Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                     THE CHÂTEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC.


FEW Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little
town of Le Puy.  It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which
also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these
days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire.
It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the
southern half of France.

But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting.  In the
first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is
not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the
geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the
general tourist.  Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks,
rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness.  Round two of these
the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the
centre of a faubourg, or suburb.  These rocks appear to be, and I believe
are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been carried
away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and air.

When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no
doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the
deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have
remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley.

The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille.  Round this and
up its steep sides the town stands.  On its highest summit there was an
old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed,
a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon
taken at Sebastopol.  Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a
singularly gloomy edifice,—Romanesque, as it is called, in its style, but
extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of
Byzantine structures.  But there has been no surface on the rock side
large enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has therefore
been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch below the
west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid along the side
of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight of stairs.  Let
all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit the top of these
stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down from thence through
the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and at the hill-side
beyond.

Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful
walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town
and valley below.

Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second
peak, called the Rock of the Needle.  It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt
from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides.  But on its very
point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of rock
summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone.  This, perhaps—this
rock, I mean—is the most wonderful of the wonders which Nature has formed
at La Puy.

Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the
same way, and almost equally precipitous.  On its summit is a castle,
having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of
Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the
provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay.  Some three miles farther up
there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in its
spring,—equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,—on which
stands the castle and old family residence of the house of Polignac.  It
was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by the minister
of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the race.

Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the
language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory
of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets.  These are
crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent
sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the
feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as
clean as pedestrian ladies might desire.

And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at
the Hotel des Ambassadeurs.  It will of course be understood that this
does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting
of tea or coffee, bread and butter, and perhaps a boiled egg.  It
comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and
as one gets farther south in France, this meal is called dinner.  It is,
however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat
longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken
up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper.

The déjeûner, or dinner, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, on the morning in
question, though very elaborate, was not a very gay affair.  There were
some fourteen persons present, of whom half were residents in the town,
men employed in some official capacity, who found this to be the
cheapest, the most luxurious, and to them the most comfortable mode of
living.  They clustered together at the head of the table, and as they
were customary guests at the house, they talked their little talk
together—it was very little—and made the most of the good things before
them.  Then there were two or three commis-voyageurs, a chance traveller
or two, and an English lady with a young daughter.  The English lady sat
next to one of the accustomed guests; but he, unlike the others, held
converse with her rather than with them.  Our story at present has
reference only to that lady and to that gentleman.

Place aux dames.  We will speak first of the lady, whose name was Mrs.
Thompson.  She was, shall I say, a young woman of about thirty-six.  In
so saying, I am perhaps creating a prejudice against her in the minds of
some readers, as they will, not unnaturally, suppose her, after such an
announcement, to be in truth over forty.  Any such prejudice will be
unjust.  I would have it believed that thirty-six was the outside, not
the inside of her age.  She was good-looking, lady-like, and considering
that she was an Englishwoman, fairly well dressed.  She was inclined to
be rather full in her person, but perhaps not more so than is becoming to
ladies at her time of life.  She had rings on her fingers and a brooch on
her bosom which were of some value, and on the back of her head she wore
a jaunty small lace cap, which seemed to tell, in conjunction with her
other appointments, that her circumstances were comfortable.

The little girl who sat next to her was the youngest of her two
daughters, and might be about thirteen years of age.  Her name was
Matilda, but infantine circumstances had invested her with the nickname
of Mimmy, by which her mother always called her.  A nice, pretty, playful
little girl was Mimmy Thompson, wearing two long tails of plaited hair
hanging, behind her head, and inclined occasionally to be rather loud in
her sport.

Mrs. Thompson had another and an elder daughter, now some fifteen years
old, who was at school in Le Puy; and it was with reference to her
tuition that Mrs. Thompson had taken up a temporary residence at the
Hôtel des Ambassadeurs in that town.  Lilian Thompson was occasionally
invited down to dine or breakfast at the inn, and was visited daily at
her school by her mother.

“When I’m sure that she’ll do, I shall leave her there, and go back to
England,” Mrs. Thompson had said, not in the purest French, to the
neighbour who always sat next to her at the table d’hôte, the gentleman,
namely, to whom we have above alluded.  But still she had remained at Le
Puy a month, and did not go; a circumstance which was considered
singular, but by no means unpleasant, both by the innkeeper and by the
gentleman in question.

The facts, as regarded Mrs. Thompson, were as follows:—She was the widow
of a gentleman who had served for many years in the civil service of the
East Indies, and who, on dying, had left her a comfortable income of—it
matters not how many pounds, but constituting quite a sufficiency to
enable her to live at her ease and educate her daughters.

Her children had been sent home to England before her husband’s death,
and after that event she had followed them; but there, though she was
possessed of moderate wealth, she had no friends and few acquaintances,
and after a little while she had found life to be rather dull.  Her
customs were not those of England, nor were her propensities English;
therefore she had gone abroad, and having received some recommendation of
this school at Le Puy, had made her way thither.  As it appeared to her
that she really enjoyed more consideration at Le Puy than had been
accorded to her either at Torquay or Leamington, there she remained from
day to day.  The total payment required at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was
but six francs daily for herself and three and a half for her little
girl; and where else could she live with a better junction of economy and
comfort?  And then the gentleman who always sat next to her was so
exceedingly civil!

The gentleman’s name was M. Lacordaire.  So much she knew, and had
learned to call him by his name very frequently.  Mimmy, too, was quite
intimate with M. Lacordaire; but nothing more than his name was known of
him.  But M. Lacordaire carried a general letter of recommendation in his
face, manner, gait, dress, and tone of voice.  In all these respects
there was nothing left to be desired; and, in addition to this, he was
decorated, and wore the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour,
ingeniously twisted into the shape of a small flower.

M. Lacordaire might be senior in age to Mrs. Thompson by about ten years,
nor had he about him any of the airs or graces of a would-be young man.
His hair, which he wore very short, was grizzled, as was also the small
pretence of a whisker which came down about as far as the middle of his
ear; but the tuft on his chin was still brown, without a gray hair.  His
eyes were bright and tender, his voice was low and soft, his hands were
very white, his clothes were always new and well fitting, and a
better-brushed hat could not be seen out of Paris, nor perhaps in it.

Now, during the weeks which Mrs. Thompson had passed at La Puy, the
acquaintance which she had formed with M. Lacordaire had progressed
beyond the prolonged meals in the salle à manger.  He had occasionally
sat beside her evening table as she took her English cup of tea in her
own room, her bed being duly screened off in its distant niche by
becoming curtains; and then he had occasionally walked beside her, as he
civilly escorted her to the lions of the place; and he had once
accompanied her, sitting on the back seat of a French voiture, when she
had gone forth to see something of the surrounding country.

On all such occasions she had been accompanied by one of her daughters,
and the world of Le Puy had had nothing material to say against her.  But
still the world of Le Puy had whispered a little, suggesting that M.
Lacordaire knew very well what he was about.  But might not Mrs. Thompson
also know as well what she was about?  At any rate, everything had gone
on very pleasantly since the acquaintance had been made.  And now, so
much having been explained, we will go back to the elaborate breakfast at
the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.

Mrs. Thompson, holding Mimmy by the hand, walked into the room some few
minutes after the last bell had been rung, and took the place which was
now hers by custom.  The gentlemen who constantly frequented the house
all bowed to her, but M. Lacordaire rose from his seat and offered her
his hand.

“And how is Mees Meemy this morning?” said he; for ’twas thus he always
pronounced her name.

Miss Mimmy, answering for herself, declared that she was very well, and
suggested that M. Lacordaire should give her a fig from off a dish that
was placed immediately before him on the table.  This M. Lacordaire did,
presenting it very elegantly between his two fingers, and making a little
bow to the little lady as he did so.

“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the
waiter brings them round?”

“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M. Lacordaire always gives
me a fig every morning.”

“M. Lacordaire always spoils you, I think,” answered Mrs. Thompson, in
French.  And then they went thoroughly to work at their breakfast.
During the whole meal M. Lacordaire attended assiduously to his
neighbour; and did so without any evil result, except that one Frenchman
with a black moustache, at the head of the table, trod on the toe of
another Frenchman with another black moustache—winking as he made the
sign—just as M. Lacordaire, having selected a bunch of grapes, put it on
Mrs. Thompson’s plate with infinite grace.  But who among us all is free
from such impertinences as these?

“But madame really must see the château of Prince Polignac before she
leaves Le Puy,” said M. Lacordaire.

“The château of who?” asked Mimmy, to whose young ears the French words
were already becoming familiar.

“Prince Polignac, my dear.  Well, I really don’t know, M. Lacordaire;—I
have seen a great deal of the place already, and I shall be going now
very soon; probably in a day or two,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“But madame must positively see the château,” said M. Lacordaire, very
impressively; and then after a pause he added, “If madame will have the
complaisance to commission me to procure a carriage for this afternoon,
and will allow me the honour to be her guide, I shall consider myself one
of the most fortunate of men.”

“Oh, yes, mamma, do go,” said Mimmy, clapping her hands.  “And it is
Thursday, and Lilian can go with us.”

“Be quiet, Mimmy, do.  Thank you, no, M. Lacordaire.  I could not go
to-day; but I am extremely obliged by your politeness.”

M. Lacordaire still pressed the matter, and Mrs. Thompson still declined
till it was time to rise from the table.  She then declared that she did
not think it possible that she should visit the château before she left
Le Puy; but that she would give him an answer at dinner.

The most tedious time in the day to Mrs. Thompson were the two hours
after breakfast.  At one o’clock she daily went to the school, taking
Mimmy, who for an hour or two shared her sister’s lessons.  This and her
little excursions about the place, and her shopping, managed to make away
with her afternoon.  Then in the evening, she generally saw something of
M. Lacordaire.  But those two hours after breakfast were hard of killing.

On this occasion, when she gained her own room, she as usual placed Mimmy
on the sofa with a needle.  Her custom then was to take up a novel; but
on this morning she sat herself down in her arm-chair, and resting her
head upon her hand and elbow, began to turn over certain circumstances in
her mind.

“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “why won’t you go with M. Lacordaire to that place
belonging to the prince?  Prince—Polly something, wasn’t it?”

“Mind your work, my dear,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“But I do so wish you’d go, mamma.  What was the prince’s name?”

“Polignac.”

“Mamma, ain’t princes very great people?”

“Yes, my dear; sometimes.”

“Is Prince Polly-nac like our Prince Alfred?”

“No, my dear; not at all.  At least, I suppose not.”

“Is his mother a queen?”

“No, my dear.”

“Then his father must be a king?”

“No, my dear.  It is quite a different thing here.  Here in France they
have a great many princes.”

“Well, at any rate I should like to see a prince’s château; so I do hope
you’ll go.”  And then there was a pause.  “Mamma, could it come to pass,
here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?”

“M. Lacordaire a prince!  No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your
work.”

“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man?  Ain’t you very fond of him?”

To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer.

“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me
whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire?  I’m quite sure of this,—that he’s
very fond of you.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring
herself to refrain from the question.

“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue.  I don’t know
what can have put such stuff into your head.”

“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put
her down.

Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head resting
on her hand.  She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking of M.
Lacordaire and his fondness for herself.  He had squeezed her hand and he
had looked into her face.  However much it may have been nonsense on
Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely
occurred.  Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with
her?

And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion?
He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to-day. Might it
not be probable that he would advance a step further to-morrow?  If so,
what answer would she be prepared to make to him?

She did not think—so she said to herself—that she had any particular
objection to marrying again.  Thompson had been dead now for four years,
and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she was
wrong on that score.  And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not say
she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that.  Of her
own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but
little—and perhaps cared less.  She had gone to India almost as a child,
and England had not been specially kind to her on her return.  She had
found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured.  People there had
not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done.  As far as
England and Englishmen were considered she saw no reason why she should
not marry M. Lacordaire.

And then, as regarded the man; could she in her heart say that she was
prepared to love, honour, and obey M. Lacordaire?  She certainly knew no
reason why she should not do so.  She did not know much of him, she said
to herself at first; but she knew as much, she said afterwards, as she
had known personally of Mr. Thompson before their marriage.  She had
known, to be sure, what was Mr. Thompson’s profession and what his
income; or, if not, some one else had known for her.  As to both these
points she was quite in the dark as regarded M. Lacordaire.

Personally, she certainly did like him, as she said to herself more than
once.  There was a courtesy and softness about him which were very
gratifying to her; and then, his appearance was so much in his favour.
He was not very young, she acknowledged; but neither was she young
herself.  It was quite evident that he was fond of her children, and that
he would be a kind and affectionate father to them.  Indeed, there was
kindness in all that he did.

Should she marry again,—and she put it to herself quite
hypothetically,—she would look for no romance in such a second marriage.
She would be content to sit down in a quiet home, to the tame dull
realities of life, satisfied with the companionship of a man who would be
kind and gentle to her, and whom she could respect and esteem.  Where
could she find a companion with whom this could be more safely
anticipated than with M. Lacordaire?

And so she argued the question within her own breast in a manner not
unfriendly to that gentleman.  That there was as yet one great hindrance
she at once saw; but then that might be remedied by a word.  She did not
know what was his income or his profession.  The chambermaid, whom she
had interrogated, had told her that he was a “marchand.”  To merchants,
generally, she felt that she had no objection.  The Barings and the
Rothschilds were merchants, as was also that wonderful man at Bombay, Sir
Hommajee Bommajee, who was worth she did no know how many thousand lacs
of rupees.

That it would behove her, on her own account and that of her daughters,
to take care of her own little fortune in contracting any such
connection, that she felt strongly.  She would never so commit herself as
to put security in that respect out of her power.  But then she did not
think that M. Lacordaire would ever ask her to do so; at any rate, she
was determined on this, that there should never be any doubt on that
matter; and as she firmly resolved on this, she again took up her book,
and for a minute or two made an attempt to read.

“Mamma,” said Mummy, “will M. Lacordaire go up to the school to see
Lilian when you go away from this?”

“Indeed, I cannot say, my dear.  If Lilian is a good girl, perhaps he may
do so now and then.”

“And will he write to you and tell you how she is?”

“Lilian can write for herself; can she not?”

“Oh yes; I suppose she can; but I hope M. Lacordaire will write too.  We
shall come back here some day; shan’t we, mamma?”

“I cannot say, my dear.”

“I do so hope we shall see M. Lacordaire again.  Do you know what I was
thinking, mamma?”

“Little girls like you ought not to think,” said Mrs. Thompson, walking
slowly out of the room to the top of the stairs and back again; for she
had felt the necessity of preventing Mimmy from disclosing any more of
her thoughts.  “And now, my dear, get yourself ready, and we will go up
to the school.”

Mrs. Thompson always dressed herself with care, though not in especially
fine clothes, before she went down to dinner at the table d’hôte; but on
this occasion she was more than usually particular.  She hardly explained
to herself why she did this; but, nevertheless, as she stood before the
glass, she did in a certain manner feel that the circumstances of her
future life might perhaps depend on what might be said and done that
evening.  She had not absolutely decided whether or no she would go to
the Prince’s château; but if she did go—.  Well, if she did; what then?
She had sense enough, as she assured herself more than once, to regulate
her own conduct with propriety in any such emergency.

During the dinner, M. Lacordaire conversed in his usual manner, but said
nothing whatever about the visit to Polignac.  He was very kind to Mimmy,
and very courteous to her mother, but did not appear to be at all more
particular than usual.  Indeed, it might be a question whether he was not
less so.  As she had entered the room Mrs. Thompson had said to herself
that, perhaps, after all, it would be better that there should be nothing
more thought about it; but before the four of five courses were over, she
was beginning to feel a little disappointed.

And now the fruit was on the table, after the consumption of which it was
her practice to retire.  It was certainly open to her to ask M.
Lacordaire to take tea with her that evening, as she had done on former
occasions; but she felt that she must not do this now, considering the
immediate circumstances of the case.  If any further steps were to be
taken, they must be taken by him, and not by her;—or else by Mimmy, who,
just as her mother was slowly consuming her last grapes, ran round to the
back of M. Lacordaire’s chair, and whispered something into his ear.  It
may be presumed that Mrs. Thompson did not see the intention of the
movement in time to arrest it, for she did nothing till the whispering
had been whispered; and then she rebuked the child, bade her not to be
troublesome, and with more than usual austerity in her voice, desired her
to get herself ready to go up stairs to their chamber.

As she spoke she herself rose from her chair, and made her final little
bow to the table, and her other final little bow and smile to M.
Lacordaire; but this was certain to all who saw it, that the smile was
not as gracious as usual.

As she walked forth, M. Lacordaire rose from his chair—such being his
constant practice when she left the table; but on this occasion he
accompanied her to the door.

“And has madame decided,” he asked, “whether she will permit me to
accompany her to the château?”

“Well, I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“Mees Meemy,” continued M. Lacordaire, “is very anxious to see the rock,
and I may perhaps hope that Mees Lilian would be pleased with such a
little excursion.  As for myself—” and then M. Lacordaire put his hand
upon his heart in a manner that seemed to speak more plainly than he had
ever spoken.

“Well, if the children would really like it, and—as you are so very
kind,” said Mrs. Thompson; and so the matter was conceded.

“To-morrow afternoon?” suggested M. Lacordaire.  But Mrs. Thompson fixed
on Saturday, thereby showing that she herself was in no hurry for the
expedition.

“Oh, I am so glad!” said Mimmy, when they had re-entered their own room.
“Mamma, do let me tell Lilian myself when I go up to the school
to-morrow!”

But mamma was in no humour to say much to her child on this subject at
the present moment.  She threw herself back on her sofa in perfect
silence, and began to reflect whether she would like to sign her name in
future as Fanny Lacordaire, instead of Fanny Thompson.  It certainly
seemed as though things were verging towards such a necessity.  A
marchand!  But a marchand of what?  She had an instinctive feeling that
the people in the hotel were talking about her and M. Lacordaire, and was
therefore more than ever averse to asking any one a question.

As she went up to the school the next afternoon, she walked through more
of the streets of Le Puy than was necessary, and in every street she
looked at the names which she saw over the doors of the more respectable
houses of business.  But she looked in vain.  It might be that M.
Lacordaire was a marchand of so specially high a quality as to be under
no necessity to put up his name at all.  Sir Hommajee Bommajee’s name did
not appear over any door in Bombay;—at least, she thought not.

And then came the Saturday morning.  “We shall be ready at two,” she
said, as she left the breakfast-table; “and perhaps you would not mind
calling for Lilian on the way.”

M. Lacordaire would be delighted to call anywhere for anybody on behalf
of Mrs. Thompson; and then, as he got to the door of the salon, he
offered her his hand.  He did so with so much French courtesy that she
could not refuse it, and then she felt that his purpose was more tender
than ever it had been.  And why not, if this was the destiny which Fate
had prepared for her?

Mrs. Thompson would rather have got into the carriage at any other spot
in Le Puy than at that at which she was forced to do so—the chief
entrance, namely, of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.  And what made it worse
was this, that an appearance of a special fate was given to the occasion.
M. Lacordaire was dressed in more than his Sunday best.  He had on new
yellow kid gloves.  His coat, if not new, was newer than any Mrs.
Thompson had yet observed, and was lined with silk up to the very collar.
He had on patent leather boots, which glittered, as Mrs. Thompson
thought, much too conspicuously.  And as for his hat, it was quite
evident that it was fresh that morning from the maker’s block.

In this costume, with his hat in his hand, he stood under the great
gateway of the hotel, ready to hand Mrs. Thompson into the carriage.
This would have been nothing if the landlord and landlady had not been
there also, as well as the man-cook, and the four waiters, and the fille
de chambre.  Two or three other pair of eyes Mrs. Thompson also saw, as
she glanced round, and then Mimmy walked across the yard in her best
clothes with a fête-day air about her for which her mother would have
liked to have whipped her.

But what did it matter?  If it was written in the book that she should
become Madame Lacordaire, of course the world would know that there must
have been some preparatory love-making.  Let them have their laugh; a
good husband would not be dearly purchased at so trifling an expense.
And so they sallied forth with already half the ceremony of a wedding.

Mimmy seated herself opposite to her mother, and M. Lacordaire also sat
with his back to the horses, leaving the second place of honour for
Lilian.  “Pray make yourself comfortable, M. Lacordaire, and don’t mind
her,” said Mrs. Thompson.  But he was firm in his purpose of civility,
perhaps making up his mind that when he should in truth stand in the
place of papa to the young lady, then would be his time for having the
back seat in the carnage.

Lilian, also in her best frock, came down the school-steps, and three of
the school teachers came with her.  It would have added to Mrs.
Thompson’s happiness at that moment if M. Lacordaire would have kept his
polished boots out of sight, and put his yellow gloves into his pocket.

And then they started.  The road from Le Puy to Polignac is nearly all up
hill; and a very steep hill it is, so that there was plenty of time for
conversation.  But the girls had it nearly all to themselves.  Mimmy
thought that she had never found M. Lacordaire so stupid; and Lilian told
her sister on the first safe opportunity that occurred, that it seemed
very much as though they were all going to church.

“And do any of the Polignac people ever live at this place?” asked Mrs.
Thompson, by way of making conversation; in answer to which M. Lacordaire
informed madame that the place was at present only a ruin; and then there
was again silence till they found themselves under the rock, and were
informed by the driver that the rest of the ascent must be made on foot.

The rock now stood abrupt and precipitous above their heads.  It was
larger in its circumference and with much larger space on its summit than
those other volcanic rocks in and close to the town; but then at the same
time it was higher from the ground, and quite as inaccessible, except by
the single path which led up to the château.

M. Lacordaire, with conspicuous gallantry, first assisted Mrs. Thompson
from the carriage, and then handed down the two young ladies.  No lady
could have been so difficult to please as to complain of him, and yet
Mrs. Thompson thought that he was not as agreeable as usual.  Those
horrid boots and those horrid gloves gave him such an air of holiday
finery that neither could he be at his ease wearing them, nor could she,
in seeing them worn.

They were soon taken in hand by the poor woman whose privilege it was to
show the ruins.  For a little distance they walked up the path in single
file; not that it was too narrow to accommodate two, but M. Lacordaire’s
courage had not yet been screwed to a point which admitted of his
offering his arm to the widow.  For in France, it must be remembered,
that this means more than it does in some other countries.

Mrs. Thompson felt that all this was silly and useless.  If they were not
to be dear friends this coming out fêting together, those boots and
gloves and new hat were all very foolish; and if they were, the sooner
they understood each other the better.  So Mrs. Thompson, finding that
the path was steep and the weather warm, stood still for a while leaning
against the wall, with a look of considerable fatigue in her face.

“Will madame permit me the honour of offering her my arm?” said M.
Lacordaire.  “The road is so extraordinarily steep for madame to climb.”

Mrs. Thompson did permit him the honour, and so they went on till they
reached the top.

The view from the summit was both extensive and grand, but neither Lilian
nor Mimmy were much pleased with the place.  The elder sister, who had
talked over the matter with her school companions, expected a fine castle
with turrets, battlements, and romance; and the other expected a pretty
smiling house, such as princes, in her mind, ought to inhabit.

Instead of this they found an old turret, with steps so broken that M.
Lacordaire did not care to ascend them, and the ruined walls of a
mansion, in which nothing was to be seen but the remains of an enormous
kitchen chimney.

“It was the kitchen of the family,” said the guide.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“And this,” said the woman, taking them into the next ruined compartment,
“was the kitchen of monsieur et madame.”

“What! two kitchens?” exclaimed Lilian, upon which M. Lacordaire
explained that the ancestors of the Prince de Polignac had been very
great people, and had therefore required culinary performances on a great
scale.

And then the woman began to chatter something about an oracle of Apollo.
There was, she said, a hole in the rock, from which in past times,
perhaps more than a hundred years ago, the oracle used to speak forth
mysterious words.

“There,” she said, pointing to a part of the rock at some distance, “was
the hole.  And if the ladies would follow her to a little outhouse which
was just beyond, she would show them the huge stone mouth out of which
the oracle used to speak.”

Lilian and Mimmy both declared at once for seeing the oracle, but Mrs.
Thompson expressed her determination to remain sitting where she was upon
the turf.  So the guide started off with the young ladies; and will it be
thought surprising that M. Lacordaire should have remained alone by the
side of Mrs. Thompson?

It must be now or never, Mrs. Thompson felt; and as regarded M.
Lacordaire, he probably entertained some idea of the same kind.  Mrs.
Thompson’s inclinations, though they had never been very strong in the
matter, were certainly in favour of the “now.”  M. Lacordaire’s
inclinations were stronger.  He had fully and firmly made up his mind in
favour of matrimony; but then he was not so absolutely in favour of the
“now.”  Mrs. Thompson’s mind, if one could have read it, would have shown
a great objection to shilly-shallying, as she was accustomed to call it.
But M. Lacordaire, were it not for the danger which might thence arise,
would have seen no objection to some slight further procrastination.  His
courage was beginning, perhaps, to ooze out from his fingers’ ends.

“I declare that those girls have scampered away ever so far,” said Mrs.
Thompson.

“Would madame wish that I should call them back?” said M. Lacordaire,
innocently.

“Oh, no, dear children! let them enjoy themselves; it will be a pleasure
to them to run about the rock, and I suppose they will be safe with that
woman?”

“Oh, yes, quite safe,” said M. Lacordaire; and then there was another
little pause.

Mrs. Thompson was sitting on a broken fragment of a stone just outside
the entrance to the old family kitchen, and M. Lacordaire was standing
immediately before her.  He had in his hand a little cane with which he
sometimes slapped his boots and sometimes poked about among the rubbish.
His hat was not quite straight on his head, having a little jaunty twist
to one side, with reference to which, by-the-bye, Mrs. Thompson then
resolved that she would make a change, should ever the gentleman become
her own property.  He still wore his gloves, and was very smart; but it
was clear to see that he was not at his ease.

“I hope the heat does not incommode you,” he said after a few moments’
silence.  Mrs. Thompson declared that it did not, that she liked a good
deal of heat, and that, on the whole, she was very well where she was.
She was afraid, however, that she was detaining M. Lacordaire, who might
probably wish to be moving about upon the rock.  In answer to which M.
Lacordaire declared that he never could be so happy anywhere as in her
close vicinity.

“You are too good to me,” said Mrs. Thompson, almost sighing.  “I don’t
know what my stay here would have been without your great kindness.”

“It is madame that has been kind to me,” said M. Lacordaire, pressing the
handle of his cane against his heart.

There was then another pause, after which Mrs. Thompson said that that
was all his French politeness; that she knew that she had been very
troublesome to him, but that she would now soon be gone; and that then,
in her own country, she would never forget his great goodness.

“Ah, madame!” said M. Lacordaire; and, as he said it, much more was
expressed in his face than in his words.  But, then, you can neither
accept nor reject a gentleman by what he says in his face.  He blushed,
too, up to his grizzled hair, and, turning round, walked a step or two
away from the widow’s seat, and back again.

Mrs. Thompson the while sat quite still.  The displaced fragment, lying,
as it did, near a corner of the building, made not an uncomfortable
chair.  She had only to be careful that she did not injure her hat or
crush her clothes, and throw in a word here and there to assist the
gentleman, should occasion permit it.

“Madame!” said M. Lacordaire, on his return from a second little walk.

“Monsieur!” replied Mrs. Thompson, perceiving that M. Lacordaire paused
in his speech.

“Madame,” he began again, and then, as he again paused, Mrs. Thompson
looked up to him very sweetly; “madame, what I am going to say will, I am
afraid, seem to evince by far too great audacity on my part.”

Mrs. Thompson may, perhaps, have thought that, at the present moment,
audacity was not his fault.  She replied, however, that she was quite
sure that monsieur would say nothing that was in any way unbecoming
either for him to speak or for her to hear.

“Madame, may I have ground to hope that such may be your sentiments after
I have spoken!  Madame”—and now he went down, absolutely on his knees, on
the hard stones; and Mrs. Thompson, looking about into the distance,
almost thought that she saw the top of the guide’s cap—“Madame, I have
looked forward to this opportunity as one in which I may declare for you
the greatest passion that I have ever yet felt. Madame, with all my heart
and soul I love you.  Madame, I offer to you the homage of my heart, my
hand, the happiness of my life, and all that I possess in this world;”
and then, taking her hand gracefully between his gloves, he pressed his
lips against the tips of her fingers.

If the thing was to be done, this way of doing it was, perhaps, as good
as any other.  It was one, at any rate, which left no doubt whatever as
to the gentleman’s intentions.  Mrs. Thompson, could she have had her own
way, would not have allowed her lover of fifty to go down upon his knees,
and would have spared him much of the romance of his declaration.  So
also would she have spared him his yellow gloves and his polished boots.
But these were a part of the necessity of the situation, and therefore
she wisely took them as matters to be passed over with indifference.
Seeing, however, that M. Lacordaire still remained on his knees, it was
necessary that she should take some step toward raising him, especially
as her two children and the guide would infallibly be upon them before
long.

“M. Lacordaire,” she said, “you surprise me greatly; but pray get up.”

“But will madame vouchsafe to give me some small ground for hope?”

“The girls will be here directly, M. Lacordaire; pray get up.  I can talk
to you much better if you will stand up, or sit down on one of these
stones.”

M. Lacordaire did as he was bid; he got up, wiped the knees of his
pantaloons with his handkerchief, sat down beside her, and then pressed
the handle of his cane to his heart.

“You really have so surprised me that I hardly know how to answer you,”
said Mrs. Thompson.  “Indeed, I cannot bring myself to imagine that you
are in earnest.”

“Ah, madame, do not be so cruel!  How can I have lived with you so long,
sat beside you for so many days, without having received your image into
my heart?  I am in earnest!  Alas!  I fear too much in earnest!”  And
then he looked at her with all his eyes, and sighed with all his
strength.

Mrs. Thompson’s prudence told her that it would be well to settle the
matter, in one way or the other, as soon as possible.  Long periods of
love-making were fit for younger people than herself and her future
possible husband.  Her object would be to make him comfortable if she
could, and that he should do the same for her, if that also were
possible.  As for lookings and sighings and pressings of the hand, she
had gone through all that some twenty years since in India, when Thompson
had been young, and she was still in her teens.

“But, M. Lacordaire, there are so many things to be considered.  There!
I hear the children coming!  Let us walk this way for a minute.”  And
they turned behind a wall which placed them out of sight, and walked on a
few paces till they reached a parapet, which stood on the uttermost edge
of the high rock.  Leaning upon this they continued their conversation.

“There are so many things to be considered,” said Mrs. Thompson again.

“Yes, of course,” said M. Lacordaire.  “But my one great consideration is
this;—that I love madame to distraction.”

“I am very much flattered; of course, any lady would so feel.  But, M.
Lacordaire—”

“Madame, I am all attention.  But, if you would deign to make me happy,
say that one word, ‘I love you!’”  M. Lacordaire, as he uttered these
words, did not look, as the saying is, at his best.  But Mrs. Thompson
forgave him.  She knew that elderly gentlemen under such circumstances do
not look at their best.

“But if I consented to—to—to such an arrangement, I could only do so on
seeing that it would be beneficial—or, at any rate, not injurious—to my
children; and that it would offer to ourselves a fair promise of future
happiness.”

“Ah, madame; it would be the dearest wish of my heart to be a second
father to those two young ladies; except, indeed—” and then M. Lacordaire
stopped the flow of his speech.

“In such matters it is so much the best to be explicit at once,” said
Mrs. Thompson.

“Oh, yes; certainly!  Nothing can be more wise than madame.”

“And the happiness of a household depends so much on money.”

“Madame!”

“Let me say a word or two, Monsieur Lacordaire.  I have enough for myself
and my children; and, should I every marry again, I should not, I hope,
be felt as a burden by my husband; but it would, of course, be my duty to
know what were his circumstances before I accepted him.  Of yourself,
personally, I have seen nothing that I do not like.”

“Oh, madame!”

“But as yet I know nothing of your circumstances.”

M. Lacordaire, perhaps, did feel that Mrs. Thompson’s prudence was of a
strong, masculine description; but he hardly liked her the less on this
account.  To give him his due he was not desirous of marrying her solely
for her money’s sake.  He also wished for a comfortable home, and
proposed to give as much as he got; only he had been anxious to wrap up
the solid cake of this business in a casing of sugar of romance.  Mrs.
Thompson would not have the sugar but the cake might not be the worse on
that account.

“No, madame, not as yet; but they shall all be made open and at your
disposal,” said M. Lacordaire; and Mrs. Thompson bowed approvingly.

“I am in business,” continued M. Lacordaire; “and my business gives me
eight thousand francs a year.”

“Four times eight are thirty-two,” said Mrs. Thompson to herself; putting
the francs into pounds sterling, in the manner that she had always found
to be the readiest.  Well, so far the statement was satisfactory.  An
income of three hundred and twenty pounds a year from business, joined to
her own, might do very well.  She did not in the least suspect M.
Lacordaire of being false, and so far the matter sounded well.

“And what is the business?” she asked, in a tone of voice intended to be
indifferent, but which nevertheless showed that she listened anxiously
for an answer to her question.

They were both standing with their arms upon the wall, looking down upon
the town of Le Puy; but they had so stood that each could see the other’s
countenance as they talked.  Mrs. Thompson could now perceive that M.
Lacordaire became red in the face, as he paused before answering her.
She was near to him, and seeing his emotion gently touched his arm with
her hand.  This she did to reassure him, for she saw that he was ashamed
of having to declare that he was a tradesman.  As for herself, she had
made up her mind to bear with this, if she found, as she felt sure she
would find, that the trade was one which would not degrade either him or
her.  Hitherto, indeed,—in her early days,—she had looked down on trade;
but of what benefit had her grand ideas been to her when she had returned
to England?  She had tried her hand at English genteel society, and no
one had seemed to care for her.  Therefore, she touched his arm lightly
with her fingers that she might encourage him.

He paused for a moment, as I have said, and became red; and then feeling
that he had shown some symptoms of shame—and feeling also, probably, that
it was unmanly in him to do so, he shook himself slightly, raised his
head up somewhat more proudly than was his wont, looked her full in the
face with more strength of character than she had yet seen him assume;
and then, declared his business.

“Madame,” he said, in a very audible, but not in a loud voice, “madame—je
suis tailleur.”  And having so spoken, he turned slightly from her and
looked down over the valley towards Le Puy.

There was nothing more said upon the subject as they drove down from the
rock of Polignac back to the town.  Immediately on receiving the
announcement, Mrs. Thompson found that she had no answer to make.  She
withdrew her hand—and felt at once that she had received a blow.  It was
not that she was angry with M. Lacordaire for being a tailor; nor was she
angry with him in that, being a tailor, he had so addressed her.  But she
was surprised, disappointed, and altogether put beyond her ease.  She
had, at any rate, not expected this.  She had dreamed of his being a
banker; thought that, perhaps, he might have been a wine merchant; but
her idea had never gone below a jeweller or watchmaker.  When those words
broke upon her ear, “Madame, je suis tailleur,” she had felt herself to
be speechless.

But the words had not been a minute spoken when Lilian and Mimmy ran up
to their mother.  “Oh, mamma,” said Lilian, “we thought you were lost; we
have searched for you all over the château.”

“We have been sitting very quietly here, my dear, looking at the view,”
said Mrs. Thompson.

“But, mamma, I do wish you’d see the mouth of the oracle.  It is so
large, and so round, and so ugly.  I put my arm into it all the way,”
said Mimmy.

But at the present moment her mamma felt no interest in the mouth of the
oracle; and so they all walked down together to the carriage.  And,
though the way was steep, Mrs. Thompson managed to pick her steps without
the assistance of an arm; nor did M. Lacordaire presume to offer it.

The drive back to town was very silent.  Mrs. Thompson did make one or
two attempts at conversation, but they were not effectual.  M. Lacordaire
could not speak at his ease till this matter was settled, and he already
had begun to perceive that his business was against him.  Why is it that
the trade of a tailor should be less honourable than that of a
haberdasher, or even a grocer?

They sat next each other at dinner, as usual; and here, as all eyes were
upon them, they both made a great struggle to behave in their accustomed
way.  But even in this they failed.  All the world of the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs knew that M. Lacordaire had gone forth to make an offer to
Mrs. Thompson, and all that world, therefore, was full of speculation.
But all the world could make nothing of it.  M. Lacordaire did look like
a rejected man, but Mrs. Thompson did not look like the woman who had
rejected him.  That the offer had been made—in that everybody agreed,
from the senior habitué of the house who always sat at the head of the
table, down to the junior assistant garçon.  But as to reading the
riddle, there was no accord among them.

When the dessert was done, Mrs. Thompson, as usual, withdrew, and M.
Lacordaire, as usual, bowed as he stood behind his own chair.  He did
not, however, attempt to follow her.

But when she reached the door she called him.  He was at her side in a
moment, and then she whispered in his ear—

“And I, also—I will be of the same business.”

When M. Lacordaire regained the table the senior habitué, the junior
garçon, and all the intermediate ranks of men at the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs knew that they might congratulate him.

Mrs. Thompson had made a great struggle; but, speaking for myself, I am
inclined to think that she arrived at last at a wise decision.