I think M. de Solivet realised a little better what the sacrifice was to me, or rather how cruel the parting was to my poor people, when we set forth on our journey.  We had tried to keep the time of our departure a secret, but it had not been possible to do so, and the whole court was filled with people weeping and crying out to their young lord and their good lady, as they called me, not to abandon them, kissing our dresses as we walked along, and crowding so that we could hardly pass.

Indeed, a lame man, whom I had taught to make mats, threw himself before the horses of our carriage, crying out that we might as well drive over him and kill him at once; and an old woman stood up almost like a witch or prophetess, crying out:  ’Ah! that is the way with you all.  You are like all the rest!  You gave us hope once, and now you are gone to your pleasure which you squeeze out of our heart’s blood.’

‘Ah, good mother,’ I said; ’believe me, it is not by my own will that I leave you; I will never forget you.’

‘I trust,’ muttered Solivet, ’that no one is here to report all this to that intendant de Roi,’ and he hurried me into the carriage; but there were tears running down his cheeks, and I believe he emptied his purse among them, though not without being told by some of the poor warm-hearted creatures that no money could repay them for the loss of Madame la Comtesse.

‘I did not know how sweet it is to be beloved,’ he said to me.  ’It is almost enough to tempt one to play the role de bon seigneur.’

’Ah! brother, if you would.  You are no foreigner, you are wiser and would not make yourself suspected like me.’

He only laughed and shrugged his shoulders; but he was as good to our poor as it is possible to be as we live here in France, where we are often absolutely complelled to live at court, and our expenses there force us to press heavily on our already hard-driven peasants.  I sometimes wonder whether a better time will come, when out good Duke of Burgundy tries to carry out the maxims of Monseigneur the Archbishop of Cambray; but I shall not live to see that day. [Footnote:  No wonder Madame de Bellaise’s descendants dust not publish these writings while the ancien regime continued!]

In due time we arrived in Paris.  It was pouring with rain, so no one came to meet us, though I looked out at every turn, feeling that Eustace must indeed be unwell, or no weather would have kept him from flying to meet his Meg.  Or had he in these six long years ceased to care for me, and should I find him a politician and a soldier, with his heart given to somebody else and no room for me?

My heart beat so fast that I could hardly attend to the cries of wonder and questions of the two children, and indeed of Cecile, to whom everything was as new and wonderful as to them, though in the wet, with our windows splashed all over, the first view of Paris was not too promising.  However, at last we drove beneath our own porte cochere, and upon the steps there were all the servants.  And Eustace, my own dear brother, was at the coach-door to meet us and hand me out.