The Chevalier's daughter : $b or, An exile for the truthGuernsey, Lucy Ellen
History
The Chevalier's daughter : $b or, An exile for the truth
Guernsey, Lucy Ellen
France -- History -- Louis XIV, 1643-1715 -- Juvenile fiction; Historical fiction; Huguenots -- France -- Juvenile fiction
I did not hasten on my way, for it was early, and I found my walk
so pleasant that I had no desire to shorten it. The bramble-berries
and filberts that were ripening by the sides of the lane had great
attractions for me. There were late autumn flowers to gather, and
lizards to watch as they ran to and fro on the walls or sunned their
gilded sides on a broad flat stone, vanishing like a shadow when one
drew near. A great wind had blown the day before and thrown down many
apples from the trees that overhung the lane.
I filled my pocket with some ripe golden pippins, and walked on
eating one till I drew near the place where the highway to Avranches,
such as it was, crossed our lane. This was a favorite resting-place,
since it commanded a glorious view of sea and shore and the great
fortress-monastery. There was a kind of crag or projecting rock some
thirty feet high, round which the road wound, and which, while it
presented a perpendicular face to the highway, was easily ascended by
an active person from the side of the lane.
"I wonder whether they are gathering the vraic," I said to myself. "I
should think a great quantity must have come ashore after the wind last
night. I mean to climb up and see." *
* The vraic or varech is the seaweed, which is very abundant on this
coast, and much esteemed for manure. It is regularly harvested in
spring and autumn, but may be gathered at any time.
I climbed lightly up the rude rocky steps, but started as I came
upon Lucille, who was sitting upon the dry moss which covered like a
soft carpet the top of the rock. She was wrapped closely in her long
black cloak, the hood of which was drawn over her head, somewhat to
the detriment of her clean starched cap. Her unfailing companion, the
distaff, was in her girdle, but the spindle lay idle beside her, though
she seemed to have cleared a flat place especially for it to dance
upon. Her hands were folded over her knee, and her eyes were fixed upon
the high road, which from this elevated point could be traced all the
way to Avranches.
I saw in a moment that she was in one of her moods, but I was in too
high spirits with my walk and my holiday to mind that. And as she did
not seem to hear my approach, I put my two hands over her eyes, saying,
in the words of our child's game, "Guess whose fingers are all these."
"Vevette, how you startled me!" she exclaimed, rather angrily. And
then, recovering herself, "How did you come here?"
"On my feet, since I have no wings," I answered, sitting down beside
her on the dry moss. "Maman gave me a whole holiday because she has a
headache, and I thought I would come down and teach you my new lace
stitches. It is well I took a fancy to climb up here, or I should have
missed you. But now, tell me how came you here?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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