She Urlurette not only lost her customary surroundings with their chain of associations, but very nearly her identity. Her peasant clothes were taken from her, and she was arrayed in a white gown with a tight waist and a long train which caught her feet. Her wooden shoes were replaced by bronze sandals, and behold! she could no longer walk, far less run-Madelinette might have been spared the fear of that scandal in a demoiselle. Urlurette's cap was cast aside, and her short thick clusters of curls were dragged up into a bunch on the crown of her head, like the feathers in Madame Claude's tocque. But Urlurette's bunch made her feel as if she were caught and suspended by her locks, after the fashion of Absalom. Everything she said and did was altogether wrong. She was constantly soiling her gown, crushing her ribands and the frill of her tippet, and breaking the feather in her hat. could not handle her knife and fork like a lady. When first she heard the chateau gong sounded, she put her hands over her ears, ducked her head, and hobbled out of the salle as fast as her sandals would allow her. Her voice croaked like a raven's, her peasant patois was execrable to refined ears. She had not a single elegant accomplishment. As Urlurette had never been taught a note of music, a step of dancing, a stitch of embroidery, naturally Angeline was entirely wanting in these all-important branches. True, Urlurette's education had not been entirely neglected. The village priest had taught her reading and writing, and seen that she was thoroughly versed in her catechism; but that was a small matter when Angeline's pronunciation proved vicious, her handwriting painfully legible, and her practice of the precepts of her catechism likely to turn out exceedingly deficient. Urlurette's ears rang with the record of her delinquencies and deficiencies, uttered in protests and lamentations-not so much spoken to her as before her-over, "that poor Angeline," "the little miserable one," "the uncouth changeling," "the rude daughter of the horrible Revolution." Such was French family politeness, but it was also the candour of a class; and it barbed the arrows that Urlurette, with her mother-wit, lively penetration, and keen sensibility, could not for the life of her withhold a despairing appreciation and admiration from her slanderers and persecutors. They were so dignified, easy, and ready in their, soft-voiced, light-footed sweeping ways. Madame the countess was gentle in her listlessness and fastidiousness; Madame Claude had justice in her sternness, And these elderly women, who were so critical and unsympathetic to Urlurette, were devoted to, and capable of, any sacrifice for each other. Urlurette was hardening into stone which no secret tears could melt. She was ungainly, stupid, stubborn, as she sat, at solitary arm's length in the deep embrasure of a window in the salle, or in the cabinet, with heavy fingers and aching back, threading gold beads and Roman pearls into intricate patterns. She constantly went wrong, and was as constantly taken to task, and had all her beads pulled down again by Madame Claude. Urlurette's shoulders grew more elevated, the features of her formerly expressive face more blurred, with hanging eyelids and drawn-down upper lip. "The grub will never become a butterfly," said the sisters, who had been handsome women in their day. They laid their heads together and agreed that "there is nothing for her but a convent so soon as French convents are restored," and they did not break their hearts at the sentence. They who were all the world to each other did not want any one else no, not Urlurette. Urlurette found no refuge with the English farm servants, the only retinue that mesdames had brought home with them. She had not a word in common with Dolli and Rogère, and they on their part, not too well satisfied with the quarters to which their voluntary exile had brought them, were not in a humour to recognize and pity the misfortunes of a young mistress, or to feel anything for her save the stolid scorn with which uneducated men and women are in danger of regarding any tokens of inferiority in their superiors. The child would fain have fraternized with the dumb animals at the chateau, to which her sick and sore heart warmed in memory of her many dear animal-friends at the mill. But she found, to her chagrin, that there was as great a difference between courtly breeding and homely breeding in beasts as in men and women. Reine Blanche, the countess's cat, would not be hugged as old Loup at the mill would suffer his young friend who brought him his bones to hug him. Solomon, Madame Claude's parrot, would not be clasped to a heaving little bosom, where Madelinette's pigeons consented willingly to nestle. Reine Blanche scratched, and Solomon bit Urlurette for her pains, when she had succeeded in infuriating their majesties, so that peace was not restored for hours. Madelinette held sorrowfully aloof, fearing to increase by her presence the difficulties of her foster-child. Jeannot did not dare to come rondes and games of hide-and-seek about the clumps of blue-green foliage? Urlurette was far too broken-hearted to notice any longer kingcups and mallows, and she was convinced she would never again have the chance of picking up a plover's egg. near his adopted sister, forbidden to do it by | in their shade; when there could be no merry his mother, in overpowering shyness of the grand ladies, and even-it seemed a very unkind cut-in growing shyness of Urlurette. Only worthy Mathurin, driving home with sacks of grain, could not pass the gate-which, by the way, stood half off its rusty hinges-without alighting, tying his staid horse, Sacristain, to the iron bars, and striding with his bandy legs across the marshy ground, as the crow flies, to inquire how it went with Urlurette, the child that had sat on his knee in the chimney-corner, while he roasted chestnuts for her delectation, or had been borne on his round shoulders through the mill and over his fields, not so very long ago. Mathurin was shown up the broad, slippery staircase, like his wife and Urlurette before him, and stumbled in his turn into a vast drearily dark and half-furnished salle, where his heavy foot caused the china plates, bowls, and cups hung round the doors and the great chimney-piece to rattle amain, as if they were coming clattering down in a general destruction. A gloomy, ill-conditioned young demoiselle half sprang forward to meet him, and then drew back, hanging her head, for she was promptly anticipated by Madame Claude advancing in person, and by the weak but potent voice of madame the countess issuing through the open doors, alike equal to the occasion. Madame Claude wagged the feathers in her tocque, and waved her hands, madame the countess made the prettiest little speeches, and both overwhelmed Mathurin with politeness; for it was not as when Madelinette had brought Urlurette, and there had been the shock of a trial to encounter. All that was past, the two ladies had recovered themselves and one source of their power. The sweat burst from every pore of Mathurin. He hung his head lower than Urlurette's, bobbed his humblest bow, and took a speedy departure, unable to carry with him, as some comfort to atone for the fright which he had got with the quality's manners, the news for his little old woman that the child was looking well and happy. There was no chestnut-roasting now for Urlurette, no rides on loyal shoulders, or walks on more equal terms with her foster-mother; no shivering-interesting tales of French willsof-the-wisp and sorcerers, with sensational chronicles of the wars, and kindly village gossip round the stove. No amusing chat with girls like herself by the village fountain. What were the willow boughs to her when Honorine and the rest might not sit with her Sometimes she had an idea of running away, and so escaping the oppression and forlornness of her situation; but not to Madelinette, lest mesdames should take vengeance on her; for Urlurette had been impressed with the traditional power of the nobles. However, what she had learned in her catechism, added to her small stock of sense, always held her back though everything was changed with her change of name. As a sign and seal of the deplorable era, Urlurette detested to be called Angeline. She told herself that she was a pretty sort of an angel,-it was mockery and profanity to call her Angeline. IV. On another day, several weeks after Urlurette's installation at the chateau, Dolli and Rogère, finding that they had an opportunity of leaving uncongenial France and returning to England, unexpectedly gave in their leave "with the brusqueness of their nation, and the headlong unreasonableness of their nature," as Madame Claude descanted in high-flown style-" But let them go. Dolli's soufflés are a disgrace to her. Rogère cannot tell the best Burgundy from piquette, and I believe he thinks his muddy ale and flat cyder preferable to either. We shall get the places of our English domestics supplied in the twinkling of an eye-the shot of a gun." But the mesdames had come home rather too soon. They had given offence by bringing English servants with them, though they could not have travelled without such assistance. This was the season of field-work about Saulecourt, and not only were there few hands to do it, but these were mostly women's hands. The mesdames were known to be poor, and could not remunerate field-workers for abandoning their ploughs, their sowing sheets, their scythes; while the quality must cease to dream of compelling the abandonment, as in the evil days of the gabelle and the cruel salt-tax. It would take several days to bring servants from the nearest large town, even if the mesdames could afford to do so, or cared to attract attention by it. "In the meantime we shall perish with cold and hunger-we, who have escaped perishing in so many ways during these long years-this has been destined to be the end of our sorrows," sighed madame the countess, lying helpless on her bed. "Thou shalt not perish, Renée, while I can labour or die for thee," Madame Claude pledged herself, with characteristic zeal and energy. "The state-that is I," Louis the Grand was wont to say. The gallant lady tried to pass a similar joke on her extremity, by saying "The household-that is I." | It was the morning after Dolli and Rogère had set off in their own interest, and Madame Claude had ascertained by the extraordinary exertion of a walk through the village that help was not to be had there. Unluckily, the kitchen stove had gone out in Madame Claude's absence, and the first thing to be done was to rekindle it. She would hardly have cared to do it for herself, but she would do it, and a thousand things besides, for the beloved sister. After all, the frightful menial toil was no degradation when the martyred queen had swept her room, and so many duchesses and marchionesses had been scullions and porteresses during the late sad years-all the time that the mesdames had been dwelling obscurely but peacefully, and with servants (such as they were) to attend to their wants in their dull and rustic farm-house in England. Madame Claude strove hard, but could not kindle with her tinder-box more than a fast-dying spark among the charcoal. She only blackened her hands, and spent her breath in the vain endeavour, while her poor stiff knees began to shake and her head to swim. At last she subsided into a sitting posture, with her brocade spread like the tail of a black peacock (supposing such a lusus natura) around her on the flags of the kitchen floor. Determined woman as she was, she cried a little, which only made matters worse so far as her appearance was concerned, for she brushed away the tears with her sooty hands, and blackened her melancholy aristocratic face under her tocque. "Never mind, my dear," cried a soft, patient voice; and there was madame the countess standing in her white camisole at the top of the back-stairs, to which she had dragged her self. "I know what thou art about, Claude, and I forbid any more of it, my friend. Let us prepare to die and go to the good God, as He wills, without further ado." The two ladies got together, and fell weeping into each other's arms, protesting, comforting, reminding each other of the past, resolving to meet the future together. In all these arrangements Urlurette had not been considered at all, yet the girl was roused from her lethargy, and inspired with new life. "No, mesdames," she said, starting up, and addressing her mother and aunt with sparkling eyes, "there is no necessity. For the love of the saints, let me aid. I can kindle a fire, I can cook. Word of Urlur- of Angeline, I have done it a hundred times. I picked it up of my own self, because the Madelinette, scrupulous sheep! did not care to teach me to be clever, but she was glad that I had thus learned-was it not so?-when she came home weary from the hayfield." Madame the countess and Madame Claude paused in their caresses and asseverations, stared, shrugged their shoulders, did not know what to say. Urlurette did not wait to hear, but darted out of the room, and sprang up the stairs, two steps at a time, to the little turret chamber, which was appropriated to her. She was fired with ambition again, with a thirst for revenge. In a trice she had stripped off her detested quality trappings, and in a twinkling was back again in the salle transformed for the second time. The gawky, glum Angeline was no more, but here again was the vigorous, piquante Urlurette. She had shaken herself into her old, well-known garments, and all her wit and spirit had returned. She made the ladies a profound, not unbecoming curtsey. "Forget Angeline, mesdames," entreated the girl; Ishe is dead, or she has gone from home, or, better still, she is en masque. Believe that she is playing a part in one of the comedies you love to talk of. Behold Urlurette, your wise little domestic, who hopes, indeed, to do her part, and who promises never to give you congé, and go away so long as you require her. Allons, Urlurette, to the fire!" And the apparition vanished. "She is no "What has come over the child?" cried Madame Claude to the countess. longer lourd and triste; she has esprit, she has sensibility." "She is one of us; she is generous," responded the countess, herself generous in that speech. "Seest thou, Claude, en masque, as she herself declares. She is a fine girl.' "We shall let her be en masque. It is a diversion. Perhaps she will contrive to do something at least, she can fetch Madelinette. "Ah, yes, we had forgotten the brave Madelinette. She is the true key to the position," whispered the mesdames. Permitted to do her endeavours, Urlurette kept her word, and did them to a marvel. She kindled a bright fire, and improvised a pot-à- | of her own, no veritable village girl to be feu; she went tripping and singing "Ba-ba-ba-balancez vous donc," to the fountain for water, into the old garden to search for vegetables, to the hen-roost to procure eggs, even to the wilderness, where, to the consternation of the ladies, though it was always en masque, she went so far as to milk the little Brittany cow, which Mathurin had obtained and sent up for the family use. She milked her well, too, patting her, switching the flies from her with a willow branch, and tossing her a bundle of red clover, like an old cow-woman. Only she resisted with difficulty (having assumed the rôle a of wise domestic), trying to get up on the cow's curved red neck, and sitting there as on a throne, wielding the willow branch for a sceptre. Urlurette brought up her broth, and her omelette in imitation of the style in which Dolli had served her mistresses. She waited upon them while they ate-steadily resisting any request to eat herself till they had done, and she had retreated to her own premises with a solemn repetition of the information"Pardon, remember well that I am en masque, mesdames." Household work with which she was acquainted was a world better for Urlurette than threading beads into patterns which she could not compass. Above all, she had an instinctive comprehension that in her disguise, which was her real guise still, and could only be laid aside gently and by degrees, she conquered those friends who were her foes; even Madame Claude had not said a single mocking word to her since madame had striven to light the fire, and been defeated, and sat weeping for her defeat on the kitchen flags, and Urlurette had come on the carpet, and made the fire a brilliant fait accompli Urlurette's retribution was not so short as the ladies accepting it on protest had proposed it should be. Mathurin met with a dangerous accident in the mill that afternoon, and when Madelinette was summoned to the rescue of the chateau, she was found tied to her husband's bed-side in the anxious task of nursing him, so that she could only run up from the mill in the mornings and evenings to relieve Urlurette of the heavier work. "But you may trust the rest to the bibiche, she is strong and sensible for her years, though I should not say it, and she is such a warm-hearted young girl, that she is never happier than when she is serving her elders," declared Madelinette, forgetting in her trouble that Urlurette was no daughter recommended to the ladies of the chateau, and rendered proud by the honour and trust of serving them. As matters went on, the mesdames grew accustomed to their distress, and to the compromise which it had occasioned. They could not help taking an interest in Urlurette, and being touched by her strenuous efforts to be of use to them. Madame the countess sat up in bed, had the jalousies opened, and often got into the fauteuil by the window to watch Urlurette's proceedings. Urlurette's bustling housewifery was a true comedy to the countess. She had never paid attention to anything like it before. She found it better than a daily visitor, if she could have secured one, or a game at piquet with Madame Claude. There was always something new and curious in Urlurette's tricks: the study of them was like a pleasant fillip to the monotonous invalid habits of the countess-she was better than she had been for years, and Madame Claude was infinitely grateful for the benefit to her sister. Both ladies took to complimenting and praising her with their gracious manners and in softened tones. Urlurette trembled all over at the first words of praise from her mother and her aunt, gazed half wistfully, half wildly at them with her great eyes, and felt as if she could die for more of such praise. As it was, she not only recovered her innocent, honest confidence in herself, she had gained confidence in her kins women. "I have made a discovery," announced Urlurette, absolutely skipping into the salle one afternoon, having broken off in an original entrechat at the very door. "I have found that there are mushrooms in the bocage. Assuredly I can prepare them for mesdames' supper, if they wish it. Have the goodness to wish it, mesdames; I die of the wish to have a fricassée of mushrooms." 66 Thou shalt not die, then, my daughter," answered the countess, with a smile; "but take care that thou dost not poison us all, petite. Let me see, Claude, I think I remember where the mushroom buttons used to spring, and the beech-trees where the truffles grew. Ah! the deluge has been here since I was under these beech-trees. The afternoon is warm; the sun shines. I wonder if I could venture to cross the threshold again." Madame Claude was silent, petrified with amazement and delight; but Urlurette, in her blythe, hopeful, young voice, cried, "Yes, yes, madame, it will make you as strong and well as I am." And then, capering about madame, rushed off for a load of roquelaures, soufflets, and walking-sticks. Madame the countess did not feel too overcome by her promenade along the terrace to the corner of the bocage; on the contrary, the air-her native air-revived her, the beauty of the bursting syringas and lilacs, "flowering over" the desolation, cheered her. She was flattered to find that her recollection of the locality of the mushrooms was correct; while Madame Claude's treacherous memory had established them in quite another quarter. The whole procession was returning successfully to the chateau when Urlurette, having her apron full of mushrooms, and having more regard to her spoils than to her steps, missed a foot and fell as she ascended the terrace stairs. "It is nothing, mesdames!" cried she, looking ruefully at her crushed and scattered treasure, and turning very pale. "It is something, my dear"-"The child is as white as a lily Remain quiet, Angeline," urged the ladies alternatively, with an anxiety which savoured of tenderness. Urlurette had twisted her ankle as she fell, and though she continued to protest that she was not much hurt-"fi done!" if she complained for such a bagatelle-she had to lean on the arm of Madame Claude in order to mount the rest of the steps, while madame the countess, declining all farther support on her own account, and even casting away her walkingstick, patted Urlurette reassuringly on the shoulder. In spite of every remonstrance, Urlurette was established in the salle, in madame the countess's nest among her pillows of worn and tarnished velvet; and very odd the little peasant cap and laced boddice looked in the midst of cambric frills and Valenciennes lace. The countess was established in a fauteuil, and tall, erect unwearied Madame Claude stood on guard. Urlurette was not suffered to stir for the evening, though mesdames should have to sup on dry bread. Her foot became an object of solicitude to the ladies, who were better skilled nurses than they were housekeepers and and cooks, having in their early convent days been educated to that branch of notability, as became future Châtelaines. It had been the men of rank who had adopted cooking. It was passing strange for Urlurette to be thus treated so much so that she closed her eyes lest she should make a baby of herselfuntil her mother and aunt believed that she slept. 'Dost thou know, it strikes me that she has a look of thee, Renée," whispered Madame Claude. "Not that," answered madame the countess eagerly, "but I have recognized that she has the tournure of my lost Bernard-my boy from whom I was never separated-who would sit on my side of the coach and think that he was sheltering me when we were fired at as we rode through Bourges-thou rememberest, Claude? I am sure that it is my Bernard whom she resembles," added madame the countess after a fond sigh, "because I always thought that he was my good angel, and she has shown herself my Angeline, though the poor child shuns her name and lot." "I shall never shun them again," sobbed Urlurette, suddenly slipping down from her bed, limping to her mother and laying her head on the countess's knee; "I shall be proud and happy to be thy Angeline, and to learn whatever thou, my mother, and my aunt wish, since you have been so good as to suffer me to work for you." COEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. BY MRS. HEMANS. The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur de Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and reproached himself bitterly for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave. Torches were blazing clear, hymnз pealing deep and slow, And light, as noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of death. |