Mme.Willemsens was rather tall;she was thin and slender,but delicately shaped.She had pretty feet,more remarkable for the grace of her instep and ankle than for the more ordinary merit of slenderness;her gloved hands,too,were shapely.There were flitting patches of deep red in a pale face,which must have been fresh and softly colored once.Premature wrinkles had withered the delicately modeled forehead beneath the coronet of soft,well-set chestnut hair,invariably wound about her head in two plaits,a girlish coiffure which suited the melancholy face.There was a deceptive look of calm in the dark eyes,with the hollow,shadowy circles about them;sometimes,when she was off her guard,their expression told of secret anguish.The oval of her face was somewhat long;but happiness and health had perhaps filled and perfected the outlines.A forced smile,full of quiet sadness,hovered continually on her pale lips;but when the children,who were always with her,looked up at their mother,or asked one of the incessant idle questions which convey so much to a mother's ears,then the smile brightened,and expressed the joys of a mother's love.Her gait was slow and dignified.Her dress never varied;evidently she had made up her mind to think no more of her toilette,and to forget a world by which she meant no doubt to be forgotten.She wore a long,black gown,confined at the waist by a watered-silk ribbon,and by way of scarf a lawn handkerchief with a broad hem,the two ends passed carelessly through her waistband.The instinct of dress showed itself in that she was daintily shod,and gray silk stockings carried out the suggestion of mourning in this unvarying costume.Lastly,she always wore a bonnet after the English fashion,always of the same shape and the same gray material,and a black veil.Her health apparently was extremely weak;she looked very ill.On fine evenings she would take her only walk,down to the bridge of Tours,bringing the two children with her to breathe the fresh,cool air along the Loire,and to watch the sunset effects on a landscape as wide as the Bay of Naples or the Lake of Geneva.
During the whole time of her stay at La Grenadiere she went but twice into Tours;once to call on the headmaster of the school,to ask him to give her the names of the best masters of Latin,drawing,and mathematics;and a second time to make arrangements for the children's lessons.But her appearance on the bridge of an evening,once or twice a week,was quite enough to excite the interest of almost all the inhabitants of Tours,who make a regular promenade of the bridge.
Still,in spite of a kind of spy system,by which no harm is meant,a provincial habit bred of want of occupation and the restless inquisitiveness of the principal society,nothing was known for certain of the newcomer's rank,fortune,or real condition.Only,the owner of La Grenadiere told one or two of his friends that the name under which the stranger had signed the lease (her real name,therefore,in all probability)was Augusta Willemsens,Countess of Brandon.This,of course,must be her husband's name.Events,which will be narrated in their place,confirmed this revelation;but it went no further than the little world of men of business known to the landlord.
So Madame Willemsens was a continual mystery to people of condition.
Hers was no ordinary nature;her manners were simple and delightfully natural,the tones of her voice were divinely sweet,--this was all that she suffered others to discover.In her complete seclusion,her sadness,her beauty so passionately obscured,nay,almost blighted,there was so much to charm,that several young gentlemen fell in love;but the more sincere the lover,the more timid he became;and besides,the lady inspired awe,and it was a difficult matter to find enough courage to speak to her.Finally,if a few of the bolder sort wrote to her,their letters must have been burned unread.It was Mme.
Willemsens'practice to throw all the letters which she received into the fire,as if she meant that the time spent in Touraine should be untroubled by any outside cares even of the slightest.She might have come to the enchanting retreat to give herself up wholly to the joy of living.
The three masters whose presence was allowed at La Grenadiere spoke with something like admiring reverence of the touching picture that they saw there of the close,unclouded intimacy of the life led by this woman and the children.
The two little boys also aroused no small interest.Mothers could not see them without a feeling of envy.Both children were like Mme.
Willemsens,who was,in fact,their mother.They had the transparent complexion and bright color,the clear,liquid eyes,the long lashes,the fresh outlines,the dazzling characteristics of childish beauty.
The elder,Louis-Gaston,had dark hair and fearless eyes.Everything about him spoke as plainly of robust,physical health as his broad,high brow,with its gracious curves,spoke of energy of character.He was quick and alert in his movements,and strong of limb,without a trace of awkwardness.Nothing took him unawares,and he seemed to think about everything that he saw.
Marie-Gaston,the other child,had hair that was almost golden,though a lock here and there had deepened to the mother's chestnut tint.
Marie-Gaston was slender;he had the delicate features and the subtle grace so charming in Mme.Willemsens.He did not look strong.There was a gentle look in his gray eyes;his face was pale,there was something feminine about the child.He still wore his hair in long,wavy curls,and his mother would not have him give up embroidered collars,and little jackets fastened with frogs and spindle-shaped buttons;evidently she took a thoroughly feminine pleasure in the costume,a source of as much interest to the mother as to the child.
