in his name to the person who had sent him this good news.”
“That is beautiful,” Madam Vipon said, clapping her hands; “and I have so often wished for a real gold broach! Won't my husband open his eyes when he sees them!”
“I think, if I might advise, my dear madam,” Malcolm said, “I should not give him the exact history of them. He might take it into his head that you had been gossiping, although there is no woman in the world less given to gossiping than you are. Still, you know what husbands are. Therefore, if I were you I would tell him that your brother Pierre had sent them to you through me, knowing, you see, that you could not have read a letter even if he could have written one.”
“Yes, perhaps that would be the best,” Madam Vipon said; “but you had better write to Pierre and tell him. Otherwise when he comes home, and my husband thanks him for them, he might say he had never sent them, and there would be a nice affair.”
“I will do so,” Malcolm said; “but in any case I am sure your wit would have come to the rescue, and you would have said that you had in fact bought them from your savings; but that thinking your husband might grumble at your little economies you had thought it best to say that they came from your brother.”
“Oh, fie, monsieur; I am afraid you are teaching me to tell stories.”
“That is a very hard word, my dear madam. You know as well as I do that without a little management on both sides husbands and wives would never get on well together; but now I want to tell you more. Not only does my old master write to say how glad he is to hear of his cousin's welfare, but he has told me a great deal more about the poor lady, and knowing your kindness of heart I do not hesitate to communicate the contents of his letter to you. The Countess Amelie de Recambours was secretly married to a young officer, a great friend of my late master, and her father did not discover it until after the birth of a child —a boy. Then she was shut up here. The father got the boy safely away to Scotland, but he has now come back to France. I do not suppose the poor lady has ever heard of her little son since, and it would be an act of kindness and mercy to let her know that he is alive and well.”
“Yes, indeed, poor creature,” Madame Vipon said sympathetically. “Only to think of being separated from your husband, and never hearing of your child for all these years!”
“I knew your tender heart would sympathize with her,” Malcolm said; “she is indeed to be pitied.”
“And what became of her husband?”
“I fancy he died years ago; but my master says nothing about him. He only writes of the boy, who it seems is so delighted with the news about his mother that he is coming here to see if it is possible to have an interview with her.”
“But it is not possible,” Madam Vipon exclaimed. “How can he see her, shut up as she is in that convent?”
“Yes, it is difficult,” Malcolm agreed; “but nothing is impossible, my dear madam, when a woman of heart like yourself takes a matter in hand; and I rely, I can tell you, greatly on your counsel; as to your goodwill, I am assured of that beforehand.”
“But it is quite, quite, quite impossible, I assure you, my good Monsieur Anderson.”
“Well, let us see. Now I know that you would suggest that the first measure to be taken is to open communication between mother and son, and there I heartily agree with you.”
“That would be the first thing of course, monsieur; but how is that to be done?”
“Now that is where I look to you, madam. Your friend Jeanne waits upon her, you see, and I know your quick wit will already have perceived that Jeanne might deliver a message. I am sure that she would never be your friend had she not a warm heart like your own, and it will need very little persuasion on your part, when you have told her this sad story, to induce her to bring gladness to this unfortunate lady.”
“Yes; but think of the consequences, Monsieur Anderson: think what would happen if it were found out.”
“Yes, if there were any talk of the countess running away from the convent I would not on any condition ask you to assist in such a matter; but what is this —merely to give a message, a few harmless words.”
“But you said an interview, Monsieur Anderson.”
“An interview only if it is possible, my dear madam, that is quite another matter, and you know you said that it was quite impossible. All that we want now is just a little message, a message by word of mouth which not even the keenest eye can discover or prevent; there can be no harm in that.”
“No, I don't think there can be much harm in that,” Madam Vipon agreed; “at any rate I will talk to Jeanne. It will be her day for going to market tomorrow; I will tell her the story of the poor lady, and I think I can answer beforehand that she will do everything she can.”
The following afternoon Malcolm again saw Madam Vipon, who told him that although she had not actually promised she had no doubt Jeanne would deliver the message.
“She will be out again on Saturday, monsieur, at nine in the morning, and if you will be here with the boy, if he has arrived by that time, you shall speak to her.”
At the time appointed Malcolm, with Ronald, attired now as a young French gentleman, arrived at the house of Madam Vipon, who was warmly thanked by Ronald for the interest she had taken in him.
“My friend here has spoken to me in the highest terms of you, Madam Vipon, and I am sure that all that he has said is no more than the truth.”
“I am sure I will do all I can,” replied Madam Vipon, who was greatly taken by Ronald's appearance and manner; “it's a cruel thing separating a mother from a son so many years, and after all what I am doing is no hanging matter anyway.”
A few minutes later Jeanne entered; she was a pleasant looking woman of five or six and twenty, and even her sombre attire as a lay sister failed to give a formal look to her merry face.
“So these are the gentlemen who want me to become a conspirator,” she said, “and to run the risk of all sorts of punishment and penalties for meddling in their business?”
“Not so much my business as the business of my mother,” Ronald said. “You who have such true heart of your own, for madam has told us something of your story, will, I am sure, feel for that poor lady shut up for fifteen years, and knowing not whether her child is dead or alive. If we could but see each other for five minutes, think what joy it would be to her, what courage her poor heart would take.”
“See each other!” Jeanne repeated surprised. “You said nothing about that, Francoise; you only said take a message. How can they possibly see each other? That's a different thing altogether.”
“I want you to take a message first,” Ronald said. “If nothing more can be done that will be very much; but I cannot think but that you and my mother between you will be able to hit upon some plan by which we might meet.”
“But how,” Jeanne asked in perplexity, “how could it possibly be?”
“For example,” Ronald suggested; “could I not come in as a lay sister? I am not much taller than you, and could pass very well as a girl.”
Jeanne burst our laughing.
“You do not know what you are saying, monsieur; it would be altogether impossible. People do not get taken on as lay sisters in the convent of Our Lady unless they are known; besides, in other ways it would be altogether impossible, and even if it were not it might be years before you could get to speak to the countess, for there are only two or three of us who ever enter the visitors' rooms; and lastly, if you were found out I don't know what would be done to both of us. No, that would never do at all.”
“Well, in the next place, I could climb on to the river terrace at night, and perhaps she could come and speak to me there.”
“That is more possible,” Jeanne said thoughtfully; “but all the doors are locked up at night.”
“But she might get out of a window,” Ronald urged; “with a rope ladder she could get down, and then return again, and none be the wiser.”
Jeanne sat silent for a minute, and then she asked suddenly:
“Are you telling me all, monsieur, or are you intending that the countess shall escape with you?”
“No, indeed, on my honour!” Ronald exclaimed. “I have nowhere where I could take my mother. She would be pursued and brought back, and her position would be far worse than it is now. No; I swear to you that I only want to see her and to speak to her, and I have nothing else whatever in my mind.”
“I believe you, monsieur,” Jeanne said gravely. “Had it been otherwise I dare not have helped, for my punishment if I was discovered to have aided in an escape from the convent would be terrible —terrible!” she
