the door. At first she thought that her worst fears werefulfilled. Two men were carrying _something_ on a plank, while besidewalked a boy--a boy of about ten or eleven, whom she did not know bysight, who from time to time as they came along stooped over the plankand looked anxiously at the motionless figure extended on it. With afearful scream Marguerite rushed out.

  "`My Louis! my Louis!' she cried. `Is he dead?'

  "The two men tramped on into the cottage stolidly, and laid down theplank.

  "`Dead?--I know not,' said one, with a sort of indifference that was notheartlessness. `Would you wish him alive, you foolish child?'

  "But the little boy touched her gently.

  "`He is not dead,' he said softly; `he has only fainted,' and he drew asmall bottle out of the inside of his jacket.

  "`I have a little wine here,' he said, `mother gave it me before I lefthome. He is opening his eyes--give him a spoonful.'

  "The girl did as he said. Poor Louis swallowed with difficulty, and avery little colour came into his face. He tried to sit up, but sankback again, murmuring--

  "`My back--oh, my back!'

  "`He has strained it,' said the second man. `No wonder. He must liedown; have you no mattress?'

  "Marguerite gazed round her stupidly. Madelon touched her.

  "`Rouse yourself, my girl,' she said; `he looks nothing like as bad asJean when they brought him home,' and Marguerite turned to drag out ofits corner the heap of straw on which, covered with what had once been awoman's skirt, Louis spent the night. The little boy darted forward tohelp her.

  "`Who are you?' she said, looking at him wish the quick suspicion withwhich these poor creatures looked at every new face. `I don't knowyou--you don't belong here.'

  "`No,' said he; `I come from Valmont. I came in the carriage that hasbeen sent to fetch my lord, who has been staying here with my lady'sbrother. The coachman brought me to help him, as the groom whogenerally comes is ill.'

  "`And how did you--how came you to see Louis?'

  "`I was strolling about the woods when I met them _driving_ him,' saidthe boy, in a low voice of distress and horror. `I saw him fall--and Iwas so sorry for him,' he added simply, `I thought I would come to seehow he was. But I must not stay; the Count is returning home to-day--Imust not stay. But see here,' and from his pocket he drew a little bagcontaining a few copper coins and one small silver piece.

  "`These are my own--my very own. It is all I have, but take it, to getsome food for poor Louis.'

  "Marguerite 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,' hesaid, 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 wellenough, and perched up on his seat beside the coachman, the boy enjoyedthe driving along the wintry roads, where the snow had hardenedsufficiently to enable them to make their way with great difficulty.They stopped for the night at a village midway between chateaux, anddespite some warnings, started again the next morning, for the Count waseager to get home, feeling sure that any delay would make the Countessvery anxious. But long before they reached Valmont the snow came onagain, more heavily than it had yet fallen that winter. For many hoursit was absolutely impossible to go on, and they were thankful even forthe refuge of a miserable cabin, inhabited by an old road mender and hiswife, two poor creatures looking a hundred at least, whom they foundcowering over a wretched fire, and who were at first too frightened atthe sight of them to let them in. The name of the Count de Valmontreassured them, and they did their best to find shelter, both for thehuman beings and the horses, though their best was miserablyinsufficient. And the night in that poor hovel laid the seeds of thesevere illness with which Edmee's father was prostrated but a few hoursafter reaching home.

  "For some weeks he was so ill that the doctors scarcely hoped he wouldlive through the winter. The pretty young Countess grew thin andcareworn with sorrow and anxiety and nursing, for she scarcely ever lefthis bedside, day or night. It was little Edmee's first meeting withtrouble. The Marquis de Sarinet deferred going to Paris till he saw howhis brother-in-law's illness was to end, and he came two or three timesto Valmont. For if he had a tender spot in his cold selfish heart itwas love for the young sister who had when but a child been confided tohis care, and though he scarcely understood it he pitied her distress.Madame, his wife, the Marquise, did _not_ come, and I do not think herabsence was regretted. She must, by all accounts, have been a mostunloveable woman, as cold and proud to the full as her husband, and withno 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 bydegrees began to show signs of improvement. As at last the cold gaveway to the milder days of spring, his strength slowly returned, and hewould now and then allude to the possibility of recovering his health toa certain extent. It had been a most trying winter for many besides theinvalid. Exceedingly rigorous
weather is always a terrible aggravationof the sufferings of the poor, and even at Valmont, in so many ways anunusually happy and prosperous village, many had suffered; and someperhaps more than was suspected, for now that the Count and Countesswere unable to go amongst their people as usual, and to see forthemselves where their help was called for, a natural feeling of prideprevented many from complaining until actually forced to do so, thoughthe Countess did her best. She intrusted Pierre's mother with many akindly mission, and whenever the weather was fit for so tender acreature to face it, little Edmee might have been seen, trotting alongby the kind woman, often herself carrying a basket with gifts for somelittle child or old person whom they had heard of as ill or