Chapter XVI (3)

In spite of Lady Littleton's efforts to stop and calm her, Mrs. Somers burst out of the room in an agony of passion. She ran up a back staircase which led to her dressing-room, but suddenly stopped when she came to the landing-place, for she found Emilie watering her plants.

"Look, dear Mrs. Somers, this hydrangia is just going to blow; though I was so careless as to forget to water it yesterday."

"I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges, that you will not trouble yourself," said Mrs. Somers, haughtily. "Surely there are servants enough in this house whose business it is to remember these things."

"Yes," said Emilie, "it is their business, but it is my pleasure. You must not, indeed you must not, take my watering-pot from me!"

"Pardon me, I must, mademoiselle--you are very condescending and polite, and I am very blunt and rude, or whatever you please to think me. But the fact is, that I am not to be flattered by what the French call _des petites attentions_: they are suited to little minds, but not to me. You will never know my character, Mlle. de Coulanges--I am not to be pleased by such means."

"Teach me then better means, my dear friend, and do not bid me despair of ever pleasing you," said Emilie, throwing her arms round Mrs. Somers to detain her.

"Excuse me--I am an Englishwoman, and do not love _embrassades_, which mean nothing," said Mrs. Somers, struggling to disengage herself; and she rushed suddenly forward, without perceiving that Emilie's foot was entangled in her train. Emilie was thrown from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Mrs. Somers screamed--Lady Littleton came out of her room.

"She is dead!--I have killed her!"--cried Mrs. Somers. Lady Littleton raised Emilie from the ground--she was quite stunned by the violence of the fall.

"Oh! speak to me! dearest Emilie, speak once more!" said Mrs. Somers.

As soon as Emilie could speak, she assured Mrs. Somers that she should be quite well in a few minutes. When she attempted, however, to walk, she found she was unable to move, for her ankle was violently sprained: she was carried into Lady Littleton's room, and placed upon a sofa. She exerted herself to bear the pain she felt, that she might not alarm or seem to reproach Mrs. Somers; and she repeatedly blamed herself for the awkwardness with which she had occasioned her own fall. Mrs. Somers, in the greatest bustle and confusion, called every servant in the house about her, sent them different ways for all the remedies she had ever heard of for a sprain; then was sure Emilie's skull was fractured--asked fifty times in five minutes whether she did not feel a certain sickness in her stomach, which was the infallible sign of "_something wrong_"--insisted upon her smelling at salts, vinegar, and various essences; and made her swallow, or at least taste, every variety of drops and cordials. By this time Mad. de Coulanges, who was at her toilet, had heard of the accident, and came running in half dressed; the hurry of Mrs. Somers' manner, the crowd of assistants, the quantity of remedies, the sight of Emilie stretched upon a sofa, and the sound of the word _fracture_, which caught her ear, had such an effect upon the countess, that she was instantly seized with one of her nervous attacks; and Mrs. Somers was astonished to see Emilie spring from the sofa to assist her mother. When Mad. de Coulanges recovered, Emilie used all her powers of persuasion to calm her spirits, laughed at the idea of her skull being fractured, and said, that she had only twisted her ankle, which would merely prevent her from dancing for a few days. The countess pitied herself for having such terribly weak nerves--congratulated herself upon her daughter's safety--declared that it was a miracle how she could have escaped, in falling down such a narrow staircase--observed, that, though the stairs in London were cleaner and better carpeted, the staircases of Paris were at least four times as broad, and, consequently, a hundred times as safe. She then reminded Emilie of an anecdote mentioned by Mad. de Genlis about a princess of France, who, when she retired to a convent, complained bitterly of the narrowness of the staircase, which, she said, she found a real misfortune to be obliged to descend. "Tell me, Emilie, what was the name of the princess?"

"The Princess Louisa of France, I believe, mamma," replied Emilie.

Mad. de Coulanges repeated, "Ay, the Princess Louisa of France;" and then, well satisfied, returned to finish her toilette.

"You have an excellent memory, Mlle. de Coulanges," said Mrs. Somers, looking with an air of pique at Emilie. "I really am rejoiced to see you so much yourself again--I thought you were seriously hurt."

"I told you that I was not," said Emilie, forcing a smile.

"Yes, but I was such a fool as to be terrified out of my senses by seeing you lie down on the sofa. I might have saved myself and you a great deal of trouble. I must have appeared ridiculously officious. I saw indeed that I was troublesome; and I seem to be too much for you now. I will leave you with Lady Littleton, to explain to her how the accident happened. Pray tell the thing just as it was--do not spare me, I beg. I do not desire that Lady Littleton, or any friend I have upon earth, should think better of me than I deserve. Remember, you have my free leave, Mlle. de Coulanges, to speak of me as you think--so don't spare me!" cried Mrs. Somers, shutting the door with violence as she left the room.

"Lean upon me, my dear," said Lady Littleton, who saw that Emilie turned exceedingly pale, and looked towards a chair, as if she wished to reach it, but could not.

"I thought," said she, in a faint voice, "that this pain would go off, but it is grown more violent." Emilie could say no more; she had borne intense pain as long as she was able: and now, quite overcome, she leaned back, and fainted. Lady Littleton threw open the window, sprinkled water upon Emilie's face, and gave her assistance in the kindest manner, without calling any of the servants; she knew that the return of Mrs. Somers would do more harm than good. Emilie soon recovered her recollection; and, whilst Lady Littleton was rubbing the sprained ankle with ether, in hopes of lessening the pain, she asked how the accident had happened.--Emilie replied simply, that she had entangled her foot in Mrs. Somers' gown. "I understand, from what Mrs. Somers hinted when she left the room," said Lady Littleton, "that she was somehow in fault in this affair, and that you could blame her if you would; but I see that you will not; and I love you the better for justifying the good opinion that I had formed of you, Emilie.--But I will not talk sentiment to you now--you are in too much pain to relish it."

"Not at all," said Emilie: "I feel more pleasure than pain at this moment; indeed my ankle does not hurt me now that I am quite still--the pleasant cold of the ether has relieved the pain. How kind you are to me, Lady Littleton, and how much I am obliged to you for judging so favourably of my character!"

"You are not obliged to me, my dear, for I do you only justice."

"Justice is sometimes felt as the greatest possible obligation, especially by those who have experienced the reverse.--But," said Emilie, checking herself, "let me not blame Mrs. Somers, or incline you to blame her. I should do very wrong, indeed, if I were, in return for all she has done for us, to cause any jealousies or quarrels between her and her best friend. Oh! that is what I most dread! To prevent it, I would--it is not polite to say so--but I would, my dear Lady Littleton, even withdraw myself from your society. This very day you return to your own house. You were so good as to ask me to go often to see you: forgive me if I do not avail myself of this kind permission. You will know my reasons; and I hope they are such as you will approve of."

A servant came in, to say that her ladyship's carriage was at the door.

"One word more before you go, my dear Lady Littleton," said Emilie, with a supplicating voice and countenance. "Tell me, I beseech you--for you have been her friend from her childhood, and must know better than any one living--tell me how I can please Mrs. Somers. I begin to be afraid that I shall at last be weary of my fruitless efforts, and I dread--above all things I dread--that my affection for her should be worn out. How painful it would be to sustain the continual weight of obligation without being able to feel the pleasure of gratitude!"

Lady Littleton was going to reply, but she was prevented by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Somers with her face of wrath.

"So, Lady Littleton, you are actually going, I find!--And I have not had one moment of your conversation. May I be allowed--if Mlle. de Coulanges has finished her mysteries--to say a few words to you?"

"You will give me leave, I am sure, Emilie," said Lady Littleton, "to repeat to Mrs. Somers every word that you have said to me?"

"Yes, every word," said Emilie, blushing, yet speaking with firmness. "I have no mysteries--I do not wish to conceal from Mrs. Somers any thing that I say or think."

Mrs. Somers seized Lady Littleton's arm, and left the room; but when she had entire possession of her friend's ear, she had nothing to say, or nothing that she would say, except half sentences, reproaching her for not staying longer, and insinuating that Emilie would be the cause of their separating for ever.--"Now, as you have her permission, will you favour me with a repetition of her last conversation?"

"Not in your present humour, my dear," said Lady Littleton: "this is not the happy moment to speak reason to you. Adieu! I give you four-and-twenty hours' grace before I declare you a bankrupt in temper. You shall hear from me to-morrow; for, on some subjects, I have always found it better to write than to speak to you."

Mrs. Somers continued during the remainder of the day in a desperate state of ill-humour, which was increased by finding that Mlle. de Coulanges could neither stand nor walk. Mrs. Somers was persuaded that Emilie, if she would have exerted herself, could have done both, but that she preferred exciting the pity of the whole house; and this, all circumstances considered, was a proof of total want of generosity and gratitude. The next morning, however, she was alarmed by hearing from Mrs. Masham, whom she had sent to attend upon Mlle. de Coulanges, that her ankle was violently swelled and inflamed.--Just when the full tide of her affections was beginning to flow in Emilie's favour, Mrs. Somers received the following letter from Lady Littleton:--

"Enclosed, I have sent you, as well as I can recollect it, every
word of the conversation that passed yesterday between Mlle. de
Coulanges and me. If I were less anxious for your happiness,
and if I had not so high an opinion of the excellence of your
disposition, I should wish, my dear friend, to spare both you and
myself the pain of speaking and hearing the truth. But I know that
I have preserved your affection many years beyond the usual limits
of female friendship, by daring to speak to you with perfect
sincerity, and by trusting to the justice of your better self.
Perhaps you would rather have a compliment to your generosity than
to your justice; but in this I shall not indulge you, because I
think you already set too high a value upon generosity. It has
been the misfortune of your life, my dear friend, to believe that,
by making great sacrifices, and conferring great benefits, you
could ensure to yourself, in return, affection and gratitude. You
mistake both the nature of obligation and the effect which it
produces on the human mind. Obligations may command gratitude, but
can never ensure love. If the benefit be of a pecuniary nature, it
is necessarily attended with a certain sense of humiliation, which
destroys the equality of friendship. Of whatever description the
favour may be, it becomes burdensome, if gratitude be expected as
a tribute, instead of being accepted as the free-will offering
of the heart: 'still paying still to owe' is irksome, even to
those who have nothing Satanic in their natures. A person who has
received a favour is in a defenceless state with respect to a
benefactor; and the benefactor who makes an improper use of the
power which gratitude gives becomes an oppressor. I know your
generous spirit, and I am fully sensible that no one has a more
just idea than you have of the delicacy that ought to be used
towards those whom you have obliged; but you must permit me to
observe, that your practice is not always conformable to your
theory. Temper is doubly necessary to those who love, as you do,
to confer favours: it is the duty of a benefactress to command her
feelings, and to refrain absolutely from every species of direct
or indirect reproach; else her kindness becomes only a source
of misery; and even from the benevolence of her disposition she
derives the means of giving pain.

"I have said enough; and I know that you will not be offended. The
moment your understanding is convinced and your heart touched,
all paltry jealousies and petty irritations subside, and you
are always capable of acting in a manner worthy of yourself.
Adieu!--May you, my dear friend, preserve the affections of one
who feels for you, I am convinced, the most sincere gratitude! You
will reap a rich harvest, if you do not, with childish impatience,
disturb the seeds that you have sown, to examine whether they are
growing.

"Your faithful friend,

"L. LITTLETON."

This letter had an immediate and strong effect upon the mind of Mrs. Somers: she went directly with it open in her hand to Emilie. "Here," said she, "is the letter of a noble-minded woman, who dares to speak truth, painful truth, to her best friend. She does me justice in being convinced that I shall not be offended; she does me justice in believing that an appeal to my candour and generosity cannot be in vain, especially when it is made by her voice. Emilie, you shall see that I am worthy to have a sincere friend; you shall see that I can even command my temper, when I have what, to my own feelings and understanding, appears adequate motive. But, my dear, you are in pain--let me look at this ankle--I am absolutely afraid to see it!--Good Heavens! how it is swelled!--And I fancied, all yesterday, that you could have walked upon it!--And I thought you wanted only to excite pity!--My poor child!--I have used you barbarously--most barbarously!" cried Mrs. Somers, kneeling down beside the sofa. "And can you ever forgive me?--Yes! that sweet smile tells me that you can."

"All I ask of you," said Emilie, embracing Mrs. Somers, "is to believe that I am grateful, and to continue to make me love you as long as I live. This must depend upon you more than upon myself."

"I know it, my dear," said Mrs. Somers. "Be satisfied--I will not wear out your affections. You have dealt fairly with me. I love you for having the courage to speak as you think.--But now that it is all over, I must tell you what it was that displeased me--for I hate half reconciliations: I will tell you all that passed in my mind."

"Pray do," said Emilie; "for then I shall know how to avoid displeasing you another time."

"No danger of that, my dear. You will never make me angry again; for I am sure you will now be as frank towards me as I am towards you. It was not your adapting that little poem to a French rather than to an English air that displeased me--I am not quite so childish as to be offended by such a trifle; but I own I did not like your saying that you chose it merely to comply with your mother's taste.--And you will acknowledge, Emilie, there was a want of sincerity, a want of candour, in your affected look of astonishment, when I mentioned M. de Brisac. I do not claim your confidence as a right--God forbid!--But if the warmest desire for your happiness, the most affectionate sympathy, can merit confidence--But I will not say a word that can imply reproach. On the contrary, I will only assure you, that I have penetration sufficient always to know your wishes, and activity enough to serve you effectually, even without being your confidante. I shall this night see a friend who is in power--I will speak to him about M. de Brisac: I have hopes that his pension from our government may be doubled."

"I wish it may, for his sake," said Emilie; "but certainly not for my own."

"Oh! Mlle. de Coulanges!--But I have no right to extort confidence. I will not, as I said before, utter a syllable that can imply reproach. Let me go on with what I was telling you of my intentions. As soon as the pension is doubled, I will speak to Mad. de Coulanges about M. de Brisac."

"For Heaven's sake, do not!" interrupted Emilie; "for you would do me the greatest possible injury. Mamma would then think it a suitable match, and she would wish me to marry him; and nothing could make me move unhappy than to be under the necessity of acting contrary to my duty--of disobeying and displeasing her for ever--or else of uniting myself to M. de Brisac, whom I can neither love nor esteem."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Mrs. Somers, with joyful astonishment, "is it possible that I have been under a mistake all this time? My dearest Emilie! now you are every thing I first thought you! Indeed, I could not think with patience of your making such a match; for M. de Brisac is a mere nothing--worse than a mere nothing; a coxcomb, and a peevish coxcomb."

"And how could you suspect me of loving such a man?" said Emilie.

"I never thought you loved him, but I thought you would marry him. French marriages, you know, according to _l'ancien régime_, in which you were brought up, were never supposed to be affairs of the heart, but mere alliances of interest, pride, or convenience."

"Yes--_des mariages de convenance_," said Emilie. "We have suffered terribly by the revolution; but I owe to it one blessing, which, putting what mamma has felt out of the question, I should say has overbalanced all our losses: I have escaped--what must have been my fate in the ancient order of things--_un mariage de convenance_. I must tell you how I escaped by a happy misfortune," continued Emilie, suddenly recovering her vivacity of manner. "The family of M. de Brisac had settled, with mine, that I was to be la Comtesse de Brisac--But we lost our property, and M. le comte his memory. Mamma was provoked and indignant--I rejoiced. When I saw how shabbily he behaved, could I do otherwise than rejoice at having escaped being his wife? M. le Comte de Brisac soon lost his hereditary honours and possessions--Heaven forgive me for not pitying him! I was only glad mamma now agreed with me that we had nothing to regret. I had hoped that we should never have heard more of him: but, lo! here he is again in my way with a commission in your English army and a pension from your generous king, which make him, amongst poor emigrants, a man of consequence. And he has taken it into his head to sigh for me, because I laugh at him; and he talks of his sentiments!--sentiments!--he who has no principles!--"

"My noble-minded Emilie!" cried Mrs. Somers; "I cannot express to you the delight I feel at this explanation. How could I be such an idiot as not sooner to see the truth! But I was misled by the solicitude that Mad. de Coulanges showed about this M. de Brisac; and I foolishly concluded that you and your mother were one. On the contrary, no two people can be more different, thank Heaven!--I beg your pardon for that thanksgiving--I see it distresses you, my dear Emilie--and believe me, I never was less disposed to give you pain--I have made you suffer too much already, both in mind and body. This terrible ankle--"

"It does not give me any pain," said Emilie, "except when I attempt to walk; and it is no great misfortune to be obliged to be quiet for a few days."

Mrs. Somers' whole soul was now intent upon the means of making her young friend amends for all she had suffered: this last conversation had raised her to the highest point both of favour and esteem. Mrs. Somers was now revolving in her mind a scheme, which she had formed in the first moments of her partiality for Emilie--a scheme of marrying her to her son. She had often quarrelled with this son; but she persuaded herself that Emilie would make him every thing that was amiable and respectable, and that she would form an indissoluble bond of family union and felicity. "Then," said she to herself, "Emilie will certainly be established according to her mother's satisfaction. M. de Brisac cannot possibly stand in the way here; for my son has name and fortune, and every thing that Mad. de Coulanges can desire."

Mrs. Somers wrote immediately to summon her son home. In the mean time, delighted with this new and grand project, and thinking herself sure of success, she neglected, according to her usual custom, the "little courtesies of life;" and all Lady Littleton's excellent observations upon the nature of gratitude, and the effect produced on the mind by obligations, were entirely obliterated from her memory.

Emilie's sprained ankle confined her to the house for some weeks; both Mad. de Coulanges and Mrs. Somers began by offering in the most eager manner, in competition with each other, to stay at home every evening to keep her company; but she found that she could not accept of the offer of one without offending the other; she knew that her mother would have _les vapeurs noirs_, if she were not in _society_; and as she had reason to apprehend that Mrs. Somers could not, with the best intentions possible, remain three hours alone, with even a dear friend, without finding or making some subject of quarrel, she wisely declined all these kind offers. In fact, these were _trifling sacrifices_, which it would not have suited Mrs. Somers' temper to make: for there was no glory to be gained by them. She regularly came every evening, as soon as she was dressed, to pity Emilie--to repeat her wish that she might be allowed to stay at home--then to step into her carriage, and drive away to spend four hours in company which she professed to hate.

Lady Littleton made no complimentary speeches, but every day she contrived to spend some time with Emilie; and, by a thousand small but kind instances of attention, which asked neither for admiration nor gratitude, she contributed to Emilie's daily happiness.

This ready sympathy, and this promptitude to oblige in trifles, became extremely agreeable to Mlle. de Coulanges: perhaps from the contrast with Mrs. Somers' defects, Lady Littleton's manners pleased her peculiarly. She was under no fear of giving offence, so that she could speak her sentiments or express her feelings without constraint: and, in short, she enjoyed in this lady's society, a degree of tranquillity of mind and freedom to which she had long been a stranger. Lady Littleton had employed her excellent understanding in studying the minute circumstances which tend to make people, of different characters and tempers, agree and live happily together; and she understood and practised so successfully all the _honest_ arts of pleasing, that she rendered herself the centre of union to a large circle of relations, many of whom she had converted into friends. This she had accomplished without any violent effort, without making any splendid sacrifices, but with that calm, gentle, persevering kindness of temper, which, when united to good sense, forms the real happiness of domestic life, and the true perfection of the female character. Those who have not traced the causes of family quarrels would not readily guess from what slight circumstances they often originate: they arise more frequently from small defects in temper than from material faults of character. People who would perhaps sacrifice their fortunes or lives for each other cannot, at certain moments, give up their will, or command their humour in the slightest degree.

Whilst Emilie was confined by her sprained ankle, she employed herself in embroidering and painting various trifles, which she intended to offer as _souvenirs_ to her English friends. Amongst these, the prettiest was one which she called _the watch of Flora_.[1] It was a dial plate for a pendule, on which the hours were marked by flowers--by those flowers which open or close their petals at particular times of the day. "Linnæus has enumerated forty-six flowers which possess this kind of sensibility; and has marked," as he says, "their respective hours of rising and setting." From these forty-six Emilie wished to select the most beautiful: she had some difficulty in finding such as would suit her purpose, especially as the observations made in the botanic gardens of Upsal could not exactly agree with our climate. She sometimes applied to Mrs. Somers for assistance; but Mrs. Somers repeatedly forgot to borrow for her the botanical books which she wanted: this was too small a service for her to remember. She was provoked at last by Emilie's reiterated requests, and vexed by her own forgetfulness; so that Mlle. de Coulanges at last determined not to run the risk of offending, and she reluctantly laid aside her dial-plate.

[Footnote 1: See Botanic Garden, canto 2.]

Young people of vivacious and inventive tempers, who know what it is to be eagerly intent upon some favourite little project, will give Emilie due credit for her forbearance. Lady Littleton, though not a young person, could so far sympathize in the pursuits of youth, as to feel for Emilie's disappointment. "No," said she, "you must not lay aside your watch of Flora; perhaps I can help you to what you want." She was indefatigable in the search of books and flowers; and, by assisting her in the pursuit of this slight object, she not only enabled her to spend many happy hours, but was of the most essential service to Emilie. It happened, that one morning, when Lady Littleton went to Kew Gardens to search in the hot-houses for some of the flowers, and to ascertain their hours of closing, she met with a French botanist, who had just arrived from Paris, who came to examine the arrangement of Kew Gardens, and to compare it with that of the Jardin des Plantes. He paid some deserved compliments to the superiority of Kew Gardens; and, with the ease of a Frenchman, he entered into conversation with Lady Littleton. As he inquired for several French emigrants, she mentioned the name of Mad. de Coulanges, and asked whether he knew to whom the property of her family now belonged. He said, "that it was still in the possession of that _scelerat_ of a steward, who had, by his informations, brought his excellent master, le Comte de Coulanges, to the guillotine. But," added the botanist, "if you, madam, are acquainted with any of the family, will you give them notice that this wretch is near his end; that he has, within a few weeks, had two strokes of apoplexy; and that his eldest son by no means resembles him; but is a worthy young man, who, to my certain knowledge, is shocked at his father's crimes, and who might be prevailed upon, by a reasonable consideration, to restore to the family, to whom it originally belonged, the property that has been seized. I have more than once, even in the most dangerous times, heard him (in confidence) express the strongest attachment to the descendant of the good master, who loaded him in his childhood with favours. These sentiments he has been, of course, obliged to dissemble, and to profess directly the contrary principles: it can only be by such means that he can gain possession of the estate, which he wishes to restore to the rightful owners. He passes for as great a scoundrel as his father: this is not the least of his merits. But, madam, you may depend upon the correctness of my information, and of my knowledge of his character. I was once, as a man of science, under obligation to the late Comte de Coulanges, who gave me the use of his library; and most happy should I think myself, if I could by any means be instrumental in restoring his descendants to the possession of that library."

There was such an air of truth and frankness in the countenance and manner of this gentleman, that, notwithstanding the extraordinary nature of his information, and the still more extraordinary facility with which it was communicated, Lady Littleton could not help believing him. He gave her ladyship his address; told her that he should return to Paris in a few days; and that he should be happy if he could be made, in any manner, useful to Mad. de Coulanges. Impatient to impart all this good news to her friends, Lady Littleton hastened to Mrs. Somers'; but just as she put her hand on the lock of Emilie's door, she recollected Mrs. Somers, and determined to tell her the first, that she might have the pleasure of communicating the joyful tidings. From her knowledge of the temper of her friend, Lady Littleton thought that this would be peculiarly gratifying to her; but, contrary to all rational expectation, Mrs. Somers heard the news with an air of extreme mortification, which soon turned into anger. She got up and walked about the room, whilst Lady Littleton was speaking; and, as soon as she had finished her story, exclaimed, "Was there ever any thing so provoking!"

She continued walking, deep in reverie, whilst Lady Littleton sat looking at her in amazement. Mrs. Somers having once formed the _generous_ scheme of enriching Emilie by a marriage with her son, was actually disappointed to find that there was a probability that Mlle. de Coulanges should recover a fortune which would make her more than a suitable match for Mr. Somers. There was another circumstance that was still more provoking--this property was likely to be recovered without the assistance of Mrs. Somers. There are people who would rather that their best friends should miss a piece of good fortune than that they should obtain it without their intervention. Mrs. Somers at length quieted her own mind by the idea that all Lady Littleton had heard might have no foundation in truth.

"I am surprised, my dear friend, that a person of your excellent judgment can, for an instant, believe such a strange story as this," said Mrs. Somers. "I assure you, I do not give the slightest credit to it; and, in my opinion, it would be much better not to say one word about the matter, either to Emilie or Mad. de Coulanges: it will only fill their minds with false and absurd hopes. Mad. de Coulanges will torment herself and me to death with conjectures and exclamations; and we shall hear of nothing but the Hotel de Coulanges, and the Chateau de Coulanges, from morning till night; and, after all, I am convinced she will never see either of them again."

To this assertion, which Mrs. Somers could support only by repeating that it was her conviction--that it was her unalterable conviction--Lady Littleton simply replied, that it would be improper not to mention what had happened to Mad. de Coulanges, because this would deprive her of an opportunity of judging and acting for herself in her own affairs. "This French gentleman has offered to carry letters, or to do her any service in his power; and we should not be justifiable in concealing this: the information may be false, but of that Mad. de Coulanges should at least have an opportunity of judging; she should see this botanist, and she will recollect whether what he says of the count, and his allowing him the use of his library, be true or false: from these circumstances we may obtain some farther reason to believe or disbelieve him. I should be sorry to excite hopes which must end in disappointment; but the chance of good, in this case, appears to me far greater than the chance of evil."

"Very well, my dear Lady Littleton," interrupted Mrs. Somers, "you will follow your judgment, and I must be allowed to follow mine, though I make no doubt that yours is superior. Manage this business as you please: I will have nothing to do with it. It is your opinion that Mad. de Coulanges and her daughter should hear this wonderfully fine story; therefore I beg you will be the relater--I must be excused--for my part, I can't give any credit to it--no, not the slightest. But your judgment is better than mine, Lady Littleton--you will act as you think proper, and manage the whole business yourself--I am sure I wish you success with all my heart."

Lady Littleton, by a mixture of firmness and gentleness in her manner, so far worked upon the temper of Mrs. Somers, as to prevail upon her to believe that the management of the business was not her object; and she even persuaded Mrs. Somers to be present when the intelligence was communicated to Mad. de Coulanges and Emilie. She could not, however, forbear repeating, that she did not believe the story:--this incredulity afforded her a plausible pretext for not sympathizing in the general joy. Mad. de Coulanges was alternately in ecstasy and in despair, as she listened to Lady Littleton or to Mrs. Somers: her exclamations would have been much less frequent and violent, if Mrs. Somers had not provoked them, by mixing with her hopes a large portion of fear. The next day, when she saw the French gentleman, her hopes were predominant: for she recollected perfectly having seen this gentleman, in former times, at the Hotel de Coulanges; she knew that he was _un savant_; and that he had, before the revolution, the reputation of being a very worthy man. Mad. de Coulanges, by Lady Littleton's advice, determined, however, to be cautious in what she wrote to send to France by this gentleman. Emilie took the letters to Mrs. Somers, and requested her opinion; but she declined giving any.

"I have nothing to do with the business, Mlle. de Coulanges," said she; "you will be guided by the opinion of my Lady Littleton."

Emilie saw that it was in vain to expostulate; she retired in silence, much embarrassed as to the answer which she was to give to her mother, who was waiting to hear the opinion of Mrs. Somers. Mad. de Coulanges, impatient with Emilie, for bringing her only a reference to Lady Littleton's opinion, went herself, with what she thought the most amiable politeness, to solicit the advice of Mrs. Somers; but she was astonished, and absolutely shocked, by the coldness and want of good breeding with which this lady persisted in a refusal to have any thing to do with the business, or even to read the letters which waited for her judgment. The countess opened her large eyes to their utmost orbicular extent; and, after a moment's _silence_, the strongest possible expression that she could give of amazement, she also retired, and returned to Emilie, to demand from her an explanation of what she could not understand. The ill-humour of Mrs. Somers, now that Mad. de Coulanges was wakened to the perception of it, was not, as it had been to poor Emilie, a subject of continual anxiety and pain, but merely matter of astonishment and curiosity. She looked upon Mrs. Somers as an English _oddity_, as a _lusus naturæ_; and she alternately asked Emilie to account for these strange appearances, or shrugged up her shoulders, and submitted to the impossibility of a Frenchwoman's ever understanding such _extravagances_.

"Ah que c'est bizarre! Mais, mon enfant, expliquez moi done tout ça--Mais ça ne s'explique point--Certes c'est une Anglaise qui sçait donner, mais qui ne sçait pas vivre.--Voltaire s'y connaissait mieux que moi apparemment--et heureusement."

Content with this easy method of settling things, Mad. de Coulanges sealed and despatched her letters, appealed no more to Mrs. Somers for advice, and, when she saw any extraordinary signs of displeasure, repeated to herself--"Ah que c'est bizarre!" And this phrase was for some time a quieting charm. But as the anxiety of the countess increased, at the time when she expected to receive the decisive answer from her steward's son, she talked with incessant and uncontrollable volubility of her hopes and fears--her conjectures and calculations--and of the Chateau and Hotel de Coulanges; and she could not endure to see that Mrs. Somers heard all this with affected coldness or real impatience.

"How is this possible, Emilie?" said she. "Here is a woman who would give me half her fortune, and who yet seems to wish that I should not recover the whole of mine! Here is a woman who would move heaven and earth to serve me in her own way; but who, nevertheless, will not give me either a word of advice or a look of sympathy, in the most important affair and the most anxious moment of my life! But this is more than _bizarre_--this is intolerably provoking. For my part, I would rather a friend would deny me any thing than sympathy: without sympathy, there is no society--there is no living--there is no talking. I begin to feel my obligations a burden; and, positively, with the first money I receive from my estates, I will relieve myself from my pecuniary debt to this generous but incomprehensible Englishwoman."

Every day Emilie dreaded the arrival of the post, when her mother asked, "Are there any letters from Paris?"--Constantly the answer was--"No."--Mrs. Somers' look was triumphant; and Mad. de Coulanges applied regularly to her smelling-bottle or her snuff-box to conceal her emotion, which Mrs. Somers increased by indirect reflections upon the absurdity of those who listen to idle reports, and build castles in the air. Having set her opinion in opposition to Lady Littleton's, she supported it with a degree of obstinacy, and even acrimony, which made her often transgress the bounds of that politeness which she had formerly maintained in all her differences with the comtesse.

Mad. de Coulanges could no longer consider her humour as merely _bizarre_, she found it _insupportable_; and Mrs. Somers appeared to her totally changed, and absolutely odious, now that she was roused by her own sufferings to the perception of those evils which Emilie had long borne with all the firmness of principle, and all the philosophy of gratitude. Not a day passed without her complaining to Emilie of some _grossièreté_ from Mrs. Somers. Mad. de Coulanges suffered so much from irritation and anxiety, that her _vapeurs noirs_ returned with tenfold violence. Emilie had loved Mrs. Somers, even when most unreasonable towards herself, as long as she behaved with kindness to her mother; but now that, instead of a source of pleasure, she became the hourly cause of pain to Mad. de Coulanges, Emilie's affection could no farther go; and she really began to dislike this lady--to dread to see her come into the room--and to tremble at hearing her voice. Emilie could judge only by what she saw; and she could not divine that Mrs. Somers was occupied, all this time, with the generous scheme of marrying her to her son and heir, and of settling upon her a large fortune; nor could she guess, that all the ill-humour in Mrs. Somers originated in the fear that her friends should be made either rich or happy without her assistance. Her son's delaying to return home, according to her mandate, had disappointed and vexed her extremely. Every day, when the post came in, she inquired for letters with almost as much eagerness as Mad. de Coulanges. At length a letter came from Mr. Somers, to inform his impatient mother that he should certainly be in town the beginning of the ensuing week. Delighted by this news, she could not refrain from the temptation of opening her whole mind to Emilie; though she had previously resolved not to give the slightest intimation of her scheme to any one, not even to Lady Littleton, till a definitive answer had been received from Paris, respecting the fortune of Mad. de Coulanges. Often, when Mrs. Somers was full of some magnanimous design, the merest trifle that interrupted the full display of her generosity threw her into a passion, even with those whom she was going to serve. So it happened in the present instance. She went, with her open letter in her hand, to the countess's apartment, where unluckily she found M. de Brisac, who was going to read the French newspapers to madame. Mrs. Somers sat down beside Emilie, who was painting the last flower of her watch of Flora. Mrs. Somers wrote on a slip of paper, "Don't ask M. de Brisac to read the papers, for I want to speak to you." She threw down the note before Emilie, who was so intent upon what she was about, that she did not immediately see it--Mrs. Somers touched her elbow--Emilie started, and let fall her brush, which made a blot upon her dial-plate.

"Oh! what a pity!--Just as I had finished my work," cried Emilie, "I have spoiled it!"

M. de Brisac laid down the newspaper to pour forth compliments of condolence.--Mrs. Somers tore the piece of paper as he approached the table, and said, with some asperity, "One would think this was a matter of life and death, by the terms in which it is deplored."

M. de Brisac, who stood so that Mrs. Somers could not see him, shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Mad. de Coulanges, who answered him by another look, that plainly said, "This is English politeness!"

Emilie, who saw that her mother was displeased, endeavoured to change the course of her thoughts, by begging M. de Brisac to go on with what he was reading from the French papers. This was a fresh provocation to Mrs. Somers, who forgot that Emilie had not read the words on the slip of paper which had been torn; and consequently could not know all Mrs. Somers' impatience for his departure. M. de Brisac read, in what this lady called his _unemphatic French tone_, paragraph after paragraph, and column after column, whilst her anxiety to have him go every moment increased. She moulded her son's letter into all manner of shapes as she sat in penance. To complete her misfortunes, something in the paper put Mad. de Coulanges in mind of former times; and she began a long history of the destruction of some fine old tapestry hangings in the Chateau de Coulanges, at the beginning of the Revolution: this led to endless melancholy reflections; and at length tears began to flow from the fine eyes of the countess.

Just at this instant a butterfly flew into the room, and passed by Mad. de Coulanges, who was sitting near the open window. "Oh! the beautiful butterfly!" cried she, starting up to catch it. "Did you ever see such a charming creature? Catch it, M. de Brisac!--Catch it, Emilie!--Catch it, Mrs. Somers!"

With the tears yet upon her cheeks, Mad. de Coulanges began the chase, and M. de Brisac followed, beating the air with his perfumed handkerchief, and the butterfly fluttered round the table at which Emilie was standing.

"Eh! M. de Brisac, catch it!--Catch it, Emilie!" repeated her mother.--"Catch it, Mrs. Somers, for the love of Heaven!"

"_For the love of Heaven_!" repeated Mrs. Somers, who, immovably grave, and sullenly indignant, kept aloof during this chase.

"Ah! pour le coup, papillon, je te tiens!" cried la comtesse, and with eager joy she covered it with a glass, as it lighted on the table.

"Mlle. de Coulanges," cried Mrs. Somers, "I acknowledge, now, that I was wrong in my criticism of Caroline de Lichteld. I blamed the author for representing Caroline, at fifteen, or just when she is going to be married, as running after butterflies. I said that, at that age, it was too frivolous--out of drawing--out of nature. But I should have said only, that it was out of _English nature_.--I stand corrected."

Mad. de Coulanges and M. de Brisac again interchanged looks, which expressed "_Est-il possible_!" And la comtesse then, with an unusual degree of deliberation and dignity in her manner, walked out of the room. Emilie, who saw that her mother was extremely offended, was much embarrassed--she went on washing the blot out of her drawing. M. de Brisac stood silently looking over her, and Mrs. Somers opposite to him, wishing him fairly at the antipodes. M. de Brisac, to break the silence, which seemed to him as if it never would be broken, asked Mlle. de Coulanges if she had ever seen the stadtholder's fine collection of butterflies, and if she did not admire them extremely? No, she never had; but she said that she admired extremely the generosity the stadtholder had shown in sacrificing, not only his fine collection of butterflies, but his most valuable pictures, to save the lives of the poor French emigrants, who were under his protection.

At the sound of the word generosity, Mrs. Somers became attentive; and Emilie was in hopes that she would recover her temper, and apologize to her mother: but at this moment a servant came to tell Mlle. de Coulanges that la comtesse wished to speak to her immediately. She found her mother in no humour to receive any apology, even if it had been offered: nothing could have hurt Mad. de Coulanges more than the imputation of being frivolous.

"Frivole!--frivole!--moi frivole!" she repeated, as soon as Emilie entered the room. "My dear Emilie! I would not live with this Mrs. Somers for the rest of my days, were she to offer me the Pitt diamond, or the whole mines of Golconda!--Bon Dieu!--neither money nor diamonds, after all, can pay for the want of kindness and politeness!--There is Lady Littleton, who has never done us any favour, but that of showing us attention and sympathy; I protest I love her a million of times better than I can love Mrs. Somers, to whom we owe so much. It is in vain, Emilie, to remind me that she is our benefactress. I have said that over and over to myself, till I am tired, and till I have absolutely lost all sense of the meaning of the word. Bitterly do I repent having accepted of such obligations from this strange woman; for, as to the idea of regaining our estate, and paying my debt to her, I have given up all hopes of it. You see that we have no letters from France. I am quite tired out. I am convinced that we shall never have any good news from Paris. And I cannot, I will not, remain longer in this house. Would you have me submit to be treated with disrespect? Mrs. Somers has affronted me before M. de Brisac, in a manner that I cannot, that I ought not, to endure--that you, Emilie, ought not to wish me to endure. I positively will not live upon the bounty of Mrs. Somers. There is but one way of extricating ourselves. M. de Brisac--Why do you turn pale, child?--M. de Brisac has this morning made me a proposal for you, and the best thing we can possibly do is to accept of it."

"The best!--Pray don't say the best!" cried Emilie. "Ah! dear mamma, for me the worst! Let me beseech you not to sacrifice my happiness for ever by such a marriage!"

"And what other can you expect, Emilie, in your present circumstances?"

"None," said Emilie.

"And here is an establishment--at least an independence for you--and you call it sacrificing your happiness for ever to accept of it!"

"Yes," said Emilie; "because it is offered to me by one whom I can neither love nor esteem. Dearest mamma! can you forget all his former meanness of conduct?"

"His present behaviour makes amends for the past," said Mad. de Coulanges, "and entitles him to my esteem and to yours, and that is sufficient. As to love--well educated girls do not marry for love."

"But they ought not to marry without feeling love, should they?" said Emilie.

"Emilie! Emilie!" said her mother, "these are strange ideas that have come into the heads of young women since the Revolution. If you had remained safe in your convent, I should have heard none of this nonsense."

"Perhaps not, mamma," said Emilie, with a deep sigh. "But should I have been happier?"

"A fine question, truly!--How can I tell? But this I can ask you--How can any girl expect to be happy, who abandons the principles in which she was bred up, and forgets her duty to the mother by whom she has been educated--the mother, whose pride, whose delight, whose darling, she has ever been? Oh, Emilie! this is to me worse than all I have ever suffered!"

Mad. de Coulanges burst into a passion of tears, and Emilie stood looking at her in silent despair.

"Emilie, you cannot deceive me," cried her mother; "you cannot pretend that it is simply your want of esteem for M. de Brisac which renders you thus obstinately averse to the match. You are in love with another person."

"Not in love," said Emilie, in a faltering voice.

"You cannot deceive me, Emilie--remember all you said to me about the stranger who was our fellow prisoner at the Abbaye. You cannot deny this, Emilie."

"Nor do I, dear mamma," said Emilie. "I _cannot_ deceive you, indeed I _would_ not; and the best proof that I do not wish to deceive you--that I never attempted it--is, that I told you all I thought and felt about that stranger. I told you that his honourable, brave, and generous conduct towards us, when we were in distress, made an impression upon my heart--that I preferred him to any person I had ever seen--and I told you, my dear mamma, that--"

"You told me too much," interrupted Mad. de Coulanges; "more than I wished to hear--more than I will have repeated, Emilie. This is romance and nonsense. The man, whoever he was--and Heaven knows who he was!--behaved very well, and was a very agreeable person: but what then? are you ever likely to see him again? Do you even know his birth--his name--his country--or any thing about him, but that he was brave and generous?--So are fifty other men, five hundred, five thousand, five million, I hope. But is this any reason that you should refuse to marry M. de Brisac? Henry the Fourth was brave and generous two hundred years ago. That is as much to the purpose. You have as much chance of establishing yourself, if you wait for Henry the Fourth to come to life again, as if you wait for this nameless nobody of a hero--who is perhaps married, after all--who knows!--Really, Emilie, this is too absurd!"

"But, dear mamma, I cannot marry one man and love another--love I did not quite mean to say. But whilst I prefer another, I cannot, in honour, marry M. de Brisac."

"Honour!--Love!--But in France, in my time, who ever heard of a young lady's being in love before she was married? You astonish, you frighten, you shock me, child! Recollect yourself, Emilie! Misfortune may have deprived you of the vast possessions to which you are heiress; but do not, therefore, degrade yourself and me by forgetting your principles, and all that the representative of the house of Coulanges ought to remember. And as for myself--have I no claim upon your affections, Emilie?--have not I been a fond mother?"

"Oh, yes!" said Emilie, melting into tears. "Of your kindness I think more than of any thing else!--more than of the whole house of Coulanges!"

"Do not let me see you in tears, child!" said Mad. de Coulanges, moved by Emilie's grief. "Your tears hurt my nerves more even than Mrs. Somers' _grossièreté_. You must blame Mrs. Somers, not me, for all this--her temper drives me to it--I cannot live with her. We have no alternative. Emilie, my sweet child! make me happy!--I am miserable in this house. Hitherto you have ever been the best of daughters, and you shall find me the most indulgent of mothers. One whole month I will give you to change your mind, and recollect your duty. At the end of that time, I must see you Mad. de Brisac, and in a house of your own.--In the house of Mrs. Somers I will not, I cannot longer remain."