White Lies | Page 4

This amiable theorist was one of the
oldest verbal republicans in Europe. And why not? In theory a republic
is the perfect form of government: it is merely in practice that it is
impossible; it is only upon going off paper into reality, and trying
actually to self-govern limited nations, after heating them white hot
with the fire of politics and the bellows of bombast--that the thing
resolves itself into bloodshed silvered with moonshine.
Dr. Aubertin had for years talked and written speculative republicanism.
So they applied to him whether the baroness shared her husband's
opinions, and he boldly assured them she did not; he added, "She is a
pupil of mine." On this audacious statement they contented themselves
with laying a heavy fine on the lands of Beaurepaire.
Assignats were abundant, but good mercantile paper, a notorious
coward, had made itself wings and fled, and specie was creeping into
strong boxes like a startled rabbit into its hole. The fine was paid; but
Beaurepaire had to be heavily mortgaged, and the loan bore a high rate
of interest. This, with the baron's previous mortgages, swamped the
estate.
The baroness sold her carriage and horses, and she and her daughters
prepared to deny themselves all but the bare necessaries of life, and pay
off their debts if possible. On this their dependants fell away from them;
their fair-weather friends came no longer near them; and many a flush
of indignation crossed their brows, and many an aching pang their
hearts, as adversity revealed the baseness and inconstancy of common
people high or low.
When the other servants had retired with their wages, one Jacintha
remained behind, and begged permission to speak to the baroness.
"What would you with me, my child?" asked that lady, with an accent
in which a shade of surprise mingled with great politeness.
"Forgive me, madame," began Jacintha, with a formal courtesy; "but
how can I leave you, and Mademoiselle Josephine, and Mademoiselle

Rose? I was born at Beaurepaire; my mother died in the chateau: my
father died in the village; but he had meat every day from the baron's
own table, and fuel from the baron's wood, and died blessing the house
of Beaurepaire. I CANNOT go. The others are gone because prosperity
is here no longer. Let it be so; I will stay till the sun shines again upon
the chateau, and then you shall send me away if you are bent on it; but
not now, my ladies--oh, not now! Oh! oh! oh!" And the warm-hearted
girl burst out sobbing ungracefully.
"My child," said the baroness, "these sentiments touch me, and honor
you. But retire, if you please, while I consult my daughters."
Jacintha cut her sobs dead short, and retreated with a formal reverence.
The consultation consisted of the baroness opening her arms, and both
her daughters embracing her at once. Proud as they were, they wept
with joy at having made one friend amongst all their servants. Jacintha
stayed.
As months rolled on, Rose de Beaurepaire recovered her natural gayety
in spite of bereavement and poverty; so strong are youth, and health,
and temperament. But her elder sister had a grief all her own: Captain
Dujardin, a gallant young officer, well-born, and his own master, had
courted her with her parents' consent; and, even when the baron began
to look coldly on the soldier of the Republic, young Dujardin, though
too proud to encounter the baron's irony and looks of scorn, would not
yield love to pique. He came no more to the chateau, but he would wait
hours and hours on the path to the little oratory in the park, on the bare
chance of a passing word or even a kind look from Josephine. So much
devotion gradually won a heart which in happier times she had been
half encouraged to give him; and, when he left her on a military service
of uncommon danger, the woman's reserve melted, and, in that moment
of mutual grief and passion, she vowed she loved him better than all the
world.
Letters from the camp breathing a devotion little short of worship fed
her attachment; and more than one public mention of his name and
services made her proud as well as fond of the fiery young soldier.
Still she did not open her heart to her parents. The baron, alive at that
time, was exasperated against the Republic, and all who served it; and,
as for the baroness, she was of the old school: a passionate love in a
lady's heart before marriage was contrary to her notions of etiquette.

Josephine loved Rose very tenderly; but shrank with modest delicacy
from making her a confidante of feelings, the bare relation of which
leaves the female hearer a child no longer.
So she hid