The Little Old Portrait

by Mrs. Molesworth

refractory little sitter, was struck by hisbright face and fearless bearing.

  "`I would like to sketch him,' he said to himself. `It is not often onesees peasants of his type now-a-days among the half-starved, wolfish,and yet cowed-looking creatures they are becoming,' he added, though notso as to be heard by any one else, turning to the Count, who stoodbeside him.

  "`No, indeed,' replied the gentleman, and a look of anxiety crossed hispale, serious face.

  "`Come forward, my boy,' said Edmee's mother. `Why did you not come tosee me before? You know you are always welcome.'

  "`I thought as Mademoiselle was sent for, perhaps there was company,'said Pierre smiling, while his sunburnt face grew ruddier.

  "`It was that naughty Victorine?' said Edmee, pouting; `she called myPierrot a clodhopper. I don't like Victorine!'

  "`A clodhopper?' said the Countess; `no, indeed, she should not havesaid so; that comes of having a maid from Paris, I suppose. I think Ishall keep to our own good Touraine girls for the future, even thoughthey are not so clever. Now, Pierre, my boy, you are to help us to getEdmee to keep still; Mr Denis is going to paint her, just as she isnow.'

  "Pierre's quick wits soon understood what was wanted. He sat down on astool by Edmee, and began telling her in a low voice one of herfavourite stories, which soon drew all her attention. And it was thusthat the portrait which is now hanging in the parlour at Belle PrairieFarm, and which will, I hope, always hang there, came to be taken. Ifone looks closely at one corner, one will see the date, `July 15th1783,' and the painter's initials, `R.D.'

  "This little scene which I have described is one of the first clearlyimpressed on my mother's memory. She has often told it to me. Perhapsthe reason that she remembers it so well is that that summer was thelast of the unbroken happiness of the Chateau de Valmont. The goodCount my grandfather, though always delicate, had hitherto been wellenough to enjoy the quiet home life, which was what he preferred, and toattend himself to the care of his property and of his people, but thewinter following this bright summer, which had seen my mother's fifthbirthday, was a severe one. My grandfather unfortunately caught coldone day from having been exposed to a snowstorm on his way home from avisit to his wife's brother, the Marquis de Sarinet, whose chateau wasabout two days' journey from Valmont-les-Roses. And this illness of mygrandfather's was the beginning of troubles--not for himself and hisfamily alone, but for scores of others whom he had always wished andendeavoured to protect and to make happy, so far as he could; though forhim, and the few like him, it was more difficult than could now-a-daysbe believed to behave with kindness, even with any approach to justice,to those in their power. For these few good and truly wise men stoodalone against the blind obstinacy of the many, bent, though they knew itnot, on their own destruction.

  "A glimpse of life in another and less favoured village than Valmont mayperhaps give to those who in future days will, I hope, read this story,a better idea of the state of things than I could otherwise ensure them.I have heard all about it so often from my mother, and even more frommy father, who had seen more of the peasant life of the time than she,that it often seems to me as if I had myself been an eye-witness of thescenes I have heard described. And some knowledge of the things whichwere passing at but a short distance from my mother's peaceful home willenable her grandchildren and great-grandchildren better to understandthe events I have to tell.

  "We need travel no further than Sarinet, the place I have spoken of asthe home of my grandmother's family--the wife of the good Count. Shehad married young, fortunately for her, for Sarinet would not have beena happy home for her. It was in the possession of her half-brother, theproud Marquis de Sarinet, who lived there a great part of the year withhis wife and one child, Edmond, a boy about the age of Pierre Germain.

  "It is winter--that same cruelly severe winter which laid the seeds ofthe good Count's fatal illness. Heavy snow is on the ground, and theair is bitter and cutting. The village of Sarinet seems asleep; thereis hardly any one moving about. It is so cold--so cold that the poorinhabitants, such as are not obliged to be away at their daily work, aretrying to keep some little warmth in them by staying indoors. And yetindoors it is scarcely warmer; in many of the cottages there is no fireto be seen, in some but a few wretched embers on the great open chimney,down which blows the wintry wind as if angry that any one should attemptto get warm. The well, or fountain, as they call it, whence they alldraw water, has been frozen for some days; when the men come home atnight they have to break the ice away with hatchets. There are fewchildren to be seen--one is almost glad to think so--and yet the absenceof the little creatures has brought sad sorrow to many hearts. For notmany months ago the village and some others in the neighbourhood hadbeen visited by a wasting fever, the result of bad food, overwork, andgeneral wretchedness, and scarcely a family but had lost some of itsmembers--above all, among the children.

  "At the door of one of the miserable cottages stands a young girl ofabout fifteen, crying bitterly. Cold though it is, she scarcely seemsto feel it. She looks up and down the road as if watching for some one,then she re-enters the cottage, which is bare and miserable beyonddescription, and tries to coax into flame a little heap of twigs andwithered leaves which are all the fuel she possesses. Her clothing isdesperately poor--one could scarcely see that it had ever had any colouror shape--and yet there is an attempt at neatness about her, and she isor rather she would have been had she had a fair amount of food anddecent clothing, a pretty, sweet-looking girl.

  "As she stands again in her restless misery at the door of the cottage,an old woman comes out from the next door.

  "`What is the matter, Marguerite?' she says; `is your brother illagain?'

  "`Oh, Madelon,' she exclaims, `I think it would be better if he weredead! My poor boy!' and she burst out sobbing again.

  "`What is it? Anything new? Come in here and tell me,' said the woman,and she drew Marguerite inside her own dwelling, which was, perhaps, ashade less wretched than its neighbour, though in one corner, on apallet bed hardly worth calling such--it was in reality but a bag ofcoarse sacking filled with straw--a man, looking more like a corpse thana human being, was lying, apparently in a state of half-unconsciousness.

  "`He is getting better, they say,' observed the woman nodding her headin his direction. `The doctor looked in yesterday--he had been up atthe Chateau to see the little lord. Yes, he says Jean is gettingbetter, and with good food he might be fit for something again,' sheadded in a hard, indifferent tone, as if she did not much care.

  "`And will they not send some to _him_--they--up at the Chateau?' saidMarguerite, indignantly. `They know how the accident happened; it wasin saving my lord's haystacks; but for him every one says they would allhave been burnt.'

  "The woman gave a short, bitter laugh.

  "`On the other hand, as the bailiff says,' she replied, `we should beoverwhelmed with gratitude that Jean has not been accused of settingfire to them. You know what _that_ would have meant,' and she passedher hand round her neck with an expressive gesture, for in those days amuch smaller crime than that of incendiarism--or even, alas! in mostcases, the _suspicion_ of such a crime--was too surely punished byhanging, and hanging sometimes preceded by tortures too frightful totell you of, and followed by hideous insult to the poor, dead body,adding untold horror to the misery of the victim's friends, even afterhe could no longer suffer. `There is one cause for thankfulness,'Jean's wife went on,--I have called her an old woman, but she was, inreality, barely forty, though you would have taken her for fully twentyyears more--`and that is that he and I are now alone to bear it. Thefever has been our best friend after all.'

  "`Yes,' said Marguerite simply, `your children with my mother and littleAngele--they are all at rest and happy in heaven.'

  "`But how can there be a heaven--how can there be a God, if He lets ussuffer so horribly? Suffer till there is no _good_, no gentleness, nopity left in us, my girl. There are times when I feel as if the devilwere in me,
when I would enjoy the sight of _their_ suffering, they whotreat us worse than their dogs--dogs indeed! see my lady's littlepampered poodles! if we were treated like their dogs we need notcomplain--when I would not have a drop of pity in my heart, however Isaw them tortured,' and Madelon's face, in its thin misery, took anexpression which made Marguerite shiver, so that the elder woman,thinking it was from cold, drew her nearer to the fire, which shestirred with her foot.

  "`I should not talk so to you, poor child. Now tell me your troubles.Is it about Louis?'

  "`Partly, and about everything. Last night, Madelon, quite late, thathorrible Martin, the bailiff's son, came down again, sent by his fatherabout the rent. He said if we had not yet