Contents:

Page No 1

Page No 2

Page No 3

Page No 4

La Grenadiere.....................................................................................................................................................1

La Grenadiere is a little house on the right bank of the Loire as you go down stream, about a mile below the

bridge of Tours. At this point the river, broad as a lake, and covered with scattered green islands, flows

between two lines of cliff, where country houses built uniformly of white stone stand among their gardens

and vineyards. The finest fruit in the world ripens there with a southern exposure. The patient toil of many

generations has cut terraces in the cliff, so that the face of the rock reflects the rays of the sun, and the

produce of hot climates may be grown out of doors in an artificially high temperature.

A church spire, rising out of one of the shallower dips in the line of cliffs, marks the little village of

SaintCyr, to which the scattered houses all belong. And yet a little further the Choisille flows into the Loire,

La Grenadiere itself, halfway up the hillside, and about a hundred paces from the church, is one of those

oldfashioned houses dating back some two or three hundred years, which you find in every picturesque spot

in Touraine. A fissure in the rock affords convenient space for a flight of steps descending gradually to the

"dike"the local name for the embankment made at the foot of the cliffs to keep the Loire in its bed, and

serve as a causeway for the highroad from Paris to Nantes. At the top of the steps a gate opens upon a narrow

stony footpath between two terraces, for here the soil is banked up, and walls are built to prevent landslips.

These earthworks, as it were, are crowned with trellises and espaliers, so that the steep path that lies at the

foot of the upper wall is almost hidden by the trees that grow on the top of the lower, upon which it lies. The

view of the river widens out before you at every step as you climb to the house.

At the end you come to a second gateway, a Gothic archway covered with simple ornament, now crumbling

into ruin and overgrown with wildflowersmoss and ivy, wallflowers and pellitory. Every stone wall on the

hillside is decked with this ineradicable plantlife, which springs up along the cracks afresh with new

The wormeaten gate gives into a little garden, a strip of turf, a few trees, and a wilderness of flowers and

rose bushesa garden won from the rock on the highest terrace of all, with the dark, old balustrade along its

edge. Opposite the gateway, a wooden summerhouse stands against the neighboring wall, the posts are

The house itself stands in the middle of this highest garden, above a vinecovered flight of steps, with an

arched doorway beneath that leads to vast cellars hollowed out in the rock. All about the dwelling trellised

vines and pomegranatetrees (the grenadiers, which give the name to the little close) are growing out in the

open air. The front of the house consists of two large windows on either side of a very rusticlooking house

door, and three dormer windows in the roofa slate roof with two gables, prodigiously highpitched in

proportion to the low groundfloor. The house walls are washed with yellow color; and door, and firstfloor

shutters, all the Venetian shutters of the attic windows, all are painted green.

Entering the house, you find yourself in a little lobby with a crooked staircase straight in front of you. It is a

crazy wooden structure, the spiral balusters are brown with age, and the steps themselves take a new angle at

every turn. The great oldfashioned paneled dining room, floored with square white tiles from

ChateauRegnault, is on your right; to the left is the sittingroom, equally large, but here the walls are not

paneled; they have been covered instead with a saffroncolored paper, bordered with green. The

walnutwood rafters are left visible, and the intervening spaces filled with a kind of white plaster.

The first story consists of two large whitewashed bedrooms with stone chimneypieces, less elaborately

carved than those in the rooms beneath. Every door and window is on the south side of the house, save a

single door to the north, contrived behind the staircase to give access to the vineyard. Against the western

wall stands a supplementary timberframed structure, all the woodwork exposed to the weather being fledged

with slates, so that the walls are checkered with bluish lines. This shed (for it is little more) is the kitchen of

the establishment. You can pass from it into the house without going outside; but, nevertheless, it boasts an

entrance door of its own, and a short flight of steps that brings you to a deep well, and a very rusticallooking

pump, half hidden by waterplants and savin bushes and tall grasses. The kitchen is a modern addition,

proving beyond doubt that La Grenadiere was originally nothing but a simple vendangeoira vintagehouse

belonging to townsfolk in Tours, from which SaintCyr is separated by the vast riverbed of the Loire. The

owners only came over for the day for a picnic, or at the vintage time, sending provisions across in the

morning, and scarcely ever spent the night there except during the grape harvest; but the English settled down

on Touraine like a cloud of locusts, and La Grenadiere must, of course, be completed if it was to find tenants.

Luckily, however, this recent appendage is hidden from sight by the first two trees of a limetree avenue

There are only two acres of vineyard at most, the ground rising at the back of the house so steeply that it is no

very easy matter to scramble up among the vines. The slope, covered with green trailing shoots, ends within

about five feet of the house wall in a ditchlike passage always damp and cold and full of strong growing

green things, fed by the drainage of the highly cultivated ground above, for rainy weather washes down the

A vinedresser's cottage also leans against the western gable, and is in some sort a continuation of the kitchen.

Stone walls or espaliers surround the property, and all sorts of fruittrees are planted among the vines; in

short, not an inch of this precious soil is wasted. If by chance man overlooks some dry cranny in the rocks,

Nature puts in a figtree, or sows wildflowers or strawberries in sheltered nooks among the stones.

Nowhere else in all the world will you find a human dwelling so humble and yet so imposing, so rich in fruit,

and fragrant scents, and wide views of country. Here is a miniature Touraine in the heart of Touraineall its

flowers and fruits and all the characteristic beauty of the land are fully represented. Here are grapes of every

district, figs and peaches and pears of every kind; melons are grown out of doors as easily as licorice plants,

Spanish broom, Italian oleanders, and jessamines from the Azores. The Loire lies at your feet. You look

down from the terrace upon the everchanging river nearly two hundred feet below; and in the evening the

breeze brings a fresh scent of the sea, with the fragrance of faroff flowers gathered upon its way. Some

cloud wandering in space, changing its color and form at every moment as it crosses the pure blue of the sky,

can alter every detail in the widespread wonderful landscape in a thousand ways, from every point of view.

The eye embraces first of all the south bank of the Loire, stretching away as far as Amboise, then Tours with

its suburbs and buildings, and the Plessis rising out of the fertile plain; further away, between Vouvray and

SaintSymphorien, you see a sort of crescent of gray cliff full of sunny vineyards; the only limits to your

view are the low, rich hills along the Cher, a bluish line of horizon broken by many a chateau and the wooded

masses of many a park. Out to the west you lose yourself in the immense river, where vessels come and go,

spreading their white sails to the winds which seldom fail them in the wide Loire basin. A prince might build

a summer palace at La Grenadiere, but certainly it will always be the home of a poet's desire, and the sweetest

of retreats for two young loversfor this vintage house, which belongs to a substantial burgess of Tours, has

charms for every imagination, for the humblest and dullest as well as for the most impassioned and lofty. No

one can dwell there without feeling that happiness is in the air, without a glimpse of all that is meant by a

peaceful life without care or ambition. There is that in the air and the sound of the river that sets you

dreaming; the sands have a language, and are joyous or dreary, golden or wan; and the owner of the vineyard

may sit motionless amid perennial flowers and tempting fruit, and feel all the stir of the world about him.

If an Englishman takes the house for the summer, he is asked a thousand francs for six months, the produce

of the vineyard not included. If the tenant wishes for the orchard fruit, the rent is doubled; for the vintage, it is

doubled again. What can La Grenadiere be worth, you wonder; La Grenadiere, with its stone staircase, its

beaten path and triple terrace, its two acres of vineyard, its flowering roses about the balustrades, its worn

steps, wellhead, rampant clematis, and cosmopolitan trees? It is idle to make a bid! La Grenadiere will never

be in the market; it was brought once and sold, but that was in 1690; and the owner parted with it for forty

thousand francs, reluctant as any Arab of the desert to relinquish a favorite horse. Since then it has remained

in the same family, its pride, its patrimonial jewel, its Regent diamond. "While you behold, you have and

hold," says the bard. And from La Grenadiere you behold three valleys of Touraine and the cathedral towers

aloft in air like a bit of filigree work. How can one pay for such treasures? Could one ever pay for the health

In the spring of one of the brightest years of the Restoration, a lady with her housekeeper and her two

children (the oldest a boy thirteen years old, the youngest apparently about eight) came to Tours to look for a

house. She saw La Grenadiere and took it. Perhaps the distance from the town was an inducement to live

She made a bedroom of the drawingroom, gave the children the two rooms above, and the housekeeper slept

in a closet behind the kitchen. The diningroom was sittingroom and drawingroom all in one for the little

family. The house was furnished very simply but tastefully; there was nothing superfluous in it, and no trace

of luxury. The walnutwood furniture chosen by the stranger lady was perfectly plain, and the whole charm

It was rather difficult, therefore, to say whether the strange lady (Mme. Willemsens, as she styled herself)

belonged to the upper middle or higher classes, or to an equivocal, unclassified feminine species. Her plain

dress gave rise to the most contradictory suppositions, but her manners might be held to confirm those

favorable to her. She had not lived at SaintCyr, moreover, for very long before her reserve excited the

curiosity of idle people, who always, and especially in the country, watch anybody or anything that promises

Mme. Willemsens was rather tall; she was thin and slender, but delicately shaped. She had pretty feet, more

remarkable for the grace of her instep and ankle than for the more ordinary merit of slenderness; her gloved

hands, too, were shapely. There were flitting patches of deep red in a pale face, which must have been fresh

and softly colored once. Premature wrinkles had withered the delicately modeled forehead beneath the

coronet of soft, wellset chestnut hair, invariably wound about her head in two plaits, a girlish coiffure which

suited the melancholy face. There was a deceptive look of calm in the dark eyes, with the hollow, shadowy

circles about them; sometimes, when she was off her guard, their expression told of secret anguish. The oval

of her face was somewhat long; but happiness and health had perhaps filled and perfected the outlines. A

forced smile, full of quiet sadness, hovered continually on her pale lips; but when the children, who were

always with her, looked up at their mother, or asked one of the incessant idle questions which convey so

much to a mother's ears, then the smile brightened, and expressed the joys of a mother's love. Her gait was

slow and dignified. Her dress never varied; evidently she had made up her mind to think no more of her

toilette, and to forget a world by which she meant no doubt to be forgotten. She wore a long, black gown,

confined at the waist by a wateredsilk ribbon, and by way of scarf a lawn handkerchief with a broad hem,

the two ends passed carelessly through her waistband. The instinct of dress showed itself in that she was

daintily shod, and gray silk stockings carried out the suggestion of mourning in this unvarying costume.

Lastly, she always wore a bonnet after the English fashion, always of the same shape and the same gray

material, and a black veil. Her health apparently was extremely weak; she looked very ill. On fine evenings

she would take her only walk, down to the bridge of Tours, bringing the two children with her to breathe the

fresh, cool air along the Loire, and to watch the sunset effects on a landscape as wide as the Bay of Naples or

During the whole time of her stay at La Grenadiere she went but twice into Tours; once to call on the

headmaster of the school, to ask him to give her the names of the best masters of Latin, drawing, and

mathematics; and a second time to make arrangements for the children's lessons. But her appearance on the

bridge of an evening, once or twice a week, was quite enough to excite the interest of almost all the

inhabitants of Tours, who make a regular promenade of the bridge. Still, in spite of a kind of spy system, by

which no harm is meant, a provincial habit bred of want of occupation and the restless inquisitiveness of the

principal society, nothing was known for certain of the newcomer's rank, fortune, or real condition. Only, the

owner of La Grenadiere told one or two of his friends that the name under which the stranger had signed the

lease (her real name, therefore, in all probability) was Augusta Willemsens, Countess of Brandon. This, of

course, must be her husband's name. Events, which will be narrated in their place, confirmed this revelation;

but it went no further than the little world of men of business known to the landlord.

So Madame Willemsens was a continual mystery to people of condition. Hers was no ordinary nature; her

manners were simple and delightfully natural, the tones of her voice were divinely sweet,this was all that

she suffered others to discover. In her complete seclusion, her sadness, her beauty so passionately obscured,

nay, almost blighted, there was so much to charm, that several young gentlemen fell in love; but the more

sincere the lover, the more timid he became; and besides, the lady inspired awe, and it was a difficult matter

to find enough courage to speak to her. Finally, if a few of the bolder sort wrote to her, their letters must have

been burned unread. It was Mme. Willemsens' practice to throw all the letters which she received into the

fire, as if she meant that the time spent in Touraine should be untroubled by any outside cares even of the

slightest. She might have come to the enchanting retreat to give herself up wholly to the joy of living.

The three masters whose presence was allowed at La Grenadiere spoke with something like admiring

reverence of the touching picture that they saw there of the close, unclouded intimacy of the life led by this

The two little boys also aroused no small interest. Mothers could not see them without a feeling of envy. Both

children were like Mme. Willemsens, who was, in fact, their mother. They had the transparent complexion

and bright color, the clear, liquid eyes, the long lashes, the fresh outlines, the dazzling characteristics of

The elder, LouisGaston, had dark hair and fearless eyes. Everything about him spoke as plainly of robust,

physical health as his broad, high brow, with its gracious curves, spoke of energy of character. He was quick

and alert in his movements, and strong of limb, without a trace of awkwardness. Nothing took him unawares,

MarieGaston, the other child, had hair that was almost golden, though a lock here and there had deepened to

the mother's chestnut tint. MarieGaston was slender; he had the delicate features and the subtle grace so

charming in Mme. Willemsens. He did not look strong. There was a gentle look in his gray eyes; his face was

pale, there was something feminine about the child. He still wore his hair in long, wavy curls, and his mother

would not have him give up embroidered collars, and little jackets fastened with frogs and spindleshaped

buttons; evidently she took a thoroughly feminine pleasure in the costume, a source of as much interest to the

mother as to the child. The elder boy's plain white collar, turned down over a closely fitting jacket, made a

contrast with his brother's clothing, but the color and material were the same; the two brothers were otherwise

No one could see them without feeling touched by the way in which Louis took care of Marie. There was an

almost fatherly look in the older boy's eyes; and Marie, child though he was, seemed to be full of gratitude to

Louis. They were like two buds, scarcely separated from the stem that bore them, swayed by the same breeze,

lying in the same ray of sunlight; but the one was a brightly colored flower, the other somewhat bleached and

pale. At a glance, a word, an inflection in their mother's voice, they grew heedful, turned to look at her and

listened, and did at once what they were bidden, or asked, or recommended to do. Mme. Willemsens had so

accustomed them to understand her wishes and desires, that the three seemed to have their thoughts in

common. When they went for a walk, and the children, absorbed in their play, ran away to gather a flower or

to look at some insect, she watched them with such deep tenderness in her eyes, that the most indifferent

passerby would feel moved, and stop and smile at the children, and give the mother a glance of friendly

greeting. Who would not have admired the dainty neatness of their dress, their sweet, childish voices, the

grace of their movements, the promise in their faces, the innate something that told of careful training from

the cradle? They seemed as if they had never shed tears nor wailed like other children. Their mother knew, as

it were, by electrically swift intuition, the desires and the pains which she anticipated and relieved. She

seemed to dread a complaint from one of them more than the loss of her soul. Everything in her children did

honor to their mother's training. Their threefold life, seemingly one life, called up vague, fond thoughts; it

was like a vision of the dreamedof bliss of a better world. And the three, so attuned to each other, lived in

truth such a life as one might picture for them at first sightthe ordered, simple, and regular life best suited

Both children rose an hour after daybreak and repeated a short prayer, a habit learned in their babyhood. For

seven years the sincere petition had been put up every morning on their mother's bed, and begun and ended

by a kiss. Then the two brothers went through their morning toilet as scrupulously as any pretty woman;

doubtless they had been trained in habits of minute attention to the person, so necessary to health of body and

mind, habits in some sort conducive to a sense of wellbeing. Conscientiously they went through their duties,

so afraid were they lest their mother should say when she kissed them at breakfasttime, "My darling

children, where can you have been to have such black fingernails already?" Then the two went out into the

garden and shook off the dreams of the night in the morning air and dew, until sweeping and dusting

operations were completed, and they could learn their lessons in the sittingroom until their mother joined

them. But although it was understood that they must not go to their mother's room before a certain hour, they

peeped in at the door continually; and these morning inroads, made in defiance of the original compact, were

delicious moments for all three. Marie sprang upon the bed to put his arms around his idolized mother, and

Louis, kneeling by the pillow, took her hand in his. Then came inquiries, anxious as a lover's, followed by

angelic laughter, passionate childish kisses, eloquent silences, lisping words, and the little ones' stories

interrupted and resumed by a kiss, stories seldom finished, though the listener's interest never failed.

"Have you been industrious?" their mother would ask, but in tones so sweet and so kindly that she seemed

ready to pity laziness as a misfortune, and to glance through tears at the child who was satisfied with himself.

She knew that the thought of pleasing her put energy into the children's work; and they knew that their

mother lived for them, and that all her thoughts and her time were given to them. A wonderful instinct,

neither selfishness nor reason, perhaps the first innocent beginnings of sentiment teaches children to know

whether or not they are the first and sole thought, to find out those who love to think of them and for them. If

you really love children, the dear little ones, with open hearts and unerring sense of justice, are marvelously

ready to respond to love. Their love knows passion and jealousy and the most gracious delicacy of feeling;

they find the tenderest words of expression; they trust youput an entire belief in you. Perhaps there are no

undutiful children without undutiful mothers, for a child's affection is always in proportion to the affection

that it receives in early care, in the first words that it hears, in the response of the eyes to which a child first

looks for love and life. All these things draw them closer to the mother or drive them apart. God lays the child

under the mother's heart, that she may learn that for a long time to come her heart must be its home. And

yetthere are mothers cruelly slighted, mothers whose sublime, pathetic tenderness meets only a harsh

return, a hideous ingratitude which shows how difficult it is to lay down hardandfast rules in matters of

Here, not one of all the thousand heart ties that bind child and mother had been broken. The three were alone

in the world; they lived one life, a life of close sympathy. If Mme. Willemsens was silent in the morning,

Louis and Marie would not speak, respecting everything in her, even those thoughts which they did not share.

But the older boy, with a precocious power of thought, would not rest satisfied with his mother's assertion

that she was perfectly well. He scanned her face with uneasy forebodings; the exact danger he did not know,

but dimly he felt it threatening in those purple rings about her eyes, in the deepening hollows under them, and

the feverish red that deepened in her face. If Marie's play began to tire her, his sensitive tact was quick to

But when they reached the door, he would look back to catch the expression on his mother's face. She still

could find a smile for him, nay, often there were tears in her eyes when some little thing revealed her child's

Mme. Willemsens dressed during the children's early breakfast and game of play; she was coquettish for her

darlings; she wished to be pleasing in their eyes; for them she would fain be in all things lovely, a gracious

vision, with the charm of some sweet perfume of which one can never have enough.

She was always dressed in time to hear their lessons, which lasted from ten till three, with an interval at noon

for lunch, the three taking the meal together in the summerhouse. After lunch the children played for an

hour, while shepoor woman and happy motherlay on a long sofa in the summerhouse, so placed that

she could look out over the soft, everchanging country of Touraine, a land that you learn to see afresh in all

The children scampered through the orchard, scrambled about the terraces, chased the lizards, scarcely less

nimble than they; investigating flowers and seeds and insects, continually referring all questions to their

mother, running to and fro between the garden and the summerhouse. Children have no need of toys in the

Mme. Willemsens sat at her embroidery during their lessons. She never spoke, nor did she look at masters or

pupils; but she followed attentively all that was said, striving to gather the sense of the words to gain a

general idea of Louis' progress. If Louis asked a question that puzzled his master, his mother's eyes suddenly

lighted up, and she would smile and glance at him with hope in her eyes. Of Marie she asked little. Her desire

was with her eldest son. Already she treated him, as it were, respectfully, using all a woman's, all a mother's

tact to arouse the spirit of high endeavor in the boy, to teach him to think of himself as capable of great

things. She did this with a secret purpose, which Louis was to understand in the future; nay, he understood it

Always, the lesson over, she went as far as the gate with the master, and asked strict account of Louis'

progress. So kindly and so winning was her manner, that his tutors told her the truth, pointing out where

Louis was weak, so that she might help him in his lessons. Then came dinner, and play after dinner, then a

So their days went. It was a uniform but full life; work and amusements left them not a dull hour in the day.

Discouragement and quarreling were impossible. The mother's boundless love made everything smooth. She

taught her little sons moderation by refusing them nothing, and submission by making them see underlying

Necessity in its many forms; she put heart into them with timely praise; developing and strengthening all that

was best in their natures with the care of a good fairy. Tears sometimes rose to her burning eyes as she

watched them play, and thought how they had never caused her the slightest vexation. Happiness so

farreaching and complete brings such tears, because for us it represents the dim imaginings of Heaven

Those were delicious hours spent on that sofa in the gardenhouse, in looking out on sunny days over the

wide stretches of river and the picturesque landscape, listening to the sound of her children's voices as they

laughed at their own laughter, to the little quarrels that told most plainly of their union of heart, of Louis'

paternal care of Marie, of the love that both of them felt for her. They spoke English and French equally well

(they had had an English nurse since their babyhood), so their mother talked to them in both languages;

directing the bent of their childish minds with admirable skill, admitting no fallacious reasoning, no bad

principle. She ruled by kindness, concealing nothing, explaining everything. If Louis wished for books, she

was careful to give him interesting yet accurate booksbooks of biography, the lives of great seamen, great

captains, and famous men, for little incidents in their history gave her numberless opportunities of explaining

the world and life to her children. She would point out the ways in which men, really great in themselves, had

risen from obscurity; how they had started from the lowest ranks of society, with no one to look to but

These readings, and they were not the least useful of Louis' lessons, took place while little Marie slept on his

mother's knee in the quiet of the summer night, and the Loire reflected the sky; but when they ended, this

adorable woman's sadness always seemed to be doubled; she would cease to speak, and sit motionless and

"Mother, why are you crying?" Louis asked one balmy June evening, just as the twilight of a softlit night

Deeply moved by his trouble, she put her arm about the child's neck and drew him to her.

"Because, my boy, the lot of Jameray Duval, the poor and friendless lad who succeeded at last, will be your

lot, yours and your brother's, and I have brought it upon you. Before very long, dear child, you will be alone

in the world, with no one to help or befriend you. While you are still children, I shall leave you, and yet, if

only I could wait till you are big enough and know enough to be Marie's guardian! But I shall not live so

long. I love you so much that it makes me very unhappy to think of it. Dear children, if only you do not curse

"Some day," she said, kissing him on the forehead, "you will find out that I have wronged you. I am going to

leave you, here, without money, without"and she hesitated"without a father," she added, and at the word

she burst into tears and put the boy from her gently. A sort of intuition told Louis that his mother wished to

be alone, and he carried off Marie, now half awake. An hour later, when his brother was in bed, he stole

The words were spoken in tones delicious to his heart. The boy sprang to his mother's arms, and the two held

"Cherie," he said at last, the name by which he often called her, finding that even loving words were too weak

"I am ill, my poor darling; every day I am losing strength, and there is no cure for my illness; I know that."

"Something that I ought to forget; something that you must never know. You must not know what caused

The boy was silent for a while. He stole a glance now and again at his mother; and she, with her eyes raised

to the sky, was watching the clouds. It was a sad, sweet moment. Louis could not believe that his mother

would die soon, but instinctively he felt trouble which he could not guess. He respected her long musings. If

he had been rather older, he would have read happy memories blended with thoughts of repentance, the

whole story of a woman's life in that sublime face the careless childhood, the loveless marriage, a terrible

passion, flowers springing up in storm and struck down by the thunderbolt into an abyss from which there is

"My boy, we ought to hide our troubles from strangers," she said; "we should show them a smiling face,

never speak of ourselves to them, nor think about ourselves; and these rules, put in practice in family life,

conduce to its happiness. You will have much to bear one day! Ah me! then think of your poor mother who

died smiling before your eyes, hiding her sufferings from you, and you will take courage to endure the ills of

She choked back her tears, and tried to make the boy understand the mechanism of existence, the value of

money, the standing and consideration that it gives, and its bearing on social position; the honorable means of

gaining a livelihood, and the necessity of a training. Then she told him that one of the chief causes of her

sadness and her tears was the thought that, on the morrow of her death, he and Marie would be left almost

"How quick I must be about learning!" cried Louis, giving her a piteous, searching look.

"Oh! how happy I am!" she said, showering kisses and tears on her son. "He understands me!Louis," she

went on, "you will be your brother's guardian, will you not? You promise me that? You are no longer a

"Yes, I promise," he said; "but you are not going to die yetsay that you are not going to die!"

"Poor little ones!" she replied, "love for you keeps the life in me. And this country is so sunny, the air is so

From that day, when Mme. Willemsens, foreseeing the approach of death, spoke to Louis of his future, he

concentrated his attention on his work, grew more industrious, and less inclined to play than heretofore.

When he had coaxed Marie to read a book and to give up boisterous games, there was less noise in the hollow

pathways and gardens and terraced walks of La Grenadiere. They adapted their lives to their mother's

melancholy. Day by day her face was growing pale and wan, there were hollows now in her temples, the lines

August came. The little family had been five months at La Grenadiere, and their whole life was changed. The

old servant grew anxious and gloomy as she watched the almost imperceptible symptoms of slow decline in

the mistress, who seemed to be kept in life by an impassioned soul and intense love of her children. Old

Annette seemed to see that death was very near. That mistress, beautiful still, was more careful of her

appearance than she had ever been; she was at pains to adorn her wasted self, and wore paint on her cheeks;

but often while she walked on the upper terrace with the children, Annette's wrinkled face would peer out

from between the savin trees by the pump. The old woman would forget her work, and stand with wet linen

in her hands, scarce able to keep back her tears at the sight of Mme. Willemsens, so little like the enchanting

The pretty house itself, once so gay and bright, looked melancholy; it was a very quiet house now, and the

family seldom left it, for the walk to the bridge was too great an effort for Mme. Willemsens. Louis had

almost identified himself, as it were, with his mother, and with his suddenly developed powers of imagination

he saw the weariness and exhaustion under the red color, and constantly found reasons for taking some

So happy couples coming to SaintCyr, then the Petite Courtille of Tours, and knots of folk out for their

evening walk along the "dike," saw a pale, thin figure dressed in black, a woman with a worn yet bright face,

gliding like a shadow along the terraces. Great suffering cannot be concealed. The vinedresser's household

had grown quiet also. Sometimes the laborer and his wife and children were gathered about the door of their

cottage, while Annette was washing linen at the wellhead, and Mme. Willemsens and the children sat in the

summer house, and there was not the faintest sound in those gardens gay with flowers. Unknown to Mme.

Willemsens, all eyes grew pitiful at the sight of her, she was so good, so thoughtful, so dignified with those

And as for her.When the autumn days came on, days so sunny and bright in Touraine, bringing with them

grapes and ripe fruits and healthful influences which must surely prolong life in spite of the ravages of

mysterious diseaseshe saw no one but her children, taking the utmost that the hour could give her, as if

Louis had worked at night, unknown to his mother, and made immense progress between June and

September. In algebra he had come as far as equations with two unknown quantities; he had studied

descriptive geometry, and drew admirably well; in fact, he was prepared to pass the entrance examination of

Sometimes of an evening he went down to the bridge of Tours. There was a lieutenant there on halfpay, an

Imperial naval officer, whose manly face, medal, and gait had made an impression on the boy's imagination,

and the officer on his side had taken a liking to the lad, whose eyes sparkled with energy. Louis, hungering

for tales of adventure, and eager for information, used to follow in the lieutenant's wake for the chance of a

chat with him. It so happened that the sailor had a friend and comrade in the colonel of a regiment of infantry,

struck off the rolls like himself; and young LouisGaston had a chance of learning what life was like in camp

or on board a manofwar. Of course, he plied the veterans with questions; and when he had made up his

mind to the hardships of their rough callings, he asked his mother's leave to take country walks by way of

amusement. Mme. Willemsens was beyond measure glad that he should ask; the boy's astonished masters had

told her that he was overworking himself. So Louis went for long walks. He tried to inure himself to fatigue,

climbed the tallest trees with incredible quickness, learned to swim, watched through the night. He was not

like the same boy; he was a young man already, with a sunburned face, and a something in his expression that

When October came, Mme. Willemsens could only rise at noon. The sunshine, reflected by the surface of the

Loire, and stored up by the rocks, raised the temperature of the air till it was almost as warm and soft as the

atmosphere of the Bay of Naples, for which reason the faculty recommend the place of abode. At midday

she came out to sit under the shade of green leaves with the two boys, who never wandered from her now.

Lessons had come to an end. Mother and children wished to live the life of heart and heart together, with no

disturbing element, no outside cares. No tears now, no joyous outcries. The elder boy, lying in the grass at his

mother's side, basked in her eyes like a lover and kissed her feet. Marie, the restless one, gathered flowers for

her, and brought them with a subdued look, standing on tiptoe to put a girlish kiss on her lips. And the pale

woman, with the great tired eyes and languid movements, never uttered a word of complaint, and smiled

upon her children, so full of life and healthit was a sublime picture, lacking no melancholy autumn pomp

of yellow leaves and halfdespoiled branches, nor the softened sunlight and pale clouds of the skies of

At last the doctor forbade Mme. Willemsens to leave her room. Every day it was brightened by the flowers

that she loved, and her children were always with her. One day, early in November, she sat at the piano for

the last time. A picturea Swiss landscapehung above the instrument; and at the window she could see

her children standing with their heads close together. Again and again she looked from the children to the

landscape, and then again at the children. Her face flushed, her fingers flew with passionate feeling over the

ivory keys. This was her last great day, an unmarked day of festival, held in her own soul by the spirit of her

memories. When the doctor came, he ordered her to stay in bed. The alarming dictum was received with

"Louis," she said, "take me out on the terrace, so that I may see my country once more."

The boy gave his arm at those simply uttered words, and brought his mother out upon the terrace; but her

eyes turned, perhaps unconsciously, to heaven rather than to the earth, and indeed, it would have been hard to

say whether heaven or earth was the fairer for the clouds traced shadowy outlines, like the grandest Alpine

glaciers, against the sky. Mme. Willemsens' brows contracted vehemently; there was a look of anguish and

remorse in her eyes. She caught the children's hands, and clutched them to a heavilythrobbing heart.

" 'Parentage unknown!' " she cried, with a look that went to their hearts. "Poor angels, what will become of

you? And when you are twenty years old, what strict account may you not require of my life and your own?"

She put the children from her, and leaning her arms upon the balustrade, stood for a while hiding her face,

alone with herself, fearful of all eyes. When she recovered from the paroxysm, she saw Louis and Marie

kneeling on either side of her, like two angels; they watched the expression of her face, and smiled lovingly at

Then she went into the house and took to the bed, which she would only leave for her coffin.

A week went by, one day exactly like another. Old Annette and Louis took it in turns to sit up with Mme.

Willemsens, never taking their eyes from the invalid. It was the deeply tragical hour that comes in all our

lives, the hour of listening in terror to every deep breath lest it should be the last, a dark hour protracted over

many days. On the fifth day of that fatal week the doctor interdicted flowers in the room. The illusions of life

Then Marie and his brother felt their mother's lips hot as fire beneath their kisses; and at last, on the Saturday

evening, Mme. Willemsens was too ill to bear the slightest sound, and her room was left in disorder. This

neglect for a woman of refined taste, who clung so persistently to the graces of life, meant the beginning of

the deathagony. After this, Louis refused to leave his mother. On Sunday night, in the midst of the deepest

silence, when Louis thought that she had grown drowsy, he saw a white, moist hand move the curtain in the

"My son!" she said. There was something so solemn in the dying woman's tones, that the power of her

wroughtup soul produced a violent reaction on the boy; he felt an intense heat pass through the marrow of

"Listen! Tomorrow all will be over for me. We shall see each other no more. Tomorrow you will be a man,

my child. So I am obliged to make some arrangements, which must remain a secret, known only to us. Take

the key of my little table. That is it. Now open the drawer. You will find two sealed papers to the left. There

"Those are your certificates of birth, darling; you will want them. Give them to our poor, old Annette to keep

for you; ask her for them when you need them. Now," she continued, "is there not another paper as well,

"That is enough," she broke in quickly, "do not go on. When I am dead, give that paper, too, to Annette, and

tell her to send it to the registrar at SaintCyr; it will be wanted if my certificate of death is to be made out in

When she saw that he was ready to begin, and turned towards her for the words, they came from her

"Monsieur le Comte, your wife, Lady Brandon, died at SaintCyr, near Tours, in the department of

"Seal the letter, and direct it. To Lord Brandon, Brandon Square, Hyde Park, London, Angleterre.That is

right. When I am dead, post the letter in Tours, and prepay the postage.Now," she added, after a pause,

"take the little pocketbook that you know, and come here, my dear child. . . . There are twelve thousand

francs in it," she said, when Louis had returned to her side. "That is all your own. Oh me! you would have

"He is dead," she said, laying her finger on her lips; "he died to save my honor and my life."

She looked upwards. If any tears had been left to her, she would have wept for pain.

"Louis," she continued, "swear to me, as I lie here, that you will forget all that you have written, all that I

She was silent for a long while, she seemed to be drawing strength from God, and to be measuring her words

"Listen," she began. "Those twelve thousand francs are all that you have in the world. You must keep the

money upon you, because when I am dead the lawyers will come and seal everything up. Nothing will be

yours then, not even your mother. All that remains for you to do will be to go out, poor orphan children, God

knows where. I have made Annette's future secure. She will have an annuity of a hundred crowns, and she

will stay at Tours no doubt. But what will you do for yourself and your brother?"

She raised herself, and looked at the brave child, standing by her bedside. There were drops of perspiration on

"I have thought it over, mother," he answered in a deep voice. "I will take Marie to the school here in Tours. I

will give ten thousand francs to our old Annette, and ask her to take care of them, and to look after Marie.

Then, with the remaining two thousand francs, I will go to Brest, and go to sea as an apprentice. While Marie

is at school, I will rise to be a lieutenant on board a manofwar. There, after all, die in peace, my mother; I

shall come back again a rich man, and our little one shall go to the Ecole polytechnique, and I will find a

A gleam of joy shone in the dying woman's eyes. Two tears brimmed over, and fell over her fevered cheeks;

then a deep sigh escaped between her lips. The sudden joy of finding the father's spirit in the son, who had

"Angel of heaven," she cried, weeping, "by one word you have effaced all my sorrows. Ah! I can bear

them.This is my son," she said, "I bore, I reared this man," and she raised her hands above her, and clasped

Louis wakened Annette, and the terrified old woman hurried to the parsonage at SaintCyr.

When morning came, Mme. Willemsens received the sacrament amid the most touching surroundings. Her

children were kneeling in the room, with Annette and the vinedresser's family, simple folk, who had already

become part of the household. The silver crucifix, carried by a chorister, a peasant child from the village, was

lifted up, and the dying mother received the Viaticum from an aged priest. The Viaticum! sublime word,

containing an idea yet more sublime, an idea only possessed by the apostolic religion of the Roman church.

Marie Willemsens heard no voices now, but her eyes were still fixed upon her children. Those about her

listened in terror to her breathing in the deep silence; already it came more slowly, though at intervals a deep

sigh told them that she still lived, and of a struggle within her; then at last it ceased. Every one burst into tears

Annette and the vinedresser's wife closed the eyes of the adorable woman, whose beauty shone out in all its

radiance after death. Then the women took possession of the chamber of death, removed the furniture,

wrapped the dead in her windingsheet, and laid her upon the couch. They lit tapers about her, and arranged

everythingthe crucifix, the sprigs of box, and the holywater stoupafter the custom of the countryside,

bolting the shutters and drawing the curtains. Later the curate came to pass the night in prayer with Louis,

who refused to leave his mother. On Tuesday morning an old woman and two children and a vinedresser's

wife followed the dead to her grave. These were the only mourners. Yet this was a woman whose wit and

beauty and charm had won a European reputation, a woman whose funeral, if it had taken place in London,

would have been recorded in pompous newspaper paragraphs, as a sort of aristocratic rite, if she had not

committed the sweetest of crimes, a crime always expiated in this world, so that the pardoned spirit may enter

heaven. Marie cried when they threw the earth on his mother's coffin; he understood that he should see her no

A simple, wooden cross, set up to mark her grave, bore this inscription, due to the cure of SaintCyr:

When all was over, the children came back to La Grenadiere to take a last look at their home; then, hand in

hand, they turned to go with Annette, leaving the vinedresser in charge, with directions to hand over

At this moment, Annette called to Louis from the steps by the kitchen door, and took him aside with, "Here is

The sight of this vivid remembrance of his dead mother moved him so deeply that he wept. In his fortitude,

he had not even thought of this supreme piety; and he flung his arms round the old woman's neck. Then the

three set out down the beaten path, and the stone staircase, and so to Tours, without turning their heads.

Annette had a relative, a retired dressmaker, who lived in the Rue de la Guerche. She took the two children to

this cousin's house, meaning that they should live together thenceforth. But Louis told her of his plans, gave

Marie's certificate of birth and the ten thousand francs into her keeping, and the two went the next morning to

Louis very briefly explained his position to the headmaster, and went. Marie came with him as far as the

gateway. There Louis gave solemn parting words of the tenderest counsel, telling Marie that he would now be

left alone in the world. He looked at his brother for a moment, and put his arms about him, took one more

long look, brushed a tear from his eyes, and went, turning again and again till the very last to see his brother

A month later LouisGaston, now an apprentice on board a manofwar, left the harbor of Rochefort.

Leaning over the bulwarks of the corvette Iris, he watched the coast of France receding swiftly till it became

indistinguishable from the faint blue horizon line. In a little while he felt that he was really alone, and lost in

"There is no need to cry, lad; there is a God for us all," said an old sailor, with rough kindliness in his thick

The boy thanked him with pride in his eyes. Then he bowed his head, and resigned himself to a sailor's life.

Brandon, Lady Marie Augusta The Member for Arcis The Lily of the Valley La Grenadiere