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Till-: J'OHTHAJT 1\ MY l'.\'ci,K'X 1>L\ t.\G- ROOM. 19
however, my father broke through that silence. It was at the
end of the year 1702. We had just arrived at Ostend, where a
great number of emigre* were preparing, like me, to cross over
to England, but I did not seek them out, and whilst my
father went to visit some old friends I remained alone at the
hotel. I remember that the day was closing in, and the intensely
melancholy feeling with which I watched the snowflakes
slowly falling and whitening the roofs of the neighboring
houses, the high-pointed gables of which stood out in dark relief
against the pale gray sky. My father came in with a sorrowful
countenance, and seated himself by the fire without
speaking. This made me feel anxious, for at that time life was
made up of incessant fears, and the event generally more than
justified the worst '
apprehensions. Any news from France ?'
I asKed, trembling at what the answer might be. My father
shook his head, and with a manner of great depression said :
'
I have just heard of the death of an old friend. Yo.i know
him, Maximin, and although it was under very painful circumstances
that your intimacy ended, I am sure you will feel his
'
death very much.' You mean that the Baron de Malpeire is
"There was a heavy shower just now, and it soaked through
and through."
The rain was indeed streaming down the window panes, and
the temperature in the house had become sensibly colder.
" Throw some fagots on the fire," Dom G6rusac said
" <
:
are freezing here. And get us some coffee; you know M-. le
Cnri likes it very hot.
'
dead," I exclaimed. Yep, he was carried off suddenly within
the last few days,' my father answered. 'He had been living
here some time in a state bordering on destitution.' 'And
' Was she with him ? Have
"
"
My d< ar Marquis," he "
added, you will let me introduce
to you the AbbiS Lambert, a worthy priest, who has been for
fifteen years Cure' of Malpeire."
"I shall be very glad to make his acquaintance," the Marquis
eagerly answered. And whilst my uncle went to look after his
new guest, he said to me, "M. le Cur6 must, I think, know
something as to the fate of the family of Malpeire. He must
have heard people talk about them and their misfortunes.
Have you ever asked any questions on the subject?"
"Yes, I have, monseigneur," I answered, getting very red,
"but he seemed to know nothing about it. Perhaps it was out
of a feeling of charity, and because he wished people to forget
Mile, de Malpeire's disgraceful history."
1
The Abbe Lambert came in with my uncle. His old cassock
was still very damp, and the marks which his heavy shoes left
on the floor showed that he had been trudging on foot in roads
Madame de Malpeire ?' I asked.
yousetnher?" He shook his head sadly. 'What, is she, too,
'
dead ?' I cried. She died a good while ago of a broken
heart, I think, '
my
father said in a low voice. 'The Baron
had no one with him in his last moments except a poor servant
of his wife's, who had latterly supported him by her work.
When I heard all this I tried to find her out. I should have
liked to have done something for that faithful creature, but she
sight of it makes my poor old heart thrill as it used to do years
ago. The brighest and the most terrible days I have known
rise again before me."
CHAPTER IX.
TEE HOME OF THE PINATKL8.
M. de Champaubert leant his elbow on the table, sighed
deeply, and pouring out a glass of sherry, drank it off. My
uncle, who had with difficulty followed all these romantic meta-
physics.ejaculated, " You were really very unfortunate in your
fiist love." As to me, my heart was bursting with indignation.
I could not take my eyes off Mile, de Malpeire 's picture, and
when the Marquis had finished his story I murmured, with a
kind of scornful rage. " That Abbat she was so fond of must be
by this time a horrid wrinkled old peasant, bent half-double, I
daresay, and dressed in tattered clothes. I should like to see
him now."
Whilst M. de Champaubert had been speaking Babelou had
looked in at the door more than once. When his narrative
came to an end she glided into the room, and going up to the
back of my uncle's arm-chair, she whispered in his ear that M.
le CuriS was come, and asked for a bed, as he was in the habit
of doing now and then.
"By all means," cried Dom Gerusac; "he is most welcome.
"
Where is he '!
'In the kitchen drying his cassock." Babelou replied.
full of clayey mud. But he was in nowise ashamed of his poor
appearance, and it was in a manner equally free from embarrassment
or familiarity that he returned the greeting of our
distinguished guest, who received the old village priest with as
much respect as if he had been a dignitary of the Church, made
way for him by his side close to the fire, and stirred up the
blaze of the fagots, in order that the poor worn-out cassock
is gone she went backio France.'
;
" We sat on some time in silence. At last I said to my fath-
'
er And Mile, de Malpeire do you know what has become of
her ?' He hesitated for a moment, and then replied in a way
'
tli at seemed intended to stop any farther questions, the family
of Malpeire is now quite extinct. '
"From that day to this I never uttered again Mile, de Malpeire's
name and my father may have thought that I had forgotten
her, but it was not so. The remembrance of that first
and only affection dwelt in my heart through all the years of
my youth, and, I am almost ashamed to might
add, even in a more
advanced period of life, stood in the way of my marrying.
And now I cannot look at that picture without emotion. The
be effectually dried.
1
"My dear Cure , I am delighted that your flock is scattered
over these mountains and valleys," said Dom Gdrusac with a
smile. We should not have had the pleasure of seeing you tonight
ii you had not some parishioners to visit in this neighborhood."
"Yes, indeed," he replied, with somewhat of sadness in his
tone. "It is a case requiring my ministry that brought me
here to-night a pressing sick call, and I was afraid of being
too late. It is a long walk from Malpeire to here, and in this
stormy weather the torrents may swell at any moment so as to
impede the way."
1
"
After the Abbe Lambert had dried his clothes and drank a
cup of coffee, M. le Champaubert began discreetly to sound him
as to the time of his arrival in those parts, and the reports he
might have happened to hear concerning the former lords of
the soil. The Abbe Lambert seemed aware of the interest
which prompted M. le Champaubert to make these inquiries,
and he spared him the necessity of more direct questioning by
sad voice :
saying, in a grave,
" When I came here, about sixteen years ago, the family of
Malpeire was almost forgotten. Even the melancholy event
which preceded their departure was "
hardly alluded to.
" But you know of it !" exclaimed the "
Marquis. You had
heard of the only daughter of the late Baron, Mile, de Mal-
"
peire ?
The old priest raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and
said, in an earnest and impressive manner, "May God have
mercy on the soul of that poor woman ! And you must also
forgive her ; she has atoned for her ings"
guilt by severe suffer-
"You have been yourself acquainted with Mile, de Mal-
peire," interrupted M. de Champaubert, greatly agitated;
"you can tell me what has been the end of her unhappy
life."
"It is a shocking history, " murmured the Abbfi Lambert,
shaking his head, as if beginning to hesitate about recalling
that painful remembrance. But the Marquis would take no
denial, and he then said, "I little thought where and in what
companv I should relate the history of that poor sinner. God,
in his mysterious providence, has, I suppose, thus
"
ordained it.
He paused for a moment or wo, and then went on :
"At the time of Mile, do Malpeire's elopement, I was