The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte was to examine the faces of her visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder lady, who might have been, as we have said, about thirty-two years of age, was remarkably¹ beautiful, although, at first sight, a great air of hauteur² detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingué that Jeanne could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory³ glance.  
She, however, seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from the light, so as to be little seen.
 
Her companion appeared four or five years younger, and was not less beautiful. Her complexion⁴ was charming; her hair, drawn⁵ back from her temples, showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face; two large blue eyes, calm and serene⁶; a well-formed mouth, indicating great frankness of disposition⁷; a nose that rivaled the Venus de Medicis; such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne de Valois.
 
She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honor of their visit.
 
The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, “Madame, for I believe you are married——”
 
“I have the honor to be the wife of M. le Comte de la Motte, an excellent gentleman.”
 
“Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on the subject.”
 
“Mesdames,” replied Jeanne, “you see there the portrait of Henry III., that is to say, of the brother of my grandfather, for I am truly of the race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told.” And she waited for the next question, looking at her visitors with a sort of proud humility⁸.
 
“Madame,” said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, “is it true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper⁹ at a place called Fontelle, near Bar-sur-Seine?”
 
Jeanne colored at this question, but replied, “It is true, madame; and,” she went on, “as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed¹⁰ of rare beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by my father that I am nobly descended¹¹; he was a St. Rémy de Valois, direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne.”
 
“But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame?”
 
“Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the accession of Henry IV., by which the crown passed from the house of Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably¹².”
 
The two ladies made a sign of assent¹³.
 
“Then,” continued Jeanne, “these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious¹⁴ to the reigning¹⁵ family, changed their name of Valois into that of St. Rémy, which they took from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my father, who, seeing the monarchy¹⁶ so firmly established, and the old branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their ancient kings.”
 
Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity¹⁸ and mildness which created a favorable impression.
 
“You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame,” said the elder lady, with kindness.
 
“Oh, madame,” she replied, with a bitter smile, “proofs are not wanting—my father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole legacy¹⁹; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will recognize?”
 
“Your father is then dead?” asked the younger lady.
 
“Alas! yes.”
 
“Did he die in the provinces?”
 
“No, madame.”
 
“At Paris, then?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“In this room?”
 
“No, madame; my father, Baron²⁰ de Valois, great-nephew of the King Henry III., died of misery²¹ and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with the suffering wretches²² in the Hôtel Dieu!”
 
The ladies uttered an exclamation²³ of surprise and distress²⁴.
 
“From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident, great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father.”
 
“Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that my father’s death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes.”
 
“How, madame! You regard as a minor²⁵ evil the death of your father?” said the elder lady, with a frown.
 
“Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious²⁶ daughter, for my father was thereby²⁷ delivered from all the ills which he experienced in this life, and which continue to assail²⁸ his family. I experience, in the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his bread.”
 
“To beg his bread?”
 
“Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself.”
 
“But you do not speak of your mother?”
 
“Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my mother.”
 
The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering²⁹ at these strange words.
 
“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed³⁰ account of your misfortunes?”
 
“The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued³¹ you with such a long catalogue of woes³².”
 
“Speak, madame,” said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and stared at her with some astonishment³³.
 
“I listen, madame,” she then said, in a more gentle tone; “if you will be good enough to inform us what we ask.”
 
Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke¹⁷, and fearing she felt cold, pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had discovered under one of the chairs.
 
“Keep it yourself, my sister,” said she, pushing it back again. “You are more delicate than I.”
 
“Indeed, madame,” said Jeanne, “it grieves me much to see you suffer from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted³⁴ a week ago.”
 
“You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother,” said the elder lady, returning to the subject.
 
“Yes, madame. Doubtless, such a blasphemy³⁵ shocks you much, does it not?” said Jeanne; “but hear my explanation. I have already had the honor to tell you that my father made a mésalliance, and married his housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and proud of the honor he had done her, began by ruining my father, which certainly was not difficult to a person determined³⁶ to consult only her own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped in the justice of the king. He came then, having first turned all he possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.
 
“His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates³⁷ in the lowest ranks of the army; the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our departure, before the house of a neighboring farmer.
 
“The journey exhausted our little resources—my father wore himself out in fruitless appeals—we scarcely ever saw him—our house was wretched—and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented³⁸ her discontent and ill-humor upon me: she even reproached me with what I ate, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The neighbors, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I experienced. He endeavored to protect me, but his interference only served to embitter³⁹ her still more against me.
 
“At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and then to his bed. My mother banished⁴⁰ me from his room on the pretext⁴¹ that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not wish to be beaten to death.”
 
“And what was this sentence?” asked the elder lady.
 
“It was this, madame: ‘Have pity on a little orphan⁴², who descends⁴³ in a direct line from Henri de Valois.’”
 
“What a shame!” cried the ladies.
 
“But what effect did this produce on the people?” inquired Andrée.
 
“Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped: I generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious⁴⁴ to me, that at last, one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a doorstep all the time, and returned in the evening empty-handed. My mother beat me so that the next day I fell ill; then my poor father, deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the Hôtel Dieu, where he died.”
 
“Oh! what a horrible history,” cried the ladies.
 
“What became of you after your father’s death?” asked the elder lady.
 
“God took pity upon me a month after my father’s death, my mother ran away with a soldier, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity, although we never begged for more than enough to eat. One day, I saw a carriage going slowly along the Faubourg Saint Marcel. There were four footmen behind, and a beautiful lady inside; I held out my hand to her for charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike her with surprise. She asked for my address, and the next day made inquiries⁴⁵, and finding that I had told her the truth, she took charge of my brother and myself; she placed my brother in the army, and me with a dressmaker.”
 
“Was not this lady Madame de Boulainvilliers?”
 
“It was.”
 
“She is dead, I believe?”
 
“Yes; and her death deprived me of my only protector.”
 
“Her husband still lives, and is rich.”
 
“Ah, madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown tall, and, as he thought, pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile, Madame de Boulainvilliers died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, M. de la Motte, but, separated from him, I seemed more abandoned after her death than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, madame, which I have shortened as much as possible, in order not to weary you.”
 
“Where, then, is your husband?” asked the elder lady.
 
“He is in garrison⁴⁶ at Bar-sur-Aube; he serves in the gendarmerie, and is waiting, like myself, in hopes of better times.”
 
“But you have laid your case before the court?”
 
“Undoubtedly.”
 
“The name of Valois must have awakened⁴⁷ some sympathy.”
 
“I know not, madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have received no answer to any of my petitions.”
 
“You have seen neither the ministers, the king, nor the queen?”
 
“No one. Everywhere I have failed.”
 
“You cannot now beg, however.”
 
“No, madame; I have lost the habit; but I can die of hunger, like my poor father.”
 
“You have no child?”
 
“No, madame; and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his king, will find for himself a glorious end to all our miseries⁴⁸.”
 
“Can you, madame—I beg pardon if I seem intrusive—but can you bring forward the proofs of your genealogy⁴⁹?”
 
Jeanne rose, opened a drawer, and drew out some papers, which she presented to the lady, who rose to come nearer the light, that she might examine them; but seeing that Jeanne eagerly seized this opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to do, she turned away as if the light hurt her eyes, turning her back to Madame de la Motte.
 
“But,” said she, at last, “these are only copies.”
 
“Oh! madame, I have the originals safe, and am ready to produce them.”
 
“If any important occasion should present itself, I suppose?” said the lady, smiling.
 
“It is, doubtless, madame, an important occasion which procures⁵⁰ me the honor of your visit, but these papers are so precious——”
 
“That you cannot show them to the first comer. I understand you.”
 
“Oh, madame!” cried the countess; “you shall see them;” and opening a secret drawer above the other, she drew out the originals, which were carefully inclosed in an old portfolio⁵¹, on which were the arms of the Valois.
 
The lady took them, and after examining them, said, “You are right; these are perfectly⁵² satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in readiness to produce them when called upon by proper authority.”
 
“And what do you think I may expect, madame?” asked Jeanne.
 
“Doubtless a pension for yourself, and advancement⁵³ for M. de la Motte, if he prove worthy⁵⁴ of it.”
 
“My husband is an honorable man, madame, and has never failed in his military duties.”
 
“It is enough, madame,” said the lady, drawing her hood⁵⁵ still more over her face. She then put her hand in her pocket, and drew out first the same embroidered⁵⁶ handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her face when in the sledge⁵⁷, then a small roll about an inch in diameter, and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonier, saying, “The treasurer⁵⁸ of our charity authorizes⁵⁹ me, madame, to offer you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better.”
 
Madame de la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll. “Three-franc pieces,” thought she, “and there must be nearly a hundred of them; what a boon⁶⁰ from heaven.”
 
While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the outer room, where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair.
 
The candle was burning out in the socket⁶¹, and the smell which came from it made the ladies draw out their smelling-bottles. Jeanne woke Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end.
 
“Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse,” said they.
 
“Where may I have the honor of coming to thank you?” asked Jeanne.
 
“We will let you know,” replied the elder lady, going quickly down the stairs.
 
Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her rouleau, but her foot struck against something, and stooping to pick it up, she saw a small flat gold box.
 
She was some time before she could open it, but having at last found the spring, it flew open and disclosed the portrait of a lady possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a collar like an order. An M and a T encircled by a laurel wreath ornamented⁶² the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt, from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her, that it was that of her mother, or some near relation.
 
She ran to the stairs to give it back to them; but hearing the street-door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window, but arrived there only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away. She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present, and turned again to the little rouleau.
 
When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy, “Double louis, fifty double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs!” and transported at the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life, she remained with clasped hands and open lips. “A hundred louis,” she repeated; “these ladies are then very rich. Oh! I will find them again.”