The Little Old Portrait

by Mrs. Molesworth

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  The Little Old PortraitLater: Edmee, A Tale of the French RevolutionBy Mrs MolesworthIllustrations by W. GunstonPublished by Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, London.

  The Little Old Portrait, by Mrs Molesworth.

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  ________________________________________________________________________THE LITTLE OLD PORTRAIT, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

  INTRODUCTION.

  Nearly a hundred years ago this beautiful country of France, where I amnow writing, was in a most sad and troubled state,--a state which we,whose lives have been passed in quiet and peaceful times, can scarcelypicture to ourselves. For many, many years--hundreds of years--thecauses which led to the terrible outbreak of the people against theruling classes, known in history as "the Great French Revolution," hadbeen slowly but surely growing and gathering till at last the stormbroke all bounds, and the unhappy country was given over to the rage andfury of the mob. Yet, cruel as were the leaders of this revolt,frightful as were the deeds they committed, it is impossible, and itwould be altogether unjust, to blame them and their followers alone. Innational as in family quarrels, the adage of "faults on both sides" isalmost always found to be true, and certainly the misdeeds which were atthe bottom of this most terrible of quarrels were far more on the sideof the upper classes than of the lower. For generations they had beengrowing more and more indifferent to the sufferings of those whom theyshould have protected and helped. They seemed to think that the poorand the humble only existed to be their slaves. They seemed to forgetthat those beneath them had hearts and feelings,--almost to forget thatthey were human beings. The beautiful teaching of Jesus Christ wastrampled and cast underfoot, even by those who still called themselvesHis followers. The rich lived in the greatest luxury, squandering moneywhich had been ground out of the sore toil and labour of the poor. Andthe poor hated and abhorred the rich, till at last all classes, alikebut in one thing--that they listened only to their own evil passions,caring nothing for the voice of God in their consciences, till thatvoice, so long disregarded, grew silent, and the good angels of theunhappy country seemed to fly away in mournful despair--were plungedinto a sea of horror and bloodshed.

  The king and queen were put to death, and so were hundreds, naythousands, of the nobles and gentry of the country, for the leaders ofthe Revolution, seeing how badly things had gone under a _bad_government, foolishly thought, like children escaping from the rule oftoo harsh a schoolmaster, that the only way to be truly free and happywas to have no regular government at all, but for every one to do justwhat he pleased, with no regard for others, no respect for the eternallaws of right and wrong--a state of things which _could_ not but becomethe worst of tyrannies, for it was the tyranny of the many instead ofthe few.

  What was the end of this dreadful state of things--"the Reign ofTerror," as it is often called--can be read in the many histories thathave been written of this time. It did not last long--it could not havedone so, for "Order is Heaven's first law." Disorder and confusion soonwear themselves out. But the story of the Great French Revolution willnever be forgotten while history exists. It stands there as a terriblewarning of the fate of a nation whose rulers neither themselves regard,nor teach to those below them, the Divine laws of justice and mercy andlove to all mankind.

  Good has come out of evil, as sooner or later it always must, in thehistory of France as in all other histories. But it would be a mistaketo suppose that even during that dark time there was no brighter side tothings. The very greatness of the evil brought out nobleness that inother times might have never been called forth. Among the many whosuffered the horrors of the dungeon and the guillotine were numbers ofpure and good and benevolent people, who, though belonging to the richupper classes, had never treated their poorer neighbours unjustly orunkindly, but had done their utmost to make them happier. These metdeath with calmness and courage beautiful to see, though their heartswere wrung with sorrow for the misery of their country. And among thepeople there were many instances of faithful devotion at the greatestrisk to themselves, of compassion even for some of those who had littledeserved at their hands. The simple story I am going to tell you willshow you this, I hope--will show that even in the darkest pages of ourpoor old world's much troubled history, bright lines stand out like raysof sunshine through a cloudy sky, telling of noble courage andself-sacrifice for others, of faithfulness till death--of trust in Godthrough the most awful trials.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  There was great rejoicing among the children in the farmhouse of BellePrairie, one of the most flourishing farms in the beautiful part ofTouraine where it was situated. To-morrow would be their mother'sbirthday, and for as long back as any of the small people could remember"mother's birthday" had always been a holiday. For it fell in June, theloveliest month of the year, and the fun began the day before, when, assoon as they were released from school, they, and some chosen ones amongtheir companions, came racing down the village street on their way towhat was still called the "chateau,"--although the house had long sincedisappeared--there, in the grounds now left to run wild, to gather totheir hearts' content honey-suckle and roses, which had not always been"wild," bunches of forget-me-nots and trailing branches of ivy, withwhich to adorn the sitting-room at the farm which was consideredpeculiarly their mother's. It was what in an English farmhouse used tobe called "the best parlour," and very proud of it were the boys andgirls of Farmer Marcel, the owner of Belle Prairie. For it was not byany means every farmhouse that had a best parlour at all, and nonepossessed one so pretty as that of Madame Marcel, the farmer's wife.

  The old gates of the chateau were still standing, as massive as ever,though only a few moss-covered stones marked the place where the mansionhad once been. And the villagers were too used to the sight of them,and the still distinct traces of a carriage-drive leading to nowhere, tobe struck with their strangeness and melancholy, as occasional visitorsoften were.

  "It was burnt down in the great Revolution, like many another," theywould reply with a shrug of their shoulders. "But what of that? Thoseold times are past. We are happy and prosperous in our village ofValmont-les-Roses, and the lands of the de Valmonts have long beendivided among those who make a better use of them than the old owners--though, to be sure," some of the older among them would add, "they werenot bad masters after all, those Counts of Valmont."

  And so the village children played unchecked within the ancient gates,and gathered flowers as many as they wished, with none to say them nay.

  Flushed and breathless, but eager and triumphant, the Marcel childrenhastened home with their spoils.

  "Out of the way, little stupid!" cried Pierre, the eldest boy, nearlyknocking over his tiny brother of three, in his hurry to get to hismother in the kitchen, where she was busied in some mysterious way whichhe pretended not to observe--Madame Marcel on her side handing him thekey of the best parlour in the most innocent manner possible.

  "Come quickly, Edmee," he called out as he hurried back again, this timenearly tumbling over his sister as well, for she was employed incomforting little Roger, whose feelings had been much wounded.

  "Pierre shan't call you `little stupid!'" she said. "See, you have madehim cry, poor dear: and he was so clever; he gathered such a lot offlowers all himself for the dear mother's birthday."

  "Pierre was only in fun; Roger mustn't cry," said the big, elderbrother, good-naturedly picking up the tiny one. "Where are Marie andJoseph? Come quick, all of you, we shall only have time to put up thewreaths before father comes in to supper."

  In another minute the five children were collected in the parlour,Pierr
e carefully locking the door inside when they had entered to secureagainst surprises. It was always with a certain awe that the youngMarcels crossed the threshold of this room. They spoke in softervoices--they carefully wiped their thick shoes on the mat at the door--they would as soon have thought of romping or jumping in church as inhere. And yet they themselves could hardly have explained why they feltso. The room, though pretty in a rather stiff way, was, after all, verysimple. The wooden floor, to be sure, was polished like a mirror, andthere were little lace curtains in the windows, which were never torn orsoiled, for Madame Marcel took the greatest care of them, washing andgetting them up twice a year with her own best caps, and never allowingSusette, the servant, to lay a finger on them. The brass handles of theold marble-topped chest of drawers were as bright as the copper pans inthe kitchen, and so was