Here,not one of all the thousand heart ties that bind child and mother had been broken.The three were alone in the world;they lived one life,a life of close sympathy.If Mme.Willemsens was silent in the morning,Louis and Marie would not speak,respecting everything in her,even those thoughts which they did not share.But the older boy,with a precocious power of thought,would not rest satisfied with his mother's assertion that she was perfectly well.He scanned her face with uneasy forebodings;the exact danger he did not know,but dimly he felt it threatening in those purple rings about her eyes,in the deepening hollows under them,and the feverish red that deepened in her face.If Marie's play began to tire her,his sensitive tact was quick to discover this,and he would call to his brother:
"Come,Marie!let us run in to breakfast,I am hungry!"But when they reached the door,he would look back to catch the expression on his mother's face.She still could find a smile for him,nay,often there were tears in her eyes when some little thing revealed her child's exquisite feeling,a too early comprehension of sorrow.
Mme.Willemsens dressed during the children's early breakfast and game of play;she was coquettish for her darlings;she wished to be pleasing in their eyes;for them she would fain be in all things lovely,a gracious vision,with the charm of some sweet perfume of which one can never have enough.
She was always dressed in time to hear their lessons,which lasted from ten till three,with an interval at noon for lunch,the three taking the meal together in the summer-house.After lunch the children played for an hour,while she--poor woman and happy mother--lay on a long sofa in the summer-house,so placed that she could look out over the soft,ever-changing country of Touraine,a land that you learn to see afresh in all the thousand chance effects produced by daylight and sky and the time of year.
The children scampered through the orchard,scrambled about the terraces,chased the lizards,scarcely less nimble than they;investigating flowers and seeds and insects,continually referring all questions to their mother,running to and fro between the garden and the summer-house.Children have no need of toys in the country,everything amuses them.
Mme.Willemsens sat at her embroidery during their lessons.She never spoke,nor did she look at masters or pupils;but she followed attentively all that was said,striving to gather the sense of the words to gain a general idea of Louis'progress.If Louis asked a question that puzzled his master,his mother's eyes suddenly lighted up,and she would smile and glance at him with hope in her eyes.Of Marie she asked little.Her desire was with her eldest son.Already she treated him,as it were,respectfully,using all a woman's,all a mother's tact to arouse the spirit of high endeavor in the boy,to teach him to think of himself as capable of great things.She did this with a secret purpose,which Louis was to understand in the future;nay,he understood it already.
Always,the lesson over,she went as far as the gate with the master,and asked strict account of Louis'progress.So kindly and so winning was her manner,that his tutors told her the truth,pointing out where Louis was weak,so that she might help him in his lessons.Then came dinner,and play after dinner,then a walk,and lessons were learned till bedtime.
So their days went.It was a uniform but full life;work and amusements left them not a dull hour in the day.Discouragement and quarreling were impossible.The mother's boundless love made everything smooth.She taught her little sons moderation by refusing them nothing,and submission by making them see underlying Necessity in its many forms;she put heart into them with timely praise;developing and strengthening all that was best in their natures with the care of a good fairy.Tears sometimes rose to her burning eyes as she watched them play,and thought how they had never caused her the slightest vexation.Happiness so far-reaching and complete brings such tears,because for us it represents the dim imaginings of Heaven which we all of us form in our minds.
Those were delicious hours spent on that sofa in the garden-house,in looking out on sunny days over the wide stretches of river and the picturesque landscape,listening to the sound of her children's voices as they laughed at their own laughter,to the little quarrels that told most plainly of their union of heart,of Louis'paternal care of Marie,of the love that both of them felt for her.They spoke English and French equally well (they had had an English nurse since their babyhood),so their mother talked to them in both languages;directing the bent of their childish minds with admirable skill,admitting no fallacious reasoning,no bad principle.She ruled by kindness,concealing nothing,explaining everything.If Louis wished for books,she was careful to give him interesting yet accurate books--books of biography,the lives of great seamen,great captains,and famous men,for little incidents in their history gave her numberless opportunities of explaining the world and life to her children.She would point out the ways in which men,really great in themselves,had risen from obscurity;how they had started from the lowest ranks of society,with no one to look to but themselves,and achieved noble destinies.
These readings,and they were not the least useful of Louis'lessons,took place while little Marie slept on his mother's knee in the quiet of the summer night,and the Loire reflected the sky;but when they ended,this adorable woman's sadness always seemed to be doubled;she would cease to speak,and sit motionless and pensive,and her eyes would fill with tears.
"Mother,why are you crying?"Louis asked one balmy June evening,just as the twilight of a soft-lit night succeeded to a hot day.
Deeply moved by his trouble,she put her arm about the child's neck and drew him to her.
