Sampson, Low, Son & Co. Septr. 20th, 1859.]
‘I have sent away my carriage, Mary, and come to stay with you. You want me, _n’est-ce pas_?’ she said, coaxingly, with her arms round Mary’s neck; ‘if you don’t, _tant pis_; for I am the bad penny you English speak of, you cannot get me off.’
‘I am sure, dear friend,’ said Mary, earnestly, ‘we don’t want to put you off.’
‘I know it; you are true, you _mean_ what you say; you are all good real gold, down to your hearts; that is why I love you; but you, my poor Mary, your cheeks are very white; poor little heart, you suffer.’
‘No,’ said Mary; ‘I do not suffer now. Christ has given me the victory over sorrow.’
There was something sadly sublime in the manner in which this was said, and something so sacred in the expression of Mary’s face, that Madame de Frontignac crossed herself, as she had been wont before a shrine; and then said, ‘Sweet Mary, pray for me; I am not at peace; I cannot get the victory over sorrow.’
‘What sorrow can you have?’ said Mary; ‘you, so beautiful, so rich, so admired; whom everybody must love.’
‘That is what I came to tell you; I came to confess to you. But you must sit down _there_,’ she said, placing Mary on a low seat in the garret window, ‘and Verginie will sit here,’ she said, drawing a bundle of uncarded wool towards her, and sitting down at Mary’s feet.
‘Dear Madame,’ said Mary, ‘let me get you a better seat.’
‘No, no, _mignonne_, this is best. I want to lay my head in your lap;’ and she took off her riding-hat with its streaming plume, and tossed it carelessly from her, and laid her head down on Mary’s lap. ‘Now don’t call me Madame any more. Do you know,’ she said, raising her head with a sudden brightening of cheek and eye, ‘do you know that there are two _me’s_ to this person?—one is Verginie, and the other is Madame de Frontignac. Everybody in Philadelphia knows Madame de Frontignac; she is very gay, very careless, very happy; she never has any serious hours, or any sad thoughts; she wears powder and diamonds, and dances all night, and never prays—that is Madame. But Verginie is quite another thing. She is tired of all this; tired of the balls and the dancing, and the diamonds, and the beaux; and she likes true people, and would like to live very quiet with somebody that she loved. She is very unhappy, and she prays too, sometimes, in a poor little way, like the birds in your nest out there, who don’t know much, but chipper and cry because they are hungry—this is your Verginie—Madame never comes here; never call me Madame.’