Chapter XVI (4)

Poor Emilie was glad of the reprieve of one month. She retired from her mother's presence in silent anguish, and hastened to her own apartment, that she might give way to her grief. There she found Mrs. Somers waiting for her, seated in an arm-chair, with an open letter in her hand.

"Why do you start, Emilie? You look as if you were sorry to find me here," cried Mrs. Somers--"IF THAT be the case, Mlle. de Coulanges--"

"Oh, Mrs. Somers! do not begin to quarrel with me at this moment, for I shall not be able to bear it--I am sufficiently unhappy already!" said Emilie.

"I am extremely sorry that any thing should make you unhappy, Emilie," said Mrs. Somers; "but I think that you had never less reason than at this moment to suspect me of an intention of quarrelling with you--I came here with a very different design. May I know the cause of your distress?"

Emilie hesitated, for she did not know how to explain the cause without imputing blame either to Mrs. Somers or to her mother--she could only say--"_M. de Brisac_--"

"What!" cried Mrs. Somers, "your mother wants you to marry him?"

"Yes."

"Immediately?"

"In one month."

"And you have consented?"

"No--But--"

"_But_--Good Heavens! Emilie, what weakness of mind there is in that _but_--"

"Is it weakness of mind to fear to disobey my mother--to dread to offend her for ever--to render her unhappy--and to deprive her, perhaps, even of the means of subsistence?"

"_The means of subsistence_! my dear. This phrase, you know, can only be a figure of rhetoric," said Mrs. Somers. "Your refusing M. de Brisac cannot deprive your mother of the means of subsistence. In the first place, she expects to recover her property in France."

"No," said Emilie; "she has given up these hopes--you have persuaded her that they are vain."

"Indeed I think them so. But still you must know, my dear, that your mother can never be in want of the means of subsistence, nor any of the conveniences, and, I may add, luxuries of life, whilst I am alive."

Emilie sighed; and when Mrs. Somers urged her more closely, she said, "Mamma has not, till lately, been accustomed to live on the bounty of others; the sense of dependence produces many painful feelings, and renders people more susceptible than perhaps they would be, were they on terms of equality."

"To what does all this tend, my dear?" interrupted Mrs. Somers. "Is Mad. de Coulanges offended with me?--Is she tired of living with me?--Does she wish to quit my house?--And where does she intend to go?--Oh! that is a question that I need not ask!--Yes, yes--I have long foreseen it--you have arranged it admirably--you go to Lady Littleton, I presume?"

"Oh, no!"

"To M. de Brisac?"

"Mamma wishes to go--"

"Then to M. de Brisac, for Heaven's sake, let her go," cried Mrs. Somers, bursting into a fit of laughter, which astonished Emilie beyond measure. "To M. de Brisac let her go--'tis the best thing she can possibly do, my dear; and seriously to tell you the truth, I have always thought it would be an excellent match. Since she is so much prepossessed in his favour, can she do better than marry him? and, as he is so much attached to the house of Coulanges, when he cannot have the daughter, can he do better than marry the mother?--Your mother does not look too old for him, when she is well rouged; and I am sure, if she heard me say so, she would forgive me all the rest--butterfly, frivolity, and all inclusive. Permit me, Emilie, to laugh."

"I cannot permit any body to laugh at mamma," said Emilie; "and Mrs. Somers is the last person whom I should have supposed would have been inclined to laugh, when I told her that I was really unhappy."

"My dear Emilie, I forgive you for being angry, because I never saw you angry before; and that is more than you can say for me. You do me justice, however, by supposing that I should be the last person to laugh when you are in woe, unless I thought--unless I was sure--that I could remove the cause, and make you completely happy."

"That, I fear, is impossible," said Emilie: "for mamma's pride and her feelings have been so much hurt, that I do not think any apology would now calm her mind."

"Apology!--I am not in the least inclined to make any. Can I tell Mad. de Coulanges that I do not think her frivolous?--Impossible, indeed, my dear! I will do any thing else to oblige you. But I have as much pride, and as much feeling, in my own way, as any of the house of Coulanges: and if, after all I have done, madame can quarrel with me about a butterfly, I must say, not only that she is the most frivolous, but the most ungrateful woman upon earth; and, as she desires to quit my house, far from attempting to detain her, I can only wish that she may accomplish her purpose as soon as possible--as soon as it may suit her own convenience. As for you, Emilie, I do not suspect you of the ingratitude of wishing to leave me--I can make distinctions, even when I have most reason to be angry. I do not blame you, my dear--I do not ever ask you to blame your mother. I respect your filial piety--I am sure you must think her to blame, but I do not desire you to say so. Could any thing be more barbarously selfish than the plan of marrying _you_ to this M. de Brisac, that _she_ might have an establishment more to her taste than my house has been able to afford?"

Emilie attempted, but in vain, to say a few words for her mother. Mrs. Somers ran on with her own thoughts.

"And at what a time, at what a cruel time for me, did Mad. de Coulanges choose to express her desire to leave my house--at the moment when my whole soul was intent upon a scheme for the happiness of her daughter! Yes, Emilie, for your happiness!--and, my dear, your mother's conduct shall change nothing in my views. You I have always found uniformly kind, gentle, grateful--I will say no more--I have found in you, Emilie, real magnanimity. I have tried your temper much--sometimes too much--but I have always found you proof against these petty trials. Your character is suited to mine. I love you, as if you were my daughter, and I wish you to be my daughter.--Now you know my whole mind, Emilie. My son--my _eldest_ son, I should with emphasis say, if I were speaking to Mad. de Coulanges--will be here in a few days: read this letter. How happy I shall be if you find him--or if you will make him--such as you can entirely approve and love! You will have power over him--your influence will do what his mother's never could accomplish. But whatever reasons I may have to complain of him, this is not the time to state them--you will connect him with me. At all events, he is a man of honour and a gentleman; and as he is not, thank Heaven! under the debasing necessity of considering fortune in the choice of a wife, he is, at least in this respect, worthy of my dear and high-minded Emilie."

Mrs. Somers paused, and fixed her eyes eagerly on Emilie, impatient for her answer, and already half provoked by not seeing the sudden transition of countenance which she had pictured in her imagination. With a mixture of dignity and affectionate gratitude in her manner, Emilie was beginning to thank Mrs. Somers for the generous kindness of her intention; but this susceptible lady interrupted her, and exclaimed, "Spare me your thanks, Mlle. de Coulanges, and tell me at once what is passing in your mind; for something very extraordinary is certainly passing there, which I cannot comprehend. Surely you cannot for a moment imagine that your mother will insist upon your now accepting of M. de Brisac; or, if she does, surely you would not have the weakness to yield. I must have some proof of strength of mind from my friends. You must judge for yourself, Emilie, or you are not the person I take you for. You will have full opportunity of judging in a few days. Will you promise me that you will decide entirely for yourself, and that you will keep your mind unbiassed? Will you promise me this? And will you speak, at all events, my dear, that I may understand you?"

Emilie, who saw that even before she spoke Mrs. Somers was on the brink of anger, trembled at the idea of confessing the truth--that her heart was already biassed in favour of another: she had, however, the courage to explain to her all that passed in her mind. Mrs. Somers heard her with inexpressible disappointment. She was silent for some minutes. At last she said, in a voice of constrained passion, "Mlle. de Coulanges, I have only one question to ask of you--you will reflect before you answer it, because on your reply depends the continuance or utter dissolution of our friendship--do you, or do you not, think proper to refuse my son before you have seen him?"

"Before I have seen Mr. Somers, it surely can be no affront to you or to him," said Emilie, "to decline an offer that I cannot accept, especially when I give as my reason, that my mind is prepossessed in favour of another. With that prepossession, I cannot unite myself to your son: I can only express to you my gratitude--my most sincere gratitude--for your kind and generous intentions, and my hopes that he will find, amongst his own countrywomen, one more suited to him than I can be. His fortune is far above--"

"Say no more, I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges--I asked only for a simple answer to a plain question. You refuse my son--you refuse to be my daughter. I am satisfied--perfectly satisfied. I suppose you have arranged to go to Lady Littleton's. I heartily hope that she may be able to make her house more agreeable to you than I could render mine. Shake hands, Mlle. de Coulanges. You have my best wishes for your health and happiness--Here we part."

"Oh! do not let us part in anger!" said Emilie.

"In anger!--not in the least--I never was cooler in my life. You have completely cooled me--you have shown me the folly of that warmth of friendship which can meet with no return."

"Would it be a suitable return for your warm friendship to deceive your son?" said Emilie.

"To deceive me, I think still less suitable!" cried Mrs. Somers.

"And how have I deceived you?"

"You know best. Why was I kept in ignorance till the last moment? Why did you never confide your thoughts to me, Emilie? Why did you never till now say one word to me of this strange attachment?"

"There was no necessity for speaking till now," said Emilie. "It is a subject I never named to any one except to mamma--a subject on which I did not think it right to speak to any one but to a parent."

"Your notions of right and wrong, ma'am, differ widely from mine--we are not fit to live together. I have no idea of a friend's concealing any thing from me: without entire confidence, there is no friendship--at least no friendship with me. Pray no tears. I am not fond of _scenes_. Nobody ever is that feels much.--Adieu!--Adieu!"

Mrs. Somers hurried out of the room, repeating, "I'll write directly--this instant--to Lady Littleton. Mad. de Coulanges shall not be kept prisoner in _my_ house." Emilie stood motionless.

In a few minutes Mrs. Somers returned with an unfolded letter, which she put into Emilie's passive hand. "Read it, ma'am, I beg--read it. I do every thing openly--every thing handsomely, I hope--whatever may be my faults."

The letter was written with a rapid hand, which was scarcely legible, especially to a foreigner. Emilie, with her eyes full of tears, had no chance of deciphering it.

"Do not hurry yourself, ma'am," said Mrs. Somers. "I will leave you my letter to show to madame la comtesse, and then you will be so good as to despatch it.--Mlle. de Coulanges," cried Mrs. Somers, "you will be so obliging as to refrain from mentioning to the countess the foolish offer that I made you in my son's name this morning. There is no necessity for mortifying my pride any farther--a refusal from you is quite decisive--so pray let there be no consultations. As to the rest, the blame of our disagreement will of course be thrown upon me."

As Emilie moved towards the door, Mrs. Somers said, "Mlle. de Coulanges, I beg pardon for calling you back: but should you ever think of this business or of me, hereafter, you will do me the justice to remember that I made the proposal to you at a time when I was under the firm belief that you would never recover an inch of your estates in France."

"And you, dear Mrs. Somers, if you should ever think of me hereafter," said Emilie, "will, I hope, remember that my answer was given under the same belief."

With a look which seemed to refuse assent, Mrs. Somers continued, "I am as well aware, ma'am, as you, or Mad. de Coulanges, can be, that if you should recover your hereditary property, the heiress of the house of Coulanges would be a person to whom my son should not presume to aspire."

"Oh, Mrs. Somers! Is not this cruel mockery--undeserved by me--unworthy of you?"

"Mockery!--Ma'am, it is not three days since your mother was so positive in her expectations of being in the Hotel de Coulanges before next winter, that she was almost in fits because I ventured to differ on this point from her and Lady Littleton--Lady Littleton's judgment is much better than mine, and has, of course, had its weight--very justly--But I insist upon your understanding clearly that it had no weight with me in this affair. Whatever you may imagine, I never thought of the Coulanges estate."

"Believe me, I never could have imagined that you did. If _I_ could suspect Mrs. Somers of interested motives," said Emilie, with emotion so great that she could scarcely articulate the words, "I must be an unfeeling--an ungrateful idiot!"

"No, not an idiot, Mlle. de Coulanges--nobody can mistake you for an idiot: but, as I was going to say, if you inquire, Lady Littleton can tell you that I was absolutely provoked when I first heard you had a chance of recovering your property--you may smile, ma'am, but it is perfectly true. I own I might have been more prudent; but prudence, in affairs of the heart, is not one of my virtues: I own, however, it would have been more prudent to have refrained from making this proposal, till you had received a positive answer from France."

"And why?" said Emilie. "Whatever that answer might have been, surely you must be certain that it would not have made any alteration in my conduct.--You are silent, Mrs. Somers!--You wound me to the heart!--Oh! do me justice!--Justice is all I ask."

"I think that I do you justice--full justice--Mlle. de Coulanges; and if it wounds you to the heart, I am sorry for it; but that is not my fault."

Emilie's countenance suddenly changed from the expression of supplicating tenderness to haughty indignation. "You doubt my integrity!" she exclaimed: "then, indeed, Mrs. Somers, it is best that we should part!"

Mlle. de Coulanges disappeared, and Mrs. Somers shut herself up in her room, where she walked backwards and forwards for above an hour, then threw herself upon a sofa, and remained nearly another hour, till Mrs. Masham came to say that it was time to dress for dinner. She then started up, saying aloud, "I will think no more of these ungrateful people."

"They are gone, ma'am," said Mrs. Masham--"gone, and gave no vails!--which I don't think _on_, upon my own account, God knows! for if millions were offered me, in pocket-pieces, I would not touch one from any soul that comes to the house, having enough, and more than enough, from my own generous lady, who is the only person I stoop to receive from with pleasure. But there are others in the house who are accustomed to vails, and, after staying so long, it was a little ungenteel to go without so much as offering any one any thing--and to go in such a hurry and huff--taking only a French leave, after all! I must acknowledge with you, ma'am, that they are the ungratefullest people that ever were seen in England. Why, ma'am, I went backwards and forwards often enough into their apartments, to try to make out the cause of the packings and messages to the washer-woman, that I might inform you, but nothing transpired; yet I am certain, in their hearts, they are more black and ungrateful than any that ever were born; for there!--at the last moment, when even, for old acquaintance sake, the tears stood in my eyes, there was Miss Emilie, sitting as composedly as a judge, painting a butterfly's wing on some of her Frenchifications! Her eyes were red, to do her justice; but whether with painting or crying, I can't pretend to be certain. But as to Mad. de Coulanges, I can answer for her that the sole thing in nature she thought of, in leaving this house, was the bad step of the hackney-coach."

"Hackney-coach!" cried Mrs. Somers, with surprise. "Did they go away in a hackney-coach?"

"Yes, ma'am, much against the countess' stomach, I am sure: I only wish you had seen the face she made when the glass would not come up."

"But why did not they take my carriage, or wait for Lady Littleton's? They were, it seems, in a violent hurry to be gone," said Mrs. Somers.

"So it seems, indeed, ma'am--no better proof of their being the most ungratefullest people in the universe: but so it is, by all accounts, with all of their nation--the French having no constant hearts for any thing but singing, and dancing, and dressing, and making merry-andrews of themselves. Indeed, I own, till to-day, I thought Miss Emilie had less of the merry-andrew nature than any of her country; but the butterfly has satisfied me that there is no striving against climate and natural character, which conquer gratitude and every thing else."

Mrs. Somers sighed, and told Masham that she had said enough upon this disagreeable subject. At dinner the subject was renewed by many visitors, who, as soon as they found that Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges had left Mrs. Somers, began to find innumerable faults with the French in general, and with the countess and her daughter in particular. On the chapter of gratitude they were most severe; and Mrs. Somers was universally pitied for having so much generosity, and blamed for having had so much patience. Every body declared that they foresaw how she would be treated; and the exclamations of wonder at Lady Littleton's inviting to her house those who had behaved so ill to her friend were unceasing. Mrs. Somers all the time denied that she had any cause of complaint against either Mad. de Coulanges or her daughter; but the company judiciously trusted more to her looks than her words. Every thing was said or hinted that could exasperate her against her former favourites: for Mad. de Coulanges had made many enemies by engrossing an unreasonable share in the conversation; and Emilie by attracting too great a portion of attention by her beauty and engaging manners. Malice often overshoots the mark: Mrs. Somers was at first glad to hear the objects of her indignation abused; but at last she began to think the profusion of blame greater than was merited, and when she retired to rest at night, and when Masham began with "Oh, ma'am! do you know that Mlle. de Coulanges--" Mrs. Somers interrupted her, and said, "Masham, I desire to hear nothing more about Mlle. de Coulanges: I have heard her and her mother abused, without ceasing, these two hours, and that is enough."

"Lord! ma'am, I was not going to abuse them--God forbid! I was just going to tell you," cried Masham, "that never was any thing so mistaken as all I said before dinner. Just now, ma'am, when I went into the little dressing-room, within Mad. de Coulanges' room, and happened to open the wardrobe, I was quite struck back with shame at my own unjustice: there, ma'am, poor Miss Emilie left something--and out of her best things!--to every maid-servant in the house; all directed in her own hand, and with a good word for each; and this ring for me, which she is kind enough to say is of no value but to put me in mind of all the attentions I have shown her and her mother--which, I am sure, were scarcely worth noticing, especially at such a time when she had enough to do, and her heart full, no doubt, poor soul!--There are her little paintings and embroideries, and pretty things, that she did when she was confined with her sprain, all laid out in order--'tis my astonishment how she found time!--and directed to her friends in London, as keep-sakes:--and the very butterfly that I was so angry with her for staying to finish, is on something for you, ma'am; and here's a packet that was with it, and that nobody saw till this minute."

"Give it me!" cried Mrs. Somers. She tore it open, and found, in the first place, the pocketbook, full of bank notes, which she had given Mad. de Coulanges, with a few polite but haughty lines from the countess, saying that only twenty guineas had been used, which she hoped, at some future period, to be able to repay. Then came a note from Emilie, in which Mrs. Somers found her own letter to Lady Littleton. Emilie expressed herself as follows.

"Many thanks for the enclosed, but we have determined not to go to
Lady Littleton's: at least we will take care not to be the cause
of quarrel between friends to whom we are so much obliged.--No,
dear Mrs. Somers! we do not part in anger. Excuse me, if the last
words I said to you were hasty--they were forced from me by a
moment of passion--but it is past: all your generosity, all your
kindness, the recollection of all that you have done, all that you
have wished for my happiness, rush upon my mind; and every other
thought, and every other feeling, is forgotten. Would to Heaven
that I could express to you my gratitude by actions!--but words,
alas! are all that I have in my power--and where shall I find
words that can reach your heart? I had better be silent, and trust
to time and to you. I know your generous temper--you will soon
blame yourself for having judged too severely of Emilie. But
do not reproach yourself--do not let this give you a moment's
uneasiness: the clouds pass away, and the blue sky remains. Think
only--as I ever shall--of your goodness to mamma and to me. Adieu!

"EMILIE DE COULANGES."

Mrs. Somers was much affected by this letter, and by the information that Emilie and her mother had declined taking refuge with Lady Littleton, lest they should occasion jealousies between her and her friend. Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity of sentiment or of action. Mrs. Somers went to bed, enraged against herself--but it was now too late.

In the mean time, Emilie and her mother were in an obscure lodging, at a haberdasher's near Golden Square. The pride of Mad. de Coulanges, at first, supported her even beyond her daughter's expectations; she uttered no complaints, but frequently repeated, "Mais nous sommes bien ici, très bien--we cannot expect to have things as well as at the Hotel de Coulanges." In a short time she was threatened with fits of her _vapeurs noirs_; but Emilie, with the assistance of her whole store of French songs, a bird-organ, a lap-dog, and a squirrel, belonging to the girl of the house, contrived to avert the danger for the present--as to the future, she trembled to think of it. M. de Brisac seemed to be continually in her mother's thoughts; and whatever occurred, or whatever was the subject of conversation, Mad. de Coulanges always found means to end with "_à propos de M. de Brisac_." Faithful to her promise, however, which Emilie, with the utmost delicacy, recalled to her mind, she declared that she would not give M. de Brisac an answer till the end of the month, which she had allowed her daughter for reflection, and that, till that period, she would not even let him know where they were to be found. Emilie thought that the time went very fast, and her mother evidently rejoiced at the idea that the month would soon be at an end. Emilie endeavoured, with all her skill, to demonstrate to her mother that it would be possible to support themselves, by her industry and ingenuity, without this marriage; and to this, Mad. de Coulanges at first replied, "Try, and you will soon be tired, child." Emilie's spirits rose on receiving this permission: she began by copying music for a music-shop in the neighbourhood; and her mother saw, with astonishment, that she persevered in her design, and that no fatigue or discouraging circumstances could vanquish her resolution.

"Good Heavens! my child," said she, "you will wear yourself to a skeleton with copying music, and with painting, and embroidery, besides stooping so many hours over that tambour frame. My dear, how can you bear all this?"

"How!--Oh! dear mamma!" said Emilie, "there is no great difficulty in all this to me--the difficulty, the impossibility would be, to live happily with a man I despise."

"I wish," cried Mad. de Coulanges, "I wish to all the saints, that that hero of yours, that fellow-prisoner of ours at the Abbaye, with his humanity, and his generosity, and his courage, and all his fine qualities, had kept out of your way, Emilie: I wish he were fairly at the bottom of the Black Sea."

"But you forget that he was the means of obtaining your liberty, mamma."

"I wish I could forget it--I am always doomed to be obliged to those whom I cannot love. But, after all, you might as well think of the khan of Tartary as of this man, whom we shall never hear of more. Marry M. de Brisac, like a reasonable creature, and do not let me see you bending, as you do, for ever, over a tambour frame, wasting your fine eyes and spoiling your charming shape."

"But, mamma," said Emilie, "would it not be much worse to marry one man, and like another?"

"For mercy's sake! say something new to me, Emilie; at all events, I have heard this a hundred times."

"The simple truth, alas!" said Emilie, "must always be the same: I wish I could put it in any new light that would please you, dear mamma."

"It never can please me, child," cried Mad. de Coulanges, angrily; "nor can you please me, either, as you are going on. Fine heroism, truly!--you will sacrifice your duty and your mother to your obstinacy in an idle fancy. But, remember, the last days of the month are at hand--longer I will not listen to such provoking nonsense--it has half killed me already."

Neither lap-dog, squirrel, bird-organ, nor Emilie's whole stock of French songs, could longer support the vivacity of Mad. de Coulanges; for some days she had passed the time in watching and listening to the London cries, as she sat at her window: the figures and sounds in this busy part of the town were quite new to her; and, whilst the novelty lasted, she was, like a child, good-humoured and full of exclamations. The want of some one to listen to these exclamations was an insupportable evil; she complained terribly of her daughter's silence, whilst she was attending to her different employments. This want of conversation, and of all the luxuries she enjoyed at the house of Mrs. Somers, her anger against that lady, her loss of all hope of hearing from France, and her fear that Emilie would at last absolutely refuse to obey and marry M. de Brisac, all together operated so powerfully upon Mad. de Coulanges, that she really felt sick, and kept her bed. Emilie now confined herself to her mother's room, and attended her with the most affectionate care, and with a degree of anxiety, which those only can comprehend who have believed themselves to be the cause of the illness of a friend--of a parent. Mad. de Coulanges would sometimes reply, when her daughter asked her if such or such a thing had done her good, "No, my child, nothing will do me good but your obedience, which you refuse me--perhaps on my deathbed."

Though Emilie did not apprehend that her mother was in any immediate danger, yet these continual fits of low spirits and nervous attacks excited much alarm. Emilie's reflections on her own helpless situation contributed to magnify her fears: she considered that she was a stranger, a foreigner, without friends, without credit, almost without money, and deprived, by the necessary attendance on her sick mother, of all power to earn any by her own exertions. The bodily fatigue that she endured, even without any mental anxiety, would have been sufficient to wear out the spirits of a more robust person than Emilie. She had no human being to assist her but a young girl, a servant-maid belonging to the house, who, fortunately, was active and good-natured; but her mistress was excessively cross, vulgar, and avaricious; avarice, indeed, often seemed to conquer in her the common feelings of humanity. Once, whilst Mad. de Coulanges was extremely ill, she forced her way into her bedchamber, to insist upon changing the counterpane upon the bed, which she said was too good to be stained with coffee: another day, when she was angry with Mlle. de Coulanges, for having cracked a basin by heating some soup for her mother, she declared, in the least ceremonious terms possible, that she hated to have any of the French _refugees_ and emigrants in the house, for that she was not accustomed to let her lodgings to folk that nobody ever came near to visit, and that lived only upon soups and salads, and such low stuff; "and who, when they were ill, never so much as called in a physician, or even a nurse, but must take up the time of people that were not bound to wait upon them."

Mlle. de Coulanges bore all this patiently rather than run the hazard of removing to other lodgings whilst her mother was so ill. The countess had a prejudice against English physicians, as she affirmed that it was impossible that they could understand French constitutions, especially hers, which was different from that of any other human being, and which, as she said, only one medical man in France rightly understood. At last, however, she yielded to the persuasions of her daughter, and permitted Emilie to send for a physician. When she inquired what he thought of her mother, he said, that she was in a nervous fever, and that unless her mind was kept free from anxiety he could not answer for her recovery. Mad. de Coulanges looked full at her daughter, who was standing at the foot of her bed; a mist came before Emilie's eyes, a cold dew covered her forehead, and she was forced to hold by the bed-post to support herself.

At this instant the door opened, and Lady Littleton appeared. Emilie sprang forward, and threw herself into her arms--Mad. de Coulanges started up in her bed, exclaiming "Ah Ciel!" and then all were silent--except the mistress of the house, who went on making apologies about the dirt of her stairs, and its being Friday night. But as she at length perceived that not a soul in the room knew a word she was saying, she retreated. The physician took leave--and, when they were thus left at liberty, Lady Littleton seated herself in the broken arm-chair beside the bed, and told Mad. de Coulanges that Mrs. Somers had been very unhappy, in consequence of their quarrel; and that she had been indefatigable in her inquiries and endeavours to find out the place of their retreat; that she had at last given up the search in despair. "But," continued Lady Littleton, "it has been my good fortune to discover you by means of this flower of Emilie's painting"--(she produced a little hand-screen, which Emilie had lately made, and which she had sent to be disposed of at the Repository for Ingenious Works). "I knew it to be yours, my dear, because it is an exact resemblance of one upon your watch of Flora, which was drawn from the flower I brought you from Kew Gardens. Now you must not be angry with me for finding you out, nor for begging of you to be reconciled to poor Mrs. Somers, who has suffered much in your absence--much from the idea of what you would endure--and more from her self-reproaches. She has, indeed, an unfortunate susceptibility of temper, which makes her sometimes forget both politeness and justice: but, as you well know, her heart is excellent. Come, you must promise me to meet her at my house, as soon as you are able to go out, my dear Mad. de Coulanges."

"I do not know when that will be," replied Mad. de Coulanges, in a sick voice: "I was never so ill in my life--and so the physician says. But I am revived by seeing Lady Littleton--she is, and ever has been, all goodness and politeness to us. I am ashamed that she should see us in such a miserable place. Emilie, give me my other night-riband, and the wretched little looking-glass."

Mad. de Coulanges sat up and arranged her head-dress. At this moment, Lady Littleton took Emilie aside, and put into her hand a letter from France!--"I would not speak of it suddenly to your mother, my dear," said she; "but you will find the proper time. I hope it contains good news--at present I will have patience. You shall see me again soon; and you must, at all events, let me take you from this miserable place. Mrs. Somers has been punished enough.--Adieu!--I long to know the news from France."

The news from France was such as made the looking-glass drop from the hand of Mad. de Coulanges. It was a letter from the son of her old steward, to tell her that his father was dead--that he was now in possession of all the family fortune, which he was impatient to restore to the wife and daughter of his former master and friend.

"Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Mad. de Coulanges, in an ecstasy of joy--"Heaven be praised! we shall once more see dear Paris, and the Hotel de Coulanges!"

"Heaven be praised!" cried Emilie, "I shall never more see M. de Brisac. My mother, I am sure, will no longer wish me to marry him."

"No, in truth," said the countess, "it would now be a most unequal match, and one to which he is by no means entitled. How fortunate it is that I had not given him my promise!--After all, your aversion to him, child, was quite providential. Now you may form the most splendid alliance that your heart can desire."

"My heart," said Emilie, sighing, "desires no splendid alliance. But had you not better lie down, dear mamma?--You will certainly catch cold--and remember, your mind must be kept quiet."

It was impossible to keep her mind quiet; she ran on from one subject to another with extravagant volubility; and Emilie was afraid that she would, the next day, be quite exhausted; but, on the contrary, after talking above half the night, she fell into a sound sleep; and when she wakened, after having slept fourteen hours, she declared that she would no longer be kept a prisoner in bed. The renovating effects of joy and the influence of the imagination were never more strongly displayed. "Le malheur passé n'est bon qu'à être oublié," was la comtesse's favourite maxim--and to do her justice, she was as ready to forget past quarrels as past misfortunes. She readily complied with Emilie's request that she would, as soon as she was able to go out, accompany her to Lady Littleton's, that they might meet and be reconciled to Mrs. Somers.

"She has the most tormenting temper imaginable," said the countess; "and I would not live with her for the universe--Mais d'ailleurs c'est la meilleure femme du monde."

If, instead of being the best woman in the world, Mrs. Somers had been the worst, and if, instead of being a benefactress, she had been an enemy, it would have been all the same thing to the countess; for, in this moment, she was, as usual, like a child, a _friend_ to every creature of every kind.

Her volubility was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Littleton, who came to carry Mad. de Coulanges and Emilie to her house, where, as her ladyship said, Mrs. Somers was impatiently waiting for them. Lady Littleton had prevented her from coming to this poor lodging-house, because she knew that the being seen there would mortify the pride of some of the house of Coulanges.

Mrs. Somers was indeed waiting for them with inexpressible impatience. The moment she heard their voices in the hall at Lady Littleton's, she ran down stairs to meet them; and as she embraced Emilie she could not refrain from bursting into tears.

"Tears of joy, these must be," cried Mad. de Coulanges: "we are all happy now--perfectly happy--Are not we?--Embrace me, Mrs. Somers--Emilie shall not have all your heart--I have some gratitude as well as my daughter; and I should have none if I did not love you--especially at this moment."

Mad. de Coulanges was, by this time, at the head of the stairs; a servant opened the drawing-room door; but something was amiss with the strings of her sandals--she would stay to adjust them--and said to Emilie, "Allez, allez--entrez."

Emilie obeyed. An instant afterwards Mad. de Coulanges thought she heard a sudden cry, either of joy or grief, from Emilie--she hurried into the drawing-room.

"Bon Dieu! c'est notre homme de l'Abbaye!" cried she, starting back at the sight of a gentleman who had been kneeling at Emilie's feet, and who arose as she entered.

"My son!" said Mrs. Somers, eagerly presenting him to Mad. de Coulanges--"my son! whom it is in your power to make the happiest or the most miserable of men!"

"In my power!--in Emilie's, you mean, I suppose," said the countess, smiling. "She is so good a girl that I cannot make her miserable; and as for you, Mrs. Somers, the honour of your alliance--and our obligations--But then I shall be miserable myself if she does not go back with me to the Hotel de Coulanges--Ah! Ciel!--And then poor M. de Brisac, he will be miserable, unless, to comfort him, I marry him myself."--Half laughing, half crying, Mad. de Coulanges scarcely knew what she said or did.

It was some time before she was sufficiently composed to understand clearly what was said to her by any person in the room, though she asked, half a dozen times, at least, from every one present, an explanation of all that had happened.

Lady Littleton was the only person who could give an explanation. She had contrived this meeting, and even Mrs. Somers had not foreseen the event--she never suspected that her own son was the very person to whom Emilie was attached, and that it was for Emilie's sake her son had hitherto refused to comply with her earnest desire that he should marry and settle in the world. He had no hopes that she would consent to his marrying a French girl without fortune, because she formerly quarrelled with him for refusing to marry a rich lady of quality, who happened to be, at that time, high in her favour. Upon the summons home that he received from her, he was alarmed by the apprehension that she had some new alliance in view for him, and he resolved, before he saw his mother, to trust his secret to Lady Littleton, who had always been a mediatrix and peace-maker. He declined telling the name of the object of his affections; but, from his description, and from many concomitant dates and circumstances, Lady Littleton was led to suspect that it might be Emilie de Coulanges. She consequently contrived an interview, which she knew must be decisive.

Mad. de Coulanges, whose imagination was now at Paris, felt rather disappointed at the idea of her daughter's marrying an Englishman, who was neither a count, a marquis, nor even a baron; but Lady Littleton at length obtained that consent which she knew would be necessary to render Emilie happy, even in following the dictates of her heart, or her reason.

Some conversation passed between Lady Littleton and Mrs. Somers about a dormant title in the Somers' family, which might be revived. This made a wonderful impression on the countess. She yielded, as she did every thing else, with a good grace.

History does not say, whether she did or did not console M. de Brisac: we are only informed that, immediately after her daughter's marriage, she returned to Paris, and gave a splendid ball at her Hotel de Coulanges. We are further assured that Mrs. Somers never quarrelled with Emilie from the day of her marriage till the day of her death--but that is incredible.

1803.

THE MODERN GRISELDA.

A TALE.

"And since in man right reason bears the sway,
Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way."

POPE.