grief" when she quitted the castle; of her son, the impetuous Celse Bénigne, who flung himself across the threshold of the door, declaring she should pass over his body if she would go, and she did step over him. She left all the natural ties that God had given her, to become a saint, and the foundress of sixty-five convents, and a woman whose name has gone forth to the ends of the world. From Saint Pauls. CLEMENCE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "PATTY." I. THE old Court-yard of the "Ours d'Or" is full of warm light, but it is not glowing August sunshine. her temper needs a safety-valve. Some time ago it had found this, when Madame de Vos-the mother of the landlord of the "Ours d'Or"-came self-invited to manage her son's household. Eulalie disliked the fat pink-faced dame from the beginning, first for the petty vexations which Madame de Vos had inflicted on her son's wife, Eulalie's own dear mistress, but chiefly for the unceremonious way in which she had installed herself at the "Ours d'Or" after her daughter-in-law's death. Eulalie had put on her war-paint at that time, and had felt compelled to keep her fighting weapons sharp and bright, and to say truth this process was in some way congenial to the skilful old woman. At that time had happened the great sorrow of Clémence de Vos. Her betrothed lover, Louis Scherer, had reThe tall fuschias in green tubs which turned at the appointed time to claim her border the court are scarcely in leaf; there as his wife; but Clémence was absent, and are no blossom-buds on the myrtles, though the extreme beauty of her young sister they have put out bright tender little Rosalie, and, as Eulalie always persisted leaves of expectation; the fountain spark-in affirming, the manoeuvres of Madame de les, but the fish are not gambolling in the basin below-they are still housed safely in the glass globe in Clémence's parlour. The sun disports himself chiefly among the gueldres roses and lilacs, which atone just now for the shabby brown show they will make in autumn, by a perfect luxury of blossoms; snowy masses with exquisite green and grey shadows in between; lilac flowers, now rich, now delicate always exquisite, both in hue and fragrance. It is almost May, and yet the keen March wind lingers so as to keep Eulalie the cook there is no male chef at this old Flemish inn - mindful of her rheumatism, and unwilling to venture out of the warm shelter of her kitchen. Eulalie is a small spare woman, with a clever face and dark eyes; these are full of vexation as she stands beside a small table on one side of the kitchen, and strips the leaves from crisp young lettuceplants. "It is insupportable," she grumbles, as she drops each leaf deftly into the shining brass pan of water at her feet. "Mam'selle Clémence goes beyond reason; if her sister, Madame Scherer, were to ask for the gown off Mam'selle's back she would send it her. She gave Madame Scherer a husband, though it almost broke her heart, and that is enough too much; it is folly to go on pouring wine into a full bottle." Eulalie shrugs her shoulders and shreds off the lettuce-leaves faster than ever; she has a clever head and a warm heart, but 1238 LIVING AGE. VOL. XXVI. Vos, so infatuated the young soldier, that Clémence voluntarily released him from his troth-plight, and he and Rosalie were married. But Clémence's father had been unable to forgive the wound inflicted on his beloved child, and, on Rosalie's wedding-day, madame her grandmother went back to live in her own house at Louvain. 66 Dame! what a happiness! what a relief!" Eulalie had said. "Mam'selle Clémence will now take the place that should always have been hers; and what an angel is Mam'selle Clemence!" It may be that the principle which urged the cook at the "Ours d'Or" so constantly to brighten the shining brass pots and pans on her kitchen-wall was thorough, and led her also to fear lest her tongue too might grow dull and rusty unless she sometimes sharpened it against her master Auguste de Vos, and even against the "angel" Mam selle Clémence. up. There is a slight sound, and Eulalie looks A black-cloaked figure stands at the parlour door on the opposite side of the long, paved, arched-over entrance to the courtyard of the "Ours d'Or." Eulalie comes forward to the door of her kitchen, which is on the opposite side of the paved entrance way. "Mam'selle Clémence," she says, shrilly. "Yes, yes, Eulalie, I am coming: the voice is so sweet that one is impatient to see the face which goes with it, but Clé- 626 CLEMENCE. mence has turned back to listen to her fa- duty everywhere; and to me, Mam'selle, ther's last words. Auguste de Vos is a stont, florid Bel- his mother, and he will be sad without Monsieur is of more value than Madame gian, but he has dark hair and an intelli- you; and she well she would have pergent face. He looks younger and hap- haps a little neglect, what will you? Mapier too, since he has been left to live dame Scherer is young, and she loves her alone with Clémence; he has the same ease; but she will be obliged to take care blessed freedom from domestic worry that of Madame de Vos, if you do not go, he enjoyed while his wife lived. Clémence Mam'selle Clémence." has a dexterous way of keeping the bright side of life turned towards her father; even Eulalie's querulousness rarely reaches him. Auguste de Vos has never been a demonstrative man; but ever since the evening when Rosalie's marriage was decided, there has been a graver tenderness in his manner to his eldest daughter, a something not to be painted in words, but which often kindles in Clémence that strange emotion which brings a sob and a smile together. 66 Well, my child," Auguste de Vos is saying, "if thou sayest it is needful, I yield; but remember always that Rosalie has three maids and only two children: it is to me inconceivable that after all her grandmother has done for her, and for Louis Scherer too, they should not contrive to nurse my mother in her sickness without thy help." Clémence smiles: she has a sweet pensive face, but her dark eyes light up at this smile, and sparkle brightly through the long black lashes. "Poor Rosalie! Thou art severe, my father; but it is almost the first request she has made me since her marriage, and it seems a beginning, and mence falters and blushes, and then looks "here Cléfrankly into her father's eyes-he is father and mother both to her now 66 thou knowest well Rosalie has never been only the same to me since she went away.' Her father's eyes are full of wistful tenderness. "The fault is none of thy making, Clé mence." "I must go to Eulalie:" she nods and leaves him. "Poor Rosalie," she says to herself, "she is not yet forgiven." "Hein," Eulalie puts her head on one side like a pugnacious sparrow as Clémence steps into the kitchen, "fine doings, indeed; and it is true then, Mam'selle, that you go to-morrow to Bruges to nurse the bonne-maman who never was once good to you? 66 Hush, Eulalie, you may not so speak of my grandmother," Clémence's grey eyes look almost severe. Eulalie turns to the table behind her. speaks decidedly, and her bright smile food demanded, and carefully stows it "It is all very well," she says; "I don't gives, but I ask myself, when Mam'selle grudge the food and drink which Mam'selle Clémence marries and goes away - and she will marry some day, I suppose - ah! but the man will be lucky! - what will then happen to the wife of the sacristan and all the other sick folk of our parish? She has used them to these dainties; ma foi! it will be harder to give them up altogether than to go without them now." riage; he has an appointment at Bruges, Louis Scherer left the army on his marand Rosalie found housekeeping so little she persuaded her husband to let Madame to her liking, that after the first few months de Vos live with them. For a time this arrangement had been had now written to ask Clémence to come II. way station. Clémence had not seen him LOUIS met his wife's sister at the railfor more than a year: she thought he looked aged; his fair, handsome face was full of worry. They had met since the marriage, and been effaced by the new, save it may be a all remembrance of the old relations had certain self-complacency in the man in the society of the woman who had once so tain blindness to faults which were visible dearly loved him, and in the woman a cer to all other eyes; but then Clémence de Vos was indulgent to everyone - to every one but herself. She asked after all the family, and then, "How is the Sour Marie?" she asked. "Does Rosalie see her often?" "Ma foi," Louis twirled his pretty, soft moustaches: he was really handsome, though he looked too well aware of the fact, "Rosalie may, and she may not, see your aunt, the Soeur Marie; but she does not tell me. I have no special liking for religieuses, especially when they are no longer young or pretty; but here we are, Clémence, and there is your little goddaughter peeping out of window." They had come up a by-street, which ended on the quay of one of the canals, bordered on this side by a closely planted line of poplar trees. The newly opened leaves trembled in the warm sunshine reflected from the red, high-gabled houses over the water-houses which went straight down to the canal edge, and seemed to bend forward so as to get a view of their own full-length reflections in the yellow water. Behind the houses rose the graceful tourelles of the Hôtel de Ville, and beyond, rising high above all the rest, was the beffroi. It was just three o'clock, and suddenly the carillon sounded out from the lofty tower, swelling, with sweet throbs, through the air above them, as if the angels were holding a musical festival in those melodious, unearthly strains. But Louis was too much used to the carillon to notice it. "There is your goddaughter, Clémence," he said. Clémence started from her rapt listening. It had seemed to her she heard her mother's voice up there among the angels. Louis Scherer lived in a red steppedgabled house. There was a pointed window in the gable, with an arched hood of grey stone the window-mullions too were of stone. Below were two similar windows, with a carved spandril between the arches; and at one of these lower windows peeped out a little smiling cherubface — a miniature, Clémence thought, of Rosalie. Clémence kissed both hands to the little maid, and then went in through the open archway below the windows. There was a patter of little feet, a chirrup of slight treble voices, and then two laughing baby faces peeped from behind a green, half-closed door on the left of the paved entrance. Clémence forgot where she was, forgot even the borne-maman's illness, and sat down on the door-step, with the two blooming darlings nestling in her arms. The younger of the two, the little Clémence, talked glibly in her soft, incoherent gibberish; but little Louis played for a while at being shy, alternately hiding his face in his aunt's black cloak, or else looking up with round, shining blue eyes, and his pink, fat forefinger between his pouting lips. Louis had passed on into the house to fetch his wife. "Tiens, tiens!" Rosalie's voice sounded so shrill, that Clémence put the children off her lap, and jumped up from her low seat. The sisters kissed each other affectionately, and then they exchanged looks. "Ma foi," Rosalie said to herself, "Clémence grows younger-looking every time I see her." "Rosalie looks troubled;" and Clémence followed her sister up-stairs, stifling a wish that she would look more sweet and simple. She was still a beautiful blonde; but the Rosalie of Clémence's youth had been lovelier in her simplicity than the befrizzled, over-dressed lady, whose smile was so forced and rare. In the short minute that followed their greeting Clémence had seen Loulou shrink away from his mother, and cling to his father's knees. Madame de Vos's bedroom was at the end of the upstairs gallery. The walls were white, and so were the bed-hangings, with their white-tufted fringe. The cushion in the window-seat was covered in white dimity; the window itself was shrouded in white curtains, fringed like the bed-hangings. All this white seemed to bring out in yet stronger relief the deeply tinted pink face of Madame de Vos. She stretched one hand out to greet Clémence; the other lay still on the coverlet, powerless for evermore. "Eh bien, my child, thou art come at last, then, to look at what is left of thy grandmother. Ah! but, Clémence, is it not incredible that I, so active, and of so perfect a constitution, should be lying here like a silly old woman, and la mère Borot, that old imbecile, who has at least ten more years than I have, ails nothing? Ma foi, I cannot understand how this is." Clémence kissed the fretful face, and then seated herself at the bedside. "Thou canst stay a few minutes, Clémence," Rosalie nodded, "but not longer. I have much to say to thee." Madaine de Vos looked angry. 66 Rosalie, thou art so selfish. Thou hast Louis and the children; leave Clémence to me: I have no one." She closed her eyes with a weary sigh. Rosalie made an expressive grimace at her sister, and crept out of the room. Clémence sighed too. At home she and her father lived in such unbroken harmony, this discord seemed doubly jarring. This was only her second visit to Bruges, and when Rosalie had paid short visits to the Ours d'Or" she had been gay and bright. But her grandmother soon claimed Clémence's attention. Madame de Vos began with her own sufferings, and then went on to the neglect, the vanity, the bad temper of Rosalie. 66 And, Clémence, she is also jealous. She will not let thee stay long with me, lest thou shouldst love me best. It is the same with the little ones: they love the bonne-maman, poor darlings; and so they may not run to the end of the gallery and I who have done everything for her." As soon as she could get the words in, Clémence interrupted,— "Does la tante come to see thee the Sœur Marie?" "No; no one remembers me now. I am helpless, and suffering, and forgotten. I had plenty of friends, as thou knowest, when I had a house of my own, and did not spend my money on ungrateful children. The Soeur Marie, why should she Rosalie told me that Louis disliked to see her, and so I told my poor Marie to keep away; and, Clémence, it is true that Marie is not an amusing companion." come? It was such a new pleasure for the invalid to get so sweet and cheerful a listener, that she would scarcely let Clémence go when she was summoned to supper. Sounds of angry voices came from the eating-room. Clémence opened the door, and met Louis just coming out. He had his hat in his hand, and his face was flushed. "Bon soir, my sister," he said. "You and Rosalie may have all the talk to yourselves." He passed out, and Clémence looked at her sister. Rosalie's face was heated and angry. She sat in sullen silence, and gave Clémence her supper without any remark. "I find bonne-maman better than I thought to find her. The attack does not seem to affect her speech." Rosalie shrugged her shoulders. "Thou mayest well say that." She tossed her befrizzled head. "Very surely she has been telling thee fine tales about me and my doings. Ah! I know,” — she disregarded Clémence's attempt to stop her "it is always I who do all the wrong. Others may do as they choose; but they are always right with bonne-maman." Clémence's heart ached: it seemed as if there was no union in this household. A tender, motherly longing to comfort her young sister urged her to speak. "But how is it, Rosalie ?-thou wast always the one she loved best. When people are ill, dearest, they get fractious, and find fault with those they prefer." Rosalie shook her head. "It is useless to talk about it, Clémence. It did not begin with this illness: the bonne-maman is unjust and selfish, and I do not wish to talk about her." It seemed to Clémence that it was not easy to talk about anything to Rosalie. She would not speak either of her husband or her children. The only subject in which she seemed interested was a new toilette a dress and bonnet she had been choosing for the fête to be held next week in the Jardin Botanique. "Thou wilt like it, Clémence. There will be music, and the officers will all be there." It seemed to Clémence that Rosalie blushed. "But I shall not go. The bonnemaman is quite helpless, though she can talk, and I do not think she ought to be left till she is better." "As thou wilt." Rosalie's sullen look came back, and it seemed best to leave her to herself. III. THE fête in the Jardin Botanique begins at two o'clock. There is just time to hurry over the children's meal, and for Rosalie to make a fresh toilette when she comes in from mass. She is in a flutter of anxiety when she comes down stairs. Clémence has not seen her sister look so bright since her arrival at Bruges. "Come, Loulou, make haste." Rosalie speaks cheerfully, without the fretful ring to which Clémence has grown accustomed. " 'We shall be late, if thou dost not hasten." She goes to the window. It seems a matter of course that Clémence should sit between the two children, giving them their dinner. "Oh! what lovely weather!" — there is all the glee of a child in Rosalie's voice "and I was so afraid it would be cold." The door opened, and her husband came in. He was evidently struck by her improved looks. "Are we not gay in our new bonnet?" he said, to Clémence. "I am just in time, Rosalie, to escort thee to the Jardin Botanique." "Thanks" Clémence started at the changed voice, and she saw the smile fade away- I have no wish to be troublesome, Louis. I am sure thou couldst find a more amusing companion; and I have to take care of Loulou and little Clémence." "As it pleases thee; but I suppose we may as well start together." Louis spoke carelessly; but it seemed to Clémence that he was wounded. He stood whistling, with his hands in his pockets, while the children were got ready. Clémence sighed when they had all gone away. It had been sad enough to see the disunion between Rosalie and her grandmother; but this was worse. Was Louis really an unkind husband, and was this the secret of the change in Rosalie? But her grandmother's bell rang loudly, and she was soon by the invalid's bed, listening to the reiteration of all her sufferings, the wealth and importance of the family Van Rooms, and the devotion evinced by Madame de Vos to her grandchildren. "I am glad the day is so fine," said Clémence. Madame de Vos grunted and turned away with a discontented look on her pink face. "Thou art glad for Rosalie to play peacock. Ah, Clémence, if thou wert married to Louis, would it be necessary for thee to chatter to all the officers in the town?" Clémence gave a little start, but she began to talk of something else; she would not believe evil of Rosalie. Louis came home long before Rosalie did; he brought Loulou with him. Clémence found the little boy in his nursery, crying. "Papa has sent me away from him," he sobbed; "and maman has called me a naughty boy, and I am not naughty, my aunt." Clémence always stole some minutes every day from the invalid, to play with the children; but to-day she stayed in the nursery longer than usual. It was a large room at the top of the house: no fear that noise could reach mother or grandmother. Clémence romped and laughed till she was fairly tired; she loved Loulou dearly, he was so caressing and affectionate. "Thou art a good fairy, my aunt," the child said, as he came down stairs with her to the door of his great-grandmother's room. It is always bright in the house now thou art here; I am never triste." 66 He hugged her so tightly that Clémence's face was hidden in his curls. At the moment Rosalie appeared at the other end of the passage; she looked flushed and angry, and she passed on into her room without a word. When Clémence went downstairs to supper, she found Louis alone. "I am not going out this evening," he said. "We need not wait supper for Rosalie; she has gone to bed." "What is it?" Clémence asked herself. "There is a constrained atmosphere in this house. I dare not ask a question, lest I should do mischief or make a quarrel. Are Louis and Rosalie really miserable, or is it only before others that they speak so coldly?" Marriage was different from what Clémence had pictured it; and yet when she thought of her father and mother, she felt that there must be something amiss between Louis and Rosalie. Next morning, at breakfast-time, Loulou sat close to his mother. "The aunt Clémence is a good fairy," he said; "if I am crying, she makes me happy again: she is like sunshine; the room is dark and sad when she goes out of it. Maman, get some sunshine from our aunt Clémence." Rosalie was pouring out coffee; her hand shook, and the table-cloth was spoiled. She turned a crimson face on Loulou, and boxed his ears. "Go upstairs, naughty chatterbox: see the mischief thou hast done." Louis Scherer looked up from his newspaper. Generally he ate his breakfast without making a remark of any kind; but Loulou was his special darling. "Thou art unjust," he said to his wife: "it was not Loulou who upset the coffee." Rosalie's eyes flashed. No; of course it is always I who am to blame - I who am wrong with every one." She got up, and left the breakfast-table. Louis muttered an exclamation, and then he smiled at Clémence. "Will you pour out coffee, or shall I?" he said. Clémence felt miserable. "Go after her," she said in a low voice. Louis raised his eyebrows. "You are not used to Rosalie: it is necessary to her to be jealous. It is you and the children to-day; it will be some one else to-morrow. It is better to leave her alone." “And yet," Clémence thought as she sat afterwards in her grandmother's room, |