At Beaugency night overtook me,still sunk in a stupor of the mind produced by these strange parting words.What can be awaiting me in this world for which I have so hungered?
To begin with,I found no one to receive me;my heart had been schooled in vain.My mother was at the Bois de Boulogne,my father at the Council;my brother,the Duc de Rhetore,never comes in,I am told,till it is time to dress for dinner.Miss Griffith (she is not unlike a griffin)and Philippe took me to my rooms.
The suite is the one which belonged to my beloved grandmother,the Princess de Vauremont,to whom I owe some sort of a fortune which no one has ever told me about.As you read this,you will understand the sadness which came over me as I entered a place sacred to so many memories,and found the rooms just as she had left them!I was to sleep in the bed where she died.
Sitting down on the edge of the sofa,I burst into tears,forgetting Iwas not alone,and remembering only how often I had stood there by her knees,the better to hear her words.There I had gazed upon her face,buried in its brown laces,and worn as much by age as by the pangs of approaching death.The room seemed to me still warm with the heat which she kept up there.How comes it that Armande-Louise-Marie de Chaulieu must be like some peasant girl,who sleeps in her mother's bed the very morrow of her death?For to me it was as though the Princess,who died in 1817,had passed away but yesterday.
I saw many things in the room which ought to have been removed.Their presence showed the carelessness with which people,busy with the affairs of state,may treat their own,and also the little thought which had been given since her death to this grand old lady,who will always remain one of the striking figures of the eighteenth century.
Philippe seemed to divine something of the cause of my tears.He told me that the furniture of the Princess had been left to me in her will and that my father had allowed all the larger suites to remain dismantled,as the Revolution had left them.On hearing this I rose,and Philippe opened the door of the small drawing-room which leads into the reception-rooms.
In these I found all the well-remembered wreckage;the panels above the doors,which had contained valuable pictures,bare of all but empty frames;broken marbles,mirrors carried off.In old days I was afraid to go up the state staircase and cross these vast,deserted rooms;so I used to get to the Princess'rooms by a small staircase which runs under the arch of the larger one and leads to the secret door of her dressing-room.
My suite,consisting of a drawing-room,bedroom,and the pretty morning-room in scarlet and gold,of which I have told you,lies in the wing on the side of the Invalides.The house is only separated from the boulevard by a wall,covered with creepers,and by a splendid avenue of trees,which mingle their foliage with that of the young elms on the sidewalk of the boulevard.But for the blue-and-gold dome of the Invalides and its gray stone mass,you might be in a wood.
The style of decoration in these rooms,together with their situation,indicates that they were the old show suite of the duchesses,while the dukes must have had theirs in the wing opposite.The two suites are decorously separated by the two main blocks,as well as by the central one,which contained those vast,gloomy,resounding halls shown me by Philippe,all despoiled of their splendor,as in the days of my childhood.
Philippe grew quite confidential when he saw the surprise depicted on my countenance.For you must know that in this home of diplomacy the very servants have a reserved and mysterious air.He went on to tell me that it was expected a law would soon be passed restoring to the fugitives of the Revolution the value of their property,and that my father is waiting to do up his house till this restitution is made,the king's architect having estimated the damage at three hundred thousand livres.
This piece of news flung me back despairing on my drawing-room sofa.
Could it be that my father,instead of spending this money in arranging a marriage for me,would have left me to die in the convent?
This was the first thought to greet me on the threshold of my home.
Ah!Renee,what would I have given then to rest my head upon your shoulder,or to transport myself to the days when my grandmother made the life of these rooms?You two in all the world have been alone in loving me--you away at Maucombe,and she who survives only in my heart,the dear old lady,whose still youthful eyes used to open from sleep at my call.How well we understood each other!
These memories suddenly changed my mood.What at first had seemed profanation,now breathed of holy association.It was sweet to inhale the faint odor of the powder she loved still lingering in the room;sweet to sleep beneath the shelter of those yellow damask curtains with their white pattern,which must have retained something of the spirit emanating from her eyes and breath.I told Philippe to rub up the old furniture and make the rooms look as if they were lived in;Iexplained to him myself how I wanted everything arranged,and where to put each piece of furniture.In this way I entered into possession,and showed how an air of youth might be given to the dear old things.
The bedroom is white in color,a little dulled with time,just as the gilding of the fanciful arabesques shows here and there a patch of red;but this effect harmonizes well with the faded colors of the Savonnerie tapestry,which was presented to my grandmother by Louis XV.along with his portrait.The timepiece was a gift from the Marechal de Saxe,and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece came from the Marechal de Richelieu.My grandmother's portrait,painted at the age of twenty-five,hangs in an oval frame opposite that of the King.
