Part 20 (2/2)

”Lucky it's not fragile.”

And lifting his cap, on whose visor one might read ”Hotel des Homines Ill.u.s.tres,” he cheerfully wished us a _Bon voyage_.

IX

Before the war it used to be Aunt Rose's victoria that met us at the station; a victoria drawn by a s.h.i.+ny span and driven by pompous old Joseph, the coachman, clad in a dark green, gold-b.u.t.toned livery and wearing a c.o.c.kade on his hat. Aunt Rose's coachman, and the Swiss at Notre Dame were cla.s.sed among the curiosities of the city, as could be attested by the numerous persons who hastened to their doorstep to see the brilliant equipage pa.s.s by.

But this time we found the victoria relegated beside the old ”Berline”

which Aunt Rose's great-grandmother had used to make a journey to Italy; the horses had been sent out to the farm, where they were needed, and Joseph, fallen from the glory of his box, attired in a striped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat, half civilian, half servant, seemed a decidedly puffy old man, much aged since our last visit.

”Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to take the omnibus. Will Monsieur kindly give me the baggage check?”

Then as I fumbled in my purse--

”Monsieur and Madame will find many changes, I fear.”

But in spite of his prophecy to us there seemed little difference. The rickety old omnibus rattled and b.u.mped noisily over the pointed cobble pavements, the tiny city merely seemed asleep behind its drawn blinds and its closed shutters. At the corner of the square in front of the chateau the old vegetable vendor still sold her products seated beneath her patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane watchdog lay in exactly the same place on the tinker's doorstep. Around the high church tower the crows circled and cawed as usual, while the bell of its clock which, as we pa.s.sed, slowly struck three, was echoed by the distant hills with the same familiar sound.

The omnibus deposited us at the entrance to the big roomy edifice which Aunt Rose called ”home.”

The broad facade, evenly pierced by its eighteen long French windows, had a genial, inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour of the bricks, the white stone tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, the iron balconies, mingled here and there with bas-reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect harmony with the tall slanting slate roof and majestic chimneys, the whole forming one of those delightful ensembles constructed by local architects during the 17th century for the pleasure and comfort of a large French bourgeois family.

Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory-headed cane, but bright eyed and alert as ever, awaited us at the top of the steps. From her we soon learned that we had missed our friends the M.'s by but a day, and that little Andre, son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his visit for the following Monday.

At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian favourite, crept down from his cus.h.i.+on and approached us.

”He doesn't bark any more, so you know he must be getting old,” smiled Aunt Rose, caressing her pet.

”My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear. Her nephew is stone blind since the battle of the Marne. Joseph has lost two of his grandsons; of course, he didn't tell you--he doesn't want any one to speak of it--but he's very much upset by it. Nicholas and Armandine do nothing but worry about their poor little Pierre, who hasn't given a sign of life for three months now--so I fear you will have to be very patient and very indulgent guests.”

The delightful old lady led us to our room, ”the psyche room” we, the youngsters, used to call it on account of the charming grisaille wall paper, dating from the end of the Empire period, and representing in somewhat stiff but none the less enchanting manner the amorous adventures of that G.o.ddess.

I have always had a secret feeling that many a time, urged by her confessor, Madame de C. had been upon the point of obliterating or removing those extremely chaste nude images. But at the last moment rose up the horror of voluntarily changing anything in the homestead, transforming a whole room that she always had known thus, and perhaps the unavowed fear of our ridicule and reproach, had made her renounce her project.

”Brush up quickly, and come right down to tea. We've got so many things to talk over. You've so much to tell me!”

So a quarter of an hour later, tea-cup in hand, we must needs go into the details of our trips, inform her of our hopes and fears, tell of all the different things we had seen--what America was going to do--what it had already accomplished. And with her marvellously quick understanding, her vivacious intelligence, the old lady cla.s.sified the facts and the anecdotes, asked us to repeat dates and numbers, that she might the better retain them in her splendid memory.

All through dinner and the long evening she plied us with questions, kept the conversation running along the same lines, returning now and then to a certain theme, or certain figures, and asking us to go into even more detail.

”I know I'm an abominable old egoist,” at length she apologised. ”But you'd forgive me if only you realised how much happiness your stories will bring, and to how many people. I imagine that you haven't had much time for correspondence with our family--but that's all an old woman like myself is good for these days.”

”Our family” consisted in relations.h.i.+p to the 'nth degree of all the H's, de C's, B's and F's that were then in existence, some of them such distant cousins that Aunt Rose herself would never have recognised them had they met. And besides these people there were her friends, her servants, her farmers, possibly a group of three hundred persons with whom the good soul corresponded, giving news of the ones to the others, announcing misfortunes or joys--a living link between us all.

Left a widow when still quite young, Aunt Rose had lived with and respected the memory of her husband. Though she had had many an offer, she had never cared to remarry. But unable to stand the damp climate of Normandy, she had returned to her family homestead in this little city of the Bourbonnais, in whose suburbs she possessed quite a fortune in farm lands. Alone in the world, with no immediate family, she had devoted herself not only to her own, but to her husband's relatives.

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