Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve
her, but was shaken off with kindly contempt:
my godmother opined that I had enough to do to take
care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now,
in the midst of the gay “confusion worse confounded”
succeeding to the King and Queen’s departure,
Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane
through the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing
his mother as the most flourishing grisette it had
ever been his good fortune to see charged with carriage
of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark her affection
for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction
that she intended one day to wear it.
The night was now very cold and very dark, but with
little delay we found the carriage. Soon we were
packed in it, as warm and as snug as at a fire-side;
and the drive home was, I think, still pleasanter than
the drive to the concert. Pleasant it was, even
though the coachman— having spent in the
shop of a “marchand de vin” a portion of
the time we passed at the concert—drove
us along the dark and solitary chaussee far past the
turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who were occupied
in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberration
till, at last, Mrs. Bretton intimated that, though
she had always thought the chateau a retired spot,
she did not know it was situated at the world’s
end, as she declared seemed now to be the case, for
she believed we had been an hour and a half en route,
and had not yet taken the turn down the avenue.
Then Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread
fields, with unfamiliar rows of pollards and limes
ranged along their else invisible sunk-fences, began
to conjecture how matters were, and calling a halt
and descending, he mounted the box and took the reins
himself. Thanks to him, we arrived safe at home
about an hour and a half beyond our time.
Martha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning,
and a neat supper spread in the dining-room:
we were glad of both. The winter dawn was actually
breaking before we gained our chambers. I took
off my pink dress and lace mantle with happier feelings
than I had experienced in putting them on. Not
all, perhaps, who had shone brightly arrayed at that
concert could say the same; for not all had been satisfied
with friendship—with its calm comfort and
modest hope.
CHAPTER XXI.
REACTION.
Yet three days, and then I must go back to the pensionnat.
I almost numbered the moments of these days upon the
clock; fain would I have retarded their flight; but
they glided by while I watched them: they were
already gone while I yet feared their departure.
“Lucy will not leave us to-day,” said
Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at breakfast; “she knows
we can procure a second respite.”
“I would not ask for one if I might have it
for a word,” said I. “I long to get
the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette
again. I must go this morning: I must go
directly; my trunk is packed and corded.”
