“That is how, at the age of six weeks, Mademoiselle
Pearl entered the Chantal household.
“It was not until later that she was called
Mademoiselle Pearl. She was at first baptized
‘Marie Simonne Claire,’ Claire being intended,
for her family name.
“I can assure you that our return to the diningroom
was amusing, with this baby now awake and looking
round her at these people and these lights with her
vague blue questioning eyes.
“We sat down to dinner again and the cake was
cut. I was king, and for queen I took Mademoiselle
Pearl, just as you did to-day. On that day she
did not appreciate the honor that was being shown her.
“Well, the child was adopted and brought up
in the family. She grew, and the years flew by.
She was so gentle and loving and minded so well that
every one would have spoiled her abominably had not
my mother prevented it.
“My mother was an orderly woman with a great
respect for class distinctions. She consented
to treat little Claire as she did her own sons, but,
nevertheless, she wished the distance which separated
us to be well marked, and our positions well established.
Therefore, as soon as the child could understand,
she acquainted her with her story and gently, even
tenderly, impressed on the little one’s mind
that, for the Chantals, she was an adopted daughter,
taken in, but, nevertheless, a stranger. Claire
understood the situation with peculiar intelligence
and with surprising instinct; she knew how to take
the place which was allotted her, and to keep it with
so much tact, gracefulness and gentleness that she
often brought tears to my father’s eyes.
My mother herself was often moved by the passionate
gratitude and timid devotion of this dainty and loving
little creature that she began calling her: ‘My
daughter.’ At times, when the little one
had done something kind and good, my mother would
raise her spectacles on her forehead, a thing which
always indicated emotion with her, and she would repeat:
’This child is a pearl, a perfect pearl!’
This name stuck to the little Claire, who became and
remained for us Mademoiselle Pearl.”
M. Chantal stopped. He was sitting on the edge
of the billiard table, his feet hanging, and was playing
with a ball with his left hand, while with his right
he crumpled a rag which served to rub the chalk marks
from the slate. A little red in the face, his
voice thick, he was talking away to himself now, lost
in his memories, gently drifting through the old scenes
and events which awoke in his mind, just as we walk
through old family gardens where we were brought up
and where each tree, each walk, each hedge reminds
us of some occurrence.
I stood opposite him leaning against the wall, my
hands resting on my idle cue.
After a slight pause he continued:
“By Jove! She was pretty at eighteen—and
graceful—and
perfect. Ah! She was so sweet—and
good and true—and charming!
She had such eyes—blue-transparent—clear—such
eyes as
I have never seen since!”
