as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a place called Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?"
Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, "It is true, madame; and," she went on, "as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of rare beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by my father that I am nobly descended; he was a St. Rémy de Valois, direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne."
"But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame?"
"Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the accession of Henry IV., by which the crown passed from the house of Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably."
The two ladies made a sign of assent.
"Then," continued Jeanne, "these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious to the reigning family, changed their name of Valois into that of St. Rémy, which they took from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their ancient kings."
Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity and mildness which created a favorable impression.
"You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame," said the elder lady, with kindness.
"Oh, madame," she replied, with a bitter smile, "proofs are not wanting – my father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole legacy; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will recognize?"
"Your father is then dead?" asked the younger lady.
"Alas! yes."
"Did he die in the provinces?"
"No, madame."
"At Paris, then?"
"Yes."
"In this room?"
"No, madame; my father, Baron de Valois, great-nephew of the King Henry III., died of misery and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with the suffering wretches in the Hôtel Dieu!"
The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.
"From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident, great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father."
"Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that my father's death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes."
"How, madame! You regard as a minor evil the death of your father?" said the elder lady, with a frown.
"Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in this life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his bread."
"To beg his bread?"
"Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself."
"But you do not speak of your mother?"
"Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my mother."
The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange words.
"Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account of your misfortunes?"
"The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such a long catalogue of woes."
"Speak, madame," said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and stared at her with some astonishment.
"I listen, madame," she then said, in a more gentle tone; "if you will be good enough to inform us what we ask."
Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and fearing she felt cold, pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had discovered under one of the chairs.
"Keep it yourself, my sister," said she, pushing it back again. "You are more delicate than I."
"Indeed, madame," said Jeanne, "it grieves me much to see you suffer from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted a week ago."
"You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother," said the elder lady, returning to the subject.
"Yes, madame. Doubtless, such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it not?" said Jeanne; "but hear my explanation. I have already had the honor to tell you that my father made a mésalliance, and married his housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and proud of the honor he had done her, began by ruining my father, which certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.
"His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates in the lowest ranks of the army; the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our departure, before the house of a neighboring farmer.
"The journey exhausted our little resources – my father wore himself out in fruitless appeals – we scarcely ever saw him – our house was wretched – and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her discontent and ill-humor upon me: she even reproached me with what I ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The neighbors, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I experienced. He endeavored to protect me, but his interference only served to embitter her still more against me.
"At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not wish to be beaten to death."
"And what was this sentence?" asked the elder lady.
"It was this, madame: 'Have pity on a little orphan, who descends in a direct line from Henri de Valois.'"
"What a shame!" cried the ladies.
"But what effect did this produce on the people?" inquired Andrée.
"Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped: I generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious
