Mère Girauds Little Daughter | Page 4

and inclosed was a handsome present of
money.
Mère Giraud was overwhelmed with joy. Before three hours had passed,
all St Croix knew the marvelous news. She went from house to house
showing the letter and the money, and it was not until night that she
cooled down sufficiently to labor through a long epistle to Valentin.
It was a year before Laure returned to Paris, and during that time she
wrote but seldom; but Valentin wrote often, and answered all his
mother's questions, though not as fluently, nor with so many words as
she often wished. Laure was rich, and beautiful as ever; her husband
adored her, and showered gifts and luxuries upon her; she had
equipages and jewels; she wore velvet and satin and lace every day; she
was a great lady, and had a house like a palace. Laure herself did not
say so much. In her secret heart, Mère Giraud often longed for more,
but she was a discreet and farseeing woman.
"What would you?" she said. "She must drive out in her equipage, and
she must dress and receive great people, and I am not so blind a mother
as not to see that she will have many things to learn. She has not time
to write long letters,--and see how she cares for me,--money, see you,
by every letter, and a silk dress and lace cap she herself has chosen in
the Boulevard Capucines. And I must care for myself, and furnish the

cottage prettily, and keep a servant. Her wealth and great fortune have
not rendered her undutiful,--my Laure."
So she talked of Madame Legrand, and so all St. Croix talked of
Madame Legrand, and some, of course, were envious and prophesied
that the end had not come yet, and Mère Giraud would find herself
forgotten some fine day; and others rejoiced with her, and
congratulated themselves that they knew so aristocratic a person as
Madame Legrand.
Jeanne Tallot was of those who sympathized with her in all
warm-heartedness and candor.
With her knitting in her hand ready for action, and with friendly
unceremoniousness, she presented herself at the cottage door one
morning, nodding and speaking before she had crossed the threshold.
"Good-day, neighbor Giraud. Any letters from Laure this morning?"
Mère Giraud, who sat before the window under the swinging cage of
her bird, looked up with an air a little more serious than usual.
"Ah!" she said, "I am glad it is you, Jeanne. I have been wishing to see
you."
Jeanne seated herself, smiling.
"Then," said she, "it is well I came."
But immediately she noticed the absent look of her friend, and
commented upon it.
"You do not look at your best this morning," she said. "How does it
occur?"
"I am thinking," said Mère Giraud with some importance of
manner,--"I am thinking of going to Paris."
"To Paris!"

"I am anxious," shaking her head seriously. "I had last night a bad
dream. I wish to see Laure."
Then she turned and looked at Jeanne almost wistfully.
"It is a long time since I have seen her," she said.
"Yes," answered Jeanne in a little doubt; "but Paris is a long way off."
"Yes," said Mère Giraud; "but it appears that all at once I realize how
long it is since I have seen my child. I am getting old, you see. I was
not very young when she was born, and, as one grows older, one
becomes more uneasy and obstinate in one's fancies. This morning I
feel that I must see my Laure. My heart yearns for her,
and"--hastily--"she will undoubtedly be rejoiced to see me. She has
often said that she wished she might lay her head upon my breast
again."
It seemed that she was resolved upon the journey. She was in a singular,
uneasy mood, and restless beyond measure. She who had never been
twenty miles from St. Croix had made up her mind to leave it at once
and confront all the terrors of a journey to Paris,--for there were terrors
in such a journey to the mind of a simple peasant who had so far
traveled but in one groove. She would not even wait to consult
Monsieur le Curé, who was unfortunately absent. Jeanne discovered to
her astonishment that she had already made her small preparations, had
packed her best garments in a little wooden box, laying the silk gown
and lace cap at the top that they might be in readiness.
"I will not interfere at all, and I shall not remain long," she said. "Only
long enough to see my Laure, and spend a few days with her quietly. It
is not Paris I care for, or the great sights; it is that I must see my child."
St. Croix was