Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories | Page 4

her poor. The _curé_ went with her and shed tears
himself when the people wept and kissed her little hand. When the
child returned, she went into the chapel and remained there for a long
time.
She felt as if she was living in a dream when all the old life was left
behind and she found herself in the big luxurious house in the gay New
York street. Nothing that could be done for her comfort had been left
undone. She had several beautiful rooms, a wonderful governess,
different masters to teach her, her own retinue of servants as, indeed,
has been already said.
But, secretly, she felt bewildered and almost terrified, everything was
so new, so strange, so noisy, and so brilliant. The dress she wore made
her feel unlike herself; the books they gave her were full of pictures and
stories of worldly things of which she knew nothing. Her carriage was
brought to the door and she went out with her governess, driving round
and round the park with scores of other people who looked at her
curiously, she did not know why. The truth was that her refined little
face was very beautiful indeed, and her soft dark eyes still wore the
dreamy spiritual look which made her unlike the rest of the world.
"She looks like a little princess," she heard her uncle say one day. "She
will be some day a beautiful, an enchanting woman--her mother was so
when she died at twenty, but she had been brought up differently. This
one is a little devotee. I am afraid of her. Her governess tells me she
rises in the night to pray." He said it with light laughter to some of his
gay friends by whom he had wished the child to be seen. He did not
know that his gayety filled her with fear and pain. She had been taught
to believe gayety worldly and sinful, and his whole life was filled with
it. He had brilliant parties--he did not go to church--he had no

pensioners--he seemed to think of nothing but pleasure. Poor little Saint
Elizabeth prayed for his soul many an hour when he was asleep after a
grand dinner or supper party.
He could not possibly have dreamed that there was no one of whom she
stood in such dread; her timidity increased tenfold in his presence.
When he sent for her and she went into the library to find him luxurious
in his arm chair, a novel on his knee, a cigar in his white hand, a
tolerant, half cynical smile on his handsome mouth, she could scarcely
answer his questions, and could never find courage to tell what she so
earnestly desired. She had found out early that Aunt Clotilde and the
_curé_ and the life they had led, had only aroused in his mind a
half-pitying amusement. It seemed to her that he did not understand and
had strange sacrilegious thoughts about them--he did not believe in
miracles--he smiled when she spoke of saints. How could she tell him
that she wished to spend all her money in building churches and giving
alms to the poor? That was what she wished to tell him--that she
wanted money to send back to the village, that she wanted to give it to
the poor people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in the
miserable places.
But when she found herself face to face with him and he said some
witty thing to her and seemed to find her only amusing, all her courage
failed her. Sometimes she thought she would throw herself upon her
knees before him and beg him to send her back to Normandy--to let her
live alone in the _château_ as her Aunt Clotilde had done.
One morning she arose very early, and knelt a long time before the
little altar she had made for herself in her dressing room. It was only a
table with some black velvet thrown over it, a crucifix, a saintly image,
and some flowers standing upon it. She had put on, when she got up,
the quaint black serge robe, because she felt more at home in it, and her
heart was full of determination. The night before she had received a
letter from the _curé_ and it had contained sad news. A fever had
broken out in her beloved village, the vines had done badly, there was
sickness among the cattle, there was already beginning to be suffering,
and if something were not done for the people they would not know
how to face the winter. In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont
they had always been made comfortable and happy at Christmas. What
was to be done? The _curé_ ventured to write to Mademoiselle

Elizabeth.
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