M.RODIN.
Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown into Batavia Prison accused of belonging to the murderous gang of Megpunnas.The following scene takes place in France, at the commencement of the month of February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal habitation standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy, not far from Saint Valery, a dangerous coast on which almost every year many ships are totally wrecked, being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render the navigation of the Channel so perilous.
From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling of a violent tempest, which has arisen during the night; a frequent formidable noise, like the discharge of artillery, thunders in the distance, and is repeated by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking with fury against the high rocks which are overlooked by the ancient Manor House.
It is about seven o'clock in the morning.Daylight is not yet visible through the windows of a large room situated on the ground-floor.In this apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman of about sixty years of age, with a simple and honest countenance, dressed as a rich farmer's wife of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work, notwithstanding the early hour.Close by, the husband of this woman, about the same age as herself, is seated at a large table, sorting and putting up in bags divers samples of wheat and oats.The face of this white-haired man is intelligent and open, announcing good sense and honesty, enlivened by a touch of rustic humor; he wears a shooting-jacket of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather, which half conceal his black velveteen breeches.
The terrible storm which rages without renders still more agreeable the picture of this peaceful interior.A rousing fire burns in a broad chimney-place faced with white marble, and throws its joyous light on the carefully polished floor; nothing can be more cheerful than the old-
fashioned chintz hangings and curtains with red Chinese figures upon a white ground, and the panels over the door painted with pastoral scenes in the style of Watteau.A clock of Sevres china, and rosewood furniture inlaid with green--quaint and portly furniture, twisted into all sorts of grotesque shapes--complete the decorations of this apartment.
Out-doors, the gale continued to howl furiously, and sometimes a gust of wind would rush down the chimney, or shake the fastenings of the windows.
The man who was occupied in sorting the samples of grain was M.Dupont, bailiff of Cardoville manor.
"Holy Virgin!" said his wife; "what dreadful weather, my dear! This M.
Rodin, who is to come here this morning, as the Princess de Saint-
Dizier's steward announced to us, picked out a very bad day for it."
"Why, in truth, I have rarely heard such a hurricane.If M.Rodin has never seen the sea in its fury, he may feast his eyes to-day with the sight."
"What can it be that brings this M.Rodin, my dear?"
"Faith! I know nothing about it.The steward tells me in his letter to show M.Rodin the greatest attention, and to obey him as if he were my master.It will be for him to explain himself, and for me to execute his orders, since he comes on the part of the princess."
"By rights he should come from Mademoiselle Adrienne, as the land belongs to her since the death of the duke her father."
"Yes; but the princess being aunt to the young lady, her steward manages Mademoiselle Adrienne's affairs--so whether one or the other, it amounts to the same thing."
"May be M.Rodin means to buy the estate.Though, to be sure, that stout lady who came from Paris last week on purpose to see the chateau appeared to have a great wish for it."
At these words the bailiff began to laugh with a sly look.
"What is there to laugh at, Dupont?" asked his wife, a very good creature, but not famous for intelligence or penetration.
"I laugh," answered Dupont, "to think of the face and figure of that enormous woman: with such a look, who the devil would call themselves Madame de la Sainte-Colombe--Mrs.Holy Dove? A pretty saint, and a pretty dove, truly! She is round as a hogshead, with the voice of a town-crier; has gray moustachios like an old grenadier, and without her knowing it, I heard her say to her servant: `Stir your stumps, my hearty!'--and yet she calls herself Sainte-Colombe!"
"How hard on her you are, Dupont; a body don't choose one's name.And, if she has a beard, it is not the lady's fault."
"No--but it is her fault to call herself Sainte-Colombe.Do you imagine it her true name? Ah, my poor Catherine, you are yet very green in some things."
"While you, my poor Dupont, are well read in slander! This lady seems very respectable.The first thing she asked for on arriving was the chapel of the Castle, of which she had heard speak.She even said that she would make some embellishments in it; and, when I told her we had no church in this little place, she appeared quite vexed not to have a curate in the village."
"Oh, to be sure! that's the first thought of your upstarts--to play the great lady of the parish, like your titled people."
"Madame de la Sainte-Colombe need not play the great lady, because she is one."
"She! a great lady? Oh, lor'!"
"Yes--only see how she was dressed, in scarlet gown, and violet gloves like a bishop's; and, when she took off her bonnet, she had a diamond band round her head-dress of false, light hair, and diamond ear-drops as large as my thumb, and diamond rings on every finger! None of your tuppenny beauties would wear so many diamonds in the middle of the day."
"You are a pretty judge!"
"That is not all."
"Do you mean to say there's more?"
