FullReads

He did not remember me; that I saw in a moment. It was all so different, you know. In the hospital, I had on my cap and apron, and here,–well, it was another thing. My hostess knew that they were coming, and had me in her largest room, and I succeeded in making them all sit down; and I received my formal welcome; and I thanked in my most Parisian French; and then the conversation hung fire. But I took my turn now, and turned round to poor Louis.

“You served in America, did you not?” said I.

“Ah, yes, madame! I did not know my mother had told you.”

No more did she, indeed; and she looked astonished. But I persevered,–

“You seem strong and well.”

“Ah, yes, madame!”

“How long since you returned?”

“As soon as there was peace, madame. We were mustered out in June, madame.”

“And does your arm never trouble you?”

“Oh, never, madame! I did not know my mother had told you.”

New astonishment on the part of the mother.

“You never had another piece of bone come out?”

“Oh, no, madame! how did madame know? I did not know my mother had told you!”

And by this time I could not help saying, “You Normans care more for Christmas than we Americans; is it not so, my brave?”

And this he would not stand; and he said stoutly, “Ah, no, madame! no, no, jamais !” and began an eager defence of the religious enthusiasm of the Americans, and their goodness to all people who were good, if people would only be good. But still he had not the least dream who I was. And I said,–

“Do the Normans ever drink Burgundy?” and to my old hostess, “Madame, could you bring us a flask du vin rouge de Bourgogne ?” and then I hummed his little chanson, I am sure Colonel Barthow will remember it,–” Deux–gouttes–du vin rouge du Bourgogne. “

My dear Mrs. Barthow, he sprang from his chair, and fell on his knees, and kissed my hands, before I could stop him. And when his mother and father, and all the rest, found that I was the particular soeur de la charite who had had the care of dear Louis when he was hurt, and that it was I he had told of that very day,–for the thousandth time, I believe,–who gave him that glass of claret, and cheered up his Christmas, I verily believe they would have taken me to the church to worship me. They were not satisfied,–the women with kissing me, or the men with shaking hands with each other,–the whole auberge had to be called in; and poor I was famous. I need not say I cried my eyes out; and when, at ten o’clock, they let me go to bed, I was worn out with crying, and laughing, and talking, and listening; and I believe they were as much upset as I.

Now that is just the beginning; and yet I see I must stop. But, for forty-eight hours, I have been simply a queen. I can hardly put my foot to the ground. Christmas morning, these dear Thibault people came again; and then the cure came; and then some nice Madame Perrons came, and I went to mass with them; and, after mass, their brother’s carriage came; and they would take no refusals; but with many apologies to my sweet old hostess, at the Three Cygnets, I was fain to come up to M. Firmin’s lovely chateau here, and make myself at home till my friends shall arrive. It seems the poor Thibaults had come here to beg the flowers for the etrenne. It is really the most beautiful country residence I have seen in France; and they live on the most patriarchal footing with all the people round them. I am sure I ought to speak kindly of them. It is the most fascinating hospitality. So here am I, waiting, with my little sac de nuit to make me aspettabile; and here I ate my Christmas dinner. Tell the Colonel that here is “THE TRAVELLER’S TALE;” and that is why the letter is so long.