CHAPTER I.

Jaqueline Triquet was the daughter of a _proprietaire_, or owner, of a very small farm, near a village in the Bourbonnois, the real name of which it might be dangerous to state, for reasons that will be apparent to such of our fair readers as may condescend patiently to toil through what is to follow. Let it therefore be called, after the patron saint of France, St Denis.

Jaqueline, our heroine, was about the middle height of her sex, but had the appearance of being somewhat shorter, in consequence of the rather masculine breadth of her frame and vigorous "development" of muscle. These were, however, great advantages to one compelled to live a life of labour, and to associate with persons of a class not particularly celebrated for delicacy of manners or feeling; and of these advantages Jaqueline evinced that she was perfectly aware, by frequently asserting that she was "not afraid of any man."

Her other personal qualifications were a compact, round, good-humoured-looking countenance, with two very bright black useful eyes, which had an odd way of trying to look at each other--a propensity that, if not over-violent, has been pronounced exceedingly attractive by many connoisseurs of beauty. But, alas! Jaqueline was no beauty, whatever she might have been in early youth; for that dreadful enemy of fair faces, the small-pox, had attacked her in his angry mood, and sadly disfigured every charm save that over which even he hath no power, the all-pleasing expression of good-humour. So that remained for Jaqueline; and not that alone. Not merely was the cheerful outward sign upon her homely sunburnt countenance, but the blessed reality was within; and there was not a merrier, more industrious, nor lighter-hearted lass in the whole _commune_. Artless, simple, and kind to all, she was a general favourite; and with general favour she remained apparently quite content, till certain of her younger companions got married, and then she felt occasionally dull--she knew not why.

"It is not that I envy them, I am sure," said she to herself in one of her musing fits; "no--I rejoice in their happiness. If Franchette had not married Jean Clement, I am sure I never should, even if he had asked me, which he never did. And then Jaques Roget, and Pierre Dupin, and Philippe Chamel--bless them all, and their wives too, I say! I wish them happy; I'm sure I do. I don't envy them; I'm sure I don't. And yet--yet--I can't think what's the matter with me!"

Poor Jaqueline's was no very uncommon case. She was not in love with any particular person. Her heart was her own, and a good warm heart it was, and she felt conscious that it was well worth somebody's winning; therefore it is no marvel that at last she breathed a secret wish that somebody would set about the task in earnest.

Such was the state of her feelings when her father, who was a widower, resolved to intrust her with the management of certain affairs in the way of business at Moulins, which he had hitherto always attended to personally.

"The change will do you good, my child," said he; "and Madame Margot will be delighted to see you, if it were only for your poor dear mother's sake, rest her soul! She always asks after you, and has invited me to bring you with me a thousand times. So you may be sure of a welcome from her. And Nicolas is a good lad too, and has managed the business admirably since his father's death, though he is such a lively fellow that one could hardly expect it. He'll _chaperon_ you, and do the _aimable_, no doubt. So, _vale_! never fear. And if you find yourself happy with them, and Madame presses you to stay--why, it's only August now, and I sha'n't want you home till the vintage--so do as you like, my good child; I can trust you."

The journey to Moulins was little more than ten leagues; but travelling in the cross-roads of the Bourbonnois is a very rough and tedious affair. To Jaqueline it appeared the most important event in her life; and as she rode, in the cool of a Monday morning, upon her father's nag, to a neighbouring farmer's, about two leagues on her way, she felt half inclined to turn back, and request to be left at home in quiet, rather than go on to be mingled in scenes of gaiety, wherein something whispered to her that she was not likely to be very happy. But the congratulations of the said farmer's daughters, who all declared how much they envied her, and how delighted they should be to be in her place, to which, perhaps, may be added the invigorating effects of a most unromantic, substantial breakfast, caused a marvellous change in her feelings, insomuch that she appeared the merriest of the party, as they walked afterward to the summit of a rising ground, from which her further progress on foot into the high-road might be clearly indicated. There, after receiving minute instructions, by attending to which she was assured that it was impossible she could mistake her way, she took leave of her friends, with the feeling that she was about to be launched into a new sort of world.

The sun shone brightly, the birds sang merrily, and ever and anon a passing breeze rustled cheerfully the foliage above and all around, as Jaqueline stepped lightly on, scarcely encumbered by her not very elegant nor ponderous bundle, containing much less than the fair sex usually require when going on a visit. But this lightness of wardrobe caused the not least agreeable of her anticipations, as her father had given her a _carte blanche_ to supply its defects from the _magasins_ of Moulins, stipulating only that in her headgear there should be no deviation from the established costume of their ancestresses, who, from generation to generation, had worn, or rather carried, perched forward upon their caps, the small, boat-like, diminutive-crowned hat called _La Fougere_.

Now, whether she had been thinking too much about how her new _fougere_ should be trimmed, or that the plain directions of her friends were too perplexingly minute to be borne clearly in memory, cannot be ascertained; but at a spot where a single footpath became double, she hesitated and looked round, and endeavoured to recollect. There was no one near to bias her choice; so she decided for herself, and took the left path, uttering the self-comforting ejaculation--"I am sure that this is the right." Therefore she walked briskly on, till visited by unpleasant misgivings that her steps had deviated too far to the left; and then followed doubt upon doubt, fast walking, stopping, hesitation, and looking about, as usual in such cases, till it became too evident that she had contrived to do that which her kind friends pronounced to be impossible. She had lost her way.

Now, losing one's way is far from agreeable, even to common, everyday people; but when such a misfortune occurs to heroines, it is a much more serious piece of business, inasmuch as their blundering always exercises an evil influence over the weather. No matter how fine and cloudless the day may have previously been, no sooner is a heroine bewildered, and, amid unknown tracks, compelled to "give it up" as a too-puzzling riddle, than all the elements combine to increase her perplexity. The thunders incontinently commence growling over her head, the vivid lightning flashes all around, the winds blow a hurricane, and down comes the rain like a cataract. The moral intended to be drawn from such often-repeated disasters probably is, that young ladies should be careful of their footsteps; for certainly the elements of society are not less pitiless to an erring female than are those of nature toward a lost heroine.

Jaqueline's predicament was no exception to the general rule, which is not surprising, as the sudden and violent summer storms of the Bourbonnois are proverbial. However, before she was quite "wet through," she had the heroine's usual good-luck of finding shelter in the ruins of an old castle, to which she was guided by the welcome sight of a small wreath of smoke, ascending from a corner of the dilapidated building. After peeping cautiously from behind the open folding-shutter of an unglazed window, and ascertaining the sex of the lonely tenant, she ventured to enter, and was most kindly welcomed by an aged woman, whose bodily infirmities had in no degree affected the organs of speech. So Jaqueline soon had the consolation of learning how and where she had missed her way, and also of hearing many particulars of her hostess's life, which need not be repeated here. The best of the affair, however, was, that the old body had both the means and the inclination to make her guest comfortable. There was plenty of dry wood piled up in the corner of the room, and it was not spared. The fire crackled and blazed cheerfully; and then she placed certain culinary earthen vessels upon and around it, and at the end of a string in the front suspended a fowl, over the roasting of which she sate down to watch and talk.

The rain still continued, and Jaqueline felt grateful; therefore, after some little necessary attention to her dress, she thought she could not do better than, as the phrase is, "make herself generally useful." So she bustled about, and evinced a knowledge of the _menage_ and the _cuisine_ that raised her greatly in the estimation of her entertainer.

The wing of a fowl, and _une petite goutte_ of wine, in a tumbler of water, is the usual allowance for French heroines. How far Jaqueline surpassed them need not be told; but, by the time their dinner was ended, she and the ancient dame seemed quite upon the footing of old acquaintance.

"Ah!" continued the old woman (for she had talked continuously)--"Ah! I like you, my good girl. I've taken a fancy to you; and when I take a fancy to anybody, I can do something--hem!"

"You have been very kind to me," said Jaqueline--"very kind; and you may depend upon it I shall not be ungrateful. You must come and pay me a visit in October, at the vintage, and then----"

"You'll be very glad to see me," continued the old woman. "That's what you mean to say, I know. Well, well, there's time enough for that; but--now, now--tell me! Isn't there anything that I can do for you now? Haven't you some wish?"

"Only that you would be so good as to show me the way to the Cock and Bottle, in the high-road," replied Jaqueline, to the apparent great amusement of the old crone, who cackled immoderately till a fit of coughing compelled her to take a few more sips of wine, of which Jaqueline began to suspect she had already taken quite enough.

"Excuse my laughing, my child," said she at length--"but really your mistake was so diverting. I meant to talk of more serious things--of your prospects in life--of your wishes particularly. Young people always have wishes. Ay! I see by that smile that you have. There--that's understood--and now tell me what it is."

Here followed a long confabulation, in which Jaqueline revealed all the particulars of her birth, parentage, and education; and eventually the old body wormed out of her the secret that she did really wish the other sex would pay her somewhat more marked attention.

"But can't you name any particular one whom you should prefer?" was the next question; "if you can, don't be afraid to tell me. No one else shall know it, and I'm sure I could manage it. What's his name?"

Jaqueline replied that she felt no decided preference for any one, and added merrily, "Let them come and offer themselves--that's all I wish. No matter how many of them. It will be time enough then for me to make _my_ choice."

"Perhaps you might find that difficult if they were very numerous," observed her hostess. "I remember, when I was about your age, there was--heigho! never mind! That's all gone by, and so it's of no use talking about it. Come, let us go out and look at the weather. Something tells me that you will not be able to go farther to-night. There's another storm brewing, or I am much mistaken." Jaqueline's arm on the left, and a crutch-headed stick on the right, supported the old lady as they walked round and about the ruins of the castle, every part of which she explained the former uses of, with an accuracy that might have satisfied the most curious inquirer, but which quite bewildered our heroine. What people could have wanted with so many different _salons_, galleries, and apartments, was to her quite a mystery, and she gazed upon the massive thickness of the walls with feelings approaching to reverence. Consequently, when they were driven in by the promised storm, she was precisely in the right state of mind to be strongly impressed by the awful long stories that her hostess had to relate of and concerning the former owners of the place. She told how the castle had been ransacked and set on fire at the Revolution, and how Monsieur le Comte de Montjeu and his family made their escape into foreign parts, and were not heard of till after the Restoration, when the young Comte Henri, whom she had nursed when an infant, suddenly made his appearance. Of him she spake in raptures. He had purchased the site of the ruins, and some land adjacent, and would doubtless some day restore all to its former splendour, as he held some very lucrative appointment at Paris. Moreover, she described him as a very handsome young man, though she feared that he was somewhat too much addicted to gallantry and gaiety. But then, she added, that was a family failing, and put her in mind of some passage in the life of his grandfather, which she immediately proceeded to relate; and so on, and on, and on continuously, as though reading from a book, went the old lady with her long tales; and Jaqueline listened, first with curiosity, then from complaisance (as it was evident that the narrator took pleasure in her own performance), and at length with a rather dim apprehension of what she heard. This may be accounted for, either by her not being able to sleep on the previous night, for thinking of her intended journey, or from the fatigue and exposure to sunshine and storm during the day, or by her hostess's hospitable entertainment at dinner and supper (the latter meal forming an interlude between two of the long stories), or by the whole combined. But be the cause what it may, she nodded, as most folks would under similar circumstances, and then was suddenly aroused by missing the monotonous tones of her entertainer, to whom she apologised, and shook herself into an attentive attitude. The apology was graciously received, and Jaqueline's drowsiness dispelled for a while by a legend about a spring, just at the bottom of the hill, the water of which was reported to have the power of causing young maidens, who drank thereof, to become wonderfully fascinating, and to attract lovers of every degree.

"You shall take a draught of it in the morning, _ma bonne_," she said. "Don't be afraid; you will have your wish before you come back from Moulins, I'm pretty sure. If not, however, call upon me on your way back. However, take the water in the morning. Perhaps it mayn't operate immediately, but perhaps it may; for I remember hearing of two young ladies who"--and off went the old lady into another long story about romantic lovers of high degree; and the result of all was, that Jaqueline went late to bed, with her head full of strange and multitudinous fancies.