Mrs Rose

By Alice Jackson

This is a forbidden love novel against the backdrop of the insurrectional movement in Paris(the 1840s).

"We know that Mrs. Rose lived alone in a house with an old maid, where she never received anyone, except Mr. Francalin, the priest of Herblay and some notable villagers who ask,

for help their poor."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alice Jackson
• Release date: Jun 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393420286

Book preview

Table of Contents

Mrs Rose

FIRST PART.

I

Among the villages which the games of fantasy and speculation have raised in the neighborhood of Paris, there is perhaps no prettier and cooler than Maisons. Fashion has spoiled it by multiplying gardens and cottages; but it could not destroy either the beauty of the Seine, or the royal majesty of the avenues surrounding it. Long alleys lined with tall trees pierce the park in all directions, and reveal, behind a shaking curtain of foliage, pavilions and villas in which the luxury of the owners, mostly financiers, has lavished a thousand expensive searches. ; but at the first breaths of the bise, the chilly hosts of these coquettish dwellings disappear: we do not see anyone in Maisons, except in the village, that

However one of these villas was still inhabited towards the end of November 184 .... This villa, located in full field at the end of the park and on the side of the Seine, consisted of a single body of housing built in the middle of a garden closed with hedges. All white and pierced with windows with green shutters, this main building was raised one floor on the ground floor. He looked clean and honest, and seemed destined for the lodging of some good rentier held at Maisons by the energy of his rustic tastes. The garden, planted with vegetables and fruit trees rather badly come, was divided into small compartments, whose boxwood drew the angular contours. An arbor, a wooden bench and some still young poplars complemented the decoration.

This small area was known in the country as the White House . He could have altogether an extent of half an acre; but the door of his garden passed, the owner of the White House had around him walks to tire the legs of a schoolboy. A large meadow separated him from the Seine; the Park of Houses, with its thick woods, was there behind the arbor, and further, closed by a large wall running under a bouquet of elms and lime trees, the forest of St. Germain.

The host of the White House was then a young man who could be in his thirties and was called Georges de Francalin. The staff of the house consisted of an old maid who answered to the name of Petronilla, still rumbling, of an old graying servant named Jacob, who never spoke, and of a hunting dog of the breed of Spaniels in dress white and fire: everyone in Maisons knew Tambour .

What motive could have committed Georges de Francalin to extend his stay in Maisons well beyond the moment when everyone hastens to return to Paris? That's what no one knew. Was it to escape the feverish agitation which tormented the whole of France? Had he been ruined, like so many others, following the events of February! Was this retreat caused by a domestic misfortune, or one of those spring misfortunes which caused so much tears, and of which, later, one remembers with a smile? Jacob might have said it; but Jacob, we know, did not speak. Georges had arrived at the White House by the end of April with Petronilla, Jacob and Drum. Three or four large boxes filled with books had followed him; he had bought a canoe, a rifle, some tunics,

We know that in Paris a change of residence puts in the relations of the barriers more insurmountable than formerly between the Capulets and the Montaigu the hereditary hatred of two families: by leaving for the campaign, Georges had left for the exile. Two or three of his friends alone remembered that he lived in Houses. He lived with Drum and chatted with his books. His habits were the most regular in the world; he never knew the day before what he would do the next day. He was sleeping late or early, depending on the weather, a day with the sun, and the day after with the moon. If he left with the intention of reading in some corner of the wood, he was surprised to be rowing on the Seine with the anxious ardor of a smuggler. He had lunch at home sometimes, sometimes at the inn, which to say it in passing, was the desperation of Petronille, obliged to wait for him near a chop that was blackening on the grill. No one was more active or more lazy; he beat the country like a hunter, or lay in the grass like a lazzarone; but almost always Drum was in the game. It must be said, however, that the drum, except the days of hunting, had habits somewhat vagabond; he remained in the house only on rainy days, and only returned there at mealtime; he used the rest of the time to run about on all sides, pushing all the doors and taking care of the affairs of others with an indiscretion which feared neither remonstrances nor rebuffs. As soon as one could see an orange snout appear somewhere, one exclaimed: "Here is Drum!

We were then, we know, towards the end of November; the countryside had those pale, veiled hues, which are sometimes more pleasing than the bright colors and the joyous gleam of summer. There were almost no more leaves in the trees, except the oaks crowned with twigs, which the first cold weather had covered with rust. The sun was barely showing. At any moment, great flights of crows crossed the gray sky and filled the space with their sinister cries. Georges was no longer meeting in his walks but the pedestrian charged with distributing the letters and the fishermen with whom he had become acquainted; but this loneliness and the harshness of the season made them dearer to them, and perhaps he had never done them so long or so frequently.

One morning, then, Georges had gone out quite early; he carried his rifle and crossed the meadow in the direction of the Seine. Hunting is prohibited at all times in the park and the outbuildings of Maisons; but the hunters sometimes have fun during the winter to shoot the birds of passage that fall among the rushes of the shore, or that are surprised in the creeks formed by the bed of the river. Such was not Georges' intention that day; he had a rifle, because that rifle was under his hand when he left the White House. Drum had looked at his master, and, understanding with the movement of his eyes that it was not necessary for him, he was gone, tail in the air, in search of a certain black bull to which he had declared the war. The bull, who was young and of good appearance, had accepted the challenge, and, as a good knight, he was as eager to run to meet Drum as Tambour was running to meet his horns. The bull, having lifted his muzzle, had scented the dog and galloped away; the two adversaries met half-way, and the fight commenced at once in the meadow.

George let the spaniel struggle with the bull, and soon reached the banks of the Seine. Two ravens who scoured the grass, seeking their pasture, went to his sight; Georges put them in play and fired. The two crows fluttered and plunged into the sky. Devils of birds! it is written that I will always miss them! said George, stamping his foot.

A band of crows rose from the edge of the river at the sound of this double detonation, and began to flutter on all sides. Some passed over George's head, coming and going; others fled by the side of the forest; some, the boldest or the youngest, fell into the meadow and ran here and there. M. de Francalin reloaded his rifle and pursued them; but the vigilant birds were soon moving away, and whatever his activity was in pulling them, he could reach none. The hunter stammered, and noting that crows were crossing the river at all times, he thought he might be happier in a canoe.

He ran towards a sort of cove that the Seine had dug in the sand and a small point of earth protected against the eddy. A pretty little boat painted in black with a white stripe floated on it, the bow held at the roots of a willow by a padlocked chain. The name of the canoe, the Turtle , was written in beautiful red letters on the back, near the rudder. George opened the lock, jumped into the boat and pushed off. In spite of her name, the Turtle sped on the water like an arrow, and, driven by the vigorous impulse of the oars, she soon gained the middle of the stream, which she ascended in the direction of the wooded spur separating the Homes park fromof Saint-Germain. As he rowed, George heard the sound of a body falling into the water: it was Tambour, which all the noise of gunshots had drawn to the shore, and which bravely came to swim to join the canoe. His master waited for him, hastily removed it, and continued on his way, watching for the ravens fluttering on both banks.

A slight mist, which had been floating over the countryside since morning, dissipated at that moment, and a clear ray of sunshine enlivened the landscape. Reaching the height of Herblay, George let the Turtle slip along the water, and squatting at the stern, like a fisherman holding out his nets, he waited, his hand on his rifle, one of the birds to pass within reach. Drum, sitting at the other end of the boat, wisely imitated the complete immobility of his master. He shivered, but sometimes we saw the end of his tail wriggle.

The cunning of M. de Francalin succeeds. Soon a raven arrived heavily and passed over the boat. The hunter shrugged and fired. At the first blow, the raven rose, the second, he pirouetted himself, skimmed the water with the tips of his black wings, and fell into the grass a few steps from the shore.

At last! Exclaimed M. de Francalin.

As he stood up to recognize the place where the bird was struggling, he heard screaming from the side of Herblay. He turned his head and saw a child who had just slipped into the river and stood clinging to the end of a rope hanging down a boat. A little girl, bending over the edge of the boat, tried to withdraw her comrade and called for help with all her might.

To you! to you! cried a man whose boat was down the side of the Frette.

M. de Francalin jumped on the oars and made the Turtle fly . Water gushed around the bow; at any moment he turned his head to see how far he was from the children.

Hold on! he said; hold on, little one!

He was only a few fathoms from the boat, when the child's hands, numb with fatigue and cold, let go. The little girl leaned forward suddenly as he disappeared and passed over the edge. The current took them both and carried them away. George dropped the oars, and, taking off his tunic, threw himself into the river. Drum jumped after him.

In four brews, the hunter had reached the little girl, whom her big petticoats of wool kept on the surface of the water. He seized her vigorously by the arm, and swimming with one hand, he put her on board the boat. Stand still now, he said; and he went back into the water, searching on all sides.

Nothing could be seen but the surface of the river, here and there scratched by a breath of wind.

Look! search! shouted Georges to Tambour, who was swimming beside him.

A slight boiling, which he perceived at some distance above the water, indicated to him the place where the little boy had sunk. He pushed with all his strength; but already Tambour had preceded him, and, suddenly plunging, he reappeared soon, holding in his mouth the part of a jacket. Two inert legs and two motionless arms hung from both sides of his muzzle. George seized the child and lifted him out of the river without dropping Tambour, and both arrived on the shore, where rescuers and rescuers found the little girl, who wept bitterly.

Ah! my God! she said, here are my lost petticoats! ... Mom will beat me!

George was very embarrassed between these two children, one sobbing while the other gave no sign of life.

Its good! he said to the little girl, you will be given other skirts; walk ahead and lead us to your mother's house. "

But as he spoke, the man in the boat approached him, and jumped on the sand. Ah! he said, they are the little ones with the Thibaude .... She is going to arrange them, the brave woman!

He lifted the child George was rubbing.

"Good! he went on, his heart beating; it will be left for fear.

-Of course, Canada? said Georges.

-Eh! Yes. Here he is already blowing .... Add a cold to fear, if you will, and that will be all. "

The fisherman stripped the