It is difficult to describe the pride, the delight, of the two old ladies, they would have engrossed the baby altogether had it been possible. Jacquetta trembled to see Aunt Celestine holding it, she was unaccustomed to infants and seemed so nervous when carrying the heir that out of fear of letting him fall she very nearly dropped him. The dowager wanted to have the little Joseph Marie always on her knees. She crowed to him, she snapped her fingers, she jingled her keys, she made the most hideous grimaces, and outrageous noises, in order to attract his attention. She discovered that he was the image of the great-great-grandfather of her late husband, a general, whose portrait was in the salon, a grim old officer with a mouth like a rat-trap. She called Alphonse to admire, to adore the infant. She went into ecstasies, she chattered, she prayed, she laughed, she cried over it.
Unfortunately she concentrated her love on the babe to such an extent that she could spare none for the mother. She rather resented that Jacquetta should lay any claims to it. She would have preferred that the child should be nursed by a peasantess who would have been under her own control, and quite taken away from its mother and brought up in her own suite of apartments. She plagued the poor young wife with her exhortations, remonstrances, advice. If this was vexatious before the child was born, it was doubly vexatious now. But Jacquetta endured her mother-in-law’s fidgets with patience; in some matters she held her own, would not yield, and then the old baroness gave way, not without a secret respect for Jacquetta for being able to show firmness. In trifles Jacquetta yielded, yielded graciously, smilingly. She was pleased to see the withered old hearts unfold and bloom like roses of Jericho. The baron resumed his country occupations, and but for her baby, the young wife would have been almost as solitary as before. Thoughts which she could not crush down worked in her head. Life at Plaissac was insupportable. The two old ladies took advantage of her amiability, and Alphonse was culpable in not sustaining her against them. She thought that they would try to set her baby against her, as he grew up. They would carry their ideas into effect with his education as they had overriden her wishes in the matter of his name. She drove out to visit Aunt Betsy. An idea had been fermenting in her mind which she was afraid to give utterance to, yet resolved to hint at. She could not put up with the life she was leading any longer. She wanted to go home to England, to her father and mother, and carry baby with her. She had no dislike to Alphonse, she loved him, but she loved her little fellow better. She had not had a really happy day since she had been in France. Would Aunt Betsy abet her in her plan of running away? She beat about the bush, she turned white and red, she had her eyes filled with tears, she hid her face, and at last, when Miss Pengelly failed to take hints, her whole scheme was revealed.
The dismay of Aunt Betsy was great. Jacquetta to desert her husband and chateau, to throw away, as naught, her position as baroness, to bring a slur on the name of Montcontour!
‘My dear!’ she exclaimed, ‘it may be all innocent and true what you say, but no one will believe that you have run home—I mean to your father and mother—just for baby’s sake. They will say horrible things of you. They will believe every kind of evil of you. Never—never! No one will admit that you have been badly used. Of course, you are a grocer’s daughter, and an English girl, and you are married into a noble family that is French. You knew all this when you married, and as you have married, you have taken all the disadvantages as well as the advantages in one lump, and you cannot shake them off at pleasure.’
‘But, Aunt—those old cats.’
‘What old cats?’
‘The dowager and Mdlle. de Pleurans. I did not marry them. I do not quarrel with Alphonse, but I do not think it fair I should be plagued with those old women—cats!’
‘They are not cats, they belong to a very good family, and must not be spoken of in this way. My dear, the thing is monstrous, not to be thought of. Put it out of your mind at once. You make my blood curdle.’
‘If I go, will you go with me?’
‘No, certainly.’
No encouragement was to be got from Aunt Betsy, how-ever Jacquetta put her case. She became sullen and angry. For several days she was changed in her manner towards her husband. She resented his conduct. He was bound to see that she was not flouted and imposed upon by his mother and aunt. He did not fulfil his duty, therefore she was relieved of responsibility to fulfil hers. She was more than ever resolved to take an opportunity of running away, and carrying off baby with her. She drove into Nantes and inquired about the vessels sailing for the English ports. If she went by road, she might be pursued and overtaken before she reached St. Malo: but by sea she would be safe, and once in England nothing would induce her to return.
One day the curé and his sister came to pay their respects to the baby and his mother, and congratulate as well the grandmother and great aunt.
‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the deformed woman, ‘what splendour, what luxury! What superb furniture! I have never dreamed of anything like it. This fauteuil, my faith, one could dance on it. See! it is full of springs!’ The poor little creature laughed shrilly. She was a child in mind as in stature, but not a child in spirit, in that old, experienced, trained by suffering.
The curé fixed his keen eye on the young mother.
‘Well! How goes?—happy, thankful to the good God! Why, madame, with such a child, and such a husband, and such a home—’ He had read her heart. He saw the cloud that hung over it. ‘Ah, yes! there is something wanting, and that’—turning to the dowager—‘you must supply.’
A rough man, who smote hard, but with a kind hand, a man who had no scruple to blurt out his opinion in the face of any one.
‘I am very thankful, M. le Curé,’ said Jacquetta, ‘for my dear, dear baby.’
He looked at her with his shrewd eye, and grunted. Her colour was heightened and there was a sparkle in her eye. She did not like his steady observation, and she moved impatiently.
‘Humph!’ said the curé. ‘Madame, may I ask you kindly to show your greenhouses to my sister? She loves flowers passionately.’
‘Certainly,’ answered Jacquetta, ‘if mademoiselle will follow me—but perhaps she is tired and would first rest.’
‘Oh, no, madame, not at all; it is itself a rest for the soul to contemplate beautiful flowers.’
Jacquetta rose stiffly; she was offended. The curé had as much as told her he wanted her out of the room. Another slight, offered her now by one from whom she did not expect it. However, one more mattered little, she thought. In a few days she would be beyond the reach of these petty insolences.
She hardly had left the room before the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel before the door drew Mdlle. de Pleurans to the window. ‘But who is coming? It is a hired carriage. Mon Dieu, Josephine, what is to be done? It is—it is——’
The door opened, and the servant announced, ‘But Mdlle. Painaulait.’
The two old ladies of the house looked at the incomer with speechless astonishment, and with a contempt that transpired from every feature, and finger, and from the very rustle of their gowns.
‘You have come, mademoiselle,’ said the baroness haughtily, ‘to see my daughter-in-law. She is in the garden. Jeanette, take mademoiselle into the garden to Mdme. la Baronne.’
‘Pardon, madame,’ said Aunt Betsy timorously, ‘I have not come to see my niece, but to see you.’
Ah! Mademoiselle Painaulait! To be sure!’ exclaimed the curé walking up to her with both his great hands extended. ‘I have not seen you for long, not since the death of Madame de Hoelgoet, to whom you were so devoted, so good, so like a sister. My faith! how she suffered! And she was a saint. She bore her pains with such fortitude; and you, mademoiselle, have laid up a store of merit, you were ever with her, night and day, and hers was a trying illness, not to herself only, but to those who ministered to her. Well, well! You know the saying in the gospel about ministering to the suffering. Did I say you were like a sister? You were more than a sister.’
The baroness and Mdlle. de Pleurans looked at each other. The curé was a provoking man; he was deficient in tact. He made great blunders.
‘I am sure, ladies,’ said the curé, ‘that I am only expressing your feelings when I tell Mdlle. Painaulait that the debt of gratitude owed her by the family is one that can never be repaid.’
‘M. le Curé,’ said the baroness sternly, ‘we can speak for ourselves. What is it which Mdlle. Painaulait wants with us? I assure you, M. le Curé, that neither my sister nor I can conceive of any occasion for Mdlle. Painaulait having called on us.’
‘M. le Curé,’ said Aunt Celestine, ‘I am equally surprised at this visit of Mdlle. Painaulait. I assure you, M. le Curé, that I also cannot imagine an occasion for the intrusion.’
‘Oh, Madame la Baronne!’ pleaded Aunt Betsy with great humility, ‘I am perfectly aware that I have no right here, and that it is great presumption on my part, but I do want to speak in private with you, two words, if you will graciously consent, madame.’
‘M. le Curé, I am sure that Mdlle. Painaulait can say anything she desires before you. Is it not so, monsieur?’
‘That, madame, concerns her. She wants a word in private with you.’
‘But, monsieur, I must request that whatever is said be said here. I am indisposed to accord a more private in terview.’
‘Madame!’ pleaded Aunt Betsy, ‘it concerns your family. It concerns Jacquetta—’
‘She means Madame la Baronne de Montcontour.’
‘It concerns the baron, and the baby baron too.’
Not a word. The old ladies sat stiffly on their seats, they had not asked her to take a chair.
‘Oh, Madame!’ burst forth Miss Pengelly, ‘I have only just discovered it. She has made all preparations to go away—she has taken her place in a vessel that sails on Tuesday, and the coachman’s wife is to go with her as nurse, and the baby will be carried away also—I mean the Baron Joseph Marie de Montcontour.’
‘What is that? What?’
The ladies started to their feet in dismay.
‘She has been so unhappy. She cannot bear to live in France any longer. She pines to be home in England with her dear papa and mamma. You have not understood her. She has been neglected, treated coldly. She is out of her place here. I have only just discovered her plan. Do not tell her I have betrayed her secret, but—it must not be permitted—the scandal.’
‘Effroyable!’ exclaimed both ladies at once.
‘Hein!’ have I not said it?’ shouted the curé thrusting his hands through his cincture, and striding up and down the room. ‘Hein! it is come to this? This is the result of your detestable pride and airs! I tell you, baroness, and you, mademoiselle, you call yourselves Catholics but you are heathens at heart. Why did not you go and nurse your sister, Mdme. de Hoelgoet? Why did you keep away from her? You were afraid lest the disorder should attack yourselves. Miss Painaulait had no such fears. She is a heretic, but she is a better Christian than either of you. Then, when you get a charming, angelic daughter into the chateau, with your wicked pride and uncharitableness you make the place unendurable to her, and drive her away! Hein! it makes me angry. I would like to take your two noble heads and knock them together—que Diable. Heaven forgive me, I was swearing,’ and he crossed himself. ‘Mdlle. Painaulait, we thank you; all will be well. Do not let the baroness see you; return at once. Let me be your chevalier and escort you to the carriage. Say nothing to your niece. All will be well. Hold!—what is the name of the vessel?’
‘The Petrel.’
‘Come, march! Excuse me, mademoiselle, I am impatient to see you drive away before your niece is aware that you have been here. I have an idea in my head. All will be well, on my faith as a priest. Believe me.’
As he handed Miss Pengelly into her carriage he said, ‘Drive at once to the quay. Secure two more berths, four in all, for M. le Baron, and Mdme. la Baronne de Montcontour.’
Then the good old man strode away into the garden iu quest of Jacquetta and his sister. They were not on the terrace, not in the conservatory. He called ‘Gracieuse.’ Then he heard voices, and he went to a window that was open, and looked in. The window was that of a day nursery on the ground floor. On a chair sat the young mother with her babe on her knee, and before her kneeling, was the little hunchback, holding the child’s feet to her lips and kissing the soles, and laughing with her shrill cracked voice, so as almost to frighten the baby.
‘Haha! madame,’ said the curé, placing his arms on the window sill, ‘making an idolater of my sister. How the world has changed! In pagan times infants were sacrificed. Now we sacrifice ourselves to the children.’
‘Will you come in, monsieur?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure.’ He went round to a glass door and entered.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you have done me a great favour in admitting me to this sanctuary of innocence and maternal love; I feel myself a culprit before you.’
‘How so, M. le Curé?’
‘Because I am keeping from you a secret that concerns you intimately.’
‘Me!’
‘You and the petit policon ld.’
‘What secret?’
‘I have no right to tell it; but I consider that secrets may be carried too far; and a pleasure spoils if it bursts on one too suddenly.’
‘What pleasure is in store for me?’ asked Jacquetta with bitterness.
‘A visit to England, to your father and mother.’ Jacquetta started. ‘Yes—so it is. The berths are all engaged, you and the Baron, and the little baron (with a small b), and your coachman’s wife as nurse, and the coachman himself because he cannot be separated from his wife. All are to sail on Tuesday. The berths are secured in the Petrel, and you are to stay in England as long as you like. There—gracious heavens! I am a traitor, I have betrayed the baron’s secret.’