Mère Girauds Little Daughter | Page 3

the rest of her class. Village sports and
festivities had little attraction for her, and, upon the whole, she seemed
out of place among them. Her stature, her fair, still face, and her slow,
quiet movements, suggested rather embarrassingly to the humble
feasters the presence of some young princess far above them.
"Pouf!" said a sharp-tongued belle one day, "I have no patience with
her. She is so tall, this Laure, that one must be forever looking up to her,
and I, for one, do not care to be forever looking up."
The hint of refined pride in her demeanor was Mère Giraud's greatest
glory.
"She is not like the rest, my Laure," she would say to her son. "One can
see it in the way in which she holds her head'. She has the quiet, grave
air of a great personage."
There were many who wondered that Valentin showed no jealousy or
distaste at hearing his sister's praises sounded so frequently to his own
detriment. There was no praise for him. The poor, fond mother's heart
was too full of Laure. Her son had been a bitter disappointment to her,
and, to her mind, was fitted for nothing but to make himself an adoring
slave to his sister's beauty; and this, the gentle, generous fellow
certainly was. He was always ready to serve her; always affectionate,
always faithful; and Mère Giraud, who was blind to, or careless of, all
his loving, constant labor for her own comfort, deigned to see that he
did his duty toward Laure.
"He has at least the sense to appreciate her as far as he is able," she
said.
So when Valentin, who had a talent for engraving, was discovered by
some one who understood his genius, and could make use of it, and
was offered a place in the great, gay city, Mère Giraud formed an
ambitious plan. He should take Laure and find her a position also; she

had the fingers of a fair magician, and could embroider marvelously. So
she trusted Laure to him, and the two bade farewell to St. Croix and
departed together. A month passed, and then there came a letter
containing good news. Valentin was doing well, and Laure also. She
had found a place in a great family where she was to embroider and
wait upon a young lady. They were rich people, and were kind, and
paid her well, and she was happy.
"When they first saw her, they were astonished," wrote the simple,
tender Valentin. "I went with her to present herself. My employer had
recommended her. There is a son who is past his youth, and who has
evidently seen the world. He is aristocratic and fair, and slightly bald,
but extremely handsome still. He sat holding a newspaper in his long,
white fingers, and when we entered, he raised his eyes above it and
looked at Laure, and I heard him exclaim under his breath, 'Mon Dieu!
as if her beauty fairly startled him."
When the Curé, to whom the proud mother showed the letter, read this
part, he did not seem as rejoiced as Mère Giraud had expected. On the
contrary, he looked a little grave, and rubbed his forehead.
"Ah, ah!" he said; "there lies the danger."
"Danger!" exclaimed Mère Giraud, starting.
He turned, and regarded her with a rather hesitant air, as if he were at
once puzzled and fearful,--puzzled by her simplicity, and fearful of
grieving her unnecessarily.
"Valentin is a good lad," he said. "Valentin will be watchful,--though
perhaps he is too good to suspect evil."
Mère Giraud put her hand to her heart.
"You are not afraid?" she said, quite proudly, beginning at last to
comprehend. "You are not afraid of evil to Laure?"
"No, no, no," he answered; "surely not."

He said no more then, but he always asked to see the letters, and read
them with great care, sometimes over and over again. They came very
regularly for six or seven months, and then there was a gap of a few
weeks, and then came a strange, almost incomprehensible, letter from
Valentin, containing news which almost caused Mère Giraud's heart to
burst with joy and gratitude. Laure was married, and had made such a
marriage as could scarcely have been dreamed of. A rich aristocrat,
who had visited her employers, had fallen in love with her, and married
her. He had no family to restrain him, and her beauty had won him
completely from the first hour. He had carried her away with him to
make a prolonged tour. The family with whom she had lived had been
lavish in their gifts and kindness, but they had left Paris also and were
voyaging. The name of Laure's bridegroom was Legrand, and there
came messages from Laure,