Chapter 24

Partings.

So it was something like the end of a fairy tale after all; for a carriage stopped before the restaurant at Le Trooz, and out of it came a gentleman, and a lady beautiful enough to be a fairy godmother, and the little wandering Princess herself, no other than our Madelon, who ran up to Jeanne-Marie as she came to the door, and clasping her round the neck, clung to her more tightly than she had ever clung before, till the woman, disengaging herself, turned to speak to her other visitors. Mrs. Treherne came into the little public room, which happened to be empty just then, and siting down on one of the wooden chairs, began to talk to Jeanne-Marie; whilst Madelon, escaping, made her way to the garden at the back, where she had spent so many peaceful hours. It was not a week since she had been there and it looked all unchanged; the sun was shining again after the last few days, and filling the air with summer heat and radiance; the grapes were ripening on the wall; the bees humming among the flowers; Jeanne-Marie's pots and pans stood in the kitchen window. How quiet, and sunny, and familiar it looked! Madelon half expected to find her chair set in the old shady corner, to see Jeanne-Marie's face appearing through the screen of vine-leaves at the open window, to hear her voice calling to her to leave her work, and come and help her make the soup! Ah no, it was not all unchanged; was there indeed anything the same as in the old days that already seemed such ages distant, the old time gone for ever? With a sudden pang, Madelon turned away, and went quickly up the outside staircase, all overgrown with unpruned sprays and tendrils, into the room she had occupied for so many weeks. How happy she had been there! what dreams she had dreamed! what hopes she had cherished! what visions she had indulged in! Where were they all now? Where was that golden future to which she had so confidently looked forward, for which she had worked, and striven, and ventured all? She knelt down by the bed, flinging her arms out over the coarse blue counterpane. Ah, if she had but died there, died while she was all unconscious, before this cruel grief and disappointment had come upon her!

And meanwhile, Jeanne-Marie, in the room below, had been hardening her heart against the child after her own fashion. She had answered Mrs. Treherne's questions curtly, rejected the faintest suggestion of money as an insult, and stood eyeing Graham defiantly while the talk went on. "Madelon has grand new friends now," she was thinking all the time very likely, "and will go away and be happy, and forget all about me; well, let her go--what does it matter?" And then presently, going upstairs to look for this happy, triumphant Madelon, she found her crouching on the floor, trying to stifle the sound of her despairing sobs.

"Oh, Jeanne-Marie, Jeanne-Marie!" she cried, as soon as she could speak, "I wish I might stay with you, I wish I had never gone away; what was the use of it all? I thought I was going to be so happy, and now I am to go to England, and Monsieur Horace is to go to America, and I shall never, never, be happy again!"

"What was the use of what?" says Jeanne-Marie, taking the child into her kind arms; "why will you never be happy again? Are they unkind to you? Is that gentleman downstairs Monsieur Horace that you used to talk about?"

"Yes, that is Monsieur Horace. Ah, no, he is not unkind, he is kinder than any one--you do not understand, Jeanne-Marie, and I cannot tell you, but I am very unhappy." She put her arms round the woman's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder. In truth, Jeanne-Marie did not understand what all this terrible grief and despair were about. Madelon, as we know, had never confided her hopes, and plans, and wishes to her; but she knew that the child whom she loved better than all the world was in trouble, and that she must send her away without being able to say a word to comfort her, and that seemed hard to bear.

So they sat silent for awhile; and then Jeanne-Marie got up.

"You must go, _ma petite_," she said; "Madame is waiting, and I came to fetch you." She walked to the door, and then turned round suddenly. "_Ecoutez, mon enfant_," she said, placing her two hands on Madelon's shoulders, and looking down into her face, "you will not forget me? I--I should not like to think you will go away, and forget me."

"Never!" cried Madelon; "how could I? I will never forget you, Jeanne-Marie, and some day, if I can, I will come back and see you."

So they parted, and, of the two, it was the brave, faithful heart of the woman that suffered the sharper pang, though she went about her daily work without saying a word or shedding a tear.

Mrs. Treherne had large estates in Cornwall, on which, since her husband's death, she had almost constantly resided; and thither, with Madelon, she proceeded, a few days after their arrival in London. Graham did not go with them. He had been appointed to accompany a government exploring party into Central America, and his time was fully occupied with business to settle, arrangements to make, outfit to purchase, and, moreover, with running down to his sister's house in the country as often as possible, so as to devote every spare hour to Miss Leslie. The summer love-making had ended in an engagement before he started for Spa--an engagement which-- neither he nor Miss Leslie having any money to speak of-- promised to be of quite indefinite length. In the midst of all his bustle, however, Graham contrived to take Madelon to as many sights as could be crowded into the three or four days that they stayed at the London hotel; and in a thousand kind ways tried to encourage and cheer the child, who never said a word about her grief, but drooped more and more as the moment for separation drew near. Graham went to see her and his aunt off at the Great Western terminus, and it was amidst all the noise, and hurry, and confusion of a railway-station that they parted at last. It was all over in a minute, and as Graham stood on the platform, watching the train move slowly out of the station, a little white face appeared at a carriage- window, two brown eyes gazed wistfully after him, a little hand waved one more farewell. It was his last glimpse of our small Madelon.