LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 289, 15 May 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A LADY OF ST. CYR. By Mrs Jerome Mercier. ' No, no, mademoiselle, that cannot be : the ladies are entering at the present moment, and this room is necessary for their servants. Go to my apartment, my child, and I will give you a cake." The little fair-skinned, dark-eyed creature whom the good concierge was addressing drew her small self up in sorrowful dignity to the limit of full half an inch above her former height, as the word ' servants' was pronounced. ' They are, then, servants who are coming into my mother's room ?' she asked, in a clear, refined voice.

' But certainly, mademoiselle : does the little darling suppose that a lady who comes in a coach would require this chamber au sixieme for her own use ? Come, go quietly to my rooms, and you shall be my visitor—till some good scaur takes you into her care,' added the conceige, under her breath. The small personage whom she so respectfully called mademoiselle was a child of some nine years old, but with a premature maturity in her thin, clear-cut features. She was dressed in a quaint garment of a rich brocade, such as might have been used for furniture in some palatial home ; but it was torn, worn, and faded till its original colour was hardly discoverable. The poor little shoes were very, very old, and scarcely covered a pair of slender, well-made f«et. On the child's neck glittered a row of golden beads and a medallion, and a single black bow upon her frock seemed to be less designed for ornament than as symbol of a recent loss.

The little girl turned without another word to leave the wretched room.

'Take your bag, chorie,' said the good woman, lifting from the table a bulging package, evidently containing all the child's possessions, and yet not too heavy for her small strength. She took it in her hand, and then putting out the other with an air of infinite graciousness, she said : ' Adieu, madame, et merci bien." Perhaps the portress might have been surprised at this formal farewell had she given a thought to the child, but a bustle and confusion were heard below, and she ran off hastily to receive the new occupants. The child followed slowly, going step by step down the long stairs, as if she regretted and loved her wretched home. Au premier there were noise and confusion such as only French tongues can make. The little girl, as she passed the chattering group unnoticed —the fine lady with her fan and parrot and little mirror; the gentleman gesticulating and scolding his lackeys—looked at them with a strange, grave sadness. The logs were cracking merrily on the portress's hearth, but the child did not even pause at the open door; she walked straight forth under the arch of the porte-cochere, where the wind blew about her tattered brocade, and then out into the open street itself. That bleak northeast wind, which often blows in Paris, was making a second winter of the spring, but the little maid walked forth alone on her aimless course. Not fourteen days before her mother had been carried dead from that poor home : her widowed mother, whose grace and beauty seemed to the child without a parallel. Lucie Lemeunier scarcely realised the goodness of the people who had fed and sheltered her during that weary time of bereavement: the ignorance and unconscious selfishness of childhood seldom permit of gratitude for our " daily bread; but now the innate pride of the little aristocrat surged up in a revolt against the desecration of her mother's home by the "canaille " who were to enter it. Sooner than witness this, she would go forth and die ; she could but die at the worst, and had not her mother died? The beautiful and noble Marie de Ste. Barb 3 had married the artist Paul Lemeunier, handsome, good, and clever, but alas ! not noble; and what virtue could wipe out this stain in the eyes of the family of Ste. Barbe ? Henceforth Marie was dead to them, nor would they shelter or pity her when her husband died of a lingering sickness, and her few remaining jewels were melting away, all too 'rapidly, before the fiery breath of want. Death alone was kind, in dealing the final blow so swiftly that the poor mother had barely time to realise the dread solitude in which her little one would be left.

On went that poor little one through the crowd of strangers, supposing, with the fatuity of childhood, that she would come to some end and home at last. But presently it began to rain, and the raindrops froze as they fell, and the poor little soul, noble though she was, was as hungry as the most plebeian of the small Parisians. But it was not well-bred to cry; ladies should bear all and say nothing. Yet, even a lady must eat, and at last the pains of hunger became by far the most pressing circumstances in the little girl's existence. When her mother and she had wanted bread before, the mother's fingers had earned it by the dainty embroideries which she had learned in her convent school. Lucie could not sew now, but there was one thing she could do—she could sing. And so the small, shrill voice sent up, in a clear tone, a pretty little pastoral ditty composed by Durant:—

" J'ai couru tous ces bocages, Ces pres, ces monts, ces rivages; Mais je n'ai trouve pourtant Celle que j'ai poursuivie: Hclas ! qui me l'a ravie, La nymphe que j'aimais tant ? " A carriage came rolling by. " Stop !" cried a clear, resolute voice. The carriage stopped, and presently a footman came to the child and told her, with a tone which showed how unworthy he thought her of the honour, that "Madame" desired to speak with her.

' Madame' was bending forward in the carriage to receive the little singer : a somewhat heavy, noble face, with penetrating eyes and an expression of profound weariness ; a cloak, rich, dark, and simple, drawn around the figure, and a hood of the same stuff covering the abundant hair.

"With a disregard of himself which rather astonished that majestic person, the little lady the footman—her bag still tightly grasped in her hand—and went and stood solemnly before the carriage door. She then saw that two faces were looking at her; that of the lady in the dark hood, and another with a bright, arch, child-like face, surrounded by little rings of curls. The silver-set mirror, which, like all ladies of quality, she carried in her hand, caught a gleam or glimmer from one of the oil lamps in the street, and sent up a flash upon a sweet, smiling mouth and two kind eyes, looking on the child with interest. ' Make your reverence, my child; you are in the presence of Madame the Duchess of Burgundy,' said the elder lady to little Lucie, who obeyed with a careful and courtly grace. The bright young creature laughed a musical laugh. ' Do not frighten the little one, ma tante ; if she knew she was in the presence of Madame de Maintenon, she would have cause to make her reverence much more humbly.' ' How do you come to be singing in the streets alone so late, and in such cold and windy weather, my child ?' asked the elder lady, who had been called Madame de Maintenon. ' Have you a mother?' ' Neither father nor mother living, madame,' answered the child. *My mother is dead; I have her portrait in this medallion; and servants were coming into my mother's apartment, and I could not stay to see it; so I came away; and I was hungry'—and a burst of tears ended the confession.

'Poor little one,' 'Pauvre mignonne,' 'Pauvrette;' with every kind, endearing term, the kind ladies soothed her. They made her enter the carriage, and bade the coachman stop at the confectioner's. A cake was some solace to the little hungry soul, and while she was eating it, her friends were holding a whispering consultation concerning her future destinies.

'No father, no mother? Poor child! And so well-bred; so distinguee. See how daintily she eats her cake.' ' What is your name, my little one? ' suddenly asked the younger. ' Lucie Lemeuriier, madame.'

The duchess looked with a deprecating smile at her friend. ' I had almost dreamed, ma tante, that she must be noble; and even now, do not her features recall some one that we see every day?'

Madame de Maintenon reflected with a kindly smile, and then asked, 'Do you know your mother's maiden name, my child ?'

'Marie de Ste. Barbe, madame.' 'De Ste. Barbe !' cried both, in deep excitement. ' Has the Duke de Ste. Barbe permitted that a member of his family should die in want, and leave an orphan child in such distress ?' cried the young duchess. 'He is an inexorable man, replied the other.

' But we will protect this poor child ; she shall not die of hunger.' ' I will take her to St. Cyr,' (the house of St. Cyr, Versailles, was founded by Madame de Maintenon, as a school for poor girls of good birth) replied the elder lady. ' She shall find an asylum there from a cold and heartless world. Will you come with me, little one, and leai*n to be a lady such as your mother would have desired to see you?' The little Lucie looked up with the utmost confidence into the grave, sweet face above her.

' I will go with you, madame, wherever you are good enough to take me,' she said ; and so the compact was made.

Seven years had passed. In a large hall which it was easy to see was used for scholastic purposes, but now decorated with fresh flowers, garlands, and banners, sat the greatest monarch of his time—his 'courtiers would have said of any time. The gracious dignity of Louis Quatorze was never more perfect, never more urbane than now The powder from his heavy curling wig made a little snow-fall on his velvet shoulders ; the diamonds on his breast were as a sparkle of falling waters. Beside him sat Madame de Maintenon, with a trifle more severity on her countenance, a few more wrinkles, yet a careful smile of mingled tenderness and reverence as she addressed the king, and a smile more bright and less careful as she looked at the scene before her.

On a raised platform a drama was being enacted. The actors were young girls, clad in a prim and simple dress of brown, with a quaint high cap of muslin, bound with a blue ribbon. In the midst stood one taller than the rest, and with a queenly grace she had spoken : •

'Mes filles, chantez-vous quelqu'un de ces

cantiques Ou vos voix si souvent, se nielant a mes pleurs, De la triste Sion celebrent les malheurs.' It was the dolorous Queen Esther who was commanding her young companions to sing her one of the songs of Zion.

In response, a maiden came forward, the song of Zion sounding perhaps rather strangely from under that tall prim cap. But the sweet young face, now for the first time brought into the full light, was so fresh, pure, and charming, that it elicited a word of approbation from the great Louis himself, never blind to female beauty ; and in the row of courtiers behind him, this became, with the vociferous echo of adulation, a loud hum of applause. For a moment, a tremor and a blush choked the voice of the young actress ; but a soft ripple of encouragement, or some better feeling, restored her calmness, and in another moment there arose, in a clear soprano, that beautiful verse in which the young Jewess sings alone the lament over Zion abased unto the dust. ( To be continued.)