Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag (Vol. 1-6). Louisa May AlcottЧитать онлайн книгу.
then the old tyrant left his bed to beat her, which token of conjugal regard she seemed to enjoy as a relic of early days, and a proof that he would long be spared to her.
She kept him exquisitely neat, and if anyone gave her a plate of food, a little snuff, or any small comfort for her patient old age, she took it straight to the 'master,' and found a double happiness in giving and seeing him enjoy it.
She had but one eye, her amiable husband having put out the other once on a time as she was leading him home tipsy from market. The kind soul bore no malice, and always made light of it when forced to tell how the affliction befell her.
'My Yvon was so gay in his young days, truly, yes, a fine man, and now most beautiful to see in his clean bed, with the new pipe that Mademoiselle sent him. Come, then, and behold him, my superb master, who at ninety-eight has still this strength so wonderful.'
The ladies never cared to see him more than once, but often met the truly beautiful old wife as she toiled to and fro, finding her faithful love more wonderful than his strength, and feeling sure that when she lies at last on her 'clean bed,' some good angel will repay these ninety-two hard years with the youth and beauty, happiness and rest, which nothing can destroy.
Not only did the women manage the affairs of this world, but had more influence than men with the good powers of heaven. A long drought parched France that year, and even fertile Brittany suffered. More than once processions of women, led by priests, poured through the gates to go to the Croix du Saint Esprit and pray for rain.
'Why don't the men go also?' Miss Livy asked.
'Ah! they pray to the Virgin, and she listens best to women,' was the answer.
She certainly seemed to do so, for gracious showers soon fell, and the little gardens bloomed freshly where the mothers' hard hands had planted cabbages, onions, and potatoes to feed the children through the long winter.
Nor were these the only tasks the women did. The good ladies had a hospital, and a neater, cheerier place was never seen; few invalids, but many old people sitting in the sunny gardens, or at work in the clean rooms. La Garaye is in ruins now, but the memory of its gentle lady still lives, and is preserved in this benevolent institution for the sick, the old, and poor.
A school for girls was kept by the good nuns, and the streets at certain hours were full of little damsels, with round caps on their braided hair, queer long gowns of blue, white aprons and handkerchiefs, who went clattering by in their wooden shoes, bobbing little curtsies to their friends, and readily answering any questions inquisitive strangers asked them. They learned to read, write, sew, and say the catechism. Also to sing; for, often as the ladies passed the little chapel of Our Lady, a chorus of sweet young voices came to us, making the flowery garden behind the church of St. Sauveur a favourite resting-place.
In endeavouring to account for the freedom of the women here, it was decided that it was owing to Anne of Brittany, the 'gentle and generous Duchesse,' to whom her husband Louis XII. allowed the uncontrolled government of the duchy. Relics of the 'fière Bretonne,' as Louis called her, are still treasured everywhere, and it was pleasant to know not only that she was an accomplished woman, writing tender letters in Latin verse to her husband, but also a wise and just Princess to her people, 'showing herself by spirit and independence to be the most worthy of all her race to wear the ducal crown.' So three cheers for good Duchesse Anne, and long life to the hardy, happy women of Brittany!
While Miss Lavinia was making these observations and moralizing upon them, the younger ladies were enjoying discoveries and experiences more to their tastes.
They had not been in the house half a day before Madame C. informed them that 'Mademoiselle, the so charming miss whom they beheld at dinner, was to be married very soon; and they should have the rapture of witnessing a wedding the most beautiful.'
They welcomed the prospect with pleasure, for Dinan is not a whirl of gaiety at the best of times: and that spring the drought, rumours of war, and fears of small-pox, cast a shadow upon the sunny little town. So they surveyed Mademoiselle Pelagie with interest, and longed to behold the happy man who was to be blessed with the hand of this little, yellow-faced girl, with red eyes, dirty hands, and a frizzled crop, so like a wig they never could make up their minds that it was not.
Madame, the mamma, a buxom, comely widow, who breakfasted in black moire, with a diadem of glossy braids on her sleek head, and many jet ornaments rattling and glistening about her person, informed them, with voluble affability, of the whole affair.
'My brother, M. le Président, had arranged the marriage. Pelagie was twenty, and beautiful, as you behold. It was time to establish her. Mon Dieu! yes; though my heart is lacerated to lose my angel, I consent. I conduct her to a ball, that she may be seen by the young man whose parents desire that he should espouse my infant. He beholds her. He says: "Great heavens, I adore her! My father, I consent." He is presented to me; we converse. She regards him with the angelic modesty of a young girl, but speaks not. I approve, the parents meet, it is arranged, and Jules is betrothed to my Pelagie. They have not met since; but next week he comes for the marriage, and he will be permitted to address her in my presence. Ah, yes! your customs are not as ours, and to us seem of a deplorable freedom. Pardon that I say it.'
On inquiring how Pelagie regarded her future lord, they found that she thought very little about him, but was absorbed in her trousseau, which she proudly displayed. To those accustomed to see and hear of American outfits, with their lavish profusion and extravagant elegance, poor little Pelagie's modest stores were not at all imposing. Half a dozen pretty dresses from Paris; several amazing hats, all rosebuds, lace, and blue ribbon; a good deal of embroidery; and a few prophetic caps—completed the outfit.
One treasure, however, she was never tired of displaying—a gift from Jules—a camels'-hair shawl, in a black walnut case, on which was carved the Clomadoc arms. A set of pearls were also from the bridegroom; but the shawl was her pride, for married women alone could wear such, and she seemed to think this right of more importance than any the wedding-ring could confer upon her.
To the young ladies, both of whom had known many of the romantic experiences which befall comely American girls, the idea of marrying a man whom they had only seen twice seemed horrible; and to have but one week of courtship, and that in Mamma's presence, was simply an insult and a wrong which they would not bear to think of.
But Pelagie seemed quite content, and brooded over her finery like a true Frenchwoman, showing very little interest in her Jules, and only anxious for the time to come when she could wear her shawl and be addressed as Madame.
While waiting for the grand event, the girls amused themselves with Gaston, the brother of the bride-elect. He was a languid, good-looking youth of three-and-twenty, who assumed blasé airs and attitudinized for their benefit. Sometimes he was lost in fits of Byronic gloom, when he frowned over his coffee, sighed gustily, and clutched his brow, regardless of the curls, usually in ambrosial order. The damsels, instead of being impressed by this display of inward agony, only laughed at him, and soon rallied him out of his heroics. Then he would try another plan, and become all devotion, presenting green tulips, ancient coins, early fruit, or sketches of his own, so very small that the design was quite obscure. If these delicate attentions failed to touch the stony hearts of the blonde Americans, he would air his entire wardrobe, appearing before them one day in full Breton costume of white cloth, embroidered in gay silks, buckled shoes, and hat adorned with streaming ribbons and flowers. Quite Arcadian was Gaston in this attire; and very effective on the croquet ground, where sundry English families disported themselves on certain afternoons. Another time he would get himself up like a Parisian dandy bound for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne; and, mounting with much difficulty a rampant horse, he would caracole about the Place St. Louis, to the great delight of the natives.
But this proved a failure; for one of the fair but cruel strangers donned hat and habit, and entirely eclipsed his glories by galloping about the country like an Amazon. The only time Gaston played escort she was nearly the death of him, for he seldom did more than amble a mile or two, and a hard trot of some six or eight miles reduced our Adonis to such a state of exhaustion that he fell